#i like to watch fire turn wood into ashes

[popjunkie42]

sirens in the beat of your heart (read on AO3)

A humble offering for @nestaarcheronweek 2024! This is for @witch-and-her-witcher who is my fearless beta and takes all my writer whining in stride!

Nesta watched Feyre breathe, watched the tension in her with some queasy feeling. At how quickly tempers still flared between them.

So different from her Valkyrie sisters. They were a unit, complements to each other. Unlike the Archeron sisters, always discordant foils to one another. An ongoing play of hurts and scores and changing allegiances that tore at them all.

The specter that was between them: sleeping but still present, of jealousy. Of hunger. Of two skinny, vicious girls scrabbling for whatever was left on the table. Teaching themselves not to need love from the inhospitable desert that was their family.

Feyre took deep breaths until her muscles relaxed, just a little.

Or: Nesta and Feyre try out a bit of their new relationship post-ACOSF.

Behind the cut or Read on AO3.

It wasn’t the dull, constant thud of knives in wood that drove Nesta to the roof.

The truth was she couldn’t sleep, feeling a restlessness inside of her that had her lacing up her boots and leaving Cassian alone, sprawled out on their oversized bed.

The House of Wind was silent at night, except for the wind that sometimes howled outside, the cold stone air smelling crisp and mingling with the ash of dead fires from the evening. Nesta moved quietly, reluctant to break the stillness, heading towards the roof for a breath of fresh air.

At the first noise she had tensed, reaching for a knife that wasn’t at her side, but quickly relaxed when she saw the familiar lazy braid of her sister.

The night sky hung over the training ring like a dome, the jeweled stars of the Night Court sparkling overhead. It was a cold night, for spring, and a chill wind whipped across the stone, masking her footsteps.

Feyre was in leathers that looked a size too tight, thrown on hastily. Her youngest sister was never one to shy away from the casual or practical but tonight she looked…disheveled. Light hairs were whipping out of her braid, a halo of fine, frizzy hair framing her forehead and temples. Her boots were thrown on without being laced. She stumbled in them as she leaned forward for a throw.

There was also the fact that she was flinging knives, alone, at almost three in the morning. At someone else’s house.

Only one knife was lodged in the painted wood target, others littered around it. As Feyre released another blade, the wind kicked up and blew the dagger wide.

“Shit,” she muttered into the night.

“Your stance is crooked,” Nesta observed, walking up behind her before she could grab another blade.

Her sister gasped a little and whirled around, revealing a blotchy red face, blue eyes puffy with tears.

“Nesta,” she said, sounding guilty. Feyre quickly wiped at her eyes with the back of her hand. “Did I wake you up? I’m sorry. I just — I didn’t want to wake anyone at home and I thought it would be quieter —”

“You didn’t wake me. What’s wrong?” Nesta’s mind ran through the options — she wouldn’t be here if something happened to Nyx, and to be alone— “What did he do?” she asked, ready to draw blood.

Feyre laughed in exasperation, sniffling. “Rhys didn’t do anything. I’m fine.”

She turned away, and another knife flew through the air, silent and fast, missing the target by an inch and clattering on the ground amidst a dozen other failed attempts.

“You need to loosen your shoulders.”

“Thanks.” Her voice was clipped, her back stiff. Nesta wondered if she had been hoping for Cassian to be the one to find her. “Do you want me to leave? You can use the ring or whatever you came to do.”

Another knife thudded against the wood, hitting the target but failing to find purchase. Feyre avoided Nesta’s eyes. She swallowed, sorting through the maze of Feyre’s emotions.

If her little sister thought she could hide her avoidance, or if Nesta wouldn’t rise to uncomfortable confrontation, she was sorely mistaken.

“Feyre,” Nesta demanded. That unsettled feeling was only growing, as Feyre’s magic seemed to crackle and hum in front of her. Like her emotions were a storm about to spill out of her body. Nesta hadn’t woken up tonight prepared to deal with this emotional powderkeg.

The way Feyre’s eyes grew cold, like she retreated in on herself, and the stubborn jut of her chin made her look so young. This was the Feyre she was used to tearing apart over a worn dining table — raw with anger and a little self righteousness, fear and cruelty simmering just underneath.

Someone she hadn’t seen in a while, under Feyre the Cursebreaker, under the High Lady.

“I was just stressed, all right? I couldn’t sleep.”

“So you came here to lose all our knives?”

Feyre went stiff.

Her own wisps of wind cast out and gathered the knives, scraping over the stone and into a gently swirling cloud she brought back to the small table beside her. “Maybe I just wanted to throw things. Maybe I don’t care if they hit or not.”

Nesta didn’t know what to say. So she grabbed a knife and stepped up to her sister.

“We don’t have to talk if you don’t want to.” Maybe she could call Cassian. Her stomach sank a bit at the thought, the guilt. Maybe Cassian would be better at this, maybe he wouldn’t fumble and stomp his way through Feyre’s mess of emotions.

Thunk. The tip of Nesta’s knife buried into a bullseye.

Feyre huffed.

This time when her sister stood she anchored her back foot, setting the other in front, bouncing her wrist to feel the weight in her hand.

She pulled back her arm, stepped forward and they both watched as the knife went short, skidding loudly across the stone.

“Your stance is too tight. You need to loosen up your back a little, let your arm go.”

Feyre grunted, her lip curling up in a little angry sneer.

“Hey. Look at me.”

The eyes that met hers were like a beast in the forest.

There was her feral little sister. For a while now she had been the cool High Lady, the head of her house, the responsible sister. To see her old anger flare up again startled Nesta.

They were both far too powerful now to let it get the better of them.

“Take a deep breath. Just like me. And hold. Ready?” Nesta exaggerated the swell of her lungs, the lift of her shoulders. Cold night air filled her chest and she felt her feet ground into the stone, like she was an extension of the mountain.

Feyre fought her at first. She had to close her eyes to take in the deep breaths and let go.

“Let your thoughts come to you, whatever’s on your mind. Just let them fill you and then pass through. Keep breathing.”

Nesta watched Feyre breathe, watched the tension in her with some queasy feeling. At how quickly tempers still flared between them.

So different from her Valkyrie sisters. They were a unit, complements to each other. Unlike the Archeron sisters, always discordant foils to one another. An ongoing play of hurts and scores and changing allegiances that tore at them all.

The specter that was between them: sleeping but still present, of jealousy. Of hunger. Of two skinny, vicious girls scrabbling for whatever was left on the table. Teaching themselves not to need love from the inhospitable desert that was their family.

Feyre took deep breaths until her muscles relaxed, just a little.

“I’m sorry. I know you’re trying to help,” she finally said.

Nesta’s voice was as cold as ice. “I think maybe we spent so long fighting over scraps, and now it’s hard to remember —”

“That there’s enough?”

Nesta nodded.

It was hard to put into words. She was still getting used to the endless affection that poured from her mate, how she could ask for things and be given them without a thought, without a cost.

Even though a new peace lay between her and Feyre, the old scars were human, and wouldn’t heal so easily.

“Why don’t you tell me why you’re here?”

Feyre sighed again, her eyes focusing on the shining knives in front of her.

“Nyx finally went down and I was trying to fall asleep, but I remembered this fae a few weeks ago who came to petition — she and her family needed help with their farmland since their father died unexpectedly. And I told them we would send assistance — and then I just — forgot.” She swallowed thickly.

“I got up and was at my office trying to find the notes, and Rhys tried to send me back to bed, like he isn’t up working late into the night most days. Like the weight on me isn’t the same as his,” she played with a knife, pricking her fingertips on the tip of the blade idly.

“Then Nyx started crying, and it was like my whole body seized up. It was weird. It was like…my body didn’t belong to me.” Feyre shook her head, looking pale. “I just thought about that family, waiting every day for help, waking up every morning thinking ‘this will be the day.’ And I just…forgot.”

For a moment, something vicious slithered inside Nesta’s gut: a preening, satisfied feeling. At perfect Feyre, finally stumbling for once.

No. Nesta breathed through the thought, watching her sister’s tight face. Checked frantically that her shields were up.

That was an old way of thinking. When she thought they were competing. Let the thought pass through you. Feel it and let it go.

Nesta shifted on her feet. This was her terrain, her familiar training grounds. How would Feyre fit in this space?

She tried to shift the way she saw her sister. How would Cassian, or Azriel, size up a new recruit? What would Nesta feel towards her if she was a new priestess, walking nervously through that door?

How had she felt when she saw Gwyn pass that threshold for the first time, scared and seeking strength? Why was her sister any different?

“I might not be able to give any High Lady advice. But why don’t you pick up a sword? Let your body work it out.”

Feyre shook her head, her arms wrapping around her stomach. “I haven’t trained in months. And — I feel different. My body feels different. Even with everything healed I just feel…changed.”

“We can start at the beginning. I won’t go too hard on you.” Nesta cocked her head, unsure of what to make of the writhing mass of Feyre’s emotions.

“I don’t want this. I don’t want to —” Feyre paused, looking away, unable to meet Nesta’s eyes. “I don’t want some competition to see who’s the better fighter. You can be the warrior now. I don’t want it. Maybe I never did.”

Nesta swallowed. Thought about the emptiness that came when she first spilled blood –

She let the thought pass through. Focused back on Feyre, circling her slowly, watching the way she was tracked with her sister’s eyes, how her body turned instinctively to keep Nesta in her sights.

Not a fighter, she said.

This one needed an anchor. A goal. Something outside of her own panic to hold to, to pull herself up.

“Koschei is coming.”

Her words were casual. As if he were arriving tomorrow for tea.

Feyre’s face hardened. “Yes.”

“And are you ready to face him? Ready to protect your family?”

“Nesta…”

“Are you?”

Silver lined Feyre’s eyes. Nesta felt her heart crack. But she stayed still.

“No.” It was a whisper in the wind.

She watched as Feyre worked through it, the seizing fear, the desperation, the stubborn Archeron resolve to face it.

Mother knew there was nothing Nesta wanted more than her life here, small but full, with Cassian in her bed and next to her in the training ring, with her friends nearby and her work. Growing every day, luxuriating in love and happiness and sore muscles like it was a warm bath.

But Rhysand had shared Cassian’s memories with them all, of a frozen lake, of a chill wind that promised death and malice. Of even Cassian’s quaking fear.

“Then we’ll get there. I’ll help you. If you want. Or Cass can or — whoever you want.”

Nesta tried not to feel the worry of rejection. Every swing of the axe, or pull of the bow in lessons between them before had been fraught with sizzling tempers and cold viciousness.

She thought about Gwyn and Emerie, about Roslin and the other priestesses she worked with, encouraged, cheered for everyday. Thought about those emotions like a cloak and tried to see how it would fit around her sister.

“You would train me?” Feyre asked. Nesta tried not to bristle at her surprise, at whatever part of that offer caught her sister off guard.

“I could show you the Valkyrie techniques that will work with your Illyrian training. Sometimes these days, I’m the one teaching Cassian things.”

Feyre gave a watery grin. “I’m glad. Someone needs to check that Illyrian arrogance.”

“Maybe that’s why we’re mates. The Mother knew they all needed to be put in their place.”

A blade turned slowly in her sister’s hand. “You’re the Oristian.” A small, wistful smile came over her face. “I wish I could’ve been there when Devlon and the camp lords found out.”

Nesta’s smile was cold. “They don’t know what they’ve unleashed.”

“I’m proud of you,” Feyre said, her voice a choked whisper, Nesta's eyes going wide. “Not that — I know you don’t need —”

“Feyre.” At her tone, her sister stopped babbling. “That’s —” Nesta took a deep breath, letting all the discomfort and swaying emotions from her sister settle and pass through. Whatever anger or resentment she might have from before had washed away when she smelled the blood in that birthing room, when she had to beg for her baby sister’s life from the Mother herself. “Thank you. It was really hard, for a long time. But I’m happy. I’m happy here.”

Her sister’s chin wobbled and her face crumpled just before she buried it in her hands.

Breathe. In and out.

Nesta thought about her Valkyrie sisters. How sharing their heavy stories had made them feel lighter. How they looked into each other’s souls and didn’t turn away.

“Feyre. It’s ok.” Nesta rested her hand on Feyre’s arm, feeling her body shake with sobs under her palm.

At her touch, Feyre fell forward, burying her face in Nesta’s shoulder, covering her leathers with tears.

Nesta stiffened, unused to her sister’s touch.

Hating how she felt like her mother.

How would she want her mother to hold her? How would they all hold Nyx from this day forward —-- without reservation?

You can do this.

She could do it —-- accept love, and give it too. It would be hard but —-- she reached out her hand, pulling Feyre closer, rubbing her back gently, breathing through her discomfort and trying to bring down those walls.

When Feyre had tired herself, she stepped back, looking somewhat ridiculous with a swollen nose but with a new lightness in her eyes.

“I thought — I worried — you and Elain might never be happy here.” Nesta thought of her library and her friends there, of Cassian’s scent, and his stupidly handsome face. Happy.

The moment sat quietly between them, Feyre’s fears and the miles they’d traveled unraveling.

“I’m sorry I’m falling apart,” her brow furrowed in frustration. “I had Nyx and everything makes me cry now. Yesterday I stepped on a worm in Elain’s garden and Rhys raced home from the Governor’s council because he thought I was dying.”

Nesta’s lip curled. “I think Nyx has the power to turn all of us soft.”

“Do you ever look at him, and —” Feyre stopped short, like the words died in her mouth.

“What?”

“Sometimes I look at Nyx, and I think…I hate them. Mother. And…father. Sometimes.”

Nesta stayed still. Like the admonition would have her sister bolting at any wrong move. “I think I know what you mean.”

Feyre nodded. “I love him so much. And how could they have seen us so young and still do what they did? How could they have let themselves look away? It seems impossible. And then I worry: what if there’s some secret terrible thing that will happen that will make me feel the same way someday?”

“You will be a thousand times a better mother than our parents ever were to us. There’s no way you could ever be like them, Feyre. It’s impossible.”

“But —”

“Feyre. You’re a good mother already.” Feyre’s chin wobbled again. “And if you do slip up, I’m sure your sisters will let you know about it.”

Feyre took a deep breath, in and out through her nose. “You promise?”

“Try and stop us.”

A smile was on her sister’s face.

Nesta grabbed a throwing knife, the metal warming in her hand.

“Ok, do ten shoulder rolls, then we’re working on your stance.”

The yellow-pink fingers of dawn were pulling at the horizon by the time Feyre’s boots were tied, her muscles stretched. It wasn’t enough to warm them, yet, but the light shone on something brighter in Feyre’s face. Nesta reveled in the new feeling of being the cause of it.

She turned to her new recruit.

“Are you ready?”

[mumblelard]

two pints of lager and a packet of crisps please or happy wednesday imaginary constructs

[yikimiki]

>> bones and ashes

⚔️ sukuna x fem!reader | warnings for: violence, mentions of death, possessiveness (sukuna is as evil as they come so basically every red flag under the sun), non-con that turns into dub-con (Stockholm syndrome), mentions of virginity loss, anatomically impossible size difference (if u know what I mean), blood play, etc | around 5-6k words | also important to note that I absolutely assassinated the canon lore in some points but bare with me

Sukuna doesn’t really have the ability to love. But he thinks he gets close enough when it comes to you. Of course, in his own twisted, macabre way.

Sukuna isn’t familiar to the concept of fondness, let alone anything more profound or meaningful than that. He knows want, desire, possession, curiosity even. But none of those feelings have ever tilted towards the side of affection, nor does he want them to. They’re all narcissistic pulses that keep pushing him forward — towards more power, more control, more of what he can become. He’s not even fond of his own abilities. Arrogant? Perhaps, but not fond. He can’t be fond of something he knows is not at its peak yet, that would just be weakness.

And Sukuna is everything but weak.

He sees you in a cold winter morning and he does what he knows best: he takes. Takes your pride, your virginity, your blood. Takes you like he took the lives of the rest of your village, paints your skin red and watches as the tears wash it away. Sukuna takes and takes until you have nothing left to give, just like he has done countless times before and yet… this time, something switches.

This time, he decides to let you live. Trapped in a dark cell, of course, but alive regardless.

The days move slowly, and you learn to mark their passing by the loud, clanking sound of a metal dish being thrown through a cracked door. The food is mostly raw meet and, after a few days of disgust, you cave in and eat a little of it. Not enough to be satisfied, not even close, but enough to keep you alive for at least a few hours longer.

Sukuna comes by in irregular intervals, and you soon give up on trying to find a pattern in his visits. You know it’s him from the way the door creaks open even further to accommodate his size, and you watch as his large shadow observes your movements for a moment before he kicks the disgusting plate towards you. Most of time time he’s there, you force yourself to eat, afraid of what should come if you turn down his unspoken commands. Once he seems satisfied, he exits without a word.

There is one single advantage in being in a windowless, isolated cell: you can’t hear what goes on up there. You’ve heard enough the day that Sukuna came to your village — the shattering screams, the pleads for mercy, the babies crying, the sound of wood and bone breaking almost too similar to differentiate. You saw creatures beyond your realm and heard awful whispers and threats; held you family as they died and gave up as the snow beneath your hands became as red as the burning sky above. And you know enough about Sukuna’s legend to be aware that it wasn’t an isolated incident.

When evil incarnate arrives, there’s not much you can do but surrender.

Though, when it comes to the legends, you thought that his palace was more of a manner of speak than an actual location. Once again, though, you’ve heard enough legends to know when to stop inquiring about the details.

Sukuna comes in after a week with a plan and a cloud of amusement over his head — frankly, given the state you were in, he thought you would be dead by now. Your stubborn hold on life is as impressive as it is pathetic.

