#✕ of night terrors and wonders [plot]

[moonlitstoriess]

Unseen, Unheard, Unloved- Rhysand x fem!Reader (1/2)

Summary: She had given him everything—her heart, her trust, and now, the child growing within her. But as Rhysand’s attention drifts elsewhere, as excuses pile up, and as whispers of a mortal girl turn into something far more dangerous, she begins to wonder: Was she ever truly seen? Was she ever truly heard? Or had she been unloved all along?

See masterlist

Part 2 epilogue

Warnings: angst, pregnancy, cheating, mentions of intimate scenes at the start but nothing explicit or smutty, clearly rhysand and feyre's whole mating plot was changed in some ways to suit the story

A/N: I'm back at doing what I am best at, which is making people cry lol. Please do consider the warnings mentioned before proceeding with the story. Thank you for reading<33

For fifty years, Velaris had been hers to protect.

Fifty years of waiting. Fifty years of silence. Fifty years of ruling in his absence, of forcing herself to wake up every morning in an empty bed, of standing strong for a court that had been left bleeding in the wake of its High Lord’s capture. Of holding Mor, Azriel, and Cassian together, when they had lost the most important piece of their family.

Fifty years without him. Without Rhysand.

She had not always been a ruler, had never even imagined herself becoming one. She had once just been a child, born to a father who had been a decorated Illyrian general and a mother who had been little more than an offering—a female from a lesser noble family of the Night Court, forced into a marriage she had never wanted. She had inherited her father’s sharp instincts, his love for battle, his stubbornness. And she had inherited her mother’s mind, sharp as a blade, her ability to wield words like weapons.

Her childhood had been spent in the Illyrian war camps, a place where females were taught their place—to be weak, to be silent, to bow. But she had never bowed. Not when they sneered at her for trying to train, not when they mocked her for thinking she could ever be as strong as a male, not when her father had died on the battlefield and left her mother widowed, forced to return to her family’s estate.

And she had not been alone.

She had met Rhysand before he had become the feared High Lord of the Night Court. Before he had been anything other than a cocky, silver-tongued boy who had hated the camps just as much as she had. And with him had come Cassian—wild and brash and unbreakable, a bastard warrior who had nothing to his name but his own strength—and Azriel, silent and shadowed and broken in ways none of them had yet understood.

They had been inseparable. Training together. Fighting together. Growing up together.

And somehow, in the midst of all those years, she had fallen in love.

Rhysand had always been hers. Not in the way of mates, not in the way that fate had written in the stars, but in the way that mattered most. In the way of choice.

There had never been a confession, never been a grand moment of realization. It had been a slow, inevitable thing, woven between stolen glances and lingering touches, between the nights they had spent lying beside each other in the grass, staring up at the endless night sky. It had been in the moment they had first kissed, hesitant and unsure, before turning into something desperate and consuming. It had been in the way they had promised—young and foolish and certain—that even if they ever found their mates, it wouldn’t matter. That they would never leave each other.

And for nearly three hundred years, that promise had held true.

Until the moment Rhysand had been taken.

She had known it was coming. Had felt the sheer, unrelenting terror in his mind as Amarantha’s spell had wrapped around him like chains. Had heard his voice in her head—his final words before he had been utterly ripped away from her.

"I love you."

Then, silence.

And silence had been all she had known for the next fifty years.

She had ruled Velaris in his absence, had kept its people safe, had ensured that the city remained untouched while the rest of Prythian burned. She had fought for her court, for her friends, for the family they had built together. And yet—she had spent every night wondering if he was still alive. If he was suffering. If he still thought of her.

Now, after five decades of waiting, of hoping, of wondering if she would ever see him again—he was finally coming home.

She stood on the balcony of the townhouse, staring out at the city below.

The Sidra was quiet, its waters gleaming under the light of the stars. The city still hummed with life, filled with people who had no idea that their High Lord was finally returning after half a century of being held captive under a tyrant’s rule.

Mor stood beside her, arms crossed over her chest, her golden hair gleaming in the moonlight.

“He’ll be here soon,” Mor said softly, though her voice was strained, as if she barely believed it herself.

She swallowed, gripping the stone railing. “I still don’t know if this is real.”

Mor reached over, squeezing her hand. “It is.”

And then—she felt it.

The familiar pulse of power in the air, the sudden, breathless pull in her chest.

And before she could even take a step forward, the night itself seemed to shift, the world bending—

And then he was there.

Rhysand.

For a moment, she couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe.

He was real. He was here.

And then she was running.

He caught her in his arms the moment she crashed into him, burying his face in her neck, his body shaking violently. She was crying, sobbing into his chest as she clung to him, as if he might disappear all over again.

His hands trembled as he cupped her face, as he pressed their foreheads together, his breath ragged and uneven.

“I’m here,” he whispered, his voice breaking. “I’m here, I’m here, I’m here.”

She kissed him. Hard and desperate and aching, pouring every ounce of longing, of love, of grief into it.

He kissed her back just as fiercely, as if he was trying to memorize her all over again, as if he couldn’t believe she was real.

Mor was crying. Azriel and Cassian had appeared, standing frozen in the doorway, their own faces filled with raw, unfiltered relief.

But all she could focus on was him. The male she had spent fifty years waiting for.

Rhysand was finally home.

And yet, she had no idea that this was only the beginning of everything that would break her.

That night, neither of them could bear to be apart.

After fifty years of longing, of aching, of waiting for this moment—she couldn’t let go of him. And he didn’t let go of her either.

He had carried her inside, through the halls of the townhouse, past the murmured voices of their family who knew, who understood, and who let them go without a word. They had disappeared into their room, the door shutting softly behind them, and then—

Then she had kissed him again, with all the desperation that had been building in her for five decades, all the grief and rage and sorrow and love she had bottled up in his absence.

Rhysand kissed her back just as fiercely, his hands shaking as they skimmed over her body, as he memorized her again, piece by piece, as if he was afraid that if he didn’t, she would disappear.

She should have noticed it then.

The slight hesitation in his touch. The way his body tensed in certain moments, as if something inside him was resisting, as if he was fighting some invisible battle.

But she had ignored it. Had convinced herself it was just the weight of what he had endured, the lingering ghosts of his time Under the Mountain clinging to him like a curse.

She had whispered his name, had pulled him closer, had kissed away his pain. And for that night, and the nights that followed, she had let herself believe that love was enough to banish the shadows that haunted him.

The days blurred together in a haze of passion and tenderness, of stolen touches and whispered confessions.

She and Rhys could not keep their hands off each other. Every moment was filled with longing, with the desperate need to make up for lost time.

He had barely left their bed that first night, had spent hours worshiping her like she was the only thing that could tether him back to reality. His lips traced every inch of her skin, his hands roaming over her as if trying to prove to himself that she was real, that she was still his.

And she had taken him apart just as much, had kissed away the pain in his eyes, had murmured how much she loved him, how much she had missed him.

It didn’t stop after that first night.

They could hardly go an hour without touching—without pressing against each other in dark hallways, without his hands finding her waist as she stood by the window, without her lips brushing against his neck when he passed by. They were insatiable, consumed by each other, as if making up for every second of those fifty years apart.

But she noticed it.

Even in their most intimate moments, she felt it—that lingering hesitation in him.

It was subtle, almost imperceptible. A slight pause before he kissed her. The way his grip sometimes faltered. The distant, lost look in his violet eyes when he thought she wasn’t watching.

And through the bond, she could feel it—the echoes of something unspoken, something buried deep within him.

Regret. Shame. Guilt.

She had asked him about it once, had touched his face in the quiet of the night and whispered, What’s wrong?

He had only shaken his head, had kissed her slowly, deeply, as if trying to erase the question from existence.

And she had let him.

She had told herself that he just needed time. That whatever haunted him, whatever had broken him, he would tell her when he was ready.

She didn’t push. Didn’t demand answers.

Because the thought of losing him again, of disrupting the fragile peace they had rebuilt—it was too terrifying to face.

So she convinced herself that love was enough.

That if she just held him closer, if she just kissed him harder, if she just loved him more—then whatever was haunting him would fade away.

But then, everything changed.

It started with the exhaustion.

At first, she had brushed it off as nothing. After all, it wasn’t unusual for her to feel drained after everything that had happened.

She had been running on adrenaline since Rhys’s return, had barely given herself a moment to rest, too consumed by the need to be with him, to make up for lost time.

But then, the exhaustion turned into something else.

Dizziness.

Moments where the world tilted around her, where she had to steady herself against a wall, gripping the edge of a table as she tried to catch her breath.

And then—

The nausea.

A deep, rolling sickness that crept up on her at the most unexpected moments, that had her pressing a hand to her stomach as if she could will it away.

The realization should have come sooner.

But she had been so caught up in Rhys, in the way they couldn’t seem to stay apart, that she hadn’t let herself think about it. Hadn’t let herself believe it was possible.

It wasn’t until Mor had walked in on her one morning, pale and weak and barely able to stand, that she had been forced to acknowledge the truth.

“You need to see Madja,” Mor had insisted, her voice laced with worry.

She had tried to argue, had tried to wave it off as simple exhaustion, but Mor wouldn’t hear it.

So she had gone.

And when the healer had placed a gentle hand over her stomach, when she had closed her eyes and let her magic sweep over her body—

The words that followed shattered her entire world.

“You are with child.”

Silence.

She had just stared at Madja, her mind unable to process the words.

With child.

She was pregnant.

She barely remembered leaving the healer’s chambers. Barely remembered making it back home.

The moment she stepped into the townhouse, everything hit her at once.

A child.

She was going to have Rhys’s child.

A shaky breath left her lips as she pressed a trembling hand to her stomach, as if she could already feel the life growing inside her. A laugh—disbelieving, breathless—escaped her.

She was pregnant.

With Rhys’s baby.

And for that moment, nothing else mattered.

The doubts, the hesitations, the unspoken fears—she shoved them aside, blinded by the sheer joy that swelled in her chest.

She imagined Rhys’s reaction, the way his eyes would widen in shock before softening with love, imagined the way he would drop to his knees and press his hands to her stomach, imagined the way he would whisper in awe about their future, about the family they were about to have.

She thought about telling Mor, about seeing Cassian and Azriel’s faces when they found out. She thought about the child itself—what they would look like, what kind of power they would have, what kind of life they would give them.

She was foolishly blind.

So utterly oblivious.

So caught up in her happiness, in the overwhelming joy of this moment, that she didn’t stop to think.

Didn’t stop to question.

Didn’t realize—

That Rhys might not react the way she expected.

That this child, this beautiful, miraculous child, might not fill him with the same joy it filled her with.

That the shadows in his eyes, the ghosts that haunted him, the things he had kept buried since the moment he had returned—

They weren’t just going to disappear.

The moment she found him—standing by the window, looking out over the city she had known, the city they had fought for, the city they had built together—she could feel her heart racing in her chest.

“Rhys,” she called softly, her voice warm, her smile bright.

He turned, his gaze lighting up when he saw her, but something in his eyes—something flickered. Just a moment, barely noticeable. He covered it quickly, replaced it with the mask he had become so skilled at wearing.

“YN,” he said, his voice warm but not quite as soft as she remembered. “You’re home.”

She approached him slowly, the news she was about to share making her pulse quicken with excitement. She stopped a few feet away, pressing her hand to her stomach as if to still the fluttering sensation there.

“I have something to tell you,” she began, watching the way his eyes followed her every movement. He seemed alert, even eager, but there was something else—a tension, barely concealed behind the polite smile he wore.

“What is it?” he asked, his voice smooth, controlled.

“I’m pregnant,” she said, her heart leaping in her chest. She almost wanted to laugh at how simple it sounded, how easy it was to finally say it aloud. “We’re going to have a child, Rhys.”

The room fell quiet.

For a brief moment, she swore she saw something in his eyes—something like disbelief, or maybe even fear—but it was gone before she could truly register it.

Then, he smiled. It was a smile, but it didn’t reach his eyes.

“That’s... wonderful,” he said, his words too rehearsed, too empty. “I’m so happy for you, YN.”

But it didn’t sound like he was happy.

It sounded hollow.

For you. Not for us but....for you.

She felt the bond between them—felt the way it seemed to shudder in response to his words. There was something off, something wrong. But she couldn’t place it, not in that moment, and not with the whirlwind of excitement that was consuming her.

She laughed lightly, shaking her head. “You’re not even going to ask how I’m feeling? Not going to pick me up and twirl me around like we used to do when we had good news?”

He chuckled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “I’m just processing the exciting news,” he said again, though his words seemed forced, like he was trying to convince both of them.

Her smile faltered for just a moment, a flicker of doubt creeping into her chest.

He wasn’t happy. Not in the way she expected.

She could feel it—through the bond, through the way his aura flickered with shadows of guilt and hesitation. But she pushed it aside, thinking that perhaps he just needed time to process. Perhaps he was still adjusting to everything that had changed, everything that had happened in the last few days.

“I know this is a lot,” she said softly, stepping closer to him, her voice gentle, “but I know we can do this together. We’ve always been a team, Rhys.”

He nodded, but his gaze flickered away from hers, his eyes focusing on the farthest corner of the room.

“Of course,” he replied, but the words were quiet, almost too quiet, as if he wasn’t fully hearing them himself.

“Rhys,” she whispered, her voice trembling just slightly, “it’s a gift. A miracle. And I know... I know we’ve been through so much. But now we have a chance to build something beautiful together. You and me. A family.”

For a long moment, he said nothing.

Then, finally, he nodded, his smile returning. It was better now, more convincing. But to her, it felt like a mask—a fragile mask that threatened to crack at the smallest touch.

“I’m sure it will be beautiful,” he said, his voice steady, but still... empty.

She watched him for a long moment, her heart thundering in her chest. She wanted to ask him what was wrong, wanted to demand to know why he wasn’t truly happy, why he wasn’t sharing in her excitement. But something inside her—some small part of her—whispered that it wasn’t the time.

He had just returned from being gone for so long, from everything they had fought for. He would come around.

She would make sure of it.

So, instead of confronting him, instead of asking the questions that were starting to swirl in her mind, she simply stepped forward, closing the space between them.

“I know you’re still processing everything,” she said, her hand resting gently on his arm, “but we’ll be okay. We’ll figure this out. Together.”

And though a small voice in her mind screamed that she was being foolishly blind, that she was ignoring the cracks in his facade, she smiled up at him, brushing the doubt aside once more.

For the moment, she was content to pretend that everything was perfect.

The evening air in Dawn Court was crisp, filled with a gentle hum of conversation. YN stood at the balcony, gazing out over the land. Her pregnancy, now just over two months along, was starting to show. Her once slender figure had softened, the slight curve of her bump a reminder of the life she was carrying, but there was something else—an unease. Rhysand hadn’t been the same lately.

It was almost as if he was a ghost, always present but never truly there. For weeks, his absences had become longer, his late-night disappearances even more frequent. She would lie in their shared bed at night, waiting for him to return, only to find him standing at the edge of their balcony, staring into the distance as if lost in his thoughts. His gaze was distant, unseeing, and every time she tried to reach for him, to pull him back into the present, he would retreat even further.

And then, when he would return, it was as if nothing had happened. He would smile, hold her close, kiss her forehead—but the bond felt... strained. It wasn’t the same. She could feel him slipping away, piece by piece, yet she didn’t want to admit it. She had tried to tell herself it was just the weight of the recent events, that he needed space to adjust to his newfound freedom—but deep down, she knew that wasn’t the only thing eating at him.

Tonight, however, was different. The High Lords had gathered in Dawn Court for the first time since the defeat of Amarantha, and there was an air of relief in the room, mingling with the light buzz of excitement. Rhysand had promised that they would attend together, but as the evening wore on, he had yet to appear at her side.

“YN,” Mor’s voice brought her back from her thoughts, a knowing look in her eyes. “Don’t worry. Rhys will be here.”

YN smiled, though it didn’t quite reach her eyes. “I know. He’s just... busy, I suppose.”

Mor didn’t buy it, but she said nothing more. Instead, she looped her arm through YN’s and led her back to the table. Most of the High Lords were mingling, some enjoying the informal dinner gathering, others discussing more pressing matters. Cassian and Azriel stood near the corner, deep in conversation with a few of the other soldiers. Kallias, the High Lord of Winter, stood off to the side, talking with Helion, but his gaze kept returning to YN. She felt a flicker of warmth in her chest when their eyes met.

Her bump was noticeable now, and the looks of congratulations and smiles from the lords were a welcome distraction from the silence between her and Rhys. Baron, of course, didn’t even acknowledge her presence, as usual, but the others were kind.

“You look radiant tonight, YN,” Kallias said, stepping toward her with a warm smile. He had always been one of the more reserved High Lords, his icy demeanor a product of his powers and his personality, but tonight, there was something in his eyes—gentleness, kindness. He reached out, carefully taking her hand in his, and she was surprised by how warm it felt, how soft his touch was. “How are you feeling?”

“Better,” she replied, smiling at him, feeling a slight flutter in her stomach at his concern. “It’s been a long couple of months. Thank you for asking.”

“You’re carrying something precious,” Kallias said quietly, glancing down at her bump before his eyes returned to hers. “I can only imagine the strength it takes to bear such a responsibility.”

YN didn’t know why, but his words hit her in a way that made her feel seen. So often, Rhysand’s attention had been diverted, and it felt as if she was carrying this burden alone. But Kallias... Kallias made her feel like she wasn’t invisible. Like she was more than just the woman carrying Rhysand’s child. She was YN, strong, capable, and worthy of attention, of affection.

She had never spoken much with Kallias beyond the formalities of the courts, but there was something about him tonight—something different. He was engaging with her, making her feel important, something that Rhys had failed to do in the last few weeks.

“Thank you,” she said, her voice soft, almost shy. She hadn’t realized how much she needed to hear those words. “That means more than you know.”

Kallias gave her a smile—gentle, understanding, and somehow... safe. “You deserve to be treated with kindness, YN. You’ve been through so much.”

She couldn’t help but smile back at him, the warmth of his words melting some of the icy isolation she’d been feeling.

“YN, there you are,” Rhysand’s voice broke into the moment, and she froze. He had arrived, but there was something about his tone that immediately made her stomach tighten. He was smiling, but it was tight, forced.

His gaze flickered briefly to Kallias before locking onto her, and the change in his demeanor was subtle, but YN noticed it all the same. The possessiveness in his eyes, the way his posture stiffened just a fraction, how his jaw tightened. But when he smiled again, it was almost too wide, too practiced.

“I’ve been looking everywhere for you,” he said, wrapping his arm around her waist in a gesture that felt more for show than genuine affection. His touch was tight, as if he was trying to hold her in place, but there was no warmth in it.

Kallias, ever perceptive, caught the slight shift in the atmosphere. “It seems like you’ve found her,” he said with a polite smile, but there was something in his voice that held a hint of challenge.

YN tried not to let the tension in the air affect her, but it was hard to ignore. Rhysand didn’t seem happy, and Kallias—despite his icy demeanor—had made her feel something Rhys hadn’t in weeks: seen. Rhys, however, took a step closer, his voice turning more possessive. “YN, you look stunning tonight. But if you’re done here, I think we should head back.”

Her heart squeezed at his words. She had expected joy, happiness—maybe even a little pride in his eyes, but all she saw was discomfort, an undercurrent of guilt. She could feel the hesitation through their bond, like he was holding something back from her, something important.

“I’m not ready to leave yet,” YN said quietly, her tone firm but gentle. She looked back at Kallias, who nodded his understanding, and for a moment, she felt like she was stepping into unknown territory, like the simple act of asserting herself was both thrilling and terrifying.

Rhysand’s smile faltered just slightly, and his eyes narrowed. “I think it’s time, YN. We’ve been here long enough.”

YN didn’t answer him immediately. She knew what she felt, what she had felt for months now. Rhysand wasn’t the same, and no amount of pretending could make her blind to it any longer. But as she turned back to Kallias, she saw the genuine concern in his eyes, the way he watched her with a sense of admiration that was foreign in Rhysand’s presence. It made her feel seen, and it was like a balm to a wound she didn’t even realize had been open for so long.

Finally, she nodded, but not to Rhysand. She nodded to Kallias.

“Thank you,” she whispered to him, before turning back to Rhysand. “Let’s go.”

But even as they left, Rhysand’s arm tightened around her waist, his silence growing heavier. And YN could only wonder what was truly going on behind his eyes.

It was a quiet evening in the House of Wind, the air crisp and fresh as the last remnants of daylight slipped behind the mountains. YN was curled up on one of the many plush armchairs in the sitting room, her hands resting gently on her slightly visible bump, her mind swirling with thoughts she couldn’t quite untangle.

But there was a coldness in the air tonight. A quiet tension that had settled in the room, and it was growing.

YN had been lost in thought when the sound of footsteps broke the silence. Rhysand appeared in the doorway, his presence as commanding as always, but tonight there was something off. His face, usually open and warm when he looked at her, was guarded. There was no smile, no greeting. He simply stood there for a moment, his gaze sweeping over her before he stepped further into the room.

But then, as quickly as he entered, he froze.

It was like the world itself stopped. His eyes went unfocused, his shoulders tensed, and before she could ask what was wrong, he disappeared—winnowed—with such suddenness that it took YN a moment to even comprehend what had happened.

She sat there, stunned, her heart thumping erratically in her chest. What had just happened? What could have caused him to leave without a word? Without a single explanation?

She rose from the chair, her hand instinctively moving to her stomach.

“Rhysand?” she called softly into the silence, but there was no answer. Nothing. It was as if he had never been there at all.

Her mind raced as she tried to understand what was going on.

She could feel it now more than ever—his discomfort, his uncertainty—but it was more than that. There was something else. She just didn’t know what.

The minutes stretched into what felt like hours before Rhysand reappeared, winnowing back into the room. He was disheveled, his hair tousled, his jaw tight with frustration. His eyes, though, were what struck her the most—they were shadowed with something unfamiliar, something that made her stomach twist in apprehension.

“Rhys, what happened? Where did you go?” She couldn’t hide the concern in her voice. The distance in the bond was suffocating, and she needed to understand.

He barely looked at her. “I—had something to take care of. Don’t worry about it.”

His tone was short, dismissive, and it stung more than she expected. Before she could respond, Cassian’s voice broke in, cool and calm, though his eyes were filled with something darker, like he could sense the tension in the room.

“Rhys,” Cassian said, standing up from his spot near Y/N. “You alright?”

Rhysand’s gaze flicked to his brother briefly, then away. He didn’t answer right away, and the silence grew thick, almost suffocating. Finally, with a flick of his hand, Rhys spoke again, but his voice was still clipped, irritated. “I’m fine, Cassian. Just... some things to sort through. I’ll be back later.”

YN opened her mouth to speak, but before she could, Rhys was already striding toward the door, his back to them. “Excuse me,” he muttered, his words a little too sharp.

Cassian watched him go, his gaze lingering for a moment before he turned to YN. There was a look in his eyes, one that was almost apologetic, but his words were kind. He moved closer, resting his hand gently on her bump.

“Don’t worry,” Cassian said softly, his voice low and reassuring. “Rhys is... he’s just got a lot on his mind. But you—” He looked down at her belly and then met her eyes. “You’re not alone. None of us are, alright?”

YN nodded, though the confusion and worry gnawed at her. “I just don’t understand. He’s been distant lately. I don’t know what’s happening.”

“You’ll figure it out, YN,” Cassian said, giving her a small smile. “He’s a stubborn one. But you know Rhys—when it’s important, he’ll come to you. Just give him time.”

But time had already passed. And the longer it stretched, the more YN wondered if the distance between them was something that could be repaired—or if it was already too late.

The next day, the atmosphere in the House of Wind was strangely subdued, everyone waiting for Rhysand’s announcement. Mor and Azriel had come by earlier, and there was a quiet sense of anticipation hanging in the air. Even Cassian seemed to be on edge, though he hid it well.

It wasn’t until dinner that evening, when the Inner Circle was gathered around the table, that Rhysand finally spoke.

“I have a special guest joining us for dinner tomorrow,” Rhysand said, his voice lighter than it had been in days, though there was a hint of something... genuine in his smile. “Feyre will be joining us.”

There was a moment of silence before the room erupted into murmurs of surprise. Feyre, the mortal-turned-Fae, the one who had helped free them all, the one who had played a key role in the downfall of Amarantha. YN felt a sudden lump form in her throat, but she swallowed it down.

The room filled with questions, comments, congratulations—though most of the attention was on Rhysand.

“So, Feyre’s finally coming to Velaris?” Azriel asked, his tone neutral, though there was a certain curiosity in his eyes.

Rhysand nodded, his smile widening. “Yes, she’s been through so much, and I thought it was time she saw the city. I can’t think of a better place for her.”

There was genuine warmth in his tone when he spoke of Feyre, and it hit YN harder than she expected. She hadn’t realized how much he had changed since their first meeting, how much he admired Feyre.

