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mv1simp · 7 months ago

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requested : dark mafia max!!

Devilish ♥️

Mafia!Max Verstappen x Reader

Girl who you tryna call, it’s a quarter past four, can’t nobody hear you scream right now

The Leeuw of Holland - or Mad Max, as he was referred to in his teen years - is well known for establishing his father's control over most of Eastern Europe. No one would dare to stand up to him for fear of losing their head - until you, the sweet daughter and lawyer of Monaco's mayor - who's determined to protect her small city from the Verstappen familia by putting the Leeuw behind bars.

Leeuw = Lion in Dutch

Content includes: 18+ MDNI, smut, mafia boss! Max falls for mayor’s daughter! Reader, reader is also a boss ass bitch, kidnapping, violence, explicit mention of murder/dead bodies/mutilation, nothing towards reader cuz maxie is a simp 🥰 9.5k WC omg my longest yet

You feel a shiver run up the back of your spine from where you stand in the high court. Knowing exactly who’s dark gaze is raking down your body, taking in your small figure that's stylishly dressed in a tight Chanel dress and matching heels, you deliberately keep your gaze fixed forward. The judge looks like he's about to have a heart attack, sweat dripping down his forehead as he glances back and forth between you - the fiercely passionate lawyer who'd presented the numerous charges on behalf of her father, the Mayor of Monaco - and to the tall, Dutch man who sat watching you with a cocky smirk. The blonde’s large thighs spread wide and the Leeuw of Holland, as he was famously named, looked far too calm for a man who'd just had 76 counts of murder brought forward against him.

You'd had no idea who the Dutch Lion was when you two had first met. You'd just returned with your law degree from college in America, only to find things in a state of disarray in the idyllic city of Monaco. Your father had always struggled to maintain his citizen's safety as the Mayor as the neighbouring Leclerc and Sainz familias battled for territory - but in your absence the now established, much bloodthirstier Verstappen familia had seized control of the profitable area. Monaco's location served as prime real estate to ship all the drugs and black money a criminal could wish for to the rest of Eastern Europe, and Jos Verstappen had personally sent his own son and underboss - Mad Max - to secure your father’s territory.

You'd head rumours, of course, even all the way abroad in the States, of this Verstappen heir. He was known for his rage and callous violence that earned his nickname, the perfect hitman for his cold, calculating father. You’d thanked your lucky stars you had never come face to face with him, because you were sure he would kill you - or worse, you think with a shudder - if he came across the Mayor of Monaco’s daughter. But after coming back home for the last two months and finding things in such upheaval, you became more determined to do right by your family’s citizens. Your mother - who had passed away when you were young, at the hands of a Sainz thug - had been very passionate about helping those who couldn’t protect themselves, so you always lived your life in a way you knew she would be proud of.

So that’s why you spent endless days poring over the city’s legislature and laws, overturning laws that had made civilian’s finances and livelihoods hard and submitting proposal after proposal of new laws that were severely harsh on crime. The locals quickly noticed the change from the Mayor’s office, and you became idolised as Monaco’s princessa.

Your father, bless him, although his heart was always in the right place, he had gotten too old to go head to head with the gangs, choosing to bargain with the gangs instead and buy his citizen’s safety that way. You argued that it was only a matter of time before Jos Verstappen showed up at your family’s doorstep to demand more and more from the city of Monaco - until he owned it himself. You were determined to catch him, or even better - catch his son, the one who’d inherit the Verstappen empire, and put a stop to this rapidly expanding mafia before it grew out of control. Your dedication to do right by your people inspired your father to once again champion for the safety of his city.

And for a while, everything seemed to be flowing smoothly. You’d set up many a new school, local trade centres and businesses, and even medical clinics by using money redirected from paying off the gangs to keep your citizens safe. Life was thriving for the first time in a decade in Monaco. You’d even found your own small peaceful spot of solace in the chaotic city, behind one of your new clinics where a collection of streetcats would assemble. You fed them dutifully, coming daily in your lunch breaks and laughing delightedly when you saw one of them had kittens. But one day when you’d been late due to a court hearing, you’d been surprised to see that the cats had already been happily munching on some freshly ground tuna meat. It was good quality too, very expensive to come by these days, your keen eye noted from being born into the luxury of a Mayor’s daughter. You smiled sweetly and fondly patted the purring cats’ ears. Someone else found you too adorable to resist too, hmm?

From then on, whenever you’d come feed the cats, you’d always look around curiously, wanting to see if you could find that person - but you never did. And then, one day, you stumbled across an impossibly cute scene of a tall blond man, clearly broad shouldered and muscular even though he was casually dressed in a hoodie and jeans. He was warmly laughing as he held one of the cats in his arms while another yowled at his legs, wanting to also be picked up. Oh! You clapped your red manicured hands excitedly as you ran over, all sense of stranger danger forgotten as canoodling with streetcats wasn’t really a common mafia thug activity. The man’s head had slightly tilted towards you as soon as you had appeared on the other end of the street, but he turned to greet you fully as the sound of your dainty Chanel heels clicks against the pavement. You’d energetically started talking about how nice it was to finally meet whoever had been spoiling the cats, wasn’t it so cute how there were even kittens now? But when you finally drew your eyes away from the purring feline in his thick arms, you couldn’t help but blush at the curious blue-eyed gaze on his handsome face.

You introduced yourself, apologising for being rude, and after setting down the cat, he took your small hand in his own much larger, warm palm. You flushed again as he raised it to his lips, leaving a gentle kiss in a very traditional Monaco fashion, introducing himself as Emilian. You formed a quick friendship with him, eager to talk to someone your age after spending so much time with stuffy politicians all day. You find yourself excited to run into the gorgeous blonde on your lunch breaks, to laugh about some of the playfights you’d witnessed between the cats, or other times talk passionately about the current state of government affairs. Emilian, like many of the jaded younger generation, held a strong disdain for your father’s office and its weak position towards protecting citizens. In a somber moment you’d both realised you’d lost your mothers to the hands of the Sainz familia. But you passionately argued for your cause, remaining fiercely loyal to the goverment office of Monaco, spending your lunch hour easily talking about the many legal and restructuring plans you’d been working with the council to establish that had already improved so many household’s livelihoods. Emilian couldn’t help but quirk his attractive lips as he leaned a head on his palm, content to watch you animatedly talk for hours. The two of you sat across the waterfront, enjoying a late afternoon danish pasty in the lazy Monaco sun. When you’d turned the conversation to him, curiously asking what exactly he did, he dismissed it as per usual, vaguely mentioning something about working in the security business.

You eyed him suspiciously, imagining that like many young men in the area he’d turned to dabbling in underground business to support his family. It always started as selling the occasional party drug for profit or working as hired muscle for a night, sure, but you’d seen innocents with good hearts get sucked into the murderous world of gang violence too often. You definitely weren't just going to sit by and let someone as gentle and sweet as Emilian fall prey to it - the man had 3 separate albums on his phone dedicated to the stray cats, for God's sake! You told him this earnestly, even gently brushing your hand across his as you offered him a job as a bodyguard instead. Your father had been making more public appearances lately as the public perception grew positive of the Mayor’s office.

Emilian had hummed, contemplating, his gorgeous blue eyes glancing at where your small palm had grasped onto his much larger one. Then he’d reached across the cafe table to tuck a stray curl behind your ear, making a pretty blush spread across your caramel sun-kissed skin. So cute, he’d said, his lips quirking into a gentle smile. You promptly forgot all about what you’d been trying to convince him on as your eyes drifted down to his lips instead, the rising fluttering of romantic feelings swirling in your stomach. He’d gotten a phone call then and sighed, telling you he’d see you later, leaving after another kiss to your fingers. You’d pouted, feeling like you were crushing a lot harder on the handsome blonde than he was on you.

Next time when you met him, though, the only feeling you had was panic and fear as you saw him slumped against your stray cat’s alleyway, blood quickly oozing from a stab wound to his abdomen. You’d forced yourself to hold back a scream and avoid attracting attention in the quickly darkening evening, grabbing a hold of Emilian’s soft jumper and tugging him with you to your clinic. He’d held firm, far stronger than you even with a goddamn knife wound that was bleeding so much, oh my god-

He told you to leave, because whoever had done this was likely still in the vicinity, would see you two walking into the clinic and then would target you too. You hissed at him that he was crazy if he thought you would ever abandon him like that and if that’s what he was worried about you’d take the back alley route to your downtown apartment then! He’d finally given in, now looking paler from the blood loss and making you internally freak out. As you guided him into your cute 2nd floor apartment, all warm lighting and trailing pot plants, he smirked and murmured that if this was all it took to get you to invite him back to your place, he’d have gotten stabbed a lot sooner.

Shut up, you’d blushed, setting him down on your bathroom floor and grabbing your extensive first aid kit. Secretly though, you were glad that he still felt well enough to make jokes like that. You miss how his ice blue eyes intently watch you compress his wound, relieved that it hadn’t gone too deep into his body to injure his organs, and biting your lip with concentration as you slowly stitched the wound. Later, when you’d been nursing a glass of whiskey to settle your nerves, your many lamps casting a glow across your face, you’d answered his questions about how you learnt to fix an injury. You told him about how powerless you’d felt when you’d seen your mother be stabbed to death in front of you, how your child sized hands couldn’t stop the bleeding and you had never wanted to feel so useless ever again.

You hadn’t realized your mind had wandered back to that memory, triggered by Emilian’s own blood that you’d scrubbed thrice over from your own hands tonight. When you felt his warm hand run across your clenched ones, soothing the tension, your for eyes focused back to look at his contemplative gaze. You’d never thought you’d see the handsome man sitting in your apartment like this, now shirtless as you’d thrown his bloodied one away. You averted your gaze, suddenly feeling shy despite the desire coursing through you, secretly glad he had declined your offer of your pink pastel knit to cover up with so you could enjoy the view of his broad, muscled shoulders.

Tilting your head back up to look at him, Emilian murmured that he was indebted to you, that you would always be under his protection. His words send a flutter through your heart, although frankly you're not sure how he was meant to protect you when you were the one with access to security resources as the Mayor's daughter. But still, his words have an undertone of assured confidence to them and you find your eyes drifted down to his lips again. You're ecstatic when he breaks the tension and finally leans in, giving you what you'd been wanting for a few weeks now as he captures your lips in a passionate kiss. He definitely knows what he’s doing, and soon you're sweetly moaning into his mouth and grinding onto his skilled, thick fingers that have slipped into your jeans and pulled your panties to the side. He brings you to bliss within minutes, and you can't resist pressing yourself closer to him as you come down from your high. You want to make him feel good, too, but your hands accidentally brush against his stab wound and you don't miss his low, painful hiss. Pulling back immediately, you apologise profusely, worriedly looking over his bandages again to make sure there was no bleeding. He chuckles, telling you he was fine, you were very welcome to continue?

Flushing, you told him that you'd had a slip in judgement and were not going to put his already hurt body through any more accidental pain tonight. He pouted rather cutely as you stood up, grabbing some spare blankets and pillows for him to stay on the couch. Not having your hands on him was far more painful than the stab wound, he says teasingly, making you blush. You felt a little embarrassed at how quickly things had progressed tonight, unable to keep your head on straight around the handsome tall Blonde in front of you. You give him a firm goodnight, but just before you enter your bedroom, you turn to shyly tell him that you’d like to return the favour and make him feel good when he had healed. Grinning at your cute, blushing face, Emilian’s ocean look eyes look at you fondly as he lowly murmurs that he’ll look forward to it, shcatje.

That night you dream about handsome men in mysterious alleyways, who pin you to the wall and pepper your neck with soft kisses that turn hungrier and hungrier. You’re gasping and asking for more, please, please as his strong hands roughly palm your ass, your tits-

You wake with a start in your now empty apartment, Emilian’s name on your lips. Late morning light floods through your windows as you curiously notice the empty sofa, where a blanket is neatly folded up. Your face brightens when you see a note, that reads sorry I left without a goodbye kiss, schatje, the cats were getting possessive.

Rolling your eyes at his usual mysterious antics, you toss his note into the bin. But you’re humming as you went about your morning routine, buzzing with excitement at the thought of seeing the attractive blonde later on. But oddly, Emilian hasn’t been in your usual spot that afternoon, and you look around with concern as the cats meow at your feet, wanting to be fed. When he isn’t there the next day either, or the day after, you’ve started to get very worried now, wondering if something had gone wrong with his wound or worse - the man who had stabbed him had decided to retaliate with more gang members this time. You’d been thinking about it so much that you decide to the police station that day and asking the chief to look for the Dutchman who's found his way into your heart.

It turns out that Emilian’s safety was not something you needed to be concerned with. Because the one who has been in danger was not the mysterious blonde, but instead you, who had unknowingly caught the attention of many mafioso in the area by protecting him. You realised this when you came home from your visit to the police station, only to find your front door unlocked. You'd barely taken a step inside when you’re pushed against the wall by a heavily pierced man you’d never see before. The mocking silver pendant that he wore around his neck, of a horse rearing, signified his alliance with the LeClerc familia. You’d been unable to control the tears running down your face when he'd painfully begun choking you, demanding to know where the hell Max was. When you’d tried to tell them you had no clue what he was referring to, he just tightened his harsh grip on you to slam you against the wall again. You cry out in pain, bruises already forming along your delicate hands from the intruder's grip, as you keep trying to plead and explain you didn't know who they were talking about. A part of you knew there must be some link between this Max they were looking for, and your Emilian - but you sure as hell were not going to tell these criminals a single thing.

You swallow your fear and try to bargain with them, offering money, access to shipping resources, security - all things you could provide in your role as the mayor's daughter, you insisted. But they laughed it off, confusing you when they said currently, you were the most sought after bargaining chip for the gangs in Southern Europe. And everything had faded to black then, after one of them pressed an acidic smelling cloth over your nose.

When you woke up, hours later and with a pounding head, you're in an unfamiliar room. You groggily sit up, and find yourself instantly alarmed by the thick ropes tied tightly around your wrists. At least they hadn't tied your legs, too, you think with relief, sitting up in the dark room - only to come eye to eye with the barrel of a gun. Ah, that explained it - apparently they thought you were such a precious commodity they'd assigned someone to literally guard you with a gun. You're still confused, unsure why suddenly these street criminals seem interested in kidnapping the Mayor's daughter. Everyone knew who really held the power in Monaco - the Verstappen familia.

You get your answer then, when the sound of gunshots start filling the air from outside your room. You look up in alarm, and your guard eyes the door warily. He growls at you to not to move an inch as he leaves to go investigate, closing the door behind him. You flinch as more and more gunshots fill the air, accompanied by screams and yells. And then, when it becomes eerily silent for minutes on end, you wonder if this is your chance to escape amidst whatever chaos was going on. You're nervously peering around the hallways, finding yourself in a creepy, abandoned looking mansion - somewhere probably on the outskirts of the Monaco township, if you had to guess. Moonlight is the only thing lighting the way as you try to quietly navigate your way out of the winding hallways. It's strange, there had been so any gunshots but you had yet to see a single person anywhere-

And that's where you saw it, around the next corner. Scattered haphazardly throughout the hallway, illuminated by moonlight shining through the large window, lay body after body, all freshly dead with expressions of terror still on their faces. And then, soft murmurs from the opposite end of the hallways, as three men rounded it - and you finally find your missing Dutchman. Emilian? You whisper breathlessly, half reassured to find him alive and half confused at what he was doing inside a property that clearly belonged to the LeClercs. He stops abruptly, halting the two men behind him as he stares at you with a look of pure relief. He was dressed so differently to his usual casual attire, too, with his blond locks slicked back, wearing a fitted white shirt and dress pants, and an expensive looking black overcoat that highlighted his tall, broad frame. You'd looked puzzled at the large watch on his wrist - a renowned luxury brand you recognised from the many elite charity galas you'd attended. Well out of the yearly income someone like Emilian would make in...what had he said? Security?

You're so perplexed at the sudden appearance of the half a million Euro worth watch that you don't even notice the sleek gun in his hand, until he's raising it up and pointing it straight at you. Don't move, schatje, he murmurs, his deep voice carrying across the hallway. And those ocean blue eyes of his that you'd fallen in love with were now ice cold, without a trace of any human emotion behind them. Your own doe eyes widen in fear, tears gathering, because you have no idea who the man standing in front of you is, just who you’d fallen in love with - and now he's going to kill you. You don't even get time to flinch when he's pulling the trigger. But to your surprise the bullet never hits you. Instead, you hear a thump behind you - and turn to see a body fall to the ground, his own gun that had been raised towards you clattering across the floor.

You'd stood frozen in fear, silently shaking and willing yourself not to pass out from the sheer amount of blood that pooled onto the floor, staining your pretty white Chanel heels. And then a tall figure is at your side, guiding you away from the horrifying sight with a large palm in the small of your back. His warm hands making quick work of the ropes that still bind your hands. His familiar voice is murmuring to you gently that you he was here, you’re safe now, schat and no one was going to hurt you again. You’re finally pulled out of your frozen shock when you feel his touch. You look down at large palms softly rubbing the red marks on your skin from where the rope had dug into your skin.

You're outside now, standing in the moonlit gravel in front of the eerie mansion, with an equally haunted looking garden around you. The chill of the night time air helps you start clarifying your racing thoughts. I don’t think Emilian is your real name, you begin. And for a casual security hire to wear a Patek Philippe watch...who are you, really? You finally ask, your voice surprisingly firm despite fear coursing through your veins. He sighs, draping his thick black overcoat over your shaking figure, the clothing completely dwarfing you.

You’re a very smart woman, liefje, he murmurs lowly, his intense gaze studying your face. He tells you that he's sure you've probably already figured it out by now. Releasing a deep breath, you recount his Dutch origins, clear as day in his deep accented voice and blonde locks, and the fact that he obviously had an established presence in one of the mafioso gangs. Most likely the Verstappen familia, then. He was high up enough to have command of his own group of men, the ones you now spotted through various windows, no doubt cleaning up the piles of dead bodies in the house. He watches you with a small grin on his face, enjoying how even if this frightening situation you were able to gather evidence and form a logical conclusion. And when you told him your theory - that he was not Emilian but Nicolas Hulkenberg, left hand man to Jos Verstappen, he chuckled, telling you almost fondly that you were so close. He was in the Verstappen family, and he was high up in the chain of command - but Nico's my cousin. He'd probably have a hissy fit at being confused with me, the handsome blonde in front of you mused. The new information sends a jolt through you, because even though your knowledge of the gangs is not extensive, if this man was Nicolas Hulkenberg's cousin, then...

Max Verstappen. Your breathless voice gives away the fear rising within you as your doe eyes widen in shock. You instinctively take a step back as the infamous underboss of the Verstappen familia takes a step closer to you, tilting his head like a lion eyeing up his prey, looking very much like the Dutch Leeuw he’s famously named for. Max Emilian Verstappen, he corrects, saying that most people didn't know the middle name - making it a useful nickname in public.

It's certainly more discreet than Mad Max, you reply hotly, rage and betrayal now replacing your earlier fear as you realise just how deceived you'd been. The man standing in front of you was no innocent citizen, or anyone to be protected. No - he was set to inherit the richest and most powerful gang family in the continent. Max's ice blue eyes narrow at your hurt expression, at the tears that are now running down your cheeks as you tell him what as absolute psychopath he was, to use and manipulate you into helping him, just because - you gasp, sobbing uncontrollably now - just because I'm the mayor's daughter? And you wanted to know about my redevelopment plans!? Max's heart aches at seeing you so upset, and he softly tells you it wasn't meant to be like this, you weren't meant to find out so unexpectedly. All of the heated looks and sweet words he’d spoken to you were real, because he’d fallen in love with you, too. But those Leclerc bastards had gotten their hands on you, wanting a bargaining chip and thinking you were something disposable to be used and tied up - A dark expression has taken over Max’s face now, storm clouds in his steely eyes. He'd let your captors off far too easily, he says menacingly. A shiver runs through you as you remember that the man standing in front of you had earned his title not just through family blood, but with his status of a deadly hitman with the highest kill rate this side of the globe.

Well, never mind, he drawls nonchalantly, his observant gaze not missing the fear in your sweet doe eyes that you tried desperately to supress. He was sure the Leclercs had gotten the message that you were not someone they could touch so casually. You were under Max’s personal protection, after all - he was indebted to you. Like he predicted, your Monegasque pride didn't take the offer from your political enemy kindly. You tell him to fuck off, Verstappen, you didn’t need his protections and he could just stay the hell away. He laughs at the fire in your brown eyes that’s returned in full force, glad you no longer had the lost, glassy stare he’d found you with earlier. Refusing to let him drive you home, you demand he hand over the keys to that S Class Mercedes parked in the driveway that you assumed was his, given the outrageous price tags and the bulletproof glass. He presents them to you with a smirk, watching you take off after shooting him a furious expression over your shoulder.

Of course, he wasn’t going to let you out of his sight ever again, not after you’d been hurt. You didn’t know about the guards he had assigned to you at all times, but you did receive a package a few days later. Unboxing the black and white designer wrapping, you tried to remember if you’d ordered something and forgotten about it. But when you see the identical Chanel heels you’d been wearing the night everything had happened, a new pair to replace your old, blood stained ones, you knew exactly who had sent them to you. You shove the box to the back of your closet and scowl as you continue about your research of collating the list of charges to bring against Max Verstappen.

So now, a month later, you see him for the first time since your kidnapping. It’s in the courtroom where you confidently list our your extensive evidence condemning the Leuw of Holland - who’s intense gaze you can feel raking over your well dressed form. You’re stunned when the judge, who’s sweated through his wig and gone through 3 jugs of water from all his nervous gulping, anxiously says that he finds the accused, Max Emilian Verstappen, not guilty. You knew that the Verstappens were powerful, had connections in every place and access to unlimited money - but to buy off the judge of the Monaco Supreme Court, really, Max? Have you no integrity? You hiss at him, much to the shock of onlookers as they see the Monaco Princess go toe to toe with the son of the Verstappen Familia. Good to see you too, schatje, the Dutch Lion croons at you, enjoying the frustrated blush on your face from his sweet nickname. Can’t say I’m a fan of going to jail for offing a few bastards, no. Besides, those Leclerc goons definitely deserved it for putting their hands on my woman. You gasp, stammering out your response as he catches you off guard. You were not his woman, and he had no right to call you that-

Sure, whatever you say, schat. He’d given you enough space - over a month, and he missed having you by his side every day. You’d gotten your revenge with this whole dramatic court case - one that he would never have allowed anyone to go so far with, slitting their carotids well before any court date was set. Now, it was time for Max to have his fun with you again, and this time he doesn’t have to hide behind the mystery facade. Wear that pretty little pink nightdress you wore for me that time I stayed over, hmm?

You flush prettily again, giving him a venomous glare before storming off. Cute, he thinks as your heels click on the marble floor. He admires the view of your lush ass in the tight pencil skirt you wore. He’s thinking about what colour lingerie he should have sent to you to match the heels you’d worn today, all dressed up for him - when the Mayor of Monaco approaches him. Your father looks very suspicious as he shuffled from side to side, asking Max if he would like to join him for a drink that evening.

Max watches him stoically, agreeing to a meeting only out of respect for him as your father. Otherwise, he wouldn’t care less about the puppet leader of Monaco. Everyone knew who the real power lay with, after all. So he isn't surprised when the pathetic excuse of the man who calls himself your father offers you up as a trade in exchange for the return of some of the power the Verstappens have stolen. Your father had heard the rumours of how infatuated the Verstappen heir had become with the Princess of Monaco - and was happy to just hand you over. A political marriage, of course, so that your father was guaranteed to have a familial link into the powerful new family. And if Max was no longer interested in you, then your father was sure there would be no shortage of buyers in the Leclerc and Sainz families who had become aware of the new princessa thrown into their game.

Max narrowed his ice blue eyes at the pitiful father figure in front of him, his attention finally caught with this new threat to your safety. And from your only living family member, no less - the one who you'd painstakingly resurrected from political ruin. God, the Mayor of Monaco was almost as bad as Jos. But then again, Jos had never pretended to be something he was not. Your father, on the other hand, was someone who you loved and cherished dearly. It would break your heart to see him hurt - even though he was now trying to sell you off to become a mafia bosses's wife without your knowledge.

Good thing your daughter got her fire from her mother, the Verstappen heir says coldly, his voice commanding enough that it makes the Mayor gulp nervously. Since her father clearly has no balls. Max doesn't respond well to threats - he much prefers making them, instead. And although he wanted to do nothing more than leave a bullet inside the Mayor's chest, he wouldn't touch your father out of respect for you.

So instead, when he gets word that evening of another secret hit out for you, he takes this as the oppurtunity to take you under his protection - permanently. He wouldn't allow your father to marry you off to one of the many ruthless mafiosos in the region. This time, the abduction attempt comes from the once powerful Hamilton-Rosberg family who were trying to restablish their hold after Max Verstappen himself had tobbled them from the inside. You'd impressed Max by fending off the first few attackers with the handgun you now kept at your bedside, injuring them but avoiding any critical areas as you ran out your fire escape. Good girl, Max thought with pride as his men relayed the situation to him over the phone. But you'd not expected the attackers waiting for you at the end of back alleyway. You were out of bullets, and closed your eyes in resignation as you prepared for what you were sure would be a nasty end...

When that infuriatingly attractive, confident Dutch voice appears at your side. Missed me, schatje? Max Verstappen makes quick work of the men who dared to attempt laying a hand on you. This time he rips one of their heart out, rather gruesomely, before shoving it inside the dead man's mouth. A very clear warning to all others who went after you again - since apparently the massacre at the Leclerc mansion had not been enough.

