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spikedfearn · 2 months ago

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Bloodbound

one-shot

Remmick x fem!reader

summary: In Godthrone, Mississippi, salvation comes at a cost: one girl, every ten years. Bound beneath a blood moon to Remmick, you become more than offering. You become his. He tastes your terror like honey, drinks your arousal like wine, and marks you in ways no god could forgive. Through soul-binding magic and whispered vows carved into skin, you learn that some monsters don’t take—they tether. And once you're his, there's no such thing as free will.

Only desire. Only devotion. Only him.

wc: 15.3k

a/n: I don’t even know where to begin—I’m still trying to process the fact that Brittany Broski posted Mercy Made Flesh to her insta story like it was just another Saturday and not the coolest thing that's ever fucking happened to me 😭 I’ve been writing these aus with my whole heart, but I never expected the absolute avalanche of love and support these past couple of weeks. The comments, the reblogs, the screaming in the tags. It’s meant more than I can say, you have all helped me find the joy in writing again, I promise I’m just getting started <333 and an extra big thank you to Liz @fuckoffbard for swooping in and not only beta reading but posting the fic from my account with her laptop bc Tumblr mobile kept crashing on me every time I tried to edit it. Not all heroes wear capes

warnings: possessive vampire, blood kink, bite kink, soulbonding, dubcon elements, obsession, marking, monsterfucking, ritual sacrifice, forced proximity, loss of agency, manipulation, primal sex, size kink, somnophilia (implied), power imbalance, breeding kink (suggestive), Southern Gothic horror, emotional coercion, sacred corruption, body worship, predator/prey dynamics, fear kink, aftercare, blood drinking, religious overtones, stockholm syndrome elements

tags: @sweetheart2210, @seashelleseashellsbytheseashore, @cosmicneptune (comment if you wanna be added to the tag list)

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

They told you not to cry.

The priestess with the burnt fingertips and clinking bone necklace—she gripped your chin between cracked fingers this morning and said it soft, but firm: “He won’t choose the ones who cry. He likes a little fight.”

You didn’t ask who he was. Everyone knows. They say his name like the air around it might curdle. Remmick. No surname. No title. Just Remmick, the vampire king of the blighted woods, the monster who made your town a deal eighty years ago and never broke it.

Not once.

The sun rose slowly this morning, heavy with heat that made the back of your dress stick to your spine before you even got out the door. The August air tastes like rot and copper. You dressed in the church’s parlor room, with the other girls. Seventeen of you. All local. All barely women, but old enough for sacrifice. The law calls it The Binding, but everyone calls it what it is: Bloodbriding.

Your dress is cotton muslin, faded sky-blue with a high collar and puffed sleeves. You think it used to be a baptismal gown. It’s been worn before, passed from girl to girl, all of them marked and married off to the dead. It smells like dried lavender and fear. The buttons up your back had to be done by the priestess. You couldn’t stop trembling.

The town of Godthrone, Mississippi was dying even before the Great Depression turned fields to dust and fathers into ghosts. But they say things changed in 1853, when Remmick came up from the swamps with hunger in his eyes and a deal in his mouth. He would protect the town from sickness, starvation, and war. No one from Godthrone would suffer famine, plague, or enemy. In return, every ten years, a bride would be chosen.

One bride. One binding. One soul fed to the dark.

They tried sending soldiers once, back in 1891. Sixteen went into the woods. None came back whole. Some came back dead. Some came back wrong. One woman started speaking tongues until her mouth filled with spiders. After that, they stopped questioning the pact. Instead, they polished it, sanctified it. Made it a ceremony. A celebration.

Tonight, the Choosing will be held in the town square. You will be walked up barefoot, hair unbound, throat bare. They say the mark will bloom on the girl he wants. A burning, black sigil over the heart. Like a brand. Like a marriage license signed in blood.

Your fingers clutch the hem of your dress. Your name is somewhere on the roster. Somewhere between Eleanor Avery and Ruth Jameson, though it's hard to keep track when the names aren't arranged in alphabetical order.

You haven’t eaten since yesterday. You haven’t even had your first kiss and you’re ridiculously terrified. Because you’ve dreamt of serrated teeth in the dark for weeks now. Because your skin itches like something under it wants out. Because when you close your eyes, you swear you can feel someone watching. Someone already choosing.

And the sun is starting to go down.

They say only the pure get chosen. But that’s a lie. You’ve seen who’s been taken before.

Rebecca Sue, who slit her baby sister’s throat in a fever dream. Agnes Miller, who used to take men’s teeth as trophies.

None of them were pure. They were just...unlucky. Or pretty. Or strange enough that no one would miss them.

You’ve always known you were one of those girls. Born during a blood moon, baptized late because no one could find your daddy until spring thaw—when they fished him out of the river with his eyes missing and his hands gnawed to bone. Your mama didn’t cry. Just braided your hair tighter that morning and told you to never kiss a man with a gold chain or blue eyes. Said they never bring nothin’ but grief.

She died a year later. Something in her blood turned sour. The town doctor wouldn’t touch her. Said it was Remmick’s curse, passed down from when she laid with a man not her husband. Said that’s what happens when women sin.

You were seven when she died. You remember the flies buzzing in her throat. You remember how quiet the house got after. They moved you into the orphan house at the edge of the bog. You learned quickly not to cry at night. Crying brought the wrong kind of attention. So you got good at being quiet. Good at disappearing. Good at keeping secrets under your tongue until they turned bitter and black.

You never learned to curtsy right. You never kept your head bowed during sermons. But you were beautiful, and that was enough. Curious eyes, soft demeanor, a voice like river water. You didn’t want to be, but beauty in Godthrone is a death sentence wrapped in silk.

And now here you are.

Twenty-one and cursed with symmetry.

Chosen to stand under the sickle moon tonight, wearing a dead girl’s dress and nothing else beneath it. Your whole life leading to this—one slow march toward a monster’s mouth.

The town pretends this is holy. They hang garlands on the chapel door and sing hymns in minor chords. The mayor’s wife gave you perfume, lemon balm and sugar, and told you to “make the town proud.” Her eyes didn’t meet yours.

You think about running. You always think about running. But there’s nowhere to go. Not with that feeling in your chest. That strange pull. That sense of something waiting. Something with teeth.

And a name you never dared say out loud until last night. Whispered into your pillow like a prayer. Like a confession.

Remmick.

Your skin burns when you think about it now.

There are stories, of course. Every girl who grows up in Godthrone hears them. They start as whispers during thunderstorms—told under quilts with a candle burning low, shared like secrets between girls too young to know better and too scared not to listen.

“He walks on graves and doesn’t leave footprints.” “He drinks from animals and people, unless he’s claimed you.” “If he marks you, you’ll never want anyone else. Even if you try.”

But the worst ones are the quietest. The ones passed from dying lips to trembling ears. The ones that don’t sound like warnings—they sound like wishes.

“He touched me once. I haven’t known peace since.”

There was one girl—Celia Mott—who came back. Just once. Just long enough to be seen. The Binding year of 1911. She walked into the town square three years later, barefoot and smiling with red-stained teeth. Hair grown long and wild, white dress yellowed with age, eyes gone black. She didn’t speak. Not even once. Just walked right into the chapel and curled up on the altar like a dog. They found her there the next morning, hands folded on her chest, body cold as the river.

No one talks about Celia. But everyone remembers her. You remember her.

You were only thirteen, peeking through a knothole in the chapel wall. You watched as they wrapped her in burlap and buried her deep. You remember thinking she looked peaceful. You remember being jealous. That was the first time you ever said his name, whispered into the dirt above her grave. Not out of fear. Not even hate. Curiosity.

Because what kind of man makes a girl lie down and die smiling?

You used to wonder what he looked like. The other girls said he was monstrous, with claws for hands and eyes that burned like oil lamps in the dark. But that never sat right with you. You don’t think a creature that ancient would need to be grotesque to be feared. You think he’d be beautiful—awfully, unnaturally beautiful. The kind of beautiful that keeps you up at night, sick with craving.

And that’s the part that terrifies you most. Because somewhere in the dark part of you—the part that still dreams of blood-slick mouths and hands around your throat—you want it.

You want to know if he’ll kiss you first or just bite. You want to know what it feels like when the bond takes. You want to know if the mark will hurt as much as it’s supposed to. You want to know if you’ll scream.

You press your palm flat to your chest. Nothing yet. No mark. No burn. No claim. But you swear—you swear—you can feel something there. Like a match waiting to strike. Like teeth ghosting your skin. Like someone’s already touching you from the other side of the veil.

The sun is sinking lower. The bell will ring soon.

And then—the chapel doors open like a serpent unhinging its maw.

Wood creaks. Heat rushes in. And for a second, you don’t move. Then the priestess nods. Just once. That’s your cue.

You step forward on bare feet, feeling every splinter in the boards, every grain of dirt that clings to your soles as you pass the threshold and step into the sweltering dusk. The sky bleeds orange and purple, clouds dragging low like bruises. Somewhere, a cicada screams. And just like that—it begins.

The town square is only five blocks away, but the walk feels like miles. You don’t look at the people lined along the street—don’t dare. You can feel their eyes anyway. Heavy as wet cloth, pricking your skin like pins. Old women in rust-stained aprons. Young boys clutching their mothers' skirts. Men who won’t meet your gaze but still lean in for a better look.

It feels like being paraded through the gallows. Or the garden before slaughter.

The other girls walk ahead and behind you, a procession of blue and white and shaking, anxious limbs. No one speaks. Even the priestess has fallen silent. The only sound is the crunch of gravel underfoot, and the dry shush of cotton brushing thighs.

Your heart beats so loud it’s all you hear. It doesn’t sound like fear anymore. It sounds like an invocation.

The town square unfolds in front of the old courthouse, the brick stained dark from a fire no one talks about anymore. There’s a raised wooden platform at the center—built just for this, just for tonight. The gallows rope is still looped overhead, a relic from older rituals, back when Binding meant hanging the chosen until they gasped awake with his name on their lips.

Now it’s cleaner. More sacred.

They say he prefers it that way.

Gas lanterns flicker along the perimeter, casting warped shadows over the crowd. Wreaths of night jasmine hang from the eaves, their scent thick and cloying in the heat. Everything smells like smoke and sugar and sweat. It makes your stomach roll.

The girls are led to the platform and lined up—seventeen of you, barefoot on the warm planks, hands clasped at your waists like dolls posed for judgment. The crowd stares. Some murmur prayers. Some cry. And some just watch.

You keep your chin up. Not out of pride. But because you know he’s watching too. Somewhere. Behind the crowd. Behind the dusk. Behind the veil of what’s seen and what isn’t.

You can feel it. That tickle at the base of your spine. That breath against your collar. That heartbeat that doesn’t match your own.

The mayor steps forward. Fat and red-faced in a linen suit too tight for the heat. He clears his throat. The priestess lights the ceremonial flame in a basin of copper and bone. She whispers in a language that isn’t English, isn’t Latin, but makes your skin crawl all the same. The fire flares blue.

The bell tolls from the chapel behind you. One. Your pulse stutters. Every eye is on you. Two. You glance down. No mark. Just the flutter of your own chest, just the sickly thrill under your ribs. Three. You feel the wind change. Just slightly. Like something just arrived. Four. The bell keeps tolling, steady as a countdown. Or a death knell.

You don’t flinch, but your knees feel loose. Like they’re no longer yours. Like the wood beneath your feet is suddenly shifting grain, trying to swallow you whole.

The priestess raises both arms. Her voice, when it comes, isn’t loud, but it carries. Thin and sharp and dry as snakeskin. “By covenant sealed and blood remembered, we offer our daughters.”

The crowd murmurs the response: "May He spare the many, and take only the one."

Five. You keep your eyes straight ahead. The girl next to you, Ruth Jameson, is breathing so fast she sounds like a kettle about to boil. She’s a preacher’s daughter. Always wore gloves, even in the summer. Once slapped you for speaking during Sunday reading. You almost hope it’s her.

Let it be her. Or Eleanor Avery. Or Violet Price with the thick braid and expensive teeth. They’re prettier. Cleaner. More practiced in obedience. You’ve heard the whispers that the vampire favors grace, not sharp girls who talk too little and think too much.

Six.

You exhale slow through your nose. Try to imagine the town square without people in it. Try to remember how it looked in winter, dusted with sleet and full of silence. Try to picture yourself anywhere else. You can’t.

The priestess begins the litany. A string of old names, spoken in a dialect that feels like ash in your ears. “Ishari. Vael. Thorne. Kelrem. Narthyx…”

The words twist like vines around your ankles, tight and burning. They say the names are the True Ones. The old ones. The first vampires. Remmick’s forebears, or his victims, no one’s really sure. You doubt there’s a difference.

Seven.

The wind shifts again. This time, everyone feels it. A ripple goes through the crowd—silent, almost reverent. A little boy starts to cry and is shushed immediately. You don’t dare move. You feel it too. It’s like being brushed by something that isn’t there. A pressure. A pull. Like your body isn’t entirely your own anymore.

Still, no mark.

You wonder if you’ll even know when it comes. If it will be sudden. Sharp. Like lightning. Or if it’ll be slow. Like seduction. Like being kissed where no one else can see.

Eight.

The priestess’s eyes are closed now. The other girls tremble. Someone is crying. You’re not sure who. You dare a glance to your left. Eleanor’s lips are moving, silent prayer or quiet bargaining. She looks ready to faint. Her hands are shaking. You look to your right. Ruth’s eyes are squeezed shut, lashes wet. No one is looking at you.

Good. Let it be one of them. Let it not be you. Please.

Nine.

The priestess holds up a small obsidian dagger. Cuts the palm of her hand and lets the blood drip into the blue flame. It hisses, high-pitched and eager.

You smell it instantly.

Not like iron. Like something older. Like the scent of a crypt cracked open.

Ten.

The bell stops. The crowd holds its breath. The fire roars. The flame in the basin spits.

Blue arcs to white. The heat radiates across the platform, and the priestess steps back, blood dripping down her wrist like ink on a parchment soaked too long. Still no mark on your skin. Still no voice in your ear. Still no rush of fire behind your ribs.

You let your shoulders lower a fraction, just enough to feel the strain begin to ease. Just enough to believe—maybe—it’s not you.

Maybe you were only ever meant to stand here, to be one of the extras. The backdrop to someone else’s fate. One of the girls who’ll go home tonight, pale and trembling and untouched.

You could live with that. You could learn to breathe again.

You could get married someday to someone simple and safe. A man with kind eyes and a little farmland. You could forget this ever happened, could press it flat like a pressed flower between the pages of your life. You’re almost ready to believe it.

Until the silence begins to stretch. And stretch. And stretch. Too long. Too unnatural.

The crowd is still holding its breath. But now, they’re waiting. Expectant. The air isn’t quiet—it’s thick. Charged. Like a storm that hasn’t broken yet, a scream that hasn’t been released. You swear the ground hums.

Your skin itches.

Not with sweat. Not with fear. But with awareness.

The priestess’s head cocks slightly to the left. She doesn’t move otherwise. Doesn’t blink. Doesn’t speak.

And then the lamps flicker. All at once.

Not a breeze. Not a draft. It’s something deeper. Something below.

A mother in the front row lets out a sob. Her child starts crying again. No one hushes him this time.

The flame gutters low.

You see your breath fog in front of you.

It’s August. The air should feel like soup. But all at once, it’s cold.

A cold that doesn’t touch your skin—it touches your soul. And that’s when you feel it.

Not a mark. Not yet. But the presence. The knowing. It’s here. And it’s looking at you.

You don’t see him at first. You feel him.

Like being plunged into deep water. That gut-punch plunge, that pressure in your ears, that moment of suspended breath where your body forgets how to float. The world narrows. The noise dulls. Every hair on your body rises like it’s been called to attention.

The flame sputters. The priestess lowers her head, and the entire crowd follows. All at once, the square is bowing. No one told you that would happen. The girls beside you drop their gazes. You remain upright.

Too stunned. Too still.

And then you hear it.

Bootsteps.

Slow. Measured.

Bootsteps on gravel, a sound far too ordinary for something this monstrous.

And still, you don’t look. You can’t.

Because your chest is burning.

It starts beneath your collarbone. A single point of heat, sharp as a blade, blossoming outward like ink in water. You gasp, clutch at your heart—but nothing’s there.

No wound. Just pain. Just…change. You look down and see it bloom.

A mark.

Black and bright and moving, like a tattoo drawn by something alive. Swirling patterns, sharp edges and curling lines that twist and wind down your chest. You hear someone cry out—a choked sound, like a girl breaking open—but you don’t realize it’s you until the priestess grips your arm to keep you from falling.

She’s smiling. “The chosen,” she whispers.

And that’s when he speaks.

Not loud. Not rushed.

But his voice cuts through the air like a blade through silk.

“Lift yer head.”

You don’t mean to obey. But your chin rises.

And there he is. At the base of the platform. Not monstrous. Not grotesque.

But broad and pale, dressed in black that doesn’t shine, hair slicked back like wet ink, and eyes the color of dried blood and dying embers. There’s no mistaking him. No imagining he might be a man. He is not a man.

He is the end of prayers. The promise of ruin. The reason the dark exists. Remmick. And he’s looking only at you.

Possession, raw and ravenous, carved into every angle of his face.

“C’mere, little bride,” he says, softly.

And when you step forward—shaking, burning, claimed—it’s not because they all told you to. It’s because you want to.

You step down from the platform one trembling foot at a time.

The crowd doesn’t make a sound. No cheers. No wails. Not even a rustle of skirts or a cough from the old men lining the back.

Just silence.

The kind that feels held—like a breath everyone’s too afraid to release.

Your bare feet meet the packed earth. It’s warm from the heat of the day but it may as well be ice. You can’t feel anything but the burn of the mark, pulsing like a second heart beneath your skin. Every beat of it syncs with something that doesn’t belong to you. Something older.

Remmick waits at the bottom step.

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink. He just watches you walk to him—like he knew you’d come, like the ceremony was nothing more than a formality. A ritual to dress up inevitability.

You stop just before him. Close enough to feel the wrongness that coils around him like smoke. It doesn’t repel you. It draws you. Makes your blood thrum, makes your mouth dry, makes your thighs clench in a way that shames you instantly. You pray he can’t tell.

Then he lifts a hand. And brushes his thumb lightly across the mark.

Your knees nearly give.

The touch is not cruel. It’s not even forceful. But it ignites something deep, something coiled and ancient inside you. The mark responds—flaring hotter, the lines shifting under his skin like they recognize him.

And then his eyes meet yours. That red glint beneath the dark, sharp and knowing.

��Felt ya long before this,” he murmurs. His voice isn’t deep. It’s smooth. Clear. Cold. “Y’cried my name in yer sleep last week.”

Your breath catches. You didn’t even remember dreaming. But he speaks it like truth. Like he was there.

“Almost took ya then,” he says, dragging his gaze down your body, slow and deliberate. “But this here's cleaner.”

He leans in. And you flinch.

He pauses—just a hair—and then his mouth is at your ear.

“Like when they tremble,” he whispers, voice full of something dark and warm and terrifyingly pleased. “But I like it more when they beg.”

Your breath hitches so violently it hurts. And then his nose drags along the line of your throat. He inhales. A shiver tears through you, sharp and helpless.

“Smell like mine.”

He says it like a promise. Like a curse. Like a man who doesn’t need to raise his voice to ruin you.

The mark burns.

And your body answers with something shameful and wet.

His hand slips to the back of your neck, cool fingers cradling the base of your skull. “I can feel ya now, little bride,” he says, voice softer. Hungrier. “Every shiver. Every ache. Every time yer thighs press together ‘cause yer thinkin’ of me.”

You want to say no. You want to say stop.

But your lips part— —and all that comes out is a broken, traitorous moan.

The crowd still doesn’t move. The priestess watches with her hands folded. And Remmick, smiling now, presses his lips to your jaw—not a kiss, not yet—and whispers:

“We begin tonight.”

They don't clap. No one dares.

The moment he speaks, the crowd begins to part like a body splitting open. Quietly. Obediently. As if on cue.

Remmick doesn't take your hand. He doesn’t have to. You follow him. You don't look back.

The crowd watches in total silence, as though afraid that one misstep, one murmur, might draw his attention. You feel their eyes on you—burning, curious, afraid. But none of them move to stop you. No one calls your name. No one tries to say goodbye.

And somehow that hurts worse than if they had.

The mark on your chest is still searing, like hot iron beneath your skin. But it’s not just pain anymore—it’s pull. With every step you take behind him, it feels stronger. Hungrier. You feel him through it now. A weight in your gut. A throb between your legs. An ache in the part of you that shouldn’t want this, but does.

You wonder if he feels it too. You don’t have to wait long to find out.

Halfway down the path, Remmick pauses, turns his head just slightly—not enough to see his whole face, just the ghost of a smirk at the corner of his mouth. “Stop squeezin’ yer thighs together like that,” he says without looking at you. “Ain’t polite.”

Your cheeks go hot. You hadn’t even noticed you were doing it. Instinct. Reflex. Shame flickers to life—but it doesn’t stay long. Not when he glances back, finally, and meets your eyes with something wicked and low in his voice.

“Though I do like it.”

You don’t answer. You can’t. You just keep walking.

Remmick’s estate lies on the edge of the woods, past the last row of homes where the gas lamps thin and the road turns to dirt. The air shifts the moment you cross the boundary—cooler, thicker. It feels like stepping into another world. A forgotten place. The trees here lean too close. The moss drips like old lace. You see stones sunk into the earth along the path, names long worn away. Grave markers, maybe. Or warnings.

The carriage is waiting for you.

Sleek, black, quiet. Not pulled by horses—those would never make it through these woods. Instead, it waits unnaturally still, shadows wrapping around its wheels, as if it simply appeared when called. Remmick holds the door open for you.

You pause.

Not because you’re afraid. But because everything in you wants to go in.

You hate how much you want it.

Inside, the cabin is too dark. Too cold. The seat cushions are velvet, the color of dried wine. There are no windows. Only candle sconces that haven’t been lit. You sit, carefully. Your thighs still sticky from earlier. You press your knees together and fold your hands in your lap like a good little bride.

Remmick follows. Closes the door behind him with a click.

You’re alone. Utterly, entirely alone.

And you feel the silence tighten around you like a glove.

Then he speaks. Low. Deliberate. “Take off the dress.”

You don’t move. You don’t breathe.

The words take off the dress still hang in the air—heavy, impossible to grasp, clinging to your skin in ways you can’t shake.

Your fingers twitch in your lap.

The candle sconces haven’t been lit, but you can see him anyway. The dark doesn’t seem to touch him, not really. His eyes are brighter in it. Redder. Watching you the way a wolf watches a trembling rabbit—not out of pity. Not out of malice, either. But with the certainty of hunger.

He leans back, legs spread, one arm resting along the velvet seat. Casual. Patient. Like he’s giving you a choice when you both know there isn’t one. “I won’t ask twice, sweetheart.”

The term of endearment doesn’t sound kind. It sounds dangerous.

Your breath comes shallow. You reach for the first button.

The collar is stiff, the thread old. You fumble. Your fingers feel clumsy, not from fear—but from how aware you are of his gaze. It traces every movement. Tracks the tremble in your hands. Watches your chest rise with every breath.

You get the first button undone. Then the second. The third.

The dress loosens across your shoulders. The mark, still searing hot and alive, seems to pulse brighter in the air between you. It aches when you drag the fabric down your arms, exposing more of it. The gown drops to your waist, then your hips. You shift to slide it lower.

Remmick still hasn’t moved.

But the air has. It feels denser now. Like you’ve stepped inside his lungs and forgotten how to breathe on your own.

When the dress slips past your thighs and pools at your feet, you’re left in nothing.

No underthings. No slip.

Just bare skin and that still-burning sigil over your heart.

Your hands twitch up to cover yourself—reflex, instinct, shame—but his voice stops you before they reach your chest.

“Don’t.” One word. Quiet. But it scalds.

You obey. Your arms drop.

He finally leans forward.

His palm drags over his jaw as he takes you in, slow and deliberate. You expect him to leer. To lick his lips or reach for you like you’re already his. But instead, he just looks.

Like he’s seeing something holy.

And then, softly—more to himself than to you—he says, “Fuckin’ beautiful.”

You bite your lip.

Something twists in your belly. Something hot and low and helpless.

He leans in, elbows resting on his knees, and murmurs: “Y’don’t even know what yer feelin’, do ya?”

You try to speak, but your throat’s too dry.

He tilts his head, watching the way your thighs inch together again. “That’s the bond, love. That ache? That throb in yer cunt? That heat sittin’ behind yer ribs like a sin waitin’ to be confessed?”

His voice drops even lower.

“That’s me.”

You shudder. The mark pulses.

And Remmick, grinning now—slow, sharp, possessive—reaches out, thumb brushing just under the curve of your breast, not quite touching the mark but close enough that it sparks again behind your ribs. “Y’feel me yet?” he asks.

You nod. Barely.

He laughs, soft and cruel and pleased. “Good. Then let’s make it permanent.”

Your breath stutters.

His thumb still lingers just below your breast, not quite touching the mark, but the heat from his skin radiates into yours like an ember pressed to parchment. You feel it coil low in your belly, tight and trembling.

And he sees it.

Of course he does.

“Look at that,” he murmurs, voice like smoke curling around your neck. “Already buzzin’ for me. And I haven’t even laid a proper hand on ya yet.”

He lets his fingers trail lightly down your sternum. Not rushed. Not greedy. It’s almost reverent—if reverence could be soaked in hunger. His fingertips drag over your ribs, then down to the soft dip between them, tracing lazy circles that never quite reach where you want.