“You must be excited,” Mor said, her smile both kind and knowing. “I’m sure Feyre will love it here.”

YN forced a smile, but it felt hollow. She felt as though the room had shifted, as if Rhysand was now fully enveloped in the idea of Feyre’s arrival. She hadn’t even noticed how much he’d changed until that moment. How much he had changed.

She glanced down at her hands, the light from the candles flickering in her vision. Feyre—the girl who had saved them all. The girl who had freed Rhysand from Amarantha’s cruel reign.

The girl who had, it seemed, somehow taken her place. But at the time Y/N was too oblivious to notice that.

The night carried on, with Rhysand now more animated than ever, speaking freely of Feyre’s arrival and plans for their dinner. But YN couldn’t shake the feeling that something—someone—was about to come between them in ways she never expected. She had been blind, so foolishly blind to the changes in Rhysand. But maybe, just maybe, it was time to confront what had been lingering beneath the surface for far too long.

The evening had come, but Rhysand still wasn’t home. The rest of the Inner Circle was gathered around the fireplace in the House of Wind, the warmth of the flames not quite enough to chase away the coldness that seemed to settle in YN’s chest. She was perched on a plush sofa, her hands once again resting on her slightly rounded belly, her gaze fixed on the crackling fire. The rest of them—Azriel, Mor, Amren, and Cassian��were scattered around the room, engaged in light conversation, but YN couldn’t bring herself to join in.

She felt the space between her and Rhys more keenly than ever.

Azriel, ever perceptive, moved closer to her. He sat down beside her, his posture gentle as he placed a hand on her back, his touch comforting but not invasive.

"You've been quiet tonight," Azriel said softly, his voice like a balm to her frayed nerves.

YN sighed, her fingers absentmindedly tracing patterns on the fabric of her dress. "I don't know, Az. Something’s wrong. Rhys… he’s so distant. It’s like I’m not even here for him anymore."

Cassian, who had been perched by the fireplace, took a step forward, his usual jovial demeanor subdued. His eyes softened with concern as he noticed the way YN was slumped into the cushions, her shoulders tense.

“He’ll come around,” Cassian said, trying to sound reassuring, but his voice lacked the usual certainty. He knew Rhysand better than anyone, and even he couldn’t deny the shift that had been happening.

But YN just shook her head, her voice quiet, barely above a whisper.

“No,” she replied, her eyes downcast. “It’s more than that. I’ve seen him these last few days, Cass. He’s not just distracted. He’s hesitant. Like he’s somewhere else entirely, even when he’s standing right in front of me. His smiles don’t reach his eyes anymore. He looks at me, but he doesn’t see me.” Her voice trembled as she spoke the words she had been trying to ignore, trying to pretend weren’t happening. “I try to soothe him, I try to be there for him, but I can feel the distance growing.”

Mor, who had been listening quietly, crossed the room and sat next to YN, her arm wrapping around her in a rare show of tenderness.

“I know it's hard,” Mor said softly, her tone filled with understanding. “But Rhys is... he's always had a lot on his shoulders. You know that. He’s the High Lord. And even when he has us around, some things he keeps locked up.”

“But this?” YN asked, her eyes wide with hurt. “It’s more than just the weight of the throne, Mor. He’s gone, even when he’s here. I feel it in the bond. It’s like he’s slipping away.”

Azriel leaned forward, his voice gentle but firm. “He’s not slipping away, YN. Rhysand is just… processing something. There are things he needs to work through. It’s not about you.”

“Isn’t it?” she whispered, feeling a knot of doubt twist in her stomach. “I’ve seen him shut down before, Az. But this time? It’s different. I don’t know how to fix it. I’m not even sure if he wants me to fix it.”

Cassian’s face darkened, his protective instincts flaring as he moved closer to her. He crossed his arms over his chest, his voice stern as he looked at YN. “Listen to me, YN. You’re doing everything you can. And you’re not alone in this. I’m not going to let you go through this by yourself. None of us are.” He shifted his gaze to her stomach. “You’re carrying something precious, and I’ll be damned if I let anything—” he stopped himself and softened, “I’ll be damned if you don’t get the care you deserve.”

YN blinked at him, the unspoken concern for her growing more tangible with every word.

“When was the last time you ate properly?” Cassian asked, his tone turning gentle but insistent. “When did you last sleep through the night?”

YN faltered, looking down at her lap. “I... I’m fine, Cassian. It’s just... I’m not hungry, that’s all. Rhys—”

“No.” Cassian’s voice cut through her words. “You’re not fine. You’re carrying Rhysand’s child, and he’s not here right now. But I’m here, and I’m not going anywhere. You need to eat, you need to sleep. And we’re all here to make sure you’re taken care of.”

Azriel nodded in agreement, his hand still resting lightly on her back. “Cassian’s right, YN. We’re not going to stand by and watch you push yourself too hard. If Rhys doesn’t notice, we do. And we’ll make sure you’re okay. We’ll talk to him, too.”

YN swallowed hard, blinking back tears that had no business being there. “It’s just hard,” she admitted, her voice thick with emotion. “He’s not the male I knew anymore. And I’m scared, Az. Scared that maybe... maybe he never really was the male I thought he was.”

Before anyone could say more, the sound of wings flapping loudly outside interrupted the conversation. The group turned, and in the blink of an eye, Rhysand landed gracefully on the balcony, holding Feyre in his arms.

YN’s heart clenched at the sight of them, her thoughts a storm of confusion. She stood up from the sofa, but her feet felt heavy, reluctant. It was almost like she couldn’t move. She knew Feyre—had heard so much about her, the mortal-turned-Fae who had helped free them all. But seeing Rhys so effortlessly carry Feyre, with that smile that she’d only ever seen directed at her... it hit YN in a way she hadn’t been prepared for.

Mor stood by her side, watching as Rhysand approached the door with Feyre. Her hand on YN’s arm was gentle, a soft reassurance that YN was thankful for.

“Go on,” Mor said quietly. “You’re just as important here, YN. You don’t need to be scared of what’s happening. We are here for you.”

YN nodded, drawing in a deep breath as she moved forward, her steps uncertain but steady. As Rhysand and Feyre entered the room, she saw the way Rhys looked at Feyre—softly, protectively, and with an affection that, for the first time, made YN feel like she was no longer at the center of his world.

Feyre smiled at YN as Rhys gently set her down on her feet. There was a kindness in her eyes, a warmth that reminded YN of the girl who had sacrificed so much for them all. YN’s heart softened, and she stepped forward, reaching out.

“Thank you,” YN said, her voice thick with gratitude. “For everything. You—” She paused, her emotions overwhelming her for a moment, before she pulled Feyre into a tight embrace. “I know it’s because of you that we’re all here. That Rhys is here. I don’t know how to thank you for that.”

Feyre hugged her back just as tightly, her voice warm and kind. “I didn’t do it alone,” Feyre said, pulling back with a small smile. “But I’m happy to be here. With all of you.”

The group settled around the dinner table as the conversation turned to lighter topics. Feyre was kind and gracious, a perfect guest, while Rhysand sat with a rare relaxed air, laughing and joining in with the others. But YN, despite the smiles and easy conversation, couldn’t shake the feeling of being on the outside looking in.

She smiled when it was needed, nodded at the right times, but inside, she felt the gap between her and Rhys grow larger. The more they talked about Feyre—her kindness, her bravery, her role in their world—the more YN couldn’t help but feel that she was losing Rhysand to someone else.

It hurt in ways she hadn’t anticipated. But she kept her face calm, her composure intact, and though the knot in her chest tightened, she smiled through it all.

The night stretched on, filled with laughter and stories. But as they all ate, YN sat back, her thoughts swirling. Rhysand was no longer just the man who loved her; he was someone different, someone who had room in his heart for another. She could see it in the way he spoke of Feyre, the way his gaze lingered on her.

And YN? She was simply standing on the sidelines, trying to hold onto a love that seemed to be slipping through her fingers.

The night was long. But YN would fight for her place in Rhys’s heart—for their future. Even if it meant facing what she was most afraid of.

he House of Wind had become more than just a home for Y/N over the past few weeks; it had become a place of quiet, uneasy observation. At first, everything had felt like a blur—busy days and nights spent adjusting to the changes. Feyre’s arrival had been a shock, an unexpected whirlwind that shifted the delicate balance of their lives. Yet, it was not Feyre’s presence alone that unsettled Y/N. It was Rhysand’s shifting attention, his sudden and unnerving detachment from her.

Y/N had noticed it first in the small things—how he would spend hours in the study with Feyre, teaching her new things, showing her how to control her magic, his voice soft, patient. His lessons went on for hours, and there were times when Y/N would sit in the grand hall, reading, waiting for him to return to her, but he never did.

It was as if Feyre needed him now more than she ever had, and Rhysand was more than willing to give everything he had to her. She didn’t understand it—why did he need to give her so much of himself? Why did his lessons stretch on endlessly, late into the night, when there were so many other things to focus on, things that they could share as a couple, as soon-to-be parents?

Even when he wasn’t with Feyre, Y/N couldn’t reach him. When the day would finally end, and Rhysand would return to the House of Wind, he would often retreat to his office instead of coming to her side. He slept there for hours, the door to his office often left ajar, his figure slouched over piles of paperwork and forgotten responsibilities.

Y/N would lie in their bed, her growing belly pressing into the soft sheets, feeling the absence of her mate more profoundly with each passing day. She knew that Rhysand’s duties as High Lord were demanding, but surely, surely he could make time for her, especially now that she was carrying his child. But no. It was always Cassian, Azriel, Mor and Amren who hovered over her, their concern for her health and wellbeing growing each day. Cassian was the first to notice when she had trouble getting out of bed in the morning. Azriel was there, always in the background, quietly ensuring that she was okay. Amren and Mor took on the roles of mothers, watching over her, their comforting presence a constant reminder that she was not alone, even when Rhysand was distant.

She would often ask, “Have you spoken with him? Does he seem different to you?” and Azriel would only look at her with that familiar shadow of confusion in his eyes. “I don’t know,” he would say, his voice low, thoughtful. “Rhys has never been like this before. It’s like he’s refusing to talk about whatever’s bothering him.”

And Y/N? She tried to convince herself that it was just a phase. Maybe it was the pressure of ruling, the stress of keeping Velaris safe. Maybe Feyre’s arrival had triggered something deep inside Rhysand, something she couldn’t understand. It was foolish of her to think that she could make it through this journey unscathed. But deep down, she felt the sting of it. The weight of his neglect hung heavy on her chest.

She would tell herself that Feyre needed him. Feyre had gone through so much in her life—losing her family, fighting in the war, carrying burdens Y/N could never comprehend. Maybe it was only fair that Rhysand focus on her, that he be there for Feyre while she healed. Maybe she needed his support more than Y/N did.

The thoughts tasted like poison on her tongue, and she tried to swallow them down, but they kept coming back, lingering like a bitter aftertaste.

One evening, when Rhysand returned from another long day with Feyre, Y/N found herself staring at the door to his office, waiting for him to come to her. She could hear the sound of his footsteps in the hallway, and she tried to steady her breath, but when he didn’t knock on her door, when he didn’t even acknowledge her presence, her heart sank deeper.

Later that week, she overheard Rhysand telling Feyre that he would be taking her to the Illyrian camps. It was dangerous, he said, but necessary. They would stop at the Weaver’s house on the way, and Y/N couldn’t help the knot that twisted in her stomach. She tried to smile, to seem supportive, but when she asked, “Why? Why are you taking her there? That’s so dangerous,” Rhysand’s expression was distant, his gaze hard.

“I need her to retrieve something for me,” he explained curtly, but there was no warmth in his voice. He didn’t meet her eyes.

Y/N stood there, shocked, trying to process what he had said. She watched them leave, her heart heavy with the feeling that she was losing him, that whatever connection they had once shared was slipping through her fingers.

As Rhysand and Feyre made their way to the Illyrian camps, Y/N couldn’t shake the sense of betrayal that had begun to grow inside her. She would wait for them to return, but she wasn’t sure what she would find when they did. Would Rhysand still be the same, or would Feyre’s presence in his life change everything forever?

The house was quieter than it had been in weeks. The absence of Rhysand and Feyre had left a void, and the walls seemed to echo with silence. Y/n sat near the window, the early evening sunlight casting a golden glow across the room, her fingers gently tracing the curve of her swollen belly. She had been waiting—waiting for Rhysand’s return, for any sign of the distance between them to close. But all she had received was space. The quiet ache in her chest gnawed at her.

Amren, ever watchful, sat across from her, her expression unreadable. But Y/n noticed the tension in her gaze, the way she kept looking at her with something close to concern. It didn’t help that the others had been distant too—Azriel, Cassian, and Mor, all acting like they were hiding something, exchanging too many knowing glances and hushed conversations. It only deepened her sense of unease.

Today, however, was different. Gifts had arrived for her—thoughtful, generous tokens from several of the Highlords in honor of her soon-to-be motherhood. She’d been expecting them, but still, the small mountain of neatly wrapped parcels in front of her filled her with mixed emotions.

"Open them," Amren said softly, as if sensing her hesitation. "

Y/n nodded, the familiar rustle of paper comforting her in its simplicity. She picked up the first gift, a small, elegant box wrapped in a deep shade of red with a ribbon that shimmered like morning sunlight. She carefully untied the bow, lifting the lid to reveal a delicate silver bracelet, studded with tiny moonstones that glinted softly in the fading light. It was beautiful, simple, and elegant. She smiled softly, imagining it wrapped around her wrist as she cradled her baby.

"Oh, Helion," she murmured, the thought of the Highlord of Day bringing a warmth to her chest. She ran her fingers over the cool stones, letting out a sigh as she admired the craftsmanship.

"He's always been a thoughtful one," Amren remarked with a raised brow, as if she too had felt the affection Helion had for Y/n.

Y/n smiled faintly, placing the bracelet to the side. There were other gifts to open. She picked up the next parcel, this one wrapped in soft blue paper with intricate golden designs. It was from Thesan, the Highlord of Dawn, a court known for its refined beauty and grace. When she opened it, she was greeted by a set of hand-painted ceramic dishes, each piece vibrant with delicate patterns that seemed to glow with a warmth that reminded her of sunrises.

Thesan had always been attentive, and she smiled as she imagined the quiet, regal Highlord choosing each piece carefully. She couldn't help but appreciate the thoughtfulness, the way he considered her comfort and her child’s future.

But it was the third gift that captured her attention.

The parcel from Kallias, the Highlord of Winter, was wrapped in dark, rich purple paper. She carefully untied the ribbon, her heart beating a little faster, and opened the box inside. What she found inside was far beyond anything she could have expected.

A small, intricately carved wooden box. It was no larger than the palm of her hand, and as she ran her fingers over its smooth surface, she noticed delicate snowflakes and swirling designs etched into the wood. There was something magical about it, something that made her chest tighten. Inside, nestled among soft velvet, was a small crystal vial filled with a silvery liquid that shimmered like moonlight on snow. Alongside it was a small letter, written in Kallias’s elegant handwriting.

"To Y/n, with warmth and hope for the future. May this gift be a reminder of the strength within you, and the serenity you will find in the stillness of winter’s embrace. You are not alone, not ever."

Y/n’s breath hitched in her throat as she held the vial gently, the words from Kallias sending a ripple of warmth through her. His gift was not just thoughtful—it was deeply personal. It felt like an invitation, a message from someone who saw her, truly saw her, even when the others had become distant.

"He really thought of everything," Y/n whispered, her fingers tracing the small vial.

Amren watched her with a quiet expression, her eyes flicking between the gifts and Y/n’s reaction. “He did,” she agreed softly. “Kallias is a good male. He knows the value of compassion.”

Y/n nodded, her heart swelling with gratitude. The tension in the room was still palpable, but this small gesture from Kallias made her feel seen, reminded her that she wasn’t invisible in the midst of the growing chaos.

Before she could say anything further, a sharp knock echoed from the door.

“Rhysand and Feyre,” Amren muttered, already standing up. “I suppose the moment has arrived.”

Y/n’s stomach tightened, both with excitement and dread. She wasn’t sure what to expect.

As the door swung open and Rhysand stepped in, with Feyre at his side, something immediately shifted in the air. Rhysand’s usual confident demeanor was different—sharper, perhaps, but there was a sense of something unsaid between him and Feyre, an energy Y/n couldn’t quite place. Feyre’s smile was brighter than she’d seen in ages, but there was a newness in her eyes—a quiet certainty.

Y/n’s breath caught as she noticed their shared glances, the unspoken bond between them that hummed through the air like an invisible thread. She stood, feeling the weight of the moment settle into her bones.

“Well, look at you both,” Y/n said, forcing a smile, though it felt hollow. “Feyre, you look well. I hope the journey wasn’t too hard.”

Feyre smiled warmly, though there was a hint of something private behind her eyes. “We managed,” she said, the way she said it making Y/n’s heart clench. “And you, Y/n? How are you feeling?”

Y/n’s gaze flickered to Rhysand, his expression unreadable. “I’m getting there,” she said softly, and though it was true, it felt like an answer far too shallow for everything else she wanted to express.

As the evening wore on and everyone gathered around the table, Y/n couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong—something had shifted, and no one, not even Rhysand, seemed to want to speak the truth of it.

But she noticed the way Rhysand’s eyes lingered on Feyre, the way their quiet exchanges seemed to carry a weight that hadn’t been there before.

And she wondered, in the deepest part of her heart, if she had lost something she hadn’t fully realized was slipping through her fingers.

Y/n’s eyes fluttered open as an uncomfortable wave of pain stretched across her back, her large belly shifting uneasily beneath the blankets. The room, once warm and familiar, now felt suffocating, the walls closing in around her as she tried to shift positions. Her heart thudded a little too loudly, and the silence only amplified the emptiness in the space. Rhysand had not been by her side for hours, and at this point, it was becoming a familiar absence—one she couldn’t ignore.

A deep sigh escaped her lips as she sat up, the strain of carrying their child weighing heavily on her. She hadn’t wanted to wake him, but something inside of her yearned for the quiet solace of a midnight walk—anything to soothe the tightness in her chest. She slipped out of bed, careful not to wake Amren, who still slept soundly beside her. Y/n made her way to the door and stepped out into the cool, moonlit halls of the House of Wind.

As she walked down the corridor, her mind buzzed with a thousand questions. She couldn’t shake the feeling that something had changed between her and Rhysand, even before he left for the war. The secretive looks exchanged between him, Feyre, and the others had only deepened her suspicions. The change in his demeanor when he’d returned had been subtle, but it was there. She just didn’t know what to make of it. Yet.

The soft sound of footsteps ahead caught her attention. Cassian.

He froze when he spotted her, his eyes briefly flickering with a flash of surprise before he tried to hide it behind a strained smile. “Y/n… What are you doing here?” he asked, his voice a little too high-pitched, like he’d been caught off guard.

Y/n raised an eyebrow at him, her hand resting against her rounded belly. “Couldn’t sleep. Thought I’d make myself some tea,” she said, trying to act nonchalant. “Is something wrong?”

Cassian’s smile softened, his shoulders visibly relaxing. He eyed her for a moment before speaking in a quiet, almost tender voice, “Well, wouldn’t want a lady like you wandering these halls alone at this time of night.” His voice dropped lower as he added, “Let me join you.”

Y/n felt a sense of comfort in his words, the warmth of his easy-going nature wrapping around her like a blanket. She smiled at him, the bond they had forged over the years making this moment feel… safe, in spite of the turmoil in her heart.

They started walking together, Cassian keeping pace beside her. The halls seemed endless as they made their way to the kitchen, but the familiar company made the journey less isolating. Their conversation flowed easily, the lull of their voices filling the air between them.

“Have you had time to rest?” Cassian asked, glancing over at her belly. “You should take it easy, you know.”

Y/n chuckled softly, rubbing her belly. “I’m fine. The little one is kicking up a storm tonight. Can’t quite settle down.”

Cassian’s grin was easy, but there was a flicker of something else behind his eyes, something unspoken, as he leaned slightly toward her, trying to offer her comfort. “Don’t let anyone tell you that you shouldn’t take it easy. You’ve been through a lot.”

She tilted her head at him. “You’re always so kind, Cassian,” she said, almost teasing. “I appreciate it.”

“Anything for you,” he replied, with a wink that made her laugh. “But don’t get any ideas. I’m not looking for trouble.”

Y/n smirked. “Me? Trouble? Never.”

They continued talking, weaving through the halls, discussing small things—how the weather had been, how the training had been progressing with the armies—and the more they spoke, the lighter Y/n felt. It was like a brief escape from the gnawing uncertainty she carried.

But then, as they reached a corridor near Feyre’s room, Y/n noticed something strange.

A small light was spilling out from beneath the door.

She froze mid-step, and Cassian’s eyes narrowed. “That’s odd,” he muttered, glancing at her. “Feyre should be asleep by now.”

Y/n frowned. “Should we check on her? She might need something.”

Cassian hesitated but gave a tight nod. “I’ll be right back.” He took a few steps forward, his large form blocking the door as he cracked it open. But before he could slip inside, he froze.

Y/n, not one to stand idly by, took a small step forward, peering around him. “Cassian?” she whispered, her voice unsure.

But Cassian, his face hardening in a way she hadn’t seen before, quickly turned to her. “Y/n,” he said softly, his voice laced with concern, “please… Let’s go back. It’s—”

Before he could finish, Y/n pushed past him, her heart thundering in her chest. She entered the room, and in the dim light, her gaze locked on the sight before her.

Rhysand and Feyre. Together.

Rhysand had Feyre pressed against the wall, their lips locked in a passionate kiss, the intensity of their connection undeniable.

Y/n’s heart stopped in her chest, the air thick with the realization crashing over her. She blinked, disbelieving. This was not happening.

“Rhysand,” she whispered, her voice breaking as her legs threatened to give out from under her.

Rhysand’s eyes widened, and he immediately pulled away from Feyre, both of them frozen in shock. Feyre’s face flushed with guilt, but it wasn’t enough.

Y/n’s hands trembled, her thoughts spiraling as she processed the sight. All the doubt, all the pain, everything she’d tried to ignore—it was true.

Without another word, Y/n turned and fled, her breaths coming in ragged gasps. She didn’t even hear Cassian call after her, his voice full of anguish. All she could hear was the thundering of her own heartbeat and the sound of her feet pounding down the halls.

She was halfway down the corridor when she felt Cassian’s hand on her arm, pulling her back gently. “Y/n, please,” he said, voice low. “You don’t have to do this.”

But Y/n, in her shock, yanked her arm away. “Don’t touch me, Cassian!” she shouted. “How long? How long has this been going on? How long have you all been hiding this from me?”

Her voice wavered, breaking with every word. Her emotions were a storm. She didn’t care who saw it anymore. She’d been blind.

Cassian took a step back, his eyes filled with regret. “Y/n, please—”

Her hands trembled, but her words were sharp, cutting through the hall like a blade. "Why didn’t you tell me? Why?" She stepped forward, her gaze locked onto Rhysand, the male who had once been everything to her. "You made me believe in you. We built a life together! A family! And now… now I’m supposed to just accept this?" Her voice cracked as she swallowed the lump in her throat, the weight of it all almost suffocating her. "We have a child, Rhysand! You will be a father!"

Rhysand flinched as if her words had struck him harder than any physical blow. He opened his mouth, but no words came out. He reached for her, but her eyes hardened, her heart already too far gone for him to reach.

"Are you not ashamed of yourself?" she shouted, her voice growing louder, desperate for answers. The anger poured out of her like a flood, drowning everything in its path. "Is that it? You just gave it all up? How could you do this to me? To us?" She gestured between herself and her stomach, the child growing inside of her. "I gave you everything. I gave you my trust. My heart. And this is how you repay me? This is the price I pay for being so blind?"

Feyre took a hesitant step forward, her face filled with guilt, but Rhysand’s protective instinct flared. His hand shot out, catching Feyre behind him, his posture stiff and defensive. His eyes flickered with regret, but they held the painful truth.

For a split second, Y/n thought she might lose herself completely, but then the bitter laugh escaped her. It was harsh, mocking—disbelieving.

Because that was when it hit her.

These two were mates. Mates.

"So mates, huh? Is that what this is all about?" she scoffed. "I guess I should’ve known. I should’ve seen it coming, shouldn’t I?" Her voice was dripping with sarcasm now, the anguish inside her turning to venom. "But of course, you would protect her, wouldn’t you?" She looked at Feyre with contempt, shaking her head. "You didn’t even have the decency to tell me the truth."

Rhysand’s jaw clenched, but he remained silent. The pain in his eyes was evident, but he didn’t speak. He couldn’t, not when he knew the words he needed to say would only make things worse. His heart ached for her, but he had no idea how to fix what he had broken.

