#with Pearl and ruby glowing

[cjcroen1393]

So, uh... I wanted to do more Homestuck related stuff, but I just finished this image today and I'm so proud of it that I couldn't resist posting it.

This is fanart for a fanfiction called "With Pearl and Ruby Glowing", a collection of mega-crossover stories that focus a lot on characters from children's cartoons going through trauma. This particular installment, "A Ballad of the Belle of Big Bucks Bloodbath", focuses on Pacifica Northwest discovering that her parents have been hiding a sinister secret...

I recommend the series, but fair warning, you should ONLY read it if you know you can handle the stuff in it. When I say it focuses on trauma, I MEAN it.

I made two versions, one being intended to look more like a cover, hence the title.

Bill Cipher's appearance is based on this image, whose artist I can't seem to track down, since one of the fic's authors mentioned that it was their headcanon for how human!Bill looks in this fanfiction.

[writerthreads]

SYNONYMS FOR COLOURS

Red (and versions of it): cardinal, coral, crimson, flaming, glowing, maroon, rose, blooming, blush, brick, burgundy, carmine, cerise, cherry, ruby, salmon (requires more detail, ie. "salmon pink"), mahogany (reddish-brown), wine

Orange: tangerine, apricot, coral, amber, rust, salmon, peach, burnt sienna, sunset, blush, turmeric (orangey-yellow), marigold, carrot, marmalade, cantaloupe

Yellow: marigold, sunflower, amber, gold, lemon, canary, mustard, daffodil, saffron, blonde, butter, honey, maize, flaxen, topaz, cream, chartreuse, buttercup, primrose, corn

Green: emerald, olive, jade, lime, mint, forest, sage, moss, grass fern, dark, kelp, seafoam, shamrock, olive, evergreen, lettuce, cyan, turquoise, swamp, apple, honeydew, frog

Blue: aquamarine, aqua, ice, blueberry, Caribbean, teal, navy, azure, sky, cobalt, indigo, sapphire, royal, denim, periwinkle, lapis, electric (+blue), midnight, baby blue, bluebell

Purple: royal, violet, indigo, beet, lavender, hyacinth, plum, magenta, periwinkle, grape, lilac, iris, mauve, amethyst, orchid, fuchsia, heather

White: cotton, cream, almond, pearlish, bleached, ashen, ivory, snow, pearl, milk, chalk, silver, alabaster, marble, cotton, eggshell

Black: ebony, jet, coal, onyx, raven, charcoal, ink, sable, obsidian, midnight, caviar, soot, licorice

[solbaby7]

Slipping Away

pairing: azriel x reader

[ masterlist ]

[ part one ]

warnings: mentions of poor mental health, probably swearing, underlying sexual themes, angst babe

summary: You've been drowning for a long time and finally someone notices

—

There’s a rooftop garden just above the townhouse in Velaris and you’re not quite sure why you’ve never bothered to visit it until now.

A blissfully unaware city lives just beyond it, past the stone walls and dense privacy fence made of cypress trees. The residual sounds of their freedom hits your ears, nothing more than distant chatter that carries along a brisk breeze.

Even that is enviable—the way they exist with no regard of the space they may take up.

Makes you try a little harder when you apply paint to canvas; desperate to feel what they must when mimicking the light reflecting from their souls.

The city twinkles, stars shining so bright that they seem to just hang from the sky like pearls, some pulsing with rich ruby tones and others glimmering with amethyst. Bridges and buildings glow from the marbled sheen of the moon, its beam breathing life into everyone but you.

“Been out here long enough, don’t you think?”

You startle at the voice, its honey smooth rumble shattering the little bubble you’d built around yourself. Azriel stands there in the doorway, unceremoniously leaned against its framing with arms crossed and a brow raised. “I’m not finished.” The words seem to snap you back into reality, limbs a little shaky from the recoil that takes place when a tethered soul hastily returns back to its meat suit.

You close up like a clam, all but throwing your paintbrush into the water dish and body blocking the entirety of your canvas.

Surely he notices the change in body language, he’s kind enough not to mention it. Wings shuffle in a touch closer to his form, subconsciously retaining heat from the bitter chill in a motion so natural you can’t help but be reminded of how many centuries he’d endured in such weather. “Maybe so, but it’s cold out and you don’t even have a coat.”

He’s not wrong and at the mention of it, you finally seem to notice the goosebumps dotting your flesh. Bare arms and exposed ankles, feet with no shoes and fabric too flimsy to properly stave off the effects of such elements. “Guess I was just too focused to even notice.” Maybe it’s the calm way he just lingers there that allows your body to unfurl from its tense stance, shoulders drooping and spine less rigid as you ease back down in your seat. “I’ll make some tea when I’m done.”

He moves like smoke, inaudibly despite his massive physique but his presence is unmistakable. It forces the hairs on the back of your neck to raise at attention, encourages your heart-rate to rise and you struggle to decipher if the feeling that emerges is fear or attraction. “Stay out here as you are much longer and you’ll become a permanent fixture.”

Every move he makes is done with such intention, shadows slyly distracting you when playfully nudging at the edge of your paint palate. They steal your attention—forcing you to lurch forward to prevent the array of colors from falling—long enough for Azriel to conjure up a sweater, one soft and warm and distinctly his.

The action is done so naturally it robs you of words, eyes widening in surprise while confusion scrunches up your features. Your brain scrambles for a feasible explanation, subconsciously stretching your arms into the thick cashmere sleeves until you’re moving on autopilot and shoving it over your head.

A content smile ghosts overs the corner of his mouth. “I had a feeling you were good,” Azriel confesses softly, directing the conversation with too much ease and there’s no time to feel out of place when he’s nudging you aside, putting you exactly where he pleases to take in the painting in its entirety. “But, this is remarkable.”

Every inch of you screams to reject this, to pack up your supplies and scurry off in search for solitude because the longer Az’s stare lingers on the softly blended shades of rich dandelion and warm ochre; admiring the gentle shine from metallic golds, it feels like he’s reading straight from the most intimate pages of your journals. Flipping through private confessions, evaluating personal entries and reading them aloud to a crowd of observers for judgement.

Two fingers trail the line of your collarbone until the cool chill of metal can be felt against your fingertips, nails tracing the contours of the key dangling from your neck. The action is repeated once, twice, a third times before the anxiety of anyone going through your things finally disperses.

Arms cross over your chest, words distant and clipped in attempts to create space. It doesn’t help, cloaked in his clothes, the only thing your brain can seem to focus on is the fact that last time you and Azriel had been alone—he’d almost kissed you. “It’s incomplete.”

Azriel hums, a low sound; not agreeing or disagreeing but still acknowledging. “What do you do with them when they’re done then? Can’t imagine you’d be the type to hang them up.”

Music plays from within the city, delicate strings and soulful drums. Even from where you stand you can see the faes and faeries dancing idly along the cobblestone. They saunter out of cafés and shops, stumble out of bars and clubs. This moment in time forever frozen on canvas, your eyes flicker back and forth—so close and yet still something is missing. “I throw them away.”

“What? Why?”

A jerky shrug is your only reply, trying to see whatever he could within the brushstrokes but all you find are flaws. Lines where your hands had been shaky, shading that no longer matches as the muse constantly shifts.

“There must be a reason?” He prods. “No point in spending so much money on supplies just to toss what you make with them like trash.”

“Not sure why you care—it’s not your money being wasted.”

You expect something like irritation to grace Azriel’s features but all you can find is amusement. He doesn’t bristle at the thorns you prick him with, only chuckles at the blood you draw. Not deterred in the slightest by your bite, he continues to poke and prod at your restraint; all but scruffing you like an unruly cat until all the fight has been wrung out. “Suppose not, it’s just very telling.”

Eyes roll so hard you can feel the strain. “Don’t tell me we’re doing this again? I’m not particularly interested in another round of your evaluations.”

“It’s not my fault you’re so easy to read.”

“Sure,” you shrug, fingers digging into soft cashmere. “But, it’s definitely a you issue when it comes to being so fucking nosy.”

A beat of time passes. A scream sounding from within the city; this playful, jubilant noise that feels like a blade being sliced through your sternum. Cutting through bone and embedding itself in squishy soft tissues until iron eviscerates whatever’s left of your neglected heart.

“Is it really such a crime to care about you?”

Azriel watches every inch of you go still. Can see the exact moment your defenses go up—those walls you keep, growing taller and taller. It’s reinforcements suiting up and taking their post with weapons readied; waiting for the word to attack. “It is if I can’t figure out what you want in return.”

He sighs, breath shuddering from his lungs as though the answer physically pains him. “I just want you to be happy.” Bare palms wipe at the thighs of your dress, wet paint smearing against pale material but you don’t seem to mind in the slightest.

It’s not exactly concerning but Azriel finds it very telling, acknowledging your lack of concern for material items. No personal affects to hold you down. The way you wander around so detached from reality as if you were a ghost existing around mortals.

Cracks fissure along the brick wall of a barricade you’ve placed up. The foundations wavering. Gates crumbling under the pressure of his eyes boring into the side of your face as if he could see the destruction within. “They never really feel good enough to keep.”You finally confess, voice softer than Az had ever heard it before. “Like something about them is missing.”

He keeps staring at it, scanning and scanning the shapes formed in wet paint. One finger hovers over a spot near the corner, a small slice of the balcony from your point of view. A perfect replica of the iron railings, flourishing flora, even the quaint little seating arrangement. “You. It’s missing you.”

[heartlilith]

WHAT THE VENUS SIGNS REMIND ME OF

🩷Oddly specific things I think about when I hear ______ venus

Aries Venus: Summer, rubies, Mr. and Mrs. Smith, rollercoasters, fast cars, the color red, vampire fangs, Saturday nights, liquor stores and gas stations, fireworks, sour candy, cool bic lighters, “you’re mine”, Mario Kart, boys who wear nail polish, fuck it energy, oversized sweatshirts, middle finger emoji, cherries

Taurus Venus: Satin pillowcases, white candles, pearls, mirrors, hand holding, walking someone home at night, vinyls, red lipstick, full lips, fancy dinner dates, the wine and dine, old romantic movies, wallets and purses, hotels, French manicures, old money, “I won’t get on my knees for no man”

Gemini Venus: Driving around at night listening to music, reading to someone, comedy shows, mimosas, Samantha from Sex and the City, libraries, nerd kink, hot teachers/student kink, emerald green, laughter, swing sets, looking out of the window and just watching, untied shoelaces, dogs and puppies, dad jokes

Cancer Venus: Soft feather pillows, a bowl of warm soup, a bubble bath, tears and running mascara, babies and how babies laugh, poetry, “I’ll be whatever you want me to be”, hot tubs, hot coffee, teddy bears, heartbeats, soft hands & skin, lotion, bagels and cream cheese, doodling in your journal

Leo Venus: Lip gloss, mojitos, getting drunk at brunch, diamond tennis bracelets, drunk texts you regret sending later, the block button, lonely nights, shooting stars, blowing bubbles, piggy back rides, art museums, glittery eyeshadow, jumparoos, birthday parties

Virgo Venus: Taking a shower, Dove soap, smooth skin, symmetry, butterflies, the smell of books, getting a facial or going to the spa, chicken caesar salads, the good tasting water, chunky headphones, acoustic guitar, running errands, getting your eyebrows done, neat handwriting, neutral colors, sushi

Libra Venus: Blush, dimples, Y2K fashion, Hello Kitty, makeup skills, those little hand mirrors, princes and princesses, cupcakes, pedicures, Margaritas, taking pictures, art, castles, Disney movies, daisies, spin the bottle, cartwheels, soft hair, bubblegum, skincare, watermelon and pineapple

Scorpio Venus: Psychology, neck tattoos, “until death do us part”, Kings & Queens, snakes, sacred sex, chess, secrets, hickeys, the feeling after you stay up all night, the feeling of being at a concert, roses, knives, tequila shots, legs intertwined, dirty martinis, sparklers, Avril Lavigne, fantasy books, true crime and dark history

Sagittarius Venus: Clouds, rock climbing, rappers, Hip Hop and R&B, going on vacation, açaí bowls and fresh fruit, sun kissed/radiant skin, the color yellow, retreats, history, yoga and Pilates, spicy food, “it is what it is”, curly hair, the smell of weed, casinos, the last day of school, Las Vegas

Capricorn Venus: Leather, red wine, the cow pattern, cowgirl boots, the color brown, espresso, dark chocolate, briefcase of money like in the movies, the movie Scarface, whiskey on the rocks, bosses, owls, turtle necks, caramel, wearing suits, lingerie, business, New York City

Aquarius Venus: Lightbulbs, telescopes and microscopes, LED lights, hamsters, college parties, glitter, peace signs, 70s concerts, food trucks, skipping school, “fuck it”, diving in the pool, the beach at night, disco balls, getting detentions in school

Pisces Venus: Mermaids, kittens, cartoons and Disney princesses, champagne, Webkinz, little kid stories like Goldilocks, 3 Little Pigs, Hansel and Gretel, clear glittery lip gloss, holographic, snowmen and icicles, swimming in the pool, flower gardens, glow sticks , picnics, bumblebees, sand castles, elementary art class, 3D movies

Book a Reading 🩷

Masterlist 🩷

[novaursa]

Where Dragons Dare (2/3)

- Summary: After your declaration to marry Alicent in the small council meeting, the day of the wedding finally comes. And so does your first wedding night.

- Pairing: male!targ reader/Alicent Hightower

- Note: reader is referred to as Y/N, is twin brother of Rhaenyra and is bonded with a dragon. For more of my works visit my blog. The list is pinned to the top.

- Rating: Explicit 18+

- Word count: 5 000+

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @literaturedog

- A/N: This was requested by @witch-of-letters. Enjoy! ❤️ Battle of the Stepstones is add as a bonus, because I love writing dragon battles. The last part will be posted later tomorrow once it is done.

- Previous part: 1

- Next part: 3

The grand hall of the Red Keep is awash with the glow of thousands of candles. The flames dance across golden tapestries depicting the histories of Old Valyria, but today the storied past pales in comparison to the momentous occasion unfolding before all in attendance. The wedding is one spoken of in whispers and rumors, but now it blooms before the gathered lords and ladies with all the splendor and gravitas worthy of House Targaryen. 

You stand at the altar draped in black and red, the rich silk of your doublet catching the light in subtle ways. The fine Valyrian embroidery at the hems speaks of dragons in flight, each thread imbued with dark crimson that shimmers like fresh blood. A black cloak, edged in deep scarlet, flows from your shoulders, fastened at your throat with a clasp shaped like a coiled dragon. Your hair, the silvery-white of pure Valyrian descent, is tied back, letting your angular features and sharp violet eyes take in every gaze, every emotion displayed openly or hidden away. At your side hangs Blackfyre—your birthright as Prince of Dragonstone—its pommel set with a ruby that gleams like a beating heart.

Before you, Alicent Hightower stands radiant in a gown of deep emerald green. The dress, fitted perfectly to her frame, billows out in layers of silk and fine lace, each shimmering with golden accents as she moves. A delicate crown of silver leaves and pearls rests atop her auburn hair, carefully arranged in elegant curls. Her eyes, a brilliant shade of brown, reflect a mixture of pride, joy, and the quiet steel she’s honed under the pressures of courtly life. There is a softness in her gaze, however, reserved only for you as her eyes meet yours—a silent understanding, a shared relief, and a promise of what is to come.

The Septon's voice rings out, leading the words of the traditional vows. Beside you, Rhaenyra is practically glowing with excitement. Her smile is unrestrained, her eyes darting between you and Alicent with genuine happiness, a sister’s joy at seeing her twin brother embrace his own fate. She wears a gown of pale red, adorned with the colors of House Targaryen and a crown of silver atop her flowing locks, her presence radiating confidence as the heir’s sister and a firm ally to your cause. 

King Viserys is seated in a place of honor, his face full of warmth and pride. His smile is wide as he watches his only son wed the woman who has become a daughter to him over the years. He has the contented look of a father who finally sees his children happy, a rare expression in a court filled with ambition and schemes. He lifts his cup in a subtle toast to you and Alicent, his eyes misting over slightly with emotion.

Daemon Targaryen, your uncle, stands near the rear of the gathered nobles, his silver hair catching the light as he observes the ceremony. His expression is inscrutable, but those who know him well enough can see the slight curve at the edge of his lips, the way his gaze sharpens whenever it falls upon you. For all his unpredictability, there is a flicker of pride there—a satisfaction, perhaps, that you finally asserted yourself against the forces that sought to control you. Daemon has always favored those who carve their own path, and today you have done just that.

As the ceremony draws to a close, you step forward to place a cloak upon Alicent’s shoulders, the symbol of House Targaryen enveloping her as you claim her as your own. The green of House Hightower blends now with the red and black of the dragon, a union that cements alliances but more importantly binds two hearts that have long yearned for this day. When you lean in to kiss her, there is a softness, a tenderness in the way her lips meet yours, and the hall erupts in applause, though the world shrinks to just the two of you in that fleeting moment.

As the applause dies down, Otto Hightower, the Hand of the King, watches with a carefully controlled expression. His eyes flicker between you and Alicent, a mixture of satisfaction and unease buried beneath his calm demeanor. Though this is a victory for him in securing his daughter’s position, there’s a tension in his jaw—he had hoped to control this outcome more closely, but you’ve slipped from his grasp, a dragon untamed. He studies you with the gaze of a man who sees both a rival and a dangerous ally.

At the feast, Rhaenyra approaches you first, practically throwing herself into your arms. "You did it, Y/N! I knew you would," she beams, her joy infectious. "Alicent looks so beautiful, and you—you were magnificent. I’ve never seen the council so speechless!" Her eyes sparkle with mischief. "And Uncle Daemon, I think he’s actually proud of you for once."

You chuckle, wrapping an arm around your sister. “He probably is. But I didn’t do this for him or the council. This was always for her.” Your gaze drifts back to Alicent, who’s engaged in conversation with a group of highborn ladies, her laughter soft and genuine.

Viserys claps a hand on your shoulder. "You’ve brought honor to our house, Y/N. I couldn’t be prouder of the man you’ve become. Your mother would be so proud, too." His voice carries a slight tremor as he mentions Queen Aemma, but it is quickly overshadowed by his joy.

You offer him a warm smile. "Thank you, father. I’ll do everything I can to ensure that this union strengthens our house."

Daemon is the next to approach, a goblet in hand and that familiar smirk playing on his lips. "I didn’t think you had it in you, nephew," he says, voice laced with amusement. "I was beginning to think you’d let others chart your course forever. But you’ve surprised us all, haven’t you?"

You meet his gaze squarely, your own smile more restrained but no less confident. "Some paths are worth fighting for, uncle. Even if they’re not what others expect."

Daemon raises his cup in a mock salute. “Spoken like a true Targaryen. Perhaps there’s more fire in you than I thought.”

The feast carries on with music, laughter, and the clinking of cups. You and Alicent share dances with the lords and ladies of the realm, but every now and then, your eyes find each other’s, and the world falls away again, leaving just the two of you in this sea of people.

When you finally manage to steal a private moment with her in a quiet corner of the hall, she takes your hand, squeezing it gently. “I was so afraid,” she admits in a hushed voice, her eyes reflecting the firelight. “Afraid that we’d never be able to reach this moment. But here we are.”

You brush a strand of hair from her face, letting your hand linger against her cheek. “You’re mine now, Alicent. I’ll fight for you, for us, against anyone who tries to tear us apart.”

A flicker of relief passes through her expression, followed by a warmth that softens her usually reserved emotions. “And I’ll stand by you, no matter the storm we face.”

The words hang between you like an unspoken vow—one more binding than anything recited before the Septon. 

The night deepens as the feast continues, a blur of music and the warm glow of candlelight reflecting off the ornate dishes piled with food. Laughter and the sound of clinking goblets fill the Great Hall. You and Alicent sit side by side at the high table, your hands occasionally brushing against each other beneath the table. The touch is small, but each time it happens, there’s a comforting warmth, a silent reassurance between the two of you. Alicent’s soft smile, reserved just for you, never quite fades from her lips.

As you’re enjoying a brief moment of quiet conversation, the sound of footsteps approaches. Gwayne Hightower, Alicent’s brother, strides up, his eyes bright with joy. "Sister! Y/N!" he greets, his voice tinged with the exuberance of youth. His resemblance to Alicent is striking, though his features are more angular, his posture that of a man eager to prove himself. "I couldn’t let the night end without offering my congratulations." He gives you a hearty clap on the shoulder, his grin broad. "It’s about time someone put a spark in this old court! You’ve done well, my friend. I’ve known you since we were boys, and I’ve always believed you’d find your way."

You return his grin, reaching out to clasp his forearm in the familiar gesture of comrades. "Gwayne, your support has never gone unnoticed. I’ve always valued your friendship, even when we got ourselves into trouble as children. But I think this time, we’ve both stepped into something greater than mischief.”

Gwayne chuckles. “You certainly have, Y/N. And Alicent—” He turns to his sister, his tone softening with genuine affection. “I’ve never seen you look happier. I’m glad you’ve found this happiness, even if I’ll be the one who has to keep a closer eye on courtly matters with you from now on.”

Alicent smiles warmly at her brother, her hand gently resting over yours atop the table. “Thank you, Gwayne. Your words mean more to me than you know. And don’t worry, we’ll both make sure to keep you busy in your duties, though perhaps with fewer pranks than when we were children.”

The three of you share a laugh, the ease of old friendships and sibling bonds lightening the mood.

Soon after, the familiar figures of Lord Corlys Velaryon and Princess Rhaenys approach. The Sea Snake is every bit the powerful figure one expects, his deep blue doublet adorned with intricate silver embroidery resembling the waves of the sea. Rhaenys is resplendent in crimson and gold, her presence commanding yet warm. There’s a certain wisdom in her gaze as she looks between you and Alicent, as if she sees beyond what most do.

“Prince Y/N, Lady Alicent,” Corlys begins, his voice deep and steady. “Congratulations are in order. The union of Targaryen and Hightower is a strategic move, and one I hope will bring stability to the realm. But more than that, it’s clear to see the bond you share.” His eyes linger on you, a hint of approval in his expression. “And perhaps this is the start of a new chapter where the young find their own path amidst the expectations of the old.”

Princess Rhaenys nods, her lips curling into a knowing smile. “It is good to see love and strength walk hand in hand. The history of our houses has often been marked by conflict, but this—” she gestures subtly between you and Alicent, “—this has the potential to change much. You both carry the future on your shoulders now.”

You bow your head slightly in respect. “Thank you, Lord Corlys, Princess Rhaenys. Your wisdom is always welcome. I hope to earn that respect in time and prove that this union is more than just a political move.”

Rhaenys’ eyes glint with something sharp and approving. “Oh, I believe you will, Y/N. The blood of Old Valyria runs deep, and you’ve shown you’re willing to chart your own course. I, for one, look forward to seeing what comes next.”

As they step away, Lord Tyland Lannister, clad in rich reds and golds, approaches next. His sharp features and keen eyes give away his nature as a man ever mindful of the shifting tides of power. “Prince Y/N, Lady Alicent, it is a joyous day indeed.” His voice is smooth, practiced, yet there’s an undercurrent of genuine intent behind his words. “House Lannister is ever eager to lend its support to the Targaryen line. May your union be fruitful and prosperous. It seems the dragons have found a way to blend strength with the grace of the Reach.”

You nod, ever cautious with Tyland’s honeyed words. “Thank you, Lord Tyland. Your support will be remembered, and I hope our alliance will benefit all corners of the realm.”

He offers a slight bow before moving off, ever mindful of where the winds blow.

The feast begins to wind down, and as tradition demands, there is the looming expectation of the bedding ceremony. The air in the hall thickens with the anticipation of it. Some lords and ladies begin to gather, murmuring and glancing toward you and Alicent with barely hidden excitement. The tension, the ribald jokes, the whispers—it all threatens to reduce the sanctity of this moment to a spectacle.

Before anyone can make a move to initiate it, you rise to your feet, the air of command in your posture silencing the crowd before the teasing can begin. “There will be no bedding ceremony tonight,” you declare, your voice clear and firm, leaving no room for argument. The hall quiets instantly, the murmur of protests caught in the throats of those who thought to see the night end in such a manner.

Daemon, standing with arms crossed at the edge of the hall, lets out a low chuckle, his approval evident in the sharp nod he gives you. “Let the young prince make his own choices,” he says, his voice carrying across the room. “There’s enough spectacle in these halls without turning the most sacred of nights into another charade.”

The crowd hesitates, unsure whether to push the matter. But when you meet your father’s gaze, Viserys nods slowly, an expression of both surprise and respect on his face. Otto Hightower, who had been watching with tension in his eyes, finally relaxes, a subtle sigh escaping him. His face settles into an expression that resembles something close to approval, a rare look from a man who values tradition and order above all.

Alicent looks at you with deep gratitude and admiration, her fingers squeezing yours as she stands. You turn to her, your expression softening as you offer her your arm. “Shall we retire, my lady?” you ask, your voice laced with tenderness.

