#time lord reader

[aboutcustardcreams]

She sees right through me

Heyaaa I’m back again. Soon. Probably too soon. I don’t know what’s this but last night I came up with the idea of a Time Lord reader so this is what I got so far. It can go anywhere really. Feel free to tell me what you think about it. Would make my day <3 part two

word count: 2700 ish

You had been watching over him, now a she, for quite some time. Since you escaped prison, twice. But that’s a story for another time. It suited her, you thought, the blonde bob, also those hazel eyes. You still found galaxies in them. And oh– that feminine velvety voice, how deep you craved her saying your name like in the old days.

Maybe it had been for the best. Forgetting, you mean. Not about you, obviously. But about the Division, that toxic place that you came to hate in the end. Not that you particularly liked it before, considering it took the Doctor away from you for way more than you’d normally be willing to tolerate. But it was still her job, a thing she was passionate about, and you respected it. On his days off, he would join you all over the universe, doing mischief here and there. Innocent of course, but still fun. That was worth everything to you. His time.

You know way too well how memories, no matter how beautiful and special, can turn into something painful once left behind. Yet you wanted to hold onto that pain, since it was the only thing that made you feel most alive. You had created a little something to keep yourself from forgetting even the smallest detail of him, her.

A small chip, the size of a bean, that collected them all, implanted in the back of your head and controlled by your own emotions. All the adventures, the teasings, the bickerings, the words shared and the promises. Safe and sound in there. You used yourself as a dvd player. All you had to do was close your eyes, and summon the memory of the Doctor and it would come to you like reels of a monochrome film.

What can you say? You have always been kind of romantic.

The memories of the Doctor hurt you as much as they blessed you. When the Division made her forget, the organization never thought of doing the same to you. After all, you knew nothing about them, nor what their real purpose was. And the Doctor never shared much about it with you, which you respected. A part of you thought, she even saw it coming. The memory loss. Like it had been part of a contract, if there ever was one.

The Doctor had been clueless till the very recent events. Fighting the Flux and all of that chaos unleashed by the one and only Division, that finally dropped the act. Now the Doctor knew there was a part of her life that had been taken away from her. And you happened to be part of those memories left behind.

One thing you were glad of, were the people traveling with her. She has never been truly alone since the loss of her former identity. Of course the Doctor would find companions, mostly humans, which you thought to be particularly likable, all in all.

That woman— the one she had been traveling with, name’s Yaz, was a good one. She was loyal, trustworthy, and so obviously in love with her. You could bet she would do anything for the Doctor. And as for the Doctor, well– those eyes, no matter the color, nor the shape, they couldn’t lie to save a life and she felt the same. In her own special way.

You and her had something similar once. A timeless bond, you’d name it a soulship, if you were to make up a word for it. You’d been in jail, threatened, hampered by those who didn’t want you to find the Doctor again. Yet did you ever give up? They wished. Many regeneration after, and look where you’re standing now.

The TARDIS was only a few feet away. A smile crept on your features at the sight of it. Or you should say her. You know better than to misgender such a touchy spaceship. Rookie mistake. You stepped closer, slowly, carefully, as if the Doctor could come on out any moment, unexpectedly, and bump into you in the process. It happened once. More than once. Could happen again. You almost wished it would happen again.

“Hiya sexy,” you mused, gently brushing your fingers over the rough surface of the door. Looking up and down, you take in a small sigh, “Remember me? It’s been a while, innit?” You cooed, fingers trembling slightly. “I’m sorry I couldn’t find you sooner. She is never still. That hasn’t changed.”

You close your eyes for a moment. Your hearts beat loudly in your chest, and your throat tightens as a consequence, you need to swallow. “I’ve searched for you. Watched over him, her�� I must admit, for a while I was too afraid to barge in, until now. Still quite frightened, mind. Got a new face. New outfit. Maybe that’s where the confidence is coming from,” you look down at your clothes; the peculiarity of your outfit, probably the thing you like the most, are your cowboy-like leather boots, with silver heels that match the color of your belt. “Quite like being a woman, I have to admit. I’ve been blessed with a female body three times. Not in a row, but still. Can’t complain. Won’t complain.”

You noticed you were rambling when the TARDIS finally made a squeaky noise. You smiled warmly at that, of course she would remember you. Bless the tactile memory. “I’ve missed you too. You think I could-”

You didn’t even need to finish the thought, the TARDIS knew what you were asking for. The door opened with a soft creak, not to the fullest, but enough to allow you to give a peek inside. “I hope she is gonna be as welcoming as you,” you half joked, with a nervous smile. You sighed softly, stalling for a bunch of seconds as a trail of memories with the Doctor played out before your eyes. One by one. Happy ones.

The TARDIS’ door parted open, almost startling you.

“Fine, fine. It’s not that I’m gonna chicken out,” you merely rolled your eyes and slid by the door with your hands in the back pockets of your jeans and teeth worrying your lip. You were really doing this. The air was quite tense, electrifying even, and the atmosphere so quiet. There’s nobody in the panel room, but you are sure the Doctor is there, you could feel her. “Hello?”, you hesitantly called out, “Anyone home? Please, just don’t hit me with a frying pan. I come in peace.”

In that precise moment, a very familiar stone statue appears right in front of you. Its wings folded tightly behind the back, its hands covering its face. One blink, and it would move, you knew the game. Just great. “You know, I’d have very much preferred the frying pan…” you grumbled, never taking your eyes off the angel.

“Where did it go?” one voice echoed. A female’s one, not the Doctor’s. It was Yaz’s. Footsteps followed, cautious, yet quick. This is not how you had imagined your reunion with the Doctor.

“I don’t know,” it was her. That voice. It made your hearts flip. “But stick behind me, and keep your eyes open–” the moment she saw you standing in her TARDIS, she froze. Yaz was behind her, came to a halt and bumped against the Doctor’s shoulders, who immediately shielded her with her arm.

“Who are you?” muttered the Doctor.

“How did you get in here?” Yaz asked right after.

First instinct would be turning towards those speaking to you, but obviously, it wasn’t ideal to do so, “I’d gladly satisfy those curiosities of yours maybe in front of a nice cuppa. Would be nice. But at the moment, as you can see, I’m in the middle of something,” you pointed at the statue, before letting off a scoff. Quite frankly you’re pissed your first proper encounter with the Doctor, after so many years, had to be hindered by a weeping angel.

“Right. You’re right,” the Doctor reasoned, keeping her eyes on you. “It’s important that you don’t blink or–”

“It will sweep me somewhere back in time, yeah, I know that. Very unfortunate,” you can’t tell if the Doctor is surprised by the fact that you know all these things, because you still can’t look at her. Not properly.

She just scrunched up her nose, deep in thought. Trying to figure who you are, where you come from, and why you are in her TARDIS. But most importantly how. The TARDIS’ door doesn’t exactly open with a snap of fingers. And certainly not for anyone.

“What do we do?” Yaz asks, rather impatiently.

“As long as I keep my eyes on it, you’re safe,” the only thing that comes to your mind is shoving the statue out of the TARDIS. Maybe that’s why the spaceship let you in. Sneaky little thing. Should have known there was an ulterior motive for her kindness. Despite the position you were in, it was fortunate that the angel heard your voice. It reminded you of your old days with the Doctor, always having each other’s back.

The Doctor is still silent, which is unusual to her. And when the Doctor is silent, it’s hardly ever a good thing.

“But what about you?” stressed Yaz.

“I have an idea,” you took a couple of steps towards the door, eyes getting dry, but still wide open to face the statue. You were surprised by your stamina. “Doctor, you drive the Tardis outta here, as soon as I get the angel out.”

In that moment the Doctor’s frown deepened. She knew there was no time to ask questions that didn’t help the situation you were in. But she was dying in curiosity now. You knew her. How did you know her? Who were you?

“You know who I am…”

Yaz exchanged a quick glance with the Doctor, but it only lasted one second as her hazel eyes turned back to you. Nothing about you seemed familiar.

You grinned slightly. “I do. Of course I do. Nice to meet ya Yaz, by the way. Was hoping for a different scenario to shake hands, but this will do for now.”

“She knows me too,” Yaz whispered almost in awe, as if the last she was expecting was to be as popular as the Doctor.

“Listen, I’m gonna blink, hoping the angel won’t catch me before I reopen my eyes,” you explained, feeling your back adhere to the TARDIS’ door. Your hands fumbling with it, to push it open.

“It will catch you,” The Doctor’s voice sounded alarmed. “You’re too close. It’s too dangerous.”

“Not if I use this,” you pulled out the vortex manipulator from the back pocket of your jeans. Now the Doctor was really really intrigued by you and the very familiar object in your hand. For a moment, she thought of Missy. She had the exact same thing to travel through space and time. But you weren’t her, you couldn’t be her. She regenerated into the Master and last time she checked he was a he, now trapped in the Kasaavin dimension. Unless… no.

Her features dimmed. “Tell me you’re not the Master,” it came almost as a plea, a weary one.

You scrunched up your face and blinked only briefly. Shit. The Angel was right at your face. You jolted. “Fuck!”, you muttered under your breath. “I’m not– that’s offensive. Very offensive. I take offense at that, in case it wasn’t clear.”

The Doctor’s lips pressed into a thin line, before muttering, “Sorry, I needed to ask. I’m very confused and when I’m confused I ask questions. Brimming with questions, me. Hate unanswered questions. But love a good mystery to solve.”

“Welcome to the club,” Jaz joked softly.

You giggled, “Right, my eyes are watering, so at three, I’m gonna blink and you Doc, you better move the TARDIS. Would be nice if you could materialize around me to save me from this mess of yours.”

“You didn’t even need to ask. You save us, I save you back. Plus, you still owe me an explanation on how you got in here,” she teased.

“All in good time,” you promised, and instead of blinking you decide to glance at the Doctor, for the very first time. Oh the butterflies that came fluttering in your stomach at the sight of her. She kept your gaze for only a split second, hazel eyes diving into yours with such intensity, you shuddered. You clicked the button on the vortex manipulator and disappeared out of the TARDIS, and so did the angel. It worked. The spaceship dematerialized from your sight, leaving you standing about fifteen feet away from the statue that looked very angry at you now.

“Sorry, Angela,” you trailed off, shifting your body weight from one foot to another, “couldn't have you hurt the Doctor. Nor her friend. How did you enter the TARDIS anyway?”

You could see the statue’s features, sharp and distraught. Its forehead twisted into a menacing frown, fingers curved like crow’s claws. You accidentally blinked again and the angel appeared right in front of you. You swallowed hard. Where was the Doctor? She wouldn’t leave you there at the mercy of a weeping angel, would she?

Before you can ask yourself twice, the familiar hum of the TARDIS comes to your ears, slowly turning louder. The blue box was materializing behind you. A smirk played out on your features, “I’d love to keep chatting with you, but I have a curfew, I can’t really break. And mommy’s back,” you teased, relief washing over you as soon as the TARDIS’ door swung open.

Your initial thought was to recoil towards the spaceship, but apparently the Doctor had other ideas. You let out a squeal, when her hand, both firm and gentle, grasps you from the back of your jacket, pulling you inside. If it weren’t for her arms steading you, you’d have crashed against her front, like the clumsy little thing you have always been around her. “Gotcha,” she grinned, “Saved the savior!”

You let out a nervous giggle. “Thanks. Doubted you for a moment.”

The Doctor merely rolled her eyes at you. “A promise is a promise.” That face really suited her. She was pretty, and her skin looked so very soft, it took you all your willpower not to reach out and run a hand to her cheek just to prove your point.

The TARDIS buzzed again, when Yaz pushed a couple of levers down. She was moving it elsewhere. A human. You couldn’t hide the stupor from your eyes, “You can drive the TARDIS,” it was meant to sound like a question, but it came out as a statement, a breathed one.

Yaz’s chest swelled in pride, “I’ve learned a trick or two. Thanks for earlier by the way.”

You nodded your head as if that was nothing. “Piece of cake.”

The Doctor never dropped her eyes from you. You could tell she was grateful you had helped, however she was still dying to know who you were, “You never introduced yourself…”

You gave her a tight smile. “Right, sorry…Rude of me, innit?” Your breath hitched, and you looked down for a moment at the tip of your boots. It was silly to feel that way. Sad. Disappointed. Hurt. You always knew she wasn’t going to remember you, and yet that didn’t save you from the pain you were feeling in your chest. Being a stranger in her eyes was the worst thing ever experienced. Even regenerating wasn’t that bad in comparison.

The Doctor tilted her head, fearing to have said something wrong, “Are you—?”

Before she could finish, you blurted out in one breath, “I’m the Sage.”

The Doctor’s eyes squinted, before widening in shock. It was a title. Like hers. Like the Master’s. “Do you mean-?”

Yaz held her breath, and glanced at the Doctor whose breath was coming short and uneven. Quite a shock to realize there’s someone else like you in the Universe.

“Yes,” you breathed out, “I’m a Time Lord,” you smiled and took her hand in yours, placing it upon your chest for her to feel two crazy heartbeats.

[yoitsjay]

You Are Not Alone

Pairings: Tenth Doctor x Gn time lord!reader

Warnings: some probably fucked up time lord lore cuz idk all of it ✌️

Summary: is he truely the last one?

Word count: 1753

The face of Boe had told him that The Doctor was not alone, that could only mean one thing right? that he was not the last of the time lords that he had thought. But the doctor seemed to be in quite a bit of denial. Martha was excited for him of course, he wasn't really alone, of course he had her but only for a short amount of time, because time lords were basically immortal. The Doctor wasn't really sure what to do, should he search for the other time lord? or perhaps he should just leave them be, let them live their life…

The Doctor took Martha back to regular earth and to London, but when they had gotten back there were some serious tremors rocking through the UK, not quite earthquakes, but shakes big enough to knock items over and frighten a few people. Martha had asked around about these tremors, and it turns out that it had been going on for a few months, making martha realize that she had been missing for quite a while, so she ran off to check with her family, leaving the doctor to his own quizzical nature.

The brown haired alien made his way through the city, pausing every time a tremor came, noticing when it got more prominent until he was standing close to the torchwood institute building… Was there something that he had missed down there? a room that could have held something else behind its closed doors? Regardless, he paced outside of the institute's doors, his lips pursed into a thin line as he tried to figure out what to do, wait for Martha or just go right in and see what was causing these tremors. He had already killed the Racnoss so what else could be here?

Suddenly he felt a tap on his shoulder, and when he turned around he saw Martha. "hey doctor- i got everything sorted out… I think… Did you find where the tremors came from?" She asked, and he nodded, turning back to the doors of the hidden torchwood center. "Yes… I mean I think so? Let's go back to the Tardis and teleport inside." He started, grabbing Martha's hand and running back to the TARDIS, pressing buttons and flicking switches before the TARDIS. However there seemed to be quite a bit of interference as during the teleport the TARDIS had shut down only momentarily, before landing outside of the building. When the Doctor poked his head outside he looked very confused. "Impossible…" He muttered, looking at Martha.

"It seems like the TARDIS is prevented from entering the building, so something inside has to be interfering with her but- that's impossible!" He explained, however Martha smiled as she stepped outside with him. "You should know by now Doctor, nothing is impossible." She winked at him before walking into the front doors of the building, which seemed to be completely abandoned now. The Doctor sighed and he followed her inside, leading her to the elevator and then down to the lower level floors.

He went around the basement, opening the door that the Racnoss had been in before, looking at the now dry equipment, nothing here… He exited the room, staying oddly silent as Martha blabbered on about what she was seeing here.. However eventually The Doctor reached a door that he must have passed last time, or perhaps a door that was there, but hidden by a veil of invisibility. Regardless he used his screwdriver and he opened the door, fog and mist rolling out from the entrance as it was opened. Martha coughed a bit, but followed the doctor inside regardless.