Y/n’s body shook with anger, the injustice of it all weighing down on her chest. She turned on her heel, ready to storm away, but that’s when it happened.

The sharp pain slammed into her abdomen, and her knees buckled. She gasped, her breath catching in her throat as her vision blurred with pain.

Azriel--who appeared out of nowhere--was at her side in an instant, his arms steadying her, but her body betrayed her. She clutched her stomach, her body wracked with pain that seemed to come from nowhere.

"Y/n?" Azriel’s voice was filled with concern as he tried to steady her, but she could barely hear him through the intensity of the agony. Cassian was on the other side, his hands gently gripping her arms, trying to keep her upright.

"Madja!" Cassian barked at Rhysand, his voice filled with anger and venom, "Be responsible and get Madja now!"

But Y/n didn’t hear him. All she could focus on was the agony coursing through her, the pain so sharp and overwhelming that it consumed her. She didn’t care about Rhysand anymore. She didn’t care about Feyre. She didn’t care about anything except for one thing: their child.

Her breath came in shallow gasps as she cradled her stomach with one hand, feeling the life growing inside her, the precious little one she had been so determined to protect.

"Please," she whispered weakly, her voice breaking as she looked at Rhysand. "Please don’t take this from me."

Cassian and Azriel exchanged a frantic glance, both of them moving into protective mode as they kept her steady. Y/n’s eyes were locked onto Rhysand now, her fury mingled with a desperate need for him to understand. To feel the weight of what he had done.

But it was too late. The damage was done.

Rhysand stepped forward, his hand reaching out to her, but Y/n jerked away from him, the sudden movement only worsening the pain in her abdomen. She gasped again, clutching her stomach as a new wave of agony hit her.

“Y/n, please—” Rhysand’s voice was low, broken, but she couldn’t listen. Not anymore.

"No," she choked out, her voice hoarse. "No more excuses, Rhysand." Her hands trembled, her body trembling, and she couldn’t hold back the flood of emotions any longer. She was done.

The pain continued to tear through her, her thoughts scattering, spinning out of control as she cradled her stomach tighter. The tears she had been holding back finally spilled, but they weren’t just from the physical pain. They were for everything she had lost in that one moment. The trust. The love. The future they were supposed to build together.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” she sobbed, her voice breaking. “Why didn’t you tell me the truth?” She glanced at Feyre, her eyes hard, but her voice trembled with more than just anger. “How could you—how could you do this to me?”

But before anyone could respond, another wave of pain shot through her, and she screamed, her body collapsing into Cassian and Azriel’s arms. Her mind was a blur, only one thing clear—she needed help. She needed them to save the child.

Azriel's voice was low and commanding, filled with urgency. "Cassian, hold her. I’ll get Madja." He turned and moved swiftly toward the door, his wings brushing against the wall as he flew out into the night.

“Please, Y/n,” Cassian murmured, his voice soft but filled with fear. “Please, hold on.”

Y/n’s vision was swimming. She barely registered the words, the frantic chaos around her, her body failing her. All she could feel was the tight grip of the pain as it dragged her deeper into the darkness.

Rhysand stood there, torn between the desperate need to run to her side and the instinct to protect Feyre. He was lost. He had lost her. And in that moment, Y/n’s shattered words echoed in his mind: We have a child, Rhysand... You will be a father... Are you not ashamed of yourself?

And for the first time in his life, Rhysand had no answers.

Y/n slowly regained consciousness, the dull ache in her head reminding her of the storm that had passed through her body. She blinked against the bright light, her vision blurred for a moment before it cleared. The soft, cool sheets beneath her, the gentle rise and fall of her chest, it all felt so distant and overwhelming.

Madja's voice cut through the haze. "You're awake," she said softly, her tone warm but firm. "Good thing no harm was done to the baby, but you're under a lot of stress. I can feel it in your body, the strain on you."

Y/n turned her head slowly, seeing Madja standing next to her, the healer’s face filled with concern. Azriel was by the window, his posture tense, while Cassian hovered near the foot of the bed, his face a mixture of guilt and concern. Amren, ever stoic, stood off to the side, her eyes watching with an unreadable expression.

"Your baby is fine, Y/n," Madja continued, placing a hand lightly on Y/n’s arm. "There’s no danger of premature birth. Just take care of yourself, try to rest, and the baby will be fine. But your stress levels... they’re far too high." She gave them all a pointed look. "All of you."

With that, Madja stepped back, her eyes lingering on Y/n for a moment longer before she turned and left the room. There was a silence that followed, one that stretched out far too long for Y/n's comfort. Cassian was the first to speak, though his voice was unsure, quiet, the weight of his earlier actions heavy in the air.

"Y/n, I—" he started, but Y/n lifted her hand weakly, signaling for him to stop.

"How long?" she whispered, her voice fragile but steady with the hurt of it all. "How long have you all known?"

Azriel stiffened, and Amren rolled her eyes, crossing her arms. "Girl, don’t involve me in this mess," she said with a scoff. "I had no idea either. Though, it was kind of obvious." She glared at the two males as if daring them to argue.

Cassian ran a hand through his hair, looking down at the floor, his voice laced with regret. "We thought it would be best to wait until after the birth to tell you. We didn’t want to put you or the baby at risk."

Y/n's eyes flickered between them, too weary to say anything but the truth. "And that plan went to shit."

Azriel exhaled sharply, stepping closer to the bed. "Y/n, I am so sorry," he said, his voice raw with regret. "Rhysand told us all—told us that she was his mate after the journey. Feyre was mad at him, and... and then Rhys finally came clean to all of us. Told us everything." His eyes were filled with sincerity. "We should’ve told you sooner."

Y/n closed her eyes, shaking her head. "I trusted you all. All of you. And you kept this from me. You should’ve told me the moment you knew." Her voice cracked, but she didn't back down. She would not back down from this.

"I know," Cassian said quietly, his voice filled with shame. "We thought it was for the best. But you’re right. We should’ve told you. I should’ve told you." He ran a hand through his hair again, frustration flashing in his eyes. "I'm sorry, Y/n. I should've trusted you."

The room was thick with emotion, a painful silence hanging in the air when, suddenly, a piece of paper appeared in Y/n’s lap, its crisp edges catching the light. She blinked, a small smile pulling at her lips as she grabbed the letter. Her gaze softened as she read it, the others leaning in, confused.

"What’s this?" Cassian asked, his voice low. "Who’s it from?"

"Kallias," Y/n murmured, her fingers brushing over the letter’s surface with a sad smile. "The High Lord of Winter."

Everyone froze, their eyes widening as they processed the name. "Kallias?" Azriel repeated, his brows furrowed. "What’s he writing to you for?"

Y/n’s smile turned bittersweet as she looked up from the letter, her eyes filled with a mix of sorrow and something more resolute. "I wrote to him a week ago, asking if I could visit Winter. I needed a change of scenery. And he..." she trailed off, her smile growing faint. "He’s more than happy to have me."

The others stared at her, stunned into silence. The room felt as though it had shifted in an instant. "You... You’re going to Winter?" Amren asked, her voice tinged with disbelief. "Why now?"

Y/n’s smile faltered, but she didn’t hide it. "I already knew I’d leave sooner or later," she whispered, her hands trembling slightly as she folded the letter. "Just... not this soon. I guess my leave will be permanent."

The room erupted into chaos.

"Y/n, no," Cassian said, stepping toward her, his voice filled with desperation. "Please, you can’t—"

"Please," Azriel added softly, moving to her side. "Don’t go."

But Y/n held up her hand, silencing them all. There was a moment of stillness, a tension hanging in the air as they all waited. Slowly, Y/n swung her legs off the side of the bed, her movements slow but deliberate. She pulled her bag from underneath the bed, her gaze focused on the task at hand. "I need this," she said quietly, as though it was an understanding only she could see. "I’ve always needed this."

"Y/n, please," Cassian pleaded again, his voice rough with emotion. "You don’t have to do this."

Y/n’s gaze softened, but she was firm. "I do," she replied, her voice steady. "I do have to."

The room was quiet now, the weight of her words settling over them. It was clear there was no changing her mind.

"Now," Y/n said, turning to Amren, "will you please help me get changed?"

Amren’s expression softened slightly, but she gave a small nod. "Get out, all of you," she said, her tone more gentle than usual. "I’ll help her. And I’ve got advice for her."

The others left reluctantly, Cassian lingering at the door, his eyes heavy with unspoken emotions. Y/n caught his gaze and held it for a moment, before she turned back to Amren, the two of them sharing a quiet understanding.

Amren helped her get dressed, the quiet advice coming in fragments. "Take care of yourself, Y/n. Don’t let them hold you back. You deserve this peace. You deserve to find what you need. The rest will follow."

Y/n nodded, a weak but grateful smile on her lips. "Thank you, Amren."

When she was finally ready, Azriel appeared in the doorway, his expression unreadable. Y/n took a deep breath before moving toward him. Cassian, Mor, and even Amren stood back, their eyes heavy with unspoken thoughts.

Before she left, Y/n moved toward Cassian first. She wrapped her arms around him, holding him close for a moment, her face buried in his chest. "I’ll miss you," she whispered.

Cassian hugged her back, the weight of the moment pressing down on him. "Please take care of yourself," he said quietly, his voice thick with emotion.

Next, she turned to Mor, who embraced her with a tight, brief hug, her expression just as conflicted. "I hope you find what you need," Mor said softly.

Lastly, Y/n stepped toward Amren, who looked at her with a strange blend of pride and sorrow. "You’re stronger than you think," Amren said with a faint smile, before she too turned away, leaving Y/n to face her own path.

Y/n gave one last glance at the room before stepping outside. Azriel was waiting for her, his hand outstretched. Without a word, she took it, and in a flash of blue light, they vanished, leaving the shadows of the past behind.

And though Rhysand’s presence was absent, Y/n’s resolve was clear. She was moving on. She was taking the first step toward healing. Toward a future she would shape on her own terms.

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

[emacrow]

The villains had been 'mildly' concerned about their fellow villain, scarecrow by emacrow/creator

He haven't been to the annual monthly meeting in 6 months after his quiet muttering that how he beat The Mistress of Fear plotting by destroying her psychology.

Only for him to stumbled a bit in the door with a heavy limp, a marriage ring that was a gem bejeweled carved in the shape of pumpkin head on his ring finger, his scarecrow pants inside out, his jacket was missing, revealing several black and orange lipsticks marks and hickies on his shoulder, his sack mask has a new decoration of a childish scribble doodles of a ghost and a stitches of a carved pumpkin with glowing emerald eyes that was the Mistress of Fear symbols on the backside with his curly hair longer then it usually was, sneaky a bit out under the sack.

He look like someone who got their soul devoured in one go during a one night stand,

He ignored the obvious stares and snickering of each and every one of the guys watching him sit in his personal seat.

"So did you found what Mistress of Fear plotted against you, Scarecrow?" Harley was the speak first, a chuckle on how Scarecrow glared sent her way, fixing his mask.

"Oh, I think he found it alright." Penguin snickered.

"Fuck, now I owe Cat lady 1000 bucks."

"S-shut up! Scarecrow growled back if he wasn't struggling with his legs so much being weak in the knees.

"I still don't believe that The Mistress of Fear married this guy when she as tall as Killer croc and he like-." Riddler emphasize the height between Mistress and Scarecrow.

"He survived the other dozen times he fought her. Hell, Joker is still in the isolated cell for extend time after what she done to him the first fight, but seeing this. I can see she pretty much destroyed the poor guy to the point of bedrest." Bane spoke quietly, which cause the roar of laughter to begin in the meeting table.

"Bet she had many treats and tricks for our poor scarecrow to be walking like baby deer like that."

....

....

....

Jonathan wanted to blow up the entire meeting with his newly tested extreme fear toxic bomb so badly, but he held his anger and embarrassed down tight, considering half the thing they were gossiping were the truth.

They didn't have a clue what he went through personally.

He could barely hold a shiver trying to rise up his back after what was his honeymoon, along with learning some deep dark secrets Lilith had in her closet after he tried to snoop into.

Her endless, glowing green otherworldly filled of the damned souls that the soulshredder hoard closet that sucked him in for what felt like eternity when it was only 5 minutes in there before he passed out from terror.

No wonder she wasn't afraid inhaling the damn fear toxic when she had a goddamn portal to hell in her bedroom.

What he got forced into marrying her was to destroy her, but he was now playing against the unknown element that Lilith was a mistress of.

He doesn't want to remember the Training schedule she set upon him, but the lessons..

Oh the lessons of learning about fear essence in souls, Jonathan was drooling like he was starving for every single word that Lilith was speaking during that entire session, not cause his heart was skipping a beat with how she grin about a certain topic in fear or how his palms drench in sweat and face burning hotter then lava watching her show him a tiny water drop size of Fear essence in her hands.

He never was sexually attracted to anyone women or man, much less desire to touch or have affection for, but at that moment seeing that sparkle of flaming interest and desire in lilith's eyes showing him that made all the blood in his head went south for the first time in ever was the most embarrassing thing in his entire life.

He was fucked.. even literally in the sense.

Previous pt 1 link<- pt 3 link here<-

[kinkyniragi]

War Goddess

Pairing: Thomas Shelby x Reader

Genre: Smut 18+

Word count: 4,8k

Summary: You are Tommy’s wife. You hear him moan in the dark, caught in another war-drenched nightmare—except this time, he´s coming in his sleep. He asks you to help him in quite a special way and you say yes...You’re not sure what terrifies you more: The violence he craves… or the power he gives you.

CN: Tons of smutty smut (but with a plot, of course ^^), Tommy forcedly being submissive, war trauma and healing attempt, heavy psychological themes tbh, Tommy being vulnerable but not able to suppress his dominant side, power and gun play, degradation, humiliation, bondage, blindfolding, kind of spicy interrogation, oral and anal stuff, edging, hard sex as usual. Please note that this is all just fantasy. Things that happen in my stories should always be consensual. Take care.

Author’s note: My longest one-shot so far…Feel free to leave comments and share my story if you enjoy it—I truly appreciate every bit of motivation to keep writing. Even though I'm not a native speaker, I'll do my best 😉

***

The bed is warm. His back is damp.

You wake before him, as you often do, your body curled against his. A fine sheen of sweat glistens on his chest, his jaw clenched. He mumbles something — unintelligible at first — then clearer, just enough for you to catch fragments.

“In the walls—"

He jolts, his hand clenching into a tight fist.

“They´re coming—"

“Hey, shh…” you whisper, trying to soothe him, but before your fingers can even find his skin, he cries out — loud, raw:

“Fuck—NO!”

He’s nowhere near waking.

You run your hand gently across his fevered cheek, but even your softest touch can’t reach him. He’s too far under — trapped in whatever nightmare his mind has pulled him back into.

“Please—” he pleads, voice cracking with anguish. “Take what you want—"

And then, startling you into stillness, you feel it: the hard press of his arousal against your stomach.

You freeze.

What the hell is happening in his head?

He shudders and turns his head. His lips part once more.

“Use me—hurt me—just don’t kill me…”

The words spill from him in a strangled mix of fear and something else — something desperate, broken, wanting. A twisted yearning that doesn’t make sense, and yet feels all too familiar to you.

You shouldn´t be aroused by what you are witnessing.

But you are.

***

You love him. That’s never been the question.

It’s what comes with loving him. The silence, the scars, the smoke that never clears. The way he disappears for days without a word. The way he comes back smelling of whiskey and gunpowder, like some battle you weren’t invited to.

Tommy has always been the hell of a dominant partner — what most would call an alpha male, without a second thought. Your safety, your well-being, they’ve always mattered to him, no doubt about that.

But only on his terms.

In daylight.

And by night.

Tommy doesn’t ask. He takes. And because you love him — and because you know he loves you, in whatever way he knows how — you’ve always let him.

***

You don’t speak of it the next day. You want. But your throat closes up.

He never talks about the war, not really. But you see it when he wakes in a cold sweat. When he touches you like he’s claiming land. When he looks at you like you’re the last thing standing between him and the abyss. But in this night, something shifted. Through the fevered haze of his words, his dreams have begun to take shape. Some buried trauma seems to claw its way to the surface — twisting, merging with an arousal that has no business being there, showing up as a wet dream in the dark. It shouldn't turn your stomach and your thighs into this aching knot of questions.

But it does.

Almost every night, Tommy lives through terror. Submission and destruction leading to a heavy climax he must be aware of the morning after... You wonder if there’s a way in — a way to reach him, to pull him from that place. To help him.

***

A week later, you're both drunk in the sitting room — the kind of drunk that slows time and peels away your last defenses. He watches you over the rim of his glass. His hair’s undone, shirt half open. His tie lies forgotten on the floor.

“You’ve been looking at me differently,” he says. His voice is low. Controlled. But not cold.

You blink. Try to smile. “Have I?”

He stands. Takes a step closer. Then another. Your little drinking session has had an unintended side effect: you're off guard now — and he's noticed. Which gives him the perfect opening to question the shift in your behavior.

“You heard me, didn’t you? That night.”

You don’t answer. But he sees it anyway. He always does.

His voice, usually sharp with command, softens unexpectedly. It disarms you more than you'd like to admit.

He stares into his glass of whiskey, thoughtful, then downs it in one swallow. Without looking up, he starts to speak.

“It was the tunnels. France. 1916. We knew they were under us. Digging. Germans. Could hear it through the fucking mud. Couldn’t sleep. Couldn’t breathe.”

His sudden honesty confuses you. You had hoped that sharing a few drinks might loosen his tongue, maybe draw something out of him — but you hadn’t counted on much. His illegal dealings with the whiskey trade were hard to hide from you, of course — not least because he was his own best customer, though he liked to dress it up with the word "tasting."

Still, his seasoned tolerance meant that getting him drunk enough to slip wasn’t an easy game to play. Tommy and loss of control — those were two things that almost never coexisted. At least, not in the daylight world.

So the fact that he's opening up to you now — telling you things about what he's lived through — You want to believe it’s because he’s letting go. Because something in him is softening, and he’s showing you a part of himself he doesn’t let others see.

But you know better.

You’ve known Tommy too long not to recognize the strategy behind every move he makes. Nothing he does is ever without calculation.

He’s in front of you now.

“One night... I dreamed it wasn’t them anymore. It was you. Digging through. Breaking in. Pulling me under.”

A pause. Then:

“I panic. It’s life or death — a fight to survive. But... it’s you. The woman I desire. The woman who desires me…”

His jaw tightens under the weight of the words, clenched around a knot of fear, terror, helplessness. Tears track silently down his cheeks.

You listen, spellbound, aching to reach for him — to comfort him — but his entire body is so coiled, so rigid, you know he’d likely shove your hand away in fury.

“Everything blurs. The memory… it slips, dissolves. And then—fragments. They come back. Again and again. The same dream. Every damn night. No escape. I have to—”

Beads of sweat shine on his forehead. His fingers rake through his hair, fisting it so tightly his knuckles go white.

“I have to end it. The me inside the nightmares... he needs to understand it’s over. That it’s safe to let go. That it’s time to surrender.”

He reaches into his holster. Pulls the pistol.

Hands it to you.

“Next time… when you want me, really want me… use this. Hold it to my head. Overpower me. Take me. Hurt me. Fuck me raw. Do whatever it takes to let me overcome this fucking nightmare. I really mean it. Do you understand, sweetheart?”

Your fingers close around the metal. Still warm from him.

“You trust me that much?” you whisper.

He leans down, mouth to your ear.

“I need to.”

He pauses, then adds with a sharp edge to his voice, “But don’t you fucking dare look inside the magazine, eh?”

You hold his gaze, unflinching.

Impatiently, he presses on, “Got it? I trust you. Just trust me. No hesitation. Not for a second.”

As the weight of the pistol settles in your palm, you realize he’s not asking for danger. He’s begging for freedom.

From his ghosts.

And only you can give it to him.

***

He’s already asleep when you enter. Lying on his side, arm curled under the pillow, his breath deep and steady. The moonlight drapes him in silver, catching on the line of his jaw, the slope of his shoulders, the faint sheen of sweat on his bare back.

You’ve prepared everything to make him relive the nightmare — without real danger, and with a happy ending. At least, that’s the plan.

Maybe you’ve gone too far, but here you are: wrapped in the long coat of his uniform, and beneath it, a whisper of black lace and silk over-the-knee stockings.

A femme fatale. A war goddess.

Ready to take on the fight with men and their ghosts.

Silently, you set down the items you've brought with you. A glass of cool water goes on the nightstand within his reach — he’ll need it later.

You stand there for a moment, watching. Your chest rises and falls. Faster. You know what you’re about to do. And you know what it means.

This isn’t a game to him. It never was.

You pick up the pistol. It’s heavier than you remember.

You slip onto the bed without a sound, carefully turn him around by the shoulder, straddling his hips, knees sinking into the mattress. Carefully, you slip the makeshift noose around his neck, crafted from a pair of your silk stockings. It tightens just enough to be felt — a whisper of threat, a breath of control.

He stirs as your weight settles over him but doesn’t wake. Not yet.

Your fingers trail down his chest. You feel the twitch of his muscles. His breath hitches.

You lean in, pressing your mouth to the shell of his ear. Then, with a sharp crack, you strike the wooden headboard several times with the pistol and shout his name — loud, commanding, unmistakably in charge.

“Don’t fight me, soldier,” you continue.

He tenses.

Eyes still closed, but his body wakes before he does — blood rushing, skin hot and sweaty.

You shift your weight, and his hands move instinctively to your thighs, still half-lost in whatever liminal place he drifts in.

He jolts awake, eyes wide with panic.

And that’s when you raise the pistol, slowly, deliberately, until he’s staring straight down the barrel.

Then you let the cold metal touch his temple.

He freezes.

The air turns electric.

He looks at you. Sees the gun. Sees your eyes. Besides his panic, there is something else, a slow, dark hunger blooming behind his gaze.

He exhales through his nose, sharp and hot.

You lean down and kiss him, deep and brutal, until he groans against your mouth and grabs your hips. But you don’t let him lead — not tonight.

Tonight, he’s yours.

Your fingers tighten around the pistol as you straddle him, your thighs framing his hips. With your other hand, you give the silk noose around his throat a slow, deliberate tug — just enough for him to feel your control over every breath he takes. You feel him hard beneath you — not just aroused, but wide awake now, sharp with tension. And still, he doesn’t move.

He’s waiting.

For you.

“Lift your hands above your head,” you command quietly.

He obeys.

There’s a clarity in your movements now, a calm, predatory resolve that leaves no doubt: you’re going to take exactly what you want from him.

The pistol slips soundlessly into the bulging pocket of Tommy’s military coat. Then you reach for the coarse hemp rope you had set aside — rough, unyielding, unforgiving — and begin wrapping it around his wrists. One loop, then another, until he’s bound. You secure the ends to the slatted headboard above him.

He watches you in tense, breathless silence, his chest rising and falling. You can see how hard he’s working to restrain himself, to keep from grinding hungrily against the heat between your thighs.

The oversized coat is carelessly fastened by a single button, gaping just enough to tease him with the barest glimpses of skin, of lace, of promise.

If Tommy only knew what else you were going to deny him tonight.

From the inside pocket of the coat, you draw something slick and black. Before he can register what it is, darkness swallows him whole.

Your silk sleep mask — what a perfect idea.

With his vision gone, his world narrows to sound, to sensation, to you. Every brush of fabric, every shift of weight, every breath you take.

You reach once more into the pocket where you stashed his gun, then let the heavy coat slide off your shoulders with a slow, deliberate rustle. For a moment, you wait, letting the silence stretch, then — click.

The unmistakable sound of the safety being released.

His body flinches beneath you. But he doesn’t speak.

He just lies there, blindfolded, bound, and waiting.

Ready for whatever’s coming next.

“You’ve been keeping secrets from me, soldier,” you say, voice low and even. “I think it’s time you talk.”

A pause. Then his answer, tight, unsure: “I— I don’t know what you mean…”

You slide the cold barrel of his own pistol along his temple. Not hard. Just enough to remind him who's holding the cards tonight.

“Start with what you think about when you’re alone. When you’re hard. When no one’s watching.”

He shifts under you. The ropes strain softly against the wood.

His answer comes hesitantly. “I… I think about things. Sometimes.”

You let the silence stretch, the pistol resting lightly against his temple.

“Go on.”

“I imagine… being under you. Not… not just like this. More.”

You lean in, your lips grazing his ear. “More how?”

He swallows. “Your thighs… I think about your thighs. And you… above me.”

You smile. “Above you?” you echo, feigning confusion. “You mean like now? Or do you want something more than just to be pinned?”

He says nothing.

“I think I know what you mean,” you continue softly. “You want me to sit on your face, don’t you? Use you like you’re nothing but a tongue.”

His breath catches.

“Say it.”

A beat. Then, quietly: “...yes, ma’am.”