The bond throbs between you like a living thing.

It doesn’t just burn. It pulls.

Each touch sends something electric singing across your nerves, as though your body’s not fully yours anymore—shared now, tied to something dark and breathing. Every sensation is heightened. The velvet seat beneath you feels too soft. The air feels too tight. And his touch?

His touch feels like command.

He leans closer. You feel his breath on your throat before you see his mouth. “Tell me where it hurts,” he whispers, and his tongue brushes the shell of your ear.

Your hips shift without permission. “Lower,” you manage, barely above a whisper.

Remmick hums. A dark, pleased sound. “Aye. Thought so.” He brings his hand to your thigh, palm broad and cool, fingers spreading to grip you firm. Not harsh. Not rough. But with purpose. Like he’s claiming the space. Like he already owns it. He pushes your legs apart slowly, and the bond sings when you don’t resist.

When you offer.

His gaze dips down.

And he groans—quiet, guttural. “Sweet fuckin’ Christ.”

You’re soaked.

Your body, treacherous and needy, has already given itself over. The mark glows faintly in the dark now, pulse-for-pulse with your heartbeat, lighting the curve of your breast and the sweat beading along your collar.

“You know what this is, don’t ya?” he says, dragging a finger up your inner thigh, stopping just shy of your center. “The bond’s settin’ in. Claimin’ ya. Makes every nerve scream for me. You’d let me do anything right now, wouldn’t ya?”

You want to say no. You really do. But your body says yes in a dozen ways. The way your breath shakes. The way your thighs tremble. The way your hips rock forward, desperate for any friction, even the ghost of it.

You meet his eyes. “Please,” you whisper. It slips out before you can stop it.

Remmick’s grin turns sharp. Triumphant. “Say it again.”

Your cheeks burn. But your body doesn’t hesitate. “Please.”

He moves then.

Not fast. Not rough. But with absolute, devastating intent.

He sinks to his knees in front of you. Not in worship. Not in submission. But in devouring anticipation.

His hands slide up your thighs, spreading them wider, and he presses a kiss just above your knee. Then another, higher. And another. Each one closer to the place that aches. The place he’s not touching.

Yet.

“You don’t even know what I’m about to do to ya,” he murmurs, mouth against your skin. “But yer body’s already beggin’.” He nips just above your hip, tongue soothing the sting. And finally, finally, his hand reaches the mark again—palm flat over your heart.

You jolt.

It feels like fire licking up your spine. Like something ancient waking up. Like something that says: Mine.

“Y’ready, little bride?” he asks, voice rough with hunger, reverent with power.

Because this is more than lust.

This is binding. This is belonging. And you’re about to be his—in every sense.

Your heart is a drum. A hammer. A hymn.

And Remmick holds it in his palm like he’s already broken it open and tasted what’s inside.

He watches you. Eyes dark, pupils wide, mouth parted—not in awe, not in shock, but in possession. Like a man handed his favorite weapon after years of war. Like he knows exactly how to use you. “Keep yer eyes on me,” he says softly.

You do. Because you can’t look away.

His thumb strokes over your mark, slow and possessive. The moment he presses down—just the lightest pressure—you gasp, full-body and shaking. It doesn’t hurt. It’s worse than that.

It undoes you.

Your back arches off the seat. A whimper slips past your lips, high and humiliating, and the fire under your skin blooms wider, deeper, lower.

“Good,” Remmick breathes, as if your body’s reaction is all the permission he needs. “Let it take ya.” He leans in again, lips brushing over the curve of your breast, just below the glowing sigil etched into your flesh. His mouth is soft. Cool. But where it touches, heat follows. Magic, maybe. Or something far filthier.

You shiver.

He trails his tongue in a slow, careful circle around the mark. Not kissing. Not biting. Just tasting.

You make a sound—something raw and helpless—and Remmick laughs, low in his throat. “Feel that?”

You nod, dazed.

He hums like he’s proud of you. Like he owns every breath you take now. “Bond’s startin’ to root,” he says against your skin. “It’s in the blood. In the muscle. Every heartbeat yer body makes now? It’s for me.”

His hand moves lower.

Fingers dragging down your belly, past your hip, settling between your thighs where you’re soaked and trembling and already spreading for him without thought. “You feel like sin,” he murmurs. “Gonna taste like salvation.” And then he finally, finally presses his mouth to the center of you.

You jerk. It’s too much. It’s not enough.

His tongue is slow at first, lazy, almost cruel in how lightly he licks. As if he’s savoring the fact that you’re shaking under him already. You try to move—try to rock against him—but his hands grip your thighs, holding you open, holding you still.

“This ain’t just fuckin’,” he rasps, voice muffled by your body. “This is the bind. This is me settin’ my claim.”

You moan. You whimper. And when his mouth closes over your clit and he sucks, your vision shatters.

It’s not just pleasure. It’s magic.

You feel it in your bones, in the roots of your teeth, in the back of your throat. You feel the bond snap into place like a tether. You feel him inside you—his hunger, his need, his desire—mirroring yours, amplifying it, turning you both into a single, burning thing.

You’re panting now. Desperate. Gone. “Remmick—” you gasp.

He groans like your voice alone could finish him.

You feel his tongue again—harder now, faster, coaxing your orgasm to the surface like a secret—and you give it to him. You give everything. You come with a cry, eyes wide, hips shaking, the mark on your chest glowing like fire in the dark. And Remmick?

He doesn’t stop.

Not until you’re slumped against the seat, legs still twitching, the bond humming under your skin like a satisfied beast. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. Smirking.

“First part’s done,” he says, voice wrecked. “Now we finish it.”

He stands. Unbuckling his belt. Unbuttoning his trousers.

And between your thighs, your body begins to ache all over again.

You’re still trembling when he rises.

Remmick towers over you in the low flickering dark, the glow from your mark throwing soft gold light across the sharp bones of his face. He looks half-saint, half-devil—something carved out of hunger and patience, restraint and ruin.

He doesn’t touch you yet. Not again.

He just watches as you breathe, chest heaving, legs still slack and parted. And for a heartbeat, he says nothing. He simply drinks you in like a man parched. And then his voice cuts through the silence again—low, velvet-rough, intimate as a mouth pressed to your spine. “You’re takin’ it real pretty,” he murmurs, thumbing the buttons on his trousers loose one by one. “Didn’t think you’d fold that fast. But fuck, I felt it.”

Your body answers with a pulse.

You want to close your legs, to pull your dress back on, to shield yourself from how open he’s left you—but the bond won’t let you. It aches when you think about hiding. It pulls you back toward him, like a tide. Like gravity.

And he knows it.

He steps out of his slacks and lets his shirt hang open, chest pale and cut with the kind of lean strength you’ve only read about in books meant to be hidden under your mattress. His body is strong, scarred, real. A monument to the centuries he’s outlived.

Your eyes drop lower. And—god.

You freeze.

He’s hard already, thick and flushed, hanging heavy between his thighs, and for the first time since the mark bloomed, you feel a new kind of fear coil in your gut.

He’s going to ruin you.

And you want it so badly you could cry.

Remmick sees the way your gaze lingers. “‘S alright,” he says, stepping closer. “I’ll go slow. First time’s meant to sting a little.” His hand drags down your cheek, thumb brushing your lips. “But y’won’t be scared of the pain. Not when I’m the one givin’ it to ya.”

You make a sound in your throat—something small, breathless, wanting.

He strokes your jaw, then cups the back of your neck, guiding you gently down, down, until you’re laid out across the velvet bench seat. He doesn’t climb on top of you right away. He kneels beside the bench, one hand splayed wide across your ribs, the other pressing just above the mark on your chest.

The weight of it grounds you.

“Last chance, little bride,” he says softly, and there’s something raw beneath the teasing now. “After this, there ain’t no undoing it.”

You look up at him. And despite everything—despite the fear, the heat, the bond that feels like it’s branded your soul from the inside out—

You nod.

Remmick’s smile is slow. Tender. Like a secret finally answered.

“Atta girl.”

He leans down.And when his mouth presses over the mark—soft, sure, claiming—you swear your body catches fire all over again. His mouth seals over the mark, and it’s like being opened. Not physically—not yet—but inside. Beneath your ribs. Somewhere sacred.

You feel it the way thunder rolls over land—first a hush, then a tremble, then a crack that splits you straight down the middle. His lips part just enough for his tongue to drag across the sigil, and something ancient stirs to life.

The mark glows white-hot.

Your back bows off the seat. Your fingers clutch at velvet, at air, at him. A gasp tears from your throat, raw and keening.

Remmick moans against your chest. “There she is,” he rasps, mouth dragging lower, down the slope of your breast. “Fuck, yer soul’s singin’ for me now. Y’feel that? That little ache in the base of yer spine?”

You nod, frantic.

“It’s me,” he says, hand sliding back between your thighs. “That’s me growin’ roots in ya.” His fingers tease your slick folds, feather-light, not giving what you need, just promising.

You whimper.

Remmick watches you writhe, his cock hard and leaking, resting heavy against his thigh. “Spread ‘em wider, sweetheart. That’s it. Just like that. Let me in.”

You do as you’re told. You’d do anything he asks right now. Not because he’s taken your will. But because he’s claimed your want.

He climbs over you slowly, one knee pressing between your thighs, his body blanketing yours with terrible warmth. The feel of his skin against yours makes your mark pulse like it’s alive. He lines himself up, dragging the head of his cock against your soaked entrance, letting it slip through your folds, slicking himself in you.

You gasp.

“Remmick—”

He cups your jaw, thumb stroking your cheek, voice low and hoarse. “I’ve got ya. Gonna go slow.” He pushes in.

God.

It’s thick. It stretches. It burns in the best, most ruinous way. You clutch his shoulders, nails biting into his skin as he inches deeper—slow, agonizing, precise. Every breath is a plea. Every heartbeat is his. You feel the bond knot tighter, pulling you to him with every inch he sinks into your body. Halfway in, and you’re already fluttering around him, body shaking, eyes wet.

Remmick groans, low and wrecked. “Fuckin’ hell,” he grits out. “You’re tight as a fist. Grip me like you were made for it.” He rolls his hips forward, just a little deeper.

You cry out—more overwhelmed than hurt. Pleasure is coiling inside you like a scream wound too tight to release.

“‘S alright,” he murmurs. “Yer takin’ me so well. Gonna have all of me soon.”

He kisses your temple. Then your cheek. Then your jaw.

“Y’wanna say it?” he asks.

You blink up at him, dazed.

He smiles against your throat. “Say yer mine.”

The words curl on your tongue, fever-warm. “I’m yours.”

His hips snap forward, burying himself in you to the hilt.

You shatter.

You can’t breathe. Not properly.

Not with him buried that deep inside you—thick and unyielding, pressing against something that makes your vision go white around the edges. The stretch burns and soothes all at once, every nerve pulled taut, every inch of your body drawn to his like a tide to the moon.

Remmick doesn’t move right away. He just holds himself there. Letting you feel the full weight of what he’s done.

What he is doing. What you’ll never come back from.

You whimper, your hips twitching, the pressure too much and not enough and perfect. And all he does is lean in close, his voice curling against your ear like the heat of a candle’s flame.

“There it is,” he murmurs. “Feel me in ya? That ache in your belly? That’s me settin’ in, stretchin’ ya out, makin’ room.” His hand cups your jaw, gentle but firm, tilting your face toward his. He watches you—hungry and soft all at once, like a man who’s both starving and reverent. “Y’wanna know somethin’, sweetheart?” he asks, hips giving one slow, rolling thrust.

You gasp, back arching, lips parting in a helpless cry.

He groans, deep in his throat, and stills again. “You’ll never forget this feelin’,” he says. “No matter what happens after. No matter where you run. This right here?” He shifts inside you, not pulling out, just moving deep. “This bond’ll hunger until I feed it.”

You can’t speak. Your body is writhing under him, hips tilting instinctively, needing more, needing movement. The bond is humming now—hot, thick, vibrating under your skin like a wire ready to snap.

And then he starts to move.

Slow. So slow it feels lethal.

He pulls out an inch. Pushes back in. Again. And again.

Each thrust is a deliberate claiming—grinding against the deepest part of you, igniting something wild and ancient in your blood. You moan with every slide, and his name slips out of your mouth between gasps like a prayer, like a curse, like you don’t care who hears.

“R-Remmick—”

He shudders above you, burying his face against your throat.

“Fuck, say it again.”

You do. You can’t stop. “Remmick. Remmick—” Your fingers dig into his back, pulling him closer, urging him to move faster, harder, deeper.

But he won’t. Not yet.

He keeps the pace slow, grinding into you with the kind of restraint that hurts, like he wants to ruin you one slow breath at a time.

You’re sobbing now. From pleasure. From pressure. From the overwhelming rightness of being filled by him.

He kisses the corner of your mouth. Then your jaw. Then the spot where your pulse pounds like a war drum. “Let it take ya,” he whispers. “Let me in. All the way.”

You don't have to let it take you. It's already happening.

Every roll of his hips, every grinding thrust, buries him deeper—not just into your body, but into your very being. You feel him threading through your blood, knotting himself into the soft, wet, secret places no one else has ever touched. You feel him becoming part of you.

And it’s bliss. It’s agony. It’s everything you never dared want.

Remmick groans into your throat, the sound rough and ragged, and you realize—he’s shaking. His arms bracket your head, muscles tense, as if he’s holding himself back with the last threads of a fraying leash. "Fuckin’ hell," he rasps against your skin. "You don’t even know what yer doin’ to me, do ya?"

You moan when his hips shift again, a slow, brutal grind that rubs against something deep inside, sending another crack through your already crumbling self.

"You’re burnin’ me up from the inside," he breathes. "Claimin’ me right back without even tryin'." He thrusts again, a little harder this time.

Your nails rake down his back, and he hisses, the sound sharp and desperate.

"Y’hear that, little bride?" he pants. "The bond’s snappin' shut. Lockin’ us together. Ain’t no prayers that can undo it now."

You whimper under him, nodding frantically because words are gone. Lost. All you can do is feel. All you can do is take him. The magic between you stretches taut—white-hot and endless—pulling tighter with every slow, deep stroke.

Remmick lifts his head. Looks at you. Really looks at you.

And something raw, something wild flashes through his crimson eyes.

Not cruelty. Not hunger. But devotion. The kind of devotion that ruins. That razes. That rebuilds.

And his voice—Christ, his voice—comes soft and reverent, like a prayer said in a burning church. "Mine." He pulls almost all the way out.

Your body cries for him.

And when he slams back in, burying himself to the hilt, the bond explodes.

You barely have time to scream. It rips out of you as Remmick drives back into your body with a force that shatters something deep inside—not bone, not muscle, but something older. Something tied to the very breath in your lungs and the heat in your blood.

The bond snaps tight. It doesn’t just settle between you—it erupts.

A wave of heat crashes through you, stealing your sight, your breath, your thoughts. The air around you blurs and sharpens all at once, everything too bright, too loud, too much. You feel him in every corner of your being—his hunger, his lust, his need crashing against yours in a brutal, endless tide.

Remmick groans low in his throat, a broken sound, like he’s barely holding himself together. "That's it, love," he pants, thrusting deep and sure now, fucking you through the bond’s collapse. "Feel it. Feel me." Each thrust drives him deeper than flesh, branding his presence into you so thoroughly you don't know where you end and he begins.

Your fingers scrabble at his back, nails dragging across his spine. You clutch at him like drowning, like if you let go you’ll be ripped apart.

And maybe you would.

"Yer mine now," he growls against your neck, voice shaking with the force of it. "Every heartbeat. Every breath. Every fuckin’ drop of blood in that sweet body—mine."

You sob beneath him, helpless.

Because it’s true. It’s so true it hurts.

He fucks you harder, hips slamming into yours, the slick sound of your bodies joining filling the dark carriage. Every inch of you aches for him now, craves him. The pleasure is brutal, endless, washing over you in thick, consuming waves that blur the edges of the world. "Say it," he snarls. "Say who owns ya."

You can barely get the words out, your voice broken and gasping between thrusts. "You—Remmick—I'm yours, I'm yours—"

He groans, loud and wrecked, driving himself deeper. "Again."

"I'm yours!" you cry, clinging to him, legs wrapping around his waist without thought. "I'm yours!"

The bond screams its satisfaction, magic sealing tighter, brighter, a perfect, eternal tether. Remmick’s rhythm falters—just for a heartbeat—and then he lets go completely. He fucks you harder, faster, rougher now, as if trying to stamp himself into every molecule of your body. As if the bond isn’t enough, as if he needs your body to remember what your soul already knows.

You’re close again. Closer than before.

Tears leak from the corners of your eyes, not from pain—but from the overwhelming rightness of it. The way your body, your magic, your very soul sings under him.

"That's it," he grits out, teeth scraping against your jaw, your throat. "Gimme one more, sweetheart. One more, and I'll fill ya. Mark ya up proper."

You sob something desperate and broken against his shoulder.

And then you fall apart.

Your body breaks first. You cry out, a sharp, ragged sound, thighs locking around Remmick’s hips as your climax rips through you like a flood that’s been dammed too long. It’s blinding—so much more than pleasure. It's surrender. It's consummation.

The bond erupts under your skin, a wildfire racing from your chest outward—your limbs, your heart, your mind all filled with him, only him.

Remmick snarls low in his throat when he feels it—feels you milking his cock, spasming around him, clutching him so tightly you might tear him apart if he were anything less than what he is. "Fuckin’ hell, there’s my girl," he growls, voice thick, shaking, barely human. "God, yer perfect—perfect for me."

You barely hear him over the rush of blood in your ears, the way your heart stutters and kicks under the strain of the bond locking into place. You feel like you’re dying, being reborn, consumed.

And then—

His hand fists in your hair, yanking your head back to bare your throat.

You don’t resist. You can’t.

You offer it to him. Begging without words.

Needing it. Needing him.

Remmick’s breath sears against your pulse, a guttural sound of want breaking free from his chest. "Mine," he rasps, and then— He sinks his fangs into your throat.

You scream—not from pain. From release. From completion.

The moment his teeth pierce your skin, it’s over. The bond seals so violently you swear you feel the whole world lurch.

You feel his cock throb inside you as he spills himself deep, hips jerking hard against yours as he empties everything into you—claiming you, breeding you, binding you. His moan vibrates against your throat, a filthy, possessive sound, full of ancient, ruinous satisfaction.

You convulse around him, helpless, drowning in the force of it—your orgasm crashing into his, a tangled knot of pleasure and magic and hunger so overwhelming you stop knowing where you end and he begins.

Everything collapses into him. His taste. His scent.

His voice murmuring ragged, half-spoken promises against your bleeding throat.

"Never lettin’ ya go." "Made ya for me." "Gonna fuckin’ ruin anyone who tries to take ya." "My sweet girl. My bride."

The world fades to black around the edges.

Not death. Not fear. Just him. Only him.

You don't know how long you stay like that. Him buried deep inside you, teeth still sunk into your throat, body trembling with the aftershocks of the bond and the brutal, gorgeous wreckage he’s left behind.

When he finally pulls his fangs free, you whimper at the loss—but he shushes you gently, lapping at the puncture marks with slow, lazy strokes of his tongue. Sealing the wound. Marking you further.

His hand cups the side of your face, thumb stroking the corner of your mouth like he's calming a horse that’s been run too hard. "There she is," he murmurs, voice low and thick with satisfaction. "My little bride."

You blink up at him, dazed, boneless, ruined.

He smiles.

It’s not kind. It’s not soft. It’s something far worse. Worship.

"You feel it, don't ya?" he whispers. "That ache behind yer ribs? That’s me sittin’ in yer soul now."

You nod weakly. You can still feel him inside you—hot and sticky, filling you in every way a man can. The bond thrums between you like a heartbeat shared.

And he’s not done.

You see it in his eyes. That hunger. That certainty.

He presses a kiss to your forehead, then your nose, then your mouth—slow, claiming kisses, each one staking a piece of you deeper than the last. "You’ll never want anyone else again," he promises, voice almost tender. "Yer mine now. Body, blood, soul."

And somehow, impossibly—

You don't fear it. You crave it. You crave him. Forever.

The carriage rocks gently as it moves, but you barely notice. You’re sprawled across the velvet seat, bare and boneless, your limbs too heavy to lift, your skin humming with the aftershocks of what just happened.

Of what you are now. Of what he made you.

The mark on your chest still glows faintly, a soft pulse in the dark, echoing your heartbeat—and his. It thrums in your veins, in the tender ache between your thighs where he spilled himself so deep you can still feel the heat of it. You don’t know where your body ends and his begins anymore.

Maybe there’s no difference. Maybe there never was.

Remmick sits at the far end of the carriage now, leaned back lazily against the seat, trousers still open, hair a mussed halo around his head like he’s been through a war and came out smiling.

He watches you. God, he watches you.

Eyes dark and glittering, hungry and satisfied all at once, a predator marveling at the way his prey still twitches even after the final blow.

He’s in no rush. He’s got you now.

Forever.

And you feel it—the first thread of it tightening low in your belly.

A throb. A pulse.

Your body responds instantly to his gaze, hips shifting, thighs pressing together, nipples tightening in the cool air. You bite your lip, trying to smother the shameful rush of heat flooding you again, but it's impossible.

Because now—

Now he feels it too.

A low, wicked chuckle rumbles from his chest. "Aw, sweetheart," he drawls, the accent thick and syrupy, heavy with cruel affection. "Already missin’ me inside ya?"

Your face burns. You shake your head, a weak, pitiful denial—but the bond betrays you.

He tilts his head, the smile on his lips turning downright vicious. "Don’t lie to me," he says, voice dropping low and rough. "Not now. Not when I can feel every twitch of that sweet little cunt clenchin’ on nothin’."

You whimper, curling in on yourself without thinking.

But he doesn’t let you hide for long.

In a blink, he’s across the carriage, hands bracketing your hips, dragging you back flat against the seat. He crowds over you without even touching you fully, his presence alone suffocating, his body heat pouring into you like a second, darker sun.

"You’re open to me now," he murmurs, brushing your hair from your face with almost obscene tenderness. "Every want. Every ache. Every filthy little thought—" He presses the flat of his palm to the mark. You jerk under him, helpless "—I feel ‘em all."

His thumb strokes slow, lazy circles over the mark, and each touch sends new ripples of need spiraling outward—your body trembling, your thighs wet and slick all over again. "You’re gonna learn real quick, love," he says, grinning as you whimper, as you arch into his touch without meaning to. "Ain’t no hidin’ from me now."

He leans down, mouth brushing your ear. "Every time you ache, I’ll know."

"Every time you touch yerself, I’ll feel it." "Every time you think about me splittin’ you open again—"

He rocks his hips against you, not entering, just letting you feel the thick, hot weight of him. "—I’ll be right there, cock hard, ready to remind ya who you fuckin’ belong to."

You sob, overwhelmed.

And his voice goes velvet-soft, coaxing. "Beg me, little bride," he whispers, lips dragging down your throat, over your mark, down the trembling plane of your belly. "Beg me to fuck ya again. Right here. Right now. Fill ya ‘til there’s nothin’ left but me."

You’re already halfway there. The bond shudders and pulls tight, a perfect, beautiful noose.

And you know— You’ll never be free again.

You’ll never want to be.

You don’t even realize you’re begging at first. It’s not words—

It’s sounds.

Soft, desperate little whimpers that slip from your mouth without permission, without shame. Your hips rock up toward him, seeking friction, seeking him, even though there’s no chance of satisfaction without his mercy.

Remmick smiles down at you, all lazy, wicked patience. His thumb strokes your mark again, and your whole body jolts, back arching beautifully off the velvet, nipples peaked, thighs slick. “C’mon, sweetheart,” he murmurs, voice low and rich. “Know you can do better’n that. Gimme what I want.” His other hand slides between your legs, fingers ghosting over the soaked, swollen mess he’s made of you.

Barely touching. Barely giving.

You sob out a broken little sound, your hips chasing his hand, your body betraying how desperately you need him to touch, to fill, to take.

Remmick chuckles, a dark, filthy sound that rumbles deep in his chest. “You’re already cryin’ for it, aren’t ya?” he says, tapping your clit lightly with two fingers just to hear the whimper it wrings out of you. “Poor thing. Poor messy little bride. All knotted up and nowhere to go.”

You bite your lip, trembling.

And finally, finally, you find your voice. “Please,” you gasp. “Please, Remmick—please, I need you—”

His breath hitches. He feels it through the bond.

Your honesty. Your surrender. Your helpless, soaking, wrecked want.

His hand fists in your hair, tugging your head back to make you look at him. “Say it proper,” he growls, eyes glowing deep red in the dark. “Say what you want.”

You sob again, blinking up at him, undone and aching. “Please fuck me,” you whisper. “Please—fill me up—make me yours—” You don’t even know what you’re saying anymore.

You just mean it. You mean every breathless, desperate word.

Remmick’s whole body shudders. “Fuckin’ hell, you’re perfect.” He doesn’t make you wait after that. He grabs your hips, hauling you down the seat, lining himself up again with ruthless, hungry precision.

You feel the head of his cock slide against your entrance, hot and heavy and inevitable. You whimper, trying to push down onto him, but he holds you still.

“Easy, love,” he murmurs, voice thick and rough. “Gonna give it to ya. Gonna fuck ya slow. Deep. Like you deserve.”

You cry out, nails digging into the velvet, the anticipation unbearable. And then—

He pushes inside. All the way.

