#cold painted bronze

[perlelune]

no body, no crime | Coriolanus Snow | iii.

Your childhood friend returns from his exile in district 12, but he's not the sweet, quiet boy you once knew anymore.

Warnings: NON-CON, Plinth!Reader, Gaslighting, Drugging, Murder, Forced Marriage, Forced Pregnancy, Loss of Virginity, Somnophilia

This is a dark story. Heed warnings before reading under the cut.

𝖘𝖊𝖗𝖎𝖊𝖘 𝖒𝖆𝖘𝖙𝖊𝖗𝖑𝖎𝖘𝖙

After a few weeks, you’re forced to acknowledge you were wrong about Coriolanus.

His mere presence assuages your hurt, and none of his actions bear a hint of impropriety.

He’s simply being a friend, comforting you and supporting you in a time of need.

His visits grow more frequent. 

You’re amazed he even finds time between the University and his apprenticeship with Dr. Gaul. Still, Coryo never misses tea time with you, sometimes even bringing books and sweets. You’re thankful for the time he spends doting on you, even if you hate keeping him from his studies. You know how eager to succeed he’s always been. 

But you can’t deny you missed the feeling of having a brother, of having this person who cares for you, looks out for you and protects you unconditionally. 

And while you’re aware Coriolanus isn’t your actual brother, having him besides you helps alleviate the weight of grief and loneliness. Being with him makes you feel closer to Janus. You’re also solaced by the knowledge it’s what your departed brother would have wanted.

There is one person however who isn’t too keen on the rekindled bond between you and Coriolanus Snow.

“You’ve been spending a lot of time with him,” William notes, tracing the lines in your palm.

You’re both lying on the couch in the sunroom, your back against William’s chest, fingers interlaced with his. Sunlight spills from the stained glass in the ceiling, painting your fiancé’s brown curls in bronze hues. 

This is a moment of tranquility you’ve longed for, a sliver of calm amidst the storm and chaos wedding planning has turned out to be. You reckoned it’d be easier than it has been. Instead, it seems nothing ever goes right. Between incidents with the cake, your wedding dress somehow being lost by the store, and the venue perpetually being booked…you’ve grown disheartened and exhausted by the entire process.

It’s almost like some higher force is trying to prevent you marrying William. It’s ludicrous, of course. But the ceaseless string of bad luck is beginning to drain your hope that your wedding will happen before the year ends. 

You and William even had to push back the date. There was no choice as hurdles kept emerging.

So you bask in your fiancé’s presence, soaking his warmth and familiar smell, reminding yourself why you’re going through so much trouble. Marrying William is worth it.

“Yeah. He’s my friend,” you state casually. 

“Your friend. Baby…” There’s a brief pause during which William appears deep in thought. When he speaks again, it’s with a softer tone. “At the risk of sounding jealous, the way he’s looking at you…are you sure that he knows that?”

His words make you sit up straight. 

“William,” you admonish, taken aback by his preposterous insinuation. 

Coriolanus’ a gentleman. He hasn’t made any moves towards you and he wouldn’t. Sejanus trusted him and you trust him too.

Scratching the back of his neck, he sighs.

“I’m just saying. We’re getting married soon, and everything’s been so…tumultuous. I just want to make sure that you won’t…”

You search his forest gaze. Shock fills you at the doubts you find lurking there.

“That I won’t what?” You give a light punch to his chest. “Get cold feet? William, are you mad?”

His shoulders slump. “I know your parents wish I was from a great house like him.”

William looks away and you put your hands on his face, drawing his focus back to you.

“It doesn’t matter what my parents think. I love you.”

He smiles, that beautiful sunny smile that blows a warm breeze through your chest every time.

He grabs your hands and kisses them.

“I love you too, sweet girl.”

“William, you’re good and kind and caring. You’re all I’ve ever wanted.” You hold his eyes. “He’s just a friend, I promise you. You…You’re my future.”

William studies you, love and devotion illuminating his features. His lips then collide with yours. He nudges you down on the plush beige upholstery, humming low in his throat.

When his hands find their way below your skirt, you push against his chest.

He immediately stops.

Your hot, rapid exhales mingle as you steady your breath. 

“You know I’d rather we wait for our wedding night,” you mutter apologetically. It’s not the first time things got hot and heavy between you and William and you slowed them down. You know how frustrating it has to be for him and you commend his patience. “ I know it’s old-fashioned but I…”

He quiets you with a tender kiss on the forehead.

“No, it’s okay,” he says, holding hands with you. “I’m the one who’s sorry. I got carried away.” Pink dusts his cheeks as he adds, “You just smell so good and you’re so beautiful.”

A smile breaks across your face. “You’re not too bad yourself, pretty boy.”

He tilts his head and laughs. 

“How am I supposed to keep my hands to myself when you talk to me like that?” He bites his lip, his lids dipping to half-mast. “Can I at least get another kiss?” he whispers suavely.

“Hm, we’ll see about that…” you mumble, closing your own eyes.

“Apologies, hope I’m not  interrupting anything?”

Coriolanus’ sharp inflection shatters the spell, making you leap away from William.

Heat nestles in your cheeks as you rise to your feet, hastily smoothing the wrinkles in your dress. Your fiancé clears his throat and runs a hand through his tousled locks.

“No, we’re…William was leaving,” you stammer, struggling to meet Coriolanus’ stark blue gaze.

William’s brows squeeze together at that. But you shoot him a glare that pulls a deep sigh from him. He nods and pulls you to him one more time. 

He kisses you but you note it lasts much longer than usual, his fingers curling around your waist possessively.

Embarrassment flares inside you that this is happening right in front of your friend.

When he releases you, you’re breathless.

“Coriolanus,” William greets stiffly as he brushes past the blond.

“William,”Coriolanus replies, his tone somehow icier.

Once your fiancé has left, a weary exhale floats from your mouth.

“I don’t understand why you two can’t just get along. You both matter to me.”

Coriolanus smirks. “Oh, princess. You wouldn’t understand.”

“What wouldn’t I understand?” you inquire, blinking up at him curiously.

His tight-lipped smile expands as he gauges you. 

“Nothing.”

You scrunch your nose, displeased by his answer. He’s always so cryptic. A chuckle peels from his lips at your sour expression. His knuckles sweep over your cheek.

“There should never be a frown on such a pretty face.” He digs inside his satchel before retrieving a slim, leather-bound book. He places it in your hands as you gape at him, puzzled.

“Here, I brought you this. This will cheer you up.”

You examine the book. Surprise mingles with elation when you notice the words on the cover. The engraved letters spell out a familiar title. It’s one of your favorite books from when you were younger. It bewilders you that he even remembers. As if no time has passed.

“Oh my god! How did you…” An excited squeal leaves you. Then your voice lulls to a whisper. “It’s a first edition, Coryo.”

“It was printed and bound before the war,” he explains. “It wasn’t easy to dig up.”

Your brows rise. “An antique. You shouldn’t have.” You cradle the book against your chest. “You’re too good to me.”

His mouth quirks lopsidedly.

“Anything for you, princess.”

You both sit down for tea, cakes and macaroons. Time flies as you chat about everything and nothing with your friend. As always, you do most of the talking as he dutifully listens, only interjecting to ask you to elaborate on a particular point. 

No matter what you jabber on about, his interest never appears to wane.

You eventually land on the matter of your wedding planning. You share all the troubles you and William have had and Coriolanus hums in response.

“I’m very sorry to hear that.” He sips from his cup of Earl Grey. “How…unfortunate.” 

He then pauses, seeming to ponder something. “I have a proposition.”

Your brow arches in question.

“Clemmie is throwing a party tonight. Let me take you, get your mind off of all this.”

Your lips part. Clemensia? A party? None of it sounds enticing to you.

“I’m not sure…” you trail off, your eyes finding the floor.

“What better way to cheer you up than a party, princess?” Coriolanus’ voice mellows as he adds, “You can’t stay cooped up here forever.”

Words falter on your tongue as your eyes swell with unshed tears.

“What’s wrong?” he asks, concern oozing from his gentle tone.

You shake your head.

“You’re crying,” he insists, reaching over the table to lift your chin.

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize,” he says sternly. “Talk to me.”

His unwavering  inflection nudges you to admit, “I’m just scared.”

“What are you scared of, princess?”

You suck in a shaky breath.

“Every part of this house, every nook and cranny carries a memory I have with Janus.” You glance about the sunroom. Here alone you can count so many hiding spots from games you and your brother played when you were kids. “It’s easy, keeping him close here. It’s just that…”

“You’re scared to move on,” Coriolanus finishes for you. His thumb glides over your cheek, collecting a tear you didn’t realize had spilled over. “But you have to.”

“Sejanus wouldn’t want you to wilt away in this house like one of your roses.”

You mull over his words. You suppose he’s right but you’re still not convinced. Parties like the kind Clemensia is fond of hosting aren’t exactly your scene. 

A lame excuse flows from your lips.

“I don’t even know what to wear.”

“Then I’ll choose for you,” he replies without hesitation.

“What?”

“Let’s go to your room.”

Before you can protest, he seizes your hand and drags you upstairs.

“Wait, Coryo…”

He ignores you, making his way to your room with brisk strides you can barely maintain pace with. Once he’s there, he rummages through your closet. You let him do it, half-skeptical, half-jaded. Most of these garments weren’t picked by you anyway, but by your mother based on whatever fashion trend raged in the Capitol at the time. And those trends change every other season. You since long gave up on trying to keep abreast of them.

“Hm, this one is perfect,” he announces, drawing a red number from the closet.

You gape at the dress he chose. It’s a slip satin dress the color of blood. The waist is cinched with a thin belt and the lace sleeves, adorned with embroidered flowers, flow elegantly.

It’s beautiful, radiating a timeless elegance…but the neckline is low, displaying more cleavage than you’re used to. 

Your cheeks warm. “Are you sure?”

“Just trust me. Try it.”

Your eyes bulge but you relent, something about his tone curbing your impulse to argue. “Okay,” you quaver.

Trying not to squirm beneath his intense stare, you grab the dress from him and slip behind the wooden divider screen.

Chewing on your lip, you peek above the folding screen.

“Maybe you could…get out while I change?” you suggest while fumbling with the lace strings of your day dress.

Coriolanus casually sits on your bed, his crimson coat pooling around him. He leans back and spreads his large hands over your bed sheets. A small smile dances along his pink lips.

“I won’t look, I promise. Don’t you trust me, princess?”

“I do but…”

“But what?” he challenges, cocking his head in question.

Stumped, you come up short of a decent answer. “Nothing,” you mumble.

You shed your clothes quickly to try on the red dress. The whole time, you can feel the weight of Coriolanus’ unnerving scrutiny on the other side of the wooden screen.

He gives you a sluggish onceover when you step out from behind the screen. Your skin prickles as you shake.

“Hm nice, twirl for me.”

His blue eyes sparkle when you do as he says. He gets to his feet. He slowly strolls towards you.

Once he’s in front of you, he also arranges a few wisps of your hair in a way that he likes.

“Gorgeous,” he lauds when he’s done. 

He tilts your chin up, his gaze corralling yours.

“See? All you have to do is to trust me, princess.” His deep voice dips to dulcet tones. “Just trust me and, I promise you, everything will work out exactly the way it’s supposed to.”

“You came,” Coriolanus points out, that signature smirk of his adorning his lips.

“I promised I would,” you defend.

He snorts. “I’m glad. Saves me the trouble of having to drag you here myself, princess.”

Nervous laughter peals from your lips at his strange joke and the intent way his eyes rest on you. For a while, he doesn’t say anything, drinking in the sight of you in the crimson dress. The very same one he picked himself.

He then loops your arm around his, bending near your ear to whisper,

“Let's re-introduce you to everyone.”

You look around yourself, curious as you’ve never been to Clemensia’s house. The atmosphere is more intimate than you expected. The only source of dim light in the Dovecote’s sumptuous living room emanates from candelabras scattered all about, the wobbly candlelight casting twisting shadows over the damask walls. The crackle of the logs burning in the gigantic fireplace mingles with the soft piano tune filling the living room. 

“Coriolanus, did you bring a ghost to my party?” Clemensia jests when she sees you. Her expression then turns serious as she studies you. To your utter surprise, she wraps her arms around you and hugs you. You freeze, too stunned to return the gesture. The two of you were never close, the opposite in fact. It all stemmed from the way she and her friends ostracized you and your brother in school. Maybe it’s all water under the bridge now that you’re older. “Oh, you poor thing,” she laments. “I’m here for whatever you need, okay?”

You nod stiffly. “O-Okay.”

Coriolanus hardly conceals his amusement at the interaction, mirth swaying in his cobalt orbs. 

He and Clemensia keep introducing you to people. Some you recognize; some you don’t. 

It makes you realize how much you missed. 

After a while, faces blend into each other. You end up nodding and smiling to most of the small talk, your attention span dwindling by the minute.

Eventually, you decide to retreat to the bar to take a break. The barkeep nudges a drink your way and you thank him quietly. You swirl it in your hand, your thoughts drifting. Maybe this is what a return to normalcy must feel like. Slightly strange and overwhelming.

You gasp as Coriolanus appears at your side. “Are you alright, princess? Too much?”

Your startled reaction draws a chuckle from him.

A slow exhale drops from your chest. 

“A little,” you confess. “But…I’m glad you took me. A change of scenery is nice.”

It occurs to you that you haven’t had time to wallow in your sadness, too caught in conversation with other people. However frivolous the topics, it did keep your mind off of things. No thoughts of dead brothers have crossed your mind tonight.

It might not be much but it’s a start, you suppose.

Coriolanus’ brow curves teasingly. “See? This is why you should trust me.”

“Don’t push it, Snow. You’re on thin ice.”

A laugh bursts from his chest but, as he peers down at your drink, all humor vanishes from his face. He swipes it from you and sniffs it. 

“Hm, what’s wrong?”

A frown puckers his forehead. 

“Who served you this drink?” he rumbles.

You shrug. “I don’t know. It was just…brought to me.��

“There’s something in it.”

“What?” Ice spills in your veins. “Oh my god.”

Your mind whirls as you peek at your surroundings, paranoia creeping in. You wonder who could have done this and why. Just to mess with you? Or maybe even worse…

Your gut sinks. Thank god Coryo put a stop to whatever awful thing could have happened to you.

He puts his hand on your arm reassuringly. “I’ll bring you a clean one.”

“T-Thanks,” you stutter. “Just nothing with alcohol in it, please.”

“Of course.”

He returns with a brand new drink in a jiffy. 

“Thanks for looking out for me,” you beam before taking a sip. You were starting to get a little parched.

“Always, princess.” He grins at you while you take another sip.

A wave of queasiness suddenly hits you. 

The room starts to spin around you, blurring into crooked shapes and colors. You try to stand but your knees buckle instantly.

If it weren’t for Coriolanus swiftly catching you you’d be a heap on the floor.

“Coryo…I’m not feeling so good,” you slur, struggling to speak. Cotton seems to fill your mouth, the mere act of forming words demanding great effort.

“It’s okay, lean on me,” he says, slipping his arm around your waist.

“Head…heavy.”

“You’re alright. Just hold on to me, okay?”

“Okay.”

“Good girl.”

In a daze, you stagger along as he escorts you through a series of hallways and up a flight of stairs. You grow so weak that you slump against him. With ease, Coriolanus hoists you in his arms, carrying you bridal style the rest of the way.

You fall onto something heavenly soft that sinks under your weight. Like fluffy clouds. 

Your thoughts collapse, muddy and haphazard as you blink up at the ceiling. An antique chandelier hangs from it.

“You just need a little bit of rest.”

Coriolanus’s voice is warped, disembodied almost.

“Rest…” you echo.

But as soon as your eyes begin to close, the feeling of your dress hiking upwards tugs you back to consciousness. 

Befuddled, you look down. You’re welcomed by the sight of Coriolanus wedged between your parted legs, hands clasped around your thighs. His waistcoat and white blouse are gone, exposing his pale, broad chest. 

“Coryo, what is happening-”

His soft lips cover yours, stifling your protests. His tall frame pins yours to the bed. He purrs against your lips, framing your jaw when you feebly pivot your head to the side. 

When his lips free yours, your mouth still tingles with the forcefulness of his bruising kiss. 

He returns to the space between your thighs. 

You lie back, your bones like jelly, as you feel the delicate material of your panties sliding down your legs. 

Your brows twitch. “Coryo…”

His blue eyes glow strangely in the darkness. A chill slithers through your core. 

“Shh, don’t worry about it, princess, just sleep.”

You want to move. You feel you have to. But you can’t. 

“I…”

The syllable dies in a sharp gasp as Coriolanus’ cool tongue drags down your slit. Long fingers spreading you open, he traces wet circles around your bundle of nerves. He rasps against your center and the vibrations rock through your core. Your breath hitches. Your chest tightens. Heat builds in your stomach as he makes you dangle off the cliff of pleasure. He soon adds a finger and you cry out.

Coriolanus pumps in and out of you, gauging your expression as he grazes a particular spot that has your toes flexing. You writhe over the sheets, eyes blindly rising to the ceiling. 

You clench around his finger, your cunt clinging to him reflexively.

He sinks a second digit inside you and you whine, back arching at the abrupt stretch.

Short, chaotic breaths rush through your lungs as he works you open. His slow, meticulous drags have your chest rising and falling rapidly. 