You're snifling and shaking when Max returns to your side, your back firmly to him to avoid seeing the horrific sight. And when he sighs softly again, draping his familiar, warm coat over our shoulders, you ask him if he was here to kill you, too. You'd realised that many of Max's enemy gangs had started to come after you, hoping to use your connection to the Verstappen heir against him. Of course, for a man as coldly efficient and powerful as Max - it made sense to eliminate any source of weakness to his status. But the enemy Dutch Lion you'd somehow fallen for suprises you once again. Brushing a stray curl behind your ear, and wiping away the tears now gathering in the corner of your wide eyes, Max gently murmurs No, schatje. He was going to marry you.

Shock courses through you, as you gasp at his unexpected confession. But then everything is going blurry, and the last thing you remember is his ocean blue eyes, looking into yours with their familiar warmth and intensity. The next time you wake up, you're in Max's private jet, somewhere over the Mediterranean Sea. You’re panicked, trying to angrily demand that he take you back, but whatever drugs he’d had given to you make your efforts futile. You’re slumping tiredly against his broad shoulders after a few minutes, his strong arms around you, falling into a deep sleep as he murmurs reassurances that he was doing this for your own protection.

And when you wake up again, he’s made sure that it’s goddamn near impossible for you to run away. Because he has you on a godforsaken large private island of the Sicilian Coast, a beautiful place surrounded by turquoise beaches and dotted with ancient temple ruins mixed in amongst trendy Italian boutiques. It’s the sort of place you would normally be enraptured by - but in the week you’ve been here you’ve been plotting escape attempt after attempt.

Of course, you’d argued with Max every night when he returned from whatever shady business he’d conducted during the day, taking his private plane. You put your law degree to good use with the heated debates over the dinner table as he watched you with an adoring grin, finding your ever present energy and passion captivating. It had made you flush and look away from his gorgeous eyes. You stabbed into the deliciously flavoured lobster pasta in front of you, hating how your stomach did backflips when Max looked at you in this way. Your heart and brain felt like they were at odds with one other constantly, torn between the gentle, cat loving Emilian you’d fallen in love with and this protective, commanding Max who you couldn’t deny your growing desire for. Confidence greatly suited the Dutch Leuw, who now came back to the mansion he kept you in dressed in a black suits and wristwatches that was no doubt worth the combined income of a middle class family. But at dinner, with just the two of you over the flickering candlelight each night, enjoying the Italian summer air, he’d be in those cozy soft tees and loose linen shirts you’d always liked because of how they showed off his broad arms. Meanwhile, you pointedly only wear the plainest and drab outfits you could find in the luxurious walk in closet you’d been given. You’d gotten shocked as you opened each drawer in the room, finding it filled to the brim with designer clothes and luxury bags and heels, all in your favourite brand and colours and with matching jewellery in gold - as if it had been curated specifically for your tastes. At least he had the decency to give you private living quarters, you supposed. One night over fresh seafood paella he teasingly asked if you didn’t like all the clothes he’d had ordered for you, schat, because he can have more delivered? You scathingly tell him to stop being such a stalker, did he even know how creepy it was to find all your favourite items in that closet when you’d never even told him about them?

Blue eyes darken at your bratty note, but you aren’t nervous of Max anymore - even through the Leuw of Holland had been notorious for terrorizing your hometown streets. You’d realised that for some reason or the other, you were more precious to him than you’d ever imagined. It made you hesitate and wonder if maybe there was some truth to the romantic feelings he’d confessed to having for you, the night of the Leclerc mansion bloodbath. Forgive me for wanting you to feel comfortable here, schatje Max responded coolly, drinking from his whiskey glass. You argue back that a girl couldn’t possibly feel comfortable if she was kidnapped and help captive by a man who had technically led to her family’s ruin. And if you expect me to get dressed up for you, so that you can have your way with me…you can forget it! You retort angrily, face flushing.

Now smirking into his palm, Max assures you that despite his reputation, he promises to be the perfect gentleman. He’d never lay a hand on you…not unless you begged him too, first. His cocky tone made it clear he thought you found him impossible to resist. The playful look in his gorgeous blue eyes makes you bite your plush lips as you remember the last time Max had placed his large palm on your very willing body in an intimate way. After all, you'd sounded so sweet when you kept moaning for more when you came on my fingers within minutes, remember schat? The blonde teases you, clearly also thinking back to the same night you were. Standing up abruptly, you hotly retort with a Last time, I'd also been asking for Emilian, not Max Verstappen, before dramatically flipping your thick curls and storming off. The Dutch Lion watches you go with an amused chuckle, once again enjoying the view of your curvy ass even despite the horrid pants you were wearing. Same man, schat! he calls out to your retreating back, to which you respond with a well mannered middle finger in the air.

Your game continues like this over the month. As the days pass, you start to become more relaxed with Max. You still get flashes of the cold eyed Mafioso heir when you catch him on the phone angrily discussing a business deal, or when you spot a fleck of red on his pristine white designer shirts when he returns from being out. But your heart gets confused when you also see the gentle and caring Emilian when he's with you, who chooses to make your favourite breakfast every morning despite the full staffing in his mansion, who feeds and walks the dogs he has running around his gardens and plays with the snarky housecats. And when you'd woken up in the middle of the night crying in terror from the memory of seeing all those bloodied dead men in the Leclerc mansion, Max had been the one to hear your cries and storm into your bedroom. He'd taken you into his broad, warm arms, and you'd buried your sobs in his neck as he murmured reassurances of how you were safe now, you had nothing to ever worry about with him at your side. When you'd woken up the next morning, finding Max's toned chest underneath your cheek from where you'd both fallen asleep in your bed, a bit of your drool on his shirt, your heart swirled with conflicting emotions. You hated how safe and protected you feel in his embrace, knowing that this domestic bliss lifestyle with one of the most handsome and richest men you've ever met was something he'd kidnapped you for.

Still though, as you get more comfortable, you negotiate for more freedom with Max. You're an excellent lawyer, and now that you were temporarily out of your political position, you were going crazy sitting inside the mansion or walking it's beautiful gardens everyday. Max hadn't allowed you to go anywhere else without him at your side, his intense gaze eyeing any potential threat that approached the pair of you. Not that anyone did - the aura the Dutch Lion radiates was so powerful you kept wondering just how you'd thought he was some soft-spoken young citizen needing your help and guidance. So when Max reluctantly agrees to let you go outside without him - it's with the rule of 5 trained bodyguards at all times, of course. You roll your eyes but let them trail behind you as you terrorise the multiple designer stores dotted on the large island with Max's black Amex. It was the least he could do considering he had basically abducted you, you think with a smirk, as you watch the total at just the jewellery store alone add up to over half a million Euro. The Verstappen security guards nervously sweat behind you.

However, their boss has no such qualms. Max lets you spend his money however you wanted, thinking you were finally starting to accept his offer of marriage and coming under his permanent protection. So you surprised him a few weeks later when you finally made an escape attempt. The island was actually much bigger than you'd initially thought, and you found there was a small population of a few thousand elite, rich Italians living on the other side. That's where you headed too that afternoon, having picked a day where Max was away on business. You escaped the watchful eye of your bodyguards and ran towards the first policeman you saw. Confessing that you'd been kidnapped, and you needed help urgently to get back to Monaco where your father was Mayor, you'd been relieved when they guided you into their policecar with concerned looks. You thought they were going to help get you on a plane back to your hometown - but to your shock they drive you back the Verstappen mansion. With a sinking feeling you realised that the influence your captor had went beyond anything you could have thought possible.

You had barely managed to get away for an hour - in fact, Max hadn't even landed back in the island yet. When he did arrive that evening, having been told by his men of what you'd attempted that day, he strides into his private living room to find you. He dismissed everyone standing guard, and for the first time since you'd come here you note that he actually looked annoyed with you. You shuffle your hips nervously, from where you're seated on the low chaise. To your embarrassment, the policemen had even put a pair of handcuffs on you that Max's guards hadn't bothered removing, and they clink noisily in your lap. The handsome blonde towers above your seated figure, tilting your face up with his firm hand as he glowers at you. He's angry, and he lets you know it, telling you how stupid it was of you to compromise your safety like this, did you even know how hard it had been for him to find out when he'd been 3 hours away by plane and couldn't protect you!? Logically, you know that you should feel terrified of having pissed off a cold hearted man like Max Verstappen. But you're tuning his words out, instead biting your bottom lip at seeing him get so passionate over you. You couldn't deny that despite everything, the man in front of you was so attractive with his muscular, tall build and gorgeous light features - just your type, and the object of many a dirty fantasy in the last few months. Even after you'd found out his true identity as a Verstappen - not that you'd ever admit it to him.

But of course, Max's keenly observant gaze doesn't miss a thing. He sees it all - the way you press your thighs together, the delicious thickness easy for him to enjoy with the ridiculously overpriced Prada miniskirt you're wearing. So tiny that at this angle, with his much taller height, he catches a glimpse of your white lace panties - which are soaked straight through to reveal your dripping pussy. He smirks, knowing there was a far more effective way to punish you now. He gets his confirmation when he leans down to huskily murmur in your ear how much of a bad girl you'd been, how he clearly needs to teach you a lesson, thoroughly, so you don't disobey him again. You blush prettily, tits heaving with the gasp you let out as your eyes become dazed thinking about finally letting Max have his way with you, giving up all control and letting him take over, would feel like - after months of agonising tension.

He has you right where he wants, and he doesn't let you forget his promise. Not until you're begging me to touch you, remember liefje? he whispers darkly, his lips barely brushing your forehead as he leaves you pouting in frustration to go take a shower. He'd figured you'd angrily brood over his teasing for a few days, but when he emerges from the bathroom, he finds you sitting on his bed. Max looks especially mouth watering in grey sweats and dripping wet, tousled blonde locks and his broad, muscular chest. Rubbing your plush thighs together again, you hold up your handcuffs, innocently telling him you were only here to get free, nothing else, of course! The raw strength he uses to break the cuffs open with just his large hands has you holding back a breathless whine. God, this man was so insanely attractive, and you weren't going to be able to resist him much longer.

That's why you play back at this teasing game, making sure he's watching you with narrowed blue eyes and crossed arms, biceps swollen, as you strut through the shared door to your own bedroom. You leave the door wide open as you rustle through one of the many overflowing drawers - picking out a sheer La Perla pink nightie with matching lace panties. And when you nonchalantly hum as you make your way back to his rooms, shutting the lights off and leaving the warm bedside lamps on, you slip into his inviting comforter. He watches your whole show with a clenched jaw and unamused expression, telling you that you were playing with fire, schat.

You bat your thick eyelashes at him innocently, tossing your dark curls over your shoulder as you deny any mischief. Just in case I get any nightmares, of course! He doesn't buy it for a second, but still reluctantly slides in next to you. You remain on your best behaviour, reading a novel you'd picked out and ignoring Max, who was trying his best to ignore the skimpy outfit he knew you had underneath the covers and focus on the budgeting spreadsheet open on his laptop. After all, mafia gangs still had to keep track of their finances.

And then, just when he lets his guard down for a second and is typing away, you begin your revenge. Your book is tossed to the side and your manicured hands are running over your sensitive body, squeezing your juicy tits and rubbing your aching cunt through the sheer lace. The Leuw of Holland is left powerless for the first time in his adult life as the covers fall away, exposing your tempting caramel skin, contrasting with the pretty pink lingerie he’d bought for you. Your brown doe eyes are half lidded with desire as you watch him swallow at the tempting display in front of him, his hungry eyes honing in on the way you played with yourself. When he asks you what the fuck you were doing, his voice low and deep, you tease him more by saying he'd never said anything about you not being able to touch yourself, right? Maybe you’d let him touch you, too, if he was the one begging-

He growls like a literal lion, then, making you giggle as he watches you with a desperate look in his eyes that’s making you even more turned on. He gives up when you slip the sheer fabric down over your tits, showcasing your pretty tanned nipples that pebbled in the night air. Liefje, he groans, pressing his lips to your thick curls and his large hand to a rapidly hardening erection, please let me touch you, let me take care of you…

His husky voice sends shivers down your already warm skin, and you can’t deny your need for him any longer either. Wrapping a delicate hand around his much bigger wrist, you slowly guide him over your body, making his intense gaze go dark with desire. You brush his thick fingers over your pink lips, where you teasingly flick your tongue out and make him groan, then down across your neck so he can admire how pretty you look with his hand as a choker, then over your bouncing tits as you breathe deeply. He can’t resist pinching a cute nipple, this time making you moan, but it’s still not where you need him most. And then you’re guiding him over your soft tummy, over your plush hips, and then-

Oh, fuck schatje. Max's intoxicating, accented voice moans into your ear, making you drip even more for him. You’re so wet for me, this sweet pussy needs me to take care of it so badly, hmmm? You whine breathlessly, nodding impatiently as his long fingers brush against your swollen cunny. You’re dripping through your skimpy panties, which are practically stuck to you now. The attractive blonde next to you has no inhibitions about manhandling you easily, ripping the scraps of lace off and tossing the ruined hundreds of Euros to the side. Bringing your slick cunt to his lips, he licks them attractively as he stares up at your blushing face with hungry eyes. You stammer nervously, never having been eaten out before, but he couldn’t care less. He dips his skilled tongue into your soaked pussy, inhaling in your addictive sweet scent as you gasp and moan. His strong hands lock your rocking hips in position as he fucks you with his broad tongue, lapping up the sweet juices your cunny gushes out for him. You’re in tears from how amazing it feels, especially when he buries his large nose or a thick finger knuckle deep, and soon you’re intertwining your pink nails in his blonde locks as he once again makes you scream in name in pure pleasure. This time though, he’s much more satisfied because you’re desperately moaning his real name. Oh, Max! Please!

Days later, when you and him have formed a legal agreement of sorts, where you accept his protection against the ongoing threat of rival gangs and he agrees to let you resume your legal career, you fly back to Monaco with him at your side. He slid a hefty diamond engagement ring onto your finger, and you’re still shocked by how pretty it looks, glimmering in the light. Still, it was only temporary, you had no plans to actually marry the man. A union between the Princess of Monaco and the all consuming Verstappen Mafia heir who’d been responsible for stripping her city of its livelihood was a cursed match!

So when you excitedly run straight to your father’s home when you land, the Verstappen bodyguards in tow as per their boss’s instructions. You fling the doors open, shouting for your papa. The mayor of Monaco looks up in shock, thrown back a bit when you jump into his arms and tell him you missed him dearly, had he been keeping safe? He’d delighted you are safe of course, and tells you so numerous times over dinner, and then later when you two are poring over the city redevelopment plans. You’d been away for over two months now, and a lot had to be caught up with in your absence.

But when he continues that really, when he’d made the offer to Max he’d half expected to never see you again - after all, the Dutch Leuw of Holland was known to be ruthless. When you freeze, papers falling from your hand as you look at him in shock, he realises that your fiancée had never actually disclosed to you the circumstances under which he’d decided to make you his wife.

This whole time I thought he’d kidnapped me, like a madman…but really he was protecting me from you, wasn’t he? Because you were ready to sell your daughter off to whatever man would be the highest bidder? None of the pathetic excuses that come out of your father's mouth are enough to fix the trust that had been broken. Your heart had broken that night, and you’d left your family home and vowed to never look back, tears running down your face. Max had taken one look at you and taken you into his comforting arms, shushing your cries and murmuring that you were not alone, he was your family now, his home was now yours as well. Or rather, multiple properties, it might be more appropriate to say.

This time, you willingly return to the darkness, and you accept his offer of marriage, of protection, and of partnership, and he takes yours delicate hand in his when you walk down the aisle in a beautiful cream gown that same month. Like your now husband had noted when he'd first met you, you were a smart woman, the perfect wife to the likes of the heir to the Verstappen mafia. You understood that if the reigning government council couldn't resist the criminal takeover, it would be better to join them instead. But not with the pathetic bribing the Mayor had done, comprising his citizen's safety and then his own daughter's.

No, your style was far more ambitious than his. You'd gotten your fire from your mother, after all. So when the Princessa of Monaco married the powerful Verstappen heir, your citizens hadn't known what to expect, rumours flying of the whole thing being a forced arrangement. But when you and Max have eliminated both your fathers out of the way and claimed the city of Monaco for yourselves, you're quick to resume it's political redevelopment and advances in healthcare and education whilst running the largest drug smuggling ring in Europe in the underground canals. You had to get the funding from somewhere, and driving neighbouring gang's businesses into the ground to support your own local one seems a good a cause as any. This time, under your partnership, it's done in a much safer way for your citizens, and you firmly believe the means justify the ends.

And time passes in the now flourishing city. The handsome Dutch Leeuw is often seen out for lunch by the beach, laughing with his beautiful new wife in his arms. The power couple of Monaco, your citizens say, admiring your union of the darkness and the light.

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A/N: WHEWWWW this was a long one my dearest readers I am so sorry for the wait life has been crazy!! was a bit overwhelmed with work but max winning the sprint was enough to revive me thank you for waiting! lmk what you think! dark max simps do not worry I have many garbage pieces coming your way hehe

#max verstappen x reader #max verstappen imagine #max verstappen fanfic #max verstappen #max verstappen smut #f1 imagine #f1 smut #f1 fanfic #f1 x reader #max verstappen x you #18+ mdni #mafia au #max verstappen x oc

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anantaru · 11 days ago

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⚝ DAY 13 — BITING/MARKING

kinktober 2024. — masterlist | ao3

— including. — cyno, diluc, tighnari, alhaitham

— warnings. — fem! reader, biting (mentions of blood), marking you up, oral (fem! receiving), dirty talk

⚝ CYNO

with cyno's facial expression being unreadable as he's towering above you, he sinks his teeth right below your collarbone like he's staking his claim— truly, placing his sharp canines like an executioner's precision or rather a scholar's fascination? and when your back arches at his sinful procedure, when your breath catches like a caught bird in your throat, he exhales like he's satisfied some ancient hunger.

his bites burn like a brand— lingering long after the pain was gone, with a sharpened, bone chilling control, each mark placed not in a frenzy but in precision you only see in battles, a discipline so complete it burned you from within.

his cock slip and slides into you as his teeth sink on your neck mid thrust, right as your nails rake red lines down his shoulder blades to support your shuddering body from the way cyno has been manhandling you all night— yet, the man doesn't even flinch, no, he just groans as if he likes it, coming low from deep inside his chest as though the taste of your skin and the contort of your pussy around his cock was something he must devour in full.

his fingers dig into your hips as he grounds you, holding you in place when he thrusts up again, adding up on rhythm this time— going from slower and more focused on marking you up to brutal, dragging against the walls of your body like he's carving his path into you, the sheer feeling of your drenched pussy convulsing around him like that, over and over milking his cock of all its worth was making his thrusts turn a little sloppy.

"you'll remember this," cyno groans lowly, dragging his tongue over the fresh mark, "no matter where you go, who you see, this mark, this ache, this stretch, it's mine," as the moans bubbling within your throat fail you at last, lost in the depth of your own disarray as your body welcomes to battering sparks in your belly, caught in the brutal grip of his cock splitting you with a suffocating force.

every motion of his rhythm, every shift of his hips, pull something tight inside of you— a yearning and a desperate want, your breathing hitching, unable to get used to his pace as each greedy roll of hips stretch you, devour you slow and consuming, until you were crushed by him entirely.

his cock felt impossibly thick inside you, each thrust a promise written in spit and bruises as the aching bloom of another bite just landed under your jaw, coaxing out tiny, precious whines from your strained throat.

and when cyno licks the blood from his bottom lip, smiling with enjoyment like he's swallowed your soul, you realize he hasn't even cum himself yet— naturally, he's edged himself on for hours since he doesn't plan to give himself any solace, not until your body was dripping with his teeth marks first.

your mind was drifting, lost in the haze of his name, a whisper that clung to you like smoke as his scent wrapped around you, heavy and persistent before pulling you deeper into the fog of him, until you could hardly remember where you end and where he begins.

it's as if every thought was branded by cyno— echoing endlessly in the hollow of your chest.

⚝ DILUC

diluc's teeth scrape against the inside of your thigh first— testing the waters with his touch being blistering, like a tremor on the edge of the abyss and well, the master of the dawn winery wasn't sure if he'll fall for the addictiveness of you— yet little does he realize he's already looking over the edge, licking his lips and enjoying the way you react and taste.

he groans when you flinch against him, or when your legs tremble open and part wider for him the moment his sharp teeth graze at the pulsing flesh, the sound of his grunts accompanying his bites so low it straight up melted into your skin like liquid heat.

diluc's mouth moves up next, his tongue dragging saliva along your flesh before he bites down again, this time slightly harder and searing, so it'll properly sting, "let them see," he breathes, voice all smoke and fire as he sucks a bruise into the softness of your lower area, right above your clit, "let them know you're mine before you can even speak and say it yourself, love."

he holds you close, the heat of his body a constant reminder of the battle raging inside him— a conflict between control and the undeniable hunger that only you could satisfy, in fact, he's a man driven by deep emotions, and every gesture of affection from him reflected that inner fire, tempered by his normally reserved nature.

he presses his tongue into your clit next, thick and burning as he laps at the sensitive pearl, your body opening up to him so hard you sob out and hide your hands within his hair— your fingers clawing at his strands and digging him deeper into your cunt, nails dragging over his scalp like you're trying to ground yourself through the overstimulation and the wetness of his tongue.

your legs crush his head as your skin turns all sticky with sweat and spit and the wet slap of his tongue repeatedly lapping over your pussy as he slides his wet muscle between your folds with that feverish, balmy pace— his hand now searching one of your own to tangle his fingers within it, while the other was gripping at your thigh and pushing you into his mouth, fucking you with his tongue so wet and wild it felt like you might break apart any second.

to your surprise, diluc bites again— not hard, silly, but catching you off guard as he teasingly grazes his teeth over the sensitive skin, shamelessly groaning into your pussy like he's only just begun.

"no one else could made you fall apart like this, right?" diluc breathes, his voice wrecked, trembling at the edges of awe and delirium as the flicks of his tongue showed the opposite, battering you up, "you were built to come undone under me."

⚝ TIGHNARI

tighnari presses his nose into your neck first, his breathing stagnated and hot against your skin as he takes in your scent, whispering sweet nothings you honestly couldn't even decipher— it's something about that low, vibrating choice of tone that barely counted as anything but pure love.

although then, then he bites— utterly fast and sharp without you seeing it coming at all as the pain sinks into the spot between your neck and collarbone, your legs seizing up instantly, twitching violently as your moans break into whines and cries of his name, like something inside you snapped from the sharp press of teeth, from the way you took it.

"you're always so sensitive, crying already," tighnari mocks you a little, licking the aching spot blooming across your skin, "you're so easy to mark up, you're taking it so well," as his kisses remain precise, attempting to decipher the unspoken language of your skin, each press of his lips a careful investigation into your deepest desires.

you were entranced by your boyfriend, you feel it with every snap of his hips— every thick, punishing inch shoving inside you as your body turns soaked, squelching each time he grinds his cock in, the filthy noise becoming even louder when he pushes out as your thighs quiver around his hips.

in all honesty, tighnari wasn't even trying to be gentle with you, he wants to see you clutching at the sheets and demanding more, dizzy from the filth he's putting on you, more so from how full you were as he looks down on where your bodies connected, his tail coiling tightly around your ankle like he cannot stand any distance between you.

his teeth sink in again— just under your ear this time, where it'll definitely hurt and turn you on the most as your vision blurs when your walls clench tight around his length, choking his cock and milking him like your body's gone utterly feral.

tighnari sounds starved for you, yeah, like he's been crawling through a lifetime of thirst just to end up here, fucked so deep inside of you and getting milked by your walls as he cannot tell where he would end up without you as his breath shudders at your ear, hips pressing in like he wanted to disappear inside and never come back.

although, his voice always remains soft, a little aloof too, but there's a certain pressure in it— a quiet insistence, as if he's asking for permission to learn the depths of you a bit more, not simply to possess or claim you, but to understand your pleasure and memorize what you liked the most.

⚝ ALHAITHAM

with the precision of someone calculating the limits of reason, alhaitham's hands move with each touch resembling a quiet experiment whereas you— his willing subject, lets him bite down like he's tasting you— quiet and calculated as his mouth seals over the dip of your breast when you cry out, not just from the pain but from the claim of it, the quiet violence of his precision.

"do you see what you do to me?" alhaitham whispers as he seals your skin with teeth and tongue, dragging the bruise out slowly and watching the inflamed splotch rise like he's planting something unique into your skin, "you whine so easily for me," his presence looms like an unfinished sentence, always on the verge of something deeper, something more, testing your limits without speaking a word.

his cock was heavy inside of you, yet moving slow, stretching your cunt open with every roll of hips, making you slick from the base to your thighs but putting the most attention on your neck.

you're pinned beneath him, legs folded back, belly trembling from how fast he hits your most sensitive parts as he suppresses any noises coming from his throat— instead, he watches, alhaitham watches like a scholar and a sinner both, his eyes dark with need, tracking every flutter of your cunt like it's the only truth he's ever believed in, the blissful expression battered all over your face was a sight to die for.

you feel like you're being studied and destroyed all at once, your back arching in tune with his movements as your eyes roll back into your head, his hips shifting his angle when you scream the moment he changes the grip on your hips, fucking into you hard.

alhaitham slants forward to cage you within his big arms, hugging you, his large hands cupping behind your head in order to prevent you from bumping against the head board as he attacks a tender spot deep inside your warmth, catching every twitch and swallow of your pussy on his cock.

"i could write a thesis on how you fall apart," he admits bluntly with that damned smirk on his face, biting the underside of your jaw now as his tongue slowly drags over the mark afterwards, "but it's so much more satisfying to make you show me instead."

#genshin x reader #genshin impact x reader #genshin smut #genshin impact smut #cyno x reader #cyno smut #tighnari x reader #tighnari smut #diluc x reader #diluc smut #alhaitham x reader #alhaitham smut #al haitham x reader #al haitham smut #genshin x you #genshin impact x you #kinktober

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kykyonthemoon · 6 months ago

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The Day You Were Destined To Be His Caretaker

The cat café you frequent allows customers to adopt cats, and you are thrilled to be a cat caretaker. The fluffy fellow you bring home, though, seems to be more than simply a cat.