She dips her head slightly, eyes shimmering with emotion. “Let’s,” she replies, her voice barely more than a whisper as she takes your arm.

Together, you walk down the long aisle toward the doors leading out of the Great Hall, every eye on you both as you leave. There is a certain weight lifted from your shoulders as the doors close behind you, the noise of the hall fading as you enter the quieter, more intimate corridors of the Keep.

As you walk side by side toward your chambers, the echoes of your footsteps and the distant flicker of torchlight create an almost dreamlike atmosphere. Neither of you speaks, the silence between you comfortable, filled with the knowledge that this is just the beginning. When you reach the doors to your shared chambers, you pause, turning to face her fully. You lift her hand to your lips and press a soft kiss to her knuckles, your eyes never leaving hers.

“No more performances,” you murmur. “This is just us now.”

Alicent’s eyes shine as she steps closer, her other hand rising to rest against your cheek. “I’ve never wanted anything more than to be with you, like this, away from prying eyes.”

With that, you open the door and guide her inside, the world outside forgotten as the heavy oak doors close behind you both, sealing away the courtly intrigue and the expectations of the realm. In this moment, it’s just you and her, bound together by choice, love, and a shared determination to forge your own destiny.

The chamber is bathed in the soft light of the fire, shadows flickering across the stone walls as the door closes behind you both. The silence stretches, not uncomfortable but full with the awareness of what comes next. For all the warmth you share, the affection that’s blossomed over years of quiet moments and unspoken glances, this is new for both of you. The air is tinged with the sweet fragrance of candles, the soft rustle of fabric as you both stand there, suddenly unsure how to proceed.

You turn to face her, meeting Alicent’s gaze. There’s a nervousness in her eyes, a slight quiver in her breath, but beneath it lies trust, and something more—desire, hesitant but real. You step closer, reaching out to take her hands in yours, your thumb brushing over her knuckles in a gentle, soothing motion. “Alicent,” you murmur, your voice softer than usual, tinged with both affection and concern. “Are you sure? If you’re not ready—”

“I am,” she interrupts softly, her voice a tender whisper in the quiet of the room. Her cheeks flush pink, but her eyes never leave yours. “I’ve never been more certain of anything.”

You nod, letting out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding. Slowly, you lean down, capturing her lips in a kiss, tender and delicate. Her lips are warm against yours, the kiss a gentle exploration rather than a fervent rush. You both linger in the simplicity of it, letting it ease the tension from your bodies. When you pull back, you see her chest rise and fall as she steadies her breath, her eyes searching yours for reassurance.

Your hand moves to the clasp of her dress, fingers hesitating for a moment before you look at her once more. “May I?” you ask softly.

She nods, her voice catching slightly. “Yes… I want you to.”

With careful fingers, you undo the clasp and let the fabric slip from her shoulders, revealing the pale skin beneath. The dress pools at her feet, and she stands before you in just her shift, delicate and vulnerable. Her eyes flicker down, shyly avoiding your gaze as you take her in. In turn, she reaches out, her hands trembling slightly as she begins to unlace your doublet. There’s an unspoken agreement between you—a mutual understanding that this moment is as much about trust as it is about desire. You help her with the laces, guiding her hands until your clothing is cast aside, leaving you both bare in the warm glow of the fire.

For a long moment, you simply stand there, your breaths mingling, your eyes tracing the curves and lines of each other’s bodies. There’s a sense of curiosity mixed with reverence, your gazes shyly meeting before drifting again, both of you learning and memorizing the sight of each other.

“Beautiful,” you whisper, your voice filled with sincerity. Alicent’s breath hitches at the word, her eyes shining as she looks up at you, her lips parting as if to say something, but words fail her. Instead, she just reaches out, fingers brushing over your chest, her touch sending a shiver through you.

You gently take her hand and guide her toward the bed, the furs soft beneath your feet as you lead her down onto the mattress. You lay her down with the utmost care, your eyes never leaving hers, searching for any sign of discomfort. Her lips part as she draws in a shaky breath, her chest rising and falling rapidly, but her gaze is steady, trusting.

You lower yourself beside her, your hand caressing her cheek as you lean in to kiss her again. This time, the kiss is deeper, a gradual melding of lips as you both begin to relax into each other. Your hand trails down, brushing against her collarbone, then lower, until it rests just above her breast. You pause, your eyes flicking to hers for permission, and when she nods slightly, you continue, cupping her breast gently, your thumb brushing over the soft skin. A soft gasp escapes her lips, her back arching slightly as you explore her.

“You’re so beautiful, Alicent,” you murmur against her lips, and she responds with a soft sigh, her hand sliding up your back, pulling you closer.

Your kisses begin to wander, trailing down her jawline, to the tender skin of her neck. You feel her pulse quicken under your lips, her breath growing more uneven as you move lower. When your mouth finds her breast, she gasps, her fingers threading through your hair. You take your time, savoring each reaction, each soft sound she makes as your lips and tongue explore her.

As you move lower, her breath catches, her fingers tightening in your hair when you kiss the curve of her hip. You glance up at her, seeing the mixture of nerves and anticipation in her eyes. She’s never experienced anything like this, and neither have you—not truly. But you remember the lessons Daemon half-teased, half-instructed you on during that one visit to the brothel, showing you the ways of pleasure in a more practical, if unconventional, manner. While you hadn’t partaken that night, you watched, curious, and the knowledge lingers now, guiding your movements.

You press a kiss to the inside of her thigh, and she lets out a soft whimper, her fingers clutching at the furs beneath her. You murmur a line from an old Valyrian poem, the words ancient and filled with meaning, letting the sounds roll off your tongue as your kisses grow more intimate. “Gevives isse tolvie jelevre—beauty in every breath,” you whisper, your breath warm against her skin.

When your mouth finally finds her core, she gasps, her body tensing for a moment before she melts into the sensation, her hips shifting instinctively toward you. Her breath comes in shallow bursts, her hand gripping your shoulder as you apply what you’ve learned, taking your time, listening to the way her body responds. When she lets out a soft moan, her voice trembling with pleasure, you smile against her, murmuring another line from the poem—words of love and devotion that have been passed down through generations.

Slowly, you trail your kisses back up her body, feeling her trembling beneath you. Her hands reach for you, pulling you close, and when your lips find hers again, the kiss is hungry, filled with the taste of her desire and the passion that’s been building between you both.

You position yourself above her, your eyes locked on hers as you ask one last time, “Are you sure, Alicent?”

Her response is a breathless nod, her hand cupping your cheek as she whispers, “I want this. I want you.”

You enter her gently, inch by inch, mindful of her innocence, watching her every expression for any sign of pain. She winces slightly at first, her brow furrowing, but her fingers dig into your back, holding you close as she adjusts. When she finally opens her eyes again, there’s no hesitation, only trust. “Move,” she breathes, her voice barely audible, but full of need.

You start slowly, each movement careful, deliberate, letting her body adjust, her warmth enveloping you. Her breaths come out in soft, quick bursts, her nails dragging lightly across your skin as she holds on to you. The tension in her body gradually gives way to something else, her hips meeting yours in a rhythm that’s both instinctive and hesitant.

As the moments pass, the awkwardness gives way to a deeper connection. The tenderness remains, but passion begins to take root. Alicent’s breath hitches when she wraps her legs around your waist, her hands pulling you closer. You respond to her need, moving with more urgency as she finds her own rhythm, her body moving against yours in a dance that’s both new and timeless.

When she pushes herself up, shifting into your lap, there’s a sudden surge of boldness in her gaze, something wild and free. You guide her movements, your hands steadying her as she takes control, her breathless gasps mingling with your own. The intimacy between you grows not just in the physical connection but in the way you respond to each other’s needs, desires, and unspoken fears. It’s a union forged in trust, love, and the desire to explore the depths of what you share.

Eventually, when the night reaches its quiet peak, you collapse together into the furs, breathless and spent, your limbs entangled as you hold her close. Here, in this moment, there’s only the warmth of her skin against yours, the sound of her steadying breaths, and the knowledge that this is only the beginning of your shared life together.

As sleep slowly claims you both, you press a final kiss to her forehead, murmuring words of love in Valyrian, promising her with every breath that this night is just the start of what you’ll build together.

The sky is a bruised shade of twilight, thick with smoke and ash. The stench of blood, sweat, and salt fills the air as the waves crash against the jagged rocks of the Stepstones. This place is a wasteland—a battlefield stained with the bodies of the dead and dying. For over two years, the Crabfeeder’s men have held these islands, turning them into a butcher’s yard. But today, you intend to end it. Today, the dragons return in fire and fury.

You sit atop Dallax, your black-scaled beast, perched on a ridge overlooking the main encampment of the Triarchy’s forces. His green eyes gleam in the dim light, and his body shifts restlessly beneath you, eager to unleash his wrath. His teeth, hidden within the dark flesh of his jaws, retract only when his rage is stoked—a menace lying in wait. You run a gloved hand along his neck, feeling the raw power coiled within him. “Soon,” you whisper, your voice firm yet laced with anticipation. “We will end this.”

Below, Daemon Targaryen plays his part to perfection. Clad in soot-streaked armor, a white banner clutched in one hand, he approaches the enemy lines. The Crabfeeder’s forces, a mix of hardened sellswords and conscripts, watch from behind their sharpened stakes and crude fortifications, unsure whether this is truly surrender or another of Daemon’s ruses. The Prince of the City moves with a calculated slowness, his steps deliberate, his head lowered just enough to give the impression of defeat. But you know him better. There’s a fire in his eyes—a fury barely contained behind that facade of submission. The plan hinges on this moment, on the Crabfeeder’s arrogance and greed.

From your vantage point, you spot Lord Corlys Velaryon’s forces hidden in the shallows, ready to pounce the moment the trap is sprung. The Sea Snake commands his men with a veteran’s precision, their silence a stark contrast to the braying jeers coming from the Crabfeeder’s ranks.

Daemon finally stops, mere feet from the Crabfeeder’s line, where a grotesque figure emerges from the shadows. Drahar, the Crabfeeder, is a ghastly sight, his face hidden behind a cracked and twisted mask, his skin mottled from disease. He raises a hand, halting the jeers, and for a moment, silence reigns.

Then, chaos erupts.

Daemon’s false surrender is cast aside as he draws Dark Sister in a blur of Valyrian steel, cutting through the nearest soldier in one swift, practiced motion. Blood sprays into the air, catching the dim light as the battlefield roars back to life. The Triarchy’s soldiers charge forward, desperate to claim the prize they believe within reach, but they are rushing headlong into a trap.

It’s your moment.

With a word in Valyrian, you urge Dallax into a dive. His wings unfurl, dark as midnight, blotting out the dying light. The air screams past you as you plummet toward the battlefield, the ground rushing up to meet you. “Dracarys!” you roar, the command slicing through the din of battle.

Dallax responds with a torrent of flame that incinerates everything in its path. The first line of the Crabfeeder’s men is engulfed in a roaring inferno, their screams swallowed by the relentless fire. Armor melts, flesh sizzles, and bone turns to ash in mere moments. You bank sharply, pulling Dallax into another dive, this time focusing on the siege engines positioned along the ridge. The ballistae, meant to keep the dragons at bay, are shattered under the crushing weight of dragonfire and claws. Timber explodes, splinters raining down on the screaming soldiers below as you rip through their defenses with ruthless efficiency.

You catch a glimpse of Daemon, now fully engaged in the melee, his sword a blur of lethal grace as he carves a bloody path through the Triarchy’s forces. He fights with a savage joy, laughing as he dodges and counters, the battlefield his stage. Corlys and his men surge from the shallows, catching the enemy in a brutal pincer. The once-confident soldiers of the Crabfeeder are thrown into disarray, their lines crumbling under the combined might of dragon and steel.

You circle back, eyes locked on Drahar, who attempts to retreat deeper into the labyrinth of stakes and pits his men have constructed. But there’s no escape. You guide Dallax lower, skimming the ground, his claws gouging the earth as you close in on your prey. The Crabfeeder looks up in desperation, his eyes wide behind his mask as he realizes his end is near.

“End him!” Daemon’s voice echoes in your mind like a phantom’s dare, though the words are drowned out by the roar of battle.

Dallax’s jaws snap open, his teeth glinting as they slide out from their hidden sheaths. With a snarl, he lunges, clamping down on Drahar with a sickening crunch. The Crabfeeder’s mask falls away, revealing a twisted visage frozen in terror before his body is torn apart in a spray of blood and gore. Dallax shakes his head, flinging what remains of Drahar’s corpse into the dirt before incinerating it with a final jet of flame.

Around you, the battlefield is a scene of utter carnage. The ground is slick with blood, littered with the hacked remains of soldiers. Men scream, their limbs severed, or burn as they try to flee, only to be cut down by Corlys’s disciplined troops. The cries of the dying are a symphony of suffering, underscored by the relentless roar of flames. Dallax moves among the survivors like a shadow, crushing and burning any who dare to resist.

As the last pockets of resistance are snuffed out, you land amidst the ruins, stepping down from Dallax’s back. You scan the battlefield, taking in the broken fortifications, the piles of charred corpses, and the men who now kneel in surrender. Victory is yours. The Stepstones are won.

Daemon approaches, blood splattered across his armor, a wild grin on his face. “Well done, nephew,” he says, his voice carrying a note of satisfaction. “I thought I might have all the fun, but you’ve stolen quite the show.” His eyes gleam with shared triumph, the bond between you strengthened through battle and bloodshed. “The Crabfeeder will feast no more.”

You smirk, wiping sweat and grime from your brow. “Someone had to keep you from getting killed. I couldn’t let you take all the glory.”

He laughs, the sound cutting through the dying echoes of the battle. “You’re learning. Perhaps there’s more of me in you than anyone cares to admit.”

As Daemon moves to rally the remaining men, your thoughts drift, carried away on the winds of victory. The image of Alicent appears in your mind—her gentle smile, the way her hand rests on the curve of her belly, swollen with the child she carries. You think of your son, Aegon, barely more than a year old, his bright eyes so full of curiosity. It is for them that you fight, for the future you intend to build, for the family you have claimed as your own.

The taste of blood and ash lingers on your tongue, but underneath it all is the yearning to return to them, to hold Alicent in your arms and feel the soft weight of your son as he rests against your chest. You think of how you will recount this victory to them—how Aegon will listen in awe, his little hands reaching out as if to grasp the tales of dragons and battles. You smile to yourself, imagining the way Alicent will scold you softly for the bloodshed, though you know she will be proud all the same.

“Soon,” you murmur to yourself, the words almost lost in the wind. “Soon I’ll be home.”

But for now, the battle is done, and the Stepstones are yours. The fires burn low as you gaze out over the broken landscape, your thoughts with your family, even as your dragon’s shadow stretches long over the conquered land, a reminder of the price of victory.

[pupsmailbox]

SCENE︰EMO ID PACK

NAMES︰ acid. adder. adrian. aisling. alex. alice. alix. amethyst. annabelle. aqua. ash. ashlee. ashley. aspen. astley. avril. awe. axe. ayesha. bates. bell. bella. belladonna. bellatrix. billy. blade. blair. blitz. bloodie. bloodscene. blythe. bow. bree. butterfly. callie. candi. candy. celeste. chase. checkerz. clarity. click. coraline. couture. crow. cyril. cyrus. dakota. demi. demonia. devin. dino. dizzy. doge. dom. dominic. ebony. electra. elliot. emery. emmett. emo. epic. erin. evan. flash. fred. galaxy. gavin. gerard. ghostie. gif. gloom. gray. grayson. grim. gutz. happy. havoc. hazel. heyley. hunter. hyde. indigo. ink. iris. ivory. ivy. jack. jade. jason. jasper. jax. jeff. jet. jett. julie. kai kandi. kandiz. kat. kayden. killer. kit. kitt. kobi. kyler. lady. lapis. lee. lexie. liam. luna. lurk. lynx. lyric. lyxzen. mace. maddox. madeline. mae. malice. marceline. marcie. mars. mavis. meow. mia. midnight. mika. mill. nana. neo. net. nick. nina. noah. noob. nora. nyan. nyx. obscene. octavia. olivia. onix. onyx. opal. orange. orchid. pearl. phantom. phoenix. pierce, pierce. pitch. pixie. pop. punk. pusheen. rain. rainbow. raine. rainer. rave. raven. raver. rawr. razorz. reaper. ripley. river. rogue. ronnie. rose. rouge. roux. rubi. ruby ruby. sable. salem. sally. sapphire. sash. sasha. scythe. silvi. silvia. smiley. smoke. smokey. snap. snow. sonya. soot. sparrow. spike. splatter. spook. stella. steve. stripe. sunny. suzi. suzie. suzy. taffi. taffy. tag. tech. tempest. travis. trend. tyler. vesper. vine. vista. vivi. waffle. wave. web. wentz. wesley. wild. willow. wound. xander. z!m. zach. zack. zade. zaire. zak. zander. zara. zero. ziggy. zim. zircon. zoe. zoom. zyair.

PRONOUNS︰ awesome/awesome. ay/aym. bark/bark. bi/bim. bite/bite. black/black. bling/blingee. blood/blood. bone/bone. bow/bow. brace/bracelet. bright/bright. bright/colour. byte/byte. cat/cat. cata/catatonic. ce/cer. check/checkered. chem/chem. cir/circut. color/color. computer/computer. cool/cool. cos/cos. creepy/pasta. cringe/cringe. cry/cry. cut/cut. dead/dead. death/death. die/die. dino/dino. emo/emo. emoticon/emoticon. epic/epic. ev/ev. exe/exe. ey/em. eye/strain. fang/fang. fringe/fringe. game/game. gamer/gamer. ghost/ghost. gir/gir. girr/girr. glit/glitter. glitter/glitter. gloom/gloom. glow/glow. glow/stick. gore/gore. grr/grr. gun/gun. gut/gut. hor/horror. hx/hxm. hyper/hyper. hyperpop/hyperpop. internet/internet. it/it. ix/ix. kan/kandi. kand/kandi. kandi/kandi. kill/kill. kit/kit. knife/knife. lix/lix. loud/loud. luv/luv. mask/mask. meme/meme. meow/meow. mew/mew. mlp/mlp. mon/monster. mspaint/mspaint. music/music. neo/neon. neon/neon. net/net. nostalgia/nostalgia. nya/nya. nya/nyan. nyan/cat. old/old. online/online. pika/pikachu. pix/pix. pixel/pixel. plur/plur. pony/pony. pop/pop. pop/tart. queen/queen. quiet/quiet. rain/rain. rainbow/rainbow. random/random. rave/rave. rawr/rawr. raz/razor. red/red. rei/reina. scene/scene. scene/scenester. scenecore/scenecore. scream/scream. shx/hxr. si/silent. silly/silly. skull/skull. slash/slash. slice/slice. sound/sound. spi/spider. spook/spook. stab/stab. stick/sticker. sticker/sticker. stud/stud. swag/swags/swagself. thxy/thxm. troll/troll. tutu/tutu. txt/txt. vamp/vamp. video/game. virtual/virtual. vocaloid/vocaloid. web/web. windows/window. xe/xem. xey/xem. xy/xyr. youtube/youtube. ze/zem. ze/zer. ze/zero. zi/zim. zim/zim. zom/zombie. zomb/zomb.

[goddess-venuz]

HELL’S ANGEL CHP 12

‧₊˚* ੈ✩‧₊˚GUIDING YOU TOWARDS HIS BEDROOM…

Lucifer laid you ontop of the red velvet sheets; your smaller figure pressing slightly into the mattress that welcomed you.

Lips being captured not a moment shortly after by Lucifer who loomed over you as if you were his prey he had finally captured within his arms.

The foreign forbidden motion of your lips moving against Lucifer’s was enough to increase your heart rate.

Slender fingers speedily and needily tugging and discarding yours and his clothing; such speed and the heated kiss the devil practically melted into made your mind fogged with an unknown emotion.

A brain fogged that was enough to block any common sense and every single teaching that was burned into your brain vanish.

It wasn't until the nippy breeze kissing your heated flesh was enough to bring a hint of reality back to you; pulling from the kiss a trail of salvia connecting your lips with Lucifer’s.

“Should I be worried if it would hurt?"

A gentle chuckle fell from his tongue he cupped his palms against your cheek resting his forehead on yours, "I will try my best to go gentle at first. Why don't I make this as comfortable as I can for you?…Love…”

Ruby glowing hues boring into your eyes, glorious pearl-colored wings sprouting from Lucifer’s spine; you felt your small figure being delicately lifted ever so slightly as the warmth of the other’s wings engulfed welcomed you.

Bringing you into a passionate kiss Lucifer pulled his lips just inches away then kissing you once more,

Your small hands shakily moving from your sides towards Lucifer’s shoulders , your plush warm lips opening greeted by Lucifer's tongue.

Deepening the kiss he rubbed his tongue against yours, the fallen angel pulling you closer to his exposed chest making him able to feel your rapid heartbeat on his own.

Parting his lips once more from your soft swollen lips.

The fallen angel gazed down at you with the most gentle gaze his palms resting on the sides of your head, taking in your appearance, the way your (h/c) sprawled across his wings that laid underneath you, and just how the small candles that lit the room showed a warm hue against your (s/t) skin.

"You look like a true goddess."

he says with an impossibly cute grin, as he settles you underneath him: your calves hike over his kneeling thighs, In quick succession, his fingers ghostly traced over the hems of your underwear taking them off without a second thought.

Lucifer rubbed his thumb across your exposed slit the slight wetness coating his thumb, the simple movement caused small pleasurable goosebumps to rise across your skin. "Do you trust me, darling?" he questioned,

"... Y-Yes. B…But why do you asked?-…” You muttered watching Lucifer moved his face that was inches from yours to lower himself past down to your thighs; you suddenly lifted your hips slightly feeling something running against your folds before feeling your walls being stretched out ever so slightly.

"I may have to prepare you a bit to make this easier, do you mind?" He asked with a warm smile, you looked at him for a moment then shook your head "No, but how are you going to–... Ah~"

Gasping out a mewling moan that slipped out without warning your head moved back on the other’s wings as you felt a new feeling between your slit, "L-Lucifer..." you choked out as the fallen angel ran his tongue across your cunt only increasing in its wetness.

Your fingers that clutched the feathers of Lucifer slowly uncurled almost as if your body moved on it's own your palms moved down from the wings to grip Lucifer's locks,

No need for you to ask the man he buried his lips more into your wet core, the fallen angel feeling his heart beating with excitement as he moved his tongue up from your core to your small clit.

"Ah!~ Ah!~"

Your breasts heaved slightly your head tilting back once your body felt a pleasurable shock shoot from your core to your body.

Legs closing around Lucifer's skull gently as the male sucked on your clit that began to swell against his lips, taking this as a good sign to continue as moving his lips from your clit to give one more lick to your slick core once seeing the wet core twitch gently to his touch.

Pulling his head away from your hands and legs, your eyes snapped open that you weren't aware was closed, lifting your head slightly to look at the other with a small frown. “Why did you stop?"

For a moment Lucifer didn't respond as he finished unclothing himself letting his clothing slowly drop onto the bed he smiled lightly when he saw your eyes raking over his body then stopped on his slightly hardened cock, "I thought it would be better to finish you off this way."

Rubbing his thumb across his tip that was glazed over with pre-cum he brushed his fingers across his veins then moved closer towards you,

His soft tip prodding at your soaked cunt, he teases your slit, tip rasping over your quivering bundle of nerves.

"T…That…seem a bit huge are you sure– sure it won't hurt?" A high moan tears from your throat, your worries soon being forgotten feeling your slit being teased.

"Oh my..." you panted out, he's leaking, smearing pre-cum against you, thick and heavy. "L-Lucifer I can't wait please—" You were starting to speak out but he had already snapped forward.

"Can't let another second pass without me being inside you," he breathes, then in a powerful glide, he prises inside you, fighting past the resistance to fit snugly.

You both moan in unison, loud and in relief. His arm scoops you up beneath your back, before he hauls you by the small of your back and reels you until you're face to face; his forehead on yours.

You can draw the feel of him: hilt deep, silky smooth with noticeable veins pumping from base to tip, well-endowed nudging, impressive girth stretching. It's heaven, undeniably. Your body lights up with fever, trembling in anticipation.

"You feel good," you moaned airily, passionately, "really good….Too good." Your thighs cinch around his waist as his hands support you beneath the curve of your ass.

He releases a gentle chuckle, moving his lips against your chin he muttered "Just hearing your moans.. Is enough to drive me." He rocks in, pubic bones flush against you, and swivels circles on your clit, making your walls flutter, he groans.

"(Y-Y/n)... Never have I dreamt of pleasing you but how snug you feel around me... It makes me want to keep myself buried deep in you and not leave…"

Wrapping your arms around his neck, his hips bucking against yours, you were unable to hold back another moan. “I…This…feels amazing!”

At that, he's more confident. Palming your thighs, he lifts you and drives in with pummeling strength. The closeness of your bodies has his pulsing veins hitting your clit with such force it made a pleasurable sensation.