Your legs quake as the coils in your belly grow unbearably tight and hot.

He stops as you’re on the cusp of your undoing. Your boneless frame sags onto the sheets.

He leans back and you hear the rustle of his pants coming undone. You get a faint sense of wrong trying to pierce through the haziness, but you can’t grasp at it.

Still, your fingers stretch towards the edge of the bed, your body rolling to the side. The meek attempt is interrupted as Coriolanus yanks you back onto the sheets, snatching your wrists and pinning them above your head. His frame drapes over yours. The scent of roses coats your senses.

“We’re not done, princess,” he murmurs, his warm breath caressing your face.

A painful pressure starts prodding your entrance. He grunts, hovering above you as he pushes past your tight ring of muscles. 

You feel as if you’ll tear as more of him buries inside you. Every second is agony, your core burning at the blunt intrusion.

A sigh of pleasure floats from his mouth when he reaches the hilt of you. He stays there a while, seeming to bask in the feeling of you around him. 

When he starts to move, your eyes flutter open. He sets a steady pace right away, thrusting inside you as if his life depended on it. Wordless screams rip from your throat. He releases your wrists, his long fingers latching onto your waist instead. 

Each of his slow, deep thrusts sparks warm tingles through your body.

Sweat collects between his brows as he grunts in pleasure.

“I knew you’d feel just perfect around me,” he rasps, delighted. 

His cadence quickens, his hand digging bruising grooves over your hip. Choked moans spill from your throat. His other hand crawls beneath the thin satin of your dress, fondling your breast and flicking your pebbled nipple. His hands feel everywhere at once and that sense of wrong rolls over you again.

“Ever since I saw you in this dress, I’ve been dying to fuck you in it,” he confesses, lust bleeding in his fevered tone. 

The mattress squeaks as he relentlessly rams into you.

A uniquely sharp thrust has your slick walls tighten around him. His cock stirs, a throaty moan pouring from his chest.

The repeated friction against your soft spots has you seeing stars.

A feral glint bounces in his blue eyes as he admires your panting form, lost in the throes of pleasure. Strangled shouts escape you as another wave of pleasure crashes over your frame.

His pace slows, sloppier than before as his cock twitches between your walls. His eyes roll back as he sighs, tension draining from his muscular frame. Hot ropes spill inside you, overflowing until you feel the warmth dripping along your thighs.

Your mouth wobbles, silent tears streaming down your face.

Coriolanus cradles your face, kissing away each of your tears with tender brushes of his lips.

“Shh, don’t cry,’ he mumbles. “It’s okay, princess. I’ve got you.” His cock stiffens inside you once more. He lifts you and snaps his hips viciously into yours, drawing a broken whimper as he bottoms out. A lopsided smile blooms on his lips when he begins to move inside you. Helplessly, you lie back as he takes you again.

“I’ve got you, and I’m not letting you go.”

[wosos-stuff]

Fractured Reflections

Lucy Bronze x Bronze Reader

-------------------------

The first time you realized your relationship with Lucy was fractured beyond repair was during an otherwise ordinary family dinner. You were both home for the holidays, seated at opposite ends of the table, the tension between you thick enough to choke on.

Your parents were oblivious, filling the silence with forced cheer and small talk about football. Your father praised Lucy’s latest performance with the national team, and you could see the pride in his eyes as he spoke about her accomplishments. Lucy, as always, deflected the praise with a modest smile, her eyes never once meeting yours.

It wasn’t that you resented Lucy’s success—you were proud of her, truly. But that pride was buried under layers of hurt, anger, and a sense of abandonment that had festered for years. Lucy had always been the golden child, the one who seemed destined for greatness from the start. Meanwhile, you had fought tooth and nail to carve out a place for yourself, to step out of her shadow and be seen as something more than just “Lucy Bronze’s little sister.”

But no matter how hard you tried, how much you achieved on your own, it always seemed like you were chasing after her, doomed to play catch-up in a race you could never win.

That night at the dinner table, something inside you snapped. Your father had just finished talking about Lucy’s latest victory when he turned to you, asking about your upcoming match with Arsenal. It was a big game, one that could determine whether your team would advance in the league, and you had been preparing for it relentlessly.

But before you could respond, Lucy cut in with a comment about how “every game is important,” her tone dripping with condescension. It was a small remark, barely noticeable to anyone else at the table, but to you, it felt like a slap in the face—a reminder that no matter what you did, it would never measure up to her standards.

You pushed your chair back and stood up abruptly, the sound of the legs scraping against the floor cutting through the awkward silence. “I’m not hungry anymore,” you muttered, before turning on your heel and walking out of the dining room.

You could feel Lucy’s eyes on your back as you left, but you didn’t look back. You didn’t want to see the indifference you knew would be there, the same indifference that had been growing between you for years.

---

The rivalry between you and Lucy only intensified as the season progressed. It wasn’t just a matter of sibling rivalry anymore—there was genuine animosity between you, fueled by years of unresolved tension and unspoken words.

When your teams faced off on the pitch, it was like a battle of wills, each of you determined to prove something to the other. You could see the fire in Lucy’s eyes every time she squared off against you, and you knew she could see the same in yours.

The media loved to play up the “sister rivalry” angle, painting it as a friendly competition between two elite athletes. But behind closed doors, it was anything but friendly. Every interaction was laced with sarcasm, every conversation a minefield of hidden barbs and thinly veiled insults.

You tried to talk to her once, after a particularly brutal match that ended in a draw. Both teams had fought tooth and nail for every inch of the pitch, and by the end, you were both battered and bruised, physically and emotionally.

As you walked off the field, you saw Lucy ahead of you, her head down as she made her way to the locker room. For a moment, you hesitated, considering whether or not to approach her. But something in you—perhaps a lingering hope that things could still be fixed—made you quicken your pace to catch up with her.

“Lucy,” you called out, your voice strained from the effort of keeping your emotions in check.

She stopped but didn’t turn around, her posture rigid. “What do you want?” she asked, her voice cold.

You swallowed hard, your heart pounding in your chest. “We need to talk. About… everything.”

Lucy turned then, her eyes narrowing as she looked at you. “There’s nothing to talk about,” she said flatly. “You made your choice a long time ago.”

You stared at her, stunned by the venom in her voice. “What are you talking about? You’re the one who shut me out! You’re the one who always made me feel like I wasn’t good enough!”

“Because you weren’t!” Lucy snapped, her eyes blazing. “You were always trying to compete with me, always trying to prove something. I didn’t have time for that. I was focused on my career, on being the best.”

The words hit you like a punch to the gut, leaving you breathless. “You’re unbelievable,” you said, your voice trembling with anger. “You’re so caught up in yourself that you can’t see how much you’ve hurt me, how much you’ve pushed me away.”

Lucy crossed her arms, her expression unyielding. “Maybe you should stop blaming me for your own insecurities.”

That was the last straw. The fragile thread that had been holding you together snapped, and all the anger, hurt, and resentment you had been holding in came flooding out.

“Go to hell, Lucy,” you spat, turning away before she could see the tears that were starting to well up in your eyes. “I’m done with you.”

---

After that confrontation, you and Lucy barely spoke. On the rare occasions when you had to interact—at family gatherings or team events—the air between you was thick with hostility. The few words you exchanged were curt and laced with sarcasm, and it wasn’t long before even your parents began to notice the growing rift.

But they didn’t understand. No one did. To the outside world, you and Lucy were still sisters, still family, still bound by blood. But blood wasn’t enough to bridge the chasm that had opened up between you.

The media continued to hype up your rivalry, turning every match between your teams into a spectacle of sibling drama. But they didn’t see what was really happening, didn’t see the hatred that was growing in your heart, festering like a wound that would never heal.

You threw yourself into your training, into your matches, determined to outshine Lucy on the pitch. But no matter how well you played, no matter how many goals you scored or accolades you earned, it never felt like enough. The shadow of your sister loomed over you, a constant reminder of everything you could never be.

And Lucy, for her part, seemed to thrive on the rivalry. She played with a level of intensity that you had never seen before, as if she was determined to crush you beneath her feet. Every victory she claimed felt like a personal attack, a reminder that no matter how hard you tried, she would always be one step ahead.

---

The final straw came during the last match of the season, a game that would determine the league champion. Your team had fought its way to the top, and now, you were facing Lucy’s team in a winner-takes-all showdown.

The match was brutal, both teams pushing themselves to the limit in a desperate bid for victory. You and Lucy clashed on the field time and time again, each encounter more intense than the last. It was as if the entire world had shrunk down to just the two of you, locked in a battle that neither of you could afford to lose.

In the final minutes of the game, with the score tied and everything on the line, you found yourself with the ball at your feet, racing toward the goal. You could feel Lucy closing in on you, her presence a cold shadow at your back.

You were so focused on the goal, so determined to score and prove once and for all that you were just as good—no, better—than your sister, that you didn’t see the tackle coming until it was too late.

Lucy’s foot connected with the ball, sending it flying out of your reach, and you went down hard, the impact jarring every bone in your body. The referee’s whistle blew, signaling a foul, but it was too late. The chance was gone, the game was over.

As you lay on the ground, pain radiating through your body, you looked up to see Lucy standing over you, her expression cold and unfeeling. For a moment, you thought you saw a flicker of something in her eyes—regret, perhaps, or guilt—but it was gone as quickly as it had appeared.

She walked away without a word, leaving you to pick yourself up off the ground, the bitter taste of defeat heavy in your mouth.

---

That was the last time you saw Lucy. After the match, she disappeared, throwing herself into her training for the national team. You heard rumors that she was considering a move abroad, but you didn’t care enough to ask if they were true.

The rift between you had grown too wide, the hurt too deep. There was no going back, no way to fix what had been broken.

Your parents tried to mediate, to bring you back together, but their efforts were in vain. You were too far gone, too consumed by your own anger and resentment to even consider reconciliation.

In the end, you and Lucy went your separate ways, the bond between you shattered beyond repair. You were no longer sisters, no longer family—just two strangers who happened to share the same blood.

And as the years passed, the memories of what you had once been—of the closeness you had shared, the laughter, the love—faded into the background, overshadowed by the bitter reality of what you had become.

You continued to play, to chase after your dreams, but there was always a shadow lingering just out of reach. The rivalry with Lucy was over, but the emptiness remained, a constant reminder of the sister you had lost, and the fractured reflections of a relationship that would never be whole again.

[jeonginsleftcheek]

The sun to me

Chapter I: The Seed. Part I.

pairing: hwang hyunjin x afab!reader

word count: 1.8k

chapter summary: a glimpse into the world of hwang hyunjin, the artist and the celebrity.

warnings: swearing, smoking, drugs, one night stand, brief sex scene, hyunjin is an asshole for a few moments

~ Masterlist for the series ~ next part

Click. Click. Click.

The flash of the camera illuminates the room and the almost expressionless face, the owner of said face leaning his body towards one of the canvases hanging on the wall.

One of his many pieces that once only existed in the depths of his mind and heart, spilled onto the canvas adorned with a stylish bronze frame.

The flash once hurt his eyes, but as the time went on and the flashes got more frequent, his eyes adjusted and he became desensitized to the attention.

It was all just a familiar cycle. Sit in front of a blank canvas, prepare your paints, prepare your paintbrushes, prepare your fucking inspiration or at least find it somewhere hidden under a carpet, shoved into a metaphorical hole, sucked into the endless void.

Put it on the wall of your gallery, say some pretentious shit, strike a few poses and act like you're happy and motivated to even live.

Rinse and repeat.

As your admirers scream and throw wads of cash at your feet, be happy, you're living your dream, be happy, you got what you wanted, be happy, your life is perfect.

What was the inspiration for this piece?

Just say some poetic shit and everyone will eat it up, thinking how deep you are, admire the artist, admire the art, admire the lie.

Life is perfect.

Hyunjin looks for a moment of peace. He finds just that, one moment, as he manages to slip away to the balcony. He presses his elbows on the cold, hard stone, leans on his open palms and looks down.

The suit he's wearing makes it hard to move, his body is restricted, tied and held in place, the tie around his neck is secured tightly, almost taking his breath away and suffocating him.

He runs a hand through his styled hair, trying to take in a deep breath, his eyes are fixed on the road, everything looks so tiny from up where he's standing, so insignificant and temporary in time. All the people walking around look like ants, cars look like toys he played with when he was a child, it's a hazy cloud of everything and nothing, moving too fast to make sense of it.

Melancholy lingers in the air, together with the smell of a thunderstorm brewing in the distant dark sky, and he lifts his head up, his hand in his pocket.

Hyunjin fishes out a pack of cigarettes, a damned habit he picked up on after hanging out in many fancy clubs with many fancy people whose noses are white, whose smiles are crooked, whose eyes are dull and hearts tainted.

He curses under his breath, realizing that he had no lighter with him, after all, he didn't smoke daily, it was just a rare occurrence to blow off steam, just an excuse to disappear from the stifling crowd, the loud voices and the unnecessary questions he answered a hundred times before.

Footsteps approach him, the moment is broken and his manager appears by his side.

"Looking for this?"- Charlie reaches his zippo to Hyunjin.

"Sure."- Hyunjin's voice is almost inaudible.

"Those'll kill you, you know."- Charlie says, a sympathetic smile on his face.

Hyunjin lights up the cigarette, the quiet crackling sound loud in the space between them as he inhales, his lungs filling with the poison, and his brain filling with fake relief.

"You smoke more than me."- the smoke puffs out like a cloud as Hyunjin talks, eyeing the zippo in his hand, an airplane engraved into it.

"You look ugly when you smoke."- Charlie teases and Hyunjin lets out a chuckle as his manager takes out a cig.

He reaches his hand towards Hyunjin's and he rests the old zippo in his open palm, the thought of teasing his manager only shortly passing through his mind.

Charlie has always had an unhealthy obsession with airplanes and collecting old things, so Hyunjin knew that if he even tried to joke with the lighter, his manager would freak out.

"Why so gloomy? This is the biggest show you've ever hosted. Specifically in your own gallery."- Charlie lets the smoke fizz out as Hyunjin stares off into the distance, the quiet breeze swirling the smoke around, drawing patterns in the dark that surrounds them.

"It is, isn't it?"- Hyunjin nods, watching the ashes flicker around as he taps his cigarette, some of it ending on his perfect suit, staining the expensive material.

"Yeah, we made a lot of money. There are so many interested buyers too, so we're bound to make even more."- Charlie smirks before taking a drag.

Money. It all comes back to the stupid paper that holds more significance than anything else in this world. It's the ruler of everything and everyone, and the more you have it, the more you want.

You become insatiable, one more expensive suit, one more pair of leather shoes, a new couch because why not, a new car that's not even on the market yet because you get exclusive everything.

Complete emptiness. That's all that it is, a void that keeps growing with more stuff you get.

Nothing you buy will ever be enough to fill up the ever growing black hole, everything just gets sucked into it and you're left feeling like you have nothing at all.

That's all Charlie ever talks about, except airplaines. It's all Hyunjin has come to know.

He drowns in so many rare and expensive things, but still what he wants to grasp onto isn't tangible to him.

"Sounds perfect."- Hyunjin's voice comes out flat.

"It is perfect! So, lighten up! We made so. much. cash."- Charlie emphasizes. "We need to celebrate."- he adds, smirking as he sticks his hand into the pocket of his jacket and brings out a little baggy of white powder, waving it in front of Hyunjin's face.

"I'll pass."- he says shortly and Charlie scoffs incredulously.

"What is with the sour attitude, my friend?"- he runs his hand through his curly hair. "You're being ungrateful. There are people who have so much influence here tonight and they're gonna want to meet the star of the show, the one and only Hwang Hyunjin. So you better get your fucking shit together."- Charlie flicks his cigarette as his voice gets deeper and the look in his eyes becomes menacing, before he leaves Hyunjin standing on the balcony.

The storm moves closer, Hyunjin looks down, a flicker of something lights up deep inside him, he stares down as his heart races, he wants to scream and fly. Intrusive thoughts fill his head up and he turns on his heel abruptly, shoving his hands in his pockets and walking back into the gallery.

It's already 4 am when Hyunjin stumbles into his apartment, some nameless girl giggling behind him. She probably thinks she knows everything about Hyunjin, which academy he went to, what he loved to paint the most, what was his biggest inspiration, when he had his first show.

This was the night of her life.

To Hyunjin, she was just another instrument to play with, something to pass the time and fill the empty space of his king sized bed, at least for one night.

To feel something. He wishes he could feel something.

She will never forget this but he already forgot her name.

Another baggy is opened, white powder spread on the glass table, Hyunjin's credit card used to make four perfect little lines, two for each of them.

The girl giggles and leans over, snorting two lines in as she moans in delight, her eyes rolling back.

Hyunjin mirrors her actions, scrunching up his nose, despise written on his face at the burning feeling in his nostrils and the dull ache behind his eyes.

How did he get to this?

He doesn't care right now, thoughts erased in his high mind as the girl starts touching on him, nimble fingers coming up to untie his tie.

He doesn't resist, lets her undress him as she kisses his neck, his hands are splayed on her tiny waist, she must be a model.

She's probably beautiful but even that doesn't mean anything to Hyunjin, not when he looks at her, kisses her or lays her under him.

He doesn't see her, he looks through her, chasing his high as quickly as he can, his fingers working on her sensitive bundle of nerves just so she doesn't talk shit later that he didn't know how to please her.