The walls of this room had been completely changed, it seemed, and it looked so familiar… the room seemed bigger than it was supposed to be, and as he reached the middle of the room the realization set in. "This is… Gallifrey technology? but how is it here?" he asked himself, walking up to the center console which was a lot more put together than his was, nothing was broken, just very dusty… this was a ship, exactly like the TARDIS… but a lot bigger… and it had royal or- more commonly known as founder markings across the supports of this TARDIS… But the founder couldn't have been alive…

The Doctor told Martha to stay put, but like all other companions of course he wouldn't listen, and after he was out of sight she followed him regardless, until they came into a new.. room? it seemed like one anyway… There was a capsule suspended in the center of that room, and as Martha approached she noticed the astoundment across his face. "Doctor?" She asked, and he cleared his throat.

"The face of Boe was right… i… I'm not the last…" He trailed off.

Within the capsule was a humanoid being dressed in high tier time lord regalia… and as soon as the Doctor's voice was registered, a voice sounded from the capsule. "Voice recognized as "The Doctor. commencing hologram message."

And on cue a hologram appeared in front of the doctor, it was two time lords, high tiered ones like the being in the capsule. "Whoever is hearing us, you must understand that there was a devastating war of our people, but there must be a legacy for us, to keep us pure and our memory alive. In this capsule I have suspended my child in time, I don't know if they have regenerated so we will not specify gender… but they are the last time lord, if it is safe, the release code is "The Oracle, their title and you will understand why when they are released… If there is another time lord out there, if YOU are a time lord. I beg of you, take care of our child…"

The father trailed off and the hologram faded away. The Doctor stepped forward, placing his hand on the capsule. It looked like you, The Oracle was forced inside the capsule, your hand extended forward as your face was contorted into a scream. He sighed, and took a step back. 'I can't…" He trailed off, and Martha was flabbergasted. "What? you can't just leave them- The Oracle trapped there!" she exclaimed, not realizing she had said the release code until she heard a crack come from the capsule. The Doctor and Martha turned to you, and the frozen time keeping you suspended had dissipated, and when the glass shattered you tumbled out of it, and The Doctor quickly caught you.

You were still for a moment, eyes closed and not breathing as your body regulated to the environment around you, and within his arms you started to regenerate, this is the first time that Martha actually witnessed it too, and once you had regenerated, you looked beautiful, more so than before… your eyes, nose, lips…

Your eyes opened and the first person you saw was Martha, Her kind smile relaxed you, but you were also very confused, the last thing you remember was being shoved into a capsule and being frozen in time, and now your in a completely different planet. Thanks to your TARDIS instead Of speaking in your native language you spoke in English, with a broken London accent. “Are we on Gallifrey? Is the war over?” You asked confused, looking up to see that another person, a man, was holding you. But the connection between you was instant, and you knew him as The Doctor. A special thing about you is that you were influenced by the TARDIS core, and not only could you travel into the future or past, you could look into the future with your mind, however it wasted a lot of your energy doing it, so you don't do it often… but that's why your called The Oracle.

“We… we are the last?” You then ask, finding your footing on the ground, though The Doctor's grip was still firm on your arms, like he was afraid that if he let you go now, you would disappear. “What do I look like?” You asked, looking around for a mirror, walking up to it as you assessed your clothes. You had a bit more of a masculine build, feminine was the last body you had but you quite liked this one, it seemed more.. you. You touched your face gently, before turning to the Doctor and his Companion.

“Is she..?” You asked, however the doctor just shook his head. “No, just human.” He explained, and you nodded, sucking in a deep breath.

You asked what happened, and he told you everything He knew, that the time lords were all gone, all except for him and now you, and that there were no more Daleks, all dead. A sigh of relief left your lips, but a sadness filled your hearts. “That's… saddening. Well, I suppose this earth as you call it is our new home then?” You asked with a smile, and Martha beamed at you. “Yes! Oh you could join us and travel with us!” She exclaimed.

However before you could Agree, you felt a deep pit grow in your hearts, and you fell to your knees suddenly. The Doctor grabbed you immediately, checking your body for any injuries. You looked up at him, and then towards the center console. “My TARDIS… she… she used up all of her power- To keep me safe from anyone but you it seems… and now… she's gone.” you whispered, standing up slowly, walking to the center Console, touching the surface gently. “Well… You have a TARDIS?” You asked the doctor, and he nodded. “Yes… you can absolutely join us… I'd prefer it.” He stated, and you nodded. “Alright… I don't want her to go to waste… he'll me move her, nobody else can discover her.” You stated, and with the Doctor's help, along with his TARDIS, you sent your dead ship onto a far away planet, and them Blew it up into scraps.

now you stood in the much smaller ship that belonged to The Doctor, and Martha had Helped you find some clothes that you liked quite nice, and like the doctor you found something that would help you blend into quite a few time periods. But there was still a hole in one of your hearts, one That was only filled by your ship… And your long dead family.

You were not the last, you have the Doctor now but… is it all really worth surviving?

Who knows…

[spikedfearn]

Under The Blood Moon

one-shot

Remmick x fem!reader

summary: in the humid belly of the night, you flee through the wild woods, breathless and bleeding, chased by a monster dressed in the skin of a man, and when he inevitably catches you, it's not to kill, but to keep. What follows is neither rescue or ruin, but a slow, savage claim written in blood, hunger, and heat.

wc: 8.1k

a/n: for this request, where anon wanted me to lean into Remmick's more monstrous side. My inbox is always open if anyone wants to submit more! also, thank you all so, so, so much for all the love, support, and general positivity you've all shown my fics lately—it genuinely means more than I can even put into words. I'm still blown away by the responses my fics have gotten in the last week, it warms my soul to no end every time I think about it <3 also have to credit axelboneboy for putting the idea of Remmick with a forked tongue in my head

warnings: heavy dubcon, dead dove: do not eat, blood kink, period sex, heavy breeding kink, monsterfucking, possessive behavior, coercive control, demon x human dynamics, religious imagery, breeding/ownership language, filthy talk, cockdrunk reader, forced orgasm, restraints/restraint kink, forced captivity, manipulation, southern gothic horror, explicit sexual content, obsession, violence, rough sex, blood play, dark romance,  somnophilia undertones (reader too weak to consent properly)

likes, comments, and reblogs appreciated!! please enjoy!!

M I N D T H E T A G S

Your breath saws raggedly through your throat as you run, legs scraping through the underbrush, branches slashing at your arms, the wet slap of mud against your calves. Your shoes are long gone, lost somewhere back on the splintered path—the soles of your feet raw and stinging with every frantic step.

Your dress, once a soft, homespun cotton in faded butter yellow, clings wetly to your skin, torn at the hem, heavy with damp earth and blood from shallow scratches. The thin petticoat underneath is ripped, the neckline torn where it caught on a low-hanging branch. Your bare legs gleam with sweat and dirt under the fevered gaze of the blood moon. The rough, hand-stitched seams bite into your skin with every frantic movement.

Behind you—

Footsteps.

Heavy, deliberate.

Not rushing, no.

He doesn't need to rush.

The blood moon glowers overhead, a bruised red eye in the sky, bleeding sickly light through the skeletal trees. The mist writhes around your ankles like grasping fingers, every breath clogged with the sour, choking scent of wet moss and rot. The forest feels alive—the cypress trees hunching closer, the swamp water sloshing in unseen black pools, the night thick with the buzz of unseen insects and the sticky slap of humidity against your skin.

You tear through a thicket, thorns slicing your thighs, the pain sharp but distant beneath the roaring panic. Your dress snags again—this time you rip free with a sob, fabric tearing in your frantic escape. You don't stop. You can't stop.

Your lungs burn. Your heart pounds a frantic, desperate rhythm against your ribs. Your hands are scraped raw where you shove branches aside. You don't know where you're going—only that you have to keep moving.

You think for one stupid, precious second that maybe you've lost him.

Then you hear it��

A low, rumbling chuckle.

The sound rolls across the mist like thunder, like a beast amused by the futile thrashing of its prey.

You shove yourself harder, feet slipping in the mud, the trees spinning in dizzy circles around you.

You should have listened.

The warning plays in your mind now, mocking and merciless—the old women in town, whispering in the feed store, their wrinkled hands making frantic crosses over their chests.

Don't go out on the blood moon.

There's something that walks these woods. A devil dressed in skin, hunting for its next meal.

You had laughed it off. Old wives' tales. A story to get unruly children to behave. Of course you didn't believe it...

Not until the heavy footsteps started following you.

Not until the woods seemed to shift, herding you deeper and deeper.

Not until the laughter—low, rich, and terrifying.

Your foot catches on a root hidden beneath the mist. You go down hard, the impact knocking the air from your lungs. Dirt and dead leaves cling to your palms as you scramble up, only to be yanked backwards by an iron grip around your ankle.

A scream rips from your throat as you're dragged across the ground, nails clawing uselessly at the earth, the taste of dirt and blood thick on your tongue.

"Well, lookie here," a deep, amused voice drawls from the shadows, thick with a Southern slur, soaked in heat and hunger. "Thought you could outrun me, lil’ hare?"

You kick, thrash, cry but—but it's useless.

He steps into view.

For the first time, you see him. Truly see him.

Broad-shouldered, wrapped in the kind of strength that speaks of old blood, of violence written into the bones. His bangs are slick with sweat and sticking to his forehead, catching the moonlight in glints of silver and soot. His mouth is a slow, cruel curve, teeth flashing when he smiles—serrated and sharp, dangerous in their promise.

And his eyes—

God, his eyes.

Deep, burning red, like fresh blood spilled on freshly fallen snow.

They glint at you through the mist, pinning you in place, drowning you in a voracity so raw it almost hums against your skin.

You whimper, trying to crab-crawl backward, but he just tilts his head, slow and mocking, one hand reaching lazily down to wrap around your ankle again.

"You run real pretty," he murmurs, accent thick and sweet as sap dripping down the bark of a Maple tree, "but you ain't got nowhere left t' go, sugar."

The gnarled woods close around you, the mist swallowing your pitiful cries, the trees bending low to listen.

And the monster—

The one you were warned about—

Grins as he pounces.

The world spins in a dizzy, mud-slick blur as he crashes into you, the full weight of him knocking the breath from your lungs. His hands are everywhere—rough palms sliding up your trembling thighs, your waist, trapping your wrists above your head with a grip so strong it aches.

You thrash, wild and panicked, but it’s like fighting against a landslide.

Every frantic buck of your hips, every desperate twist of your wrists, every teary plea for help, only seems to amuse him further.

He straddles you easily, his thighs like iron on either side of your hips, his body radiating impossible heat. His breath ghosts over your neck—slow, savoring—and when he inhales, it’s with a deep, shuddering drag, as though he’s drinking you in.

You go still.

Frozen.

A scared little rabbit under the paw of a hungry wolf.

Slowly, he lifts his head, and when your eyes meet his, your heart lurches sickly into your throat.

Those eyes—

Red as the blood moon above.

Glowing, starving.

The corner of his mouth curls, a slow, predatory grin, delighting in your overwhelming fear.

"Y' smell it, don't ya?" he murmurs, low and thick with appetite. His nose brushes the curve of your neck, inhaling again, greedily, his voice gone almost reverent. "Sweet lil' thing...bleedin' just f'me."

Your stomach turns over, nausea and terror twining like barbed wire.

He slides lower, his body pressing yours into the soft, damp earth. You can feel every strong inch of him—the way the metal of his belt buckle digs into your hip, the way his thigh muscles tense against you like a coiled predator savoring the final moments before it goes in for the kill.

His nose trails down, brushing the hollow of your throat, the dip between your breasts—slow, agonizing, torturous.

You try to pull away—

He growls.

Not a human sound.

Something low, rattling. Monstrous.

His hand tightens around your wrists until your bones creak. His other hand snakes between your bodies, grabbing your skirt—what's left of it—and dragging it higher, baring your thighs to the muggy night air.

"No use runnin' now," he says, almost gentle, as if talking down a skittish animal. His accent thickens, each word dripping slow as syrup, artificially sweet. "Gotcha all laid out pretty...just how I like ya."

You whimper, twisting helplessly, but he just chuckles deep in his chest, the sound vibrating against your ribs.

And then he goes still.

For one terrible, breathless second, he freezes—nostrils flaring, whiffing deeply, body tense as a drawn bowstring.

His gaze drops between your legs—to where your petticoat is soaked through, a dark, spreading stain betraying you to the night.

The change is instant.

A groan tears from his throat—raw, guttural, almost pained—and when his eyes meet yours again, they're molten red, desperate, devouring.

"God Almighty," he rasps, voice cracking like dry kindling. "Ain't nothin' in this world sweeter than a bleedin' cunt."

You sob, humiliated, terrified, as he shifts lower, his body dragging down over yours.

One hand shoves your thighs apart—roughly, possessively—while the other pins your wrists like shackles above your head.

"You don’t even know," he murmurs, almost tender, mouth ghosting over your inner thigh, his breath scorching hot, even in Delta’s sweltering humidity. "Don't even know what you’re doin' to me, sweet pea."

You can feel it now—his mouth, open and panting against the sensitive skin of your thigh, the tremble in his hands as he fights the urge to tear you open like a cat stretched over a fresh kill.

He presses his face against you, inhaling, low and deep, the sound of it filthy in the night.

And then—

He licks.

Long, slow, obscene—dragging his tongue up the seam of your cunt through the blood-slick cotton, a helpless whimper shuddering out of you before you can stop it.

He growls in response—a sound of such raw, savage pleasure you feel it bone-deep.

"That's it," he croons against you, dragging his mouth over you again, harder now, more desperate. "Let me taste it, baby...let me drink ya down."

You shake your head weakly, gasping, tears kissing along your water lines, vision blurry.

He only laughs —low and delighted—and tears the soiled remains of your petticoat aside with a quick, brutal rip of fabric.

And then there’s nothing between you.

Nothing but blood, skin, and his appetite.

Your thighs quake against the rough spread of his hands as he forces you open wider, his breath scorching hot against the most vulnerable parts of you, the parts that have never known a man's touch.

For a moment, he just stares—a low, reverent rumble building in his chest, vibrating through the muggy, blood-heavy air.

You choke on a sob, trying to squirm away, but his fingers dig bruises into your thighs.

"Nuh-uh, sugar," he murmurs, thick with amusement, the sharp scrape of his accent dragging down your spine like a blade. "You gone run enough."

You feel the shift—

Feel it deep in your marrow—

When he leans in and lets his mouth part against you.

A soft, wet, sinful sound fills the air as he licks—

And not just with any tongue.

When he drags it up your slit, you feel it—the unnatural split, the way the forked ends flick and curl separately, tracing obscene patterns through the slick, blood-slick folds of your cunt.

Your whole body seizes, a ragged, fragmented noise spilling from your throat.

He hums low—pleased, greedy—and licks again, slower this time, letting the twin points of his tongue tease your clit, your opening, flickering back and forth in a rhythm that makes your back arch high against the dirt.

"Mmm," he groans into you, nosing deeper, breathing you in like he means to fill his lungs with nothing but your scent. "Ain't never had a taste so fine. Like honey drippin' straight from the comb."

Tears streak from the corners of your eyes and down your temples, hot and shameful. You wrench your wrists uselessly against his grip, but he just pins you harder, his hand tightening like an iron shackle around your wrists.

He pulls back—just enough for you to see the blood slicking his lips, his chin—

And the red gleam of his eyes as he smiles, wide and mean.

"You wanna know what I was fixin' t' do t' ya?" he drawls, voice syrupy slow, full of wickedness. "When I caught ya runnin', I thought I'd rip that pretty lil' throat open. Watch ya bleed out all soft an' sweet beneath me."

You sob—broken, desperate.

His smile sharpens.

"Still might," he says, almost cheerfully, leaning back in, his nose nudging your clit so softly it makes your legs jerk. "If ya don't play real sweet for me, darlin'."