── .✦ Character x Female Reader|MC

Included parts in order: Rafayel - Xavier - Zayne - Sylus

♡︎. Tags: Alternate Universe, therianthropy (cat/human hybrids), fluff, soft and sweet, caring, cat cafés.

♡︎. Word count: 4k1

── .✦ Masterlist ♡ Request a fic - currently closed.

── .✦ Ky Ky’s notes:

This story was inspired by Yes, Cat Caretaker version & Meow Time event. It is my entry to the Love and Deepspace Cat Caretaker Assembly - Fan Art Contest.

I really appreciate all your support on my X <3

References to their cat breeds: x

Rafayel - The playful cat

That day, you traveled to a common cat café by the shore. There were many cats at the café that had been adopted by customers. You hoped that you would find one to become your companion too. Then, you met him.

The cafe's largest treehouse at the time featured a little, curly-furred Devon Rex on the top floor. You had no idea how he climbed up there, because unsteady legs made it obvious that he was frightened of heights. His big round eyes scanned the world madly before closing. You were the only one who listened to his tiny meows.

You hurried over, held up your hands to the cat, and said:

“Come down here. I will catch you.”

"Meow?"

He opened his eyes and gave you a serious look. He still did not seem to have much faith in you. This was a cat you had never seen at the café before. Perhaps he was brought here by the owner recently.

“It'll be okay,” you said once again in a gentle and reassuring tone. A staff member approached you and said:

“This cat has been mischievously climbing up there again. It's obvious that he's afraid of heights, yet he just likes to crawl up there. We don't know why. Please give us a moment so we can take him down.”

“No need,” You replied. “I'll give it a shot. Is that okay?”

After giving you a nod, the staff moved aside to observe your attempts to get the cat down. You stood on your tiptoes and your raised arms felt weary. But you always smiled and comforted the cat.

“It's okay. I'll always wait for you down here!"

After pondering for a while, the cat decided to jump down. He rushed into your arms. Immediately, you hugged the small soft cotton ball tightly. From that day on, he followed you home.

You had never owned a cat before, so in the first few days, you were very tired of having to chase him around the house. What surprised you so much was that while you failed to think of a good name for him, one morning when you woke up, you caught the cat with your pile of old crayons. He had written on a piece of paper the name Rafayel.

Although you found it strange, you decided to call the cat by that name. After a long day at work, Rafayel enjoyed wrapping himself around your feet whenever you got home. However, he was also so mischievous that while you were away, the house was usually in disarray. You once took Rafayel to plant trees in the garden. He enjoyed playing freely, chasing frogs, and catching butterflies there. He was so eager to assist you with digging that he even dove into a pot of dirt, getting his fur all soiled in the process. You laughed while feeling sorry for him at the same time.

“Look! I've just planted a meowing tree.”

Then, you grabbed him by his scruff and took him to the bathroom.

“You're so playful. You got dirt all over your fur now."

You put Rafayel in the tub and turned on the shower. Abruptly, a thin stream of smoke spread across the room. After a moment, your cat was out of sight as the haze gradually cleared. Rather, a man with purple eyes who looked exactly like Rafayel was sitting in the tub.

"AAAAAAAAAAAAAA!" You let out a loud scream. “YOU PERVERT! WHAT DID YOU DO TO MY CAT?!”

To your surprise, you tumbled to the bathroom floor while defending yourself with the showerhead turned on. Water splashed onto the man's bare chest. He tried to use his hand to shield the water from the shower and finally decided to reach over and turn it off. You were the focus of his teary eyes. He seemed somewhat distressed.

"Who are you calling a pervert? You've been dragging me into bed with you every night for the past few days, as you can see! Just now, you even wanted to give me a bath!”

"Huh???"

“It's me. Rafayel.” He said, pointing with one hand to the ears on his head and the tail peeking out from inside the bathtub. "Do you no longer recognize me, my lady?"

“R-Rafayel?”

“Yes… Meow?”

Although you had heard tales about therianthropes coexisting with humans, you never ventured to think that the cat you had taken in was one of them! For a moment, you were unsure of what to do, and could only mumble to yourself: "Refund... I want a refund... Obviously the café staff gave me the wrong cat..."

“What? Do you want to send me away?” Leaning toward the bathtub's edge to be nearer to you, Rafayel scowled. You always knew that therians had their own charm, but meeting such a picturesque person was beyond your imagination.

He continued to sulk: "The person who just promised to take good care of me for the rest of my life, now wants to throw me away?"

To be fair, you had said that to the Devon Rex, not to the charming curly-haired boy in front of you. You wanted a cat to keep you company, yet ended up with a half-cat, half-human sullen man. You stood up, intending to get out and figure out how to deal with this later, but Rafayel swiftly grabbed your wrist and dragged you into the bathtub with him.

“Are you really going to leave me? Once you've made a promise to me, you cannot go back on it! Even if you wish to get rid of me, it's already too late! You're stuck with me, no matter what!"

Xavier - The super cat

There was a recent event at the local cat café to allow patrons to adopt cats. The requirement was to be selected by that feline and capable of caring for the little animal companion. It was ideal because you had been searching for a pet to care for. There was only one problem: the cat you had your eye on was the most famous character at the café.

He was a Ragdoll named Xavier, with large, wide blue eyes and silky fur. Ever since he showed up at the café a few days earlier, had been the talk of the town, the "prince" that everyone wanted to take home. However, Xavier showed no concern for the customers. Because he disliked being touched, he typically slept in the treehouse. There were times when you found the cat snarling at others that you had just fed or petted. He would then approach and rub his head on your hand.

At times like that, you could not help but pick up the cat, place him in your lap, and caress that soft belly. Instead of displaying any signs of distress, the cat even purred to indicate how at ease he was. You pondered why none of the other cats dared approach you whenever Xavier was by your side. Then, the café owner congratulated you that he had chosen you as his caretaker, and that you could go through the adoption process right away.

You set up a cozy mattress for the cat next to the bed on the first night you brought Xavier home. Unconcerned, he sprang into the bed, climbed into your cozy cover, and requested to lay next to you. No matter how many times you scooped him up, Xavier still climbed onto the bed. Eventually, you gave in and let him sleep with you on the bed.

After a few days, Xavier got used to his new life with you. Whether it was night or day, he slept a lot, ate a lot and rarely went out. Additionally, he had a keen sense of other animals' smells. For instance, before going home one day, you went to pet the neighbor's cat. Xavier did not even bother coming to the door to greet you anymore but sat huddled in the corner.

“Xavier?” You called, but your cat did not respond.

You purposefully consoled Xavier by placing the bag of newly purchased cat toys on the table and bringing them out one at a time. However, he simply turned away from you and seemed to be sulking a lot while staring out the window.

"I apologize... I promise not to let another cat touch me next time." You said, taking note of Xavier's demeanor. His ears turned in the direction of your voice, albeit he did not move an inch. “Even the dog next door, the squirrel on the way home, the birds…”

You thought Xavier would be angry and ignore you for good, but when you curled up in the blanket and dozed off, you felt the bed sink. Your hand went to the area beside you. Were you dreaming? Because it was not a cat that you touched.

The hand belonged to someone else. That person's warmth was quite familiar, and there was a hint of the cat fragrance you sometimes used for Xavier. You attempted to see closer by opening your heavy eyelids. The muscular, exposed chest of someone stood before you. On occasion, he would even softly rub his cat ears on your cheek and nuzzle down on your neck. He draped his tail over your body. It was an all too familiar dream. Since you had picked up Xavier, it felt as though you were having this same scenario every night.

You started paying more attention to Xavier and suspected that your cat may be a therianthrope. Nevertheless, you lacked any hard proof until one day.

The treehouse set you bought a few days before arrived that day. After some effort, you were able to put most of the components together. The top floor was quite high, so you had to find a ladder and climb up. You put everything together and then turned to face Xavier. His tail was still up in the air, and he was still absorbed in the cardboard boxes in the center of the home.

“Xavier? Do you think the treehouse is good now?"

Xavier turned around and looked up at you. From above, it felt like he was just the size of your palm. So small, so adorable. You climbed down the ladder, but it was so unsteady that you slipped.

“Ouch!”

You felt like you were falling down with the tilting ladder. You might end up on the cat. Yet, Xavier vanished in an instant. Rather, powerful arms seemed to hold you up, embraced you, and you both collapsed upon the unkempt pile of boxes.

"Meow!"

You stared down at the person underneath you while holding your body up with your arms. These perked ears, this tail covering your legs, even those blue eyes that were gazing at you with affection... You were quite familiar with all of these.

Was it the therian you saw every night in your dreams?

"Xavier?

He gave you a worried expression.

“My lady, are you okay?”

“You… You really are… a…”

You were unable to convey how you were feeling at the time—confused, anxious, mixed with a little joy.

“Hmm?” Xavier glanced at you and blinked. “It's me. Your Xavier.”

“But you… you're a cat…”

While surprised, you saw his face getting closer and closer as he sat up and said to you: "I am a cat. I am also human. My lady, which shape of mine do you prefer?"

Zayne - The cat maid

Lately, you had got the impression that the furniture in the home had sprouted legs on its own and everything was more neat than before.

At first, you assumed it was because you were absent-minded or careless. Despite the fact that you did nothing, your house gradually grew cleaner and tidier. Not only that, but there was always warm water in the kettle when you returned home from work.

You suspected the house was haunted, but this ghost was really a considerate one! You had just recently moved to this cold, snowy mountainside town for work. Being busy with work had left you with no time to rearrange your stuff, and you frequently were ill because you were unaccustomed to the weather. Thus you were quite thankful to someone who came to clean up and care for you discreetly. Without a doubt, the landlord never paid you a visit, and the neighbors saw no one else entering or exiting your home. How strange!

"Hey, do you think our house has a… ghost?" You questioned the large gray and black cat, who was proudly patrolling the home. When he saw you, he lifted his tail and let out a "meow".

You recently adopted this Maine Coon cat. With his significant size and lengthy fur, he provided you with warm comfort while you were alone in this strange, frigid region. You encountered the cat outside a café. The owner stated that stray cats frequently came in looking for food, and if they liked a customer, they would most likely accompany them home. At that moment, your Maine Coon was outside. Snow dropped all over his luxurious fur. He continued to stare at you for a long time. After a time, you decided to walk out to greet him and share with him some of your food.

The cat was not seeking for food, just gently rubbed its head against your palm. He even gently bit you, causing you to cry, "Ouch!"

Only then did you realize that the cat's two front limbs were covered with overlapping scars. You did not scold him and softly massaged his head and ears.

“You're also having a hard time finding food, right? Do you want to come home with me?”

The cat's distinctive blue and yellow eyes flickered briefly. He followed you home. Sometimes you questioned if he was just a cat or a therianthrope. He gave you the sense that he was actually a person. However, the cat never turned into a human. Back in the home, he rubbed his soft hairy head on your face.

"Alright," you laughed because it was ticklish. "If you see someone else entering the house while I'm away, definitely don't let them run away again."

The cat purred gently. You had to put the investigation on hold for a while to focus on your work. Still, there was one time when you forgot your documents at home, you returned at noon and discovered someone was inside the house.

You moved carefully into the living room. A massive cat tail stood out straight and swung gently behind the sofa. You realized it was your Maine Coon's tail. You called softly:

"Zayne?"

Two cat ears emerged behind the sofa. But this was not the Zayne cat you knew.

The face stared at you both strange and somewhat familiar. His pupils, which resembled your cat's, widened in astonishment. You were shocked when that person stood up straight since he was so tall. He was attired in your black apron with white ruffled edges, carrying a feather duster in one hand and a pile of old books and newspapers you had thrown haphazardly under the sofa.

The person who helped you clean every day had revealed his face. The only thing was, you could not believe that it was really your cat.

“Z-Zayne?!”

The tail behind him whipped vigorously. You were not unfamiliar with therians living alongside humans, especially in this town. However, this was the first time you had seen your cat being... no longer a cat. You were deeply perplexed.

You suddenly realized that you had been living with a therian for some days without knowing anything. You carelessly cuddled him and let him sleep with you in bed. You felt so embarrassed. As a result, after that, Zayne sat crouched on the floor and listened to you scolding him for not giving you his true identity from the very beginning.

"I'm sorry…" Zayne responded. He looked up to you, who was now sitting on the sofa. One of his hands paused before placing it on your thigh. He pulled his face closer and longed to rub against you, precisely as when he was in cat shape, yet he was also concerned that you would push him away. "I wanted to tell you before, but I didn't know how to say it so you wouldn't be afraid or detest me."’

Why did he assume you would fear or despise him because he was a therian? You examined him intently, seeking for any remaining Maine Coon features. Dust had left a smear on his angular face. Unexpectedly, you put out your hand to wipe it away. Zayne saw your gesture as a sign of peace. He immediately rubbed his face into your palm.

"Eh…" You were about to withdraw your hand, but his adorable expression made you reconsider. You still didn't appreciate being lied to, and you felt taken advantage of during the last few days. You delicately squeezed his cheek before using both hands to play with his face as compensation.

Zayne appeared miserable, yet he patiently let you play with him. Looking down, you noticed his velvety tail wrapped around your leg. After you were done, he spoke up:

“There will be a snowstorm soon. You're not going to kick me out, are you?”

“Hmmm. Let's see.”

You gave a thoughtful pose.. Zayne could not wait any longer before continuing:

“I can clean the house. I can also cook.”

You pondered briefly before pointing to his cat ears. "Can I touch your ears?"

In cat shape, Zayne frequently refused to let you touch his ears. You must take advantage of this opportunity.

Zayne stared at you for a while. He reluctantly leaned closer to you. One of his ears shifted slightly before your eyes.

“If you allow me to stay here then… All right.”

Sylus - The cat's return

One afternoon, you went to a cat café in a small, wild mountainside village. You had recently moved here for work and had no idea where to go because you were unfamiliar with the streets. You had just heard from a neighbor about the café and stray cat shelter, so you decided to check it out.

The cats were originally aloof from you, but after an afternoon, they became closer to you. Many cats allow you to scratch their heads and rub their tummies. Most of the cats here were stray; some were abandoned by their prior owners, while others were frequently injured when fighting wild creatures. Seeing how well you cared for the cats, the owner invited you to return here on a daily basis to play with and care for them. You could even bring one home if you wished to.

That day, you went to the café when the cats were eating dinner. The owner had prepared their meal. You watched them eat to their hearts' content, discreetly checking attendance and selecting which kitty to bring home with you. All of a sudden, in the far corner was a caracal cat whose size stood out among the crowd. He was pushing the other cats away and taking their food.

The little cats started to fuss. You stepped over and retrieved the bowl of food for the cat who was wailing in your arms. The caracal cat glanced at you. His eyes were crimson; the abnormal kind of red. He was growling even. You grasped the tiny cat and moved away from him.

The caracal cat gave you a furious look. You spotted him heading towards the other cats, attempting to get more food. Letting out a sigh, you entered the café to ask for another meal.

When you returned, the caracal cat was there at the entrance. It was as if he knew you were going to bring out more food. You placed the bowl on the porch.

“Here you go. Don't steal other cats' food anymore, okay?”

The caracal cat glanced at you for a time before starting to devour his meal. When he was done, he proudly strolled over to where you were seated to enjoy the cool air with a few other cats on your lap. The cats fled away as soon as they noticed him. You felt sad for him having to face such isolation, but considering how he had just taken the other cats' food, you could sympathize with them.

The caracal cat rubbed against your thigh. You patted his head for a while. He seemed quite nice now, not as intimidating as he did when battling for food. Since then, you constantly brought him an additional meal. Of course, he grew more devoted to you. One day, you questioned the café owner:

"Why doesn't the caracal cat outside have a bowl of his own?"

The owner slowly replied:

“The one that you always feed? He's a wild animal. He doesn't live with us here.”

"Huh?…"

"He always comes to the café to fight other cats for food," the owner went on. "We left him alone since we couldn't drive him away. Other than eating a little too much and scaring other cats here, he doesn't cause any trouble. But he appears to really like you. Have you considered adopting him?"

The café owner's urgent eyes seemed to be begging you to take this scrounger away as soon as possible. All you could do was chuckle. Through the window, the caracal cat's ruby eyes were still watching over you.

The fact that he would truly follow you home was unexpected.

“Hey, go back to your place. You can't stay here.”

You chased the caracal cat away. Yet he kept coming back the next day, and the day after that. He spent the entire night prowling around your house. One time when it was raining cats and dogs, as you considered how lonely he must be spending all night outside, you felt quite sorry for him. You opened the door to find him on the porch, sheltering from the rain, his fur partly wet, and he was licking his wounds.

“Come inside,” you said to the caracal cat. His injuries must have resulted from fighting with wild animals. With the intention of taking him to the veterinarian the next morning, you left him in the living room and went to get some bandages. Yet when you came back, he was gone.

There was a noise in the bedroom so you went to check. You caught a glimpse of a caracal cat's tail inside. you were to find a towering man with ears and a caracal cat tail on your bed, countless wounds covered his body. Panicked, you quickly grabbed the clothes hanger, which was the closest thing you could reach for protection.

“Hey?… Mister?…” You called out, using the clothes hanger to poke at that person's body. His eyes, which were as brilliant crimson as two precious gems, opened slightly.

“A therian?…” You said to yourself in a whisper. If the caracal cat you often feed was a therianthrope, he probably would not harm you. It was very difficult given his current state. After giving it some thought, you choose to help him bandage the wound first.

The caracal cat's eyes were partly closed as he lay still, watching you. After treating his wounds, you said:

“I'll let you stay here for the time being. Once you recover, I will see how you can repay this."

Therian gave a smile. He waggled his tail beside your feet. He replied:

“I owe you this time, my lady.”

“Not just this time. How about the times I fed you? They must be accounted for.”

Your face heated as you remembered that you had previously caressed a therian with affection and that attractive one was now laying there. After gathering the remaining bandages, you headed out. However, he swiftly caught hold of your wrist and pulled you onto the bed.

“Stay here…” He whispered. “Your scent… It's very soothing…”

His breath carried the untamed scent of the forest, enveloping you. Your heart started to skip a beat. "You ask for too much," you replied, shifting to sit on the edge of the bed next to him. "Are you sure you can repay me later?"

“I, Sylus, am not an ungrateful creature,” he said, still holding the irresistible, devilish smile on his lips as he nuzzled into your arms. “How would you like me to repay your kindness, my lady?”

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y3sterdaysproblem · 6 months ago

Text

smoke and mirrors - chris sturniolo

chapter eight

summary: your best friend Matt backs out of plans you had made together, so you replace him with his brother. the only problem is the two of you can’t stand each other.

{enemies to lovers, fake dating}

includes : explicit language, fluff, smut(penetration, oral, fingering, etc.), angst if you squint, lots of bickering, slow burn

wc: 4.6k

“Chris!”

“Shut up!”

“I’m s-sorry!”

“Shut up!”

Chris grabs a handful of your hair from behind and slams your face into the pillow, muffling your moans that were definitely echoing through the rest of the house before placing his hand back on your waist.

You had snuck in, once again, through the back door that conveniently connected to Chris’s room, where you had spent most of your free time this last week since coming back from the wedding, and half of the time you came over, it ended up like this, getting your mouth covered somehow in a desperate attempt to keep you quiet to avoid his brothers hearing you, especially like this. Not that you minded, you loved when Chris got a little aggressive in bed, so maybe sometimes you got a little loud on purpose.

Chris’s hands were no doubt creating bruises in your sides where they gripped on, pulling you back towards him every time he thrust into you, your bodies slapping loudly in the otherwise silent room. Normally you guys had something playing on the tv, or at least his speaker, to drown out how loud you typically got, but today when you walked into his room, you may or may not have immediately ripped your shirt off once the door was closed, waggling your eyebrows suggestively. Chris got the hint and you guys wasted no time jumping into bed together.

Now, however long later, you were nearing the end of your session and unable to control the sounds coming out of your mouth, grateful Chris had turned you into the pillow to quiet down.

Chris delivered a final pump inside you, groaning as he came, your sounds finally quieting down, head turning back out of the pillow to suck in a deep breath.

“You are way too loud,” Chris grumbles. “You’re the one that wants to keep us a secret but you can’t shut the fuck up when you need to.”

“I’m sorry,” you whine. “You’re just like… magic or something.”

That rips a laugh out of Chris as he pulls out of you, letting your body flop onto the bed. “Magic or something, I like that.” He leans forward and hovers his body above your back, placing a soft kiss to your shoulder. “Hey, I-“

“Chris?!”

The sound of Matt yelling at the top of the stairs ripped you both out of your post-sex haze, eyes widening and staring at each other in shock. “Yeah?!” Chris yells back inconspicuously, both of you jumping up from the bed and scrambling to find your clothes. The sound of footsteps gets louder, panic setting into both of your chests as you guys realize you’re about to get caught. Chris definitely didn’t lock the door before you guys got started either.

“Fuck,” you whisper, gathering all of your clothes into your hands, knowing you won’t have time to put them back on.

“Bathroom!” Chris whisper-yells, pointing at the bathroom door connected to his room. You’re running into the bathroom as he’s ripping his comforter off his bed, soaked by your so called ‘party trick’. He’s only got sweatpants on, and he’s mumbling obscenities to himself as he sees the sheets soaked as well, ripping those off when the door swings open, revealing a confused and slightly worried Matt in the doorway.

“Are you okay?” You hear Matt’s voice through the bathroom door. His eyes are raking over Chris’s room which seems slightly in disarray, watching him stripping his sheets.

“Of course I’m okay, why wouldn’t I be okay? I’m fine. Why?” Chris babbles, standing up straight and placing his hands on his hips, slightly out of breath.

“Uh… I just heard, like, screaming and I didn’t know what it was and you weren’t answering your phone.” Matt says, still confused.

“Oh!” Chris forces out a laugh and waves a hand at his brother dismissively. “I was watching a movie, sorry.”

Matt nods, not fully believing him but not having any reason not to either. “Why are you stripping your bed?”

Chris looks around at the blankets now on the floor, pursing his lips. “My bed? Oh my blankets, yeah, I’m just.. gonna wash them.”

Matt looks really confused now, eyebrows surging towards his hairline. “You’re doing laundry?” He asks, to which Chris just nods in response. “Alright. Well as long as you’re okay, I’m just gonna go back in my room.” He turns around to leave, but stops in his tracks, turning just his head back to Chris. “Also, it fucking reeks in your room. You need an air freshener, bad.”

“You got it,” Chris agrees, turning to open his window. Once his bedroom door is shut, he walks to the bathroom door and opens it, revealing you fully clothed in your sweat shorts and tank top, cheeks a bright red color. He laughs at the sight of you, walking in to wrap his arms around your shoulders. “Why do you look like that?”

You stayed limp, hands at your sides. “He said it reeks!” You cry out, face pressed in Chris’s bare chest, making him laugh loudly.

“It just smells like sex in here, that’s all. He probably just couldn’t place it because he doesn’t think that’s what I’m doing in here. It’s not you that stinks.” Chris comforts you by rubbing his hands on your back sweetly, pressing his lips into the top of your head. “Although, the sheets almost got us caught, I didn’t realize it went through the blanket so he saw me ripping those off.”

You just groan even louder, still embarrassed. “I think I need to be celibate.” You mumble, to which Chris gasps.

“Absolutely not! You don’t get to show me what I’m missing all these years just to rip it away from me.”

“Chris,” you whisper, shaking the dead weight body next to you in bed. Silence. “Chris,” you whisper again, shaking him harder.

The boy next to you groans, pulling the blankets up to his chin and settling back into sleep quickly. You’re faster, though, refusing to let him ignore you.

“Chris,” you say in your normal tone, shaking him once more.

Chris turns his head, eyes barely cracked open as he stares at you in the almost pitch black room, the only thing illuminating your face being the moon in the sky coming through the window. “What?” He snaps, annoyed.

“I’m thirsty,” you tell him in a deadpan tone.

Chris blinks at you a few times, like he can’t believe the words that just came out of your mouth. “Are you serious?” He asks, voice groggy. “You woke me up to tell me you’re thirsty? Go get water.”

You pout at him, not wanting to get out of bed. “You go get me water.”

Chris turns back to his position facing away from you, getting comfortable once more. “You sound wide awake, I’m not doing that.”

You huff and throw the blankets off of yourself aggressively, standing up from the bed. It was almost three in the morning and you guys had been asleep for quite some time, but you woke up randomly and needed that middle of the night glass of water, you were just hoping Chris would get it for you.

You trek up the stairs, maybe a little louder than you should’ve considering the time, entering the dark kitchen. You’re filling up a glass from the fridge when a voice calling your name startles you out of your thoughts.

You whip your head around, free hand clutching your chest as you turn, eyes landing on Nick sitting on the couch staring back at you with wide eyes.

“Nick?” You question, heart racing in your chest.

Nick slowly stands up and walks over to you where you’re seemingly glued to the floor, unable to move. You think maybe if you stay completely still you’ll disappear into the background and Nick will be none the wiser. But of course you weren’t so lucky, and he kept his eyes locked on yours until he was standing right in front of you.

“What are you doing here? When did you get here?” He questions, hands flailing as he spoke, clearly confused.

You swallow thickly, looking around like something in the room would hand you the perfect lie on a silver platter. “Uh… I’m…” You make eye contact with Nick again, smiling uncomfortably.

“Did you just come from downstairs?” Nick questions again.

Fuck.

“Downstairs?” You ask dumbly. “Why would I be… downstairs?”

Nick crosses his arms as he stares you down, gaze becoming more intimidating. “That’s exactly what I’m wondering. Because the only thing downstairs besides our garage is Chris’s room, and there’s no way you’d be in Chris’s room, right?”

You laugh, shoving Nick’s shoulder playfully. “Chris’s room? No way, no, I just, uh… I forgot something in there so I just went and grabbed it real quick.”

