#thread: let them eat cake

[diatr1bes]

𝗹𝗼𝗰𝗮𝘁𝗶𝗼𝗻.        versailles'    gardens,    let them eat cake event. 𝘄𝗶𝘁𝗵.        sterling    salinger,    @scandcls

◜   ♱   :    abrasive    pride    is woven    with    tender    pain;    avoid    laced    and    diaphoretic    bodies,    lost    in    clouded    trance    as    ivy    wreathes    by    the    periphery.    a    staggering    taction    of    de    ja    vu    raptures    him    steady,    (    naivety    a    sacchrine    taste    once    upon    a    rotten    time.    )    his    blood    runs    cold    and    volatile    at    the    hollow shroud of an old friend.    "    un    fuckin'    believable.    "    a    cruel    setup    for    a    joke:    escaped    from    a    labyrinth    of    sycophants    and    this    is    the    dead    end    he    finds    himself    in.    a    bitter    chuckle    escapes,    a    guise    as    hands    immediately    reach    towards    a    fresh    cigarette.    "    buy    your    way    in,    did    you    ? "       

[xuexing-lumi]

𝐘𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐒𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐦𝐚𝐭𝐞'𝐬 𝐒𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝 + 𝐃𝐞𝐭𝐚𝐢𝐥𝐞𝐝 𝐓𝐚𝐫𝐨𝐭 𝐒𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝 (𝐓𝐡𝐞𝐦𝐞: 𝐏𝐢𝐧𝐤 𝐩𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐥 𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐬) Pt.1

This isn’t your average love reading. This is about the one, the soul who already exists in your energetic field, even if they haven’t stepped into your life yet.(Spoiler: yes, but not in the way you think).

Close your eyes, take a deep breathe and pick your piles.

💌 Let’s dive into your connections

𝓟𝓲𝓵𝓮 1 𝓟𝓲𝓵𝓮 2 𝓟𝓲𝓵𝓮 3

🌟𝓟𝓲𝓵𝓮 1 : Birthday Cake in a Pink Stamp

Let’s start with the birthday cake. A birthday cake represents celebration, a personal milestone, a moment in time where we honor someone's existence. It is a symbol of arrival, of recognition, and of love made visible. In the context of a soulmate reading, this suggests that your connection is something that is meant to be honored, celebrated, and remembered. But more than that, it carries the vibration of divine timing. You don’t eat birthday cake every day, you wait for the right moment. That moment arrives once a year. This means that the contact with your soulmate is destined to happen at a very specific spiritual “birthday”, an energetic checkpoint that marks a new chapter for both of you.

The cake is also layered. Sweet. Baked with care. It’s not a fast food. It’s not a rushed meal. A birthday cake is lovingly prepared, decorated, and shared. Similarly, this relationship is one that takes time to build. It’s made of layersof past lives, spiritual contracts, karmic resolutions, emotional experiences. You will not arrive at each other half-baked. You are being prepared with intention, and when you meet, the experience will be both nourishing and celebratory.

But then comes the pink stamp. The pink colour represents your heart chakra. The pink color amplifies this message with tones of softness, femininity, romance, healing, innocence, and emotional sincerity. The combination of a birthday cake and a pink stamp suggests this connection is already written, already destined, and already in motion, but it hasn’t been delivered yet. The stamp is on it. The letter is in the post. The universe is delivering it. But divine mail is never tracked and it arrives when the soul is home.

Part 1: How Does Pile 1 Contact Their Soulmate?

(The Emperor, Page of Swords, Ace of Pentacles)

The Emperor: You’re most likely to make contact with your soulmate through a space that’s structured such as work, academia, an institution, or an environment where rules, responsibility, or order are emphasized. This isn't a chaotic or accidental meeting; it happens when you're either stepping into your own authority or are seen as someone who radiates competence and grounded power. There’s a sense that you either are the leader or you attract someone who is. The contact is forged not through vulnerability but through presence and your ability to command attention quietly and confidently. They may first notice your discipline, your sense of purpose, or the way you seem composed in a space where others may waver. There’s also a divine masculine frequency here, regardless of gender its an energy that stands tall, protects, or leads. Your soulmate may be in a role of mentorship, teaching, leadership, or even a uniformed profession or, you may embody those traits for them.

➤ Scenario Possibility: You first catch their attention in a space where everyone else is trying to blend in or follow the crowd, but something about you like your stillness, your focus, your quiet confidence that makes you stand out. You don’t need to shout to be seen. They notice how you move with purpose, and something about your energy makes them pause. Whether you're presenting an idea, managing a project, or simply holding your ground when others hesitate, it’s that quiet strength that begins the invisible thread of interest between you both.

Page of swords: Your first interaction likely begins with a flicker of curiosity, something about them catches your eye, and it lingers in your mind longer than expected. This card leans heavily into digital or intellectual realms, suggesting the initial contact may happen online through social media, a DM, a forum, a comment thread, or even a shared class or webinar. You might not speak right away, but you watch. There’s an air of quiet observation, like each of you is trying to figure the other out from a distance before deciding whether to approach. It’s the mental spark that lights the match here through a post, a quote, an idea, or even a shared opinion that makes you pause and think, "Wait… that was sharp. That was different." One of you reaches out, not with grand romantic gestures, but with a message that feels more like, “You made me think. I had to say something.” You may share interests in something niche, geeky, intellectual, or offbeat like philosophy, books, art critiques, even memes. It begins informally but sticks because the mental engagement feels electric.

➤ Scenario Possibility: You come across something they’ve written or posted maybe it’s a thoughtful caption, an insightful comment, or a niche reference that hits too close to your own interests. Your reaction isn’t, “They’re hot,” but rather, “They’re interesting.” You end up following them or messaging with something casual but intentional, like, “Hey, that post made my brain buzz,” or “Your take on that hit so hard.” YADA YADA YADA. You weren’t looking for anything, but now you’re thinking about them more than you expected. The conversation is light at first ideas, questions, banter, but there’s a tone underneath that both of you start to feel: This is different.

Ace of Pentacles: There’s also a strong theme of sincerity. This moment, it feels real. Like a foundation being poured. Something is offered without pressure, but with intention. It’s a gesture that says, “This could be something. Let’s see where it goes.” The relationship begins to move out of the hypothetical and into the physical. It's not just “vibes” anymore and it’s coffee dates, shared calendars, phone calls, schedules that shift so time can be made for each other.

➤ Scenario Possibility: After a string of meaningful online or intellectual conversations, one of you finally says, “Let’s take this offline.” It could be as simple as a message that says, “Want to grab a coffee sometime?” or “I’d love to hear more about that project in person.” There’s a natural shift from thinking and talking to showing up and doing. Maybe they offer to help you move, attend an event with you, or show up to support something you’re working on. It feels low-pressure but unmistakably real.

🌟𝓟𝓲𝓵𝓮 2 : Bouquet in a Peach Stamp

A bouquet is not something you make for yourself. It’s something you give. It represents a conscious offering of affection, of beauty, of intention. Unlike wildflowers that grow freely, a bouquet is carefully selected, curated, and wrapped with meaning. There is effort behind it, emotion behind it, and most of all the hope behind it. It’s the kind of thing someone gives when they want to say “I thought of you. I hope this reaches you. I want to be seen by you.” In a soulmate context, this bouquet is likely not your first interaction with them and it comes after something, after waiting, after reflection, or even after distance. It could represent a moment of reunion, the healing of something unspoken, or an act of vulnerability. This is the kind of love that isn’t explosive or chaotic, but chosen, day by day.The stamp indicates that this act of love or this connection is being sent out, carried across time and distance, and it is meant to arrive softly. The universe is delivering something tender here and not loud, not urgent, but quiet and true.

Part 1: How Does Pile 2 Contact Their Soulmate?

(The High Priestess, The Devil, and the Nine of Pentacles)

The High Priestess: the high priestess says the first contact may not even be physical or verbal and it may happen intuitively. You might dream of them before you meet. You may feel a strange pull to someone you’ve never spoken to, or keep catching their name, their birthdate, or songs that remind you of their energy. The High Priestess is you in your most psychic, private, emotionally aware self. You don’t approach them directly and you sense them. You may receive downloads about who they are.

➤ Scenario Possibility: You're sitting in a coffee shop, journaling or reading, and you suddenly feel someone looking at you. You look up with brief eye contact, a flicker of something unexplainable, and they look away. Nothing is said, but your entire body lights up with a sense of recognition. You don’t talk that day. You don’t need to. You both felt it.

The Devil: the devil adds a sharp contrast and suggests that the way you actually reach out to your soulmate will involve a deep gravitational pull. There may be obsession, temptation, lust, and the kind of chemistry that scares you. This could be someone you tried to avoid, someone you told yourself not to want, but you do. The Devil shows that the soul contact could happen through triggers, especially those related to desire, control, or fear. You contact them when you confront your shadows. This might be someone you meet during a moment of personal struggle, when your boundaries are tested, or when you’re facing patterns you thought you outgrew. You might feel bound to them before you ever speak. Your first contact could be emotionally overwhelming or addictive in nature.

➤ Scenario Possibility: You meet them at a party, or in a work setting where you’re not “supposed” to feel what you feel. There’s tension. Prolonged eye contact. A flirtation you try to brush off. But it lingers. You can’t stop thinking about them afterwards wondering why they got under your skin so easily. You try to suppress it, but the temptation always returns.

The Nine of Pentacles: This card shows that you truly contact your soulmate when you’re standing in your power, feeling self-sufficient, abundant, radiant. Unlike the Devil's pull or the High Priestess’s subtle signals, the Nine of Pentacles is conscious, embodied confidence. You don’t chase, you attract. Your contact is initiated not through force, but by being seen as someone who knows their worth. You might post something online that draws their attention. You might walk into a room glowing from within, and they finally approach or maybe you finally decide you're no longer afraid of being seen. That’s when the interaction actually begins. You’ve been in the same orbit long enough. Now it’s time to meet.

➤ Scenario Possibility: You’re at an event or somewhere public looking beautiful, dressed in something that makes you feel powerful, having worked hard on your healing and independence. You’re not looking for anyone, but you catch their attention. This time, they walk over. “I feel like I’ve seen you before,” they say.

🌟𝓟𝓲𝓵𝓮 3 : Butterfly in a Baby Pink Stamp

The butterfly is perhaps the most iconic symbol of transformation, rebirth, and soul evolution. But in this image, it’s not flying freely in a field, it’s enclosed inside a stamp, and the stamp itself is baby pink. This suggests that your soulmate journey is one of tender awakening. You (or your person) may have undergone a deep, painful transformation, something like the emotional cocoon that forces you to shed your past self. This is not a casual kind of change. It's the kind of soul journey where you die metaphorically and are reborn as someone new. But what makes this imagery unique is the tone of it is baby pink, which is a color of sweetness, softness, emotional innocence, and renewed hope. Where other connections may be heavy or magnetic or karmic, Pile 3’s connection is healing. It's the love that comes after the war. It's the feeling of discovering that gentleness can still exist after chaos. This is a soulmate who doesn’t arrive to complete you, but to mirror who you’ve become after you survived yourself.

Part 1: How Does Pile 3 Contact Their Soulmate?

(Two of Cups, King of Cups, and Six of Swords)

Two of Cups: The Two of Cups shows that the first contact is based on an unspoken understanding that you are meant for each other, even if you don’t yet know why or how. This is love at first recognition, not necessarily love at first sight. You may meet your soulmate in an emotionally intimate environment through a conversation that feels instantly comforting, vulnerable, or strangely safe. The Two of Cups isn't about dramatic entrances.It's the beginning of someone truly seeing you not just for who you are, but who you’re becoming.

➤ Scenario Possibility:You meet them at a small gathering, not expecting anything magical. You’re sitting beside them, maybe talking about something light like art, movies, life and then something shifts. Their voice steadies. Your gaze lingers. There's a mutual pause. (like a spiritual contact)

The King of Cups: This card shows that your connection doesn’t begin with wild impulsive action, but with someone (you or them) who has learned to manage deep emotional waters. You contact your soulmate when you are calm within yourself, emotionally ready, and receptive. It might be through comforting words, or offering support to them or vice versa. There's a possibility your soulmate has been quietly observing you from afar, waiting for the right time to open their heart or maybe you offer the first words, but they're so emotionally grounded that the interaction feels like home.

➤ Scenario Possibility:Maybe you’re both volunteers at an event, or colleagues on a quiet project. You’re not necessarily seeking anything. But one day, something in your demeanor draws them in is your stillness, your grace. They ask you a gentle, deep question likeone you’ve never been asked before. You give a vulnerable answer without overthinking it.

The Six of Swords: It shows that contact is made after movement like physical, emotional, or spiritual. Either you or your soulmate will have recently moved on from a painful chapter: an old love, a trauma, or even a period of isolation. You contact them when you’re transitioning from one identity into another when you're still healing, but no longer anchored to the past. This card often indicates a literal or emotional journey that precedes your meeting. Perhaps you meet while traveling, relocating, or after finally cutting ties with something that kept your heart unavailable. The connection may start subtly, like a soft offer of company during uncertain times.

➤ Scenario Possibility:You’ve just left a toxic friendship or finished a long chapter of solitude. Maybe you're in a new city, or even on a solo trip. You meet your soulmate in a quiet, transitional space on a ferry (or maybe you dream of being on one), in a quiet bookstore, or after a support group. They don’t rush into your life. They simply sit beside you in that in-between moment and let their presence say: “You’re not alone anymore.”

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—

📩 DMs Open: @xuexing-lumi Tumblr inbox

🖤 closing words from Lumi:

We ride or die, even through the mess. 💅 — Lumi, the Moon’s Bride 🌕💋

—

(ignore):

[sillygoose067]

Crash Landing Into You

Joaquin Torres x female reader

Joaquin wasn’t exactly Avengers-famous. Not in the “signs autographs” or “front of the mission briefing” kind of way. He was the support guy. The gear-up-and-back-up guy. But when Sam had tossed him an invite to a low-key rooftop party—“Not a gala, just a hangout. Some shield folks, some old Avengers. Come chill”—he didn’t hesitate.

He needed a break. A night without a harness digging into his shoulder blades. Somewhere he could eat something not freeze-dried and actually talk to people without background gunfire.

And anyway, Sam said there might be cake.

So here he was, solo in a sea of mostly-familiar faces, warm light strung overhead, a breeze skimming through the city like it was taking a victory lap of its own.

He made his rounds early. Said hey to Torres from Intel—no relation, but they always fist-bumped. Talked up a couple of tech specialists from the DOD about neural interface updates. There was a guy from the Air Force talking propulsion systems, and that sparked a half-hour tangent where Joaquin completely forgot to blink.

“Wait, you actually linked a HUD visual to sub-vocal muscle twitch?” he asked, eyebrows climbing. “Man, that’s insane. You got numbers on latency?”

He was glowing—body buzzing in that familiar rush of overlapping tech-talk, theory, mechanics, potential. He loved it. It felt like flight even when he was on solid ground.

But even golden retrievers need water breaks.

He slipped away when someone mentioned deep-space communications (not his thing), grabbed a drink, and headed to the edge of the rooftop to catch his breath. From up here, the city hummed like a living organism—windows glittering, headlights threading down avenues.

And for once, he felt still.

Then, without meaning to, his eyes scanned the party again.

He wasn’t looking for anyone. But some instinct pulled his gaze toward the far corner of the patio, just beyond the heaters and tables—where a few kids were parked with juice boxes and crayons. He might’ve looked away immediately… except someone else was with them.

You were seated on a bench, cross-legged, shoulders loose, completely unbothered by the party around you. You were wearing a navy wrap dress, simple and modest, the kind of thing someone wore when they didn’t know if it would be weird to dress up or down.

…And entertaining three kids who were talking a mile a minute. You were listening— nodding along, asking questions, smiling like this whole event had been thrown just for them.

Something about it made Joaquin’s heart stumble.

He hadn’t seen you around HQ or during missions. Which meant…you probably weren’t SHIELD or military. And judging by the way you looked at those kids, the easy warmth behind your laugh…

“You’ve been staring,” said a voice to his right.

Joaquin jumped. Sam Wilson was holding a glass of lemonade and smirking.

“No, I haven’t,” Joaquin lied immediately.

“You definitely have,” Sam replied. “What, she got a laser on her forehead or something?”

Joaquin cleared his throat. “I just—I was wondering who she’s with. She doesn’t look like she’s part of the team.”

“Yeah…,” Sam said simply. “Normal. That’s not a bad thing.” He nudged Joaquin lightly. “Besides, I saw your face, Torres. You looked like someone just handed you a puppy.”

Joaquin let out a short laugh, shook his head. “I dunno, man. She’s probably someone’s cousin. I’d rather not interrupt the coloring summit going on over there.”

Sam grinned. “Sounds like an excuse.”

Joaquin didn’t answer. But he kept sipping his drink a little slower, glancing over again.

He lingered by the drink table a few minutes longer, trying to be casual about it. But his eyes kept drifting—back to you, still surrounded by those kids, still lit up in a way that had nothing to do with the party lights.

He didn’t overthink it this time.

Crossed the patio and told himself it wasn’t a big deal.

You were mid-discussion with a wide-eyed little girl about whether or not Thor had ever been to space on a goat. (“Definitely yes,” you were saying, “but I think the goats get travel sick.”)

Joaquin crouched beside your bench, resting one arm across his knee, voice light and warm.

“Excuse me, sorry—I think I’m interrupting an intergalactic livestock debate?”

You blinked, surprised, turning to look at him.

The little boy next to you gasped. “It’s the new Falcon!”

Joaquin gave a humble shrug.

The kids immediately launched into questions—what it was like flying, had he ever raced Sam, did his suit come in red—and he answered every one like it was the most important mission briefing of his life. But every so often, he’d glance at you again. Noticing how you stayed quiet, just smiling, not trying to insert yourself or redirect.

Finally, when a parent called the kids over for cake, Joaquin was left standing in front of you. You straightened slightly, brushing your skirt smooth as you rose.

“They love you,” you said softly. “You made their whole night.”

He shrugged, a bit sheepish. “They started it. I just followed their lead.”

There was a beat of silence. He stuffed his hands into his jacket pockets.

“You, uh…you work with kids?”

You nodded. “Pediatric surgeon. Emergency and trauma.”

His eyebrows lifted, impressed. “That’s intense.”

You gave a small smile. “It has its moments. But the kids make it worth it.”

There it was again—that same glow he’d noticed earlier. Not just kindness, but a whole-hearted presence.

“And you?” you asked, meeting his gaze for the first real time.

He hesitated—not because he didn’t know, but because for the first time in a long time, he didn’t feel like listing off flight metrics or suit specs.

“I guess…I’m still figuring it out,” he said. “I help out where I can. Mostly flight support, recon. Backup wingman.”

You tilted your head. “That sounds important.”

He smiled at that.

After a pause, he leaned in a little, dropping his voice.

“So. Be honest. Did you come here willingly, or did someone bribe you with cupcakes?”

You laughed. “Roommate dragged me. Said it’d be low-key.”

“And how’s that working out?”

You looked around—lights, buzz, clink of glasses—then back to him. “Pretty sure she and I have different definitions of low-key.”

That made his heart skip, just slightly.

He let the moment hang for a beat, then nodded toward the rooftop stairs.

“Wanna sneak out? Grab some real food? I know a diner a few blocks from here. No one will ask you to explain a single acronym.”

You hesitated—surprised, maybe, or just caught off-guard by how fast this all felt.

But something in his eyes made it feel safe.

You smiled. “Sure. Just let me grab my bag.”

———-

The neon hum of the sign outside buzzed faintly through the window. You were halfway through a milkshake, and Joaquin was telling a story about the time he accidentally activated his wings in a hardware store.

“And I swear, this poor old guy thought I was a drone attack. Dropped his wrench and bolted.”

You laughed, shaking your head. “How are you not a walking headline?”

“I am, I just keep getting pushed below the fold,” he joked, nudging his fries toward you.

The conversation moved easily—his time in the military, your worst overnight shifts, both of you tossing stories back and forth like a tennis match you didn’t want to end.

Somewhere between your third refill and your fry count getting dangerously low, the table fell quiet.

He was watching you. In a way that made your skin feel warm under the fluorescent lights.

And then—

“Can I ask you something?”

You looked up, surprised. “Yeah?”

He rubbed the back of his neck. “Can I take you out sometime? Like…a real date.”

You blinked, stunned by the sincerity.

Then your lips curved. “This one wasn’t?”

He grinned, cheeks pink now. “So that’s a yes?”

You nodded. “That’s a yes.”

[finelinevogue]

hi!! can I get an azriel fic where he and the reader had a fight before a battle or mission and then she is presumed dead so he spends his days spiraling with guilt and he misses her a lot and that stuff. And then when she makes it back he finally confesses his feelings to her and happy ending :) bonus if she's rhys' sister but not necessary. thank u so much and happy new year!!

please come back

thank you so much for your request - i hope this lived up to expectations since i’ve wanted to write a fic like this for ages 💫

word count - 1.6k

“Where is she?”

“Az.. We… We don’t—.”

“I said where is she?” Azriel bellowed, readying Truthteller for anything.

Rhys rubbed a bloody hand over his chin whilst Cassian hung his head low.

Rhys looked at Azriel with those deep violet eyes, conveying a whole conversation to him without having to use any words.

Truthteller dropped to the ground.

Azriel followed.

His knees let out an earth shattering crack as he crumbled onto the floor. His whole body went slack, his entire demeanour changing from how he had been seconds before.

How evil a few seconds could turn life into.

“No.” He whispered to the wind.

“Az…”

“No!” He screamed, spit and blood flying from his lips - blood from the battle which he didn’t feel like they’d won anymore.

Why had any of that been worth it?

Days of war and fighting, and for what?

The peace and safety of the Night Court wad restored once more, but was life worth truly living without his person living beside him? He couldn’t even comprehend the thought of figuring that question out.

He could feel the bond slipping away. That once golden-feel thread, rusting and greying away.

Azriel tried pulling on the bond with all he had, whispering pleads under his breath. “Please, please.” He pulled and pulled, but the void when nothing pulled back was too empty to deal with.

“I’m sorry, brother.” Rhys said, kneeling down in front of Azriel. “I’m sorry.”

“Tell me it isn’t true.” Azriel looked from his blood-caked hands and into his brother’s eyes once more.

Azriel’s own eyes pooled with tears. He didn’t think he had any energy left to think, let alone cry and yet the tears would not stop falling.

His body rocked as his cries took over him.

He felt like the world was ending and he was ending with it.

He pulled that bond again, wishing for anything to give him a sign that you were at least trying to pull back - to give Azriel reason to believe you were still there - but all he felt was nothing.

🦇 • 🤎• 🦇

The sun was setting when Azriel woke up.

He sat up in your once shared bed, holding himself up by his hands behind him.

He looked from the setting sun to your side of the bed. He’d set up your pillows so it looked like your body was underneath the sheets. They had dents in from where he’d been holding them at night - trying to replicate the feeling of you.

He can’t believe you were gone.

Azriel took one of his hands and placed it over his heart, tugging at that thread - he wasn’t giving it up so easily. He could feel it still there, only it felt distant. Distant didn’t mean forever gone, though.

And so he pulled.

Every morning - or evening - he rose, he pulled.

🦇 • 🤎• 🦇

“You look…” Cassian started as Azriel entered the kitchen.

Cassian was sat at the table eating some bread and sauce - forever snacking.

“Handsome?” Azriel asked in a teasing voice

“You don’t want me to answer that honestly.” Cassian shook his head, tearing off a bit of bread and throwing it across the table for Azriel to catch.

Azriel caught it with one hand and immediately took a bite from it. It didn’t take an intelligent someone to know that Cassian was just trying to make sure Azriel remembered to eat, seeing as he kept ‘forgetting to’ recently.

Azriel hadn’t attended family dinner in 2 days - the battle having ended 3 days ago.

Cassian was impressed that Azriel was even out of bed - proud, even.

“Answer me this, then.” Azriel counter offered, “If… If you thought there was still a small chance the bond was still alive between you and Nesta, even though she’d… gone, would you pull it? Persue it?”

“Without hesitation.” Cassian nodded.

Azriel nodded in agreement.

“Why—.”

“It’s nothing.” Azriel shook his head, leaving the bread on the table and disappearing from the room once more.

“What a weird guy.” Cassian spoke to no-one as he dipped his bread into a spicy-red sauce.

🦇 • 🤎• 🦇

You looked peaceful.

Madja had dressed you in lilac robes - traditional to your homeland for your upcoming memorial service.

You were lying to rest in a room away from the main part of the House of Wind. You looked so beautiful. Your Fae skin had not yet withered or cracked.

“Hello, my love.” Azriel said, brushing the tips of his fingers over your cheek.

Azriel had been coming down to speak to you every spare moment he had, not wanting to miss a single second he had to watch over you.

“Are you ready to come back yet?”

He tugged that bond and he tugged it hard.

🦇 • 🤎• 🦇

It was the third morning.

Azriel was at his desk, writing away as he often did in the mornings. His diary was the one constant - other than you - that he had always known he could turn to each day.

Now with you gone, he–

Mor burst through the door, panting like she’d run up the steps to reach the House of Wind.

Azriel hadn’t noticed he’d dropped his pen and spilt the ink everywhere. Mor had startled him, but his shadows had calmed him.

Mor caught her breath long enough for her to speak two words.

“She’s awake.”

And that’s when he noticed he could feel it; the bond.

🦇 • 🤎• 🦇

Azriel was running faster than he had ever before.

He sprinted down the halls, apologising when he knocked over a vase but continuing nevertheless.

When he approached the end of the hallway that led to that door, he spotted Rhys speaking to Madja just in front of it.

Azriel slowed down his pace until he was actually apprehensively approaching the door.

He looked at Madja first, needing medical reassurance more than anything. If this was real, how did the Mother pull this off? He would owe his soul for this.

Madja gave Azriel a knowing look that made Azriel want to crumple to the floor and kiss at the feet of the Gods.

Madja, Rhys and Mor stood beside the door as Azriel didn't waste a single moment more waiting behind the doors. He pushed them open widely and for the first time in what felt like a lifetime, he saw your eyes open.

You smiled at him from across the room and he was done for.