The implication settles heavy as stone in your gut—brutal, absolute.

Be good.

Or be dead.

You nod, trembling so hard your teeth chatter.

He croons a soft, pleased sound, rubbing his cheek against your inner thigh like a cat marking its prize.

"That's my girl," he says, thick and low, tongue flickering out to taste you again—slower now, more savoring. "Gonna treat ya real nice if ya stay still f'me."

You do.

You have no choice.

And he devours you.

The twin forks of his tongue work you open mercilessly—teasing, dipping, thrusting, flicking over the swollen nub of your clit in relentless, devastating licks. The sensation is too much—too sharp, too wet, too filthy—and you sob against the onslaught, your hips bucking helplessly beneath his iron grip.

He groans against you—filthy, hungry—and the vibrations make your vision white out at the edges.

"You taste like a blessin'," he mutters into your cunt, grinding the words into your skin with his mouth. "Sweet lil' Sunday sacrament, all laid out f'me t' worship."

You gasp, legs trembling violently, as the first orgasm builds—fast and brutal, cresting through you with the same merciless inevitability as the hunter pressing you down into the dirt, refusing to let up.

You don't want it.

You don't want it.

You can't want it.

But your body betrays you—spasming against his mouth, a shuddering cry breaking loose from your throat as you come, helpless and raw, against the wickedly incessant flicker of his tongue.

He moans as if your climax is the answer to damnation.

When you finally sag against the ground, limp and wrecked, he rises up over you—his mouth and chin slick with blood and slickness, his chest heaving, his cock straining hard against the rough denim of his trousers.

And for the first time—

There’s something in his face that’s not just hunger.

Something softer—

Something almost awed.

"Didn't think," he says roughly, almost to himself, "you'd be this damn sweet."

He leans down, pressing his forehead to yours—a rough, possessive, almost tender gesture.

"Ain't lettin' ya go now, sweet pea," he whispers, voice cracking like a prayer. "Ain't never lettin' go."

His hands trail down your body—calloused, devout—and you realize with a sick, fluttering horror that he’s not finished.

Not by a long shot.

He’s only just getting started.

You’re barely aware of him moving—too dazed, too wrecked—until the earth suddenly tilts wildly beneath you.

He rises to his feet in one smooth, terrifying motion, hauling your limp body up like you weigh nothing at all. His arms lock around your thighs, hoisting you over his broad shoulder, your face bouncing helplessly against the curve of his back.

The rough weave of his shirt scrapes your muddied cheek, damp with sweat and the humid Mississippi night. His scent floods your nose—salt and soil, blood and musk, something darker, wilder, something inhuman.

You whimper—too weak to fight—as his hand slaps possessively against the back of your thigh, holding you steady like a trophy kill.

"Shhh," he croons, his voice a low rumble vibrating straight through the very marrow of your bones. "Ain't no good wigglin', sweet pea. Y'belong t' me now."

Your fingers scrabble weakly against his shirt, nails catching on the coarse fabric, but he just laughs—a low, satisfied growl that rolls through the mist like thunder.

He starts walking—long, lazy strides deeper into the woods—further from the safety of town, further from anyone who could possibly hear you scream.

The trees lean in overhead, their gnarled branches clawing at the blood-colored sky, the cry of the cicadas like a chaotic choir, being taken deeper into the ugly underbelly of the forest.

The swamp breathes heavy and wet around you, the thick reek of stagnant water and moss closing over you like a suffocating shroud.

You can't see where he's taking you.

You can barely think.

Only feel—the slow, relentless sway of his body, the iron strength of his arms locking you in place as you look at the passing blur of gnarled foliage and plant litter every which way you twist your neck.

And his voice—

Low, filthy, almost tender—

Whispering promises against the slope of your thigh, each word branding itself into your skin.

"Gonna keep ya," he mutters, almost to himself. "Chain ya up nice 'n' sweet...keep ya all soft an' wet f'me...pretty lil' plaything, made jus' fer me."

You sob quietly, the sound muffled against his back, not that anything other than things that go bump in the night would hear anyways.

He doesn't stop.

Doesn't waver.

Just keeps carrying you deeper and deeper into the black heart of the woods, where no one will ever find you.

Where you’ll be his.

Body and soul.

Whether you want to be or not.

The world sways sickeningly with every step he takes.

Your body hangs limp over his shoulder, the thin fabric of your torn dress sticking to your skin, soaked through with sweat, blood, and the sticky breath of the Delta night. Every time he shifts you higher, the calloused drag of his palm across the backs of your thighs sends a tremor through your aching muscles.

The woods are different here.

Deeper.

Darker.

The trees older, skeletal and gnarled, twisted into shapes that look unnaturally human in the bloody moonlight, the knots in the bark large and gaping like mouths frozen mid-scream. The air thickens, heavy with the reek of standing water, mold, the cloying sweetness of rotting flowers.

You choke on it—each breath a struggle, sticky and wet in your throat.

He walks without hurry, the heavy tread of his boots sinking into the soft, muddy earth. The mist clings low around his legs, swallowing the ground whole. Crickets scream somewhere in the black, distant and frantic, but otherwise the world is eerily, horribly still.

You try to lift your head, try to see, but it only makes your vision tilt crazily, a low moan of sickness rising from your gut, feeling the bile trying to crawl up your esophagus.

He chuckles—low and knowing.

"Easy, lil' thing," he drawls, one broad hand stroking up the back of your thigh like a man soothing a spooked filly. "Ain't no sense gettin' y'self all riled."

His bloody fingers trail higher—under the torn remains of your petticoat, brushing the damp, sticky mess between your thighs. He hums, pleased.

"Still drippin'," he mutters almost to himself. "Still sweet."

The mist parts ahead like a curtain—and then you see it.

The chapel.

Or what's left of it.

A crumbling ruin of warped wood and sagging stone, half-swallowed by ivy and moss. The windows are shattered, jagged teeth of stained glass glinting in the blood moon's light. The steeple leans drunkenly to one side, bells long since stolen or fallen.

It should have been abandoned.

It was abandoned.

But now—

It breathes.

The mist coils around its dirty white skeleton, hugging it tight, the trees bending low like penitents around a grave.

He shoulders through the warped doors, boots echoing hollowly against the splintered floorboards. The air inside is thick—choking with mildew, smoke, old blood, the slow, sweet rot of something long dead, something long past salvation.

He carries you down the nave like a groom bearing a bride—if the groom were a wolf and the bride a carcass.

In the very center of the chapel, where once an altar might have stood, there’s only a low, crude bed—little more than a frame of old wood lashed together with vines and rope, a soiled mattress bowed low in the middle. Chains dangle from the bedposts, dark with rust, heavy enough to hold an ox.

Your heart stutters against your ribs.

He stops at the edge of the bed and lets you slide from his shoulder like a sack of grain, dropping you onto the mattress with a grunt. The springs wheeze under your weight. You scramble weakly, trying to push yourself up, but he just watches—arms folded, a slow, wicked grin playing at the corners of his bloody mouth.

"Look atcha," he says, voice dripping slow and fond. "All scared and pretty."

You whimper, trying to scoot back—away from him, away from the bed, away from the chains meant to shackle you to the floor. To him.

He lets you.

For a second.

Then he moves—faster than you can track—grabbing your ankle and yanking you back down the mattress with a savage jerk that knocks the breath from your lungs, chuckling low and mean under his breath, smiling like a predator playing with its food.

He looms over you—all broad shoulders and hungry red eyes, his chest heaving, his hair sweaty and sticking to his face. The crumbling roof of the chapel overhead caved in like a skylight created by time and erosion, the moonlight streaming in creating a bloody halo behind his head.

You kick out at him, weak and feeble. He catches your other ankle, spreads your legs wide with ease, and pins them to the bed.

"Y'know," he says thoughtfully, almost conversational, "I ain't never done this before."

You stare up at him, wide-eyed, chest heaving.

"Usually," he drawls, slow and deliberate, your blood dark and drying to his jaw, teeth sharp and daggered like the canines of a beast. "I catch my prey...an' I tear it open. Bleed it dry. Toss what's left t' the buzzards."

His hands slide up your calves, over your knees, rough palms mapping the shivering muscle of your thighs.

"But you..."

His grin widens, sharp and wicked.

"You got somethin' special in ya, sugar. Somethin' sweet. Somethin’ addictin’.”

His hands move higher, pushing the torn hem of your dress up around your hips.

"Gonna make a pet outta you," he murmurs, almost worshipful. "Gonna keep ya chained up nice and proper. Keep ya fed, keep ya warm...keep ya wet and loose."

You sob, twisting against the hold he has on your legs, but it only makes him chuckle low in his throat.

"Not just a meal, no sir," he says, voice thick with something like wonder. "Ain't never turned a meal inta a pet before."

He leans down, his mouth brushing your ear, his breath hot and damp and hungry.

"Gonna fuck ya every which way," he whispers, each word sinking into your flesh like thorns pricking your skin. "Gonna break ya in nice and slow. Make ya forget y'ever had a name b'fore me."

You shake your head, tears spilling over.

He just laughs—low and delighted—and kisses your temple, obscene in its mockery of tenderness.

"You'll see," he croons. "Ain't nothin' sweeter than bein' wanted, sweet pea. Nothin' sweeter than bein' kept and cared for.”

He shifts, reaching for the chains.

You hear the clatter of iron against wood, the heavy clink of rusted links.

Your blood goes cold.

You realize—

This isn't a nightmare you can wake from.

This is your life now.

Your body.

Your blood.

Your soul.

All belonging to him.

And the monster smiles.

The chains rattle in his fists, thick and rust-bitten, heavy enough to feel like fate.

You kick again, heart thundering in your chest, but it’s nothing against him.

He grabs your wrist with one hand, slamming it down against the splintered wood of the bed frame. The iron cuff closes around your wrist with a brutal finality, locking tight with a groaning snap of the old metal.

You cry out—a broken, pitiful sound that nothing but the cicadas will hear.

He shushes you—a low, almost tender croon—as he grabs your other arm, dragging it above your head and shackling it too.

The chains clink as you struggle, the cold bite of them against your bruised skin making you tremble harder.

"There we go," he murmurs, stepping back to admire his work, red eyes gleaming under the dripping shadows of the ruined chapel. "All trussed up like a good lil' prize hog."

You sob again, humiliated, terrified—but he only grins, predatory and bright, his chest rising and falling with heavy, panting breaths.

Slowly, leisurely, he kneels over you.

His hands trail down your body—dirty palms leaving streaks of blood, sweat, and swamp filth over the ruined silk of your dress. He hooks his fingers into the ripped neckline and tears—a wet, brutal sound of fabric giving way.

Your dress peels open like fruit skin, baring your chest to the swamp-choked air.

He makes a sound then—not quite a growl, not quite a groan—something broken and devout.

"Goddamn," he breathes, one palm spanning your ribs, feeling your heart rabbit helplessly beneath the thin shell of bone and skin. "Y'look sweeter 'n a sunrise after the flood."

His thumb brushes one nipple, watching it harden instantly under the humid chill.

You try to twist away—shame burning hotter than the blood in your veins—but the chains rattle uselessly, locking you in place.

He chuckles, low and dark.

"Ain't no hidin' from me, sugar," he says, rough and sweet, dragging his knuckles down your trembling belly. "Ain't no shame neither. Y'was made fer this. Made fer me."

His hands find the bunched remains of your petticoat around your hips.

Slowly—cruelly slow—he tears the rest away.

Until you're laid bare before him.

Blood-slick, shaking, eyes wide and wet.

He stares at you for a long moment—drinking in the sight of you like a starving man at a banquet that hasn't been permitted to feast yet.

You can feel the weight of his gaze—heavy and hungry.

"Mmm," he hums deep in his throat.

"Prettiest lil' pet I ever seen."

He palms your thighs, rough thumbs pressing bruises into the soft flesh as he pushes your legs open wider.

You sob—mortified, helpless—but it only seems to please him more.

"Lookit that," he murmurs, dipping his head down, close enough that his breath fans hot across your cunt. "Still bleedin'...still so damn sweet."

And then—

The flicker of heat—

The twin points of his forked tongue lash out, slick and obscene, stroking along the weeping seam of your cunt.

You gasp—body jolting violently against the chains—a sharp, helpless cry tearing from your throat.

He groans deep, low and guttural, as he licks again—slow, deliberate—tasting the blood and slick pooling between your thighs.

He moves with maddening patience—the split tips of his tongue teasing either side of your clit, circling, flicking, taunting.

"You hear that?" he mutters thickly, rubbing his mouth over your cunt, tongue dragging up every inch of you. "Hear how messy y'are f'me, sugar?"

You can't answer.

You're beyond answering.

Your thighs quiver against his shoulders, muscles locking and spasming as he devours you—slow, relentless, merciless.

He pulls back only long enough to watch you squirm—your face flushed, your lips trembling, your hips jerking up helplessly as if chasing the wicked flick of his tongue.

"Poor thing," he croons, mock-sweet. "Y'bleedin', cryin', achin'...and ya still openin' them pretty legs f'me."

He laughs—low and pleased—and dives back in, feasting like a man who'd been starved for a hundred years.

You can already feel yourself unraveling—

Can feel it building again—

That terrible, traitorous heat coiling low in your belly, shame burning so brightly it tastes like iron on your tongue.

He tongues you deeper, forked tongue writhing against your soaked, blood-slick entrance, and you sob, straining against the chains as your body gives in.

You come—

Harder than before—

Your cunt clenching helplessly around nothing, your blood and slick gushing against his mouth.

He groans, hips grinding into the bed, rutting against the mattress like he can't stand it, like the taste of you is killing him.

He pulls back, panting hard, mouth and chin dripping in a fresh coat of crimson.

When he looks at you—

It's not just hunger.

It's possession.

"That's it, baby," he rasps, voice raw, shredded with want. "Give it all t' me. Ain't gonna leave nothin' behind."

You whimper brokenly, chains rattling as you pull uselessly at your bonds.

And then—

You see it.

Him undoing his belt.

The clink of metal, the low rasp of fabric sliding down heavy thighs.

His cock springs free—thick, veined, flushed red—already weeping at the tip.

Your mouth goes dry with terror.

He crawls up the bed like a predator stalking wounded prey, his glowing eyes locked on you, his smile wide and merciless.

"Gonna claim ya proper now, sugar," he says, his voice low and trembling with barely-restrained hunger. "Gonna fuck ya bloody, fuck ya dumb...make ya forget the whole damn world 'cept me."

You sob, head thrashing weakly against the mattress.

He just laughs—low, light, loving—as he fits the head of his cock against your slick cunt.

And pushes in.

The first push of him inside you is a shock—

Stretching, burning, splitting you apart on the thick, heavy drag of his shaft.

You sob, twisting against the chains, but he just groans guttural and filthy, shoving deeper with a slow, brutal roll of his hips that forces your body to open up for him.

"There we go," he pants, sweat dripping from his brow to your heaving chest. "Takin' me real sweet, ain't ya, darlin'?"

The stretch feels endless, unbearable—every ridge and vein of him dragging against blood-slick, swollen flesh.

Your body tries to resist, clenching tight, but he's relentless—grinding deeper, forcing himself past the trembling, fluttering grip of your cunt.

"You fightin' me," he groans, voice ragged with pleasure, "but ya can't stop it, can ya? Body knows. Body knows who owns it now."

Tears spill from your eyes, hot and helpless.

The chains rattle with every shuddering breath you take.

He leans down, pressing his forehead against yours, his skin sweaty and warm same as yours, trapping you together in the sticky, blood-sweet air.

"Y'made fer this," he whispers, voice breaking on the edges of worship. "Made fer me."

With a slow, grinding thrust, he bottoms out—buried to the hilt, your body stretched taut around him, trembling with the effort to contain him.

He doesn't move at first.

Just breathes—hard, shuddering—his cock pulsing hot inside you, his hands gripping your hips so tight you know you'll wear the bruises for days.