Nick furrowed his brow, not believing you. “I’ve been in here for two hours, which means you’ve been downstairs for at least two hours, and it’s the middle of the night. Are you sleeping in Chris’s room?”

There’s absolutely no way you wiggle yourself out of this one. You’re caught red handed by the loudest mouth in the family, no doubt in your mind Matt would know by morning. He’s got you cornered, and there’s nothing you can do about it.

Except lie, you can always lie.

“Fine, I was in his room. You want me to be honest?” You sigh like you’re about to pour your heart out to Nick, setting your glass down on the counter. “We’ve been trying to work on our relationship. We know how annoying it is for you and Matt to deal with so we’ve been trying. We were talking last night and I told him I was exhausted and he offered to let me sleep on the couch in his room so I took him up on it and decided to crash there and leave in the morning before you guys woke up but obviously you’ve caught me.”

Nick narrows his eyes at you while you speak, trying not decide if he believed you or not, but ultimately he nods his head slowly, taking in your words. “Okay,” he starts. “That’s good, I guess. You could’ve told us that instead of sneaking around like a weirdo, I thought you were sleeping with him or something.”

You gasp and cringe a bit over-dramatically. “What?! No! Ew! Chris?! No!”

Nick holds his hands up for you to stop talking. “Alright, dude. Chill. I’m going to bed.”

You nod and clear your throat, picking up your glass from the counter. “Sure. Goodnight.”

Once you’re alone in the kitchen you let out a sigh of relief, leaning on the table like you just ran a marathon.

That was way too close.

from: chris <3

bathroom

You looked down at your phone that illuminated your face from where you’re sat on the couch next to Matt, legs thrown over his as you guys shared a blanket. The four of you were sat in the living room binging a show on Netflix, all spaced out at different ends of the couch except for you and your best friend. Chris, however, had gotten up to go to the bathroom a few minutes ago, and you did not expect him to request your presence, especially when both of his brothers were around, but the thought of sneaking around so close to them had you slightly hot and bothered as you looked at your phone.

“Uh, Matt?” You start sheepishly, looking up at the boy who stared mindlessly at the tv.

“Huh?” He replied, not looking down at you.

You clear your throat nervously. “Can I lay in your bed? I’m not feeling so good, I think I want to go to sleep.”

Matt tears his eyes away from the television finally, looking down at you worriedly. “Are you okay?” He asks, bringing a hand up to your forehead.

“Yeah, I’m okay,” you chuckle, grabbing his wrist. “Just tired I think.”

Matt nods and pulls the blanket off of you both, letting you up. “Of course you can lay in my bed. Let me know if you need anything.”

You smile and nod at him, standing up and heading towards his room. When you get there, though, you look back at Matt and Nick to make sure they’re not looking before you slip into the bathroom, shutting the door behind you.

Chris smiles at you from where he sits on the closed toilet seat, reaching his hands out to graze over your thighs as you walked up to him, your own hands landing on his shoulders. “You look way too good right now, I just had to tell you.”

You blush, a shy smile gracing your face. “I look the same as I always look,” you mumble quietly.

“I know.” Chris agrees, standing up from his seated position and walking forward, pinning you against the wall. “You have no idea how bad I want you right now.”

You lean your head up towards Chris so your lips are barely touching, sliding your hands up under his shirt. “It’s too risky,” you tell him, disappointment clear in your voice. “They’ll hear.”

Chris whines, hands resting on your waist pulling your body closer to his. “Can’t you just be quiet? Just this one time?”

You laugh, shaking your head. “That’s like asking a duck not to quack or something. It’s impossible. You’re too good for me to be quiet.”

“What if I kiss you the whole time to keep you quiet?” Chris bargains a little more.

Your hands trail down to Chris’s waistband of his sweatpants, thumbs looping underneath so you can start to pull them down, eyes still locked on his. “What if I just blow you? Since you’re so good at being quiet.”

You push his pants past his hips and let them fall to the ground, leaving him in just his tight, black Skims briefs that don’t leave much to the imagination, especially with his dick already straining against the fabric.

Chris hums in agreement, pressing his lips to yours for a moment before he pulls away, smirking at you. “I’m not gonna turn down a blowjob from the prettiest girl I know.”

You giggle quietly, still wanting to make sure the boys in the living room don’t hear you, slowly sinking to your knees in front of Chris, keeping eye contact with him the whole time you descended until you were face to face with his still clothed member, dropping your eyes down to it. “May I?” You ask sweetly, bringing a hand up to rub him through his underwear.

Chris breaths out a breath of relief and hums in agreement and you waste no time before grabbing the waistband of his underwear, pulling them down to join his sweatpants around his ankles. “I love your dick, Chris, you know that? It’s so good to me, never disappoints. I normally hate sucking dick but for you? It’s like the sexiest thing in the world to me. I love how you sound and how you pull my hair.” Your hand comes up to start stroking Chris languidly, thumb running over his slit every few times your hand comes back up to his tip.

Chris’s eyes are still on you, watching as you pleasure him with your hand, genuinely feeling like this would be enough for him to get off. Just the sight of you has his skin buzzing at all times, especially now that he knows what you sound like, what you feel like. He couldn’t get enough of you. “You have no idea what you do to me, do you?” He breathes out, hands reaching out to brace himself on the wall.

Your eyes shoot up to meet his for a moment, smiling at him before you open your mouth and guide his dick onto your tongue that lay flattened out, slapping it on the pink muscle before closing your lips around him, eliciting a quiet moan from his mouth.

He’s definitely quieter than you would be, but the thing you guys forgot to be mindful of was how long you were in the bathroom. It’s already been a few minutes of you in there together, and Chris was already in there for about five minutes before you joined him, so the time was ticking up, and you both were none the wiser, only focused on each other.

You had been enthusiastically sucking Chris off for a few minutes, hand stroking the base of his dick that didn’t fit in your mouth while your tongue trailed over the first few inches, eyes shut as you focused on his pleasure, making sure it was one of the best blowjobs he ever had, when there was a soft knock at the door, Matt’s voice ringing from the other side and ripping you both away from the trance you were in.

“Chris?” He calls, concerned. “You okay in there?”

This was terrible timing for Chris, as he had just started to feel his orgasm building in his stomach, his dick getting tenser and breath getting caught in his throat. You didn’t let up, though, just kept going and trying to bring him over the edge, finding the idea of someone just on the other side of that door, someone that had no idea what was going on and was just innocently checking on his brother.

Chris sucked in a breath and tried to even out his voice, eyebrows still furrowed in pleasure as he spoke. “Y-yeah, I’m okay, sorry, just on my phone,” he called back, sounding surprisingly convincing.

“Oh, okay,” Matt replies, but you don’t hear his footsteps leaving.

Chris turns to stare at the door, breath getting choppier and hips starting to stutter and push his dick father into your mouth, almost making you gag.

“Are you almost done? I gotta take a piss, dude.” Matt speaks up again, clearly still right outside the door.

Chris throws his head back and pulls one hand from the wall, grabbing a handful of your hair to keep your head in place as he starts to thrust his hips, now fully fucking your mouth as he neared his climax.

“I’m- fuck, I’m coming,” he replies, a double entendre unbeknownst to Matt as Chris cums in your mouth, warm liquid sliding down your throat and you accept it happily, swallowing around him as he breathes shakily, hips coming to a halt.

“Uh, okay,” Matt replies, finally walking away from the bathroom and back to the living room.

You slowly slide your lips off of Chris’s dick, biting your bottom lip as you rise back to your feet, face to face with him again. “That was so hot,” you whisper giddily, wrapping your arms around his neck.

Chris huffs, still trying to slow his heart rate. “That was terrifying,” he whispers back, but kisses you anyway, knowing it’s the last kiss he’ll get of the night.

It had become pretty routine for you to sneak into the triplets’ house at this point, almost exclusively coming in through the back door in Chris’s room where you would spend the rest of the night until you went home or spent the night, and it quickly became your favorite part of the day.

Chris had gone from the person you spoke to the least in your life to being your favorite person to be around, always laughing and smiling when you were with him, despite there not being a label on your relationship yet. However, you didn’t mind the lack of label quite yet, you both knew what this was and what you both wanted, you just didn’t want to rush slapping a name on it and making it so serious.

Tonight you both had decided to watch a movie together and cuddle up in bed, not worried about the fact that his brothers were home as they typically were but their rooms were so far away it almost didn’t matter how loud you guys got. Almost.

You’re laid in bed under Chris’s blankets on your back with him laid beside you on his side so he could face you, hand running underneath your shirt sweetly as his eyes trailed over your face. “You’re so fucking pretty, you know that?” He tells you quietly, causing a blush to arise on your cheeks.

You turn your head to meet his eyes, not responding. You didn’t really know what to say to that.

“I’m serious,” he continued, scooting closer to you. “I could look at you forever and never get bored. I love… everything about you.”

Those words made your heart race and almost made you want to cry. It wasn’t quite a confession of love just yet, not quite the three words that danced along your own tongue, but it felt so close that it still gave you a similar rush, the kind that made you want to say fuck it and tell everyone you knew about your newfound relationship. You couldn’t believe how sweet this boy was, how tender and caring, how many affirmations he would whisper to you out of the blue, how attentive he was. It all made it so easy to fall for him.

You still stayed quiet, but you reached your hand up to wrap around the back of his neck, pulling him down into a soft kiss. He leaned down over you, still running his hand over your soft skin under your shirt as your lips meshed together perfectly.

But nothing was perfect in this household, and you’ve known that for years, and you definitely should not have been shocked when Chris’s door flies open, his brothers standing on the other side. You’re hoping your instincts kick in quicker than they can make out your face, grabbing the blanket and pulling it fully over your head, hiding your identity.

Chris whips his head to look at the now open door, Matt and Nick staring back at him in shock. “What the fuck? Who is that?” Matt points to the bed, eyes wide.

Chris just looks down at the lump under his sheets, then back at his brother, shrugging his shoulders. “No one,” he said calmly.

Nick pushes past Matt with a smirk, nodding his head like he had all the answers. “I know exactly who that is, Matt.”

Matt turns to him, still confused. “You do?”

Nick nods again, raising his eyebrows towards Chris. “It’s that girl you went on a date with a few nights ago, isn’t it?”

Chris’s eyes widen, and your heart drops to your stomach. There’s no way, right? There’s no way Chris would hurt you like that, especially so soon. He wouldn’t go behind your back to see somebody else, would he?

“What?” Chris spats out. “What are you talking about, dude?”

Nick laughs, shaking his head. “So not the girl from the date? Is it the girl you’ve been fucking the last few weeks then? What’s her name, Maya?”

Maya, you think. That name is way too familiar.

“I haven’t been fucking Maya,” Chris defends, voice shaky.

The girl. The one he had taken all the photos for, the one he said was too clingy and he wanted to get rid of. He was still sleeping with her?

You swallow thickly, heart racing at every word being spoken. You felt like if you tried to stand, your knees would be too weak to hold you up, your hands shaking where they held the sheets.

In a split second decision, you brace yourself and pull the cover off of your face, sitting up slowly next to Chris. His brothers gasp at the sight of you, Nick screeching out your name in confusion. However, they’ve become background noise as your eyes lock with Chris’s, your own welling with tears uncontrollably. “Chris?” You whisper, lip quivering. “Is that true?”

Chris opens his mouth to speak, but closes it quickly as he realizes his brothers are still in the room. This was the most uncomfortable he’s ever felt in his life, feeling like everyone was turning to him for answers and his mind was reeling, not knowing what the right answer was for any of it, not wanting to hurt anybody’s feelings in the process.

You, though. You took his hesitation to speak as an answer, and a small, broken squeak left your lips as you got out of the bed, grabbing your sweater off of his couch. “Are you fucking serious?” You spat, slipping your shoes on next. “You’re still fucking somebody else when I’m not around? I knew this shit was too good to be true, you really are a fucking asshole, aren’t you?” Tears flowed freely down your face now as you spoke to him, his brothers standing in shock in complete silence, not knowing if what they walked in on was real or a hallucination.

“Wait, no, I’m not fucking with anybody,” Chris says, clambering off the bed towards you, hands grabbing your arms. You shook him off though, pushing him away by his chest.

“Don’t fucking touch me. Let’s just make our lives easier and go back to hating each other,” you tell him, staring up at him with red eyes, noticing his own starting to gloss over.

He’s silent, words caught at his throat as he watches you unfold in front of him, not knowing how he could save this in the moment. “Please,” he chokes out, a small tear sliding down his cheek. “Please don’t leave, it’s not true.”

You want to give in so badly, but you know Chris’s history, you know how much he fucks around and how many girls he’s used to talking to and you feel stupid for thinking he’d stop doing all of that for you. You actually feel like a fucking fool for thinking he’d change for you.

You shake your head at him and turn around, grabbing the handle of the door to let yourself out. Before you leave, though, you turn and look at Matt and Nick who are stuck to the floor in shock, mouths hanging slightly open as they watch the exchange. “I’m sorry we didn’t tell you.”

You pull the door open and leave, shutting it quietly behind you as you start to walk to your car, soft sobs leaving your lips as you get further away from their house.

Chris stands there for a few moments staring at the door, before he turns around and glares at Nick, rage clear on his face despite the tears in his eyes. “Are you fucking serious?!” He screams, walking up to him and grabbing him by the collar, pushing him back a few steps until they reach the wall, Nick’s back pressed up against it. “Learn how to read a fucking room! You just lost me the girl I’ve been in love with for the last three fucking years, all because you don’t know when to stop talking!”

Nick’s eyes were wide as he grabbed Chris’s wrists, trying to get him to let go of him. “I’m sorry!” He squeaked out, staring into his brother’s eyes that spoke a thousand words.

Matt came up to them and placed a hand on Chris’s shoulder, trying to remain the calm one in the situation. “Hey, let him go, he didn’t know,” he said softly, rubbing up and down his arm when Chris finally let go of Nick, turning his younger brother to face him.

Chris’s eyes finally softened when he looked at Matt, knowing that if there was anyone here that cared for you as much as he did, it was Matt. “I love her,” he whispered, finally processing the words that he said out loud for the first time.

Matt nods at Chris and pulls him into a hug, rubbing his back. “I know, man. It’s okay, she’ll be fine, she’ll come around, she’s just upset right now, trust me. Once you explain everything she’ll come back to you.”

Chris hugs his brother back, hands gripping on the back of his shirt as he took shaky breaths in, still terrified he was going to lose you forever even though he barely got to have you.

“I need her.”

a/n: one more chapter for real this time gang

taglist

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silasoctakiseron · 1 month ago

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Regarding the Eighth House's appearance and lack thereof in Harrow's River bubble

I want to preface this post by saying that before you read literally any of this you should go read no speculation in those eyes by @onmentalsafari on ao3, because it's a) possibly my favorite Silas fic of all time and b) definitely my favorite handling of the Canaan bubble as a concept. Anyway. Moving on.

This post is almost certainly not going to tell you anything you don't already know. It is nevertheless going to be an extended examination of Silas and Colum's presence in Harrow's River bubble mimicry of Canaan House, with specific regard to whether Colum appeared at all and why Silas conducts himself the way he does.

Despite both being dead and both being people Harrow encountered at Canaan House, the Eighth are not prominently featured in the Canaan bubble. On its face, this shouldn't much matter, given their marginally relevant status as widely disliked side characters. However, people Harrow never met at all — namely, the real Dulcinea and the living Protesilaus — are present, active, and fully-fleshed in the bubble. People she met and didn't know well, including Magnus and Abigail, Jeannemary and Isaac, and Marta, additionally appear as whole, real spirits with independent thoughts. The only people who appear as poorly-fashioned constructs of their real selves are people whose souls Harrow could not call to the bubble, either because they are not dead or because they are somewhere other than the River.

Silas's full and complete soul, rather than a construct in his image, has been pulled out of the River and is trapped in the bubble with everyone else. His primary appearance is in chapter 26, when Harrow finds him on the terrace, which I'll discuss later. This is the only time we see him in person in the entire book.

He appears elsewhere a couple times, chiefly when Abigail attempts to recruit him in hunkering down in the Second's rooms for warmth/protection from the Sleeper (ch. 21) and tells Harrow they were unable to get him to do so (ch. 28):

“Dulcie—Lady Dulcinea, do you mind if I ask you to get Silas Octakiseron with us? He’s neither to hold nor to bind to me, but he might listen to you.”

“I told [Dulcinea] that I didn’t think we’d get Master Octakiseron first time round … She won’t tell me what he said to her, just that he ‘was horrid.’” [Shocker.]

It's clear enough here that Silas has a personality and control over his own behavior that are independent from Harrow's influence on the bubble, and the other ghosts recognize him as a person rather than a construct. The fact that he chooses to use this independence to presumably be insane alone in his room for nine months is his own problem.

Either way, he doesn't appear to be doing well. I've mentioned before that frankly, Silas very obviously falls rather to pieces¹ in the Canaan bubble, as described here in chapter 26 of HTN:

The Eighth House necromancer stood there with the wind flapping his wet alabaster robes, his braid torn to wisps and ribbons ... From closer up, Harrow saw that he was all in disarray: his clothes were smudged and a few of his buttons were not done up. The rain and the fog had lashed him terribly.

He looks great. He's doing awesome. He's clearly capable of appropriate self-maintenance and has clearly not been losing his shit over the fact that he's alone to fend for himself.

I've also said before (see above link) that everything that seems off about Silas in the bubble is related to Colum. Colum sometimes appears alone in GTN, but Silas doesn't appear independently of Colum a single time in the entire book — indeed, Colum occasionally speaks for him or quietly interprets social cues for his benefit. Silas is also, obviously, completely dependent on Colum to perform his necromancy. While it's shown that he physically can siphon from other people, as he does to Ianthe in GTN ch. 34, it's also made clear that soul siphoning works best (or at least, is strongly believed to work best) when the participating necromancer and cavalier are closely genetically compatible, and it's not incontrovertibly certain that Silas can siphon from another person without using Colum as a jumping-off point. Colum's marked absence from HTN is a blip in the broader narrative, but to Silas would have been like having an arm torn off.

The void where Colum used to be gives us a fairly ready explanation for why Silas has "gone to ground" in the bubble, as Magnus puts it in HTN ch. 28; he's completely vulnerable to any and all external forces and doesn't trust anyone else in the building as far as he can throw them. It also explains why he looks a complete mess when Harrow finds him, other than the fact that he's standing in an active rainstorm. We're aware from GTN ch. 28 that Colum is responsible for a lot of Silas's personal upkeep, including specifically his hair, and it's clear that Silas is either struggling to do it alone, failing to prioritize it because he has bigger problems, or both.

All of this being said, having established that he's clearly not present for the vast majority of the bubble's existence: where is Colum Asht?

While Colum never appears onscreen in the Canaan bubble, it's a common misconception that he's never mentioned at all. This is very close to true, but not completely. Colum is never mentioned by name, but vague sketches of him appear in the background until Silas's apparent death.

Something in Colum's place appears by implication in ch. 8, when everyone "arrives" at the Canaan bubble:

They were led away in twos—barring the Third House trio—²

Abigail also alludes to Colum's existence in ch. 28 shortly before learning of Silas's disappearance:

“I tried to make [Dulcinea] take the bed—she was so upset that the Templar pair weren't on board.”

There's one other, less certain mention. The Eighth House are represented in some capacity at Harrow's ball for the hand of Her Divine Highness in ch. 41, though no specific reference is made to its scion or cavalier:

The other seven Houses present³ were flaunting as though they were birds in a particularly baroque mating season.

Notably, the Coronabeth construct does appear at the ball even though Silas destroys it almost 15 chapters prior, meaning that his absence elsewhere doesn't necessarily bar something resembling Colum from having been present. This presence is definitely doubtful, in my view, but it is nevertheless not impossible.

One tall, astonishingly built Third House princess had chosen to sit among their number like a butterfly in a grey bog: she wore a silk robe in gold and breeches that showed off a calf too fit to be called a necromancer’s, and she was holding a glass of champagne and laughing at something she was being told.

All of this suggests that for at least part of the time the bubble was in effect, something resembling Colum was present enough that nothing seemed blatantly amiss, at least not to Harrow et al.

That said, it's clear that ghosts who were close to the real people replaced by constructs in the bubble recognize very quickly both that something is wrong with the construct and that they and/or the construct ought to be dead. The best examples we get of this are Marta's experience of the Judith construct's death in ch. 18 and Abigail's description of what Marta found wrong with the construct in ch. 43.

[Marta] said, with uncharacteristic frenzy: “Why am I here? ... I want to know—I just want to know—” ... “She had eight metal projectiles spun at high speeds through her midsection,” said Harrow. She knew that some people took comfort in the idea, so she added: “She would have died very quickly after her heart was destroyed.” “No,” said the lieutenant, and now Harrow thought she seemed dazed. ... “That’s not … Don’t know why I thought … No.”

“Why did you only pull some of us as ghosts? Why did the others appear as—varyingly ludicrous constructs? Lieutenant Dyas was certain Judith was wrong before she even died, that she was like a confused parody of herself.”

Being as it is that Colum is Silas's constant companion and has been since he was a very small child, it beggars belief to posit that he would not recognize anything appearing in Colum's stead as a construct or other insert rather than the man himself. Like Marta, he also seems to have figured out the truth about Colum's and his own deaths fairly quickly. (Marta says in ch. 45 that "the Second House doesn't overthink the River"; the Eighth absolutely cannot say the same.)

We know that Silas knows both that Colum is dead and how he actually died, including the parties involved, because of his conduct in ch. 26. Silas encounters the Coronabeth construct — though whether he found it where it was or manipulated it out onto the terrace himself isn't clear — and destroys it.

As of ch. 34 of GTN, immediately prior to his death, Silas has no particular quarrel with Coronabeth. If anything, he might consider her vaguely complicit in the crime of Ianthe's ascent to Lyctorhood, but that's about it.

Silas sounded quite normal now when he turned and addressed the monotonously crying girl by the slab: “Princess Coronabeth. Is she speaking the truth? And did you, at any point, attempt to stop her, or know as a necromancer what act she was committing?” “Poor Corona!” said Ianthe. “Don’t get on her case, you little white excuse for a human being. What could she have done?”

But Silas's destruction of the Coronabeth construct isn't about Corona herself. It's about Ianthe, and he says as much.

“And somewhere out there, may all the blood of your blood suffer even a fraction of what I have suffered.” He pushed. The eldest princess of Ida dropped from the side of the docking bay with swanlike ease. ... The Eighth House necromancer stood there ... and he did not even look over the side.”

As I've said before, there is no evidence that Silas had ever experienced any particular suffering prior to his and Colum's deaths that would drive him to seek revenge, particularly not on an apparently unrelated party like Corona. Until his arrival at Canaan House, Silas lived what appears to have been an extremely sheltered existence. The suffering to which he refers here, evident in the clear collapse of his ability to keep himself in order, is very obviously the grief of Colum's death, and may refer in addition to the emotional turmoil he experienced upon discovering the Colum construct and remembering Colum's demise in the bubble.

To Silas's understanding, Coronabeth is to Ianthe as Colum is to him. She's Ianthe's family and companion, the person for whom Ianthe clearly cares most and upon whom she most heavily relies. The Faustian bargain of Lyctorhood demands that Lyctors sacrifice the people closest to them in the world for power. Ianthe made that trade with counterfeit money — she got the power and eternal life without being forced to kill the person she loved most. Silas received neither of these dubious rewards and still lost Colum so completely that he can't even locate his ghost after death.

But wait, I can already hear some of you commenting on this post, wasn't Colum's death very obviously Silas's fault? Didn't Silas directly cause Colum's death by siphoning him without his permission and then splitting his focus while they fought Ianthe? The answer to this question is obviously yes. Silas violated Colum's bodily autonomy more extremely than he ever had before in order to defeat Ianthe, and in doing so recklessly he killed Colum. We, the readers, know this.

We also know that the Eighth House, and Silas in particular, are not in the business of admitting wrongdoing. Silas is both a self-righteous 16-year-old boy and a product of the House which is perhaps the single most loath to acknowledge even the capacity for moral error on its part of any of the Nine Houses.

In Silas's mind, whether Colum's death was caused by something he did is irrelevant. The fact of the matter is that he only did what he did because Ianthe made it necessary to do so. If Ianthe hadn't insisted upon ascending to Lyctorhood, then insisted upon refusing her sentence for heresy, then insisted upon fighting back instead of going quietly, Silas would never have been forced to siphon Colum at all. Therefore, this is all Ianthe's fault, and Ianthe deserves to suffer. Whether Silas similarly deserves to suffer in his own mind is irrelevant — he perceives himself as suffering either way, and he believes it unjust that Ianthe is not experiencing the same punishment.

Then, of course, Silas throws himself off the terrace and into the water below. We know that Harrow perceives this as suicide; we know that Silas does not.

“I don’t give a damn about White Glass mysteries or cryptics,” [Harrow] said. “I care that you just pushed one of the Tridentarii to her death.” “Death?” said Silas.

Silas has no intention of killing himself in ch. 26. Silas is a River specialist, and Silas is knowingly entering the River.

Silas Octakiseron had launched himself fearlessly into space after the tumbling body of Coronabeth Tridentarius. ... Harrow thought she perceived a tatter of something penetrate the cloud. Her heart pounded rhythmically in her ears, and she thought she saw, absurdly, a sudden gush of watery blood, as though the fog itself had been knifed; but it was gone almost as soon as she had seen it.

The water Harrow sees when Silas breaks through the boundary of the bubble is confirmed to be River water, rather than a hallucination or any other visual phenomenon, in ch. 53.

[Harrow] popped the bubble, and the River came rushing in. It came down around her in shreds, as light and insubstantial as drifts of spiderweb. The water sprayed through white holes, rushing in with a pounding roar: that brackish, bloodied water that only existed within the River.