Inch by inch, deliberate and slow, stretching you open, filling you so completely you can’t breathe, can’t think, can’t be anything but his. Your head tips back, mouth open in a soundless moan, tears slipping from the corners of your eyes.

Remmick groans like he’s dying. “Christ, yer fuckin’ perfect inside,” he pants, hips rolling slow, deep, dragging against every tender, swollen place he touched before. “Tight little thing. Made to take me.”

You whimper under him, arms thrown around his shoulders, legs locked around his waist, pulling him deeper, begging without words for more, more, more—

“Shhh, I got ya,” he soothes, kissing the corner of your mouth, your jaw, your throat where his bite still aches. “Gonna take care of ya, little bride. Gonna fuck ya full. Keep ya full. Never gonna let ya go.”

The bond hums louder. Hotter.

Closer.

You can feel yourself already climbing again, your body desperate to fall with him, for him, because of him.

And Remmick—

Remmick feels it too. Feels it through the bond, through your trembling body, through the desperate clench of your cunt around his cock. “That's it,” he groans, pace picking up, thrusts slow but brutal, deep enough you swear you feel him in your throat. “Milk me, love. Show me who ya belong to.” You don’t realize you’re crying again until his thumb brushes the tear slipping down your cheek.

Not hard. Not cruel.

Gentle. Tender.

Like he’s savoring it. Like he’s proud.

“Look at ya,” Remmick murmurs, still grinding deep inside you, the head of his cock dragging over that sensitive, aching place that makes your toes curl and your thighs shake. “Cryin’ so sweet for me.”

He kisses the tear away. Slow.

Lingering.

And then he pulls back just enough to watch your face as he thrusts deep again—slow and rough and devastating—the velvet seat creaking under you both.

You sob, hips rolling to meet him without even thinking, chasing the friction, the fullness, the ownership.

“That’s it,” he pants, voice ragged with pleasure. “Good girl. Good fuckin’ girl. Always knew you’d take me so pretty.”

You cling to him now—arms thrown around his neck, nails raking down his back, legs locked around his hips like your body’s trying to weld itself to his. The bond thrums, vibrating louder, hotter, tighter, until there’s nothing in the world but him—his cock splitting you open, his hands anchoring you down, his mouth whispering filthy worship against your throat.

“Yer built for me,” he growls, teeth scraping lightly against your skin. “Every inch of ya. Every little flutter of this sweet cunt—made to squeeze the life outta me.”

You keen high in your throat, mindless.

Gone.

And Remmick knows it. Knows he’s breaking you. Knows he’s ruining you.

And he loves it.

“You ain’t ever gonna want anyone else,” he murmurs, slowing his thrusts even more, dragging them out until each one feels like a lifetime. “Ain’t ever gonna even think about lettin’ another man touch ya. Not when I’ve already marked ya this deep.”

You whimper, nodding desperately, nails digging into his shoulders.

“Say it, love,” he urges, voice rough and sweet and brutal all at once. “Say yer mine.”

“I’m yours,” you sob, clenching around him so tight he curses under his breath. “I’m yours—I’m yours—only yours—”

He thrusts deeper, harder, driving you up the seat. “Good girl,” he growls, voice wrecked. “Fuck, you’re perfect.”

Your climax builds again—fast and brutal—pleasure knotting behind your ribs, behind your spine, the bond squeezing tighter, ready to snap.

And he feels it. His hand slides between your bodies, finding your clit with ruthless precision, thumb circling it in time with his deep, devastating thrusts. “Gimme another one, sweetheart,” he pants, hips snapping harder now, cock hitting so deep you swear you feel him in your fucking soul. “Wanna feel you fall apart around me. Wanna drown in it.”

You moan—high and desperate—and the pleasure crashes over you without warning.

You shatter. You scream.

Your body locks up tight, clamping around him, pulsing, milking, owning him as much as he owns you.

Remmick roars against your throat, hips jerking wildly, and then he’s spilling inside you again—hot and endless, filling you so deep you swear you can feel it leaking out around where you’re still clenching him tight.

He bites your shoulder this time—not hard enough to break skin, just hard enough to mark—and the bond howls in satisfaction, sealing it even deeper.

He doesn’t pull out. He doesn’t move.

He just lays there, trembling over you, cock still twitching inside your soaked, fluttering cunt, breath ragged against your skin.

“Mine,” he whispers again.

A vow. A sentence. A promise.

And you—You cling to him like you’ll never let go.

Because you won’t. Because you can’t. Because you’re his. Forever.

You wake in his bed.

You don't remember how you got there.

One moment, you were in the carriage, trembling and wrecked in his arms. The next, you were here—on soft linen sheets, the scent of smoke and leather and Remmick sinking into your skin with every breath you take.

It’s still dark outside. Still heavy.

Still thick with the weight of what’s been done.

The mark over your heart burns dully now, a steady throb like a brand set into your flesh. Not painful. Not exactly.

But constant.

A reminder. A tether.

You reach for him instinctively, seeking the heat of his body against yours—but find only cool sheets where he should be. You sit up, heart stuttering, chest tightening so fast and sharp it’s like you’ve been punched.

Because he’s gone.

He’s not in the bed. Not in the room.

And the bond—The bond screams.

The ache blooms under your ribs, a sick, gnawing hunger that has nothing to do with fear and everything to do with absence.

You feel wrong without him. Empty. Fractured.

You clutch the sheet to your chest, trembling. “Remmick?” you whisper into the dark.

No answer. Just the slow crackle of the fireplace across the room.

Your thighs are sticky with the remnants of him. Your body aches in places you didn’t know could ache. And still—it’s not enough.

Your body wants him back. Needs him back.

You bite your lip, rocking slightly where you sit, trying to soothe the gnawing ache, the gnashing hunger spiraling tighter inside you.

And then—

You feel him.

Not physically. Psychically.

A thread tugging between you.

You squeeze your thighs together, trying to suppress the fresh wave of heat pooling low in your belly—but it’s no use. The mark flares hot.

You whimper.

Somewhere—wherever he is—you know he feels it too.

Because a voice curls into your mind. Low. Rough. Amused. "Miss me already, little bride?"

You gasp, hands flying to your chest, clutching the mark like it might stop the flood building under your skin. “Remmick,” you whisper, voice breaking.

His laugh—low and dangerous—echoes in your mind. "Can feel ya squirm from here."

You shudder violently.

He's not even touching you—and still, he unravels you with nothing but the bond. With nothing but his voice.

"Bet yer soaked again already." "Bet yer clenchin’ that sweet cunt, achin’ for me." "Bet you’d beg real nice if I told ya to."

You whimper, rocking helplessly on the bed, the sheet sliding down your body, baring your breasts to the cold night air. You squeeze your thighs tighter—but it only makes it worse. The bond thrums between your legs like a second heartbeat, cruel and constant.

And Remmick—

Remmick drinks it in.

"Touch yerself," he murmurs in your mind, voice thick with heat and wickedness. "C’mon, sweetheart. Let me feel it."

You shake your head, trembling.

You don’t want to. You can’t. But your hand is already sliding down your belly, shaking, betraying you.

The bond rejoices.

Your fingers trail lower. Soft. Tentative. Shaking.

You’re not thinking anymore. You’re feeling.

Feeling the mark pulsing hot against your ribs, feeling the bond pulling you forward like a hook in your chest, feeling Remmick’s presence wrapped around your mind like smoke.

You part your thighs slowly, the sheet falling away completely. The cool air brushes your skin.

Your slick heat clings to your thighs. You’re already soaked for him.

And he knows it.

"Tha’s it," he drawls into your mind, voice rich with wicked satisfaction. "Good girl. Show me how much ya miss me."

Your fingers slip between your folds, gathering the mess he left inside you.

You whimper. Just from the first touch.

It’s almost too much—too raw, too sensitive—but you can’t stop. Your body won’t let you. Not when the bond is throbbing so hard it feels like a second heartbeat inside your cunt.

You circle your clit with slow, trembling motions. Your back arches. Your breath shudders. “Remmick,” you moan into the empty room, thighs trembling. You swear you can feel him groan from wherever he is—like the sound of your pleasure punches through the bond and wrecks him too.

"Sound so fuckin’ sweet when ya moan for me," he murmurs, rough and reverent. "Could listen to ya all night, little bride."

Your fingers move faster, hips lifting off the bed, chasing the friction, chasing the edge. But it’s not enough.

You whimper helplessly, frustrated tears welling in your eyes. You need him. You need more.

And he feels your desperation.

"Poor thing," he croons. "Can’t even make yerself come without me now, can ya?"

You sob out a broken little “no.”

Because it’s true. The bond won't let you. You’re too tightly strung, too deeply tethered to him. You’re trapped in a pleasure you can’t finish without his touch. Without his voice coaxing you over the edge.

And Remmick? He sounds delighted.

"Good," he growls. "You shouldn’t be able to. Yer mine now, body and soul. Only come when I say so. Only break when I make ya."

Your fingers tremble between your legs, still circling, still trying.

And then—

His voice drops into a low, filthy purr.

"Tell me what you need, sweetheart." "Tell me what you’re beggin’ for."

You choke on a sob, panting. “I—I need you,” you cry. “Please, Remmick—I need you—inside me—on me—anything—please—”

The bond tightens, wrapping around you like iron and silk all at once.

And then you feel him move.

Not just through the tether. Physically.

Heavy, sure footsteps across the wooden floorboards.

You twist on the bed, gasping, heart hammering—

And there he is. Leaning against the doorframe.

Shirtless.

Trousers unbuttoned and slung low on his hips.

Eyes glowing deep red.

Cock already hard, leaking, ready.

He licks his lips slowly, predatorily, as he watches you spread out on his bed, hand between your thighs, body trembling with the need he’s been feeding from a distance. “Aw, sweetheart," he says out loud now, voice thick with hunger, accent curling around every syllable. "Look atcha. Fallin’ apart without me."

You shudder violently, reaching out toward him, tears spilling over.

“Please.”

Remmick’s grin turns sharp. Dark.

Triumphant.

“Don’t worry, love," he purrs, crossing the room in three slow, deliberate steps. "I’m gonna take real good care of ya.” The mattress dips under his weight as Remmick climbs onto the bed.

You tremble, thighs still parted, hand still slick and shaking where he caught you mid-plea, mid-fall. But the second his body covers yours—solid, hot, real—you sob with relief.

The bond sings. Bright and brutal.

Tightening like a velvet noose around your heart, your spine, your slick aching cunt.

He hovers over you for a moment, just looking—eyes burning, mouth parted, chest rising and falling with wrecked, hungry breaths. “So fuckin’ pretty when ya beg," he murmurs, voice low and gravelly, all wicked affection. "Could watch ya cry for my cock all night."

You arch up without thinking, hands grabbing at his hips, desperate for him to move, to fill, to own you again—

But Remmick just chuckles. Slow. Dark. Cruel.

"Nuh-uh," he says, catching your wrists easily in one hand and pinning them above your head. "You wanted me, little bride. Now you’re gonna take it."

You gasp, blinking up at him, helpless under the steady weight of his body, the heat of his cock dragging against your dripping folds, heavy and leaking and so close.

He shifts his hips, just enough to tease you—rubbing the head of his cock along your slick entrance, sliding through the mess he already made of you, pressing against your clit with maddening, lazy circles.

You cry out, hips jerking.

But he doesn’t give you what you need. Not yet.

He leans down, nose brushing yours, lips ghosting over your mouth. "Patience," he murmurs, soft and deadly. "Gonna make ya feel it."

And then he moves. Slow. Devastating.

He presses inside an inch. Then stops.

You sob under him, back arching, cunt fluttering helplessly around the stretch.

Remmick groans low in his chest, forehead pressing to yours. "Christ, love," he pants. "Yer still so fuckin’ tight for me."

He pushes deeper. Another inch. Another.

Your legs wrap around his waist automatically, desperate to pull him closer, to drag him deeper, but he only smirks against your skin.

"Greedy little thing," he murmurs. "Can feel it. The way yer suckin’ me in."

You whimper, blinking up at him through a haze of need and tears. "Please," you whisper, broken.

He kisses your forehead. Then your nose. Then your trembling mouth.

"Beg prettier," he growls against your lips.

You cry out, the bond pulling tighter, demanding. "Please, Remmick," you sob. "I—I need you—need all of you—please, please, fill me up—"

And that’s what does it.

His patience breaks. With a low, snarling groan, he slams the rest of the way inside you—burying himself to the hilt in one brutal, perfect thrust.

You scream—high and raw and wrecked—as he stretches you open all over again, thick and deep and claiming.

The bond flares.

Brighter. Hotter. Tighter.

You feel him everywhere.

And he doesn’t move at first—just holds you there, trembling around him, stuffed so full you swear you can feel his heartbeat through the walls of your cunt. "That’s it," he pants against your throat. "Take it. Take all of it."

You sob, clenching around him, desperate for more, for anything, for everything.

And Remmick—Remmick fucking smiles.

"Good girl," he breathes. "My good little bride."

He holds still for just a moment longer.

Lets you feel it. The stretch. The fullness. The way your cunt pulses helplessly around him, like your body’s already trying to keep him, even before he’s started moving.

Remmick’s breath fans hot across your cheek. “You feel that, sweetheart?” he whispers, voice low, reverent. “That’s what it means to be bound.”

You moan beneath him, tears slipping down your temples into your hairline as your fingers tighten around his arms—his name clinging to your tongue like prayer, like poison, like you’d die without it.

He begins to move. Slow.

Deep.

Each thrust rolls through you like thunder, like ritual, like a man grinding his soul into yours one inch at a time. He pulls back until only the tip remains inside—then sinks in again, long and devastating, pressing into every tender spot he’s already mapped with hands, teeth, and magic.

You cry out.

The sound is wrecked. Raw.

Remmick groans into your neck. “Fuck, you sound like heaven,” he pants, thrusting again—deeper, harder, making the bed creak beneath you both. “Takin’ me so fuckin’ good. Like you were made for this.”

You nod—wild, desperate.

Because you were. Because that’s what it feels like.

You were made for him.

The bond throbs between you, singing at every point where your skin meets his—breast to chest, hips to hips, heart to heart. It doesn’t just tether. It entwines.

You feel him inside you in ways that have nothing to do with flesh—his hunger, his need, his worship burning through the tether like fire licking silk.

“Never lettin’ you go,” he murmurs, fucking you deeper now, his rhythm building. “Gonna keep you right here—under me, around me—'til you can’t remember what breathin’ feels like without my cock inside ya.”

You sob—moaning, wrecked, grateful.

He lifts your leg over his shoulder without asking, pressing deeper, grinding his hips down to fill every inch of you, dragging another scream from your throat. “That’s it,” he growls. “Squeeze me, love. Just like that. Milk me dry.”

His hand slides between your bodies, thumb circling your clit with perfect, devastating pressure, like he’s already memorized how to tear you apart.

Your back arches, vision blurring.

You’re close. So close.

Remmick feels it. Through the bond. In your body. In the way your cunt flutters, begging to break again. “Come for me,” he rasps. “Come with me inside you. Let the whole fuckin’ world know who you belong to.”

You can’t stop it. You don’t even try.

You break.

Harder than before—clenching around him, crying out his name, the bond lighting up like a wildfire behind your eyes.

Remmick groans loud and possessive above you, hips snapping hard, fast, until he’s burying himself one last time and spilling into you with a sound you’ll never forget. “Mine,” he chokes out. “Fuck—mine. Mine—”

You don’t know who’s shaking more.

Your hands. His voice. The world.

He stays inside you. Doesn’t pull out.

Just holds you. Breathes you.

Like he needs to.

The bond simmers between you, satisfied and sealed, humming like a beast at rest. You reach up, hands trembling, and cup his face.

He leans into your touch like it hurts not to. “Y’feel it now?” he whispers, barely audible. “That ache when I’m gone?”

You nod, eyes wet.

“Good,” he says. “Because I fuckin’ feel it too.”

You wake up sore.

Sweetly. Brutally. Deep in the muscles of your thighs, between your ribs, in the soft swell of your cunt—filled and used and claimed. You shift under the heavy quilt, blinking into the low golden light of the fire across the room.

There’s birdsong. Faint. And the low simmering hum of the bond still thrumming in your chest like a second heartbeat.

It’s quiet here. Peaceful, almost.

Except for the ache between your legs and the warm, terrifying weight of him behind you.

Remmick.

He’s still there.

One arm curled heavy over your waist, bare chest pressed to your spine. You feel the slow, lazy drag of his breath against your shoulder—calm and even, like a man who’s slept deeply. Like he’s sated.

He doesn’t stir when you shift slightly.

But the bond does. It tightens, warm and low, like a pulse at the base of your spine. Like a hand slipping between your thighs. Like a warning.

Don’t move. Don’t leave. You’re his.

You lie there, heart pounding quietly under his hand.

And then—

His voice. Low. Rough with sleep. Slipping against your skin like silk over a bruise. “Where d’you think yer goin’, little bride?”

You freeze.

His fingers flex over your belly, lazy but firm, tugging you back against his chest until you feel the unmistakable weight of his cock, already thick and half-hard between your thighs. He presses his face into the crook of your neck, breathing you in like he’s starving again.

“I wasn’t,” you whisper. “I wasn’t going anywhere.”

A soft, dangerous hum in your ear. “Good.”

You stay still.

The silence stretches, warm and weighted, as his hand strokes lazy circles over your stomach. He’s not trying to arouse you—not yet. Just remind you. That he’s here. That he feels you. That he owns every flutter of your heartbeat before you even register it.

“You dream last night?” he murmurs.

You swallow hard. You had.

Dreamt of him. Of his hands. His mouth. The way your legs shook when he told you to beg. The way you liked it.

“I don’t remember,” you lie softly.

Remmick laughs against your throat, lips brushing the skin he bit just hours ago. “Liar.”

His hand slides lower. But slower now. Less demanding. More like he’s testing something. Watching how your body answers to his. How the bond hums in response to every breath between you.

“You’re thinkin’ too loud,” he says, nuzzling behind your ear. “I can feel it.”

You tense. Just slightly.

His hand stills over your hips. Then his voice, softer this time. “You scared of me, love?”

The question sinks into your ribs like a needle. You’re not sure how to answer.

Yes.

And no.

And not enough.

You don't answer right away. How could you?

Your throat is tight. Your body too sore, too raw. The ache between your legs still pulses in time with the bond, and Remmick’s presence behind you—his breath on your neck, his cock hardening slowly between your thighs—makes it worse.

Makes it better. Makes it everything.

And still, that question hangs in the air like smoke:

“You scared of me, love?”

He doesn’t say it cruelly. He doesn’t laugh after. He just waits.

His hand stills on your belly, fingers splayed wide over the skin he’s already touched with tongue and teeth and blood.

You swallow hard, voice soft, barely audible.

“Yes.”

Remmick doesn’t tense. He doesn’t growl. He doesn’t punish you.

He exhales slowly through his nose, like the answer had been expected. Maybe even hoped for. “Good,” he murmurs. “Y’should be.”

You blink—heart thudding once, hard, behind your glowing mark.

His thumb strokes your stomach, just above your navel. “You should be scared,” he says again, slower this time. “I’m not a man, sweetheart. I ain’t some boy who’ll kiss your hand and promise forever under a moon I don’t get to stand under.”

He kisses your shoulder instead. Soft. Lingering.

A contradiction to the words in his mouth.

“I’m what waits under the bed,” he breathes. “What knocks at the door when you pray it won’t. What takes instead of asks.”

You shiver. Not from cold.

From the way your body doesn’t recoil.

From the way your hips push back against him without thinking.

Remmick hums against your skin. “Scared of me,” he repeats, voice lowering to a hush, “but still so wet for me you’re stickin’ to my sheets.”

You whimper, cheeks burning.

And still—he doesn’t move.

Doesn’t rut into you. Doesn’t force.

He just holds you tighter. Because this is worse than violence. Worse than taking.

This is knowing.

He feels everything. Not just your body.

Your shame. Your desire. Your ache for him.

And he loves it.

“You think I don’t feel what that fear does to ya?” he murmurs. “How it curls low in your belly, how it sweetens the way you clench when I talk like this?”

His teeth graze your throat again. Gently this time. Carefully. “You’re scared,” he says, “and still, you’d let me put a baby in you if I told you to.”

Your breath catches.

Your body answers before your voice ever could—heat surging between your legs, thighs squeezing together around nothing, cunt fluttering at the idea of it.

He feels that too.

“Ohhh,” he groans, laughing low and pleased. “There she is.”

He doesn’t rush you. Doesn’t flip you over. Doesn’t tear you open.

Doesn’t bare his teeth and fuck you through the mattress, even though you can feel how badly he wants to.

Instead—Remmick slips down your body slowly.

The quilt is pulled aside with a lazy flick of his wrist, exposing your bare skin to the cold air and to him. You shiver, more from anticipation than chill.

He kneels at the edge of the bed, dragging your hips to the edge like you’re something soft and sacred he’s about to set on fire. The bond buzzes between you, a hot, pulsing wire strung from your cunt to his mouth, taut and trembling.

You bite your lip. And you don’t dare move.

Because the look in his eyes—

Low. Hungry. Worshipful.

It pins you to the sheets like a hand to the throat.

“Still scared?” he murmurs, kissing the inside of your knee.

You nod. Barely.

He smiles. Slow. Honest. “Good. Don’t stop bein’.”

He kisses higher. The curve of your thigh. Then the crease.

Then—

Close.

Not touching. Not yet.

But watching you twitch. Watching your hips roll up in a silent, shameful plea.

Remmick groans softly. “You think that fear makes me less gentle?” he asks, voice hushed, like confession. “Nah, sweetheart. Makes me tender. Makes me want to ruin you slow.”

You gasp as he finally presses a kiss to your cunt.

Soft. Closed-mouth.

More reverent than filthy.

It’s worse than teasing. It’s adoration.

He parts you with careful fingers, breath ghosting over you until your legs shake from the not-touching, the almost, the please.

And then his tongue finds your clit.

Just once. A soft drag.

Then again. Slower. Wetter. More precise.

Your back arches off the bed.

Your hands reach for something to hold—sheets, the edge of the headboard, the carved wood posts—but Remmick grabs your thighs and holds you down.

“Mmm-mm,” he hums, tongue circling slowly. “Don’t run.”

You moan—loud, needy—and he groans in response, mouthing at you deeper, filthier, gentler.

“You taste scared,” he mutters between licks. “And it’s makin’ me hard enough to fuckin’ kill for it.”

Your legs twitch.

You’re soaked. He’s drinking you in. Taking his time, tongue slow and firm, lips wrapping around your clit like he’s savoring your fear, your sweetness, your surrender.

And still—

No rush. No cruelty. Just… devotion.

Monster-shaped.

Blood-warm.

Endless.

“You’re mine,” he murmurs against your cunt, voice almost broken. “Even when you’re shakin’. Even when you flinch. Even when you don’t fuckin’ understand what I’ve turned you into yet.”

You sob.

Because he’s right. You’re his.

Even in the fear.

Especially in the fear.

And when he sucks your clit slow and deep, the pressure spiraling out from your spine in white-hot coils, you don’t try to hide the tears.

You don’t want to anymore.

You break the second time he moans. Not from the sound alone—though it’s low and thick and filthy, vibrating through your cunt like a prayer that never belonged to God—but from the way he presses his tongue flat, dragging it slow and steady through your slick folds like he’s starving and you’re the only thing that’s ever tasted like salvation.

Your thighs tremble around his head.

You try to close them. He doesn’t let you.

Strong hands pin your legs open, thumbs digging into the meat of your thighs as he devours you—hungry, tender, relentless.

You sob. Tears spill freely now. Not from pain. Not even from overstimulation.

But from the unbearable, overwhelming worship.

He licks you like you’re sacred. He sucks your clit like it’s a rosary bead caught between his lips.

“Please—” you gasp, voice catching. “Please, I—I can’t—”

But you can. He knows you can.

“Y’can,” he growls into your cunt, mouth soaked, voice wrecked. “Y’will.”

His tongue flicks faster now, swirling pressure tight and perfect, designed to drag you toward the edge.

“Gonna come for me, little bride,” he murmurs, biting your inner thigh. “Gonna give it to me. Right fuckin’ now.”

And you do. You shatter.

The orgasm tears through you like lightning—white-hot, blinding, burning you open from the inside out. You scream his name, thighs locking around his head, body writhing, breaking.

Remmick groans like your pleasure’s feeding him, like it’s going to his head, to his cock, to the thing in him that isn’t human and never pretended to be.

You’re still shaking when he moves.

Rising up over you. Dragging his cock along your twitching folds, hard and slick and soaked with the mess you just made.

“You’re still scared,” he says, watching you with eyes too dark and too red to be anything but wrong.

You nod.

Because it’s true. Because it always will be.

And he smiles.

Soft. Loving. Terrifying.

“But you want me anyway,” he whispers, lining himself up.

Your lip trembles. “Yes.”

He kisses you.

Then pushes inside.

Not hard. Not brutal.

Just deep.

He sheaths himself in your still-pulsing cunt like he belongs there. Like the bond’s waiting to welcome him back.

You cry out, arms wrapping around his shoulders, clinging to him like you might fall through the bed otherwise.

Remmick groans, low and aching, forehead pressed to yours. “That’s my girl,” he breathes. “Takin’ me even when you’re scared. Clenchin’ like you don’t ever wanna let go.”

He starts to move.

Slow. Rhythmic. Ruinous.

And you sob against his mouth—not because it hurts. But because you’ve never felt so full of something you’ll never understand.

“Say it,” he pants, each thrust dragging a cry from your throat. “Say the fear don’t matter. Not if it’s me.”