"Sweetest cunt I ever had," he murmurs, almost dazed, rolling his hips just enough to grind against the blood-slick walls of your cunt. "Sweetest thing I ever tasted."

You whimper, wrecked, overwhelmed.

He starts to move—slow at first, almost lazy, dragging his cock nearly all the way out before slamming back in with a wet, obscene slap of skin on skin.

The bedframe groans under the force of it. The chains rattle. The chapel breathes with the rhythm of it—an old, rotted cathedral witnessing your ruin.

He keeps his forehead pressed to yours, breath coming hot and ragged between clenched fangs.

"Fuck," he snarls, thrusting harder, grinding deep. "Ain't never...fuckin'...lettin' you go, sugar."

Each word is punctuated by a savage snap of his hips, driving you higher up the mattress, making the iron cuffs bite deeper into your bruised wrists.

Your world narrows to the brutal stretch of him inside you, the thick heat of his body pinning you down, the filthy grind of his cock dragging more slick, more blood from your battered cunt.

He groans again—a raw, broken sound—and pulls back to stare down at where your bodies meet.

Blood coats his cock, painting the base of it slick and glistening in the crimson moonlight.

He growls—a deep, vibrating sound—and slams in harder, hips jerking.

"Bleedin' all f'me," he mutters, awe bleeding into the filthy cadence of his voice. "Markin' me proper. Good lil' bitch, lettin' me ruin ya."

You sob—don't know if it's from the pain, the shame, the unbearable rush of something darker pooling low in your belly.

He leans in, dragging his split tongue up your throat—slow, languid—tasting the salt of your skin.

"Gonna fill ya up," he rasps, thrusting harder now, the rhythm getting ragged, desperate. "Breed ya good. Chain ya to this bed and fuck ya full every night till y'don't know nothin' but my cock."

Your hips jerk helplessly against him, legs trembling, blood and slick dripping down your thighs onto the ruined mattress.

He bites down suddenly—not hard enough to break the skin, but hard enough to bruise—right over the frantic pulse at your throat.

You keen—a high, broken noise—and the orgasm hits you like a lightning strike.

Your cunt clamps down around him, spasming violently, drawing a raw, broken snarl from his chest.

"That's it," he growls, fucking you through it, his cock thickening even more inside you. "That's it, dove, milk it. Milk it good."

You come undone—

Body locking, heart hammering, chains rattling—

As he drives you through wave after wave of brutal, bloody pleasure.

His rhythm falters—

Hitches—

And with a hoarse snarl, he slams deep one last time.

You feel it—

The hot, thick flood of him spilling inside you—

Coating your walls, mixing with the blood already slicking your thighs.

He stays buried deep—panting, shaking, his arms trembling where they cage you in.

For a long moment, the only sound in the chapel is the labored, broken gasps of breath—his and yours, tangled together in the hot, heavy dark.

He nuzzles into your throat, murmuring low, senseless things against your skin.

"My girl," he breathes, over and over, as if trying to convince himself. "My sweet girl."

You lie limp beneath him—wrecked, used, ruined—your body claimed in every way it can be claimed.

And somewhere—

Buried under the terror, the humiliation—

A dark, terrible heat begins to flicker in your chest.

You're his now.

There’s no going back.

And the monster—

The one you were warned about—

Whispers that maybe, just maybe—you don’t want to.

The world feels soft and hazy when he finally moves.

You’re barely aware of it—just a weak, blood-warm ache where your legs sprawl open, your wrists burning raw from the chains. Every nerve ending feels stretched thin, humming with the aftershocks of being wrecked and claimed and ruined.

He shifts over you—his cock sliding free with a wet, filthy sound that makes you flinch—and you feel the thick, sticky mess of blood and come seeping down your thighs.

You whimper weakly, body too used up to fight.

But instead of leaving you—instead of walking away like the monster you thought he was—

He stays.

He kneels between your ruined thighs, the broken mattress sagging beneath his weight, and for a moment he just looks at you—head cocked, hair wild and dripping sweat, red eyes burning.

Something like awe flickers across his face.

"Sweet lil' mess," he murmurs, voice thick, almost tender.

One large, calloused hand cups your knee—thumb stroking slow, idle circles into your bruised skin—as he leans in.

You feel the first press of his tongue before you can even gasp.

He drags that wicked, forked tongue up the inside of your thigh again, lapping at the blood and slick smeared there like it’s the finest ambrosia.

He groans deep in his chest, his hands tightening on your trembling legs to hold you wide open for him.

You sob—broken, humiliated—but he just keeps licking, slow and steady, cleaning you up like a beast grooming his mate.

"Can't waste none of it," he mutters between licks, his breath damp against your skin. "Every drop...mine."

You twitch beneath him, wrists jerking weakly against the chains, but there’s no strength left in you.

There’s no fight left at all.

He licks higher—over the tender, battered folds of your cunt—gathering the mixture of blood and seed with obscene thoroughness, his tongue darting deep, savoring every taste.

You shudder violently, a broken whimper escaping your throat.

He shushes you again—so softly, so lovingly it makes your heart twist.

"Easy, sweet pea," he croons against your skin. "Ain't hurtin' ya now. Jus' takin' what's mine."

His tongue splits and flicks, teasing your clit, making your hips jolt despite yourself.

"That's it," he murmurs, smiling against you. "That's my good girl."

When he’s satisfied—when every drop of blood, every smear of slick has been licked from your trembling body—

He pulls back, wiping his mouth lazily with the back of his hand.

He looks down at you sprawled out on the soiled mattress—swollen wrists chained, thighs open, skin sticky with sweat and tears—and his smile softens.

"Pretty lil' thing," he murmurs, reaching out to thumb the tear tracks from your cheeks. "Took it so good. Knew ya would."

You try to flinch away from his touch, but it’s pathetic—a trembling, fragmented twitch.

He hums low in his throat, pleased.

Slowly, purposefully, he reaches for the shackles binding your wrists.

For a sick, dizzy second, you think he’s going to tighten them—punish you for even thinking of pulling away.

But instead—

You hear the click of old iron locks giving way.

The weight of the cuffs falls from your wrists, leaving raw, angry bands of flesh behind.

You sag back against the mattress like a puddle of liquid bones and flesh, too stunned, too hollowed out to move.

He watches you for a moment—head tilted, red eyes gleaming—like a man admiring the final brushstroke of a masterpiece.

Then he moves.

He scoops you up with terrifying ease—one hand under your knees, the other cradling your back—lifting you like you're weightless.

You make a weak, pitiful sound against his chest, but he just hushes you—soft and sweet—pressing a rough kiss to the crown of your filthy, sweat-drenched hair.

"Shhh, baby," he croons. "Ain't gonna hurtcha. Ain't gotta run no more."

He carries you to the far corner of the chapel—to a weathered old pew tucked into the shadows—and settles down onto it, shifting you into his lap like you belong there.

Your thighs straddle his hips, your chest crushed against his filthy shirt, your legs dangling uselessly on either side of his body.

He rocks you—nice and easy—the way a man might rock a newborn calf.

And all the while, he talks.

Low, sweet, steady.

"Got a place fer ya," he murmurs into your hair. "Back in the bayou. Little cabin where nobody'll never find ya."

His hands roam lazily over your battered body—soothing, petting, possessive.

"Got a bed there," he goes on, voice almost dreamy. "Big enough to tie ya spread-eagle. Big enough t' keep ya wet and ready all the time."

You shudder in his lap—a broken, helpless thing—but he just rocks you harder, nuzzling into your neck.

"Teach ya how t' live on nothin' but my cock and my seed," he whispers. "Keep ya full, keep ya heavy...make ya forget the whole damn world but me."

You sob softly against his chest.

He smiles against your hair.

"That's it," he croons. "That's my sweet girl."

His hand slides between your thighs again—unhurried, filthy—and cups the used, swollen heat of your cunt, thumb stroking lazy circles into the mess he left behind.

You twitch helplessly in his lap.

"Always knew I'd find somethin' special out here," he mutters, more to himself than to you. "Didn't reckon I'd find my forever meal...my lil' blood-slick pet."

He presses his mouth to your temple—a kiss, obscene in its tenderness.

"Mine now," he whispers. "Mine 'til the river runs dry."

The chapel groans around you—old wood settling, whispering, watching—as he rocks you slowly in his lap.

You’re weightless against him.

Soft.

Malleable.

The chains are gone, but you’re no freer than you were before.

Your body has surrendered.

Your mind—

God help you—isn't far behind.

He hums low under his breath, a tuneless, lazy thing—some old hymn twisted into something darker. Something damned.

His hands roam over you without hurry—stroking your bruised thighs, cupping the raw stretch of your hips, smoothing down the arch of your spine.

One of his palms cups the back of your head, pushing your face against his chest, holding you there like a possession too precious to lose.

"You feel it, don'tcha," he murmurs against your hair. "Way y'body melts into mine. Way y'cunt still pulses f'me even now."

You whimper—soft and splintered—and he smiles, wide and slow.

"Don't fight it, sugar," he says, low and coaxing. "Ain't nothin' left but me now."

You feel the slow, lazy roll of his hips beneath you—the thick, heavy press of his cock, still slick and blood-warm, nudging insistently between your thighs again.

You sob weakly, your body jerking against his.

But it’s useless.

Inevitable.

He shifts you higher, lining himself up, one broad hand guiding your hips as he pushes back inside—slow, deep, claiming.

You choke on a whimper, trembling violently in his lap as he fills you again—stretching your battered, blood-slick cunt to the limit.

"There we go," he croons. "There she is."

He rocks you on his cock—gradual, thick, obscene—grinding deep with each lazy roll of his hips, never pulling out, never letting you escape the feel of him inside you.

His mouth finds your ear, breath hot and heavy.

"Y'ain't even know my name yet," he murmurs, almost laughing. "Been takin' ya, ruinin' ya, bleedin' ya dry...and you don't even know what t' call me."

You shudder helplessly against him.

He presses a kiss to the hinge of your jaw—filthy, tender.

"Remmick," he breathes.

"That's what ya call me, sugar."

Another slow grind of his hips—another thick, aching thrust deep inside your ruined cunt.

"Say it," he whispers, voice breaking sweet and sharp against your skin. "Say my name."

You sob—mind reeling, body burning—but the word tumbles out of you like a rejected prayer.

"Remmick."

He groans, raw and reverent, and rocks you harder, the weathered pew creaking beneath the slow, punishing grind of his body.

"Good girl," he pants, forehead pressing to yours. "Sweet lil' thing...mine now. Mine forever."

He kisses you then—

A brutal, clumsy thing—

Mouth crushed against yours, tasting of blood and salt and something older. Something primordial.

You sob into the kiss, legs trembling against his hips, your body clinging to him without thinking, without reason.

Remmick smiles against your mouth.

"That's it," he murmurs. "Ain't no runnin' now. Ain't no leavin'."

He rocks you again—slow, deep—every thrust branding you, sinking you deeper under his spell.

"You got my name now," he whispers, voice thick with triumph and devotion. "And soon enough, baby...you gonna carry the rest of me too."

His hand slides down, splaying wide over your lower belly—

Possessive, filthy, promising.

"You gonna carry me inside ya, sweet pea," he breathes, voice almost shaking. "Gonna grow fat an' heavy with me...my blood, my seed, my babies."

You sob against his chest—wrecked, overwhelmed—as he rocks you through it, slow and relentless, every movement carving your fate deeper into your body.

And Remmick—

The monster, the devil, the man—

Just holds you tighter, crooning low and filthy against your skin.

"My girl," he whispers. "My sweet, bleedin' girl."

The slow grind of him inside you never stops.

Remmick rocks you lazily in his lap—the pew creaking under the weight of his possession—each slow thrust pushing you deeper under, erasing everything but the burn and the stretch and the unbearable, filthy tenderness of him.

Your head lolls against his shoulder, sweat-soaked hair sticking to your temples, every nerve frayed to a live wire.

He strokes your back in long, rough sweeps—the calluses of his palms rasping over every bruise, every bite mark, every blood-smeared inch of you.

"You feel it, don'tcha, sugar," he breathes into your ear, voice sweet and sticky as syrup. "The way yer body listens to me now. Way it wants me even when you don't."

You sob weakly, too broken to deny it.

His arms tighten around you—one locked around your back, the other spreading wide over your hips, guiding you up and down the thick, blood-slick length of his cock.

"You was made fer this," he murmurs, his breath hot and humid against your skin. "Made t'be mine. Made t'be fucked full, bred fat, kept warm an' wet in my bed."

He rocks you harder—deeper—the swollen head of his cock grinding up against that raw, aching place inside you, making your whole body jolt and shudder helplessly.

Your wrists curl weakly against his chest, the instinct to cling overpowering even your fear.

Remmick hums low, satisfied.

"Good girl," he praises, voice rough and ragged. "Good lil' thing, clingin' so sweet."

He kisses the side of your throat—a slow, open-mouthed drag of lips and teeth—and you feel him smiling against your pulse.

And then his voice drops lower—softer, darker—as he begins to whisper.

"But if y'ever think about runnin'..." he murmurs, rocking you a little harder, his cock dragging thick and slow inside your cunt, "if y'ever try t'leave me, lil’ hare...I'll hunt ya down."

You shudder violently in his arms.

"I'll drag ya screamin' back by that sweet lil' ankle," he whispers, almost lovingly. "Chain ya tighter. Fuck ya harder. Make sure next time ya can't even walk."

You sob—broken, breathless.

He kisses your ear, his tongue flicking out to taste the salt of your tears.

"Maybe I'll break that pretty lil' ankle," he muses, his voice so soft it’s almost a lullaby. "Keep ya bed-bound...keep ya needy...make ya beg for me t'feed ya, to fuck ya, to touch ya."

You whimper, hips jerking against him without meaning to.

Remmick groans low in his chest, thrusting up deeper inside you.

"You'd look so pretty like that," he pants. "All bruised up an' cryin'...beggin' me to keep fillin' this sweet lil' cunt."

His hand slides between your bodies, thumb finding your clit—swollen, aching, blood-slick—and starts to rub slow, relentless circles.

You gasp, high and needy, clutching at him, legs trembling where they sprawl weakly around his hips.

"That's it," he breathes, rocking you harder now, rubbing you faster. "Cum f'me, sugar. Milk me good. Show me who ya belong to."

You sob, mind fracturing under the thick, unbearable pleasure—under the dirty, endless tenderness of his voice—under the awful, overwhelming rightness of it.

Your orgasm slams into you—sharp, brutal, dizzying—your whole body clenching down around him, sobbing his name against his throat.

Remmick groans, burying his cock deep one last time, grinding slow and thick against the fluttering spasms of your cunt.

"That's my girl," he whispers, voice cracked and worshipful. "My sweet, bleedin' girl. Mine."

He holds you through it—rocking you gently, slowly—cooing filthy promises against your skin.

"Never lettin' ya go," he breathes, voice drunk with possession. "Never."

And you know—

With a dark, shattered certainty —

That he’s telling the truth.

Your body trembles in his lap—used, slick, overflowing—and still, Remmick doesn’t stop.

Still buried deep inside you, he rocks you lazily—thick, slow drags of his cock against your raw, battered walls, the wet, messy sound of it filling the ruined chapel.

You whimper, limp and broken against his chest.

He shushes you, petting your hair, pressing kisses to your temple, your jaw, your throat.

"That's it, sweet pea," he praises. "Just keep takin' it. Keep takin' me."

His hips move slower now—deep, grinding thrusts that make you feel every vein, every throb of him inside you.

You sob weakly when you feel the telltale pulse of his cock thickening again—feel the way he holds you tighter, groaning low in your ear.

"Poor thing," he breathes, voice shaking with hunger and something darker, deeper. "Ain't built t'keep up, are ya?"

He rocks you harder, the sticky, bloody mess of your body clinging wetly to him.