Lucifer’s wings wrapped themselves tightly around your trembling figure; his blonde strains becoming undone it their usual well-kept style.

The glowing hue embedded from your burning flesh engulfed itself around the two of you; the familiar spine-tingling sensation that Lucifer became addicted to began to overwhelming wash over him.

Undoubtedly the sensation of pure bliss he was giving to you being the cost.

He's hitting that spot, gentle yet smooth thrusts with a tilt so his tip mashes it, rawing over until it expands that bubble tight in your gut. Unable to hold yourself back, you curve your hips, rocking them as your hands that were tangled in his locks moved down his back.

Clawing your fingers down leaving small marks, you moved your hips to meet his pace, your body preparing to milk every single ounce the god had..

"D-Damn..." He marvels, his throat feeling like it was closing. "It's like you are fitting me so perfectly~" His hand dragged down on your ass in encouragement, immediately coming back to knead into your cheek, fingers spread and digging in.

"A…Ah~" you gasped, your eyelids fluttering shut as you tilt your head back.

The arm around your waist guides your leveraged hips, bouncing you up and down his cock at a fastened speed, it nudges deeper and deeper in a frenzy, making you twitch around him. "I could feel you about to release.." He muttered against your neck, he smiled warmly feeling his heart fluttering seeing he was the reason for this.

Oh how close he was too...

This was his chance to claim you…

Take you…devoured you…

Lucifer wanted you all to himself, his and his alone. No one it worthy enough to even lay their eyes upon you: let alone speak to you…

The sensation of your swollen cunt clutching around his cock, Lucifer’s lips agape upon the sensation of building escasty boiling to release.

One he never felt before…

That vein on his cock pulses wildly, He buries his head into your neck with a groan, vibrating against the curve. "(Y/n)" he croaks, muffled and huskily, "I wish I was your lover already.. Then I would be able to do this to you even tomorrow.."

An orgasm electrifies underneath your skin and tightens in your lower stomach, "I know if I continue to move like this.. I-I won't be able to hold back from cumming.."

His hips stutter with wild jerks, the bed creaking with his movements "Damn.." he chokes, cheeks flushed and jaw clenched. "The way your tight cunt is squeezing me, I'll fill you up until you're dripping for days after…"

"A…Ah, Yes!~" you moaned out, the rope that tightened in your stomach was about to unwind, opening your eyes you gazed up at Lucifer.

The unforgettable lustful desire overcoming your purity; the foreign forbidden sensation corrupting your once untouched purity.

“Yes…Yes!~ Lucifer!”

Your words trigger him to erupt, emptying himself with long and seemingly never-ending spurts. His fingers slip between your bodies and mercilessly rubs your clit, overloading until the orgasm you have been needing shoots through you and the sensations were nearly unbearable as you moaned out his name.

The feeling of your insides being glazed by cum followed by the pleasurable orgasm, Both you and Lucifer panted heavily your body falling limp In his arms as his head that was covered with beads of sweat rested against the crook of your neck.

Feeling his cock twitch in your warm folds until Ever so slowly Lucifer pulled out, the male gazed down at his cum coated cock as the mixed fluids leaked from your swollen cunt.

Turning his gaze back to you he watches as your breasts heaved up and down, your lips left agape as your legs stayed attached to his. "(Y/n)? Are you okay?" he asked concerned, although it was taking everything in the fallen angel to hide the smile that threatened to spread across his lips.

You could only lay there in exhaustion, unknown to you how pleased Lucifer was after the session; his wings tightening themselves around you in a protective or perhaps a more territorial manner.

As you felt yourself gradually falling into a slumber upon your body became drained from energy and another sensation creeping through your spirit you could have sworn you heard Lucifer say something but couldn't entirely make it out…

“You are finally mine…after so long…”

[pluvialpoet]

how to disappear

Summary: a reunion ten years in the making serves as a reminder that absence doesn’t always make the heart grow fonder- especially when history has a tendency to repeat itself 

Pairing: dick grayson x fem!vigilante!reader

Requested: no

Warning: nsfw!!! (18+ MDNI), porn with plot, lovers to enemies, unprotected sex, implied breeding kink, choking, angst, minor barbara gordon slander (for the plot, I swear)- do not read if you are not comfortable with the warnings listed above!!!

Word Count: 12,874

masterlist

Light reflects off the crystals that hang from the chandeliers above, and like a moth drawn to a shiny flame, you bask in the warmth of their glow. For as beautiful as the crystalline teardrops twenty-two feet overhead are, they dull in comparison to the- equal parts blinding and mesmerizing, simultaneously gorgeous, yet gaudy- diamonds that dangle from earlobes, rubies that rest against décolletages, and the pearls placed upon dainty fingers in an over the top display of money, power, and status. It’s the epitome of wealth, and though meant to allure, you find yourself disgusted by the flashy exhibitions of greed and corruption.

Every smile is artificial. Every laugh is humorless and diluted. Any feeling beyond complete and utter misery is a hoax. Yet, they play their parts. Each and every one of them continues to mingle, boast, and feign genuineness, but it’s obvious what they are, even beneath their disguises, you recognize the vultures circling the fresh carnage of the innocent- with blood on their talons and a hunger that’s never truly satiated. Do they even know what they’ve done? Do they even care? Given a chance to make amends, would any of them take it?

Revulsion counters amusement as you watch the elite interact with one another. It’s pathetic. In a room full of affluence, not a single person knows pleasure beyond material possessions, and that’s an injustice in itself. Amongst thieves, you’re the honesty that rivals them all- and that’s a scary revelation, all things considered.

Taking advantage of the large crowd, you continue to bump elbows with the rich- literally- as you weave your way through the opulent mass. A tight-lipped smile is granted when you pass an older woman, and an even wider flash of teeth catches your attention from a man around your age. Mimicking the gestures seal your fate, damning you- even if only temporarily- to this game of confusion, a game in which approval and disgust are indiscernible. Having had years to grow accustomed to the tricks of this elitist trade, it’s almost impossible to recall a simpler time. Back when you still thought there might be a modicum of authenticity behind the action, back before you were close enough to spot the invisible strings controlling the marionettes, you believed- and even hoped- that you had it all wrong. There was a time, long, long ago, when you were desperate to believe that there was still some good left in these people, but you grew out of your naivety. Now older, and wiser, you won’t make the same mistakes you once made. Under the influence of optimism, your purpose became convoluted. Not anymore.

Without anyone to dissuade you from reaching out- to challenge you from swiping a few bejeweled tennis bracelets, engagement rings, or even one or two watches and calling it a day- a thrum of urgency spreads through your fingertips. It’s an impulsive electricity you can’t deny. Besides, it’s not like social dynasties would crumble if a few diamonds went missing. If only it were that easy…

Wealth doesn’t doom these poor, unfortunate souls, but their greed- coupled with the blood on their hands- paints a distinguishable target on their backs. If you look closely, it’s impossible to miss that they’re all cut from the same cloth. A hundred different reflections of the same privileged archetype imitate the same gestures, mannerisms, and movements to a tee. An amateur would operate under the guise of distraction- causing a small scene and offering their apologies before making off with their prize- but you’re not an amateur. Not anymore. Not by a long shot. 

A few women- four or five, at most- nurse flutes of bubbling booze a few feet away. The sound of their laughter is a little too joyous to be feigned and when one of them waves a manicured hand towards a waiter, signaling another round of drinks, you start to put the pieces together. Perhaps, the ladies in your sights are the most genuine in attendance- even if they’ve lost themselves to their cups. Matching their demeanor is child’s play. Once equipped with a half-empty glass from a server on their way back to the kitchens, you stumble towards the group, plastering on the same elated- intoxicated- grin, and hope that they’re inebriated enough to be welcoming towards a newcomer. Masking the bitter taste of insincerity with a sip of prosecco, a greeting rises from the mix, but it never has the chance to come to fruition because a large hand wraps around your wrist- effectively halting your heist before it even really had a chance to begin.

You should’ve known better.

As you turn to glare at the idiot who dared to put their hands on you, your breath catches.

Two birds die from the blow of one stone, and he takes advantage of your stupor- finding that you’re more pliant in your daze- leading you away from the women you intended to rob, and into the crowd. More witnesses make it less likely for you to cause a scene. At least, that’s his logic, anyway.  While it’s not exactly flawed, it’s not all that accurate, either, but for old time's sake, you’ll play along. His hold on you remains firm, and he reaches for the flute in your hand with his other, placing it on a tray and discarding the prop. Your surprise begins to morph into anger- especially when he pulls you closer towards him as the orchestra starts to play a tune. Remembering the steps forced upon you as a child is muscle memory, and you glare daggers up at him- though, they don’t pierce nearly as deeply as the blue of his irises.

“Nice hair,” Dick revels in your obvious frustration of being thwarted, his lips curling into a smirk when your frown deepens, and he asks, “I thought you were blonde, last I saw you?”

“I was,” For the sake of maintaining appearances, you don a phony expression of your own and respond with as much benevolence as you can muster- even though you’re filled with animosity- as he leads you through the steps of the dance. “And you didn’t have a five o’clock shadow,” You note, allowing yourself a split second to take in everything that’s changed since the last time you saw him, before pressing your lips together tightly with a huff.

“Things change.” 

 As if he needed the reminder…

Chance has never meddled in your relationship. Coincidence doesn’t exist within the realm of precision both you and Dick operate from. Everything has always been on purpose, calculated and planned, never left blindly to fate or possibility- which is why this meeting isn’t an accident. As if he can feel you about to pull away, he flexes his fingers against you, tightening his grip and holding you in place. Ten years later- ten years too late- he’s found you. Not destiny, not a fluke, but with his own intention, and you wish that he would’ve just stayed away.

“What are you doing here, Dick?” As you abandon your costume, your smile falls away to reveal genuine loathing as you force the question from behind gritted teeth. Still, despite your obvious disdain, he doesn’t let you go. “Last I checked, you were in San Francisco- and more recently, Blüdhaven. You’re not supposed to be here.”

“You keeping tabs on me?” His amusement contradicts your revulsion, and a shallow breath purges the threat of an outburst. Dick has always had a way of getting under your skin, of pushing your buttons and doing everything he possibly could to make you tick, but the sudden onslaught of such juvenile taunting fills you with a fire not even he can extinguish- not anymore. Despite his charming exterior, the steady flow of his breath, and the easy grin of confidence that was once impossible not to mirror, dampness swells where your palms meet, and you feel the rough, raised reminders that he’s kept busy during your time apart- that he’s evolved into a stranger despite how familiar he still seems- and you wonder if he can feel it too, if he can tell just by touch, that you’re not the same girl he once knew.

“I keep tabs on everyone who might get in my way,” Your eyes narrow accusatorially, and the corner of his mouth twitches. “You’re not special.”

“That’s not what you said the last time we-“

“Yeah, well, the last time was when we were teenagers, and a lot has changed since then.” Any attempt to remain cordial flies out the window when he dares to mention the last time- like it hasn’t plagued you for a decade. Not even he possesses the antidote to the venom your words carry, and he winces slightly as your rebuttal shakes. He clears his throat softly, the sound filling the lull where an apology should sound, and he takes a look over your shoulder before meeting your eyes again.

“Any chance I can convince you not to go through with whatever it is you’re planning?” It brings little joy to watch his smile dissolve into something more serious. His face hardens, and you notice lines and creases that you aren’t well acquainted with- unable to distinguish battle scars from the divots of age- and you quickly shake the thought away. Instead, you stare at him blankly, not revealing an answer. Though, he takes your lack of conversation as a reply, and with a heavy sigh, he shakes his head, “Yeah, I figured.” 

He dares to express melancholy. Stunned by his nerve, after everything, not even shame or regret could rattle his courage enough for him to reconsider such a crestfallen expression, and the discouraged twist of his lips and the downcast slant of his eyes are so pronounced and dramatic that you’re unable to discern whether or not this is part of a ruse, or his genuine reaction.

“Did you think that would work?” Your skepticism is muddled with ridicule, a mocking scoff filling the line meant for his counter. It’s almost laughable- the nerve he has to look dejected by your questioning. To be fair, it’s been a while since he’s danced this dance- a routine once familiar, consisting of bite and bark, push and shove, before simultaneous defeat and victory-  but he’s smart enough to know that that’s not how this works. “I mean what did you think would happen, birdy? I’d take one look at you, all grown and handsome, and reconsider my plans?”

Even in heels, he’s taller than you remember. He’s always been pretty- all mesmerizing eyes, slightly crooked smile, and sunkissed skin- but not even he was immune to the awkwardness brought forth by puberty. There was a time when he thought his shoulders were too broad, his ears too big, and the angular structure of his face too sharp and strong for a boy. It didn’t look right. Features that were admirable on their own, looked out of place on his face- or so he feared. You always thought he was beautiful- especially when he didn’t know it.

Now, Boy Wonder is all grown up, exuding confidence and oozing charm. He knows he’s attractive, but he doesn’t parade his arrogance- not anymore. His early twenties were a never-ending roller coaster of trying to find himself, his purpose, and where he fit into the grand scheme of things. Conflicted by right and wrong, tempted by lust and surrender, divided by good and evil, he’s had a lot of time to awaken from the grogginess inflicted by nightmares of freedom and liberation. Still, his eyes are just as mesmerizing, his teeth are straight- but his smile is still crooked- and he’s truly grown into himself. The man before you is a boy evolved- still a bird, but with a different set of wings. Robin is an old friend, a fond recollection of a different time, and though the stranger before you mimics the familiarity you’ve longed for, he’s not Robin, anymore- he’s Nightwing.

“Look, they’re anticipating for you to strike,” His warning is low and hushed, but even in whispers you’re able to detect his plea. Call it concern, or at the very least interest in serving justice as quietly as possible, but his timbre urges you to reconsider- if not for his sake, then for the sake of those around you. He really doesn’t want to cause a scene. “Security has been tripled, and you’ve grown sloppy-“

“Did you ever consider that the trail I was leaving behind wasn’t for anyone else but the one person I wanted to find me?” There’s no affection behind the way your fingers thread through the dark tresses at the nape of his neck. Without any fondness, without passion, or care, the action is mindless, meaningless, and merely muscle memory. There’s no repressed feelings you wish to convey, no animosity you’re trying to diffuse. With no hidden agenda, the gesture serves no purpose- except to unintentionally torture you both. Old habits die hard, and something undefined urges you to reach for him. He flushes, and the sight is so droll that you can’t bring yourself to stop. His lips part once, twice, three times, trying to produce an answer, but he’s at a loss. When you cock your head to the side, he tenses. “Of course, you didn’t,” You purr, and he clears his throat softly. 

Dick’s no stranger to berating. He knows what it feels like to be chastised, scolded, and reprimanded. This exchange feels similar. The only difference is that you don’t raise your voice, your eyes don’t darken and you don’t threaten him- not with words, at least. If anything, the remark feels like a gentle rebuke, but the sting left from the impact of your insult brands him with shame. You’ve always seen right through him. Easily able to discern real from fake- truth from falsity- under both his domino mask and the hardened mask of his stoic expressions, you’ve always had a knack for exposing his most vulnerable self- welcoming his flaws, humility, and weaknesses to light. Even though he’s not the same kid he was when you first crossed paths, he feels just as naive and guileless as the boy he once once. 

“You and the bat were never really known for considering every angle,” Spoken so thoughtfully, he’s almost able to forgive the verbal assault. As intended, the blow lands- precise, heavy, and unforgiving in the center of his chest- and the muscles in his jaw tighten with thinly veiled frustration. It seems, that in the moment he needs his voice the most, it evades him. He swallows consonants and vowels, a jumbled mix of letters that sit heavy atop his palate, and focuses on maintaining his composure- though, his steps are a beat behind and his footing seems, suddenly, unsure. You’ve struck a nerve. Whether or not you intend to wound, the damage is already done. Picking at scabs that should’ve scarred a long time ago cause his insecurities to bleed- a punch more lethal than brute strength and weaponry combined. 

Blindsided by the truth, he feels utterly defenseless.

“Can I ask you something, Dick?” Your brows barely pinch together, your voice calm and steady as something softens in your gaze. Dick should know better than to let his guard down- especially when you lean in, and your lips brush against his ear, “If you’re the hero, here to save the day, does that make me the villain?” 

“No, you’re not-“

“How about this, which is the lesser of two evils- knowing that you’re protecting a corrupted establishment because it’s what you believe to be morally correct, or taking back what was wrongfully stolen and returning it to its rightful owners?” As you tilt your head to the side, he hates the way that you look up at him through your lashes. It’s not a demure move. You’re demanding an answer, and a look like that- a look meant to allure, tempt, and bait- would have a weaker man spilling his deepest darkest secrets. With a sharp inhale, he reminds himself that the tricks up your sleeve aren’t new. He knows all of the cards you’re going to play- albeit, he’s unaware of the order in which you’re going to play them- and he won’t allow history to repeat itself. Purposely, your thumb caresses the back of his hand- the touch feather-light, but far from hesitant or accidental- and his breath hitches. Dick doesn’t undermine the small, sinister smile that threatens to spread into a victorious grin when he fails to answer your question. Perhaps, he doesn’t know the answer. Or, perhaps, he’s just distracted. Either way, your voice fills the absence of his own. “We’re not on different sides of a playing field, Grayson. You and I aren’t on opposite ends of a spectrum, we’ve always been right in the middle- dancing on a thin line.” 

Prompted by the soothing symphony of strings, Dick twirls you- delicately extending his arm and leading you into a spin before pulling you back in- and it’s fitting, the push and pull between you so familiar it almost feels as choreographed as the steps of the waltz you’re dancing.

History repeating itself, just one more time.

“We both know you’re not here to turn me in, because if you were going to, you would’ve done it by now.” Your arrogance causes something to snap within him. Clarity comes rushing back as he breaks free from your spell. Without meaning to, his grip on your hand tightens.

“Look, I understand why you’re doing this, but-“

“No, you don’t.” Like a switch being flipped, your façade shatters- revealing a face so unbridled with emotions that not even a mask could obscure. He’s defensive. Tired of grappling for control over the situation, he tastes power as he parts his lips with a clever retort, but you don’t allow him the space to get a word in. “Did you know that last year, the city council held a vote to refurbish a few run-down parks on the south side of Gotham with the hopes of restoring the communities destroyed by violence, or increasing the GCPD budget?” The heat behind your accusation pokes and prods at his curiosity, coloring him intrigued. Admittedly, he’s not the most up-to-date on Gotham’s politics, but something this large shouldn’t have slipped under his radar- or the watchful eyes of those who swore themselves to protect the beloved city.

It’s deeper than that, though.

Your frustrations, however warranted, seem to extend beyond such an injustice. Between the lines, amongst all the words you haven’t said, there’s a decipher hidden in every twitch, gesture, and glare. From the way your eyes narrow, to the sharp exhale and tightening grip of your fingertips. To sweaty palms and clenched teeth, all the way to flared nostrils- there’s something just beneath the surface that he can’t crack. Too much time has passed for him to unscramble tacitness when he no longer understands the codes in which you speak, and, unfortunately, he needs you to paint a clearer picture than the vague abstract before him.

“When it came down to it, do you think that the citizens of the south side had a say in the matter?” Dick’s smart. He’s not just a pretty face or a nice body- he’s actually got brains to match. You know- deep down- that sooner or later, shapeless pieces will fall into place to reveal the completed puzzle, but you need him to come to the conclusion all on his own. It would be easy to simply reveal your motive, and while a straightforward approach may have been less complicated than the mental gymnastics you’re forcing him to perform, it wouldn’t have been as impactful. Dick needs to understand, and to understand, he needs to feel- the same anger, outrage, and upset you felt. “Do you think the people on the other side of the tracks were given a chance to speak in front of the council?” 

“They can’t segregate who speaks publicly-“ The gears are turning- some slower, some faster, and others completely out of control as he struggles to make sense of your elusiveness. When the current song fades out, a scattered round of applause takes its place before a new song begins. Hardly anyone else is dancing, save for a handful of couples who look just about as miserable as you and Dick- without the coordination or grace, the two of you share. It takes him too long to jump to the conclusion, and you tire of waiting for him to put the pieces together on his own. He always did work better with a helping hand- though, the quality of his work declined greatly whenever your hands were involved.

“You’re right,” Your agreement further confuses him, until an additional explanation provides the last bit of clarity he’d been seeking. “But they can change the date, time, and venue of the meeting without alerting the other parties involved, parties that spent weeks building the foundations of a strong claim, and vote on the matter without them being present- subsequently, granting them access to funnel more funds back into their pensions.”

“That’s not possible,” His argument is backed by disbelief instead of reason, denial influencing his refusal to accept such an absurdity, even in spite of proof, and every ugly, undesirable, nasty feeling you’re not supposed to have swirls together in the pit of your stomach at his incredulity.

How can he still be so blind? How, after all of the evil that he’s witnessed, how can he deny the truth in favor of possibility? He may be a man grown, but he still lives in a delusional state of boyhood- where he still clings to hope and the prospect of good intentions even when the jury has already delivered a conviction.

“Why not?” You seethe, simultaneously demanding an answer without allowing him the chance to speak. Unfortunately, whatever’s been brewing amongst your insides finally bubbles over and your own reluctance to accept an outcome where he doesn’t justify your point of view sharpens the words at the tip of your tongue until they’re as lethal as any weapon. “Because good old Commissioner Gordon wouldn’t let that happen?”

It’s resentment- the concoction without a name- but it’s also envy, pain, and perhaps a bit of fear. At the very least, it’s petty, to bring her into this and force him to pick a side, but it’s been corroding your logic- eroding a place in your chest that’s been dormant ever since he last filled it with life and meaning- and you watch his demeanor shift when his lips part to defend her. You can’t bear whatever praise he’s sure to dole out in her defense, especially when she’s just as guilty as the rest of them, as far as you’re concerned. Before he has a chance to tear you to shreds with his ire, you interrupt.

“Look, just because the commissioner has a heart, doesn’t mean that the animals working for the force do.” Without any conviction, you start to claw at the mire on either side of you, closing you in. “It’s always been bad, but it’s gotten a lot worse.” He can’t argue with that. Worse doesn’t even come close to how downright doomed Gotham is now that someone’s poisoned most of the police force. The one group of people who are supposed to remain impartial to power and abide by the laws they’re sworn to uphold, have turned their backs on the people who needed them most, and the people hurting- the ones without flashy jewels or the stomachs for caviar and champagne- don’t have anyone looking out for them. 

Not the way they used to, anyway. 

“You don’t get to come here and lecture me about what’s right and what’s wrong, just because she asked you to.” Bittersweet tips towards bitter and a sour taste settles in your mouth at the suggestion that she had even the slightest part to play in your reunion. “You’re a few years too late for that, birdy.” This time when the song ends, you take a step back- though, his thumb brushes against the back of your hand before you pull away, the phantom of a silent prospect lingering even when the warmth of him is gone. Once, it was what you sought. He was what you sought. Years of desolation turned your desire for that same heat- tender touches and gentle caresses against skin- into favor of bleakness. You don’t regret pulling away from him, not as much as you did back them. This time, it’s warranted- a choice you make unobstructed by what you’re feeling, now that you know the outcome of what was fated to happen between the two of you.

“I appreciate the dance,” You swallow, your throat tightening with words you won’t allow yourself to say. Instead, a retort finds you, though it feels foreign as you speak it into existence. “Maybe we’ll do it again in a couple of years,” 

Without waiting for a reaction, you head off down the same way you came, and this time, without any intervention, he lets you go.

The bathroom door shuts behind you, and the sounds of lively chatter and the hum of instrumentals fade away until you’re consumed by a silence so stark that it buries you. It doesn’t feel real. The soft tapping of your heels against the glossy marble floors cuts through the nothingness- even the slightest echo in the void registering as an alarm, coaxing panic and fear from the rusted, forgotten cells you banished them to long ago- and when you finally take a look in the mirror, you don’t recognize the face that stares back at you.

Your reflection is plagued by guilt, and haunted by ghosts of the past. Well, one ghost, in particular.

Running into Dick Grayson was something you’d prepared for. Since the day you last parted, you always knew that there was a possibility your paths could, and inevitably would, cross again. It was destined to happen, and you were doomed from the start. He makes you reckless. He makes you sloppy and distracted and forgiving. He makes you weak. Back then, before everything that drove a wedge between the two of you, you had a bit of a soft spot for him. He was the only other person in the world who truly understood the life you lived because he was living a different version of the same life. Both protégés, both headstrong and zealous- attributes recognized as both strengths and faults- and both dancing a choreographed routine in the shadows cast by the bat and the cat. The two of you were fated. It was only a matter of time before you started pulling your punches, and he started letting you get away.

The chase was always the best part- second only to the capture.

Still, it’s been years since he left. You’re not the same girl he once knew, and he might as well have been a stranger. More than a decade apart will do that to two people. For everything that’s changed, one thing remains the same- the chase and the capture are unavoidable.