“You looked so small when I first saw you,” his thunderous voice breaks the silence. There’s no food in his hands this time, only the fire cracking behind his form. You’re sitting down on the cold floor, back against the wall, and you don’t even bother looking up at him. “You look even smaller now.”

You don’t answer, because you don’t know what to say. Of course you’re smaller — you’re weak, starving, lacking movement and sunlight. Every muscle in your body aches and the aftertaste of dried blood never leaves your mouth. Smaller is a compliment; you wish you were just bones and ashes by now.

Sukuna takes a heavy step inside the dark chamber. “I killed everyone you’ve ever loved that day,” he says, bluntly. There’s no amusement nor sorrow in his tone — it’s a neutral statement. He lowers himself to your level and, on the corner of your eyes, you see his four arms. He is so wrong, even in a physical sense. Like the scar of something that shouldn’t even exist. “And yet… you live. Do you want to know why?”

You sneer. “I wish you’d just let me die.”

He chuckles, and one hand meets the side of your head. His fingers dig into the dirty, messy strings and pulls on the roots. There are tears on the corners of your eyes but you refuse to let him see them. “That’s exactly why you’re alive,” he says. “I knew you were ready to die when I saw you — all bloodied up, on your knees in the snow. It was quite a sight.” Sukuna’s voice is a malicious whisper as he comes even closer to you — he smells rotten. The tongue that licks up your cheek makes you want to puke. He tastes you the same way as he did on the first day, and you have no idea what he’s searching for. “Tell me, why were you so ready to give yourself to me? Most try to plead at least.”

“Plead for what? Your mercy?” The sarcasm is clear through your tone. The words you mean to say are knotted in the base of your throat and the odor Sukuna reeks is making you dizzy; making you remember everything that came before this. “I— I didn’t have anything else to live for,” you stutter. “You killed… you killed my mother, my father, my baby brother… why would I want to live without them? Why would I humiliate myself asking for mercy from a creature that clearly doesn’t have any to spare?”

Through anger, you look up at him. His eyes are flames bursting through the darkness, and they shine as your words settle on his skin. “Do you only live for love, my little dove?” He asks. “What a purposeless life you have.”

“Do you only live for hate?” You ask back before you can hold your tongue. Somewhere in your mind, you know that he’s capable of unimaginable evil, but you are beyond the point of caution. “What a purposeless legacy you’re leaving behind.”

This angers him. The corners of his mouth twists as he speaks. “You people fear me. Even the strongest of sorcerers doesn’t dare to go against me.”

“I pity you and your ridiculous need for destroying what isn’t yours,” you spit. “And I hate you for keeping me alive. I hate you for everything you’ve done to me and to the people I love. And I hate that you even dare to come here and talk to me like I’m the smaller person for daring to care about something.”

The hands on your hair tighten and he pulls your face against his. Sukuna’s forehead is a furnace against yours, his eyes burn into your soul. “You little insect, I could kill you with a snap of my fingers if I wanted to.”

Your voice shakes but you say it regardless: “Do it, then, what are you waiting for?”

“No,” his answer is more cruel than death could ever be. And he knows that. “And you know why?”

“If you are keeping me alive to have your way with me, so be it, have it,” you say. The tears are obvious now. You wonder if he can smell how fearful you really are. “Violate me like you did before, I don’t care anymore, but just don’t keep me alive just to waste me away.”

His lips are touching yours now, but you can’t pull away even if you tried. Sukuna’s chest is heaving like he’s in the middle of a battle, his voice like a roar in your ears. “Then ask. For. My Mercy.”

“I w-would n-never…”

“Ask!” It’s a loud command that crashes against you like a wave. You sink like there is no adrenaline in your body to keep you afloat; the anger that moved you before is no longer within your reach.

The truth is clear: you’re human. He’s a curse — the king of curses, older than you could ever imagine; probably even more powerful than the legends you’ve heard. His eyes say that there are fates worse than death and you believe them. And maybe, just maybe, if you play by his rules, he’ll grow tired of you and let you wither away.

“P-Please,” you are sobbing now, tears falling down like a cascade. Sukuna licks them and hums in satisfaction, watching as you break apart into a mountain of hiccups and trembling limbs. “Please just… have mercy on me. I’ll do whatever you want just — please, stop torturing me like this.”

“Aw,” he coos. “Was that so hard?”

You want to say that yes, somehow, that took everything still left in you. You want to say that if he wanted to break your spirit, congratulations, he’s done it. But you don’t get the chance.

Sukuna kisses you with the same ferocity you expected, sharp teeth crashing against yours and tongue exploring your mouth with no prior warning. He groans as he tastes you — you, the blood in your food, the salt of your tears — and suddenly it’s all that he will ever crave again. You whimper against his lips as his two lower arms crawl up your thighs and hold onto your hips, pushing you against him as he stands up and presses you against the wall. You feel more caged now than you have felt these past few days.

“Silly little human,” he raps against your lips, then licks your cheek for more of your precious tears. He realizes how much he likes to make you cry. You wince and give out a little sob, which only makes him smile. Finally, his grip on your hair loosens. “What is my name?”

You blink, dumbfounded by the sudden question. “S-Sukuna…?”

He pouts. “Say it like you mean it or I won’t be so nice.”

“Sukuna,” you say more firmly this time.

“There we go, that’s a good girl,” he says. “See how things just work better when you don’t misbehave? Hm?”

You nod. He doesn’t like it. “Y-Yes, I see, I’m sorry.”

“Very good.” The hand that was on your hair moves to hold your face, and it’s so huge that you feel like it would crush your skull with one single movement. As the other two arms hold onto your thighs, the fourth limb squeezes your breast. “Now, this is what’s going to happen, my pretty little human,” Sukuna starts, “I will have my servants take you to my chambers. You will be washed, clothed, and taken care of. They will feed you proper human food this time, whichever it is that your heart desires. How does that sound?”

Sounds like a trap. “And, in return, what do I have to do for you?”

“What do I have to do for you…?” He raises his eyebrows.

“Sukuna,” you complete.

“There’s my perfect little girl,” he says. You hate that something inside you likes the praise. “You will have to wait for me there. Do whatever you prefer, but don’t leave my room. Any attempt at escaping or killing yourself will be futile, and I’ve already warned every single curse that your death will result in a much more dire future for them. So you will be brought back to me. And I promise I won’t be so nice.”

“I understand… Sukuna,” you correct yourself quickly. It doesn’t go unnoticed.

The hand on your breast squeezes tighter, and you bite your lip so you don’t complain. “I knew I was right when I brought you here, something made me spare you. Yet, I don’t know what it is just yet.”

Sukuna is a looming threat above you, his limbs trapping you, and his deep voice is like thunder about to break. You know why so many fear him — you fear him too. And the sooner you act like it, the sooner he’ll grow tired of you. Sooner he’ll realize he was wrong in bringing you into his fortress.

He smirks. “But I believe I’ll discover soon enough.”

- ⚔️ -

Sukuna’s chambers are as spacious and monstrous as himself — corners switching and adjusting like breathing flesh; furniture morphing into different shapes; the weird odor of something old; the feeling for something lurking. The large windows show a world between worlds; a reality that doesn’t seem right no matter how long you stare at it. His palace is in a dimension you can’t reach, and you give up on trying to understand it. If anything, the more you wonder about it, the more you shake under the weight of the sheer power it must take to keep it all existing like solid matter.

Your passage of time is morphed and unreliable, but you would guess that a couple weeks have passed by the time that you come to terms that, perhaps, Sukuna isn’t as easy to bore as you first expected. The fire in his eyes doesn’t seem to diminish as he sees you — if anything, his eagerness to have you all to himself only seems to expand — and the way he takes care of you makes you realize that he isn’t planning on letting you die anytime soon.

Life in his chambers is far more comfortable, you admit, but it’s a prison nonetheless. Still, you can’t say that you are mistreated. In his chambers, you are bathed and clothed, well-fed and pampered. You soon come back to your normal weight and the fatigue leaves your body; there is more space to move, more things to do. The curses that come to check on you seem to be strangely kind and human-like, though you know it’s out of fear and not out of worry, and they keep your mind occupied with several stories and legends as the days move on.

Sukuna is more absent than you would have imagined, conquering and killing as often as he can. When he finally comes to you he is clean, recently bathed, but you can still see he is fresh from a battle, some mindless corruption beyond the horizon that you would rather hear nothing about. There are shallow scars and deep cuts that heal unreasonably quickly; dried blood that hasn’t quite washed away and ashes beneath his fingernails.

You ask whose village he has attacked this time, but he says it doesn’t matter, because there are no survivors.

“I never leave any survivors,” he completes, kissing your forehead, “besides you, my little human.”

You don’t push beyond that information, but the feeling of being special, chosen, starts to blossom like a dangerous rose inside your chest. It stings and stings, but grows regardless, and you see yourself less able to fight against his possessive claims. You start to enjoy them. You start to wonder if life beyond those walls is worth fighting for when you seem to have everything you would ever wish for right here.

You can always tell when Sukuna is about to arrive in this world because the atmosphere switches into something darker, heavier. The air seems thicker and the clouds beyond your windows start to bleed into a deep shade of red. Sukuna returns with the apocalypse on his back, and, when he does, he uses your body as he pleases.

Like the room around you, there is constant change. Sometimes it hurts like hell; sometimes it’s pleasurable. Sometimes you wish it would just end and you end up crying in despair; sometimes you look at him like you might get used to feeling him inside of you. Some days, Sukuna is kinder, more patient, taking time to adjust you to his enormous size and even makes sure that you enjoy it before reaching his end; fucking you full of his cum until you can’t think of one single thing besides him. Other days, you know he is angry just by the way he walks through the door — and, in those days, you are left bleeding and bruised as he uses your body in every single way until he’s close enough to satisfied. That, on itself, can take a long, long time.

You realize that, during those violent days, he could use one of his curses to please himself, but he prefers to use you — because you bleed, you cry, and you suffer. As long as your pain exists, his interest is unwavering.

However, like everything else, you adapt, get used to it. Routine becomes familiar and you learn the tell-tale signs of his rancid mood; learn how to make it a little better and what things to avoid. You stop thinking about getting away — you don’t even have anywhere else to go — and start longing for his presence as he takes more time to come back home. Sukuna is warm, safe; next to him you know you are shielded from any harm. When he appears, no one dares to look or touch you, no one speaks until they are spoken to. Just by being in his gravitational pull, you are protected and no harm will ever come your way again.

Even if it hurts, you start hoping that he won’t get tired of you.

Sukuna, on the other hand, isn’t quite sure how he feels about it all.

It’s not love — he has gone over that one a few hundred times already, has marked off every possible scenario and imagined every possible feeling, and he is sure it isn’t love. To be frank, he doesn’t even think he’s capable of it even if he wanted to, he sold his soul too long ago to even remember how normal humans love. But if it’s not love, it’s something similar — a kind of tenderness, fondness. He has a soft spot for you, to put it bluntly. Though not in the typical sense.

Sukuna adores you like a painter adores his favorite canvas; like an exotic bird in a cage — he adores you with possession, obsession, with the knowledge that you can’t ever get away from his grip. He is fond of you in a way that he would murder anyone who would even dare to touch what is his; but would never set you free. He can hurt you, he can tear you into pieces and build you to his liking. Sukuna can kiss you or bite you; hug or break you, but it’s because you’re his little pet and no one else’s.

He is fond of the way you bend for him; the way you look at him with sheer adoration in your eyes even after he has taken everything from you. He is fond of the way that only he could kill you; that your small life is in his hands and you thank him for it. Sukuna is fond of the way your tight little cunt stretches so wide to take his fat cock; lives for the little whimpers you give out and the tears that stain his satin sheets when he finally allows you to cum for him. If he could crawl inside your soul, he would. If he could take it and eat it and have you forever, he would.

He doesn’t know why he craves you so much, but he knows that nothing else gives him the same high anymore.

So he keeps you.

It’s a heavy stormy night when he comes back the next time, and his room is only illuminated by a few candles and the lightening from outside. You’re in his large bed, looking as small as that day in the snow, and there is a touch of worry in your eyes that he doesn’t miss. But he ignores it.

“Undress,” he commands.

You rush to do as he says, throwing the faint fabric over your head. It falls to the ground as Sukuna walks towards the bed, his massive weight making it dip under his knee as he leans closer to you.

“My pretty little doll,” Sukuna muses. “Missed me?”

He always asks that. And your answer is always the same.

“So much, Sukuna.”

It’s more honest every time.

He hums, satisfied, and smirks as he pushes your hair away from your face. “I have something to tell you, and I think you will like it,” Sukuna says. You look at him with wide eyes as he settles over you, his four arms caging your body as you lay down. The mouth on his stomach open and closes, a large tongue coming out before it vanishes again — it always does it when he’s particularly excited. “Would you like to know what it is?”

You know he will tell you regardless. Like all the tales of his battles, he lives for the glimpse of horror in the back of your eyes. “Yes, Sukuna.”

“Seems like you are famous now,” he starts. You furrow your eyebrows. “Sorcerers are trying to save you. The poor little human girl that Sukuna took as a prisoner months ago.” He kisses your neck, then licks the skin. You shiver — months, it has been months then. “Two of them tried to enter my domain today, stupid little insects,” he continues. Another hand lands on your exposed breast, playing with your nipple. “You have no idea how enraged that made me, my little human. To have someone try to take you away from me; to try and to enter my domain and take you from me.”

His voice turns into a growl by the end of the sentence, and you feel the familiar pulse of terror running through your veins. He’s in a bad mood, that’s obvious, but there’s something hiding beneath that as well.

“What did you do to them?” You ask. “Did they get in?”

Sukuna chuckles darkly, and the hand that was on your breast now settles on your clit, massaging it softly. “I took care of them, my sweet thing, of course,” he says. Your breath hitches at the slow pleasure of his movements, and your eyes flutter shut. “No one will ever take you from me.”

“I don’t want to lose you,” you say without a thought. In your heart, you feel it’s wrong. But without him, you have nothing. “I’m yours forever, Sukuna.”

“I know you are,” he answers.

Sukuna holds you by the throat as he kisses you — not enough to suffocate you, but enough to make you a little dizzy. Your eyes cross mindlessly as his tongue invades your mouth; a deep groan coming from his chest as he tastes your lips. He always kisses you violently, possessively, like he wishes to suck your soul out of your chest. Beneath his size you can only shrink and hold onto his large biceps, the wetness between your legs growing as he takes what is his.

He pulls back, ignoring the string of saliva that connects you two. “Pretty little thing,” he muses, shoving his middle finger inside your mouth. “Suck for me.”

You do as he says and he smirks at the feeling of your pretty lips around his large finger. Soon enough, the same digit is invading your pussy, curling up so quickly that you see starts at your peripheral vision.

“Relax or it’ll hurt again,” he says — not like he cares about it. “I want you to remember tonight.”

“W-Why?”

“Because I’ll make sure that you’ll be mine forever,” he says, a devilish smile on the corners of his lips. “So no one can take you from me. No one would even try.”

Your breath is getting heavier, and you don’t even register what he’s telling you — he could do a billion things to you and you’d still let him. The time spent only in his company made your resolution vanish, and you became exactly what he wanted you to: another possession for him to do as he pleases. Because of him, you have nothing else. Besides him, you have nothing.

“You’re not cumming around my finger tonight,” he says and quickly removes his hand from your cunt. You whine at the sudden emptiness, walls spasming around nothing, but you know better than to protest. “It’s going to be around my cock, you got it?”

“Yes, Sukuna,” you say.

“Good girl,” he muses. His lower arms move to undo his pants as his mouth attacks yours once again. His sharp teeth drain blood from your lips and he groans at the metallic taste; drinks the little sob of pain you let out. “You’re all fucking mine. Forever,” he growls, “I’ll make you live forever with me.”

Months ago, that would be torture. But now, “It sounds like heaven, Sukuna,” you say. “I love you.”

Your vision falls to where his hands are working. His cock is massive, bigger than your forearm, balls swinging out of his shorts and falling heavy under his shaft. Your entire body tingles in anticipation as he strokes himself, aligning his cockhead with your opening. “Tiny fucking cunt,” he curses, rubbing it against your soaked folds. “I’ll train you to take my cock even better than now, kitten.” Your mouth falls open as he starts to push in and it hurts — no matter how many times you’ve taken him, it always burns. “Way too fucking tight for my fat cock, you know that?”

��I-I’m sorry, I’ll do better-“

He chuckles. “I fucking love it.”

In one strong motion, he shoves himself as deep as he can, pressing against your cervix as you whine at his size. It isn’t fair — it’s so thick you can’t even breathe, you can feel him in your stomach, pressing and pulsing until you can’t think of anything but the sheer size of his massive cock inside your poor little hole. Your walls hurt to accommodate his girth, stretching as far as they can, but it never seems like it’s enough.

“It’s t-too big, Sukuna,” you whine. And it is. You know he must be doing something to your body so you can even be alive right now, because it’s not humanly possible to take such a big cock. “I c-can’t…”

His hand lands on your head and pulls at the roots. “You are my special little human, my obedient little girl,” he reminds you. His cock throbs inside you and you whimper, the small movement alone makes you drool. “You will do anything I tell you to do.”

You nod. “Y-Yes.”

“So when I tell you to take it….” He rolls his hips even deeper and you call his name so loud that you’re sure the entire world will hear it. “You’ll fucking take it.”

You don’t even have the ability to answer as he starts to pound deep inside your soaked cunt, hard and violent, as he is. Your vision is blurry with tears as you look down to see his massive cock bullying itself again and again inside your cunt, taking everything you have to give.