Azriel's shadows went into a frenzy to reach you and you laughed as they hugged and tickled you, moulding around your body in a protective cocoon.

"I came back." You said.

Azriel nodded, not understand how this was even possible. How was this possible? Could Madja even explain this phenomenon?

"You.. You were..."

"I know." You nodded sadly. "I can't imagine how that must have been for you."

"I pulled on the bond every other moment." Azriel walked towards you slowly, careful to tread carefully in case he blurred the dream that he was sure he was dreaming.

"I know." You rested your hand on your chest. "I could feel it."

"You could?"

"I'm certain that you brought me back, Az."

His shadows met back with him but only because he was so close to you now. Close enough to be able to reach out and make sure you were real.

He brought a scarred hand up to your cheek, hesitating in case this was some cruel trick. His hand hovered where he wanted to cup your cheek, like he was internally stuck with choosing what to do next.

"It's okay. I'm here."

You moved for him and pressed your skin into his.

Azriel gasped as he felt how real you were beneath his own body. He quickly brought his other hand to cup your other cheek and greedily bring your lips close to his so he could seal this moment with a kiss.

The kiss poured all of his love for you back into him.

He felt that bond grow tighter in his chest, begging to burst out and fill the room with the endless happy that you brought him.

"You're here." He said between kisses, not letting you go for a moment.

"I am."

Azriel's kisses were hungry and desperate. It was almost like he refused to believe this was real and that he would lose you the moment he stopped. As much as you loved him and his kisses, you did need to breathe and so you reluctantly pulled away.

"No..." Azriel whined, desperate to pull you back.

You cupped his cheeks this time, grounding him to you. "Hey, sweetheart, I am here. I am right here. We have all the time in the world. I'm okay."

"We're okay." And he sealed the fact with another kiss.

🦇 • 🤎• 🦇

"Az, get off!"

You laughed as you tried to push him off of your side of the bed.

"You're too big." You grunted as you tried to move him off you, but he was too big of a lump of muscle to move. Of course you were only struggling to suffer - you actually quite enjoyed the feeling of him on you. If it comforted him then it comforted you.

"I am, aren't I." He said cheekily, like a teen Illyrian.

"Ugh." You rolled your eyes, but were glad to see he'd gotten his spark back. "I give up."

You stayed laid down, Azriel's body completely wrapped over yours and his legs intertwined with yours. His arms were wrapped so snug around you that you couldn't move even if you did want to. Seemed like he was attached to you from here until forever.

"Good." He said. "Now, let's sleep."

He gave one last tug on the bond before you tried to go to sleep and he was only comfortable enough to go to sleep when he felt you tug back.

[bucketgetter535]

No Margin for Error: Chapter Ten

CW: Mild-ish sexual content?

WC: 6.1k

Notes: if only Ferrari was really this good…

Baku had come and gone.

The street circuit under lights had delivered all the chaos it was known for, and still somehow, it had settled into something nearly predictable. McLaren had been fast. Too fast, if Azzi was honest with herself. Their top-end pace on the straights made overtaking miserable, and their tire degradation had somehow improved overnight. Still, she’d salvaged third. Paige fourth, less than a second behind. Neither of them thrilled, but no damage done. Ferrari still led the constructors’ standings comfortably, and Paige still had a grip on the Drivers’ Championship.

It wasn’t a bad weekend. Just a loud one.

Now they were thirty thousand feet above the ground, somewhere over Central Asia, heading toward the relentless humidity of Singapore. And Azzi, feet tucked under her on the cream leather couch of her jet, was deeply regretting letting Luka and Mateo talk her into this.

Well, not really. She’d offered.

“You’ve never flown private?” she’d asked them after the race, eyes wide with genuine disbelief.

Luka had shrugged like it wasn’t that big of a deal. “Never needed to.”

Mateo had grinned. “We’re team players. We suffer with the staff.”

Azzi had rolled her eyes, already texting her flight manager.

Now they were here. Luka was sitting backward in his chair, ankles crossed on the armrest like he owned the place. Mateo was three snacks in and holding a banana like it was a mic.

And Paige was seated across from Azzi, legs stretched out, hoodie sleeves pushed up to her elbows, looking more relaxed than she had since Baku qualifying. At least until Luka started squinting at her.

“So,” Luka said, his voice filled with the kind of faux-innocence that immediately made Azzi want to groan. “How was New York?”

Azzi looked up from her phone slowly. “Fine.”

“Fine,” Mateo echoed, like a parrot with a PhD in sarcasm. “Totally random dinner in the same restaurant, same table, same neighborhood, at the same time.”

“Wild coincidence,” Luka added, flipping his phone around to show a photo. “This viral shot disagrees.”

It was the picture from dinner. Dimly lit but sharp enough to see how close Azzi had leaned in. How Paige’s hand had been on the back of her chair. It had hit TikTok mid-week and was still racking up edits with soft piano music and increasingly romantic captions.

“Okay,” Paige said, trying not to smile. “People eat.”

“In the same city?” Mateo asked. “On the same night?”

“We’re coworkers,” Azzi said, deadpan.

“Who fly private together,” Luka offered. “And also disappear at parties together, according to this thread.”

He flipped to another screen. Azzi caught a flash of Dirk’s smug face in one of the photos and looked away before her mood could turn.

“It’s not that deep,” Paige muttered, but the back of her neck was pink.

“No, no,” Mateo said, holding up his banana-mic. “We’re just engineers asking questions.”

Azzi cracked then, covering her face with one hand and laughing despite herself. Paige leaned back with a groan, pulling her hood over her eyes like it might protect her from the onslaught.

They weren’t mad about it. Not really. Just caught. Sort of. Not that there was anything to catch.

Sort of.

“So,” Mateo said after a beat, tossing the banana peel into the trash bin behind him. “Big weekend coming up, huh?”

Azzi nodded. “Singapore’s a good track for us. Hot. Technical. Tight corners.”

Luka tilted his head. “And after that?”

Azzi smiled, folding her hands behind her head. “Austin.”

Her mood shifted warmer at the thought. “My family’s flying in. Parents, Jon, José… even the baby cousins might show if my uncle can figure out how a plane works.”

“Serious crew,” Luka said.

Azzi nodded. “Haven’t seen them since Miami. They’re loud and sweet and will eat like twelve thousand funnel cakes.”

“You hyped?” Mateo asked.

Azzi looked at Paige, who peeked out from under her hood.

“Yeah,” Azzi said. “We both are.”

Paige nodded. “I love the U.S. GP. And I think my dad and Drew are coming to Vegas in November.”

Azzi smiled. “Tell your dad he owes me a rematch in cornhole.”

“I won’t,” Paige said. “He’s still pretending it never happened.”

Luka leaned over and stage-whispered, “So we’re going to pretend this whole flight isn’t basically a Ferrari honeymoon?”

Azzi picked up a pillow and chucked it at him.

–

Singapore was a furnace.

Not the dry, blistering heat of southern Spain or the sunbaked stretches of Silverstone. This was suffocating. Dense. Sticky. Every step outdoors felt like walking through a pot of simmering soup. Even indoors, with air conditioners on full blast, it seeped into the walls, the floorboards, the threads of your clothes.

Azzi hated it.

Or…she didn’t. The city was beautiful. Flashy. Clean in the way ultra-rich cities were. She and Paige had landed a few days early, with Ferrari’s blessing. The travel time back to Italy or the States just didn’t make sense. Too many flights, too many layovers. Too much stress on their bodies, their heads, their sleep cycles.

Better to just land and wait.

So they waited. Spent mornings at the pool and afternoons slipping between meetings and film review. Nights were quiet. Or they were supposed to be.

It was just after 2 a.m. when Azzi gave up on sleep.

The ceiling fan wasn’t helping. The hotel AC unit might as well have been wheezing its last breath. Her sheets clung to her legs like plastic wrap. Her hair stuck to the back of her neck. She turned, then turned again, then flipped her pillow over like that would make a difference.

It didn’t.

And her thoughts—well, they weren’t helping either.

They never did when Paige was two floors below her.

Eventually she sat up, kicked off the sheets, and pressed her bare feet to the cool tile. She pulled on a pair of loose shorts and a tank top. Nothing crazy. Just… Singapore clothes. Weather-appropriate.

It was only when she stood in front of Paige’s hotel door, barefoot and sweaty and half sure she was about to get laughed back to bed, that she hesitated. But her knuckles knocked before her brain could stop her.

She heard movement. Then a click. The door cracked open, revealing Paige, eyes shadowed, hair messy, and very much not asleep.

She blinked at Azzi once. “What are you doing here?”

Azzi raised an eyebrow. “Why are you awake?”

Paige leaned against the doorframe, one hand braced overhead. She was in a black racerback tank and boxers, the fabric darkening slightly with sweat along her collarbone and under her ribs. Her skin glowed, dewy from heat and maybe something else.

Azzi’s mouth went dry.

“I was watching race film,” Paige said, casual, like she wasn’t standing there looking exactly like a Nike photoshoot for trouble.

“At two in the morning?”

Paige gave a small shrug. “It’s hot. Couldn’t sleep.”

Azzi crossed her arms and shifted her weight. “Same.”

A moment passed. Not tense, exactly. But… loaded. Paige was still in the doorway, still sweaty and barefoot, and looking at Azzi like she could read every reason she’d come down here that had nothing to do with heat.

“Wanna come in?” Paige asked, stepping back.

Azzi followed, brushing past her, skin sparking at the near contact. The room was dim. Cool, by comparison. Paige had one of those portable fans humming near the bed, and the curtains were drawn to trap the dark.

Azzi flopped onto the edge of the bed like she belonged there. Paige sat back down in the chair she’d pulled up near the window. Her laptop was open, paused on a corner-speed breakdown from Baku.

“I wasn’t lying,” Paige said, tapping the spacebar and letting the screen go black. “I really was watching film.”

Azzi let her head fall back against the pillow. “I didn’t say you were lying.”

Paige stretched her arms over her head, slow and long. Her tank shifted with the movement, revealing a flash of toned stomach, the low swoop of her hip. Azzi looked away. Tried to, anyway.

“You want water or something?” Paige asked.

“Water would make it worse,” Azzi said. “I’d just sweat it out.”

Paige smirked. “True.”

Another pause. The fan whirred.

Azzi rolled to her side and studied her. “You really couldn’t sleep either?”

Paige glanced over. “I’ve been thinking a lot.”

Azzi’s stomach flipped.

“About?”

Paige tilted her head. “Life.”

Azzi snorted. “You’re gonna get all vague now?”

A small smile tugged at the corner of Paige’s mouth, but it didn’t fully land. “You ever feel like the heat makes you think too hard?”

Azzi nodded. “Too much sweat, not enough oxygen.”

“Exactly.”

She stood again, walked over, and grabbed the second pillow off the other side of the bed. Tossed it to Azzi without asking.

Azzi caught it. “I’m staying?”

Paige met her eyes. “Do you want to?”

Azzi didn’t look away. “Yes.”

Silence again.

The tension, sticky like the air, settled in again between them. Thicker now. Not new, but no longer brushed off as nothing. Not in this room. Not after New York. Not after the jet rides and the teasing and the way Paige had said her name during comms last race like it meant something more than just race craft.

Paige sat on the other side of the bed. Not touching. But close.

Too close.

Azzi exhaled. “I didn’t come down here to start anything.”

“I didn’t say you did.”

She turned her head. Paige was already looking at her. Hair sticking to her temple. A faint glow across her chest where sweat caught the moonlight.

Azzi wanted to look away.

She didn’t.

“Still hot,” Paige murmured.

Azzi nodded. “Yeah.”

Paige reached for the remote and clicked the fan up a notch. The air shifted slightly, not enough to matter.

Azzi laid back again, one arm thrown over her eyes.

“If I sleepwalk into your lap it’s because you’re cold,” she muttered.

“I’m not cold.”

Azzi peeked out from under her arm.

Paige’s eyes were still on her. Unmoving. Unapologetic.

Azzi swallowed, pulse loud in her ears.

“Well,” she said softly, “you’re cooler than me.”

Paige didn’t respond.

But she didn’t move away either.

Paige knew what Azzi was here for at 2 in the morning. Though, Azzi had been feeling it for a while at this point.

It had started hours ago, maybe even before she knocked on Paige’s door, when she sat restless in her bed, pretending it was the heat that had her peeling off layers and twisting in the sheets. Now, in the dim quiet of Paige’s hotel room, with the fan kicking up warm air and the curtains drawn tight against the city glow, Azzi could feel that low, pulsing certainty settle in her chest:

She hadn’t come here to cool off.

Paige knew it too.

She lay next to Azzi now, close but still not touching. The kind of distance that a deep breath could erase. Azzi turned her head, slowly, and found Paige already watching her. No hesitation. No teasing smile. Just that steady, quiet focus that always made Azzi feel like she was under a microscope. As if Paige was learning her in real time, one heartbeat at a time.

Paige reached out first. Just a hand, brushing soft along the edge of Azzi’s wrist. Barely a touch.

Azzi let out a slow exhale. “So much for staying cool.”

A hint of a smile tugged at Paige’s mouth. “I said I wasn’t cold.”

Her voice was lower now, sleep rough in it. Or maybe not sleep.

Azzi shifted closer, until her thigh brushed Paige’s. Her skin buzzed at the contact. Paige’s breath caught, and Azzi felt it, that tiny shift in air between them, like gravity had tilted in their direction.

They’d done this before.

But not like this.

Not with something real and fragile humming underneath. Not with a promise quietly blooming between touches.

Azzi rolled onto her side, propping herself up on one elbow. “You gonna let me kiss you, or are we still pretending this is about sleep?”

Paige’s eyes flicked to her mouth. “I’m not pretending anything.”

Azzi kissed her.

It wasn’t rushed. It didn’t need to be. There was no urgency, no scramble. Just warmth, and closeness, and the soft hum of a fan cutting through the heat. Paige’s hand found Azzi’s hip, steady and sure, and pulled her closer.

She fit there like she always had.

Azzi felt Paige’s fingers trace along her spine, slow and deliberate. Her skin prickled in response. She deepened the kiss, let herself settle into it, let herself feel everything. The softness of Paige’s lips, the low sound she made in the back of her throat when Azzi kissed her jaw, the way her hands didn’t rush but held like she meant it.

This wasn’t a secret, not here.

Azzi felt safe in this room. Hidden. Honest. She didn’t need to perform, didn’t need to hold back.

Paige rolled them gently, shifting to hover above her. Her hair fell around her face, catching bits of light. She looked down at Azzi like she was studying a map, trying to remember all the familiar landmarks.

Azzi’s chest rose and fell, slow and even.

“You good?” Paige asked, voice barely above a whisper.

Azzi nodded. “You?”

“Of course.”

–

Azzi was not a morning person.

She could pretend, sometimes, when cameras were waiting or sponsors needed her bright-eyed and branded. But this morning (body humming and thighs still comfortably aching) she was no actress. She rolled out of Paige’s bed with a wince and a grin, the sheets warm and tangled, the air still heavy with Singapore heat and something softer. Something that lingered in the pit of her stomach like a secret.

Paige was already up, sitting at the edge of the bed with her long legs stretched out and a bottle of water tilted lazily toward her lips. She glanced over when Azzi groaned softly, twisting her torso with the ease of someone who knew exactly what she’d done last night and wasn’t sorry about any of it.

“Meeting in thirty,” Paige said, her voice dry but amused. “Fred.”

Azzi sighed. “God. Do you think he knows?”

Paige’s brow arched. “He’s French. He definitely knows.”

They arrived ten minutes late, hair still slightly damp from rushed showers, Azzi in a loose ribbed tank and oversized linen pants, Paige in a plain black tee and joggers, fresh-faced but unmistakably guilty of something. The meeting was already in motion when they slipped into the cool, air-conditioned conference room tucked into the back of the paddock hospitality suite. Fred sat at the head of the table, glasses pushed high on his nose, flanked by two PR officers and an assistant who looked entirely too caffeinated for the hour.

Fred didn’t say anything at first. He just looked at them. A long, pointed look.

Then: “Do I want to know why you’re late?”

Azzi blinked. Paige said, “Probably not.”

The younger PR rep cleared her throat. “So. As you both know, a photo surfaced earlier this week. From New York.”

Azzi fought the urge to smirk. The photo in question had gone viral within hours. Her leaning back in her chair at the candlelit restaurant, mid-laugh, Paige in a black button-down across from her, arm resting casually close, eyes on Azzi like she was the only person in the room. Which, for Paige, she probably had been.

It was a good photo. Too good.

The rumors had been relentless.

“Obviously, the speculation is getting traction,” the older PR manager added, flipping through a folder of printed tweets, headlines, and one particularly bold Instagram comment that read simply: “Hard launch when??”

Fred tapped the table. “We need a plan.”

“Plan for what, exactly?” Azzi asked, even though she already knew.

The younger rep tried to be gentle. “The public is making assumptions. And if you don’t control the narrative, they will.”

Paige leaned back in her chair. “What narrative are we supposed to offer?”

“A distraction,” the older one said. “Or a clarification. Or ideally both.”

Azzi raised an eyebrow. “So, what—lie?”

They both looked briefly uncomfortable before the younger one said, “Well… more like shape.”

Fred finally chimed in again, steepling his fingers. “We don’t need a scandal. We need focus. You’re one and two in the championship. Ferrari is winning. We cannot afford the headlines to be about dinner dates and who is or isn’t sleeping with whom.”

Azzi didn’t flinch. She’d known this was coming. She just hated that it was happening in a cold room with fluorescent lights and lukewarm espresso cups.

“So, what’s the best option?” Paige asked. Her voice was calm, but Azzi knew her well enough to catch the flicker in her tone. She was annoyed. Bracing.

The rep didn’t miss a beat. “Option one—one of you is seen with a guy. Someone safe. Familiar. Maybe even someone we’ve used before. Dirk van der Meer’s name came up—”

“No,” Paige said, sharply.

Fred raised an eyebrow.

“I’m not doing that again.”

Azzi stayed quiet, but her lips pressed into a thin line. Dirk had been a necessary evil once. A blurry summer and a PR contract and a few half-hearted smiles for the camera. Paige hadn’t spoken to him since. Didn’t want to.

“Option two,” the older rep continued, “we release a statement. Neutral, minimal. Just something to dispel the noise without denying or confirming anything.”

“So basically saying nothing,” Azzi said.

“It lets the moment pass,” Fred said. “Without adding gasoline.”

“And if we don’t do anything?” Paige asked, even though she knew the answer.

The rep’s silence was enough.

Azzi ran a hand through her hair. The AC was too cold. Her body still ached pleasantly from the night before, but now her stomach was twisting. Not with regret. Just frustration. She hadn’t done anything wrong. Neither had Paige. But the world they lived in, the one with contracts and sponsors and publicists who printed Instagram comments, wanted neatness. Stories they could sell.

“I’m not fake-dating Dirk again,” Paige repeated, quieter now. Firmer. “I’d rather the rumors keep flying.”

Fred nodded slowly. “Okay.”

That surprised both of them.

“But no stunts,” he added. “No more dinners in candlelight restaurants that look like Vogue covers.”

Azzi couldn’t help the smile. “So rooftop burgers it is.”

The older rep pinched the bridge of her nose.

Fred stood. “We’ll manage it. Just keep your heads down until Singapore’s over. We’ll reassess before Austin.”

Paige was already half out the door.

Azzi lingered for a beat, then glanced back at the table.

“Just for the record,” she said, tone light but words clipped, “I’d rather be caught kissing someone I actually like than pretending to be straight for a sponsor.”

Then she left, leaving the PR team in stiff silence and Fred wearing something almost like a grin.

–

Azzi found Paige later that night where she always went when things didn’t sit right—perched on the edge of the hotel’s rooftop terrace, eyes scanning the city below like she could read the skyline for answers.

Singapore at night was golden and electric. Air thick as syrup. Every surface radiated heat even long after sunset. But Paige was still in the same black tee from the meeting, legs folded up on the lounge chair, jaw tight and unreadable.

Azzi didn’t say anything at first. She sat down beside her, letting the silence settle between them like steam.

“It’s not like I didn’t expect it,” Paige said finally, without looking over. “The photo, the reaction, the PR scramble… it’s all part of the game.”

“But it still sucks,” Azzi offered.

Paige glanced at her then. Her expression wasn’t hurt exactly. Just tired. “It’s just not fair, you know?”

Azzi nodded. She did know.

They both sat with it for a moment—what it meant to be watched, packaged, speculated on. What it meant to choose someone in a world that kept asking you to pretend.

Then Azzi shifted, tucking one leg underneath her. “Can I ask you something?”

Paige shrugged. “Sure.”

Azzi hesitated. She hadn’t meant to bring this up tonight, but something about Paige’s quiet stillness made the moment feel right. Like this was a story that had been waiting for a quieter hour.

“Why’d you do another year of F3?” she asked. “You had F2 offers. Everyone knew that. Hell, I got pulled up halfway through my F3 season and dumped into F2 for six months, then almost straight into F1. But you did two full seasons.”

Paige’s brows lifted, caught off guard. “That’s what you’ve been wondering?”

Azzi smiled faintly. “Well, I thought maybe you were being strategic or something. But it always felt a little off.”

Paige was quiet for a long moment. She leaned forward, elbows on her knees, fingers picking idly at the edge of the chair cushion.

“You probably already know this,” she said at last, not looking up. “But I didn’t finish the F3 season.”

Azzi blinked. “After I got moved up?”

Paige nodded. “Yeah. That was… sort of the beginning of the end.”

She let out a breath, more weight than air.

“I mean, on paper, I was still on the team. Still under contract. But I didn’t race again. I had this whole… thing. A moment, I guess. Or a breakdown, depending on who you ask.”

Azzi’s heart tightened. She hadn’t known the details. Not really.

“I was seventeen,” Paige said, voice low. “And I was so burnt out. I’d been pretending like I was fine, like I could handle all of it. But then you got pulled up to F2, and it was like… suddenly the bar changed. And I was still there, still grinding in the middle of the pack while they were talking about the next season like it was already decided.”

She swallowed.

“I called my mom. Thought I was calling her to vent. But I just lost it on the phone. I was crying or whatever about contracts and performance clauses and how I didn’t even know if I wanted any of it anymore. And she… did what moms do. She took the wheel. Called my manager. Froze the talks. Told them I was out for the rest of the year.”

Azzi stayed quiet. Her chest ached.

“I was so mad,” Paige continued. “Like, really mad. Felt like I was being punished for cracking under pressure. But now?” She finally looked over. “I’m glad. That break let let me breathe. Let me figure out if I really wanted this. Not just the career. But the life.”

Azzi exhaled, slow. “I had a bit of that too,” she said. “After F2.”

Paige blinked. “You?”

Azzi nodded. “After I signed with Ferrari, I was supposed to finish the rest of the F2 season. Just keep racing until F1 pre-season started. But I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t keep driving when my brain was already somewhere else, and my body was exhausted. So I told them I needed out. Needed a breather.”

She gave a wry smile. “Everyone thought it was strategic. That I was preserving myself. But honestly? I was just spent.”

Paige tilted her head, eyes soft. “And you never told anyone that.”

Azzi shook her head. “Didn’t feel like I could.”

The heat settled around them again, humid and heavy, but this time it wasn’t so uncomfortable. It was grounding. Real.

“I think that’s why I kept watching you,” Azzi said quietly. “Back then. Even after I got moved up. You weren’t trying to force it. You were just… doing it your way.”

Paige looked over, surprised. “I thought you were always too focused to notice me.”

Azzi laughed, low. “I noticed everything, P.”

Paige’s expression shifted then—somewhere between disbelief and something softer. Azzi reached over, took her hand. Their fingers curled together without resistance.

They stayed like that, side by side under the stars, traffic humming far below, the world too far away to interrupt.

“I like doing this with you,” Azzi said, barely above a whisper.

Paige squeezed her hand. “Me too.”

–

Azzi couldn’t sleep.

It wasn’t the heat, not this time. The AC in her room had finally won its battle against the Singapore humidity. Her sheets were cool, her body relaxed, but her brain was wide awake, lit up like the track on race night.

She lay on her back, one hand resting across her stomach, the other loosely curled near her head. Paige’s voice echoed softly in her ears, not in any exact sentence, but in that quiet, open way she had spoken earlier. Honest. Unfiltered. Trusting.

Azzi rolled over and checked the time—nearly midnight. Singapore time anyway. That made it late morning in D.C.

She reached for her phone and tapped on the contact saved as Mom before she could talk herself out of it.

Katie picked up on the second ring.

“Hi, baby,” came her warm voice, and just like that, Azzi’s chest loosened.

“Hi,” she said, sinking into the sound like it was home. “You busy?”

“Never too busy for you. What’s up?”

Azzi didn’t answer right away. She let the silence hold for a moment, then pressed the side of her face into her pillow.

“I just wanted to talk,” she murmured.

Katie waited, sensing something underneath.

Azzi let the words come slowly. “Paige is like… sort of my girlfriend now.”

There was no dramatic pause on the other end. No gasp. Just a quiet hum, like Katie had already guessed and was smiling softly to herself.

“Sort of?” Katie asked gently.

Azzi huffed out a small laugh. “We didn’t do the whole label thing. I think we’re both too stubborn for that. But… yeah. She’s mine. I’m hers. That kind of thing.”

Katie didn’t need more than that.

“Well, I’m happy if you’re happy,” she said simply.

Azzi’s throat tightened. “I am.”

She meant it. Even with the media storm building outside their hotel rooms, even with PR teams drafting fake-boyfriend talking points, even with everything still uncertain—she was happy.

“But it’s complicated,” she added. “With the photo, and the fans, and the… speculation. Fred called us in this morning. They’re all trying to figure out what to do. And it’s exhausting. Like, just pretending everything’s fine.”

There was a pause.

“You don’t have to pretend with me,” Katie said softly.

“I know,” Azzi whispered. “That’s why I called.”

Katie didn’t fill the silence with advice. She waited, patient as ever.

Azzi sat up in bed, legs crossed under her, phone pressed to her ear. “I miss you guys,” she said quietly. “You and Dad. And the boys. I’ve been thinking about Austin every day.”

“We can’t wait to see you.”