We can infer from the connection between these passages and Silas's general behavior in the bubble that wherever Colum may be, Silas believes the River is how to get there. If this theory doesn't hold water to you, we can determine that Silas believes that staying in the bubble is actively hindering him from reentering the River and, at bare minimum, "wait[ing] for our Lord's touch on the day of a second Resurrection" (per Magnus, ch. 45). That said, knowing that the rest of the Canaan bubble crew have struck out into the River to help Matthias Nonius ally with Gideon the First, wherever he may be, it's difficult for me to imagine that an aggrieved and mourning River necromancer with nothing else whatsoever to do with his afterlife would not similarly go in search of the only person in the universe who has ever cared about him.

We know that wherever he's headed is dangerous. The River is, of course, dangerous anyway; we know that devils travel up through it, and that human souls stagnated in the River for too long are driven to insanity and become revenants. However, Abigail explicitly states in ch. 45 that she's concerned for the state of Silas's soul given the haphazard method by which he exited the bubble.

“I worked out how to return [the Fourth] to the River first thing. They didn’t want to go, but I overruled them. I would have done the same with anyone else—if only Silas had asked me; what has happened to his soul worries me horribly.”

Eighth necromancers' interactions with the River, which chiefly seem to consist of sending the souls of their cavaliers to wait on its bank in order to create empty conduits for its energy, obviously differ significantly from those of Fifth necromancers, who predominantly call spirits out of the River. However, it's my view that Silas could probably have gotten himself across the River safely if he'd wanted to, or at least to whatever point within it to which he deemed non-heretical to travel. I think that Silas has a goal in mind in the River that would not be served by merely transporting himself along it in a manner that would have been guaranteed to keep his soul safe and intact, and I think whenever he reaches it is the point at which we'll find Colum.

Footnotes below.

¹ We can actually compare this to his appearance in chapter 28 of GTN, when he's recently been scared off Lyctorhood by whatever the Ninth trial was and is similarly clearly not doing great:

Gideon must have caught [Silas] mid-ablutions, because his chalk-coloured hair was wet and tousled as though it had just been rubbed with a towel. It seemed frivolously long, and she realised she had never seen it except pinned back. ... Silas looked as though he had not slept well lately. Shadows beneath the eyes made his sharp and relentless chin sharper and even more relentless.

If you wanted, you could establish as a tentative rule that the worse his hair looks, the worse he's doing. I won't, but you could.

² Interestingly, a vague allusion to Babs or something like him is made here, too, and he is genuinely never mentioned again, even in future references to the Third in the bubble. We obviously know where his soul is and that it's inaccessible to Harrow because it's not in the River, so there's likely something to the fact that he and Colum are excluded from the bubble in roughly the same way.

³ This could technically refer to the presence of the First House at the ball for the purpose of presenting Kiriona, but it's fairly straightforwardly clear in my view that the seven Houses which would have an interest in "flaunting" themselves are those which could marry into the House. I'm clearing this up in advance because I know some of you love to argue.

#this post is over 500 words longer than a paper I wrote toward my master's degree last night so. enjoy.#silas octakiseron #colum asht #the locked tomb #harrow the ninth

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diz-eaze · 20 days ago

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; yandere modern au aventurine thoughts

; soft yandere, half silly half serious, not proofread, he's a silly goober, simp aven?

modern au aventurine, who, during breaktime, overhears some of his work subordinates standing around the office's water dispenser gossiping as usual. it's a typical routine for the workers, but what makes him drop his cup of water is them giggling and cooing about an interaction you had with another co-worker. slapping each other on the shoulders, leaning in to whisper, smiling wide and bright as if they're getting paid to squeal over their co-workers' interactions... it grinds his gears, he'll admit. from what he could gather, the department is in disarray because a kdrama-worthy moment happened with you and a faceless accountant. something something catching your fall by wrapping his arms around your waist like some savior something something you thanking him. ok. whatever. he'll deal with that can of worms in the privacy of his room by tweaking out later. but what irks him even more is that he recognizes those gossiping workers as the same people who love to spread rumors and gossip about you possibly dating him, and he eats it up !! encourages the rumors, even !! so like woah... pause. rewind. what happened to his loyal fanbase of aven(y/n) shippers?? why are they switching sides? all for one interaction with a rando when you have a well-established friendship with him that's been known by the entire department for months now??? people these days truly aren't loyal anymore, wow :( and this isn't even funny at all to him. he can't even crack a smile. not even a haha. his day is ruined by these office workers shipping you with someone that isn't him. when he settles back into his desk, he has to take several deep breaths to reel himself in. it's not that deep, oh but it is !! very much so. he'll have to look into that guy's identity, good thing he's a department head :)))

modern au aventurine always has a ritual every time he sees you post on Instagram. if it's a silly photo, he puts his phone down to audibly laugh for a good minute, uncaring if you're not even there to witness it, before sending you a laughing emoji. just to drive the point across <3. should it be some scenic photo you took, he'll clap and cheer before replying to it with a compliment - it's a good conversation starter with you, too! he even notes down the places you've put in your story for future references, he can't have you going on a vacation with him to a place you've already been to, after all :((. and if it's a selfie or group photo that includes you... oh aeons, please have mercy on his soul. he'll close his phone before jumping on his bed in utmost joy, even doing 4 backflips before running around his penthouse several times like he has the zoomies. when he returns to his bedroom, he'll unlock his phone and finally heart your story :) of course, he adds in a long compliment to ensure you don't go by a day wherein you're not worshipped like the deity that you are. live laugh love your co-worker, everyone <3

modern au aventurine loves commissioning artists to draw you with him :)) who is he, if not a patron of the arts? he'd always tell the artists that you're his lover 😭, and his commissioned artworks often depict the two of you in domestic settings, such as living together, visiting other countries, or just being at work with each other. maybe even add in a few commissioned goon artworks <333 though, sometimes the commissions take too long, and that's okay ! but in his desperate times, he'll crack his knuckles, open up photoshop, and put in the work there. his editing skills are, erm, lacking, but he'll do anything to scratch the constant itch in his brain that always seem to yearn for you. so he photoshops your face and his onto stock images of couples :D maybe in the future, he'll lock in and take up one of those photoshop classes. though, by his estimations, you'll be officially his in like, 3 months <3 he prays to any aeon that you'll never see the commissions he put or the photoshopped images he created, however.

modern au aventurine is somehow always wherever you are outside of work. wow, you didn't tell him that you submitted a paid leave for your solo trip in paris !! :DD what a coincidence that he's also here for a solo trip, too !! why not just make it a duo trip since you're both here ? ☺️ but he literally knew all of this since he's your department head. you'll see him in the cafe near your apartment, at the park just down the IPC building's block, at the house next to your family home, at the daycare while you're picking up your niece. but he's so persuasive that he has you thinking it's a red string of fate tying you to him that explains the constant coincidences. like no, it's not a string given by fate he tied that shit himself 😭. he's just some obsessive freak who spends every free time he has on you :/.

modern au aventurine, who somewhere down the line, finally gets into an official relationship with you. the moment you leave his penthouse after making things official, he's whipping out his phone at great speed to change your contact name and contact picture into cheesy, lovey dovey ones. he sets his ringtone to your laugh (which he recorded during work), sets his wallpaper and lockscreen to selfies you've taken, and changes all his social media bios into having mentions of you in some way, shape, or form. he'll change his profile pictures soon too, after he's taken a shared selfie with you :).

#I LOVEEEE sillyness in the modern setting im sorry pls sh**t me down #the stats have been released #and this is in honor of him #being my most used character every. single. month. since his release #thank u for your shield king #so pls take this short thing i speedran #ok back to scaraposting #tw yandere #outro's interlude <3 #yandere #yandere hsr #yandere honkai star rail #yandere male #yandere hsr x reader #yandere aventurine #yandere aventurine x reader #honkai star rail x reader #hsr x reader

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22ayla21 · 2 months ago

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Nooooo I just read the third child part and🥺 that was so cuteeee and smdjaknaksnsk I was wondering how the chirldren spend time with their mom?

Mom and Kids

How the wives of the men of Amphoreus spend time with their children

She introduces the children to books by telling them stories before bed. Even if the children are already asleep, she continues to whisper the last lines so that their dreams are filled with adventures.

She also teaches them to weave wreaths, embroider patterns in the style of Kremnos, and cook traditional dishes. The eldest son especially carefully watches her hands, trying to imitate every movement.

The middle daughter always wins at hide-and-seek, because she has inherited her father's cunning, and the youngest does not consider it a competition at all, simply choosing a comfortable place where she can quietly read a book.

Although she does not require the children to be warriors, she teaches them to use weapons for self-defense. The eldest son is more inclined to tactics, and the middle one - to combat, which inevitably leads to friendly sparring between them.

She loves to take the children to the shore, where they splash in the waves, build sand castles and decorate them with shells. Mydei sometimes joins in, just to make sure no one gets too carried away.

On quiet evenings by the fireplace, she holds her youngest daughter on her lap while the older children cuddle up to her, sharing their worries. Sometimes Mydei himself joins them at such moments, surrounding the family with the warmth of his strong arms.

She teaches the children that strength does not always solve everything, and it is important to be able to negotiate. This is especially important for the middle daughter, who sometimes forgets that you can’t just “knock out” a problem.

Teaches the children to take care of living creatures, be it a wounded bird or a homeless puppy. Sometimes this leads to Mydei coming home and seeing a new “zoo” under the roof of their house.

Usually, her mornings begin with the children climbing into bed with her, settling down next to her, and Mydei, seeing this, just smirks and collapses next to her, turning everything into a heap of warm hugs.

Every morning she woke the children with soft words and kisses, and then ate breakfast with them, enjoying their chatter. Even if Anaxa sometimes frowned at the noise, she only laughed and said that these were "the sounds of family happiness."

She helped the children with their studies (at least what she understood, leaving the most difficult ones to her husband), but never pressured them. If her daughters were engaged in tactics and strategy, she encouraged them, finding time to explain something with examples from life. And she taught her youngest son that not everything can be solved by the mind - sometimes you just need to be kind.

Every evening she told the children fairy tales, sometimes about her adventures in her youth. The daughters were more interested in stories about bravery and battles, and the son loved stories about friendship and kindness.

Despite Anaxa's strictness, she did not forbid the children to be naughty. They would have impromptu fights, hide-and-seek, and sometimes even try to hide from Anaxa to see how quickly he would find them.

She often took the children for walks, showing them the beauty of Amphoraeus's nature. The daughters tried to analyze everything, like their father, but the son simply enjoyed the moment, and she was glad for that.

Sometimes they cooked together. The daughters learned precision, and the youngest son simply enjoyed the process, licking the spoons. As a result, the kitchen was in disarray, but the atmosphere was warm.

When one of the children was upset, she always found a way to support them. She knew that the daughters appreciated sensible advice, and sometimes a hug from his mother was enough for the son to feel better.

When Anaxa was free, she always found a way to include him in their family moments. Although he sometimes grumbled, even the children knew that their dad was just pretending not to like spending time with them.

She tries to give her children not only physical development, but also intellectual development. She likes to read them books before bed, tell them myths and stories about great warriors, but also teaches them tactics, diplomacy and wisdom.

She often takes them outside the city so that they can feel free and explore the world around them. She can teach them to collect medicinal herbs, navigate by the stars or tell them about the animals that live in their area.

Despite her seriousness, she knows how to be cheerful. She can let the children braid her hair in chaotic pigtails or play hide and seek. Sometimes, if they ask, she even plays along with them in role-playing games, portraying a scary monster or a noble hero.

Although Phainon is mainly involved in this, she does not stand aside. She shows her sons the basics of swordplay, teaches them to remain cool and discipline, but she does it more gently than their father, so that they do not perceive training as a harsh duty.

Unlike Phainon, who expresses love through actions, she gives her children a lot of physical affection. She can hug them, kiss them on the top of the head, lay them down next to her if they have a nightmare. It is important to her that they feel her love not only in words, but also in touch.

She is the first one her sons run to if they have problems or doubts. She knows how to listen to them without judging them, and give advice that helps them find the right solution, and not just tell them what to do.

She carefully preserves the culture of her people and instills it in her children, telling them about her roots, old customs and holidays. Sometimes she cooks dishes from her homeland, sometimes she arranges small rituals that remind her of home.

She sees each child as an individual and never compares them. If one son loves battles, and another prefers tactics or art, she will support them in any choice, knowing that their happiness is the most important thing.

When a long-awaited girl finally appears in the family, she gladly passes on to her the female traditions of her people. Although Phainon dotes on the little girl, her mother remains her first mentor in the world of tenderness and strength.

#honkai star rail #honkai star rail x reader #hsr x reader #hsr #hsr mydei #mydei #mydei x reader #mydeimos #honkai star rail anaxa #hsr anaxa #anaxagoras #anaxa x reader #anaxa #hsr phainon #phainon #phainon x reader

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estellan0vella · 11 months ago

Text

What Goes Up, Must Come Down ❀ includes: Gojo, Geto, Nanami, Choso, Sukuna & Toji (REQUESTED) Masterlist

You lean in for a goodbye kiss, expecting a quick peck. Instead, Gojo Satoru pulls you in, kissing you deeply and passionately. You finally pull away, breathless. "See you later," you murmur, heading out the door.

As soon as you're gone, Gojo looks down and realizes he's in trouble. "Oh no," he mutters, staring at the obvious bulge in his pants. He has a meeting with the higher-ups in ten minutes, and he can’t show up like this.

He paces around the room, chanting, "Icebergs, taxes, Yaga in a tutu, Gakuganji in panties." Nothing works. He tries doing some jumping jacks, but that only makes things worse.

Desperate, he grabs a cushion from the couch and places it strategically over his lap, attempting to meditate the problem away. "Breathe in, breathe out," he tells himself.

But his mind keeps drifting back to the electrifying kiss you shared just moments ago, and his body responds accordingly. Gojo curses under his breath, realizing he's running out of time.

With a last-ditch effort, he splashes cold water on his face, hoping the shock will jolt him back to reality. It helps a little, but not enough. Gojo considers canceling the meeting altogether, but that would only raise suspicions.

Finally, after what feels like an eternity, the problem subsides. He quickly grabs his coat and heads out the door, hoping no one notices his flushed face or the slight disarray of his clothes.

You’re not sure why you decided to kiss Suguru so fervently this morning, but the moment your lips touch his, something ignites. Your hands tangle in his dark hair, pulling him closer, deepening the kiss. When you finally pull away, his pupils are dilated, breath coming in short gasps.

“Wow,” he mutters, clearly affected. You glance down and see the prominent bulge in his pants. He shifts uncomfortably, running a hand through his hair. “Uh, I might need a moment.”

You chuckle, feeling a bit proud of the effect you have on him. “I didn’t think I’d get you this worked up.”

He gives you a lopsided grin, a slight blush coloring his cheeks. “Well, you did. Now what?”

You look around and spot a nearby chair. “Sit down, relax for a bit. I’m sure it’ll pass.”

Suguru nods, taking a seat and trying to focus on anything but his current predicament. You watch him, amused, as he fidgets, crossing and uncrossing his legs.

“You know,” you say teasingly, “you could think about something unsexy. Like… taxes.”

He raises an eyebrow at you. “Taxes? Really?”

“Hey, it works for some people.”

Suguru sighs, leaning back in the chair. “I’ll give it a try, but no promises.”

You sit across from him, trying not to laugh as he closes his eyes, clearly attempting to will his arousal away. After a few minutes, he opens one eye and looks at you. “Any luck?”

“Not really. Thinking about you makes it worse.”

You smile sweetly. “Sorry, not sorry.”

He groans, throwing his head back in frustration. “You’re going to be the death of me.”

“Only if you’re lucky,”

Nanami is composed, always so composed. But when you kiss him like that, really kiss him, you see his carefully maintained facade slip just a bit.

“Darling,” he starts, voice steady but with an undercurrent of strain. “I need a minute.”

You glance down, and sure enough, there’s the telltale bulge. You suppress a giggle, earning a mildly reproachful look from him.

“Sorry, Ken,” you say, trying to sound sincere but failing miserably. “I didn’t mean to cause you trouble.”

He sighs, adjusting his tie in a futile attempt to regain composure. “I suppose it’s a pleasant sort of trouble.”

“Maybe think about your schedule for the day?”

Nanami shakes his head. “I’d rather not associate this feeling with work, thank you.”

You laugh softly. “Fair point. How about something mundane? Grocery shopping?”

He hums thoughtfully, closing his eyes. “That could work.”

You watch as he takes a few deep breaths, his expression gradually relaxing. After a few minutes, he opens his eyes, looking more composed.

“Better?” you ask.

He nods, standing and adjusting his suit once more. “Yes, much. Thank you.”

You lean in for a quick peck, and he chuckles. “Careful now, or we’ll be right back where we started.”

You grin. “Would that be so bad?”

Nanami shakes his head with a smile. “No, but I do have to go. I’ll see you later.”

You pull Choso in for a long, steamy kiss, your lips melding perfectly with his. As you step back, you notice his dazed expression and chuckle.

"See you soon," you whisper, leaving him standing there, flustered. Choso blinks, trying to process what just happened. He looks down, realizing his body's reaction to the kiss, and groans.

He quickly finds a secluded corner, leaning against the wall and taking deep breaths. As he waits for his arousal to subside, Mahito walks by, giving him a knowing grin.

"Having a bit of trouble there, Choso?" Mahito teases.

Choso glares at him, crossing his arms. "Mind your own business," he snaps, wishing the ground would swallow him whole.

Mahito chuckles, unfazed by Choso's irritation. "Just offering my assistance."

Choso rolls his eyes. "I don't need your help with anything."

Mahito shrugs, still wearing that irritating smirk. "Suit yourself. But if you ever want some pointers on how to handle these situations, you know where to find me."

Choso grits his teeth, resisting the urge to lash out at the curse. Instead, he focuses on his breathing, willing his body to calm down. After what feels like an eternity, his arousal finally begins to subside.

"Better?" Mahito asks, still grinning.

Choso nods curtly, pushing himself off the wall. "Much."

Mahito chuckles, patting him on the shoulder as he walks away. "Just remember, Choso, there's no shame in enjoying yourself."

"Piss off,"

Your lips crash into Sukuna’s with a fervor that surprises even you. His reaction is immediate, his grip on your waist tightening as he deepens the kiss. When you finally pull away, there’s a wicked gleam in his eyes, but then you notice his predicament.

“Leaving already?” Sukuna teases, his voice a low growl. “I thought we were just getting started.”

You glance down and see the obvious bulge in his pants. You smirk, feeling a bit smug. “Looks like you’ll need a moment.”

He raises an eyebrow, clearly amused. “You think you can just walk away after that?”

You laugh, shaking your head. “You’re not exactly in a position to chase me right now.”

Sukuna chuckles, the sound dark and rich. “Perhaps not, but you’ll pay for this later.”

You grin, unphased by his threat. “I’ll be waiting.”

He shifts, clearly trying to will his arousal away. You watch him with a mixture of amusement and admiration. It’s rare to see Sukuna at a disadvantage, even a small one.

“Need some help?” you offer teasingly.

He gives you a look that could melt steel. “Unless you’re offering more than just words, I’ll handle it.”

You laugh, stepping back. “Alright, tough guy. I’ll leave you to it.”

He grumbles something under his breath, closing his eyes and taking deep breaths. After a few moments, he opens them again, more composed.

“Better?” you ask innocently.

Sukuna smirks. “For now. But I’ll remember this.”

You wink. “I’m counting on it.”

Toji is used to being in control, but your goodbye kiss throws him off balance. He grins at you, trying to play it cool, but you can see the slight tension in his posture.

"See you later, Toji," you say sweetly.

He gives you a lopsided grin. "Yeah, sure. Just... give me a sec."

You tilt your head, feigning innocence. "Why? Something wrong?"

He chuckles, shaking his head. "You're a real piece of work, you know that?"

You laugh and pat his cheek. "You love it."

As you walk away, Toji watches you with a mix of amusement and desire. He can't help but admire your confidence and the way you always manage to keep him on his toes. But as you disappear from view, he's left alone with his thoughts, and a certain physical reaction he can't quite control.

Toji leans against the nearest wall, running a hand through his hair. "Damn," he mutters to himself, cursing his body's betrayal. He's not used to feeling this flustered, especially not over something as simple as a goodbye kiss.

He takes a few deep breaths, trying to regain his composure. It's not easy, with your lingering presence still fresh in his mind. Toji closes his eyes, willing his body to cooperate. After a few moments, he manages to calm down, the tension easing from his muscles.

"Alright, Fushiguro," he says to himself, straightening up. "Get it together."

With a newfound resolve, Toji pushes himself away from the wall and heads off to face whatever challenges await him. But as he walks, he can't shake the memory of your lips against his, and the way you always manage to leave him wanting more.

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muiitoloko · 13 days ago

Text

Brazen

Summary: She broke into his suite like a shadow in silk and left him shaking with fury and something far worse: longing.

Pairing: Judge Turpin × Fem! Reader

Warnings: Shooting, blood, theft.

Author's Notes: I just want to start by thanking everyone for the sweet comments and messages, they really mean the world to me! I’m currently going through a major creative block, and, honestly, being on my period seems to make it even worse 😅 But all the love and encouragement from you guys have really lifted my spirits. So, as "His American Thief" won the poll, here’s the third chapter! "Difficult Woman" came in second place with a ton of votes, and I’m almost done with that chapter too, so expect it soon! Just a heads up, though – it’s mostly just a lot of sex between the reader and Karl 😅

First, Second and Third part here.

Also read on Ao3

When Judge Turpin awoke the next morning, the light from the window was far too bright, and the pain that greeted him as he shifted on the mattress was enough to make him grit his teeth until his jaw ached. The laudanum had worn off, leaving behind only the bitter ache of bruised ribs, an aching spine, and a pounding headache born of humiliation and obsession.

It took him a moment to gather his wits, to blink against the morning haze and let the stiffness fade just enough for coherent thought. Then it hit him.

Three things, in rapid, horrifying succession.

One: he’d had a very vivid dream. A dream so painfully real that he could still feel the warmth of your skin on his fingertips. In it, you had been in his room—his room!—dressed like some libertine’s pet, wrapped in a scandalously tight camisole that bared more than it covered, your breasts nearly spilling over the neckline like some harlot waiting for coin. You had sat beside his bed like a vision conjured from fever and madness, mocking him with your grin and those damned eyes.

Two: the room—his suite, the finest in the Franklin Hotel—was in utter disarray. The desk drawers had been pulled open and left ajar, the wardrobe partially ransacked, his cloak flung carelessly over a chair as if tossed there by someone else. The carpet bore faint indentations of small boots. Female boots. Not a maid. Not staff.

He sat up, wincing, hand pressed to his ribs, his breath catching in a strangled growl.

Three: if that dream had been real… if you had actually come into his room… He reached for the drawer beside his bed. Empty.

The ring drawer—his drawer. Gone.

All six of them. His signet ring. His ruby crest. The polished garnet he wore to trials. The black enamel mourning band. The thick gold band gifted by the Chancellor. And worst of all—

“The Turpin ring,” he whispered, cold dread hollowing his chest. “No…”

It was the most precious. A thick silver band bearing the family’s coat of arms, passed from father to son since the reign of Queen Anne. He wore it to every sentencing. Every hanging. It was his birthright.

And now it was gone.

“BEADLE!” Turpin’s bellow roared through the walls like a thunderclap. “BEADLE BAMFORD!”

There was a muffled crash in the hallway—porcelain breaking, no doubt, as Beadle dropped whatever was in his hands—and seconds later the door burst open. Bamford stumbled in, his coat still half-buttoned, a bit of jam clinging to the corner of his mouth.

“My lord! I—”

“Where were you last night?” Turpin snarled, hauling himself upright with a pained grunt. “Where were you while she—that vixen—slipped into my chambers and robbed me blind?!”

Beadle paled. “Robbed—what? No one said anything, I didn’t know you had a visitor—”

“Visitor?” Turpin barked, hazel eyes blazing with fury. “You think I invited her in? That I sent for her like some weak-willed libertine craving a bit of skirt? She came on her own! Slipped past your useless eyes and stole from me again!”

Beadle stared in horror as Turpin jabbed a finger toward the empty drawer.

“She took my rings, Bamford,” he hissed. “All six. Including the family signet. That ring is worth more than your entire miserable bloodline!”

“I—I heard nothing, sir!” Beadle stammered. “If she was here, she must’ve come after I left for supper—if I’d heard a sound, I swear to God I would’ve come running—”

“You would’ve tripped over your own boots and pissed yourself, no doubt!” Turpin snapped, his voice cracking with rage. “You left me here drugged, exposed, half-naked—and now she’s gone again! Gone! And with my legacy on her thieving little fingers!”

Beadle made a desperate noise, glancing at the ransacked room. “I-I’ll make inquiries, sir—at once—I’ll alert the pawnbrokers, speak to the jewelers, question every market stall from here to the docks—”

“You’ll do more than inquire!” Turpin roared, struggling to his feet. “You’ll find her, Bamford! I want her caught. I want her chained to this bed where I can see her every filthy breath! She belongs here! With me!” He staggered, his injured leg giving out slightly, but he caught himself on the desk and growled.

Beadle stepped back instinctively. “Yes, my lord! Of course!”

“Find her,” Turpin repeated, lower now, more dangerous. “Find the pawn shops. Find the fences. She has my rings. That signet bears the Turpin crest—if it’s spotted, I want word within the hour.”

“Yes, my lord.”

“And when you find her…” His voice dropped to a rasp, cruel and cold. “You bring her back to me.”

Beadle swallowed thickly. “Yes, sir.” He bolted from the room, coat flapping, already shouting for the carriage to be readied.

Turpin stood amidst the chaos of his suite, one hand braced on the desk, the other twitching with rage.

“She’s mine,” he muttered to the empty room. “She’s mine. And when I get her back—when she’s tied to this bed—I’ll see to it that she never steals anything again… except perhaps her own breath.”