You don’t move.

“Say it properly. I want to hear it.”

His voice is thick with shame and arousal. “I want you to sit on my face… ma’am. Use me.”

You feel it in the tension of his body—every muscle pulled taut beneath you, not from resistance, but from the unbearable strain of surrender. It isn’t the act of pleasuring you with his mouth that costs him; he's done that before, eagerly, with a fervor that bordered on reverence.

No, it’s the confession.

The admission that he wants to be used.

That he craves your weight, your power, your indifference to his pleasure. That he needs you to strip him of the armor he wears even in your bed.

And still, some part of you waits for the snap—for the moment he can’t take it anymore, when he breaks the ropes or tears off the blindfold, flips you beneath him and reclaims the control that defines him. You see the war in his clenched jaw, in the way his hips shift beneath you as if his cock could argue with his mouth. He wants to dominate. It's in his blood.

But somewhere deeper, darker, older, is this need: to be undone by you. To be freed from himself—not with mercy, but with force.

And you?

You’re willing to take him there.

As many times as it takes.

You lower yourself slowly, knees firm against the mattress, thighs bracketing his head. His breath hitches as the heat of your arousal nears his lips—he can smell you now, wet and aching, your desire soaked into the soft fabric barely shielding you. You don’t speak. You wait.

His voice, hoarse: “You don’t know what you do to me. Or maybe you do. Please… end me.”

A smile plays at the corners of your mouth. You remove the last barrier.

“You’re going to earn your reward, soldier,” you murmur. “Not with your cock, though. That’s not yours to use. Not yet.”

You press yourself against his mouth. He groans—hungry, eager—and you feel the warm pressure of his tongue between your thighs. Every movement is reverent, desperate, grateful. He drinks you in like a man parched.

“You’re so fucking hard, aren’t you?” you whisper, teasing. “Throbbing. Aching. Can’t wait to bury yourself—but you’ll have to wait. Only good boys get what they want. And you haven’t told me everything yet.”

His voice is muffled, but the words reach you, trembling with devotion: “Thank you, ma’am. You taste... incredible. I love this. I love being used by you.”

You slide your fingers through his hair, tighten slightly.

“Then prove it,” you say softly. “Confess more. Tell me the rest of your dirty little truths while you worship me.”

His breath hitches, hesitant at first, voice low and trembling: “I… sometimes imagine your finger… while you’re… using your mouth on me. It feels wrong, but… maybe that’s why it’s so… intense. Like I’m… losing myself in a way I’m not supposed to. It’s… a bit unsettling, but I can’t stop thinking about it.”

You didn't expect this turn of events, but you don't let it show and act cool. “Inside you? What do you mean by that? Don’t be afraid to say it.”

You can hear that the tension is almost breaking him. He struggles with the words: “I… I think about you… pushing something inside me…when you’re pleasuring me with your mouth.”

You lean closer, your tone gentle but insistent: “Push something inside you… What exactly, Thomas? I want to hear it.”

He swallows hard, cheeks flushing beneath the mask, finally admitting with a whisper: “Your finger. I imagine you… using your finger… while you’re making me yours.”

You see the mix of shame and relief in his posture as he speaks the words aloud, the weight of his confession hanging heavy in the room.

You press your thighs a little tighter around his head, sensing his pulse racing beneath you.

For a second, you hesitate.

You’d stepped into this role for him willingly—eager, even—but the rawness in his voice takes you off guard. You hadn't anticipated this. Not that the subject itself is unfamiliar. Anal play was never taboo between you. On the contrary, he’s had no trouble taking the lead there before, no hesitation in pressing deep, in claiming you in every way he could.

Especially on days when business hadn't gone his way, or after another shouting match with his brother Arthur, he seemed possessed by the need to use your body in that degrading, desperate way. Not for pleasure, at least not primarily. For control. For relief. Like you were the only thing that could soak up his chaos.

And when he did, there was always that gleam in his eye, that hungry, near-feral focus that told you he wasn’t holding anything back. That when he had you like that, he felt powerful. Unstoppable. Like the world could burn and he wouldn’t notice if he was buried in you.

And now… now he wants to feel the opposite.

That image grounds you. Gives you direction.

You lift yourself from his face slowly, relishing the shaky breath he pulls in as you grant him air again and at the same time let him endure the uncertainty of how you will react to his confession.

Finally, to his surprise, you pull the sleep mask from his eyes. You want him to watch exactly what happens to him next. Sliding down his body with the smooth confidence of someone in full control, you let your tongue drag along his hot skin until you come to rest at his most sensitive spot, teasing him just enough to make him twitch.

He gasps, hips flexing instinctively—but you hold him still with a palm to his thigh.

You dip your head, let a slow strand of saliva trail from your lips to your fingers. Your eyes stay on his as you coat your middle finger, then reach lower, circling gently around his entrance—soft, slow, testing. Not entering. Just letting him feel that you could.

And will. When you decide.

“How many times,” you ask sternly, “have you imagined me forcing my way inside you? Don’t lie. I want details. Or I stop."

A tense pause. You can feel him swallow under your gaze, his breath shallow.

“Too many,” he admits hoarsely. “In the dark. When I can't sleep. When the flash backs come.”

He hesitates, then continues, the words dragging over gravel: “I imagine you… holding me down. One hand over my chest. Your mouth driving me mad. And then your finger. Slick. Insistent. Not asking.”

His body tenses as his dirty fantasies fall out of him, raw and real. “You don’t stop. You know exactly what it does to me. You edge me until I’m desperate. Until I’m begging.”

You listen closely as he stammers through his shame, your eyes locked on his. Your tongue circles the tip of his hardness with practiced precision, drawing a sharp, helpless breath from his throat. Meanwhile, your fingertip begins to apply gentle pressure—testing, teasing—until you feel him yield, inch by inch, his body pushing back, unmistakably begging for more.

"Fuck, just do it," he hisses through gritted teeth, jaw clenched in lust and defiance. "Claim me."

His chest rises with each breath, muscles tense, but his hips don’t lie—he’s aching for it. And yet, his voice lowers dangerously, his command laced with warning: "This never happened. You breathe a word of this to anyone and you’ll regret it."

His wrists twist in the silken bonds as if they were about to break free at any moment. As if the balance of power were about to reverse at the last moment because he can't bear it any other way.

"One time. That’s all. I needed to get it out of my system. After this, it goes back to the way it was. I’m in charge. Understood?"

Your finger presses in, slow and controlled. His body tenses against it, breath staggering. The sound he makes is halfway between a growl and a gasp, raw and involuntary. Still, he doesn’t stop you. He lifts his hips ever so slightly, as if giving in to you hurts less than resisting.

"God, don’t stop," he mutters, voice strained and dark. "Just—"

You take your time, tongue still working him in tight, knowing swirls, your finger moving with increasing confidence. The way he trembles beneath you, the broken sounds spilling from his lips—it’s more than arousal. It’s surrender. And it’s yours.

When you sense him teetering at the edge, you pull back. Slowly. Cruelly.

"Fuck!" he chokes out, head thrown back, fists clenched in the silk. "You—"

You do it again. And again. Bringing him close until his body is slick with tension, his voice hoarse from begging without words. Every time you stop, his eyes search yours with something like desperation—and still, he won’t say please.

Not yet.

Your finger is buried deep inside him, pressing against that sensitive spot with relentless precision, sending waves of agonizing pleasure through him. The warm, salty taste of his precum lingers on your tongue, rich and intoxicating. He groans, eyes fluttering shut, wrists tugging at the restraints. His entire body coils tight, every muscle trembling beneath your weight.

Finally, he cries out, “Please… I— I can’t…”

“Can’t?” you whisper. “That’s not what I saw in your eyes when you begged me to use you like this.”

With satisfaction, you let him believe for a moment that he can now experience relief. And then—you pull away.

His cry is raw, broken, the sound of a man unraveling.

“No, soldier. Not yet,” you pretend to be calming, “You don’t come until I say you can. You gave me that power, remember?”

You rise slowly, deliberately, your breath steady as your fingers glide over his sweat-slicked skin. His muscles twitch under your touch, every nerve drawn taut. You lean in, lips grazing the line of his jaw, breath warm against his cheek, and then, without hesitation, you guide yourself onto him.

Your body takes him in inch by inch, a slow, relentless claiming. His breath hitches, turns into a sharp gasp as you sink down fully, burying him inside you. He throws his head back, jaw clenched, wrists straining against the bonds.

“You think being inside me makes you in charge?” you whisper, voice laced with heat and mockery. “No, soldier. You’re just where I want you—hard, helpless, and desperate.”

He groans, shaking his head in defiance, but his hips betray him, rising to meet you, his body aching for more.

“You wanted this,” you say, grinding down with a slow, punishing rhythm.

He groans again. This time it’s almost a sob. “Yes,” he breathes.

“You think you still have control?” you taunt, increasing the pace just enough to keep him trembling on the edge. “Say it. Say who this cock belongs to.”

His eyes squeeze shut, teeth gritted, every word a battle. “…It’s yours.”

“Say it properly.”

He chokes on the next breath, voice low and broken: “My cock belongs to you, ma’am.”

You smirk, leaning in to bite gently at his throat. “Good boy.”

He's drenched in sweat, his eyes wild, teeth clenched hard as he tries to hold onto the last thread of composure. But it's gone. He's gone.

“I see you, Tommy. Even when you hide. And right now, you’re mine. My weapon. My ruin. My beautiful, broken thing,” you whisper.

“Take the gun,” he rasps, voice barely human. “Do it…now.”

You freeze for a heartbeat. He’s serious. His eyes are shining, bloodshot, locked on yours.

“You said… you'd surprise me,” he pants. “You said you’d do it. You have it, don’t you?”

He swallows, every word a plea and a command all at once. “Pick it up. Point it at me. While you're… riding me. Please. Fuck. Just—please.”

Your hand reaches for the revolver where it lies on the table. It feels impossibly heavy in your palm. You keep grinding against him, relentless, as you lift it and point it at his chest.

You remember what he told you. Don’t look in the magazine. Trust me.

And you hadn’t looked.

Not then.

But now the weight of the revolver in your hand feels heavier than it should. Loaded? Empty? Just one round waiting? You have no idea.

And that’s exactly how he wanted it.

You glance down at him—sweat-slicked, eyes wild, desperate—and you wonder: Did he ever want to win this round? Or lose it? You panic, but no matter what, you are aware that you have long since reached the point of no return.

Your breath grows uneven, ragged, blending with his in a tangle of gasps and broken sounds. The room pulses with heat and noise, the rhythm of skin on skin, breath on breath, your pleasure building in sync, your bodies answering each other.

“Pull the fucking trigger,” it bursts out of him.

You knew this was coming.  And you hesitate for what feels like eternity. His eyes bore into yours, begging and burning all at once.

“Pull it.”

He growls now, louder. “Do it. DO IT.”

You squeeze your eyes shut—

Click.

Silence. Nothing.

You throw the gun aside with a shaky breath just as his cry tears through the room, loud, guttural, pure release. His body jerks beneath you, cock pulsing inside, spilling more than just heat. It’s everything—grief, helplessness, pain, old wounds he never dared name. All of it floods out of him at once, like his body finally found the only way it knows how to let go.

His wrists wrench free of the silk just as his body arches up into you. The bindings fall, forgotten. He seizes your waist and turns you on your back, breathing ragged, eyes wild. There's no hesitation anymore.

His fingers slide between your legs, slick and sure. His mouth follows, tongue teasing all of your sensitive spots, relentless, until you’re gasping, knees weak. Only when you're shaking, breathless, right on the edge, he flips you onto your stomach, pushing your hips up with practiced hands. He has long since recovered and is half hard again; a few strokes are enough to be ready again. He thrusts back in with a deep groan, hips snapping against you.

Now it's your turn to cry out.

And this time, he doesn’t stop until you do.

And when you come, you don’t hold back. Your knees give way, and you sink onto the mattress. He falls on top of you, still buried inside your core.

You cry out under his heavy weight, breaking apart, shaking, eyes wide open, he wraps his arms around you tightly — possessively, like the old Tommy is being back, but also like someone trying to anchor himself to something real.

His lips press to your hair.

“Thank you,” he whispers.

You don’t answer. You’re not sure you can.

But as the sweat cools on your skin and your heartbeat settles against his, one truth presses in quietly:

He didn’t just surrender tonight.

He chose to be known.

And that frightens you more than if he’d begged for the trigger a second time.

<<<You liked that? Click here for more>>>

Special Note: This story contains the idea of IRRT (Imagery Rescripting & Reprocessing Therapy) a special therapy technique to treat PTSD.

>>>Read more about it<<<

***

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[wh1msic4lwasab1]

𝐒𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐮𝐢𝐧𝐞 𝐓𝐞𝐦𝐩𝐭𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 ཐི❤︎ཋྀ

art cred: maichiatto62 (x)

☦︎synopsis: you get chased by a dark and undetermined figure in the woods, and run toward a dreadful castle that houses a seemingly kind man, will you stay awhile?

☦︎genre: smut w/plot

☦︎tags: vampiric hypnotism, mentions of blood, biting, corruption, dialogue heavy, degradation “whore” , loss of virginity, cunnalingus, creampie, mirror

☦︎wrd cnt: 2.2k

☦︎a/n: vampires and gothic literature is my favorite so this was a dream to write and I hope anyone reading enjoys!

Twigs and thistle snap under your feet as you walk through the fruit berring bushes, feeling the low laying leaves scratch your ankles.

You lost track of time and try to find your group, you probably should have skipped this hiking trip. Or at least wore shorts that covered your knees. The night drew upon your haggard form quite quickly, and the temperature dropped significantly.

You tried your best to find the light of the campfire you knew was there before you left.

After a few minutes of silent walking, besides your rummaging footsteps, you hear a loud thud somewhere behind you.

Your back straightened up like a rod, “Hello?” Your voice echos slightly, bouncing off the trees and up toward the stars. You prayed like hell it was one of your friends, coming to your salvation.

When nobody answered you after your third call out, you kept walking.

You heard another loud noise, as if a bolder dropped straight into a big pile of leaves, trembling the ground you stood on.

Frozen in fear, like a deer, you stand in the middle of a plot of dirt surrounded by the thick trees and shrub.

Your eyes open wide and your hands balled up in fists, you survey the area until you find the source of the sound.

A tree, wounded with a big chunk missing from the side.

It still stood tall, but reckoned to snap if it had been torn just a few more inches towards the unbent side.

You wondered who could have caused such destruction, or rather what.

You would find out soon enough, when you examine the tree to find streaks of blood scattered over earthen hide.

Following the trail you discovered the remains of some animal.

Well that’s what you think it was, it had been mangled and torn in such a brutal manner there was no way to identify exactly what it could have been.

As you tried your best to figure it out, a black shadow stalked you from afar.

Red orbs visible with stillness behind a tree, slowly growing larger in your view as it approached. The dimness of the atmosphere cloaked it well.

You stepped back, shoes muddied and heavy as you ran. You ran until you saw the nearest source of light, not bothered to look behind you to whatever was chasing.

Your labored breath became cold and dryed out your throat.

You ran and ran until you found a rather tall and lucrative looking building, somewhat of a mansion or moreso fitting of a castle.

Where the hell did that come from? You’ve never seen anything like it before in all the times you’d hiked in these woods.

You didn’t have much time to question it, but ran right to the door.

It was slightly crept open, so you figured it must have been some kind of open house or exhibit.

You rushed in, shutting the grand door.

As you caught your breath, you almost screamed when you heard a man’s voice right behind you. Who you somehow didn’t see when first stepping in, as if he’d appeared from thin air.

“Good evening.” The man said, burning candle in his hand.

You turned before he could even finish his greeting, a look of utter terror in your eyes.

“Are you well dear? You’re bleeding”

You didn’t even notice, but your knees had been scrapped and dripping blood halfway down your shins.

His eyes lit a shade of red barely able to be detected, or maybe it was just the reflection of the flame? You were quite scared and paranoid after all.

“Oh- I’m so sorry, The door was open and I didn’t know anyone was here- Someone was chasing me.”

“Oh my, are you alright? Come, let me offer you safety tonight.” He beckoned you to follow him, the rays of the small flame from the wax stick guiding you as he most graciously offered you a safe heaven in his home.

You looked around at the torchlit walls, it felt dark and cold throughout the entire place.

He walked you up 2 flight of stairs, his pace was quite constant throughout, almost like he was floating on each step.

You soon arrived into a hallway full of paintings adorning the walls, hand painted it seemed. So beautiful you had to point it out.

“You have a lovely home- is this artwork all yours?” You ask.

“Yes. I have quite a bit of spare time on my hands, so I much enjoy art.” He answered. The man’s voice was deep and mellow.

You walked down the red carpet hallway to the room all the way to the end, it seemed to be one of the many dozens.

There was a large canopy bed lined with dark lace and wooden upholstery.

“Please, spend the night here until morning. I wouldn’t want you to endanger yourself.”

Before you could even agree to his much eager assistance, he walked over to a box near the fireplace side table and pulled out several glass vials and bandages.

You walked toward him, and sat down per his instruction.

“Thank you- You’ve been so kind to me. Why?”

He chuckled, kneeling down to your level and applying an ointment to the cloth.

“Why? How ever could I turn away such a frightening young lady at my door. There are dangerous things in those woods.”

His tone sounded very concerned, but horrifyingly casual.

“What is your name Sir? If it’s okay to ask.”

“It’s perfectly okay. You can call me Blade.”

“Blade…Nice to meet you” What a strange name.

“Likewise. Now please, allow me.”

You nod, before he dabs a stinging oil to your knee. One by one.

He handles you well, gently.

His cold hands held your calves as he bandaged up your wounds.

He gets up from his knelt position, seeming even taller than he is when he stands from this view.

His long black hair was so dark it seemed blue, ends dipped in a color that resembled the shade of holly berries.

He sat down on the chair opposite of you, his face framed by the fireplaces glow behind him now.

“So tell me dear, what exactly happened?” His voice dripping in concern.

“I…really don’t know. I got lost hiking with my group and I tried to find them, but then I kept hearing weird noise in the forest and I thought it could be them looking for me. But-“

You stopped, reliving the sequence you just ran from.

He waited patiently for you to continue, his sculpture like face and rich eyes giving you their utmost attention.

“I saw blood, and a dead animal, I think a wolf or something could have done it. But there was a man- in the woods. It kept staring at me and getting close. So I ran for a while until I found your- castle?” You chuckle a little, the term house seemed beneath such a grand sanctuary.

“Maybe a werewolf?” The man said, giving you an amused chuckle. He waves his hand, “But anyways…That all sounds very frightening, I’m glad you found me.”

You nod, “As am I” you assure.

Whatever it was you are safe now y/n, very safe.” He took your hands into his own, giving them a positive squeeze with smiling eyes.

You nodded, but soon a hitch in your throat appeared and you felt like your stomach got kicked.

“I never told you my name.”

A smile appeared on his face, “Smart girl.”

His eyes glowed the same shade of sanguine you saw in the forest, chasing you. You could see two sharp teeth sticking past his upper lip, his smirk revealing to you his true identity.

You quickly get up, startled enough to drop the chair behind you and fall back onto the bed.

“Who are you-“ You scream, tears forming in the corners of your eyes as he stood slowly and walked toward you.

“I already told you that, didn’t I?.”

He cupped your face, making you look straight up at him.

“Please- don’t hurt me.” You plead, tears now falling from your eyes and staining your cheeks.

“Hurt you? I just tended to your wounds, why do you think I’ll harm you dear?” His voice sounds even lower at this point, and his eyes fiery.

You kick back your leg and retreat further back into the bed, almost yelling, “You’re a vampire-!”

“And your blood smells so deliciously decadent…I almost couldn’t resist tasting you a moment ago.” He crawls toward your frame, his large hands making deep prints into the mattress.

His eyes seemed to glow in a pattern, the color deepening snd glowing slowly as he got toward you.

Your body felt weak, as if magnetic to him. Almost willing to amuse him.

“What are- what are you doing to me-“

“I haven’t done a thing. I’m just increasing the magnitude of your emotions dear. Whatever you feel at this moment is your utmost desire spilling out every orafice in your body.”

You felt your mind whirl, your body get hotter with every inch he grew closer to you.

He soon wrapped his palms behind your back, seating you in his lap.

You felt an animalistic urge settle upon you, breathing even heavier than when you ran away from him earlier.

He grazed his hand up and down your legs, taking off your shoes and socks, rubbing the sore soles of your feet.

“You must get more comfortable my dear, you seem less tense, good.” He says, slowly pressing his lips to yours as you hold his shoulder.

His tongue found yours, warm in contrast to the rest of him; tangling itself in a waltz.

He nipped at your bottom lip and pricked it, tugging at it and licking the blood that drew from it with his tongue. “Virgin blood…You are truly magnificent.”

You felt your face heat up more than your body, his presence making you feel an insatiable hunger for lust.

“Blade- please…I feel-“

“Concupiscent? I can tell, y/n”, he said, his hand trailing up to your thigh and rubbing your heat through your shorts.

You roll your hips at his touch, a small mewl escaping you.

He picks you up and plops you down further back on the bed, your head hitting the pillow softly as his large frame hovers above your body.

“I can be very thorough in relieving your…lustful desires.”

“Please- yes…” You softly gasp, feeling his lips close to your neck before they kiss you.

Hungrily he rips your top apart, as if it were made of paper.

You quiver at his touch, fear set aside and now unrelentingly yearning for all of him.

“You need not worry…I will take, good, good care of you.”

You nod, watching him soon trail his lips down to your exposed chest.

He circles the tip of his tongue around your nipple, taking it entirely in his mouth to hear you moan out; the other in his hand, his hips grinding to meet your heat as he grinds into you through the fabrics keeping you apart.

“You are a marveling beauty.” He adds, his hands finding the hem of your shorts and pulling them right down, along with your panties.

He pulled back, holding your legs apart and examining every part of you, taking in the view of his next meal.

He watched you shyly try to look away, smirking when he saw how utterly messy your cunt was, glistening and dripping juices down to the sheets.

He didn’t waste much time after that, kissing your inner thigh before planting one on your clit.

He made the most deep, sinful noises as he lapped at your cunt, his eyes not breaking contact with yours as he inserts two long and slender fingers inside you.

He seemed to almost gain more pleasure from sucking on your clit than you did, almost.

You reacted like a beast in heat, legs trembling and hands gripping the sheets as your thighs pressed the sides of his face to pull him deeper into you.

You came faster than ever before. Blade sucked every drop out of you, wiping the corner of his mouth before grabbing your wrists and pinning them above your head.

He kissed you once more, not biting this time. Yet.

Without giving you time to recoup- he shed his clothing and slapped his cock on your folds, slipping it inbetween them to get it ready for you.

“I need to taste you dear…truly taste you.”

“M-my blood?” You ask, feeling even weaker and more lustful.

“Yes” he whispers close to your lips, “You will let me drink from you, won’t you, my little temptress?”

You nod- pulling him close to you as if you’d wither without him.

“You are such an eager woman. I quite like that.” He says, before pushing his entire length deep, deep inside you. You groan, eyebrows furrowed harshly as you experience such a reveling sensation.

“Fuck-“ He breathes, “You’re so tight…do you ache for me so deep? You’re sucking me in so much…such a naughty whore you are.”

He moved in and out slowly, making you feel every vein and along his shaft.

You could feel his breathe on your chest, and soon his teeth.

He sinked them into the top of your breast, sucking the blood out of you ferociously as he rutted inside you faster now, making you cry out as tears rolled down your face in pleasure.

“Ah- Blade!…”

“It will only hurt for a moment…I’ll fuck you so deeply you won’t dare to forget it.” He spouts, his mouth dripping with your blood before going back in to take more.

You quickly notice a mirror behind Blade, you haven’t noticed it before but he wasn’t in it of course. All your blurry vision could attest was your spread apart pussy, gaping with a thick hole as you watched yourself be torn apart in the most delicious way, blood dripping down to your nipple, soon to be licked up from Blade tongue, as your body moved with the rhythm of the bed; snapping out of your trance once you heard his suckling.

He whimpered and moaned as he drank, gripping your ass harder as he thrusted into you at a pace you could nearly pass out from.

So much of your cum created a ring around his cock, squelching noises filled the room and muffled the crackling of the wood in the fire.

His grasp on the fat of your ass deepened, possessiveness overwhelming him.

“You’re mine now. You don’t belong in those treacherous woods, you will stay right here.” He commanded, imaging all the ways he’d ruin your perfect pussy, wrapped around him so well he was convinced you were destined to take him, to be his and his only to fuck, eat, and fill.

In response to his hold, you clenched your walls around him tighter until you felt warm fluid rush into your womb, nodding to his wishes profusely as you release together in the romantically gothic room, your breath huffing as you came down from an intense high.