With a loud moan of his name that makes his stomach recoil, she cums around him and he spills into the condom, his hand gripping at the sheet next to her head.

Here comes the worst part. She'll want to cuddle. She'll stay the night. She'll probably yell and slap him in the morning when he tells her to get lost.

He'll say something douchy like 'you should feel honored I fucked you' just to get her off his case.

And he won't feel a thing.

"What the hell do you mean, you're leaving?!"- Charlie yells desperately, as Hyunjin sits, tapping his foot against the carpeted floor of his manager's office.

Charlie stands up angrily, the leather chair he was sitting in, creaking and spinning a little.

"I'm leaving, Charlie. I need to leave. I need a break. I can't do this anymore. I don't even know who I am and why I'm doing this anymore. I don't know what to paint anymore and I don't even fucking care right now. I despise painting and art! I fucking despise all of this!"- Hyunjin's suppressed anger and despair starts bubbling up as he stands up.

"Save your sob story, Hyunjin. This isn't just about you. Other people depend on how much you sell and how much your produce. You can't just up and leave everything when you feel like it. People will-"

"I don't fucking care about people! And I'm making it about me. It's about me, for once. If you want me to be fruitful and bring you money so badly, you need to let me take a fucking break."- Hyunjin seethes.

Charlie pinches the bridge of his nose.

"How long?"

"However long I need."

"Fine. Whatever, Hyunjin. I will keep selling the pieces from the last show. They will sell out quickly, just a reminder. You'll need to do something new by then."

"Fine."

Hyunjin leaves the office, his heart beating fast inside his chest as he speeds off faster and faster, away from the gray buildings, away from the tainted hearts, away from the empty fucking void, threatening to suck in his entire existence.

Returning to his cold apartment, Hyunjin packs a suitcase, leaves a note for the cleaning lady, and throws one last look around his modern apartment, his eyes stop on the looming city skyscrapers outside.

No colors could ever illuminate the deep-seated depression of the big city.

✨Taglist: @moonchild9350 @janepg @velvetmoonlght @hwanghyunjinismybae @jehhskz @laylasbunbunny @porangporangmeong @jeonginslefthand @sapphirewaves @simpforleeknaur @laughatdanger @lixies-favorite-cookie @linavc @quokkacidal @thisaintredwine @m00gyu @yaorzu-blog @skzfelixlove @tajannah-price1 @puccaaak @aft2rsexs @xxkissesforchanniexx @aprilmaejune77 @lilmeowneow @stayjinnie @astrobebba @danihwang882 @nchhuhi @1810cl

[just-my-latest-hyperfixation]

Heat on your skin

Written for the June pop-up challenge of the @steddieholidaydrabbles

Prompt: summer

Rated: E

Tags: Established relationship; Sunburn; Dom!Steve; Sub!Eddie; Dry humping; Thigh fucking; Lotion as lube; Anal sex; Orgasm denial

Notes: Mickala said "anything you might do in summer" and my brain went "lather your badly sunburnt beau in lotion, then fuck him until he goes cross-eyed". You're all welcome.

“Impressive. I didn't know skin could turn that color.” 

Eddie unburies his sweaty face from the pillow to glower at his boyfriend. Steve is standing beside the bed, topless and perfect. His hair, still damp and disheveled, is alight with golden highlights. His skin is bronzed, a delicate flush blooming on his chest and cheekbones. He's flipping a bottle of lotion in one hand, eyeing Eddie’s shoulders and back. His expression is teetering between horror and fascination. 

“Go ahead,” Eddie grumbles. “Ogle me like I'm some circus freak. Sun-kissed bastard.” 

If the sun kissed Steve, it punched Eddie square in the teeth. Swept out his feet from under him as he went down, then kicked him in the ribs before stepping over his limp body and walking away, laughing at his misery. 

Steve chuckles. The bed dips as he straddles Eddie’s thighs. 

“To be fair, I told you to put on sunscreen. Which you not only refused to do-” 

“Because it's sticky, gross and smells horrible.” 

“But also,” Steve continues. The bottle plops as he uncaps it. “You fell asleep.” 

“And you didn't wake me,” Eddie gripes. “I think we're both to blame, at least a- fuck, what's that?” 

“Aloe,” Steve says. He sets the bottle down on the mattress, then starts spreading the cold gel between Eddie’s shoulders. “It might sting a little, but it'll help. Quit squirming.” 

It doesn't just sting a little, it burns like a bitch. Eddie fists his hands into the pillow and tries taking slow, measured breaths, but can't keep his shoulders from twitching. 

“I said,” Steve rumbles. “Hold still.” 

The touch of his hands stays featherlight, but his stance shifts, trapping Eddie a little more firmly against the mattress. Through the thin fabric of their swim shorts, Eddie can feel Steve’s cock pressing against his thigh. He exhales a long breath, forcing himself to go limp and pliant under those hands. 

“There you go,” Steve hums. “Good boy.” 

Eddie’s own cock twitches against the sheets. 

Steve takes his sweet time with him, working his way down his back. After a while, the burnt skin begins to feel cooler in the wake of his touch. Eddie sighs, letting himself drift on the sweet relief of it - and on the different, more urgent heat that’s building at the base of his spine. Steve notices, because of course he does, the sly little fucker. 

“Shhh, baby,” he soothes. His fingers are painting little circles over Eddie’s hip bones now, brushing the seams of his shorts almost as if by accident. Eddie lets out a shaky moan, and Steve rolls his hips, slow and languid, cock slotting between Eddie’s thighs. “Let me make you feel good, yeah?” 

“Shit,” Eddie breathes. And if it comes out more whimper than word? And if he sounds all desperate and pathetic, positively wrecked even though they’re both not even fully naked? So what? He’s red as a lobster, his skin will probably start coming off in flakes by tomorrow, and his perfect greek god of a boyfriend is slowly fucking his thighs through their shorts. He thinks he deserves to be cut some slack here. “Stevie, I’m not sure I can do that with my back. I can hardly even move, man.” 

“Told you, Eds,” Steve murmurs, and shifts his weight again. Eddie gasps as his shorts are yanked down, all the way to the hollows of his knees. “Don't want you to move.” 

Sun-warmed lips trace the base of his spine, only to be replaced by Steve’s fingers again, slick and wet with lotion. 

“And I'm not gonna touch your back,” Steve promises, voice tender and soothing as a caress. One of those large hands settles on Eddie’s hip. “I'm just gonna hold you in place like this and fuck you into this mattress, nice and slow. Would you like that?” 

“Yes,” Eddie sighs, as Steve starts to carefully open him up with one hand. “Oh God, Stevie, yes, please.” 

“Thought you'd say that,” Steve chuckles. “Always so greedy for me, aren't you?” 

How could he not be? How could he ever be anything but greedy for the care and attention that Steve showers him with? How could he ever be anything but desperate for the slow, delicious burn of being fucked open on those deft fingers. How could he ever do anything else but moan and shiver and beg for Steve’s cock as he finally lines himself up, grabbing Eddie’s hips on either side.

“Y’know,” he mutters as, after what feels like a beautiful eternity, Steve begins to move inside of him. He's starting to feel light-headed and tingly all over, and the words come out a bit slurred. “If this is what I get for forgetting my sunscreen, I might do it more often.” 

“Oh?” Steve laughs, all indulgent amusement. He snaps his hips sharply, once, before resuming his languid rhythm. Eddie moans as the motion squeezes at his hard, leaking dick, trapped between his own body weight and the mattress. “You sure about that?” 

“Huh?” Eddie wheezes. He's dizzy from the heat and drunk on Steve's touch, and he can’t fucking think straight. “What d’you mean?” 

“I mean,” Steve says, and picks up his pace. Eddie sucks in a sharp breath as the grip of those hands tightens, pulling him down a little deeper on Steve's cock with each thrust. “I said that I was gonna fuck you. I didn't say anything about letting you cum, did I?” 

“What the fuck?” Eddie squawks. “Oh no, Stevie, please, you're killing me here.” 

Steve tuts at him. 

“Don't be so dramatic, honey,” he scolds. The bed springs creak in time with his thrusts. “If you can take a little sunburn, blue balls won't kill you either, right?” 

And maybe the sun fried his head, and maybe Steve is slowly turning his brain into goo with each new thrust of his cock. The point is, Eddie can't really find the will to argue. 

[astrolovecosmos]

The Planets & Random or Obscure Associations

~Sun~

Creativity, vitality, head of state, the father, games, yellow and orange clothing, articles of value, jewelry, gold, brass, power, diamonds, citrine, topaz, jasper, amber, rhodochrosite, mistletoe, almonds, citrus, succulents, sunflowers, fevers, heart, back, spine, grapes, walnuts, rice, chamomile, frankincense, juniper, saffron, marigold, rosemary, rue, palaces, towers, luxury.

~Moon~

Eternal, cycles, silver, aluminum, pearls, moonstone, opal, selenite, chest, glands, lymphatic system, nervous system, emotions, mother, ancestors, nurture, rebirth, tides, baths, ocean, brew, boat, sap, willow trees, succulents, pale color plants, white flowers, cucumber, cabbage, lettuce, melons, shellfish, pumpkins, lakes, fountains, ports, fishponds, pools, springs, sewers, dairies, toys, reflection, blankets, objects of comfort.

~Mercury~

Communication, journal, pen/pencil, any writing tools, wings, phosphorous, mercury, agate, tiger's eye, brain, nervous system, eyes, respiration, thyroid, speech, hearing, intellect, vehicles, money, bills, paper, books, pictures, parties or social gatherings, scientific instruments, butterflies, messages, mail, hazel, mulberry, myrtle, seeds, aniseed, dill, fennel, lavender, liquorice, marjoram, parsley, valerian, hazelnuts, beans, mushrooms, pomegranates, carrots, celery, libraries, schools, markets, fairs, public spaces, tennis or badminton court, studies, banks, bowling greens, offices, blue, white, or light colored flowers.

~Venus~

Love, relating, lust, high-quality fabrics, copper, bronze, sodium, malachite, tourmaline, emerald, rose quartz, kunzite, sapphire, pastels, throat, kidneys, lumber region, art, music, aesthetics, social life, fashion, jewelry, wine, pleasure, alder tree, fruit trees, paint, ash tree, birch, pomegranates, early flowering, daisy, mint, marshmallow, meadowsweet, mugwort, plantain, tansy, roses, thyme, vervain, yarrow, potatoes, strawberries, wheat, sugar, nectarines, ballrooms, bedrooms, dining room, gardens, fountains, wardrobes, theaters, looking and feeling good.

~Mars~

Lust, conquest, desire, flaming sword, red things, fights, iron, brass, bloodstone, carnelian, cinnabar, pyrite, magnetite, ruby, garnet, hematite, muscles, reproductive organs, blood, kidneys, immunity, heat, action, arms, pepper, sharp instruments, cutlery, attacks, scissors, weapons, physical intimacy, bites, stings, scalds, burns, accidents, hawthorn, pine, thorns, cactus, aloes, anemone, arnica, belladonna, garlic, ginger, hops, mustard seed, nettles, wormwood, chives, onions, leeks, radish, rhubarb, tobacco, labs, furnaces, distilleries, bakehouses, ovens, smiths, butchers, fields, anger, passion, self-focus.

~Jupiter~

Expansion, optimism, religion, religious sites, tin, seduction, turquoise, chrysocolla, topaz, citrine, jasper, liver, pancreas, pituitary gland, sciatic nerve, excess, abundance, prophecy, philosophy, knowledge, universities, foreign travel, luggage, honey, oil, silk, fruit, distinct clothing, merchandise, horses, domestic birds, gambling, indulgence, entertainment, oak, dandelion, sage, endive, chervil, asparagus, figs, churches, temples, palaces, altars, courts, mansions, woods, orchards, winery, cornucopia, connecting with the soul.

~Saturn~

Limits, boundaries, father time, lord of death, shadows, lead, iron, steel, calcium, asbestos, sulphur, diamond, onyx, calcite, skeleton, spleen, skin, teeth, nails, joints, structure, crystallization, old age, blockage, anything dark, wool, heavy materials, agriculture, wheelbarrows, spades, farm houses and buildings, cold, laws, aspen, blackthorn, buckthorn, cypress, elm, toxic plants, hemlock, henbane, belladonna, hellebore, barley, beetroot, safflower, parsnips, spinach, deserts, woods, valleys, caves, church yards, ruins, coalpits, sinks, wells, mud, institutions.

~Uranus~

Eccentrics, mavericks, invention, genius, revolution, change, trends, disruptive science or tech, uranium, magnesium, lapis lazuli, sapphire, aquamarine, azurite, chalcedony, electricity, neon lights, plaid, nervous and circulatory system, pineal gland, chaos, violence, upheaval, astrology, steam engines, coal, machinery, coins, baths, fishponds, dangerous places, computers, magnets, quantum physics, research, welfare, humanity, hypnotherapy, railways, banks, gas, psychiatric hospitals, offices, hospitals, dispensaries, fortified places, chemicals, mingled/mingling, spirit and matter.

~Neptune~

Illusions, veils, diffuse, deception, water, oceans, mysticism, enlightenment, artistic pursuit and understanding, zinc, potassium, amethyst, fluorite, jade, sugilite, coral, aquamarine, pineal gland, lymphatic and nervous system, spine, mental processes, addiction, psychoses, disease, photography, music, substances, gas, religion, poetry, mimicry, chameleon, anesthetic, telepathy, empathy, dancing, psychic gifts, places near water, hospitals, places of healing, jeweler, painters, brewers, musicians, visionary.

~Pluto~

Power, influence, darkness, new life, what's hidden underneath, seeds, volcanoes, deep earth or ocean, bury, explosions, eruptions, abduction, plutonium, smoky quartz, obsidian, jet, pearl, deep reds, reproductive organs, the unconscious, nuclear, transformation, death, birth, rebirth, underworld, riches, earthquakes, big business, murder, detection, detective, invisibility, sneak, enforced change, hidden places, underground, drains, sewers, radioactive places, the occult, black magic, sacrifice, renew.

[florencemtrash]

Flame, Shadow, Beast : Beast II

Azriel x Reader x Eris

Summary: Years after Eris frees you from his father’s prison, you’ve managed to find a new love, new friends, and build a life for yourself in Autumn. But when a certain Shadowsinger stumbles upon your home, dragging in painful memories of betrayal and longing, you’ll have to face the things you left in the past and make choices about the future you want.

Warnings: Angst and allusions to torture and death.

Flame, Shadow, Beast: Masterlist

Masterlist of Masterlists

You sat on Eris’s bed, your gorgeous dress crumbled beside you with the crown resting on top of the heap. It silently mocked you as you wrapped his robe closer around your body, burying your face in his scent. You shut your eyes and looked away from the door where Bryaxis was currently pacing on the other side.

Eris, Halvor, and Aurelia had been gone for two hours. Locked away in his official chambers discussing the matter of your bond with Azriel. 

“My Lady-” 

“Don’t call me that, Myrah.” The blademaiden had similarly tossed aside her glittering gown of silk and metal, choosing instead thin armor of bronze and soft leather. It was better suited for her slick style of fighting. She didn’t say anything as she climbed onto the sheets behind you and began to brush the tangles out of your damp hair.

“He won’t send you away.” She finally said after your hair had been brushed, oiled, and braided.

The bond fluttered as if in disappointment. You shoved it deeper, willing it to disappear entirely. 

“He may not have a choice.” 

Autumn couldn’t risk another war. Prythian couldn’t risk another war. But if Azriel dared to invoke the Blood Duel, no matter the outcome more blood would be shed.

No, he wouldn’t do that. You thought to yourself. Would he?

You’d heard of males doing worse things for less and Azriel was no male to be trifled with. And… He was in pain. 

As much as you tried to ignore it, and as much as he tried to shield you from it, Azriel was hurting. You felt muted waves of it through the bond like washes of tide against the shoreline.

If only you hadn’t chosen tonight to wear the crown or the dress or to subtly declare yourself the future Lady of Autumn. If only you’d had them leave sooner or… maybe this had all been a mistake. Maybe all the time you’d spent in Autumn had been a mistake, even if you were happy. Maybe… 

You looked around the room. The bedposts soared into the sky, disappearing into a ceiling that had been painted to look like the forest canopy. Colors of the sunset swirled down like wind. The roaring fire spread its molten heat across the warm wood furniture. Everyone spoke of the cruel beauty of the Forest House, its opulence and the disloyalty it housed within amber-encrusted walls. But you had only ever felt safe here. You’d fallen in love with all its old-fashioned peculiarities and the tales that had written themselves into the wood without anyone ever knowing. 

There in the corner was a dresser with burned handprints crawling up the sides- courtesy of Eris sneaking into the room to visit his mother after he’d just learned to walk. There above the vanity were two magnificent elk horns, altered to look like wings in flight. Lucien had found them shed by the river when Eris had first taken him hunting. Little trinkets you’d bought for him littered the room alongside the additions Myrah, Halvor, and Aurelia had gifted him over the years. Your own belongings filled the spaces previously left cold and empty, just like you spent most nights filling the empty spaces in his bed.

You set your jaw.

“Myrah,” She looked at you with wide eyes, “I think it’s time I got dressed.” 

“Eris specifically said not to let you out of his room. It could be dangerous.” Myrah said with a half-concealed smirk, walking beside you as you made your way towards Eris’s office. 