And then, as if her laughter still echoed in the air, Judge Richard Turpin let out a snarl so savage it silenced even the morning birds.

The little pawnshop on Bleecker Street was dim and cluttered, its walls lined with clocks that didn’t tick and shelves that sagged under the weight of forgotten silverware, chipped porcelain, and the sorrow of the desperate. You had chosen it carefully—not the most reputable, not the cleanest, but quiet. A place that wouldn’t ask too many questions if you played the part well.

And oh, you were playing it to perfection.

You stood before the counter, draped in a plain black dress borrowed from an actress friend, a faded mourning veil tucked primly over your head. Your eyes were red—not from weeping, but from the smarting smoke of a candle you’d held too close before stepping inside. In your gloved hands rested a velvet pouch, and your voice trembled like a breeze in winter.

“I just…” you choked softly, glancing down at the rings now splayed upon the counter like tiny corpses. “He passed not a fortnight ago, and there’s naught left but these. My darling husband. Taken from me so cruelly…” You pressed a hand to your chest as if to still a heaving heart. “Why, why couldn’t he have left me something more than trinkets and heartbreak?”

The pawnbroker—an elderly man with spectacles perched low on his nose and tobacco-stained fingers—cleared his throat with a soft harrumph. “I’m sorry for your loss, ma’am,” he said awkwardly, eyeing the rings with a mixture of interest and suspicion. “A tragedy indeed… yes…”

You took the handkerchief you’d brought—folded neatly, edges singed ever so slightly from your earlier candle trick—and pressed it delicately to your face. A sharp sniff. A muffled sob. Just enough to make your shoulders tremble.

“Oh,” you whimpered. “He was such a good man…”

The pawnbroker cleared his throat, clearly unsure what to do with your display of grief.

“Yes, well… these are, ah… quite fine pieces,” he muttered, adjusting his spectacles and leaning forward to examine the rings. His fingers moved with practiced ease, brushing across gold, silver, enamel.

You peeked from behind your veil, watching as he turned one of them over with particular interest—a simple black band, the sheen dulled from years of wear.

“This one,” he said, voice softer now, “is a mourning ring. Black enamel, silver band, early Georgian make. The inscription… let’s see…”

You stiffened but said nothing. Couldn’t say anything. You couldn’t read, not a letter—but you weren’t about to confess that now. You just tilted your head, eyes watery, feigning polite interest as the man held the ring closer to the light.

“Anne Turpin,” he read aloud, squinting. “Beloved mother. This would’ve been commissioned after her passing. Must’ve meant quite a lot to the man who wore it.”

Your breath caught.

Anne Turpin. Beloved mother.

Your heart lurched painfully in your chest. That ring—it wasn’t for show. He’d worn it in mourning. For his mother. And you had stolen it. Torn it from the drawer like it was nothing. You thought of Turpin’s bruised face, his rasping voice confessing sins through laudanum haze. The way he’d spoken of shame. Of family. Of grief.

Oh God, you hadn't stolen from a judge that night.

You’d stolen from a son.

Before the guilt could settle too deeply, the bell above the door jingled. You flinched. A man entered, unbothered, the sort who didn’t belong in a place of pawning and secrets. He had ruddy cheeks, a rounded frame, and a coat a little too fine for the filth of the city. His eyes swept over the room—and then landed on you.

“Ah! Good morning, madam,” he said with a nod and doffed his hat politely. “My condolences.”

You blinked, disoriented. He thought you were truly in mourning. You nodded once, grateful for the cover.

The pawnbroker straightened behind the counter. “What can I do for you, sir?”

The man gave an apologetic smile. “Beadle Bamford. I come on behalf of his lordship, Judge Richard Turpin. There was a theft last evening—rings, six in total, of significant value. His lordship has reason to believe the thief may attempt to pawn them today.”

Your throat seized. You coughed sharply into the handkerchief—too sharply.

Neither man turned.

The pawnbroker furrowed his brow. “What sort of rings?”

Beadle, with no sense of urgency, reached into his coat for a small, crumpled sheet of notes. “Let’s see… black mourning ring, silver ring, yes, but most importantly the Turpin family signet. Heavy, gold, engraved with the family’s coat of arms. That one’s the most recognizable.”

Your eyes flicked to the ring on the counter.

No. No, no, no.

“Turpin crest?” the pawnbroker murmured, already glancing down toward the rings on the counter.

You didn’t wait. “Thank you for your time,” you blurted, sweeping the remaining rings into your pouch. Your voice cracked with feigned emotion. “But I… I can’t bear to part with them after all. Forgive me. I must go.”

Beadle looked up at the movement and froze. His eyes landed squarely on your hand.

That ring.

Recognition struck him like a slap.

“Wait—!” he shouted, voice rising. “Wait just a moment—!”

You turned, seized by instinct, and slapped him across the face so hard. The sound rang through the shop like a gunshot.

Beadle stumbled backward with a strangled squawk, clutching his cheek. You were already at the door.

“Stop her!” he bellowed. “She’s got the Turpin crest! She’s the thief—GET HER!”

But you were out the door, boots pounding the cobblestones, veil flying free behind you like a banner of war. The satchel bounced against your hip, heavy with rings, your heart thundering as footsteps thundered behind.

Beadle Bamford, bless his useless legs, tried his best. But you were fast. You had always been, and this time, you knew what you were running from. Because this wasn't just about stolen rings anymore. It was about stolen names and stolen pasts.

And the promise in Turpin’s eyes when he’d whispered: “You are mine.”

The sound of hurried footsteps clattered up the wooden stairs of the Franklin Hotel, followed by the unmistakable creak of polished boots on the landing. Beadle Bamford—red in the face, sweat dampening his collar—rushed down the corridor, not even pausing to straighten his coat. He reached the door to Room Sixteen and rapped once, twice, urgently—

Then barged in without waiting for a reply.

“My lord—!”

He stopped short, his hand still on the doorframe, breath catching at the sight before him.

Judge Turpin, bruised and swaddled in blankets like a wounded lion, sat upright in bed—but not alone. A young woman, plainly dressed in a servant’s apron and simple linen gown, was perched delicately on his lap. She was laughing—laughing!—at something he had just murmured into her ear. Her hand held a small porcelain spoon, hovering near Turpin’s mouth, while his hand rested on her hip with an ease Beadle had never seen in the man.

Turpin’s one good eye flicked toward the door, darkening with irritation. “Bamford,” he snapped, his baritone dry as old paper, “do you make it a habit to intrude upon private moments like a stable boy who’s never seen a pair of stockings?”

Beadle flushed violently. “Forgive me, my lord, but—”

“Speak outside,” Turpin growled, lifting a hand as though dismissing a gnat. “I am recovering, as you can clearly see. Return once I’m done.”

“I saw her,” Beadle blurted, breathless. “The thief. Just now. At the Bleecker Street pawnshop.”

The effect was instantaneous.

Turpin’s hand dropped from the girl’s hip as if her skin had scalded him. The weight in his chest shifted, something tight and ravenous crackling to life behind his hazel eyes. Without a word, he shoved the girl off his lap with a swift jerk of his good arm, sending her stumbling backward with a squeak and a clatter of the spoon on the floor.

“Out,” he barked.

“My lord?” she gasped, flustered, but his face was already turned from her.

“Out, I said!”

She fled, skirts rustling as she scurried from the room like a frightened rabbit. The door snapped shut behind her.

Turpin turned to Beadle, eyes gleaming. “Speak,” he growled. “Now.”

Beadle straightened, still panting from the run. “She was there, my lord. Dressed in mourning like some pathetic widow—veil and all. She tried to sell the rings. The signet one, too—your mother’s ring. I saw it with my own eyes!”

Turpin was already rising, stiff with pain, groaning as his ribs protested. “Did you catch her?”

“No, my lord—she recognized me, or perhaps she recognized the name. She fled before I could grab her.” Beadle swallowed. “But—I saw her face. Clear as day.”

Turpin froze mid-step, his body heavy with fury and exhaustion. He turned slowly, his lip curled in contempt. “And what use is a face if she’s not in irons at my feet, Beadle?”

Beadle winced. “I—I tried, sir. She ran like the very devil was at her heels. She slapped me! Loud enough to rattle the glass—”

“You let her touch you?”

Beadle flushed again. “I—yes, my lord. But—now that I know what she looks like, it will be easier to find her again. I’ve seen her—properly this time. I can describe her to every constable, every informant, every bootblack in the city if you wish. We’ll have her, sir. It’s only a matter of time.”

Turpin said nothing for a long moment. His breath came hard through his nose, his chest rising and falling beneath his half-buttoned shirt. His hair was damp with sweat. But the silence was not still; it seethed.

And then he spoke. “She touched you?”

Beadle flinched. “My lord, it was nothing—just a slap. A startled reaction, I’m sure. She was trying to flee—”

“She touched you,” Turpin growled again, his hazel eyes sharp and bright with a fevered gleam. “She put her hands on you.”

Beadle took a half-step back. “Sir, I—”

“You can’t be touched by her.” Turpin’s voice rose, cutting through the quiet like a blade. “No one can. Not you, not any man. Do you understand me?” He advanced, slow and deliberate. “She is not for touching. She is not yours to be touched by. Her hands are mine.”

“My lord—”

“Mine!” Turpin snapped, the word exploding from his chest. His hands were shaking now, curled into fists at his sides. “Only I can feel her. Only I can bruise her wrists when she fights me, only I can twist that wicked mouth until she begs.”

Beadle swallowed hard, his throat bobbing. “It was a slap, sir. Nothing more.”

Turpin turned away from him as if he hadn’t spoken, stalking to the window like a storm barely held at bay. His long fingers gripped the sill, and for a moment, he said nothing—just stared at the gray blur of the city beyond the glass.

“A widow,” he said quietly, almost to himself. “That’s how she was dressed?”

Beadle nodded slowly, wary. “Yes, sir. Black veil. Gloves. Tears and all. She nearly convinced me she was a grieving wife.”

Turpin closed his eyes.

Of course she would. She was clever. Disguises came easily to women like her—those who lived off the edges of society, slipping between the cracks like mist. She knew now that he was pursuing her. She wouldn’t make the same mistake twice.

“She’ll be more careful,” Turpin murmured, eyes still shut. “She’ll vanish again. Change her face. Her voice. She knows I’m behind her now.”

He opened his eyes, slow and deliberate. “We’ll not find her again by coin alone.”

Beadle shifted uncomfortably. “Then what shall we do?”

Turpin turned his head, his expression composed now—cold, regal, deadly. “Leave me,” he said. “Have the maid return.”

Beadle bowed, quickly, awkwardly, and slipped from the room with the haste of a man escaping floodwaters.

Moments later, the door opened once more. The maid stepped in, tentative and pale, her apron freshly pressed, her hair tucked neatly behind her ears.

“My lord,” she said softly, avoiding his eyes. “You sent for me?”

Turpin, already seated once more in the high-backed chair near the fire, gave a small, imperious gesture toward the table. “Bring the tray. Feed me.”

She obeyed without question, moving to the dresser where the half-eaten dish still sat, cooled slightly but untouched since the interruption.

He watched her movements carefully. Not because he saw her—but because, in his mind’s eye, she had become you.

As she returned with the plate and the spoon, he leaned back in the chair, letting his head rest against the carved wood.

“Slower,” he said, voice low. “Smaller bites.”

“Yes, my lord.”

The spoon reached his lips. He opened his mouth, accepting the food like a man expecting to be worshipped. She was trembling slightly—nerves, perhaps. He didn’t care. He pretended it was you. You, with that infuriating smirk replaced by quiet obedience. You, veiled in black, kneeling at his feet, feeding him with a reverent hand as if to say, I’m yours.

He closed his eyes.

He imagined you in that mourning dress again, except this time with your lips pressed to the back of his hand in silence. Your smirk gone. Your shoulders bare. Your knees on the rug beside his chair, gaze lifted only when permitted.

You would touch no other man. That right was his.

And one day, he swore by the blood in his veins and the bruises on his pride—you would be feeding him for real.

You would be his.

The mourning dress hung like a shadow on your arm as you made your way up the narrow stair to Ivy’s attic flat, the scent of old rouge and candle wax clinging to the folds. You rapped on the door with your knuckles—three short, two long—and waited.

Ivy opened it moments later, her copper curls unbound and wild, a smudge of charcoal still clinging to her jaw. “Well, look what the cat coughed up,” she said with a grin. “Come to return my widow’s weeds, or just hiding from your latest mess?”

“A bit of both,” you muttered, slipping inside and dropping the bundle onto her chaise. “I’m done playing ghost.”

She raised a brow. “You managed it then? Old man fall for it?”

You hesitated. “Not exactly.”

That earned you a look. Ivy crossed her arms and leaned back against the vanity. “Do tell.”

So you did. You told her everything—well, almost. Not the part where you snuck into his hotel room. Not the part where he kissed your hand. And certainly not the part where you nearly believed him when he said he’d marry you. But the rest—the pawnshop, the clerk, the ring—you laid it out piece by piece like a confession.

Ivy’s expression shifted the moment you mentioned the mourning ring.

“You what?”

You winced. “I didn’t know what it was at first—looked like any other black band. Thought it was just fashionable.”

“That was a mourning ring?” Her voice had dropped an octave. “For his mother?”

You nodded sheepishly. “It had her name engraved. Anne Turpin.”

Ivy recoiled as if you’d slapped her. “God’s teeth, girl. You stole from a grave.”

“Oh, don’t be dramatic—”

“I’m not,” she snapped. “Mourning rings aren’t trinkets. They’re sacred. They’re worn in grief, in blood. You took the one thing he used to mourn the dead and you tried to sell it?”

You opened your mouth, then closed it again. Your heart gave a nervous little thud.

Ivy stepped closer, lowering her voice. “There are stories, you know. Old stories. About thieves who stole mourning jewelry and went mad. One girl woke screaming every night until her hair turned white. Another swore she saw the dead woman’s face in every mirror she passed.”

You rolled your eyes, though your stomach tightened. “Oh please—”

“She drowned,” Ivy said flatly. “Found her in the river with her mouth open and black enamel under her nails.”

That gave you pause.

Ivy’s voice softened. “You don’t mess with mourning rings, love. Not unless you’re ready to live with the dead.”

You glanced toward the pouch of stolen goods on the chair. That ring sat somewhere at the bottom—small, unassuming. Heavy now, like guilt pressed into gold.

“You really think I’ll be haunted?”

“I think,” Ivy said carefully, “if that ring meant anything to him—if it really belonged to his mother—then her spirit might not be all that fond of you.”

You swallowed. “She’s dead, Ivy.”

“So’s every ghost,” Ivy said.

Silence stretched.

You crossed the room and picked up the pouch, feeling its weight anew.

“What should I do?” you asked quietly.

Ivy met your eyes. “Return it.”

You looked at her, alarmed. “Return it? To him?”

“Leave it. In his room, at the church, on his doorstep—I don’t care. But put it back where it belongs. Or you’ll never sleep sound again.”

You clutched the pouch tighter. Return it.

You weren't afraid of men like Richard Turpin, but ghosts? You weren't so sure.

The streets of New York were quiet at that hour, the gaslights flickering faintly against the damp cobblestones as fog slithered between alleyways like a living thing. You moved swiftly beneath the shroud of your new disguise—a madam this time, with rouge-painted cheeks, a low-cut bodice, and a heavy velvet cloak that swept the pavement like spilled ink. You had rented a room at the Franklin under a false name, flashed a pouch of silver coins with a lazy smile, and left the clerk flustered and half in love.

But you hadn’t come for comfort.

You’d come to return a ring. Your boots made no sound as you crept down the corridor to the second floor, past the familiar door: Room Sixteen. A brass number, a polished knob, the faint creak of old wood beneath your step. You pressed your ear to the door, breath held.

Silence. A rustle. A deep breath. Then—nothing.

Asleep, you thought. Good.

You eased the door open slowly, every movement careful. The hinges groaned the faintest protest, but you slipped inside like smoke, closing it behind you.

Turpin lay in the bed, sprawled as always like some wounded bear in a robe—shirt loose, chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm. His hair, damp from sleep, curled slightly at the temples. The fire had gone out. Only moonlight lit the room.

You crossed to the dresser, hand trembling as you fished into your bag. The mourning ring lay warm in your palm. You stared at it. Anne Turpin. Beloved mother.

You reached forward.

“I knew it,” came a low voice from the bed.

You froze.

Turpin turned his head toward you, one eye still bruised but sharp with awareness. His lips curled faintly. “You’ve got the manners of a ghost, but the smell of lavender oil gave you away.”

He sat up slowly, like a storm gathering strength, the sheet sliding down his chest. “Come to steal more, or just to torture me?”

You leapt back, heart pounding, and pulled the pistol from beneath your cloak, cocking it with a sharp, deliberate click.

“Stay where you are,” you said coldly. “I’m not here to kill you.”

Turpin blinked at the weapon, then arched a brow. “A pistol?” His baritone dipped into something smug. “Really?”

“I came,” you said through your teeth, “to return this.” You threw the mourning ring toward the bed, and it landed with a soft clink on the coverlet.

“I don’t want to be haunted by your mother’s ghost.”

Turpin blinked at the ring, stunned for just a moment—long enough.

You began backing toward the balcony.

But he surged forward, growling, “BEADLE!”

Panic flared in your chest.

“BEADLE BAMFORD!”

Turpin staggered to his feet, roaring for his lackey like a man possessed. The thundering of footsteps echoed in the hallway—

And then the door burst open. Beadle stumbled in, panting, wild-eyed.

You raised the pistol. “One more step and I shoot!”

Beadle froze, staring between you and the judge, his hand halfway to his belt.

Turpin scoffed, voice low and amused. “You won’t fire that. You’re a thief, not a killer.”

You smiled coldly. Then you pulled the trigger.

The shot cracked like thunder. Beadle screamed as the bullet tore through his leg. He collapsed, clutching his thigh, blood already seeping through his fingers as he writhed on the floor.

Turpin flinched violently, eyes wide with genuine shock. “You mad little bitch—!”

But you were already at the balcony. Without hesitation, you leapt over the rail.

Turpin was already in motion—barefoot, half-dressed, the linen of his nightshirt flapping behind him like the train of a maddened ghost. He shoved Beadle’s groaning, bleeding form aside with no more ceremony than one might give to a fallen lamp and stormed toward the railing, the cold night air biting at his flushed skin.

“Blasted girl—!” he barked, eyes scanning the alley below.

And there you were. Flat on your back in the filth, your skirt tangled around your legs, one boot half-off. You looked up at him, utterly unbothered—your cheeks flushed, your hair a wild mess of curls, and a grin on your lips so brazen it made his already bruised pride ache anew.

“You mad little beast,” he growled, leaning over the railing. “You could have broken your neck.”

You propped herself up on her elbows and winked. “But I didn’t.”

“You might have died.”

“Would’ve died free,” you said with a shrug. “Better than rotting in your silk-wrapped cage, Judge.”

“You reckless, thieving hellion,” Turpin snapped, his baritone echoing in the stone alleyway. “I will have you. One way or another.”

You only laughed and pushed herself upright, brushing dirt from your skirts. “We’ll see about that, you old lunatic.”

His nostrils flared. “Give it back!”

“What?”

“My ring!” he bellowed. “The Turpin signet—my family crest—you brazen little hound, you still have it!”

You paused, then raised your brows, lips curling into a wicked smirk. “Oh, this old thing?”

Your fingers dipped into the pouch tied at your waist. You fished out the ring and held it aloft between two fingers, letting the moonlight catch the silver. Then, without ceremony, you reared back—and threw it.

It struck him dead between the eyes.

Turpin recoiled with a snarl, one hand flying to his forehead. “GOD’S BLOODY TEETH!”

"You're welcome!" you called sweetly, and then turned on your heel and bolted down the alley, your laughter trailing behind like the hem of a taunting gown.

Turpin gripped the railing, hazel eyes narrowing. “THIEF!”

Your voice echoed from the rooftops. “Catch me if you can, darling!”

“You’ll be mine!” he howled, voice cracking with rage and something dangerously close to adoration. “Do you hear me? Mine! You’ll wear my ring, you thieving little witch!”

Your laughter echoed until it faded into the night.

And for a moment, all was still—save the wind, and the soft gurgling of Beadle groaning below.

Then Turpin... laughed. Low at first. Then louder. Rich, unhinged, a sound that scraped from deep in his chest and rang down the alley like a church bell gone mad.

He clutched the railing, blood running down his temple where the ring had struck him, and laughed until tears burned in his eyes.

Behind him, Beadle wheezed. “My lord… please… I’m losing a fair amount of blood…”

Turpin didn’t even turn. “She hit me with it, Bamford. The signet! Right in the bloody head!” He cackled again, pressing a hand to his forehead with manic glee. “She’s perfect!”

Beadle whimpered faintly from the floor. “She shot me.”

Turpin chuckled darkly, hazel eyes still fixed on the alley beyond. “And one day,” he murmured, voice dropping into something soft and terrifying, “she’ll kneel. In my courtroom… or in my bed. But she’ll kneel.”

And with that, Judge Richard Turpin straightened, blood streaking down his brow, his grin sharp and wolfish in the moonlight.

#alan rickman #alan rickman x reader #judge turpin x reader #judge turpin

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twstowo · 1 year ago

Note

Hi person who asked about part 2 of 'True loves kiss' just though of something else to it where true loves kiss wasn't the cure.

Sorry that I sent 2 ask, I literally just thought of this after I sent it. Sorry again mate.

♡︎I loved writing this so much! This is really long because I got excited and couldn’t stop typing.

♡︎Includes: Housewardens and Jamil

♡︎Warning: Angst

♡︎First part

⋆⋅☆Riddle

For days, he had been consumed by the task of brewing a potion to break the sleeping spell that had befallen you. Despite the absence of romantic feelings reciprocated, he considered you a dear friend and couldn't leave you in such a state. However, the process took its toll on his mood, turning him less tolerant of those around him in Heartslabyul. Collaring people became an automatic response to his heightened stress, a reflection of the turmoil brewing within him as he fought with studying and contemplating your unreciprocated feelings.

His efforts took an unexpected turn when Ace rushed towards him, delivering the news that the spell binding you couldn't be broken with a love kiss. The revelation sent Riddle into a state of emotional disarray. Could this mean there was still a chance that you harboured feelings for him? He clung to that glimmer of hope, even if small.

As your eyes gradually opened, he tried to maintain a calm demeanour in your presence. However, any uncertainty about your feelings evaporated at that moment, for the enamoured gaze you directed at him, as the first thing you saw after a prolonged slumber, provided all the answers he ever needed. In that moment, he bends down and hugs you, catching you off guard with the sudden show of affection.

──── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ────

⋆⋅☆Leona

Ruggie had had enough of Leona, and it seemed everyone else felt the same way. Leona's glare was enough to send people running. He locked himself in his room, skipping classes, and ignoring Ruggie's attempts to snap him out of it. Every time Ruggie told him to move on from you, Leona just got angrier, as if it hadn't crossed his mind before. But erasing your face, your voice, and the moments you spent together turned out to be tougher than he thought.

When Ruggie shared the news that the sleeping spell on you couldn't be broken with a true love's kiss, Leona didn't react. He told Ruggie once again to leave him alone, burying himself even deeper in uncertainty about your feelings.

After you woke up, Ruggie briefed you on everything, and you decided to visit Leona and get him out of his room. As you walked in, you heard his annoyed voice, thinking you were Ruggie coming to annoy him. But when you told him you loved him and took a seat on his bed, he quickly pulled you into his arms. The two of you spent the rest of the day there, finding comfort in each other's company.

──── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ────

⋆⋅☆Azul

Days had passed since you woke up, and Azul, dealing with the aftermath of unrequited love, tried making a potion to wake you up. He promised himself to cut ties with you, but it was hard to forget, especially when Floyd and Jade kept stopping your attempts to talk with him. This left him alone to think about how desperate you seemed when the kiss he had given you proved all he needed to know. He struggled with the idea that maybe, like others, you were only interested in his favours and wealth.

However, one day a teacher mentioned casually that the sleeping spell on you couldn't be broken with a kiss. This hit Azul hard, making him reconsider the possibility that you might have loved him all along, remembering all the times you had tried to tell him your feelings, only for Floyd and Jade to push you away from him.

Without wasting time, Azul ran to find you. Anyone watching would hardly recognize the composed Azul Ashengrotto in the frantic figure racing through the corridors. When he saw you, he was left speechless. You looked hurt, and he understood why, by the Seven, you had all the right to be even mad with him. Tears welled up in his eyes as he held onto your shoulders, asking for forgiveness over and over, making a mess out of himself in front of you, and when you hugged him and said it was okay, it brought a rush of happiness he hadn't expected.

──── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ────

⋆⋅☆Kalim

After waking up with a potion, Kalim continues treating you the same way as always. He invites you to parties and talks with you every day, and the two of you become inseparable again. It's only when you decide to express your love for Kalim, in which he immediately reciprocates, that Jamil intervenes wanting to speak with you in private.

Jamil, who had never seen you as a threat to Kalim before, now seems to think that your confession and the failed kiss might indicate ulterior motives, possibly tied to Kalim's wealth. This misunderstanding creates confusion, as you genuinely hold feelings for Kalim, and you're left perplexed as to why the kiss didn't work.

The situation gets untangled when you and Jamil discover that a true love kiss could have never awakened you. Despite this revelation, when Kalim learns of it he remains unfazed and continues to treat you with the same kindness and warmth. You're torn between being thankful for his understanding and worried about how nonchalant he is about the whole situation.

──── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ────

⋆⋅☆Jamil

Every moment after you woke up turned into torture for him. He knew that every act of kindness you directed at him was purely platonic, and he despised it because he had fallen hard for those gestures before, mistaking them for romantic interactions. Whether you clung to his side while talking, helped him with cooking preparations, or focused your attention on him in the presence of Kalim, it tore him apart. The desire to tell you to go away and leave him alone overwhelmed him, but he also knew that if he did, Kalim would eventually invite you to hang out, forcing him to witness the two of you being friendly. It was especially painful because he wished it were him with you instead of Kalim.