Blade on the other hand, well the stamina of a vampire is quite impressive.

whimsic4alwasab1 ™ - do not copy, translate, modify, or claim any of my work as your own.

[slvt4g0re]

❛ 𝐓𝐎 𝐋𝐈𝐕𝐄 𝐈𝐒 𝐓𝐎 𝐅𝐄𝐄𝐃 ❜

♱ // paul x fem!reader

♱ 𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘 // hunting equals blood and blood equals life. but when blood refuses to satisfy your hunger, you turn to your rocker boyfriend, who looks good enough to eat.

♱ 𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓 // 2k

♱ 𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒 // smut, porn with plot, bite kink, slight dom/sub undertones, climax without actual act, and bloodkink

♱ 𝐀𝐔𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐑𝐒 𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄 // came up with this on the fly and immediately started writing it.

blood was blood. sure, some humans tasted better than others, but when you broke humans down to their simplest components, humans were nothing. they were walking piles of meat with a bloodstream. blood pumping through their veins, just screaming at you to sink your fangs into them and drain them of the life they so desperately tried to cling onto. humans were disposable. they were nothing more than a walking blood bag that lived to satisfy you and your hunger.

you had been hunting a long time, long before any of your vampire companions. well, everyone besides max who had existed for longer than anyone else.

marko and paul spent their nights partying and spending their nights terrorizing the locals, much to your and david’s dismay. dwayne spent the time out of the cave with laddie, who was always dragging the man to some new shop or fair ride. david and star spent their night far, far away from everyone else doing things you didn’t even want to know.

and while everyone did their own thing, you spent you time waiting, watching. your gaze would sweep over human after human while you sat on the railings of the boardwalk. every time a human got close enough, your nose would sniff, trying to catch the scent that once made your mouth water.

but every human, every scent of blood, it made your stomach turn with a feeling you hadn’t felt since before the turn. whatever sat in your stomach, which was most likely some sugar filled treat that laddie practically forced you to eat, threatened to rise.

it had been days, almost a week since you last fed. you could tell the others were worried, they didn’t ask, didn’t pry, but the looks they sent you spoke words they didn’t dare say. especially your lover, paul. every day, when the sun set and the moon rose, he’d try to get you to go hunting, try to get you to drink some random person’s blood, but it never worked.

you couldn't help but wonder if something was wrong with you. the mere thought of drinking blood made your stomach churn violently, and you found yourself drawn to something else entirely - or rather, someone else. your eyes kept drifting to paul, watching the way he moved, the way his scent called to you in a way that blood no longer did.

paul’s scent, weed mixed with his cologne filled your nostrils every time you got close. his scent had become a comfort to you, but slowly, it had started to become something more.

you could hear his blood flowing through his veins like never before. his blood, o negative, you could tell by the smell. it made your throat burn and your mouth water, just like human blood had before.

every time you looked at paul, the urge to taste his blood grew stronger. you found yourself staring at his neck more and more, imagining how sweet his blood would taste on your tongue. paul had noticed your lingering gazes, but he mistook them for something else entirely - if only he knew the hunger that was truly consuming you.

“find anyone decent enough?” marko’s voice snapped you from your thoughts as he and paul strutted with the strut that screamed danger.

“what did you two do?” you questioned, raising a brow at their cocky walks and large smirks.

“nothing we haven’t done before,” marko shrugged, leaning back on the railing beside you while paul took a stand in front of you, his hands immediately finding your plush hips.

“so, find anyone worth your while?” paul questioned, his fingers squeezing your hips.

to anyone passing, the question sounded dirty, explicit. but to the three of you, it meant something completely different.

you breathed through your nose, inhaling oxygen your body didn’t need. god. there it was again. the addictive scent of paul’s blood.

“no.” you answered shortly, sealing your lips tightly as you felt your fangs begin to itch. your throat burned, like it was set on fire.

paul's brows furrowed in concern, his grip on your hips tightening ever so slightly. "babe, you need to feed," he whispered, voice low enough that only you and marko could hear. you couldn't help but lean forward, drawn to the pulsing vein in his neck that seemed to call your name.

“i’m aware,” you quickly leaned back and pushed yourself off the railing to take a stand. as your feet hit the ground, your legs seemed to buckle. something they hadn’t done since you were living.

paul was quick to catch you, his strong arms wrapping around your waist to keep you upright. "that's it," he declared firmly, exchanging a worried look with marko. "we're getting you something to eat right now, whether you like it or not."

“it’s no use,” you muttered, gripping the muscles of paul’s arms. “you two go do whatever it is you do. i’m going back to the cave.” you went to move, but paul’s grip tightened.

"not happening," paul growled, his grip on you becoming almost possessive. "something's wrong with you, and i'm not letting you out of my sight until we figure out what it is." his blue eyes bore into yours, and you had to fight the urge to stare at his neck again, your fangs aching in your gums.

“then come back to the cave with me,” your eyes stared at his neck, at the beautiful veins that seemed more prominent then usual. “either way, i’m going.”

paul's eyes flickered between yours and marko's before he nodded, his grip still firm on your waist. "alright, let's go." as you both headed towards the cave, you could feel your control slipping with every passing second, the sound of paul's blood rushing through his veins becoming impossible to ignore.

the ride back to the cave was nothing but excruciating. the wind whipping your hair in every direction, specks of sand being thrown at you from being ran over by motorcycle wheels, the nausiating smell of surfernazis as you zoomed past. but that wasn’t even the worst part. the way your chin rested on the spot where paul’s neck and shoulder connected and the way your mouth was right next to his pulse point, it was torture.

his steady pulse thrummed against your lips, each beat sending waves of desperate hunger through your entire being. you gripped his leather jacket tighter, trying to ground yourself, but paul's blood sang to you like a siren's call. when the motorcycle finally came to a stop outside the cave entrance, you practically launched yourself off, stumbling a few steps away from paul as you tried to regain what little control you had left.

“you okay?” paul questioned, quickly ending the engine and stepping off. “babe?” he questioned again when you stayed silent, moving quickly into the cave.

you shook your head, trying to clear the fog of hunger that clouded your mind. the cave walls seemed to spin as you made your way deeper inside, paul's footsteps echoing behind you. his scent grew stronger in the enclosed space, and you could feel your control slipping away with each passing second.

“paul,” you spoke, though it sounded more like a growl. a predatory growl. “i need you.”

“you sure you’re in the right headspace?” paul moved closer to you as the two of you entered the main part of the cave. “i’m not saying no. i’d never say no, especially not to you.” he quickly added upon seeing your accusatory gaze. “but are you sure?”

you stared at paul in a way you never had before and the man would be lying if he said it didn’t excite him. “are you going to stand there and question me or are you going to take me to our room and fuck me?”

it was the perfect excuse for you to finally taste paul’s blood. it was innocent enough. paul had a bite kink, it was something he had never hidden before. so maybe, just maybe, you’d accidently bite too hard and draw a little blood.

paul practically growled at your words, his hands finding your hips once more as he guided you towards your shared room. the hunger within you intensified with every step, your fangs now fully extended and aching for a taste. as paul's lips found yours in a heated kiss, you knew there would be no turning back from what you were about to do.

as the two of you stumbled, literally, into your room, leaving behind different pieces of clothes and garments, your body felt like a ticking time bomb.

as you approached the mattress that you never used for things besides explicit moments, you easily took control, grasping paul’s shoulders and giving him a shove that might’ve been harsher than necessary, but you couldn’t have cared less.

before you could control yourself, your tighs straddled his hips while you lips found paul’s neck, leaving behind wet marks and small bites. “shit, babe.” paul hissed as he threw his head back, his hands squeezing your hips tightly that would’ve caused bruises if you had been mortal.

another perk of being vampires, neither of you had to worry about using too much force or being too rough.

your tongue licked a stripe up paul's neck, collecting the sweat that had gathered there. the taste only made your hunger grow stronger, fangs scraping against his skin in warning. paul moaned beneath you, completely unaware of the dangerous precipice you both stood upon.

“paul, shit, please,” you all but whimpered, lips just above his pulse point.

“please what?” paul questioned, his voice breathily. he was a tease, you knew that. but now wasn’t a time for teasing.

“let me bite you,” you panted out, hips rutting against paul’s.

paul's hands gripped your thighs tighter as he nodded frantically, giving you the permission you so desperately craved. without hesitation, your fangs sank deep into his flesh, and the moment his blood touched your tongue, you moaned at the intoxicating taste - sweeter and more satisfying than any human blood you'd ever tasted. paul's shocked gasp quickly turned into a deep groan of pleasure as you drank deeply, his blood filling you with a warmth that made your entire body sing.

euphoric. that’s the only word you could use to describe the feeling that invaded your body. your body was on fire, burning from the inside out, but it felt so good.

paul's blood was unlike anything you had ever tasted before - it was pure ecstasy flowing through your veins, healing every ache and satisfying every craving you'd been fighting. you could feel his hands gripping you tighter, his body arching beneath yours as you continued to drink, lost in the intoxicating mixture of blood and pleasure.

as you whimpered and moaned, mouth still attached to paul’s neck, a familiar knot grew in your stomach. the feeling was all-consuming, something you had experienced plenty of times in your decades with paul.

it only took a few more seconds of drinking paul's intoxicating blood before your entire body tensed, waves of pleasure washing over you as you reached your peak. paul followed shortly after, his grip on your thighs bruising as he moaned your name. as you finally pulled away from his neck, your tongue lazily licking the wound closed, you could feel the strength returning to your body - paul's blood had been exactly what you needed all along.

“all you had to do was ask, baby,” paul panted, chest heaving as he placed his forehead on the top of your breasts, warm breathing fanning over the cleavage.

you hummed in contentment, still riding the high of his blood coursing through your system. "i was afraid you'd reject me," you admitted softly, nuzzling into his neck where the bite marks were already healing. paul's arms wrapped around you protectively, pulling you closer against his chest as he chuckled.

“who would i be to deny you?” paul quiet laughter filled the air.

[doumadono]

✨ SINFUL SUNDAY BITCHES ✨

Can we get some villain Bakugo corrupting pro hero reader?

Warnings: smut w/o plot, non-con elements, rough smut, pussy fingering, cunnilingus, creampie, fem prohero!reader, villain!Bakugo, semi-public, a bit of humiliation and degradation?, Bakugo being sardonic, a little of power play, forced orgasm

A/N: this request got the second highest number of votes during another Sinful Sunday poll I held. Thank you to everyone who voted!

SINFUL SUNDAY MY HERO ACADEMIA

The night was cloaked in darkness, the moon a mere sliver in the sky, casting a faint glow over the bustling city below. Neon lights flickered, casting eerie glows on the wet pavement. The quiet murmur of the city was interrupted by distant sirens, a reminder of the ever-present danger lurking in the shadows.

You were a pro hero, dedicated and unwavering in your resolve to protect the citizens of Musutafu. You stood atop a high-rise building, your heart pounding in your chest as you scanned the streets for any sign of the notorious villain who had been wreaking havoc recently. Katsuki Bakugo, once a promising hero-in-training, had taken a dark turn, abandoning his dreams of heroism to embrace a path of destruction and chaos. 

Your mission tonight was clear: apprehend Bakugo and bring him to justice. But as you stood there, the cold wind biting at your skin through your costume, you couldn't shake the unease that settled in your stomach. Bakugo was known for his explosive temper and unparalleled strength, and you had a feeling this encounter would be anything but easy.

Suddenly, a deafening explosion echoed through the night, shaking the building beneath your feet. You spun around, your eyes wide as you spotted the source of the blast: a plume of smoke rising from a nearby warehouse. Without hesitation, you leapt from the rooftop, and  made your way towards the chaos.

As you approached the warehouse, you could see the flicker of flames licking at the sky, the acrid scent of burning metal and debris filling your nostrils. You landed gracefully, your boots hitting the ground with a soft thud. The warehouse was in ruins, chunks of concrete and twisted metal scattered around the area. And in the midst of the destruction, standing amidst the flames like a demon from the depths of hell, was no one else but Katsuki Bakugo.

He turned to face you, a wicked grin spreading across his face as he recognized you. "Well, well, well," he drawled, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "Look who decided to show up. A little late to the party, aren't we?"

You clenched your fists, your eyes narrowing as you met his gaze. "Bakugo," you spat, taking a defensive stance. "I won't let you continue this reign of terror. This ends tonight. I'm taking you in."

Bakugo laughed, a harsh, mocking sound that sent shivers down your spine. "You really think you can take me down, princess? You're welcome to try, but I promise you, it's not going to end the way you think."

With a sudden burst of speed, Bakugo closed the distance between you, his hand shooting out to grab your wrist. 

You reacted on instinct, twisting away and aiming a punch at his midsection, but he was faster. His grip tightened, and with a flick of his wrist, he sent you crashing to the ground, his body pinning yours.

"You're so predictable," he sneered, his breath hot against your ear. "Always playing by the rules, always so righteous. But you know what, sweetheart? That shit doesn't matter anymore. In this world, power is the only thing that counts."

You struggled beneath him, your heart racing as you tried to free yourself from his grasp. “Let. Me. Go.” 

But Bakugo's strength was overwhelming, his body a solid wall of muscle and raw power. He leaned closer, his lips brushing against the shell of your ear as he spoke, his voice a low, seductive whisper. "Tell me, little heroine," he murmured, his free hand trailing down your side, "Have you ever wondered what it's like to let go? To stop fighting and just give in?"

You gasped, your body reacting to his touch despite your determination to resist. "Stop," you pleaded, your voice trembling. "This isn't you. You're not a monster. Your mind is just clouded."

He chuckled darkly, his fingers sliding beneath the hem of your costume, teasing the sensitive skin of your tummy. "Oh, but it is me," he said, his eyes burning with a twisted kind of desire. "And deep down, I think you like it. I think you want it."

With a swift motion, he captured your lips in a searing kiss, his dominance overwhelming. 

You fought against the pull, but the intensity of his touch, the raw passion he exuded, was intoxicating. 

His hands roamed your body, setting your nerves alight with every touch. "Feel that?" he murmured against your lips. "That's the real you, begging to be unleashed."

Your resolve wavered, the lines between right and wrong blurring in the heat of the moment. "Bakugo, stop," you pleaded, though your voice lacked conviction.

"Stop?" he taunted, pulling back just enough to meet your gaze. "You don't want me to stop, princess. You want to see just how far this can go."

You knew you should resist, should fight with everything you had, but you simply couldn’t.

Bakugo's lips found your neck, his teeth grazing your skin as he continued to speak, his voice a low, hypnotic growl. "Give in, heroine," he urged, his hand moving lower, tracing the curve of your hip. "Let me show you what real power feels like."

You bit your lip, an unwanted moan escaping your lips as his hand found its way between your legs, the rough pads of his fingers brushing against the fabric of your costume on your crotch. 

The sensation was overwhelming, a heady mix of pleasure and resistance that made your head spin. "Bakugo," you whispered, your voice barely more than a breath. "Don’t touch me."

He smiled against your skin, his fingers gently slapping your crotch. "Stop it," he murmured, his lips trailing down your neck to your collarbone. "Don’t be such a prude. We both know you like being used. You whores all do.”

And in that moment, as your body responded to his touch, you realized that you were powerless to resist him. Katsuki Bakugo, the villain you had sworn to stop, was slowly and resolutely tearing down all of your defenses, pulling you into his dark, dangerous world.

"You think you can resist me?" he taunted, his voice a low growl that sent shivers down your spine. "I know you feel it too. That darkness inside you, begging to be set free."

"Bakugo, this isn't right," you protested, shaking your head abruptly.

His smirk widened, a feral glint in his eyes. "Right or wrong doesn't matter now. All that matters is what you want. And I know you want this."

Before you could respond, his lips crashed against yours again, the kiss possessive. 

You tried to fight it once again, but failed. "Bakugo," you gasped when he broke the kiss, his lips trailing down your neck, leaving a trail of fire in their wake.

"Say my name again," he demanded, his voice rough with need. "I want to hear you beg for it."

The command in his tone sent a jolt of primal desire through you, your body betraying your resolve. "Katsuki," you whispered, the name a plea on your lips.

He growled in approval, his hands sliding under your uniform again, fingers tracing the curves of your body. "That's it. Don’t be shy, princess."

In one swift motion, he tore at your clothes, the fabric yielding to his strength. 

The cool night air kissed your exposed skin, but the heat radiating from Bakugo's body kept you warm. 

His touch was relentless, every caress igniting a fire that burned through you. "Look at you," he murmured, his voice dripping with satisfaction. "So eager, so willing. I knew you had it in you. Haha, you just can’t wait to have a villain cock in your cunt."

You gasped as his hands found their way to your panties, his touch both demanding and expertly skilled. 

He captured your lips again, the kiss deep and consuming, stealing the breath from your lungs.

"Bakugo, please," you whimpered after breaking the kiss, the need in your voice undeniable.

He chuckled darkly, his eyes flashing with triumph. "That's what I wanted to hear." With a swift, practiced motion, he lifted you like you weighed nothing, like you were nothing but a rag doll, pressing you against the rough brick wall of the warehouse. 

The sensation of the cool brick against your exposed skin made you whimper. Your breath hitched, your resolve wavering under his piercing stare. "Bakugo, this isn't —"

"Oh, shut the fuck up finally," he interrupted, his lips crashing down on yours to silence you. He smirked against your lips, his fingers tracing teasing circles over the middle of your panties. "You're already so fucking wet for me," he whispered, his voice thick with satisfaction. "I knew you wanted this, little one."

He quickly tugged your panties down your legs, and without thinking much, you helped him take them off completely. A gasp escaped your lips as he pushed a finger inside you, the intrusion both shocking and exhilarating. He finger fucked you while licking the pulse point on your neck with the tip of his tongue, wet trail of his saliva painting your throat. He soon added another digit.

"Bakugo," you moaned, the sound of his name a plea on your lips.

"That's right," he growled, his fingers moving faster, deeper, each thrust stroking all the right places deep within you. "Let me hear you beg for it."

"Bakugo, please," you whimpered, your hands clutching at his shoulders, desperate for more. Even though it all felt wrong and he was only humiliating you.

His smirk widened, a feral gleam in his eyes. "Good little heroine," he murmured, adding another finger, the sensation overwhelming. "Feel that? That's me owning you." His fingers moved with relentless precision, hitting all of the sweet, spongy spots. His calloused thumb brushed over your clit at the same time.

Bakugo cupped your face with his other hand in a mockery of intimacy, his rough digits surprisingly gentle against your skin. His eyelids fluttered closed as he leaned in, the warmth of his breath hitting your cheek as he sniffed you. "Fuck," he murmured, almost to himself, "I could get used to this." 

You smelled so good, sweet and soft and clean — a stark contrast to the chaos that surrounded him daily. It had been so long since he had been this close to a woman, and never one who was willing. The scent of you, the feel of your skin against his, it was intoxicating, a drug he hadn't realized he craved.

Bakugo kissed you again while fingering your tight pussy, the sloppy, wet noises so lewd that, involuntarily, you became wetter than before. 

You hated how your body reacted. 

His tongue swept over the inside of your mouth, invasive and brutal. He gripped you forcefully, his face pushing you deeper into the strained hold. 

You had never been kissed like this before.

Bakugo finally pulled his fingers out of you and dropped to his knees, hitching one of your legs up over his shoulder. The velvety skin of your inner thigh looked so delicious that he nuzzled against the bare area and latched onto it, sucking until he was sure you'd have a mark in a few minutes. The rich, feminine scent of your pussy was inches away from him, intoxicating and irresistible. Bakugo's eyes darkened with desire as he inhaled deeply, dying to make you cum in his needy mouth. Without hesitation, he leaned in, his hot breath ghosting over your slick folds before his tongue darted out, tasting you for the first time. The sensation was electric, his mouth working expertly, eager to draw out every moan, every shiver of pleasure from you. He latched onto your clit, sucking and flicking with a fervor that made your knees weak, his grip on your leg tightening to keep you steady. "Fuck, you taste so good," he murmured against you, the vibration of his voice sending jolts of pleasure through your body. He was relentless, devouring you with a hunger that left you breathless.

“B-Bakugo…”

A sound you’d never heard yourself make before forced its way out of your mouth as Bakugo ate you out in earnest, his tongue rubbing against your clit in a stuttering rhythm that gave you no time to catch your breath. You wanted him to stop. And at the same time, you never wanted him to stop. Your hands twitched as you fought the impulse to fist them in the villain’s hair and pin him down between your trembling thighs. His tongue felt so, so good against your pussy. You had never been with a man who was that skilled in pleasuring a woman.

Bakugo curled one arm around your thigh, pulling his face away from your cunny just long enough to push his fingers back into your drenched hole, angling his palm to grind the heel of his hand roughly over your clit. The harsh, rough texture after the warm, wet softness of his tongue was enough to push you over the edge. You cried out your orgasm, your pussy clenching onto Bakugo's fingers as he worked them in and out of you.

"Fuck, that’s it, you little, pathetic whore, cum for me now or I'll have to blow your fucking useless head out," he growled, his voice vibrating through you as he rubbed the bulge tenting in his pants roughly with his free hand. His eyes were dark with desire, watching you come undone. Bakugo groaned, his breath hot against your sensitive flesh, before attaching his mouth to your pussy again. He drank in all of your juices, his tongue lapping up every drop of your essence as if he couldn’t get enough.  

You just came on the tongue of a villain. 

Bakugo looked up at you, a smirk playing on his lips, his chin glistening with your release. "You taste even better than I imagined," he said, his voice low and rough. 

Your legs felt weak, barely able to support you as the reality of what had just happened sank in. You felt oh so humiliated, but a part of you couldn't ignore the raw, undeniable pleasure that Bakugo had drawn from you.

He got back to his feet, and whispered against your ear. "Admit that you want me to fuck you right here, right now."

"Yes," you breathed, the word a desperate plea.

He didn't need any more encouragement. With a growl, he freed himself from his fitted combat pants, his cock sprung up free, resting proudly against his toned abdomen; the aggressive, red tip leaking precum from its slit. He positioned himself at your slimy entrance, the anticipation almost too much to bear. "You're mine," he declared, his voice thick with possessive hunger. “You’re nothing but a tiny hole I’m going to use however I please. You’re fucking nothing but a piece of meat.”

With a powerful thrust, he entered you, the sensation tearing a gasp from your lips. The feeling of him inside you, filling you completely, was intoxicating. He moved with a fierce rhythm, his heavy balls slapping against your pussy with every rough thrust he delivered. He yanked one of your legs up, wrapping it around his hips to find the better angle.

He could hardly think of anything aside from the soft, hot, wet cunt wrapped so tightly around his dick. It consumed his every thought, his every desire. He wanted to live inside your pussy, to fuck your warmth every day, every minute. The feeling of fucking you raw was the best he had felt in months, a primal satisfaction that eclipsed everything else.

"Bakugo," you moaned, your hands clinging to his shoulders for support.

"That's right," he growled, his pace relentless as he hardly squeezed your boob through your sports bra. "Scream my name. Let everyone know who you belong to."

“K-Katsuki!”

The world around you dissolved into a haze of pleasure and desire, the only reality was the feeling of Bakugo claiming you, possessing you completely. His hands gripped your hips, guiding you to meet his thrusts, his breath hot against your skin.

The warehouse was a chaos of fire and smoke, the heat from the flames slowly licking at your skin, but the inferno around you was nothing compared to the blaze between you and Bakugo. The firelight cast an eerie glow over his face, highlighting the intense, almost feral desire in his eyes.

“Such a good whore, taking my cock in her tight little pussy so fucking well,” Bakugo praised, licking a stripe of your neck, growling lowly into your ear.

You clung to him, your nails digging into his shoulders as he pounded into you, each thrust pushing you harder against the wall. The rough brick scraped your back.

Every nerve ending was on fire, the sensation of him inside you overwhelming. 

"That's it," he growled, his pace increasing, the friction of his body against yours driving you wild. “That’s it, whore.”

You gasped at the insult, your leg tightening around his hips, pulling him deeper.

He angled his hips, hitting the sweetest spot inside you that made stars burst behind your eyes with the tip of his massive cock. "Right there," he murmured, his voice rough with satisfaction. "I can feel you clenching around me. That’s a good, little heroic whore.”

You nodded frantically, your breath coming in ragged gasps whenever the tip of his cock kissed your cervix. 

"Bakugo!" you screamed, raking your nails along his shoulders even though they were still covered by the upper part of his gear.

He swirled two fingers against your clit after slipping the hand that had cupped your boob earlier down to your slick pussy. 

You mewled like a kitten at the unexpected stimulation, and he laughed rudely.

"Fuck, that's it," he groaned, his movements becoming more erratic as he chased his own release. With a final, powerful thrust, he buried himself as deep inside you as possible, his cock pulsing and swelling as he came, filling you with his hot, thick release. “Fuck, take it, take it all, bitch.”