You nod, dizzy and wrecked, tears slipping down your cheeks.

“It doesn’t,” you whisper. “Not if it’s you.”

Remmick groans, fucking into you harder now, the bond singing through your bones. “That’s it,” he growls. “That’s mine. All of it. All of you.”

You nod again.

You don’t fight. You don’t flinch. You give in.

You don’t know how long he stays inside you.

Could be minutes. Could be hours. Could be forever.

Time doesn’t work the same anymore. Not when your body is bonded to his. Not when your soul is stitched to something ancient and starving.

He holds you through every aftershock. His hands stroke your skin as if memorizing the shape of you, the feel of you, the way your body softened under his until it didn’t know where it ended and he began. Eventually, he moves—slowly, gently, as if reluctant to leave the heat of you even for a moment.

You expect him to pull out and clean you, maybe carry you to a bath, maybe tuck you against his chest again and fall into that peaceful quiet you’d been drifting in before.

But instead—He kneels between your thighs.

Again.

Eyes glowing in the low firelight. Expression unreadable. Mouth blood-red and reverent.

“Remmick?” you whisper.

And then you see it.

His knife.

The blade is old. Dark. Iron and bone. Etched with something that moves if you look too long.

He doesn’t raise it. Not yet.

He looks at you with the kind of stillness that makes you forget how to breathe. “I need to finish it,” he says.

You blink. “I thought we already did.”

He tilts his head, eyes trailing down your sweat-slick body, pausing at the faint glow of the mark over your heart. “Nah, love,” he says quietly. “We did the binding. The claiming. The taking.”

He presses the knife to his palm.

“But not the keeping.”

He slices. Clean. No flinch. Blood wells thick and slow from the cut, dark and rich and wrong.

You sit up slightly, heart pounding.

He holds his hand out to you. “Drink,” he says.

You stare. Then whisper, “Why?”

His voice doesn’t shake. It never does.

“Because this world don’t care what I’ve claimed.” “Because someone’ll try to take you from me.” “Because I need them to know you’re mine before they even open their mouth.”

Your breath catches. “Remmick…”

“They’ll smell it on ya. Feel it in your blood. The burn of me, buried under your skin. It’ll make ‘em hesitate. Make ‘em hurt when they touch you.”

You swallow hard.

Your legs are still trembling from his last claiming. You can feel his seed still dripping from you. You can feel his breath in your lungs, the bond in your spine, his mark over your heart.

And still—he wants more.

You crawl toward him. Hands shaking. And press your lips to his palm.

The taste is sharp. Sweet. Thick with something that isn’t just blood.

Power.

Magic.

Hunger older than this country, older than the woods, older than God.

Remmick groans low in his throat, watching you lap at the wound like you’re starved for it.

Maybe you are. Maybe you always have been.

When you’ve had your fill, he pulls you up into his lap, cradling you there like a bride carried across a threshold made of ash and bone. His mouth finds your throat again. Kisses it. “I’ll kill for you,” he whispers. “I’ll burn for you.”

You press your forehead to his. “I know.”

“I’ll never let you go.”

“I don’t want you to.”

His arms tighten around you. One hand slides over your belly. The mark is glowing again. Dimmer, but pulsing steady. “You’ll carry my blood now,” he says, voice soft and ruined. “One day you’ll carry more.”

You don’t answer. You don’t need to.

The bond answers for you.

You are his.

Forever.

Not because he took. But because you gave.

Because when the dark came knocking—when it whispered promises of pleasure and fear and ruin—

You opened the door. You bared your throat.

You said yes.

And now, when they speak of the bloodbound bride of the most dangerous vampire in the Delta, they won’t whisper in pity.

They’ll whisper in awe.

Because you didn’t run. You didn’t cry. You stayed.

And when they ask you why—if you’re ever foolish enough to speak to mortals again—you’ll say the only truth that matters anymore.

“I was scared.”

And then, with a smile, with teeth, with Remmick’s fire burning behind your ribs—

“But I loved him more.”

#bloodbound and bimbo-fied #ritual sacrifice but she's kinda into it #the mark on her chest is glowing and so is her coochie #sinners 2025 #sinners au #sinners fic #remmick #remmick x reader #sinners remmick #jack o'connell

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xavierfan · 4 months ago

Note

more bre3ding/cr3amp1e p-links pls 🫣

warnings: sexual content below! p-links and sexually explicit descriptions are in this post

i genuinely don't know what to say anymore but this is sylus. on everyone's soul, THIS IS SYLUS

this one too

this too

sylus likes to fuck his seed back into you himself, he does so quite softly. it's an extremely intimate act when he does it, he's gentle and slow, and it's really not about possession to him. he just likes it— the warmth, the slickness, the sound, and the lewdness of it all.

> heavy breeding kink with no hints of possessiveness, he straight up just wants you to have his kid idfk. he would definitely say stuff like, "you're going to make a wonderful mother to our kids." / "kitten, one day you're going to get pregnant and i'm going to be so lucky." / "fuck, kitten, you want me to fuck my cum back into you, right? you want me to get you pregnant, right?"

idk why but this one gives me a caleb vibes

this one is also him

this one too

this too 😭😭😭

i keep adding caleb links im tweaking

caleb really enjoys watching his cum leak out of you. he would tease you, "pipsqueak, you're wasting it", as he just watches you squirm. to him, this is something akin to 'marking' you, walking up behind you later while out talking about, "think you're still leaky, pip."

> he's also probably got a crazy breeding kink mixed with a little —or a lot— bit of crazy obsession idfk, shit like "when your belly gets big, everyone's going to know who you belong to" / "one day i'm gonna get you pregnant" / "you'd look so good carrying my child, pips" / "if you let it all out, you'll hurt my feelings pips."

i think rafayel kind of goes feral once you let him cum in you... like he just keeps going idk

teasing him

rafayel is less breeding kink more crazy about you. loves anything to do with you, sex is not an exception, and he puts you on a pedestal a little differently to the rest of the boys. a bit like a mutt, you let him cum in you and suddenly he can't stop rutting into you, trying to chase another high.

> less breeding kink, more pathetic subby male who is so fucking excited to be fucking you. "fuck. fuck. fuck. 'm gonna cum again, please? please let me keep going?" / "princess, you feel soo good, please." / "princess, i'm sorry, let's keep going..." / "i'll be so good for you, princess, let me keep going."

sorry i know you specifically asked for breeding and i know this isn't but it still has cum ...

this is also zayne idk

zayne....

zayne rarely ever finishes inside of you, citing that it's not good for you, but that doesn't mean he doesn't want to. idk how to explain it, he doesn't let himself finish inside of you because he's worried he'll lose self control.

> heavily likes the idea of breeding, like it probably takes everything in his body to not ram into you as he feels his balls squeeze, probably in your ear talking about "you'd look so beautiful pregnant." / "want to start a family with you." / "one day i'm going to get you pregnant, no need to worry." / "if you keep asking me to cum in you, i just might one day..."

i think xavier would like you fucking yourself with his cum... like shoving anything that comes out back inside

this one too

anotha one

xavier just wants to watch your fingers plug your hole up to prevent any more spillage. it brings a smile to his face to see how desperate you are to keep all of his seed inside of you, it probably gets him hard all over again prompting him to say something like, "don't worry, there's more where that came from."

> no specific breeding kink per say but likes the possessive element of pregnancy like caleb, "they'll know what we get up to at night." / "maybe when you're pregnant he'll stop coming up to you" / "want everyone to know how good you make me feel every night"

notes : i couldnt find that many links 😭😭😭 i've been searching all day so i'm sorry anon... pls forgive me... i hope the little blurbs makeup for the lack of links :(

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katsukilvr · 10 days ago

Text

everyone else thought you and katsuki bakugo were dating except you guys ༄ fluff, oblivious bakugo and reader, swearing, slight angst, kinda corny lol

you were a staple in katsuki bakugo’s life.

your moms were bestfriends, and they had you both at relatively the same time so you were there before he built his walls, before his ego skyrocketed, before his quirk developed, and you became as natural as the hair on his head and the explosions from his hands.

he learnt to respect you. to treat you with kindness cause when he eventually did test you in middle school, he learned how it felt to not be in your presence for once.

safe to say it was hell.

he had yelled at you, he had a bad day, his friends bothering him, drowning in homework, and training for the entrance exam when he snapped at you and dismissed you away like he did with his usual friends that just followed him around like little puppies.

he quickly learned that you weren’t gonna beg for his forgiveness like the others.

you went distant after that. you didn’t reach out, didn’t say hello the sing-songy way you did every time you saw him, didn’t come over, and suddenly his heart ached. he didn’t know why. it was a strange and unknown feeling and all he knew was your absence was causing this emotion. this weird, yearning emotion, and he knew he’d do anything to get rid of it and get back the bubbly girl he knew.

he came to this realization at 8PM. it was raining. he didn’t care. you guys were neighbors anyway. he quickly threw on a jacket, putting on his hoodie and shoes, running over to your two story house. your bedroom was on the second story but it had a tree next to your window and he often scaled it to hang out or sneak you out, except this time he didn’t like the reason he was climbing it. he got cuts on his hands, almost slipping and falling two stories as he managed to reach your window, tapping on the glass lightly as he peered inside.

“cmon y/n. open up.” he called out, tapping a little harder before you came to the window, opening it up.

“what do you want?” you said, your once warm and gentle voice now cold and distant while you crossed your arms, a displeased and annoyed expression on your face.

“please.. just let me in.. and hear me out.” he said gruffly, already climbing inside, knowing you’d let him in anyway. “i was.. i was being an asshole. i’m sorry. you don’t have to forgive me, but—i miss you goddamnit and i don’t like not being with you everyday.” he muttered, the words feeling weird on his tongue. he’d never apologized to anybody else other than his mother and it was a rather foreign feeling, but he’d say and do anything to get you back.

you stayed silent, contemplating as you looked up at him. you knew how hard it was for him to apologize, let alone come here and speak to you instead of letting you crawl back to him. you just sighed, pulling him in for a hug, immediately getting wet from his soaked clothes.

he let out air he didn’t know he was holding, a sigh of relief, his hand immediately finding a place in your hair, his arms wrapped around you. god knows how good it felt to have you there, in his arms, with him like you should be.

after that day, he never disrespected you again.

he never realized what that feeling was, what love was, because yeah, he loved his mom, he loved his dad, but it was an entirely different feeling with you that he didn’t recognize.

additionally, he always thought romance were silly. he never understood romcoms, shipping in shows, soulmates, stories about ‘the one’, and so and so forth. it was always his one and only goal. being the number one hero. so he convinced himself, over and over again, that love wasn’t for him, that it was a distraction, an obstacle that would try to take him down. completely oblivious to his love in front of him all his life.

the years that followed, he’d grown more, emotionally, physically, and maturely too. he was still loud, rude, ill mannered, but he recognized how his words and actions affected others, partly due to you as well. you were the only one that could keep him in line while at UA.

of course, all you friends noticed that too. they noticed when he’d hold the door open for you without you asking. when you were the only person he’d walk to class with. when you’d always partner together during class projects. and when the dorms were enforced, he even requested to be next to you, like how your houses were next to each other. it was rare to see him in his own dorm, since he was always in yours, even if you weren’t in it, he just enjoyed being there.

so it was a shock when you told mina that no, you weren’t dating, and no, you hadn’t put him under a love spell like that girl from descendants.

“he is SO in love with you, y/n, how do you not see it?” she cried, giggling a bit as she laid down on your bed as you guys gossiped. it was a rainy night, katsuki was training in the gym, the one time he’s not glued to your hip. so you, mina, and jirou all had a girls night in. you guys talked, watched movies, and ate food. somehow you guys got to the topic of guys when mina asked you how long you and katsuki had been together.

you were immediately confused. “together? what do you mean?” you laughed, looking at the both of them look at each other. “how long have you been dating?” jirou repeated mina’s question.

“we’re not dating.”

they both gasped, “what do you mean your not dating? he’s SO nice to you.” mina exclaimed, giggling as she moved to lay on her stomach, her head resting on her hands. “yeah, he scowled at me and gave me a dirty look today just for laughing too loud and you tease and make fun of him and get nothing but a lil’ smile.” jirou said and laughed, rolling her eyes.

“well that’s just how he usually acts” you murmured, thinking back to the years before, “do you think he likes me?” you gasp, furrowing your eyebrows.

mina and jirou face palm, “girl.. yes.” they laughed and shook their head.

that’s when they all heard keys jangling and the lock unlocking (yeah he has a key to your dorm, and you have a key to his). “y/n, where’s my copy of—..” he said before being met with the stares of the three girls. he furrowed his brows, a strange look on his face, giving them only a nod as a hello as he moved to search through her drawers for a copy of NANA that he let you borrow.

the girls giggled behind him, mouthing “speak of the devil” and wiggling their eyebrows. you just rolled your eyes, dismissing them.

they both left quickly after with their own excuses, leaving you and katsuki alone. he finally found his copy, moving to your bed and plopping down next to you. “what was that about?” he said, opening up the manga. you rested your legs on his, and he started to trace his fingers up and down them as he read. “oh.. uh nothing. just a girls day.” you said, picking up your phone. you didn’t know why, but you’d gotten goosebumps. you never got goosebumps when katsuki touched you. or got close to you. damnit mina, why’d you get in my head? did katsuki like you? or was this normal between the two of you?

thoughts like that raced through your mind for the next few days.

you saw him in a new light, a beautiful.. handsome, kind of light.

every gruff “this reminded me of you”, everytime he came over, every time you guys went out to eat, or when he’d buy you those shoes you wanted in an instant, had your heart fluttering more often and he sensed this change, while he didn’t know it was you slowly catching feelings for him, he thought he did something wrong, and he went to his best friend (besides you).

he was pacing around in kirishimas room, running a hand through his hair as he ran through the reasons he could have pissed you off. it’s not like you’ve been distant but everytime he’d do something nice, you acted different and had him overthinking. A LOT.

“shit. i don’t know what i could’ve done to tick her off man, i dunno.” he grumbled, sitting down on the edge of kirishimas bed. “why don’t you just talk to her, man?” kirishima said, furrowing his brow as he organized stuff in his room. “it shouldn’t be hard to talk to your girlfriend, man, me n mina talk about our feelings all the time.” he explained further, glancing at his distressed friend when he suddenly looked up at kirishima. “girlfriend? she’s not my girlfriend idiot.” he grumbled, his head still in his hands. kirishimas eyes widened quickly, before returning to normal. he paused his task, sitting next to katsuki.

“she’s not?”

“no.” katsuki mumbled, his distress turning into confusion. “what makes you think that?” he said, scowling at kirishima.

“you treat her like royalty, man, you look at her like she hung the moon.” kirishima laughed, shaking his head, “you treat her better than most guys treat their wives.” he said, looking at the floor.

“well.. that’s just.. i don’t know. i’m used to it. she deserves it, yknow?” bakugo muttered out, sort of speechless. “i’ve treated her like that since we were in diapers, kiri.” he scoffed, running his hands through his hair. “well why?” his friend said, looking at bakugo. “well this one time, we got into a fight, a while back, and she didn’t talk to me for a fucking week.” he said gruffly, almost paining him to even think about that event. “it was horrible, i would’ve done anything for her back.. that’s when i knew i couldn’t lose her again.” he said, shaking his head, meeting his friends eyes.

“is it possible you like her?”

bakugo furrowed his eyebrows, slowly connecting the dots. like her? he scoffed, thinking about it for a second.

“i mean.. i love mina. i’d do anything for her, genuinely. she’s my world. it was love at first sight, bro. i think she’s the one.” kirishima said and laughed softly, shaking his head, “like my safe space. i wanna be with her all the time, yknow?” he explained further, “do you feel that way about y/n?” he asked, glancing towards bakugo.

oh.

he was silent. putting together the dots, connecting the puzzle pieces. he considered himself smart. he always did. but how could he be this dumb? this oblivious? he always felt that way towards you.

he nodded, sighing as he stood up. “i gotta go.” he grumbled, grabbing his bag and waving bye to his friend. he practically ran to his dorm, needing space. needing time to think.

should he push this feeling away? would it affect his career? many pro heroes have wives.. but all might didn’t, and he was the greatest. what would he even do about this? he didn’t know jack about romance. and did you even like him back?

that question stilled his spiraling mind.

did you like him back?

how could he know? your bubbly with everyone, too fucking chatty with icy-hot. you give that stupid beautiful smile to every stranger that passes and you ramble to anybody that would listen… was he as special to you as you were to him?

this had him faltering in classes, in training. he could not take his mind off it. off you. he over analyzed everything. every smile, every touch, every word that hung off your lips had captivated him.

he was tired of this. he didn’t wanna keep worrying. he didn’t wanna overthink for days. he was gonna ask you out. he was katsuki bakugo, goddamnit. he already knew what you liked, what flowers were your favorite, your favorite color, places that’d take your breath away, etc. he had planned the dream date, so why was he so nervous?

he ended up coming over, asking to hangout. you guys normally did, but he was extra jittery, extra sweaty, more than he usually was, which is a lot coming from him since his quirk was basically sweating. he stuttered more, was silent more which made you confused, suspicious even. mina had told you to get pretty today, have your nails done, your hair done, so you were already on edge.

either way, you had a great time, you laughed a lot, fleeting touches made you flustered, and butterflies stirred in your stomach. by the end of the night, he took you by a lake next to the school and you squinted at something you saw in the distance.

were those candles? a picnic blanket? a basket?

“kats? what’s that? do you see it?” you laughed, wondering why you guys were walking there. until it clicked, it was for you. you blushed lightly, looking around at what he set up. he had your favorite flowers, chocolates, new shoes, and food.

he was behind you when he spoke up, clearing his throat. “i.. uh.. this is for you.” he grumbled lowly. “i’ve liked you for a while, y/n.” he said, laughing nervously. “your fuckin’ beautiful, and funny, and i’d do anything for you.” he said, taking a step closer, looking down at you.

butterflies swarmed in your stomach, you were suddenly nervous and laughing, you couldn’t stop smiling.

“will you be my girlfriend?” he murmured, cupping your face in his hand. this was out of character for him. he didn’t know what he was doing, he hoped his hand wasn’t too sweaty, he hoped you didn’t notice his hand shaking, or his heart pounding in his chest.

you nodded, “yes.” you smiled softly, stepping closer and when you said yes, it felt like the weight of the world was lifted off his shoulders. he leaned in closer, not wanting to make you uncomfortable he spoke up, “can i kiss you?” he said, letting out a small chuckle. you nodded and he leaned in, his other hand coming up to cup your face as well as you kissed. you both were inexperienced, but you didn’t care because it felt right. it felt right to hold him closer, to rake your hand through his hair, to kiss until you ran out of breath and when you did, he whispered something against your lips.

“i cant believe i waited this long to make you mine.”

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on-my-vigilante-sht · 6 months ago

Text

Forgiveness

Cregan Stark x Reader

Summary: Cregan begs for his wife’s forgiveness when he accidentally injures her.

Warning: no use of y/n, dirty talk/mentions of smut, injuries, i'm pretty sure that's it

Word Count: 2.3k

Masterlist

Cregan sat in his study, buried in letters and decrees that claimed they required the utmost attention. They all said that even if they truly did not require that level of priority. However, everyone wanted their Lord’s approval and signature, leaving him to sort through what was a priority and what could wait. In some ways he missed the war, at least he was fighting and protecting his realm then. He felt like a true lord then. Now, he may as well be a bureaucrat locked in some tower of the Red Keep, imprisoned by his own position.

As he moved on to some sort of land dispute, there was a harsh knock on his door. “Enter,” he called, not even looking up.

The large, heavy door swung open, revealing a guard. “Lady Stark, my lord,” he announced.

Interest piqued, Cregan looked up just in time to see the guard step aside, revealing his lady wife. Without having to be dismissed, the man exited, shutting the door behind him to leave the couple alone.

“I haven’t seen you all day,” his wife explained her presence, approaching his desk.

For the first time that day, the Warden of the North took a break from his work, setting his quill down and leaning back in his seat. Sparing a glance out the window, he realized that it was dark. It had only been mid-afternoon when he sat down to begin his bureaucratic duties. “I suppose you’re right,” he confirmed, recalling that he had gently pressed a kiss against his sleeping wife’s head when he woke before disappearing for the day.

Opening his arms, he invited her to approach. Taking his cue, the lady of the north took a seat on his lap, easily slotting into his body. It was a well known fact that the Lord and Lady of Winterfell were unusually affectionate for a pairing of such high status. Typically, love was reserved for those who did not marry for status, or for extramarital affairs. But it seemed the Stark couple had been quite lucky in their match.

“The day has ended, we should go to bed,” Cregan’s wife asked in a soft voice, her fingers trailing through the hair she swept away from his face.

He smiled, finding his tension soothed by her mere presence. “Aye, I wish that I could but this has to be done,” he sighed, gesturing to his desk still covered in documents.

Observing all the work, the lady sighed, leaning her head against her husband’s for a moment. “But you, my lord, are the Warden of the North. Who is to tell you when things must be done?” she asked suggestively, knowing what calling him ‘my lord,’ did to her husband.

Cregan let out the faintest growl, wanting to dive into his wife right there but he restrained himself. “Why I thought that was your job,” he teased.

Fortunately, she laughed, throwing her head back in a way that made Cregan want to mark her neck in the way he so loved. “Please,” she dismissed, “I can hardly get my own husband into bed. How can I tell you what to do?”

He chuckled. “Fortunately for no one, my discipline is strong enough to withstand your temptations. Although, I admit they are barely capable. I swear to you,” he began, gently lifting his wife from his lap, “that I will be in our chambers within the next hour,” he said, eyes flickering to the candle on his desk that was nearly at its end. “I expect you to be ready for me,” he uttered darkly.

His wife blushed like it was their wedding night again, despite hearing far more vulgar things from her husband. “And how shall you expect me?” she asked teasingly.

Cregan bit his lip. As adorable as he found his wife when she was shy and coy at the mere inclination of sex, he loved when she was daring and teasing. He thought for a moment, staying silent for longer than necessary only to create an illusion for his wife. “Naked. On our bed. With your fingers between your legs.”

Once again Cregan found himself locked away in his office, buried in endless paperwork. He was deeply entrenched in some matter of land disputes when the door suddenly burst open. Cregan looked up in astonishment, his mouth open to reprimand them for their dismissal of protocol.

“My apologies, my lord,” the out of breath guard interrupted. “But a wildling has attempted to enter Winterfell. Says he wants to be a southerner, like us.”

Cregan quirked a brow, utterly confused as to why this required so much urgency and why someone had dared call him a southerner. “And why does this require so much urgency that you have broken protocol?”

“The gatesmaster believes this may be some sort of ruse to breach the walls of Winterfell.”

Cregan nodded, standing up. As he exited his office, he found a group of guards standing outside, seemingly waiting to follow them outside. He did not say anything about the waste of manpower at his door but headed outside. “Which gate was it?” he asked.

“The north gate,” his guard answered.

Nodding, the Warden of the North headed out to the northern courtyard. As he exited the walls of the keep, he intended to greet the gatesmaster who stood talking to another sentry. But catching sight of the supposed wildling made him freeze. Standing there by the gate was a disheveled man, looking as if he had spent his entire life in the woods. And talking to him, unguarded, was the Lady of Winterfell.

Cregan abandoned his path towards his gatemaster to get his wife away from the wildling. Who would have possibly thought it would be wise to leave both the wildling and his wife unguarded, even more so to let them meet? He was not thinking clearly as he reached the pair, grabbing his wife’s arm to wrench her away from the vile man before her. He must have pulled harder than intended because she let out a yelp as he did so. Still, he did not comprehend it as he whirled around to face his men, still clutching her arm.

“Who left them unguarded?” he demanded, his voice booming so loud it silenced the entire courtyard. He watched in rage as the crowd of men all sent glances to one another.

The spell was only broken by his wife’s cry. “Cregan, you’re hurting me,” he heard his wife whimper. Finally looking at her, he realized just how tightly he was gripping her arm. He relaxed his grip a bit, but still held on tight enough to push her so she stood in front of him, making himself a barrier between her and the wildling. She let out another cry as he jerked her, her free hand reaching for the hand clutched around her arm. She grabbed his wrist in a futile attempt to get him to let go. “Cregan, let go,” she cried again.

Seeing his wife’s face twisted in pain, the Lord of Winterfell realized what he had done. Quickly, he released his grasp, her arm falling into her own grasp. The cold air that whipped through Winterfell became biting as Cregan watched his wife cradle her arm against her chest, backing away from him as if he were the threat. As she backed up toward a guard, gesturing for him to escort her away, Cregan’s heart broke as he realized that in that moment, she felt safer with a guard than with him.

His jaw clenched as he leveled a glare to the men that had followed him, realizing that they had all run to tell him what was happening rather than do their actual jobs. He turned to his gatesmaster who had approached them by now, the few guards who had remained now taking hold of the wildling. “Take him to the dungeons I will deal with him later,” he gestured to the potential threat. “As to this lot, see to it they have nights watch for the next week.” He leveled one last glare at the group of men before heading back inside, intent on finding his wife.

Cregan was already planning his apology to his wife as he reached the hall that housed their chambers. As he walked down the hall, the guard that had escorted her earlier exited his chambers before taking his post just outside the door, sparking some level of unfounded jealousy.

As Cregan walked up to the door, the guard gave him a slight bow. “My lord,” he greeted. He did not reply, simply continuing toward the door, waiting for the guard to open it. But rather, he just spoke again, “The lady has asked me to inform you that she wishes to be left alone.”