One day, he overhears you talking to Kalim about him, and to his surprise, you express your intention to confess your feelings to him. Anger bubbles up in him – does he look like a fool to you? He's well aware that you don't see him in that way. When you gather the courage to confess your love, he quickly calls you out, leaving you with his cold words echoing in your head. Your heart shatters, and you swear to never see him again.

However, everything changes when he learns that the spell you were under could never be broken with a kiss. This revelation means that you did love him when you confessed, and he's left conflicted. Though you occasionally cross paths in school hallways or during Kalim's invitations, you avoid making eye contact with him. It takes Kalim's insistence to push him to approach you in Ramshackles and fully explain himself. As he deeply apologizes for everything, you find it hard to stay mad, understanding the depth of his feelings. Eventually, you let him in, allowing the two of you to spend some time alone and clear the air.

──── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ────

⋆⋅☆Vil

After you wake up, Vil decides to make you fall for him. Just because he wasn't your true love before the sleeping spell doesn't mean he can't become that with time. You notice him becoming nicer, always kissing your hand when you meet, inviting you over more frequently, and Rook occasionally delivering bouquets of your favourite flowers, claiming they were ordered by Vil. It leaves you in an embarrassed mess, as it becomes evident that Vil has feelings for you.

Over time, Rook overhears that the sleeping spell could never be broken with a kiss. He hastily informs Vil, who sees it as an incentive to make things official with you.

The next time you meet is at Pomefiore, in a dimly lit room with only a table and two chairs. Vil has arranged what he intends to be the most romantic dinner of your life. When he expresses his love for you, he wants the moment to be etched into your memory forever.

──── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ────

⋆⋅☆Idia

He finds himself confined to his room for the next few weeks, and not even Ortho can pull him out of the depressive episode he's plunged into. When he finally gathers the strength to leave his bed, he meticulously packs away all the little gifts you gave him in a plastic bag. Deleting your conversations on every platform, blocking you, erasing your character in The Sims 4 (whom he had married to his own), and moving his Minecraft bed away from yours, he goes to great lengths to sever all ties. He can't believe he allowed himself to believe that you truly loved him. Having opened up to you and shared his personal lore, he feels played and betrayed.

Ortho reaches a point where he has to break down his door, informing him about the spell not being broken with a kiss, just to get him to stop sulking in the corner. However, now that he's aware of the truth, he doesn't know how to proceed. Ignoring you for so long, he assumes you must hate him.

It takes Ortho's intervention once again to call you and explain Idia's situation for you to visit him. You had noticed being blocked and the removal of his Minecraft bed, but the sudden distance was a mystery. Upon finding him lying on the floor, you talk to him about everything. You also take the opportunity to express your love, leaving Idia frozen in place. A pink hue surrounds the two of you as his hair becomes the only source of light in the room.

──── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ────

⋆⋅☆Malleus

He decides to wake you up with his magic after Lilia suggests it as the best course of action, even if his love remains unrequited. He attempts to distance himself from you, finding it challenging and painful when you approach, casually chatting with Silver, Sebek, and even Lilia, greeting him with the soft smile he adores. Unable to contain his emotions, he finally confronts you, questioning why you don't love him. You're taken aback, attempting to explain your genuine feelings for him, but he dismisses you as a liar, teleporting away with a thunderous echo.

Weeks pass without any communication, until Silver enlightens him about the sleeping spell, explaining that a kiss wouldn't break it and that was the reason you didn't wake up with his kiss.

Upon hearing this revelation, he rushes to find you near Ramshackles. He pleads for your attention, kneeling in front of you, asking for forgiveness and professing his deep love. Watching the heartfelt scene unfold, you eventually take him into a hug, and the two of you remain locked in that embrace, reluctant to let go.

#twst #disney twst #twisted wonderland #twst wonderland #twisted wonderland x reader #twst reader #disney twisted wonderland #twst x reader #x reader #riddle rosehearts x reader #leona kingsholar x reader #azul ashengrotto x reader #jamil viper x reader #kalim al asim x reader #vil shoenheit x reader #idia shroud x reader #malleus draconia x reader

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zepskies · 1 year ago

Text

A Little Danger

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Plus-sized!Reader (Latina)

Summary: While relaxing together in the bunker, Dean takes your playful teasing to a new level. (And he’s too horny to care about the consequences.)

AN: Couch sex, basically. This is another one for the Espresso-verse! Includes a call back to Devour Me.

Word Count: 2K

Tags/Warnings: 18+ only. Smutty smut in a semi-public place. Hair pulling, flirty teasing, endearments, “twist” ending.

Start from the beginning of the series: ⤵️

☕ Midnight Espresso Masterlist

Usually, Dean likes the feeling of your fingers running through his hair.

Like now, on a rare day of quiet relaxation after a long hunt. When Mary’s out and Sam’s on a grocery run. And Dean’s laid out across the couch in the library, arms crossed, earbuds in while Zeppelin’s “Going to California” plays in stereo, his head and shoulders resting against your plush thigh.

Your feet are propped up on the coffee table, your mostly bare legs crossed at the ankles. You have a book in one hand while you’ve been absently massaging his head…

But when you start to get weary of reading, in your boredom, your clever fingers become less soothing through his light brown hair, and more playful in their ministrations. You start to push his hair in the opposite direction, making it spike forward in disarray.

Dean frowns. You can’t see it, but you sense the change, in the way he stops bobbing his head lightly in time with the music.

You bite back a smile and continue your little game, even tugging a little on the strands when you push them forward. Like rubbing a cat the wrong way.

Letting out an annoyed breath through his nose, Dean takes out one earbud.

“What. Are you doing?” he asks.

It takes everything within you not to laugh.

“You’re my erizito,” you reply, smiling. You take a peek at his profile and catch the way his brows furrow.

“What the hell’s that?” he asks.

“My little hedgehog,” you translate the Spanish endearment for him, and you tease him, tugging again on his soft strands.

You finally have to giggle at the way he looks back at you from the corner of his eye. You get maybe one more time to sweep your fingers through his hair the wrong way, before he grabs your hand and turns over.

Your resulting squeal turns into laughter when he yanks his earbuds off and plucks your book out of your hand.

“Eh, eh! Don’t lose my place,” you warn, stopping him from closing the book all the way. He allows you to dog-ear your page, but he then tosses the book onto the coffee table to join his phone and earbuds.

“Come ‘ere,” he mutters.

Then he grabs your crossed legs and manhandles you beneath him on the couch. You allow it with a yelp of surprise and much giggling when he jostles you, pulling you down by your hips. Dean lowers himself between your legs, where he’s so often welcome, and settles his body over yours.

You smirk in his face. His hair is all kinds of fucked up.

He can see you’re admiring your handiwork. Little hedgehog, huh?

With a shake of his head, he bows down and silences your teasing with a kiss.

Your eyes fall closed. You breathe in and utter a sound of contentment. You frame his face with your hands and follow the familiar dance of his lips against yours.

A delicious push and pull that has his teeth grazing your full lower lip, sucking it into his mouth, his fingers tangling in your hair. His other arm is perched high above your head, giving him leverage to completely cage you with his broad, heavy frame.

But it’s a good heavy. You like the feel of him laid out over you, protective and claiming all at once. And he likes the feeling of every soft curve of yours; thighs, breasts, and soft middle all a welcoming place for him to rest—and then ravage.

His lips veer away from your mouth, allowing you both to catch your breath. He burns a warm, sloppy path along your jawline. You wrap your arms around him and splay your hands across his back. They slide lower as he moves down, and down your neck.

“Babe,” you prompt quietly in his ear. You can’t help but smile. “We’ve gotten in trouble on this couch before.”

As in, you both have been caught buck ass naked and tangled together on this couch. By his brother. Twice.

Dean smirks, just before he starts to tease the shell of your ear with his tongue.

“Tell me you don’t like a little danger,” he says.

Right, you think, with a shudder at his tongue. Or, he just has no fucking shame.

You have to giggle regardless. The trembling in your chest moves both of you, makes the shape of Dean’s smile press into your skin. He continues his downward path and rucks up your shirt.

Your knees bend further on reflex and squeeze his hips when his tongue dips between your breasts, still pushed up by your bra. You arch your back so he can slip a hand under your back and unclip the white lace. He slides it off your body, along with getting your shirt up and over your head.

Your hands dive under his layers of red plaid and black undershirt, sliding up and down the smooth slopes of his back, grazing with your nails, getting him worked up enough to have him yank off the layers himself.

He’s left in his jeans, which begin to find friction against your clothed center through the little shorts you often wear around the bunker. Dean both likes them and hates them.

Likes them, because you fill them out well, and he likes getting a handful of your ass (like he’s doing now, while he begins to rock the hard bulge in his jeans against your core while kissing you hungrily).

He also hates these little spandex shorts, because he’d rather his brother not get to see you in them. Still, Dean gets too much enjoyment out of slipping his fingers under them, squeezing your thigh, letting his thumb brush down towards your center.

Already your pussy’s throbbing.

“Need you,” you pant against his lips.

It’s been a bit too long since you two have had this kind of time alone together, not to mention the energy to fool around. It’s making you not really give a fuck about being out in the open in the middle of the library, when your shared bedroom is just down the hall.

Dean nods, then he finally palms one of your breasts like he’s reacquainting himself with an old friend. He rolls a budding nipple between his fingers and moans when he gets the other into his mouth, swirling with his tongue.

He drags a moan out of you too. You delve your hand into his wrecked hair and grip tight to keep him there.

You find yourself writhing underneath him, your hips rolling against his with need.

“Dean…” Your voice is pleading.

“Okay, I gotcha,” he says against your skin. He drags down your little shorts by the hem and reveals bare ass against the couch cushions. He hums with interest. “No panties today?”

“Surprised you didn’t notice,” you quip.

Though you do the work of unclipping his belt and helping him shimmy out of the jeans, letting them pool to the floor alongside your clothes. You roll down his boxer briefs far enough to let his cock spring free. He grabs your arm and utters a deep groan at the way you handle him, with a gentle but firm hand along his shaft.

“Guess I’ve been distracted,” he admits. He presses a forehead against your shoulder and bucks into your hand, the more you tease him. “Fuck, how long’s it been since—”

“A couple weeks,” you answer him. You begin to kiss down his neck, occasionally nipping his skin. “Too long.”

“Too damn long,” he agrees, with another sound of pleasure. He stops your hand so he can concentrate on getting you ready. He slips a long finger down your slit and between the wet folds of your pussy, where you’re already soaking for him, coating his digit.

“Fuck,” he mutters again, “all this for me, baby?”

You breathe a laugh and drag your nails down the back of his neck. “Always.”

Dean grins. Just to be thorough, he slips two fingers into your wet channel. He revels at the way you hold him close by the back of his neck and moan encouragements into his ear. But you cry out when his thumb finds your clit, and circles it with precision. Then the rest of his fingers open you up and rub against your most sensitive places.

As your inner walls tighten, so does your hand; it moves back into his hair so you have something better to hold onto.

“Dean,” you utter a warning. He nods and withdraws his hand from inside you. He peeks over the couch again, just to make sure no one’s coming. You both know this is about to be quick and dirty.

You both are panting when he grasps your hips and gives himself a better angle. You hook your thighs around his waist and give him an encouraging nod. With that, Dean positions himself at your entrance and slowly sheathes his cock deep inside you.

You release a shuddering breath, pressing your head back into the cushions. Your hair is a tangled mess fanning underneath you. He still has a hand planted on the couch’s arm above your head; you grasp his arm for stability. Dean rubs one of your thighs, in part to also get himself together as your inner walls spasm tight around him.

Fuck, it has been a while.

But he’s making up for lost time. He gives you long, steady strokes at first, letting you feel every inch of his cock as he drives back into you. A shiver of pleasure runs down your spine and you arch against him, your hands clasped on his arms.

Your heels pressing into his ass spur him on and speed up his rhythm, until he’s hitting so hard and deep against your cervix that it almost hurts. It’s a mix of intense pleasure tinged with that briefest bit of pain as he also hits your G-spot over and over.

But a few purposeful swipes of his thumb over your clit ensures that you come with him when he finally spills into you. He buries his face where your neck meets your shoulder, and a ragged grunt rolls from his throat as his release truly hits him.

You hold him to you, your own thighs quivering along with his last few strokes inside you. That hot coil snaps and you let out a gasping moan—one he swallows up with a deep kiss.

“Jesus,” you breathe, after he releases your lips. Dean catches his breath and gives you a shrug, despite his smug grin.

You smirk and once again sweep your hand through his ridiculous hair. It’s even more wild than before. You pull your hands through it, sliding down his neck on both sides.

“I stand corrected,” you say slyly. “Now you’re my erizote.”

Dean snorts. “And that would be?”

“My big hedgehog,” you tease.

Dean rolls his eyes, even as his face warms. He tries not to laugh in the face of your unending giggles.

Neither of you register the footsteps coming closer until it’s just about too late.

“Dean, are you—Oh!”

His face falls, and his eyes widen when they meet his mother’s over the back of the couch.

“Shit!” he exclaims, covering you with his body when you gasp. But it’s not really you that you’re worried about her seeing.

No mother should have to see her adult son’s naked ass.

Mary stands there behind the couch with her hand over her eyes.

“Don’t worry. I didn’t see…anything,” she says. Usually she’s a better liar.

“I’m so sorry, Mary,” you try to say, but she waves you off.

“Just…clean the sofa. Okay, guys?” she says. Then she walks away without looking back.

Dean grimaces like he’s in pain.

“Sorry, Mom,” He calls to her retreating back.

He releases a breath and lowers his forehead into the crook of your neck. Your body shakes with involuntary giggles while you hold him, soothing him with a caress of his cheek. He’s still buried deep inside you, but by now he’s released your thighs from being wrapped around his hips.

“At least it wasn’t Sam this time,” you offer.

“I don’t know what’s worse at this point,” Dean grumbles.

You bite your lip. “Well, I mean, I did warn you—”

Dean gives you a playful slap on the ass to shut you up. But your resulting squeal and laughter just makes him smile.

AN: 😅 This one-shot started out innocent, I swear. What was once a simple "chilling on the couch" drabble turned into smut somehow, but I hope you enjoyed it! Let me know what you think. 😘

Keep Reading:

Next up in this series is "In Bad Weather." It acts as the finale of the Espresso-verse, though I'm still writing stories within the world to fill in the gaps when different prompts come to mind:

Summary: You and Dean tackle the biggest possible monkey wrench in your relationship yet: could Chuck have been manipulating you two all along? [Set in S15 - “Fix It” for season finale]

▶️ Next Story: In Bad Weather

Ko-Fi Me ☕

Dean Winchester One-Shots

Dean Winchester Masterlist

Main Masterlist

Dean W. Tag List (Part 1):

@hobby27 @kazsrm67 @letheatheodore @agothwithheavysetmakeup @jacklesbrainworms @foxyjwls007 @wincastifer @iamsapphine @simpforbuckyb @roseblue373 @this-is-me19 @emily-winchester @spnexploration @deans-spinster-witch @deans-baby-momma @iprobablyshipit91

@melancholictearz @nic-kolas @sanscas @sleepyqueerenergy @wayward-lost-and-never-found @thewritersaddictions @just-levyy @samanddeaninatrenchcoat @deanwanddamons @antisocialcorrupt @lacilou @adoringanakin @theonlymaninthesky @teehxk @midnightmadwoman @brianochka @branj19

@agalliasi @venicesem @chriszgirl92 @lyarr24 @ladysparkles78 @solariklees @deansbbyx @candy-coated-misery0731 @curlycarley @sarahgracej @bagpussjocken @deanfreakingwinchester @chernayawidow @beskarfilms @mimaria420 @fics-pics-andotherthings-i-like @waywardxwords

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milkteabinniechan · 1 year ago

Text

♡summer heat - hyunjin

MINORS DNI 18+ ONLY

pervy roommate! hyunjin <3 ko-fi // m.list

warnings: masturbation, pillow f*cking, slight exhibitionism

Hyunjin unlocked his apartment door. He heard the clu-clunk of the lock and pushed the door aside. Summer had come swiftly and lingered long into the nights. Hyunjin welcomed the sanctuary of his air-conditioned home. He stood in front of the living room vent for a moment, letting the cool air push away the beads of sweat that were collecting on his arms and chest.

"So fucking hot" he grumbled out loud. He pressed his hand to his forehead, feeling the stickiness of his skin.

His other hand gripped the waistband of his shorts. He peeled the white shirt from off his body. Hannie and Changbin wouldn’t be home for hours, so he had the place to himself. He scanned the room, trying to figure out what to do next. He knew what he really wanted to do but he questioned if he had enough time to do it. After a few back and forth debating in his head, he ultimately decided that he deserved it. He had been working hard all day, this was a special treat.

Hyunjin made his way to his bedroom only to discover his pillow without a pillowcase. Confusion coated his face as he lifted the bedsheets and peered under the bed, but nothing. Until suddenly he remembered, a movie night from last night had left his room in complete disarray, including one pillowcase covered in soda pop and popcorn. A bare pillow was… fine. But Hyunjin knew the feel of a silky pillowcase too well to go without it. He poked his head back out toward the living room. On the couch were just a few fluffy throw pillows. He could easily snag one of those but he knew they were everyone’s pillows.

Not that everyone uses them like i want to use them now… unless?

Hyunjin shook his head at the thought. He was the only perverted pillow humper in this apartment. There was absolutely no way Han and Changbin were nasty pillow grinders too. However, the thought of both of his roommates also indulging in their more primal instincts made his cock start to twitch. His hand instinctually grazed over his shorts and moved in a swirling motion over his shaft. Sweat was still dripping from his face and neck. Then another purely devilish thought washed over him; what if he kept the couch pillows where they were, right on the couch. Only he would be there too. His cock began to twitch again.

Hyunjin found himself in front of the living room couch, both hands now precariously placed at the hem of his waistband. He positioned himself up onto the couch cushions so he was kneeling right in front of one of the throw pillows. Dark green. That’s the color everyone had decided on. Hyunjin remembers picking out all sorts of dark green things to make everything match.

This is so perverted. I shouldn’t do this. Hyunjin’s words echoed in his head as his hands worked on their own, inching down his shorts and pulling out his increasingly hard cock. He held the pulsating muscle in his hand for a moment, feeling the ba-bum of the veins running up and down. Every pulse felt like a desperate pleading cry to his brain, begging him to let his shaft grind and rut and rub. Hyunjin finally gave in.

His movements were ones of embarrassment at first. Feeling slight shame for doing this in such a public area. He closed his eyes but all he could picture was getting caught, seeing his roommates come through the front door. Hyunjin’s cock started to pulsate and pump beneath him. His mouth fell open and a boisterous moan poured from his wet lips. The heat from the day was still consuming him like a devil on his shoulder, coaxing him to go harder, push stronger. He used one hand to pull his shorts down further, freeing his ballsack completely. He let them fall into the cushioned pillow as the continued to moan and buck his hips shamelessly.

He could feel his orgasm growing out of control as he moved his head from side to side, trying to find his shirt or something- anything -to come into.

No, no, no… f-fuck… Hyunjin breathed deep as he witnessed his seed gush out of his sensitive, red tip. The dark green throw pillow now a glaringly obvious clue to what he’d done while his rommates were away. He quickly tossed the stained pillow into his room and pulled his shorts back up. Just then he heard the clu-clunk of the apartment door.

Shit.

taglist: @sugawhaaa @trixiekaulitz @chrizzztopherbang @cassidymb121 @roanns-posts

#stray kids #stray kids smut #skz smut #skz x reader #skz scenarios #skz imagines #skz #skz x you #stary kids hyunjin #hyunjin stray kids #stray kids hyunjin #hwang hyunjin #hyunjin #hyunjin hard thoughts #hyunjin drabbles #hyunjin x reader #stray kids x reader #stray kids x gender neutral reader #skz stay

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dindjarindiaries · 6 months ago

Text

The Unstoppable Tide

summary: Once Hunter finally let go, there was no holding back, and you were the only person who could keep him from drowning.

pairing: hunter (the bad batch) x reader

tags: hurt/comfort, angst and fluff, trauma, mentions of physical torture, injuries, nightmares, anxiety attack, canon compliant (tech doesn’t live), mentions of death

rating: T

word count: 4.627k

main masterlist • hunter masterlist

You woke to an unfamiliar room, and the pitch black shadows that blanketed it were no help in trying to investigate your surroundings. With a silent yawn, you blinked into the darkness, lifting your head from the pillow as you did so. The movement stretched the fabric of your tunic uncomfortably, and looking down, you fell upon an odd realization.

You were still in your clothes from yesterday. You frowned and attempted to jog your tired memory. Your faithfulness to your nighttime routine was rarely ever interrupted or deterred, especially since you had all returned to Pabu for good.

Then again, it had been a whirlwind of a week. From losing Omega again to getting her back and taking up permanent residence on Pabu, there were a lot of things the group was sorting through, yourself included. It was no wonder why you had been too exhausted to even exchange your clothes.

But that still didn’t explain the unfamiliar room. One glance at your surroundings was all it took, because now that your eyes had adjusted, you could finally see the silhouette positioned at the end of the bed you were currently lying in.

Your eyes widened as the memory washed over you. This was Hunter’s room, and you certainly hadn’t meant to fall asleep inside of it.

You had been helping him rebandage the wounds on his side, a nicely-healing gash that covered his broken ribs from the hit he took in an explosion on Tantiss. That alone had taken a lot of convincing; Hunter’s defenses had somewhat fallen after you had all brought Omega back to Pabu safely, but they went right back up once he had gotten a wink of rest.

As you finished wrapping him up, you had started to gently lecture him on the importance of getting more sleep, as he had clearly been avoiding it ever since that first night back. The circles under his eyes were almost as dark as the left side of his ribcage, where his wounds were. At some point, however, Hunter had fallen asleep during your lecture, and you had let yourself linger, if only to share a peacefully quiet moment with him.

You must have also joined him in slumber. It didn’t have to be a bad thing, not at all as far as you were concerned, but Hunter was in too fragile of a state for you to be overstaying welcomes—and the fact he had his back to you now was even more worrying.

Hunter wasn’t even reacting to the fact that your heartbeat had clearly picked up ever since you woke, and that alone promised that something very, very wrong was happening with him. He wasn’t listening to his powerful senses. He was listening to something else.

You dared to sit up as you held a breath in your chest. He was hunched over slightly, as if he was leaning on something, and he was still without a tunic, thanks to the fresh bandage on his side. Otherwise, he was completely still, making him look like one of the other many shadows scattered throughout the room.

You managed to swallow around the lump in your throat and moved forward. Once you got closer to him, you hesitated, taking in what you could from this distance. He had one arm crossed over himself, and the other was leaning against it as he pinched the bridge of his nose—a typical position when his senses were in disarray, or when the weight of the galaxy was simply too much.

In this case, it was probably both, judging by the deep furrow in his brow.

You finally sat at Hunter’s side, letting your legs hang off the edge of the bed as you looked over at him. His eyes were still shut tight, and like before, he remained unmoving. You dared to lift your hand to his bare shoulder, touching the warmth of his skin with as much delicacy as you could manage.

“Hey.”

Your voice was a mere whisper to avoid shocking him and his senses. You resisted the urge to flinch when Hunter lowered his hand enough to turn his head towards you. His dark eyes widened just a bit more than usual.

“You okay?”

Hunter’s lips parted as if he was about to respond, but nothing came out. His shoulder rose and fell under your touch with the unsteady breath he took. You grimaced at the sound of it, a gesture that only deepened when Hunter lifted his hand to ease yours off of him.

“I’m sorry,” the guilt began pouring in waves, “I should’ve asked you before I—.”

“It’s fine.”

Hunter’s voice was curt and rougher than usual as he spoke. You really did flinch that time, unused to hearing him speak like that. Still, there was a softness in the way he eased your hand onto your own leg before letting go.

“Just… go back to your bed.” He lifted his fingers to his nose again and pinched it even tighter, his eyes soon following suit.

You sat there, undecided, for a few long heartbeats. You folded your hands together in your lap and dared to speak up again. “Hunter…”

“Don’t.” Hunter tensed more than he had before, which was visible without a tunic to conceal the muscles on his upper half. His eyes squeezed even harder, as did his brow. “Please, just leave and get some rest.”

But that was the last thing you wanted to do, knowing he was in such a state. You could see that he had started to tremble, something that was evident not just in his hands, but also in his voice—and his breathing, which was only getting more and more labored. Hunter was trying to hide it, but it was clearly becoming too much to control.

And he wanted you to leave him to deal with it on his own.

“I’ll be fine.” You nodded and leaned closer to him. “You don’t have to be alone right now. Let me help you.”

Something in your words made Hunter snap. He turned towards you even more quickly than last time, his words biting through gritted teeth. “Leave.”

You stared back at him in disbelief, though you had at least leaned back in surprise at the quick motion. Hunter let out an exhale that was nearly a gasp, as if he was losing air. His gaze couldn’t meet yours as he instead focused on the floor, his chest now rising and falling more rapidly than before.

“Please...”

Hunter once again wrapped an arm around himself and leaned the other against it, though this time, he tightened his hand into a fist and rested his forehead against it. He was so tense that every muscle you could see was pulled taut, which certainly wouldn’t bode well for his injuries.

“Please make this easier for me, and leave.”

Your eyes were burning with unshed tears when he finally went silent again. You weren’t sure if they were from the hurt he was causing you by pushing you away like this or from the intense concern and sympathy you had for him. Either way, you weren’t going to ignore his request again, not when he was already millimeters away from fracturing in a way you had never witnessed before.

You rose from the bed and eased yourself over to the door, only pausing again when you were standing directly across from it. You spared a look at Hunter over your shoulder. His face was in his hands, as if he was just waiting for your heartbeat to fade before letting himself shatter. You closed your eyes and forced yourself to step forward through the sliding door, though you remained glued in place when it shut behind you.