The Forest House was impenetrable… but a Shadowsinger could get into places others couldn’t. You felt the bond within you, daring to follow the string to wherever Azriel lay on the other side. The smallest tug and Azriel was stirring. You pulled away almost immediately. He wasn’t anywhere near the Forest House.

“He also said you were to be my blademaiden. Remind me of what that entails.” You said, refusing to slow down.

“To protect you with my life. To follow your orders… To care for you as my best friend.” 

You blinked and shot her a look. “The last part isn’t in your oath.”

She shrugged, “It’s not in my oath as a blademaiden… doesn’t mean I don’t have personal oaths I adhere to.” 

You squeezed her hand and she squeezed back harder.

Whatever conversations had been going on when you burst through the door died immediately. Halvor and Samson - third in command and Autumn’s spymaster - bowed when you entered, looking like a storm on a mission to render the room to splinters. Aurelia dipped her head, eyes shifting between Eris and you with a hint of sadness. It shaved away at your confidence.

“I need to speak with Eris. May we have the room?” You said, phrasing it more as a command and less of a question. 

Halvor nodded, making his way out with Samson and Myrah in tow. Aurelia lingered behind, squeezing Eris’s shoulder before waltzing out.

“What have you been discussing?” You said once the door had shut and you felt Eris’s magic wall up the sound in the room.

“I think you already know.” Eris said, standing up behind his desk and rubbing away the pressure building behind his eyes. He still wore his clothes from dinner and although he’d taken off his crown, a greater weight seemed to have fallen onto his shoulders. 

Eris swallowed. He had a letter crumpled up in his hand, half-written and blotted with ink spills. It began to smolder and burn.

“We weren’t sure-I wasn’t sure…” his voice trailed off, “I wasn’t sure if you’d already made up your mind.”

“About?” “About going to him. About being with him.” The words sounded strangled, like they were beasts that had fought against being spoken out loud. “He is your mate.”

“I don’t care.” 

Eris closed his eyes, “Y/n, I’m not-” “I said I don’t care.” 

He refused to look into your eyes, hands splaying out on the table as he fought back the fear in his chest. He didn’t want you to go. He’d given more of himself to you than he’d ever dared to before, and you had protected that trust with a fierceness he’d never seen. But this was something wholly out of his control. Something that had been dictated by the Mother. Who was he to stand between you and your mate? “What if… If you choose me, what if you come to regret it? What if I can’t give you what a mating bond can?” He said softly, as if he’d already given up on the hope that you’d stay. It lit a fire in your soul.

“I don’t care what the powers-that-be say about us.” You said, storming around the desk, “I don’t care if some force decided I am his equal or that we would make strong children together.” 

The bond was a sacred thing, more precious than anything land, gold, or blood could buy. But it was no guarantee of happiness. No guarantee of love. You would know, because you’d already found your happiness and love elsewhere.

You rushed forward, taking Eris’s face in your hands and feeling immediate relief when he didn’t move away. He leaned into your touch, turning his head to kiss the palms of your hands with reverence.

“I choose you, Eris. This hasn’t changed anything. Not for me.” You said with conviction.

“It hasn’t changed anything for me either.” Eris sighed in relief and touched his forehead against yours, your breaths mixing sweetly in the space between you two. 

“I would choose you.” He whispered fiercely, “Every. Single. Time. I would go to war for you, my love. Come hell or high water.” 

“I know,” You smiled, gently kissing on the lips and sighing when his warm hands traveled up the skin of your back, holding you to him, “I would do the same for you. But let us hope it doesn’t come to that.” 

Eris showed you the letter, the corners singed and flaking, and you smoothed it out on the mahogany table. Rhysand had been quick to request another meeting. Tension and worry were scratched into the curves of his flowery handwriting as he explained the situation in diplomatic terms: 

He was sorry for not attending the dinner. The Inner Circle had been unaware of the mating bond until it was too late. Azriel would behave himself and only come if called. The decision was yours. Whatever you chose, they wanted to continue being Autumn’s allies for the good of Prythian and to have you in their lives as friends, not enemies. It was delicate. Hopeful. A letter from someone who wanted peace as much as you did. Peace for his family. Peace for his son. 

The letter placed you in a position where you could wait for the tidal wave to settle. But just like the last time, this was not an issue you could ignore forever. An ax would always linger over your head, swaying dangerously close to your neck until you spoke with Azriel. So although you didn’t agree to another visit with the Inner Circle, you did allow Azriel to come to Autumn again.

You stood by the border, whispers of frost bitten wind snaking through the white gaps in the trees and reaching for your ankles. 

Samson and twelve of his best males and females stood behind you, archers at the ready and swordsmen with their hands gripping their hilts. They were more for Eris’s comfort than your own, and you would have your privacy when it mattered most.

Azriel emerged from the blizzard beyond like an ink stain on porcelain paper, bleeding into existence with his shadows swarming around him. He hadn’t been sleeping - you could tell from the faint bruises beneath his eyes. Somehow the imperfection made him more handsome, more mysterious. But you hadn’t had eyes for him in a long time.

“Come on.” You said, tilting your head towards the river that rushed and danced in the distance. You walked in silence, Azriel trailing behind like the shadow that he was and matching your shorter footsteps. He didn’t want to alarm you by overtaking you. Still, it was even more unnerving to know he was behind you without hearing or seeing him. You could only feel that bond tying you together, pulling you towards the male who walked ten paces behind.

You glanced back and he stopped, teeth clenching tightly as he looked at you. You were beautiful, shining in the burning forest like a flame. You’d always been beautiful and he had known this, but he hadn’t fully recognized it until it was far, far too late.

“Will you be slinking behind me the whole time like a kicked dog or will you walk beside me?” There was a biting humor in your voice that eased the tension in his shoulders. He walked beside you until you finally led him to the river. Any concerns that he might take this opportunity to survey the Autumn Court disappeared. He had his eyes on you the entire time like you were the only thing left in the world.

You sat down on the slick rock, dipping your bare feet into one of the clear streams that branched off from the river beyond, tumbling over boulders and stones with crisp clarity. Azriel took the cue to lower to the ground as well, his knee barely brushing against yours as he settled his magnificent wings on the cool stone.

“I’m sorry about Elain.” You said after a while of staring at the water. 

Azriel winced.

Maybe it was the wrong thing to say. It was no secret that five years after the Autumn Court war ended, Elain had quietly moved to the Sun Palace and mated Lucien. You’d met her briefly when he’d visited Eris, and as much as you wished you could resent her, she’d been lovely and kind, and kept good on her promise not to say anything about you to her family. You understood why Azriel had loved her… why he’d chosen her.

“I didn’t… I didn’t continue things with her after you were gone.” He said, choosing his words with care. His voice was rougher than usual, the sound rumbling out from his chest like the rolling of thunder. “It never felt right… I never felt right. I suppose I understand why now.”

He looked at you hopefully, hazel eyes wide and uncertain as he gently sent his thoughts down the bond. You shivered, feeling echoes of his love and longing for you along with the shame and guilt that accompanied it. 

He hated himself for the decisions he’d made. He had thought that Elain was meant for him - three sisters for three brothers. It seemed so simple, so obvious. So with each year that the mating bond hadn’t fallen into place, dark voices had whispered in his mind that he wasn’t truly a member of his family. Always an outsider. Always alone. It was why he’d traded you for Elain. A choice born out of a desperate desire to be loved and accepted. It was the worst mistake he had made in his life. 

“Azriel. I can’t.” You said, shaking your head and breaking eye contact.

“Can’t, or won’t.” He hadn’t touched you yet, but you saw his scarred hands flex out of the corner of his eyes, inching ever closer to where yours rested in your lap.

“Both.” 

You thought back to the first days you’d spent in the caves: Your wounds fresh and bleeding, the itching and pulsing of your burned flesh somehow getting worse as they healed, the desperation that came from existing in complete and total darkness. The only sounds you’d heard being the crunch and moans of the other poor souls that Beron sent down. 

It still hurt to think about and you didn’t believe it would ever go away.

“I learned something the day you left me.” 

“Y/n. Please-” He whispered, begging. His hands reached out for yours, and you let him.

You smiled sadly, tracing the scars that marred his hands. All the terrible past things that still clung to him. Things he could never forget. 

“Please.” He didn’t even know what he was begging for. He knew he didn’t deserve your forgiveness. He didn’t deserve the right to call you his mate. But… he could hope.

You traced over the scars once more, then let go of his hands.

“I learned I was never part of your family. Not truly. I was the one you were willing to sacrifice, not the one you’d burn down the world for.” 

Azriel swallowed thickly, pulling back on the shadows that had escaped his control and had begun to curl around your arms and your legs. 

He shook his head, “That’s not true. You have always been a part of this family. You will always be a part of this family.” 

You stayed silent.

“Is there… is there any chance at all for me to fix this?” Azriel asked. His hands now rested in between his knees, clasped so tightly together the pale skin of his scars blended into nothing. “To convince you to come back.” 

“No. No, I don’t think so.” 

He closed his eyes and deflated. A tear streaked down his cheek, dripping onto his lap. 

“I won’t leave him, Azriel. I won’t. Not for anyone. Not even for you.” “I know.” He whispered.

“I don’t… I don’t hate you. I never did. And I’m glad that Elain is alright. It probably was the right decision to make. I don’t know if Beron would have let Elain live. Not even as his prisoner.”

“Don’t say that. Don’t say that just to spare my feelings or to try and make things better.” 

“That’s not why I’m saying it.” 

Azriel stood up, furiously wiping away his tears and burying the feelings deep. He buried the bond even deeper and for the first time since the bond had snapped into place for you, you felt silence. 

You looked at him sadly. He hadn’t changed since the last time you saw him. He still loved deeply and hurt deeply too. 

You stood by his side, watched the river wind its way through the woods.

“It’s a beautiful place.” Azriel said softly, “I can see why you love it. And I… I understand why you love him. I do. I just wish it was me.” He swallowed thickly.

“You’ll find someone else, Azriel. I know you will.” You said, offering him a small, sad smile. 

He didn’t return it. Just looked at you for as long as he could, drinking in the sight of you. 

The next time he saw you he’d be calling you High Lady of Autumn. You’d be bound to this place and its magic, and he would never see you like this again. Gone were the days when you’d collapse on his office couch, chatting his ear off to help him forget the terrible things he’d done, or the days where you’d perch by the window in silence just to remind him he wasn’t alone. Gone were the nights where he’d gather you in his arms and shoot off into the sky to count the stars and find peace. He wanted those days back. He would have done anything to get those days back.

“No. I won’t.” Azriel said quietly and then said nothing more.

You took the cue and led him through the woods, tracing a path between the trees no one from outside the Autumn Court would be able to recognize. 

Samson bowed when you reached him, signaling his warriors to fall back. You would have your privacy.

When Azriel stepped over the threshold back into the Winter Court, you felt the magic in the air change, sealing the Shadowsinger out of your home. He pressed his hand against it, momentary panic freezing his lungs as he saw that you remained on the other side. 

You breathed in deeply, steeling yourself for the words you were about to speak.

“Azriel, I will say this once, and only once. If you so much as lay a finger on Eris or my home, I will never forgive you. I won’t hesitate to protect what’s mine.” 

“I know.” He said. The small smile he gave was full of heartache. He wished he’d done so many things differently, then maybe he would have been so lucky to hear you threaten someone to protect him. It was a terrible fate to be on this side of things.

“If… if anything happens - anything at all - know that I will always be here to help you. Promise me that you know.” “I know.” You said sadly. “I hope you find someone, Az. I really do. But that person will not be me.” 

He nodded. 

You didn’t look away, not as he held up both hands and pressed his forehead against the barrier. It was his own silent way of saying goodbye. Then, just as he had appeared, his shadows swallowed him whole, carrying him away to the Night Court where you hoped he would find a life that would make him forget all about this pain.

“Goodbye, Az.” You whispered.

But he was already gone.

<- Previous Chapter Next Chapter ->

______________

Author's Note:

Might write some Azriel x Reader oneshots to make myself feel better after wrecking my own heart.

Sorry for this chapter, everyone. But Happy Thanksgiving to those who celebrate. Lol.

Love,

Florence B.

Taglist: @nightless @mmb-09 @thesnugglingduck @cleverzonkwombatsludge @kemillyfreitas @logankemaek @the-sweet-psycho @a-frog-with-a-laptop @flameandshadowx @applerubyy @esposadomd @imma-too-many-fandoms @bubybubsters @kalulakunundrum @chasing-autumns-chill @brujitafantomatico @emptyporsche @cat-or-kitten @sourapplex @saltedcoffeescotch @djdjdhdheh

[superprincesspea]

Courted by the Dragon

Chapter 13 - Issa Jorrāelagon

Aemond Targaryen is both the cause and witness to the greatest humiliation of your life. You would rather die than see him again. Yet summer at court and the precipice of civil war have other ideas.

Masterlist

You’re not sure Aemond will be in the library so early in the day but there's a familiar face waiting by the door. 

“Lady Baratheon,” Aemond’s guard says and, though part of you is relieved, you almost turn back. 

Last night, when you’d received the invite to meet him here, you hadn’t intended to take him up on the offer. But that had been easy to say when your anger had been fresh, and your clothes were not drenched with rainwater.  

“You never told me your name, Ser,” you say, teeth chattering as the cold of the storm seeps into your bones. 

The guard looks you up and down, no doubt thinking you look more like a stray dragged in from the street than a high-born lady of house Baratheon, but he answers you just the same.  

“Ser Willis Fell, if it pleases you, My Lady,” he says, opening the door to permit your entry despite the state of your appearance.

“Thank you, Ser Willis,” you smile, and before the door shuts behind you, you’re struck by the sheer majesty of the room, and gasp, your head tilting to take it all in.  

The vaulted ceiling is so high, it's impossible to imagine how anyone could have painted the giant dragons which command its dome, and they are so striking. One black, one bronze, one silver.  

From their colouring alone you know they must be the dragons of Aegon the Conqueror and his sister wives. Which means one of them is Vhagar, the bronze one, ridden by Visenya and so fierce it was hard to imagine a small boy could ever dare to tame her. Then again, that boy had been Aemond, and he was nothing if not extraordinarily arrogant.  

You laugh softly at the thought, your gaze slipping down the dark oak walls to where the panels merge with the bookcases. There are so many, all so tall they need a ladder to reach their highest shelves, and stretching so far back you can’t even count the rows. 

It's hard to believe there could be so many books. But there must be thousands, and you can smell the comforting scent of musk and leather which seeps from all the bindings while the warmth of a fire crackles somewhere out of sight. 

Inching into the candlelight offered by the brass sconces which flank the first row, you hear distant footsteps quickening on the stone floor.

"I was wondering when you might arrive,” Aemond says, appearing five rows down, with a book in each hand. 

Sighing, you scrape your fingers across your forehead to push the wet tendrils of hair from your eyes. “Even your company cannot dissuade me from books."

“Then I shall carry them with me always,” he says solemnly, his hand reaching to push back a piece of hair which you have missed, and you’d be annoyed by the intrusion, if his fingers were not so deliriously warm compared to your skin.  

“I trust my lady did not take a dip in any bodies of water before she arrived?” he says, eyeing you with both intrigue and delight.  

Now you do push his hand away, “it's raining.” Though you cannot hear the downpour from within these sturdy walls, “ and... if you must know, I was trying to escape from Tyland Lannister.” 

“Hmm , ” his eyebrow raises with amusement instead of surprise, confirming a suspicion which had begun to fester in your mind as you walked in the rain.  

The letter to Maris and your conversation with Tyland Lannister could be no coincidence. They were both related to things you had complained of last night. But did Aemond really think he could rectify all his mistakes in a single morning? 

"You said something to him,” you say, wanting to be certain. 

A smile plays at his lips, “you are not pleased by his renewed interest?” 

“I was never pleased by his interest to begin with,” you scoff, annoyed that Aemond could hold so much sway over another man, “now I also think him weak and a little pathetic, which I'm sure you will find amusing.” 

He doesn’t hide his delight, “ good , now you see him as I do... but does that make me even more repugnant to my lady?” 

“No ,” you pause, narrowing your eyes, “the smug look on your face does that all by itself.” 

Aemond bites back his smile, and you begin to wring out your hair though the water has nowhere to go but the skirts of your dress.  

Still, it's better than nothing and Aemond watches you with some strange fascination, his books clutched in front of him with the long fingers on a single hand enough to support both volumes.  

“Did your sister get my letter?” he says after a time.  

“Yes ,” you glare at him, still annoyed, “and she thinks I’ve been hatching some ridiculous plot to win your favour!” 

His smug look returns, his eye so animated as he teases, “have you?”  

“Be sensible!” you say tartly, pushing past him towards the fire. 

“There was no mention of your name in my letter,” he calls from behind, as though it occurs to him that you might think he’s placed all the blame for his actions squarely on your shoulders. 

“I know,” you admit, standing close enough to the flames to feel the heat seeping into the fabric of your dress. “She was upset that we played Cyvasse,” you tilt your head to meet his eye, “though if she knew what a loathsome player you were, she would not be quite so jealous.” 

He moves closer, the gold buttons on his doublet glinting in the firelight. 

“I'd say Cyvasse should be the least of her worries... and I promise my lady will find me far less loathsome in our next game.” 

"Then I am lucky we are here to read,” you retort, deciding you will never play another game with him so long as you live, “though I wish I had not walked so long in the rain first.” 