With a shaky exhale, your chest tightens. Resting your palms on either side of the expensive stone washbasin, you attempt to focus on regaining your composure- but another heavy intake of breath punches your lungs. You haven’t come this far just to let him swoop in and gain the upper hand. You’re done pulling your punches. Flipping the golden faucet on, you allow trickling water to interrupt the unbearable silence that surrounds you- a lull so loud it sounds like buzzing static without the interruption of something mundane. With a few more deep breaths, in and out, you begin to fumble with the clasp on your clutch, opening the small bag to retrieve a tube of lipstick. The color has started to fade from your lips, and you use the moment of stillness to touch up your makeup. If nothing else, maybe your reflection will look less distraught with a signature swipe of dark red. You long for a sense of familiarity that you can control.

Above the trickling from the luxurious spout, the door squeaks- or perhaps, it cries- as it’s pushed open, revealing a mirage basked in artificial light and a custom-tailored suit. As your fingertips graze the fixture responsible for the steady stream of distraction, a thud sounds, and seconds later, the unmistakable click of a lock latching into place seals your fate. A wave of emotion- a tsunami of feelings- brings forth a myriad of everything, all at once. Just as you suspected you always would, you’re drowning- caught in a riptide of your past and present, finally merging in a deadly current that threatens to pull you below the depths of your worst fears and direful imagination. You swallow thickly as you close your eyes. It fills your mouth with delusions of saltwater.

This isn’t supposed to happen- at least, not like this, it’s not- but the one thing you’ve been running from has finally caught back up to you. Now’s the time to set the record straight. No more ties. No more draws. Tonight, the victory is yours- regardless of his intervention. He’s taken too much from you to take this too, and you’re done letting him.

“I already told you that this is pointless,” You don’t even look at him. Refusing to give him the satisfaction of meeting his overbearing stare. A swirling sea of darkening blue attempts to sail back to shore- pleading to find refuge within familiar comforts and intimacy- but you cast your gaze back to your reflection, focusing on fixing the corners of your lipstick and leaving him afloat. “You’re not going to stop me.” The promise is backed by conviction- though, you’re not sure if you’re trying to convince him, or yourself.

The muscle in Dick’s jaw flexes as he grits his teeth- forcing ivories to clench and grind against each other, creating a perfect, white prison to cage the words he wishes to speak. Stifling his emotions is conventional. It’s a routine he’s perfected through years of reluctant practice. Though uncomfortable and daunting, the void in which he sentences all that’s repressed is secure. It’s safe- if only in the sense that it’s familiar.

You’re familiar- rather, you were once familiar- but he can’t cross a bridge that’s been burned, molten ash still ablaze amongst the rubble, and expect to be welcomed back with open arms. Not after everything that’s changed. Not after everything that’s happened.

Not after what he did.

“I need a list of names,” The determination in Dick’s voice contradicts everything he feels inside. His face hardens- a mask, a shield, protection- and he stands a little taller, fixated on resolving the one problem he could actually solve. “Names of the officers involved in whatever this is,” He clarifies with an uneasy edge to his voice- like he already knows he’s bit off more than he can chew, but he can’t stop himself from going back for seconds, thirds, and fourths.

For all that’s changed, Dick remains the same. A phantom- a spirit, a memory, a ghost- of the boy you once knew disappears just as quickly as your imagination teases familiar red, yellow, and green. He’s not the same. You know it to be true, and yet, you find yourself distracted by glimpses and figments from a different life entirely.

“Grab a pen,” A scoff, an eye roll, and the gentle shake of your head, disbelief and credence existing in tandem- contradicting each other when your eyes finally meet his. “It would be a shorter list if you started with the people who aren’t guilty of committing some type of fraudulent activity.”

You’re not a bad person. Despite varying beliefs, you’re not evil. Mayhem doesn’t bring you joy. Confrontation doesn’t get you off. There’s little pleasure to be found in being the itch that people can’t scratch. You’ve never sought out violence or peril, and you seldom plan on causing either. Just like Dick- just like Bruce- you operate under a different moral code, but a moral code, nevertheless. Even if the only thing it provides is an excuse to justify why you do what you do, you still hold yourself to a standard. Unlike the vile, chaos-thirsty cravens that would happily light the match and watch the world burn, you’re selfless- bound to your morals, if nothing else.

What you do, the sacrifices you make- everything that you’ve lost and everything you’ve fought for- is fueled by benevolence. You’re in a position to fight for those who can’t fight for themselves, to speak up for those who can’t speak for themselves. The power to defend those who have had their rights stripped from them- those who have had their power stolen by greed corruption and profit- is in your hands. You’ll be damned if you let anyone stand in your way and prevent you from doing what you know is right.

Through the reflection in the mirror, you recognize the face that stares back at you. Gone is the fear and doubt that mangled your features unrecognizable. With a heavy sigh, you unclip the earrings that dangle from your earlobes- and the buzzing sound of static fades away completely.

You know what you have to do.

The sound of your heels against the tile might as well have been deafening in contrast to the silence that follows your remark. As you cross the room, your resolve sharpens. Dick Grayson has taken so much from you, you won’t let him take this, too.

“Now, if you’ll excuse me-“ You feign saccharine, your tone phony and filled with counterfeit regret, as you reach for the locked door handle, but Dick blocks the latch, stepping in front of you before you have a chance to wrap your hand around the lever. He knows exactly what buttons to press and genuine annoyance, anger, and frustration fill the space where your poor imitation of remorse once occupied. Through gritted teeth, you command him, lowly, “Move, Dick.”

“You know I can’t do that, sweetheart,” He says it so easily, with a sorrowful sigh and undisputed repentance, that you almost buy the sincerity he’s trying to sell. Unfortunately, for him, you’re not in the market for his misery. He’s a few years too late. Dick can turn his charm up to ten thousand- he can say all the right things and plead with his perfect crystalline eyes- but you won’t risk everything you’ve fought for for a few crocodile tears. You know, now, that you’re better than that. One way or another, you’re getting out of this bathroom- and if you have to go through him to do so, then so be it.

“And you know I’m not above fighting you, right?” He’s entirely unprepared for your snark, the bite that fuels your reply nearly nipping his sense of control straight from the palm of his hand. It’s obvious that this isn’t the same game that it once was, but something much more dangerous. “The dance wasn’t enough?” With your arms across your chest, you challenge, and he hates the way you’re looking at him- like your eyes are piercing straight through him instead of actually looking at him. If you bothered to look closely enough, you’d be able to decipher all of the blatant emotions he’s never been the greatest at hiding. One look and you’d see him- and his heart beating proudly on his sleeve. It’s why you don’t spare him a glance. “You still feeling nostalgic for old times? Because this feels awfully familiar, doesn’t it?”

“What are you going to do with the money?” He asks, fighting to keep his voice stern. His poker face was never the best- or, maybe you could just read him better than most people could. Still, as he stands before you, he grapples with his devotion to whatever this competition is. This clash will never see a winner- only two losers- and he knows it. You do, too- but unlike him, you’re not willing to back down without a fight.

“Give it back to those who rightfully deserve it.” He doesn’t deserve your honesty. He has no right to the truth, but you don’t have it in you to scheme an elaborate lie. However gratifying it might’ve been to feed him false information and watch him fly in circles, you’re too exhausted for mental gymnastics. Like clockwork, you give, and he takes- his stare narrowing, almost accusatorially.

“And who are you to decide who rightfully deserves it?” There’s an edge to his question- like he can’t fathom justice without his divine intervention- and it’s grating, the way he can make you feel so small, and worthless with a single sentence. His arrogance is astounding. Who was he to seek vengeance against Slade Wilson? Who was he to target Heartless? Who was he to sentence Tony Zucco to his death- by placing him behind bars, and granting other enemies easy access to the crime lord, which ultimately led to his demise? The self-righteous guilt trip nearly gives you whiplash from how fast it makes your head spin. He’s no different than you are- no better or worse, since you operate on the same playing field. He doesn’t get to act like he is. Someone needs to knock him down a few pegs, and you’re happily up for the challenge.

“Who are you to try to stop me?”

“Someone who knows you,” He replies, instinctively. “Someone who’s a friend, not a foe.”

“Hmm,” With a bitter laugh, your stomach churns- twisting, clenching, and swirling with swells of irritation, regret, and sorrow- and although it’s a familiar discomfort, it’s been years since you’ve felt the threat of splintering cracks, chipping away at the stone-cold facade of your exterior. Come to think of it, the last time you felt this way was when Selina had told you that Dick left for San Francisco. The reminder fills you with a bitterness you’ve long tried to suppress, and as it bubbles to the surface, so do all of the repressed thoughts and emotions that’ve haunted you for years.

For a moment, you ache- chasing forgotten remembrance plagued by wistfulness. Then, you burn.

“Friends call every once in a while, and if they can’t make it to a phone, they send a postcard to let you know that they’re still alive and well.” Vexation forces your eyes to narrow, the color of your eyes morphing into something much more bleak. With a heavy exhale- filled with frustration and a semblance of humility- you remind him, “Friends don’t disappear into thin fucking air without letting you know why- especially, after those friends, were always a little more than just friends.” There’s a darkness behind your eyes that Dick’s not familiar with, and a weight settles in the hollow emptiness of his chest before sinking deeper and deeper into the pit of his stomach. His jaw clenches and he swallows thickly- the tastes of bile, rue, and shame all indiscernible from one another as he forces them back down.

He knows you’re right.

While his absence was abrupt, it had nothing to do with any ill will towards you. There was never a falling out- no crossing a line of no return or being pushed past a point that shattered a shared fantasy. Though the bullet posed no real threat of death by passing through his arm- beyond the phantom agony of lead tearing through flesh, and the hot, wet feeling of crimson pouring from the wound- a part of Dick Grayson did, in fact, die that night, at the hands of the Joker. The Clown Prince of Crime set off a domino effect when he fired at the young Boy Wonder, inevitably altering the course of his life forever. Acts of violent intent seldom harm a single soul, and as if it were fated, you became another casualty from an attack that was never meant for you.

When Bruce fired Dick, he was angry. Back then, thoughts of hanging up the cape never, ever, crossed his mind. Back then, he was content with fighting crime alongside his mentor, and never really considered what would happen next- or if there’d even be a next, or an after. He felt betrayed, abandoned, and filled with cynicism. As selfish as it was, you weren’t even really an afterthought in the downfall of his life caving in and swallowing him whole. He needed time to heal- time to rebuild- and prioritize who he was when he wasn’t hiding in the shadows left behind by a cape and cowl. Years passed, and with time to reflect, Dick’s bitter resentment morphed into a new kind of devotion to himself, and the few that started to look to him for guidance.

Before the Titans, he never really considered himself to be a leader. He spent most of his life abiding by rules and plans- roles and paths- that were set for him by another. Had he been hungry for control before, his first real taste solidified an insatiable appetite for the very thing he felt himself deprived of for too many years. Though, he’d come to learn that there was an ugly side to the power he wielded. Some days, the responsibility felt like a burden, and others, he felt like his guilt and uncertainty would swallow him whole. He bottled up all of his doubts, packed them somewhere deep inside the closed-off caverns in his heart where darker demons haunted, and forced them elsewhere- out of sight, and out of mind, but never truly gone.

It’s not fair that, somehow, you’ve come to possess the key that matches the lock on his Pandora’s box. Every emotion, every feeling, and every thought meant to be suppressed and banished to a place where they couldn’t torment or harm him, refuses to go gently when one simple, magnetic look threatens to release them from their cages of skin and bone. The most daunting realization of all, however, is that he’s the one to blame- for everything.

For all of it.

Selfishly, he’s hoped for an ember amongst the carnage he’s created. He’s held onto some convoluted idea of hope that whatever was once alight could be reignited again if he fully committed himself to an apology, but he failed to acknowledge the amount of ashes he’d have to sift through for a hint of a spark. There’s too much disappointment, too much duplicity, regret, and time passed between the two of you for things to ever revert back to even a semblance of what they once were.

He looks to you now, and he sees it- your anger is a mask for your pain. It’s so faint he almost misses it, but your lip threatens to wobble. Beyond the wrath you try to convey with the narrowed glare of your eyes, he watches as thinly veiled yearning mingles with what’s left of the color of your irises- simultaneously faint, yet prominent to the only other person who knows what it’s like to push away the person you love. What Dick and you shared wasn’t love, but it could’ve been and that’s what you’re both mourning- what could’ve been.

“You and I aren’t friends, Dick.” He hates the finality behind your conviction. It’s so cold, and void of the warmth he associated with you once upon a time. A split second threatens to expose the façade, and you blink back tears instead of allowing them to fall- swallowing emotion and banishing it elsewhere. Feelings have no place here. Instead, you grit your teeth, clenching them together so tightly that your jaw begins to ache. He watches you struggle to commit to the act- because that’s what your rage is, an outlet for your passions- and as you take a step closer toward him, his breath hitches. “Now, get out of my way,”

Toe to toe, you meet his gaze, and no matter how hard you try to fight it, despite your best efforts to disguise what you truly feel, Dick sees right through you- recognizing the parts of you that you try to mold and shape into something else. After all, he’s your greatest weakness- and you’re his. You always have been, and he always will be.

He dares to move. This close, he resists the urge to reach out for you and never let you go again, but this isn’t about him. It’s about you. Hesitantly, he raises his hand, his eyes never leaving yours as the shaky tips of his fingers graze your chin with a tenderness you’ve sought since the last time you felt it. The air is tense, passed back and forth by sharp breaths and thundering pulses- intimate with warmth and affection that mimics that of a simpler time- and when his palm rests against your cheek, cradling it with such gentle endearment in the face of betrayal, you let him. Dick’s throat bobs, and he pours everything he can’t bring himself to say into such a delicate touch. Every apology he wishes he had the courage to speak aloud, every declaration of devotion he was too afraid to voice, and every inevitable truth he attempted to ignore lingers, and you can feel it- in every shy stroke of his thumb across your cheek.

“You’re not going to distract me,” A single tear merges with the pad of his thumb- a testament to your resilience, but no match for the broken, battered, beaten bond you share with the man before you- and your certainty begins to dwindle. There’s a string that ties you to him- an invisible thread strong enough to stitch the two of you back together when you should remain apart- but you’re destined for him, the same way he’s always been destined for you.

It was foolish to believe any differently.

“I’m not trying to distract you,” Barely above a whisper, he pleads, desperate to make you understand, “I’m trying to apologize.”

He hangs his head with defeat, his shoulder slumping forward as he peers down at you. He’s never known such cruel torture. Such sick and twisted suffering is self-inflicted. The past erodes his future, but he can’t stop himself from resurrecting his demons. Foolishly, he invites them to haunt him further- and you’re no exception. His tightrope is stretched taut, and it’s a long way down. How much longer can he balance between anemoia and actuality before tipping one way or the other? It’s insanity- repeating the same act and hoping for a different outcome- but Dick can’t bring himself to accept that this time won’t be different. If nothing else, the possibility that this never-ending game could crown two winners is enough for him to play the martyr, and suffer whatever repercussions might follow after barring himself whole. What more does he have to lose, if not everything he’s already lost, again?

It would be so easy to reach past him and turn the lock in your favor, granting your escape. Hell, with the way he’s looking at you now, you know that he wouldn’t even put up a fight. He’d let you waltz right past him, slipping through his fingers for the umpteenth time because he knows that this time won’t be the last. It never is. Visions blurred by uncertainty flash before your eyes- infinite possibilities, each with consequences and punishments, rewards and sacrifices- but the unknown doesn’t elicit the same adrenaline-filled excitement that it once did. Maybe because this time, Dick isn’t fighting back. Surrendering his shield, he abandons resistance- instead, entrusting you with the vulnerability that spills from his heart, blood crimson against his fingers as he squeezes it with each thump and thud- crumbling before you, and submitting everything he has to give to you. Even if he can’t bring himself to support your cause.

You lean in closer, drawn to him- the same way you always have been, and likely, always will be- and your palm hovers over his chest. For a second, it’s unclear whether or not you’re going to reach out for him or push him away, but when your hand meets the fabric that covers hard muscle, you know you’re done for- because in the same ways he’s willing to fall before you, you’re willing to fall before him, too. Over and over again. Repeatedly and infinitely.

“Well, you have impeccable timing,” Your reproach is close enough for him to taste. It wavers against his lips and slips past his tongue, allowing him to savor parts of you he hasn’t been allowed to indulge in for so long. There’s no mistaking the invitation of your reprover, and Dick’s palm rests against your lower back, coaxing you closer towards him as his nose brushes against yours. It’s dizzying, and your arms find their way around his neck to steady yourself when he rests his forehead against yours with a soft sigh. The irony of the situation isn’t lost upon you- even when the two of you have ceded to one another, you’re still fighting to see who will give in first. As if he’s come to the realization at the same time, a large hand- rough and callused, but soft and tender in the way that it trembles against your cheek with anticipation- encourages you to tilt your head back, and you follow his lead. You hold your breath as your lips part, and Dick surges forward, slotting his mouth against yours in a kiss that’s fueled by the release of years of pent-up longing, need, and want. The gesture is foreign, yet familiar. Reminiscent of the past, yet entirely new. Everything you remember and everything you’ve ever dreamed of merge together in this moment and bring life to what had only ever been fantasy before his lips found yours once more.

It’s exhilarating.

“I missed you,” The affirmation rumbles against your skin, warm with fervor and urgency, and it’s completely unnecessary- considering that each movement acts as a balm to soothe wounds of time, fear, and doubt- but he vows with each breath, relying on words to convey what his actions can not, and vice versa. Masks are off. Shields have been abandoned. Capes remain long forgotten at the door. This is no longer about duty or morality. No, this moment is about two people seeking confirmation for what they’ve always known to be true- that a love unspoken, but never absent has always existed between them. Two people- not vigilantes or heroes- two hearts, beating to guide the other back, are bare, open, honest, and raw without the theatrics of a chase or the pretense of a game. Surrender invites you to balance on the edge of a precipice, and you’re the first to lose your footing.

Desperation is an influence, and his lapels wrinkle with the severity of your hold. Through the haze of everything unknown, he’s the only thing that’s clear, and you reach for him- blindly, but intentionally- clawing at the fabric that keeps him from you. Clashing teeth and bruising grips don’t elicit pain, not when real suffering exists in the absence of the other, and you allow him to paint you violet, blue, green, and red with desire, becoming the embodiment of his want. Your only regret is that the evidence of this divine crime will eventually fade away to nothing more than a memory- another ache that will never dull, a moment so unique that it can never be replicated. As you rejoice, you mourn.

“Sure you did.” His blazer drops to the floor as you follow your script, hardly taking a moment to realize that the page you’re reading from is blank- without word or direction- as you venture into unknown territory. Even when you don’t mean to be, you’re combative. Even when you don’t want to be, you’re still on edge. This is different. This already feels different than before, and maybe it’s because there’s a lot more at stake now that both of you have already lost one another, but for as overdue as this homecoming is, something subconsciously prolongs it further.

“No, really, I-“ He begins, ready to mold rhetoric and force it to take on a form that would allow you to see just how much you mean to him, but that would make this real, and you’re not sure if you’re ready for this to be real yet- because if this is real, if this isn’t just a cruel imitation of memory like so many variations before or a concocted fantasy so vivid you can feel yourself shaking, then that means you can lose it all, again. Just like last time. Within your grip, one minute, slipping through your fingers the next.

“Don’t.” Fear sounds different when there’s a bite to it. It could almost pass as annoyance, if you’re able to keep your voice just steady enough, and he mistakes the command for irritation, rather than the timidity it actually is. Whatever you’ve intended and he’s interpreted gets lost along the way, and he takes a hesitant step back. It’s impossible not to lunge for him as he retreats, but you remain still- your breath hitching when he holds both hands out to you, surrendering his palms while he shows he meant no harm.

“Can I…”

“You don’t have to ask,” You silence his fears quickly, closing the space between you before you even realize that you’ve taken a step. This self-sacrificial eagerness to light yourself on fire just to keep him warm has always been one of your greatest downfalls, but a most ardent gesture, and with ash on your tongue and soot in your lungs, you strike a match the minute he begins to second guess himself. “Just pretend it’s like before.” The suggestion sounds just as unsure as you are, but with a heavy breath, you encourage, “Pretend that nothing’s changed…pretend that we’re still…” You can’t even bring yourself to say it, because the kids you were back then are gone. They’re never coming back. You can’t avenge them or try to seek vengeance for what they’ve lost. It’s over for them, but this is just the start of this new beginning for the two of you. “Just for tonight.”

He moves promptly, gathering the skirts of your dress in one hand, fisting the fabric- a blue so dark he mistook it for black, or perhaps it was, until his fingertips were close enough to paint the illusion with light, making it appear different than it was- without any regard for creases or lingering proof of your affair. Support rests at your back, his chest firm and protective as you lean into the rippling muscle, and Dick continues to illuminate shadows of the past with each touch- eager to help you forget all of the agonies suffered at his hands in favor of remembering glimpses of peace. He’s ready to give you more than just a taste. Now, he wants to gorge you with the pleasure he’s reserved.

His hands shake- not with hesitancy, but anticipation, and when you catch his eye in the mirror, you shiver. You’ve never seen a blue so dark it looks black- until now. Without warning, he mouths at your neck- kissing, sucking, biting, any part of you he can get his lips on- reacquainting himself with parts of you that were once so familiar, and you allow him to explore. Blindly, you reach for one of his hands, taking it in your own, and he begins to intertwine his fingers with yours, but you gently guide his hand where you want it most- and he lets you, following your lead just as impulsively. You jolt at the first brush of his fingertips between your legs, even though you were expecting it, and he lets out a few ragged breaths against the back of your neck. It’s paradoxical, the chills that contradict the flush of your skin, but this relationship has never really made sense before. Why should that change now?

Almost as if he’s in a trance, Dick is overwhelmed by the twists and turns of the evening, but the whiplash is starting to subside in favor of something much more exhilarating. He never thought he’d have this again. He believed moments like these to be lost to time, and he wasted years grieving memories he could never replicate, only to feel the weight of your body against his once more. It’s too much. It’s not enough. It’s everything he never knew he wanted or needed until it was stolen from him, swiped right out from under his nose by his own negligence. He won’t make the same mistakes this time. No, this time, he’s going to do it right. He’s going to-

“Fuck,” When you grow tired of his stalling, you force his hand, again. This time, when your fingers meet his wrist, you press your palm on top of his- coercing him to mimic the shape- and maybe you’re the one in control, or maybe he finally rises to the occasion, but with a newfound determination, he cups your cunt- a choked sound catching in his throat when he feels how wet you are. You briefly wonder how something so vulgar can sound so pretty, but you already know the answer- it’s him. It’s always been him. Had it been anyone else, the effect would cease to exist, but it’s Dick, and that desire- that pull that you can’t ever deny- will always bind you to him.

You can’t help yourself from rutting against his palm, and he presses himself further into your back, allowing you to feel the hard outline of his cock against your ass. The hand that isn’t between your legs rests on your arm, and when he tries to hold your hand, you don’t deny him. There’s just too much fabric for you to hold in just one hand and some of it drapes over his forearm, but you manage to keep most of it from obscuring his movements. It’s a strange angle, and both of you are fumbling to make it work, but you crane your neck in search of him, and he answers your call with an eager kiss. Your tongue caresses his, savoring the feeling and committing it to memory, just in case-

He swallows your surprised gasp when he nudges your panties aside and begins to circle your clit. With just a bit of pressure, a crease forms where your eyebrows pull together, and you untangle your hand from his hold to brace yourself against the counter. It’s been a while since someone else has touched you, and it’s been even longer since the last time Dick had, but it’s so much better than evocations of pleasure. You swear figments are tangible. Spurred on by the reaction his touch has coaxed from you, he’s torn between making the moment last as long as possible or picking up the pace. He settles on the latter, considering that if this is heading the way he hopes it’s heading, he’ll have all the time in the world to make it up to you, but right now, he’s on borrowed time. You both are. With the reminder looming overhead, he adjusts his hand so that he can continue to work your clit while lining up a finger with your pussy. You’re so wet, and warm when he curls his middle finger inside, and he can’t remember why he ever left in the first place. What persuaded him away from Gotham when you were always right here? Would you have waited for him? Would you have followed him if he asked you to? He supposes none of that matters now, but he can’t help but wonder…

He adds a second finger, and even though your body gives little resistance to the intrusion, you groan at the feeling. His fingers are so long, reaching that spot inside of you that your fingers are just too short to reach, and they’re thick enough for you to feel yourself stretching around him with each thrust- not enough to cause pain, but an ache that serves as a reminder that it’s been too long since the last time you’ve had him like this. You vow not to let another ten years pass before you let him have you, again.

He continues a steady pace, curling his fingers in such a way that sweat begins to glisten across your chest, and when a third finger threatens to join his others, you wrap your hand around his wrist- abruptly halting his movements.