“Look at me when I claim you,” Sukuna warns and you do it instantly. Your legs wrap around his hips and he squeezes your ass so hard it will bruise. There’s a malicious glint in his red eyes that never quite goes away, no matter how much he tries, and now it’s deadset on you. “My precious little girl,” he calls, voice strained with pleasure. You can tell from the way his cock throbs that he is close, but it doesn’t matter. He just keeps going. “You told me you love me. Do you only live for love, kitten?”

“I live f-for loving you, S-Sukuna,” you respond automatically. “I live for you.”

Sukuna groans like an animal — he adores what a stupid little fuckdoll he has turned you into. He can never get tired of this; he can never let it get away. “You’ll die for me, kitten?”

You nod so quickly you get dizzy. “Yes, a-anything… I’m yours f-forever.”

He calls your name like he has never done before, a little insane, a little sweet. If the sheer size of Sukuna’s genitals aren’t anything to go by, he cums a lot — it oozes out of your cunt before he’s even halfway through, cock throbbing and leaking again and again until you’re filled to the brim. His huge balls smack against your ass as he continues to bully himself inside you, a little more desperate now, intoxicated by his own pleasure.

There’s no rest, there never is. He only takes and takes.

“I’ll make you mine,” he groans.

“I’m yours, Sukuna, I’m yours…” you repeat like a broken record, half-aware of your own voice through the loud moans and hiccups. You watch in ecstasy as he uses one of his sharp nails to cut the palm of his hand, blood oozing out of it and dropping on your breasts. It’s like you know what he will say even before he says it. “You want me t-to-“

“Drink it.”

Perhaps you should be scared, but you’re not. Your mouth opens without a second thought and he presses his large palm on your lips, muffling your moans and allowing the hot dark liquid to invade your tongue. Sukuna’s blood is thick and it tastes like poison, but you do as he says, liking his flesh and drinking it until he seems satisfied and takes his hand away.

It strikes your body like an arrow, straight through your chest and expanding like deep roots. You feel as his blood burns your insides, changing something in your very existence. It’s hard to think through the sensations — the pleasure building up, the venom running through your veins, the mixture of devotion and fear that dances inside your mind. Your vision is double, black around the edges, and you think you might be cumming but you’re not sure you can even feel your body anymore. Sukuna’s voice echoes muffled in the background, and you can see his mouth moving in slow motion, but you don’t understand his words. You think you are crying. You think you can’t breathe. You think you are dying and being born at the same time and you don’t know why you feel so grateful for it all.

Your lungs are on fire and your throat is dry. You try to speak, but can’t. You have the vague flashback of the time your uncle made you drink alcohol, it burns just the same, but this time, no one is laughing. This time, you’re dying.

“… at me.”

This time, Sukuna’s voice rings sharp and clear. You stare at him, confused, as the flames inside your chest slowly subside.

“Keep looking at me,” he repeats, commanding.

You try to nod, but your head doesn’t move. You can’t see the room around you anymore. “H-Hurts,” you manage to get out.

“I know,” he says, and there’s a touch of softness in his voice you don’t ignore. “Focus on me. I’ll make it feel better.”

And that’s what you try to do, even if your soul seems to be floating miles above your body. You look down at where he is still moving in and out of you, at the white-coated mess that drips from your hole and soaks your inner thighs. It doesn’t seem to hurt as badly now, like your body is changing to accommodate him even better — in fact, it feels like heaven.

You look up at him, dumbfounded. “I t-think I’m going to cum, Sukuna,” the words come easier now, and you feel like you can move again. Though, it still feels like a dream. “It’s so g-good.”

“Cum on my fat cock, then, make me proud,” he coos. You close your eyes and nod, trying to focus on the paradise that blooms between your legs. You feel every ridge and vein of his massive cock; hear the lewd squelching sounds of his cum leaking out of you. It comes to you faster than you would have imagined, washing through your body like a wave as you cry and shake miserably. “That’s my girl, fuck, there we go, that’s my perfect little girl.”

The spasming of your walls manages to milk more cum out of him and he groans loudly as he releases inside you once more. Sukuna cums so much it makes you breathless, filling you again and again until he’s satisfied and the sheets beneath you have no salvation left.

“There we go, take everything,” he says in a strained groan, “every fucking drop inside this tight fucking cunt.”

Sukuna looks absolutely insane above you — fucking his cock so hard into you that it seems like he will never have the chance again; eyes blown wide and his teeth clenched. You cum again, this time a little softer, as you feel his thick cock shoot a specially large amount of cum inside your pussy, and wait until he’s done using your body.

Eventually, he settles, pressing his forehead against yours and looking deep inside your eyes. The redness in them is shining like flames, watching every movement of your face.

“Feels weird,” you say. “I feel dizzy.”

He chuckles and removes himself from you. Another white-hot wave gushes out of your cunt, and he sits back to watch it drip. “There we go, it wasn’t so bad, was it?”

You swallow, your tongue is still numb inside your mouth. “It was horrible, Sukuna. I felt like I was going to die.”

Sukuna smiles and uses two fingers to push some of his cum back inside you. “I can promise you it was better than when I did,” he says, and you’re confused for a moment. “But now we don’t have anything to worry about anymore, my sweet thing. Those pathetic little sorcerers won’t want you.”

“H-How are you so sure?” You ask.

“Aw, my sweet, stupid little girl.” He pouts, condescending as always. “No one will want to save a curse now.”

Your eyes widen. “Did you…?”

“I told you.” Sukuna licks his own blood at the corner of your mouth. “You are mine forever.”

[b00kdiary]

Stay With Me | Rhysand

Rhysand x Reader

Rhysand reappears at the cabin four hours after he had gone on a mission- wounded and bleeding. Y/N has no choice but to help him, even if it means yanking out every ash arrow embedded in his wings by hand. But something Cassian once told her makes her re-think the line between pleasure and pain, and she will do anything to make it better for her High Lord.

‘Cassian said that the talon holds the most nerve endings, does that make it the most delicate to touch?’

Warnings: Mature themes (18+), swearing, body-image thoughts, blood and gore, and smut (Hint: Wing play)

MASTERLIST - 1 and 2

PART TWO

PART THREE

I couldn't stop pacing.

That's what I did when I was nervous, and on edge- I paced. Back and forth, back and forth, again and again, until I wore through the carpet and my entire body was thrumming with dread.

It had been four hours.

Four hours since Rhysand left to track those Hybern soldiers through the forest, hoping to be led back to their camp. For several weeks we've been dealing with Hybern forces infiltrating our land and yet we had no idea what they were planning.

It was the unknown that had made Rhysand go out tonight.

I had insisted I come, to help, to watch his back, something- but with the heavy snow and rain, he had been adamant that it would be easier to fly alone. Though I knew it was an excuse to keep me here, safe, and unharmed, while he was out there risking his life.

And now he was missing.

Four hours of silence and I was starting to feel violently sick with worry. I contemplated leaving the cabin, trekking on foot through the forest in search of him, but with the weather so furious and the fact he had been flying not walking, I knew it would be futile.

And Rhysand would kill me if he knew I had gone after him, especially when he had specifically instructed me to stay here.

"Stupid, arrogant High Lord," I cursed under my breath and despite the log fire crackling before me and the layers I wore, I still shivered from the brutal cut of the cold wind. My heart seized at the thought of Rhys out there in the brunt of it.

Hybern soldiers were ruthless and their hatred of the Night Court, of Rhysand was known. They could do anything to him; ash arrows, Faebane, dark magic, and Mother only knows what other weapons they have we don't know about.

"If he thinks I'm going to sit here like some kind of damsel," I scowl, my hands shaking as I yank on my discarded sword belt and daggers, "Then he is a bigger idiot than I thought possible."

I try and let my anger bubble over and overtake my fear as I make my way toward the heavy wood door, the sound of the whistling wind and perilous skies getting louder the closer I get to it. I'm trembling as I grip the handle, yanking it open with effort, the hinges stiff with the cold.

I stumble back a step at the sight of a tall male slumped against the door pane- blood pooled around his feet, stark against the white snow.

"Rhysand!"

All thoughts eddy from my head at the sight of him- his skin pale and dull, his midnight hair in disarray, his armour torn and filthy, and an agonised grimace lining his lips. A groan slips from him when my hands come to his chest, and my stomach turns at the warm blood that coats my palms.

"Cauldron, Rhys," I gasp, my throat closing as I stumble back into the cabin, his body weight half-leaning on me and every step he takes is slow and staggered, his face twisting as I guided him back with me. "What happened?"

"Hybern soldiers are assholes," Rhys grits out, a rough laugh slipping past his lips, but the sweet sound soon melts into a pained hiss when I turn so I can slam the door shut behind us- and I see why he's bleeding so goddamn much.

"Rhy- Rhys," I stutter, my fingers tightening into his suit, his muscles rippling under my touch, every breath he takes deeper and faster than the last. "The arrows, holy shit, there's so many-"

Five.

He had five arrows embedded into his back and wings.

"Really? I didn't notice," He grins, his heavy head lifting and those violet eyes meeting mine- though upon seeing the ire and worry on my face, that grin falters, "Hey, c'mon don't look at me like that, I'm alright-"

He sucks in a sharp breath of air, his eyes screwing shut when I begin to move back toward the sofa and I try not to let my body lock up when his hands fall to my waist and hips, long, ringed fingers digging into my flesh for leverage.

"Huh, I knew you wouldn't listen to me," He scoffs out a laugh, half-amused, half-breathless and my face burns with heat when he runs his hands idly down my sides, grazing pointedly over my sword belt and daggers. "You know it's an offence to disobey your High Lord, right?"

"Well since you're wounded and I'm the only one here to help," I grit out sardonically, ignoring how close his face is to mine as I guide his front down onto the sofa, careful not to touch his wings as I move behind him, "I'm sure you'll find a way to forgive me."

I frown at the amount of blood seeping out from his wounds, and I can feel how rigid his body is under my palms- he always was good at hiding his true emotions, masking his pain with an arrogant smile, or teasing words.

My breathing is shallow as I climb onto the sofa behind him, my soft thighs brushing his strong ones and my heart racing as I settle on my knees. His wings are limp on either side of him, one drooping down to the floor and the other sprawled over the cushions.

"You need to rip them out, darling," Rhys muses gently from under me and as if sensing my worry, his voice has lost all sense of humour. "No need to be gentle, I'm a big boy, I can take it."

"We both know you're a big Illyrian baby, Rhys," I tease, though my voice is strained and when he shifts his head sideways, looking over his wide shoulders at me, I see the small smile tilting his lips too.

I swallow the lump in my throat, shifting forward and placing a trembling hand on his back. To the arrow embedded at the junction of his wing and spine.

His hand slips back and curls around my thigh, fingers sprawling around the flesh and digging in as if he were bracing himself. The touch is distracting but I focus on my fingers wrapping around the arrow, a few inches from the entry point- and I hate how Rhysand's body flinches at the soft touch.

"Come on, darling," Rhysand sighs, his grip tightening around my thigh as I release a long breath, "Amren's going to kill me if I get any more blood on these cushions-"

I rip it out mid-sentence- and Rhysand's whole body jolts as I tear the arrow free from his flesh, a grunt of pain muffling into the leather beneath him.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," I whimper, my hand clamping down and applying pressure on the wound, the arrow discarded on the floor beside us. Rhysand trembles under me, his jaw locked so tight I can hear his teeth gritting together, "Shit Rhys, I'm sorry."

"It's- it's okay, it's okay," He pants, and I watch his face from the side, seeing him get paler and paler. He squeezes against my thigh, once, twice, and his eyes blink open, those violet eyes dark. "Keep going darling, you're doing so good, keep-keep going for me."

I feel the familiar burn of tears in my eyes as I lean forward, my fingers slippery with blood and gore as I curl my hold around the second arrow, this one just barely stuck near the very bottom of the left wing.

Ash arrows were notoriously dangerous, known for splintering within the flesh, one wrong move and Rhys would have pieces of the wood stuck in his wings and those would be near impossible for me to remove on my own.

I grit my teeth and pull, swift and brazen, not giving him or me a second to think about it. Again, Rhysand grunts, body viscerally jumping but he seems to bear the pain better the second time, his thighs clenching around mine for support.

"Forget what I said, I was wrong," I clear my throat, trying to force some ease and comfort into my tone as I run my hand up the muscles of Rhysand's back and I feel relief when he sighs, his body melting into my touch. "You're not a big Illyrian baby, you're a tough, strong male."

"What finally convinced you? The very manly way my body is shaking right now?" He released a long exhale, his mouth tugging into a smile and I can't help but laugh when his eyes glance back to meet mine. "Or the groans that keep slipping out no matter how hard I try to contain them?"

I laugh softly, my blood-stained hands running across the planes of Rhysand’s shoulders and back, the pad of my thumbs and forefingers circling around the stiff muscles, trying to get him to relax. He sighs, and his hand pulls against my thigh coaxing me higher up his body, closer than before.

"Nothing wrong with being vocal, Rhys, I would have thought five hundred years of existence would have taught you that," I run my finger across the membrane of his wing, feeling the soft, leathery texture as I move to the next arrow. "Females love to hear how you feel."

"Cruel, wicked thing," Rhysand mumbled, his breath hitching at the tender touch I grazed over his wings, and it was a very different sound to before. "You're enjoying this, aren't you? Having me at your mercy."

I wrap my hand around the arrow stuck in the middle of his wing and his body tenses- knowing what was waiting. I frown, hating that he is in pain and unconsciously, my left hand moves to his other wing, and he gasps, eyes widening when I run the pad of my thumb over the talon at the tip- a spot I knew was sensitive.

I tear the arrow out of the right wing with one hand, while my other rakes down the curve of his left wing, my nails scratching softly against the tender flesh there. Rhysand groans, louder this time, and it's a sound that I feel through my body.

"Are you- are you trying to make it feel better, darling?" He asks quietly, his breaths loud in the silent room and his hand at my thigh caressing, his thumb swiping soothingly back and forth.

"Yes," I reply, equally as soft, and my heart is racing as I edge closer, my core and ass settling over one of his burning hot thighs. "Is it working?"

"Yes," He swallows, an audible sound and I see his Adam's apple bobble, his tongue flicking out to wet his lips as I reach for the fourth arrow. "Yes, it is, don't- don't stop." There's a slight tremor in his voice, a neediness that makes my head spin.

His body vibrates under me, but for a completely different reason now and it seems the more my idle hands wander curiously over the dancing veins and soft membranes of his wings, the less control he has over himself.

"Cassian said that the talon holds the most nerve endings, does that make it the most delicate to touch?" My voice is hoarse, and I ignore the sweat coating my skin and heat burning through me as I grab around the arrow, my shoulders bracing for the strength needed for this pull.

"Why are you and Cassian talking about the most sensitive parts of a male's wings?" He grits out, his thigh muscle tensing, and I feel it brush against my centre- wet and aching with need. A smile tugs at my lips at the darkness in his tone, that smile broadening when his wing twitches violently against my fingers.

"He also said that males can like having their wings touched during sex and that a brush against the right spot can make you climax, is that true?" His nails dig into my thigh at my whispered words, a moan slipping past his lips when I grip around the talon with a firm hold.

This time when I rip the arrow free, he doesn't feel the pain- too consumed and dizzy with pleasure.

"You're killing me, Y/N," Rhys chuckles, his body shaking with the laugh, a sound that travels through the air and over my skin like a phantom touch. I circle the heel of my palms into his shoulder blades, massaging out the tension and Rhys moans appreciatively, a low rumbling sound from deep in his chest.

"Only one left, Rhys," I say encouragingly, and he mutters incoherently in agreement as I lean forward, the last arrow embedded in his upper back- much deeper than the rest. I frown, rising onto my knees, already missing the strength and heat of his thigh between my legs. "This one's gone all the way through, I'm going to have to dig it out the other side."

"Just when I thought this couldn't get any more fun," Rhys jeers, his hand grazing along my thigh as I sit up as if needing my touch as reassurance.

My eyes narrow at his remark and suddenly the blood and the arrows and his pained face hold no bearing with me, the sympathy vanishes- replaced by the anger that had me ready to march out into a storm to look for him.

"That's what happens when you go chasing the enemy with no backup," I mutter stiffly, and this time when I grab the arrow, I don't give Rhys any satisfaction or comfort- no, I break the arrow in two with an easy snap of the wrist, dropping the fragmented piece to the floor with a clink.

He winces, and when I hover above him, his head turns to look at me, a sheepish smile on his handsome face.

"I take it you're still upset with me then, darling," Rhys muses and the ting of humour in his words makes me scowl, my touch no longer soft or soothing, my body no longer enjoying the hard, perfect feel of him.

“Turn around,” I order, dismissing him as I rise from him and onto my feet. His hand reaches for me, trying to grab me, a yearning in his touch, but I move away from him stiffly. “I need to dig out the arrow from the front.”

He purses his lips at my cold words, and I almost feel bad for him when he hisses in pain, his muscular, lean body so frail as he rolls onto his back, his sore wings moving slow and deliberately, barely able to lift higher than his shoulders before sagging back down again.

“Y/N,” Rhys sighs, a deep frown tugging at his lips as he drops his head against the armrest. I stare at him in silence, seeing him splayed out before me, chest rising and falling in harsh waves and those violet constellations unwavering upon me.

"You could have been killed, Rhysand," I grit out, and I hate the tears I feel prickling my eyes as I stare at him, at the blood coating my hands, and the sofa and the floor, the wound puncturing through his left pectoral. "If you don't trust me to have your back-"

"Don't say that, never say that" He rises faster than I can protest, and my hands shoot up to stop him, but he doesn't relent, his face harsh with discomfort but his eyes burn with determination as he sits up. "I trust you more than anyone, more than myself, don't ever think that Y/N."