“You could take off your clothes and let them dry by the fire?” he suggests, his eye gleaming wickedly. 

You glare at him yet again, but you don't find nearly as much embarrassment in his words as you would have done a few weeks ago. “And if your mother joins us, as she is so apt to do whenever we are in conversation? What will she think then?” you counter, brow raised. 

Aemond snorts out an unexpected laugh, bracing his ribs, “that I am finally submitting to giving her a grandchild?” 

You laugh too, but your laughter is made up entirely of nerves, “in that case, I shall be certain I allow my clothes to dry on.”  

He tuts, disapproving of your choice and you turn away, your cheeks flushed.  

“You seem to be feeling much better today,” you say as though it is an accusation, before you move towards the bookcase which is stacked with the thickest books you’ve ever seen.  

"It’s merely a bruise,” he replies but you know he's downplaying the truth, not that you say anything more. You're not a Maester or his mother, so he can do as he pleases as far as you’re concerned. 

Pulling one of the volumes from the middle of the shelf, the dust threatens a sneeze as you inspect its sturdy black cover without any understanding of the words printed on the front. 

“It’s High Valyrian,” Aemond says, standing beside you. “Do you read it?”  

You huff softly, “in Storms End we are lucky we learn to read at all, anything more would be considered a complete waste of time, especially for a girl.”  

“Udrizi Valyrio ȳdrā?” he says, the strange words rolling like silk from his tongue.  

Your eyes snap to meet his, surprised. Though you knew he must speak High Valyrian, you’d never really imagined what it would sound like or how it would elicit a tickle of warmth right into the centre of your chest. 

“What did you say?” you ask, curiosity peaking beyond any dislike you want to harbour for the one-eyed dragon.   

A slow smile inches into his cheeks, as though he relishes every drop of your undivided attention. “I asked if you spoke Valyrian and I’m surmising your answer should be ‘daor’ .”  

“Daor ,” you repeat, liking the way it feels on the tongue even if it doesn't spark the same sensation in your chest as when Aemond says it. “And how do I say ‘yes’?”  

“Kessa.”  

“Kessa ,” you slide the book back onto the shelf, repeating the words again, committing them to memory. “Kessa, Doar.” Yes, No.    

“I can teach you more if you like, issa jorrāelagon? ” he suggests, gesturing to the chaise by the fire. 

“Issa jorr... a-”  

“Jorrāelagon.” 

“What does that mean?” 

He considers you for a moment, his finger tapping on his book, “it means... my lady .” 

“Issa jorrāelagon,” you say, and his expression, though it had never been hard, still softens like ice in the sun. Leaving you to wonder how much more difficult he would be to hate, if he had two eyes looking at you with such devotion.  

You turn away, heart pounding as you force your attention back to the shelf, but all the books are the same. Thick, black, unreadable.  

“As much as I would enjoy learning a new language, what use have I with High Valyrian when you are the only one I know who speaks it?”  

“You know Helaena.” 

“Barely ,” you reach for a book on a different shelf, brushing your finger across the ribbed edge of its dark green spine, “but I’ve wanted to explore this library since I arrived in Kings Landing, and I may never get another chance.”  

Aemond leans in, and you don’t just smell the scent of the books, you smell the soap on his skin. Cedar and sage, so clean and masculine, as the heat of his words caress your ear with an unexpected whisper. 

“Skori ao issi issa ābrazȳrys , ao shall māzigon se jikagon hae ao kostilus, issa jorrāelagon .”  

You have no idea what he’s saying but you cannot ignore the tone, sensuous, commanding. As though he’s making you a promise, yet you dare not know it, and couldn’t ask even if you wanted to.  

Words seem to have fled your brain. Your breath hitching in your throat while your fingers grip tightly onto the shelf as though it is the only thing keeping you upright. But Aemond doesn’t seem to notice any of those things, and how could he? 

He does not feel that same spark of warmth which begins in your chest before flickering outwards, its progress licking through your veins until it lands in the pit of your stomach and a thousand butterflies spark into life. 

Instead, he turns back towards the fire as though nothing is amiss, when everything feels wrong .  

You're still holding your breath and the swirl of butterflies are beginning to make you feel as though you might burst at the seams. But the worst part is, though you have never found anyone more infuriating in your entire life, you seem to have forgotten all Aemond’s previous misdeeds and almost trail after him. 

In fact, the only thing stopping you, is how tightly you’re holding onto the shelf, as you watch him settle into the chaise with the company of his books, his eye sliding to meet yours as though he’s wondering why you’re still standing there.  

It’s a good question. Why aren't you moving?  

Cheeks flushing again, you kick your legs into action as you disappear into the safety of the giant stacks.  

What was wrong with you?  You wonder, squeezing your eyes shut and taking a deep breath, but you don’t really want to know the answer to that .  

So, you push the question away, thankful the library is large enough for you to avoid Aemond for the rest of the morning.  

Yet that doesn’t stop you feeling his presence in the room as you walk along the rows, trying to ignore him, and focusing all your attention on devouring as many first pages as possible.  

Some good, some terrible, some intriguing, but nothing singing to your soul in the way Queen Nymeria had from the first instance. You’re desperate to find a book you can love as much as that, but the choice is overwhelming, and it would take years to work through even the tiniest corner of the library. 

Still, you’re determined and you're not sure how much time passes, but it must be quite a while, before Aemond finds you sitting on the stone floor between the rows, with books by your side, books resting on your knee, and one in your hand. 

“Are you lost, or do you always do your reading on the floor?” he says, leaning against the shelves with his arms crossed and a small huff of laughter rolling from his chest. 

“I simply cannot decide what to read first, there’s too much choice,” you reply with some urgency, as though it might be the worst problem in the entire world, and he laughs again before stalking towards you and offering his hand.  

Sliding the book from your knee, you know you really shouldn’t accept his help, you can stand on your own. Yet you take it anyway, surprised by his strength as he pulls you to your feet. Then surprised again when he does not let go. 

He holds you securely, pulling you through the stacks and picking up books here and there, which you carry in the crook of your arm before he deposits you on his chaise, though there are plenty of other seats dotted around the fire. Seats which would not have his knee pressed with yours. 

“Read this first,” he says, and you look at the cover, realising it's the second volume to the book of songs you’d enjoyed so much. 

Already you know this is an excellent choice, and you’re annoyed to think you should have asked him to pick for you all along.  

“Have you a favourite in this one?” you say, flicking lightly through the pages and regretting your question the moment you said it. 

Aemond smiles when he steals the book back from your hands and returns it opened a third of the way through. 

“A Song of Storms,” you read out loud, meeting the teasing look in his eye before your gaze returns to the page.  

Then you recite the rest, and Aemond is a captive audience as much as the song is very beautiful. Too beautiful, and far too melancholy to be chosen by a dragon prince. 

In fact, his love of songs almost lulls you into thinking he might not be entirely repugnant after all. Yet he is. He must be.  

“What is the word for storm?” you say, deciding you would have been far safer with a book on history or science. Safer still if you were sitting on your own chair. 

“Jelmāzma.” 

“Jelmāzma,” you repeat atrociously enough to make him laugh, but you laugh too and then your stomach growls so loudly you both laugh again. 

Him out of amusement, you out of embarrassment.  

“If you must know, I was forced to abandon my breakfast this morning after your scroll arrived for Maris,” you say, ensuring he’s aware of the part he’s played in yet another humiliation. 

“How repugnant of me,” Aemond says with the twitch of another smile as he stands, his hand bracing against his rib. 

He moves to a cord by the fire, pulling it three times before a servant arrives at a door hidden in the panelling.  

You cannot hear the whispered list of instructions and pretend not to be watching his every movement. But you are watching.  

The way he saunters, so cocky. The way he looks back at you, half teasing smile, half breathtaking intensity. The way his leg stretches out as he sits down, so it just touches yours. 

Fresh nerves flutter in your stomach where the butterflies had lived, and you swallow, staring down at your book but finding you can only pretend to read.  

Luckily, it does not take very long before the food arrives and there’s tea, wine and delicate little pastries, but it's the fruit which catches your eye. So colourful and perfectly prepared into bitesize pieces.  

There was hardly any fruit at Storms End. Only apples at harvest time and blackberries in the summer.  

Your stomach threatens to growl again as you pick up a strawberry, careful not to let the juice drip onto the pages of the book before popping it in your mouth.  

Aemond reaches for a piece of fruit you've never seen before, telling you its name in High Valyrian before he throws it up and catches it in his mouth.  

Such an unbelievable show off, yet you can’t help but smile, because the only person he’s trying to impress is you, and though it makes you nervous, its intoxicating too.  

You both reach for more fruit and he tells you the High Valyrian for all the items on the tray. Cup, plate, wine and, though you know you’ll never remember them, you let him teach you anyway, melting a little with every word, until you’ve had your fill, and return your attention to the book. 

You recite another song, this one about a lark, then you find yourself asking him about the book he’s reading, then about his trips to Dorne, if he as ever seen The Wall, if he has ever sailed on one of the ships bobbing in the bay, and just about a thousand other things. 

Talk comes easy and Aemond is a natural storyteller. His stories all seem to contain so much excitement and vibrancy, and you consume them as though they are more delectable than the fruit on the tray. Barely noticing your clothes have long since dried, or the three times the maid arrives to add more logs to the fire. 

You certainly don’t have as many exciting stories as Aemond, since your entire life has been contained to Storms End. But the subject doesn’t seem to matter as much as the sharing. 

You’re telling him about the time when you were eleven, and had fallen from a tree, fracturing your arm. You still have a scar, its faded path hidden beneath the sleeve of your gown. But Aemond has your arm in his hand as though he can see it, and you’re laughing as you admit how pleased you were that the injury meant you didn’t have to practice embroidery for several months.  

He laughs too, and you imagine he’s thinking of those wonky cornflowers when Ser Willis walks in, his entrance masked by the laughter which has been echoing around the giant room all afternoon.  

"I’m sorry to disturb you, Prince Aemond,” he bows, “but there is a Ser Maurin Selmy at the door, looking for your lady.” 

Only now, under Ser Willis’ gaze, do you realise that, on this chaise made for two, you’ve crept close enough to Aemond to allow room for a third, a little fortress of books surrounding you, the fire ready for another log. 

You jump up, snatching your arm from his grasp, and feeling a little flustered at the way Ser Willis’ head is bowed, as though the scene is far too intimate for prying eyes.  

“Excuse me,” you say, hurrying towards the door with Aemond’s long legs catching your escape but not blocking it.  

Outside of the library, Ser Maurin gives you a shake of his head, his eyes filled with the concern of a man who’s known you all his life. Not a father, but close enough. 

"We’ve had all the men scouring the keep for you, my Lady,” he says, and you glance to a nearby window to see that the afternoon sun has faded towards dusk. 

When had that happened?  

How had you spent all day with Aemond?  

Past lunch, past tea, and well past the realms of propriety. 

You swallow hard, heart drumming in your chest in anticipation of your father's fury, while Ser Maurin looks to the prince. 

His old eyes are fierce with warning, but he doesn’t offer a word to his grace before turning on his heel, his arm held out to escort you home. 

“Your books,” Aemond says, handing you the three he had selected as though he had not a concern in the world for anyone's disapproval. 

“Thank you,” you say stiffly, careful not to meet his eye. 

“You will return tomorrow?” he asks, hopeful .  

Tightening your arms around the books, you hold them to your chest as though they are a shield, “these books shall keep me busy until I leave in three days time, and I shall return them then, your grace.” 

At that, you turn, taking Ser Maurin’s arm, your mind racing with a hundred different thoughts before it lands on one . 

“Please don’t tell them you found me with the prince.” 

“May I ask why?” his old stare fixes on the side of your face, and your cheeks begin to heat before you pause, remembering how upset Maris had been this morning. 

“They will get the wrong idea.”  

He gives you a pointed look, “and what is the right idea?” 

You turn to him, eyes wide, words like dust on your tongue. Honestly, you didn’t know. You could hardly even comprehend how you’d spent the entire day in Aemond’s company without feeling the need to kill him or run away. 

“Just tell them I was alone, ” you decide. 