His mouth finds your ear again—voice low, filthy, almost laughing.

"Y'know why?" he whispers. "Y'know why ya break so easy f'me, sugar?"

You whimper, unable to answer, unable to think.

He licks the shell of your ear—slow, lazy—before speaking again.

"'Cause I ain't no man, sweet thing," he says, voice rich with wicked delight. "Ain't no mortal that tires out an' falls asleep after one fuck."

He grinds deeper—hips jerking, cock twitching inside you.

"A demon’s stamina," he murmurs, "ain't like a man's."

You shudder violently in his arms.

"I can do this," he breathes, voice low and full of terrible promise, "forever."

He thrusts again—slow, heavy, final—and you feel it.

Feel the thick, molten flood of him spilling inside you again—hotter, heavier than before, painting your ruined cunt, seeping out around his cock.

Remmick groans low, deep in his chest—a sound full of brutal satisfaction.

He holds you there—stuffed full, pinned tight—grinding the mess deeper with lazy, possessive rolls of his hips.

"There we go," he murmurs against your throat. "Fill ya up good. Mark ya so deep ya gonna leak me out fer days."

You sob, a broken little sound that only makes him hum in pleasure.

He strokes your hair, your back, rocking you gently in the wreckage of the chapel.

"You're mine now," he whispers. "Ain't no priest, no preacher, no god up there that can take ya from me."

He kisses your temple—filthy, loving.

"Belong t' me, sweet lil' thing," he breathes. "My pet. My meal. My mate."

You lie limp in his lap, broken open, owned.

And you realize—with a dark, awful clarity—that you don't even want to run anymore.

You belong here.

With him.

Forever.

And the monster—

The demon—

Your Remmick—

Rocks you slowly into the night, crooning sweet, filthy promises against your skin.

[diaphene]

enjoy ·˚ ◌༘₊· ͟͞꒰➳nsfw / MDNI

his hands were locked on your ass in a bruising grip, as he continues to rock back and forth inside of you. his face buried in your chest, slowly losing his mind, overwhelmed by how perfect you feel

you could've sworn he stopped breathing with the way his face was completely smushed between your breast. you bite your lip with a lop sided smile... but you didn't have much room to talk about him, with your own climax quickly approaching

he lets out a desperate moan and begins to pump faster, hitting that spot that makes you become light headed. your mouth widens as you throw your head back, chanting yes, yes, yes as you are brought to tears

with him still thrusting, you gather the energy to look down again, and are met with intense, electrifying eyes and a dark look, right before he releases inside with a groan. too far gone, he had completely lost all control

it was so powerful, the energy surged off of him, causing the power to go out all around you

you both froze in place, still in bed. slowly uncovering your faces, you cautiously looked around, assessing what had just happened

he knew before you did, swearing under his breath and plopping his head on your stomach in defeat with a huff. you had to cover your mouth to stifle the laugh that was inches away from bursting through. he was silent for a moment, already well aware that tomorrow he's going to get an ear full of this from... well... everyone

"its not funny" he said with that infamous frown

that just made you laugh harder

unable to resist, he cracked a smile himself, in disbelief

what was he going to do with you

.

[kurtsmellsliketeenspiritt]

Fantasy readers of tumblr please help me. I’m a huge fan of epic fantasy like wheel of time, lord of the rings, game of thrones and just about anything brandon sanderson. But all these incredible series that i love are always written by men and the female characters tend to fall short.

I want to support female writers and have some well written female characters but the fantasy genre has been almost entirely usurped by “romantasy” which i truly cannot stand and I’m struggling to find anything i would enjoy. Does anyone have any epic fantasy recommendations by women???

[illyrianbitch]

Of Our Own Devices

For @erisweekofficial Day 1: Bargains

Pairing: Reader x Eris

Summary: Desperate to reunite with Lucien since his exile to Spring, you find yourself paying an unexpected price to his older brother.

Warnings: some mentions of death & injury, swearing, spitfire reader and a cunty eris. <3

Word Count: 3.2k

Part Two

✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹ 

The storm had rolled in with frightening speed.

It was one of the rarer, powerful storms of Autumn. The type that caused the sky to turn to charcoal, produced lightning that illuminated the canopy of fall leaves and made them seem like flickering, live fires. 

You stumbled into the dimly lit cabin, drenched from the rain that had come pouring down in sheets. The cabin was one you had never seen before— a hidden refuge of Eris’s that you weren't aware existed. Despite its small size, it was surprisingly beautiful, furnished with deep, velvety fabrics. Eris had pulled you into the home without a word. 

Crossing your arms across your chest, you turned to him, watching as he shed his outer layer and hung it on a hook near the door. He moved to the cold, empty fireplace next, and with a flick of his fingers, he summoned a flame from his hand.  The flame danced briefly in his palm before he extended it toward the blackened wood in the hearth. 

Seconds later, a crackling sound filled the room, bringing the fire to life and filling the space with a warm, golden glow. Eris watched the flames for a moment. Then he stood up, facing you once more. 

"You promised me I'd be in Spring by tonight," you said. 

Eris tsked, brushing past you as he sat himself on a velvet, red couch. His scent lingered in the air—a smoky, strong aroma. A shiver ran through your body. You attributed the reaction to the influence of the rain on your warm skin. 

He didn't bother to meet your eye as he responded. "I promised no such thing. I said I'd take you to Spring tonight."

"Then take me."

He raised a brow and for a moment, you almost expected him to make a childlike comment, a brutish joke about the sentiment those words could hold outside of the context. But he didn't. His eyes, however, told you that he was thinking about it. It was unnerving, how you could read him so well, how years at Lucien's side had come with an unexpected consequence: becoming familiar with his brothers, too.

"It's a storm. Winnowing is risky in this weather," he said smoothly, voice as cool as ever. "I’m not risking both our lives just because you're impatient."

The wind howled outside the cabin, rattling the wooden shutters as you took a deep breath— in through your nose, out through your mouth. The eldest Vanserra noticed the frustration immediately, and your efforts to calm yourself dissipated as a small smirk tugged at the corners of his lips.

“I’m not staying here,” you snapped. “I’ll walk if I have to.”

At first glance, the couch appeared almost pristine, but as the firelight grew and you paid closer attention, you could make out traces of dark grey, black, and brown hairs—the hair of his hounds.  The detail settled somewhere inside you. You weren't sure where.

“If you do that, you’ll either die of exposure or run into my father’s men. Either way, not a great plan.”

You froze, your hands tightening around the fabric of your cloak as you grasped your arms, fingernails digging into the material. “So my options are to stay here with you or die?”

He shrugged lazily, but the motion still held a sense of regality to it, an eerily elegant form. It made you even angrier.

“Seems so," he said, a smile forming on his lips. It was as warm and genuine as a snake’s kiss, much like the disarming charm you had come to expect from Eris.

You'd never spent this long with him alone, never needed to manage his calculated gaze or purposely chosen words without the buffer of Lucien. You would've gladly gone your entire immortal life without doing so. But you missed Lucien— your heart ached without him, longed to be near him, to have his laugh echo in your ears. And this was the only way to be with him again, even for a few days.

And Eris knew that. He knew it all. You assumed it was why he bothered to take you in the first place. It gave him the pleasure of knowing he had power– control.

Your blood boiled.

“Are you enjoying this?” You stormed toward him, standing over the couch as he stretched, clearly unbothered by the storm—or your anger. “Trapping me here, knowing I have no choice.”

“Trapping you?” He laughed softly, sitting up slightly to meet your gaze. “You came to me, Vixen. If you want to go, the door’s right there.”

The sound of the wind howling through the trees outside made his offer ring hollow. You struggled to rummage through your thoughts, through the anger, frustration, and disgust that he managed to stir in you.

The stupid, stupid nickname was all you could focus on, now. Memories of a younger you flooded your senses, memories of a younger Eris, one much less rigid, much more open, almost. An Eris you crushed on. You'd never admit the truth to anyone— that the reason you and Lucien had become so close, despite your natural connection, was because once upon a time, he was glued to his older brothers hip. And so you'd glued yourself to Lucien's.

Eventually, the years evened things out, and your feelings flowed from the eldest Vanserra to the kindest one. To Lucien.

Lucien. Your mind reminded you. This was for Lucien. Don't piss Eris off, don't ruin your chances at seeing him again. Don't engage—

"Stop calling me that, you arrogant prick."

Your hands dropped to your sides, instinctively curling into fists as Eris peered at you with a burning, amused stare. His amber eyes gleamed like a predator toying with its prey.

"I see Lucien's absence has impacted your ability to maintain that temper. Those breathing exercises not working well for you?"

Something twisted deep in your gut.

"Now that I think about it, I think I'll take my chances with the storm."

Before you could make a move to leave, Eris was standing, his chest now inches away from you as he peered down at you. You didn't move, then, only straightened your shoulders and met his gaze.

Eris wasn’t the beefy, broad-shouldered type that other males in the court might have been. He didn’t have large, bulging muscles meant to intimidate. Instead, he was a lean kind of strong, with a pointed nose and sharp features that cut through the dim light of the cabin. He exuded a different kind of intimidation, one that stemmed from his inherent authority and the staunchness of his posture. He carried himself like a prince—elegant and commanding, every inch of him a testament to his future role.

Beron was merely keeping the throne warm until Eris was ready to claim it for himself.

"We both know you're not going to do that."

You tightened your fists further. "And why not?"

"Because you aren't stupid, Y/n."

Eris cocked his head, his eyes narrowing as he studied your face with a cold, calculating gaze. His features were sharp and chiseled, the faintest freckles dotting his high cheekbones. 

"You're not going to risk losing your chance to see Lucien."

 He leaned down and his breath fanned your face, warm and mingling with the scent of cedar and smoke. His eyes danced across your face, moving from holding your gaze to traveling further down, lingering on your lips—on the scowl you wore on them—before he met your eyes again. The fire's flames grew larger, consuming the oxygen in the air that had already seemed to be thinning. 

You said nothing as he continued, "Uncurl those fists, take that soaked cloak off, and wait. "

You stayed quiet, taking a deep breath before you stepped to the side, purposefully brushing your shoulder against his broad chest as you moved. Despite your urge to resist him out of spite, you reluctantly removed your cloak and tossed it on the clean floor of the cabin.

Eris scoffed. "Really? Must you act like a child?"

The floorboards cracked as he walked and, faintly, he mumbled something about how his hounds were better mannered. Eris picked up your cloak, dusting it off with a gentle hand before hanging it up next to his own.

"I'm curious," he began, glancing over his shoulder as he walked towards the couch. "Does Lucien know?"

You glared at him. You were growing tired now, the exhaustion of the trip slowly growing deep in your bones.

"What are you talking about?"

Eris smirked, his gaze lingering on you with a knowing glint as he settled back on the couch. "I'm talking about how you're in love with my sweet, sweet little brother."

You stiffened, a wave of emotion crashing over you—cold and awakening, a nauseating mix of embarrassment and fury. 

"I don't know what you're talking about."

Eris's face remained insufferably composed, a cocky grin playing at his lips. His eyes gleamed with a self-satisfied spark.

"No need to lie. It's just us two here," he purred. "I've always enjoyed how honest we can be with one another. It's why I preferred you over Jesminda."

A sharp, uncontrollable heat seared through every nerve in your body, a wave of anger surging like a wildfire.

"Keep her name out of your mouth."

It felt like a disgrace to have him say it, to hear her name immortalized on the tongue of the brother that allowed her to die. The brother that had killed her, according to Lucien. His sobs still echoed in your mind, the image of a broken male etched into your memory. You'd had only five minutes with him before he fled, five minutes of frenzied packing, desperate promises, and anguished confessions of what his father—and his brothers—had done.

Eris's gaze lingered as he analyzed you.

A beat passed.

Then another.

You were beginning to feel naked, as if he had stripped you of every defense you'd managed to muster around him. You turned away, unable to bear the weight of his stare any longer.

"I didn't kill her. I didn’t help.”

Your face went slack, caught off guard and momentarily confused. You pulled yourself together quickly, straightening your back, hoping he hadn’t noticed your reaction.  As you turned a little, your face almost sad now, you could’ve sworn you saw something in his eyes—something akin to regret, maybe even compassion.

Your voice was low, not bothering to hide the sadness, mourning, the raw anger, as you responded.

“I don’t believe you.”

The trace of care in his gaze vanished as he shrugged, the same indifferent gesture he’d made earlier. “Have I ever lied to you?”

You stared at him, taking him in with the same analyzing gaze he'd offered you. 

It was strange how alike he and Lucien looked, how alike yet so different all the same. But the longer you stared, the more you began to feel stuck— hypnotized, tempted to walk closer to him, to ask him what it was that went on in his mind, what caused those flickers of emotions you couldn't name across his face. 

But another moment passed, and all you could see was a male who Lucien hated, a male who was selfish, who reveled in the pain caused by chaos.  Your mind drifted to other rumors and stories you’d heard about him. You settled on one in particular. 

"You left an innocent female to die in the woods because she didn't want to mary you. Butchering your brother's lover doesn't seem outside of your past-times."

A cold shift washed over Eris’s face. His disinterested expression hardened into a mask of disappointment, then flared into a simmering anger. It was a contained fury, like a finely tuned flame.

"Don't tell me you believe the lies of Night Court trash. Surely you're smarter than that. I know you are."

"Fuck you," you snarled. "You know nothing about me. I'm not going to let you play some twisted mind games with me. I'm not a doll."

He shook his head. "You are not."

A beat. Then a smirk grew on his lips. "But you are just as pretty as one, if we're still being honest. You're wasted in your one-sided love, Y/n."

You said nothing, turning to walk to the other side of the cabin. The corner held a bookshelf with carefully arranged volumes, a finely crafted wooden table, and a collection of artifacts on the windowsill.

Eris just laughed behind you, a sound so smooth and soothing that it felt sinful against your skin.

You resisted the temptation to snoop, to explore the cabin and bask in the rare vulnerability of the brother who had always captivated you in the most wretched of ways. It felt strange seeing him like this—relaxed, almost at ease— as if simply crossing the threshold of this modest cabin had stripped away the invisible chains and burdens only a prince could bear.

You stayed still and stared out the window, focusing on the sounds of the storm. You hoped that the rain would drown out the sounds of his breathing— sounds that rang too loud in your mind. You didn't want to know why he seemed to do that, why he lingered so deeply in your head. 

✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹

The storm raged on for a few more hours.

The time was spent in tense silence—at least for you. Eris remained on the couch, reading through a novel about the history of the continent. You would've never thought him to enjoy such a thing, to want to know about those outside of his court, of mortals, humans, no less.

And when the rain finally stopped, he rose wordlessly. With a brief gesture toward your cloak, he led you out, winnowing you the rest of the way in silence.

When you finally reached the border of Spring, a wave of relief washed over you.

The vibrant greens of the new season were almost blinding after the gloom of the storm. You took a step forward, eager to escape the tension that had gripped you for hours. You'd be with Lucien soon, be able to hug him, to tell him of all the things he'd missed in your life since his exile. 

But before you could move any further, Eris's hand closed around your arm. You turned to him with a glare, meeting his glowing gaze and infuriatingly calm smile.

“Are we forgetting payment?”

You strengthened your glare, gritting your teeth before you pulled yourself out of his grasp, reaching for the small bag hidden within your layers. 

Eris stopped you with a casual wave. “I don’t want your money.”

You stiffened, straightening your posture. The sounds of Spring echoed behind you, their vibrant melodies almost taunting as you lingered on the border. Eris’s smile shifted into a smirk, his eyes glinting with something dangerous, something that made you swallow instinctively. 

“I’m surprised you didn’t ask sooner.”

You thought back to how he had offered to take you to Lucien, how this entire arrangement had been his idea. You should've held back, should've been more wary of his motives. But you'd been too excited, been too blinded by the joy of being with Lucien once more. 