"Alright, okay Rhys," I sigh, shaking my head and my hands are weak as I place them on his solid shoulders, trying to guide him to lay back down. His eyes never once leave mine and I can see the hurt in them- that I would even think such a thing. "I'm sorry, just lay down, you're still hurt."

His face tightens severely, and he looks so at odds with the male known for his easy smiles and bright stary eyes- but he obliges me as I guide him back down. His hands curve up my thighs and rest on my hips, and he doesn’t speak as he yanks me down, dragging me so that I straddle his waist.

“Rhys-“ I suck in a sharp breath when he settles me, forcing my weight to sit atop him, my thighs clamped around his hips, my core settled just under his belly button and his calloused hands kneading the flesh at my sides.

"I told you to stay here because I couldn't bear the thought of anything happening to you," He whispers, eyes unbearably soft, and his touch igniting something hot in me, "If they did something to you if you got hurt... I don't know what I would do, Y/N."

I swallow the lump in my throat, my heart hammering in my chest as I bring my hands forward to the front of his leathers, my fingers stumbling as I unbuckle the belts and slip off the buttons one by one, revealing the acres of tan skin and the dark whorls painted across his chest.

I gnaw on my cheek as I tug back the shirt, Rhysand silently watching every action, every breath I take, and my face falls at the wound leaking blood above his left pectoral, the arrowhead peeking through the gore.

“And what if something worse than this happened to you?" I whisper, my voice hoarse with emotion and when my eyes meet Rhysand’s again, his face tightens at the tears in my eyes, “What do you think I would do? How would I be able to live with it?"

“I’m sorry, Y/N,” Rhysand swallows thickly and I watch as he grits his teeth, his body pulsing when I run my fingers over the wound, gauging how deep I have to feel, how best to remove the arrow in one piece.

“I need to dig it out with my fingers to get it to the surface first,” I clear my throat, ignoring the thick prolonged silence and taut tension between us, “It’s going to hurt, badly.”

“I know,” He locks his jaw, the strong angle sharp and I see the grim anticipation on his face when I move my index finger and thumb into position over the exit point. But without speaking, I move my body, lower, until my core settles over the front of his breeches- over his long, hard length.

“Y/N, you don’t have to-“ His breath hitches at the contact, his violet eyes widening and latching onto mine in surprise.

“I want to,” I whisper, need spreading through me at the feel of him under me, the smell of his arousal and mine wafting through the air, making me dizzy. “I’m trying to make it feel better, remember?”

I roll my hips, ever so slightly, and the electricity that shocks through my clit at the contact makes me gasp. Rhysand grunts, a low, heady sound, and the way he lifts his hips up to dig his cock into me is almost desperate.

“Cauldron,” He curses as I dig my fingers into his wound, the metal sharp and hot against my fingertips as I try and get leverage around it. His face twists but when I rock my hips again, dragging down his length, his pain dissolves into something carnal. “Cauldron, Y/N-“

“There we go,” I whisper, my fingers gripping around the arrowhead firmly, twisting it a few inches higher so that it protrudes out of his chest. I bite my lip to contain any sounds as I rut against him, my underwear and trousers soaked through, seeping into Rhysand’s slacks, making it easier to rub over his twitching length. “I’ve got it!”

He moans- the most erotic, lewd sound rumbles from him, low and loud, echoing through the room. I pant as he runs his hands over my body, over my thighs and hips and waist, kneading my stomach and love handles, before settling over my ass.

His nails carve crescent moons into the flesh as he palms me, the control he was so used to wielding in the bedroom not dwindling as he guided me back and forth faster and harder against him.

"This is the best pain I've ever felt, darling," Rhysand purrs, his voice like melted chocolate against my senses and the fire burning between my legs fans at his words. I lean forward, my breasts brushing his chest and my stomach settling against his- and I run my free hand over his sprawled wings.

"I'm going to pull it out now, yeah?" I mumble against his cheek, and I know his head is spinning, the pain and pleasure so at odds, so damning that his canines flash at me, his fingers bruising against my ass and his hips jolting up violently to meet mine.

“Do it, daring,” He commands, the role of the High Lord imprinted into him no matter the situation and almost as if it were programmed in me to obey, I kiss his cheek tenderly- and yank the arrowhead free in one go. “Shit, shit-“

I drag my centre over the tip of his cock, rolling my hips in fast, sharp strokes and Rhysand crumbles at the action- his eyes screw shut, his body stills like stone, and the filthiest, rawest cry tears from his lips, louder and fragmented when I rub at the tip of his talon with my palm.

I whimper at the feel of every hard inch of him cemented against me, the warmth of his hot seed leaking out and soaking his slacks, mixing our arousals, getting messier the more I rub against him.

“Y/N,” He moans my name into the crook of my neck, his teeth scraping against my pule point and his hands curling around my ass, forcing my hips to stop. Instead, he clamps my body flush to his, my tits pressed to his chest, my face buried in his soft hair, and I feel his cock pulsing and tremoring hard against me as he rides out his orgasm.

I feel Rhysand laugh roughly against my neck, the sound of his ragged breathing and the erratic rise and fall of his muscular chest against me making me sigh. His hands don’t loosen, in fact, they get tighter, guiding me until I’m laying flat, his arms wrapping over me and keeping me to his chest.

He was holding me like he didn’t want to let go.

There’s a long silence as I lay with him, our bodies melting together and his touch unrelenting upon me, holding onto my flesh for dear life, feeling me against him and sighing at the comfort. His breathing starts to deepen, turning heavy and I blink, shifting to move my weight off him.

“Don’t,” He grumbles, his arms drawing me back to his chest, a deep groan escaping him as he shifts so that my body slips between the gap of the sofa and his side. His eyes flutter closed again, and I watch his face ease into serenity as I lay my cheek against his shoulder.

“Stay with me.”

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

@mis-lil-red @hyemishii @assaultsofthought @starswholistenanddreamsanswered @satellitesunshine @queenofangrymoths @highlady-ofillyria @ladespedidas @magical-mischief-makers @lyracarvahall @ummmmmwat @eerievixen @bitchyinternetinfluencer @meritxellao @rachelnicolee @fanfictioniseverything @queen-of-arda @magdalenka @bunnymallowo @azzydaddy @fanboyluvr @maddithefangirl @jeannineee @fakelust @whatthefuckshappeningrn @honeycriess @cheneyq @brujitafantomatico

A/N:

Comment to be added to the tag-list >3

Should I make a part two??? part two here

[ellevandersneed]

How would you attack and kill God?

I'm not sure. I'm not the first to have this idea but it's interesting to note how differently jesus is depicted around the world, how many sects of christianity there are. If I kill one god, will another one just fill its place? Will it grow back like the hydras heads? If I cut god in twain and someone is there to watch, will they take their little rusted goblet and dip it into his pooling blood? Will they water their stomachs with it or nourish a little seed in their garden. Will the tree that blooms grow up to be the new god? I don't like the idea of cutting down a tree unless for some reason I'd need to. Will god become the fire if I burn the wood from that tree? Do I want god to become as powerful as fire? Will each spark that flies out be a new god? Wil I get to watch a hundred thousand gods be born and die while I poke thru the ashes for coals? If you drink gods blood do you become a god or do you just live forever or does it just give you indigestion. God might be more of an idea and those things are fucking hard to kill. How much of this god guy is in me? How much of this god guy is in my brain telling me what is right and wrong? Is the house that I call me really free of mold just because I can't see it anymore? I don't know how to kill god just as well as I don't know how to get the mold out of my house. Can I turn god into penicillin

[flowerandblood]

The Impossible Choice (24)

[ Aemond • Targaryen x Baratheon! • female ]

[ warnings: sex content, smut, angst, violence, domination ]

[description: Aemond comes to Storm’s End to choose his future consort. However, Lord Borros Baratheon presents him with only four of his five daughters. Being attached to his youngest child, he does not want to marry her. The prince, however, thwarts his and her plans with his decision. This is slow burn, with a lot of dark angst and sexual tension. (Anon Request)]

* English is not my first language. Please, do not repost. Enjoy! *

Previous and next chapters: Masterlist

______

As he left King's Landing his heart was breaking − he left his wife a letter with words of repentance and a request that she pray for him while he was away.

He could not forgive himself for what he had said to her and for abandoning her, leaving her with his brother. He told his mother to guard her and not let Aegon touch her, but he knew that his brother was now insane.

They arrived in Harrenhal after two days; plunged into his own gloom and desperation, he burned everything he saw in his path, not caring whether he was burning warriors and knights or ordinary folk.

All that was left of it was ashes.

He wanted to deal with the uprising as quickly as possible.

He condemned those who remained to death − children, mothers, husbands, old men, one by one. He watched as they walked in columns to the scaffold, weeping and wailing.

He felt nothing.

He was a fire and burned everything in its path.

At the very end, however, a woman remained.

She stood before him in her servant's attire − her raven black hair and piercing green eyes making her look downright dangerous, demonic. She did not lower her gaze, standing before him.

There was something about her that intrigued him.

There was a darkness in her similar to his own.

One of the captains dared to approach him and whispered in his ear:

"This is the Witch of Harrenhal, my Prince. Alys Rivers. Rumour has it that she murdered her own mother and is the bastard child of the Lord Strong. She can supposedly see the future and can heal." The man said and he raised an eyebrow.

He looked around, seeing his men lying on cloths with no hands, no eyes, with cuts and wounds, moaning in agony.

He couldn't kill a medic.

"Take her inside and guard her like a prisoner. She is to treat our warriors day and night." He said dispassionately, turning away, heading towards the fortress.

Several troops of the Princess's henchmen hid in the nearby woods, attacking them every night − despite him burning this area again and again, they still managed to protect themselves, coming out at night like rats.

The battles was prolonging, and he was already losing patience.

He spent most of the time alone in his chamber − his wife had not sent any letter to him and he feared that this was a bad omen. He guessed that she still did not want to speak to him, that she had not forgiven him.

He squeezed his eye shut at that thought, grabbing at his eye patch, feeling a burning, powerful pain pass through him − without his maester at his side, his sapphire was rubbing his skin, creating small bleeding wounds in his eye socket.

He shuddered when he heard a knock on the door of his chamber and looked towards it from the map that he had just been looking at.

"Come in." He said dryly.

He furrowed his brow as the woman, the bastard child of the Lord Strong, at least ten years older than him, walked inside.

She held a vessel of ointment in her hand.

She bowed before him meekly, her scent reaching his nostrils, a mixture of herbs and something else that he could not identify.

He knew she was a wet nurse, her breasts were full with milk, hidden just beneath her thin green shirt, her curves feminine, pleasing to the eye.

He pressed his lips together, feeling lust at the thought.

The lack of closeness to his wife for so long made it impossible for him to turn his attention away from such details.

"I have brought an ointment to apply to your eye, Your Grace. One of the guards conveyed me you were in pain." She said softly, her tone low, mysterious, filled with promise, something dangerous burning in her green eyes.

He thought she was made of fire, just like him.

He wasn't sure if he should agree, but the discomfort and pain he felt were unbearable.

He slipped his eye patch off his head, looking at her expectantly, curious about her reaction − the woman approached him slowly, placing the vessel on the table. She leaned over him, his gaze again involuntarily escaping to her breasts.

He saw that she smiled with the corner of her mouth and he realised that she was teasing him; the thought aroused and frustrated him at the same time.

Alys Rivers did not even flinch at the sight of his empty eye socket − she gently removed his sapphire eye and placed it on the cloth that she had earlier spread out on the table. She put the ointment on her finger and began to spread it gently on the sore skin of his eyesocket.

He realised that he had longed for that touch.

Her touch would be different, he thought.

Her hands would be smaller, her fingers longer; her lips would not curve in a lustful, confident smile, her eyes would be filled with attention and care.

She would have smelled of flowery, fresh oils.

She would be focused on her assignment, her warm breath would envelope his face − he would grasp her soft, plump breast in his hand, peeking through from under her thin nightgown, and she would giggle sweetly, asking him to let her do her task properly.

He would draw her onto his lap with impatient gesture, let her feel how much he craved her, and she would blush surely, speaking affectionately about how impatient her husband was.

He felt like crying at the thought.

Everything about his daily life was marked by her presence.

And now she was not by his side.

He shuddered when the woman's touch snapped him out of his reverie and he felt her hand on his palm − he took his hand from hers, looking away, filled with lust and desire, but no longer because of her.

If he didn't have a wife, he would have told her to stay, to be comforted, to experience at least a moment of solace.

But now, if he did, one important detail would frustrate him.

She wasn't her.

"You may leave." He said dryly, no longer bestowing his stare on her.

"I could give you an heir, Your Grace." She said, and he felt a shiver run down the back of his neck.

He looked at her, shocked by her words − she stood over him, a calm, sensual smile on her face.

She would give him an offspring.

A bastard child.

One like Jace, Luke and Joffrey.

One just like her.

Insolent whore.

"You may leave." He hissed, looking at her impatiently.

Alys took his words with surprising calmness.

"Your Grace." She said softly, bowing to him and turning away, heading towards the door in an unhurried motion, closing it behind her.

He sighed heavily, running his hand over his face, realising that he was on the verge of doing something that he would deeply regret.

Being separated from his wife for so long was affecting him worse and worse, the weight of his sins crushing him more and more.

He needed consolation.

He placed the precious stone in his eye socket again, but no longer put on his eye patch; he took the parchment and quill and wrote a message, which he rolled up. He called out to his servant, tying up the letter and gave it to him, telling him to send it immediately to King's Landing directly to his wife.

He wrote just one sentence inside.

Join me in Harrenhal.

He had been waiting impatiently ever since, elated at his own decision − he wasn't sure if Aegon would agree to her leaving, or if he would want to keep her in the Red Keep.

He felt uneasy at the very thought that his brother might have wanted to claim her for himself.

What frightened him the most, however, was the thought that his wife would not want to see him at all.

That she still hadn't forgiven him for his cruel words.

That he would never get her back.

When he didn't receive any message from her after a few days he became afraid − he avoided Alys like a fire, yet she appeared where he was like a shadow.

He felt as if she was a reflection of him, his animal brutality, all his primal desires.

He felt that just as in the presence of his wife he was regaining consciousness and peace of mind, with this woman he was getting closer and closer to madness, his heart as black as her hair.

He knew that she desired him and there was something about her that attracted him too − a need to self-destruct, to destroy himself and everything in his path.

He prayed every night to the Seven Gods for his wife to arrive, to save him, to light up the darkness of his mind.

The only thing that kept him from thinking he was mad was his faithfulness.

He was faithful to his family.

He was faithful to his wife.

He fucked himself with hand almost every night, seeking fulfilment, imagining that it was her soft fingers and lips touching him, that she had returned to him, that she forgave him.

That she loved him.

Completely immersed in his thoughts, he could no longer even focus on what Cole was saying to him at the daily councils − he fought strenuously against the desire to fly to King's Landing.

One night he was awakened from a restless sleep by a knock on the door − a servant walked into his chamber saying that a woman claiming to be his wife was waiting downstairs in the main hall.

He had never dressed so quickly before, not even allowing himself to be helped by a servant − he left his chamber, running down the cold stone stairs, full of desire and hope, praying that it was true.

He saw in the dim light of the torch a small figure dressed in a travelling attire − a simple grey cloak, white shirt, a black corset and breeches. He froze, stopping in place − she heard his footsteps as she turned immediately, her face pale and terrified.

Her eyes wide in fear, her braided hair wet with rain, her cheeks flushed with emotion, her sweet lips parted at the sight of him.

It was her.

She looked just as she had when he first saw her in Storm's End.

Pulsating with life, delicate, soft, warm.

His.

She had arrived.

She had forgiven him.

His wife.

He looked at her face, not knowing how she would react to seeing him, but she smiled so wonderfully, that he felt his face contort in pain and relief.

She ran towards him and he threw himself at her, grasping her in his arms, pressing his yearning lips, throbbing with desire to hers with a low moan of despair and relief.

He pushed her aggressively towards the wall, making her take a couple steps back, clamping his hand on her soft hair. They panted into each other's mouths, kissing greedily, sucking and brushing each other's puffy lips with a sticky click, his fingers nimbly untying her corset, spreading it apart. He took a firm hold of her soft breast covered by her thin shirt and they both made a sound of delight.

He paid no attention to the fact that all around them were guards and servants who didn't know where to look.

Let them watch, he thought.

Let Alys Rivers look at what she was trying to win with.

Let them know what happens when fire and water come together.

"− get out − all of you −" He commanded in a low voice hoarse with desire, kissing and sucking her long neck, her hands clenched in his hair, as her fingers traveled down his back, holding him close.

He needed to feel her, right now, right here.

The guards and servants obediently left the hall, followed by a silence broken only by their panting and moans. Their fingers quickly began to untie their breeches, impatiently trying to deal with the material that stood in their way.

"− forgive me − I didn't mean a word − I swear −" He exhaled, caressing her with his swollen, moist lips, her hot cheeks, her long neck, unable to decide what he wanted to feel more, what he longed for more, her scent filling his lungs like the freshest night air.

"− forgive me, my sweetest − it's all well now −" He said in a voice trembling with despair and desire, lifting her up in his arms, pressing her against the cold stone wall.

She sobbed loudly as the pink, swollen head of his cock forced it's way between her fleshy, slick folds, her legs entwined around his waist, her hands clenched in his hair. She pulled off his eye patch, kissing his forehead and he groaned low, his hips with sure thrust sinked deep into her yearning, hot walls, so wet and tight for him, sticky with her moisture, welcoming him home.