Azzi smiled. “I promised I’d win for you.”

“We’re already proud of you, Az.”

Azzi let her eyes close for a moment, imagining the way her mom might be sitting right now—curled up on the family room couch, tea in hand, wearing one of her oversized sweaters. Her voice always sounded like calm.

“And I was thinking,” Azzi went on, her voice picking up a little, “maybe… maybe Paige and I should post about mental health. Like, in a real way. Not some sponsored one-liner. We’ve both been through stuff. We could make it honest. Not for damage control. Just… because it’s important.”

There was a smile in Katie’s voice now. “That sounds like a really good idea.”

Azzi’s heart swelled a little.

“I think it would help people,” she added. “And maybe it would help us too. To not feel like we’re hiding everything. Plus it’s great for PR…”

Another pause.

Then, lighter, Azzi said, “Also… I’m running a pink helmet this weekend.”

“Your bright pink?”

“The brightest,” Azzi said proudly. “Almost neon. I wanted something that felt like me again.”

Katie laughed gently. “I love that.”

Azzi leaned back against her headboard, smiling into the phone. “Paige’s helmet is lilac this weekend. Or lavender. Whatever you call it. It’s so pretty. I think it’s her favorite color.”

“Is it your favorite color too now?” Katie teased.

Azzi giggled, cheeks warming. “No. But it’s… her. It looks like her. All soft and shiny and—” She stopped. “She’s really pretty.”

Katie didn’t say anything for a second.

“You really like her,” she said.

Azzi’s smile faded into something quieter. “I do.”

They sat in that for a while—just breathing together across the distance.

Eventually, Katie said, “You should get some sleep, baby. You’ve got a race to win.”

Azzi nodded, even though her mom couldn’t see it. “I will. Thanks for picking up.”

“Always. Love you.”

“Love you more.”

Azzi ended the call and set the phone down on her nightstand. The room felt softer somehow. Less heavy.

She slid down under the covers, one hand resting on her stomach again, the other still tingling from holding the phone.

Sleep came easier after that.

–

The lights above the Marina Bay Street Circuit burned like white fire against the inky Singapore night, and even at 9 p.m., the air hung heavy and wet around them like a wool blanket soaked in steam. Race day in the tropics was never pleasant, but this—this was a different beast entirely.

Azzi was drenched in sweat before the formation lap.

The second she pulled down her visor, the air inside her helmet turned into a sauna. Her race suit clung to her like a second skin, heat radiating from every panel. Even her gloves were damp. She hadn’t even put the car into gear yet.

“Let’s keep it clean. Smart start. No drama into Turn One,” came Mateo's voice over the radio.

Azzi didn’t bother answering. She was saving her energy for what promised to be a long, miserable hour and forty-five minutes.

Next to her on the front row, Paige sat stone-still in P1, her lilac helmet glinting softly under the floodlights. She was good here—really good. Fast, smooth, patient in the technical sections, aggressive in the perfect places. Singapore was where Paige had made a name for herself in F3, and now, one year into F1, she looked every bit the future world champion.

Azzi had no plans to make that easy for her.

The lights went out, and chaos reigned.

Paige got away clean. Azzi tucked in behind her. For the first twenty laps, it looked like they might cruise to a textbook 1-2 finish, as planned. No mistakes. No drama. Just the Ferrari girls slicing through the city heat like blades.

Then came Lap 22.

A midfield collision brought out a full Safety Car, and that’s when things started to unravel. McLaren pitted both drivers at once and somehow still managed to gain track position. Red Bull gambled on hard tires, and Mercedes threw soft tires on one car just to see if the world would end. Paige’s restart was flawless—but a lunge from a McLaren into Turn Eight forced Azzi wide, and she had to fight tooth and nail just to avoid contact. She dropped to fourth.

Then it started.

Yellow flags. Debris. Another Safety Car. Virtual Safety Car. One car parked sideways in the tunnel section like it forgot how to exist. Someone lost power steering. Someone else lost a wing. Azzi lost count of how many times she nearly got rear-ended by a Haas.

It was hot. So hot. Her water bottle gave up somewhere around Lap 35. Her back felt like it was melting into the seat. Her hands ached from gripping the wheel so tight.

By Lap 47, she was back in second, chasing Paige down like it was the last lap of their lives. She caught glimpses of the lilac helmet under the streetlamps—Paige was driving like a woman possessed. Clean, relentless, perfect. And sweaty as hell, probably. They both were. Azzi could feel her sports bra plastered to her ribs, and she was almost certain the pink dye from her helmet had leaked onto her neck.

But god, it looked so good.

The hot pink shimmered under the lights, bold and defiant. She might’ve been half-dead from heatstroke, but at least she looked like a flaming dream barreling through Sector 3.

The final laps were survival. Paige held the lead. Azzi kept her distance, defending against Hamilton like her life depended on it. No risks. No unnecessary moves. Just bring it home.

And when the checkered flag finally waved, and Paige crossed the line first with Azzi right behind her, both girls screamed.

Azzi barely made it out of the car before collapsing onto a pit wall stool, yanking off her helmet with trembling fingers. Her ponytail was soaked, her suit stuck to her thighs like glue, her forearms aching from every snap of countersteer she’d needed in that ridiculous, ridiculous race.

She blinked sweat out of her eyes and laughed into the open air.

“What the actual hell was that?” she croaked to nobody in particular.

No one answered. Everyone was still trying to piece together how they survived.

Paige was hoisted onto shoulders by the team before Azzi even got her gloves off. She looked delirious with heat and joy and disbelief. Azzi couldn’t stop laughing. Or sweating.

They’d wanted a calm 1-2.

What they got was a three-act opera of disaster, heat, and brilliance—with a Ferrari double podium at the end.

Azzi leaned back against the garage wall, head tilted to the sky, lungs still burning.

She was going to need three light-years of vacation.

But at least the special helmets looked good.

–

The air was thick and loud and glittering—champagne mist floating in the heat, blinding camera flashes against dark sky, the scent of burned rubber mixing with sweat and something sweeter. Maybe adrenaline. Maybe awe.

Azzi stood on the second step of the Singapore Grand Prix podium, and she was staring. Unapologetically.

Paige was on the top step. Again.

The first time this happened, Jeddah, back in April, Azzi remembered looking at her like this too. Like the whole world had tilted slightly and Paige had ended up at the center of it, smiling, golden, the trophy in her hands an afterthought to the way she carried herself.

And now, here in Singapore, that feeling hadn’t dulled.

Paige stood in front of the massive LED screen, violet-and-orange lights bouncing off her damp skin, hair plastered to her forehead, her suit half unzipped to the waist. The way her chest rose and fell, the way the curve of her jaw caught the glint from the Rolex billboard behind her. It made Azzi dizzy, in the way you get dizzy from looking too long at something you’re not supposed to want in public.

And Azzi was staring. She knew it. So did every camera. She was going to be a slo-mo edit on TikTok in fifteen minutes.

She didn’t care.

Paige held the trophy in one hand, the neck of the champagne bottle in the other, grinning like she couldn’t believe she’d done it again. She looked down toward Azzi just once, eyes catching hers for the briefest second, soft and wild and shining.

Azzi exhaled through her nose and tried not to melt.

This girl had taken a win off her in the hardest, hottest race of the year. Sweated out a pole lap in a car that had no business being that fast through sector three. Danced through two Safety Cars, ten near-misses, and a pit stop that should’ve ruined the whole strategy. And she was standing there now like it had all been inevitable. Like it was just another Sunday.

Azzi wanted to say something. Something about how stupidly pretty she looked under the lights, or how she’d made this godforsaken night race feel like it was worth every aching muscle and ruined manicure. But her mouth stayed shut. There were microphones nearby. She remembered that much.

She was in public.

Damn.

Azzi blinked and looked away for a second too long, just to reset her thoughts. The crowd roared, drunk on chaos and confetti. The Ferrari anthem started to play. She closed her eyes, let the sweat slide down her neck, let the heat settle into her bones.

Her gaze drifted back. Just for one more second.

Paige Bueckers, victorious under a sky of light and noise, was grinning at something the third-place driver said. Probably nothing important. She turned her head slightly, and the shine on her cheekbone caught the edge of the camera flash.

Azzi felt her heart beat once, loud and low.

She was in love with a girl who looked like that under stadium lights. Who drove like that in a furnace. Who laughed like that even after forty-nine laps of hell. And the whole world could watch her look. She didn’t care.

There were worse things to be known for.

She was in love with Paige Bueckers.

[juletheghoul]

his gift

a/n: I swear this is just a Marcus Acacius blog now, sorry everyone. I'm dedicating this chapter to my girlie @221bshrlocked, who I can always count on to lose her shit with me💕 I always welcome any and all comments and questions or deep dives, if you've sent me an ask for him and are thinking that I have missed it or ignored it, I'm not! I just have so many, but I promise to get through them all! Hope you enjoy 💕xo

Warnings; 18+ no minors, vague but big-legal age gap, piv sex, dirty talk, Roman era sex toy according to me (taking a big liberty) female masturbation, soft dom Marcus vibes, and soft submissive reader vibes, also some tiny allusions to being devoured? Context is important so read and be the judge, desperate, filthy Marcus, sexy bath, let me know if I missed any! **takes place between chapter X and XI**

This is the fic I referenced in this preview

Pairing: Marcus Acaciusx F!Reader

word count: 3.1k (whoops!)

reblogs are appreciated

Masterlist series masterlist

-

He had not mentioned anything about venturing out, you hadn’t even noticed until his guards and his attendants flank around him, his cloak being fastened to his shoulders while you frown. 

“I will be back in a few hours.” He nods to his guards and they make their way towards the door ahead of him. 

“May I accompany you?” It takes two of your steps to keep pace with one of his.

“No my love, you may not.” he smiles, mischief on his face and you frown further still. “I have an errand that you cannot know about, not just yet. It is a surprise.”

“A surprise? For me?” The annoyance evaporates, and curiosity fills the whole of you. 

“Yes. A surprise for you, now I must go. I will see you before nightfall. I will be here in time to dine with you.” His kiss is full of promise, and you chase his mouth for a moment before he leaves with a wink. 

—

He finds you in your chambers, mending a small tear in one of his togas. 

“We can have someone else do that–” He frowns, but you stop him. 

“I am aware, but I enjoy it. It passes the time and I am skilled with needle and thread.” Your eyes are focused on the task, cutting at the string with a small knife. 

“That, I cannot deny.” He huffs out an amused breath, resigned. “Have you eaten? Shall we dine together?” he places a small bundle under the bed and your eyes track it, narrowing at him. 

“And that? Is that not my surprise?” knife safely tucked into your basket of sewing supplies, you rise and move towards it but he stops you. 

“Yes, but it is not for you to see just now. I will give it to you in due time.” Softly, but firmly, he guides you out of your private chamber, and towards your meal. 

He speaks of nothing and everything as you eat, plans he has for the villa, people he ran into during his errand, supplies he must replenish and you listen intently.

Hours pass and you enjoy your evening with him, sitting in the peristyle drinking mulled wine and eating honey cakes while the dogs lay at your feet. You sit out there together, laughing and speaking of all manner of things until night truly settles and it is time for bed. By the time you are cleansed, and curled up in his embrace, the package is all but forgotten. 

-

Weeks go by, and Rome beckons him once more. People he must meet with and delegations he must lead. The lines around his eyes deepen, the grey in his hair spreads, a visual representation of how it tires him but he takes it with good grace. Above all else, he is a soldier, and soldiers do not balk when duty calls. 

Despite your wish to, you cannot accompany him. It is not a place for wives, my love, his tone is soft, but firm and you have no choice but to accept. There is no doubt he will return to you, but it does not make his time away any easier to bear. 

You oversee his arrangements, hand-picking the robes he will take and making sure that he has everything he needs. You keep yourself busy with the tasks of preparing his journey while keeping your house in order, ignoring the glaring absence of him looming over the horizon. He does his best to reassure you even though he himself is so busy. His hand ever a comforting weight on your hip, his lips on your temple, a soft whisper in your ear. 

On the day he leaves, as you walk him to the door in the blue dawn, he reminds you with a smile. “The package under the bed, open it tonight, while you are in our bed.” 

His expression is one you carry with you throughout the day and it's that unshakeable foundation of obedience that stops you from running to it as soon as the door is closed. You suspect he might know this, despite never commanding or ordering you to do anything once your relationship had been established. Once the change from slave to wife had been made.

His words ring in your ears as you sit nestled in your shared bed once the house is asleep, altogether too big and too empty without his form filling it alongside you.

Curiously, you pull apart the strings tying the small bundle closed, unable to guess just what it might be. 

What greets you when you finally breach it, makes you gasp out loud.

It is a polished, sizable wooden cock. Heat floods your cheeks as you hold it in your hands, the size and shape almost identical to Marcus. 

A small vial of oil falls from the seemingly empty wrappings onto your lap and the intended use of this gift is quite obvious. You laugh, inspecting it in your hands, half embarrassed, mostly aroused to know that in his absence, he still wants you to be satisfied. 

It feels forbidden in your hands. Smooth as glass, the grain in the wood like the stripes of a tiger. It has been years since you touched a cock not belonging to your now husband, years since you felt pleasure from anyone that was not him, with exception to yourself. Heat blooms from head to toe to imagine him having this made for you, an ache for him grows between your legs. 

It is with a rebellious glee that you slip back into your nest of pillows, surrounded by the scent of him in your linens and test the efficacy of his gift.

It helps, and you do enjoy it, but in the end it isn’t him. 

-

When he returns, you greet him without any sort of decorum. He laughs, weary and just as eager to be home with you, the strong grip of his arms around you, the desperate edge to his lips at your neck all proclaim it. 

“How I have missed you, my love.” His words seep into your skin like a balm, like a breeze on a warm day and you sigh your response. 

“As have I, come, let me feed you.” You pull him towards your table, calling forth a spread and your attendants are quick to obey. He smiles, obliging you despite the droop in his eyes, the weariness of travel, the toll it all takes on him.

“Eat, and then I will have water warmed for a bath, we can retreat, spend the next few days in our bed, yes?” He pulls you forward to sit on his lap, presses his face into your chest. The grit in his hair collects under your fingernails, he smells of smoke and dry heat, his own sweat, the oil he favours and no other scent has ever pleased you more. 

“My wife is wise, she knows the remedy for all.” His hands are restless at your back, spanning wide on your shoulder, taking up so much space your heart races. “I would have you bathe with me.” His lips crawl across your collarbone, his voice lower, calling forth gooseflesh.

Platters of food and good wine are set down before you, but his lips only move further up your neck, before capturing your mouth in a searing kiss. A dry, calloused palm slips under your robes, across the side of your thigh before grabbing at your backside. It pulls a laugh from somewhere and you break the kiss. 

“Patience my love, eat first.” Your fingers comb through his waves and he makes a noise from deep in his chest. “Eat, and then I will bathe with you.” You kiss one cheek, then the other, he lets out a breath, nodding before reaching for bread with one hand, while holding you close with the other. 

-

He breathes out a groan when he lowers himself into the tub, steam rising, the scented oils and salts filling your nose. The tub had been filled in the peristyle, the perfect place for it amongst the greenery and warm air of dusk. 

The silver of his hair darkens to iron when he tilts his head back, fingers running through the strands to slick it away from his face. Silvery scars mar his face but they do nothing to diminish his beauty, the strength in his arms, the strong grip of his hands, he’s the picture of virility and your thighs press together to finally have him back home.

“Come my love, you promised to bathe with me.” His smile is sharp, but his eyes are soft and you press forward, following, obeying, submitting to him freely and happily. 

His touch is reverent, almost shy despite the edge of pure want in his expression. 

“Gods above, I could devour you whole.” He pulls you closer, slippery skin gliding as you slide right into his lap. Your breasts pressed against his chest with how tightly he hugs you and you laugh, breathless. The water sloshes over the edge with every one of his movements, darkening the mosaic below but he doesn’t even notice, he doesn’t even care. Your hands sweep over his back, his shoulders and up his neck in gentle attempt to soothe, to slow him down. 

“Peace Marcus, we have all night, let me reacquaint myself.” You smile, pull back when he presses forward, relishing the way he bites his bottom lip in all his bottled up desperation. “Slow, soft.” You press kisses to his cheeks, ignoring the ache in your core at just how hard his sex is under you. 

His hands flex at your sides, his sincerest attempt at control and you keep your expression neutral, keep the taunt hidden, the game fair. 

“I missed you Marcus, missed you so much it was like a wound.” You rake your nails across his scalp, clean the dirt and sand from his skin while his hands slip across your belly, your thighs, while his fingers graze and pinch at your nipples. The hitch in your breath bolsters him. 

“My poor—“ his lips caress at the soft skin just below your ear, dragging softly along your neck as he speaks, “neglected, lonely little wife.” The press of his fingers into the cheeks of your backside is hard enough to bruise, hard enough to make you gasp softly before he claims your mouth in a kiss that blanks your thoughts, stills your hands for a moment. 

“Tell me how you missed me, tell me you imagined me in our bed.” You pant into the empty air at his words, his tone, cunt clenching in painful arousal when he maneuvers you onto his cock, hot and hard and slotted perfectly between the lips of your sex. “Did you enjoy my gift in my absence?” 

The head of his cock slides deliciously against your clit, slowly, maddeningly, unraveling the strings of your arousal as well as your sanity. 

“Yes-“ your arms wrap around his neck, letting him rock you onto his cock in the warmth of the water, in the open air smelling of jasmine and laurel leaves, the sun baked bricks of your home.

“I want to watch you, I want to see it, the thought of you fucking yourself and thinking of me kept me awake at night, fisting my cock and coming in my hands.” His words, his intensity, the thought of it lights you up from the inside, a sunburst of arousal bright enough to blind you. 

“I want you to come just like this, want you all wet and open for me when I get you in that bed my love.” His mouth lowers, lips pressing against your nipple, the warmth of his mouth and the flicking of his tongue, then the cold air against wet skin before he moves to the other breast and repeats. His hands are a brand on your hips, rocking you back and forth, that perfect slip of the head of his cock against your clit building the pleasure in your hips, in the base of your spine. 

Soft, breathy moans spill from your lips and your fingers curl into his hair, holding him tightly to your breast as you climb that steady ladder higher and higher. 

“Come on, my pretty girl, come on my cock, I know you can do it.” He breathes against your chest, teeth gliding against your peaked nipple and it’s like a slow wave when it crests. 

His mouth sucks harshly, making you gasp, thighs trembling as he keeps rocking you, every bump tightening the muscles in your belly as you ride out the pleasure.

“That’s my good girl, my perfect little wife with her pretty little cunt.” His eyes are black pools, lust blown and wild.

You catch your breath, heart slowing as you finish cleansing him, limbs syrupy and pliant in the afterglow of your flutters.

Once finished he rises and pulls you to stand with him, he barely lets you wipe yourself down with your clean linens before he is all but pulling you towards your chambers. Naked and stumbling through the halls of your house in the red haze of passion.

When you land in your bed, he does not follow, he doesn’t line himself up and sink into you like you thought he might. 

“Where is my gift?” You rise up to lean on your elbows, momentarily lost in the arousal of him before your mind catches up.

“It is where you left it, under the bed.” Once you’d finished with it, you’d cleaned it and put it back—you frown when he pulls it out and brings it with him. Once settled between your thighs he unties the covering while his cock slips over your mound, a hot, teasing weight over your sex.

“I want you to show me.” He tosses the wrappings aside before holding the wooden cock out for you. Your eyebrows rise into your hairline. 

“But, but you are home, I want you—“ your fingertips reach down to tease the head of him but he slips the wooden cock into your hands instead. 

“I want to see it, I want to see how you take it.” He urges, soft tone but hard gaze and your heart races. The need to obey him, to make him happy, to oblige him makes your cunt clench. You take the toy from him and he settles on his haunches, hands lifting your legs, pressing against the backs of your thighs to hold you spread open wide for his gaze. 

The wood is cold against the slicked up mess of your cunt and you’re wet enough that you don’t even need the oils, it slides right in, stretching the dark pink of your insides open for his eyes.

“That’s it, fuck yourself, how does it feel?” Slowly, you spear it into yourself, in, out, wetting it in you as his hands press harder, spreading you wider.

“Feels good—“ you pant, tongue peeking out of your mouth to wet your lips. 

“It does doesn’t it, look how fucking wet you are.” One of his hands slides down, his thumb sliding through your slick at the edge of where you’re spread around the thick of the wood, he smears it against the lip of your sex, petting, sliding up to work at your clit. 

“I think you can go a little faster, I think you want to fuck yourself a little harder, don’t you my love?” His thumb swirls, sliding and circling around your clit as you speed up.

Your heart races, sweat beads at your temples, heat crawls across your body under the strain of it, under his heavy, burning gaze. 

The sounds are obscene, the ache of working it inside you growing in your shoulder, in the tensing of your belly but you can’t stop, not with how good it feels, now with how enraptured he is at the sight—

“Is that all you can do?” He tsks, thumb working just a little bit harder until you flutter around the toy, the pleasure taking you by surprise, thighs tensing but he doesn’t let you close them, doesn’t stop swirling, and suddenly the pleasure comes again, too quick, too strong and you whine at the intensity of it.

He pulls his hand away and removes the wooden cock from your hand and from your cunt and throws it somewhere in the linens, only to replace it with his own. A mutual groan fills the air between you, high and breathless from you, low and punched out from him. He gives you no respite from your release, no softness, he ruts—fucks you like you haven’t seen him in years.

That aspect of him that you see sometimes, the caged animal within rears its head, sharp snaps of his hips into the slicked-up, swollen, dark pink of you, heavy hands and a firm grip that reminds you, schools you on the fact that you are his. 

You flutter around him again, the blunt head of him stroking, petting at that bundle of nerves only he ever seems to find until you seize, scream and gush around him, soaking him in your passion.

“That’s it, that’s it my love, take it-“ he pushes forward, turning his heavy stroke into a tight grind while you balance on that edge of pain and pleasure, ecstasy and excess. Your hands press against his shoulders, the middle ground of pulling him closer and pushing him away. 

His mouth sucks at the delicate skin of your neck, teeth scraping and for a heartbeat you wish, or hope, or just imagine that he might actually devour you, moan at how much the thought excites you. His groan is loud, his cock swells before the warmth of his gift fills you, his forehead moving to press to your chest so he can watch it, watch himself spearing inside. 

It’s quiet in the immediate after except for the heavy thump of your pulse in your ears, and his sharp pants against your chest.

With limbs weighed down by pleasure, you lift your hands slowly and thread them through his damp waves, admiring the warm golden skin pressed to yours. The wet spot beneath you cools, making you wince in discomfort, despite how lovely it is to be surrounded by him. He senses it though, and pulls out with a hiss and hauls you into his embrace. 

“Give me a few moments, and I will have someone change the linens.” You nod into the sweet smelling skin of his chest, pressing your lips to a scar on his shoulder. “I missed you.” He whispers into your temple, soft and devastating, the animal satisfied, the man in the forefront.

“I missed you too.”

-

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[enyaliuswrites]

bf!Zayne x gn!reader tags : reader isn't mc, cute teeth rotting fluff

Zayne always believed he was destined to be alone. Throughout his life, he had never spared anyone a second glance, let alone developed a crush. It wasn’t that he didn’t want love—quite the opposite. He often dreamed of finding someone who truly understood him, someone who could see past his seemingly cold gestures to the good intentions beneath. Someone patient enough to handle his long work hours and straightforward nature.

He never actively sought love, allowing the threads of fate to unravel as they were meant to. If Zayne were to meet someone who understood him, someone that would make him feel intrigued to want to know more about them, then he’d fall. If not, then he would never entertain the idea of being in love. 

Throughout middle school, high school, and university, Zayne had been given love letters and heard rumours of some other students having crushes on him, but he never felt the same. His heart never ‘skipped a beat’ whenever he was talking to someone. So he always politely turned them down, though the next day they always said that his words had cut deep into their hearts, causing some rumors to circulate around his name. 

‘Zayne the heartless man’ ‘Zayne who has a heart as cold as ice’ ‘Zayne who would give hope to girls and break them’

Zayne was perplexed every time he heard this, he had merely told them that he didn’t like them. Did everything someone have to say have to be sugar coated? Did these students have nothing else to do with their lives than crushing on someone and gossiping?

Late-night shifts were accompanied by the quiet tranquility of his office—the soft hum of his computer and the muffled sounds of activity just beyond his door. Sometimes he wished there was someone waiting at home for him, like how some of his other colleagues would say, in a rush to leave with a smile on their face. Someone that completes him. 

But Zayne always pushed the thought away back to the back of his mind, refocusing on his work—sometimes even preparing the next day's reports to keep himself busy. As he grew older, Zayne found himself minimizing every action that he did. Eating, talking, the transition from one task to another—he always made sure to keep it as efficient as possible. Especially in his line of work, where patients' lives were at stake, how could he afford to waste time on idle chatter or leisurely savoring a five-star meal?

However, as he sat across the table from you, all those thoughts vanished, carried away by the breeze that made your hair sway. You looked breathtaking—your skin, eyes, nose, lips, hands, mannerisms, even the way you spoke—everything about you drew him in since the moment he first saw you. There was something about you he couldn’t quite place, but he never felt the need to figure it out. All he knew was that when he was with you, the world quieted, its noise drowning out into nothing.

You understood him more than he understood himself. The little sweets you placed in his pockets for him to savor while he worked. The occasional decorations on his ID badge holder or lanyard, or both. The playful little fights whenever he stole a bite of your cake. The way you would fake laugh at his jokes just to make him feel happy, and even though he knew it was fake, he’s never felt more heard.

Zayne had always known that a heart 'skipping a beat' was just a figure of speech—medically impossible and, besides, something he had never experienced himself. But the first time he saw you smile at him, it felt as if all his years in the medical field melted away. The way your eyes lit up when you talked about something you were passionate about—whether it was a new TV show or your hobbies—made him feel something unfamiliar, something that melted the walls he had spent years constructing.  He loved sweets more than anything—at least, that’s what he thought before he met you. Even as he stole a lick from your ice cream, he would give up all the sweets in the world to be by your side. And you knew that too, but it didn't stop you from 'accidentally’ poking his face, getting ice cream all over his cheek.