Cregan stopped, looking incredulously at the guard. His words stung to hear. He had sworn an oath to protect his wife and had promised her parents that he would be a good husband and never hurt her. Yet here he stood, being barred from his wife by her own wish, with a man of his employ guarding her against him. The sentry looked deeply uncomfortable under his lord’s glare. He truly wanted to honor the wishes of his liege lady but her husband’s orders came first. Reluctantly he reached over, opening the door for the Lord of Winterfell.

Satisfied with his influence, Cregan strolled into his chambers, intending to begin the apology when he stopped short upon seeing the room empty. He turned to look at the guard as if to ask where his wife was. “Some maids escorted her to the maesters,” he informed nervously.

Cregan leveled yet another glare at the man before clenching his jaw and exiting the room, storming towards the maester. As the lord of Winterfell left, his guard briefly considered alternative employment.

Although Cregan had stormed towards the maester’s turret throughout Winterfell, he slowed as he approached the structure. Despite the guards posted outside holding the door open for him, he paused before the building, taking a breath. His wife’s scared expression flashed through his mind and that was a sight he never wanted to see again, yet he knew he would never forget it. The image made all the rage evaporate from him as he slowly entered the turret.

Ascending the stairs, he reached the healing room that he had often visited as a boy. Always having his training injuries and general wounds of boyhood treated here. Sat on the bench in only her shift and skirts was Cregan’s wife, having her arm bandaged in a way that held it to her chest, just as she had chosen to hold it.

Maester Kennet noticed the lord first, slowly halting his movements to look at the man. His wife turned to see the reason for the maester’s pause. She turned, finding her husband standing at the top of the stairs looking like a hollow version of himself. His face looked crestfallen as if he were informing them of a death.

Before she could snub him with a turned gaze, Cregan fell to a knee, his head bowed. “My lady, I truly do wish to apologize to you. I truly never meant to harm you,” he began, his voice dripping with a desire to be believed. “I swore an oath to protect you, as that was all I was trying to do. But instead, I hurt you, and that is a failure I will carry with me until my grave. I understand if you are unable to forgive me, I was being brash and absentminded. But all I ask is that I may be near you.” He looked up slowly, meeting his wife’s gaze. He could not read anything from it aside from pain.

Cregan had felt the pain of wounds of war before, but nothing hurt more than when his wife turned to look at Maester Kennet. But she only whispered a dismissal before looking back to her husband again. Cregan stood eagerly as the man’s hands gently left his wife’s shoulder before he approached his lord. The aging man paused beside Cregan, patting his shoulder momentarily before continuing down the stairs, leaving the couple in privacy.

Cautiously, Cregan approached his lady, once again crouching before her. “I truly am sorry,” he repeated. His wife said nothing as her gaze fell to her lap. But she turned her non-bound hand over in her lap, inviting his hand in hers. Cregan took it eagerly, his other hand going to her face to brush her hair aside as he gently grasped it. “I love you,” he breathed.

“I love you too,” she cried, falling into him. Cregan caught her, careful of her shoulder as he held her close, even pressing a kiss to the injured area as if promising to care for her.

He continued to hold her and continued to apologize. “I truly did not intend to harm you. I just saw you standing with that wildling, unguarded and all I knew was that I had to get you away from him.”

A comforting hand in his hair soothed him, halting his words. “I know,” she assured. “Maester Kennet explained why you were so upset. I apologize for not being more cautious. I just felt he was being treated unjustly.”

Cregan pulled away only enough to look at his wife, nodding in understanding. “You have a large heart,” he commended. “And it is my job to protect it. Sometimes I get carried away with it.”

The lady smiled, “Well I don’t suppose I can fault you for that.”

Cregan smiled at her forgiveness, once again holding her close. With all forgiven, he gained a teasing lilt to his voice. “Did you send that guard to our chambers to intentionally mislead me?”

“Perhaps,” she agreed, the teasing lilt finding her voice as well. But she attempted to distract from it with a stroke against his back. “I was quite irritated with you.” Cregan just chucked, the rumble of his laugh soothing his wife as they fell back into normalcy.

Masterlist

#x reader #game of thrones #game of thrones x reader #got #got x reader #house of the dragon #house of the dragons x reader #hotd #hotd x reader #cregan #cregan stark #cregan x reader #cregan stark x reader

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kunareads · 1 month ago

Text

brat | track one

360

producer!suguru x popstar!reader

prev / next series masterlist / full masterlist

wc: 2k

content: smut, fluff, smau / exhibitionism (concealed in a public setting), fingering, drug/alcohol use, ambiguous relationship status / a little scene-setting before we get into it next chapter :)

taglist is closed! 18+ please <3

Variety — YEAR OF THE BRAT: SUGURU GETO AND YN HAVE THE INDUSTRY IN A HEADLOCK (AND THEY’RE LAUGHING ABOUT IT)

Vulture — INSIDE THE CULT OF YN AND GETO: WHY EVERYONE’S COPYING THE CHAOS

The Cut — THE ART OF BEING WATCHED: THE ROLLOUT THAT TOOK OVER YOUR TIMELINE

[ seven days, 14 hours to drop ]

you’re chewing gum when you walk in.

the meeting room is glass-walled, over-lit, aggressively air-conditioned. it smells like money and emails. a brand director is mid-slide, gesturing at a screen filled with words like reach and multi-platform ecosystem. someone else chimes in about vertical integration.

suguru trails two steps behind you with half a croissant in his hand, headphones slung around his neck. he doesn’t say a word—just drops into the chair beside yours and opens his laptop as if the room isn’t full of people.

you don’t take your sunglasses off. their fault for lighting the place like an interrogation chamber.

“the aim is cultural virality,” someone says. “we’re thinking cross-brand utility meets niche rebellion.”

you blink slowly. blow a bubble. pop it.

“is there a slide where you tell us what the fuck that means?”

suguru doesn’t look up, but he does smirk beside you—the silent, crooked kind he gives you when he thinks you’re being mean on purpose. (you are.)

a younger exec tries to pivot. “no, like—we just want to elevate your image without diluting the—”

“please don’t say authenticity.” you cross your legs. “i’ll have to light myself on fire.”

[ six days, 12 hours to drop ]

@/cultyn (instagram post) 📸 : your silhouette behind a sheer curtain with silver tinsel, suguru’s tattooed hand pulling the curtain aside. 💬 : countdown in bio. don’t be late ⏳

@/cultgeto (instagram post) 📸 : same as yours. 💬 : it begins 🔄 360 video friday

[ four days, 22 hours to drop ]

you feel it before you name it—that warm, sparkling edge of visibility. the music’s perfect. the lights are forgiving. everyone’s looking, seeing exactly what you want them to.

but the only eyes that matter are fixed on you from a corner—suguru, legs spread and an arm slung over the back of the couch like the section belongs to him. (it does.)

he waits.

you let it build. air-kiss people you barely remember. twirl a girl’s hair between your fingers, whispering something that makes her giggle. lean into camera flashes, catching light in your earrings, your clothes, your teeth.

and when you’re satisfied, you cross the floor, hips swinging like a threat, and slot yourself between his knees. he leans back and gives you that look—somewhere between dare and devotion.

“having fun?” he asks, amused.

you straddle his thigh without answering. your skirt rides higher, his eyes drop lower. instead of stopping you, he grabs his jacket from the seat and drapes it over your bare shoulders—possession dressed as modesty.

“so fucking spoiled,” he mutters, more observation than complaint. like he’s proud. like he made you this way on purpose.

you roll your hips once. then again, slower, dirtier. a palm settles on your ass to guide you, not stop you. his show now, not yours. every grind hits harder as you fall into the rhythm he sets.

he takes your drink, downs it in one swallow, sets the glass aside. you watch his throat work before that same hand trails condensation up your thigh and under your skirt.

you’re slick through your panties.

“you’re such a fucking handful,” he says with a smirk, planting kisses from your cheek to your jaw. his voice is hot in your ear, close enough to catch between beats. “you know that?”

you tilt your head, feigning innocence. “wanted you to touch me.”

his smirk deepens when you slide your knees wider on the seat for him. he shifts your panties aside and sinks two fingers in.

your mouth drops open as he sets a pace. you arch into him automatically, grinding harder, already after something without permission. his palm presses over your clit with every thrust. it’s sloppy—shallow breath, parted lips, heavy eyelids.

you try to keep the rhythm, to stay composed, but his fingers work in time with the music, eyes pinned to your face. he kisses you when he catches it—the split second where it stops being teasing and starts being need.

“breathe.”

your hips stutter, the warning landing between your lungs and your legs.

“you’re gonna cum too fast.”

you nod, or shake your head—you don’t know. you ignore him like you always do, desperate now, chasing it like you’re not surrounded by strangers. if anyone’s watching, suguru’s already made sure they can’t see anyway.

“you wanna be fucked on this couch in front of everyone?” he asks, voice dropping to something fond and a little mean. “or are you gonna behave?”

you don’t answer. can’t. your forehead drops to his shoulder, breath hitching as his cologne fills your senses. you’re right on the edge—

“i know, baby.” he murmurs it like a spell, dragging his thumb up your clit. “i know. make a mess if you need to.”

you cum on his hand like it was his idea. like you didn’t start the whole thing in the first place.

he keeps you there, fingers still inside, letting you come apart in pieces on top of him. your hips twitch and you whimper into his throat, melting against him. he lets you ride it out. lets your slick flood over his fingers and down his hand, then pulls out slowly. tucks your panties back into place too carefully for what just happened.

then he brings one finger to his mouth, licking it clean. he offers the other to you, and you take it like you always do—lips parted, tongue out, wrapping around him slow in the way you know drives him insane. you suck, humming low in your throat like a thank you.

you start to lift your head, suddenly aware of where you are and the fact that the song’s changed twice, but a hand finds the back of your neck, grounding you as he kisses your temple.

“not yet,” he murmurs. “you’re okay.”

so you exhale and let yourself sink into him fully. your cheek pressed to his chest, his arm snug around your waist, jacket still warm over your shoulders. the music keeps playing and the lights keep shifting, but for a few more seconds, you stay where you are.

[ four hours to drop ]

you’re twenty-five minutes late and only partially dressed when you go live.

you rarely do interviews separately. don’t take meetings separately either, unless you’re trying to scare someone. livestreams are the same—it’s him or nothing.

suguru stands behind you, black shirt half-buttoned with the sleeves rolled up. he’s halfway through lacing your corset, rings flashing as he works the ribbon like he’s tying a gift.

“i told you to start getting ready two hours ago,” he mutters, eyes on his hands.

“you did,” you agree with a nod, squinting at the phone propped against the hotel mirror. the chat scrolls too fast to follow, but you catch a few:

SUGURU HANDS WATCHERS STAND UP he’s doing it wrong but like… sexy?? she’s so calm i would be screaming and crying and biting

“chat says you’re doing it wrong.”

“chat can’t get you out of a corset with one hand,” he deadpans, not even looking up.

you seal the joint in your hands with a slow press of your tongue, dragging it across the paper like you know he’s watching. (he is. he always is.)

he finishes with a final tug, knotting the ribbon tight and smoothing the laces like he’s proud of himself. his fingers trail down your spine in a lazy line as he kisses your bare shoulder once, soft and thoughtless.

the lighter clicks. you inhale, exhale. watch him in the mirror as he disappears from the frame to rifle through the jewelry you’d dumped onto the counter earlier.

he returns with earrings, necklaces, and bangles in hand.

“stay still.”

his fingers are cool where they skim your neck. he hooks the earrings in slow, fastens your necklace, slips each bracelet on one by one and brings your hand to his lips when he’s done.

you pass him the joint.

“we were supposed to be there thirty minutes ago and it’s thirty minutes away,” he says, exhaling smoke.

“mm,” you reply, dabbing on lip gloss. “better hurry up and pick my shoes then.”

i’ve never wanted to be a joint so bad in my whole life HE PICKS HER JEWELRY?????? is this foreplay or a grwm

[ 30 minutes to drop ]

the diesel party is still going by the time you leave. your heels click loudly against the sidewalk. suguru’s hand rests low at your back, half-steering. he smells like weed and your favorite cologne.

someone with a press badge calls your name—matte lipstick, eyes wide like she can’t believe you’re real. she catches you just before the car with a mic, a cameraman, and a hopeful smile.

“just a second—can we get a quick word? you both look—” she hesitates, trying to find the right language. “—unreal.”

suguru stops halfway behind you, not moving his hand from your waist.

“so,” she starts, practically vibrating. “what made you two want to show up together for tonight’s diesel launch?”

“we love a party,” you reply, smiling.

she laughs like it’s charming. follows up with something about your sound, the visuals you’ve been putting out recently. you let suguru answer that one—you’re busy watching the lights bounce off the gloss you left on his cheekbone.

“okay, last one. you probably get this all the time, but—are you two… together?”

suguru grins. “we’re the same person.”

you don’t miss a beat. “worse.”

the interviewer laughs, flustered and delighted. “right. okay. thank you—”

but you’re already sliding into the backseat.

the car door shuts and the world cuts out. no bass, no flashing lights. just dark leather and air conditioning and exhaustion behind your eyes.

you exhale once, sharp, and start leaning forward to unbuckle your shoes.

suguru stops you. “let me.” like it’s obvious.

he pulls your feet into his lap one at a time, slipping the heels off like you’re breakable. his thumb circles your ankle, slow and grounding. your breathing evens out.

outside, cameras flash against the windows, but the tint’s too dark for them to get anything real.

it echoes in your head. are you two together?

“you didn’t say no,” you say softly, eyes closed.

he keeps rubbing. “you didn’t either.”

when you look at him, he’s smiling at you, eyes soft like he’s listening for something unspoken.

you settle deeper into the seat, one hand resting over his.

neither of you has said it.

but he always shows up. always looks at you like you’re the only person in the world speaking his language.

and you do the same.

you’re each other’s. just not in a way you can put in writing.

[ three minutes post-drop ]

the 360 video drops at midnight. it’s trending by 12:03.

the internet does what it always does.

@/bratchive: every brand strategist watching this with tears in their eyes

@/getogirl: brat / tamer dynamic so loud you can hear the leash drag

@/forynonly: legacy is UNDEBATEDDDDD icon behavior

you don’t check your phone, but you feel it—the shift, the buzz, the spin of it all. the world catching up to something you’ve already lived through.

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ipushhimback · 11 days ago

Note

How about something with Max and he’s like always grumpy and rude but never to the reader and just has a soft spot 😩 love me some grumpy x sunshine

i am so extremely sorry this took me so so long so please forgive me. also i tried my best but i am not completely happy with it. anyway, enjoy reading it <3

a softie

pairing: max verstappen x reader warnings: none word count: 1.2 k summary: max takes you to the paddock for the first time <3

“Are you sure I’m allowed to come with you to the race? I don’t want everyone to hate me when I’m there. And won’t I be in the team’s way?” you asked Max as you looked at yourself in the mirror, making sure your outfit didn’t look too bad.

“Of course you are. I’m sure there’ll be lots of other people around. And you’ll love the others. I heard Charles’ girlfriend, Alex, is going to be there, and Carmen, George’s girlfriend, as well. I haven’t talked to them a lot, but I know they’re nice. Also, you won’t be in anyone’s way. And if you’re bored, you can hang out in another team’s garage with Alex or Carmen,” Max said as he walked over and wrapped his arms around you from behind.

“I’m just worried… You know how I am. Too much overthinking happening in my brain. What if they think I’m too much? I always talk a lot and never shut up. And I laugh at the worst moments!” you said, remembering how you’d laughed last week when your niece dropped her ice cream on the street.

You tilted your head back against Max’s shoulder.

“No, babe. They’ll love you for it. I promise,” your boyfriend said, pressing a tender kiss to your temple.

“Pinky promise?” you asked with a pout, holding your pinky out to him.

Max rolled his eyes affectionately but linked his pinky with yours.

“Pinky promise,” he said, smiling down at you. “Also, you look absolutely stunning.”

You grinned as you looked back in the mirror. You were wearing a new jean skirt and a blouse you’d bought just last week.

“Are you sure it’s not too basic?” you asked again.

“A hundred percent. You’ll be the prettiest woman in the paddock,” he said, giving your waist a final, gentle squeeze. “Now let’s go.”

***

A little later, you were walking through the paddock at Max’s side, holding his hand tightly.

“I already see it coming. I’m going to get lost here. Why are there already so many people? It’s so early! Don’t they want to sleep in like normal people on a Sunday morning?”

“Nope. They want to see us drivers and hope to get autographs and photos,” Max said with a chuckle.

At that moment, someone approached you and Max. You recognized him from a few races you’d watched—Lando.

“Mate! Who’s that?” he asked, greeting Max with a firm clap on the back.

“My girlfriend.”

You had to suppress a laugh at Max’s short answer. He really was the grumpiest person you’d ever met.

“Uh, since when do you have a girlfriend? Why haven’t you told us about her?” Lando asked, looking a little disappointed. “I thought we were friends, mate!”

“We’re not.”

You couldn’t suppress the laugh anymore.

“Excuse my boyfriend here. I’m Y/N. His girlfriend for about half a year. Nice to meet you. You’re Lando, right? Driver for that orange team? Nice outfit, by the way. And your hair looks amazing! Do you use a lot of products for that? Those curls are incredible! I gave up on mine after I realized my hair just hates me.”

Lando looked at you with a frown, and you immediately started worrying that you’d said something wrong—until he suddenly burst out laughing. He had a funny laugh.

“No way you managed to pull her, Max,” he managed between laughs.

Max just looked at him blankly.

“Well, I did. And you’re still single. So leave me alone, Norris.”

“Rude,” Lando muttered, shaking his head as he turned and walked off.

Once he was gone, you turned to Max.

“Babe. You didn’t have to be so rude! Aren’t you two friends?” you asked, putting your hands on your hips.

“We are. But we’re also rivals. And we’re not the kind of friends who talk a lot about personal stuff. He’s too nosy. I want to have you to myself,” Max said as he leaned down to press a kiss to your lips.

You squinted at him before nodding.

“Mhm… Now let’s go. There are too many fans, and I need to meet everyone else.”

Max nodded and draped his arm around your shoulder as he led you further into the Red Bull garage.

“So, Yuki’s probably already somewhere around. You can say hi to him when you see him, but he’s a bit much. He talks a lot. Too much sometimes.”

“Ohh yes! I love people who talk a lot! It’s always so awkward when they don’t. Like, how am I supposed to react then? That’s why I love you. You always talk to me about things I like without making me feel bad about it!” you exclaimed, grinning widely.

Right then, Yuki came by—and he had clearly overheard.

“Sorry? Are we talking about the same Max? He never really talks! He just sits somewhere with his earbuds in, probably listening to a guided meditation,” Yuki said, laughing.

“No way! He’s a talking teddy bear! Can’t shut up after something exciting happens or when he reads something he knows I’ll find interesting. He seriously is the bestest boyfriend out there, aren’t you?” you said, turning to Max and pressing a kiss to his cheek, making him blush.

“I don’t…” he grumbled, trying to hide it.

“Sure you don’t,” you whispered, kissing him again. “Well, it was nice seeing you, Yuki!”

You stepped forward and hugged the shorter man. Yuki made a surprised noise but hugged you back.

Max cleared his throat, clearly jealous. The moment you pulled back from Yuki, Max’s arm was right back around your shoulders.

“We have to go now,” the Dutch driver said.

“Your girlfriend is amazing! Bring her to the paddock more often!” you heard Yuki say as the two of you walked away.

Once you reached Max’s driver’s room, he closed the door and turned to hug you tightly, burying his face in your hair and inhaling the scent of your shampoo.

“I love you,” he mumbled against your head.

“Love you more. Always,” you replied.

***

You later met Alex, Charles’ girlfriend, and Carmen, George’s girlfriend. All the other so called WAGs would arrive later or only the next day.

Alex was an amazing woman with an amazing dog. Leo immediately came over to you with a wagging tail, demanding attention that you immediately gave to the little sausage dog.

Carmen wasn’t any less amazing than Alex. She immediately welcomed you with a tight hug.

“It is so amazing to meet you! I didn’t even know Max had a girlfriend!”, she has exclaimed as soon as you had introduced yourself. The rest of FP1 and FP2 you chatted with Alex and her about a lot of things.

Pets, Max, Charles, George, fashion, and more.

***

That evening, you were curled up against Max’s chest, scrolling through Instagram. One post caught your attention. It was from a Formula 1 gossip page.

The new star of the paddock: Max Verstappen’s girlfriend. Who could have known that he is secretly a softie…

You chuckled.

“They’re calling you a softie,” you whispered.

“M’not,” came the gruff reply. But only a few seconds later, a soft kiss was pressed to the top of your head. “Maybe. But just for you.”

a/n: i got this request so long ago but it took me so long to write i am so sorry. also, if you have any other requests feel free to send them in <3 thanks to everyone who likes my fics!!

tags:

@strawberryy-kiwii / @a-distantdreamer / @requiemforthepoets / @martygraciesversion381 / @l-vroom4 / @sid-is-gr8 / @picklesbuddy93 / @sadiemack9 / @f1fantasys / @cloud-55 / @sunny44 / @widow-cevans / @gigicisneros / @mbioooo0000 / @sinfully-yoursss / @bravo-delta-eccho / @rue-t / @mayax2o07 / @suhchenjun / @pippyth3hippy / @sweate-r-weathe-r / @joannaln4 / @pansexualwitchwhoneedstherapy / @aleatorio1234 / @anayaverse / @htpssgavi / @dessashippr / @f1allymgp / @nickie-amore / @f1norris04 / @frostqueen-dhriya / @isagrace22

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jinxyjinxer · 6 months ago

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˗ˏˋ MEAN ˎˊ˗ torturing you is their hobby

⟢ characters : Ambessa Medarda, Sevika

⟢ warnings : fem!reader, wlw, mean!dom!characters (seperate), implied fingering, implied squirting, mommy kink, use of vibrator, passing out, strap-on, usage of whore, degrading, choking, strap gets referred to as dick

˗ˏˋ AMBESSA MEDARDA ˎˊ˗

"You didn't really think I'd be done with you after you only came once, now did you?", she snickered when she saw you flinch and try to inch away from her calloused fingers after pounding them into your core once again after having made you cum on her digits for the first time of the night.

"Oh, baby girl, don't fight against it. The more you try to get away, the more I just enjoy all of this even more. Be my good girl and let mommy take care of you", she mused, but her words fell onto deaf ears. One orgasm alone had you overstimulated like a dozen would, so naturally you took her large wrist into your much smaller palm, trying to push her hand away from your sensitive mounds.

Even when she told you to stop squirming so much, you didn't even consider letting her have her way for even a second. Everything was too much, your body and sheets were already a mess soaked with your squirt and sweat, you didn't think you could take another orgasm again.

"That's it. You want me to be mean? Then I'll be mean", she suddenly snapped from your antics, lifting you up effortlessly with her immense strength and placing you across her lap as she sat down on the edge of the bed. With one hand she held both of your wrists behind your back while the other one grabbed for something in a box under the bed — a vibrator.

Needless to say that for the next the gods know how long you've been held in this position, your clit getting stimulated by the vibrating toy, crying and begging for her to have mercy on you until you finally passed out from exhaustion. "At least you're compliant now."

˗ˏˋ SEVIKA ˎˊ˗

"Please, no! I'm so sorry Sevi-!", you tried to apologise to your girlfriend when you found yourself getting dragged into your shared room, getting put onto all fours, hands and legs soon tied together so you couldn't move at all before felling her slam the biggest strap on she could find into your unprepared cunt, making you cry out in a mix of pleasure and pain.

"You should have thought about disrespecting me before begging for my forgiveness", she grunted as she dragged the silicone toy out of your cunt only to thrust it into you again with a brutal, almost inhuman force, her anger with you evident in her voice as well as her movements as she continued penetrating the life out of you.

"Sevika please this, Sevika please that", she mocked you, imitating your voice as she did so. "Just shut the fuck up and take your punishment like the fucking whore you are", she growled, and at the same time the tip of the toy hit your cervix brutally, making you scream her name for everyone in all of Zaun to hear.

One of her large hands loosened its grip to instead take a fist full of your hair between her fingers, pulling harshly on your scalp so you'd arch your back nicely for her to ravage you like an animal. Her other hand now found its way around your neck, at first only stroking your skin and making your breath hitch in anticipation before her fingers closed around your throat, restricting the air flowing into your lungs, your mind soon getting all foggy.

"You've got two options now. Either you pass out or you'll cream around this dick like the fucking whore you are. Only once you've come for me, I am willing to maybe forgive you", she whispered into your ear, the sensation of the strap penetrating your deepest insides and her hand choking you mixed with her voice in your ear making you come on the spot.

#ᯓ★ jinxed requests #ᯓ★ jinxed writing #arcane smut #arcane x reader #arcane x you #sevika smut #sevika x reader #sevika x you #ambessa smut #ambessa x reader #ambessa x you #arcane #sevika #ambessa medarda #arcane sevika #sevika arcane #arcane ambessa #ambessa arcane

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poohsources · 23 days ago

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🐝 * ― 𝑳𝑬𝑨𝑽𝑰𝑵𝑮/𝑩𝑬𝑰𝑵𝑮 𝑳𝑬𝑭𝑻 𝑺𝑬𝑵𝑻𝑬𝑵𝑪𝑬 𝑺𝑻𝑨𝑹𝑻𝑬𝑹𝑺.