“What do you want, Eris?” 

He took a moment to take you in fully, eyes scanning you from head to toe, and then he took a small step back.

“A bargain,” he finally said.

 “A bargain?” 

He nodded. “You will not tell Lucien it was me who brought you here.”

You frowned, a crease forming between your brows as you blinked at the male before you. Perhaps you'd heard him wrong. “What?”

“If he asks, you’ll say you bought off a hunter in Autumn, a mercenary. Whatever you’d like,” Eris continued.

You drew your brows tighter. 

“I thought you'd want to revel in the fact that he might somehow owe you. Prove your power, even."

Eris shrugged nonchalantly. “Then maybe you don’t know me as well as you’d like to think.”

He extended his hand, his palm open and the gleam of his ring-clad fingers catching the light. You hesitated for a moment, body still stiff with unease, with confusion. 

You scanned his face. Eris loved played games. This was no different. There was no point in reading into it. So you rolled your eyes and prepared to shake on it, reaching for his hand.  He pulled it slightly out of reach.

“What now?” You groaned.

He hummed in amusement.

“And when I come to get you to return to Autumn, I want your help.”

You raised a brow. “My help?” you asked, incredulously. "How the hell would I ever be able to help you?"

Your family had no title, no powers beyond a tame ability to fight and heal. You survived in Autumn because you were ordinary—and ordinary meant no one looked for you. Noticed you. 

“I want to call in a favor,” he clarified.

“What favor?"

"We'll see," Eris said with a smile and a tilt of his head. “I think you could help me out dearly."

You let his words settle for a moment. His eyes, glistening with a dangerous glow, seemed to hold something predatory, something that made the hairs on the back of your neck stand on end. There must've been an underlying threat in his proposition, something sinister you had yet to notice. After all, he was a male known for his ruthlessness— 

You stiffened.

He was a male. There was one easy way for males to assert their dominance, to gain pleasure, to accept payment. 

You took a step back instinctively and Eris’s gaze tracked your movement before returning to meet your eyes. A shadow flickered in his eyes, reminiscent of the dark, unsettlingly soft gleam you’d seen in his cabin when he first glimpsed your saddened expression. Seconds later, his face shifted to one of mild amusement. He rolled his eyes with an empty chuckle.

“Settle yourself, Y/n. Not that kind of favor. I can bed females without resorting to bargaining for their affections,” he said, his tone dripping with condescension.

A flush of embarrassment crept up your cheeks. You looked to the ground for a moment, taking a deep breath as you regained your composure. When you finally met his gaze again, he was already extending his hand towards you once more.

“A favor in the future in exchange for this time with Lucien,” he purred smoothly. “And your silence. Consider it our little secret.”

The smirk that grew on his lips was maddening and you could feel the heat of his gaze, the flickering fire of his amber eyes urging you to comply. Every instinct told you that binding yourself to him was a terrible idea.

You glanced back over your shoulder, looking to the green, sunny expanse behind you. Lucien was there, somewhere amongst the greenery, and with a simple bargain you'd be with him again. 

Without a second thought, you turned back to Eris and took his hand.

✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹ 

happy eris week yall!!! rising from the dead specifically to post this lol, i fear i love this pairing so lets see if i decide i wanna write anything else for them. thank you for reading!! (i miss writing so so so much)

i might make this into a miniseries, so lmk if you’d like

to be tagged <3

permanent tag list 🫶🏻: 

@rhysandorian @itsswritten @milswrites @lilah-asteria @georgiadixon

@glam-targaryen @cheneyq @darkbloodsly @pit-and-the-pen @azrielsbbg

@evergreenlark @marina468 @azriels-human @panther-girl-124 @bubybubsters

@starswholistenanddreamsanswered @feyretopia  @ninthcircleofprythian @velariscalling @azrielrot

@justyouraveragekleemain @marigold-morelli @mrsjna @anarchiii @alittlelostalittlefound-blog

@melissat1254

@m4tthewmurd0ck @beardburnsupersoldiers @isnotwhatyourethinking @tothestarsandwhateverend @raginghellfire

[doverstar]

can't express accurately how happy it makes me that c.s. lewis did not leave room for many interpretations in narnia. it's christian and you can't get around it. susan chose to care more about worldly things than what matters and he said what he said. the lion is Jesus. evil is evil and good is good and people have to choose. and that makes some readers angry because it's nearly impossible to ignore and they want to ignore it. they want it to be something else and they can't make it something else without making it not narnia. love that. that is doing it right

[loomka]

sam and his poney <3

[jasontoddsmommyissues]

How I sleep at night knowing that every time a new Joseph Quinn project comes out, at least one of you hoes will photoshop Eddie’s hair onto pictures from it:

[iidilio]

୨୧ — so... welcome to my thirst talk ૮₍ ´ ꒳ `₎ა

I only know that their fingers would make you see stars because they reach deep into your pussy...

[aboutcustardcreams]

Part two

part one

She sees right through me

Can't express how much I loved writing down this chapter. I got carried away, and here's the result. Hope you enjoy it :3

word count: 4000 ish

A pregnant silence fell in the TARDIS right after those simple words slipped from your mouth. A small confession, merely the tip of the iceberg that still was able to cause quite a shock. 

The Doctor’s voice is barely above a whisper when she asks, “so you come from Gallifrey?” 

Of course you did, but she needed to be sure. From the moment she laid her hand upon your chest, she had known. A sound so very familiar to her echoed to her ears, against her palm. It was slightly accelerated, yet in perfect harmony with her own heartbeats. 

Thump Thump Thump 

You nodded your head, and glanced at her while her eyes were still fixed upon your chest. She swallowed hard and blinked a couple of times, as if to find the strength to pull away from you and come to terms with this unexpected revelation. All this time she thought she had lost her family, her people, and yet you stood there, very much alive, and like her. Like a bolt from the blue. She didn’t even know what she was feeling: relief, happiness, fear, confusion. Probably all the above.

You give her a glimpse of a smile, and bow your head just a bit so that you can meet her hazel eyes. “Are you alright?” 

Your voice kinda worked as a wake up call. She nodded quickly and pulled away. One single step back still felt like she had just put an entire ocean between you two. “Of course. I’m great, me. Over the moon.” 

Yaz lightly scoffed at that, clearly having none of it. 

She was lying and it was so obvious. You licked your lips and hummed in thought, suddenly having second thoughts. What were you thinking? Why were you doing this? She had her life sorted out now and was content with it. She wasn’t alone, you had to remember. She had Yaz. And they seemed happy. Complete. You couldn’t just burge in and then what? Disrupt her entire existence? Make her remember you? 

“Are you?” She later questioned, noticing your state of trance and sudden quietness. 

Blinking repeatedly, you waved your hand dismissively, “Sure thing. I’m always fine,” you blurted out. 

“You’re both terrible liars,” comes from Yaz in the background. Her tone is serious yet veiled with a layer of fondness. She found herself thinking that perhaps hiding and …lying was a Time Lord’s thing. 

You let out a sound between a huff and a chuckle. Brief and bitter. The Doctor stirred her lips in a grimace, “I mean, I’m quite shocked if I’m honest. But I’m happy to know you survived the war…” There was honesty in her voice, but also a veil of awkwardness in her movements. She was telling the truth. On one side, she was eager to get to know you, but on the other, she was terrified. 

A lump formed in your throat. “Only because I wasn’t there when it happened,” you stated, somehow a bit ashamed.  

The Doctor frowns at the sight of your features dimming. You’re suddenly wishing to have been there too, to help, maybe? To die? To do something that wasn’t lying in a jail’s cell for an insane amount of time. It wasn’t that easy to read what’s going on inside your head, but the Doctor was trying because you intrigued her. The funny thing was, she only needed a brief physical contact to know it all, a connection she could gain by touching your temple. But it wasn’t her place to pry. 

“Where were you?” asked Yaz cautiously. 

You licked your lips and swayed a bit, shifting your body weight from one foot to another, “Ah– you know,” you looked up at her, voluntarily avoiding meeting the Doctor’s eyes, afraid of what you might find in there. “Prison is not as bad as they think. It’s a tad boring, food isn’t great. It’s slimy, but all in all, it kept me alive.” 

The Doctor’s hearts ached for you. “I’ve been in prison,” her voice came out firm, despite the clear emotion in her eyes, “so no, I don’t believe you for a second. Prison is terrible. It’s lonely. Cramped and quite smelly. Days go by and you feel powerless, useless. You lose yourself in places like those.” 

You swallow at the firmness of her tone. A tear slides down your cheek. She was right. It had been Hell to you, but you managed, you had no other choice. Her eyes softened; drawing closer she reached out a hand to wipe your cheek. You shivered. Oh- how you had missed this. Was it embarrassing to admit you had been touch starved? That the last time you hugged someone was when the Doctor was still with you? “And you–” she trailed off, “something tells me you didn’t deserve to be locked up.”

You lifted your chin and met her eyes. Your smile didn’t reach your ears as you muttered, “what gives?” 

“Can’t explain,” she replied. “It’s a feeling. My gut is telling me there’s good in you.” 

You hummed softly. “Is it because I saved you and Yaz?” you mused, eternally grateful for the hint of a smile she was giving you. 

She chuckled lightly, “You got ten points for that by the way. Plus, you’re our friend now. Isn’t she, Yaz?”

Yaz smiles so genuinely, the dimples on her cheeks showed up. “Absolutely.”

Friend. That was something, wasn’t it? And it didn’t even take much to get there, having started as a total stranger. This version of the Doctor made her look like a cute and loyal golden retriever. Playful, friendly, a bit of a dummy sometimes and always ready to contribute. You never thought you could love the Doctor more than you already did. Perhaps it was a good idea to start over, build your friendship from scratch. Could you do that? Definitely. For her, you’d open up the galaxies. Staying in the shadow was pure bliss if that meant breathing the same air again. 

“But you still have to explain how you know our names,” she adds, arching an eyebrow at you. There’s playfulness in her eyes and in her tone. 

You chucked, “I s'pose I have to.” 

“The TARDIS let you in. And if she did, it means…”

You looked around you, a nostalgic light brimmed in your eyes. You still remember the day you and the Doctor stole this spaceship. The euphoria of having conquered something only yours to use, had been thrilling. Originally, the TARDIS belonged to the Division, but it was damaged, and for that reason, left in some kind of stock with other rubbish and mechanical supplies. But you and the Doctor fixed it, after a couple of months, or years, it didn’t even matter to you, because you bonded like nobody else. And when you two started traveling with it, nobody noticed the TARDIS’ missing, simply because it wasn’t one of the Division’s official spaceships. 

“She knows you,” Yaz continued. The lights of the TARDIS flickered from bright yellow to a warmer hue of orangish. It suited you, that light. You closed your eyes for a brief moment, and hummed softly, feeling the warmth of the TARDIS as a velvety caress on your skin. 

“You’re very perceptive, Yaz. I get why the Doctor likes you so much,” you teased, with your eyes still closed. The Doctor’s cheeks turned into a darker shade of pink. 

Yaz opened her mouth to reply, but her words died down in her throat before she could even think of what to say. Was it so obvious that the Doctor liked her? And that she liked her back? Even for someone that has just met them? Apparently so. 

The Doctor stared at you, all of the sudden a tad bit uncomfortable. To possess such a knowledge meant being exposed and vulnerable. And the Doctor hated to feel that way.

“You talk as if you’d been spying on us.”

You squint your eyes, as if all of the sudden, the Doctor started speaking another language. “Not spying,” you objected. It was frustrating to stand there and be treated like you couldn’t be fully trusted, whereas in the past, you had been the sole trustworthy one. You stiffened and took your hands out of your pockets. “My intention all along was to make sure you were okay. It’s all I ever wanted.” 

The Doctor thought for a second. A wave of guilt flashed through her eyes, as those softened, “can you tell us why?” 

You hesitated, looking back at her like a lost puppy. “I don’t think it’s right,” you muttered, voice broken. Your eyes mirrored the confusion of the Doctor. “This was a mistake, I shouldn’t have–” you felt dizzy, frantic. Your voice trembled as much as your form while you spoke. 

But the Doctor wasn’t having any of that. “No, hey, it’s okay–” she cooed, her hands coming resting upon your shoulders, in the genuine attempt to reassure you. She mentally scolded herself for having been so pushy, without giving you proper time to collect yourself. Your hearts were beating so fast she feared you were on the verge of a panic attack. “I’m sorry I made you feel like I didn’t trust you. I know I can. You helped us and I can’t simply brush that aside. It’s just…” she paused, briefly glancing at Yaz, whose gaze was encouraging. “Yaz and I have been through so much lately and I can’t help but worry about a new danger lurking in the shadows. Ready to catch us unprepared. But you’re nothing like that. Quite the opposite, I think.”

The TARDIS buzzed softly. Yaz couldn’t understand what she was saying, unlike you and the Doctor. She figured by the small giggle that slipped from your lips, that the TARDIS said something funny or accusing aimed at the Doctor. 

“She acts like she knows you well” she later reasoned, “And if she does, it means–” 

You inhaled sharply and hesitated, averting your eyes from her to the tip of your boots. How could you sum up everything in a few words? How could you look into her eyes and tell her you had missed her for entire lifetimes. 

“Tell me, please…” 

Yaz watched you nibbling on your bottom lip. The emotion veiling in your eyes was raw, as if spilling those words out would mean putting salt over a freshly open wound. “Can I tell you something, Sage?” She muttered kindly, reaching up to you. Feeling her standing by you, you turned your head and nodded wordlessly. 

“I learned my lesson the hard way. Hiding my feelings from the Doctor thinking it was the best choice,” she muttered, with a tight smile. “And even if we can’t have what we’d like to share, for all kinds of reasons, I don’t regret for one second having told her how I feel,” a tear slipped down her cheek at the confession. You blinked slowly, trying hard to swallow the lump that just formed in your throat. Her pain was very similar to yours; she was in love with the Doctor and even if she couldn’t have her the traditional way, she was willing to stay by her side for as long as time would grant her. And that was enough. 

The Doctor’s eyes turned glassy too. She pressed her lips in a thin line, nodding slowly, almost mechanically, “I can’t really tell my hearts what to feel, because they are so full of love for Yaz. I vowed to protect her and to stand by her for as long as I’m allowed to exist in this body, and even in the next if she will have me,” Yaz smiled at that. “I can’t give her what she wants, nor what she deserves in matters of human relationships simply because I’m not a human. Time will catch up on me, eventually. And when that moment comes, it will hurt.” 

Bravery is knowing something will hurt and doing it anyway. A wise person once told the Doctor. 

You thought for a moment. It made sense, in a way. Their relationship didn’t need any label, simply because it existed beyond any of those. That was, in your opinion, the most beautiful confession of love. The truest manifestation of it in its purest form. Yaz wasn’t ready to let go of the Doctor as much as the Doctor wasn’t ready to say goodbye any time soon. Never been good at goodbyes anyway. And Yaz, oh– she was brave. Probably the bravest human you’ve ever met. 

Does it still count if you said she is the first one? 

“That’s to say…” Yaz continued, placing a hand upon your shoulder. “That whatever you feel you can’t tell the Doctor, in truth you can. Plus you owe it to yourself. There’s nothing worse than living a life filled with regrets and what ifs.” 

“I know, I understand–” your lids fall shut for a second and when they reopen, the Doctor is met with a pair of puffy and red eyes. It only took you a second to crumble. But you allowed no tears to wet your cheeks. Not yet. Not ever if you could help with it. It was too soon anyway and if you started tearing up now, then it would be impossible to keep talking and make sense of everything. 

“But I think,” you blinked, and forced a tight smile, “I need a cuppa. Don’t you want a cuppa? My throat is dry,” you rambled while the Doctor and Yaz exchanged a curious glance. 

When you started moving towards one of the corridors, as if you knew every path like the back of your hand, the other two followed behind, calling out your name. “Do you even know where to go?”