Your climax built rapidly as well. Your body tensed, the coil of pleasure tightening until it finally snapped when he came inside of you. With a cry of his name, you shattered, the pleasure overwhelming, consuming you utterly for the second time this evening. Your body convulsed around him, your pussy clenching and milking his veiny cock as he continued to pound into you. “Bakugo!”

“That’s it, little one, that’s it,” Bakugo cooed, his thrust sloppy until he stopped moving. He held you there for a moment. The slurping sound that reverberated in the air as his cock partially left your drenched pussy was obscene. Equally obscene was the cloudy trail of mixed white and clear fluid that connected your pussy and the head of his cock until he pulled away fully. His rough hands were still gripping your hips as he watched with a wry grin how his cum dribbled out of your abused pussy.

"You're fucking mine," he whispered, his voice a rough promise. "There's no place you could possibly hide from me," he whispered. "I'll find you anywhere, little heroine. You are mine, and no one else, nor any other thing, will ever change that."

When clouds of primal lust faded away, clearing your mind a little, the humiliation hit you like a heavy hammer, threatening to crush you under its weight. You fought the urge to cry, the stress and fear coursing through you like a tidal wave. You couldn't tear up like a baby in front of him, couldn't show any sign of weakness. Even though you already did.

Frantically, you looked around for your panties, your heart pounding in your chest as you tried to improve the upper part of your hero costume that was practically torn in half. But before you could find them, his low, mocking laugh reached your ears. You raised your head slowly, your cheeks burning with embarrassment, as you saw him toying with them in his hand, a smirk playing on his lips.

"You looking for these?" he taunted, holding them just out of reach. "You should know better by now. Everything that touches you belongs to me too." He sniffed your panties, and then theatrically licked the damp spot in the middle with his tongue, making you shudder involuntarily. His grin widened at your reaction, a cruel satisfaction evident in his eyes. After wiping his cock with your panties, he tucked them into the pocket of his pants, adjusting his trousers shortly after with a nonchalant flick of his wrist. "I'll keep these as a little souvenir," he announced.

Bakugo took a step closer to you, his presence overwhelming as he helped you adjust your own pants. "Now, go," he whispered, his voice low and commanding. "Run to them and tell them that not only did you fail to stop and capture the infamous villain, but also moaned like a cheap whore when his cock was buried to the hilt in your wet pussy. I'm super curious about their reaction."

With a sinking feeling in the pit of your stomach, you nodded numbly, unable to form a proper sentence after you pulled up what was left of your hero pants. You turned around and walked away with a shaky step as you prepared to face the consequences of your failure.

[ghostyuri]

sour times

click here!

pairing…jackson!abby x gn!reader x ellie

in which…you confront your not-so-great relationship with abby after she had stolen your best friend from you.

before you read…angst *sigh.* brief sexual content (for the plot!! no smut) you’re kinda mean here but i forgive you. 🫶

“do you like her?” “i don’t…i don’t know…i think so.”

her perfect blonde braid taunts you. you believe this is what hell is, following the lead of abigail anderson while the biting wind howls around you, snowflakes hitting your tender skin. 

the landscape is a winter wonderland, but you can’t seem to enjoy it in this state. perhaps if you were in the comfort of your bedroom, hot chocolate in your hand, and ellie williams by your side, you’d be in heaven. but that’s not even achievable these days. her time is spent with abby, the two in the woman’s garage, doing whatever when you’re not around, and you never are. 

it’s torturous to be the third. you had ellie first, your first real friend in the small town. you weren’t hers, cat had that blessing. but regardless, it appeared no one could even crack the bond you two had. and then she came along.

strolling into jackson like a puppy with eyes that resembled a stormy sea, her long hair adorned in a neat fishtail braid. she was sweet, but not in the naive way. she stood her ground when challenged, she showed her strength when needed, and she proved just how valuable she was to your community.

she also had a face you could admire for days, like some goddess one would worship many lifetimes ago. tan freckles scatter across her nose like lilies in a field, compared to ellie’s that are like stars in a busy midnight sky. they make their way down to her chest, sprinkled on her shoulders, and dancing over her biceps— her fucking biceps. god. abby was just fucking perfect. it aggravates you.

maybe that’s why ellie took a liking to her so rapidly. you get it— you hate it. and last night, you couldn’t help but ask your friend about their relationship, asking the auburn-haired woman if it was a crush. such a silly word, you had thought as it left your mouth. ellie even laughed quietly at it, avoiding an answer. then, you had asked again, ‘do you like her?’ 

and ellie had answered after hesitation, ‘i think so.’

i think so. jealousy coursed through your veins at the simple and uncertain answer; but you cannot pinpoint why, exactly. you never thought you liked ellie in that way. there was no doubt she was attractive, ellie happens to own that word, but your friendship was simply that. 

a friendship. no delving into romantic territory besides some lingering touches and a bit too deep all-nighters. there was nothing that made you yearn for her, when you already had her in such proximity to you, at your very fingertips. abby did a good job fucking that up, though. 

so you sat there, like a void was sucking you up at her answer. the idea of them…being a thing…sent chills down your spine. a nightmare possibly becoming a reality, if the feelings are mutual. and that scares you even more, abby finding herself enamored by ellie. somehow spending even more time with her than she already does. spending nights and mornings in her bed. it was all wrong. 

something that has yet to happen, already terrorizing you. it just can’t happen.

abby slows down her horse to walk beside you rather than in front of you, “you’re quiet…something wrong?”

you meet her eyes, legitimate concern within them. you were never the most talkative with her, but abby isn’t stupid and the tension in the air is almost as painful as the harsh weather you’re enduring. she wonders if she’s the cause of it. 

did she forget to wish you a good morning at the stables, something she did every single patrol? give you the wrong impression when she stared at you, utterly captivated by you? make you feel weak when she pulled an infected off of you, hands wandering your body making sure you were okay?

you answer her bluntly, “no.”

she tries again, “you can tell me if i did something…”

“you didn’t,” you insist, and surprisingly, it’s only a half lie. it’s the conversation with ellie that’s hanging over you like a dark cloud, and abby happens to be the focal point of it. 

abby seems to accept your response, for now, and tears her eyes off you. the wind has managed to pick up, and the horses are growing slower as they trudge through the snow. 

“that house up there,” abby motions with her head, a red house amongst the beige ones that surround it, “let’s hold up there.”

a stubborn part of you wants to tell her that she can wait there, and you will continue home. but you’re not a moron, and you don’t exactly feel like dying today, as much as ellie tempted you with the morbid idea. you’re freezing and crave shelter, even if that means being stuck another hour or so with abby. 

you follow abby to the home, waiting on your horse as she hops off hers, lifting the garage door for you to enter. when you do, there’s immediate relief in your body, abby behind you whispering sweet words to her horse, stroking the golden fur as she does so. it’s, unfortunately, cute. you keep your smile to yourself, patting your own horse when you get off her, then reaching for your gun before entering the home. 

“wait.” you pause and look back at abby, who walks in front of you, taking the lead yet again. an innocent yet condescending action that irks you deeply, watching the woman quietly slip past the wooden door, scanning the area for any sort of threat. 

you’re not as quiet when you follow behind her, stepping on some wrapper that crackles beneath your shoe, abby eyeing you like you spit on her. you brush it off, “i’ll check upstairs.”

“i’ll go with you.” “jesus— i don’t want you to.”

your sharp tongue takes her back, but there’s no anger in her eyes, it’s that same concern from moments ago. it makes you feel bad, but instead of apologizing, you leave her there, going upstairs like you said you would.

the old stairs creak with each quick step that you take, you forget the purpose of you coming up here. you just wanted to get away from her. that’s the reason why you’re immediately against a wall, snarling in your ear from a rotten corpse trying to bite it off. 

you resist, holding it at an arm's length away with one hand, the other reaching in your pocket for your pocket knife. your hands are cold and shaky, dropping it the moment you pull it out, when the splatter of blood meets your face. the thing is dead, falling before you, eyes meeting hers.

“a-are you—” “i’m fine,” you say coldly, bumping your shoulder with hers when you take a step forward and continue on. abby is really fucking confused, remaining frozen in the hall, staring at the dead infected at her feet. her eyes trail to your pocket knife, then back to you. 

you push open bedroom doors as you pass them, hardly searching them for any more infected. you assume if they wanted to, they’d attack you right then and there, and maybe if you’re lucky, a blonde knight in shining armor will save you. she had an annoying habit of doing so. 

“hey,” abby jogs toward you, trapping you in a doorway, “dropped this.”

the metal glimmers in her hands, and you’re quick to take your beauty of a weapon from her. oddly, you’re protective of the inanimate object, a thoughtful gift from ellie herself. the handle is a dulled shade of your favorite color, and the blade is a bit rusted, but that doesn’t bother you. “thanks,” you mumble, waiting for her to move. she doesn’t.

“wanna tell me why you’re acting like this?” “like what?”

“like that.” “what’s that?”

abby blinks at you, and you remain unfazed. you can tell her calm demeanor is deteriorating before you, patience running thin. “what did i do to you?” she asks, “since i showed up in jackson…it’s like you hate me.”

ouch. the words sting you more than her, and you cannot blame her for believing in such a thing. what have you done to show her otherwise?

held back smiles when she made kind remarks, generous gestures, and stupid jokes? left her out of conversations, not daring to spare eye contact when it was you, her, and ellie, sitting together? made weak small talk that made her feel like nothing but an acquaintance in town, when she just wanted more? 

you sigh, “i don’t…hate you.”

“you make that really hard to believe,” abby replies, crossing her arms. this close, you examine how the tip of her nose and cheeks are a hue of red from the bitter weather. it almost matches her lips…her lips. you’re watching her lips. you catch yourself, and whatever this is, pushing her away. you swallow the dusty air, fast steps taking you right back downstairs. 

of course, abby is on your trail. “you know we’re stuck here, right?” 

like a flip had been switched, you’re once again snappy with her, “no shit.”

“you confuse me, you know that?”

you pretend to ignore her words, focusing on the fireplace in the living room. there are enough logs to last as you wait out the blizzard, so you tug your backpack off and drop it on the distressed coffee table. you search for your matches, that are always in the first pocket in your bag, but they’re not there. 

you’re trying to remember when you took them out, or if they fucking ran away on their own. it doesn’t matter— abby is already ahead of you, and an orange glow suddenly illuminated the dim room. you turn your head, seeing the obnoxious sly grin on her face. “you’re welcome.”

you don’t thank her. you sit on the worn-out floral sofa a few feet away, eyes boring into the flames that are quick to warm you. “do you want a blanket?” abby offers, which you shake your head at. “you hungry?” again, you respond a ‘no,’ with your head. 

the problem with abby is that she’s genuine. she cares about you even if you have not shown the same worry toward her. and maybe that speaks for you more than abby. 

you don’t notice her reaching in her bag, pulling out some crumpled up gauze, until she sits beside you and reaches for your face. you move away when you feel her touch, furrowing your brows at her. “wanna be stubborn and keep that blood on your pretty face?”

your cool cheeks heat up, hardened appearance softening just slightly, then allowing her to wipe the nasty fluid off. she’s soft as she does so, taking her time, and the opportunity to adore your features at such close proximity. you’d probably give her a scowl if you realized so.

“is it her?”

“what?” “ellie. did she piss you off?”

abby is too observant for your own good. there’s only one…two people in jackson that can invoke such strong emotions from you, even if you hide them poorly. “no…”

“you kinda suck at this lying thing,” abby calls you out, large hand on your cheek, turning it so she can clean up any remaining blood on the other side of your face. “if she did, i could kick her ass.”

the somewhat joke leaves you with a puzzled expression. and then you laugh. “yeah, okay,” your tone is nothing but sarcastic, “like you’d ever take my side over hers.”

“what do you mean?” 

you bite your lip, tearing your eyes off her and into the burning wood. it’s not a loaded question, but it’s a loaded answer. to explain to her that ellie is her priority, as abby is hers, and you’re just there. someone that was kicked to the curb, left for envy to grow on you like poison ivy. 

you keep it short, “you guys are close.”

“well, yeah, we’re friends.” for now, you think, a humorless chuckle quietly escaping your lips. abby catches it, opens her mouth, and immediately shuts it. she finally lets go of your face, tossing the crimson coated gauze on the floor, her pupils still trained on you. the loss of her touch almost bothers you. then she speaks again.

“do you…do you think i like her or something? because we aren’t…anything.”

seconds pass in silence as you debate the question dancing on your tongue, curious if it’s overstepping but more intrigued about the answer. even if it will hurt to hear, you simply need to know. “do you want to be?”

“no, of course not.”

guilt ruins through your veins at the relief that settles in your body, knowing poor ellie would frown at the unrequited feelings. but there’s something else that gives you hope…why the fuck do you have hope? you gulp, “okay.”

“do you like her?” “what?!” “is that what this is about?”

“no— no it’s not, it’s not that.” “then what is it?”

you, honestly, cannot give her a proper response. this isn’t about some stupid nonexistent crush on your friend, yet that would make the most sense for whatever these feelings of resentment are. 

you’re quiet as you try to think of something, and it doesn’t help that her blue-grey eyes are zoning into you, as if she’s trying to peel the complicated layers off of you. she’s trying to understand, she really is, and it painfully makes your heart swell. you truly do get ellie. 

your façade of disinterest is chipping away like the paint on these very walls, her gaze on you making you want to break— to give in —and the moment your eyes fall to her pink lips, you do exactly that. 

you close the space between you two, nearly crawling on the couch and in her lap when you gently grab the sides of her face, kissing her before you even realize that you’re kissing her. it was an urge you couldn’t simply couldn’t resist. and abby welcomes it.

she moves in sync, pushing her lips against yours deeper, surprised when you pull away. the moment hits you at once; you and abby. abby and you. it has your eyes widened and lips parted, searching for something to say. sorry? no…that doesn’t feel right. you’re not sorry. and abby doesn’t want you to apologize, she needs you to keep going.

as if you both read the others mind, you lean into each other, connecting your lips once more.

you think of ellie, what she had told you with such vulnerability, and then you think of abby. abby, who had a intense desire to taste you, and was making that evidently clear. the aftermath of whatever this is, will be dealt with when that time comes.

you swallow the guilt when your tongue mixes with hers, abby tugging you on top of her, gripping your shirt like her life depends on it. her eagerness sends shivers down your spine, more intense than the horrid weather outside ever could to you. 

it feels too good to stop, she feels too good. abby is unbuttoning her jacket, while you’re tugging yours off, the kiss suddenly messy as you’re both failing to multitask. you giggle against her lips when you both manage to do so, her callous hand cradling the back of your neck to draw you closer. if that were possible.

you deepen the kiss, your hands slipping beneath the knit long sleeve shirt she wears. you explore the abs you’ve only ever seen through tight shirts that had you in a daze, not that you would’ve ever admit that to her, though. she attempts to say your name against your lips, her voice weak and breathy.

you pull away and tilt her chin up with your fingers, trailing your lips down her jaw, to the side of her neck. the world outside vanishes as abby loses herself in the sensation of your lips on her neck, sweet kisses that shift to gentle bites.

it’s the tender spots that you suck, that earn hushed whimpers from her. and you make sure to do it over, over, and over again. like a damn vampire, sinking your teeth into her, and marking your territory, when she’s not even yours.

and then you stop, noticing the room was dark. the fire had gone out. “we should— uh,” you climb off of her, the woman catching the breath she seemed to hold still the entire time. 

“yeah…” she agrees, chest rising, licking her lips. 

the wind has calmed down by now, a tolerable ride home that’s extremely quiet, besides the occasional gust of wind. except it’s not awkward the way it was hours prior. you’re exchanging short glances at the other, small smiles when your eyes would meet. 

you make it back to jackson safely, both of you dropping off the horses at the stables, making small talk as you walk home. you’re not talking about what just happened inside that red house, both of you are too shy to bring it up, to ask if that meant anything to the other. 

it truthfully drifts from your mind as abby is explaining a childhood story, until your eyes fall on her. ellie, heading in your direction, toward you two. 

it’s when she gets closer, that her pupils fall to abby’s neck; the pale skin decorated with purple marks, caused by you. she had been so worried about you two, and now, she feels dumb. and hurt.

especially when you just give her a tight-lipped smile, knowing exactly what you have done. and more importantly, that you wanted her to see it.

[flowerandblood]

The Fall from the Heavens (4)

[ canon • Aemond x Strong • niece female ]

[ warnings: oral sex, smut, angst, arranged engagement, violence, swearing, humiliation, chauvinism ]

[ description: A cool distance turns into friendship and more when two children see that they can find refuge and understanding in each other. However, naïve dreams collide with the reality in which every event has consequences and what once could have been love becomes a dark, newly painful obsession. Angst, sexual tension, obsession, violence, madness, very dark Aemond. ]

The story in this series is an alternate reality from the oneshot Stay and love, leave and die, in which Aemond reads the letters his niece has sent to him over the years. They are the same characters and it shows what would have happened between them − I have changed the background story from their childhood slightly for the sake of the plot.

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

Next chapters: Masterlist

_____

That evening she could not sleep; she felt anxious, felt that danger lurked all around her, the darkness in her chamber full of chill and tension. She pressed her lips together lying under the thick furs, recalling for the hundredth time the expression on her uncle's face when he recognised her.

Terror, disbelief, rage, disgust.

She knew that she would be facing him in the throne room the next day anyway, that they would be forced to remind each other of their existence.

She sighed quietly, wondering if her letters had reached him at all.

What if his grandfather or his mother simply did not deliver them to him?

What if his rage was because he thought she had abandoned him?

She felt a quick pounding of her heart, a naïve hope, anything she could grab onto in a situation that seemed to her to have no way out.

She thought she had to visit him, she had to see him, speak to him, end this once and for all, explain to him how she felt, how sorry she was that it had all happened this way.

Just like when she was a child, she slipped out of her chamber, walking ahead in the torchlight. She remembered what time the guards on watch at his quarters exchanged and took the opportunity, with her heart pounding fast, to knock on his door.

She swallowed loudly, horrified to hear the cold, sure, rough come in and stepped inside, closing the door behind her. She turned and saw his silhouette sitting by the fire, in his hand the dagger he was skilfully playing with between his fingers, his gaze fixed on her, his eye wide open as if he was anticipating this visit.

She didn't know what she should say, where to begin.

She wasn't sure if she was trembling so much from the cold or from fear.

She tried to repeat to herself that even though he looked different, the same man was sitting in front of her, the one who had stroked her hair all night as a child, soothing her this way when she couldn't fall asleep.

Grasping at these memories she finally choked out what she had come for.

"Did you received my letters?" She asked in trembling voice, trying to sound soft and calm, to be the opposite of his aggressive attitude, to make him understand that she was coming in peace.

She shuddered when she saw the dangerous glint in his eye, the dagger in his hand spun around its own axis and curled between his fingers again, an involuntary grimace appeared on his face that resembled a smile but showed that he was furious.

"Yes." He answered finally, and she drew in a loud breath, analysing his answer quickly in her head.

He had received her letters, all of them.

She could see it in his face.

Did he despise them? Did he throw them away? Did he burn them?

"Have you read them?" She asked, wrinkling her eyebrows in helplessness, feeling that this was one of the most important moments of her life.

She saw him settle more comfortably in his chair, lifting his chin high as he stabbed the blade of his knife into the armrest, running it over it, making shivers run through her.

She had the feeling that he had just imagined himself ripping her flesh this way.

"Yes, my Lady Strong. I have read them all. Many times, here, in this chair." He muttered, and she felt a jolt of heat, of disbelief, of both humiliation and desire at the same time, because here he was, just admitting that he'd read her letters more than once, yet he'd never written her back.

She thought it was all a punishment he was inflicting on her – even though he wanted her words, his reply would have shown that he had forgiven her, that he was seeking reconciliation, that he was weak.

It all suddenly became so clear to her that she felt lighter, understanding that there was no moment in which she could do anything more to change his mind, that exactly what was supposed to happen had happened.

She looked around his chamber and moved ahead, noticing that where there had been a small cupboard of books now stood three large, tall, oak bookcases filled to the brim with thick tomes.

"Does your mother-whore know you're here?" She heard his cold, indifferent voice and pressed her lips together at the thought that he was doing it on purpose, that he was aware of what would hurt her, that he knew her too well.

She felt a squeeze in her throat when she spotted the familiar name of the philosopher among his collection and stepped closer, pulling out the book she had borrowed from him when she dared to kiss him for the first time.

"My, as you put it, mother-whore, never knew when I visited you, uncle. I was very determined not to be caught." She said lowly, in a way tired of the fact that she seemed to be speaking to stone, a cold marble to which nothing could reach.

She heard him snort, clearly displeased that his question did not elicit the effect he would have expected from her.

"Do you often visit men like this?" He asked perfunctorily, as if there was an answer in his question, as if it was obvious that she was not waiting for him.

Something in the way he said it, in the superiority in his voice made her feel rage; she moved towards his chair and stood in front of him, looking at him with furrowed brows.

Who was he to speak to her this way?

She saw that he lifted his gaze to her, surprised, apparently completely not expecting her to dare come so close to him, the hand with his dagger froze in mid-motion.

"Have you no shame?" She asked with regret and disapproval. She saw that his nostrils quivered dangerously, his healthy eye turned black, his lips pressed into a thin line.

She knew he was about to say something, something that would make her hate him, make her unable to look at him, and she decided that she would be the first to express her opinion, her suffering.

"I don't know who you are, the man who sits now before me, but if there is even a fragment of the boy I was meant to marry in you, let that boy know that he was and will be the only one in my heart. He was my beloved friend and I failed him. It is hard to live with the thought that someone you loved so deeply has died in a way, but there is neither a grave to pray over nor any hope of peace for his soul. What I fear is that the boy I knew has disappeared among the darkness and is dying in it every day."

She muttered, and although she tried to hold them back, tears of helplessness and despair ran down her cheeks as the last sentence left her lips.

She had lost him, lost him forever, this boy who had soothed her fears, who she had looked up to with such pride and joy, who would never speak to her as this man did now.

It seemed to her that she had put him into a state of complete shock, as he looked at her with his mouth parted, his healthy eye wide open – he was breathing faster, completely frozen, as if he didn't know what to make of her words.

She couldn't believe how much he had changed, his white hair long and beautiful, partly tied back, his scar pale, hidden under a black eye patch, his jaw even more sharply defined, his chin pointed, his healthy eye gleamed in the firelight, his leather tunic and breeches framing his well-built body.

He was a handsome man.

She thought about Daemon's words, about how it was better to rip her heart out than to humiliate herself, but she thought she was unable to do that.

That she needed to feel his closeness this one last time.

It seemed to her that her body threw itself towards him on its own, climbing into his lap, pressing her face and hands against his tunic, his familiar warmth, his scent filled her nostrils.

She heard his dagger slide out of his hand straight onto the stone floor with the loud clang of steel.

For some reason, her body relaxed completely and she burst into sobs, as if those years of suffering and separation had poured out of her like a river; she began to babble and apologise to this little boy who certainly felt alone, who couldn't cope with what had happened and with what he had lost.

She shuddered and hopped up, feeling something hard throb between her thighs, then again and again – she looked at him in disbelief, his gaze terrified, his breath heavy.

She thought she was going to hear him say that she should leave, that she was humiliating herself, that he didn't want to know her, that she was pathetic, but he just stared at her, apparently unable to get a word out.

She looked at his lips – they seemed even fuller and softer to her than they were then and she wondered if they would be as pleasurable if she touched them.

Just this once.

"– can I kiss you? –" She asked so quietly that she herself barely heard the words leave her lips. She saw his pupil narrow, his nostrils twitching restlessly.

She felt a throbbing inside her, as well as in his breeches beneath her when he leaned in slightly, exactly as he had done then, wordlessly involuntarily betraying his will and she threw her hands over his shoulders, pressing her warm, thirsty lips to his in a sweet, loud kiss.

It seemed to her that their bodies were moving on their own, his hips rubbing his twitching erection against her from underneath making her feel something like warm tickling between her thighs.

One, slow, tentative kiss turned into a second, a third and a fourth, his hands suddenly on her body, clamping down on her hips and neck as if he wanted to make sure she didn't leave his side.

She shuddered, looking down at him with slightly parted lips, suppressing a moan when she felt his free hand slip shamelessly under the material of her nightgown and clamp down on her naked buttock, rubbing his hardness against her hidden womanhood with slow, uncertain rocking of his hips.

No one had ever touched her like this before, and she wondered if this was his first time, or if perhaps he had already tasted another woman's body, sinking inside the ladies of the court or the servants.

She felt an overpowering jealousy and pain at the thought, at the thought that he might have desired and taken another, and she thought that this night he would desire only her.

That she would spend the night with him and then leave, surrendering her fate to destiny.