Going to the arcade just to play the claw machine had become a weekly tradition. You would drag Zayne along, and he would stand by, watching as you played. Whenever you struggled, he never stepped in right away—he always waited until you asked for help, believing in you but always ready to back you up. Every trip to the arcade was guaranteed at least 3 plushies to be added to your collection.

A/N: You guys don't know how much I've been daydreaming about this man it's unhealthy goddamn. Anyways, please give me requests ya'lls, my delusions are wearing thin. Anyways, stay delusional! (*´∀`*)

dividers by @omi-resources

[linkspooky]

If there's a next time, maybe I'll change how I live...

Sukuna's last moment in the manga ends with him accepting that his loss, and showing even the strongest of all time Sukuna, someone powerful enough to do what he wants, when he wants, could not only lose but he could be wrong. This is something considering that you could make an argument that the entire manga, and sorcerer society as a whole is shaped around Sukuna's morality of the pursuit of selfish desire and strength of all else. In fact someone else argues it right here.

What led to this journey of the most irredeemable character in the comics who lived only for selfish pleasure acknowledging the love he rejected in the end? Well, we'll cover that under the cut.

The Cycle

Before analyzing Shinjuku as a whole, I want to start with its conclusion. I'll first break down the final moment in Sukuna's character arc, and then go back to the start and analyze how we got there. That being said, let's get on with it.

Sukuna loss begins with him contradicting his own nature. I'll explain what I mean by this. If you read the thread above, detective_critics observes characters like Sukuna who live for themselves and characters who embody Sukuna's ideals like Gojo are rewarded in the manga whereas characters like Yuji who fight primarily for others are punished relentlessly.

This is well supported by Yuji's continual losses throughout the manga. Yuji swallows Sukuna's fingers in order to permanently execute Sukuna and stop future people from being harmed by curses, but because of Yuji's decision to swallow the finger thousands die in Shibuya. Yuji's desire to save others only seems to backfire and he's continually presented with those he can't save, Junpei, Nanami, Nobara. He's even robbed of his own purpose of being Sukuna's vessel when Sukuna takes Megumi's body instead.

I mostly agree with this idea that the manga rewards people more true to their desires like Sukuna and Gojo, but I'd like to add an addendum that the manga doesn't specifically reward selfishness, but rather self-actualization.

To backtrack slightly, Sukuna observes that many sorcerers in the past have faced him but they didn't truly believe in their ideals the way that Yuji did. Yuji is punished by the narrative yes, but he's not unceremoniously killed off the way that Toji, and Mahito are. Rather, Yuji's durability, his ability to cling to life instead of just dying off like Sukuna suggests weak people should do comes from the fact that his ideal is unshakable.

Let's look at Sukuna's words a little more closely. He says that many sorcerers killed him in the past and they all had different ideals, but none of them truly believed in their ideals. Because Sukuna could so easily point out how their idealism was false he came to think of all ideals as worthless. This is shown in the way that he easily picks apart both Gojo and Hajime, two characters who lose because they ultimately don't believe in their own ideals. Sukuna is very easily able to point out the hypocrisy in both of them.

Sukuna basically points out that Kashimo and Gojo were both happy to bully anyone who came near them, they'll throw around their power all they like and revel in their own superiority and then go back and complain about being lonely. A classic case of wanting to have your cake and eat it too, or as Sukuna said they were being greedy. They were the ones who rejected everyone around them, they were the ones who rejected the love they were shown, and yet they put the blame on everyone else.

Gojo even in death acts like everyone else is a flower, an inferior being incapable of understanding him. Yet, a few panels later he says that the fight with Sukuna the only person who rivaled him in strength and therefore shouldn't be able to understand him didn't satisfy him, and he would only have been satisfied if Geto were there.

These two statements contradict each other. The thing is, Gojo has at this point long surpassed Geto in strength. People often clown Geto on the fact that he never had a domain expansion, and that Kenjaku seemed to use his cursed technique far better than he ever could. Geto is someone who's far behind Gojo in strength, and yet he's the one who could satisfiy Gojo, not Sukuna. Which means Gojo was the one who was wrong. Gojo was betraying his ideals. He believed he was living to be the strongest, that he was satisfied being the strongest while all along wanting something else and it's that contradiction that killed him.

Let me make a brief comparison to another manga. Aizen from Bleach is a character with a god complex to rival Gojo's, and just like Gojo exists on a different level of power than everyone else. He is not only the strongest soul reaper, but one of the smartest, and has been isolated by that strength since he was a child. Aizen then believes that he needs to become god, because it's his right as a naturally superior being, but Aizen is a fraud.

Aizen loses becuase the hogyoku the source of his power rejected him right as he seemed to be at the peak of his power. However, Ichigo reflects that maybe the Hogyoku didn't reject him. The Hogyoku is in plot, a wish granting macguffin, that grants your subconscious desire. Ichigo speculates that maybe Aizen didn't truly want to ascend to godhood, but rather he wanted someone like Ichigo to defeat him. That he wanted an equal like Ichigo so he wouldn't have to be alone on the top anymore. Aizen not being fully aware of this desire and clinging to his sense of superiority instead, the very thing that makes him lonely is what causes him to lose. Aizen is cut down by Ichigo, and instead of becoming a god he becomes just another soul reaper.

Sukuna cuts through Gojo by cutting through the world, bypassing the infinity, and therefore making him just like everyone else. Just as Aizen wished to be just another soul reaper, Gojo becomes just another sorcerer now that his position of the strongest has been taken by Sukuna.

So Gojo's loss came when he betrayed his ideals. His stated ideal of "I am the strongest", but this was contradicted by what he really wanted which was the time of his life when him and Geto together said "We are the Strongest." Strength didn't satisfy him, but rather it was Geto and Gojo's inability to realize the real reason he was fighting leads to his loss.

The manga doesn't reward selfishness, but rather self-actualization. Characters with a strong sense of self are just more likely to be self-actualized, because they possess a deep sense of self awareness.

Sukuna at least is self-aware. He knows you can't be the strongest, to relentlessly bully others with your power and yet want to be close to other people too. He knows that's wanting to have your cake and eat it too, so he rejects love. Sukuna knows you can't have it both ways, so he decides I don't need love, love won't satisfy me, I'll live only to be the strongest.

My main example of a character betraying their ideals is Toji though.

Toji moves to face a newly awakened Gojo. He has not only a solid plan to fight him, curse tools that can penetrate his infinity, but he's also got inside knowledge of the Limitless. Toji believes he can win, and yet at the same time he feels uneasy.

As he died, Toji reflects that the reason he died is because he deviated from his true self. He believed that he was jumping from job to job, just working for money. That he didn't care about the sorcerer world. He killed sorcerers, got paid, and then gambled it all away.

Yet, when he was faced with the pinnacle of Jujutsu his motivation changed from living to fulfill his own selfish desires, to revenge. Toji wasn't as over the way the Zen'in Clan rejected him as he thought he was. He needed to defeat Gojo in order to affirm himself, and the moment he betrayed his own ideals like that he lost.

Now this moment can be directly paralleled back to Sukuna, who feels a similiar unease the entire time that he's fighting Yuji, an unease that makes him more and more irrational over the course of the fight.

Sukuna betrays his ideals in two ways, one that he's never once cared what other sorcerers think and say and lives only for himself and two that he is merely killing time before he dies. The first leads to his breakdown over the fight as he tries to crush Yuji, but finds himself unable to. The second is as I said above the final nail in the coffin.

When faced with a stronger opponent, or rather opponents as the sorcerers of the modern era all work together to trump the sorcerer of the golden age of sorcerery Sukuna doesn't accept his death. In his last moments he's clinging desperately to Megumi, trying to keep living in his body. At which point Megumi remarks that even someone like Sukuna must fear death too.

You could connect this to Mahito too. Many people even said that Sukuna got the Mahito treatment. Both characters lived freely slaughtering everyone else, and yet when they are about to be killed they try and run away from it. This is obviously deliberate as not only do the words "You are Me' parallel "I am you" but Sukuna's last moment in the manga is a conversation with Mahito.

Mahito also betrayed his ideal. Number one curses don't truly die, Jogo and Hanami and Dagan all accept their deaths because they'll be reborn as different curses but they'll always come back. However, Mahito clings to his own existence. Mahito is also not true to his nature, because he longs to be a true curse, but Mahito is also the most human curse. He's the representative of the fear and hate humans have for one another, and he spends his last moments terrified of the human being known as Yuji Itadori.

Which is why Mahito is appropriate to have this final conversation with Sukuna. Mahito calls out the way Sukuna betrayed his ideals. Sukuna always believed he was only living to satisfy himself and he didn't care what others thought, but Mahito points out that he was really living for revenge towards the people who rejected that unlovable wretch. Sukuna wasn't rejecting people because he was a god towering far above others, but because he had been rejected and hated in the past and then decided to hate them in turn.

However, unlike Mahito Sukuna is able to grow up so to speak. Mahito doesn't want to be anything else but Sukuna comes to the realization that you can choose your nature. That the decision to hate and reject everyone was a choice, and that he can choose a different path in another life.

You define who you are, that is the literal definition of self actualization. So we see Sukuna having become enlightened about himself escape the cycle, whereas Mahito who's still a curse is still trapped in that cycle. Something that Mahito complains about, that he's just a child unable to grow up while even Sukuna has changed.

Escaping the Cycle

Now that I've shown you how Sukuna has changed, I'm going to go over all of Shinjuku to describe the events that led to this change. This change is brought about everyone, but most of all by Yuji Itadori someone who unlike Sukuna reached self-realization. Yuji is the one who remains true to himself, whereas Sukuna who has only lived for himself is the one who betrays himsellf in the end.

The first hint that Sukuna may not entirely believe his own words comes in his conversation with Kashimo. Sukuna lives for his own self-satisfaction, other people exist for him to amuse himself until he dies. Since he's a complete being who doesn't need anyone else to satisfy him, since he's satisfied then why did he need to divide himself into twenty parts and keep living after death.

Sukuna doesn't answer this quesiton, but rather just continues on with his monologue. If life to Sukuna is just killing time until he dies then why does he go above and beyond to prolong his life? Why not accept his natural death?

Then after quickly dispatching Higuruma, Sukuna finds himself unsatisfied. Even though he was doing exactly what Kashimo told him, he was tasting an interesting sorcerer and swallowing him whole.

Sukuna doesn't feel satisfied in his victory. At first he thinks it's just because Higuruma lost too early, and then he realizes that his current disatisfaction comes from Yuji. Sukuna doesn't care what others think, he hates the concept of ideals themselves, at yet the same time Yuji holding an unbreakable ideal bothers him. If Sukuna is being true to himself, then he shouldn't care what Yuji believes in.

Yet, Sukuna changes for the first time in a thousand years. He acquires a new ideal and that's killing every sorcerer present and then initating the merger. Something that Kusakabe even notes is out of character for Sukuna. He thought Sukuna wouldn't have a need to start the merger, he doesn't care about big picture things like Kenjaku he just wants to strong opponent.

Sukuna begins to drift further and further from his nature because of Yuji over the course of the fight. As I said Sukuna shouldn't have to fight Yuji to prove that Yuji's ideal is wrong. If he rejects all ideologies then he shouldn't even care. Yet the things that set Sukuna off the most in the fight, the things that motivate him to fight the hardest to crush his enemy are people like Yuji and Maki who challenge his beliefs. Yuji by fighting for others instead of himself, and Maki by rejecting cursed energy entirely and instead having a strong body to fight.

Sukuna who is supposed to be completely satisfied with himself, has something to prove when fighting against these opponents. We learn that Yuji isn't just some boring child like Sukuna suggested. He's actually made from the other half of Sukuna's soul. Rather, Sukuna rejected his twin and ate him in the womb. All of his superiority as a sorcerer, his four arms, the mouth on his stomach comes from this. However, that twin didn't disappear, he reincarnated and mated with Kenjaku to produce Yuji.

So Sukuna is Yuji's uncle technically, but symbolically, Yuji is the other half of his soul. The half that Sukuna rejected. How can Sukuna be someone at peace with all of himself, if he rejects half of himself? It goes along with what Mahito said, Sukuna didn't reject others because he was compeltely satisfied with living alone, but because of revenge. He was born a malformed retch and never shown love so he rejected all forms of love.

Sukuna is not at ease with himself because he's not whole. Yuji represents the love that Sukuna rejectected. Rejecting yourself doesn't work though, because one he tried to reject his twin and his twin's soul reincarnted, and two rejecting yourself is completely at odds with the complete self-acceptance that Sukuna preaches is the source of his strength.

Sukuna's incessant need to reject Yuji, to prove that Yuji is wrong, that he's inferior is what leads to his demise. Not only that, but Sukuna's rejection of Yuji's method of fighting, relying on his allies leaves him blind to several elements of Yuta's strategy. He falls for the copy technique bluff twice, because Sukuna didn't factor that both the original users Angel and Toge could still use their techniques too. He's beaten by the cooperation that Yuta uses in his strategy, because Sukuna rejects that same kind of cooperation and sees it as a weakness.

Sukuna's proven to be wrong. He told Jogo that working with others limits your individual strength and he should have tried fighting on his own, but Sukuna is continually outfoxed by Yuta's strategy which relies entirely on team coordination.

It's also a direct parallel to the way that Gojo lost in Shibuya. Gojo was absolutely infuriated that the curses would work together to fight him and they'd rely on a strategy instead of just overpowering him with brute strength. But Gojo lost, precisely because they made a strategy around Gojo's exact weakness, that he's strongest when he's alone.

If Sukuna didn't feel the need to reject the others, then he wouldn't be so blind to Yuta's way of fighting with strategy and cooperation. If he could accept other ways of thinking other than his own he wouldn't have been hoodwinked multiple times in the fight. Yet, it isn't just Sukuna rejecting them on principle, he has to reject companionship otherwise the curses and hatred churning inside of him would burn him up inside. So Sukuna isn't really choosing his nature as he believes, but rather he's a slave to it.

There's also parts where Sukuna just straight up lies. He says he feels nothing, and yet two panels later he's completely enraged.

You could say that Sukuna is just saying he feels nothing about Yuji's attempts to empathize with him, but that's not the case. He definitely feels something, because that empathy, or rather pity as Sukuna frames it compeltely infuriates him.

if Sukuna lived entirely according to his own desires and didn't care about the opinions of others, as he stated a hundred times above why does Yuji's pity infuriate him? If he was so confident in his godlike superiority to others, why does he feel the need to prove it, by ripping apart all of Yuji's friends right in front of it in a gesture of revenge for being pitied.

This leads to what is the greatest moment of growth for Yuji, and the greatest moment of stagnation for Sukuna. Yuji's moment of growth isn't just in rejecting the cog mentality, but also in accepting Megumi. Specifically, he accepts the fact that Megumi is different than him, that it's alright if Megumi's not strong enough to keep living.

Sukuna is compelled by his own nature, his desire for revenge to reject everything around him, but the conclusion of Yuji's character arc is defined by acceptance. Not only does he accept that Megumi's own feelings are different than his, but he's willing to accept Sukuna back into his soul.

I don't think Yuji empathizes with Sukuna. He still doesn't understand him. However, in spite of that lack of understanding, he's willing to accept Sukuna into his soul and keep living with him, because as I said above Yuji and Sukuna are two halves of the same soul. Sukuna is the embodiment of everything he hates, someone who carelessly disregards life and hurts others with a thought, and yet Yuji is willing to give a second chance to that person.

In that moment Yuji lives true to his ideal of saving people, whereas by clinging to life Sukuna was betraying his ideal. I think it's important that Yuji didn't empathize with Sukuna though because Yuji and Sukuna might be two halves but they're meant to represent opposites.

Sukuna also had to learn to accept that Yuji was different than him. He spent the entire story trying to reject him and step on him like a bug. If Sukuna were truly confident in his ideals he wouldn't care that other people had different thoughts, but no Yuji had to be wrong.

Yuji doesn't empathize with Sukuna but he does change him. He alters Sukuna's fundamental nature "You are me" by showing Sukuna there was a different path he could have taken all along. That Sukuna wasn't the strongest he could be, that someone could have compeltely different ideals and be stronger.

Uraume says that the main characters didn't win because they were stronger, but because Sukuna was in Megumi's body a thousand years later instead of his own original body. Which basically means that Sukuna being a parasite in the modern era, pointlessly extending his life is exactly what led to his defeat because he couldn't accept his own death.

I think it's significant that it's not Yorozu or Yuji who Sukuna finally decides to accept as someone he can love, but Uraume. Sukuna even references there were people who tried to teach him about love in life. Assuming the one on the right in Yorozu, the way both uraume and Yorozu approach their relationship with Sukuna is compelte opposites.

Yorozu in the end seemed to recognize Sukuna's isolation, but she projected her desires onto him entirely like everyone else in the manga. Yorozu, Gojo, Kashimo, they don't seek to understand Sukuna but rather to make him understand then. They're in the end kind of self-serving in their love, making Sukuna into a symbol. Specifically Gojo and Kashimo project their loneliness onto Sukuna when Sukuna never asked for it. I mean if you want an example Gojo says this in his dying dream.

Yet, moments later Sukuna declares that Gojo Satoru cleared his skies. That he would never forget his name. Sukuna was completely satisfied with the fight, Gojo just didn't understand him.

Ironically, the one who Sukuna finally shows love to is the one who never bothered to try teaching love to Sukuna in the first place. Ura Ume spends the entire time at Sukuna's side, and while they seem to have more of a servant master relationship I'd argue that Ura Ume has a better read on Sukuna than anyone else. They can tell when Sukuna is enjoying himself, they can tell when Sukuna is holding back, they don't ever try to make Sukuna into something he's not they just stay by his side and accept them.

Sukuna's final scene in the manga is a deliberate callback to this scene. Jogo begins to cry and Sukuna says he doesn't undertand the reason why Jogo is crying. Immediately afterwards, UraUme appears in front of him.

Then, in their final scene together Sukuna is shown musing on how two people showed him there were different ways of living, Uraume and Yorozu. As he decides to go north, and become someone new as Mei Mei once put it in the going north and going south metaphor, he holds Ura Ume's hand and comforts him as he cries.

There are two people in the manga who showed Sukuna unconditional acceptance, Yuji and Uraume. Through them Sukuna was finally able to accept his own humanity.

So in conclusion: Sukume canon!

[lavenderdropp]

“Have a cake and eat it. Baby it’s your Birthday!”

Characters: Kagaya Ubuyashiki and Kokushibo/Michikatsu.

Synopsis: Your husband wants to make your birthday special.

Category: Fluff.

Warnings: Nothing, just a down bad Kagaya.

Timeline: Kimetsu Gauken.

A birthday gift for @echantedtoon . (Happy belated birthday, dear!)

:Kagaya Ubuyashiki

• This guy has everything planned weeks ago.

• He wants to make this day very special. Even though he tries to make everything special for you like everyday. That is the least he could do for his s/o, a person who loves him like it’s breathing.

Eyelids fluttered open, revealing a pair of [eye colour] iris, shying away from the honeyed sun rays. As the said woman adjusted her vision, her gaze met her husband’s, who lay there admiring the woman he loves the most.

Lilac iris drunk on the sight of the sun kissed face of his beloved. At that moment all he could think of was..how blessed he was to have her in his life. His fingers threaded through her hair gently. The action spoke the rhythm of love, which existed only for her.

Kagaya held her closer as he inclined his head to kiss her forehead. “Happy Birthday, My love.”

• So, this guy is hella rich. Being with him means that anything you ever wanted would be at your feet. And when it’s your birthday, expect surprises everywhere you go.

•The breakfast would be your favourite, prepared by him of course.

•When you reach your office, your desk would be filled with your favourite flowers surrounding a box wrapped with a red ribbon.

•You were touched, wondering what you did to deserve this man. You opened the box to find a necklace, crafted perfectly. Besides that you found a small note, saying:

“Though this necklace is no match to the beauty you possess. Happy birthday, dear.”

•This guy is familiar with your schedule and he may or may not have adjusted his own schedule to match with yours just so he could spend the day with you.

•Throughout the day you received many gifts, clothes, jewellery, new make up accessories—you name it.

•the day did tire you but the presences of your husband and all the efforts he went through warmed your heart. You just love him so much.

•Not to mention he did not even let you do a single task.

•such a sweetheart, isn’t he?

•You two even had a fancy dinner at your favourite restaurant and this gentleman refused to split bills. You two had a nice talk as you dined, which seemed to have become something difficult to have from how much work you both go through.

•He held your hand, occasionally placing kisses against your knuckles as you listened to you going on about your week.

And when you both returned—

As you take a seat on the bed, exhausted, Kagaya kneels down in front of you, taking your heels off gently. His fingers brushing against your feet, cradling them gently. This has you taken aback. “Kagaya—“

“[Name], I am devoted to you like a devotee to his deity. I love you like a poet loves his poems.” He rests his head against your feet as the words of devotion and love left his lips.

“Your eyes put the stars on shame. Sun? Who needs when a single smile of yours can light up my whole world.” His gaze trailed up to meet your surprised one, a smile slowly made its way to his lips. “Ever since I have met you, everything seems to revolve around you.”

“You love as if it is nothing. You accepted me when I couldn’t accept myself, you truly are a pure soul and I fell in love with it. [Name], you make me the happiest man alive.”

His hand reached up to cup your face, wiping away the tears that yoh did not realise leaving your eyes.

“And all I can do is try to make it up you.”

: Kokushibo/ Michikatsu Tsugikuni

•He noticed how you have been overworking yourself from a few weeks. He is not unfamiliar with it due to how demanding his own job is and as your birthday neared, he had the perfect thing in mind to make it relaxing for you.

When you woke up, the first thing that came in your in your mind was— “What time is it?” You reached out for your phone, as the broad daylight had you worried, not to mention that your dear husband was not next to you either. Why didn’t he wake you up?

As you checked your phone you nearly got a heart attack from how much time had already passed. ITS 10:30 IN THE MORNING NOW! You quickly got ready by performing your routine and slipping into your office wear.

You made your way downstairs. To your surprise you found your spouse.. in the kitchen? Didn’t he had a job to attend? “Michikatsu—?”

“You are up.” He stated, placing two plates on the table containing your favourite meal. “be careful, I just mopped the floor.”

You were surprised to say atleast. “Did you not go to the work? And why did you not wake me up?”

There was no reply from him, making you frown. “Michikatsu, what’s—“

“Take a seat.” You watched as your husband took off the hello kitty apron that you had bought from the nearby supermarket in a sale. You took a seat on the chair as your husband, Michikatsu, walked over and stood behind you, his hands resting on your shoulders.

“Why did you get ready for the work?” He whispered out the question. “I have already made a call to your office to inform that boss of yours that you are taking a day off. And I have taken a day off myself.” He did not add the part where he hung up the call when your boss started to yell. Well he did not even ask him— he plainly stated it that you are taking a day off.

And minus the part where Muzan gave him a very nasty look when he applied for a leave.

“It’s your birthday, do you not remember?”

Oh yes, it had completely slipped out of your mind that it was your birthday today.

You tilted your head up to meet his gaze. “But ‘katsu—“

“I don’t want to hear it. You have been tiring yourself. You need a break on your birthday atleast.” Concern was evident in his eyes, which you might have missed if you did not know any better.

A soft kiss was placed against your forehead as Michikatsu spoke up. “And..we can finally spend a day together.” A small smile graced his lips as you blushed.

“Happy Birthday, My dear moonlight.”

“You forgot to turn off the stove.”

“…”

[achaemenidstar]

The meals in the dining hall have been getting smaller and smaller, and less and less extravagant as ingredients are shifted for the use of making rations. The kitchen has banned hobbyist cooks to prevent a waste of supplies, which means, if you're an aspiring cook, you have to find other ways to procure your ingredients, or if you're just a picky eater, you'll need to consult with your allies for creative ways to dress up your rations. Some even resort to making bets and dares in order to force others to give up their portions.

Claude sighed, scrunching up his nose as he nudged food around his plate with a utensil absentmindedly. While he was never a picky eater, today was... Unappetizing. As in, he'd-debate-feeding-this-to-his-wyvern unappetizing. Which was admittedly very rare for cooks in the dining hall, who definitely seemed as if they put their heart and soul into their meals, much to Claude's appreciation.

On days like this one where Vegetable Stir Fry was on the menu--a meal he especially liked--he had expected something, for lack of a better word, different. The cabbage was wilted, the rice lacking its usual fluffy goodness, the signature salty sauce completely missing from the plate, the portions nearly half the size of their usual quantity. Maybe this was just a sign he was spoiled, sure, but food was life-- quite literally, considering you'd die without it. And this food was... Not very full of life. It looked pretty dead, actually.

Shifting his gaze from his meal, he glances over to the occupied seat next to him, or more specifically, the food the person had in front of them. It appeared equally as inelegant, earning the plate a frown.

"You're out of luck too?" he asks the person beside him, almost subconsciously, "Yikes. You don't think maybe there's a way to procure a meal that didn't look... So small and unfortunate, do you?"

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

@braveryinblue

LET THEM EAT CAKE!

nov. 2023 mission board | closed thread

[kinardsevan]

in the shadow, here i am (and I need someone by my side)

this is half inspired by @sherlocking-out-loud's prompt, and was also already half-written for the second half of it based off of the interaction that takes place in it. I think they slot together well <3 cw: 8x15 spoilers (although I'm assuming if you're here, you've already seen it)

It’s a long day. Bobby’s faith being what it was leads to Athena holding a full Catholic funeral for him, combined with the LAFD doing their part in holding a full processional for him. The graveside service is a struggle for everyone, and it takes every ounce of determination Evan has in him to hold it together when it comes time to ring the bell. 

Afterward, the chief announces a gathering at city hall, which most of their team comes to the conclusion that they don’t actually want to attend. Still, Athena is in full need of their support, so they band together with her to make an appearance. Still, once they’ve made a quick round, they find a way to slip her and the kids out before they all agree to meet back at Evan’s place. In some sort of cruel, twisted joke, the finishing touches seemed to be going on Bobby and Athena’s house, but Athena was still struggling to decide if she actually wanted to live there now without Bobby. Plus, in the face of losing the captain, Evan had taken on the role of taking care of everyone and making sure everything related to the funeral was covered. By relation, Tommy was doing his best to make sure Evan was taken care of, but it was all a process. He tried not to push too hard because he knew it was a delicate balance between letting Evan maintain his hold on his grief—and frankly, his sanity at the moment—and if that meant helping him host a post-funeral get-together, then so be it. 