"− I know − I'm here −" He panted into her ear, resting his forehead against the wall, her hands sliding down to his buttocks, clenching her fingers on his skin, seeking her own fulfilment, her whining echoing around the room as he slammed into her again and again, spreading her wide on his fat, throbbing cock.

"− don't leave me − ah − please, don't send me back −" She mumbled, her head tilted back, her breasts wonderfully bare before him − his lips grasped her nipple and began to suck on it greedily, drawing a wonderfully sweet moan of pleasure from her chest, their bodies bumping against each other with a lewd, wet slaps.

"− never −" He exhaled loudly, speeding up his pace, rooting into her so brutally and quickly that he felt like they were both almost screaming, hot and sweaty, so close to their peak.

"− I'm going to fuck you all night − tonight − tomorrow − fuck − the day after tomorrow − do you understand? −" He hissed in her ear, pounding into her with all strength he had in his hips, his fingers clenched painfully tight on her buttocks, her fleshy, slick insides clenching against him, making him groan with pleasure.

"− yes − please − please − please, fill me −" She sobbed helplessly and he hugged his face to her cheek, feeling he was about to cry out with happiness, praying it wasn't a dream, moaning helplessly along with her, his hips slamming into her with deep, sure, desperate thrusts.

"− g-gods − yes − please − ah! −" She mewled, tilting her head back, startled by the wonderful, powerful fulfillment that ran through her body like a storm, her loins trembling in convulsions, the sound of his name rushing out of her mouth like a whimper again and again.

"− that's it − your husband is close −" He whispered tenderly into her ear and clenched his eye with a low, helpless groan when he felt his hot spend finally spill inside her again, relaxing him so wonderfully, giving him pleasure from which he felt like he was about to faint.

He fell to his knees with her, and she squealed loudly, locked in his embrace, panting with him − they sat like that on the floor, shocked at how intense the closeness was.

They both swallowed loudly, breathing heavily, his face snuggled into her neck, inhaling her scent, filling his lungs wonderfully.

He thought that he could fall asleep with her like this on this uncomfortably cold stone floor if she wanted him to.

Her presence was enough for him.

He decided, however, that he would take pity on her.

He had plans for her.

"− we will finish in my chamber −"

_____

Aemond Taglist:

(bold means I couldn't tag you)

@its-actually-minicika @notnormalthings-blog @nikstrange @zenka69 @bellaisasleep @k-y-r-a-1 @g-cf2020 @melsunshine @opheliaas-stuff @chainsawsangel @iiamthehybrid @tinykryptonitewerewolf @namoreno @malfoytargaryen @qyburnsghost @aemondsdelight @persephonerinyes @fan-goddess @sweethoneyblossom1 @watercolorskyy @astral-blossoms @randomdragonfires @amirawritespoorly @apollonshootafar @padfooteyes @darylandbethfanforever9 @fudge13 @snh96 @diosademuerte @rwdkarla @echos-muses @ipostwhtifeel @letmeloveyouuuu @yentroucnagol @valeskafics @tempt-ress @blairfox4 @crazymusicgirl104 @ahristata @menaosama @ladywin17

[nameless-ken]

Carol noticing Daryl totally getting soft for the reader, falling in love. Merle teases Daryl for obviously “not being man enough” but reader is the perfect sweetness in his bitter life. Slowly, the whole group notices his soft spot, and playfully tease him.

warnings: Fluff & Angst <3

words: 1.5K

requests

masterlist

hope you like this one!!

We all knew he liked her long before he even realized himself. Before he ever spoke a word about his feelings. It was in the eyes, the way he looked at her and watched her when she wasn’t looking. To him, she was like the first drop of rain in the summer heat or the first flower bud on his favorite rose bush that he meticulously always cares for. It was obvious to all of us. That spark in his eyes when she spoke such kind words, the ones he’s been waiting for his whole life. Of course we laughed and teased him but deep down, that’s the one thing in this new world that all of us are looking for, hoping for. 

“She changed her hair today.” Daryl jumps slightly from Carol’s sudden voice next to him. 

“Huh.” Daryl grunts, quickly reverting his eyes to the bow in his hand as he continues to clean it. 

“You should see if she needs help.” 

“She’s capable on her own.” Daryl looks at you again, stacking logs in the ashes of last night's fire, getting everything ready for another night. 

“Yeah, you’re right. She always has your eyes following her anyways.” Carol smirks, nudging his shoulder. 

“I don’t follow her everywhere.”

“If that’s your story, I would offer soon or else she might think it’s creepy.” Carol jokes and walks away to help Lori. 

You situate the logs in the firepit and grab your basket, hoping today will be a day you can forge anything in the woods. You turn to let someone know where you’re heading and your eyes meet Daryl’s. 

You smile kindly and he almost harshly looks away. You know he doesn’t mean harm but you can’t help but feel quite lost when it comes to your relationship with Daryl. You’ve always tried to speak to him with kind, soft words but he rarely ever returns anything but a grunt or a nod. 

“Hey there sweetcheeks. How about you take a break and let’s go have some fun?” Merle appears behind you. You freeze, clutching the basket to the front of your body. 

“What’d you say? A pretty thing like you could use some ruining.” You feel him grab your braid and slightly pull it. 

“Merle, leave the girl alone.” Your body jumps and turns at the sound of Daryl’s loud voice, almost in shock. You’ve only heard Daryl shout a few times with Shane. 

“Stay out of this brotha.” Merle closes in on you again. 

“Merle,” You’re suddenly pulled back by your arm, behind Daryl. “You know the rules.” 

“Well look at you little brother. All pussywhipped and shit. I’ve noticed what’s been going on here for quite a while now, actually everyone has.” 

“What the hell are you talking about?” Daryl snarks. 

“You can’t even be man enough to speak the truth. You’ve always been weak, especially when we were kids. Not surprised anything has changed.”

“Why do you always have to be such a dick all the time?” You step out from behind Daryl, hating the way Merle always speaks to him. 

“See, even got your bitch to stand up for you.” You take a glance at Daryl, shoulders stiff and fists clenched. “You’ve never been able to stand up for yourself little brother even all those times dear old dad was beatin up on you.” Merle chuckles slightly and before you realize, Daryl rushes towards Merle, landing his fist to his face. 

“You son of a bitch.” Merle moans, throwing a punch, hitting Daryl in the mouth. 

You stand there in shock as they wrestle on the ground, punch after punch, until Rick and Shane are pulling them apart. Everyone gathers in a circle, hands over mouths and whispers swirling. 

“Y/N, what happened?” Carol asks once everyone dismisses and Shane takes Merle off. You glance at Daryl, huffing and pacing as Rick is trying to talk to him. 

“Uh, usual Merle.” You catch her eyeline and shrug your shoulders. 

“You’re made for each other, you know.” Your eyebrows scrunch in confusion, not understanding her words. 

“We barely know each other.” 

“I know how closed off Daryl can be, trust me, but I’ve never known a single person with a bigger heart. I’ve started to believe that in this new world we’re in, we don’t have the luxury of waiting and he hasn’t come to realize that yet but I think you have.” 

“How do you tell someone you barely know that you love them?” 

“You just do.” 

Carol leaves you with those thoughts swirling in your head as you figure out your next steps. It's started to get close to sunset now, too late to go forging. You glance over at Daryl’s camp, watching his arms move back and forth as he sharpens one of his bows. You can still see the frustration weighing on his shoulders. 

You’ve never been more scared in your life than now, except when you saw your first walker, but that’s like cracking an egg now. You take a few deep breaths before shaking the nerves away, walking over to Daryl. 

“Hey, are you okay?” You asks already knowing the answer. 

“Fine.” Daryl hides his face behind his hair. 

“I want to thank you for helping me. You always do so much and I don’t think you hear that enough.” 

Daryl looks up at you, blood still on his busted lip and a couple bruises forming on his cheek. You don’t ask him before grabbing your handkerchief in your pocket and pouring some water from your canteen, lowering in front of him and swiping at his lip. 

“I can do it.” He reaches for the handkerchief but you pull away. 

“Let me take care of you.” His eyes lower as you continue cleaning his wound the best you can. 

“You’re important to me Daryl.” You lay the dirty piece of fabric on the log next to him. His eyes still don’t meet yours. “I hate the way Merle speaks to you. You don’t deserve that and I know you don’t need saving and are very capable of protecting yourself. But, I do believe you deserve to hear kind words because you should know how important you are to everyone here.” 

“They only need me for hunting and killing. All I’m good for.” Daryl’s self truth doesn’t shock you but makes you want to wrap him up in your arms for the foreseeable future. 

“That’s far from the truth.” You rest your hand on top of his, watching his eyes move to the connection. “I hope you come to realize someday that you deserve the best, most honest, beautiful, purest love in the world. Not just by others but also by yourself. Everyone has a past and yours will always haunt you but my hope is one day you’ll realize that we don’t have the luxury of waiting to open our hearts and accept that love.” 

“How can you love if you’ve never known of it?” 

“You just do.” You repeat the same words from Carol. “Even if we only make eye contact for a split second everyday, it will always mean the world to me.” You squeeze his hand before standing up and leaving him be, not wanting to rush him. 

Before you step into your tent meters away, you glance over at Daryl again, hands running through his long, dark hair, back hunched over. It’s almost like you two have a second sense connection as his head turns to look at you. 

You smile, heart full just from a single glance, stepping into your tent for the night.

--

You wake up in the middle of the night suddenly, wide awake. You grab your jacket to keep yourself warm from the chilly morning air, stepping out of your tent. You can tell it’s almost dusk. You take gentle steps away from the camp and into a small section of the meadow that has grown wildflowers. You’re still in awe of the beauties of everyday life even in a world of disaster. 

“You’re up early.” Daryl’s voice breaks through the silence around you. 

“So are you.” You turn around, loving the sight of him with his crossbow. 

“I thought about what y-you said.” Daryl is careful with his steps, hesitating slightly as he walks toward you, joining you in the sea of wildflowers. 

“What’d you think?” 

Daryl gulps, hands grasping the strap of his weapon as he sways lightly. “How moments with you, that’s when I wish I could stop time.” 

For some reason, you weren’t expecting that kind of answer but you can’t help the smile that graces your face. 

“Oh my,” You step closer to him, looking into his eyes, “I’m gonna love you for a long long time, Daryl Dixon.” 

“You’ll have to be patient with me.” He whispers, shifting closer, his breath hitting your face. 

“I’ll be here, loving you even in the silence.” 

Daryl’s hands grip the sides of your face, passionately kissing you before you have a chance to say anything else. You grip the front of his shirt, holding so tight, creating wrinkles in the fabric. 

“I didn’t grow up knowing it but I heard stories of a love that comes once in a lifetime and I may not know how to but I’m pretty sure that you are that love of mine.” 

[in1-nutshell]

More thoughts so how about Predacon buddy going back to the earth spark universe and just more interaction's with the others specifically Megatron I sort of feel like old predacon buddy would most likely try burning ghost to the ground and mandroid because no one messes with the sparklings on old Predacon buddy's watch I can just see product on buddies just saying don't you dare mess with my grandkids while just beating mandroid up and possibly suplexing him

Had a lot of request for Old Predacon Buddy coming back to Earthspark so here it is!

Hope you enjoy!

Bot Buddy the Old Predacon finding out about Mandriod's bots

SFW, Platonic, Cybertronain reader

TFP/TFE

Another day, another random dimension drop off.

Buddy landed on top of a haystack next to some apple trees.

They groaned as they felt something lick the side of their face.

They opened their optics to find a familiar looking calf.

Floppy ears.

Oh!

This was the dimension with the Terrans!

And their home was right there!

Buddy quickly got up and started walking over to the home with the calf mooing happily behind them.

Buddy peaks into the kitchen spotting Alex cooking something on the stove.

“Hello there Mr. Malto.”--Buddy

Alex shrieks a bit holding the spatula in his hand as a weapon.

He looks closer at the optics of the Predacon before recognizing them.

“Buddy? Buddy, it’s been so long! Hold on one moment.”--Alex

Alex turns off the stove and runs outside to meet Buddy.

Alex hugs their pede as Buddy gently rubs his back.

He lets go.

“What are you doing back? Not that it’s a problem, but—”--Alex

“No, I get it Alex. And to answer your question, it was another portal.”--Buddy

“Yeesh! How many times does that happen to you?”--Alex

“…Way more than you might realize. Anyways where’s Dot and the kids? How are they?”--Buddy

“They should just be getting back from work right now.”—Alex

Buddy tilts their helm.

“Work?”--Buddy

“From G.H.O.S.T.”--Alex

“The creepy organization Megatron mentioned last time?”--Buddy

“That’s the one.”--Alex

“Something doesn’t settle with me about that organization…”--Buddy

“I feel you Buddy. How about I get Dot or one of the kids on the phone so you can talk to them?”--Alex

“That would be great Alex.”--Buddy

Buddy loafs on the ground as Alex begins to call Hashtag.

“Hello—”--Alex

“DAD THE SPIDERS ARE BACK!”--Hashtag

Buddy immediately gets up.

“Spiders?”--Buddy

“They are Mandriod’s bots. Sweety where are you all right now? Where’s Mom?”--Alex

“WE’RE—WOAH!—WE’RE IN THE WOODS NEAR THE HOUSE—WATCH IT! I DON’T THINK—”--Hashtag

“Hashtag!?”--Alex

Buddy leans down to Alex’s height.

Their optics holding steely determination.

“Climb on.”—Buddy

Buddy gains altitude as fast, while being mindful of Alex sitting without any protection on their back.

Buddy right now didn’t care that they would get seen.

They were worried about the kids.

Whoever this Mandriod was going to be a pile of burning ash when they were done with him if any of the kids were hurt.

Soon enough they found some bots.

Optimus, Megatron and Elita were struggling against the pink spider webs.

Buddy descending from above.

“Buddy?”—Elita, Megatron, and Optimus

Buddy leans down to let Alex come down.

They look at the restrains on Elita’s frame and dig their dentas into the webs and with one swift pull yanked most of them free from her frame.

“Thanks!”--Elita

“Where are the kids?”--Buddy

They heard screams.

Buddy mad dashes through the vegetation to the sound.

They spot a dozen robotic spiders start to corral Nightshade, Thrash and Mo.

Buddy lunged from the trees taking out most of the spiders.

Some managed to attach themselves onto their back, but Buddy quickly got rid of them before any permanent damage could be done.

They spewed fire at the remaining, reducing them to melted metal.

“Buddy!”--Maltos

The three ran to them and hugged their friend tightly.

Buddy wrapped their wings around them in relief before remembering the other.

“Where are the others?”--Buddy

They heard more yelling.

“Nightshade, Thrash, Mo follow my path and head back to Megatron and your father.”--Buddy

“What about you!”--Nightshade

Buddy had already started running before they heard the rest.

Thankfully, the others weren’t too far either.

Twitch, Hashtag, Jawbreaker, Dot, and Robbie were all being suspended by one of the webs as the spiders closed in.

Buddy leaped on top of them shaking the earth bellow as they swiped the other spiders with their tail.

Buddy stood in front of them wings spread in full display and roared before spewing the robots with fire.

Once they were done, they turned back worried at the children.

“Are you all okay?”--Buddy

“Buddy!”--Maltos

Buddy nipped the webs and caught them as they fell.

They ran to give Buddy a hug as Buddy finally sighed in relief.

The danger was over.

The others soon appeared from the rather large opening in the forest their frame caused.

Everyone looked relief to see everyone safe and sound.

The group decided to return home.

As soon as they convinced Buddy to stop looking for Mandriod himself.

Optimus and Megatron trying to stop Buddy from going any further in the forest.

“You two need to let me go right now. That monster needs to be found and—”--Buddy

“So what? So, you can light him on fire?”--Elita

“The offer is on the table.”--Buddy

Dot gets in front of Buddy.

“Buddy… lets just go home. It’s been a rough day for all of us. Anyways there is no way of tracking down Mandriod. Not even G.H.O.S.T. can find him.”--Dot

Buddy huffs in frustration.

Mo comes over to Buddy’s pede and gently grabs it.

“Please?”--Mo

“…”--Buddy

Buddy sighs in defeat and soften their optics at the child.

“All right. Let’s not make my visit all about revenge. I want to hear everything that I missed.”--Buddy

Buddy gently opens their wings and herds the group out of the forest.

Elita looks at Optimus and Megatron.

“…They aren’t going to let this go.”--Elita

“Nope.”—Optimus and Megatron

A few more days passed with Buddy staying at the Maltos home filled with activities and more reunions before the portal came back.

There were more tearful goodbyes and promises to return whenever the portal came back for them.

Buddy exiting the portal, slightly stumbling on the ground.

Ratchet spots Buddy shaking their helm.

“Buddy?”--Ratchet

“Ratchet. How’s the work coming along?”--Buddy

“Good, but are you okay?”--Ratchet

Buddy huffs a bit.

“I’m fine Ratchet.”--Buddy

“…”--Ratchet

“… I have a little bit of a dent on my side. Would you…”--Buddy

Ratchet pats the med slab next to him.

“You know the drill.”--Ratchet

Buddy smiles a bit.

“Whatever you say Doctor.”--Buddy

[rainswept]

love / lyney, wanderer, kaedehara kazuha

— ⟢ summary ⊹ : what is it to them? — ⟢ info ⊹ : 300-500 words each, character-centric. angst (you cannot convince me any of them would be able to have a healthy relationship). quotes are lyrics from various songs by the crane wives. — ⟢ cw ⊹ : all used as metaphors: disease (lyney), gore (wanderer), death (kazuha).

LYNEY — “ THIS RING AROUND MY FINGER IS LIKE A CHAIN AROUND MY THROAT. ”

Lyney knows love well. He meets it first when he is born alongside Lynette. He meets it again every day of his life.