BEING LEFT ❛ wait! you can't just leave me here alone! ❜ ❛ i don't know how to live in a world where i'm all alone. ❜ ❛ everyone i've ever loved has either left or died. ❜ ❛ i'm not yet ready for it to end. ❜ ❛ will we ever see each other again? ❜ ❛ please! you promised! you promised you'd never leave. ❜ ❛ if you leave now, i'll never forgive you. ❜ ❛ are you really going to leave after everything we've been through? ❜ ❛ how am i supposed to keep on like before when you're not here anymore? ❜ ❛ i knew this day would come, but i hoped it wouldn't be today. ❜ ❛ please don't go. not yet. just stay a little longer ... ❜ ❛ don't just walk away. say something, anything, before you go. ❜ ❛ so that's it? you're just ... gone? ❜ ❛ you can't just walk away like none of this meant anything! ❜ ❛ why does everyone i love always leave? ❜ ❛ i should've known better than to think you'd stay. ❜ ❛ is it really that easy for you to walk away? ❜ ❛ you said we'd face the world together. now i have to face it alone. ❜ ❛ if you're going, at least look me in the eyes and say goodbye. ❜ ❛ i don't have the strength to watch you walk away again. ❜

LEAVING ❛ i'm sorry, but i cannot stay here any longer. ❜ ❛ for once, i'm trying to do the right thing. ❜ ❛ you don't need me here anymore. you've always been stronger on your own. ❜ ❛ i wish staying was enough. i really do. ❜ ❛ don't look at me like that. if i don't walk away now, i never will. ❜ ❛ one day, you'll understand why i have to walk away. ❜ ❛ i wish i could stay, but this isn't my place anymore. ❜ ❛ don't wait for me. i don't know when ... if i'll be back. ❜ ❛ i wish there was another way. but there isn't. ❜ ❛ this isn't goodbye because i don't care. it's because i do. too much. ❜ ❛ this goodbye is the hardest thing i've ever had to do. ❜ ❛ i'm leaving because i love you too much to keep hurting you. ❜ ❛ i'm sorry i couldn't be what you needed me to be. ❜ ❛ i have to go find who i am without all this. ❜ ❛ just because i'm leaving doesn't mean i stopped caring. ❜ ❛ i'm not running. i'm just done waiting. ❜ ❛ every step i take away from here is breaking me. ❜ ❛ i can't keep pretending this place feels like home. ❜ ❛ the hardest part isn't leaving. it's knowing you'll be here when i'm not. ❜ ❛ sometimes goodybe is the kindest thing we can say. ❜

#rp meme #rp memes #rp prompts #roleplay meme #sentence starters #angst sentence starters #rph #type: meme

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missadangel · 25 days ago

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⊱ AMOR MEUS AETERNUS ⊰

(Marcus Acacius x Ofc)

V. Confessio

prev chapter series masterlist next chapter

Chapter Summary: Which was tougher: dragging your fake husband -from ancient time- to go shopping or getting him to wear those outfits? Now that's a real head-scratcher…You and Marcus are getting closer... Chapter W. Count and warnings: 10k; confession of feelings, KISSING, injury, mention about death, romantic comedy, falling in love, fluffy, lying (a lot), mention about smuggling, sharing a room, mention about reincarnation, praising kink.. authors note: The reincarnation mentioned here is based on ancient Roman beliefs, and more information will be provided in future episodes. Pairing: Marcus Acacius x Ofc!Reader (Her name is Rose, and her hair is dyed) Rating: Explicit, 18+ MDNI, Smut General Warnings: Harsh, cold, grumpy Marcus, and the reader is NOT innocent a little bitchy, Lucilla is mean, Lucius is a jerk(but falls in love with reader), its Septimius Severus' era but Geta and Caracalla are the prince of Rome, time travel, modern-ancient era travels, falling in love, slow burn, rough sex, smut, sex, oral sex (both f&m receiving), all sex, dirty talk, gladiators, battle, war, violence, blood, ancient time language, fluffy, injury, forced marriage, arranged marriage, sexism, haters to lovers, first love, angst, vestal virgins, vestal priestesses, age gap; reader is 25 Marcus is 42, reincarnation my masterlist

chapter theme...

“It happened again,” Marcus muttered, pushing himself up from the cold, hard floor, his eyes wide with disbelief as he took in his surroundings. For him, it came as a shock, but for you, it was a wave of relief and joy to return. Neither of you anticipated returning in this way—indeed, Marcus hadn’t expected to return at all.

But wait, was that anger flickering in his eyes?

He stood up, brushing off his armor as he ran his hands over its surface, searching for the marks left by arrows that had once pierced him. The weight of reality that he had died and then risen again hung heavy in the air. Suddenly, thoughts of his soldiers and Julius flooded back, and he turned his gaze towards the fading rift, its brilliant light dimming with each passing moment.

“Marcus,” you called, stepping closer to him. “Are you all right?”

“I need to leave.”

You blinked in disbelief, your heart racing as you stepped in front of him, blocking his path. “Are you out of your mind? You know better than I do what just happened! You can’t go back there!”

He remained fixated on the rift. “Julius, my soldiers, Rome...” Then he turned to face you, fury burning in his eyes. “Why did you bring me here?”

You frowned, anger bubbling up within you. “Are you serious? I saved your life!”

“No, you didn’t. I was already dead.”

You let out a sharp laugh, incredulous. “And what do you think will happen when you go back? They’ll kill you again. Is that what you want?”

His determination was evident as he stared at the rift, completely ignoring you.

You grasped his arm firmly. “You promised me.”

Finally, he looked at you. “I kept my promise. You came back.”

“I meant the other promise.”

He held your gaze for a heavy moment before responding, his voice softening. “I couldn’t keep it. Forgive me. But you need to understand, even if going back means facing death once more, I have to do it.”

“Why? Just for Julius? You don’t want to stay here with me?”

“I don’t belong here, Rosa,” he said, his voice firm yet tinged with sadness.

You tightened your grip on his hand, feeling a mix of surprise and urgency. “You don’t belong there anymore, either. The soldiers saw you die; everyone will think you’re dead. Look, that world is perilous, filled with death and danger. Sure, this place isn’t perfect, but at least no one is trying to shoot you with arrows or stab you with swords. Marcus, it’s your time—I get that—but in that world, you’re walking into death every single day. It’s safer here. Please, stay.”

You thought desperately, you might not have a family or a lover waiting for you there, but you have me here.

Stay with me.

He gently pushed your hand away, shaking his head. “I must fulfill my duty as a general—for Rome,” he stated, turning resolutely back to the rift. But just as he was about to reach it, the rift suddenly vanished, swallowed by the night. Marcus froze, shock etching his features.

“Oops,” you said, stifling a laugh. Part of you felt like he deserved it; why had he insisted on returning, knowing his fate?

Anger flickered in his eyes as he turned to you.

“M-maybe this is for the b-best,” you stammered, softly trying to calm him down. “Should I promise to find a way to get you back there like you did for me? Nah, I don't think so.”

He frowned, recognizing the sarcasm in your tone, yet suddenly his expression shifted to concern. “Rosa,” he murmured, studying your face.

“Wh-what?” you asked, confused about what was happening. Then you felt warmth trickling down your lip to your chin and instinctively touched it.

Blood stained your finger.

Was your nose bleeding?

“Whoa—what the hell?”

Just then, you felt dizzy and stumbled, but Marcus rushed to your side, wrapping his arms around you. “Are you well?” One arm held you close while his other hand caressed your cheek.

“Yeah, I guess,” you murmured, reaching for your bag with your free hand. He anticipated your move, opening your bag and handing it to you with hurried efficiency. You took a tissue and pressed it against your nose, applying pressure until the flow finally started to subside.

And then Marcus’s worry consumed him, seemingly oblivious to the fact that the rift had closed and he was once again trapped in 2025. “Rosa, what is wrong? Are you sick?”

“No, it’s just a silly nosebleed,” you reassured him. “I get them sometimes when I’m stressed. Actually, I'm surprised this hasn’t happened sooner, given everything I’ve been through.”

That’s when it hit you. Usually, this place buzzed with tourists—especially next to the Pantheon—but now, it felt eerily silent. Then you thought of Lizzie. How long had you been away? Did time move differently while you were gone? “Marcus, something’s wrong.”

“Tell me what you need. We should find a medicus. I can take you there.”

“No, no, I’m fine. It’s not the case,” you insisted, stuffing the tissue up your nose. “It’s this place. Last time, it was a movie set, but now it’s deserted when it should be filled with people.”

Your eyes widened as you noticed yellow police tape up ahead that read ‘POLICE DO NOT CROSS.’

“Look, something has happened here. The cops have cordoned off the area.”

“What does that mean?”

“Either a crime has happened here, or something terrible has unfolded. They put up these warnings to keep people away, and here we are, right in the middle of it all,” you replied, your eyes scanning the eerie surroundings.

As you continued walking, you recalled that there should have been a parking lot ahead with your car parked there. You should have headed straight to it. It felt strange that there was no one around, but finding your sister was your top priority. You longed to see her, to hug her tight, maybe even cry with her for hours. Approaching the parking lot, you suddenly spotted police officers ahead and quickly ducked down, signaling Marcus to do the same. “Shit.”

“Are those 'police'?” he whispered.

“Cops, yeah, but fortunately, there are only two of them,” you said, scanning the area. Thankfully, the yellow lines didn’t extend into the parking lot. You crept forward cautiously. “Alright, we’re going to get to my car quietly.”

“Your car? How you are certain that your car is located there?

“Remember, before you returned to your time and dragged me with you, I parked there.” You pulled the key from your bag. “See?” you explained, showing him before pressing the button to unlock the doors. The car beeped, and the yellow signal lights flashed. You couldn’t help but jump for joy. “Oh, baby!” you exclaimed, running toward the car. You placed your hands on the hood and sighed deeply. “I missed you so much, girl.”

Marcus chuckled. “Girl?”

“Yes, my dear Giulietta.”

He raised an eyebrow.

“That’s the brand name,” you said. “Never mind, just get in.”

While Marcus fumbled with the door, someone suddenly shouted, “Hey, you two! Stay where you are!”

It was the cops.

“Fuck,” you muttered under your breath.

It turned out you had to go to the police station before heading home. Five days earlier, there had been an explosion near the Pantheon—a terrorist attack, the police informed you once you arrived. When they came to take off your strange and bloody clothes, convincing them of your innocence proved to be a real challenge.

The officers were skeptical of your story, given you were in a crime scene, and that ultimately led to both of you being detained in a cell. You and Marcus were separated since the men’s and women’s cells were adjacent but distinct. Straining against the bars, you tried to glimpse into the next cell, but visibility was limited.

“Marcus! Are you there? Are you okay?”

“I’m here, Rosa. Are you alright?”

“Yes, I never thought my return would be like this,” you sighed.

Marcus sighed too, recalling the last time he was in a similar situation. "These police men resemble the Praetorian Guards, both share similar duties."

“You could say that,” you said with a shaky laugh.

Later, as you exchanged awkward glances with the other women in the cell—thanks to your blood-soaked ancient Roman attire—you heard a familiar voice.

It was your sister.

“Lizzie!” you shouted, rushing to the bars.

“Rose!” she exclaimed, sprinting toward your cell.

The police officer unlocked the cell and allowed you out. “You’re free, ma’am.”

You joyfully embraced Lizzie, holding her tightly. Tears of happiness streamed down your face as you said, “Oh, I missed you so much.”

“I missed you too,” she said, her eyes welling up as well. You both stepped back to take in each other’s faces, and you kissed her cheeks affectionately. “I thought I’d never see you again.”

“I thought the same. Where in God’s name have you been?”

“I'll tell you everything, but Lizzie, how did you even know I was at the police station?”

“The missing person ads we put out for you. The cops called to tell me you—the missing person—had been found.”

"Did you just say ‘we'?"

That's when you noticed her standing behind your sister.

Your aunt, Victoria.

You hadn't spoken to her in years, yet she rushed over to embrace you and touched your sister Lizzie's shoulder. "Elizabeth called me the day after you went missing. We've been searching for you for weeks."

"Weeks?"

"It's been almost twenty days now."

It seemed that time didn't move differently. That was a relief, but your sister's desperation to reach out to your aunt made you feel sad.

"Where have you been? What happened? And what in the world are you wearing?" Lizzie asked, her eyes wide.

"Uh, well, I..." Just then, you remembered Marcus. When you turned to look at him, you found he was watching you too. You glanced at the police officer beside you. "Isn't he getting released?"

"No, ma'am. There's no identification for the gentleman, nor any information regarding his Italian nationality. His account is also inconsistent; there's no way we can let him go."

"Isn't he the same guy from last time?" Lizzie murmured. "Were you with him the entire time?"

You shot her a warning look. "I'll explain everything later. You wait outside; I need to speak to the commissioner."

Unfortunately, the commissioner was not easily swayed. You had to weave a web of lies about what you were doing at the crime scene, surprising even yourself—you could win an Oscar for that performance. Still, nothing was enough to get Marcus released. It all came down to his lack of identification; he needed citizenship to get out.

Now that you were back, it felt like the situation has reversed.

As you prepared to leave the station, guilt flooded over you while making your way toward Marcus' cell. "Marcus, I’m really sorry you have to spend the night here. You need ID. I wish I could ask the Prime Minister of Italy for your citizenship, just as you asked your emperor for mine back then," you joked.

“I understand that it is difficult for you to manage that,” he said, smiling.

“Very much so,” you confessed. Birth certificates, residency papers—all of it was a headache. In that moment, one solution came to mind, though it was illegal and certainly punishable. "Look, just hang in there. I'll find a way to get you out of here tomorrow. It’ll be tough, but it's possible."

“I trust you, Rosa,” he remarked with an even broader smile.

That smile.

You'd face any consequence for that smile.

What on earth?

You are standing right in front of the cell now; get a grip girl, you told yourself.

Reluctantly, you left him there and walked out of the station with your aunt and sister.

Back home, they bombarded you with questions, but your mind was elsewhere—on Marcus. He was stuck in that cell tonight, surrounded by strangers in an unwelcoming place and another time.

Poor guy.

As much as you were relieved to finally sleep in your own bed after what felt like ages, thoughts of Marcus consumed your mind that morning.

"What? You've been on a movie set on some island all this time?"

"And you couldn't call because your phone ended up in the sea?"

"You didn't even have a chance to call on a landline because there was no settlement or radio tower on the island?"

At breakfast, it felt as if you were being filled with questions instead of food.

“I couldn't call anyone all this time because I had temporary memory loss from a head injury, but nothing serious really,” you carried on, weaving your web of lies. It seemed like it would never end.

"Jesus! Are you okay now?" Your aunt asked, worry etched on her face.

"Did you have a CT scan? An MRI?" Lizzie asked.

"Yes, yes, everything is fine, don't worry. Look, I'm fine, really. But I need to get Marcus out of the police station. I've gotta go—like, now."

"What's going on between you and him?" Lizzie asked again, narrowing her eyes skeptically.

“Can I answer all that later? I promise I’ll give you all the details,” you replied, kissing her goodbye before hurrying out the door.

You fabricated a story for your aunt and sister, telling them that your ID and clothes were in your lost suitcase during the flight, so they assumed you were heading to the airport. Instead, you made your way to his agency to meet Andre, a man known for forging documents for films and capable of creating fake IDs. However, there was a problem—Marcus didn’t have any photos. Andre suggested another acquaintance, a hacker and mastermind in document manipulation, who was careful to avoid crossing legal lines. His home resembled something out of a crime thriller, filled with computers and equipment that simmered with potential mischief. Thankfully, he was a professional, and within mere hours, he crafted the document you needed—a convincing fake ID that could serve its purpose. "Here you go, beautiful. The document you wanted."

"Thank you so much," you said, genuine relief flooding through you.

"Just a word of caution: this will only buy you some time with the police. They won’t let him do anything without proper identification."

You're right. Can you assist me later if I come back for a legitimate ID? I need that ASAP." you asked, attempting to sound innocent.

The man was clearly charmed by your soft voice. "Sure, but sweetheart, it comes at a cost."

“What do you mean?”

"It'll cost you a small fortune."

"Oh, I see."

You headed to the police station with the temporary document in hand, thinking about the figure he mentioned—thousands of euros for a fake ID. The counterfeit document you were holding had already cost you a few hundred euros from the bank, but it had proven effective. They released Marcus, but only after he promised to present his real ID within a few days. They then reduced the timeframe to three days, given that he had previously signed a similar document.

Damn.

Yet, a sigh of relief escaped you as you stepped out of the police station. “Oh, thank goodness that’s sorted.”

"Thank you, Rosa. You’ve once again rescued me,” He smiled, his expression thankful.

You exchanged smiles, but you noticed everyone on the sidewalk was casting strange looks your way. "Marcus, we need to change your outfit. You look odd in that... miniskirt," you stifled a laugh.

He frowned. "It's called a tunica," he said defensively.

"I'm sorry, but in this day and age, with this outfit, you appear to be a man in a skirt, at least to everyone else."

He let out a frustrated sigh. "Can you please not use that word?"

"Alright, alright, I’ll stick with tunica. But you can't walk around like this while you're here. We need to get you something else, Mr. General," you joked, touching his shoulder. "It’s time for you to cover your legs," you teased him.

"Do men must cover their legs here?"

"Well, they usually wear pants, but some choose shorts," you explained catching his glare. "Look at that guy wearing shorts," you pointed at a tourist snapping pictures nearby.

Marcus sighed again. "Well, I guess you're right. It’s hard to endure the stares and laughter of others, especially with the disrespect aimed at me, particularly from women."

"I can’t really blame them, though; your thighs are... pretty impressive," you remarked, stealing a glance at his strong, muscular legs and letting out a small sigh.

He raised an eyebrow. "Do you think so, Rosa?"

You quickly looked away, "Not at all. I was just messing with you."

He let out a laugh, but then suddenly grabbed his calf, wincing in pain.

"What happened?"

"My wound seems to be getting worse. I need to have it wrapped with some new cloth."

"Oh, right. The police didn't even take you to the hospital because you didn’t have ID, did they? Let me see."

The gash on his calf was deep, making you feel dizzy at the sight. "Marcus, we have to go to the hospital right now. But first, let’s buy you some new clothes. Come on." With that, you took his hand and led him toward the nearest clothing store.

If there was anything more difficult than explaining to Marcus what was happening in the clothing store, it was trying to convince him to wear those clothes—especially the underwear. Fortunately, thanks to the lifeless mannequins and the pictures of models, plus his own intelligence, he quickly grasped what you were saying.

The only issue was that he didn’t like it at all.

In the men’s section, while waiting for him to emerge from the fitting room, the other male customers glanced over at you with puzzled looks. Usually, it was a woman trying on clothes while a man waited outside, but this situation felt completely different.

“Marcus?” you gently knocked on the fitting room door. “Are you dressed?”

At that moment, the door swung open, and Marcus stepped out. You were taken aback as you took in his appearance. You had picked out clothes one by one, handing them to him to try on, but you could never have anticipated how good they would look on him. He wore black jeans, a dark blue shirt, and white sneakers with the laces tied awkwardly. If it weren’t for the scar on his face, you might have mistaken him for someone else entirely. But there it was, that stern expression; it was undoubtedly him.

“These clothes are a bit strange,” he grumbled. “These pants are too tight.”

“No, they’re not; they’re your size and fit perfectly,” you said, reaching up to adjust the collar of his shirt, which looked a little odd rolled up. “Come here.”

Marcus focused on the smile on your face as you tidied his shirt. Despite his discomfort with the new clothes, he enjoyed seeing you happy. He even entertained the idea that maybe, just maybe, he could fit into this new life with you. It was hard for him, just as it was for you to adapt to his time. However, he believed it was worth the effort if it meant seeing your smile every day.

“Come on, take a look at yourself in the mirror,” you said, taking his arm.

When he first gazed into the mirror, he was startled to see such a large reflection showing every detail so clearly.

How could you blame him?

His brow furrowed as he examined the shirt and pants, feeling the buttons and inspecting the neat seams. Then he smiled back at your reflection. “It will require some time to adjust to this attire.”

"You'll manage, General," you said, patting his back.

While you paid for the new clothes with your credit card, he continued to look around in awe. He could hardly imagine how much more there was to take in and discover in this world.

Marcus picked up all the shopping bags as you left the store together, carefully balancing his armor and the clothes he had changed out of in the oversized bag you had requested. You were surprised by how easily he carried everything. Well, he was a man wielding a sword, after all—those strong arms, muscles, biceps.

Damn it.

Your mind wandered in that direction again.

But you couldn’t help it; he looked incredibly attractive in those clothes.

Women still turned to look at him on the street, but this time it was with admiration, not ridicule.

Just what you needed.

After strolling for a bit longer, you noticed an ice cream shop up ahead. “Marcus, are you ready for your first ice cream?”

He raised an eyebrow, then studied the sign and the people enjoying their ice-creams outside. “You sit here, I’ll grab us both some,” you said, pointing to a nearby bench. He complied, setting the bags on the floor and watching you from a distance as you stood in line. When you returned with two ice cream cones, you handed him one. “I didn’t know what kind of fruit you like, so since it’s your first time, I asked for plain milk ice cream. Give it a try, Mr. General.”

Marcus held the cone gingerly. You sat beside him and demonstrated how to eat it by sticking out your tongue to lick the ice cream, he chuckled at your expression.

“This is sweet and cold,” he murmured after tasting his first scoop.

“Yes, that’s what ice cream is. So, do you like it?”

He nodded with a smile.

You saw a bloodstain on his thigh that messed up his new pants. “Oh no, Marcus, how could we forget this? Get up—we need to go to the hospital,” you said, tugging him gently. “Let’s drop the bags in the trunk of the car first; I parked over there.”

“Not like that, pull it tight,” you instructed Marcus as he fumbled with the seat belt. Sighing, you reached over to help him, he turned his head so quickly that your lips nearly brushed against each other. Unfazed, you secured his seat belt and gripped the steering wheel. “You have no idea how much I missed driving my baby,” you said with a cheerful grin.

“Baby... You say that word so often. What does it mean?” he asked, his expression a mix of curiosity and confusion.

You were taken aback and paused at the red light to give him your full attention. “Well, it means 'young child.' We also use that word for things we love or care about. It’s a cute way to refer to someone you cherish. I'm not exactly sure where the term originates, but that’s how we typically use it.”

He nodded, recalling something. “When we were in the shop, a woman called a man ‘baby,’” he said, as if it were an offense.

You chuckled. “That’s how lovers or couples speak to each other, you know? It’s like saying ‘my love’ but in a cute way. You Romans say—”

“Amor meus,” he said, looking at you with a penetrating gaze. “Mel malum, mea vita, mea lux..."

The way he spoke those words was so sweet, like music to your ears. You swallowed hard as you locked eyes with him. “Yeah, it sounds way cooler when you say it in your language, I guess,” you murmured, your gaze drifting to his lips.

Out of nowhere, a horn honked, snapping you back to reality. The driver behind you was getting impatient, waiting for you to hit the gas. The light was green, and you were just sitting there.

“Mi aeterne amor,” Marcus murmured to himself with a smile.

“Wait, what did you say?” you shifted into gear, eager to reach the hospital just around the corner.

“Nothing,” he said softly.

“Anyway, here we are.”

Even though dealing with the hospital hassle without proper ID was a pain, you managed to get through using a fake document you got yesterday. You stayed right by Marcus when they took him to the emergency room. He was looking around, eyes wide, soaking in all the hospital details while you filled him in on everything. Before long, a tall, stunning blonde woman walked into the triage area, looking more like an actress playing a doctor on a TV show. She shot a bright smile at Marcus, “Could you roll down your pants?” while slipping on her gloves. Then she turned to you, and for some reason, her gaze made you uneasy. “You’ll need to step outside, please.”

You felt a rush of indignation. “He’s my husband,” you said firmly.

The woman seemed displeased with your tone. “Alright, then help your husband,” she said.

“Of course I will,” you shot back, assisting Marcus.

He couldn’t help but chuckle, struggling to contain his amusement at your reaction. The doctor checked out his wound. “It’s pretty deep, but luckily it missed any arteries, thanks to your strong muscles, of course,” she said with a grin.

Marcus frowned.

For the first time, you were kinda grateful for his caveman vibe.

You tried not to giggle.

Take that bitch.

Then she told the nurse to clean it up and stitch it, and just like that, she was gone.

“What the heck? Is she a doctor or a model?” you whispered.

Marcus chuckled. “I never seen a woman healer before.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Oh, is that something you find intriguing, Mr. General?”

He seemed taken aback by your sudden shift in tone. “I didn’t say—”

All men are the same.

It seems that even ancient ones find blondes more appealing.

"Her hair isn’t even real, it’s all dyed, you know? And she had so much makeup on, it looked like she just fell into a bucket of it or something."

“Why would that matter to me? And why are you suddenly angry?”

“I’m not!” you snapped, surprising even yourself as heads turned in your direction.

Oops.

What just happened?

What's wrong with me, you thought, feeling embarrassed.

You cleared your throat. “Let’s get going if you're ready,” you said, taking his arm and urging him to leave the damn hospital.

“We really need to get rid of that thing, you know?” You gestured towards the bag Marcus was carrying, filled to the brim with his old—or perhaps ancient—clothes as you both climbed the stairs to your apartment in the building. Without even looking at it, he already grasped what you meant. "Your bag is quite significant to you, isn’t it? I distinctly recall how reluctant you were to part with it while..."

“It’s not the same thing you know. Let’s at least get rid of your armor or something. You can keep your little knife if you want.”

“Pugio is a type of dagger, not a knife.”

“Yeah, whatever,” you replied, opening the door to your apartment.