"− uncle −" She mumbled, responding with movements of her hips to his treatments, feeling her insides begin to swell once she had decided what was going to happen.

He waved his hand into her hair and kissed her, greedily, aggressively, quickly, his slick tongue forced it's way deep into her throat.

It had nothing to do with what they had done as children – now their lips teased each other with a loud click of their saliva, his tongue trailing over her palate, licking her encouragingly, inviting her to let their tips touch.

They licked each other like this, panting and moaning into each other's mouths – she let him push her hips closer to him, rubbing his hard cock against her with increasingly intrusive, shameless movements as she wrapped her arms around his neck, pressing her breasts against his body.

Gods, he wanted this.

She shuddered when she felt his hand pull at the ties of her nightgown, in slow, gentle movement slipping it off her shoulders. He pulled away, panting loudly, to look at the sight of her bare chest, her plump little breasts; she gasped quietly and trembled when his fingers timidly run and squeezed one of them.

She felt something sticky run down her thighs onto the material of his breeches, felt the moisture between her legs.

"− uh − it tickles − here −" She mumbled helplessly, stroking his jaw with her thumb, not knowing completely what she should do next, somehow asking him to spare her the humiliation and take the initiative. She shuddered as his fingers ran over her lust-swollen, puffy lips.

"− it's understandable − you missed your uncle − hm? −" He asked softly, tenderly, startling her completely – she felt the muscles inside her clench around nothing at his words, the tension in her lower abdomen was unbearable.

She didn't know when he took her in his arms and stood up with her, when he laid her down on his bed; she watched as he took off his tunic, commanding her to lie on her back, and she obeyed him.

She squirmed in horror as he suddenly grabbed her thighs and spread them in front of him, lifting the material of her nightgown up, leaning his face between them.

"− Aemond − s-stop, uncle, what are you −" She mumbled in a trembling voice, trying to push him away, to protect herself; she tilted her head back with a sweet, surprised moan when she felt his rough tongue run over her puffy folds, licking what was leaking out of her.

"− o-oh, gods −" She mewled losing immediately the urge to interrupt him, laying obediently on her back and clasping her hands in his wonderfully soft white hair, pushing against him with her hips, listening to the sounds of sucking and licking, whimpering in front of him like a whore, understanding that it was obvious that he wanted to give her pleasure, that he wanted to satisfy her.

"− have you touched yourself here? −" He huffed with some kind of amusement and satisfaction, as if he had been dreaming of this moment all his life, of her at his mercy, with her thighs spread wide shamelessly in front of his face.

She swallowed loudly at the memory of the night she had sunk her hand into her heat seeking fulfilment, thinking of him, the way he looked now, the way he still desired her, and helplessly nodded her head.

She knew he would recognise immediately if she lied.

She heard him murmur with satisfaction at this information, as if he was perfectly aware, looking at what was happening to her now, who she was thinking of at the time.

She moaned in pleasure as his nose ran over her puffy bud hidden between her soft folds; she clenched her hands in his hair trying to push him away as he tightened his lips around it, licking and sucking it, making it almost painful. His hand reached for her mouth to silence her, but she clamped her fingers on his wrist, stopping him.

"− please, uncle, too much − too much −" She cried out pleadingly, trying to pull away from him, and breathed a sigh of relief when he released her from between his lips, looking at her in shock, apparently writing down in his mind that this place was extremely sensitive and delicate.

He hummed under his breath, returning to his earlier caresses, tentatively and slowly sliding his tongue into her tight, hot interior. She threw her head back, surprised at how pleasurable it was, her walls throbbing and clenching like crazy around nothing as he licked her shamelessly with a quiet, lewd clicks of his saliva and her moisture.

"− uncle − mghmm −" She babbled desperately, feeling something approaching, the tension and tickling in her lower abdomen unbearable, her hips rocking to the motion of his mouth.

She prayed shamelessly to the gods that he would just keep going.

"− it'll be wonderful to feel it clench around my fat cock one day − don't you think, sweet niece? −" He murmured between the flicks of his tongue, and she felt his words do something to her; she raised herself up on her elbow throwing her head back, feeling the wonderful, throbbing pleasure spill over her body in waves. She moaned some words, probably his name, feeling stunned and hot with fulfilment, her thighs trembling in his hands.

She fell on his cold bed, panting heavily, begging him to stop, but he made sure to lick her dry, as if he took unspeakable pleasure in her state and pleas.

He rose at last, breathing loudly, wiping his face, his eye wide open as if he couldn't believe what had just happened, with a quick, desperate movement he untied his breeches.

"Touch me." He muttered grabbing her hand; she squealed quietly when she saw for the first time what the erection of a man looked like. He tightened her fingers around its thick root, the tip of it pink and glistening, dripping from his own juices.

She breathed loudly, squeezing it with the kind of movements he was forcing on her with his palm, up and down, feeling it pulsing and twitching in her grasp, that it was swelling more and more, his breath erratic and heavy, full of desire.

"− fuck − fuck, come here −" He breathed out, grabbing her by her hair, pressing her lips to his in an aggressive, frantic, sticky kiss, tasting her own wetness on his palate, his hips rocking aggressively to the rhythm of her hand.

"− don't fucking stop − faster − fuck-fuck-fuck −" He hissed and groaned helplessly with some kind of immense relief, clenching his eye, his lips parted in pleasure; she squealed when she felt something wet spill out of him onto her nightgown, startling her completely.

He leaned in to kiss her, to reassure her.

"− easy, it's just me − shhh −" He whispered between one lazy, moist kiss of their lips and another, releasing her at last, her hand all sticky with his warm spend.

He ordered that nothing was to be wasted and that she was to lick it off, so she did so without a word of objection.

His seed was slightly salty and smelled like nothing she had felt before.

Like sin.

He watched her every move with satisfaction.

"− you are going to spend the night with me −" He commanded, and she nodded, not having the strength to oppose him or think about the consequences.

She didn't care.

"Mmm." He hummed contentedly, sighing quietly, pulling her by her arm along with him, laying down on his back, letting her embrace him.

She breathed a sigh of relief as she hugged her face to his chest, to where his heart was – his fingers began to stroke her hair, just as they had then, years ago.

He knew she loved it.

They lay in silence for a long time, their silhouettes surrounded only by the warm light of the fire burning in the distance.

"– I missed you –" She whispered at last and heard his hand freeze in stillness.

She was frightened that she had frustrated him and felt relieved when, a moment later, he placed a soft kiss on the top of her head, stroking her further with his warm palm.

It took a long time before he said anything, as if he needed to think it all over, to put it all back together in his head.

"Do you still wish to marry me?" He asked at last, apparently assuming that what the others were planning didn't matter and that he had to have a good understanding of what had happened between them, whether they wanted the same thing.

She lifted her head, looking at him already without fear – even though his gaze was cold and his face stern, she already knew what lurked underneath, that if he had built a wall around himself as a child, it was now a giant fortress separating him from everyone else that could not be taken by storm.

What they had done didn't change the fact that they still didn't know if they could trust each other.

"Yes." She whispered, tracing her fingers over the area underneath where his heart was beating. He looked at her for a moment, as if he wanted to make sure she was telling the truth, and then he grabbed her hand and lifted it to his lips, placing a warm, lingering kiss on it.

"− you have such big hands −" She whispered, looking in awe at the clearly defined lines of his veins. The inside of his palm was rough – she thought it was the fault of his daily holding of the sword.

"− they're not as delicate as yours − your skin feels like it's made of silk −" He murmured with some kind of admiration, gazing at the innocent play of their fingers brushing against each other in the air.

She felt a squeeze in her throat at the sight, the elation and pain, thinking of all the years she had dreamed of him coming back for her, of telling her that he still loved her. She felt involuntarily tears under her eyelids and pressed her lips together, trying to hold them back, however to no avail.

They flowed down her cheeks one by one, and she felt her chest begin to vibrate as did her breathing. He glanced at her, hearing this and they looked at each other for a moment in silence.

He lifted his free hand and with a slow, tender movement of his thumb rubbed the moisture from her warm skin.

"Don't cry. Come here." He said lowly, grabbing her waist and pulling her close, his hand slipped into her hair hiding her face in the hollow of his neck, her bare breasts pressed against his chest.

She breathed quietly, focusing on his wonderful, familiar scent and the embrace in which, even though she shouldn't, she felt safe.

It seemed so right.

"Tomorrow, Luke will lose his rights to Driftmark. Justice will be done, and I will announce that our betrothal was never officially called off. We will marry in the tradition of our ancestors, ending at last these years of misery." He said calmly, as if he thought it was the only sensible thing to do – his hand trailed involuntarily through her hair and down her bare shoulder, but his mind was far from her.

She swallowed loudly and tensed all over hearing his words, words concerning her younger brother's inheritance which, after all, Corlys had passed on to him, obviously aware that they bore his name but were not of his blood.

He felt her hesitation immediately and began to breathe louder, his fingers digging warningly into the soft skin of her arm.

"Say something." He muttered in an anxious, trembling voice, but she didn't know what she was supposed to answer, her heart pounding like mad, tears welling up again in the corners of her eyes.

She thought with horror that she had made the mistake of assuming that the fact that he could forgive her meant that he could also forgive Luke.

She had noticed it then, in the courtyard, seeing the way he looked at her brother, but she preferred to push it deep into her consciousness, to pretend that it would all be easily resolved, that they would live together in peace and prosperity.

"What will you do if he doesn't lose his rights to Driftmark?" She asked quietly, feeling her voice tremble with every word she spoke.

This time it was his body that tensed all over; she heard him draw in air loudly, his heart pounding like mad under her hand.

"Is your mother-whore plotting something again? Hm?" He growled, gripping her cheeks painfully tight in his hand, forcing her to look at him in a sharp, aggressive motion.

She felt that familiar terror again, fear at the sight of madness, darkness and hatred lurking in his gaze.

"– n-no, I swear –" She whimpered with difficulty. She saw him tighten his lips, his nostrils quivering restlessly in a quick, laboured breath, his eye opened wide.

"Is she the one who sent you to me? To soften me up, to fucking distract me, to divert my attention?" He hissed with growing anger and a note of desperation, a sense of betrayal that escaped his throat as his fingers dug warningly into her skin.

She thought he had completely lost his mind.

Seeing her state, the way she said the words, his grip on her face softened, his thumb ran tenderly over her soft, tear-wet skin.

"– no, Aemond, she wants me to marry someone else, she doesn't know I'm here –" She cried helplessly, recognising that he could do whatever he wanted with her, beat her or kill her.

Nothing could change the fact that she was heartbroken.

"No. No, don't cry. Don't cry, my love. Don't cry." He whispered drawing her to him again and she burst out into loud sobs, seeking comfort in his arms; he kissed the top of her head again and again repeating that he believed her, that he just had to be sure.

Whatever would happen, the boy she knew had never been violent towards her.

"I would never hurt you." He whispered, and her words burst out of her mouth before she had time to think them through, full of pain and disappointment.

"You have done it now and you will do it again." She muttered lifting herself up, putting the sleeves of her nightgown over her breasts, wanting to lift herself off his bed. His hand clamped on her arm stopped her – he raised himself up on his elbow with her, however this time he was careful with how much force he used.

"No. I didn't mean to. Gods, I swear." He muttered, gripping her cheek in his palm, clearly wanting her to look at him, but she shook her head.

"You desire me, but you're not in love with me. You abhor me and whenever you forget that I can give you pleasure, you will hurt me." She choked out between sobs, getting up from his bed; he got up behind her, catching her waist, hugging her back.

She felt his warm, shaky breath on her skin, his hands quivering, his face pressed against her neck.

How could she be so blind, to think that after all this time he would look upon her as an equal?

"I have waited for you for so many years. Don't leave, it won't happen again." He muttered in a trembling, pleading voice.

She knew it was a lie, that he was desperate now, that if only he could be sure she wouldn't escape him, he would do whatever he wanted with her.

"You're right to think I was never worthy of you. Forgive me that you had to endure such humiliation because of me for so many years." She choked out in pain, pulling herself out of his embrace, walking out of his chamber, startling his guards, not caring if they told the Queen of her visit or not.

She returned to her quarters and threw herself on her bed, quivering and sobbing with despair breaking her heart, realising with pain that there was never any hope for them.

He did not love her.

_____

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[writers-potion]

Got anything for dialogue

Writing Dialogue 101

Dialogue is conversation, nothing more, nothing less. The catch is: diagloue is EDITED conversation. It must be more concise, purposeful and witty than the everyday sentences we speak, while sounding natural.

The Purpose of Dialogue

Diaglue is definitely a fiction elements that pops everything up and out. Thus, dialogue is going to have more impact than your normal paragraphs, in order to:

Characterizes/reveals motives

Sets the mood in the story

Intensifies the story conflict

Creates tension and suspense

Speeds up your scenes

Add bits of setting/backgronud

Communicates the theme

Matching the Dialogue to the Genre

The dialogue in a book should speak the reader's language. There is a type of voice that suits each genre/category of fiction, and we must understand what matches the reader expectations and rhythm of the plot we are writing.

Magical Dialogue

"Do not kill him even now. For he has not hurt me. And in any case I do not wish him to be slain in this evil mood. He was great once, of a nobel kind that we should not dare to raise our hands against." - The Lord of the Rings, J.R.R. Tolkein

"As much as I want you and want to be with you and part of you, I can't rear myself away from the realness of my responsiblities." - The Bridges of Madison County, Robert James Waller

This is the language of The Hobbit, Star Wars, The Lord of the Rings, The Wonderful Wizard of Oz.

When writing literary and mainstream fiction (that is targeted at the general public rather than a target audience), we need to go with what sounds real, even with a magical setting

Science fiction and fantasy can be more unreal, i.e. things like "May the Force Be With You."

In romance, magical dialogue takes on a differen form. It's magical in that it transcends the way we talk to each other in normal society. Magical in that all of it makes perfect sense and is said in such eloquent langauge that we marvel at it while at the same time knowing that if we are left to ourselves, we would say something absolutely banal.

Cryptic Dialogue

"You know, the condom is the glass slipper of our generation. You slip it on when you meet a stranger. You dance all night, then you throw it away. The condom, I mean. Not the stranger." - Fight Club, Chuck Palahniuk

This is the dialogue in literary and religious stories that dealw ith abstract ideas and vague concepts and has double meanings. Readers aren't meant to understand theses right away.

These bits of dialogue plant sublimnal messages in the reader's mind that help communicate the theme later on, ultimately making sense.

Cryptic dialogue is difficult to do well. If we're not careful, we'll end up sounding preachy, moralistic and dogmatic.

You need to be able to view the world in different perspectives.

Descriptive Dialogue

The literary, fantasy and historical story often relies on dialogue for worldbuilding (expplaining history, magic rules, etc.)

The author's goal in descriptive dialogue is to provide the reader with information. However, the character's goal cannot be sacrificed for the author's. Dialogue can still have tension and suspense and can be inserted into a scene of action so the story doesn't bog down while the readers get some info.

Shadowy Dialogue

In shadowy dialogue, the character's job is to keep the reader suspended in a state of terror/suspense. Then you periodically tighten and loosen the tension.

The key here is uncertainty. The reader cannot trust the speaker, so we're always questioning him, wondering whether he's speaking truthfully or is presenting the full picture.

Keep the tone as dark of possible, using action and background as supporting tools.

Make it cryptic, or even better, offering an omnious threat of what is to come.

Provocative Dialogue

This is the type of dialogue that conveys the theme, talking about the "universla truth" your book is trying to convey.

Readers like to be challenged in their thinking, provoked to consider other ways of thinking, and shaken up in their belief systems with a fresh perspective about the world.

Consider this example from To Kill A Mockingbird:

"...but there is one way in this country in which all men are created equal - there is one humna institution that makes a pauper the equal of a Rockfeller, the stupid man the equal of an Einstein, and the ignornant man the equal of any college president."

There is no way we can read this and not think about something that is bigger than our daily lives.

Make your readers squirm, and shock them out of their comfort zones.

Uncencored Dialogue

Uncencored dialogue in YA stories are of young people, but that doesn't mean it's filled with hip-hop words and slag.

While adults cencor themselves when they speak, teenagers haven't yet learned that skill so their dialogue is more raw, edgy and honest.

Readers of YA novels expect realism, so make it as authentic as possible. The last thing we want to is for our characters to be brash and honest, but NOT sound like they've just stepped out of Planet Way Cool.

For example:

"What if he doesn't like me back?" "You are too much of a chicken to do anything aboutit but mope."

As an adult, how often do you admit fear of rejection out loud to another, or call out your friend to her face? In YA-type of dialogue though, we can just write what comes into these characters' minds.

So that sums up the different types of dialogue. Consider the nature of your plot, what your readers and the genre of the story you are writing to choose an appropriate way for your characters to speak!

If you like my blog, buy me a coffee☕ and find me on instagram! 📸

[getaapologist]

The Tension and the Terror................Part III

Pairing: Emperor Geta x OFC (extremely loosely, character is named but otherwise not described besides hair length in a later part)

Summary: The games officially begin. Macrinus furthers his plot, and Letha gets to witness the Emperors in their element. Geta can keep a secret.

Warnings: Reference to Letha's Voyeurism if you squint, 18+ only

Word Count: 2.1k (next part should make up the difference)

Part 3 of 15

[ Part II ]

Series Masterlist

A/N: I love writing Macrinus. I just think he's fun. Even though we hate him, a lot. Geta is fun too. I hope you enjoy a bit from his perspective here. One latin phrase here, "Dei bene vertant" is close to "may the gods make (circumstances good) for you," or so I understand. I wanted something like "Good luck!" Also, I HC that Geta has a shortened version of Caracalla's name that he uses sometimes. Anyways, thanks for reading!

“Not much of a bodyguard, abandoning your post,” Macrinus chuckled, his spirits high. He sat on the edge of the bed in her cell where she still laid, tossing a pear up into the air and catching it, again and again, his jewelry clinking together as if in protest. He had brought her back last night, not uttering a word more to her about her disappearance, merely asking for the dress back before disappearing into his chambers.

“What’s got you smiling this morning?” she asked, avoiding his attempt to weasel information out of her. “The winnings?” She knew better.

“It wasn’t about the money, my dear Letha. It is about power and control.”

“So, a debt of two thousand gold denarii is not enough.”

“Not for what I hope to accomplish.”

He wasn’t pushing her on her disappearance, so maybe he didn’t know who she had been with. A relief, to be sure. Still, it would only take one conversation with the indebted senator and he’d get his answers. She couldn’t begin to predict his reaction once he knew.

“Yesterday paved the way to the hill. I received word today that I’m invited to attend the games. As an honored guest of the Emperors, no less.”

Letha wondered if she played any role in this invitation. Surely not. Part of her felt bad for keeping her interactions with Geta from him, but a larger part of her saw his manipulations and scheming and knew he’d drown her in a river if it put him even one step closer to his goals. She didn’t enjoy being someone else’s pawn, even if it got her what she wanted. Or what she thought she wanted.

“How long will I be stuck in here, at the mercy of your men?”

“Well, it would be about… ten days or so. But where I go, so does my bodyguard,” he winked. “I still have use for you, Letha.” With that, he stood. “Go and see Hyacinthia. She’ll help you get scrubbed up. I’m heading up early.”

He got up and strode out. She got to her feet and approached Viggo who waited just outside, cuffs and chains ready to be applied. Macrinus’s voice echoed down the corridor. “No chains, Viggo.”

Viggo seemed reluctant and she couldn’t exactly blame him. He had never done anything to her himself, but he had seen the aftermath of others that couldn’t keep their eyes or their hands to themselves. So he viewed her as a caged animal, as he should. It was better that they feared her a little.

“Get moving, princess,” he spat, gesturing to the baths.

The roaring of the crowd drowned out everything else. The city, its people, clamored for blood. They called for the gladiators elevated to household names through their bloody work in the arena. They were eager to witness inarguable power. They preferred to keep danger out of reach, the reality of it confined to this oval as if it were a play, instead of calling it what it truly was. Brutalism, propped up by religion. If there truly were gods, she didn’t think they’d be sitting here right now.

The tone of the crowd changed. Letha heard their footsteps before she could turn her head to lay eyes on them. The twins. The difference in height and build was staggering now that they were dressed in lighter clothing, an attempt to weather the heat that settled over the sand below.

She revisited her mantra to quell the way her blood reacted to the sight of Geta.

He is a monster.

And yet nothing he had done to her seemed to match that sentiment. Perhaps today would be different. She desperately needed the discouragement. Anything to bring her back to how she thought of him just a couple of days ago. The way she reacted at the sight of him filled her with shame. What would her brother have to say about the way her intestines coiled up at every glance, like a bundle of snakes had been sewn into her gut?

Macrinus sat beside her, stoic, his eyes scanning the other occupants of the Emperor’s box. The twins were taking their seats upon ornate chairs, wide enough for two, conversing quietly with each other, Caracalla’s excitement obvious. Geta mirrored his gleeful smile and she forced herself to look away, lest Macrinus catch her staring. 

She had a job to do.

A few other senators took up seats near the back of the private box, and Thraex plopped down in a seat across the aisle from where she and Macrinus sat. Thraex clearly had seen better days. Letha supposed the reminder this morning of his existing debt to Macrinus had sat in his gut like spoiled fish, even though he readily agreed to plunge ever deeper into despair by potentially doubling his losses. She figured he thought this would be his salvation. One good win would ease all his troubles.

“Dei bene vertant, senator,” Macrinus grinned. Thraex offered a muttered returned wish with a short smile before he was saved by Caracalla turning in his seat, peering over the back of his chair to inspect the occupants of their royal box. 

“Thraex, I never got to thank you for your wonderful party,” he spoke, his voice easygoing and free of hidden nuance. “Have you brought your best today?”

Thraex put on a mask of love for his Emperor, his smile reaching his eyes this time. “Of course, your majesty, and I have even brought some gifts, they await you back at the palace.”

“Gifts?! Do you hear that brother?”

At Caracalla’s summoning, Geta turned in his seat, following his brother’s gaze to Thraex, bypassing Letha entirely. She shouldn’t be surprised. She was a fool if she expected any of that night’s events to have impacted him. She was a tiny blip, an aberration. One of many, insignificant. When he could quite literally have his pick of anyone, it surely wouldn’t be her name spilling from his lips. 

He looked good today. Wearing gold, still dressed in contrast to his twin. He seemed tired, not as enthralled at the idea of gifts as his brother was. “How generous of you, Thraex,” he offered, turning back around to watch as the stage below was being set for a bloody battle.

“Excuse him, Thraex, he’s lost all his manners this morning. If he loses even a moment of his beauty rest, he’s just so difficult–”

“‘Calla, please,” Geta begged, his fingers pressed to his temples. 

Macrinus turned, his eyebrows lifted in slight amusement out of view of the Emperors, a look saved for only her. “Volatile, indeed,” he commented.

Before Letha could ponder further what could’ve affected him so, the crowd roared as men were let into the oval, armed with various weapons, wearing odd bits of armor, appearing as a ragtag group. “Do not forget about your task, Letha,” Macrinus warned, eyes fixed on the men below. 

“Here? Now?” she inquired, glancing around at the guards stationed at the box entrance, and on the sides, blocking the Emperors’ subjects from climbing over to exact any kind of revenge. 

“No. But tonight, at dinner, I need you on your best behavior.” His stare was deadly serious. No joking around. This was important to him. She couldn’t afford to mess it up.

“I understand,” she nodded, reminded of the moment he decided to include her in his plans. His warning. She’d have done anything then to be protected from the vultures that followed her around ever since being collected from the floor of her house. She’d lashed out at anyone that even looked at her, diverting her sorrow into rage towards those that took her family from her. 

The general should have killed her. But he didn’t. He had paved the path to this. Macrinus saw in her a tool, to be used and discarded when it broke or his purpose was achieved. She held no illusions of how Macrinus felt towards her. It was indifference, in its purest form. The act was his smiles, his gentle touches, his teasing, almost fatherly. Whether he thought she believed it didn’t matter either.

She should assume anyone could be a threat and treat them as such, the Praetorians included. The twins may somehow still have the loyalty of the commanding officer, but that didn’t mean all of the rank and file agreed. And for some, the promise of enough coin could steer their morals any which way.

Her concerns for Geta and his sour mood melted away, and she stopped looking over to try to catch a glimpse of his face as he watched the fighting below, Caracalla cheering loudly at every drop of spilled blood on the sand until Thraex’s assembled side lay dead. 

Thraex stood and left the box before anyone could speak comfortingly to him about the losses he’d suffered. They wouldn’t know the breadth of them.

Macrinus just smiled to himself, reclining in his seat, his leg brushing against Letha’s.

“How much is it up to now, Macrinus?” she asked, trying to distract herself from Geta as he rose to his feet, about to leave the box. 