“N-not enough time,” He doesn’t even get the chance to ask before you supply him with an answer, but he nods in understanding once you offer an explanation. He’s already reaching for his belt, unbuckling the clasp and roughly shoving his slacks down before you have a chance to catch your breath, and you’re grateful- if the speed in which he undresses is any indication of his own eagerness- that he’s just as desperate for you, as you are for him. Taking a moment to adjust your skirts so that you don’t have to hold them, you bunch them above your hips and lean forward, resting your forearms against the counter while Dick frees himself from his boxers, and when you look back in the mirror and catch sight of his cock behind you, you can’t help but swallow thickly.

He strokes himself a few times, smearing the pre-cum beading from his slit down his shaft as he prepares to take you. This doesn’t feel like last time. As he reaches for your waist and lines himself up with your cunt, this doesn’t feel like last time at all. This is new, and different and everything he’s wanted ever since the last time he had you in his grasp. This time, he won’t let you get away. With as much self-restraint as he can manage, you feel the tip of his cock against your opening, slowly splitting you open, and your back arches. Your own strangled cry prompts a groan from him he sinks into you, inch by inch until his hips are flush against you. You’re so full that you’re not sure if it’s too much or not enough.

“I’ve got you,” Dick assures, his grip on your hip tightening when he feels you struggling to accommodate him. He tries to be a gentleman. He tries to give you a few minutes to adjust- even though he wants nothing more than to take what’s right under his nose, what’s always been his- but his restraint snaps when he feels you begin to rock back against him.

“Move,” You command, and he doesn’t have to be told twice. With your permission, he’s happy to follow orders and obliges with a sharp thrust upwards. The sound you make is a mix between a sob and a moan, and his fingers flex against your hip as he repeats the action.

“I forgot…” Through clenched teeth, he confesses, and you don’t think anything of the admission, too lost within your own feelings to attempt to decipher his. Instead, he wraps an arm around your waist, offering thick muscle to serve as a buffer between your body and the stone he has you pressed up against- relying on intimate gestures to make up for words lost in translation. Even now, when you’re not on the same page, you still know. Somehow, you know, and he does, too. Every time. Without fail. Always. Your head rolls back to meet his shoulder, and your fingertips claw at the back of his neck awkwardly, with transparent desperation to pull him closer. Within reach isn’t close enough. Near is too far. With a muted gasp, you push back to meet his next thrust, and he hisses softly before elaborating, “I’m so sorry if I made you forget.”

“Dick-“ Realization begins to splinter the mirage of bliss, and you manage to say his name with enough caution to serve as a warning. You don’t want to think about the past. Not right now. Not when you can see your future so clearly in the foggy reflection of the vanity. He wraps his hand around your neck, encouraging you to bare your throat to him and he licks at the vein that calls out to him.

“I won’t let you forget, not this time.” He vows, bucking his hips faster and faster as you whine in his hold. In some sick twisted way, he loves that he’s the only one who has this power over you- that he’s the only one who could ever elicit such a reaction- and it’s a testament to how much the two of you care for one another; the influence both of you have over one another. “This time, I want to remember.”

It’s going to be impossible not to.

“I-“ He can barely get a word out with how good you feel around him, and he takes a breath before trying again. “I know you want to pretend, but fuck…I can’t.” Dick wraps his arm around you, guiding your back to rest against his chest, and one of his large hands splays across your stomach, where he can feel himself inside of you. “I really did miss you,” Somehow he manages to find his voice. “Not just like this, either,”

“I-I missed you, too.” You don’t seem certain, not with the way you stutter, but your reply is genuine. It only appears dubious because Dick’s palm begins to press against you, and you all but choke on your confession. He can’t help himself, but neither can you.

“I’m close,” He rasps, brokenly. “Shit,” His thrusts begin to falter, and his eyes meet yours in the mirror. “Are you-“

“Yes!” You yelp when his fingers start circling your clit, and he doesn’t relent, even when he feels you start to tremble beneath him. You’re overwhelmed by him, in the best way possible, and as eager as you are to chance your release, a part of you never wants this moment to end. “Dick, please d-don’t stop,” Your muscles grow taut, and when his thrusts lose their precision, you know that he’s almost there. “Just like before,” You encourage him, clenching hard when he bites your shoulder and your orgasm washes over you. “J-just like before.”

He knows what you’re asking for. He understands what you’re practically begging for, and in a fleeting moment of clarity, he catches a glimpse of the faded scar on your arm- his only regret being the fact that an implant still stands in the way of what he truly wants with you- but the thought disappears as quickly as it materializes.

A few seconds more and he grunts against your neck, pulling your hips to meet his and spilling himself inside of you. It’s even better than you remember and your body shakes with aftershocks of pleasure. Luckily, he’s there to keep you upright. Your vision starts to blur and the only sound you’re able to make out is both of you struggling to catch your breaths. With a heavy sigh, he pulls out, and you can feel his cum start to leak from you, but you’re too disoriented to clean it up. Instead, you lean forward, relying on the countertop for support as you hang your head and try to come back to your senses.

Dick leaves a trail of soft kisses down the back of your neck and his forehead is both warm and damp when it meets your shoulder, resting comfortably against your skin while he takes a minute to catch his breath, and these sensations- these tiny little reminders that he’s here, this moment is present and real- ground you. Where your mind is a mess, reeling with indecision, emotions, and thoughts you can’t yet process, your body is at ease.

As your eyes flutter shut, greedy gulps of air fail to satisfy your lungs, and you swallow thickly, allowing pressure to build up in your chest until you simply can’t take it anymore. Darkness saturates all that you can see, and you’re caught in a void- trapped, without any light to guide you back home. The gentle caress of his touch along your arm brands you, flush enough to make you burn with reminders of this fleeting moment- when embers of devotion inevitably fade into ashes- and you stiffen in his hold, not that he’s coherent enough to notice.

He seems to be in his little world as he tucks himself back into his pants and presses another gentle kiss to your shoulder before wrapping his arms around you. Violent delights really do have violent ends and it’s not fair that you let it get this far without thinking about the consequences of your actions. None of this would’ve happened if you just let yourself love him- without fear, without judgment, without regret- and if you had just been honest with yourself all those years ago, this mess would’ve never spiraled so far out of your control.

Whatever repercussion await you, you’ll brave. Regardless of what happens next, you know that you have to tell him the truth- even if it kills you. The thought is often more daunting than the action itself, but as you turn yourself around in his arms so that you’re facing him, you’re petrified.

“I’m sorry,” The magnitude of your apology isn’t supported by the handful of letters that arrange themselves as they slip past your tongue. There has to be a better way to express your remorse, but if one exists it evades you. Over and over again, the same words come to mind and it’s not fair that you know exactly what you want to say, but you just can’t find the right words to absolve your shame. At your inability to voice your regret, frustration overwhelms you. Your lips part, ready to divulge your sins, but only a pathetic, meek sigh comes out. Why is this so difficult? You know the answer, and yet, you play the part of the fool- leaning on ignorance as a crutch for what you can’t bring yourself to brave. He deserves it, doesn’t he? The truth- not something partial, but whole. Transparency is the only piece left of a nearly complete puzzle, the only thing keeping this tragic tale of two lovers who break each other’s hearts only to stitch them back together again from reaching its inevitably doomed end. When your lip begins to tremble, Dick reaches for you, pulling you into his chest and embracing you in a hold that’s absolutely suffocating. You don’t deserve his kindness. You don’t deserve his love or affection- his tenderness or his forgiveness.

You don’t deserve him.

“Me too,” He sighs into your hair, pressing a gentle kiss to the crown of your head before resting his head on top of yours. You can hear his heart- how steady it beats- and the sound rivals the racing of your own where it threatens to burst straight from your chest, and your eyes flutter shut, savoring the gentle lull of his own serenity before you poison his relief with your own disruption. No matter how much it hurts, no matter how difficult it may be, you know that you have to tell him. With a breath, you prepare for carnage.

“No, Dick, I-“

“Dick? Are you in here?” Barbara’s voice seeps through the wooden barrier that separates the two of you from the rest of the world- from reality- and as soon as she calls out to him, the illusion of tranquility is broken. Of course, it’s her. Of course, she’d be the one to interrupt you before you had the chance to speak, and of course, it would be her that drives a wedge further between the two of you with one simple revelation, “They’re getting away!”

It’s almost impossible to miss the sounds of commotion that follow her declaration. Faint screams and chaos replace the background of symphony strings and he turns to you then, a divot dividing the smooth skin of his forehead while his eyes narrow. Blue is black. Dark, and unmistakable. The muscle in his jaw looks like it’s about to burst with the severity of his clenching and his nostrils flare with a shallow exhale. It’s excruciating to watch him slip back into consciousness after being caught up in a dream, but a nightmare unfolds before you, twisting your stomach into knots so intricate they threaten to snap. You can’t breathe, and when you gather enough courage to finally take a step forward, he takes a step back. He’s never looked at you with so much hostility before, and you open your mouth to explain, to shower him with honesty and desperate pleas to make him understand that this wasn’t meant to happen like this, but no sound comes out. Not even a sigh. Not even a huff. Not even a pathetic, broken whimper. Nothing.

Unfortunately, Dick’s left to draw his own conclusions- to fill in the gaps in which your silence fails to atone for your crimes- and he paints a picture so drastically different from the truth, relying on his interpretation to establish a story so vivid he believes it to be real- even if it’s a figment of his own imagination, a product of his own devastation. Dispelled doubts come rushing back, and he allows them to influence the narrative- since you still can’t seem to find your voice- and everything left unsaid becomes louder in the silence. He mistakes your tears for guilt, instead of recognizing the regret and shame that mingle with saltwater. As gutted as he is, he looks to you for an explanation, but you can’t bring yourself to justify what you’ve done- even if it wasn’t your intention. Distracting him was part of the plan. Keeping him occupied was your mission, but confessing your true feelings and allowing yourself to fall back in love with him- not just the idea of what it would be like to love him- wasn’t part of your job description.

The second your paths crossed again, you were done for. It was never about seeking vengeance or getting even for the hurt that he caused you, because the minute that Dick waltzed back into your life, you knew you were doomed- because he makes you reckless. He makes you sloppy and distracted and forgiving. He makes you weak- and you let him. Every single time. Always and forever. Infinitely.

When he looks at you, he looks past you and towards your belongings on the counter. No. You shake your head, vehemently encouraging him to look away. If his eyes would just meet yours, if only for a second, you know you could save this. If not for the sake of putting broken pieces back together you could at least salvage fragments amongst the wreckage, but he doesn’t spare you a glance. No, no, no. His attention is solely on the expensive stone behind you, and when you reach out for him, your fingertips shaking as you grasp his bicep with all of the strength you can muster, he shakes you off of him.

Everything splinters.

When he reaches for your earring, you know that this is the end. It’s all over. A new moment will erase everything you thought you knew about pain, heartbreak, suffering, and betrayal. This moment, as it unfolds before you, will plague you until you meet your demise, because the second that he dares to bring the jewel up to his own ear, the exact moment that he hears Selina’s command through the gravely static of the earpiece you discarded earlier in the evening, you know that any hope for a future together vanishes- ripped straight from your fingers before you even had the chance to hold onto it and guard it with your life.

Even with his back towards you, you can see his face harden in the reflection of the mirror. Through the thin material of his crumbled dress shirt his shoulders tense and when he finally looks up to meet your stare through the glass, all traces of red, green, and yellow are gone. A piece of him- the piece of him that you’re most familiar with- dies, sprawled out and oozing across the marble. It’s too late to try to revive him. All that’s left in the wake of his slaughter is blue and black.

Blue and black, forevermore.

There’s nothing left for either of you here. Not anymore. Hope begins to decay, and the hollow hole in your chest that only he could ever fill begins to die from rot. Nothing will ever be the same. Not after this. Perhaps the final thought passed back and forth between a glare is the last thing you’ll ever share- beyond moments of destruction and beautiful chaos- but it’s clear to you both, that not all ghosts are meant to be resurrected.

Some ghosts should just stay ghosts.

a/n: hey, I’m raen and I’m down bad for this man lol…anyway, I’ve been working on this story for months. I literally poured bits and pieces of my soul into this (so if you wouldn’t mind interacting or providing feedback I’d be forever grateful) but I just wanted to write a tale of doomed lovers who care about each other in such a way that it leads to their downfall. I wanted this to hurt, and I hope it did- in the best way possible! I’m not above begging, so please, please, please feel free to send some feedback- as this is my first time writing for Dick and I would love to hear what people think! that being said, requests are also open! check out my request guidelines before submitting! and if you’ve made it this far, thank you so much for reading! 

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[mussavelvet]

Peach Diamond and her pearl 🍑🐚💎

And Fire opal🔥 (fusion between peach and her pearl)

She is the smallest diamond ever seen, she has the size of a lapis, but the strength of a real diamond, and her pearl, she is not defective, she is small because the diamonds wanted to give her a pearl proportional to her size(she has the size of a peridot).

Power

her power is similar to the white diamond's, only that she launches an arrow of light direct to an any gem, thus automatically their gemstones turns their original color into a color orange, nullifying their powers, without strength, without ability to glow or regenerate if they are physically damaged, can't summon a weapon, change shape or fuse, or It can also be the opposite, by turning the gemstone orange, it enhances all the abilities that the gem has, all this happens while the gemstones don't returns to their original colors.

Of course she has fire powers, like a ruby

Charge

She only has half of a planet that was destroyed, and she is in charge of creating and direct all the rubys

[eternalstarlitwonderland]

STARRYWAVE☆彡

Nightfall has fallen; the starlight delicately permeates the shoreline, casting a soft brilliance

The ethereal glimmer of starlight twinkled above, casting a soft, enchanting glow across the horizon

Below, the deep sea shimmered with a silvery-white radiance as if the moon's kiss had turned the water into a canvas of luminous jewels

The shoreline, adorned with pristine, snowy white sands, appeared blanketed in a carpet of sparkling stars that twinkled incessantly, vying for attention against the vast night sky

On a serene evening, a young girl named Peyton ventured into the enchanting embrace of the night

An avid astrophile at her core, she reveled in the beauty of astronomy, embracing the profound stillness of the universe above her

As she gazed upward, the myriad of twinkling lights glimmered overhead and sparkled like a sea of diamonds scattered throughout, their ethereal light dancing against velvety darkness, and it seemed to wink playfully down at her

The rhythmic sound of waves crashing against the shoreline provided a soothing symphony, a soundtrack to her thoughts

The night air was intoxicating, sharp, and crisp as it caressed her delicate face and brushed gently against her porcelain skin, sending shivers cascading down her spine

Like a fiery cascade, her ruby tresses fluttered gracefully in the evening zephyr, each strand catching the light in a delicate display

Beneath the moon's silvery glow, her striking sapphire eyes sparkled brilliantly, reflecting the brilliance of the silvery glimmers scattered across the sky as if she held a piece of the universe within her gaze

Strolling along the sandy littoral, the icy caress of the ocean waves lapping at her bare feet, sending a shiver up her spine and making her acutely aware of the briskness of the sea

The stark chill contrasted with the warmth of her excitement as she shared a moment of intimacy with the ocean's vastness; each splash was a thrill, a connection to the world around her

The silvery froth of the tide enveloped the shoreline, swirling around her ankles and leaving behind a trail of glistening droplets, creating a shimmering pathway that mirrored the coruscant stars above

In that fleeting moment, she felt as though she could reach out and touch the scintillant stars, each opalescent jewel in the vastness of the night, shimmering back at her in their silvery billow

She lifted her gaze to the expansive silvery stratosphere, where the stars sparkled like scattered diamonds against the velvety canvas

These celestial jewels flickered with a perpetual flame, casting a mesmerizing glow that danced gently over the tranquil moonlit shoreline

Enveloped in its silvery pearlescence, wrapped in the gentle embrace of the moonlit radiance, she felt a soothing warmth enveloping her, as if the night cradled her in its tender arms

The pearlescent waves, dressed in silvery attire, cascaded rhythmically onto the shore, leaving behind a lace-like froth of pewter, delicately tracing the snowy sands, sparkling like crushed pearls

Each wave receded and deposited delicate, pewter froth; at the same time, myriad effulgent stars blanketed the seascape, leaving behind glistening traces of sea foam that glimmered under the starlit empyrean, the celestial bodies casting a spell over the coastline, blanketing the seashore in a brilliant tapestry of light, enhancing the night's magic and the coastal landscape's serene beauty

She knelt gracefully upon the cool, silken sand, her fingers grazing the cool, damp sand as she retrieved one of the shimmering coruscant stars, delicately brushing the grains away

As she delicately dusted the grains, she marveled at how its crystalline surface captured the light, creating a prism of colors that danced before her eyes

Holding it in her hand, she saw her own visage mirrored on its crystalline reflection, the fragile beauty of her features captured within the radiant gemstone

The rhythmic, silvery waves danced upon the shoreline, a familiar lullaby that repeated in her mind, their gentle whispers weaving into the night’s ambiance, inviting her to immerse herself in the tranquil beauty around her and lulling her into a meditative state

The star ignited with a fiery brilliance, casting waves of golden warmth that enveloped her like a gentle embrace

She basked in its golden luminescence and felt its soothing caress enveloping her, feeling a deep sense of solace wash over her, bathed in its shimmery essence

Tears welled up in her eyes, glistened with emotion as she stood beneath its brilliance, and bathed in its pearly tint

She softly shimmered in the radiant glow as the celestial body's warmth washed over her and merged with her heart's tenderness, stirring emotions within her

Her delicate and glittering tears cascaded down her cheeks, transforming into an iridescent stream that sparkled like a crystalline elixir, reflecting the myriad colors of the cosmos

This opalescent mirror mingled with the myriad coruscant stars above, each twinkling in harmony, each tiny pinprick of light twinkling brilliantly, creating a celestial display that sparkled like diamonds scattered across a silvery strand of night

The cascades of light were mesmerizing, and though she was crying, it was not borne of sadness or even sorrow; instead, they flowed in joyful celebration, manifesting her profound happiness; her tears were a testament to her overwhelming happiness, a celebration of the moment that filled her soul with pure, unadulterated joy, and illuminated her spirit as brightly as the stars above

Awakening to the profound connection between the sea and the starlight, one can perceive the ethereal pearly froth dancing upon the silken surface of the waves as they

gracefully embrace the shoreline, mingling with the pristine, snowy sands

Like a celestial artist from the heavens, the starlight bestows its brilliance upon the ocean, transforming each wave into a sparkling tapestry adorned with glittering stars that seem to drift like diamonds scattered upon the surface

In return, the sea offers the starlight a mesmerizing marina, where the waves swell like a velvet curtain, presenting an opulent display of pearlescent billows that rise and fall, forming a stunning exchange between the two realms

The vast, star-studded sky spread like a dazzling tapestry above her, mirrored by the shimmering silvery shore beneath her feet

On the pristine littoral, the opaline hues of the atmosphere above danced with one bathed in the soft glow of the starlight, she radiated an otherworldly beauty; another, casting ethereal reflections across the gentle silver billows that rolled on the horizon

Peyton lifted her gaze to the enchanting hues of the opalescent sky, where the faintest shimmer reflected in her cerulean eyes, igniting them with a delicate effulgence

The gentle breeze caressed her skin like a tender whisper, and her vibrant crimson hair swayed gracefully in the velvety zephyr that whispered secrets of the night, cascading like a silk waterfall and even adding a fiery contrast to the calm serenity around her, enhancing her ethereal presence

With every soft breath radiating a delicate brilliance, her skin glowing with a pearlescent sheen that enhanced her porcelain complexion, casting a soft, heavenly aura around her as though she were a celestial being gracing the earth for a brief moment

The sea again embraced the pearly shore with its gentle, silvery billows rolling in with a soothing rhythm

While the milky froth playfully kissed the immaculate sands

As it receded, it left behind a sparkling strewn tapestry of glittering stars dancing upon and delicately leaves that whispered secrets of the ocean that sparkled like tiny gems in the morning light

She stood on the shimmering littoral, mesmerized by the scene, when suddenly, a flurry of fluorescent butterflies emerged from the air, their wings aglow, signaling to her that the time to depart was drawing near

With a sense of bittersweet longing, she tilted her gaze toward the silvery-white empyrean, she drank in the last glimmers of starlight as they twinkled down upon her; the brilliant shimmer offered her a final and comforting reassuring glow like distant friends bidding her farewell

Though the light of some of the stars had begun to fade, like embers in a dying fire, the bright flicker held a stubborn glow that still persisted, unwavering and clinging to the fleeting moments

As the starlit hour gradually faded, she noted with a wistful heart how the stars dimmed one by one, their light softly retreating into the depths of the night, becoming fainter and fainter by the very heartbeat

Then, she sensed a shift was upon her, a transition leading her into the unknown

Suddenly, an iridescent butterfly flitted towards her, its kaleidoscopic radiance shimmering softly in the twilight, a delicate beacon of change

Out of the gentle dusk, an iridescent butterfly glided gracefully toward her,

its kaleidoscopic hues shimmering with a soft effervescence, it flickered softly in the twilight, its delicate form beckoning her closer

With a serene grace, enchanted, she extended her hand toward the exquisite creature, yearning to touch its ethereal beauty, her touch light as a whisper

Her fingertips brushed against its delicate form, she felt the fragile wings quiver beneath her gentle caress, feeling a delicate connection that seemed to transcend reality

The rhythmic crashing of waves against the shore sang a lullaby while the pearlescent stars, one last time, were lovingly bestowed upon the sands by the sea's milky froth

In an exquisite crescendo, a brilliant cascade of light erupted between them, enveloping her in an ethereal glow that warmed her soul and felt like a gentle embrace from the universe itself

She felt herself being lifted, she was swept away into a dreamlike realm where the enchanting sea and the twinkling starlight coalesced harmoniously, intertwined in a dance of ethereal beauty, intricately woven with a silvery thread that sparkled against the twilight backdrop, creating a tapestry of ethereal beauty transcending reality's boundaries

[circledemptiness]

Beneath the Sails and Stars

Fandom: One Piece (Live Action) Pairing: Buggy the Clown x Reader Rating: Explicit +18 Tags: Bad flirting, oral sex, rough sex, bittersweet ending

✦ Read on AO3

You’ve seen all kinds of pirates come through this tavern. Loud, rowdy, obnoxious. But this one? This one is something else. Buggy the Clown is a walking spectacle. He takes up too much space, talks too loud, his voice booming through the entire tavern, his laughter both infectious and obnoxious. Or: you work at a tavern and meet the Clown Captain, fresh from the seas and seeking a night of indulgence. And tonight? Well, you’re ready to indulge right back.

Tonight, the tavern is packed. 

The air is thick with the dubious smoke of cheap tobacco, loud and boisterous laughter, and the sweet scent of rum-soaked wood. Old metal lanterns cast a golden glow over the otherwise dimly-lit space, their flickering light cutting lively shadows on the walls, draping the room in a warm, comfortable and festive haze.

The patrons are a subtle medley of villagers and travelers; sleazy regulars who drink more than they should, weary wanderers resting for one last night before their next journey, and even some new, nameless faces who seek the tender anonymity of the night to revel, forget, indulge– to overall share a good time.

The island, strategically positioned at the crossroads of major trade routes and nestled between winding canals that connect inland rivers to the open sea, acts as a natural waystation for merchants, sailors and wanderers. 

Thus, the steady flow of ephemeral travelers makes new faces an everyday occurrence, bringing with them a generous share of surreal and at times hardly believable stories, occasional importation of rare and exquisite goods, and precious, interesting memories.

You like it this way. The constant novelty, the occasional thrill of brushing shoulders with ruthless pirates, the vibrant effervescence of a new crowd… This has been your life since birth, and even more so since you started working at the island’s main tavern nearly a decade ago.

Since then, you've become a familiar face to both islanders and travelers alike. Regulars ask for you by name, and it’s not uncommon for you to end your evenings playing cards with patrons; be they neighbors, Marine officers, or dangerous pirates. You treat them all the same, your sharp wit and easy charm weaving an unspoken truce between these walls, if only for a night.

Tonight, the crowd is mostly local islanders, merchants from the West Road who have claimed the tavern as their own, along with a few quiet, exhausted travelers you don’t recognize. Still, the atmosphere is just as lively; the canorous chants, the clinking of glasses, and spirited conversation fill your heart with a sense of familiar comfort.

You weave between tables, dodging grabby hands and serving drinks, your shift as routine yet unpredictable as ever. Each night delivers its share of playful banter, witty exchanges, and the occasional pearl of tavern wisdom. Tonight is no different.

Then, you hear them, before you see them. Loud voices– many of them. A group. Travelers, for sure. Pirates, maybe. Their raucous cheers echo in the distance, victorious songs carrying through the night. And then, the doors swing open, and you have your answer.

You recognize them instantly– of course you do, who wouldn’t, in this part of the ocean? Colorful, flamboyant, always impeccably dressed as if ready to step on stage, start a show. This is Captain Buggy the Clown and his Freaks.