Truth be told, though, food wasn’t what any of them wanted, even if the kitchen and multiple tables in the living room were flooded with food—mostly from recipes that Evan had learned directly from Bobby. It didn’t stop the baking, either, and there were plenty of cakes, cookies, and pastries scattered across a table set aside just for desserts. 

Stll, whether people were just being polite or they actually felt the urge to eat something, inevitably everyone ended up with at least a small plate with one thing or another on it, having changed out of their dress blues and nice clothes into more casual clothing. Light conversation scattered here and there, and while Evan was working on cutting up a homemade pizza after someone—he was pretty sure it was Eddie—suggested that greasy food might help, he returned to the living room to find their friends telling stories about Bobby. Some were funny, others were sad, but all were sentimental. 

As he walks back in and sets the pizza on the coffee table, Eddie is finishing a story about how Bobby had helped him during his time at Dispatch. Based on the way conversation has been shifting around the room, Tommy is next in line, and Evan has no idea what the pilot is going to say. 

A wistful smile pulls at his face as he stares down at the coffee cup in his hands. 

“I put in for my transfer about a month before Evan finished at the academy,” he states. He clears his throat after a moment and inhales a breath, trying to choose his words correctly. “After Bobby came into the 118, I think it was the first time I really felt like I could maybe fit somewhere, being myself. I was still trying to work out what that meant, and it took me a while, and I had this stupid fear of actually doing it in front of…” He pauses again, holding a palm out to gesture at everyone else. “Well, I guess in front of all of you.” 

Evan leans against the wall by the doorway, staring over at Tommy as he talks. His gaze falls to a loose thread on the oatmeal gray long-sleeved henley the pilot is wearing at the same time Tommy seems to spot it, pulling on it with his thumb and forefinger. He watches Tommy’s gaze flit to the ceiling, and something inside his chest twists, knowing the other man is trying to keep his own emotions at bay. 

“Anyway, I’d been flying a lot after ending my last relationship, working out what I felt like I could handle and not, and as much as I wanted to stay, I didn’t feel ready to do it in front of people who knew me so intimately. Bobby knew I was working on getting fully certified and mentioned Harbor being an option with Air Support after a few conversations where I’d mentioned being restless and needing a change.

“The week I left, he asked if we could get coffee before a shift.”

Tommy walks into the firehouse wearily, stopping by the lockers long enough to drop off his things off in his before heading up to the second floor. Bobby texted him just before he’d left his house to let him know that he’d swung by the coffeeshop nearby and picked up the good stuff. 

He climbs to the mezzanine, past the walkway and around the corner to the captiain’s office, knocking twice before entering when Bobby calls out. 

“Kinard,” Bobby greets warmly. The older man looks more awake than Tommy feels, but the coffee cup sitting on the visitor’s side of the desk has Tommy’s regular order scrawled on the side—caramel latte with extra caramel and and extra shot—and it lures him into the room, where he drops into a chair across from Bobby and lifts the lid off, taking a sip from it and letting the warmth slide down gratefully. Something about that first drop hitting his stomach feels like life kicking in and the exhaustion being tamped down just a little bit. 

“Hey Cap,” he states after recapping the drink and settling back on the desk. He grants the other man a small smile. “You wanted to talk?” 

“Yeah,” Bobby answers. He seems to study Tommy for a moment, thinking on his words. He takes another sip of his own coffee and then settles back in his chair. “I guess there’s no right way to say this, given that you’re already headed to Harbor next week. But I wanted to express that it’s been a pleasure to have you here with the team. You made settling in around here a little bit easier.” 

Tommy grants a small smile at Bobby’s statement and nods. “I appreciate it. It’s been a good thing to be here under your tutelage.” 

“I’m glad to hear it,” Bobby responds. SIlence settles in between them briefly, and Tommy’s brow furrows in curiosity. He feels a little awkward, wondering if he was really asked to come in early just so that Bobby could give him a good send-off. But when the other man doesn’t speak right away, he leans forward and starts to push up from his chair. “We done?” 

“I know you’ve been dealing with a lot of change,” Bobby comments. The way his voice sounds coming out of his mouth punches Tommy in the chest. “And I’ve never wanted to push you to talk about anything you weren’t ready for, especially if you’re not ready for it. But I hope that you're leaving is in pursuit of something that brings you good things, and that it’s not because you didn’t feel like you couldn’t be yourself or that you didn’t feel safe here.” 

Tommy gulps, staring down at the ground hard. How many times has he wished that someone would tell him that he deserves to feel safe? How many times has he wanted to find a place where someone would let him be himself? 

He picks up his coffee and stares down at it, sniffs. After a few seconds he clears his throat and looks up at Bobby. 

“I’m gay,” he rasps. He closes his eyes and shakes his head, glancing up the ceiling for a moment.“And, it’s taken me a long time to get to that without feeling like I have to…” 

“Be someone else for everybody else?” Bobby offers. 

Tommy nods. 

“And you know you don’t have to leave here in order to be who you want to be, right?” Bobby asks. 

“I do,” Tommy responds. A rueful smile crosses his face. “On both fronts. Not because of anything wrong here, but so that-..” 

“You can fully embrace it without any strings.” 

“Yeah,” Tommy answers, his voice barely more than a whisper. 

Bobby nods for a moment. “Well, you always have a place here if you ever change your mind.” 

“He was the first person I ever told,” Tommy finishes, his gaze still on his coffee cup. A hand lands on his shoulder and squeezes, and he glances up to see Eddie beside him. The younger man squeezes his shoulder again, and Tommy nods at him before his gaze shifts across the room towards Evan as someone else starts telling their own story. He watches as his ex-boyfriend-current-situationship clears his throat as an emotional expression crosses his face. He mutters a soft ‘sorry’ that Tommy’s not sure most of the room catches, and then ducks into the hallway around the corner. 

His gaze flits back toward Maddie, who seems to have been the only one who noticed, and he shakes his head in a small movement towards her, lifting his hand slightly before settling his coffee cup on the sideboard beside him and walking down the hall after Evan. 

When he reaches the end of the hall, the bedroom door is mostly shut, but a sliver of light slips through. Tommy wraps his hand around the door handle and gives a very light knock. 

“Evan?” 

He hears sniffles from inside the room and eases the door open enough to slide in before closing it behind himself. Evan is seated on the side of the bed, sniffling as he rubs a palm anxiously over his knee. 

“I’m fine,” he insists, trying to wave Tommy off with his other hand. He says it as though they haven’t spent every night together since Bobby's passing, like Tommy wasn’t the one who brought Evan home, got him showered and into bed, and stayed curled up with him for the next twelve hours as he moved through each undertow of grief. 

Tommy crosses the room anyway and sits down next to Evan, tilting his head to look at him as he rests a hand between Evan’s shoulder blades. Evan lets out a quiet sob and Tommy shifts to move closer, but Evan lifts his hand from his leg, shaking it. 

“No, no,” he insists. “I-…” He forces down a deep breath before looking up at Tommy. The pilot reaches up and wipes at the tears on Evan’s face, looking at him with concern.

“I j-just- n-nobody gets it,” Evan stammers. “Not really. I- I mean, Maddie has always had a better relationship with our parents than me, a-and I know Chim lost his mom, but he has the Lee’s, a-and Hen has her mom-..” 

“And they’ve all always had someone,” Tommy finishes for him in a softer tone. 

Evan nods. “I…b-before I got here and joined the LAFD, had Bobby in my life…” His voice trails off as he folds his hand out, at a loss for the right words. 

“You didn’t have anyone,” Tommy says, stroking his thumb between Evan’s shoulder blades where his hand still rests on the younger man’s back. It takes him a few seconds, but Evan nods, staring off into space as if recalling a memory. When he breaks from it, he glances back up at Tommy. 

“I mean, Maddie was around, but she went to Boston when I was 12, and then I tried to get her to leave with me when I was 19, and she sent me away with her jeep because of how her ex-husband was,” he explains. “And everywhere I went, I never fit. Until I got here, and landed i-in your open spot.” 

Tommy gives a small, wistful smile, nodding. 

“Bobby turned that place into a safe haven,” he comments. 

Evan nods again. “H-he was really insistent in the beginning, about how- how we weren’t family. But over time, I think we wore him down, a-and Athena.” He pauses, sniffs softly, and then shakes his head. “Somewhere in the midst of it, it was like finally having a-a real…” 

“Like having a father,” Tommy finishes. Evan nods, sniffling, and he rubs his hand up and down the younger man’s back again. 

“And I like everyone’s stories, but… no one seems to get how it feels losing that,” he murmurs. 

Tommy rolls his bottom lip between his teeth, sliding his hand down Evan’s back and pulling it away. The younger man looks over at him, a haunted expression on his face as Tommy’s own reminds him of one he’d seen on the pilot’s face the night they broke up. 

But then Tommy slides his palm into Evan’s and interlaces their fingers.

“I do,” he rasps, staring down at their hands. Evan’s eyebrows raise, and he opens his mouth to ask, only to stop himself. Something about the way Tommy is reaching out instead of running, trying to build a bridge instead of bolting, makes him stay quiet so that he can hear the man out. 

“My mom,” he explains, tilting his head slightly. The wistful smile returns as he strokes his thumb against the back of Evan’s. Tommy wrinkles his nose and sniffs. “She died when I was seven. She was kind-of my world… at least as much as a mom can be when her kid is obsessed with monster trucks. But, she loved romcoms, and she always made the best homemade red velvet cake.” 

Evan watches him silently, heartened by the fact that Tommy is choosing to finally share this part of himself with him. 

“She uh…she got sick, really fast,” Tommy states, forcing a smile on his face as his eyes start to burn. “One day she was fine, and then she got this pain in her chest, and after a really short hospital stay, she was home for a few weeks, and then she was gone.” 

Evan lifts his free hand up to Tommy’s cheek, stroking along his temple. 

“Baby,” he murmurs softly, his voice lilting. “I’m so sorry.” 

Tommy shakes his head, looking up at Evan with tears clinging to his waterline. He forces down a gulp along with a deep breath. 

“She would’ve really liked you,” he comments. He turns into Evan’s palm slightly, kissing the edge of it. “Would’ve said it was about time I found someone who wouldn’t just let me keep running.” 

Evan smiles at him, a little rueful. “Bobby already did like you.” 

Tommy raises an eyebrow slightly. “Yeah?” 

Evan nods. “He said you were good for me.” His gaze flits back and forth at Tommy’s eyes as he strokes his thumb along the man’s face again. “He wasn’t wrong.” 

Tommy’s smile grows a little, heartened as well, and he reaches up for Evan’s wrist, holding onto it as he leans into the younger man. Evan meets him in the middle, trading soft, open-mouthed kisses for a few seconds. When they part, Tommy rests his forehead against Evan’s. 

“Life’s fucking fleeting,” he murmurs. 

Tommy nods. “That it is.” 

“And I don't want another second to pass without you knowing exactly where you stand in my life,” Evan states. Tommy leans up slightly, clearly curious but also prepared for the seriousness of whatever Evan is about to say. 

“Okay?” 

The younger man’s gaze flits again, down to Tommy’s lips briefly, and then back up toward him. 

“I love you,” Evan says softly. “I’m in love with you. I have been for a long time now, and I don’t want to waste more time on what might be. I don’t want anyone else; I haven’t since the day I met you. I didn’t know what I was looking for when I found you, but I do now, and it’s just you, in whatever form that takes.” 

Tommy presses his lips together anxiously as he inhales a deep breath. He gulps, tilts his head down slightly, looking at where their hands are still intertwined.

“Why be apart when we can be together,” he murmurs, almost a whisper. 

Evan laughs a breath. “Yeah, I guess.” 

Tommy looks back up at him. “Falling in love with you is both the easiest and most terrifying thing I have ever done. You made a black and white world technicolor, but at such a speed and assurance that the crash felt inevitable. It took me a long time to realize I was the one driving the car.” He pauses, gently pulling Evan’s hand down off his face only to curl his fingers around the younger man’s chin and grin at him, his eyes drifting to Evan’s lips. “I think I loved you before I even knew you, before I knew the possibility of you. You just turned up one day, and my heart already knew you.” 

Evan blushes at Tommy’s words. 

“‘course, I had to get out of my own way first,” he comments, and they both laugh. Tommy tilts his head slightly, still looking at him. “I love you so much, Evan. I wake up every day thankful that you’ve survived a bomb that was intended for me, and being struck by lightning, and lately I feel really fucking selfish and also grateful that you didn’t get locked in that facility with the rest of the 118 and contract CCHF.” 

Evan breathes a few breaths. He understands what Tommy means, even if a wave shoots through his chest, given that he’s definitely had moments where he wished he could’ve switched places with Bobby or Chimney, regardless of the fact that he knows that Bobby would’ve fought to get everyone out if roles had been reversed. And then, of course, there’s the issue of the fact that every time he had that thought, his competing thought was the fact that he would’ve left Tommy alone. Again. It's the first time it starts to dawn on him that—as Eddie had told him so long ago—that his life isn’t expendable. Someone waits for him to come home. 

“Where do we go from here,” Evan asks softly. 

Tommy looks back at him somberly, his thumb shifting to the edge of the younger man’s jaw and stroking gently. A small laugh escapes him, and he repeats himself, his voice ticking up towards the end of the sentence. “Why be apart when we can be together?” 

“You want to move in together,” Evan asks. 

Tommy gulps. “I don’t want to risk the idea that one of us could die tomorrow, and I didn’t spend every waking moment possible getting to love you. So yes, I want to move in together. I want everything you said that night. Not…” He pauses, inhales a deep breath. “Not tomorrow, but…when things feel better, and we have a real plan.” 

Evan nods. He’d had a conversation with Athena a few days before, talking about how they both wanted more time with Bobby, and she’d mentioned the fact that he had said to her that he wanted more time with her, but they weren’t going to get it. Lying in bed over the past few nights with Tommy beside him, he couldn’t shake the fact that they were staring down the barrel of being granted that option, only to let stupid idiosyncrasies and fears stand in their way because they both kept choosing ot pine in fear instead of being willing to be the one that would take the leap and pick up the phone. 

“Will…will you s-stay? In the meantime,” Evan asks. Tommy squeezes his hand again. 

“Baby, I’ll be here as long as you let me.” 

[iznsfw]

Here, Kitty, Kitty!

IZ Days of Christmas 2023: Day 2 - Miyawaki Sakura

LE SSERAFIM's Miyawaki Sakura x Male Reader Smut

6,381 words

Categories | catgirl!Sakura, petplay, KITTY CORNER

Queued this on the wrong time, sorry for the late post

The smell of freshly sautéed food fills your nostrils. The seasoning prickles the air and your stomach rumbles even before you rise. You’d drool over the food if you didn’t open your eyes and find someone else more worthy of your adoration.

Do you need to say more? No, but you’ll go on anyway when it’s about Sakura.

Her back is turned yet your focus remains attached to her. Long brown hair sways with her movements from the restraints of a band. You wonder if she knows how many times you’ve threaded your fingers through her locks as she sleeps, or notice how your hand always goes to her hair whenever she needs comforting. Your attention’s brought to her white skin exposed by the short sleeves of her short shirt. Each lot it takes—her pretty arms, bare neck, or tiny waist—is perfect. There’s beauty even without catching sight of her face.

Of course, there’s also beauty when you see it.

Sakura turns her head. She smiles, her fine cheekbones highlighted. And it’s like falling in love with her all over again. “I knew that would wake you up.”

The food’s just the alarm clock. Sakura’s the sunshine that blinds you.

You lean forward with a playful lilt in your voice. “Are you implying that I’m greedy?”

She draws the big wooden spoon to her mouth and licks a peppered green off it. “I’m implying that I’m a great chef,” she says. She turns the stove off satisfiedly. 

Your legs feel shaky from the long commute, in which you spent a painful amount of time rushing and reaping, but they still choose the way to your girlfriend. When you wrap your arms around her, she jerks in surprise. She settles into them anyway; you’re a familiar comfort. You like how small she looks in your embrace, how you’re always entertained by the idea that you could easily pick her up and give her the biggest hug ever. 

(And other things.)

You kiss the side of her head. “Thanks for the dinner, pet.”

Sakura looks up at you with those spell-binding large eyes, reminding you again of why you chose that nickname. Pet name is a more accurate term.. She’s the tiniest thing ever that you’re pretty sure you could pick her up with just one hand, like she’s a kitten. Her small whines whenever she’s frustrated during a game or tired from work don’t help diminish the urge to call her your pet.

“It’s nothing,” she giggles. “I want you to eat well.”

“I eat enough already. Watch.” 

Seal your lips around her earlobe jokingly. Sakura shrieks. Your laughs vibrate on her skin as the feeling tickles her. Once you release her, she begins to hit you painlessly with the utensil. 

“Perv!” 

“Whoa, that wasn’t even foreplay or anything.”

Sakura’s smile reaches her ears. “Jerk,” she says. “How do I even deal with a horndog like you?”

Okay, now that’s not fair. You’re not even horny twenty-four seven. You just tend to let the memories of Sakura in a summer top and skimpy shorts linger. So her bold accusations are totally false. Nope. You’re not letting them tarnish your image. 

“You’re the one thinking dirty about it, pet,” you say, snatching the spoon from her and lifting it high. 

Her attempt to steal it draws laughs from you. She’s too small to achieve the spoon. She extends her arm up yet ends up empty-handed. Sakura huffs and crosses her arms, finally giving up.

“I know.”

Now you’re the one smiling. It surprises you how quickly she said it, almost like she’s trying to lead things somewhere. The tilt of your mouth reaches places when your cute girlfriend blushes.

“Oh?” 

“Y-you know what I meant.” 

“I actually do not.”

“Well, I won’t tell you anyway. I like it when you do the talking.”

Sakura always prioritizes you, and it often makes you feel guilty. She’s never put herself first. It’s always her taking the last turn, having the smallest half of the cake, giving what she has though it’s only enough for her. Sometimes you want to give back to her, too, and not just in the act of being her boyfriend.

“And I like it when you let me take care of you.” Open your mouth anyway when she raises the spoon to your lips. As always, her cooking is everything. 

You’d say thank you verbally, but you think you prefer grabbing her small waist and lifting her on the countertop. You prefer that squeal, too. Sakura has a funny smirk on her face. You sweep back her disheveled hair and kiss that smile you love so much.

“So let me do the listening this time. What’s going on in that pretty little head, pet?”

“Just… you.” Her legs surround your hips. “I can’t think, I can’t work. All I think about is how you’re doing.”

Sakura massages the sides of your head. You swear you can feel her love trickle from her long, thin fingers and into your mind. She’s so learned in the ways of love that you get a free lesson from her everyday. You’re still studying, but you think you’ve got the hang of it.

“I can handle myself, Sakura,” you tell her. “You’re always taking care of me, so now, I gotta be the one doing it with you.”

“There’s one way for you to take care of me…”

Sakura’s hand grasps yours, and soon she’s leading it between her legs. In turn, it leads you to notice how tiny her shorts are. The hem’s literally hugging below the centers of her cheeks, giving attention to its supple shape. It leaves no room for the imagination. Neither does her crop top. Why is she wearing such a tight shirt in the house anyway? It’s just the two of you.

Then you see the lust in her face, and the dots all connect. 

“Naughty pet.” Squeeze the cheek of her ass to feel her body tense. “What exactly are you thinking?”

“I’m thinking,” says Sakura, as she lifts her legs so you could pull her shorts off, “that you ruin me with those fingers.”

Familiar scent and a familiar sight: her drenched cunt. But you never get tired of seeing her naked or running your digits along her pink slit.

Sakura’s voice whittles into a soft breath, the kind you only hear when she sings quietly. That must be why her moans are like music to you.

Her wetness is unbelievable. In little time, your fingers are already soaked, and you haven’t even put them inside her yet. There’s no need to rush anyway. You’ll take your time playing with her.

Miyawaki Sakura is named after cherry blossoms. It only makes sense that her blush is as pink as the seasonal flowers. Her core drips as if it holds excessive dew drops. Something about the color, too. Something about her center having the same blooming beauty her face has. You stroke this southern flower. Sakura grips your forearm tightly.

Immediately, your fingertips are dripping with her juices. Each flick of your hand, like that of a magician, makes her legs shudder. That’s only one more reason to do it. Play with her clit so she responds with an expected gasp. 

“Mmh, please.” 

“Yeah?”

“M-make me cum…” Sakura’s practically salivating. The drool from her mouth is a parallel to the juices trickling from her cunt. “I need it.”

You kiss her. “I know you do.”

Your touch pierces her core. Sakura’s gasp extends, and her large cat eyes grow rounder. Your fingers move as if to beckon—as if to beckon the strongest climax from her. Of course, you can’t keep doing the same thing if you want that. Recognize this, spread her thigh apart from your forearm and pin it to the counter so you could ram your fingers in her harsher. You make sure to touch her sensitive parts in order to keep those beautiful moans floating to your ears.

You had your suspicions, but it seems now that Sakura was not wearing a bra beneath that tight excuse of a crop top. Her nipples make a print upon the fabric. It’s an invitation, really. Softness fills your palms as you squeeze and squeeze and squeeze, keeping your girlfriend on the road to her orgasm.

“Feels so good!” she says—(no, screams.) Her feet kick and the entirety of her small body tenses up. “Feels so… oh god, don’t stop!”

Your thumb toys with her nipple as your lips latch on her neck. You wouldn’t think of it. You’re here to give Sakura what she needs and wants. In fact, you’re borderline spoiling her—you don’t actually have to thrust that hard or kiss her this passionately. But when it comes to giving back to her, you admit you go a little overboard.

It’s not like anyone else wouldn’t have done the same thing when Sakura’s so vocal about everything. Her cute voice becomes even cuter as it twists with every plunge and squeeze of your hand. She stutters over her words, a habit that becomes more adorable despite the circumstances, and looks at you with this unhinged wildness you only ever see when you’re taking her. If she’s your pet, she’d be a feral cat in heat, always in need for blissful salvation.

Well, you’ll grant it to her.

In the privacy of your own home, this is what you could do to Sakura: leave hickeys all over her skin, finger her with the strings of wetness connecting and disconnecting from your digits, have her for your own. You grow harsher by the minute, and she loves every second of it.

“Please. More, please, I want—” 

“What do you want, Sakura?” 

She needs to speak yet your swift strokes prevent her from saying a comprehensible syllable. Sakura’s hold on your arm—on you—truly is fascinating. She can control you while staying on the receiving side with her pouty slim lips and trembling body. She can make you do anything for her without having to convince you. Her hand over the center of your pants just adds to the heat.

She palms your stiff erection while you thrust your fingers inside her little pussy relentlessly. It’s all so much for a tiny girl to give and take, so it shouldn’t be a surprise when she says it—

“Need you to fuck your kitten’s pussy, make me squirt, I want it so bad!”

—but it is.

You’re well aware of why your fingerfucking grows borderline cruel, why Sakura is screaming the way she is. You’re lost in the moment. The heat in your pants is becoming unbearable. Your fingers are ruining her. 

And you can feel sharp teeth sinking into your neck. The pain is pleasure, and you’re struggling to think of what her bite reminds you of: fangs? Needles? Pins?

A kitten?

Sakura wets the counter and your sleeves. She whimpers against your skin, but you keep on going. You know it’s what she wants. In the corner of your eye, you can see her ears turn red. The volume of her moans next to your ear reaches heights.

“N-no… ah, stop.”

Stop?

Stop.

“Sakura?” you ask warily, afraid you did something wrong. Were things going too far? Are you hurting her? Maybe you already did.

Relief courses through your chest when she kisses you. “I’m alright,” she says sweetly. “It’s just… hmm—”

She never gets to continue what she’s saying until later on. She finds your concerned face too adorable. You’re pretty sure she saw the vulnerability in it. There’s something raw about someone seeing beauty in you the way you see in her. 

Sakura kisses you, hands containing your face. You smile into the heated session. When you drag your fingers slowly out of her cunt, she moans again, rekindling your carnal wants. 

She pulls away. “I like how your fingers are totally soaked,” she says lightly, “and it’s all me.”

She opens her mouth meekly, and you already know what to do.

Earlier, her pussy wrapped your fingers. Now, her lips do, stroking your digits of the liquid that pours down them. It’s like she’s having a second dinner with the way she’s devouring her own juices. You aren’t taking a bite of anything, but watching Sakura do what she does best is a whole meal already.

“God, Sakura, you’re so fucking sexy.”

She giggles. “Thank you. I try to be for you.”

The twirl of your wrist guides her tongue in cleaning your hand up. She truly is a kitten. Her tiny tongue licks you up, and her distinct moans almost sound like meows.

So it’s only right that you pet her. Ruffle her hair and lead it back into place. “You’re always hot, pet.” 

Think back to the moments she sits in her room gaming, with nothing but your shirt and panties on. Of course she always is. It’s second nature to her.

“I’d tell you to continue,” says Sakura slyly, kissing your fingertips, “but that would ruin the bigger surprise, won’t it?”

“What surprise?”

She hops off the counter and pushes you to the island. Since when did her workouts involve that? But she’s Sakura—your girlfriend whose face shows the mischief of a pet who’s too aware of what she’s doing. That’s why you’re breathless.

“Wouldn’t you like to know.”

Well, fuck.

Sakura hooks her finger underneath the button of your shirt. Just a skim of her touch makes you shake. You’re wondering what’s happening—more importantly, what will be happening. But the answer’s clear. She knows your secrets, and now, she’s about to show you something she’s been hiding herself. 

She starts leading you to the bedroom. If looks could kill, you’d be dead by now, on the floor, drool rolling down from the corner of your mouth. And it would be all because of your girlfriend’s sultry expression that’s locked and loaded on you, ready to maim.