He sees its face in the stray cats on the street, in the sky when it rains, in the Hotel. He sees it in his audience when he steps on stage. He sees it in his words, when he grins and presents someone he is forgetting as he speaks with a rose. He knows love well. But love has never known him.

He has never wanted it to. The idea of love knowing him as well as he knows it is a fear just below his skin, creeping up his limbs and clawing at his spine. It is searing fire in his senses, lumps in his throat. It is cold, rainy nights, and it is the peril that gained him his Vision. It is the anticipation of a magic trick and the devastation when it has gone wrong. It is death. It is disease. It is one he carried knowingly, with little remorse or regard to spreading it until he felt the effects of it himself.

You smile. You laugh. When you look at him, practically with hearts in your eyes, and he realizes he is looking at you the same way — he nearly keels over. It twists his organs into knots: it constricts his lungs until he can’t breathe, swims in his stomach until he throws up, forces his heart to beat far too fast until it gives out. He can’t take it.

He thinks he knows love well, but he is an outsider all the same. When he meets it, face to face, and it spills back to him all the secrets he held from it all these years — he finds he does not know it at all.

— “ ARE YOU SO SURE YOU TAMED ME? ”

WANDERER — “ NOTHING COULD’VE BEEN DONE, IS THAT RIGHT? ”

— “ ‘CAUSE I WAS BORN WITH A HOLE IN MY HEART. ”

The cavities where Wanderer’s most important organs should be ached. His lungs, whenever he saw others breathe; his stomach, whenever he saw others eat; his heart, whenever he saw you.

The Kabukimono was a pathetic lost soul. Kunikuzushi was doomed from the start. Scaramouche was his best shot at being someone. But they all had at least one thing in common: they did not know love.

Out of everyone he’d ever met, you were the worst. The way you put up with his words, his anger, his teeth gnashing and words spitting like a stray ember; he was a wildfire, you the rain, and all he’s ever held dear the burnt crisps of what used to be a forest.

The flames lap at his ankles like they want to swallow him whole. He watches as they wrap up his leg, around his torso, his neck, burning the white wood that makes him who he is — yet he knows he is the one allowing it to.

It was awful. At first, with your tender words and forgiving actions, all you did was stoke the fire settled in the pit of his stomach. Your breath turned the slow-burning thing into a raging inferno — but, soon, the wind you brought that fanned the flames turned into the rain that tried to snuff them out.

And it almost worked. He almost let it work.

He’d cough as ash and smoke rose like bile into his throat instead of fire, wince as some foreign feeling roused from an eternal slumber in his chest. He’d swallow, forcing it back down, even as it felt like hot coals being shoveled into his throat.

He placed his hands over his mouth when swallowing wasn’t enough. He coughed, choked, but to anyone else it would appear as if the flames had simply scorched his throat beyond repair. If he allowed the smoke to rise and billow from his maw instead of searing fire, was that not an admission of weakness? Surrender? Who was he, if not a manifestation of the furnace he had nearly died in? He owed his “life” to a human heart. But he had never wanted one, not like that.

So, somewhere in the back of his mind, he vowed never to allow someone to present him one again. Wanderer has chosen to be heartless, no matter the form, for someone offering him theirs was nearly as cruel of a harvest as Niwa’s.

— “ WE WERE FUCKED FROM THE START. ”

KAEDEHARA KAZUHA — “ HEARTS DON’T WITHER, HEARTS DON’T BREAK. ”

To Kaedehara Kazuha, love is a soft ocean breeze and thrashing storm. It is the scent of sea-spray, the sight of the sunset over the water, the lap of gentle currents, the feel of sun-baked sand underfoot. It is the wild, vengeful waves, chaotic and messy and unbridled; it is the rage of whirlpools; it is the shock of lightning bolts when they strike far too close without warning. It is the happiness of a successful voyage and the dreadful feeling one gets when they know their ship is about to sink. And sink it did.

Water overwhelmed his senses. Frigid, it stung his nose and lapped against his throat, splashing into his mouth and filling it with the taste of salt. Lightning struck a horizon he could barely see over the surface, thunder groaned like it was the one in pain, his ears filled with the splashing of water and rain. He heaved for breath as he spat it out, thrashing against the wild waves that surely wanted him dead, too.

Kaedehara Kazuha lost nearly all he had when his boat had turned to floating crates and his crew to dead, bloated bodies, but he did not lose his life. No, in fact, he grabbed hold of a wooden plank and swam to shore alone.

Exhausted, he collapsed against the warm sand, kissed by the sun that had appeared somewhere in the fray. He was weak, tired, and frail, but he was alive, and that was all that mattered until the weight of what truly happened sank in.

Ever since the lightning had claimed nearly all he held dear, Kazuha was afraid he’d never be able to separate the duality of his feelings. Even so, love was a warmth nestled deep in his heart, beyond where even the cold seawater could seep in. It was never something he thought he’d lose, and he was right. He was never worried about that.

The love he felt for you was different from that of the crew he’d left behind, but it was love all the same; thus, after the fluttering of his heart like a seagull’s wings, regret, sorrow, and longing always came in tow. It was as the ripples behind a boat: if the vessel was moving, so were they.

He could still sail. He always had been able to; death did not change that. But he couldn’t deny that he now sailed differently — and now he was unable to go out to sea without the lingering worry of the inevitable storms like an anchor left down.

— “ BUT MINE IS TIRED, MINE STILL ACHES. ”

[vasyandii]

PROBLEM CHILD

KruegerNak FIC

TYPE: SET IN KRUEGER'S PERSPECTIVE, just insight into how their initial relationship was starting out.

SYNOPSIS:Before they were dating they were friends, before they were friends they were petty assholes.

WARNINGS: Crude language, Depictions of violence, Nak and Krueger are just Assholes

CHARACTERS: Sebastian Krueger, Phayvanh "Nak" Sotsvahn, Nikolai

WORD COUNT: 1000+

CREATOR NOTES: This is something I wrote while writing Edelweiss (Changing name to be a continuation of Plumeria), it still has some stuff I need to fix but as soon as that's done with, I'll post it :3 as always, the art is done by me!

---

"I'll kill you! I'll fucking kill you!" She shrieks, other unit members prying her off and away from him as she's thrashing about. "Let me go!"

Krueger stood over Nak, his chest heaving with laborious breaths. Blood trickled down from a split in his lip, mixing with the dirt and grime on his face. He was a picture of apathetic victory; battered but unbowed, a smirk playing on his grimy face as he regarded the new specialist trying to claw her way past the unit members holding her back.

His fingers prodded gingerly at the split skin of his knuckles - By now he forgot what they were beating each other for. She had spirit, but she often bites off more than she could chew.

Ignoring the burning feel on his face and possible bruised ribs – because damn that bitch packed surprisingly powerful kicks – Krueger lit up a cigarette and took deep drags, he knew his ass was in trouble as well.

---

In the office, Nikolai paced back and forth like a caged animal. His usually cool demeanor seemed to have frayed at the edges.

"Fighting in broad daylight, Again." his tone stern from behind his oak table scattered with undisclosed documents. "You're supposed to be professionals."

Krueger sat nonchalantly on one of those uncomfortable metal chairs they had around here, watching Nikolai's rant impassively through narrowed brown eyes. The cigarette - A new one, perched between his lips was all but forgotten now as ashes threatened to spill onto the floor.

"Of all people Krueger!" Nikolai finally spat out his name like it left a bitter taste in his mouth. "How many times do I have to remind you."

Nak sat neatly, hands in her lap. The woman looked rather pleased with herself despite her disheveled appearance as she listens to Nikolai berate him.

That was until Nikolai shifted is attention to her.

"And you!" Nikolai's gaze snapped towards Nak, Krueger swore he saw her flinch. "You think that childish outburst makes you look tough?".

Nikolai ran a hand through his greying hair, frustration clear on his face. Nak stayed silent, whether it was to save her ass or because she didn't have the right words to say.

Krueger watched from the corner of his eye as her smirk morphed into an irritatingly defiant sneer. He could almost read the silent challenge in her gaze - one that screamed she'd do it all over again if given the chance.

"I was teaching him a lesson," She said to Nikolai. "Your worker should learn to watch his mouth."

Krueger chuckled at her bold retort. He turned to meet her gaze with an insincere smile plastered on his bruised face, "Oh really?" His tone dripped with sarcasm as he leaned back comfortably in his chair, drumming his fingers against the wood.

"I guess next time I should watch out for midgets in whatever jungle you crawled from." He fired back mockingly, shooting Nikolai a glance before smirking at Nak.

If they were going to throw insults now, he wasn't one to back down. "Oh look who's finally learned some big words," he quipped back swiftly.

"You-" Nak stood from her seat, hand pulling him by the collar. "I'll straighten your damn jaw, ຝະລັ່ງຂີ້ນົກ ."

"Enough!" Nikolai stopped them, silencing the room instantly. His vicious stare switched between Krueger and Nak.

She sat back down, cursing under her breath; something in a language he didn't understand. Asian probably.

"I don't give a damn about your petty squabbles," he growled, his icy gaze finally landing on Krueger again with full force of its fury. "Settle it or I will settle it for you."

The threat hung heavily in the room for what seemed an eternity before Nikolai turned away dismissively towards his desk - usually signifying that he was done with them.

Krueger rose nonchalantly from his chair and headed towards the door without so much as another word - no point further provoking the boss today after all. Nak was almost a foot out the door before Nikolai spoke again.

"Phayvanh, you stay."

What a strange name.

--

"I'm not going," She dismisses. "Nothing wrong with me. you're putting me through something that isn't worth shit."

Krueger listened in stealthily, his curiosity piqued. The stinging pain on his battered face subsided as his interest turned to the squabble he could overhear from Nikolai's office.

"It's not up for debate, Phayvanh," Nikolai snapped back curtly. "Your outburst clearly shows that you need those sessions."

"I can work!" she countered defiantly. "You are fucking making me dead weight!"

"Watch your language," Nikolai's voice turned stern, "You are an investment Phayvanh, and Chimera does not throw away investments lightly. You will go to those sessions."

Krueger chuckled softly against the wall. Oh, this would be fun to watch play out. He could see himself using her rebellious streak for his own amusement in the future.

"Investment? He's not an investment," She didn't need to offer a name for Krueger to know she was talking about him. "I don't need those sessions if you just get rid if him."

Krueger's smirk dropped, replaced by a scowl. The nerve of that little shit. His fists clenched involuntarily before he quickly forced himself to relax.

"He's one of our best."

Krueger felt an odd sense of satisfaction hearing those words from Nikolai.

"Whatever," Nak stood up to leave. "I'll go. Let's see how long it'll take for you to stop wasting your money."

---

It's midnight. Quiet other than her footsteps, something he's gotten used to since she got the job a month ago. Sometimes he could hear rummaging in community kitchen. He never bothered to look until now because, who gives a shit?

She doesn't sleep, she doesn't eat. What the hell is she doing?

Krueger sat silently in the dark, he rolled his eyes at himself for even caring enough to consider it. Nak had been quite the nuisance since she got here but her antics were starting to catch his interest.

Tossing his blanket to the side, he sighed and stood up from his bed, deciding impulsively to investigate whatever it was that she was doing this late at night.

He moved silently through the dimly lit corridors, making his way towards the source of the sound. He was aware that he was stalking her like prey in its natural habitat, but a part of him justified it as needing to know what she could be up to.

His footsteps were heavy against the cold stone floor, he saw light flickering under a door down the hallway - the kitchen.

He saw Nak turn sharply towards the direction of the sound he had made, her dark eyes wide in surprise.

Krueger froze momentarily, cursing himself internally for being so careless. He was usually silent in his movements - the fact that he hadn't been careful enough this time irked him immensely.

"Relax," His voice was low, laced heavily with mockery. "It's just me."

For a moment, they locked eyes and then she went back to whatever it was she'd been doing before he came.

Nak tried her best to ignore Krueger and his staring from the table. Her table, he knew that - it was fun to fuck with her.

He got his answer for what she's been doing, though; just making coffee.

Leaning back in her chair, he watched Phayvanh move around as she made the brew.

"You don't sleep much?" He finally broke the silence, curiosity getting better of him.

She replied curtly. "Don't speak to me."

He chuckled at her vain attempt to control their interaction, "So bossy… Didn't anyone ever tell you it's not polite to give orders?" His voice was rich with sarcasm as he rested his boots on the table, blatantly ignoring any boundaries she may have established over 'her' table.

"Why are you here," Nak carefully stirs her coffee with a spoon. The handle looked like it would snap by how tight she was gripping it.

"Curiosity," Krueger replied casually, watching the way she handled her cup. The concentration on her face was a stark contrast to the fiery defiance he'd seen earlier. "It's late and you're always up… thought I might join."

He hesitated momentarily before adding in a softer tone, "And maybe to piss you off, just a tad bit." A smirk played at the corner of his lips as he looked over at her.

"Go fuck yourself," She was going nowhere near that table when he just planted his ass in her seat. "ຝະລັ່ງ."

Krueger's smirk widened at her sharp reply. He was familiar with many languages, though he had to admit the dialect she spoke got lost on him.

"I'm afraid I didn't quite catch that," He drawled out lazily as his eyes glinted in amusement. "Want to run that by me again?"

Nak leaned down to his eye level like she was about to say something. Instead she opted to pouring her coffee on his lap.

---

For a split second, he froze in surprise before jumping up swiftly, uttering a guttural curse.

"You little bitch!" Krueger reached for her arm, roughly pulling her towards him to look into her defiant eyes.

"What the fuck was that for?" He spat out through gritted teeth, trying to ignore the burning sensation on his legs.

"I told you to go fuck yourself didn't I?" She mocked, waving her mug in hand. "You should listen to-"

"Do you two you what time it is?"

Nikolai. Great.

---

Krueger's attention snapped immediately to Nikolai who now stood at the entrance of the kitchen, his eyes flickering between Krueger and Phayvanh as he tried to assess the situation.

"She fucking poured coffee on me!" His grip tightened around her arm.

"He pissed himself." She just stated simply, hiding the mug behind her back. "Must've startled him or something."

Krueger blinked, appalled by her audacity.

"You fucking liar-" He began, but was quickly cut off by Nikolai.

"Enough," The older man barked out sharply, turning his icy glare towards Krueger first before it settled on Phayvanh.

"Why are both of you up this late? And why the hell is there coffee all over my floor?" His intense gaze bore into Phayvanh in particular, as if already suspecting her role in the entire mess.

"Piss." She corrected.

"Fuck you," Krueger growled at her under his breath. His calloused hand still clamped tight around her arm.

"Enough!" Nikolai repeated, exasperated. He sighed heavily and covered his face with a tired hand, "Clean this up and I don't want to see either one of you till sunrise."

With that he turned on his heel and left them alone once again in the dimly lit kitchen.

---

Nikolai out of sight, Nak took out the empty coffee mug she hid behind her back.

The sudden bonk on his head caught him off guard. He quickly let go of her arm, and rubbed the back of his head where she'd hit him, meeting her gaze with an irritated scowl. Wasn't enough to seriously hurt him like her punches, but still hurt nonetheless.

"You got some serious fucking issues, you know that?" He snarled at her.

Nak gave him a sidelong glance.

"I could've rendered you a vegetable with that. Consider it my apology," She snagged a rag from the counter. "Only because I feel bad for Nikolai."

Krueger watched her with a guarded expression as he grabbed another rag for himself.

"Wooow, " He couldn't help but quip back sarcastically. Despite everything, he had to admit there was something strangely interesting about Phayvanh's unpredictable disposition. "Such generosity from you is truly overwhelming."

"Hm, You're funny." She notes off handedly, cleaning the floor.

His sarcastic snort echoed in the small shared kitchen, "Yeah, and you're a fucking delight."

TRANSLATIONS

ຝະລັ່ງຂີ້ນົກ (Farang Khi Nok) - Literally translates to "Bird shit foreigner", basically "White Trash"

ຝະລັ່ງ (Farang) - Foreigner, specifically one of European descent. In this context it's used as a derogatory term.

[comfortless]

syl you can not casually mention blacksmith König and leave it at that!

sighing… ok, yes, i will talk about blacksmith! König more..! ^^

content/warnings: 18+. minors do not interact. violence, physical/emotional abuse, descriptions of injury, death, angst, marriage on the gallows au.

Before König, there was his father, his father’s father and so on. Hardened men who were left to rot on the outskirts of the little village: sharpen blades, birth something from slabs of iron and silver. The work was tedious, but never dull. Scrape, burn, turn and roll- over and over until the smoke rose from the pit to sting at his eyes. Birth by fire wasn’t only in myths of dragons and phoenixes; he witnessed it each time he held pure malice in his hands as his hammer struck. Nothing became something, deadly and cruel. Day and night his life and lungs were filled to brimming with hellfire.

Accidents happen, naturally. No matter how careful he’s been, there’s nothing to keep the flame from entirely taking back after giving so much.

König’s father lost a finger while mentoring him.

His blue eyes were fixed on the man’s callused hand as the freshly smithed blade sliced through the digit like it was little more than a dollop of honey, no blood. There had been nothing but the crack of bone carved cleanly through, then the wet sizzle of meat cooking as it fell into the pit.

His father had screeched like a starved demon then, a barrage of insults tossed his son’s way like little more than passing pleasantries: oaf, useless cur, bitch.

König hadn’t been concerned, he sat on the stone bench looking up at his father and told him so, that he was fine: it had been cauterized, cleansed by the fire.

König lost the same finger that day.

His mother had fallen ill sometime last winter. The last memory he had of her was the look of frailty on her face, how her skin felt so cold and yet she lie dampened with sweat.