Because you heard that first cry, that heart-splintering sob that no one should ever have to let out by themselves. The sound of someone so strong finally falling underneath the weight of everything burden they have been carrying for way too long. The door did a poor job of muffling what was happening inside that room, and the last thing you wanted to do was leave. You wouldn’t be able to sleep, anyway.

Hunter would always be the first to say that none of you were keen on following orders.

You turned and let the door open again, admitting yourself back inside the dark space. Hunter looked up at you from his hands, and what you were met with splintered your heart into a million different fragments. His face was screwed up in a kind of vulnerable despair and panic that you had never seen from him before, not even after Tech fell and Omega was captured the first time.

You strode towards him. “I’m not letting you go through this alone, Hunter.”

You stopped just a few paces away from where he still sat on the edge of the bed, his wet eyes glistening when a fraction of moonlight caught them through the blinds of the viewport.

“You don’t have to hide from me. I know that you’re—.”

You cut yourself off when Hunter suddenly stood and approached you. He wrapped his arms around you and splayed his palms upon your back, holding you so tightly against him that you lost your breath for a moment. He eased his grasp when he heard the breath escape your lungs, but the desperation remained, evident in the way he trembled against you.

Lastly, he buried his face in the space between your neck and shoulder, breathing you in with a sharp exhale like you alone could save him.

You finally recovered enough from your initial shock to hold him back, with one hand positioned on his head as the other ran over his back. You were careful with his wounds that were still healing, but there was no doubt now that his external injuries weren’t nearly as bad as those he had been hiding within himself all this time.

Hopefully, he was ready to heal those untreated wounds, rather than letting them fester within himself.

Hunter wasn’t really crying, not from what you could tell, but the trembling was getting worse—as was his breathing. It was easy to understand now why he couldn’t grasp your senses before; his own heart was beating hard enough to drown out just about everything else.

“I’ve got you.” Your voice was a soft whisper as you repeated assurances he had certainly said to you and the others a dozen times over, when he held onto his composure for the sake of soothing everyone else around him. “You’re safe.”

It was hard to pinpoint what exactly had Hunter breaking down like this, but your best guess was that his memories of Tantiss were haunting him, however brief his time spent there actually was. He had given you a brief account purely for medical reasons, but the others had filled you in on what they could.

He had endured awful torture, all while he was still processing the pain of his untreated wounds and feeling the pain of them more than anyone else in the galaxy ever would, thanks to his senses—senses that were supposed to be a gift, used against him.

You tightened your jaw and closed your eyes. Hunter didn’t need anger; that was one of the emotions that had caused him to spiral like this. He needed softness, reassurance, and comfort.

“No one will hurt you like that again.” Your voice was as gentle as the hand that ran over the hair at the crown of his head, minding the edges of his bandana. “I promise.”

Hunter physically relaxed at that, but his breathing still wasn’t getting any better. He started to hold you tighter again, and you could hear another gasped exhale buried into your shoulder.

It was clear to you now what was happening, and despite the way you were relishing in his touch, it wasn’t going to help him any longer. You eased your hands onto his shoulders and urged him to pull away from you. His gaze found yours for the first time that night, and your heart dropped into your stomach at everything you found within it.

It was a leader who was afraid, and had no idea what to do next. An eldest brother who failed to find any guidance. A soldier whose anxiety, trauma, and PTSD was getting the best of him for the first time.

He had been so strong to fight it off in the past, but it made you ache that he even had to do that. You should have been there for him before this moment. It shouldn’t have had to come to this.

But you could ruminate over that later. For now, you needed to provide him with the solution he was clearly seeking. You eased him back down onto the edge of the bed by his shoulders, keeping your actions slow and steady as you nodded at him.

“Your mind’s thinking faster than your body can keep up with.”

You ran your thumbs over the skin on his shoulders. Hunter’s gaze never left yours, as if you were anchoring him to reality.

“That’s what’s happening right now. We just have to focus on one thing at a time. Okay?”

Hunter nodded. You offered him a small smile.

“Let’s start by getting your breathing back to normal.” You stood close enough to him that you could ease the side of his head against your chest, letting him and his senses have easier access to your heart and your lungs. “Focus your senses on my lungs, and follow my breaths.”

You inhaled steadily, held it for a few heartbeats, and then let it go again in a long exhale. Your eyes fell closed as you repeated the cycle, but after the fourth or fifth time, you reopened your eyes to watch Hunter’s progress.

His eyes had also closed, and thankfully, his breathing was indeed getting better. He had taken the liberty of setting his hands on your hips to steady himself, but you didn’t mind. You committed the feeling to memory even if your focus remained on his well-being.

After a few more cycles of breathing, you spoke up into the silence. “Better?”

Hunter nodded against your chest, easing his head back up. You let him go, already missing the warmth of his touch as he withdrew it from your hips. His hands held his thighs tight before they slid down to his knees, his stare now darting wildly around the room as if he was truly understanding what had happened.

You tightened your lips and took your spot on the bed beside him again. At least this time, he didn’t push you away. In fact, he kept you close enough for your arm to brush against his, even if he still couldn’t look at you. You let him guide the conversation, and as heavy as his next exhale was, at least it was steady.

“I didn’t want you to see me like this.”

Hunter’s voice was hoarser than usual, and that was saying something for a man who always sounded as if he had roughened up his voice on a daily basis.

You frowned and leaned forward. “Why?”

A muscle in Hunter’s jaw ticked before he finally looked over at you again. His gaze was conflicted, still full of distress while also finding some semblance of comfort in you. “Because.” He looked down at his hands, which flexed over his own legs. “I’m not supposed to fall apart.”

“We’re all bound to at some point.” You eased your hand upon his arm. “Especially when we’ve been through as much as you have.”

Hunter shook his head. “No. I shouldn’t.” He spared a look at you, but it seemed as if he was too guilty to even sustain the glance as his gaze lowered back to his hands. “I have no right to.”

You narrowed your eyes at him. “What are you talking about, Hunter?”

His expression morphed into something heavier, and his voice lowered so much that you had to strain to hear it. “Everything that’s happened since Kaller has been my fault.”

You scoffed. “That’s just not true, Hunter.”

“It is.”

Hunter was stern as he finally looked over at you. There was fire in his eyes, but it wasn’t aimed towards you. It was aimed towards himself.

“If I had taken Crosshair with us before we even left Kamino the first time, or if I had at least gone back for him soon after that… there would have been no rescue mission to attempt on Eriadu.”

Hunter’s voice started to shake again, but not as violently as before. Your shoulders fell at the pure grief and despair in his words.

“Tech would still be here.”

You shook your head. “No. I’m not letting you go down this path.” You took his hands and held them between yours. “Because if Tech were here, he’d been absolutely grilling you about how wrong you are right now.”

That at least made Hunter scoff in amusement.

“You said it yourself to Crosshair at that outpost. We didn’t understand what was going on back then.” You lifted your brow at him. “How were you, or any of us, supposed to know what the chips were like, until we had to see it ourselves with Wrecker?”

Hunter sighed. “Yeah, and that should’ve pushed us harder to get Crosshair back.”

“And I’m sure it would’ve, if you hadn’t been shot in the chestplate by that bounty hunter who took Omega. We had a lot going on at that point, Hunter. It was survival mode.”

Hunter circled his jaw. “That’s not an excuse to leave one of our own behind.” He almost looked dizzy as he freed a hand from your grasp to press against his forehead. “Kriff, we… we didn’t even go back for Tech’s body.” He ground out the next name through gritted teeth. “Hemlock was the one to salvage his goggles.”

You gave the hand in your grasp a gentle squeeze. “If we had gone back for his body, we wouldn’t have made it out of there alive.” You fought through the heaviness in your own chest. “Which is the whole reason why Tech sacrificed his life in the first place.”

Hunter’s gaze looked towards the viewport, allowing the moonlight to yet again catch his face. Even with the tattooed side of his face turned towards you, you could still see the glistening of a new tear on the skin beneath his eye, though his body language screamed for him to ignore it. His tone gave nothing away as he spoke again.

“I thought it was gonna happen again.”

You swallowed hard. “What?”

Hunter closed his eyes and hung his head, though he otherwise stood strong. “That I was gonna lose more of them. Of us.” His voice was strained as he went on. “It was the torture that woke me up for the first time since I got knocked out at the hangar. I knew Wrecker and Crosshair were nearby, but their heartbeats were weaker than normal, and the shocks were… overwhelming my senses, anyway.”

You accidentally tightened your grasp on Hunter’s hand hard enough to make him wince. You quickly relaxed, forcing yourself to bite your tongue and let Hunter continue.

“Hemlock came in, and he warned me that history would repeat itself with them.” Hunter shook his head. “I told him we would survive, but a small part of me believed him. The same part that watched that doctor toss me my brother’s own shattered goggles.”

One of your hands drifted up his arm as you held it, your cheek pressing against his skin for comfort. “Hunter…”

“I knew we should’ve listened to Crosshair and stayed in hiding, but everyone wanted the chance to get him back, and I did, too.” Hunter reopened his eyes and looked at you again. “I wanted it so badly. But if I had just done that before, if I had made him come with us off Kamino…”

“Hunter.” You gave his arm a gentle squeeze and lifted your brow, seeking permission to speak. Hunter’s silence allowed you to go on. “You gave him a choice to come with us, and he said no. After the chip took his choices away from him, would you really have wanted to take another one away, too? Even if it wasn’t the right one in your eyes?”

Hunter grimaced, and ultimately, he shook his head.

“Exactly.” You paused, searching his gaze. “You can’t take responsibility for all of Crosshair’s actions.”

“And I won’t, because Crosshair wouldn’t want me to.” Hunter sighed. “But I still can’t help wondering what would have been if I hadn’t let us leave him behind for so long.”

“In that case, the rest of us are just as guilty as you. I don’t remember us putting any pressure on you to go back for him.”

Hunter looked around the room and blinked, as if he was truly processing your words. You took that as an invitation to continue.

“And honestly, Hunter? All roads would have led back to Tantiss, anyway.”

That caught Hunter’s attention again. He glanced at you in disbelief as you went on.

“The Empire, and Hemlock, would always come for Omega. You shouldn’t have had to go through what you did on Tantiss, and every day ever since I’ve wished that I could’ve done something to prevent it, but now that Hemlock’s dead? We don’t ever have to worry about it again.”

You sighed and looked down at your hand, which was now interlocked with Hunter’s own.

“We freed her and those clones. That’s what matters now. One life… in exchange for many, many others.”

You found yourself smiling as you imagined Tech’s voice in your head.

“A certain someone would have been very satisfied by that outcome.”

Hunter huffed, his eyes closing as he nodded. “Yeah. Would’ve rambled on about the quantitative value of it or something.”

You let out a soft laugh. “Exactly.”

You sat in the silence for a few moments, your steady gaze tracking Hunter’s face and tracing the lines of his tattoo until he reopened his eyes. When his stare met yours, you spoke once again.

“The past can’t be undone, Hunter. I know you know that. It’ll take time for these wounds of yours to heal,” you nodded towards his wrapped side, “just like the ones you got on Tantiss, but all you can do now is move forward with what and who you have.”

Hunter took a deep breath, but ultimately, he nodded—with a small smile tugging at his lips. “I’d like that.”

You couldn’t help returning his smile. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” He hesitated, looking almost nervous as he did so. “I just… I think, like with this one,” he glanced down at his side, “I might need you to help me keep an eye on these wounds.”

“Of course.” You wasted no time reassuring him. “You don’t even have to ask.”

Hunter was beaming at you, now, but your words forced you to reckon with the way you approached this entire situation. You resisted the urge to let out a frustrated groan as you deflated.

“But… I know I should’ve asked a second time before I barged in here.” You looked down. “I’m sorry if I pressured you to talk this through with me. I didn’t—.”

If the hand on your cheek wasn’t enough to make you lose the words inside your throat, then the feeling of Hunter’s mouth on yours certainly was. You were too shocked to do anything at first, especially with everything you were still processing from this night, but you composed yourself quickly enough to avoid letting Hunter think that you didn’t want this gesture that you had absolutely been craving for longer than you’d ever admit.

Hunter only kissed you long enough to make you realize just how badly you needed to do it again, though the warm smile he wore as he pulled away and faced you again made the separation worth it.

“Don’t apologize for that.” He lifted his brow and chuckled in genuine amusement. “I’ve always needed someone who can out-stubborn me.”

You laughed at that. “You sure do make it a challenge, Sarge.”

Hunter gave his eyes a playful role. “I haven’t technically had that rank ever since we deserted.”

“Yet you still act like one.”

Hunter huffed. You let out a light sigh and rested your head against his arm again, closing your eyes in content. Your thoughts, however, still lingered on the larger topic at hand, and you grimaced as you spoke on the dark topic one last time.

“I really am sorry about what you had to go through on Tantiss, and that I wasn’t there to stop it. At least, not in time.” You tightened your jaw. “I wish I could kill Hemlock again for what he did to you.”

The feeling of Hunter’s head against your own caused you to reopen your eyes. You smiled into the darkness of the room. “That just might be the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me.”

You chuckled and shook your head, minding his own that still rested against yours. “You’re crazy.” You couldn’t have put more affection into the words if you had tried.

After all, it was that craziness that had drawn you to Hunter and the squad in the first place.

After a few more sweet moments of silence, you patted his arm. “Alright, time to get some rest. Those wounds aren’t gonna heal themselves.”

You looked up at Hunter, whose brow shot up at your words. “Which wounds?”

“All of them.” You held his face for a moment and ran your thumbs over the dark circles under his eyes. “Literally nothing is made better by you avoiding sleep.” You gestured back towards the viewport. “There are no more battles out there for you. You can afford to rest now.”

Hunter shrugged and encouraged you to follow him back towards the other end of the bed. “Maybe I just couldn’t rest because I needed you with me more than I realized.”

You let out a dramatic scoff. “Then thank the stars you finally realized that.” As you laid beside him, you fixed him with a serious look. “I hope you know I’m going to do whatever it takes to make sure you get proper rest, now.”

Hunter raised his brow beside you. “Whatever it takes? Should I put up more of a fight, then?”

It was your turn to roll your eyes before you took the initiative and leaned in for a quick kiss. “If you want more, then you need to sleep.” You nestled yourself into his chest, letting him hold you the way he clearly wanted to, given the hardly concealed desperation of his touch. “Final offer.”

His voice grumbled his response into your head. “Fine.”

Now hidden from his view, you smiled to yourself in victory. There was a lot to mourn, but also a lot to look forward to. Peace was certainly something you had to earn, but with the right people, you didn’t mind the process.

And it was a relief to know that every wave could truly break, wash away, and still return stronger than before. You had no doubt that Hunter would do the same.

main masterlist • hunter masterlist

hunter tag list: @zenrobbins0021 @cw80831 @yunggoblin @maddiedrmr @Molmcb @jellybeanstacey0519 @violetlilly2020

#as it turns out last night's prompt was just a warm up for this... oh how i yearn to comfort this man #tbb hunter #tbb hunter x reader #the bad batch #the bad batch fanfiction #dindjarindiaries

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cherryheairt · 8 months ago

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O Hello, can you write about Gwayne? I really like the way you write.

EI was thinking something like enemies to lovers. Instead of Baela, she is the one who flies over the dragon. They met at the dinner Viserys prepared before he died in the first season.

At the end of the dance Gwayne is forced to bend the knee and accept Rhaenyra as queen. Her daughter doesn't miss the opportunity to make his life hell, until he corners her in a hallway and takes her like a dragon.

hello! I love this prompt, I miss gwayne already 💔

Beckae is the name I gave MC, just to add to the immersion of a Targ-Velyron lol, pronounced Becky still. No description for the reader (mother is Rhaenyra but father is anyone made up, lets say that the reader looks a spitting image of their father to keep it neutral. fem pronouns. I couldn't include the smut at the end, just a lil steam. I'm sorry 😞, I'm terrible at writing those scenes.

noticed that Gwayne's costume included a ring on a chain, a thing typically done by people who want to keep their wedding ring on them, but not lose them. It gave the the main idea for this lol

Dance of Green and Black

When Gwayne Hightower and Beckae Velayron were forced to wed by order of Rhaenyra Targaryen, both did not bother to hide their vexation. They were married mere days after Rhaenyra won the Iron Throne, her loyal men killing Aegon ii in his state of disarray from his burns.

Now, months later, they had left their marriage uncomsumated and drier than the sandy hills of Dorne. They refused to sleep in shared marital chambers at the Red Keep, having agreed on that one thing. Gwayne reluctantly took his father's place at court, staying among the very snakes that brought him here in the first place. He cursed himself for ever responding to Alicent's letter when Aegon first took the throne. If he hadn't, he'd be living his life peacefully alone at the Old Tower.

Now, his days were spent being tormented by the spoilt Princess. She attended each council meeting, laughing snidely at every suggestion Gwayne gave his Queen, and suggesting one of her own in turn. She got away with this every time, seeing as her grandmother was the Hand of the Queen, Rhaenys, and her mother was the Queen.

Gwayne sipped on his wine, which he had taken to indulging in every council, listening to the drowl words of the nobles around him. His wife shared his boredom, apparently, twirling her own glass in her hand. Beside him, she huffed every few minutes. He resisted the urge to ask her to excuse herself if she were so bored. Suddenly, a wet 'splash' fell to his lap, dampening his breeches.

"Oops..." Fluttered the Princess, who covered her mouth in surprise. "That was an accident, I assure you." Though Gwayne could care less if it was genuine or not, he was already scooting his chair out and storming out of the council room. Shocked faces around the table landed on Beckae, who at least had the gaul to look embarrassed. Rhaenyra raised a brow at her daughter, nodding her chin toward the door shortly.

The Princess swiftly followed after her husband, not truly caring for his embarrassment but moreso glad to be given an excuse for leaving the room. If she had known putting her mother on the Iron Throne would have been so dreadfully boring, she would've taken her dragon to Pentos and lived out her days as an old maid.

Gwayne reached his private chambers first, long legs able to carry him so much faster. He took off his trousers and small clothes, left with his bottom half bare to the world. Beckae followed after him, gasping and turning around at the sight before her. Shit, she thought. Perhaps she should've waited at his doors.

"Here to empty your goblet entirely? Go ahead, I'm used to it." He sneered, rolling his eyes at her sudden bashfulness. It would not be the first time she witnessed such a thing. For modesty's sake, he slipped on a fresh pair of linens.

"I am merely here to apologize, husband. Not patronize." She mumbled, face hot.

"Hm." He stepped forward, taking her chin in his hand and forcing her to look up at him. "Where was this attitude when you were chasing after me on your dragon? I think your true colors much suit you, wife."

She grit her teeth, annoyed at his haughty behavior. "It was war. If I hadn't been on my dragon and your party happened upon me, I'd have been killed by Criston Cole without remorse."

"I wouldn't have allowed that to happen." He insisted confidently.

She snorted, "when had that man ever listened to you? He hardly heeded the usurper's orders when he was alive."

"Do you think I would have let you die, especially such a dishonorable death?" Gwayne questioned, squeezing her cheeks harder.

She grimaced, "we were not wed, then. Barely acquainted, to add."

He looked disappointed at her snarky reply. "I may not hold much affection for you, wife, but I have always shown myself to be an honorable man, have I not?" When she didn't respond, he continued. "I would say we were not acquaintances, either. Were we acquainted when I bestowed upon your head the crown of The Queen of Love and Beauty at your nameday tourney?"

"That's different. You had to name me that. It is the expectation of a tourney winner to name the celebration's main subject with that title." She said.

"I could've named someone else, even so. Was our little tryst that night meaningless?"

"You cannot use that against me, Gwayne. It is shameful enough that I allowed myself to do such a dishonest thing." She grabbed his wrist lightly, urging it away from its grip. He listened, moving it to a more gentle caresse at the base of her neck, tangled in her hair.

"I do not regret it." He said, softly. "Nor do I regret the night we spent together after the dinner with our families."

"Gwayne," she pleaded, avoiding his intense gaze. While their marriage was yet to be officially consumated, she was far from a maiden. He was to thank for that, of course. How ironic that they ended up married only after they begun to resent each other.

Gwayne resented his entrapment here. She resented his family and his actions during the war.

"What, Princess? I only speak the truth and you know it. Do you regret it?"

She remained silent, hands placed on his chest as if to ground herself.

Gwayne took that as his answer. "We do not have to live this way. We could leave—return to my home in Old Town. You can have your privacy, do whatever you please whenever you'd like. I beg you, it is torturous here for me, and I know you share that sentiment. I will not ask for heirs, I have my brother for that. You can take a lover, a paramour of your choice." He promised her, grabbing her hands and bringing them together. On his knees, he looked the proper image of a knight, kneeling like such. To beg for his Lady to do him this one favor, to release him from court.

"I do not want a lover." She said lowly. "I want for you."

His eyes widened, then his brows furrowed together in bemusement. "You have taken it upon yourself to belittle me publically every day, do you expect me to now believe that you do not resent me?" He scoffed bitterly.

The Princess looked away from him, unknowing of how to phrase her next words. "That is true, I will admit to my teasings–"

"I would hardly call them teasings." He cut in.

She glared at him, continuing. "–or torments, perhaps. No one truly enjoys court, it is both of us who are trapped her together. If I hadn't been forced to marry you, we would have both been free to live where we wished."

"Your mother is Queen, if you only ask she will provide."

"You overestimate my influence, Gwayne. She wants your advisory in council–for Gods know what–and she knows you being married to me keeps you loyal to her."

"Then I will stop being useful. I will be the worst advisor that council has ever seen." His face lit uo in a smirk, as if we were a profound genius.

"Do you not think she will see through this rouse."

"You will be my aid, dear Lady. You need only continue your extremely rude and annoying actions, only louder and more aggressive, so that they will have no choice but to kick you out from future meetings. In addition, my uselessness will send me with you out of the Keep to be rid of us both. If we hate each other in their eyes, they will not suspect that we are working together." He explains.

She carefully thinks it over. True, they would not want wither of them uselessly loitering around the Keep after they were kicked out of the council. She nodded firmly, agreeing to his plan. If all things went to shit and they were discovered to be playing a rouse, the only consequence would be a scolding. What was stopping them?

🏰

Gwayne and Beckae went through their little routine for weeks. The Princess rudely commenting on the entire council's opinions now, not just Gwayne's. Not rude enough to be kicked out immediately, but for irritated glares to be regularly shot at her. If looks could kill, Beckae would have been buried long ago. Gwayne, for his part, entirely stopped giving his opinions. If asked, he exaggeratedly thought for a long time before giving false information.

The weeks passed with many stressed advisors going through the boring meetings with many complaints to the Queen and her Hand. With Gwayne and his wife, however, they started to bond over their mischiefs. Late at night, after their duties were done, the two shared laughter and pleasent conversation over their cups.

When Rhaenyra pulled the married couple aside one morning, before the meeting started, Gwayne and Beckae felt giddy with anticipation.

"You two...I have been thinking for a while now. I think it is time you retired from court and traveled back to Old Town, to raise your children and take care of your House directly from it." The Queen avoided her true reasoning, skirting politely around the Hightower man.

They both nodded solemnly, agreeing with her choice. "We will miss the Keep, Mother. I expect next time I visit, you will perhaps be blessed with a grandchild." Beckae said, hugging her mother, who looked relieved.

Gwayne's brows raised at her words but agreed with them in front of the Queen. Soon, she left the married couple alone.

They shared a loud laugh together, holding each other at their small win. "Free at last!" The Princess cheered, earning a hearty chuckle from her husband.

"Indeed, wife. What were you saying, blessed with a grandchild? Are you so eager to be bed in your new home?" He asked teasingly.

She felt her face grow unrelentingly hot, scoffing. "I was only appeasing her." She said.

Gwayne hummed disbelievingly, nodding along. "I'm sure you were, wife."

At her gawking defenses, he only laughed and walked to his chambers to pack.

🏰

After a sickening three months on the road to Old Town, Beckae and Gwayne were more than ready to sleep on cushioned beds.

So ready, in fact, that they didn't bother to split into separate chambers. Both in Gwayne's chambers, the Princess and Gwayne relaxed in his spacious bed.

"I can not tell you how much I missed a proper bed." She sighed loudly, groaning in pleasure at the comfort. He did the same, humming his own praise.

Well into the night, the two merely talked and sipped on cups of sweet wine. In only their night shifts, Beckae could clearly spot a ring shining on his chest. She grabbed it, pulling it towards her slightly, fingerd brushing over his bare chest and earning a shiver from him. He leaned in with the ring, the chain pulling him by the neck.

"I did not notice this. I had thought you threw your wedding ring away the second you left the feast." She said softly, smiling at the sight of his matching ring.

"Of course not. I am not so cruel." He said, grabbing her own ring-adorned hand and gently placing a kiss on top of the ring. She giggled at the ticklish feeling, earning a smirk from Gwayne. He smirked, continuing to place feathery kisses up her arm, to her shoulder, then neck. The sensitive skin being so softly kissed made her shiver in turn, sighing pleasently. He paused before reaching her lips, grabbing her chin softly in his hand. Silently he asked for her approval.

Nodding, she was immediately drowned in a hot kiss, his tongue invading her mouth as she moaned. She moved her hands to his red hair, tugging at it. He moved her onto her back, hands squeezing her waist playfully. They pulled apart, lips swollen and panting.

The ring hung down to her own chest as he leaned over her. She twirled the ring in her finger, pleased at the sight of it. He was hers, and she was his. Entirely. She brought him down in a kiss again, pulling his chest to her own and adoring the heat that he brought with him.

That night, they comsumated their marriage in a way that no one could deny, every servant in the Tower being able to hear their Lord and Lady making heirs.

🏰

#gwayne hightower x reader #gwayne hightower #gwayne x reader #hotd fanfic #hotd

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