Her back rests on your bedroom door. You’re so close to each other that not one breath goes unheld by your skin. She’s truly evil for this. She knows you’re down bad for her, down at rock bottom. And she still chooses to work you up like this: pressing herself against the wooden door, with nothing but that short crop top on and a smile that’s too alluring.

You laugh. Grasp her waist. You can span its width using a single hand. “What’s this, pet?” you say. She’s getting you all hot and bothered.

“Just come inside and close your eyes.” 

Sakura winks. That’s how you know it’s as serious as it gets; Miyawaki Sakura doesn’t know how to wink. If it’s worth her practice and time, you’re in for the real thing.

You shut your eyes as she asked, and let her lead you to the bed. Your excitement chains your throat that you can’t even ask her if she’s done. Rely on your sense of hearing to figure out what’s going on. 

It feels like hours waiting for her surprise. The bed is soft beneath you, but you’d rather have Sakura’s tight body under you instead. Your pants are tight already. Reminding yourself that she’d be ready in a few does nothing to satiate your restlessness.

“Sakura,” you say with a kidding husk that intimidates her nevertheless, “don’t keep me waiting.”

“I-I’m not!”

The thumps and gasps of struggle become less frequent. Your hands frisk impatiently at your sides. What exactly is she planning?

“Open your eyes now!” 

Finally.

Once you see her, you’re met with the thought that confirms you that, like Sakura said, you’ll come inside, just in another way.

Your nickname for Sakura is sweet, but you can’t deny the lewdness it takes now that it represents itself in front of you. 

Her white crop top was replaced with a sleeveless brown one. It ought to be impossible for a crop top to be any more revealing, but that’s proved wrong when this one barely hides the underside of her chest, even giving the top of it a wide peek. Worst of all (but you can’t deny that it’s the best thing you’ve ever seen): there’s a cartoon cat-shaped hole in the middle of it that exposes even more skin. It’s more of a bra rather than a shirt at this rate. But you’d argue that actual bras aren’t this provocative. And you’d argue that you don’t mind—not even a little bit, not even at all.

All of her is on display: her midriff, her arms and pits, her legs, everything. Then you have her skirt that’s the definition of short. It’s a pathetic attempt at modesty and a great exercise of lewdness. Its length allows you a view of her inviting pussy.

It isn’t a secret that you love her hair, and now you’re in a position in which your adoration for it grows. You’re blameless, especially when it’s banded into two twintails joined behind a headband of black cat ears.

But the highlight of it all is that black collar rounding her neck. It awaits a connected leash, a driven purpose.

Tonight, Miyawaki Sakura isn’t just your girlfriend. She’s your pet—your gorgeous, little kitten in heat.

You knew it. Sakura’s been scheming and planning this, and now the surprise is all ready. She’s all ready for your using and taking.

“What a naughty girl you are, Sakura,” you murmur, getting up. 

She cowers. “Just wanted to give you a reward for working hard.” Her paws float to her cheeks. “And… I really want to be your pet. Your pretty little pet.”

“You knew what I wanted all along, huh?”

Sakura hums helplessly while she peeks from the spaces between her fingers. Her palms do a poor job of hiding her red skin. She’s both excited and shy about this, and she’s not sure where to settle. But she’s sure of the heat that sparks between her legs when you trace your touch from her jawline to her chin, where you gently lift. Your gaze is so intense that she flinches. 

“Well,” you say, bringing her eyes back to you, “what should I do about it?”

“Do what you want to me, master.”

From day one, a cat is what she reminds you of. Although she’s the eldest in her friend group with Chaewon and Yunjin, she’s still a kitten inside needing appreciation from her master. Maybe she saw in you too a master that would fit her needs well, who’d see her cute self as someone who’s also tantalizingly beautiful.

Today, you’re letting that come to life.

“Give me the leash. I know you prepared one.”

She blushes. “Of course, master.” She rises from her kneeled position to retrieve it.

Strike her ass that peeks roundly from beneath the hem of her skirt. Her cheeks bounce at the impact. As an effect, her legs shake, too. Her yelp is cute yet it sends a rush of happiness to the wrong place. 

“Bad kitten. Kittens like you don’t walk on two legs.”

“Sorry, master.”

Sakura’s now red ass is presented to you as she crawls on all fours to the corner of the room while you step out of your slacks. You could tell she gets off to the humiliation—her slit’s been dripping all over her thighs. 

The black device is dark compared to her gold collar. She picks it up with her mouth and crawls back to you. That’s right. Even if her knees burn and her hands turn red, a kitten will always crawl on command for her master.

She looks adorable with her face all sweaty from the effort. Doesn’t matter; she’ll be rewarded for it eventually.

You click the leash on. She meows appreciatively. How is it possible that an odd sound unfit for a woman like her gets you hard? You tap your lap, and she crawls up onto it. She never loses her act as a kitten.

“Fast learner.” With her stomach down, you’re able to touch her ass and cunt freely. Most cats like being petted on their backs, but yours would much rather have your hand on her cunt. Actually, you could touch her anywhere and still be met with a gush of arousal between her slim thighs. “What treat do you want for that?”

Sakura’s legs squirm together. You’d never grow tired of hearing her whimpering, but you strike her ass again. You’re a kind master, not a lenient one.

“I said: what treat do you want?”

“Want my master to eat my slutty catgirl pussy out…” she murmurs. 

Why not? 

You lift Sakura’s weightless body from your lap and drag her up the bed. In spite of her slight choking, you tug harder. At least this time she has the soft mattress under her knees rather than the cold floor. But good pets need training to become what they are.

Tie the leash in a harsh knot on one of the poles. Sakura’s still whimpering. You know she wants this treat so badly. Consequently: push her down. Spread her legs. There’s no gentleness here. Her skirt isn’t a problem when it’s length is miniscule. You’re free to eat her out as harshly as possible.

“Oh, oh, master!” Sakura’s gasps are loud despite the earliness of it all. She rolls the silky bedclothes in balls, trying to cope with your licking. It’s like you’ve reversed roles and you became the kitten that licked at her for supplement, just without the submissiveness. Either way, her senses immediately live for it and strive to get more.

Stick your tongue inside that addicting little hole. Your lips brush Sakura’s pussy lips, leaving open kisses on it. She’s so sensitive that a long, hard swipe of your tongue along her slit would have her nearly cumming. You were sure about that even before you tested it out. 

Your saliva and her juices connect. Hard to tell one from the other when you’re tonguefucking her and dragging all those delicious nectar out. It spills on her thighs, which you don’t see as a problem if you could lick it all up. You’re glad to have it stain your mouth as you kiss away at her inner thighs, then return to eating her out.

You plunge your tongue deep. Its tip flicks at her walls and sets a fire inside her. No amount of natural lubrication could keep it from burning. The magic of your mouth can be cruel and blissful at the same time.

“Fuck! Keep eating me, your tongue, holy shit—” 

Sakura gags after her attempt in lifting her head is restricted by the leash. The length you tied it at is too short for her to watch you or even react with a movement. It’s exactly what you want; exactly what she wants, too. The pain is mutually desired but so is the pleasure.

You spit on her cunt. “Did I say you get to order me around?” you ask.

Sakura shakes her head, yet another action the leash prevents her from performing properly.

“That’s what I thought. All I want to hear is your moans. Is that understood, kitten?”

“Yes! Ah, fffuck!”

Dive back in. If you weren’t full from Sakura’s amazing cooking earlier on, then you’re fed well with her pussy. You’re no pretentious dieter—you eat her pussy without shame. Perhaps you lick more than you can swallow with how she’s so sensitive and keeps leaking everywhere. Your tongue pushes and pulls from inside her orifice while your upper lip attends to her clit. Despite not having it in your mouth, you feel it pulsing.

You watch Sakura’s flat tummy rise and rest while you have your way with her. Measure its tempo. You’ve determined she’s close, if her thighs shivering around your head weren’t enough indicators. Jerk them to you and listen (if the hold of her thighs allows you) to the wonderful sounds of her strangled moaning.

“Hahk, oh god, please!”

Much to her disappointment, your fingers are only used to part her pussy lips rather than fuck her. But she’s happier with you licking wild lines on her velvety walls. It seems like your mouth could reach everything. Sakura starts to tremble more. It’s a warning, a not-safe-for-work sticker placed on an explicit track.

“Kitten’s c-cumming, I can’t hold it!” sobs your pet, unable to take any more. Her upper body joins in on the quivering, and you can see the delightful view of her tiny boobs bouncing from behind her top.

What’s next is the suction on her clit. You’ve saved suckling on it for now when she’s at her high. It’s a tested and proven method to amplify her orgasm. Once your lips seal at her clitoris, she lets out screams that almost sound like yowls. Her clawed fingernails start to scratch at your head. You’ll punish her for that later. Currently, you’ll focus on making her cream.

“Master, d-do me harder… master, master!”

The last of her orgasm subsides. That’s your cue to unfasten the leash from the headboard and pull the collar up. Sakura makes a weak, fragile sound that stirs a mixture of heat in your loins.

“No. Kittens don’t make the rules for their owners, do they, pet?”

Her beautiful face shows guilt, but no regrets. You expected that. “Sorry,” she says quietly. 

One would think she must have watched and taken notes from a lot of “tutorial” videos for her nuances—folding her hands, looking up at you with flinching eye contact, squirming—to be this pet-like (you know you have). But she’s just a natural catgirl, and she likes being used like this. The glint in her eyes can’t be mistaken for the lighting in the room.

Grip her collar tighter. “Do you expect me to reward bad behavior?”

“No.”

“Then get on all fours on the bed. I’m not letting up on you.”

Sakura is a little too happy to do as you say. However, you’re certain she isn’t prepared for the onslaught of lust about to be taken out on her.

You observe Sakura’s beautiful back. The line running down the center shows the hours she spent in the gym to work hard on it. It looks prettier with the thin crossing straps of the top running over it. Now your fingers are, too. You can trace Sakura’s shudders, right from her collared neck to her skirted ass.

Raise your hand high in the air, then slap her supple butt. While you’d tell her it’s to punish her, you think it’s just to hear her moan. It's a carnal instinct. Maybe you’re the animal here with your acts of nature. Doesn’t sound right; whether you slap or caress or pinch her, she’s the ever-loving pet. You notice it in the buckle of her knees and the hot breath that leaves her mouth. 

Sakura is a cat through and through, but you still like to fuck her doggy style.

“Ma-master,” she says upon the first few thrusts. She winces, then cries out a pathetic mewl, then repeats herself. This time, it’s tinier, needier: “Master, please.”

The innocently designed mirror in her room reflects back anything but innocent doings. You watch her face twist and whine in its glass. Sakura’s eyes meet yours and she’s turning red again. You didn’t take her for a red foreign cat. You see her more as a black cat.

She’s not so unlucky when she’s providing you this much tightness.

“Please what?” you chuckle. Your rhythm’s already cruel. “Gonna ask for more? Less? No, pet. You’re getting fucking punished.”

She’d definitely ask for more. Her sex drive is more of that of a rabbit than a kitten. Her wet pussy is so drenched that it makes squelching sounds in response to your hips. And, because you’re weak for her—a sucker for anything she wants—you give it to her harder.

Instead of grabbing her hips to pump, you’re using the leash. Sakura has to keep herself steady to stop her head from throwing back. It’s inevitable when your member pulls her apart and makes her take what she used to think she couldn’t. The collar’s already making fine lines on her neck. 

“Punish me, I’ll be a good kitten and obey you, I promise,” she says. Your thrusts get sloppier; her words do as well. “A-ahh, will take your cock any time of the day, on my knees, on the bed, however you like, master.”

God, the thoughts Sakura puts in your head. They’ll seriously put you at risk one day. Picturing her in those positions—on her knees sucking away at your length; on the bed like this with her cat ears frisking to and fro; and however you like, which means everything—impels you to stuff your rock hard dick in her with a might that shocks even you. See, you can do surprises, too.

“Really now?” Yank. In response, she gasps. Her headband almost falls off. Make the uncharacteristic move as a dominant master to slide it back on.

Sakura nods mindlessly. You know she’s wordlessly telling the truth. She deserves a good squeeze on her perfect tits for the dedication.

But you raise the stakes. How far can she go as your pet? How far can you go as her master?

“Even if you don’t get to cum when you want?”

It’s laughable how Sakura immediately whines. Looks like her love for your cock is conditional. To make it harder for her, you start to couple your swift pumps with a finger on her clit. One rub, two rubs, and three—you might as well be counting sheep with how her eyes close.

That sets her off. Your pet begins to shout. She’s never been a girl to talk excessively. Now, it’s the opposite; she babbles and cries and sobs like her life depends on it. For the record, her bliss does, but it’s nowhere as close to her life.

It’s starting to look like it though. Sakura’s frenzied actions consist of pushing her core back to you, filling herself up with your cock even if the leash is there to pull her to you, and repeating your title. She fills the pretty, well-furnished bedroom with the dirtiest sounds unapologetically. If your abandoned clothes on the floor had ears, they’d be deaf by now. Hell, you’re surprised you aren’t.

Her pussy gets messier with each pump. Your tip kissing her deepest parts grants you several gushes of need. They fall onto the mattress, their stains becoming a task for later. Your only wish at this moment is to fuck Sakura to her wits’ end. 

“I need to cum, master,” she says. The alarm in her voice could be mistaken as a warning for a fire or an emergency. 

Does she really? You’re not quite sure of that. Continue to give out your punishment. Fuck her like she’s a catgirl who’d die if you didn’t. Redden her unblemished skin with bruises and marks of your hand. Her hole’s splashing with wetness, and you’re starting to get really close yourself. 

She’s starting to slump. Tears from her eyes blot the white sheets underneath your bodies. “Cum, please, I need to…”

One of the final tugs of her leash for the night. With her back to your chest and your mouth next to her ear, you ask her a question that won’t determine her climax. Knowing you, even if she answers wrong, you’re still letting her cream deliciously all over your girth.

“Are you my good kitten?” you rasp in her ear.

“Yes!” she instantly replies.

Scoff. “No, you aren’t.”

You firmly rub her clit while bottoming out in her. Sakura’s throat is sore from screaming although it’s far from the last time she’ll do it. 

“You’re not a good kitten when all you want to do is fuck your master instead of obeying him. You just want me to fuck you in every part of the house, fill you over and over. You’re the bad thing who wanted to be my pet. So what are you, Sakura?”

Sakura’s hole squeezes you as hard as her collar chokes her neck. Sizable tits bouncing, mouth agape, hands curled on her collar, she replies in the form of another scream.

“A, a bad little kitten, master! His property and plaything, the one he makes cum over and over! So please, master, let me!”

Good answer. “Cum.”

“Ohhhh!” 

Sakura would have collapsed on the bed if it weren’t for your hold on her. Her body weakens and fails. The bed is flooded with her climax. Hearing her normally quiet voice reach this level of highness and whininess is an otherworldly experience. Eke more out of her; you’re pumping slowly but surely. Let it possess great impact but measured pace.

“You okay, pet?” you ask gently.

Sakura’s delicious, tight body trembles in its lingerie. Her breaths are short and sporadic. Through it all, there’s a satisfied smile on her face as she nods. It relieves you of the thought that you unknowingly might have gone too far.

“Why didn’t you cum inside me?”

“Good pets get bred, Sakura.”

“Since when did you legit care about me being a good pet?” she laughs.

“Ever since I thought you’d like to drink your ‘milk’ instead.”

Sakura bites her lip. It’s deadlier when she’s wearing that sultry cat lingerie. Your cock remains stiff seeing it.

“Oh, master.” She smiles. “I have the perfect place.”

-

The Kitty Corner. Not Kitty Korner, for alliteration’s sake, but the Kitty Corner. Cats have favorite places: a shoe, a fluffy tower, the sofa. Sakura is no different. This place, which is the corner of this room, is where she likes it best. It’s no different from any other room corner save for the plushies that line up on the wall. She likes it pressed against it, on the floor, whatever. But she loves it when she has her head pressed against the corner while you fuck away at her mouth.

This is the first time it’s been given a name, and the first time you’re fucking her to it as her master. You tried to be slow in taking her there, as if you weren’t all that excited. But your drag on her leash betrayed your real emotions.

Once Sakura is in position, her tongue sticks out. She must have forgotten that she’s a kitten, not a puppy. That won’t stop you from sliding yourself inside her warm mouth.

It begins. You rub your cock on her tongue before welcoming it in the hollow of her mouth. Like her pussy, her inviting mouth is wet and ready. Sakura tastes herself on your dick. She licks away at everything: the remnants of her orgasm from under it, your cockhead, your base. It’s not even her milk yet, but her eyes light up. 

“Be good,” you warn. “No biting.”

Her lips lift into a smirk. Then, you feel her teeth graze ever so lightly on you.

At first, you were content to get yourself off in her mouth. You could have chosen to rub your tip on the flat of her tongue or the inside of her cheek. But now, you give out another punishment. You ram your length down her throat. Training doesn’t help her avoid gagging for she does it anyway. Now her eyes light up in surprise, too.

“M-mmm!”

“Warned you, kitten,” you say with a laugh.

With only your hand on the back of her head to protect it, you start to fuck Sakura’s throat. Her gagging only gives more tightness that seals around you. Her airway is shut and it’ll be that way for a long time unless she behaves.

Sakura can’t even cough or say anything. It’s painful pleasure with her thighs squirming to give her a little bliss, and your cock not allowing her even a moment to breathe. You’re not even tugging her anymore—you’re putting all the force in shoving yourself inside her, as if you had little time to spare.

Her tongue wiggles about in an attempt for air, but as if you couldn’t be more cruel with your training, you close her mouth shut. You warned her, and she still decided to disobey. 

Her lost breaths warm your cock. Push them back to her throat. This kitten needs to learn her lesson, even if it requires another. 

As if she couldn’t get any lewder, Sakura’s last resort is to mount the leg of her favorite puppy plushie, the one you gifted her. You bet that the manufacturers didn’t know that its use was for her own little pleasure, to serve as a place to grind until the blissful torture ends. She grinds forward and you’re welcomed further in her throat. There’s no escape. Does she even want an escape?

You can feel spurts of air from her nostrils. She’s getting close. This punishment isn’t even a punishment if presented with how her nipples stick out that hard from beneath the fabric, how she’s riding the toy’s leg, how she licks still and all. Her only signs of resistance are her palms on your thighs.

“Thirsty, pet?” 

Sakura squeezes her eyes shut, grinds harder, and nods. Her sigh is the closest thing to a verbal response.

“Then have your milk.”

It’s only then that you loosen your grip on her head. You release inside of her mouth and give her the milk she deserves. There’s plenty of it to go around, but it’s all for her. Only for her.

But letting go of her causes her to collapse. Her knees trip over nothing and send her falling onto her plush. The cum spills down Sakura’s chest and midriff like an explicit rainfall. She gasps for air, torn between trying to swallow the cum and catching her breath.

At least there’s the puppy plushie to embrace her.

A kitten and a puppy.

How ironic.

You kneel down to her level and raise her chin. You’d say she wasted her milk, but she’s Sakura. Nothing is gone to waste if it’s her, especially if it makes her look so beautiful. Dazed eyes, tired parted lips, and panting painted tummy.

Beautiful.

Yep, she’s beautiful. 

“Are you a good kitten?”

“Yes?” she asks hopefully, exhaustedly. 

“Of course not.” You pat her head. Still your little pet. “You’re the best.”

[ilovechuuy4]

ੈ✩‧₊˚ It's yo' Birthday, so I know you Want to Ri-i-i-ide Out.

Dazai x GN!Reader

Word Count: 1,440 words 7,823 characters

Warning; Passionate s3x, hickeys, biting, eating out, reverse cowboy/girl, doggy style, hj, pure smut, no after care but was def given. Edging etc etc.

Description; Birthday sex with your boyfriend

A/N; Hai!! This wasn't too rushed but I'm not saying it wasn't cause I also had to deal with the fathers day head canons! Hope y'all enjoy! ALSO HAPPY JUNE TEENTH!

⊱ Rough sex for Dazais birthday as a requested gift ⊰

You were already gasping, arms wrapped around the brunette's shoulders as you were pressed against the wall the two of yalls lips pressed together. Maybe it was a bit early for this, but it was Dazais birthday, and this was the "gift" he wanted. Birthday sex, maybe it was an absurd 'present'; no gifts no cake, just you, him and the bed.

The male's hand was already shoved in your shorts groping your ass, his hands clumsy. The make out session was hot and intense, your hands working the bandaged man's shirt off, breaking the kiss to pull the shirt over his head. Dazai smiled, allowing you to take off his shirt. His kisses trailed down your jawline, then your neck leaving a trail of wetness in his wake. The two of y'all were both needy as it's been quite a while since y'all have really had any intercourse cause of Dazais work.

Half-naked and panting, dazai gently pushes your clothed form onto the plush bed. You watch tentatively as he works your clothes off, tossing them on the ground with any other clothes that were already there. The man that was just right above you was kissing and sucking down your body, his mouth leaving wet trails and red marks all over your body. You squirmed, fingers gripping the messy hair that threaded between your fingers.

You wanted as the brunette's finger hooked into the waistline of your underwear, working them down slowly as he kisses and bites your inner thigh, leaving little marks of pleasure. You were already moaning under each ministration that your boyfriend had made as he reached your needy entrance, tongue pressed against it as he lapped at the tight heat. God was this amazing, but you didn't feel bad cause this was supposed to be HIS birthday, but who knew what was going on in his head.

"Babe, you know..this is like my cake. You're my cake, no pun intended of course." Dazai said with a sly grin before slowly driping his tongue inside, exploring your insides. You let out a whimper, nails digging into his scalp as you subconsciously grind your hips against his face. "Keep..keep going dazai." You couldn't help but whine out, face reder than a fresh cherry. He was skilled, with his tongue that was. Dazai was enjoying himself, subtle groans escaping him as he plunged his tongue deeper.

Your body convulsed a bit as you felt the bandaged man's finger slip in with his tongue, stretching you open. Your back arched off the bedding as you whined and moaned, nails gripping tightly at the tall man's hair not seeming to let go anytime soon. You were letting this happen, of course it was consensual, but you were letting dazai take all the control he wanted. "You're enjoying yourself; you like it that much?" Dazai teased, slowly pulling away from your body.

You panted as you watch him strip his pants and boxers off, you had no words left in your throat you could only swallow thickly. his cock hard as he sat on the bed back pressed against the headboard. "You gonna help me out and prep me? I mean I did prepare you?" Dazai said with a devilish grin, God was he cocky. You crawl over to where he was, yalls lips meeting as your hands find his erection. Your hand wraps around it, stroking it firmly before grazing your nail along the underside of member in front of you.

The kiss was getting heated as if this night wasn't already; mouths fully connected by tongues intertwining, dazais fingers roaming along with your own. The two of yall's tongues dancing to the sweet symphony of lust. It was all a mangled mesh of goodness as you slowly pulled away, mouths only connected with a thin strand of shared saliva. You followed the man's movements as you allowed him to plant hot kisses down your neck. You fumble for the condoms in the upper drawer of the nightstand as you let out soft gasps and groans of pleasure from the sensation and Dazai was doing the same.

Once you reach the condoms you retract, resting your head on Dazai's shoulder with a soft huff. You saw a disgusting smirk on the man's face as he helped you into position. It wasn't the most convenient for you, but he'd always seemed to enjoy reverse cowgirl/cowboy. You heard the rip of the packaged condom. You glance back only to see the bandaged man admiring the fine person in front of him. The flesh, blood and meat he could call his own. You could feel your cheeks warming up as you glance away.

"Go on now, baby~" You heard Dazai say, he wanted you to do it on your own but oh, how you knew he'd take control later. You squirm a bit as you take his erection in your hand, positioning it to your entrance slowly sinking down. You let out a soft whine of pleasure, the man behind you groaning as he felt his cock disappear deep within your tight tunnel. You had felt his thin and boney fingers grip onto your hips, helping himself as he drives his shaft inside you fully.

As you felt it you couldn't help but moan loudly, back bowing as you yourself start to grind against Dazai. "Ahh..~ mhm.." The moans escape you as drool oozes from your mouth and onto the white sheets. "God, you're drooling like a dog, baby." Dazai teases with a devious glint in his eyes as he trails kisses down your spine making your back arching into his lips. Whines and groans escape your mouth as you felt the man behind you taking more control every second.

"That's it, let those moans escape that pretty little mouth of yours." He coos, and before you knew it y'all were in doggy style. He took the opportunity of you being a hot mess to push you down into doggy, your face buried in the bed sheets. He pounds into you, almost aggressivly, the tip of his cock slamming against the sweet spot deep inside you cause you to let out a long, strained moan. It's almost like with each thrust the two of you saw the pearly gates themselves.

The room was filled with skin against skin and the two of yall's moans echoing off the walls. His balls slap against your ass, making loud slapping sounds as dazai's thrusts become for erotic and slipping his breathes going on staggered gasps. You couldn't help but cry out moaning, back arching like a cat as you roll your hips a bit to see if the man driving himself inside of you could reach deeper within you than he was already.

You gasp and moan as you felt yourself about to cum but just as you were about to moan you felt dazai pull out a let out a chuckle. "Cmon now, Cumming so soon, just give it a bit." He teased, leaning up and biting down onto your collar bone, leaving the imprints of his upper and lower teeth deeply imbedded in your skin. You like out a struggled whine as you felt him slow slip the tip of his erection back inside teasing you by pushing it back 'nd forth inside of you.

You hardly can do this anymore as your boyfriend teased you, edging you. His ministrations slower than a snail, small grunts escaping him as he fought all urges to thrust back deep inside you and make you lose yourself in the pleasure of it all. He takes a sharp breath before thrusting back I side deeply, his entire length filling you entirely.

"Ahh! Ngh!~" You couldn't help but let out strained moans as you cum, body trembling just as you collapse down onto the bed. The man bandaged man behind you kept up with his erotic thrusts, pistoning in and out of you at a rapid pace as he neared his edge. You couldn't help the whines that escaped your mouth as your exhausted body still reacted to the aggressive thrusts.

Dazai pants heavily as he cums, it shoots inside the condom. He collapses on top of you, panting alongside you. He trails kissed down your sweaty body as he pulled out slowly. "I guess this was a win win or the both of us, huh baby?" Dazai said with a cheeky grin, rolling off of you and flat onto his back just to pull you close. "Happy birthday, 'Samu." You say breathlessly which made him smile, pressing a soft kiss to your temple.