Alone was easy to explain and even easier to believe than the alternative. But you knew the truth. That you’d spent an entire day with a dragon and enjoyed every moment.

~~~

Thank you for reading! Let me know if you're enjoying this story :)

[exilethegame]

Do you have a list of the ROs and like a description of them :( can't find it

I have one floating about somewhere, but here's an up-to-date one! :)

Vethna Mevnrael (they/them) Appearance: 5’9, skin the color of bronze with long wavy hair that’s only a few shades darker than their skin. Their eyes are a greyed-out blue-green and glow in the darkness due to magic. They wear a deep v-neck black gown with golden embroidery, an outrageous amount of rings and jewelry, and their signature wine-red lipstick. Background: Vethna hails from Vygrand-- otherwise known as the sworn rival land of your home country. Where you have been raised to resent most, if not all magic, they have been raised to thrive on it. You don't know much about them-- just that they're on the run from someone, something, powerful, and you're the only one who can protect them. That, and they have a whole lot of gold... almost as much as they have secrets.

Nikke Ivante (he/him) Appearance: 6’0, pale green skin and covered in iridescent scales. Purple bags sit under his pale green eyes, which, like all mythosi, glow in the darkness. Wears smudged black kohl across his eyes. His hair is long, half shaved, and braided, mostly black with streaks of white. His tongue is forked and his sharp fangs often protrude from out past his lips. His arms are covered in tattoos of snakes winding downwards, and on his neck sit geometric tattoos. Background: Nikke has been sent to kill you or kidnap you-- you're not entirely sure which it is, and you don't intend to find out. He's crude and sarcastic and overall a brute. He doesn't seem to take his own life seriously, nonetheless yours, and you have no doubt he's going to capture you or die trying. Hell-- maybe he'll just kill you both while he's at it... you know, for fun.

Jost Ivante (she/her) (Not romanceable in demo yet) Appearance: 6’0 with pale green skin and iridescent scales. Her features are sharp and she has multiple piercings, the most notable being her bridge piercing and snake-bites. She has tattoos down her arms and on her neck in geometric patterns. Her hair is waist-length and slicked back and filled with braids and tokens, and just like her brother, is streaked with white. While she wears dark paint over her eyes, it’s done in a manner much neater than Nikke’s. Background: Jost is Nikke's identical twin sister-- and, if possible, she's twice as mean and just as rude. She's more ruthless than her brother, but she doesn't quite have the fighting power to back up her venom-laced threats and taunts. Nonetheless, she fights dirty, and if you want to beat her, you're going to have to be smart.

Amilia Von Clamile (she/her) Appearance: 5’3 with snow white skin and blood red hair that’s poorly cut and uneven, coming to her chin on one shoulder and sitting well past her collarbone on the other. Her eyes are green and her face is covered in freckles. A deep scar juts into her lip on the right side of her face and runs down her jaw and neck. Background: Amilia's a fae-- the very kind of mythosi you've been raised to fear and have spent most of your life killing. She's all smiles and nerves, but you see something else in her eyes, sometimes. Something cold. Something calculative. Everyone seems keen to turn a blind eye to her, but you know a liar when you see one... don't you?

Syfyn Javall (she/her) Appearance: 5’11 with warm toned skin that’s often burnt red, leaving splotchy tans along her body. Her eyes are a steely grey, hair blonde and cut to barely brush against her shoulders. She tries to often wear it up despite this, resulting in most of the hair falling out messily. She's covered in scars with feathers in her hair, and her pupils are slits. Her teeth are all mostly sharp. Background: Syfyn Javall, The Brazen Griffin, Second-in-Command to the Plaithian Army. She used to work beneath you once-- used to fight beside you and honor you both as a comrade and friend. You grew up together within the military. When you had nobody, you had each other. But then you betrayed her-- or maybe she betrayed you. You don't know who started what, but you do know that the blood is on both of your hands now.

Sabir Du Vaelas (he/him) Appearance: 6’1 with dark, cool toned skin, black eyes, and long black hair kept in locs. He wears expensive robes that are a deep teal and is covered head to toe in expensive silver jewelry, most of which is covered in snake symbolism. Sabir's ears are pierced in several areas, and he tends to wear silver eyeliner and highlight. Background: Sabir, otherwise known as The Silven Viper, Eye of Plaithus, used to be your charge. He's a politician-- one of the better ones, if such a thing exists. Your past together was volatile-- perhaps you were lovers, or friends, or enemies. Either way, he saved your life when you otherwise would've been put to death by the state, and you owe him thanks for that much.

Freedom (gender selectable) Appearance: 6′0 with pallid, paper-white skin and bronze eyes that appear to almost be filled with a shimmering liquid. Their hair is waist-length and black with an iridescent sheen to it, long black claws bordering on talons on their hands. They wear long, tight fitting black robes. Background: You hear its voice sometimes, when it's quiet and you're alone. You try to tune it out. You try to ignore it. It forces you to remember things. To feel things. It's within you, wiggling and writhing, waiting for the right moment to attack. At times it feels predatory. At others, its presence is comforting-- protective and doting. It'll become whatever you want it to be. It'll become whatever you need it to be.

[whereisdoriangray]

visenya targaryen (i.)

I. THE SECOND PRINCESS

second daughter of viserys i and aemma targaryen, seven years younger than rhaenyra

after the death of her mother king viserys sent her to live at dragonstone, persuaded that the red keep was not the best place for the young princess

however, this didn't spare visenya from the theatrics of its court

she and rhaenyra had a good relationship and frequently exchanged ravens

rhaenyra was the only family young visenya held love for.

II. DRAGONSTONE

visenya spent her entire childhood and teenage years at dragonstone, leaving her home only rarely

the first time she left dragonstone was for king's landing - her older sister was to be named heir to the iron throne

whilst rhaenyra, the realm's delight, embraced the duties of the king's heir, visenya thrived at dragonstone

she mastered high valyrian and the history of her house through ancient valyrian texts

she also learnt, albeit in secret, the art of swordsmanship and alchemy

young visenya liked to explore the secrets of dragonstone, often stumbling upon its hidden passages

soon, she knew not only the castle, but also the island like the back of her hand

at nine years old, visenya claimed vermithor, the bronze fury

it has been said that on that day, the dragonpit basked in fire and when the princess emerged on the back of the bronze fury, she was covered in nothing but ash

this led many people to believe she was immune to dragonfire

the news travelled fast and soon reached king's landing where it was met with both shock and confusion

that was the first but far from the last time that visenya's name echoed through the halls of the red keep since her birth

when her eleventh nameday came about, so did the first offers of marriage

visenya was said to have greeted the suitors graciously and amicably, as was expected of a princess

after politely and patiently talking to every one of the lords, she led her guests to the dragonpit

"my lords, you have all had a chance to speak. now, allow me to let someone else speak..."

"naejot māzīs, vermithos," her voice, calm and unfaltering, echoed through the dragonpit terrifyingly, but visenya didn't move an inch, still facing her suitors

soon, a dragon emerged, roaring and displeased at seeing their guests, making all men flee at once

visenya laughed softly, persuaded that she would not have to deal with such things for quite some time and she was right

the talk of the bronze fury's protectiveness spread like a wildfire and quickly ruined any prospects of marriage for visenya

what no sources mention, however, is that one of the lords, in fact, didn't flee - it was perhaps due to the young lord's thick skin, or the fact that that only a year prior, he had to endure worse

he was cregan stark, a fourteen-year-old lord of winterfell

in contrast, visenya's sister, rhaenyra, was wed to laenor velaryon only a year after her sister's departure - this wedding visenya infamously didn't attend

instead, the young princess and heir received a raven in the middle of the feast

the letter contained no words, and yet it sent a message

on the piece of parchment was painted a targaryen sigil.

III. SHE, THE PROTECTOR

when jacaerys was born, twelve-year-old visenya was said to have mounted her dragon vermithor and flown over the king's landing immediately upon hearing the news

though she didn't set foot in the red keep, smallfolk and royalty alike recognized her mount as it roared and spat fire, painting the sky in red and orange hues

many marvelled at the display of targaryen power, but all got the message - rhaenyra had her future heir now and there was no one that could measure up to her claim - not even alicent's firstborn son, a one-year-old prince aegon

in one of the letters to her sister, rhaenyra mentioned that her former guardian, ser criston cole, had become alicent's sworn shield

visenya's reply came quick, plain and cold;

"those who turn against you will burn."

after lucerys' birth, rhaenyra received a pin made of valyrian steel, in the shape of a three-headed dragon along with a note;

"for prince lucerys of house targaryen, to wear proudly, sends his aunt visenya."

it was a clear hint at the recently raised question of parentage of rhaenyra's sons and her stance towards it - like visenya wrote in one of her many letters to her sister;

"looks be damned! they are your sons and heirs. they are targaryens."

despite her remaining at dragonstone, the young princess secured many friends far beyond her home island - so much so, in fact, that by the birth of her third nephew, she would have her own spy network which included also of king's landing and dragonstone

when she heard of what alicent had done to her sister, visenya's reaction was one of fury

"the insolence!" her blood boiled as she threw away the note, "this is an insult to the heir of the iron throne!" the messenger, a boy around her age, flinched, but she paid no mind to it

storming out of the room, straight to the dragonpit, she called her dragon

visenya cared little about having no saddle on vermithor nor not being in her dragonrider attire — the only thing on her mind was the bitch of a queen who humiliated her sister

as they soared towards king’s landing, the princess was sure in but one thing,

she would not let this insult go unanswered

“sōvēs!”

her arrival at king's landing was nothing short of spectacular

vermithor’s roar announced her presence long before she even landed, causing panic and awe among everyone in the courtyard

as she dismounted her dragon, people greeted her with deference, bowing low

visenya wasted no time, marching straight into the red keep, determined to find her sister

she knew that she stank of dragon, her red and black gown torn apart and a mess of what used to be an intricate web of braids, but she noticed her threatening aura and furious stride overshadowed it all

her every step echoed in the castle’s silent corridors as she made her way to rhaenyra’s chambers, opening the door with such force that she startled everyone inside

at her stared three people: rhaenyra, her husband laenor and ser harwin strong

“visenya,” whispered the older princess with disbelief, as her sister, still standing by the door, tried to catch her breath

“leave us.” no pleasantries, no greetings. visenya offered nothing, just these two words.

the two men swiftly left the room and once they were gone, visenya quickly embraced her sister

on that day, she suggested that rhaenyra and her family leave king's landing behind and move to dragonstone

when joffrey was born, visenya swore an oath to always protect him and his brothers as long as she lived.

[pwlanier]

Franz Xaver Bergmann (Austrian, 1861–1936): A metamorphic erotic cold painted bronze model of an owl enclosing a nude girl

the hinged owl with glass eyes case opening to the figure, raised on twin volume base, with wax seal and ribbon press action release button, the spine of one book with Bamphora mark,

Bonhams

[magics-neptunes-things]

Christmas Market

Hi guys :)

We continue our Christmas series, and here is Ingrid Engen!

I think I will write for Lucy Bronze and Laia Aleixandri for the next ones, but if you want someone else please let me know!

Enjoy :)

TW : None

Christmas has always been a time you love, ever since you were little. Your parents always made sure to make things big, forcing your uncle to dress up as Santa Claus when you were little. Your house was always decorated from the end of November and there is not a tradition that was forgotten. You perfectly remember leaving cookies for Santa, carrots for his reindeer. You loved spending time decorating your house and make gingerbread house with your grandma and siblings and you could spend whole afternoons making chocolates and cookies.

This probably explains why your Barcelona apartment is currently decorated with special attention. You have an impressive collection of Christmas sweaters and much of your cellar is filled with boxes for Christmas decoration.

Luckily, your girlfriend doesn’t seem to be bothered by any of this. She even offered to help you hang string lights on your windows, generously put her extra centimeter to use. And when you timidly mentioned the idea of wearing matching Christmas sweaters, she kindly assured you that she thought it was adorable.

Adorable is the word you would use to describe Ingrid at this very moment. Her Norwegian origins don’t seem to make her fear the cold and her casual air differs from the tense other faces because of the cold around you.

Over time, you know the locations of Barcelona’s various Christmas markets by heart, but you go there every year to each of them. Several times. You go there sometimes alone, sometimes with your friends, but today it's to Ingrid that you proposed to accompany you. She agreed, of course.

You don’t know if it’s because of your hats and big jackets, but people don’t seem to recognize you today. What suits you very well, you can enjoy peacefully with your girlfriend. Playing both for the FC Barcelona team, it is sometimes difficult to gather in the crowd but not tonight.

You can move slowly from one stand to another, taking your time to study all the different items that are offered to you. You were delighted to find handmade jewelry that you can offer to different members of your family as Christmas gifts. Ingrid, for her part, has found a new painting to decorate her apartment.

Since it’s Christmas, you allow yourself a brezel and a hot chocolate, making a deviation from the diet that you usually follow to the letter. To be able to enjoy all this quietly, you find yourself a table a little behind the crowd. Unlike your girlfriend, you had to put on gloves to fight the cold, but you’re happy to see that it doesn’t bother you tonight.

Lost in the contemplation of the Christmas' automatons that are next to you, Ingrid is forced to put her hand on yours to attract your attention. You give her an apology smile and come closer to her to put your head on her shoulder, making her smile. You are both accomplices, of course. Sometimes you just need to exchange a single look to understand each other, intriguing your teammates. But that doesn’t stop you from spending long hours discussing everything and nothing, from deep confidences to more superficial conversations.

"I have something to ask you" Ingrid said slowly after a few seconds.

You realize at this moment that she mechanically plays with the empty cup of her hot chocolate, giving you the impression that she is concerned.

"What is it?" you ask with curiosity, sitting straight.

But Ingrid finds herself again playing with her glass, frowning. Smiling, you give her a light shoulder stroke before putting a kiss on her cheek.

"Why do you seem so nervous? It’s just me Baby"

"I know" she just says before she sighs "I was thinking, if you don’t mind, after Christmas and the holidays, once the practice starts again, could you, like, come live with me? Or maybe I can come to live with you? Well, that we live together. What do you think?"

Over the words, Ingrid’s tone got faster but also lower, forcing you to lean in her direction to be sure to hear things correctly.

"I want us to live together?"

"Yes? No? I don’t know, maybe it’s stupid. Forget what I just…"

A smile on your lips, you put a finger on your girlfriend’s. She immediately shut up, looking at you with slightly wide eyes.

"You need to stop now. And breath."

Ingrid obeys and you look at her a few seconds before answering her, not wishing to torture her more than necessary.

"I’d love to live with you, Ingrid" you say, taking your finger off.

"Really?"

"Really"

The smile you love so much appears on your girlfriend’s face and you see her hesitate a few seconds. Ingrid is affectionate with you in public, but aside from the couple photos you sometimes post on social media, it’s rare for the general public to see you kiss.

So you wait to see what will be his decision and you smile tenderly when you feel her lips settle tenderly on yours.

"Jeg elsker deg." (I love you)

You smile again and take advantage of your proximity to fondle her cheek tenderly.

"I love you"

Ingrid then kisses your cheek and you let yourself go against her when she runs her arm around your waist. Your head on her shoulder, you look at the street a few seconds before rising suddenly, worrying Ingrid.

"Wait… I will be allowed to decorate the apartment at Christmas right?"

[the1920sinpictures]

1925 c. Spanish Dancer by Josef Lorenzel of cold-painted bronze and ivory figure on an onyx base. From Art Deco, Art Nouveau & 20th Century Decoratif Arts Group, FB.

[bunnibitez]

Messy Hands - Part One

Pairing: Mafia!Miguel x Shy!Reader AFAB

Word count: +4.3k

Summary: Miguel is having a rough time keeping himself in check. He’s getting angrier and just wants his dues. Besides, mob protection is so hard to come by these days. Unfortunately though, you might be under his “protection” now.

CW: 18+ so MDNI, NSFW. Mentions of blood, gore, violence, guns, criminal undertones, death, choking, murder, language, slow burn, eventual smut, no use of y/n

AN: So this is my first fic EVER. Idk what I’m doing so forgive me. I speak some Spanish but not that well so sorry in advance.

There’s a scent that hangs in the air of the warehouse. The hefty and pungent stench of iron and salt wafting through, sticking to the walls. Blood splatters as it’s coughed up onto the floor. Strangled chokes and gasps of desperation bounce off concrete as a bound man fights against the ichor that fills his now punctured lung. Heaves and wheezes fill the space, nearly drowning out the sweet melody that plays. Cello Suite No. 1 in G Major. Precise movements over the strings of a recorded cello, attempting to mask the groans and whines of a weakened subordinate. The Boss had always mentioned that classical music soothed him, allowed him to work better. Something about it just calmed the fire raging in his chest. The prisoner hangs his head low as blood pools in his mouth, mixing with saliva and dripping out in fat blobs onto his chest. He’s grateful for the moment to even hang his head, or at least he should be.

Hours have passed since he was dragged here, sack over his head and hands tied behind his back. That was so long ago, he thinks. Now the bag has since been removed and he’s been fastened to a chair in the center of the cold cement warehouse full of shipping containers, the contents of which he is oblivious of. His consciousness is fading in and out as he tries to focus on the sound of his rattling chest and the crescendo of the tune. But his ears prick as the crack of knuckles catches his attention.

He didn’t dare lift his gaze, already knowing damn well of the monster looming before him. A laugh rumbled from it’s chest as heavy footsteps approached. He could’ve sworn he felt the earth shake as it approached, but the man did his best not to show the absolute terror he truly felt. Suddenly from behind, a hand trails through his short black hair, yanking his head back in order to look upon the beast in front of him. Dark brown eyes squint at the harsh lights and he groans. His face may have been handsome once but now it was unrecognizable, broken, bloodied, and bruised; split in places not even thought possible. Peter’s hand jerked his head from side to side, ensuring he was still alive. The scruffy fellow cracked a smile and laughed as he stood behind the poor sucker. Parker was merely there to assist with refocusing his gaze. With his eyes now tracing upwards, he could see the figure ahead of him. He simply whimpered softly.

Miguel was a sadist for sure. A toothy, fanged grin spread across his sharp features as he began to wipe the blood from his brass knuckles onto his wife-beater. He carefully slipped them into his pants pocket. It had gotten everywhere at this point, Miguel believing that there was more blood and bile on the floor than in the barely breathing body beneath him. Thankfully he had enough foresight to at least remove his suit jacket, tie, and button up before beginning the torture. He stood there now, splatters of gore painting the once pure white undershirt and part of his perfectly bronzed skin. A thin layer of sweat coated his forehead and massive arms. His crimson eyes glowed, dilated as he focused in on his pathetic prey. He found it funny really, amusing. He let out a deranged laugh as he ran a hand through his messy brown locks before he spoke.

“Ya know.. I can’t lie,” He said lowly as he stepped closer, “..Realmente estoy disfrutando esto.” He growled.