You’ve never seen him in the flesh before, but you’ve heard the stories from passing merchants and seasoned sailors alike; he’s erratic and explosive, a coward and a braggart. “And what a nose!” You smirk internally, deciding that the infamous ruby-painted extremity at the center of his face isn’t as ridiculous as the rumors made it seem– it’s quite endearing, actually. 

Your gaze follows the Clown Captain’s theatrical entrance, your curiosity piqued as his crew floods the tavern, occupying space as if the establishment were built solely for them, not a single care for their surroundings. Other patrons watch warily, perplexed, their amusement tinged with caution. Ah, pirates…

With a grand, dramatic sweep of his hand, the flamboyant Captain roars to no one in particular, his attention still half on his crew.

“Bartender! Keep the rum flowing! I wanna see these tables drowning in booze! And the rest of you– drink up, my freaks! We’ve fought, we’ve bled, and now we celebrate! Drink up ‘til we can’t stand!” His voice is triumphant, theatrical, and far too loud, making you arch a brow. But you exhale,  a roll of the eyes punctuating your thoughts as you carry pints and bottles galore, his crew cheering with near-religious fervor.

You’ve seen all kinds of pirates come through this tavern. Loud, rowdy, obnoxious. But this one? This one is something else. Buggy the Clown is a walking spectacle. He takes up too much space, talks too loud, his voice booming through the entire tavern, his laughter both infectious and obnoxious.

You serve the crew as discreetly as possible, maneuvering through the mass of eccentric silhouettes while their captain gloats incessantly about whatever treasure they found, whatever fight they won– you’re not sure which anymore.

But then, the second he spots you filling his glass, his eyes light up like he’s just found a rare treasure. You feel the telltale sensation of fingers grazing your waist, and you open wide, owlish eyes before instinct kicks in; you swat his hand away, your sharp frown only amusing him. He grins; wide, cocky, shameless, raising both hands, palms open in mock surrender.

“Well, helloooo, gorgeous.” He whistles low, his voice dripping with amusement as he gives you a slow, unsubtle once-over. “What’s a pretty thing like you doin’ in a dump like this?” 

You roll your eyes, leaning against the table, giving him one of your signature looks, pursing your lips like a playful siren.

"I'm sorry, Captain," your voice drops into a sultry purr, dragging out the title in a way that makes his grin stretch wider. "But I don’t make it a habit to fuck my patrons. Believe me, I’m just as disappointed as you are." Your tone oozes mockery, the sarcasm so thick it's practically choking him. He barks out a laugh, the sound a medley of amusement and disbelief. 

Then, before you can turn away, the asshole snakes an arm around your waist, pulling you effortlessly onto his lap.

“You got a real nice mouth, sweetheart. Bet I could give you somethin’ better to do with it than talkin’ back.” His voice is low, velvet and indecent, and you swear you could slap his self-satisfied smirk from his painted face.

There’s almost nothing more annoying than a pirate. Except maybe a pirate with heavy balls, who’s just spent Gods only know how long fucking his own fist and is now desperate to shove his cock into something that isn't his hand for a change. And this clown? Yeah, he’s been at sea way too long, flirting like a man who’s never heard the word no in his entire life, clearly determined to bust a load or several before he sails off again.

And for the most part, you ignore him; because, please, you’ve dealt with cocky pirates before. And though you can’t deny his charm, or those damnably beautiful pale eyes, you still have enough dignity to resist. 

Not much, mind you. But enough.

So when his lips ghost over the shell of your ear, you roll your eyes, hard. You push him away with an exaggerated sigh, cocking a brow at his smug face, his grin more wolfish than man, before slipping off his lap. He exhales dramatically, still amused, still committed to charm you– well, enough to bed you, anyway.

“C’mon, sweetheart. Let me ruin you a little. Just enough that you’ll never be satisfied by anyone else.” His purr follows you as you return to your work, tending to the other patrons, but the ghost of his touch around your waist lingers, an unshakable warmth that makes you shiver.

The rest of the night is the same heated tango; a dance of proximity and defiance. You serve him and his crew; he whispers filth in your ear. His fingers wander where they shouldn’t, and when you bat them away, he only chuckles, unbothered, as if all of this is an elaborate seduction rather than a blatant display of arrogance.

But, most peculiarly, as the night progresses, something in you shifts. Each time his breath caresses the nape of your neck, each time his hands brush against your thigh, his touch lingering just a second too long, you feel your resolve slip, letting his bizarre charisma win you over. There’s something magnetic about him; maybe it’s his striking eyes, maybe it’s his colorful personality. You’re not sure. 

But your stern façade softens, and you allow him to court you. Your smile turns feline, and if you sway your hips just a little too much when leaning over to serve patrons… well, that’s nobody’s business but yours.

By the time the first light of dawn punctures the sky, the tavern has emptied, save for a few stragglers. Buggy grows more comfortable, caressing your lower back each time you fill his glass, until his hand not so subtly trails lower, brushing against the curve of your ass. But you don’t move away. And he knows exactly what that means.

The last few members of his crew don’t pay attention to the little game of silent courting their captain is playing with you, exchanging knowing looks and sultry smiles.

“Y’know, sweetheart, you keep lookin’ at me like that, I’m gonna start thinkin’ you wanna fuck me,” he whispers with the arrogance of a man who hasn’t just spent literally hours unsuccessfully trying to get in your pants. You scoff playfully in response.

You don’t answer immediately, chewing on your bottom lip as you debate with yourself, wondering where the dignity you thought you had has gone. And, well, your shift is over, after all…

You tilt your hips, leaning against his table, fingertips tracing the arm wrapped around you as you finally make up your mind.

“You talk a big game, Buggy. Think you can back it up?”

The clown grins, triumph clear on his face, and for a fleeting moment, there’s a small, minuscule part of you that wonders if you’ve just made a mistake. But that thought is quickly drowned out by the sheer anticipation and excitement; you haven’t had a good lay in too long, and even though pirates are the most unpredictable lovers, you’re more than willing to find out what this one has to offer.

His hand finds the swell of your ass, squeezing possessively before he stands in one swift motion.

“Oh, sweetheart,” he breathes, grinning like the devil himself. “You just made my whole goddamn night.”

With a vague gesture of the hand, he signals his departure to his crew, his arm snaking around your waist as he leads you out of the tavern, moving with the eager and excited stride of a starving man.

After a brief walk, you reach his impressive ship, an extension of his own flamboyant personality. The vessel is as eccentric as its captain, adorned with gaudy colors and theatrical embellishments, a traveling circus in every sense. Even at this late hour, some of his crew remain on deck, reveling in their hard-earned break from the sea, the air thick with laughter, music, and the lingering scent of spiced rum.

Your gaze roves over the multitude of details, eyes wide with intrigue, an excited heartbeat drumming in your chest. Buggy catches the spark of admiration flickering across your face, and his chest puffs out with pride, a self-satisfied grin curling his lips.

“Yeah, she’s a beaut, isn’t she?” he says, voice laced with smug amusement. He winks, flashing a grin that’s all mischief and bravado. “And you haven’t even seen the best part yet.”

His hand finds your waist again; an anchor, a claim, as he guides you toward his quarters.

The moment the door swings shut behind you, the air shifts. A charged silence lingers for only a heartbeat before Buggy presses against you, flush and possessive. His hands map your curves with greedy urgency, his mouth descending on the sensitive skin of your neck. His touch is heated, hungry, and his breath is a mix of rum and something distinctly him; copper, cannon powder, something heady enough to make your head spin.

A surprised gasp escapes you as his fingers cup your breast, and the contact jolts you from your momentary daze. Instinct takes over.

You twist in his grasp, pushing him back until he hits the door with a solid thud, his wide eyes flashing with something between amusement and exhilaration. Then, without hesitation, you crash your mouth onto his.

The kiss is nothing short of feverish. Sloppy, desperate, all tongue and teeth; the dance of two people touch-starved enough to skip the pleasantries. There’s no decorum, no soft, lingering prelude; only raw, unrestrained hunger.

He tastes of the night; spiced rum, the grease of his makeup, the salt of long days at sea. Your hands roam, clutching, tugging, pulling him closer; closer still, until there’s no space left between your bodies, just heat and friction, the pounding rhythm of your hearts, and the unmistakable press of his growing length stuttering back to life against you.

He finally breaks the kiss, pulling back just enough for you to take in his swollen lips, the smeared remnants of his red paint now a faint whisper against his skin. A flicker of curiosity crosses your mind; just how much of that grease now stains your own face?

“Shoulda just climbed into my lap hours ago, sweetheart. Woulda saved us both some time,” he drawls, voice thick with smug satisfaction.

You roll your eyes, but the moment is short-lived. With a dramatic flourish, he tosses his tricorn hat aside, lets his coat fall to the floor, and in the dim candlelight, you catch the tantalizing ripple of the muscles of his arms rolling beneath his skin.

Then, before you can react, he crouches in a swift, fluid motion, grips your thighs with ease, and in one effortless motion, hoists you up over his shoulder as if you weigh nothing at all, and–

Oh. Oh, fuck.

Maybe you should have climbed into his lap hours ago.

Your stomach flips as you marvel at the sheer, raw strength he possesses, your breath hitching slightly at the sudden change in position. He carries you like a prize, his grip firm, his steps confident as he strides across the room. Then, just as unceremoniously, he tosses you onto his bed.

The mattress isn’t the most comfortable you’ve ever felt, but the scent, his scent, engulfs you. That wild, almost beastly musk, the remnants of sweat and grease and salt; it’s intoxicating, dizzying, stirring something primal deep in your core.

And thank the Gods, he’s just as desperate as you are.

With a feline smile curving your lips, you waste no time, shimmying out of your pants as Buggy’s mouth descends, pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses along the column of your throat, trailing down your sternum; meanwhile, his hands are impatient, helping you remove your shirt (well, nearly tearing it apart, really). When his lips close around a stiffened nipple, his tongue flicking, his teeth grazing just enough to make you arch, the sound that escapes you is utterly shameless, nothing short of undignified.

Heat licks behind your navel, nerves tightening with every teasing pull of his mouth, every possessive squeeze of his fingers kneading the softness of your breast. His teeth nip, pull, tug at your flushed nubs, then, before you can fully process the medley of sensations flooding your body, his hand slips between your legs, fingers dipping beneath your underwear in a swift, urgent motion.

A strangled moan catches in your throat as his calloused fingers part your folds, grazing against your slick heat. Instinctively, your hands clutch at his tunic, yanking at the fabric until it falls open, giving you the freedom to roam over the firm, heated skin beneath. He hums in approval, his hips grinding against you, and already, you can feel yourself growing wetter, desire pooling down the cleft of your ass.

“I knew you wanted me the second I laid eyes on you,” he growls against your pulse point, nipping at the sensitive skin as his fingers tease your entrance. You want to scoff at his arrogance, but the way you’re already rocking into his touch, chasing the friction, begging him wordlessly, makes denial impossible.

Then, suddenly, he withdraws, leaving you gasping at the loss. You barely have time to protest before he captures your lips in a searing kiss, his hands cradling your face, tilting your head just so before guiding you upward, urging you onto your knees.

“Fuck– Gimme your throat, sweetheart,” he rasps, his voice thick with need. “Been dying to feel your pretty mouth on me all damn night.”

Buggy practically reeks of despair, his breath coming out in uneven huffs as his fingers tangle in your hair, gripping just enough to send a thrill down your spine. He stands at the foot of the bed, undoing his belt with desperate efficiency, already working his slacks open as you kneel before him, watching with half-lidded eyes, lips pursed in a siren’s smile.

The sight alone makes your mouth water, hunger curling deep in your belly as your hands slide up his thighs, slow and teasing. Your lips follow, pressing heated kisses to the taut expanse of his stomach, feeling the way his muscles tense beneath your touch. He shudders, a delicious tremor rolling through him, and when he finally frees himself, the sheer anticipation has you humming in sinful appreciation.

Your fingers trace his length, teasing, barely touching, savoring the way his cock twitches under your featherlight strokes. A choked groan escapes him, his grip in your hair tightening ever so slightly as if to ground himself.

“Yeah? Like what you see?” he rasps, the arrogance in his voice unshaken despite how clearly wrecked he already is.

You chuckle, rolling your eyes at his insatiable bravado, but it only makes him all the more endearing. You stroke him leisurely, reveling in the way his breath stutters, the low moans spilling from his lips, each one raw and unguarded. His hips jerk subtly, chasing the friction, his restraint barely hanging by a thread. The longer you make him wait, the more his composure frays. Until at last, with a wicked smile, you decide to put him out of his misery.

You roll the tip of your tongue along his length, slow and deliberate, tasting the heat of him as you watch his expression shift; lips parted, brows furrowing, his whole body tensing with pleasure. He’s beautiful like that, speechless, a light flush tinting his cheekbones. A low, desperate groan rumbles from his throat, as if all the tension of the night is finally given release, and you revel in the power of it. He tastes as strongly as you imagined, thick with desire, the salt of his sweat mixing with something uniquely him, and it only makes you hungrier.

You swirl your tongue around the flushed tip, teasing him with kitten licks, savoring the way his thighs tremble beneath your hands. Then, with deliberate slowness, you swallow him down, centimetre by centimetre, until the head of his cock presses against the back of your throat. His whole body jolts, his fingers tightening in your hair, a ragged curse spilling from his lips as you hold him there, reveling in the weight of him, the way he throbs against your tongue.

“That’s it– oh fuck, just like that…” he groans, voice ragged, watching with heavy-lidded eyes as you take him deeper, centimetre by centimetre, stretching your lips around his thick length. His cock fills your throat beautifully, the salty musk of him coating your tongue as you swallow greedily, drinking down the precum that beads at his swollen tip. It’s intoxicating, the weight of him on your tongue, the way his breath stutters each time you push yourself further, testing your limits just to hear him unravel.

His fingers tangle in your hair, tightening at the roots as he follows your movements, fucking your throat gently, guiding you into a slow, ruinous rhythm. Your head bobs eagerly, your throat clenching around him each time he presses deeper, and the way he groans, all rough and wrecked, makes slick pool between your thighs. His hips jerk forward, chasing the heat of your mouth, until he’s buried to the hilt, his heavy balls flush against your chin, stretching your jaw deliciously.

“Fuuuck, you’re perfect,” he rasps, jaw slack, his head tilting back just slightly, though his pale eyes never leave you; watching, drinking in the sight of you choking so prettily on his cock. He looks devastating like this, sweat gleaming along the ridges of his muscles, his breath ragged, his belly tensing every time your tongue flicks over the thick vein running along his shaft.

When you cup his balls, rolling them in your palm with practiced ease, the sound that rips from his throat is downright sinful; a strangled, broken moan that sends a vicious throb straight to your core, makes your cunt spasm and flutter over nothing. Your thighs clench, desperate for friction, but right now, you’re more fixated on reducing him to the mess you know he’s about to become.

You pull back slowly, lips sealing around his flushed, leaking tip, suckling just enough to make him twitch against your tongue. A wicked smile tugs at your spit-slick lips as you look up at him, voice sultry and teasing.

“What’s the matter, Captain?” you purr, stroking him lazily, feeling his cock throb in your grip. “You gonna spill down my throat before you even get a chance to feel me wrapped around you?”

Buggy’s expression shifts; half amusement, half challenge, his grin sharp, breath hitching as his fingers tighten in your hair.

“Oh, sweetheart,” he chuckles darkly, rolling his hips just enough to graze your lips with the thick head of his cock. “That mouth of yours is dangerous.” His thumb traces your swollen bottom lip before pressing inside, watching as you suck it between your teeth.

Then, with a smirk, he adds, “But if you think I’m gonna waste a drop anywhere but inside that tight little cunt, you’ve got another thing coming.”

Buggy doesn’t waste a second. With a firm grip on your waist, he maneuvers you into position like he’s done this a thousand times before; strong, confident, in control. His calloused hands guide you onto all fours, arching your back just right, presenting yourself to him like a gift he’s about to rip open.

You giggle breathlessly, anticipation buzzing under your skin as you shimmy out of your soaked panties, letting them drop somewhere forgotten. Then, with a wicked little smirk, you reach between your thighs, spreading yourself open for him, letting him see exactly where you need him the most.

Buggy sucks in a sharp breath behind you, and when he exhales, it’s ragged, filled with something animalistic. “Fuck–” he groans, voice thick with hunger. A palm lands heavily on your ass, spreading you wider, making you twitch at the raw exposure. “That’s a real pretty set of holes you got there. Gonna ruin ‘em both– gonna ruin you, beautiful.”

And then he’s on you.

He bends over, dragging the heat of his breath along your spine before burying his face between your legs, tongue flattening against your soaked folds, licking a long, slow stripe from your aching entrance up to your puckered hole. You keen, a strangled moan ripping from your throat as he groans into your cunt, his mouth hot, wet, and insatiable against you.

His tongue works you over like a man starved; lapping up your slick, swirling over your clit before dipping lower, teasing at your fluttering hole, nudging your asshole eagerly. You tremble beneath him, pressing your face into the mattress, gasping at the obscene, wet sounds echoing in the room.

“Goddamn, you taste fucking sweet,” he mutters, voice muffled against your cunt before his tongue pushes inside you, slick and demanding, making you jolt. His hands grip your ass, spreading you open as he devours you, fucking you with his mouth, teasing your rim with slow, taunting licks that send sparks of pleasure straight to your core.

You moan loudly, shamelessly, bucking against his face, desperate for more; more tongue, more friction, more of him. The heat coils tighter in your belly, the tension so deliciously unbearable that you whimper when his fingers find your clit, circling it with just the right pressure to make your knees shake.

But then, without warning, a strong hand presses down against the back of your skull, forcing your cheek flush against the mattress, your breath stuttering at the sheer dominance in the motion.

“Be good for me and stay right here,” he rasps, his voice coarse and dripping with need. “Like the perfect little thing you are.”

The words send a violent shiver down your spine, and before you can even think to respond, his mouth is back on you; suckling and pulling at your folds, wrecking you until all that spills from your lips are choked, incoherent sounds, your body trembling, your eyes rolling back into your skull.

Your orgasm crashes through you like a violent, unforgiving wave, tearing a broken cry from your throat, louder than you meant; louder than you can control. The pleasure blooms inside you, setting every nerve ablaze, white-hot and all-consuming, your body writhing, trembling as wave after devastating wave rolls through you.

Buggy watches you come apart with something damn near ravenous, his tongue carrying you through the high of your orgasm, savoring the way you pulse and clench, shuddering beneath him.

Eventually, you slump forward, boneless, spent, your body a slick, shaking mess against the mattress. Buggy exhales a dramatic breath, wiping his soaked mouth with the back of his hand before leaning over you, his lips ghosting the shell of your ear, his breath warm and thick with sin.

“So?” he drawls, his voice cocky, playful. “Not half bad, eh?”

You scoff, barely able to catch your breath, a stupid, fucked-out smile tugging at your lips as you nod weakly. He chuckles, low and satisfied, his teeth grazing your pulse point before his hands grip your waist. Firm, possessive.

And then you feel it. His cock, hot and heavy, pressing against the slick cleft of your ass, smearing precum and the remnants of your own release as he ruts lazily against you. The sensation alone makes your breath hitch, makes your already overstimulated body stir back to life, your cunt fluttering in anticipation.

“Wanna see what else I can do?” he whispers, voice dark, laced with something entirely sinful.

You can’t even answer. Not with words. Instead, you bite your lip, eyes fluttering shut as your heart pounds wildly in your chest. 

You nod.

That’s all he needs.

Buggy pulls back, kneeling behind you, his fingers digging bruises into your hips as he lines himself up. And then–

With one brutal snap of his hips, he buries himself inside you to the hilt, forcing every thick, throbbing centimetre into your tight, spasming cunt in a single, merciless thrust.

The stretch is instant, searing, toe-curling. Enough to knock the air clean from your lungs, your jaw dropping in a silent, shattered moan. Buggy growls; a deep, guttural noise from somewhere in his chest, as your walls squeeze around him, sucking him in greedily, clamping down like a vice.

“Holy fuck, sweetheart,” he grits out, voice strained, hands tightening on your waist. “You’re fucking squeezing me.”

He doesn’t give you time to adjust. Buggy’s already moving, already pulling out only to slam right back in, making your entire body jolt forward from the sheer force of it. And then he does it again. And again. Harder. Rougher. His pace brutal and unforgiving, splitting you open around his cock, using you like you’re his to take apart.

And, tonight? You are.

Buggy ruins you; his pace is relentless, merciless, each thrust driving so deep you swear he’s splitting you in half. The sound of skin slapping against skin fills the cabin, filthy and wet, each snap of his hips punching ragged moans out of you, reducing you to nothing but a shaking, gasping mess beneath him.

And fuck, does he love it.

“Look at you,” he growls, voice thick with satisfaction as he watches you take it, as he watches your ass bounce against his abdomen with every brutal thrust. “All dumb and fucked-out already? Thought you had more fight in ya, sweetheart.”

You want to talk back, you really do, but the way he’s stretching you, hitting that devastating spot over and over, makes it impossible. Your mouth is open, but all that spills out are wrecked, incoherent moans, drool pooling at the corners of your lips as you cling to the mattress for dear life.

He chuckles. Excited. Proud.

Then, a strong hand fists your hair, yanking your head up, forcing you to arch. His other hand snakes beneath you, fingers dipping between your thighs to find your aching, swollen clit, rolling it between calloused fingertips. The sensations, his cock pounding into you, his fingers rubbing merciless circles over your sensitive bud, send violent pleasure crashing through you.

Your thighs shake. Your arms give out. Your body surrenders.

“Ohhh, fuck yeah,” Buggy groans, his grip tightening, his voice pure, unfiltered sin. “You love this, don’t you? Gettin’ fucked like a goddamn whore– fuck, taking me so fucking good, sweetheart.”

He’s feral. His breathing ragged, sweat slicking his skin, his fingers bruising your waist as he uses you, wrecks you. He watches his cock disappear into your dripping, swollen cunt over and over, watches the way you clench around him, sucking him in greedily.

Buggy slams into you with a vicious growl, deeper, harder, his rhythm breaking as he chases his own high, as he fucks you like he owns you, like he’ll never get enough.

“Gonna –fuck– gonna cum so deep inside this pretty cunt,” he groans, voice wrecked, hands tightening their grip as his thrusts grow desperate, sloppy.

Your entire body stiffens, teetering dangerously at the edge of another devastating orgasm, and the moment he presses down on your clit, rubbing feverishly, you scream.

Your orgasm crashes inside you with bone-shaking force, your entire body convulsing, spasming, milking his cock for all he’s worth. Your vision whites out, pleasure scorching through every nerve as you sob, wail, your voice raw and ragged.

And that, that is what does it for him.

Buggy bottoms out deeply, his hips stuttering as a vicious groan rips from his throat, and then you feel it, feel him, filling you, spilling thick, hot ropes of cum inside you as his whole body shudders against yours. He stays buried to the hilt, panting heavily, hands gripping your waist like a vice, like if he lets go, he might die.

For a long moment, the only sound in the cabin is the two of you catching your breath, the air heavy with sweat, sex, and exhaustion.

A slow, smug chuckle rumbles from his chest, his teeth grazing your shoulder as he kisses your damp skin.

“Yeah,” he pants, voice hoarse, cock still twitching inside you. “You’re fuckin’ mine now, sweetheart.”

As the night fades into morning, the cabin is bathed in the warm light of the rising sun, casting a soft glow over the two of you tangled together. Buggy lies next to you, his chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm, his arm draped lazily over your waist. The heat of the night has subsided, leaving behind a strange comfort in its wake. You both rest in silence now, the passion of earlier replaced by something quieter, something that doesn’t need words. 

For the first time, you exchange a glance that isn’t full of fire or hunger. There’s something softer there now, a quiet acknowledgment that lingers between you. He looks at you with a hint of something you don’t quite understand, but it’s not arrogance or bravado this time. It’s... gentler. His fingers graze the back of your hand, just a fleeting touch, but it speaks volumes. In that moment, the rawness of the night before becomes something almost tender.

Eventually, you both drift into a light sleep, the kind that comes when you’re wrapped in warmth, in a moment of unexpected peace.

When you wake, he’s already up, getting dressed. The reality of it hits you. This was always going to be temporary. He’s a pirate, a wanderer, and you knew the moment you stepped aboard that his departure was inevitable.

Still, as you watch him gather his things, there’s no bitterness, no regret. Just a quiet, lingering sense of loss, one you can’t quite place.

"You gonna miss me, sweetheart?" Buggy’s voice is teasing, but there's a certain softness to it now, a little more genuine than before.

You sit up, wrapping the blanket around your shoulders, and give him a soft smile. 

"I think I will," you admit, the words simple but true. You’ll miss him, the chaos, the madness, the passion. But more than that, you’ll miss the unexpected comfort of the night you shared.

He grins, that familiar, cocky smile making its way back. “Well, if you ever need another ride, you know where to find me.”