[falmerbrook]

Western Solstice/Season of the Worm Cult 1 Thoughts

TLDR: Liked the zone, liked the side quests, liked the basic narrative of the main quest but wasn't happy with its execution/dialogue.

So you know that thing I’ve brought up before about how the writing in this game tries to have its cake and eat it too? Where they want every zone story to be accessible to new players (and players who forgot anything or don’t pay attention to what’s going on) while still having reoccurring characters and plot threads? And how in the end it does a disservice to both; to the story as its own thing and as a continuation of things? Yeah, well I think I reached the end of my patience in this zone with that problem. I like the story itself, but am frustrated with its execution.

Major spoilers under the cut (also sorry this is so long)

Ok, first of all, things I liked:

Skordo my beloved <3. Always a king. His voice is back to normal. I cherish him.

I liked the zone itself! I was kinda expecting it to be small and empty, and while it was empty in the same way a lot of the more recent zones have been, I was pleasantly surprised by how big and like a real island it felt. Sunport and the Writhing Wall are such good set pieces and are gorgeous at sunrise and sunset, and I thought the sight lines everywhere were really good and helped it feel like an expansive place. I also liked the aesthetics of the tropical setting, the Argonians, and the mix of Argonian and Altmer architecture in Sunport. Just a cool place overall.

I also liked the worldbuilding and side quests! The history and culture and religion of the Corelanyans and Tide Born was very cool and imo a good addition to the world. I always love seeing cultures that are shaped by their environment and having the Tide Born be a hist-less Argonian culture whose way of life and beliefs have adapted to island living was super awesome. The history and development of both cultures just felt very natural to me (e.g. the Corelanyans going from necromancers who made deals with daedric princes to worshipping some of the more morally acceptable princes). I'm excited to hopefully learn more about the Stone Nest in Eastern Solstice since it sounds like they are Argonians still following the older ways with Xanmeers and the lot. The Nords felt kinda out of place, but were interesting enough to get a pass from me (and that quest with them was cute).

On the note of quests, I like the side quests! I had a good time with them! I particularly liked the Meridia temple one (always cool to get more Meridia lore and seeing characters have crises of faith imo), the ghost hunting one, and the Tide Born village one.

My feelings about the main quest are more mixed, but on the positive side I thought the narrative itself (ignoring execution) had enough compelling and interesting point to keep me invested in what was happening next or where things were going. I already like the set up of this storyline being split in two this year because it gives us opportunities to have hints and implication dropped now that we can muse over that will be resolved in the next part (e.g. what's going on with Vanus, who his ally is, etc.).

Also I fucking love angst. Thank you Gabrielle Benele for fulfilling my angsty needs. I am almost certainly not going to be satisfied with the pay off of it but for now I can revel in the heartbreak. Love you Gabby <3

EDIT: forgot to mention but I also liked the roleplaying options. I know some were dissatisfied with the them not having huge effect, but dialogue options that continue the story in the same direction but just elicit a different response from the other characters is pretty much exactly what I wanted.

On the note of dissatisfaction though...

On to my concerns and issues.

Just let me get it off my chest one more time. If I have to here "Gah-bri-elle" or "Gaudy-er" one more time I'm skinning myself. Ok, ok, it's out of my system now.

So I really think the main story here is the most egregious example of the issues I brought up at the beginning so far. This expansion was literally marketed as a sequel to the base game's main quest, yet the characters (almost all of whom are characters we got close to in the base game) barely acknowledge any relationship we may have with them, nor the information we'd likely already know. The Vestige is really at their most moronic here and it was getting to the point it frustrated me. The characters kept explaining things to me that happened in the base game and prologue like our character wasn't there, and the dialogue prompts for the Vestige that were need to progress conversations also assumed we had no idea what was going on. Like I've said before, this is a writing problem that permeates the whole game, but it felt really absurd here given the marketing for this story and the characters present. Especially because, I feel like if I was a new player, I would get, like, nothing out of this story. Outside of a few moments (namely Gabrielle's confession at Li-Xal or optional dialogue with Raz) we don't really get any moments to connect with the characters (and the intention with that Gabrielle moment is probably more to foreshadow her actions later than have a moment to get to know a character tbh, as much as I loved it). I feel like all of my investment in them is based on past adventures with them, so if I was a player who didn't remember them or hadn't met them before, all of the emotional beats at the end of this story would've had no weight I think. Acknowledging that, why is the dialogue written for those players first, and the players who are keeping up with these things are just given a few optional dialogue options at the ends of conversations sometimes? I've had random ass side characters from delve quests I didn't remember have more personal dialogue with the Vestige than these reoccurring characters we've literally been to hell with.

I don't know what kind of player this is meant to appeal to. is it new players? Is it players returning for the first time in awhile who forgot? Is it player who don't pay attention to the stories of quests? I don't know, and to be honest, I feel like they shouldn't be the ones being catered to primarily for a story like this one. Rather than starting out dialogue/conversations assuming we don't know what's going on and then throwing us bones later in the conversation, start out dialogue (if we've completed the requisite quests) assuming we know what's going on and then later throw a bone to the folks who don't. Just accept that people who are going into this without having played a single other story in this game or who mash through the dialogue are going to be confused. Maybe I'm being callous, but I feel like that's on them. I feel a little ridiculous feeling this way, but it was genuinely starting to piss me off in this story that it felt like the stuff I'd done in the past had no impact on what was happening there. No game, I know who Darien and Vanus are. Why are you assuming I don't? I know you can tell I've completed the quests with them before! I'd rather you develop the story or characters more than waste more time reiterating what I already know.

I get that having options to recap who's who and what's going on is helpful because obviously not everyone is going to remember anything, but I was rereading some dialogue from Elsweyr and I feel like that storyline handled balancing that so much better (Elsewyr is honestly peak character writing in general).

The main quest was also weirdly short, which didn't help this issue. Each individual quest in it was a lot shorter than I think they've been in pretty much every expansion, and there weren't many of them either (and the side quests felt longer than usual I think too?). Like, I didn't think it was paced badly, it just didn't have a lot of the waffling around trying to figure out some mystery that other stories have had. Which sounds like it would be a good thing when I type it out like this, but in hindsight I think that length is good for helping us get to know and get invested in the characters, and I just felt like we didn't have almost any of those moments here. It was like the bare minimum was a satisfyingly structured story. There weren't many slower times to get to know the characters or get a vibe on what they are thinking or feeling about current situations. For exmaple with Wormblood, it felt like he barely existed as a person and not a vessel for Mannimarco to possess at the end. While the drama of Gabrielle's sacrifice was *chefs kiss* and I liked the foreshadowing up to it, I am pretty sad she's gone since I wish we had more time with her in this story (I'm huffing copium rn that she ends up coming back somehow, extra permanent death be damned!!). Anyway, I'm hoping part 2 is longer (and doesn't get bogged down trying to explain to me who's who), and I'm choosing to remain optimistic about it.

Any finally, I'm a little worried about Darien. Idk it's hard to explain but also everything at the end happens so fast that I'm still trying to mull over it in my head (and UESP hasn't put up the dialogue yet waaaahhhhhhh). But basically, between Gabrielle and Skordo talking about Darien as if he's been dead since the assaults on Coldharbour (and them not mentioning at all how every other time we've seen Gabrielle she's basically been dedicating her life to finding Darien and insisting he's not dead), the way he's brought back implying he was dead, and Darien's dialogue once he's back, I have this nagging feeling in my head that they're overlooking or ignoring what happened in Summerset?? Maybe?? I might be dumb but I was under the impression he wasn't actually dead. I'm sorry idk how to explain it but the vibes are off and Darien's dialogue was confusing to me. Maybe I'm just being stupid.

idk I think a lot of this is just on me. Maybe I had my expectations too high. Which is a little odd for me because they weren't very high after seeing the reactions from PTS folks. I was thinking I'll try to lower them for part 2 but I also like being excited for things so knowing me I probably won't.

Anyway, hopes and predictions for part 2 to end on a higher note:

I'm hoping (coping) that when the story got split up it got split unevenly and this is more like 1/3 of the story rather than 1/2, so there will be more main story in the next part. I'm also hoping that this will truly be a part 2 of the same story, rather than a wishy-washy kinda part 2 like the DLCs used to be like.

I'm hoping my issues with the dialogue will be at least partly alleviated in part 2 because it’ll be a part 2 (like the epilogues in the yearly storylines)

I'm not at all worried about the side quests really. Looking forward to them.

I'm very excited (and very very nervous) to have Darien back. I don't really have any predictions I just really really hope they don't fuck it up and whatever they do with him feels satisfying.

I'm looking forward to seeing what ends up happenings to Mannimarco/Wormblood and Vanus. Is Wormblood still in there too or are we just facing Mannimarco from here on out? If Wormblood is still present in his body somehow, will there be conflict between him and Mannimarco? hmmmmmm

I wonder who Vanus's ally is? He kept mentioning having one and that didn't get resolved to I bet it will be addressed in part 2.

I'm curious if Gabrielle is truly dead-dead or if they're gonna pull something off with her. Everyone is talking about her like she's dead-dead so I guess that's the case, but also we don't truly know how the Gift of Death/Light of Meridia works. I'll be fine with either I think. If she stays dead, I hope they keep some weight to it instead of just moving on and never bringing it up again (not optimistic about that one), and if she comes back I hope there are still some consequences to her sacrifice rather than it being a return to the status quo. Whatever happens, I just hope it’s narratively satisfying.

[astridthevalkyrie]

your match is made | xavier x reader

“I know,” he continues, tucking a piece of your hair behind your ear, “that the people in our classes, the nobles, the folks in the marketplace, they all hold me in high regard.” “Xavier,” you try to argue weakly, already feeling your heartbeat speed up from where this conversation is going. The thought of losing him, of losing your best friend, your prince, your everything, it is paralyzing. “Please don’t—” “I know that my weapon of choice is a longsword.” “Stop,” you whisper. But he doesn’t, and he looks directly into your eyes with an open, honest sincerity written all over his face. Like this is his truth, even though it is yours. “And I know that you have known me all your life, and I feel that I have known you for even longer than that.”

cw: fluff, like that's it that's literally it this is so fluffy

word count: 6.6k

a/n: lyric credits used in this fic: téir abhaile riú by celtic woman <- fire song btw, listen to bless your ears, it also sets the vibe of this fic very nicely tbh. jeremiah's my favorite boyfailure.

Lanterns hang from every available line in and around the town square, brightening any block lucky enough to fall under its horizon. In every corner and roadblock, there are carts littering the streets, dozens upon dozens of merchants calling out their best prices on their finest goods, all the way from fabrics stitched by the very same threads used for the royals’ robes, to common sweet chocolates that all the teenagers are purchasing in bulk to share with their friends and younger siblings. There is room to move around, but there is not a single area that is not bustling with people, either trying to purchase steamed corn from the stalls or simply enjoying the festivities with their families. And in the center of it all, the bards play with such finesse that their fingers may as well be the source of the music rather than the instruments. 

Such is the celebration of lights, a celebration of the light. Of Philos, of this miracle that humanity has been gifted with. Every year without fail, the people gather in the town square to commemorate this historic occasion, and every year without fail, it is the grandest jamboree you have ever bore witness to.

“C’mon, Xavier,” Jeremiah protests out loud, “what would be the point of having the crown prince with us if he refuses to pay for our meals?”

Xavier simply shakes his head, the serene smile never leaving his face as he denies Jeremiah for the third time tonight—he clearly derives great pleasure from doing it. “I’d hate to rob you of the chance to participate in Philos’ market tonight of all nights.”

Jeremiah groans at his right, and from Xavier’s left, you giggle. It’s the same routine every single year, and at every occasion to be honest, and yet Jeremiah never stops trying to emphasize the difference in his wealth versus the royal family’s. Xavier, who you think would give his last dime to an ant if it looked hungry enough, looks like he loves refusing Jeremiah more than participating in any one of the activities tonight. 

The spicy aroma of rice cakes fills your senses then, and you let out a longing sigh as you look to the stall decorated with steaming bowls on all sides. “I’m starting to get hungry too, now.”

Both of them follow your gaze, where the vendor is hurriedly turning this way and that to discuss prices and accept payments, while three of his chefs work in the back, delivering more as the demand increases. Xavier hums quietly, then takes out a small black pouch from his pocket.

“I suppose it wouldn’t hurt to eat.” He holds out the bag for you to take, but before you can, Jeremiah scoffs, loudly.

“Oh, that’s sick.” He points an accusing finger at the prince. “That’s sick! If you keep playing favorites, you’re going to get betrayed when you take the throne, I hope you know. I swear I’m going to lead a revolution against you myself.”

“Do you really think my grandis knight would ever let you harm me?” Xavier shoots back, and you beam as Jeremiah rolls his eyes, snatching the pouch straight out of his fingers.

“I’ll take this, and I’m going to get two”—he holds up two fingers for emphasis—”two bowls, and I’m not sharing. Your grandis knight can split her portion with you.” With that, he stomps off in a huff, leaving Xavier with his head tilted and a confused expression on his face.

“I don’t understand. There should be enough coins for three bowls.”

“He’ll get you a bowl.” You raise your voice enough for Jeremiah to hear as he walks. “He’s very grateful that you offered your money, isn’t that right, Jermy?”

Jeremiah makes a rude gesture without even turning back to face you, and you laugh, grabbing Xavier’s wrist to follow him. If it were any other member of the royal family, they’d be getting swarmed right about now, and would likely require at least ten guards to stand around them at all times to ward people off. That is how the king and queen sit, a few blocks away from the main festival, up on a platform elevated high enough that no one could think to climb it, with Lightseekers both in front of them and on the ground, safe and observing the celebration from a distance. Philos’ crown prince is different. Xavier is out in the town with the common folk so frequently that he’s almost lost all the celebrity status his title comes with. Of course, that makes him popular in an entirely different way. The people in the market always seem happy that someone of such high status would lower himself enough to walk and talk amongst them.

His hand slips lower as the two of you go after Jeremiah, warm fingers intertwining with yours. You think little of it, reckoning he doesn’t want to get separated with so many people around. Xavier isn’t one to shy away from touch, at any rate. Once you spar with someone enough, it’s only natural to become physically comfortable with one another. He places his hands on your shoulders when he wants to guide you somewhere, bandages your cuts with his own calloused palms, presses his lips to your forehead to check whether you’re sick or not. In the face of all that, him holding your hand while running through a bustling crowd is hardly surprising.

Jeremiah is waving the pouch in the air hopelessly, trying to be noticed amongst the rest, when the vendor spots the two of you. “Xavier!” he calls happily. “Good timing, I have a fresh bowl ready just for you!”

“Unbelievable,” your chestnut-haired friend mutters under his breath, elbowing you as you laugh at his misfortune. Xavier steps closer, and you see him hold up two fingers to ask for more. When he points over, you wave to the vendor, who waves back before calling out instructions over his shoulder. In almost an instant, he has three steaming bowls filled with rice cakes ready for you to take. Your mouth almost waters at the sight. 

Xavier picks up one of them to offer to you, which you take gratefully. Taking a few steps to the side to avoid crashing into anyone, the three of you find a relatively less crowded place to dig in. 

Before you can take a heaping sip from the spoon, he gently takes your wrist and blows on the hot broth, meeting your eyes with a soft, concerned look. “Be careful.”

“I’m always careful,” you remind him teasingly, but blow some air of your own onto the spoon before finally digging in. As the flavors explode inside your palate, you hold back a moan at how good it tastes.

“Miss Knight!” a high-pitched voice calls out, and you turn in time to see a tiny pink blur moving past people’s legs. 

“Adelaide!” You hand your bowl to Jeremiah, who passes it to Xavier without even blinking, and kneel down to catch the blur in your arms. “Look at you, you look so pretty! I love your dress!”

The little girl’s eyes light up at the compliment. “Thank you! Miss Knight,” she bounces up and down eagerly, “I made something for you!” In her hands, she holds out a product of one of the several craft stalls set up for the children during the festival, a simple but elegant flower crown that she holds out like a grand prize. And from how your heart melts, it may as well be. 

“Oh, how beautiful. Thank you so much. Would you put it on for me?” You tilt your head down, and she places it on with all the care a child of six years would have. You know you’ll have a difficult time getting it out in a while after the flowers tangle with your hair, but you don’t mind at all. Adelaide is your favorite person to visit whenever the three of you come to town, the daughter of the seamstress who makes your uniforms, and you’d do anything to see her smile the way she is now.

“You look like a princess,” she says in awe. Your cheeks warm, and you stand up, gesturing to the other two.

“Speaking of which, you remember Xavier and Jeremiah, don’t you?”

Her small hands grip your dress robes as she hides behind your legs, peeking out at them. Xavier, with both his hands occupied holding your bowl and his own, merely smiles encouragingly at her, while Jeremiah waves. “Hiya, Adelaide. Your dress looks awesome!”

From the corner of your eye, you see her face turn bright red, and right as you’re about to coo inwardly about her adorable little crush, you hear someone calling her name. All your heads turn, as an older blonde boy, out of breath, almost pushes past people in his rush to run to her. 

“I told you not to run off like that! You could get lost—oh.” He stops short when he sees you, blinking as the color returns to his cheeks after his run. “H-hi there.”

“Hi, Neville.” You smile at Adelaide’s older brother, who’s almost always around when you visit. “Enjoying the celebration?”

“Definitely—I’m sorry I haven’t come to see you, I was helping Mother with her stall, a-and I didn’t know your master would give you the night off.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t miss this for the world. And the grandis knight is at the king’s side, he could hardly stay to train me on such an important night.”

“Right.” He stands with his hands on Adelaide’s shoulders, only staring, seemingly forgetting why he’s there in the first place. For a few moments, no words are said at all.

Right when you’re about to cough awkwardly, he snaps back to attention. “Um, would you like to dance?”

“She can’t,” Xavier says immediately, almost making you jump. He’s almost right behind you, looming over your shoulder and staring Neville straight in the eyes with an expression you’ve never seen on him before. 

“Xavier!” The blonde bows clumsily (and unnecessarily) before straightening up, an unspoken question in his eyes. He looks between you and Xavier, and while you hadn’t been planning to agree to his request in the first place, you look at Xavier curiously as well. He’s never before dictated what you do during the celebration, whether you’re with him and Jeremiah or with some of the others in your class. 

“She can’t,” he says again, a bit more softly, “she can’t, because…” He takes one glance at you, then down at the two bowls in his hand, then looks back up. “She’s already going to dance with Jeremiah.”

“What?” both you and your supposed dance partner question at the same time. 

“You’ve been meaning to ask her to dance the whole night.” Xavier’s blue eyes fall on Jeremiah, with a pointed gaze. “This song is about to end, I think now is as good a time as any.”

“But I’m eating!” he whines, shaking the bowl in his hands as though to beg Xavier to take pity on him.

“I’d be happy to dance with her before Jeremiah steps in—” Neville offers, but he’s cut off by Xavier again, and this time his voice is icier, and his eyes are narrowed on Jeremiah who’s pouting at him.

“No, I think Jeremiah should do it now before it’s too late.”

Whatever message he’s trying to get across, Jeremiah clearly understands it, groaning and taking one last sip before grabbing your hand and tugging you to the main grounds. You’re only slightly irked that no one actually waited for your answer on whether you wanted to dance or not. But you’re more confused than anything else. Just a few minutes ago, both of them were fine, what could have happened so soon to make Xavier sound so cold?

“Have you really been meaning to ask me to dance all night?” you try asking, but Jeremiah only rolls his eyes.

“Please shut up. I already have to deal with His Majesty the Oblivious Idiot tonight, I can’t deal with both of you.”

“What are you talking about—”

“Miss Grandis Knight!” one of the bards, the violinist, waves to you. You’re momentarily distracted, smiling at her. It’s quite nice, if maybe a bit egotistical, to hear anyone call you what you’re trying so hard to be even when you haven’t achieved it yet. “Coming to dance?”

“I am!” you shout back cheerfully. “Give me a good one!”

She thinks for a few seconds, then makes a motion to the other musicians. Placing the violin against her collarbone delicately, she begins to pluck a familiar tune, one that has you lighting up and has the crowd cheering. Even Jeremiah grins as the two of you face each other, both of you well versed in proper dance etiquette from taking the same classes growing up. 

First, he bows, mimicked by the other men in the large circle that’s formed, extending a hand to their dance partners. Then you, and the other ladies, curtsy, and with a light step you take his hand and begin the dance. The bards begin to sing the contagious melody, as you and Jeremiah step in place, back and forth, your arms extending then coming together, before he twirls you under his arm. Both of you are laughing for no real reason, perhaps aside from how frivolous this is compared to the fighting techniques you’re usually partaking in together.

The song builds, and builds, and his hands slip to your waist, helping you leap across him before he ducks his head dramatically. The violinist calls your name, pointing at you to sing the next verse. Through your giggles, your cheeks warm at the attention, but you oblige.

Swishing your dress around you, you bounce off Jeremiah, pointing at him with a flourish. “Come now and follow me down, down to the lights of Galway where—” Your eye catches Xavier’s, who’s watching you as though you’re the main event. With everyone else’s attention already on you, you’re not sure if you can possibly take any more, but something about his gaze makes your chest feel lighter, as though in this celebration of lights, the real light is the one staring at you, the one who has eyes for no one else. “There's fine sailors walking the town, and waiting to meet the ladies there!”

The bards take over the song again, yet the spell doesn’t break. As Jeremiah twirls you again and hands you off to the next man, switching dance partners easily, you beckon Xavier towards you, urging him to join. 

The night is young, you try to convey to him wordlessly, and I don’t want to be without you.

He steps forward, as you switch dance partners again. While you hadn’t meant to dance in the first place, it makes you feel lightheaded in a good way. The movements you have to do are light as opposed to rough and unforgiving on your muscles, and the alternating hands on your body handle you as gently as possible instead of trying to seek out all your weak points. 

Your head tilts to the side, trying to see if Xavier entered the fray or not. You’ve lost sight of him, in a different part of the circle now, and you can’t search properly without breaking the formation of the dance and ruining everyone’s fun. The next person you spin into ends up being Neville, who chuckles shyly and tells you, “Not bad, Miss Grandis Knight!”

His moves are far more stiff than Jeremiah’s, but far be it from you to judge when he hasn’t had formal training. The important thing is that he tries, and you still have fun, and besides, the song is ending now. You’re almost back to where you started in the circle, just one more spin and—

A familiar, calloused hand grazes yours, skimming down the side of your arm. You gasp at this touch, far more coarse than the others, and the only one to leave you breathless, not least because it’s accompanied by the striking blue of Xavier’s eyes. 

When he extends and brings you closer, it is more than just natural. Xavier is of royal blood, it is almost as if he was born to do this. Your feet step with his without you having to look down, so familiar with his balance and pace from years and years and years of sparring together. And not even once do you break away from his piercing gaze, because you’re nervous that if you do, he might just disappear.

The song comes to an end, with a final step forward and your hands on Xavier’s chest, and everyone erupts into cheers. The noise surrounding you makes the silence between you and him all the more deafening.

As the two of you simply stare at each other, breathing in sync, one of his hands reaches up, first resting on your cheek before then making its way up to gently adjust the flower crown that had slanted on your head while you were dancing. Once he fixes it, his head tilts down, just enough that his nose brushes against yours, and a smile forms on your lips.

“I am very pleased you joined, my liege.” Your eyes shine in gratitude.

Xavier opens his mouth to respond, and that’s exactly when Jeremiah chooses to slump against his shoulder, yawning. “Oh man, I’m spent. When do we go back to the academy?”

Xavier looks mildly disgruntled. “This is going to go on for hours,” you tell him, frowning, “we can’t leave now. Besides, the fireworks will start soon.”

“Another dance?” the crown prince suggests, sliding your palm into his. 

Jeremiah gives him an unimpressed look. “Give it a rest.”

Stepping past the two of them, you look at all the tables mostly occupied by children being distracted by someone painting little butterflies and stars on their faces or the tiny flutes that are passed out for them to blow into. One of the pastry vendors is handing out baked goods for free, and while you didn’t actually get any chance to eat earlier, you want to find something to actually do. You’re not tired after dancing; on the contrary, now you’re restless and brimming with energy. 

“Come on,” you declare readily, taking both their hands and pulling them into the ruckus. Your boys have little choice but to come along with you. Your feet will start to ache soon too, you’re sure. But for now, while they don’t, and while the way Xavier was staring at you is still burned into your mind, you want to enjoy yourself.

Once again, his fingers tangle with yours, clinging to your hand warmly—a stark difference to Jeremiah’s, which you have to grip onto harder to make sure he doesn’t get left behind. He whines and complains the whole time, telling you he’s sore all over and that the three of you should try and beat the rush by leaving early. You’re used to this routine every year, so you’re not fazed. Nor is he serious, because even though you could physically force him to stay, Jeremiah never tries to leave until you and Xavier are good and ready.

As you run, different students in your section call out to you and Jeremiah. People are just slightly more hesitant to address Xavier directly, but you’ve never understood such a thing. The last thing he is is intimidating. Well, maybe place a sword in his hand and he becomes slightly fearsome (to everyone except you). There’s still no need to pretend that Xavier ever struts around demanding everyone show him the highest respects. He’s the furthest thing from arrogant.

It makes you feel proud, really, knowing you’ll be in the service of Philos’ greatest king.

“Xavier!” someone finally calls out. For a second, you’re thrilled, until you see who it is, and your face falls.

The title of grandis knight comes with a certain authority. Not one that you actually have yet, of course, but people respect the current holder of the position, and as his prized mentee, that respect teeters down to you most of the time. 

Keyword being most.

Just a few months back, you and Lillia had been close friends. You weren’t as close to her as you were to Xavier and Jeremiah, but she was still someone you confided in. You knew a few personal things about her, and she knew a few personal things about you. It was nice to be able to talk to someone who wasn’t a guy, or your trainer, or one of the older students. Just another girl around your age training to become a Lightseeker.