There was a madness in his smile. A hidden darkness in has eyes that showed just how badly he wanted this, how he needed it. It wasn’t often that he found a mole in his ranks, attempting to demolish the empire he had built with his own two hands. It wasn’t often that he was ‘forced’ to be merciless and violent. It was a shame, he thought. Trust was something so hard to come by in his line of work. When that fragile trust is broken, an example must be made. So, when a young buck gets bold enough to start selling Spider family secrets and stealing more than his cut, Miguel is simply doing what he has to in order to secure his power and place in Nueva York. He’s worked too hard and spilled too much blood to just let it all slip away.

Finally, he looked down at the heaving mess he had made, labored breaths getting fainter as they made eye contact. Miguel snaps his fingers and swiftly, Ben shuts off the music that filled the room. A deafening silence falls on the warehouse. Miguel’s monstrous form crouched, coming to level with what was once the face of a rat. His broad and calloused hand raised to squeeze the bloodied cheeks, roughly manhandling his head, turning it over and kneading it carelessly. He sighed deeply, hot breath fanning over his victim’s features before he looked up at Peter, lifting his brows for just a split second. It was a silent command, ‘Get the gun’.

Peter released the rat’s hair and stepped back to retrieve ‘LYLA’, a stainless steel Colt XSE with a custom black grip panel etched with the red silhouette of a spider. She was beautiful. Sleek and elegant but capable of obliterating a man’s skull in a matter of milliseconds. As Miguel waited, his eyes drifted back down. His grin had fully faded as the fun of the it all was beginning to die down. The rage that had been simmering in the back of his mind had begun to boil. He liked to believe that he was a reasonable man most of the time, calm and sometimes even forgiving. But now he had no patience. Right now he felt a sort of virus infecting him, shutting down all logic and leaving him with just unadulterated hatred. Venom spilled over into his words as he spoke in a low tone, growling out as he spoke slowly.

“I can’t fucking wait to see your brains painting the walls.” He hissed out. His tone was cold and flat. His face was deadpan now, ready to carry out his final act of justice. In a fleeting moment of bravery, the rat hummed lowly. Squinting his eyes, hollowing his cheeks, and jutting his head forward just so, the rat spit at Miguel. A plump glob of blood and drool landed on Miguel’s cheek as the rat gave a half toothed smirk.

“Fuck you.” It came out broken and slurred, but the rat was proud of himself.

Miguel’s eyes darkened as his thumb slowly swiped across his cheek, effectively removing the carmine mixture. His gaze was fixed on this thumb before it calmly returned to leer at the smug prisoner.

“..Y pensar, yo iba a mostrarte misericordia.” Miguel uttered quietly as he rose up from his position on the ground. He loomed over the man, whose smirk had dissipated by now. Large sepia hands shot out, tightly coiling around the rat’s neck. Miguel was slow, methodical about it. Digging his nails into flesh as he applied pressure to the trachea, crushing and throttling at once. Wheezing ensued and panic filled the man’s eyes as his throat was forced close. His eyes widened, nearly bulging out of his skull as raspy whispers and choked gasps were the only sounds he could make. Tears rolled down his cheeks as his eyes rolled back into his skull. Within moments, the rat’s body went limp in Miguel’s hands. Peter was just striding back into the room when Miguel threw the corpse to the ground, still bound to the little metal chair. The useless cadaver clattered loudly on the floor.

“You seriously couldn’t wait a minute?” Peter said with a snicker as he came up to his side, handing over LYLA.

“Shut the fuck up, Parker.” He spat out coldly, tucking the gun away as he turned his back on the body.

“Call the cleaning crew. I want this place scrubbed down.” Miguel growled out as he snatched his clothes from Ben’s hands. The scruffy lackey simply shrugged and shook his head, pulling out his phone to obey as he smirked to himself.

And with that, the trio headed towards the door, piling into a black Escalade. Miguel grumbled to himself as he laid his clothes down on the empty seat next him. Reaching into his jacket pocket, he retrieved a pack of cigarettes and a silver zippo. After lighting a cigarette between his teeth he took a long drag and hummed, savoring its flavor. He let out a deep sigh, smoke billowing past his parted lips as he leaned his head back and closed his eyes, appreciating the momentary silence. He felt a sense of calm wash over him, a low dulling hum in the back of his mind that seemed to get fainter as the car began to drive away from the warehouse. By the time they reached the highway, Miguel’s little hum was gone and his rage sat dormant, waiting in the back of his mind for now.

He felt his body ache now, finally taking in the toll of senselessly beating with his bare hands and a few other tools for hours. He let out a low groan, spreading out in the backseat. He was so so tired but knew there was still work that needed to be done. There always was.

——————————————————————————————————————————————————————

The morning sun came streaming in through your curtains, stirring you awake from your bed with a groan. Plush warm sheets coaxed you into spending five more minutes among them. Your eyes had just barely shut when your phone alarm rang. An exasperated sigh left your body as you heaved yourself from the mattress, tossing the blankets off. You stretched with a whine before standing up and you swear you thought you heard your back creak. Hastily getting dressed and slipping your apron on over your clothes. Checking the time, you slipped on your shoes and headed out the door of your cozy little apartment. Brooklyn was nice, pretty with plenty to see and do with its fair share of safe and friendly neighborhoods. Unfortunately for you, you didn’t live in one of those neighborhoods. You lived on the seedier side of town with less friendly faces and cheaper rent -the side where quarrels between your neighbors could be heard through the paper thin walls and a strange smell often wafted up from the kitchen pipes. It wasn’t much, hell it was barely considered habitable but it was home. Your own little place in the world where you felt somewhat safe, far away from your old life. A fresh start was just the thing you needed. The only current upside of your living arrangement was that it was only a 5 block walk from your job.

‘Bellaginos’ was a small, family owned Italian restaurant that sat on the corner of 48th street. The dining room was divided into 2 parts; the main dining room with booths and chairs has a casual feel to it, and the private dining room with a few more candles and nicer decoré. The private dining room was just separated by 2 French doors, inside was one large mahogany table and enough chairs to seat 12 people. It was typically just used for private events and large parties, at most though in recent years it hosted a birthday dinner. The menu was nothing revolutionary and the atmosphere didn’t exactly read high class, but it was nice enough. The dingy and peeling yellow wallpaper had it’s own sense of charm to it. Your boss claimed that back in the day, “It was one of the classiest joints in town.” Obviously true by the stained and sticky carpet and how well it complimented the out of place faux Roman vases in the corners of the room.

You kept to yourself mostly, not wanting to bother the owner or the cook too much with trouble. Being polite and kind was how you ended each day with a full belly anyway, curtesy of the chef. You’d only been here for about 2 months, working as a waitress. Most days you could sit unbothered in your favorite little booth.

The day was flying by quickly and you were halfway done with your shift, sitting at one of the little red vinyl booths in the corner of the almost empty restaurant. It was tucked away in a way where you could see most of the main dining room without having to move. Your hands were busying themselves with a paper and pen, doodling away, when the little bell above the door jittered to life. Two men walked in. The smaller, leaner man with a scraggly 5 o’clock shadow held the door open, its whiny hinges complaining at the movement. He moved aside and when he did, that’s when you saw him. Dark brown slicked back curls just barely ducked below the door frame in order to step inside the shabby little eatery.

Big.

That’s the first thing you noticed. He stepped into the cramped room and his presence within made it feel like it shrank by two sizes immediately. His friend stepped in behind him, letting the door close with a slam. The second thing you noticed, were his eyes. Piercing and criminally beautiful scarlet irises that tracked around the room lazily. A bored expression played on his sharp features, as though he’s been here many times before. He runs a calloused hand through brushed back locks, a few strands disobeying him and laying messily, before breathing out an annoyed sigh. He seemed tired. No, exhausted more like it. The bags under his eyes aging him a bit, but if anything it only added to his charm. You’re about to get up from your little hiding spot to greet the pair when the owner, Mr. Caparelli, bursts out from the kitchen. For the first time since you’ve seen him, the plump and hairy little Italian man looks damn near jolly.

“Caio Miguelito!” He says through a thick Italian intonation, his joy sounding a little forced compared his usual grumbles and gripes. Mr. Caparelli was what some might call a ‘proud man’. He didn’t take criticisms well. He firmly believed that the moment you set foot within his restaurant, you owed him respect. Yet for reasons that evaded you, the giant needed not waste time with false niceties and earning his kindness. Your employer approached the tan mountain of a man with wide arms, his white mustache stretching out as he forged a smile. The behemoth pulls one hand out of his pocket and wraps an arm around the stout little man, patting his back heartily. The rings on his fingers glint as they catch the afternoon sun.

“Caio, viejo.” His voice rumbles out and you feel a heat creep across your cheeks. It’s deep and low and rattles in his chest, commanding attention. He masks his dull expression instantly with a warm smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. It’s fake, well practiced.

“How’ve you been, Miguel? Feels like the last time I saw you was uh.. six months ago. Normally you don’t come in to collect...” Your boss chuckles as he pulls back, looking up into the monster’s eyes. You don’t quite notice the way his Adam’s apple bobs in his throat as he swallows thickly. The hairs on the back of his neck were standing at attention. “Everythin’ alright?”

Miguel, as you’ve now learned is his name, nods his head slowly, humming in response. He doesn’t look Caparelli in his eyes, already done with the conversation before it began. Now, he’s merely looking down on him with half lidded eyes, sizing up his prey.

“Sí amigo. We’ve just got business to discuss. Price changes an’ all that.” Miguel slides his hand back into his pants pocket.

Caparelli’s smile falters for only a moment before he nods his head.

“R-Right,” he clears his throat, “Of course. Lemme uh.. lemme make you somethin’ to eat and then we can talk. Ragazza!” His head whips towards the little booth that you’ve been sitting in. Somehow you’ve managed to go unnoticed by both Miguel and his associate. The shaggy man smirks and rubs his hands together.

“Finally! I am absolutely starving.” He states as he licks his lips, causing Miguel to roll his eyes.

“You’re always starving, Peter.” Miguel mutters, more so to himself than to anyone else. Peter has always had a proclivity for annoying Miguel, so much so that sometimes he can’t quite recall why exactly he was his right hand man. Miguel firmly believed that the only reason Peter did anything was because it would lead to a hot meal. Such simple motivations almost made Miguel envious. Almost.

“Cara! Seat my friends in the private room.” He calls to your direction.

It takes you a moment, but slowly your form rises up from the booth and you begin to approach the men, stuffing the pen and crude drawing into your apron pocket. Miguel’s eyes widen just barely as he looks at you, taking in the sight. Meekly, you grab two menus, keeping your head down as you tried to find your words.

“Follow me please..” You say in a voice barely above a whisper. Miguel is silent, taking a moment to watch you turn around and walk towards the private dining room before he follows. You set the menus down at the head and the first chair on the left. The two take a seat, with Miguel at the head, as you fetch your notepad and pen from your apron. There’s a thick tension about the room as Miguel rests his chin on his fist, now wearing the same disinterested expression. His eyes are cold, raking up and down your body in a silent motion.

“Can I start you off with something to drink, sir..?” Your voice is soft, sweeter than he realized it was when you first spoke at him. He’s too distracted by your tone and the way you call him sir. It’s been too long since that kind of innocence was presented to him, tempting and teasing him. You must know what you’re doing, he thinks. He focuses intently on those plush lips of yours. So pretty and soft, blessed with a hardly noticeable sheen from your lip balm. He wonders how it must taste and how pliable your lower lip would be between his teeth. It takes him a moment before he’s broken from the trance and looks up into your eyes. He must’ve been staring for too long since you’re now looking at him with furrowed brows in confusion, head slightly cocked to the side like some wide eyed puppy.

“Sir..? Did you hear me..?”

He clears his throat, closing his eyes for a moment in order to ground himself. Biting the inside of his cheek, he hardly grumbles out a response. When he opens his eyes again, he’s looking down, suddenly finding the dingy white tablecloth to be very fascinating.

“Yeah yeah, te oí..” His hands tense around the edges of his menu, needing to sink his nails into the brown pleather of its cover for relief. “Just get me an ol’ fashioned.”

You nod your head, scribbling the order down and turn your attention over to Peter who was already beaming up at you.

“Just a water for me, thanks. Tonight May and I are having a tea party so I gotta hold off on the sugar.” He chirps as he chuckles, elbowing the growling beast beside him. “Oh and can we get some bread too? And some butter! And-“

“Enough.” Miguel cuts him off. He shoots a side glare at Peter, waving you off with his hand. You tremble a little at the way his voice boomed. You nodded your head quickly and turned on your heel, rushing through the French doors. Miguel doesn’t watch, feeling an odd humming in the back of his brain and knowing that if he saw the way your hips swayed and bounced as you scurried away from him in fear would only make it worse. He kept his eyes down, slowly letting them close, his hand coming up to pinch the bridge of his nose as he let out a low breath.

“You alright, big guy?” Peter asked, clapping a palm to Miguel’s shoulder. “You look so tired lately.”

“M’fine.” He snapped. He lifted his head and looked into the warm brown eyes of his companion. Peter retracted his hand, shooting both up in defense and going silent. In truth, Miguel wasn’t just tired. He was fucking drained of every last bit of energy he had. Business had been booming lately and with the rise of idiots in Nueva York trying to take what was rightfully his, Miguel hadn’t been able to rest. Scum like Kingpin had been hiring his own men, bribing them into selling out the family. Loyalty was becoming a scarce resource, causing more and more rival gangs to crawl out from the woodworks to oppose him. One of the biggest things the Spiders dealt in was “protection.” The Spiders would offer their protection to whomever could afford it, but the higher the demand got, the greater the cost grew. This of course was the only reason Miguel was sitting here today. A couple of Spiders had attempted to inform your boss of the rising cost of protection, but the pig headed brute refused to listen. Miguel had decided that he’d pay him a visit as a last chance before escalating things. Miguel was cold and calculated and knew the only way to make people listen was through fear.

In the beginning of it all though, he tried to be merciful. He tried to be patient and understanding, but his kindness was mistaken for weakness. His mercy was abused and left him with nothing but a fraction of the man he once was. Now the bloodlust was near maddening. Managing his rage had become a dangerous dance. The stress of running an empire often left him craving release in one form or another. First it was women, then liquor, and now his latest vice was violence. Unbridled carnage that truly let his mask of sanity slip. He was trying harder and harder now a days to keep his wrath in check but with so many people working to test his patience, he was bound to snap. The poor fellow in the chair last week had merely been the victim of shit luck. Miguel had intended to show him some mercy and make his death quick and painless. Unfortunately for him, his tongue worked faster than his head and he thought that pushing Miguel’s buttons would buy him some time. Miguel had been pent up with rage for weeks and just needed to release it on something. Part of him feared he’d always have to live with this anger, never really able to escape it, just find gaps between the killings. That is until he saw you.

For the first time in a long time, when he heard fear in someone’s voice, he didn’t want there to be any. You looked so small and soft. So delicate, like a fragile little flower. The humming in the back of his brain tuned out the constant wash of anger. For once, he wasn’t focused on work or power. In the seconds he took to gaze upon your angelic face, he felt peace, an emotion he thought he was no longer capable of.

When you finally returned with their drinks, Miguel watched your eyes flit to the floor as you approached him. He could’ve sworn he felt his heart palpitate in his chest, not fully understanding himself why he wanted you to look at him. You set down the drinks along with a basket of bread and butter and placed your hands behind your back.

“Mr. Caparelli will be here shortly to speak with you. Is there anything else I can get you..?” You questioned softly. Slowly you lifted your head, anxiously shifting your weight. Cautious as ever, you stole a glance at Miguel’s eyes. They gleamed like rubies and for a moment you felt a shutter in your chest. A whimper would’ve escaped you, had you not been more wary.

Miguel simply shook his head and looked down at his drink.

“No, thank you. That’ll be all.” Miguel says as he picks up the glass, bringing it to his lips. His tone seemed softer, just barely so. You hum in response, allowing the corners of your mouth to just barely turn upward and once again turned towards the doors. You only halted once Miguel called your name, feeling a chill crawl down your spine.

“Y-Yes sir..?” You glance over your shoulder back at him.

“Close the door on your way out.” He said coldly, losing any sense of warmth he may have just had. With that you weakly nod and close the doors behind you. The doors to the private dining room remained closed until your stout manager exited the kitchen with a serving tray of food and nervous sweat beading down his forehead. Mr. Caparelli entered the room and slammed the door shut behind him, simply hoping to survive and atone for the sins that had lead to this meeting with a killer. Caparelli set down the plates of food before the two men, taking a seat on the far end of the table, directly across from Miguel. His trembling only fed Miguel’s ego, causing a malicious grin to spread across his face. He chuckled lowly, his scarlet eyes half lidded and glaring directly into Caparelli’s soul.

“Aye viejo, there’s no need to be so scared…”

“I won’t bite.”

Part 2

@whisperwispxx

[luverine]

Scary~

Female! Monster! Yandere x Female!Reader

Warnings: slow ish burn, murder, gore, cannibalism(ish), abuse, non-con, torture(?)

2.2k words

18+ MDNI!!!! NSFW

Synopsis: You get taken from your home by a big scary monster woman. This is your journey of how you fear and hatred turns to a tragic (sexy) love story…

“STOP”

The air is filled with weeping. It smells raw. All the air is let out of your lungs.

You can’t breathe, you're all choked up.

Gasping in and out in and out. You couldn’t get any oxygen you were drowning in horror.

The ground felt like it was spinning.

She got closer.

She stared at you, face dripping in gore. Her eyes widened crazed.

Pointing her nose up to the air while taking a inhale.

“Mmm”

“It smells sweet”

The… Monster… says…

You felt like you were thrown in a frozen pond. Ice runs down your back seeping into your spine. You shiver.

It won't stop.

“Argh-“

The monster lifts you off the ground, slinging you over her shoulder.

“You whine a lot yer such a baby.” The thing snorts.

Pulling yourself up to see the unimaginable. What you’re being taken away from was once your family. Now their remains are mixed in a pile of smush.

You put your head back down, exhausted with a broken heart.

Your mama, papa, brother, dog. Gone.

Quiet sobs fill the woods as she walks onward with you hung over her.

…

You fell asleep at some point, your body hurting all over, head dizzy.

Inspecting your surroundings, it’s a cave, a fire is lit and SHE is nowhere in sight.

You go to get up but you can’t she tied your legs together and your arms behind your back. The rope is tight and itchy. It makes you squirm.

“Help!”

“Oh please help me!” You scream out.

The crying takes over again. Your family.. you whimper.

You curl up your sore body and wail into the fur you were laid upon.

…

The sun starts to rise painting the cave in a deep yellow.

“Ow” you fuss at the brightest enveloping your face.

“Good yer awake!” She cheers “Here yah better eat.” Bringing a stick of meat to your face.

You recoil in disgust not knowing who or what it is.

“Stop pouting, it's a rabbit” she says, laughing at your discomfort.

Her mouth is full of sharp edged teeth.

You retract your head back not wanting any contact from this wretched monster.

The monster huffs moving back towards the fire and stares at you.

She doesn’t stop, her eyes aren’t moving, giving you a blank stare.

“What do you want from me?!” You let out.

“Everything dear”

“Let me have everything,” She says.

Standing up to her full height, taller than any man you’ve ever seen, the sun gleams in her deep emerald eyes, long wild amber hair, and muscles bursting from her tan bronze skin.