You hummed in thought, “Should be here, right?” The Doctor realized you weren’t talking to any of them, but with the TARDIS. The blue box buzzed and lit up a series of lights to guide you over the kitchen. A grin curled up your lips, “I thought so, thanks,” you continued, “Second door to the left and then right and then– oh,” you come to a halt when instead of the kitchen you find a cozy library, “Is this new?” 

A pang of nostalgia hit the Doctor in the stomach at the sight of the room. She leaned against the doorframe and stared at the slouchy couch in the middle of the room. Everything smelled like paper and leather in there. 

“The TARDIS made this room for one of my friends, she was a teacher.” 

“Clara,” Yaz whispered, and she nodded her head. 

“Oh,” you gaped, in awe. “It’s beautiful. Love a good book, me. And there are plenty of them here,” you commented quietly. “The kitchen used to be here, so I presume it moved elsewhere. Maybe next door?” 

“Sage, wait, please,” the Doctor grasped you by your wrist, before you could flee away from her again. Her fingers curled around your skin, that felt warm and incredibly smooth underneath her fingertips. You sighed, but listened to her. You didn’t even like tea, to be honest. You were more of a coffee type of person. The Doctor would know if only she remembered you. “The TARDIS knows you, she let you in, and you act like you have known me forever, but I have no memories of you. Only recently I found out what the Division did to me, taking away from me a speck of a life I didn’t even know existed, nor how big that was. And when I look into your eyes, I feel drawn to you in a way that feels both terrifying and right. And I’m not saying that just because you’re a Time Lord. I kind of feel all my past regenerations, those I have no memory of, were there with you. Am I wrong?” 

You promptly shake your head. No, she was hardly ever wrong about a thing. It brought a small smile upon your face, that somehow eased the Doctor’s hearts. You sniffed and adhered your palm against the corridor of the TARDIS, “We fixed her together. It was challenging, but so much fun. You were still working for the Division at the time. I wasn’t. Never did. You couldn’t share much of the things you did for them and with them, despite wanting it so much. I think I asked everyday,” a watery chuckle escaped from both yours and her mouth. It felt like a sense of familiarity was coming back to her. You loved it. “You were always so patient with me. No matter how insistently I kept asking you what you were up to with the Division, you never let a single word slip out,” she hummed, still smiling softly at you. It did sound like something she would do. Especially to protect those she cared about. “Eventually I stopped asking and respected your privacy. And now, thinking back to it, I’m so glad you never told me anything” you bowed your head as the Doctor listened to you in reverent silence. Same did Yaz. You couldn’t hold yourself anymore, and tears started spilling down your cheeks at incredible speed. Your breath hitched. 

The Doctor’s hands came cupping your face, her fingers getting wet with your tears. “Sage, it’s okay…” She looked at you with a pair of eyes that held nothing but affection and comprehension. You sniffled. “If you had told me, they’d have wiped my memories too. They chose prison, instead. There, I had time to think. So much time. I erroneously used to believe you had been blessed with memory loss because at first I was suffering so much. You can’t miss someone if you don’t even know that they exist, right?” 

Yaz’s heart tightened in her chest at your words. She had thought the same thing once. She regretted it later on, but that thought still had crossed her mind once or twice. 

“Then it hit me. I couldn’t live a life, believing it was normal to think a person so special like you never existed. The thought of you kept me going. Doc.”

The Doctor’s chin quivered. She gasped helplessly, and blinked repeatedly to ward off the tears clouding her visions that kept streaming on her face. 

Her hand slid from your face to your shoulder, then reached out to your hand, hesitantly clasping it in hers. She took in a long breath, “for how long?” 

At first you didn’t understand, so you frowned. How long, what? 

Anguish dimmed her features. She started to question her own decisions of keeping her past in the past and you being there was one of those reasons. You suffered her absence, while she kept on living her life like you never existed, never mattered, never touched her hearts. And that was wrong. Cruel. Because you did. She could feel it. Maybe you had another face back then, surely she had too. But that didn’t matter. You were still you in your hearts. And so was she. It was exactly why you never stopped looking for her.  

“How long have you been in prison? How long have you missed me? How long have you suffered because of me? How long have you been searching for me? How long have we known each other? How–” The Doctor was frantic. And you were taken aback by her outburst. So was Yaz. She couldn’t stop talking. Rambling. Panicking. 

Perplexed and rather shocked, you opened your mouth to say something, but you couldn’t master a single word out of you. The Doctor kept asking you questions over questions. She was mad, not at you, but at herself, at the Division, at whoever did this to her and to you. It always ended up like this. In the end a life with her meant only pain and suffering. 

You stumbled backwards, a wave of dizziness at you. Yaz caught you, “Doctor, calm down…” 

“Calm down?” She almost laughed. “How can I calm down, Yaz?” 

You cleared your throat, and then advanced towards her again. “It doesn't matter anymore. I’m here now,” you lifted your hand, allowing it to cling to her coat. 

“Except that it does, Sage,” she insisted, eyes wide open. You held your breath. “Just tell me, how long have you been in prison because of me.”

You inhaled sharply. “Not because of you,” you argued, the determination in your eyes didn’t falter, despite your voice coming quite faint. “Never because of you, you hear me? I’ll not let you take the blame.”

“Please,” the Doctor wasn’t one to beg, yet here she was now. 

You dropped your hands over your hips. “About seventy years.”

Yaz’s face turned white, “Oh God-” she muttered under her breath. 

The Doctor’s mouth twisted into a painful grimace. It felt like she had been run over and over by a train. You didn’t come here for that. You didn’t mean to add to her sense of responsibility. 

“Doctor, that’s nothing for a Time Lord and you know it. We are immortal.”

She snapped, “doesn’t mean we can or should endure everything!” 

It had been unbearable for her to spend about thirty years in prison, but unlike you she had hope. If it hadn’t been for Jack rescuing her at some point, she would have lost her mind. The thought of her fam waiting for her, remembering her, kept her hoping. What hope did you have, instead? What kind of foothold did you have for yourself? 

“Doctor, it’s okay,” you insisted. 

“No, it’s not okay! Don’t tell me it’s okay when it’s not!” 

You gulped and moved your hand from her coat, up to her cheek, where another tear was slipping down, thick and warm. “Fine, it’s not. It was not. It was pure Hell. But I resisted. I never gave up because I knew sooner or later I’d have found you again. And I did. That’s the only hope I ever needed. It was enough for me.” 

Reluctantly, almost fearful, the Doctor eyed you through her wet lashes. “I’m so sorry I don’t remember you,” she pursed her lips and you smiled at her sympathetically. You took a step closer to her. It was your turn to be strong, your turn to reassure her, to tell her that it was okay, because truth be told, it really was. 

“Hey,” you lifted her chin by placing your finger underneath. She sniffled and closed her eyelids to get rid of those itchy tears that kept welling up in her eyes. “I said, hey,” you playfully nudged her arm,  and she chuckled. Yaz was chuckling too. 

“Hey,” she said back, smiling with her eyes. 

“I’m here now, am I not? If you’ll have me, I can help you remember who we were. No pressure at all. Or,” you rolled your tongue behind your teeth, “we can start over, I’ll become your friend from scratch. New me, new you.” The Doctor was considering it, motionless. It’s not that she didn’t want to be your friend, because she wanted to. more than anything she wanted to know you, but at the same time, she couldn’t deny the fact that you knew her deeper, and better than she would ever know herself. 

Maybe that’s what she wanted too. All in due time. You saw her silent request in her eyes, as a free pass to do your next move. Stretching out your arm, you smiled politely at her, still adding a hint of silliness in your tone, because that’s who you were, “Hiya. Nice to meet ya. I’m the Sage. And you are?”

The Doctor couldn’t help but chuckle heartily at that. She could accept that for now. Like Yaz had accepted traveling with her despite knowing it wouldn’t be forever. That’s what love was. Effort, sacrifice, every single day. 

“I’m the Doctor, and that over there is my friend, Yaz,” she smiled and squeezed your hand. 

You nodded your head, happily, “Nice to meet you too, Yaz.” 

“Likewise, Sage” she chuckled, wiping her tears with the back of her sleeve. 

“Can we have that cuppa now?” The Doctor asked, her voice still thick with emotion. “Isn’t it how we welcome the Fam?” 

“It is,” she agreed, walking past you. In the moment, she brushed your hand with your fingers. 

You grinned, and before she could disappear in the kitchen, you scrunched up your nose, “I actually hate tea. Can I have coffee instead?” 

The Doctor draped an arm over your shoulder, while Yaz nodded her head, wordlessly. 

The Time Lady scooped you a bit closer, her smile widening, as you let out a surprised giggle, “I’m glad you found me.” 

“Me too” your cheeks flushed with the colors of hope, the exact same colors she was proudly showing off on her tee. 

Hope, what a beautiful thing to hold on to.

[rottiens]

What are your thoughts on Choso having mommy issues AND oral fixation? 🎤

cw. mommy kink, oral fixation, fingering sucking, choso calls you mommy, fem reader, modern au, praising + petnames (for choso), 18+

notes. this is not me, please look away,,, im not even into mommy kink guys please but this made me turn into a wild animal. divider creds: cafekitsune.

oh, you know exactly what i'm thinking about. your fingers in his mouth all the time, choso needs to suck or have something in his mouth whenever he's stressed or needs to concentrate, often he does it unconsciously. he grabs your hand in his, plays with your fingers first in an innocent way and the next thing you feel is his teeth grazing the pad of your fingertips, followed by his tongue licking the bite and finely, his lips curling around these and sucking down to your knuckles.

at first he finds it strange to himself that it makes him so hard to be called a good boy, it embarrasses him every time your sweet praise reminds him of the good job he is doing. however as your relationship blossoms this leads him to become more indulgent in this behavior, one step closer to being the good boy you say he is so much.

"can I suck on your tits?" he asks often without you expecting it, sometimes he just stares at them through your shirt until you offer it to him. "I need your nipples in my mouth..." he whispers another day in a cuddle section while watching a movie in your room.

"where are your manners?" you remind him, giving him a look and teasingly wrinkling your nose.

"please?" he says with puppy dog eyes.

choso pulls down your top, and immediately curses as soon as he sees your beautiful tits and perky nipples. his mouth waters and he cradles it from underneath with his full hand and takes it into his mouth without another word. choso sucks desperately, sucking as if he really believes he can make you lactate.

his tongue twists your nipple, his teeth bite down gently making you moan, getting you to break your gaze from the screen to look at him.

"don't get too eager."

"sorry," he says with a mouthful of your nipple, raising his eyebrows from below to admire you better. choso releases your breast to rub against it, eyes closed, his long eyelashes brushing his cheeks. "i love these fucking tits, they are so sweet."

"choso..." you warn him, you warn yourself, feeling the arousal overflowing from your own pussy lips until it wets your panties.

"I want to put my cock inside you, mommy," he whispers almost embarrassed at how he just called you for the first time, you decide not to tease him this time, pushing his jet hair away from his forehead to get a better look at him.

"let's finish the movie first, baby."

"I'm so hard, please..."

"behave yourself and I'm going to reward you later. you can be patient and bear it just sucking on mommy's tits, right?" his breathing becomes ragged and a reddish hue overflows like paint from the tip of his nose, he pouts briefly before nodding. "atta boy."

[blueteller]

Introducing Character Trope: STEBS (Stoic Traumatized Epic Bastard Softie)

I have tried to look this up on TV tropes, but it does not exist. Not officially, at least. So I decided – I'm introducing new trope. It already exist, someone might as well try and give it a name.

And yeah, this acronym SUCKS, feel free to come up with a better one! But let's talk about what a "STEBS" character is for me, because I've come to the conclusion that it is actually my favorite character type.

First, context. Ever since I've read TCF, I have come across other medias and I was often like, "Hey, this character is basically just like Cale!" – which I feel like, it isn't really fair? I mean, Cale is a great and complex character, but making this comparison constantly makes me feel like I'm undermining the complexity of OTHER characters. Just because Cale shares similarities with other characters doesn't make them copies of him.

So, what exactly is a STEBS?

1) Stoic

This character has a very specific way of acting in non-confrontational situations. It can be respectful, it can be casual, but it is neither extremely friendly nor extremely rude. It's in a calm, pleasant zone, where the character treats others like... well, people. The character doesn't make themselves superior nor inferior, it doesn't matter to them if the other is a beggar or a king. They just are, calm and casual. That's what makes them stoic - NOT lack of expressions or emotions, or lack of humor. It's the way they carry themselves on the regular. This character type makes others feel relaxed because of it, and subconsciously encourages trust and friendship (much to the character's confusion). They will also make a great educator because of it, and will likely act as a mentor or a teacher more than once.

2) Traumatized

Despite the stoicism in their behavior, they actually have a complicated background. Commonly an orphan, even though not always, this person has been through a LOT. But, they don't usually express it. Seeing this character cry or break down is EXTREMELY rare and always a very important scene in a story. It's not that they're not emotional or they always try to bury their trauma, although that does usually apply to them; they're just not vocal about it due to their personality. But oh boy, are they traumatized! Wait for that reveal later in the story though, when it actually becomes plot-relevant.

3) Epic

Despite the character being a stoic type, with a backstory that makes them crave very simple things – be it retirement, respect from their peers, a safe house to live in, a stable job, a family, a specific successful career – they are actually freaking epic where it comes to things they do. They either have great knowledge, memory, or skills in a particular field and they always manage to surprise others with just how competent they are. It can be literal combat skills, magic, being a life-saving surgeon, or even a therapist. But whenever they get their chance to shine, they become a real star.

4) Bastard

A trait that adds a surprising amount of charm and humor to their other traits. Being stoic makes them likeable, being traumatized makes them sympathetic, being epic makes them cool – but being a bastard? It actually just means they're mischievous and have a penchant for chaos. Because this character is meant to make changes in the narrative, like an accidental revolutionary or a transmigrator, they have to possess a cunning streak that might seem mean or selfish at first, but actually never crosses the line into making them despicable. It just makes them an occasional manipulator, but it's usually portrayed in a way that still makes it impossible to make you hate them. In fact, it makes you love them more for it. They are not naive, even if they can be oblivious or silly at times; being a bastard to those who deserve it means being able to get out of sticky situations that would be problematic for paragon heroes. It includes stuff like acting, pranks, cheating, manipulation, shady deals, gambling, stealing, and even criminal behavior, that is actually very understandable due to their specific circumstances.

5) Softie

And if all the previous traits haven't convinced you to love this character yet, the last one surely will. This character, despite having a mean streak, is in fact never mean to innocent people. Actually, they are surprising soft and/or sentimental, especially towards the helpless and children. This character will probably have at least one animal sidekick, at least one paragon protagonist type on their payroll, and most importantly an adopted child - if the previous two don't already fill that spot. This character will make excuses of course, they will claim that they are taking care of others for their own benefits. But you will see quickly that they don't treat others like a heartless manipulator, but more of an overprotective mother-hen. This character, no matter their gender, will eventually become the typical Mom Friend. They will make sure everybody eats well, sleeps well, they get their allowance, pack their lunch before heading out to participate in the plot and probably try to sacrifice themselves for them more than once. They will of course become the mentor figure on top of it, and possibly even be a straight up legal guardian and/or teacher to other important characters.

And this, my friends, is what I call a STEBS character. While it outlines a general, it's not a strict definition, mind you. Even if a character exhibit one trait less than the others (for example not being much of a bastard, or not being very stoic), it still counts as long as you still recognize them as fitting in this "category".

Characters in this category include:

Cale Henituse from Trash of the Count's Family

Obi-Wan Kenobi from Star Wars

Aizawa Shota from My Hero Academia

Kakashi from Naruto

Remus Lupin from Harry Potter

Faramir from Lord of the Rings

Kim Dokja from Omniscient Reader's Viewpoint

Rimuru Tempest from That Time I Got Reincarnated as a Slime

Park Moondae from Debut or Die

Won Hwabu from I Reincarnated as a Legendary Surgeon

And many, many others.