But you should have realized that the respect you garnered by swearing to be the future king’s bodyguard came with a reasonable risk of betrayal as well. And yes, betrayal is a strong word. Technically, nothing happened. There is no accusation you can level at her. At least not without someone calling you hysterical, and that’s hardly needed when you’re already a woman seeking the highest position in the court, second only to the king himself.

It had come down to one night, with just you and her sitting and talking about nothing in particular, when she had leaned in and asked you something.

“So do you like anyone?”

It had been a quiet night, and the two of you had been the only ones awake, holed up in an old classroom, so you hadn’t thought any consequences could come from speaking truthfully—or at least, what you had genuinely believed to be the truth.

“Not really.” You’d shrugged, leaning back on the desk you were sitting on, putting your weight on your palms. “Most of the people in our section aren’t really my type.”

“Really?” Lillia had smiled slyly. “Not even Xavier?”

Your nose had wrinkled—not in disgust, just confusion. “Xavier? Why?”

“What do you mean? You two spend all your time together. You’re always sparring. Doesn’t romantic tension build up after something like that?”

“Maybe if we were equally matched,” you’d huffed, shaking your head, “I always beat him, I certainly don’t feel any tension. Besides, he’s going to be king. And I’m trying my best to be his grandis knight. We could never be in a relationship even if we wanted to be.”

“So you don’t have any interest in him?” she’d asked, a little more forcefully. You’d thought nothing of it at the time. 

“I mean…” Your stomach had twisted a bit uncomfortably and you’d averted your gaze. “If you had a sword to my neck, if I had to choose someone…”

And it had forced you to think about it. A far off scenario, if he wasn’t going to be the king, or if you weren’t going to be the grandis knight, or maybe both. It had been difficult to see Prince Xavier as anything else, but…it wasn’t impossible. If you were both just students, or partners, or even if you worked at that bakery that he loved to frequent. 

If you were just a normal person, and he was as common as everyone else, the first thing you’d thought you’d notice about him would be his eyes. It’s what you notice about him most of the time regardless. He has nice eyes. They have a sincerity in them that most people lack. And he looks at you a lot, so you would know.

He’s not bad to look at either. And he’s kind. A good leader. With a precious heart. And skilled fingers—

Blinking out of the hypnotic thoughts you’d fallen into, you’d hidden your suddenly flustered state as best you could and simply answered, “I suppose if I had to choose to love someone, I’d choose Xavier.”

And that had been that. Or so you thought. Everything had been alright, at least.

Until the next morning, when you’d walked out of your class and seen Lillia’s arms around Xavier’s neck. 

For a second, it had felt like Philos stopped turning on its axis. 

It wasn’t like Xavier had reciprocated. But that was only because he had been too polite to shove her away, and it would’ve been inappropriate to engage in anything further. Crown prince or not, he was still a guy, and obviously a pretty girl pressed into him in such a way would interest him.

And Lillia had caught your eye, and smiled triumphantly, as though to say well, if you don’t want him, then…

Even though you hadn’t said you didn’t want him. Well, you had said you weren’t interested, yes. But you had also told her that if someone held a blaster to your face if you didn’t cherish someone, then you would cherish Xavier. And maybe that hadn’t been a confession, but it hadn’t been you giving her permission to pursue him either. Not that she needed your permission, because it wasn’t like you had a claim on him, and it wasn’t supposed to make your chest burn that he, even for a second, looked at anyone else the way he looked at you.

You hadn’t confided your weak feelings to anyone else after that.

“Hi, Lillia,” Xavier says, snapping you out of your thoughts. You didn’t even realize until now that the three of you had approached her. “What’s this booth for?”

“Oh, it’s amazing,” she gushes, wrapping her hands around his arm and tugging. Your eye twitches. “She’s a fortuneteller. For just a few copper pieces, she’ll answer any one question you want to know about your life.”

“Really?” he asks softly, and all your gazes shift to the woman who bows her head to the prince, sitting in her chair with a purple drape over the small table in front of her. “I’m not sure what I’d want to ask.”

Lillia smirks in a way that makes you uneasy. “Well, I asked about my future partner.”

“Partner? For sparring?”

“For marrying, you dolt,” Jeremiah snorts, “c’mon, Xav, sit down and let’s see which unlucky soul gets to be queen of Philos.”

You’re nervous that he will, and you’re nervous that you won’t like the answer. Because it wouldn’t be you, you’re sure of that. And you shouldn’t want it to be you. That doesn’t mean you think he should be with her, either. What business did Lillia have pursuing Xavier, at any rate? She was training to be a Lightseeker too—but of course, the average knight did not have the same restrictions the grandis knight did—not that it matters because you have no say regardless—

But Xavier shakes his head. “No, it’s okay. My future partner will simply be…whoever the kingdom deems the loveliest of the lot.”

Your heart both inflates and deflates at his response. On one hand, you hadn’t wanted him to have his fortune read, for fear of heartbreak. On the other hand, a part of you had foolishly hoped that he would have the same option to love like everyone else did.

“You should do it,” Jeremiah nudges you with his elbow. Before you can protest, Lillia’s eyes light up.

“Oh, yes, you should! Here, come sit.” 

“Um, I don’t know.” Warily, you gaze over at the fortuneteller, who merely gives you a serene smile. “Is she going to give me someone’s name?”

“No, just a description. She told me my future partner would be someone of noble descent.” Lillia beams, showing off her too-perfect teeth, and suddenly you feel inadequate. You know what she’s implying, even if Xavier doesn’t. After all, there are very few people who would match that description.

So, not wanting to seem like a coward, because the king’s sword is anything but a coward, you step forward, sitting down in the leathery chair. You’re about to reach for your pocket to take out the copper pieces, when Xavier reaches over and places them in the fortuneteller’s palm, giving you an encouraging look that makes your heart sink. Perhaps you should have listened to Jeremiah earlier and called it a night.

When the woman takes your hand, she closes her eyes, running her thumb back and forth against your calluses. Your breath gets stuck in your throat, and you try not to move a muscle. For some reason, it feels like if you so much as twitch, you’ll get the wrong answers, and you’re not even sure what the right answers are. 

Her eyes open, piercing yours with a startling gaze. “Fascinating,” she murmurs, “I see three things about your lover.”

To hear that word—lover, instead of spouse or partner, makes your entire face feel hot. Lillia giggles, saying something under her breath that you don’t catch but makes you feel violent tendencies nonetheless.

“First, he is someone held in very high regard by all around him.”

Oh no.

“Second, a longsword is his weapon of choice.”

Oh no.

“And third, you have known him all your life.”

Well, she may as well have just screamed Xavier’s name at the top of her lungs.

Everyone is silent for a few seconds. There is a heavy pause in the air, because who else could she be referring to? Who else fits that exact description? All Lillia was told was she’d be with someone of noble descent, which could be at least a few people. The painful beating in your chest is onset because there is only one person that your fortune fits. 

You know it, he knows it, even Jeremiah and Lillia know it. 

So you do the only thing you can do. You calmly stand up, offer the fortuneteller a tight-lipped smile, and turn on your heel and run.

Behind you, a few different people call your name, though you note distinctly that Xavier isn’t one of them. After that, even if other people are still recognizing you and trying to get your attention, you can barely think straight enough to identify their voices, let alone respond. You run, out of the town square, out of the festival, out of the sight of anyone who could possibly perceive you.

You run as far as you can before your legs start aching, which, unfortunately for you, takes a long time with your endurance training. By the time you feel even a twinge resembling pain, you’ve already made it a far distance away from the celebration, near the seamstress’ shop. 

With gritted teeth, you heave yourself over the fence, knowing you’re more than welcome in her garden. It’s luscious, orange and lavender chrysanthemums in the center stealing the spotlight from all the other flowers. Instead of going towards them, you curl up next to the lilies, because you already feel unremarkable enough.

It’s not that you think Xavier would be disgusted by you. The two of you are friends—but that’s exactly it, the major problem of having feelings for him. Besides the fact that you are supposed to brandish your sword in his name, you cannot like him because you’d rather die than lose your best friend. You couldn’t even say how long you’ve known him, but you do know that he’s the best part of your life. Not for anyone would you bow your head. Not for anyone would you lay your life down. You’ve observed Xavier for years and years and there is not a single other person in the royal family that you would follow into any battle, through any world, past any planet. 

You groan, burying your face in between your knees. At some point in between the months Lillia first asked you about him and now, you’ve gone beyond just considering him as more than a friend. You’ve even got past having a measly crush on him.

You’re in love with Xavier, and it’s awful.

Breathing slowly, you gaze up at the night sky, where the fireworks have still not made their appearance. The wind teases the flowers around you, making them tilt a little to the left, which is oddly how you feel too. Not uprooted, but bent, just like a flower. 

With a blade of grass in between your fingers, you follow the direction the flowers are blowing in, only to find yourself staring at shining ceruleans.

“Xavier!” you gasp, eyes widening with a start. You move to stand as a reflex, but he raises a single hand, and you stop.

There isn’t a single bead of sweat on his face. He is breathing a little raggedly, and his uniform is stained with some sap he must’ve not been able to avoid from the bushes on the way over. His face—well, his face is pristine as always, there isn’t a moment when the prince of Philos looks anything less than dreamy. But it’s not his features you’re gazing at, but the concerned expression upon them, directed straight at you, with caring eyes and pinched brows.

You almost want to cry just at the thought you’ve worried him.

“Are you alright?” His voice is quiet, cautious, fragile. Like you may break if he’s too forceful in his questioning.

“Yes, fine,” you reply automatically, though you suppose you now have to make up a story for why on Philos you ran away like a child, especially because he sits next to you, knees raised in the same manner as yours.

“I was merely…overwhelmed, by the crowd.” The explanation sounds weak even as your tongue speaks it, but you cannot think of any other reason for your actions. At least this is easier than the truth. Anything is easier than the truth.

For a few seconds, there is silence, and as uncomfortable as this already is, you can’t bear it. So you turn to look at him, and you realize with burning cheeks you realize he is staring right back. You don’t even think he’s looked at the blossoming flowers even once; his head seems to be fixated in your direction.

“I know you constantly score better than me,” Xavier says softly, “but I am not foolish.”

With a hesitant hand, as though he’s asking for permission, he reaches up to once again adjust the flower crown on your head. Your heart falls, and you really should’ve known better to think Xavier could not read you like an open book, especially after a fortuneteller quite literally did read you like an open book.

“I know,” he continues, tucking a piece of your hair behind your ear, “that the people in our classes, the nobles, the folks in the marketplace, they all hold me in high regard.”

“Xavier,” you try to argue weakly, already feeling your heartbeat speed up from where this conversation is going. The thought of losing him, of losing your best friend, your prince, your everything, it is paralyzing. “Please don’t—”

“I know that my weapon of choice is a longsword.”

“Stop,” you whisper.

But he doesn’t, and he looks directly into your eyes with an open, honest sincerity written all over his face. Like this is his truth, even though it is yours. “And I know that you have known me all your life, and I feel that I have known you for even longer than that.”

Your lower lip trembles. Never once did you take him for the cruel type. There is no rule nor reasoning for this, to utterly expose your feelings even more and mock you for them, and if you sit here any longer you’re afraid you will begin to sob, and then not only will your friendship with Xavier be at risk, but your future position as well. The grandis knight cannot be weak. The grandis knight cannot shed tears for such silly matters as love. 

To preserve your role, to preserve your reputation and your dignity, you make to stand, to run even farther this time, but Xavier holds your wrist before you can, tugging you back to face him. There is no cruelty in his expression, in fact there is a tenderness as though he is somehow touched by your very clear devotion to him. 

His finger tilts your chin up, unwittingly making you demand a respect you don’t believe you deserve right now. His brow is pinched, as though he’s upset that you would let anyone, even him, turn you soft as a dandelion.

“I also know,” he breathes, “that this kingdom finds you incredibly lovely.” 

The world seems to stop.

“As…” Xavier’s hand rests itself on your cheek, and the most beautiful smile lights up his face as he murmurs, “Do I.” 

You lean in the same time he does, and faintly you hear fireworks erupt as you kiss the prince of Philos for the first time. 

The world is quiet, and so, so, so loud. Blood rushes to your face and to your ears, and you ignore it by placing both your hands on his cheeks, whimpering softly at how good he tastes. Every burning feeling and sensation you’ve felt in his presence these past few months, and really, your entire life, all seem to explode in this moment. The world is blue, and white, and Xavier.

His lips move so gently against yours, once again acting as though you are fragile, but it feels good this time, the idea of being something so precious as to require care for him. His thumb rubs soft circles into your cheek, you can barely pull away from him to assure him that he can be more forceful if he wishes, more wanting, more greedy. 

“Please,” he whispers against your lips, asking for what you aren’t sure, but you nod your head regardless, because you’d think you’d give him your very soul if he were to ask.

When you do pull back, he is looking at you so longingly it makes you more breathless than even dancing you did earlier. His gray-blonde hair nearly conceals his eyes, so you brush it from his face, breath hitching at his proximity. You’ve always known that he’s the apple of everyone’s eye, but you’ve never had the privilege to admire him so closely before.

“I don’t need a fortuneteller to tell me who my partner is.” Xavier rests his forehead on yours, eyes closing. “Whether it’s for sparring, or marriage, or anything else. You are the only one I want with me, through everything.”

You’re surprised you can even muster words when you shyly respond, “Likewise, my liege.”

His eyes shine, and the two of you finally look up to admire the fireworks bursting across the sky in incredible explosions of color. They pale in comparison to the eruption within you, but they are magical nonetheless, and you lean your head against his shoulder to watch.

A gentle kiss is placed on top of your head. “I know we only celebrate this once a year. It is a special time. Still…” He meets your gaze again, and the corners of his lips turn upwards. Tonight, there is only you and him now, you’re sure of it. “Would you mind terribly if we were to ignore the fireworks?”

Maybe one day you will learn to resist him. You sincerely doubt it, though.

“Not at all. But the seamstress and her kids will probably be back soon.” You place a begrudging hand on his chest, not wanting to stop him, but trying to act proper regardless. “Neville checks on the garden every night. He might see us.”

Xavier seems to consider this for a second. 

“Oh well,” he mumbles, leaning in to kiss you again, “what a shame.”

He doesn’t sound very sorry at all, and amidst the soft glow of moonlight, you surrender to him, lost in your very own little celebration of lights.

a/n: if i had a nickel for everytime i’ve written a character x reader story where they’re at a party and they dance together but then leave to have a nice moment by themselves i’d have two nickels, which isn’t a lot but it’s weird that it happened twice, right?

[huramuna]

even in undeath - chapter 1.

lich king aemond x reader a 'world of warcraft' AU. prev | next

The Lich King is the master and lord of the Scourge. Consisting of thousands of walking corpses, disembodied spirits, beasts of the north, and damned mortal men, the Scourge is a terrifying and insidious enemy.

word count: 2.3k

@huramuna-fics - follow & turn on notifications for just my fic postings! no taglists right now, sorry.

content: DEAD DOVE: DO NOT EAT, DUBCON, smut, heavy heavy angst, graphic depictions of violence, allusions to cannibalism, imprisonment, kidnapping, murder, suicidal thoughts and ideation, mutilation of corpses, obsessive aemond, dark aemond, a happy ending is not in our future. PLEASE MIND THE TAGS! This story will be pretty dark.

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It was dark and cold. There was a faint dripping of water somewhere off to the side, but you couldn’t quite see where. The echoes of whimpers ricocheted off of the craggy walls, stinging your eardrums. 

This was the descent into madness, wasn’t it?

You weren’t sure how long you’d been chained up for— how long had it been since your village burned to the ground? Since you watched the ghouls rip apart the cow farmer from down the road. Since you watched hellhounds crunching on little Mary Jay’s bones. Since you had watched your mother and stepfather plead and beg for their lives, for forgiveness, for mercy, for absolution of their supposed sins before the death knight’s sword lopped their heads off. 

How long has it been? 

Shifting slightly, the chain tied to your throat clinked against the wall. There was no light, no passage of time to be had in the dank, pitch black cave they stowed you and a few select others in. You only had on a ragged potato sack as a dress, the sensation of dirt and grime caked on your hair and under your nails making you feel less than human. 

But— you were still human. For now. The Scourge had ravaged the Eastern Kingdoms without mercy, swiping through the North and South like a fast traveling plague, curdling and damning everything it touched. Hordes of undead zombies, ghouls and hellhounds were the first to raze the cities, driving out the people like mice from the walls. Then the banshees came, along with the necromancers to raise the dead, adding them to a forever amounting army.

Not even Quel’thalas had been able to resist it, an ancient elven city hewn in magic.

What chance did you have? 

More than most, evidently. Your mind wrought itself over and over as to why— why were you alive? Why were you still human and not merely a risen thrall? 

The clinking of armor scared you as it ascended the hallway. You pressed close to the wall and closed your eyes. 

Please don’t stop here, please don’t stop here. 

Clink, clink, clink… closer… closer… 

Then it passed, descending further away. You let out a breath, your blood still pumping in your ears. 

Clink, clink, clink. They were coming back. Clink… silence. You felt bile rise in your throat as you shook, the chains rattling noisily. You knew they were standing there, you knew they were here for you. 

A harsh tug upon your chain, your head hitting the floor— some words were mumbled, the voice sounding far away and broken. Your eardrums rang with the ferocity of your fall, drowning out any semblance of what your jailer was saying to you. Then, you were tugged upward, the cool metal of the collar biting into your skin as you were dragged like a petulant child away from your cell… 

You didn’t want to open your eyes. You couldn’t face the horror you knew was around you— corpses, living ones and dead, the clatter of bones, the heavy breathing of gargantuan abominations, bodies and faces of countless people stitched together into a new body, hewn with thread and necrotic magic until it gave way to something else entirely. Something unnatural, something made of nightmares. The dermis of those who were used to make the monsters would still twitch, reach out on its own, and if it had a mouth, it would be twisted into a scream. You swore that you heard them whispering as you were dragged by. 

The monstrosities were one of many abhorrent creatures at the Scourge’s disposal. Hellhounds, ghouls, gargoyles, wraiths, crypt lords, geists, banshees, and other things of horrific nature were only some of the power wielded by the Scourge. It felt like it was all pulled out of a child’s fairytale, changed and twisted and defiled into what it was now. 

It all felt like a very bad dream. 

Your eyes opened on their own and you took in the image of death knights, former paladins who served a higher power, the Light— now are nothing but undead heretics, glowing eyes and gaunt stares that bored through you. 

Some of the monsters chittered as you were dragged past them, leering and looking hungry. 

‘Scrawny that one. Perhaps she will suffice for hellhounds to pick their teeth.’

‘Speak for yourself, her skin will do beautifully on a new abomination.’ 

‘She won’t be knighted. Merely a maid’s bastard, I’ve heard.’

You forced your eyes to close once more, the sudden light stinging them. You forced yourself into another time, a better memory than what you were experiencing. 

They were right, you were a maid’s bastard. Your mother had served in the royal keep for years, with you under her feet. You didn’t know who your true father was, nor did you care.

You became attached to the second son of the King— Aemond Targaryen. He was a sprightly boy with near white hair and luminous violet eyes. The two of you were attached at the hip. 

Childhood friendship blossomed into more as you grew into teenagers and young adults— you shared your first kiss together, you held hands and shared sweet nothings. As he trained by day to become a paladin of the Light, he held you close by night, vowing to never let you go. You were both terribly in love and so terribly, terribly naive. He was your first in everything– your first friend, your first kiss, your first lover. You promised yourself that he would stay your first and only.

‘You can never marry a maid’s bastard, Aemond! You’re a prince of the realm-‘

‘I don’t care! I want her, father. I’ve always wanted her!’

Your mother quit her job at the castle— moreso, threatened into quitting by some of the King’s advisors. She was given a considerable amount of coin and told to take you far, far away and to not contact the prince again. 

Heartbroken, you left him your sapphire ring, the only thing of value you ever had, which had been passed down through your mother’s family for generations. 

It was left on his desk with a note of few words but much feeling. 

‘I love you. I’m sorry.’ 

That was over ten years ago. You hadn’t seen him since, but you missed him horribly. Especially now. You wondered if he was still alive, fighting against the Scourge like his knightly vows dictated. 

Maybe he was married and moved across the sea to Kalimdor where it was safer. 

Or maybe he was dead. Dead like almost everyone else you knew. 

You heard a rumor, fleeting and without much more information, that his father had died– no, that his father had been murdered. The fall of the king, Viserys, is what started the Scourge war. Did Aemond know, wherever he was? 

You imagined him holding his arms around you, kissing your neck and fanning his breath over your skin. He liked to encompass you completely with his body when you laid together— you never could emulate the feeling with heavy blankets and pillows, as much as you tried. Putting yourself back into that memory, you wrapped your arms around yourself, willing warmth into your body. 

But you didn’t feel any warmth. All you felt was cold, cold down to your bones. They felt brittle, like ice, splintering into shards as you were thrown on the floor again in a different room. Pain bloomed in your arm as it cracked at an awkward angle. Broken. 

Your ears rang again as your mouth opened into a scream, tears of pure anguish squeezing from your eyes. But you didn’t hear a thing besides the rush of blood dampening your senses— and the sickening crunch of your broken bones. 

‘What have you done to it, Lady Deathwhisper? It looks broken.’ 

‘It’s human bones are so brittle, it was merely a slip of the hand. I cannot help that their living constitution is so weak.’ 

‘His grace will not be pleased if it is broken beyond repair.’ 

‘Worry not, Lady Alys. Most things can be mended— and if not, it can always be raised.’ 

‘Physical defects aren’t the only issue. What of its mind?’

You feel an acute sensation over your skull, reaching into the depths of your cranium. Its cold, but not stinging— like a soft caress upon your brain as your mind is rifled through like a tome. You can feel your memories being perused, all of the most intimate moments of your life flashing in your head like playwright’s prose. The physicality of your mind being invaded wasn’t painful, but the act of your memories being ripped from you was damning. Tears fell down your face on their own, your mouth opened into a silent scream.

‘She is the one— I saw it. You are lucky that you did not break her mind completely, Lady Deathwhisper.’ 

‘As are you. You do not have a deft hand when it comes to memory perusal, Lady Alys. I am surprised that it still has a brain in its skull.’ 

‘Shut up and bring her to him. He will be pleased she is still alive. Barely.’ 

You felt yourself being moved again, still reeling from the invasion of your mind. You tried to put yourself back into the safe haven of memories, but they were… locked. Locked behind an iron door with no keyhole. They were lost to you. 

What were you trying to remember? 

Flashes of white hair and violet eyes flitted behind your eyelids, soft caresses and kisses, heavy breathing and love filled promises, the sensation of skin to skin… 

Your eyes opened, vision bleary. A helmed woman followed behind you, wings outstretched. You could see the glint of green eyes under her helm. Val’kyr. The woman behind you was a Val’kyr, a spirit guide who defected to the side of the Scourge. They could move between the realm of living and dead as simply as taking a breath. 

“The little human is awake,” she mused. “Your mind isn’t broken after all? I do see a glint of intelligence behind those eyes. Keep them on me, you shan’t wish to look upon Lady Deathwhisper.” 

You didn’t want to speak, words caught in your throat like food stuck in your craw. A val’kyr was basically an angel of death and talking to one must mean you are dead. 

You wish you were. 

The chains scraped against the floor, which was no longer stone like before, but rather, hardened ice. You were ascending upward, it seemed. The architecture of the building was nothing like you’d ever seen— dark metal was plated upon the walls, inscribed with glowing runes. The runes looked… familiar to you, somehow. But the memory that contained them was locked away, or mayhaps stolen by the Val’kyr, Alys. 

The temperature was cold, you were being lofted upon ice, of course, but you didn’t wholly feel it. You were partially numb, heat radiating from your broken arm. You knew you should be feeling pain— but you were just… numb. 

Your escorts stopped in front of two large doors, inscribed with the same glowing runes. Against Alys’ advice, you glanced at ‘Lady Deathwhisper’. She was skeletal, floating upon the ground with no legs to speak of. Her robes were purple fabric, molded around an incorporeal body. She spoke in a language you didn’t understand, the scratchy voice of hers coming out of a bone skull, but the mouth wasn’t moving, maw open as the words came out. 

You should have listened to Alys. 

The door opened with a rumble, opened by ancient magic, likely imbued by the runes, as they flickered and flitted above your head as it opened. The room beyond was open and bereft of almost anything, except for a throne. A throne forged of ice and swords. 

Someone was sitting upon it in a lazed position, one plated gloved finger tapping on the arm of the throne.

“We’ve brought her, your grace,” Lady Deathwhisper growled, shoving you forward. You skidded across the floor, which felt slick like grazing atop an ice-capped lake. “Alys confirmed it is her.”

The clinking of armor caught your attention, the sound of metal grazing against ice. It was irritating and made you grind your teeth. As whoever was on the throne got closer, the force was oppressive. Whimpers and tiny cries were ripped from you as they walked towards you, the aura exuding from them causing you to fall flat to the ground, feeling as if someone was sitting atop of your chest and not letting up.

The steel plated boot was in front of you now and your hair was grabbed rather harshly, pulling you up. 

Don’t look, don’t look. You cannot look.

“Look. At. Me.” the voice growled. It was quiet but commanding at the same time, rattling in your bones and making a home amongst the marrow. It felt familiar… so… 

You lifted your bloodshot eyes, not out of your own volition, but from the authority of the voice.

“Hello, little dove.” he mused.

It was him. It was… it… Aemond. You knew him so well, even with ten years gone. His chiseled jawline and chin and the dimple of the tip of his nose… 

But his eye was missing, a jagged scar bisecting it. In its place was a sapphire. The sapphire from your ring, grown into something to make home in the socket.

You felt everything and nothing all at once, your stomach flipped and flopped like a fish hoisted from the sea, sputtering for air. You couldn’t breathe, you couldn’t–

Your best friend, your lover, the one you vowed to never forget, to never forsake.

Aemond Targaryen. 

Aemond Targaryen was the Lich King. A defiler, a mass murderer, an unholy being in his own right.

“Now you won’t be able to leave again, will you?” Aemond murmured, his violet eye roving you. It was glowing slightly– his skin was a pale gray pallor, cheeks sunken slightly. He was undead.

Your eyes rolled back in your head, vision going black.