Your aunt was still staying with you, which made you a bit uncomfortable, but you felt grateful for her support of Lizzie while you were away. You ordered pizza for dinner from the restaurant downstairs, and Marcus seemed to enjoy the ‘cheese and tomato dough’ for the first time.

“So, did you meet on the movie set?” your aunt asked, glancing at Marcus.

Oh, right. It was normal for her to have questions when you came home with a man.

“Yes, I told you. Marcus is one of the extras.”

"I asked him, not you," she muttered.

"And I was just answering for him," you shot back.

“What’s going on between you two? It’s not just a friendship, is it?”

“Aunt Victoria,” you warned, shooting her a glare. “Marcus is here for a few days because his family lives far away,” you said, hoping your tone sounded convincing. “And he’s just my friend.”

Marcus raised his eyebrows, looking at you with a gaze that you couldn't quite comprehend.

“So, the only reason you’re together is to shoot the new movie?”

“Yes, of course we’ll start shooting soon,” you replied nervously, taking a sip of your coke.

You had technically been fired from your last job—it wasn’t your fault you were kidnapped—but how could they have known? You needed to call the head costume designer as soon as possible and plead for your job back. Otherwise, you weren’t sure how you’d untangle the web of lies you had spun.

When you got up to clear the plates, Marcus followed you. He had been quiet since your arrival, and while he appreciated you answering all the questions for him, there was something that seemed to trouble him.

“Rosa?”

“Hmm?” you replied, focused on the plates in the sink.

“Are you well?”

“Oh, I don’t know. I’ve lied so many times my head hurts.”

“You seem pretty skilled at this,” he said with a smirk, crossing his arms as he glanced at you. “At the hospital, you referred to me as your husband. Now, though, you’re telling your aunt and sister that I’m 'just' a friend.”

You stared at him, trying to understand the implication of his tone. “What was I supposed to say? That we’re married?”

His expression fell. “Is it so bad to be married to me?”

Did he hurt?

Suddenly, a glass shattered voice came, breaking the moment. Lizzie stood frozen in the kitchen doorway, her eyes wide with shock as the glass slipped from her hand. “Did you marry him?”

Unfortunately, she was loud enough that your aunt sprang up from the table, running to you. “What? What did you say?”

“Crap,” you muttered under your breath.

After cleaning up the glass shards, your aunt sat you down on the couch as if conducting a police interrogation, bombarding you with questions once more.

“So that’s why you disappeared? You got married in secret? How could you do that? As if the last time wasn’t tragic enough. You didn’t even tell your family, me. Do you hate me that much, Rose?”

“I can’t say I love you very much,” you retorted, crossing your arms.

“Rose!” Lizzie interjected. “Aunt Victoria was there for me while you were gone, -busy with marrying apparently-. She covered Dad’s hospital bills and the rent.”

“Lizzie, honey, I get it, but I can’t forget what she did to my mother in the past okay?”

“Don’t change the subject,” your aunt shot back, jabbing a finger at you. “Why did you marry him? How did it happen so fast? Did you get married in a church? Tell me everything right now.”

“It’s entirely my fault,” Marcus said. “I am the one to blame, Lady Victoria. I implore you not to unleash your frustrations on Rose because of my actions."

She looked at him in surprise, taken aback by his respectful tone and demeanor.

“Marcus,” you said, squeezing his hand gently. “I’ll handle this.” You turned to your aunt. “I know this is all very sudden, but I’m not a little girl anymore. I’ve told you everything already. I love Marcus; he’s the one, and that’s why I married him.”

Marcus smiled, your aunt frowned. You then took Lizzie’s hands and crouched down beside her. “I’m so sorry, sweetheart—for disappearing, for leaving you alone, for marrying without telling you. I hope you can forgive me.”

Lizzie leaned down and hugged you tightly. “It’s okay, you silly. That’s just how your life goes; you’ve always been a bit messy. But please, don’t ever disappear like that again.”

“Okay, I promise,” you said as you hugged her back.

“Then, um, Victoria, you’ll be heading home, right? After all, there’ll be three of us in this apartment now.”

Victoria narrowed her eyes at you. “You ungrateful girl. Are you kicking me out now?”

“A little,” you replied, grinning sweetly.

Lizzie walked over to you, saying, “Rose, she should at least stay the night.”

“Come on, don’t act like she’s out there homeless on the street. Remember, our aunt's husband is an Italian billionaire, and they live in a mansion.”

“But in Milan,” she shot back, clearly frustrated. “Plus, it’s late. How am I supposed to get a plane ticket at this hour? I can go tomorrow if you really want me to leave so badly.” She sighed heavily as she sank onto the couch. “I can’t believe it’s been years since we last saw each other, and look at how you’ve chosen to greet me. First, you vanished without a word, and now you show up married—to someone much older, whom we barely know, along with his family who is a complete mystery to us.”

“I know him and his family, so there’s really no need for you to pry,” you said, ignoring the disapproving look she gave you. “Okay, that’s enough for tonight; it’s getting late,” you said, standing up. “Since we don’t have another room, Victoria, you can sleep in my room—”

“Oh no, Rose, I’ll take the couch. You’re a married woman now, and it’s only right you share your room with your husband,” she said, stealing a glance at Marcus out of the corner of her eye.

Oh great.

After you made up the couch with sheets and pillows for Victoria, Lizzie headed to her room. Now it was just you and Marcus. As you entered your room, you both exchanged awkward smiles. "Well, this is my room,” you said hesitantly, giving him a quick tour since it was his first time there.

Marcus’s eyes immediately fell on the small photographs pinned to the clipboard above your desk—sweet snapshots of you and Lizzie as kids, alongside your mom and dad. A smile spread across his face as he saw your younger self.

After all, he had known you from another time and another life since you were a child. You might look and speak different, but, you were her, and he knew that.

“Well, my room isn’t as big as yours, but I hope you like it, Mr. General,” you said with a laugh. That's when you noticed the piles of your underwears on the small armchair—something you had embraced longingly the day before. In a panic, you rushed over to stuff them into the drawer, but they got stuck and wouldn’t close. “Sorry it’s a bit messy. We don’t have slaves to pick up after us,” you added with a hint of sarcasm, forcing the drawer shut.

"Thank you for welcoming me into your room, Rosa. I also want to say I'm sorry for putting you in a tough situation with your aunt."

His apology caught you off guard—it was the first time he had ever said that to you. “Well, it’s good you recognize your mistake,” you said. “But what’s done is done. No need to dwell on it. You probably don't know, but there is a saying: 'Everything happens for a reason.'"

He smiled at this. “Possibly.” There definitely was a reason for all of this, but why now, after so many years? What had drawn you back to him? He pondered these questions, wondering if you would ever remember him. Was the woman standing in front of him just a familiar face, or were you truly the same person, body and soul? He hesitated to stir up painful memories, preferring you to find your own way back to them. He didn’t want to relive that hurt—the kind that pushed him into darkness every time he thought about it, the source of his deep-seated anger.

“Marcus? Earth to Marcus.”

Pulled back to reality, he realized you were calling him. Even for a brief moment, the weight of his thoughts had distracted him.

“Are you okay? How’s your wound?” you asked, glancing down at his calf, though he was still fully dressed.

“I’m well, feeling tired a bit. The police station was noisy, and those people were asking all sorts of strange questions.”

“Right, and you didn’t even get a shower, did you?”

“A shower?” he echoed, confused.

“I meant a bath. Come with me,” you said, motioning for him to follow. You opened the door to the small en-suite bathroom in your room and invited him inside. Though it wasn’t spacious, it had everything—a shower, a sink, a bathroom cabinet, and a spot for hanging a bathrobe. “I know it’s not as large as your big-ass balneum, but you can use it for your needs and to shower if you stay here with me.”

Maybe one day we can take a shower together, you thought, nervously biting your lower lip at the idea.

Marcus looked around with intrigue, his expression a mix of astonishment as he eyed the shower.

Oh poor baby.

You giggled and opened the shower door, picking up the shower head to demonstrate. “See? This is where the water comes out,” you said, turning on the faucet.

He crossed his arms. “That… is a remarkable invention.”

“Yes, it is. And this is shampoo, mine, but you can use it. Go ahead and take your first shower.”

“Alright,” he said, irritated as he began unbuttoning his shirt, cursing the buttons.

“You’ll get the hang of it,” you said, laughing softly.

When he finally managed to unbutton all the buttons, he hesitated, glancing at you meaningfully before realizing you were just standing there, staring. “Oh, sorry, I’ll give you some privacy,” you said, turning to leave the bathroom, feeling a wave of embarrassment wash over you.

You closed the door and leaned back against it, taking a deep breath. “God, I was practically staring at him; well done, Rose,” you muttered to yourself, still grappling with the fact that there was an incredibly attractive man in your bathroom, taking a shower. Sure, he wasn't from this time, and maybe he wasn’t even officially yours, but the reality was undeniable. Your heart raced as you slipped into your nightgown. It wasn't too short and didn't show much cleavage—comfortable, just how you liked it for sleeping. But it felt weird—this was the first time you were sharing your space, a place you never even let your sister into, with a guy. And not just any guy, but a ridiculously handsome one.

Damn hormones.

You slapped yourself to regain your senses.

You opened your laptop, one of the few things you had missed, and fired off an email to the head costume designer. You also remembered you needed to buy a new phone tomorrow. Just then, the bathroom door slowly opened, and you froze, closing your laptop. Marcus stepped out, clad in nothing but a towel wrapped around his waist, revealing his stunning physique.

Oh, great.

Shit.

He was even more breathtaking than you had imagined. Instinctively, you covered your face with your hands. “Marcus, you’re taking this marriage thing a bit too far.”

“What do you mean?” he asked, pulling out a t-shirt and long sweatpants that you had bought for him from bags. “Is this what I'm supposed to wear, Rosa?”

Peeking through your fingers, you nodded. “Yes, yes, those.”

“Why are you hiding your face? Do you think I'm ugly, awful?” he quipped, glancing at the scars on his shoulder and chest.

What a ridiculous thought, what an absurd conclusion.

You lowered your hands. “Don’t be silly, Marcus,” you said as you stepped closer. You swallowed hard, taking stock of his shoulder, his chest, those amazing muscles. “It would be a sin to call you ugly, a grave sin, truly unforgivable,” you added, almost as if you were speaking to his muscles rather than him.

He chuckled, reaching a hand toward you, gently lifting your chin to close your dropped jaw.

You only realized your mouth had been agape in astonishment when he shut it for you.

Fucking embarrassing.

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” he said, turning back toward the bathroom to get dressed.

By the time he returned, you had composed yourself a bit, but the real tension was just around the corner.

Where was Marcus going to sleep?

“I can rest here,” he said, gesturing toward your cramped little chair.

“No way. You’ll wake up with a stiff neck if you sleep there. Look, you gave me your bed back then, so it's my turn now,” you insisted, pulling back the covers. “It’s a double bed—maybe not the widest, but I think we’ll both fit just fine.” Your voice cracked slightly.

Gently, Marcus touched your shoulder, sensing your unease. “Rosa, that’s not necessary. You should rest in your bed," he glanced down and continued, "I can manage on the floor.”

“Floor? But your back will hurt.”

He smiled. “Did I ever tell you about the places I slept during the war?”

You recalled his stories and smiled. “Alright, but let’s at least put a duvet down on the floor for you.” You retrieved a thick duvet from the bottom of your wardrobe and laid it out.

“Thank you, Rosa,” Marcus said with a warm smile as he sank into the duvet and sheets you had prepared for him.

You got into your own bed, glancing over at him. He didn't seem very comfortable, but he appeared content nonetheless.

Not entirely sure why, but perhaps it was the comfort of having your room—and bed—back after so long that made you sleep so well. The first thing you did upon waking was look out at your room's sunlit window, not a small ancient Rome window. Then, of course, there was Marcus. He was still asleep, his eyes closed. Sunlight streamed through the small window, illuminating part of his face, highlighting his eyelashes and tousled hair.

You slid to the edge of the bed and let out a sigh of admiration as you watched him. Here, lying peacefully and quietly, he looked nothing like the fierce, fearless Roman soldier.

Surprisingly, you found yourself wishing he could stay here with you as your “fake husband” forever.

Fake husband.

Could he ever become your real husband someday?

Would he ever open his heart to you?

And most importantly, would he want to stay with you?

Maybe he’d want to leave.

After all, why would he want to stay? It’s not like he had feelings for you or anything.

That couldn’t have been what he meant by being soft with you, could it?

You pushed those thoughts aside as you sat up in bed. Carefully avoiding waking him, you slipped out of bed and quietly exited the room.

When Marcus woke up, he realized that even though he was sleeping on the floor, he felt surprisingly comfortable. It was odd, but he actually liked it. As he noticed that you weren’t in bed, he got up, picked up the duvet and sheets you had laid out for him, and draped it over the bed. This unfamiliar room, with its strange furniture and atmosphere, was something he was still adjusting to. However, he found himself feeling oddly happy; it didn’t bother him as it once had.

Yet, he couldn’t shake the feeling that he truly belonged somewhere else. Gazing at the pictures on the wall, he wondered if he could truly stay here for good. It seemed daunting, but perhaps it was possible. To never wield a sword again, to never see Julius or Rome or the villa where he had been born and raised—those thoughts weighed on him. What would his life be without them?

What was his role in this new life?

He could easily be your husband in the Rome he knew, standing by your side and protecting you as a general. But here, in this unfamiliar place, he felt like a total stranger—just an ordinary man without responsibilities. How would he make his way through this new world when even casual conversations seemed awkward and foreign to him?

The sounds from outside the room broke him from his thoughts, he opened the door and stepped out. Although it was a bit strange to know he was staying in a much smaller space—a cozy apartment—with three women, he felt happy.

When you saw him, a smile lit up your face as you welcomed him to the table you had so thoughtfully set. “Marcus, sit opposite Lizzie while I get the pancakes,” you said cheerfully, heading to the kitchen.

Lizzie and Victoria exchanged glances as he settled in.

“I hope you have a strong stomach, Marcus,” Lizzie teased with a giggle.

Victoria chimed in with a laugh, "He’s a strong man, I can tell, and patient too—especially for putting up with Rose."

Marcus frowned, not quite catching the underlying joke.

Yet, he understood when you brought the pancakes to the table and took his first bite. Everyone at the table shared awkward glances, except for you, as they chewed silently.

Then you looked at them, and your face fell when you realized they were chewing very slowly definitely not with appetite.

Suddenly, Lizzie jumped up. “I’m going to be late for school,” she said, leaning over to kiss you on the cheek. “See you later.”

“Hey, you haven’t finished your breakfast,” you called out, but she was already out the door, not listening.

You turned to Marcus and Victoria. “Is it that bad?”

Victoria swallowed hard. “Honey, I’m sorry, but lying is a sin, and you're just not good at it. Maybe you should stick to other chores than cooking,” she said, gulping down her orange juice to wash away the unpalatable taste.

You looked at Marcus, “Do you really think these pancakes are bad?”

He shook his head. “No, I think they’re delicious,” He took another bite, hiding his true feelings to spare your feelings, and you beamed with joy.

“Ohhh, love,” Victoria murmured.

When you took a bite yourself, nausea hit, and you quickly spat it into a napkin. “Marcus, stop eating that! It’s a disaster.”

“It’s alright, Rosa,” he replied gently.

“He’s really in love with you, my dear,” Victoria giggled.

Marcus smirked, and you looked away, blushing. Victoria sighed, watching you both. “It’s lovely to see you with someone who truly loves you. I wish your father could see this.”

“I wish,” you responded quietly. Then you clapped your hands. “Marcus, forget the pancakes. I’ll take you out for breakfast. We need to swing by the set anyway, right, baby?” you said, giving him a playful wink.

Surprised, he nodded. “Fine, whatever you want... baby.” He said his first 'baby' word so sweetly that your eyes locked for a moment, nearly forgetting your aunt's presence.

“Oh, that brings back memories from when my husband and I were newlyweds,” she said with a dreamy sigh.

Then Marcus got up and went to find his new shoes, struggling with the laces.

“When are you leaving?” you asked at her as you standing up too.

She rolled his eyes. “Sweet Jesus, this girl. I have an 8 PM flight; are you happy now?”

“Yes, I am.”

“Don’t think you can dodge it,” she said playfully, tilting her head at you while you grabbed your purse from the coat hanger.

“What do you mean?”

“I expect you two to visit me in Milan as soon as possible,” she said, looking at you both.

“Sure, we’ll see,” you murmured as you took Marcus's hand, and together you left the apartment.

Your aunt quietly whispered to herself after you departed, "How am I going to explain her real parents at this point? Even though you aren't my biological niece, I truly love you, Rose. I just hope you won't come to resent me even more when you find out the truth.”

You could have asked your aunt for a little money to cover what the man referred to as a small fortune for Marcus' ID card, but you hadn't borrowed from her until now. You weren’t about to start asking her for help at this point. So, the two ancient coins from the pouch that Marcus handed you on your wedding night, filled with denarii, would have to do. It looked like Roman denarii were very valuable in your time.

You were oficially an artifact smuggler now, just perfect.

“Here you are, Mr. General.” You handed Marcus his newly printed ID card with a smile. “Congratulations, you’re officially an Italian citizen now.”

Marcus took the card and studied it intently. “So this shiny little thing with my picture is an official document of citizenship?” he muttered, somewhat incredulously.

You chuckled. "Yes, that's exactly it. And you look incredibly handsome in this photo—seriously, check it out. You’re really photogenic."

“It’s truly remarkable how swiftly my likeness has been captured,” he said, still in awe.

You opened the car door and glanced back at him. "It's called a camera. I'll explain later, I promise, but we need to buy a phone for both of us. Come on, jump in."

When Marcus stepped into the mall for the first time, he seemed overwhelmed. It was as crowded as the Colosseum but far more colorful and vibrant. People hustled about, focused on shopping and wandering, and it felt like a massive, bustling market—yet not quite the same.

Noticing his nervousness, you realized just how much you had underestimated his situation. You remembered how it felt the first time you visited the Circus Maximus, but Marcus’s experience must be far more daunting—after all, he was a Roman soldier who had time-traveled to this modern world.

You took his hand firmly, and he looked down at your clasped fingers, then back to you. You smiled reassuringly. “Don’t worry, I’m right here with you. Let’s go.”

You showed Marcus around the tech store, he marveled at the various gadgets while you browsed for a new phone. When it came time to pay, he discovered a nearby boy engrossed in a game on a console. Fascinated, Marcus picked up a joystick, but when he pressed the wrong button, he inadvertently became 2nd player to the game. The boy invited him to race together, and, of course, they dove right in. “Oh man, you suck!” the boy laughed.

That hardly seemed fair.

You walked over and took the joystick from Marcus. “It’s easy to beat someone who’s never played before, don't you think kiddo?”

“Okay, if you think you can do better, auntie.”

You blinked at him, taken aback. "Auntie?"

“Or should I call you Grandma?” he laughed.

“You little—” You lunged towards him, but Marcus caught your arm.

"Easy, Rosa."

"You're right; he's just a kid. Let’s get out of here."

"What, scared? 'Cause you're a chicken?” He mimicked chicken sounds.

You rolled your eyes. "This kid is killing me. I better teach him a lesson. Hold my bag, Marcus." You handed him your handbag and approached the boy, grabbing the joystick again. "Let’s see what you’ve got, you little shrimp.”

The two of you began to play, and Marcus enjoyed watching as onlookers gathered to see the race. In the end, you won and boy got frustrated. "Now you can go cry to your mama, kiddo," you teased.

But suddenly, you froze as the boy spotted his mother in the distance. He started filling her in on everything, even throwing in some lies. She was a large woman with an unfriendly expression.

You took a step back. “Marcus, on the count of three, we’re making a run for it.”

“Why?”

"One, two..." The woman was closing in, and then she noticed you. "Three! Go!"

You started running, pulling him along, though it felt like he effortlessly let you lead. Marcus smiled as you sprinted past the shops. Compared to the threats of his time, this felt almost comical to him.

You even had to navigate one of the escalators backward, and once outside the mall, you leaned against the wall, catching your breath and laughing. "That was close."

“Rosa, you are truly unique,” he said, still chuckling.

“What do you mean? Didn’t you see her? She was towering over us—at least 6' tall! If she caught me…” You shuddered at the thought.

“Do you believe I would allow that to occur? Have you forgotten who I am?”

You grinned. “My husband?”

"I intended to say General of Rome, but you're right. As your husband, it is my responsibility to protect you from any danger. You are my wife."

As your breathing steadied, you realized how much you liked the word “wife.”

“Are all children from your time like this? They seem very disrespectful.”

You sighed. “Oh, they’re worse, believe me.”

In the evening, after you sent your aunt off to catch her flight, you all flopped down on the couch. Lizzie was sitting across from you, watching with a grin while you helped Marcus figure out how to use his brand-new phone—his first one ever.

"So, Marcus, how old are you?"

Suddenly, you both turned to look at Lizzie, surprised by her abrupt question.

“Lizzie—” you scolded her gently.

“I mean, why haven’t you had a phone all these years? It’s really weird.”

“It’s not weird, it’s a choice. Marcus and his family have just preferred to live like the Amish for all this time,” you lied, one of your many fabrications.

“I think there’s more to it than that, but you won’t spill the beans,” Lizzie said, narrowing her eyes at you.

“Okay, want to know the truth?” you said seriously, locking eyes with her. “Marcus is a Roman soldier who traveled through time thousands of years to get to the present day.”

Marcus blinked in surprise before turning to Lizzie, who stood up and rolled her eyes at you. “Fine, don’t tell me. But just so you know, that’s scientifically impossible. If you had read my books or watched the shows I do, you’d see how absurd this sounds.” With that, she turned and walked out of the living room.

“If only you knew the truth,” you muttered to yourself.

"Your sister is tough to persuade, unlike my brother Julius."

"That’s because she’s extremely scientific. Trust me, she’s hard to convince of anything. She’s the smartest person I know."

Suddenly, you heard someone calling your name from outside. There was only one person who would do that.

“Damn it.”

You went to the window, opened it, and peeked out just as Lizzie stepped into the living room. “He’s here.”

“Yeah, I saw that,” you said, slamming the window shut in frustration.

Marcus stood up as well. "Rosa?"

“You stay put,” you instructed, heading for the door. “I’ll take care of him and be right back.”

Lizzie glanced at Marcus after you walked out. “Don’t worry; she’s done this before.”

“But who is that man?”

“Nicolo. Rose’s ex-fiancé.”

Even though he didn’t know the word “fiancé,” Marcus grasped the situation immediately.

“Nicolo, what the fuck are you doing here again?” you shouted as you stepped outside.

Nicolo was, as usual, drunk. Years had passed since your breakup, yet he still showed up in front of your apartment building from time to time. Everyone in the building was familiar with him now— from the restaurant downstairs to your landlady After all, he made quite a scene each time he appeared.

“Rose,” he slurred with a silly grin. “I miss you gorgeous. Let’s talk,” he said, reaching for your hand, but you pulled away.

“Cut it out! Stop bothering me. Just go now, leave!"

The residents were watching from their windows, as if they were watching tv show.

“Isn’t that the guy again?”

“Yes, that’s him.”

“I think she’s about to kick him to the curb again.”

“Oh great, now I’m embarrassing myself in front of the neighbors because of you,” you snapped.

“I won’t give up until you come back to me. I’ll burn this apartment down!” he shouted at the onlookers.

They cursed at him angrily.

“What did he say?” someone asked.

“Someone call the police!” yelled another voice.

He grabbed your arm tightly once more.

“Let go of my arm!” you barked.

“Rose, please, forgive me. I can’t breathe without you,” he said, his eyes pleading, though they clearly lacked sincerity.

“I'll choke you so you'll never breathe!” you barked, then you sighed. “Nicolo, just get out of my life already! You left me at the altar, and we broke up, end of story.” As you turned to leave, he stepped toward you and wrapped his arms around you from behind.

“Come on, Rose. If you won’t come along on your own, I’ll just have to drag you with me, you know I will,” he said, sounding pretty desperate.

“Let go of me, you jerk!” you yelled, trying to wriggle out of his hold.

“Rosa!”

Marcus's voice thundered as he rushed toward you, seizing Nicolo's wrist and pushing him away. Physically, Nicolo was no match for Marcus—being shorter and thinner—yet he took his chance. “Who the fuck are you? How dare you shove me?” Nicolo retaliated with a punch, but instead of backing down, Marcus caught his fist effortlessly.

The cracking sound of Nicolo’s fingers echoed as Marcus held on tight, causing him to yelp in pain. “I’m her husband,” Marcus declared through gritted teeth and shoved him again.

Nicolo was shocked, but his pain was so intense that he focused solely on that. “You fucking lunatic! You broke my damn fingers!” he groaned, clutching his injured hand in agony.

Your mouth fell open in shock.

You weren't alone; all the residents of the apartment building and bystanders on the street were watching in awe.

As Nicolo stumbled away, nursing his hand and grumbling angrily, Marcus turned to you and gently brushed your cheek. “Are you well, Rosa?”

You nodded. “Y-yes, t-thank you, I guess.”

Suddenly, applause erupted from onlookers. Great, now everyone knows you’re married.

“Someone had to put him in his place,” a voice called out.

“That bastard got what was coming to him,” another chimed in.

“Good job, Marcus!” praised a lady from the ground floor.

You couldn’t help but giggle. "Looks like you’ve got fans just like you did back in -your- Rome, Mr. General." Clapping your hands, you teased, "Acacius, Acacius, Acacius—general of Rome," mimicking the cheers of his citizens.

He chuckled at your playful imitation. “I suppose it’s not so bad being here after all.”