You freeze… Scared, nothing comes out between your lips.

She leans down face-to-face. She smiles admiring you. A scar taking the whole width of her right cheek squishes.

“So beautiful, Aphrodite is nothing compared to ya” The monster says in awe.

Her claw-like fingers move a lock of hair behind your ear.

The same hands that took away your family.

“I’ve been watching you for a while ya know? No matter what ya were doin’ I couldn’t stop watchin’” said the monster.

You swallow the lump in your throat. “Mhm” is all you can respond with full of fear.

She scoops you into her arms and breathes into your neck. Making you cold sweat, nervous she’s going to bite it.

“I can hear your heart” she giggles “Am I scaring yah?” Her grip gets tighter, a smile never leaving her face.

Holding your breath, your chin shakes. “No.” You say in hopes she will put you back down on the furs.

“No? Hmm then yer happy to see me.” She grins.

You scoff.

She chortles, setting you onto the furs.

As soon as you're placed back on the furs you fall back not being able to keep yourself up in the position you're tied in.

The monster laughs at your hopelessness.

Taking a piece of rabbit off the stick and placing it on your lips. “Open up dear I don’t wanna have you starvin’” she says.

You grumble and open your mouth, the monster places the meat in your mouth and you snap your mouth shut.

“Hehe, feisty” The monster titters.

You look away and chew.

Sinking your teeth into flesh feels wrong now. The images of your family’s slaughter flashback.

You stop chewing and stare off.

…

You’re jolted awake by your arms being pulled and tugged.

“Huh” you groan out half asleep.

“Shhh it’s okay I’m undoing yer arms.” A voice said.

“-turnin’ purple” it said again.

“Mmm” you groan.

“Ow!” You yell out awake from your slumber.

It was the monster.

“What are you-“

“It’s okay, see, look.” The monster says pointing to your arms that have become a swirl of deep purple and bright red.

“I don’t need ya loosin’ yer arms, pretty” the monster says rubbing her hands on your arms.

“Go back to sleep” She says, wrapping her body around yours, closing her deep green eyes.

Her unkempt hair is in your face. It feels like spiders are crawling on you.

You try to move her hair, your arms jolt then go limp they’ve been tied so tight.

Letting out a huff you close your eyes. The darkness envelops you.

…

The cave is cold. Even with the fire that has never been out. It’s cold. You are cold. The beast of a woman is cold.

She wears barely anything. Bloodstained chest wrapping, torn brown pinstripe pants that’re now below the knee, old leather boots that look like they’re going to turn to dust.

Compared to wearing a linen shirt and layered skirt, you were cold.

Both of us were covered in dried crusted blood and dirt.

You could smell the death that the monster created three days ago.

Blinking out of this thoughtful daze you looked around spotting the monster tending to the fire.

“Could we go bathe somewhere please.” you whisper out begging the monster.

“Hmm?” The monster turned to you, raising her eyebrows.

“Could we wash off this?” You raise your arms in a gesturing manner to your stained skin.

“After supper.” The monster mutters, snapping a stick.

…

Dinner was another rabbit.

It still wasn’t any easier to eat something that once was living. Especially watching the monster skin it and tear it to shreds beforehand.

“Hey!” You yelp.

The monster grabs you by the shoulders, lifting you up and carrying you towards the entrance to the cave.

The sun is setting and everything has a dark orange glow.

You look around admiring the small stream running from the front of the cave, the flowers dimming from the light, birds flying to their nest.

The walk was peaceful even though the monster was brutish dragging you, but being surrounded once more to greenery was wonderful!

There it was a small pond. The water didn’t look too bad, you couldn’t complain.

The monster untied your legs pushing and shoving you around from how tightly the rope was round you. Your legs had deep indents of the rope and there were purple bruises scattered around.

The monster huffs flinging her auburn locks behind her. She tossed off her “pants” and chest wrap.

You look away embarrassed that she undressed so casually.

Not looking, you were nervous. The monster was looking at you quizzically. “Take yer clothes off” she said.

“Uh… Turn around” you fidget with your sash.

“No yer gonna run away. Just take em’ off.” The monster demands walking closer to you pulling on your sash.

“Okay-okay, stop, I can do it.” You say unraveling your sash.

The monster backs away watching you undress with half lidded eyes and letting out a small sigh of approval.

Once the sash is on the ground you remove your skirts and untie your shirt quickly.

As fast as you can you jump into the water not wanting the monster to see your exposed body.

The monster lets out a small laugh at your prudishness.

“There’s nothing to be shy of dear you’re perfect” The monster says diving into the water.

When the monster reaches the surface of the water she swims towards you pulling you to her.

She scrubs your hair with the water getting the caked blood out of your soft locks.

Letting go to scrub herself clean you do the same. Erratically scrubbing your skin the images of your loved ones fate behind your eyes.

You stop scrubbing and look up to the sky becoming night, the oranges becoming a deep blue.

Humming in tranquility. You missed this nature.

“Ah!”

Your peace is interrupted by the beast of a woman you're sharing the pond with.

She giggles at you barring her sharp fangs. “You’re so fun to scare.” She leans into your neck and sniffs “mmm so fun” she murmurs leaning back into your neck. She opens her mouth, her teeth sit right above your neck.

Your temple sweats thinking the worst. Eyes tightly shut waiting for the pain to come but it never does.

The monster moves her face inches away from yours.

“So sweet,” she hums. Her hand moving from peddling the water to wrapping around your waist.

You look at her in uncertainty.

“What are you doing?” You ask unwaveringly.

The monster hums, moving her head to look into your eyes.

“Say Kore”

You squint your eyes at this odd request. “Kore?”

“Mmph, yes” the monster hums out.

You don’t understand… “What’s that”

“Me” the monster responds with a sheepish grin.

“Kore? As in your name is Kore?” You question yet again.

“Yes, Kore.” The burly woman answers.

Slightly surprised she even had a name due to her barbaric nature. You nod unsure what you are supposed to do with this new information.

Kore finally lets go of your waist and goes underneath the water once more.

You continue to scrub at your skin unaware that the monster of a woman is swimming towards you.

You scream as you are lifted from the water and into the monster's arms.

In the state of your shock the monster kisses your open mouth. You can feel her getting greedy. She’s holding onto you tighter, her kisses are getting sloppy and more desperate.

You grab onto her arm and pull, needing air you pull and pull. Finally after some struggling she lets you breathe in as much air you can fit in your lungs.

The monster pecs all over your neck. “You taste good” she grunts. Moving back to your lips where she devours you.

You hold onto her strong figure afraid of the water enveloping you and her getting angry from your rejection.

The monster is getting more hungry and she caresses your sides. In a slow rough manner she fondles your breast massaging them into her hands.

You squirm and jolt from the sensation the pleasure the monster is giving you.

You know there is no turning back from this her eyes are darkened in lust.

“I can smell your heat” Kore moans out as saliva runs down her face in pure extacy.

She runs her dangerous hands around your hips and uses two fingers to massage your clit.

Your mind fogs her sharp fingers add fear and excitement to your arousal.

All of the sudden you hear a rumbling Kore is growling. She picks you up over her shoulders jumping out of the pond.

“Kore what-?” Your questing gets interrupted by another growl.

The monster lays you down on the grass that lines the pond.

Leaning down the monster takes your lips in a sharp and tender kiss.

The kiss gets more intense, your face is covered in Kore’s spit. She is getting desperate. You can feel her drip onto your leg in need.

Kore lifts your legs up and straddles you with one of her own. She moans and growls some more as she begins to rub herself against your clit and vulva.

“Kore!” You moan out as she holds you tightly in place humbling herself onto you.

She leans down and licks your face and neck giving a teasing bite and slowly making her way down to your bosom and takes one breast into her hand and the others erect nipple into her mouth.

You cry out from the overstimulation you are receiving sweat coating your skin and tears in your eyes.

Your stomach is tightening… “Kore I’m going to come please- Oh gods!” You feel yourself released onto her.

Kore growls once more, taking her mouth off your nipple. She gives your mouth a quick sloppy kiss and gets up.

“Mmph-!” The monster grabbed your head and sat down on your face.

“Get to it hon” Kore growls out. And you immediately suck and flick your tongue on her pussy. Moaning as she lightly flicks your clit.

The monster rides your face covering you in her essence. She becomes more erratic as you move your tongue when her hips move.

Kore screams, dropping your face and moving off of you.

As overstimulated as you are limp and covered in her slick, she picks you up, setting you in her lap and holds you tight in her chest.

You both calm down, slowing your breathing matching heartbeats.

The monster runs her claws through your hair inhaling your scent.

“We need to wash again” you say, sighing.

The monster gives your shoulders a squeeze and looks up at the sky. The stars are brighter tonight.

A/N: I know this took so long sorry about that I had no inspiration for a while. But I’m back babyyy ;) Want more of Kore let me know sweets!

[denim-devil]

Dauntless | D.W

Summary - A close call has Dean asking questions, hoping to gain some clarity of the current situation, the flames ignite bringing the butterflies that had once lay dormant, to life.

Warnings - Soft!Dean, Alcohol, Smut, M x M, P in A, Spanking (slightly), Dom!Dean, Dirty talk, Mentions of a certain white liquid I-, Kissing, FLUFFY DEAN-

“Not Proof read- sorry”

Dean hasn’t realised.

How could he? With each swig of whiskey that trickled down his chest with a certain wanting warmth brought his thoughts into a swirling mess.

His eyes grew slacker by the minute, focusing on the way you laughed at his stupid mindless jokes. At first he thought it was because you had as much alcohol as him to succumb to the euphoria that closely followed but no…he saw the way you glanced, eyeing up his fully clothed form.

Dean tried to let it go, with each passing moment his focus grew shorter and shorter. Watching the older hunter shuffle in his seat, you had guessed the wooden structure left nothing but an aching numbness that chimed like church bells, one of his legs crossing over the other.

Unphased by the sudden bodily manoeuvre, you go back to sipping on the bronze liquid Dean happily shared between the two of you.

“So…what was that back there? Did you have a plan?” Dean rasped, plump lips lingering on the edge of the smooth glass, ridges of detailed shapes littering the outside, his fingers delicately gripping the cold object.

You shrugged allowing the liquid courage to take control, mind empty and your tongue dozily laying still in your mouth as if words themselves were hard to form.

The room fell in silence, the bunkers structure stuttering, disputing low rumbles, you had guessed it was the age of the frame, bricks beginning to fade with time, it was easy to lose focus, especially with experienced hunter sat closely next to you.

“No…”

It was clearly painted across your expressionless face, his eyebrow cocks as if confused but also curious. The whole ordeal in itself costed the use of your left shoulder for the next couple of days, the stiffness still lingered but with each sip of the beverage at hand left you feeling limp and unbothered.

He could see it, how the whiskey melded your new form as if it gave you the strength to hold your lips closed before letting something carless slip past and into the open, into Dean’s ears.

“No? Why do I not believe you?”

The questions at hand left you sinking into the rickety chairs of the library. Each passing moment ticked with time itself as if in every possible outcome it would leave you cold and trapped.

The sudden crumpling of his shirt, each wrinkle shadowed by the dim light above growing as he reached over, his hand settling above your own as if was ment to, attached to the skin of your open palm, fingers dancing along the heated skin.

“Tell me”

He ordered, his tone stern and deep, wanting to uncover the factor that had lead you into a certain type of doom and gloom.

At first you had tried gaining some sort of control, tying each and every word into a sentence worth while but with each passing second it proved harder. The truth was almost hurtful but it was also showered in gold, a blinding sort of glimmer that rolled up in the back of your mouth and out into the open.

“I’m afraid, Dean I can’t”

Your words were like a dagger. Surely you would hold and place every inch of trust and respect into the man that had made something out of you. His fingers almost soothed the irradiating warmth with coolness that managed to settle you, his eyes slightly flinched knowing that he could be the reason.

“Try me”

His words were sharp like the same dagger that struck him moments ago, cutting into your skin harshly forcing the lump to unravel in your throat, bubbling up into a strung up sentence.

At first you tried, cheeks twitching as you shuffled to face him, fearful of what he would think, how careless it was of you to be distracted in such a dangerous job.

“I- It was you…at first I tried…I really did to ignore it”

You stopped, palm growing sweaty as Dean’s own covered yours, which instantly calmed you like a bedtime story, putting you in a trans-like state which inevitably forced you to speak nothing but the truth.

“I couldn’t function with you so close to me-“

Dean gripped onto you hard, hard enough to make you stop like a deer caught in headlights. The glass he held so tight onto was discarded before he pealed his crossed leg away, both planted securely onto the cemented floor beneath.

You could feel it, the change. The way he fumbled and lost control of his features, how he somehow had gotten closer, his breath fanning across your now crimson cheeks.

“I nearly costed you your own life?”

His mouth hung agape, brows again burying themselves lower slightly. Nodding, eye contact seemed to be the only comfort, followed by his calloused palm that clung to your own tightly.

“N-No, not you, but…you were so close to me-“

It clicked. Like train-tracks slotting into its own fitted journey, his heart beat wickedly picked up, ringing in his own ears clouding his judgement. It was obvious now, just as time itself, it was obvious.

He grew closer, lips almost searching for it’s perfect surface, your own. He held his own, awaiting a certain go-head before taking ownership of the situation, eyes dimming from a emerald green to a suggestive darkness that rocked your entire existence, a growing lust travelling from the pits of his stomach upwards.

“How about now…sweetheart?”

The nickname rolled from his tongue effortless, stilling, you can only keep focus on how his whole demeanour changes much like seasons but this one stayed, the concentration that plastered across his face only drew the two of you closer until the gap was no more, his lips attaching to your own fiercely.

Dean wanted you in more ways then one, away from here, riddled away in his sheets, touching and holding you in every way possible.

——

You had no plans on messing this up.

Despite how small and rickety Dean’s bed was, you still managed to both fit onto it, slotting above his now naked body, hands and legs moving against each other igniting the everlasting lust you kept locked away for years.

It was easy for Dean, he was protective in ways that could seem possessive, loving in ways that could seem down-right heavenly, he had you right where he desired.

“I’ve dreamed about this…”

His mumble was loud enough to send shockwaves throughout your body which splayed itself across his own, against his body, somehow you had both managed to find a position that suited the circumstances.

It’s everything you had imagined and more, back pressed closely to his chest, his hands soothe small circles into your thighs before picking them up, just enough so they were level with your ears, body now folding in half just how Dean wanted you.

“Me to…”

You shyly hiss once his thick, reddened tip lingers against your pucker, his smirk growing once you needily whine into the thin air of his room.

“You want it that bad? Why didn’t you say so-“

His tone was deep and lust-filled, distracting you enough to push himself upward and inside, grazing the velvet walls you claimed, writing his mark with each inch.

“Dean-“

It couldn’t have felt better, biting your lips to suppress the hungry moans threatening to expose the two of you hastily gripping onto strong biceps wrapped around your thighs, slightly grounding you enough to keep composure.

He was thick and long, each ridge, each vein easily felt against the disappearing muscle that pushed the limits you were use to already, feeling full had never felt so good.

“You know how many nights- fuck; that I stayed up…” finally bottoming out, he stills allowing you to utilise the stretched out feeling, his balls pressed firmly against the cleft of your ass, enough to send you into overdrive, you had finally acquired all of Dean.

“Jerking off over you and your pretty little ass-“

Guttural, loud, pornographic. Each word described the temptation that riddled you both and the moan that slipped from his open lips moments ago, it felt surreal to be in the warmth and grip of your teacher, and the best hunter the world had ever had.

“I- I can’t”

Mumbling incoherently, blubbering as the tears slip from your damp lashes. It gave Dean both the pride and confidence to carry on, pulling himself out until his tip lingered on your entrance.

“You can honey, i’ve got you”

Sinking back in with ease, he could feel it all, how soft and wet and pretty you were for him, how it all joined and created something unfathomable, something from a porno Dean was frequent with, but this, this was real and it had his emerald greens rolling back into his head and his hands trembling against your sweat-slicked skin.

“Oh fuck- sweetheart, so fucking good for me”

He was almost insatiable, from his confidence to the cocky attitude that had you a mess, cock weeping and twitching with every word and every touch.

“Dean, feel so full fuck-“

Smirking against your neck, he breaths, tonging at the spot that had you shaking in his grip. Ultimately his stamina had grown, fulfilling every need you had, like a bucket list, checking off every single damn thought you previously had of him.

In time, his speed grows to a certain speed that littered each corner of the room with loud slaps, his balls smashing against your cheeks with urgency, although lewd and slick, Dean had no plan of stopping, sliding in with each lap that had now moved to the shell of your ear.

“Wish I had you sooner, woulda stopped me from fucking the wrong one-“

He was vulgar to say the least, trapping you against his body, you had no escape but that was the dream you were once sold on, now, it was a reality you wanted to delve in for eternity, wrapped up in his body, entangled with nothing but the lust and drive to see stars.

“W-Wish I had you sooner-“

Dean didn’t think twice to turn your head slightly with his strong grip, his fingers scrunching up your hair, smashing your lips together, engulfed by the flames that surrounded you both.

It didn’t last long, but it was short and sweet, all tongue and love. You were mistaken if you thought Dean had any softness in his bones when he began to fuck up into you without remorse, holding your legs up and wide, hitting the bundle of nerves that had you limp against his front.

Doe-eyed and delirious from his affection, each thrust sending you into a blissful heaven, you let go, the walls crumbling around finally falling completely, you spray into the open air, each glop landing onto the manly forearms holding you still.

“That’s it- atta boy-“

With a swift slap to your glutes that rang out like a rusty spring snapping, Dean holds you down by the hips, slowly rolling, riding out his high. A few “fucks” had managed to escape him, voice now hoarse from the lingering tipsiness.

Each splatter painted your insides white, finally claiming what he had dreamed of forever, you.

Panting, breathing in the same air, your both left feeling weak and limp but better, it was almost as vivid as the dreams you had experienced in the past that involved the very man that had you cum hands free.

He chuckles, green eyes flicking up to meet yours. His glare was sincere, sweet almost overbearing if it hadn’t been for the soft pat he gave your ass, slowly enveloping your lips with his.

It lasted longer then before, more lips then anything else, deep and inviting. Pulling away for air, glancing down at him had never felt so intimate, his smile big and bright, blinding in every best way possible.

“Not the first time that’s happened”

He points to the mess dripping down your thighs and backside, chuckling in amusement as you blush, burying your head in his neck giving him the right amount of space to slip out of you, already you feel empty, yearning for the next time.

“That’s the first time it’s happened…”

Mumbling against his neck, breathing his scent in, the aftershave that spoke to his character invading your senses, delirium flooding back into your veins.

“It won’t be the last sweetheart, for a very long time-“

You laugh immediately before pecking him on the lips, returning to nuzzle in the crook of his neck.

It was if you were both lost in the darkness of the room, tangled together, damp and basking the afterglow of bliss, witnessing the relaxed smile he offered was your golden ticket to a happy every after, his arms holding you close, he had you now and you had him…

[trb752]

'Powder Puff' by Ferdinand Preiss, c1925

Cold-painted bronze and carved ivory