The dogs and buzzards had gotten to her grave, but it wasn’t them he felt any of the fire’s malice for.

Just his father.

The villagers didn’t know what became of the blacksmith, but König could recall it every night; how even with his dying breath he had only thought to curse his only son.

So, he wears the hood of the last executioner now, and the people shy away. They don’t like the look of death unless they can participate in it as a divined audience.

The dogs are never hungry, there’s illness all throughout the valley, and sometimes it only shines through in shimmering eyes while the villagers stare and giggle at the next withering soul led to the gallows.

König knows he should be there; like mother and father, his bones should be shared between panting mouths and blood-stained beaks. Sometimes the boars come sniffing too, and he’s always hated them, maybe even more than the birds. They’re ugly and sturdy, squealing and snarling like his father.

The villagers looked at the boars, though, because they were useful. Their eyes were hungry and happy each night the men set out on a hunt, unaware that their sons and daughters lurked in the bellies of the very beasts they starved for.

It’s cold even during the summer months in his shack.

There are blankets, a kitchen, a hearth, but it’s empty. The winter makes its wastelands each coming year, envious of how he can accomplish such with fire instead of ice. He doesn’t need to clean. The ash blackens the wood, cleanses all. One day, maybe, it would scrub him too.

The fire is a womb, but it’s never birthed anything truly alive. Not until her. A wildfire swept the field where travelers had gathered. With their supplies reduced to the very cinders König had come to adore, the surviving members sweep right into this cursed place like it’s a holy temple.

And the fire gave her to him.

König doesn’t know where this woman came to settle from; she isn’t like the other villagers, not even the travelers with their items and skills for selling. There’s still life in her eyes. He watches her as she wanders down the street with a smile on her face, one that speaks of a kindness that not a single one of these people deserves.

She introduces herself to them too, without a title to her name, and all at once any interest fades as the ghosts wander away from her.

His mother used to force him into the church when she was still alive.

She would take him by the hand as he lumbered after her, sticking out amongst the crowd of parishioners who would sing their hymns and stare at him with contempt behind their eyes. He hated going, but he did it for his mother; father was much too busy to spend his time with her and her fantasies. But König learned of angels there, fragile feathered things, all eyes and wings that wouldn’t stand a chance against a blade.

He didn’t think delicate things could be holy until her sweet, gentle smile is cast upon him.

This lady walks right up to him, doesn’t bat an eye at his hood when her lips curl up as she introduces herself. She doesn’t mind the sack of weapons thrown over his shoulder to take to the marketplace— the swords, the daggers, none of it. Her eyes don’t even glance their way; she looks only to him.

Women like this don’t want their homes and beds covered in ash, cinder in place of incense, fire instead of honey. But still she smiles while he says nothing.

König isn’t the only man who’s heart she steals, either.

The village is all gray, smoke and rot except where she walks. Flowers spring up for the coming spring, the deer and foxes are calling out for mates, and it’s all because of her— everyone must know it.

The farmer’s son brings her fresh fruit and whispers into her ear while they pass by his shack on a stroll. The man’s arm curls around her waist so naturally that König can only be reminded of the way that dagger sank between his fathers fingers, tore off a bit of him to feed back to hungry flame. If there were any god above he knew right then that it wouldn’t want him to allow that to happen to her. Not to an angel.

When the rest of the men, dogs and seraphim sleep, König tears the farmer’s boy in two— split down chest to abdomen and left as food for the pigs, right there in the middle of the field.

He doesn’t pray, he hasn’t since the last time he knelt by his mother’s sickbed, but he closes his eyes and breathes out a wish when he leaves that bloodied dagger at her doorstep.

He doesn’t pray, but he weeps when he rallies the villagers to apprehend her. She cries and fusses, face puffy from sleep and hair a mess. There isn’t a speck of blood on her, but the vultures take her anyway. König didn’t want to see her hurt; when her eyes find his, he turns away.

The day of her execution arrives like a festival ceremony. It’s been some time since the last, the scavengers are hungry, so famished he thinks he can almost hear them lick their teeth. There would be no death today, it’s already been decided. In distant places, a single act of devotion is all it takes to save a life, one that the beasts didn’t have the right to take.

The hunger wasn’t always just for death, but for something… a turn and change like steel in fire.

When the angel is taken to her death, rope dangling from her neck like a lead meant for cattle, he steps forward, parting the crowd with an ease. He’s practiced this a time or two in the smoke already, a lonesome and loathing god in the fog. The others scurry from him, looking up at him with pinched brows and bared teeth as if to goad he take her life instead.

Instead, he only catches her eye, smiles and lowers himself on one knee.

[mtndw-whteout]

Oh to be a different person, in a different life.

I wrote somethin, its an au ive been festering with for a while

sorry for all the angst lately

Sirens rang through Reigens mind as he stared blankly at the wall before him. The smell of burnt wood and ash stained his nose, and his chest heaved heavily. 

The sound of discomfort wailed from the small child against his chest, snot-filled cries filling the silence. Reigen peered down at the child - Ritsu - lightly hushing him in hopes of comforting him. Ritsu stirred as he cried, his ash-covered face scrunched. Tears ran down his cheeks, leaving streaks through the muddied mess. Reigen's mouth pulled down into a frown, noting the small blisters forming on Ritsu’s cheeks and hands. 

Beside him, another child sat, leaning against Reigen as he watched out the window. Unlike Ritsu, he had not cried once since they arrived at Reigen’s small apartment. Shigeo was older, though, by only a year. He had as much reason to cry as his brother did, but he didn’t. 

Instead, he sat quietly, his face equally blistered and ash-covered, and watched the visible stars move slowly. 

Reigen didn’t know what to make of the situation. It was only a few days prior that he sat at the Kageyama’s table, laughing and carrying on. Then he got the call; he didn’t even remember getting into his car. The sight of the house - the home they had welcomed him into - in flames. He remembered briefly having Ritsu placed into his arms as Shigeo stood by him, his eyes glued to the street. His trembling hand holding onto his sleeve. The relief that flooded him knowing they were okay was beat by the dread of knowing that their parents weren’t. 

After a ride in an ambulance and a day at the hospital later, they were deemed okay to leave. He was told they weren’t in the house long after the fire started. Burn cream was applied to their faces and arms, but other than that they were healthy. 

Just apply the cream daily until the blisters are gone. He could do that.

Right. 

Now he was in charge of two kids when he barely could take care of himself; and as much as that feeling overwhelmed him, he knew he had to pull through. He was, at the moment, the only one the boys had. 

“Reigen..?” Shigeo called, his voice small just like the rest of him. He faced up at him, he looked tired. 

“Yeah, kiddo?” Reigen’s voice cracked but he couldn’t find it in himself to care. Shigeo rubbed one of his eyes with the back of his hand. 

“Can I take a bath?” 

“Of course, will you watch your brother while I run the water?” He asked as he shifted to stand. He placed Ritsu in Shigeo’s awaiting arms, the younger boy had fallen asleep and only stirred at the movement.

“I’ll be right back.” He said, watching Shigeo nod slightly. He made his way to the bathroom, the tile cold against his sock-covered feet. Turning the faucet on, he plugged the tub and watched the water pour for a moment. 

Returning to the living room, he noticed Shigeo humming and rocking Ritsu in his arms. It was sickly sweet to watch, it made his chest tighten uncomfortably. 

“The bath should be ready soon.” He told Shigeo as he seated himself in front of the boy. 

Shigeo looked up at him, his eyes barely staying open as he offered a small smile. 

“‘itsu’s bein’ fussy,” Shigeo said, his voice just above a whisper. “‘e’s tired, like me.” 

“Yeah? You ready to go to bed soon?” Reigen asked and was met with a yawn in response. He laughed. “If you want, we can go out and get some Mobdonalds in the morning. How does that sound?” 

Shigeo hummed, too tired for words. Reigen smiled and stood up once again. He reached down and offered to take Ritsu. Shigeo allowed his brother to be scooped up and accepted the hand that was extended to him afterward. Ritsu awoke again, whining only a little as they made their way to the bathroom.

After a lot of bubbles and gentle scrubbing, they were finally ash-free. Their blisters thankfully were healing quickly, especially only after such a short amount of time. 

Reigen got them dressed for bed and soon they fell asleep beside him on his bed. Unfortunately for him, sleep didn’t come anytime soon. He spent his time staring at his ceiling; thinking of how his future was going to look from now on.

UGH im not good at writing im sorry, im just didn't want to draw it out

basically, in short, The Kageyama house fire? yeah it happens and the kageparents don't survive, and Reigen, who the Kageparents had known since he was 14, is now Ritsu and Shigeos guardian. An older brother of sorts.

Reigen is 20, Shigeo is 4 and Ritsu is 2, going on 3.

AAAHHHHHH

[mumblelard]

It kind of suggests that "hot minute" is sometimes used in an anti-hyperbolic sense to mean "a long time", and ... "Hot minute" is often used in a sense of "busy" or "rushed", vs implying a literal short amount of time.

Since when has "a hot minute" meant a long time? - English Language & Usage

either this perversely functional, but totally unnecessary, rhetorical neologism, anti-hyperbolic, has short-circuited my brain, or i’ve been sniffing the wrong kind of glue again

[p0ssywhippedcream]

The comfort he provides is green.

It touches your soul like the smell of pine in early morning, it warms you like a campfire in a lonely forest, it fills you easily like a pond aided with a gentle waterfall.

He knows when you’re upset, when your eyebrows kiss and your lips purse and your fingers clench. He knows even when it’s not obvious. He’ll nudge your shoulder with a question in his eyes and you just know, he knows.

His care is green like home, green like returning to a time long gone, like knowing someone is worth loving by the smile lines that grace their face. He runs his hands through your hair like they’ve never been used for violence, his lips caress yours like they’ve never betrayed and berated.

Your knees are pulled up to your chest and his are dropped enough that you can lean yourself against his torso with your scrunched legs held up by his. You’re not in his lap necessarily, your butt is planted firmly on the ground you fidget with but the rest of you is engulfed in him.

His fingers massage your scalp, blunt nails scratching against the skin as you sit in silence, his eyes watching the distance in yours shrink.

And suddenly you’re back to yourself, back from those other colors and those other things that make you hate yourself and it’s all green again. And he smells like sweat and earth and man and home. His hand never leaves your head, his heart beats a little louder underneath your ear.

You’ve returned from your travels with heavy baggage and a hunger that eats away at your soul. You’ve collapsed at the fire and warmed your palms, pulled cold, soggy feet out of ruined boots and begun the process of being more than a human but a person again. Lately all you’ve had time to fight for is your life, but not your happiness. And you don’t want to fight anymore, you just want to come to where contentment is without a dragon to slay or a moral to learn.

He offers that with a kiss on your forehead. The wrinkles dance as you look up at him through your lashes and just his faint smile can be seen.

He’s warm, you used to wonder if he was cold-blooded before you really knew him. He didn’t laugh enough, he didn’t like to let loose and just be. But you know the blood that pumps through his veins is hot from the way it rushes to his cheeks when you tell him you love him, even now, when you know every ember and every stick that’s graced his fire.

The fire that thaws your numb toes, that brings awareness back to tired eyes and that whispers his presence with callouses in greasy hair.

And with only I love yous and you’re okays in the air, you unpack all the things you’ve dragged through your journey and toss them into the blaze. You turn your head enough to meet his gaze and the flame inside his eyes burns sunrise but loves you in flowers.

It reminds you of the ashes everything becomes someday, the ashes your worries and insecurities burn to as they gravitate toward the fire. Someday, you and him will be the same. Maybe someday he’ll burn too hot or you’ll lose yourself in the woods or the only firewood you can add to his passion is from his fathers forest; the forest he’d spent so long running from.

Until then, you’ll resolve to kissing him and tasting tea and trust and letting the comfort of the familiar hue surround you, casting you both in a hazy sage light as the world around burns.

❥ ❥ ❥ ❥ ❥ ❥ ❥

Zuko, Aaron Hotchner, Jason Grace

[verus-animus]

Finally Home

"Uuuggh.... fuuuck... that's gonna hurt for at least a few hours..." A deep groan escaped from my mouth as I rubbed the pain in the back of my head. Having him fly across the room and slam his head on the hard concrete floor was definitely not in the plan, but at least everything else had been successful.

You see, for years and years I had been lusting over this one handsome hunk that frequented the gym I went to. Damien, as I later managed to find out his name, wasn't just any normal gymgoer. No, he was beyond that and more. The way he easily lifted those weights with his huge biceps, the tension of his massive quads as he ran on the treadmill, and the short breaks he took between each set to give everyone around him a prideful flex show... He was a god among gods... at least in my eyes.

Some might have called me obssessed, but I just found myself mesmerized by everything he did, everything he said, and everything he was. I loved the way his tall muscular body moved, I loved the way his deep accented voice sounded, and I even loved the way his pungent after workout musk smelled (Yes, I might have broken into his locker a few times just to bask in that wonderful scent of his...).

At first I really thought I was just in love with him, but I quickly realized it was something more than that, something more possessive. I didn't want to be with him. No, I wanted to be him. I wanted... no yearned to parade around with that wonderfully fit body, to watch myself flex with those massively thick biceps, and to simply own all that he possessed and had worked hard for. The very thoughts would make me quickly chub up and I'd often be forced to release a big load in the gym toilets while imagining running my hands across that chiseled flesh of Damien.

That's why I've spent the last seven months browsing through every book in the library, every website on the net, and every tattered research paper I could get my hands upon to find some way to actually make my desire come true. It took countless sleepless nights and an almost empty bank account, until I finally found what I was looking for. All that was required was the right place, right time, and right person...

I wasn't going to risk anything, so after finding out where he lived, what time he usually went to the gym, and when he would most likely come back home, I immediately put my plan into action. Yes, I broke into his apartment. Yes, I smeared chicken blood all over his living room floor to draw a glyph and lit incense sticks everywhere. And yes, I sat in the middle of it all naked and drenched in chicken blood, while clutching a piece of dry wood with runes carved on it in my hand.

You would think I had gone mad at this point, but you have no idea the dedication and yearning I had felt to actually make this go through. Patiently I sat there and waited for him, minutes and hours went by, but I was just as ready for the moment he would be back.

And when I could finally hear the entrance door to his apartment unlock, and saw the shocked expression on his handsome face as he found a complete stranger sitting in the middle of his living room floor, I immediately brought the unusual dry wood high up in the air and split it into two. Almost instantaneous an intense burning pain washed all over me, followed by the horrific sight of my physical body being engulfed in sweltering purple fire. A pile of ashes and flesh pieces was all that was left, as I now found myself hovering above the glyph in some sort of hazy non-physical state.

Not letting the opportunity pass me by, I immediately focused my form towards Damien's body and flung myself against him. A look of absolute terror was plastered on his face, as the words "Oh fuck" left his mouth. A wide gaping mouth that turned out to be the perfect entrance for me to slam myself straight into. The very force of my invasion however caused him to suddenly be flung backwards and across the living room.

I was rapidly forcing myself down into his gagging throat, and quickly filling him up with all of my essence. I could feel him starting to fight back, but I had no intention of giving him that chance. Immediately I pushed down even deeper and found his core. It was warm, livid, and pulsating... and I wasted no time completely enveloping it and absorbing it into myself. I could feel all his memories, dreams, and desires wash over me. If I wanted to become Damien, I had to go all the way.

One the outside, Damien's face was red and exhausted, as his expressions went from ones of pain and anguish to pleasure and joy. For a few brief minutes he closed his eyes and just laid there on the floor in eerie tranquil.

Until they finally opened again with me in complete control.

I tried to push myself back up, only to fall back down on the floor with a heavy thud. As much power and strength that flowed through my new bigger body now, I found myself beyond exhausted. Not only that, but my broad muscular back was now drenched in sweat, as were my armpits with my new wonderfully pungent musk.

Accepting that I wasn't getting up from this floor anytime soon, especially with this pounding headache in the back of my head, I decided to enjoy my new self right there and then. With one rugged hand shoved deep down in my gym shorts and squeezing my new engorged manhood, the other massive arm was busily being kissed, flexed, and having its wet armpit being worshipped.

Basking in my new perfect body and identity, I spent the rest of the evening filling the apartment with groans of my deep accented voice, and my stomach with pounds after pounds of my sticky white Damien cream...

I was finally who and where I had always meant to be, with the perfect body, life, and identity.

Finally I was home.

[b00kdiary]

Wildest Dreams (III)

ACOTAR The Batboys x Plus size reader

Where the reader finds herself gaining the attention of the most notorious males in Prythian and it seems that even her wildest dreams couldn't prepare her for the night they would share.

Notes: This has Rhys, Cassian and Azriel with a plus-size reader since I literally couldn't decide who it should be and thought that the best fantasy in the world would be all three :) Here's to all my thick, fat, plus-size girlies who want some bat-boy love too xo

Warning: mature themes (18 +) swearing, body-image issues, smut and the bat boys being utterly infatuated with their thick, beautiful lady

Part I Part II Part IV

“This is where you live?” I muttered, my eyes scouring my surroundings in disbelief.

I lifted my eyes to the right, meeting Rhysand’s gaze, my brain forcing me to not focus on his hand trailing aimlessly at the nape of my back. He smiled, shrugging modestly as he nodded as if this wasn’t the most extravagant yet cosy home I’d ever seen.

“It’s beautiful,” I said softly, turning back to the ornate red-carpet and wood-panelled walls. The males remained silent behind me, allowing me to take in the room and I glanced back, trying not to overwhelm myself as realisation set in.

The realisation that I was here alone with these three males.

Rhysand had winnowed us all here after I had accepted their invitations, using his Daemati skills to tell Sadie where I was going- I could still see the shit-eating grin she gave me from across the floor as we left.