As you made your way back to the apartment, you found yourself deep in conversation with the landlady about marriage-related matters. Fortunately, she was supportive and even expressed her appreciation for how Marcus got Nicolo—apparently she was really impressed when Marcus broke that bastards fingers.

In the end, Marcus emerged as the hero of the building.

Clearly, heroism ran in his veins—no kidding.

“Oh, what a night,” you muttered as you flopped down onto your bed. "The idiot never knows when to quit. But maybe now he will, thinking I'm married and that my husband broke his fingers. Truth be told, I've always wanted to break his fingers. It must be hurt."

Marcus closed the door behind him and turned towards you. "He hurt you more by breaking your heart, Rosa. He should be grateful I didn’t break every bone in his body.”

You knew he wasn’t just saying that; he would absolutely follow through if pushed.

Yes he would.

He was remarkable.

You felt an undeniable pull toward him, especially with his protective nature.

But how did this happen.

Why him, when you’d always shunned violent, rude men?

Why this man?

Why him, especially when he didn’t even belong to your time? You sighed and gazed at his face. Yes, he was older, the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes telling that story, and the silver streaks in his hair along with the scar on his cheek hinted at a life of battles fought. But none of that was unappealing to you; it was downright beautiful.

Something had changed.

Maybe it was love.

What you thought you felt before, the fleeting feeling you had for Nicolo, was nothing compared to this.

You could feel the difference.

Deep in your heart.

You wondered if he felt it too.

He must have—there was something different about the way he looked at you now.

Does he love you as well?

You had spent the whole night contemplating it. You propped yourself up in bed and cast a glance at Marcus.

Your heart nearly skipped a beat when you realized he was awake, the soft glow of the dim light highlighting his features as he watched you intently. Embarrassed, you turned away, a rush of heat creeping up your neck. But after a moment, you summoned the courage, faced him again, and stepped forward. He stared at you in surprise as he sat up.

“Rosa? What’s wrong?”

Sitting beside him, you bit your lip nervously, feeling the weight of your next words. “Marcus, you really see me now, don’t you? I’m not the kind of person who can keep my thoughts locked up inside. I tend to talk too much, but I can't find peace until I share what I’m feeling.”

He nodded, his intense gaze never leaving yours.

“That’s why I need to say this,” you pressed on, meeting his eyes with unwavering determination. “I think I’m in love with you.” You swallowed hard, a flutter of anticipation gripping your stomach as you awaited his reaction.

A soft, tender smile spread across his face, deepening the lines around his eyes as he cupped your face in his calloused hands.

Your eyes widened in surprise, your heart racing as you held his gaze.

What would happen next?

“Rosa...” he whispered, his warm breath a gentle caress against your skin. Then, with an affectionate smile, he brushed his fingers through your hair, his eyes drinking in every detail of your face.

“Look, I know your heart still belongs to her,” you rushed to explain, feeling a surge of words spill from you. “You don’t have to answer me right away. I understand if I sound insane—I truly don’t know how all this happened—but I couldn’t keep it bottled up any longer, and—”

Before you could finish, he closed the distance between you, silencing your words with a kiss that sent a jolt of electricity through you.

His lips were warm, and he's soft, so soft with you when you kissed him back.

To your surprise, he was tender with you, delicate, almost chaste.

But, damn, he was a good kisser.

Any hesitance any suspicions you had left crumbled and melted into him. You could fight against harsh, against mean or rough. But you had no defense against kindness.

You laid cautious trembling hands on his chest, cream cotton over warm skin, muscle, bone; his heartbeat is wild under your palms, hand unsteady on your neck, and there was the truth under his shell of cool, composed. He was as swept up -- stirred up -- by this as you are.

You arched your back like a bow to fold yourself into him, wanted to push closer, crack him open and taste that hidden inside. You wanted to drink him in.

He groaned against you, broke the kiss away with a wet sound, hot breath on your cheek. “Rosa," he said, panting, grabbing your shoulders, looking into your eyes.

"You need to know something-“ he said, stopping you.

Consumed by lust, “Later, please,” you said, catching his lips, catching the words and swallowing them. Tangled your fingers in his hair, and opened your mouth under his, pushed inside.

It was never like this with Nicolo, ever.

Nothing chaste or delicate now. Blood rushes through your whole body, scorching shuddering wave from the top of your head to your feet.

He held you back once more, struggling against the wave of desire surging between you as your fingers tugged at his soft T-shirt. He could feel the tension building; if you ventured further, he'd lose all sense of restraint.

You were pushing him to his limits.

Gently, he took your hands in his, pressing a tender kiss against each palm before locking eyes with you. “Rosa, please listen to me.”

“Don’t you want me?” you asked, the weight of disappointment heavy in your voice.

“Don’t be absurd. Believe me, there’s nothing I want more at this moment. However, there’s something you need to understand,” he said, touching your cheek softly.

You couldn’t tear your eyes away from his lips.

In such a special moment, what else could possibly matter?

“Rosa, you were right. My heart belongs to her.”

You furrowed your brows, caught off guard.

Was he really rejecting you?

Suddenly, tears began to well in your eyes.

He brushed his fingers gently against your cheek. “But she is you, and you are her. The woman my heart belongs to is you, Rosa.”

“Wait, what does that mean? I’m completely lost,” you muttered.

In that instant, he uttered the words you’d never anticipated.

“I can’t claim to fully understand either. At first, I noticed a few uncanny similarities and brushed them off as mere coincidence. But then I stumbled upon that photograph, and it struck me how your features mirror hers so closely. When I lost her, the sorrow felt insurmountable—I prayed with all my heart to reunite with her in another life. Now, reflecting on everything, I think the reason I’m here, and perhaps why you’ve come to my time, is intertwined with this truth. I’ve been mulling over it endlessly. You can decipher that parchment, Sol Invictus; you can see the symbols—everything connects. Rosa, I believe you are her reincarnation. You are my Rhea.”

hope you enjoyed the chapter babies, thanks for reading ❤️ Your thoughts are important to me, so please share them with me.

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nyx-the-reader · 5 months ago

Text

My favourite angst couple dynamics (Unsaid thoughts)

"Am I even worthy of your Love?"

"Is my Love enough for you to stay for?"

...........................

"Ask me to stay for you"

"Please tell me you want to stay"

............................

"You had to have realized by now, How can you not know?"

"I just couldn't let myself hope, it would have been my destruction"

...........................

"My existence is not worth anything"

"I would have no purpose in this world had you not existed"

.........................

"There is nothing for me in this world"

"Take me, my blood, my bones, my everything, until I have nothing else to give"

........................

"My Love is more of a curse than a blessing"

"If you can't bless me with your love, atleast curse me till the end of time"

.....................

"Let me go, I have nothing left to live for"

"All this pain I have endured, just to watch you wither away"

....................

"What about you, who are you in love with, it couldn't possibly be me"

"Love me, even if I know I am asking for the impossible"

....................

"You will never acknowledge our connection, I watch you follow everyone else with your eyes"

"If only I had the courage to tell you, you live in my heart"

....................

"You will break my heart I know, then why can't I let you go"

"Don't forgive me, I don't deserve it"

.....................

"I wish I could be what you deserved"

"Ofc, you wouldn't have wanted me, nobody has ever wanted me"

.................

"I was a selfish person once, now look, i made myself better for you"

"Did I do this to you, did my expectations destroy you too?"

................

"No one can love me, even I can't love myself"

"Let me love you, I would love you enough for the both of us"

...............

"I will destroy you, I corrupt everything I touch"

"I am drowning in my darkness, your touch is my salvation not destruction"

.............

"I always thought the worst of you, turns out all this time I was the one hurting you"

"You, even filled with hatred for me, are my lifejacket in this sea of oblivion"

.............

"I am nothing but an object, a toy, a weapon. No one even sees me as a person"

"Had I been powerful enough, you wouldn't have had to be anything other than yourself"

.............

"Don't let me destroy you, push me away first"

"If you are my end, let me greet destruction like an old friend"

.............

"I would take being born in this world again and again if it means meeting you, even just for the possibility of you, I'd take that chance"

"I would take living in this cruel world forever it means having you, even for a second, i'd take that chance"

.............

"You are the reason of all this pain, not just mine but everybody's. So why, why can't I just hate you"

"Hate me, curse me, destroy me but for all the negativity there is.... don't be indifferent to me"

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yanderenightmare · 1 year ago

Text

TW: NSFW, dubcon/noncon, slave darling, crude and derogatory terms, classism, abuse of power, death threats

fem reader

Thinking about the poor kitchen maid who's suddenly told she's to be the spoiled Prince's new chambermaid.

It hasn’t even gone a day yet, but you already miss your job in the kitchens.

Sure, the sweltering heat of the ovens always left you in a state of fever, and kneading dough from dawn ‘til dusk made your arms acidic with burns – unyieldingly sore – not to mention never getting a chance to sit down and rest before collapsing in bed at the end of the day. But the smell of freshly baked buns and the chance to sneak a bite out of those that came out of the oven just a bit too burnt for serving had always felt like payment enough.

That and not having to deal with the royal family.

You know you should feel honored. You know it’s supposed to feel godsend to be picked to become the Prince’s personal servant. But… there was a reason he so often required a change of maid.

You still remember the last one they’d taken from the kitchen. She was pretty and young and shouldn’t have been working there in the first place – that’s what everyone used to say before she disappeared.

You wonder if such words carry curses… and what you did to deserve the same things being said about you.

You nearly cried standing outside The Prince’s chambers, chewing on your lip with his breakfast tray in hand, wondering what rumors were true – if he really was as terrible as everyone claims – wondering where the other kitchen maid went and whether you’d end up in the same place… wondering what you could do to keep it from happening.

You don’t know what you were standing there waiting for, nearly pissing yourself when you knew he was still out – busy hunting down a couple of runaway servants for sport. It was almost as though you feared the room itself, as though it would bite once crossing the threshold.

None of the sorts happened, though a gust of warm wind hit you like the breath of a beast once you opened the door.

Inside, there were around a dozen heads mounted on the wall – dragons, bears, lions, wolves, and other creatures you weren’t too sure of – all with mouths big enough to bite yours off.

You took only a second to look at them before they looked as though they’d leap from the walls and eat you alive, just like you’d predicted.

You set the tray of food down on the bedside table and walked to the bathroom to draw his bath – deciding work would keep your mind off it.

Stepping out a second later, you fixed a fire in the hearth and made to make the bed, stretching the duvet and the quilt over the massive mattress while eyeing the thread count with envy and the hand-stitching with awe. Left to wonder how many ducks had been shot to stuff the mountain of plush pillows he’d all but thrown onto the floor to make space for himself.

Walking through the steam to the bath again, you opened the cupboard to pick out soaps and oils – overwhelmed by the sight of every shelf stocked full of all sorts you’d never seen – glad you had somewhat decent reading skills – unlike many of the other maids.

Soaping the water, you sat on the edge and waited with a hand wading through the warmth – and while biting your lip, you let your mind wander again – daydream, like it so often did – imagining what it would be like to feel it on the rest of your skin, warm and smooth, sucking all the stress out and leaving you soft like a newborn.

He watched you enjoy yourself, his stark eyes calmly assessing what they saw with a tilt of his head – trailing from the tip of your worn-out shoes to the tattered edge of your grey maid’s dress, up your lap to the cinch of your waist where your white apron was bound – taking his time until your eyes fluttered open to find him standing there.

You nearly fell into the water, hopping up to a stance. “Sorry, your majesty- I forgot myself! Please forgive me.” You bowed, looking down at the muddy stains on your gray shoes – in anxious wait of his wrath.

But instead of a backhanded slap that would send you straight to the stone floor or a spit of venom which would make you flinch and cry, he spoke a calm and patient “Come here-”

Though spoken in a certain tone of authority that forced you forward in quick steps until stopping just short of him – still with eyes downcast.

“Mh, I'm glad they haven't run out of cute ones down there.” He said then, once you stood only a hair's length from him – voice just as calm as before and inspiring just as much surprise in you still, though now joined with visible confusion in the crinkle it caused between your brows. A furrow that only deepened once he reached out his hand, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear.

“Your majesty?” You questioned.

“It’s master.” He corrected sharply, and you grew unsure if his voice wasn’t just cold rather than calm. “I like that better. Now quit wasting my time and undress me, slave – I have important shit to attend to today.”

You wavered only a second, feeling the words like a flick to the forehead. “Of course, your majes- master. Forgive me.” You blurted with hands quickly jumping forth to help detangle the knots keeping his robes together.

Small fingers working hurriedly to appease him, setting aside the light leather cuirass upon his dresser once loosening it from his torso – wondering if you should tell him your name, though thinking better of it as he’d opted for simply referring to you as a slave instead of asking.

You hadn’t been called that in a long while – slave – never by anyone in the kitchen, at least. You’d nearly forgotten it was what you were – a slave – and not just a busy member of the crown’s staff.

You bit your lip with another bow of your head, not wanting the Prince to see your face in its hurt while you undid the ties to the braces on his arms. The castle had become your home rather than a prison over the years, but… with the echo of your title wringing in that very heavy tone of his, along with standing there – bowing your head while undressing him of all fine body armor and robes – you couldn’t suppress the reminder of being of much lesser blood and birth. A fact that – despite never before having bothered you much – somehow seemed to strangle you now.

He’d dragged mud in with his boots – and given he’d not bothered taking them off, you were left to believe he wanted you to do it for him. And though humiliating as it was, you crouched down and began undoing the laces nonetheless – further feeling degraded while caressing the boot.

You pulled it off and repeated the action with the other foot – wondering if he meant you to remove his breeches and tunic as well until he, fortunately for you, lifted the shirt off and pulled the strings to the trousers himself. Leaving the undergarments in a pool on the floor next to you.

You kept your eyes down until he was completely submerged in the water, afraid to see something you weren’t allowed to – before getting up and padding back to the cupboard. You'd never been any lady's or lord's maid before, but you had been trained in the duties – and though heat rose to your cheeks at the thought of those duties, you still made to grab the soap and loofa in shakey hands before kneeling down on the stool next to the tub.

You’d never seen the prince if not from afar atop the castle balcony during speeches by his mother, the Queen – and had only ever heard of his appearance as something twisted and foul – but looking at him with his eyes closed, he really didn’t look as demonic as people had made him out to be. But further thinking about it, scrubbing his chest with soap and water and oil – you realized that none of those people were likely to have seen him up close either.

He looks every bit royal with his strength of face – cutting edges as though carved in marble, with chiseled muscles gleaming in the water and oil.

He was no doubt very handsome, you concluded silently – finally understanding why he was more of an eligible prince than what his attitude would otherwise allow – that, along with the kingdom’s riches, of course.

He sagged forward while you mindlessly amused your findings – though paying attention enough to take the cue – squeezing water onto his back with the sponge before rubbing over the broad flex of muscles, freezing once hearing him let out a heavy moan.

He leaned back again after you were done. Spilling water onto your dress once pulling his arms out to rest on the frame with a sigh – his chin tipped upward, lounging lazily on the back of the tub.

You reached for his face next – now with a silken cloth – stroking it lightly over the few droplets of blood splattered from when he must have cut into those poor runaways after hunting them down with swords and dogs in heel.

You shuddered some at the thought and must have let your eyes linger too long – or at least long enough not to notice him opening his – staring at you silently with eyes jaded in something that seemed to seize you by the throat.

“I’m sorry, ma-” You tried, but he seemed disinterested in it, reaching for you with wet fingers rubbing on the hem of your collar.

“You’re not dressed properly.” He said then, voice lazy yet loud – unimpressed, though not enough to be outright angry.

Gulping at the feel of his large hand so close to your neck, your voice only barely held it together. “I’m sorry, master. They hadn’t the right maid livery in my size, but I’ll have it ready tomo-” You started, hands folded neatly on your lap.

“Take it off.” He interrupted.

You blinked – tensing with your throat closing – sitting there stunned for a moment before mustering an ever so hesitant answer.

“Your majesty?”

“It’s master. Don’t make me tell you again, slave." He growled through grit teeth right at your face after yanking you close by the fabric of your shirt. "And you either dress properly, or you go naked. And right now, it looks like it’ll be the latter. Unless you want to be whipped for poor servitude?”

Your eyes – moon-big now while you shook your head – breathing thin through your nose. “No, master... I’ll undress.”

“Good.” He broke off your collar, dropping you back down onto your seat on the floor before rising with water rushing fast and heavy down along his limbs, dripping onto you as he stepped out with an unfettered splash.

You got up as well, beginning with the buttons on your shirt. Feeling him eye you while he wrapped himself in the towel you’d laid ready for him – his burning gaze leaving you goosefleshed and nearly in tears, bashful as you stepped out of your skirt – naked before him.

You didn’t dare look – even as he stepped toward you. Keeping your head bowed low – breath in shivers while eyeing the hand he reached for you, his fingers stopping just short of touching your bare skin.

“Clean yourself.” He said then, wafting the same hand to the tub he’d just used. Still filled with bubbles of lavender, though no doubt also of his own grime. But you wouldn’t refuse, no matter the degradation – your thoughts still lingering on the former kitchenmaid who’d disappeared not long after becoming the Prince's personal servant.

You stepped in, feeling the warmth close around your legs – still hot enough to prickle. Lowering yourself down, you sat there – swallowed by the bubbles with the loofa in hand, lathering your flesh with the mix of oil, soap, and water – brushing off soot and sweat – leaving you soft-skinned and smooth to the touch, but also riddled with goosebumps that wouldn't lower under the heavy leer the Prince was giving you.

“Get out and come here.” He said a short moment later, and you got out as told – taking slow steps toward the man, with footprints leaving soapy puddles in their wake.

He reached behind you to pull the pin from your worker's bun, letting your hair cascade in flowy wisps down around your shoulders – before brushing them behind you to clear your face and chest.

He’d dried off but didn’t offer you the towel – having dropped it into a wet pile on the floor – now reaching out to feel the smooth gloss of your breasts with brazen digits. Inspecting and assessing while caressing their weight as you stood there with your head still hung down low – silent and shivering.

Soon his hands fell from your chest down to judge your every curve, sliding over slippery slopes until reaching your cunt – stroking two thick fingers through the drippy curls found there. Gliding them between the lips, he circled your clit with his middle digit – tickling you – while dark eyes watched your lip quiver with a power-hungry gleam.

Stepping closer, the small smirk stretched on his face brushed your hairline where you tried bowing your head even lower in embarrassment – with brows tremoring similar to the hands hanging loosely by your sides.

“Aren’t you gonna bleat like a little lamb? Hmm... slave?” He asked then – low in a whisper, blowing gently into the sweat of your hair – cold enough to make you shiver even more. “The slut before you did….” He added with his smirk sharpening – lips stiffening against your skin where he brushed them in halfhearted kisses down your forehead and temple until reaching the shell of your ear. “I had to wring her little neck just to make her stop squealing.”

You sucked your teeth on impulse, jolting just a bit but not enough to make the dire mistake of moving.

“I can tell you’re smarter. That’s good….” He continued with fingers kept at your cunt – playing your shivering core where you stood planted – dripping wet with bathwater and terrified of moving. “Weak little things like you do better understanding their place.”

Your hands formed loose fists, flinching at your sides as you kept from the urge to wring your thighs shut until he left your sensitivity alone.

“But smart or not, I believe you missed a spot earlier-” Both his hands found your hair instead. “So get down on your knees, slave.”

One paw cupped the back of your skull in a ponytail while the other laid flat on your scalp, pushing you down until he had you leveled with his throbbing manhood – thick and high-strung – blushed red and strangled with veins – bobbing with might against the ant trail leading up to his navel and looking every bit impatient to be served.

“Use this pretty head of yours to do better, and maybe I won't have to wring your little neck too.”

You eyed the swaying length with eyes crossing – sucking your lip at its intimidating reach and how it seemed to rise higher than your head – mumbling out a weak. “Yes, master...”

You dropped your jaw and produced your tongue – feeling him keep control of your head in his tightening hold, yanking your hair before you gave the large cock a flat lick – starting at the base of his balls until flicking off at the very tip.

Not too revolted by the mild taste of lavender and vegetable oil, you locked your lips around the head and sucked it in hopes he’d ease his grip.

“Sh-fuuhck- you really do know your place, huh slave?” He mouthed – his head hanging back in a heavy groan – holding your skull in both hands while using them to bob you against his crotch on repeat, lolling his hips inside the wet warm comfort of your mouth a little deeper for each time – only moaning with a laugh once you gave a whine for breath. “Sweet and obedient- just how I like- with a nice wet throat to fuck too….”

He thought of kicking you when you put your small hands against his thighs to brace yourself – but given how softly you held them there without nails and pinches, he decided he’d grant you the tiny mercy – thinking he’d later teach you to keep your hands on your knees when serving him head like a proper slave ought to.

Tipping his head back again, he looked down at you and the pretty curl between your brows and the cute sight of your teary eyes looking back up at him – giving a hiss at how it made his balls tug in excitement.

“Get up-” He growled, pulling you up by your hair and throat until you shoddily stood upright on unsteady feet – lightheadedly looking at him with dazed eyes and a wet pout. “’This tight cunt as loyal to the crown as your mouth, hm?” He asked with a hand smacking the soft place, making you yelp before he made to bury two of his thick fingers inside the taunt space.

You whined out softly at the intrusion – kept steady and close by the fist holding your throat in a choke – before he used the same hand to throw you over the bed – stomach first with a slap to your ass.

“Bow down, slave- and show me some fucking respect. You’re in the presence of royalty, remember?”

He mounted you with a pent-up groan – and a strong fist in your hair, pushing your face down into the mount of pillows you’d dallied with earlier. His knees dipped into the plush next to your hips, locking you beneath him with his spit-slickened meat resting between the soft valley of your ass, sliding between the cheeks impatiently.

Gathering your wrists in his other fist, he kept them crossed at the small of your spine – before pulling back and letting his cockhead fall right to your sweetly wet and welcoming opening – wasting little time in piercing it nice and deep in a direct aim – like an arrow shot straight through a target.

You winced and bucked your hips at the attack – feeling your walls weep and sting – fluttering hot around the size of it.

He leaned across your back – heavy against your shoulders with his mouth at your ear in gritty whispers. “I like docile slave girls like you who know a thing or two about pleasing a man. Good submissive sluts who understand they’re nothing but warm soft meat for men like me to devour.”

His words groaned in nibbling bites on your earlobe – with a hand kept strict and harsh in yanking your head back for him as he slowly started dragging himself out and stuffing you so fast you couldn’t keep from yelping at the breach. Toes gripping the cold rocky tiles as your legs shook under you – being rocked into harsh and deep by the muscle strength of the beast on top.

“I'm not the first one you’ve bent over for, huh?” He continued with a grin, haughtily chuckling in low breathy condescension. “Probably the first one you’ve had take you in a proper bed, though, hm? And not in a hayloft on whatever dirty farm you grew up on.”

Your fingernails punched into your palms where he wrung your wrists tight, keeping you pressed flat beneath him while he heedlessly rutted into you like you were nothing but his own snug fist.

“I bet the whole village had a go seeing how pretty you turned out.” He laughed again, scoffing at it with his tongue tickling your ear. “Did they all fuck you like this? From behind like a farm animal? On all fours with your pretty face moaning in the mud?” Simpering, he sped up as though aroused by his own words.

Twisting your hair tighter and groaning louder against your ear – chasing your deepest parts with balls clapping hard against your clit.

“You’re all fuckin' inbreds- It’s a fucking miracle your filthy parents created something like you- prettier than all the bratty princesses I have to listen to yap all day.” He moaned – now fully drooling against your face, nomming on your ear with heavy breaths.

Fully draping you in his sweaty muscles, you lay gasping beneath the weight – cunt clenching hard around his shaft – making him hiss.

“Ah fuck- It's nice coming home to an obedient slave- so tight and warm- grateful for a royal cock in your poor slave cunt, huh?”

You winced at his pounding, so deep you felt it choke you – making your stomach fold and curl, trying to protect itself from the assault. “Yes- thank you, master- thank you-” You cried while he placed sloppy layers of wet kisses down your temple and cheek in return – until finally pulling off.

“Come here, down on your knees-” Ripping himself to his feet, he pulled you with him by the fist riddled in your hair and pushed you down at the foot end.

Tugging on his cock in the other hand – quick faps in the slick – he kept you looking up at him while slapping the wet weight in sticky taps against your lips.

“Open wide, slave- here it comes-”

Only one more jerk and it all blew in thick white beams shooting across your face – spewing in clusters, hitting you once on your forehead and another over the nose - dripping to your lips into your gaping mouth where he focused on squeezing out the rest – tapping the plush creamy tip against your tongue while panting.

“Mh-fuck- clean me off and swallow.”

With breaths heavy and slowing, he detangled his hand from your sweaty locks and made to pet your head instead. Gently running his fingers over your hair while watching you obediently kiss and lick up all the spill in tired and slow yet devoted strokes with your tongue until it was all prettily wiped clean.

“Good slave.” The Crown Prince hummed then.

Finally sounding satisfied – still with a lazy hand holding your head where you so faithfully sat at his feet, swallowing his seed, while his satiated cock grew limp in regard.

“Now go wash off while the water’s still warm, and come out and help me get dressed.” He ordered, voice groggily soft in the after high. “I have a full schedule today looking at potential brides… and I want my little farm animal by my side to keep me going insane from boredom.”

BNHA – Bakugou, Dabi

JJK – Sukuna, Gojo, Naoya

HQ – Oikawa, Sakusa

BLLK – Reo

DS – Doma, Muzan, Sanemi

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