Let me know if you have a better name for this very specific character type!

[foolbehavior]

[@orvwomenweek] JHW & URIEL + Faith

[illyrianbitch]

Of Our Own Devices — Part Two

For @erisweekofficial Day 2: Legacy

Pairing: Reader x Eris

Summary: Eris Vanserra carries a legacy of cruelty, a reputation forged in whispers and fear. But something doesn't quite fit anymore. You’re beginning to think that the male doesn't truly match the legend he's left behind.

Warnings: brief mentions of abuse, cruelty, injury, battling to death, introspection? like a lot, readers head is soooo big from these big thoughts

Word Count: 3.1k

did someone say eris week mini series???? technically can be read as a stand alone, just squint

Part One | Part Three

✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹ 

When Eris Vanserra was born, his mother wept in the bathroom for hours after.

Her trembling hands muffled her soft cries as her handmaidens swaddled a newborn Eris in fine cloth. Beron hadn’t been there for most of the birth—hadn’t held her hand the way her father had held her mother’s. He came only at the end, just in time to praise the heir as he left her womb, presenting him like a trophy before promptly leaving for court business.

She was still young, felt like a child herself— at least in her own mind. So, while she loved her son dearly, his birth had cemented her fate to a male she didn’t love, a male whose hands she feared more than death itself.

His mother loved him, this Eris knew. Even at a young age, he felt that love. It burned in him like a comforting flame, the same warmth as the heavy blanket she would tuck around him at night or the sunlight that seeped into his skin on warm afternoons.

And yet, even surrounded by that love, Eris grew up lonely.

His loneliness led him to finding a home in curiosity, in sticking his pointed nose into matters that often didn’t concern him, picking out small details he'd unconsciously store for later. He was a collector from the beginning—of people, of excuses, of emotions he had yet to name.

Perhaps that was why he was so sickeningly fond of you, so starkly different from the others, equally curious, equally lonely.

✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹

It wasn't Eris who people met first.

It was his reputation.

Eldest son of the High Lord, equal parts cunning and cruel, a loyal soldier with the venom of a viper. Anguish seemed to follow him, seemed to follow any with Vanserra blood, but there was something distinct about Eris, something divinely alluring. Terrifyingly sinful.

It was all true. So you weren't sure why it bothered you so much when your patrons talked about him, when his name was thrown into conversations surrounding the High Lord.

Your family's tavern was always filled with stories. Its dimly lit, worn wooden tables had overheard more whispered secrets and slurred confessions than you could ever count. Most nights were like this, with drinks spilling over into the laps of locals, the hum of conversation swirling in the air like smoke from the hearth. Tucked in a corner of the court’s lands, it was a place for those not high enough to feast in grand halls but not low enough to beg in the streets. It wasn’t glamorous, but it was home. A comfortable middle ground.

You placed a handful foaming drinks before the three males at the bar, taking a moment to analyze their appearance. They were relatively large, muscular builds hinting at some form of laborious profession. The callouses on their hands told you that they handled weapons often. But their clothes weren't nice enough to be one of Beron's men, weren't tailored enough to be one of Eris's either. Perhaps they were border patrollers, the lowest and grimiest of the forces.

They thanked you with lingering, appraising eyes as you moved away to fetch more drinks.

“I heard,” one of the them said, leaning closer to his companions, “that the eldest boy has a new game he plays with those who cross him. A real spectacle.”

The male next to him, the oldest of the three, nodded eagerly. “They say he’s got a private arena where he forces traitors to fight each other to the death. It’s supposed to be brutal—nothing but blood and screams. And Eris just sits there, like it’s a grand show.”

You clenched your teeth, turning around to face the wall behind you, forcing yourself to attend to the pile of glasses waiting to be wiped down. You tried to focus on your task, hoping to drown out their disturbing conversation, but it was no use. You could feel your grip tightening on the material of the rag, knuckles white as they continued to talk, their voices growing louder and louder with every drink they took.

It was a lie. A rumor. Nothing more.

Yes, Eris was cruel. He was manipulative and calculated. But you'd seen slivers of something else, something brighter, kinder, even. While you believed that a male should face the consequences of his actions, there was no honor in perpetuating lies that simply weren’t true.

It made no sense, anyway. Eris had done plenty of questionable things. There were multitudes of actions to choose from, many things worthy of criticism. There was no need to indulge in falsehoods. The image they painted of Eris—a male reduced to a sadistic spectator in a grotesque spectacle—seemed far removed even from him.

“A grand show?” the third scoffed. “He’s not just watching. He’s placing bets on who’ll survive, like it’s some sick sport. It’s all for his amusement. I’ve heard he gets pleasure out of the carnage. Let's his hounds ravage the bodies.”

A knot tightened in your chest and you gripped the glassware harder, cloth bunching in your grasp. Before you could register the motion yourself, you spun around, the movement abrupt enough to make the males flinch.

"You have no idea what you're talking about," you sneered. The males stiffened, large angry eyes boring into yours. You continued. "Bold of you to traverse around spreading rumors of a High Lord's son. Be grateful he isn't around to correct you himself."

You blinked, the anger draining away as quickly as it had surged, leaving a wave of embarrassment in its place. You took in the male’s faces—initially stunned, then quickly morphing into anger. It was an expected reaction from those who felt their pride wounded, especially from males who had just been scolded by a low-court fae like yourself.

You straightened, trying to regain your composure as you cleared your throat.

The largest of the men leaned forward, his eyes narrowing with a sneer. “Well, well, boys,” he drawled, his voice dripping with disdain. “I think our pretty little bartender might be one of the Princeling’s whores.”

You weighed your options as you stood there, hand still gripping the glass. For a fleeting moment, you were tempted to shatter it over his head. The thought of the glass breaking, of the shards embedding themselves in his skin, was almost satisfying.

But you didn't. Your father would be angry, would be disappointed above all. You needed the business.

You took a deep breath and your grip on the glass loosened.

“Allow me to apologize,” you said. “It seems I’m more sensitive about our court’s reputation than I realized. I don’t know what came over me. How about a round on the house?”

Their faces shifted to smug satisfaction as they accepted the offer with eager grins and, soon, their cups were filled once more. As they happily downed their next round of drinks, you slipped out from behind the bar.

The door’s bell chimed softly as you stepped outside, itching to find the heir that was imprinted into your mind.

Strangely enough, you knew exactly where he'd be.

✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹

You found him in a clearing south of The Forest House, an expansive area bathed in the warm light of the afternoon sun. It was a dedicated space for the hounds, adorned in various obstacles that Eris used during their training—wooden jumps, tunnels, and agility courses set up with careful precision. You'd seen the area of land a handful of times before, times when Lucien found Eris to argue or hurl curses.

You approached carefully, watching as Eris kneeled by one of the hounds, gently tending to what seemed to be a cut on its paw.

After a moment, he finally looked up, his gaze meeting yours. The corners of his mouth quirked upwards and a playful glint manifested in his eyes.

"Even after all these years, a vixen without a fox at her side is still a strange sight."

You gritted your teeth, taking a deep breath as your eyes roamed the face of the male before you.

It was an unnecessary jab.

Lucien hadn’t been by your side for centuries now. Though you had visited him as often as you could, the friendship you once shared had changed. He had changed. You had, too. You'd grown into your life at Autumn—managing the tavern that bore your family’s name and living vicariously through the stories that came your way.

The last time you had seen Lucien was marked by a change. You'd looked into his eyes and somehow understood that things were different beyond what had been anticipated.

"Why do you do that?" You asked. "Be a dick when you don't need to be?"

Eris stood, brushing his hands clean as the hound trotted away to rejoin the rest. He narrowed his eyes at you for a moment, a scrutinizing, analyzing moment. Then he offered you a shrug, something so casual and dismissive. You were sure it would've warded off anyone else, that his disinterestedness would have begun to tired them already, turn them the other way.

"Maybe it's part of my charm," he finally responded, "Or maybe I'm just a dick."

He made no attempt to hide the amusement in his voice as he emphasized your insult. Eris had been called many things— you'd heard them, even delivered a few of the titles. But so far, you were the only one to call him two things: a dick, and a prick. Perhaps it was delusion, but you swore that he seemed to enjoy it when you said such things, seemed to smirk in a way that wasn't just cruel, but impressed.

You rolled your eyes. "Most wouldn't wear that title with such pride."

He narrowed his eyes for a moment, the corners of his lips twitching upwards. "What's the use in denying my nature?"

You sighed, a sound of frustration, of annoyance. "Do you not grow bored of your little games?"

Eris rolled his shoulders and straightened his back. He always had immaculate posture, his stature was often so perfect that it was almost uncomfortable to witness. It emphasized his wealth, somehow— emphasized his power. He towered over you even more now.

"Did you seek me out solely to criticize me?"

You bit the inside of your cheek. "No."

"Then why?"

You still weren't entirely sure why you had come.

"Perhaps I was bored."

Eris raised an eyebrow. "Do you not have any friends?"

You bristled. "I have plenty." You paused, allowing your gaze to settle on the view before you, on the open land and the animals that in the open expanse. You turned back to Eris. "It's you that doesn't seem to have any. Your only companionship recently seems to be those hounds. I'm surprised you're not running on all fours."

Eris's expression shifted. He let out a small chuckle and you fought against the twitch in your lips, cursed the warmth that blossomed in your chest. But the amusement dissipated from his face soon after, replaced be a resolve of cold indifference. His eyes seemed tired in this light.

"As much as I…enjoy our little talks," He began after a moment, "I didn't ask for company. You should find someone who wants it."

A small sense of rejection passed through your skin like a cold, morning chill. You were never foolish enough to think Eris would welcome your presence with open arms and a smile, never naive enough to consider yourself anything more than semi-peaceful acquaintances. But still, there was something deep within you that wished he’d show you something beyond the disregard he showed others.

That wasn't a fool's wish— because you knew it was possible.

You'd seen it.

Strangely enough, you had. In the stolen glances when he thought no one was looking, how he lingered after you stumbled, offered a hand before quickly retracting it. There had been flowers at your door after your mother passed of Autumn fever, an unusual number of wealthy patrons who had frequented your father’s tavern for months afterward, tipping generously despite only having a drink or two. They all adorned attire of a specific, deep green that you’d come to recognize easily—the shade often worn by Eris’s personal guard.

His name was never attached to any of it, but you could trace it back to him. You'd always wondered why he'd never taken credit, never basked in somehow proving your presumptions about him wrong.

Twenty-nine year old you, freshly bonded to Lucien after he'd stumbled across your father's tavern, would be shocked that centuries later, she'd be spending more time alongside his cruel brother than Lucien himself.

You’d had an image of Eris back then—an image painted by Lucien’s words. It was accurate, to an extent. You never doubted your best friend’s judgment, never questioned the stories of cruelty and ambition that followed Eris like a shadow. He had, indeed, made Lucien suffer. There were reasons he disliked his brothers so deeply, reasons you knew were valid.

But you were curious by nature, always craving to understand things deeply, intricately. And Eris Vanserra called to you like a riddle from an ancient tale—dangerous, alluring, and impossible to ignore.

Above all else, you wanted answers. Throughout the years, Eris had never called upon your bargain, never asked for a favor, never even mentioned the price you’d paid for that first visit with Lucien. Not once.

It unnerved you.

"I don't understand you," you said, without realizing the words had fallen from your lips.

You hadn't intended on voicing it so blatantly. You weren't quite sure how Eris would respond, how he would interpret your words. It was a tossup, really, between a snarky response or something condescending, something to make you feel silly, naive.

Silence.

Eris shifted, turning his body to look out into the horizon before him.

"Not everything in life is meant to be understood."

You paused.

Eris was complicated. Unfortunately for you, you loved complicated. It wasn't boring. It made you think, made you wonder. You gravitated towards the eldest Vanserra more often than you'd like to admit. It was easier now, you decided, since Lucien's watchful eye wasn't around. He didn't have to witness your betrayal first hand, didn't have to see as you attempted to find something in his brother. You weren't sure what that something was, but you were certain you were searching for it. You had been for years.

"That's not true. I can understand things if I try hard enough."

Eris played idly with the rings on his hands. "You set yourself up for disappointment, Vixen," he said to the empty air before him, not turning to look at you. "Why does everything need to have a deeper meaning?"

You studied his face further. Noting the lines etched around his eyes and the set of his jaw. He was beautiful. You weren’t one to deny it—all of the Vanserras were. But where Lucien had been handsome, radiating a gentle charm that made you blush with every lingering gaze, Eris was more akin to the sharp edge of the season’s chill—striking, with an air of regal severity. His amber eyes alone seemed to hold the crisp, unyielding essence of autumn itself—beautiful, but not without its bite.

"It doesn't need to," you replied. "But it often does. I think details are important."

He didn't respond as he turned to face you. You glanced up at him, his eyes fixed on yours with an intensity that seemed almost tangible.

"You've never lied to me," you stated. It was a statement more than it was a question.

"No," Eris replied.

His gaze didn't waver. You were almost impressed that you'd managed to hold his stare for so long. No one had ever looked at you like this before—so deeply, so penetrating. You understood now how his mere gaze could make people crumble, understood the rumors of how he only took his partners from behind, how he never made eye contact.

You pushed away the burning thoughts that arose.

"Is it true?" Your gaze bounced around his face. "Do you force your traitors to fight for your amusement? Place bets on them like animals?"

Eris's eyes flickered with something dark, but he didn't move.

"Do you think it is?" he countered.

You shook your head. You were certain of your answer, but you needed to hear his. "No. I don't."

The corner of his mouth twitched upward, and he gave a small, almost imperceptible nod. "Then it’s not," he said simply.

His expression revealed nothing more as you scanned his face. He didn't seem startled by your question, didn't seem confused at the context. He was aware of the rumors, of the stories circulating like the last morsels of food at a feast—passed around, savored, and eagerly consumed.

"It doesn't bother you? That these lies exist?"

A hint of confusion crossed his features, as if the question itself was somewhat absurd.

"Why would it?"

You blinked, momentarily retracting into yourself.

As a hound trotted up to Eris, his attention shifted. He crouched down, meeting the beast at its level. The gentle manner with which the hound regarded him, the affection in its eyes, stirred something inside you, deep within your gut. Your father had always said that a male’s nature could be understood through how animals responded to him.

Eris clearly cared for his hounds, and they, in turn, cared for him.

You found yourself wondering if, deep down, Eris was ever troubled by his reputation.

Lucien always had been.

He cursed the blood than ran through his veins, spent every moment trying to prove himself to be better than the legacy of his family— he did everything he could to avoid the curse of a wicked kin.

But then there was the male before you.

Eris, the rightful heir and firstborn son, was different.

You had always assumed he was bestowed with the legacy of the kingdom, that he was born for the role of High Lord, eagerly embracing the title and its accompanying glory. He seemed built for it, seemed to thrive under its weight.

You watched as more hounds approached him, watched as they surrounded him like a loyal fleet.

Could it be possible, you thought, that perhaps it wasn't all gifted. That it was possible Eris was burdened with the legacy of a Court?

You realized, then, that you'd never truly acknowledged that what he had become allowed for a kinder brother to grow in his wake.

The thoughts came faster, hazy, so many that your vision began to blur. It all made you itch, made you uncomfortable, made you overwhelmed and desperate for more.

None of this felt right.

You stared at Eris for a few more moments. When he stood up straight once more, about to turn toward you, you turned and ran to your horse.

You could feel his stare burning into you as you left.

✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹ 

reader panicking when she has deep intellectual thoughts about sexy man as he tends for his dogs. shes so me fr

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[frownyalfred]

it is Sunday morning, I am again wringing my hands over r/ao3 and feeling my blood pressure rise