I had felt exhilarated after saying yes, exhilarated and needy as my words seemed to ignite a fire within them too, as if they envisioned the night ahead we’d share. And yet, now that I stood here, alone, unprepared, uncertain with them before me, that confidence dwindled into ashes.

They seemed to notice it too, their body language easy and unthreatening as they stood before me.

Rhysand stood tall, hands tucked into the pockets of his pants, eyes soft and patient upon me. My gaze travelled to Cassian who sat on the arm of the sofa, a warm smile playing on his lips at my stare. And then finally my eyes moved to the left, where Azriel stood, arms folded, back leaned against the wall, watching me as keenly as I watched them.

I tucked a strand of loose hair behind my ears as the silence lingered on and I couldn’t help the way my fingers fiddled and pulled, knowing that this was not the kind of interaction they were used to.

We all stood too far away and wore way too much clothing.

Rhysand huffed a breathy laugh and my eyes drew from their haze as I looked at him, my cheeks heating at the knowing smile he wore, amusement and interest dancing in the shine of his purple eyes.

“Would you like a drink?” Azriel suddenly asked, his voice quiet. I paused, not expecting the question but I nodded slowly, smiling timidly in acknowledgement of my nerves.

“Yes, I would, if it’s not an issue,” I said, trying to even out the shaking in my voice as I spoke. Azriel nodded, pushing off the wall and began moving towards me, to the room in the back.

“Why don’t we all go? I could do with a drink and getting to know Y/N darling better” Rhysand spoke, and I felt a rush of relief flow over me at the words. My eyes met his, and from the small nod and quirked smile, I knew he was doing this for my benefit.

“My Lady” Cassian smirked, walking toward me and hooking out an elbow for me to take. I giggled, slipping my arm through the loop, and nestling myself up against the hard, strong muscles and warm skin.

“Well, thank you, Lord Cassian” I winked and he chuckled, his head throwing back, momentarily revealing the strong column of his throat. I tried to not make my stare obvious as he began leading me through the adjoining doors into a room with a large oak table.

Azriel had brought out a bottle of red wine and began setting down four glasses, filling them all up swiftly. I observed him as he moved, so graceful with his shadows dancing around him, and he somehow managed to look beautiful even while doing a task as menial as pouring drinks.

Noticing our entrance, he smiled and began to walk over, his feet ever silent as he stopped, handing me a glass. I took it, whispering a thank you and as my fingers passed him I felt the scars and roughness brush against my own.

I paused, brows furrowing as I looked down at his hand, still outstretched.

I had heard rumours of the Shadowsinger’s burns and yet from the severe scarring it seemed that whatever he had endured was far more horrific than any gossip had detailed.

Azriel didn’t move as I stared at his hands and I didn’t allow myself to appear disgusted or pitiful or anything of the sort. Instead, I reached out my shaky hand and traced a soft line of my fingers over the back of his hand and down his fingers, following the jagged and red scarring.

He shivered, so small it was almost imperceptible but I felt it, and as I raised my eyes and locked them with his I felt a small whoosh of air escape his lungs as if he had been holding it in this entire time.

There was little to be said, nothing that could ease that wound so I smiled, a smile that was genuine enough that I knew he could see the words unspoken in it, see it in my eyes as I watched him. He didn’t reply, merely nodding his head, a small tint now staining his structured cheeks and a smile tilting at the corner of his mouth.

We pulled away from one another, and as Azriel turned back towards the table, I noticed that Cassian and Rhysand had already taken their seats. Rhysand sat at the head of the table, his body leaned back and thighs outstretched with Cassian before him on his right and Azriel taking a seat on the left.

I inhaled deeply, gripping the glass tightly in my hand, conscious not to shatter it from the butterflies swarming in my stomach. I walked silently, intending to sit at the chair beside either Cassian or Azriel but as I moved past Rhysand, his hand gripped mine, his fingers curling gently around my wrist.

I turned, surprised and I chuckled lightly at the smirk that lined his lips.

“Yes, Rhysand?” I asked, quirking my brow up at him and he smirked fiendishly, tugging my hand to pull me toward him.

“I fear I cannot bear to part with you darling” He muttered, purple eyes shining with mischief and teasing as he dragged me over to him.

I rolled my eyes, as I got closer to him, my thighs brushing his “I’m sure you’ll manage-“

I gasped out in shock as he pulled me onto him, his hands swiftly snaking around my hips to settle me on his thigh. I gawked as my hand instinctively flew to his shoulder and it was a miracle that my wine didn’t go flying over him.

“Much better,” He said simply, grinning as I stared at him in bewilderment before taking a casual sip of the wine in his hand.

I heard the amused snickers of both Cassian and Azriel and as my eyes moved to them they flashed wolfish smiles at me, eyes raking over how I sat on Rhysand’s right thigh, my arms clutching onto him for support and my thighs clamped shut.

I was as rigid as a board and I’m sure I looked ridiculous.

I glanced down nervously at Rhysand’s thigh, my body tense against the powerful, thick muscles contorted under me. He didn’t appear to be struggling under my weight and barely seemed to acknowledge me at all.

Rhysand merely sat there, smirking, sipping from the glass in his left hand while the right was wrapped around my waist, his long fingers drawing faint circles against the material just under my breast.

I shivered at the touch, so casual and smooth and yet, it ignited a fire and need within me.

“Are you-“ I breathed, turning my head to fully look at Rhysand, who raised a brow at me “Are you sure I’m not hurting you?”

I started snapping my head back at Cassian laughing, loud and bellowing and my heart plummeted into my stomach like a stone in the sea. I grimaced, my face burning with embarrassment and suddenly I wanted the ground to swallow me up and spit me out somewhere that wasn’t there.

“I’m sorry” Cassian snickered, clutching his chest and I tried to hide the burning in my eyes “Rhys may be smaller than me, but even I can tell that he’s held swords heavier than you.” I paused at his words, my breath stalling as confusion filled me and I looked up quickly at the general.

“Honestly angel,” Cassian said, his face softening “Surely, you don’t think that Rhysand’s that weak?”

The words were quipped jokingly and I felt Rhys shake under me, laughing lightly, Azriel’s lips shifting too. I almost did laugh, but I shook my head, solemn as I looked down at the glass in my hands suddenly finding the liquor more interesting.

“The males I’ve been with…” I paused, a small bitter scoff escaping me and I knew I didn’t need to continue. There was a silence after my words, a silence strong enough that I could hear my heartbeat in my chest.

Why did I say that?

I heard a glass clink against the table, and then a hand was at my chin gently tilting my head up to meet with a familiar sky of purple. I saw the sincerity and resolve in Rhysand’s face as he watched me, that hand now caressing against my cheek soothingly.

“Those males were assholes” He started simply, and my brows rose at how gravelled his tone was. “For any man to see you, to have the honour of being with you and not treating you with the respect and reverence you deserve, he is no real male.”

My breath stuttered as I stared, so captivated by his words, by his eyes and I could not stop how my body seemed to melt against him, seemed to fall into his comfort and warmth.

“Y/N you are many things, intelligent, funny, loyal, kind,” He said, listing off all the things that he had gathered in the last few hours since we had met, and those words lit my heart. “But you’re also utterly beautiful, and perhaps few have said it, perhaps they’ve said otherwise.”

His eyes sparked, dark and dangerous as he saw my expression drop, and saw exactly what males had said to me before. I would have felt embarrassed, and humiliated by that truth if not for how adamantly his eyes sparked in denial.

“But I can speak for myself, and my brothers when I say that we appreciate every inch of you, we desire every inch of you and even if you cannot understand it, it doesn’t cease to be true.” His words became almost as soft as a whisper, and when his eyes lowered to my lips, lowered and flashed with want, I knew exactly what I wanted too.

And I would not hesitate to take it.

I moved with surety, simply placing the glass of wine on the table before turning, my head shifting forward and to the side as I brushed a sweet and needy kiss against Rhysand’s lips. He sighed, a content exhale as his hand cupped my cheek and his lips moved against mine with more resolve.

It was gentle yet consuming, the kind of kiss that made my head spin and my body utterly numb. I was overwhelmed by the feeling of his lips against mine, his tongue sweeping teasingly and his hands caressing me, holding me like a lifeline.

I could faintly taste the sweetness of the wine on his tongue and I moaned quietly, my body shivering at the deep groan that reverberated in Rhysand’s chest in response. My fingers grip the fabric of his shirt tighter as his tongue fans over mine, and his hand digs possessively into my waist, trapping me against his chest.

My brain was beginning to fog over, and my body igniting with need and pleasure as Rhysand slowly pulled away, his teeth dragging across my bottom lip as he did so, eliciting a gasping mewl from my lips.

I fluttered my eyes open, flustered and breathless as I met Rhysand’s gaze and I felt a deep unrelenting shiver rush over me at the thrill I saw in his eyes.

I bit my lip, the realisation that Cassian and Azriel watched us drawing me back to reality and I felt guilt riddle me that I wasn’t being fair with my attention. I drew back slightly, shifting to maybe move to Cassian or Azriel but Rhysand’s arm tightened like an iron grip around me.

“Your brothers are going to think you’re being greedy, High Lord” I purred as I looked back over my shoulder and Rhysand’s deep, low laugh in reply made me feel dizzy.

“I don’t know, they seem like they’re enjoying themselves” Rhysand shrugged and instinctively my head turned forward, eyes shifting to the two silent, immovable males before me. They sat, eyes dark, smirks feral and I could smell the arousal and desire in the air as they kept their gazes locked upon me.

“In fact” Rhysand continued and I could hear the smile in his voice, “I think they might even have some pointers.”

I blinked, my brows furrowing in confusion but I slowly understand what he meant as I felt Rhysand begin kissing against my neck, wet and sucking against the skin there. I huffed a breath, my eyes fluttering shut for a moment as he closed his lips and flattened his tongue against a soft spot.

“Keep your eyes on us sweetheart” Azriel muttered, his voice clouded and the authority behind it made me quickly bat them open again, a blush tinting my cheeks at the approving smirk he gave in response.

Rhysand continued kissing his way down the curve of my neck and as he settled my back against his chest I sighed, my chest rising and falling heavily at the feeling of his teeth grazing the sensitive skin there.

His hands began to wander, playful, careless glides of his finger over my sides, up and down my thigh kneading the flesh there, between and under my breasts, everywhere but the places I needed him.

“Rhysand” I groaned, sneering in annoyance as yet against his fingers trailed over my breast skimming the sensitive and pebbled nipple, but he didn’t stay there for long.

He laughed, kissing my collarbone and my back arched as his hands trailed high up to the apex of my thighs.

And stopped.

I groaned, growling low in my throat as my annoyed scowl flickered to the smirking, arrogant High Lord under me. He blinked, raising his brow in a challenge and I couldn’t help how my thighs clenched in response.

“Rhysand’s being very mean,” Cassian tsked, chuckling and as my eyes flicked to his he grinned, licking his lips as he leaned forward to rest his arms on his knees. “Give our angel what she wants.”

“And what’s that?” Rhysand asked, his voice dripping with faux innocence, his nose brushing the length of my throat. I bit my lip, holding back my gasp even as my cheeks began to heat with embarrassment.

“She wants you to touch her,” Azriel said quietly, hypnotically “She wants you to really touch her.”

My breaths began to stutter as Rhysand’s right hand grazed under my breast and he began tracing one long-ringed finger over my breast and across my nipple, visible through my dress.

I exhaled harshly, watching as he traced circles around the sensitive bud, his touch going from barely there to firmer. The room was silent as his hand moved up and he cupped my breast in his large hand, his fingers pinching my nipple between his thumb and forefinger.

A moan slipped from my lips as he tugged, a content smile gracing his face as my body began to shiver slightly under the ministrations of his hands at my breast.

“Is that better, angel?” Cassian cooed, his hand coming up to rub at his face, his eyes unable to leave the hand that cupped me. I breathed out as Rhysand’s fingers played with my other nipple, rolling the bud in deft circles.

“No,” Azriel said, a knowing glint in his eyes as he cocked his head “It’s not enough, is it sweetheart?”

I swallowed once, my eyes captivated by his gaze and despite how hot my face felt, I shook my head in agreement, revelling in the smirk Azriel gave me.

“No?” Rhysand asked, his voice whispered against my ear.

I bit my lip in anticipation as his hand left my chest and slowly, so tauntingly slow, began descending my stomach. He drew casual and lazy circles against the flesh of my stomach as he glided lower, and I wasn’t sure if I was more breathless at the fact he was touching my stomach or that he was getting closer to where I needed him most.

He paused at the slit at the side of my dress, revealing the skin at my thigh and if moved, the underwear I wore beneath.

“Here?” He breathed, biting the lobe of my ear gently when I didn’t respond. I watched his hand, watched with desperation as it stroked near the seam of that slit and rested there.

“More” I pleaded, not caring how desperate I sounded.

“Tsk” Azriel shook his head, enjoying my pleas “Such a needy girl.”

“She is a needy girl” Rhysand agreed, his fingers slipping under the dress for a second before stroking back out again. I sighed, screwing my eyes shut in a mixture of pleasure and frustration, my body wound so tight, I could barely think.

“Come on, look at her” Cassian sighed, impatience lining his handsome face. “Give her what she wants… what she needs Rhys.”

Rhysand cocked his head and I glanced at him, nearly pouting at the taunting smirk he threw at me. But my body settled, melting as his hand slipped completely under the dress and cupped right against my clothed cunt.

“Fuck” He growled, slipping into an uncontained sort of provocation as the palm of his hand pressed against me. I moaned quietly, and his body trembled under me “So fucking wet.”

I didn’t hesitate to shift my position as Rhysand’s other hand guided me to spread my thighs, so that one lay sprawled over his thigh, exposing my simple black thong to Cassian and Azriel. Nerves bubbled in my stomach at the vulnerability but as they stared, infatuated and as Rhysand ran his fingers over the slit, my mind went blissfully blank.

It seemed that no one had the patience for mocking anymore, not as Rhysand’s hand lifted and traced over the band of my underwear.

“May I?” He asked quietly, nuzzling into the curve of my neck affectionately.

“Please” I whispered.

He groaned low in his throat as he slipped those deft fingers passed the material and into my thong.

I inhaled as he ran a finger over me, the rough callouses of his battle-trained hands rubbing against my most sensitive part eliciting breathy moans from my lips. Rhys exhaled deeply, his eyes blazing as he ran two fingers down, collecting the wetness there.

“Rhys” I sighed and I felt pure male satisfaction from him as he messily rubbed my wetness up against my aching clit.

“Fuck” I heard Cassian groan, his voice husky with appreciation and I blinked my heavy eyes open, my body lighting as the two males intently watched me, their eyes glued to the spot between my legs and Rhysand’s hand slowly circling within.

“Faster” Azriel commanded, his face hard and eyes unmoving I arched my back and screwed my eyes as Rhysand followed his words, two fingers rubbing swift circles against my clit.

I writhed, unable to keep my eyes open as pleasure rocked through me, my hips grinding back and forth as I ride Rhysand’s fingers, his lips at my neck encouraging and indulgent. His pace is firm and steady, rubbing against a spot that has my thighs clenching from how good it feels.

“Cauldron, Rhys I can’t-“ I whimper, my head now back against his shoulder, one hand gripping the material of my dress while the other dug my nails into Rhysand’s forearm.

“That’s it” He praised gruffly, his other hand coming up tugging at my sensitive nipples.

“I think she’s close Rhysand” Cassian mused and I could hear the pleased grin on his lips.

“Are you darling?” He asked, his fingers never stopping, his body pressing me unbelievably close to him as he muttered hoarsely against my ear. “Are you close?”

My legs began to tremble as that familiar chord within me tightened and my breathing began stuttering out as I shook my head, my lips parting to say yes but my brain was too fogged over for any words to leave my mouth.

My lips gaped open again and I felt that chord within me snap as Rhysand’s fingers shifted a little to the left. I gasped, moaning and writhing, my hips bucking as pleasure and release coursed through me like a tidal wave. Rhys hummed in approval, his fingers continuing their punishing pace against me.

“Look at how good she looks, moaning while she comes all over your hand brother,” Azriel said, and the dirty words had my back arching and hands fisting as I rode through the pleasure sparking through me.

I exhaled and inhaled sharply, my chest rising and falling as Rhysand’s fingers slowed, guiding me through my high before eventually stopping. I tried to even out my breathing, focusing on the smooth feel of Rhysand’s wet fingers now on the skin of my thigh and I slowly blinked my eyes open, lifting my groggy head from his shoulder as I did so.

My face was flushed and my body still trembled from the aftermath of Rhysand’s touch as my eyes locked with a grinning Cassian, a more subdued but satisfied Azriel and then back to Rhysand, who lifted his lips in a gratified lazy smirk.

“You look pretty worn out darling” Rhysand noted, smug and smirking and I rolled my eyes at his male satisfaction, even if he was in fact right.

“Sure you can handle two more Illyrian males tonight?” He cocked his head and images appeared inside my mind again.

Cassian, his hands gripping my waist as he wrapped his lips around my nipples, teeth tugging against the hard flesh. And then of Azriel, on his knees before me, head between my thighs, scarred hands holding down my flailing hips.

I shivered as the promised images dissolved and reality came flooding back, Rhysand’s filthy and seductive grin rippling over me like electricity.

I smiled softly, turning my gaze to Cassian and Azriel, both of whom looked on the edge of their seats, bursting with restraint and appetite.

“It’ll take more than that to burn me out,” I shrugged, raising my brow at them in a challenge.

And I felt my toes curl in anticipation as both their eyes lit with fire and they smirked.

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