A couple of weeks later, as you stare at his ship sailing away, you realize that, no, there’s no regret. But the quiet ache of missing him settles deep in your chest, the knowledge that something, someone, was here, and now they’re gone.

You don’t know if you’ll ever see him again. But for now, you can’t help but smile, knowing that for one brief, chaotic night, you were his.

And he, yours.

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[make1wish]

sequal of Sylus: Dragon’s Bride

🔞NSFW, noncon

Dragon Sylus X Princess Reader

Setting: I am a sacrificed princess. The kingdom is shrouded in the shadow of the dragon, Sylus. For the safety of my people, I was offered to the dragon and became his bride.

The dragon's lair was a vast cathedral of stone, its walls adorned with crystalline formations that caught and scattered the warm light from scattered braziers. The air held an otherworldly warmth, a stark contrast to the bitter cold of the mountain outside. My wedding dress whispered against the smooth stone floor as I stood, rigid with tension, in what appeared to be Sylus's private chambers.

The space was a curious blend of draconic grandeur and human comfort - massive pillars of carved stone rose to the distant ceiling, while plush furnishings and rich tapestries softened the cavern's harsh lines. A massive bed dominated one alcove, its sheets of midnight silk making my heart stutter with anticipation and dread.

"Are you admiring your new home, little bride?" Sylus's voice came from behind me, smooth as aged wine and just as intoxicating. I refused to turn, though I could feel his presence like a physical weight against my skin. His footsteps were deliberately slow as he circled me, each one echoing in the vast space.

When he came into view, my breath caught despite myself. In his human form, he was devastatingly beautiful - tall and powerful, with white hair that seemed to capture the light of the braziers. The red and black armor that partially covered his form couldn't hide his inhuman grace, and the scales that glinted at his throat and chest served as a reminder of his true nature. His blood-red eyes fixed on me with predatory intensity.

"Such defiance," he murmured, reaching out to trace one finger along my jaw. I jerked away from his touch, and his smile grew darker. "Your people dressed you beautifully for me. Like a pearl wrapped in silk, just waiting to be unwrapped."

"I'm here because I have to be," I spat, hating how my voice trembled. "Because you threatened my kingdom. Don't pretend this is anything else."

Sylus laughed, the sound rich and dangerous. "Oh, my sweet little sacrifice, I don't need to pretend." He moved closer, and I found myself backing away until I hit one of the stone pillars. He placed one hand beside my head, effectively caging me. "Your hatred is as intoxicating as your fear. But by the end of this night, I'll have you begging for my touch."

The ruby embedded in his chest pulsed with an inner light, matching the hungry glow in his eyes. His other hand came up to toy with the laces of my bodice, and I could feel the deadly sharp tips of his claws against the fabric. "Shall we begin our wedding night, my unwilling bride?"

His question hung in the air between us, heavy with promise and threat. I gathered my courage and met his blood-red gaze. "You may have forced this marriage, but you cannot force my heart."

Sylus's laugh was low and dark as he leaned closer, his breath ghosting across my skin. "Your heart?" His clawed hand moved from my bodice to rest over my rapidly beating heart. "Your heart betrays you, little bride. It races at my touch, even as you speak of defiance."

I tried to suppress a shiver as his other hand traced the curve of my neck. "That's fear, nothing more."

"Is it?" He pressed closer, his armored chest barely brushing against mine. The ruby embedded there pulsed with a hypnotic rhythm. "Then why do you lean into my touch even as you claim to hate it?"

To my horror, he was right - my body had unconsciously arched toward his warmth. I forced myself to straighten, pressing back against the cold stone pillar. "I am here to save my kingdom. Nothing more."

"Such nobility," he purred, his claws now trailing down my arm, leaving goosebumps in their wake. "Such sacrifice. But tell me, my unwilling bride, did you never dream of this? In the darkest hours of the night, did you never imagine what it would be like to be claimed by a dragon?"

His words stirred something deep within me, a forbidden fantasy I'd buried beneath layers of duty and propriety. As if sensing my momentary weakness, Sylus dipped his head to my neck, not quite touching but letting me feel the heat of his breath. "Your pulse quickens, little one. Is it still just fear?"

"Stop," I whispered, but the word lacked conviction. His proximity was intoxicating, the warmth radiating from his body making my head spin. The ruby in his chest pulsed faster, matching the frantic beating of my heart.

"Why should I stop?" His lips brushed my ear, sending electric shivers down my spine. "When every tremor of your body begs me to continue?" His hand at my waist tightened possessively. "You may have come here as a sacrifice, but I intend to make you my true bride. By the time this night is over, you'll understand exactly what that means."

The threat - or was it a promise? - in his words made my knees weak. I could feel my resistance crumbling under the assault of his presence, his touch, his overwhelming dominance. Yet some part of me still fought, even as another part yearned to surrender.

Sensing my internal struggle, Sylus's approach shifted, becoming unexpectedly gentle. His clawed hand moved from my waist to my back, drawing slow, soothing circles that made me shiver despite myself. The ruby in his chest pulsed with a softer light now, casting a warm glow between our bodies.

"Such tension," he murmured, his lips brushing against my temple. "Let me show you how a dragon treats his treasure." His other hand came up to cup my face, tilting it toward his. The gesture was surprisingly tender, though his grip remained firm enough to prevent me from turning away.

My breath caught as he leaned in, his lips hovering just above mine. "I can be gentle," he whispered, his thumb tracing my lower lip. "When my bride deserves it." The contrast between his words and his touch sent conflicting signals through my body. Each caress was calculated to draw a response, and to my shame, I found myself responding.

His hand at my back slid lower, pressing me closer to him. The scales scattered across his chest were smooth and warm against my skin where my bodice dipped low. A small gasp escaped me as he finally closed the distance, his lips capturing mine in a kiss that was surprisingly soft.

But the gentleness didn't last. As I unconsciously melted into the kiss, his grip tightened, and his tongue swept into my mouth, claiming it with draconic possession. The hand at my face slid into my hair, gripping it firmly as he deepened the kiss, drawing a muffled moan from my throat.

"There," he growled against my lips, "there's my true bride." His mouth moved to my neck, alternating between gentle kisses and sharp nips that made me arch against him. The ruby's pulsing grew stronger, matching the rhythm of my racing heart.

His claws made quick work of my bodice laces, the sharp tips occasionally grazing my skin and making me gasp. "Every sound you make," he murmured against my throat, "every shiver, every reluctant moan - they all belong to me now."

I wanted to deny it, to maintain my resistance, but my body betrayed me. Each touch sent sparks of pleasure through my system, making me tremble in his grasp. His hand slipped inside my loosened bodice, scales on his wrist scratching deliciously against my sensitive skin.

"Feel how your body welcomes my touch?" His voice was dark honey in my ear as his thumb brushed across my hardened nipple. "Your pride may resist, but your flesh knows its master." His other hand gripped my hip, pulling me firmly against him. "Shall I show you more of what it means to be a dragon's bride?

His question ignited something primal within me, and my last threads of resistance began to unravel. Sylus sensed the change, a low growl of satisfaction rumbling in his chest as he lifted me effortlessly, carrying me to the massive bed. The silk sheets were cool against my heated skin as he laid me down, his powerful form looming over me.

"Beautiful," he murmured, his clawed hands making quick work of what remained of my wedding dress. The ruby in his chest pulsed with an intense crimson light, casting shadows that danced across our skin. His armor seemed to melt away at his will, revealing more of his scaled flesh beneath.

His touch was everywhere at once - gentle yet demanding, careful yet possessive. Each brush of his fingers left trails of fire on my skin, drawing gasps and moans I couldn't suppress. The scales scattered across his chest scraped deliciously against my sensitive breasts as he leaned down to capture my lips in a searing kiss.

"Let me hear you," he commanded, his voice thick with desire as his mouth traced a burning path down my neck. His tongue flicked out, tasting my skin, and I could feel the inhuman heat of it. "Let me hear how much you want this."

My back arched as his hand slid between my thighs, finding me already wet and ready. His pleased growl vibrated against my breast as he took a nipple into his mouth, the careful scrape of his fangs sending jolts of pleasure through my body.

"So responsive," he purred, his fingers working me with expert precision. "So perfect." His other hand gripped my hip, holding me still as I writhed beneath him. The ruby's pulsing matched the rhythm of his movements, creating a hypnotic symphony of pleasure.

(Full smut in the link below! Plz come and support me 🥺 luv y’all)

[quinnophile]

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐇𝐔𝐍𝐓 𝐅𝐎𝐑 𝐒𝐀𝐋𝐕𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍 - 𝐕𝐈

pairing. emperor Geta x original character

synopsis. The wedding day is upon her, and Diana has a lot more to worry about than marrying a stranger.

warnings. mdni/18+, non-graphic smut, (general) violence, misogyny, infidelity, forced proximity, discussions of producing an heir, mental/physical abuse, forced marriage

word count. 6.5K

notes. My soft spot for Caracalla is really fucking obvious in this chapter

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 7

The morning sun streamed through the open archways, bathing the marble floors in soft golden light. The air was warm, carrying the scent of fresh lavender and citrus from the gardens below. Diana sat still as gentle hands worked over her, warm water cascading down her skin. She had been bathed before, of course, but never like this—never with oils so rich, never with rose petals scattered across the surface like offerings to a goddess.

The women from the previous night flitted about her, their voices a constant melody of chatter and laughter. They bustled with energy, lacing fine silks, smoothing out folds, fastening pins into her braided hair.

Diana responded when she could, offering small smiles and nods, but her mind was far away.

One woman, a little younger than the rest, noticed. She placed a comforting hand on Diana’s shoulder. "It is a lot to take in," she said softly. "But you are a vision, my lady. Rome will adore you."

Diana offered a small, grateful smile. "Thank you."

The woman’s praise lingered in the air as the doors swung open. Several guards stepped inside, carrying ornate boxes—gifts from her soon-to-be husband.

Gasps of delight filled the room as the boxes were opened, revealing an abundance of golden jewellery—thick cuffs inlaid with rubies, delicate chains of opals, rings glittering with deep emeralds. The women eagerly adorned Diana, piece by piece, until she felt the weight of the gold building upon her like an unspoken burden. Each necklace draped across her collar, each gem carefully placed, only added to the growing pressure, as if she were being anchored to her fate. When they fastened the bracelets around her wrists—one etched with the blazing sun, the other with the pale glow of the moon, symbols of the gods who watched over Rome—she could not shake the feeling that they were not ornaments, but shackles. 

Finally, the kind woman lifted a mirror, its handle embedded with mother-of-pearl. Diana hesitated before taking it. She had expected to see a stranger staring back at her. But as the flickering light caught the gold, casting a soft glow across her skin, she looked... regal.

For the first time since arriving, a sliver of confidence settled within her.

Then, the doors opened again.

Lucilla entered, her face pale, her hands gripping the fabric of her dress.

Diana straightened. Something was wrong.

"Leave us," she commanded. The women hesitated, looking to one another. They had spent the morning fussing over her, treating her as if she were a precious doll to be adorned and displayed. But now, at her order, they obeyed.

Once the doors shut, she turned back to Lucilla. "What is it?"

Lucilla stepped closer, lowering her voice. "You must stay calm."

The warning only made her heart pound harder. "Lucilla."

She hesitated before exhaling shakily. "Acacius will not be at the wedding."

Diana blinked. "What?"

“There has been an arrangement.” Lucilla took another step forward, her words heavy with hidden meaning. ”He has been sent back to war."

The words struck Diana like a blow. Her breath caught, her hands curled into fists against her lap. “No, this must be a mistake. Surely-”

"It is already done."

The air in the room felt too thick. Her heartbeat roared in her ears. "He wouldn't leave me," she whispered.

Lucilla grasped her hands tightly. "He did not choose this. You know that."

Diana's breath came faster, panic creeping up her spine. He had promised—he had promised he would be here. That no matter what, he would stand by her side. And then, the reason for it became obvious.

"They did this on purpose," she muttered, her voice shaking with anger.

Lucilla squeezed her hands. "Diana, listen to me. You must not let them see you break. You are stronger than them. Stronger than all of them."

Diana closed her eyes, swallowing against the lump in her throat. When she opened them again, they burned. “Why does it feel like we keep losing?"

Lucilla said nothing. Instead, she reached inside the folds of her cloak, withdrawing a package wrapped in fine cloth. "He had wished to pass this on to you himself."

Diana’s hands trembled as she took it. Slowly, she unwrapped the fabric, revealing a letter and something heavier—a large, handcrafted book.

She recognised the worn leather of its cover.

Her breath hitched.

Fingers shaking, she unfolded the letter first.

My dearest Diana,

By the time you read this, you will already be adorned in gold, standing at the threshold of a life neither of us wished for, but one that you must now claim as your own.

I had thought hoped that I would be there, standing amongst the crowd, watching as you walked forward with all the grace and fire that has always set you apart. But fate is unkind, and what I hope for is not to be. It is not my place to question the powers that be, and yet, my heart aches knowing that when you turn to search for me, I will not be there.

But, my Diana, know this: I have never been prouder of you than I am in this moment. I have seen you stand in the face of fear, of duty, of expectation—and never once have you faltered. You have proven yourself to be strong in the most desperate of times. And now, when all eyes are upon you, I know you will hold your head high, just as you always have.

I cannot offer you my hand in these next steps, but I can give you something else. Something that belongs to you, and always will has.

Your mother made this for you, long ago. She wanted you to have it when you were ready, though I doubt she imagined it would be on a day such as this. Still, I know she would have alway wished for you to carry a piece of her. To remind you of who you are, and where you come from.

No matter what happens, Diana, do not forget that. You are not simply the woman they dress in gold and veil in silk. You are not merely the bride of an emperor. You are the daughter of a woman who loved you beyond all things. And you are the light of a man who would move the heavens for you if only he had the power.

If you ever doubt yourself, think of me; think of the quiet nights we spoke of the stars beneath the cypress trees, of the lazy afternoons spent chasing fireflies, of the laughter we shared when it felt like the world was still ours… and know that wherever I am, I am always thinking of you.

With all that I am,

Your loving father

Diana pressed the letter to her chest, as if she could hold her father through the ink and parchment alone.

Lucilla knelt beside her. "Look inside," she murmured.

Diana carefully opened the book, her breath catching as she flipped through the pages.

There were sketches—her mother’s hands, her smile, the flowers she used to weave into Diana’s hair. Alongside them were notes, recounting days long past. They were memories her mother had recorded, small moments Diana barely remembered but now felt as if they had been returned to her.

Interwoven with them were tales of gods and goddesses, the stories her mother had whispered to her as a child. Words of strength, of defiance, of love that endured across lifetimes.

Then, pressed between the pages, she found more flowers. Some were delicate, their petals fragile with time. But one stood apart—the edges crinkled but its colour still rich.

Her mother’s favourite.

Diana exhaled shakily. “Will you help me?”

Lucilla smiled softly, taking the flower that she had plucked from the pages, and carefully tucking it into a delicate braid in Diana’s hair.

As Diana closed the book, something slipped free—a small parchment, fluttering to the ground.

She bent to pick it up, but a knock at the door startled her. The kind woman from before peeked her head in.

"My lady," she said gently. "It is time."

Diana glanced at the parchment in her hands, then quickly slipped it back into the book. She handed it to Lucilla. "Keep this safe for me. Until I can hold it again."

Lucilla clutched it to her chest. "I will."

Diana took one last breath. Then, she rose, and stepped forward into the unknown.

———

The temple was silent, save for the flickering of torch flames and the murmurs of priests preparing for the ceremony. Outside, the streets of Rome pulsed with celebration—laughter and song filling the air as the empire rejoiced. But within the grand temple, only two voices stirred.

"You must be still, brother," Geta sighed, adjusting the clasp of his cloak as he watched Caracalla fuss over his tunic for the tenth time. "The entire empire watches today, and you stand here wringing your hands like a boy waiting to be called upon by his tutor."

Caracalla barely heard him, twisting the golden cuffs on his wrists before moving to adjust the laurel crown atop his curls. "Do you think this is too much?" he muttered, glancing at his reflection in one of the polished bronze shields set along the temple wall. "Perhaps I should have worn the heavier laurel—the one our father favoured?"

Geta scoffed, pushing the memories of that man to the back of his mind. "I think if you keep adjusting it, the gods themselves will grow impatient."

Caracalla ignored him, instead turning his attention to Dondas, who sat perched upon a nearby pedestal, watching with a knowing gleam in his eyes. With a flick of his tiny hands, the monkey reached out and tugged at the small silk pouch that held the wedding rings.

"Not for you, friend," Caracalla chuckled, tapping the creature lightly on the head. "These are sacred—meant for Diana and me by divine will. Jupiter himself has blessed this union, Geta, I know it. Do you see how the stars aligned last night? The gods—"

"Yes, yes," Geta interrupted, waving a hand. "The gods themselves have arranged your wedding, I know. Now act like a man Rome can follow, and stop fiddling with everything."

But just as Geta finished speaking, a light clinking sound filled the air.

Both men turned in time to see Dondas holding one of the rings between his tiny fingers. And before either could react, the mischievous creature popped it into his mouth—and swallowed.

For a moment, there was utter silence.

Then—

"No!" Caracalla gasped, lunging forward. "Dondas, you little beast—" He stopped, eyes wide with panic as his hands trembled. "That was my ring. A perfect match to hers—" His breath hitched, his face paling. "She will hate me. The gods will curse me."

Geta rolled his eyes. "The gods will not curse you over a ring-eating monkey."

Caracalla was already unraveling. His hands flew to his curls, tugging slightly. "I cannot go out there empty-handed. It is a symbol! What if she thinks it means something ill? What if the gods—"

"Enough," Geta said firmly, gripping his brother’s shoulders. He held his gaze, steady and grounding. "If a simple ring is all that stands between you and divine favour, then take mine instead."

Caracalla blinked as Geta pulled one of his own rings from his hand—the very one their father had once given him. A thick gold band, marked with the emblem of their lineage. Without hesitation, Geta pressed it into Caracalla’s palm.

"It is still a part of our blood," Geta said, his voice softer now. "Diana will not know the difference, only you will. It is a bond, just the same."

Caracalla stared down at the ring, his fingers tightening around it. He exhaled slowly, some of the frantic energy leaving him. His brother always did manage to calm him down. Then, as if nothing had happened, he grinned. "You always were the clever one."

Geta smirked, adjusting Caracalla’s laurel crown one last time. "And you always were the foolish one. Now, stand tall. Rome does not want a boy at that altar—they want an emperor."

Caracalla squared his shoulders, rolling the ring between his fingers once more before slipping it into the pouch. As he did, Dondas let out a small chitter, licking his lips, utterly unbothered by the trouble he had caused. Caracalla shot him a look but chuckled nonetheless.

He took one last deep breath before turning toward the temple doors. The hush of the waiting crowd settled over them.

It was time.

———

The great doors of the temple were thrown open, and the scent of incense and fresh flowers filled the air. Outside, the streets of Rome roared with celebration, the people gathered in drunken revelry, eager for a glimpse of their new empress. But within these walls, where the gods watched and history was being written, a heavy silence hung, thick and suffocating.

Diana stood at the threshold, her hands clasped tightly in front of her, her heart pounding against the golden cage of her wedding attire.

The gown was heavy—purest white silk embroidered with threads of gold, the fabric pooling at her feet like liquid sunlight. The flower in her hair remained untouched, its fragile petals a quiet rebellion against the opulence that threatened to swallow her whole.

For a moment, Geta almost wished she would turn around. Walk away.

But she didn’t.

She stepped forward. A thousand eyes followed her every movement. The senators, the noblewomen, the dignitaries from distant lands—each one a witness to her fate.

She did not look for Acacius.

She already knew he was not there.

Instead, her gaze flickered upward, toward the man waiting at the end of the aisle.

Caracalla stood tall, draped in red and gold, the laurel crown gleaming against his sun-kissed curls. He did not fidget, nor did he pace. His dark eyes burned with something fierce—pride, triumph, awe. He looked at her as though she were the pride of the gods themselves, sent down from Mount Olympus for him and him alone.

Geta swallowed hard.

His doubts clawed at him.

He had spent years knowing his brother’s affliction, knowing the madness that lurked within him. Diana did not know it yet. And when she did—would she still walk forward with such grace?

But then Caracalla smiled.

A bright, boyish grin that softened all the sharp edges of his madness.

And Geta said nothing.

He bit his tongue, forcing away the words that threatened to spill. Caracalla was happy. If nothing else, he had that.

When she reached him, she braced herself for the moment their hands would meet. But before she could steel herself, a familiar chittering sound filled the quiet air. Dondas.

The little monkey perched nearby, watching her with bright, curious eyes. Caracalla leaned closer, his voice barely above a whisper. “He has been waiting to see you again.”

The unexpected words, so absurdly gentle, broke through the tension.

Diana glanced toward the tiny creature, who twitched his tail in what could only be excitement, and despite everything—the ceremony, the weight of Rome upon her shoulders—her lips curled into a small, fleeting smile.

Caracalla exhaled, something softening in his expression as if he had been waiting for that smile.

The high priest began the rites.

The ancient Latin verses rolled through the temple, binding them in words as old as the gods themselves. Diana’s chin remained high, her expression faded, but her fingers twitched at her sides. The weight of the moment pressed against her, yet her resolve did not waver.

She turned slightly. Her eyes found Geta.

Unlike the others in the temple, he did not glance between them. He did not lower his gaze in reverence to the gods or the emperor.

He only watched her, his expression unreadable, but unwavering.

The words of the priest continued, filling the air with their solemnity. When it was time, Caracalla spoke first. His voice was steady, but filled with something more—something close to reverence. “I take you, Diana, as my wife. Before the gods and Rome, you are mine.”

Diana inhaled deeply, her pulse thrumming in her ears. She did not hesitate. “I take you, Caracalla, as my husband.”

The high priest lifted the golden cord, binding their hands together in an unbreakable bond.

Caracalla’s grip tightened.

Then, without warning, he pulled her toward him.

The kiss was firm, decisive—not one of cruelty, but of a man who truly believed he had won the favour of the gods themselves. He was not drunk, nor was he careless. He was triumphant.

Diana barely had time to react before he pulled away, a boyish grin ghosting his lips.

The high priest stepped aside, and Geta moved forward. The temple seemed to still as Diana, unbidden, lowered herself into a bow before him. A gesture of respect. Of understanding.

Geta hesitated, just for a moment. Then, he lifted a golden wreathed crown—delicate, intricate, shimmering in the candlelight. With measured movements, he placed it atop her head.

A quiet murmur rippled through the gathered crowd. She was no longer just a bride.

She was an empress.

Geta turned toward the gathered Romans, his voice strong and unwavering. “Behold your emperor and his bride,” he declared, his words carrying through the temple. Then, with a pause, he added with careful precision, “Hail the new empress of Rome.”

The crowd erupted.

Diana did not flinch.

Instead, she stood beside her husband, adorned in gold and crowned in fate, as Rome welcomed its new ruler.

———

The halls of the imperial palace roared with celebration.

Golden torches cast a warm glow over tables laden with fruit, roasted meats, and amphorae of the richest wines in Rome. The scent of spices and honeyed delicacies filled the air, mingling with laughter and the lilting notes of flutes and lyres. Senators, generals, noblewomen, and foreign dignitaries drank and feasted, their voices rising in jubilation for the empire’s new empress.

Diana sat beside Caracalla, her golden laurel catching the candlelight. She wondered how long it would take to grow accustomed to the weight of it.

Her goblet was never empty, wine constantly poured by eager attendants who wished to honour the new union. She sipped carefully, ignoring its bitter taste as she tried to enjoy the warm sensation that ran through her body. Her mind still dazed from the day, but she forced herself to smile, to laugh when appropriate, to appear as the empress they now all expected her to be.

Dondas leaped onto her lap, his tiny hands grasping at the folds of her dress. Diana startled before breaking into soft laughter, her fingers stroking the monkey’s silken fur.

“He missed you,” Caracalla murmured beside her, his voice laced with amusement.

Diana glanced at him. He had been watching her, his gaze uncharacteristically warm as he observed her playing with the little creature. For a moment, he did not look like an emperor or a conqueror. Just a man pleased by the sight of his wife’s joy.

“He seems a loyal companion,” Diana said softly, scratching under Dondas’ chin.

Caracalla’s lips curved into something almost gentle.

“You will have others now,” he said, reaching for her hand, his fingers warm against her skin. He squeezed lightly before lifting her hand to his lips, kissing her knuckles.

She tried not to tense.

His affection was unfamiliar, his touch commanding but not unkind. He admired her, adored her even—if such a word could be used for a man like him. But admiration was not comfort, nor was it understanding.

Still, she swallowed her nervousness and let him hold her hand.

Through the night, some of Rome’s most powerful men approached to offer their congratulations.

Senator Thraex graced them with his presence, his usual smirk present as he toasted their union with a wink in her direction. “A dangerous woman for a dangerous man,” he mused, attempting to make her smile. “Rome will never be the same.”

Then came Gracchus.

His approach was slower, more deliberate. His eyes, wise and searching, softened when they met hers.

Diana straightened.

“You wear the crown well,” he said gently.

She let out a quiet breath, something tight in her chest loosening at his words.

He leaned in slightly, voice just for her. “If ever you need counsel, or a voice of reason in the madness of power, you know where to find me.”

Diana swallowed past the sudden lump in her throat and nodded. “Thank you.”

His fingers lingered briefly on her shoulder before he stepped away, lost once more to the revelry.

Caracalla, ever pleased by the attention, kept her close, his hand resting possessively on her thigh. He wanted all to see. Wanted them to know she was his. She was beginning to understand—her husband was not a man who shared.

But he was not the only one watching her.

From across the hall, Geta reclined lazily on a couch, a goblet of wine in his hand.

Women surrounded him—courtesans and concubines vying for his attention, their laughter bright, their hands eager. And yet, despite their efforts, his focus drifted.

Diana knew better than to acknowledge it, but she felt it.

He was watching her.

Acacius’ absence burned at the forefront of her mind. Never more than now had she longed for his watchful gaze. Her knuckles whitened as she brought the goblet up to her lips to take another sip of wine.

She would not let herself think of him, in fear she would say something she would regret.

Geta approached sometime later, his gait steady, his expression unreadable.

Caracalla grinned at his arrival, raising his goblet. “At last, you come to honour your brother and his bride properly.”

Diana exhaled slowly, steeling herself.

Geta’s eyes flickered to her, then back to his brother. “I thought it best to let you bask in your triumph before intruding.” His lips quirked. “Though I must say, it is quite a sight—Rome’s fierce emperor tamed by a goddess.”

Caracalla only laughed, clearly unbothered. “It is no taming, dear brother. She comes to me willingly, don’t you, amica mea?”

Diana did not answer immediately.

Instead, she let her gaze settle on Geta, holding it for a moment too long before finally offering a slow, careful smile.

“Yes,” she murmured. “Willingly.”

Something dark flickered in Geta’s eyes, gone as quickly as it came.

He raised his goblet. “Then I offer you both my sincerest congratulations.”

Diana lifted her chin, her composure unwavering. “How kind of you.”

His gaze lingered, too knowing, too sharp.

“Though I must admit,” he continued, swirling his wine lazily, “it is a shame that our esteemed general is not here to celebrate.”

Diana’s grip on her goblet tightened.

Caracalla, oblivious to the tension that had suddenly thickened between them, merely scoffed. “The general is where he is needed. He should be proud to serve his home. His absence is no concern.”

“Of course,” Geta mused. “Still, one would think his most cherished companion would mourn his absence more.”

Diana’s nails pressed into her palm.

Geta knew exactly what he was doing.

It took everything in her not to react, not to let him see the fury building beneath the surface.

She smiled instead, the expression forced and bitter. “Perhaps we should toast instead—to loyalty, to honour, to the empire.”

His lips curved. “Indeed.”

He lifted his goblet, but his eyes never left hers as he drank.

Diana swallowed the rage burning in her throat.

Then, as if sensing the tension, Geta raised his glass once more, his voice carrying through the hall.

“To the newlyweds,” he announced, drawing the attention of the room. “May your union bring Rome strength. And may it bring Rome’s future.”

The words struck her like a blow.

For the first time, the weight of her new reality crashed upon her.

An heir. Of course. It was expected of them. Of her.

Her breath faltered, her world tilting slightly.

Caracalla, pleased, pulled her closer, his hand warm against her waist. “A future indeed,” he murmured, his voice rich with promise.

The feast continued. Laughter, drinking, music.

But Diana barely heard any of it.

She barely had a moment to collect herself before a delicate hand clasped her wrist, dragging her into the crowds of people.

She gasped, stumbling slightly as Lucilla yanked her into a quieter alcove. The older woman’s bright eyes were wide, brimming with emotion, and she clutched Diana’s hands tightly.

“You have done so well.” She spoke quietly, a warm smile spreading across her features. “The definition of regality.”

“Thank you.” Diana smiled back, finally feeling a small comfort at the familiarity. “You taught me well.”

Lucilla laughed at this, before seemingly catching herself. “I must warn you.” She whispered urgently, her fingers squeezing. 

Diana blinked. “Warn me?”

Lucilla’s lips twitched. “About tonight.”

A beat of silence. Then—

“Oh.”

Heat crawled up Diana’s neck, her stomach flipping violently. Of course. She had known, in theory, what was expected of a wife on her wedding night, but no one had ever told her what to expect. No one had prepared her for what was to come.

Lucilla, ever observant, smirked at Diana’s widening eyes. “Oh, don’t look so stricken. You’d think I was about to send you to war.”

“In some ways, it is a battle,” Diana muttered under her breath, rubbing her temples. “I don’t—I’ve never—”

Lucilla burst into laughter, the sound drawing a few curious glances from the nearby guests. “By the gods, you truly have been taught nothing.”

Diana scowled. “Forgive me for not being well-versed in the subject of marital duties.”

Lucilla sighed, looping her arm through Diana’s. “It is not as terrifying as you imagine.” 

Diana gave her a withering look. 

“All men are the same in the dark.” Lucilla continued, undeterred. “When I was your age, I had to bed a man I barely knew. It was over before I even had a chance to panic. Boring, really.”

Diana groaned, rubbing her face.

Lucilla laughed lowly, patting her back. “You’ll be fine, I promise. Just—drink more wine, and pray to Venus for patience.”

Diana eyed the goblet in her hand before promptly downing its contents in one long gulp.

“That’s my girl.”

———

Across the room, Geta leaned against a marble column, watching his brother carefully. Caracalla, still revelling in his triumph, was grinning, his eyes bright with satisfaction.

“She is magnificent, isn’t she?” he mused, swirling the dark liquid in his cup.

Geta glanced toward Diana, who was now laughing with Lucilla, her golden crown slightly askew. A strange knot tightened in his chest, but he ignored it.

“She is,” he admitted.

Caracalla exhaled. “I have never been happier, brother. We have finally been blessed with peace.”

For a moment, Geta hesitated.

Caracalla was rarely like this. He had spent his life battling—whether with the Senate, the servants, or even within his own mind. But now, as he looked upon his new wife, he was almost boyish in his joy.

Geta felt something bitter settle in his throat. If only he could share in that joy.

Instead, a darker thought plagued his mind.

“You should be careful with her,” he said carefully.

Caracalla scoffed, setting down his goblet. “Careful? You sound like one of those boring old men.” He eyed the senators mingling in the background.

Geta ignored the jab. “Forget it.”

Caracalla rolled his eyes. “If this is about Antonius, it wasn’t my fault—”

“It is a sickness,” Geta interrupted, voice low. “And it is dangerous.”

Caracalla tensed. “You worry too much.”

Geta exhaled sharply, resisting the urge to grab his brother by the shoulders. “Your men and women grow ill, Caracalla. They waste away. I have seen it myself.”

His mind flickered to the concubine who had barely been able to rise from his seat. His skin had been ashen, his limbs trembling with unseen agony.

Caracalla’s jaw tightened. “She is not some common concubine,” he snapped. “She is a goddess.”

“That does not make her immune.”

A flicker of irritation crossed Caracalla’s face. “You think I would hurt her?”

Geta hesitated.

Caracalla scoffed, shaking his head. “You insult me, brother. Do you doubt my ability?”

Geta cursed inwardly. Not this.

Of all things, Caracalla’s pride was the most fragile. The idea that Geta doubted his strength, even in the marriage bed, would only fester in his mind.

“I do not doubt you,” Geta said carefully. “I only wish for her- well- for you, to be happy. If you truly care for her, you will be cautious. Otherwise you will find she disappears just as soon as the others.”

Caracalla narrowed his eyes.

Then, to Geta’s dismay, his brother smirked. “You are jealous.”

His blood ran cold.

“You seemed to enjoy speaking with her,” Caracalla continued, his voice teasing. “And she seemed quite fond of you before.” He nudged Geta’s arm. “Perhaps you are unhappy I reached her first, hm?”

Geta forced a laugh, though it felt like poison on his tongue. “Do not be ridiculous.”

Caracalla chuckled, entirely convinced of his own jest. “Fear not, dear brother. There are plenty of women in Rome to satisfy your tastes.”

Geta clenched his jaw, swallowing the bitter retort on his lips. The conversation was over.

And for the first time, Geta felt truly powerless.

Soon, a roar of cheers erupted through the hall.

Diana barely had time to react before Caracalla swept her into his arms, lifting her with ease.

She yelped, clutching onto his shoulders as the crowd clapped and whistled. Laughter rang out, men raising their goblets in salute, women giggling behind their hands.

The tradition was as old as Rome itself; the emperor carrying his bride across the threshold.

Diana forced a smile, her heart hammering as Caracalla beamed down at her.

From across the room, Geta raised his goblet, his cheer half-hearted. His lips curved in a forced grin. But his eyes betrayed him. Because as Caracalla carried Diana away, disappearing into the depths of the palace, Geta knew.

Knew this was the beginning of the end for her.

And there was nothing he could do to stop it.

———

Caracalla carried Diana through the halls of the palace, his grip firm yet reverent, as if he feared she might disappear from his arms like a vision conjured by the gods. His golden laurel crown had been knocked slightly askew in the revelry, his robes slightly loosened from the night’s festivities, but his gaze remained fixed on her.

He whispered admiration between each step, his voice thick with devotion.

“You are divine, my love. A gift sent to me from above.”

Diana could feel the heat creeping up her neck, her cheeks warm as his eyes lingered on her face, studying her as if she were some celestial being given form.

The passing servants and guards did not exist to him.

He made no effort to conceal his admiration, no restraint in the way he looked at her, unashamed by those who bowed their heads as he strode past.

“You do not need to flatter me,” she said, attempting levity, though her voice wavered slightly.

“But why should I not?” he mused. “Would you silence the poets who sing of Venus’s beauty? The sculptors who carve Minerva’s wisdom into marble? Why should a mortal man be denied the right to worship his goddess?”

Diana swallowed hard.

He truly believes it.

She said nothing.

The great doors of their chamber loomed ahead, and the guards stationed there bowed deeply before swinging them open. A grand bedchamber awaited within; lavish, bathed in the golden glow of candlelight, its walls adorned with murals depicting great myths and heroes.

The doors shut behind them, leaving them alone.

Caracalla gently set her down, and for the first time that night, Diana found herself standing before him without a sea of eyes watching her every move. And yet, she hadn’t felt so nervous as she did now. Her breath felt shallow, but she stood tall, willing herself not to shrink away.

Caracalla circled her slowly, his hands clasped behind his back as if drinking in the sight of her. His expression was one of absolute certainty.

“The gods have willed this,” he murmured. “It was always meant to be.”

His eyes flickered to the golden belt fastened at her waist.

The symbol of her purity.

His fingers brushed against it reverently before undoing the clasp, the soft rustling of fabric filling the chamber as her wedding gown began to loosen.

Diana’s mind drifted as he undressed her, her heart thudding painfully in her chest. She had always known this moment would come—had understood it in theory, but now… now, it was real.

“His words mean nothing.” He murmured to himself, before his lips pressed against her skin. She willed herself to respond, to ignore the burning of her cheeks at the thought of her body so quickly exposed, though uncertainty made her hesitant.

He did not seem to notice.

He was frantic in his actions, rushing as if possessed by some divine fervour, his hands grasping, his breath uneven.

She let herself be guided to the bed, her body tense as she lay back, her eyes fixed on the ornate carvings of the ceiling.

And then—

Nothing.

At first, she thought he had paused for effect. She wondered if this was normal, or perhaps a tradition for the wedding night.

But then she heard the shift in his breathing. The sound of frustration.

Slowly, she lifted herself up and found Caracalla, his robes spread open, sitting back on his heels. His hand tugged in a brutish manner at something below. His face was twisted in a mixture of rage and despair, his body trembling with barely restrained fury.

Something was wrong.

Before she could ask, he lashed out, knocking over a nearby tray with a violent sweep of his arm. The goblets clattered to the floor, wine spilling across the marble like blood.

Diana sat up in alarm. “Caracalla—”

“I am not worthy,” he growled, his voice raw, his hands tearing at his own hair. “The gods mock me.”

Diana stared at him, trying to piece together what had happened.

Or rather—what had not happened.

Before she could even react, Caracalla struck his own chest with a clenched fist, his breathing ragged.

“It’s his fault,” he spat. “He willed this.”

He began to cough, sounding almost feverish. It wasn’t until his tears started to spill that Diana snapped out of her shock.

Her hands found the blanket atop the bed, and without thinking, she threw it over him, enveloping him in the warmth of the thick fabric. Then, with a steadying breath, she did something even more surprising—she wrapped her arms around him, holding him close.

He stiffened instantly, unaccustomed to such tenderness.

But Diana did not let go.

“You have done nothing wrong,” she whispered, her voice firm. “The gods willed this moment, just as they willed our union.”

Caracalla’s breath hitched against her shoulder. “But—”

“You have not sinned,” she assured him, her fingers threading through his ginger curls instinctively. “You are one of the chosen sons of Rome. An emperor! There is no shame in what has happened.” 

She couldn’t quite grasp the reality of the situation, not understanding exactly what went wrong, but she hoped her words would help calm him. His body slowly relaxed, though it was clear his mind had drifted elsewhere. 

She slowly sunk to the ground with him, holding him tightly. She almost dare not disturb the moment, fearful he would become aggressive again, though her concern was growing with every passing minute. He remained unresponsive.

“Caracalla?” She spoke softly, searching his eyes for any sign of animation.

For a long moment, he was silent. His grip on her tightened, finally, almost desperate. In a voice that sounded strangely childlike, he murmured, “Tell me about your friends.”

Diana blinked. “My… friends?”

He nodded, his cheek still resting against her shoulder.

“Venus, Mercury,” he clarified, his voice distant. “Tell me about them.”

Her chest ached at the realisation.

He truly believed she was sent to him from above.

And so, she did.

She whispered to him stories of Olympus, of mighty Jupiter and wise Minerva, of cunning Mercury and beautiful Venus.

As she spoke, Caracalla drew the blanket tighter around himself, pulling her in and holding her closer until their bodies were pressed together beneath the heavy fabric.

His breathing evened out, his eyes growing heavy as her fingers carded gently through his hair.

As the night stretched on, the celebrations in the great halls of the palace slowly began to dwindle. The music softened, the laughter faded, and the guests, drunk on wine and revelry, began to retire, mostly together. 

In the emperor’s chamber, Diana continued to weave stories into the candlelit air, her voice soft and steady. Caracalla lay beside her, his head now resting against her lap. He clung to her words as if they were divine, his fingers loosely gripping the fabric of her gown.

Every now and then, he would murmur a question—about Mars, the stories of wars, the Fates—and she would answer as if they were her own kin, as if she had walked among them.

And so, the Empress of Rome spent her wedding night not as a lover, but as a storyteller, cradling an emperor who trembled in her arms.

But elsewhere in the palace, another emperor did not find such peace.

———

Geta did not return to his chambers alone.

The moment he stepped through the doors, he barely acknowledged the concubine who followed, her eager hands reaching for him, her lips already parting to whisper sweet, practiced words. He did not care for them.

His mind was elsewhere.

The wine had burned through his veins, and yet it had done nothing to quiet the restless energy coiling in his gut. It had done nothing to erase the image that haunted him—the way she had looked beneath the torchlight, golden and untouchable, bound to another.

A woman he had once laughed with. A woman who now looked at him with nothing but coldness.

"Move," he ordered, his voice sharp.

The concubine obeyed, sprawling across his bed, her legs stretched in invitation.

He undressed without thought, climbing over her, his body moving on instinct alone. She moaned his name, soft and sweet, but the sound of it grated against his ears.

Something snapped in him.

With a growl of frustration, he flipped her over, yanking her up by the hair, forcing her onto her knees. She gasped in surprise, but did not protest. She never would.

His fingers dug into her hips as he drove into her, rougher than usual, chasing a release that felt impossibly out of reach.

He closed his eyes.

And suddenly, it was easier.

Suddenly, the body beneath him was different—slender but strong, warm and waiting, golden in the candlelight.

Suddenly, the voice gasping was not some nameless concubine, but hers.

A sharp pleasure tore through him.

He exhaled, gripping tighter, his body finally finding its relief.

But as he collapsed back onto the bed, chest heaving, a hollow ache settled deep inside him.

Because no matter how real it had felt, no matter how fiercely he had tried to conjure her—

She was not here.

And she never would be.

[echantedtoon]

Mermay Day 12 Lionfish

(Kyojuro would be a lionfish such as the one drawn by yuki2sksksk linked below.

www.tumblr.com/yuki2sksksk/729990049783021568/lionfish-based-merman-kyojuro-and-betta-fish-based?source=share 

If you've read Ocean Deep then you'll understand what's going on.)

taglist: @six-eyed-samurai @lavenderdropp @jjamsbangtan @camilo-uwu @hopefulworld1

@shadyd3ar @amypop122 @azuredragonstrike

@mimisweetz @chaoticoperatorduckhairdo @staarflowerr @aleee-386 @summrwalkr

@nicora04 @miniverse-zen @heijihattorisgf

@lavender-moony

As above so below. 

The curling of fire scales and bright eyes were the last thing the maiden was expecting when she sat by the waters and began to admire the ocean waves in the warm sunlight. Her beauty glowing and her smile bright as she sat there awaiting the special someone that would arrive soon. 

It had been nearly a month since you had reunited with Tengen and his pod and nearly a few days since he talked you into coming back to his island to live with them again. You had seen and spent time with practically everyone. Everyone except for Kyojuro. Apparently according to Tengen-

"He's spending a few days with his family over at my other island. Don't worry about him. As soon as he gets back, we won't be able to get him off ya.~"

You knew the loud positive merman would probably be very excited to see you back here again and would most likely race over as soon as one of the others informed him that you had come back to live on the island again. So now here you were, staring at the water waiting for one of your 'mates' to show up today and see what they had in mind.  You were not expecting the sights of a bright orange blue under the surface rippling the water right towards where you were sitting but you smiled at him. 

Kyojuro had arrived. 

You smiled in wait and knelt down to the water's edge in wait. You didn't have to wait long because the surface broke as a large muscular man came crawling out of the water and onto the sand dripping saltwater from his large fins. The smiling face was full of love and hope as he stared up at you in awe.

"YOU CAME BACK!!," was his usual loud response as his voice echoed everywhere and made you wince from the pain in your ears. "When I heard you were back I had to come see you myself!! I didn't believe you were here again but here you are!"

Reaching a hand up to rub your ear, you smiled at him. "Yes. I was just wondering when I'd get to see you again too. You weren't with the others when I got here."

Without thinking or asking he reached out to you and you didn't stop him when he grabbed a webbed hand around the large diamond necklace around your neck and lifted it from your collar bone to examine. 

"I recognize this from Tengen's treasure hoard!"

"Yes. He gave it to me." His red eyes looked up at you. "He said he wanted to dote on all your wives..but I guess I'm just not used to wearing such lavish jewelry like all of you yet."

" Nonsense. You look radiant." He hummed. "Well allow me. May I?"

He gestured to your body and you nodded giving him permission to curiously poke at the polished seashells on the platinum chain around your waste and move up to hold your hands looking at the Platinum and diamond bracelets and rings Tengen had given you to wore. He wanted everyone's jewelry to be different. With Hinatsuru he adorned her in rubies. Suma had gotten silver and blue diamonds or sapphires. Makio was usually dressed up in amber and lots of gold. Kyojuro himself had some gold jewelry but many were colorful gems from green emeralds to purple gems unknown to you to even a few pink diamonds but most of what he wore was copper pieces. Yourself had been gifted mostly clear diamonds, opals, pearls, and platinum. Each of you standing out differently. 

He studded each piece carefully poking a hand at the pearl bracelet around your wrist before bringing your hand up to look at the diamond studded rings amongst your fingers. He stared at your hand for a long time bed without warning kissed your hand making you jump before blushing a grand red as he chuckled.

"I was right. You look absolutely radiant.~"

[pupsmailbox]

MINECRAFT ID PACK

NAMES︰ alex. amber. amethyst. ash. azalea. blaze. block. briar. brick. brielle. brier. brook. carver. celeste. clay. cobble. cree. crystal. daisy. dawn. dusty. ember. end. eve. flint. flora. forge. garnet. gemma. granite. grayson. harper. hazel. hero. holly. hopper. iris. ivy. jade. jett. juniper. lapis. laurel. lilac. lily. magnolia. maple. marigold. mason. meadow. miner. mira. moss. nova. oak. onyx. opal. pearl. pebble. poppy. prairie. pyre. quill. red. reed. river. rocky. rose. rowan. ruby. sable. sage. sapphire. selene. shale. sky. skye. skylar. slate. smith. spruce. steele. stella. stephen. stone. sunny. terra. thalia. timber. torch. violet. wade. willow.

PRONOUNS︰ a/axe. adventurer/adventurer. allay/allay. ar/armour. ax/axe. bam/bamboo. bat/bat. bee/bee. biome/biome. birch/birch. bla/blaze. blaz/blaze. blaze/blaze. blo/block. block/block. build/build. bun/bun. cake/cake. chest/chest. clay/clay. cob/cobble. copper/cooper. cow/cow. cra/craft. craf/craft. craft/craft. cre/creative. creep/creeper. creeper/creeper. dark/dark. deep/deepslate. deep/slate. dig/dig. disc/disc. drown/drown. ely/elytra. elytra/elytra. en/end. end/end. end/eye. ender/ender. ender/enderman. enderman/endermen. explorer/explorer. fight/fight. flint/flint. for/forge. fox/fox. ghast/ghast. glow/stone. goat/goat. grav/gravel. heal/heal. hive/hive. hun/hunger. husk/husk. hx/hxm. hy/hym. ice/ice. kaboom/kaboom. kelp/kelp. lav/lava. love/love. magma/magma. mi/mine. mine/mine. mob/mob. mod/mod. moosh/mooshroom. mooshroom/mooshroom. musicnote/musicnote. nether/nether. nostalgia/nostalgia. nostalgic/nostalgic. oak/oak. ocean/ocean. ore/ore. over/overworld. over/world. pearl/pearl. phantom/phantom. pi/pick. pig/pig. pig/pigstep. pig/step. play/player. ram/ram. red/stone. sap/sapling. scream/scream. sculk/sculk. sea/sea. shea/shear. sheep/sheep. sho/shovel. shulk/shulker. shx/hxr. shy/hyr. skele/skeleton. skeleton/skeleton. skulk/skulk. slime/slime. sme/smelt. smp/smp. snow/snow. spawner/spawner. spec/spectator. speed/speedrun. spider/spider. spruce/spruce. sta/stack. sto/stone. strider/strider. surv/survival. survivor/survivor. swo/sword. tele/teleport. terra/terracotta. thxy/thxm. thy/thym. tnt/tnt. tor/torch. tree/tree. ve/vex. vwoop/vwoop. warden/warden. warp/warped. warrior/warrior. wat/water. wit/wither. wither/wither. wo/wood. wolf/wolf. xp/xp. zomb/zombie. zombie/zombie.

[alittlesongbirdchirps]

Imagine a Steven universe AU.

Bruce Wayne is a diamond, a black diamond who acts all brucie in front of everyone but as soon as it hits night time out comes the Batman. He makes himself look like obesiden to hide he’s a diamond.

And all the other diamonds, which would include Green diamond Lex luthor. Because green diamonds are rare like kryptonite, Ra Al ghoul red diamond. Oliver Queen who I nearly made a green diamond but went with yellow, who also shapeshifts into honey calcite.

And of course when he adopts all the future robins similar to canon the only difference is they don’t know Bruce is a diamond.

Dick is a turquoise

Jason is a blood stones

Tim is a peacock green pearl (Always end up serving a diamond whether he intended to or not.)

Steph is a yellow agate

Cass is a Onyx Crystal

Duke is a Fluorite cause it glows

Damien is a brown diamond.

Alfred is a Zicron since it’s considered the oldest crystal lol.

The joker is an opal it is considered a bad omen.

Clark Kent is a lapis lazuli.

Roy is a ruby.

Joker is cracked by Bruce because he was still new at being a vigilante as well as holding back, and instead of joker falling into a pit of chemicals and becoming insane he gets cracked.

Jason is shattered slowly by the joker, and when he’s finally revived, by Talia using her diamond powers he’s not whole, he will never be whole because joker made sure to shatter him and spread different chunks of him, So gold is used to replace missing chunks.

After Jason’s death. Bruce doesn’t hold back as much, nearly shattering many criminals. And when Tim comes around Bruce acts more like a diamond.

So we have that angst of Tim being treated like a servant in a sense to diamond.

At some point durning the red hood arc Bruce nearly shatters jason when he tries to save the joker, since the shattering device Jason uses triggers a traumatic response to him. (Instead of the batarang.)

That’s also when Jason learns Bruce is a diamond.

Very late night Drabble fuck of grammar police