“By my low born math, it must be about six?” he grinned, his arm stretching along the top of their bench seat, his fingers righting the dress where it sat atop her shoulder, lingering. 

“You aren’t done with him yet.”

“No, not yet. I don’t think we’ve reached the groveling stage,” he laughed.

Letha laughed with him, completely missing the way Geta’s eyes lifted at the sound, realizing for the first time that she was present.

Geta watched the way Macrinus’s jeweled fingers pulled at the fabric covering Letha’s shoulder. The closeness of the two of them sparked a flicker of jealousy in him, an emotion he wasn’t used to having to manage. If he was ever jealous, truly jealous, he could simply lay claim to whatever it was for himself. It usually paled in comparison to what he’d built up in his mind, but it never mattered. The possession of it was enough.

“Snap out of it.” Caracalla giggled at Geta’s expense before nudging his brother aside so he could climb the stairs up to the exit, eager to get his hands on Thraex’s promised gifts. 

The very source of his ire and frustration had been sitting just over his shoulder. He’d been too in his own head to even realize it. Before he could stop himself, coach himself on a better approach, Geta moved, words tumbling from his lips. “Macrinus, I do hope to see you at dinner this evening. We must toast to your barbarians.”

Letha’s eyes widened slightly as she was drawn out of her laughter and up to Geta’s practiced look of interest. Not in her, but in the dinner party. He was plenty interested in her. She looked a lot like she had that night, almost fearful of him. It warmed his blood.

“I am looking forward to it, Emperor, I greatly appreciate the hospitality,” Macrinus praised, gesturing at the confines of the royal box.

Geta smiled. “I thought you would.” He looked over at her, seeing some recognition there. He had hoped Macrinus’s other lady would still be indisposed with her fictional illness. His gamble had paid off. Perhaps she hadn’t told Macrinus of their encounter. What would she have said? ‘Macrinus, I watched Geta lie with a concubine.’ Though not fully, he reminded himself. He would’ve asked more of Lyra, but then he caught Letha’s stare. As if he’d been bewitched, he sent Lyra away early. Letha’s gaze was as strong as the fabled gorgon’s. 

Still, best not to give up their little secret. Anything to keep Macrinus bringing her around. “And this is?”

“Oh, yes, of course. This is Letha, your majesty,” Macrinus introduced her. She bowed to him, all mirth gone from her face. 

“Ah, Letha, well, please, what’s ours is yours. Do enjoy yourselves this evening, as our esteemed guests, both of you.” Geta knew he was looking too long at her, Macrinus wasn’t a stupid man. But some part of him didn’t care to keep up appearances. She had distracted him without even being in the room. He could enjoy this. 

One last lingering glance her way and he moved on, climbing the steps with renewed vigor, a smile tugging at his lips. For the first time in a long time, Geta felt a shiver travel down his spine at the thrill of pursuit. What he would do if he got his hands on her, he didn’t know. But it didn’t matter. The possession of her would be enough.

[ Part IV ]

[letsgobarbs]

Chapter 3 (Fin.)

INDEX BONUS CHAPTER Warnings: They are provided on the Index page A/N: Anaticula means little duck/duckling.

Acacius stared at the honey cakes on the table. He knew Lucilla had not meant to be cruel but the sight of them made his chest tighten. He wondered, not for the first time, what they would taste like in his mouth with the same poison lacing them as she had used on hers. He could bet they’d taste sweet, they would taste of reunion. 

Acacius…

“Acacius.” 

“Acacius,” Lucilla called. He broke out of his reverie to blankly stare at her. And he regretted it. 

As his priestess had not completed her contracted term with Vesta, Lucilla had taken her place as a replacement since there had been no requirements of youth or virginity— divorcees were acceptable albeit frowned upon. The role suited her as she had a post in the College of Pontiffs; since the death of the previous chief Vestal, Lucilla had taken her seat and established her voice in the Senate. But he couldn’t look at the red and white ribbons in her hair without choking on his sobs. Acacius went back to staring at the cakes. 

“You cannot keep living like this, Acacius. It has been months since we have heard you speak.” 

It wasn’t that he could not speak anymore. He has heard the sound of his voice when he wakes up in the dead of the night clammy, tears staining his cheeks and a hoarse scream on his lips— begging his priestess to not leave him. He just did not have much to say these days.

No, he actually had far too much to say. All his words were lost in his heart somewhere, they filled him up to his throat and suffocated him— stifled him— but they stuck to his mouth because the person supposed to hear them was not here. She had not left him, not truly. She resided in his heart. He spoke to her there without having to talk.

“Lucius could use your guidance… some of the Praetorian Guards are dissenting. We could use your help.” 

They didn’t need his help, he was a soldier, not a politician. And last he had heard, their new Emperor was making the Praetorian Guards fight each other in the arena in the name of training. As for the guards who were causing too many problems by terrorizing the public or plotting a coup, Lucius would fight them in the arena himself, reasserting himself as a public hero. 

His priestess had left him a letter, advising him to take the throne and then work towards establishing a republic rather than foisting the country over to rotting administrators and decaying pillars. She had counselled Lucius to wait for the senators to succumb to their vices; and nurture better successors for them. 

She may have hinted that it did not take much to remove a senator from his post— both Lucius and his priestess shared a devious mind. Just last week Senator Thraex suffered an apoplexy while he indulged in his whores and had since passed away. The Emperor has been steadily introducing legislature that cut into the power of the Praetorian Guards, and levied higher taxes based on income. 

Their mutual friend Ravi had leveraged her extensive information network to benefit the new Emperor who kept a very close eye on many restless Praetorian Guards and Senators. Any voices of dissent were swiftly nipped in the bud. But Thraex had been correct about one thing, politics did follow power; after an example or two, all other senators had fallen in line. 

Ravi, too, had received a letter from his priestess. Lucilla, as well, who had been tasked with continuing his priestess’ efforts to educate the poorest children of Rome. She had left letters for Publius, for the Vestals, for her servants, for employees, for clients, for friends, for whores— even for Fortuna, Macrinus’ former slave. 

There were letters for everyone but him. And that fact bothered him like a speck of dust in his eye he was unable to remove. He would sometimes wonder if she had cared so little for him, but he knew that was not the case. The absence of a letter for him, when everyone had received one, had felt like a purposeful slight and that thought hurt more. He had not known his anaticula to be so cruel. Which only meant she had been upset with him for not remembering her— for not recognising her. 

After a particularly restless but clear night, when he had felt like smoke had diffused into his every breath, and when pacing along the roads of Rome had not worked, Acacius had found himself on the doors of the Temple of Vesta. He had made every little Vestal acolyte read aloud their letters from her. One of those girls had the eyes the same colour as his priestess. He had to leave because he couldn’t bear looking at her. He had dreamt of her giving him daughters that took after her. 

“You should join us for the festival in a few days,” Lucilla continued explaining her planning for the festival. He appreciated her kindness, truly; he could understand she was trying to be there for him. After all, they had grieved Maximus together. But she would never be able to grieve for his priestess with him— she didn’t know her. After Maximus, Lucilla had her son to live for, and Rome to live for. He had nothing. He was not going to that festival, he couldn’t stand to be in a room full of people who didn’t know her— who didn’t speak of her. He felt too raw and vulnerable to be around those who were celebrating and making merry.

They shouldn’t worry, he wanted to say as much, but the words felt futile because he knew they would worry anyway, so he didn’t say them. The sun would set soon, and Acacius would go to the domus on the far side of the city and cook the food. He left the feeding part to others who could listen to the gossip, and glean important information. Acacius found his thoughts would drift out of his control, he was unable to focus on extensive conversations.

Then he would climb the mountain to watch the sunrise, he would lay on his back and reminisce about all the things he should have said to her then— informing her of his plans foremost, so she would not have… taken the drastic decision she took. He had shed countless tears into the earth of this mountain, softening it so it could engulf him, swallow him whole. And each morning the ground did not accept him, he would watch the sunrise even though its light no longer felt warm, it scratched and chafed him like dry, arid sand.

He would spend his morning training soldiers. He taught them how to march and fight. Help them with the construction of buildings, fortify city walls, and maintain the roads. There had been blissfully no wars, and what skirmishes had arisen had been dealt with diplomatically— Rome now offered people more sovereignty over their land, but still collected their tax. In the absence of war, he did woodworking. Acacius carved several idols of Vesta in her human form; they had all looked like his priestess.  

He would go to the baths then, the ones she made free for the public, to ensure they were being operated in good condition. It was by no means something she entrusted to him, but the man she had left it to was ageing and could use the muscle. As all people in their older years, this man too was prone to nostalgia and reminiscing. He would recall the glory days of his youth as a soldier, and his stories would feature his beloved pupil— a young Vestal child he taught the art of fighting. His priestess.

Then it would be evening. There was something very morose about evenings. The silence of his home gnawed at him. The grief he had veiled in the air floods out in a deluge, and the waves of time slow. Acacius would wish nothing more than to reunite with his beloved in his dreams but sleep eluded him. He wished could drown himself in drink but found that he did not like his sight blurred because then he couldn’t envision her clearly. More often than not, he would sit staring into the blazing hearth and imagine her sitting beside him. 

He could not express the injustice of it all if he tried. She was close at all times, he took her with him everywhere— nestled in his very being. Acacius belonged to her, but he would never know if she was his or not. They existed like two opposite shores of a river that do not meet— so near yet so far away. The distance, the grief, was unbearable. 

It was not that he had not considered covering that distance. It would not be too difficult to swim across the river of the dead if she were waiting for him at the bank. But… he loved her. And that was reason enough to breathe. She had not just saved him at the Colosseum, she had breathed new life into him; and now he carried a part of her within him. He could not bear for that small flame to extinguish— deprive the world of that small part of her. For decades, he had only known that world which had been darker and crueller without her.

It was not that her work, and her accomplishments, required him as champion and supporter. What she had done in life will echo in eternity. And as she had hoped for, the people rallied for their communities; new faces took her place to continue the work she had begun. He knew others would take their place in the future.

Her name still rang on their lips, there were still signs of her around him. But he knew that one day she would be forgotten. The world would move on without her and it would leave him behind with her. But he wanted to live so he could remind them of her— her light, her kindness, and her love; because he would always remember her. Acacius would never be able to breathe in a world that had forgotten her.    

“Lucius likes her brother. He wants him to join him in the city… run for senate. But the man has been resistant.” Lucilla was still talking to him. He wasn’t always this bad at listening— Acacius had always been more of a listener than a conversationalist. He stroked the soft red fabric spread over his leg; he had later learned that his priestess had spent days embroidering his cloak personally. Acacius did not dare read into the significance of the act fearing it would drive him insane. 

“Acacius… I’m talking about her eldest brother. I heard you were friends once.” Her brother? 

Instantly he felt ashamed, nervous. He had prided himself on being a man of his word but he had not kept the promise he had made to his priestess’ brother— his friend. Her family had been the only ones to welcome him with open arms when he had first come to the city in search of work. 

He remembered her father, a respected general, who had taught him honour, hard work, and valour. Acacius had been incensed when they were accused by Commodus, and heartbroken when they had to leave in disgrace. He remembered her mother; Acacius had been too self-concerned as a young man to speak to her about her work and trade. But he remembered her rose petal jam, the taste of it, the scent of which her daughter wore on her body. 

His priestess would always hide behind his legs after breaking her mother’s precious artefacts, knowing she would not be punished in the presence of a guest. Acacius would unabashedly lie for her. But he had not been treated as a guest in their home. He remembered her mother’s eyes full of admonishment and mirth, “I know the demon that has crawled out of my womb, Marcus. You’re much too sweet of a boy to destroy or break anything.” How wrong she had been, all he had done his entire life was destroy things. And he had allowed his actions to destroy her daughter too. 

He thought of her brother, one he had called brother himself. They had fought battles together; he had never had to worry about being attacked from behind knowing his friend stood at his back. His friend had never taken to bloodshed the way Acacius had; he had the cunning of a politician tempered by his kind nurturing. He had promised his friend to watch over his little priestess, they had been so worried to leave her alone in the city without friends or family. And he had not kept his promise. She had died because of him. 

“You could visit her family at their countryside villa… convince her brother to come to the city…” Lucilla left after some time without an answer from him— as was their routine. She did not need to hear the answer anyway, he would always say no. It was funny, he would have never imagined denying her several years ago. But he had been freed of his oath. 

He could never face her brother. He wouldn’t know how. But the thought of seeing him had firmly grown roots in his mind, he could not stop thinking about it. Her brother had the same eyes as her, and he just wanted a glimpse of them full of life and vitality. That night, Acacius left without informing anybody, not that there had been anyone to inform.

Acacius paused, he was a soldier. His instincts never lead him astray. They helped him survive. He had already spent several days in this town which had been both blissful and distressing. Her presence was strong here— her scent was in the air; he could sometimes hear her laughter; he would see wisps of her hair in the crowd or turning the corner; he would hear whispers of her name. It had all felt like a dull knife sawing on his heart, reminding him of the loss and grief he carried. 

But Acacius looked around him, and carefully studied his surroundings. The food stall served rose petal jam along with cheese and bread. There was a woman eating her meal; the sleeves of her tunic were tied into a more flattering shape with red wool strings. Despite their wealth, women wore their hair in much simpler coiffures. Women tended to wear their palla with intricately woven designs incorporated while the fabric was being produced on the loom; this town sported the additional fashion of embroidering over the cloth.

He made his way over to an old man sitting under a tree, unsure and hesitant about phrasing his question. Anticipation curled in his belly. But he sat there for several long seconds before clearing his throat. 

“The family that owns the land here… I heard their daughter returned.”

“Aah”—the man grinned—“You must be one of the prospective suitors.” Hope unfurled in his chest, could it be?

“Prospective suitors?” Acacius asked.

“Yes, a retired Vestal virgin with a handsome pension from the state, who wouldn’t want to marry her.” 

“She was in Rome?”

“No, no… not Rome. We heard about the Vestal they buried there. Terrible business that, killing an innocent woman for politics. This one was south of Rome, the temple in Bovillae, I think.” Acacius felt an incredulous laughter overcome him. 

“You’re in luck, all the wealthy Patricians from neighbouring territories have come down to see her… But she hasn’t taken a liking to any of them. You are handsome enough to test your mettle against her. She’s no ugly duck that one but she is not young. Men prefer younger brides…” Acacius did not stay to hear more. 

The instincts of a predator had already overcome his rationale. He stalked down the street in search of his prey. It would be easier to just show up at her estate lying in wait for her. But he had heard her laughter just around a few corners. His gait was quick and sure, she would not escape him— not now, not ever. 

Acacius was in disbelief, a muscle twitched in his cheek, he was frozen at the sight of her. There she stood under the setting sun, bathing under its glowing light tasting the food out of a pot in the cart. He had walked past that cart just a few moments ago and had not realised it had shielded her from him. His feet carried him to her involuntarily, he heard that laughter again as she nodded about something, her gaze trained on the person speaking to her. He grasped her elbow and whirled her around to face him. 

It was her. She was alive. She was alive. She was alive.

His fingers grazed her cheek, oh so gently, fearing she was a being of air and mist conjured by his dreams and hallucinations. Her skin was warm under his touch; her eyes stared up at him speechless and bewildered but alive— bright with vitality. 

He didn’t know whether it was laughter or sobs that were escaping his mouth, but even as he enfolded her in his arms, they racked through his body. He held her tighter still as she jostled in his arms because of his own heaving breaths and jagged sounds. Acacius did not relinquish his hold on her, grasping her closer to him, feeling the shape of her shoulders and the strength of her spine with trembling hands. His legs too were trembling as sheer relief flushed through his body, she braced him around his chest— holding them both up so they didn’t sink to the floor. 

He would remember to be angry at her later, but his tears soaked her clothes now. She was whispering something into his ear that he could not hear. Multiple hands were trying to pull him off her; another time he would realise how inappropriate it was for him to even touch her let alone hold her against him. But the entire Roman army could not pull him away from her now. He had forged all his strength, tenacity and ferociousness through decades of war for the sole purpose of holding on to this woman. He will not let go now that he has her again. 

Her words finally pierced through the fog surrounding his ears, “Marcus… Acacius you are hurting me…” 

He loosened his hold, just enough so that he could look down to observe her. He still kept her pressed into him; Acacius studied the contours of her face; and watched her take deep, steady breaths. She was panting with effort, her ribs struggling to expand against his own. He gave her more space within his enclosed arms, but she swayed on her feet, her hands grasped his shoulders for support, clenching his tunic in her fist. His lips lingered over her brow and temple, firmly kissing her, uncaring of the crowd that had formed around them.

“Step aside… give way, step aside.” 

His priestess flung away from him at the new voice, turning around to face the intruder. 

“Brother…”

Acacius looked at the man as he dispersed the crowd and sent them back to their jobs. The years had been kind to his friend, he looked fit and healthy, his skin flushed bronze from work under the sun, his hands still strong and powerful.

“He thought I was someone else.” His priestess explained without having been questioned. The sardonic stare his brother levelled at the distance between them, Acacius knew he didn’t believe her. And Acacius would not corroborate her lies. 

He stepped away from her anyway, part in acquiescence with his pointed stare; but mostly so that when he chose to hit him for taking liberties with his sister, his priestess wouldn’t be accidentally hurt. But instead of the blow he had braced for, his friend engulfed him in a warm, welcoming embrace with several hearty pats on the back. 

“We just got our sister back, Marcus. Have you come to take her away from us so soon? You must know we will not easily hand her over to you.” Her brother spoke over his shoulder. Acacius struggled to make sense of his words. Regardless, if they did not want to give his priestess to him, he would make peace with living at their doorstep like a pet dog just to be close to her. There was no getting rid of him now. His friend released him with a firm grasp on his arms. 

“There will be no handing me over to anybody… I have considered renewing my vows with the Temple of Vesta.” His priestess primly interrupted, before leaving him staring behind her agape. 

“Seems like you’ve upset her, Marcus.” His friend was having fun at his expense. 

The dinner had been sadly oppressive. It wasn’t his host’s fault; they had all been enthusiastic in their welcome, and the conversation had flowed smoothly. Tears had stung his eyes, his nose had burned when he had met his mentor; the man was still strong for his age, jovial too. Acacius had been ungrateful for severing his connection with the man who had shaped him. He also wondered when he could start pleading and begging for their forgiveness for not having protected their daughter. But they had surprised him by tearfully thanking him. 

Things had all gone downhill from there. He was tongue-tied, ashamed and lost. His priestess had lied to her family and had credited him for rescuing her. She would not meet his gaze the entire time. He had wanted to burst out the truth, Acacius was neither familiar nor comfortable with lies. Every time he had tried, she had spoken up to guide the conversation elsewhere. He couldn’t eat, his palms felt clammy and his skin crawled with anxiety until he had worked himself up into a temper.

He had come to several infuriating realisations when he had later found his priestess reposed over a bench admiring the moon, “Were you ever going to tell me?” His voice thundered through the garden. 

She appeared unphased at his outburst, “General Acacius.” She had called him Marcus when he had found her.

“How many people know?” He choked on his words, he could not shake off the feeling of betrayal that coated his chest.

“Know what?” Her tone was mild as if they were discussing the weather. He scoffed.  

“Oh. Not many, but they all will eventually. Since I am still in trade.” 

“Why”—his voice broke—“Would you do this? I had promised to rescue you. I would’ve come for you.” Acacius took several deep breaths in the silence between them, shoving his sobs back down his throat. She was never going to tell him that she was alive.

“I was just tying up loose ends.” 

“Loose—” He laughed this time, loud and scornful. Loose ends? Did she not realise he was the loose end? His heart was a loose end?

“But I came for you.” His voice was small and vulnerable— it expressed the injustice he felt. But the placid, distant way she looked at him made him feel like had no right to object to how she had wounded him. 

“I’m sorry it was done that way.” There was not a hint of regret in her voice, just endless politeness that was driving him crazy— it made his jaw clench and teeth itch.

“Why tell your family I rescued you?” He demanded. 

“Because you made plans for it. I appreciate your attempt at rescuing me, it would have worked had I not made my own arrangements.” Acacius paced the short length of his garden, her eyes followed his form curiously but tentatively. 

“You do not need to worry about it,” she continued, “I saved your life at the Colosseum. And you made plans to save mine. Consider your debt to me repaid.”

He whirled around to face her, “Is that what you think this is? Agony over a life debt?”

“Well, of course.” She genuinely looked confused.   

“So why do it? If you knew I would worry over a life debt, why make me believe you were dead? Why go with your arrangements? Why did you not wait for me? Why not trust me?” His words were rushed and frenzied. There was an angry fervour to them which made her flinch back and stare at him like he was an animal that would pounce on her. 

Acacius abruptly put distance between them, he had enjoyed that fear in the eyes of his enemy, but he could not bear for her to look at him thus. He tried to rein in his temper, she was inexperienced in the ways of love, and she probably didn’t even know what he felt for her. His priestess had spent so many years alone, protecting herself and others with nobody to depend on. It must have been difficult for her to trust someone else to come to her rescue.

“No, you could not have saved me.” Her words were heavy with meaning. He believed the moonlight was playing tricks on him, her eyes could not look so cold, dark and lifeless. Acacius felt an urgency course through his veins, and sweat broke out against his back. She seemed so far away like she could slip from between his fingers again. Just as he moved to grasp her arm, her eyes met him in a hard, contemptuous stare; the polite smile on her lips was disingenuous and false.   

“You would have forgotten about me. The moment I disappeared from your sight, you would have forgotten about me. That is how it has always been between us… it is how it will always be.” She had delivered the words with such certainty that they lingered in the air, suffocating him, long after she had bid him goodnight in that same soft, placating tone. 

“Acacius?”

Her father stood behind a column, and Acacius spun to face him— flustered, embarrassed and entirely overwrought. He did not have any more conversation or niceties left in him. When had the man snuck up on him? How long had he been standing there?

“Join me for a drink, Acacius.” He had no choice but to follow.

He poured him a drink of wine, as both men sat facing the hearth. A large painting hung over the fireplace, it was his priestess’ mother. She had her mother’s eyes and colouring.

“The thing about brilliant women, Acacius, is that their mere memory could sustain you for a lifetime. Do you not agree?” And Acacius sighed with relief— because he knew. Her father knew that he had not saved her. 

“I agree,” He whispered. 

The older man gave him a kind smile, “How long do you plan to stay with us?” 

He knew the question demanded a different answer. This was no host making living arrangements, this was a father asking Acacius what his intentions were for his daughter. There was much he could tell him, that he loved her, cared for her— every day without her was a struggle for survival that exhausted him like he had fought an entire battle when he had not even stood from his seat. But the words stuck to the roof of his mouth along with his tongue. She deserved to hear these words from him before anyone else. 

“I am sorry… for not protecting her—”

“It’s not what I asked. I cannot blame you for not protecting her when I have failed to, as well. I know how it hurts to let her down, Marcus. And I am her father.” There was a charged silence between them before the older man sniffed into his drink. 

“She used to send us these letters through her tutors. Desperately begging us to take her home, she would never say what was wrong… nobody could tell what was wrong. Her mother and I worried, but we always told her to be strong… You couldn’t imagine the horror we felt when we found out she had poisoned the Pontifex Maximus, what had pushed a child to such extents… she never sent us letters again, unless we wrote to her first. Never asked for help. I was surprised she came home honestly, grateful, but surprised.” 

Acacius felt a stone lodge in his throat; worry and fear warred within him. She had needed a protector, he was supposed to have been there… He calmed his twitching fingers by pressing them to his thigh, hoping to ease the uneasiness in him. He remembered the previous Pontifex Maximus, the man had barred him from seeing his priestess because she had been too busy playing by the sacred springs. He bit the inside of his cheek in realisation that he had been lied to, he had gone home content to know she had made new friends, and was enjoying herself in the temple. He had believed that monster. 

“She dug under the walls, you know?” The man looked smug and proud.

“She paid her men to dig from outside the city walls, tunnel under it to reach the crypt. Thank you for leaving her those extra supplies, she had needed them”—her father raised his glass at him in salute and gratitude—“she had to break the mud bricks lining the inside of the crypt to access the tunnel.” 

“I had to send one of my men to fill the tunnel again to fortify the city’s defences.” He informed Acacius with a sigh.

“I had promised to visit her often and watch over her… I am sorry for not keeping that promise.” Shame coloured his voice, it came out so low that he was afraid the older man would not have heard him. 

“We do not blame you, Marcus. The politics at the time had been… murderous. As a general, I understand. As a father, I will say that my daughter deserves to hear that apology. She always looked at you with hero-worship in her eyes, even when you were nothing more than a young inexperienced boy who didn’t deserve to be called a soldier.” 

Acacius smiled at the memory of her large, twinkly-eyed smile, she had always depended on him— trusted him. It would have hurt her more for him to not have been there for her when she needed him. 

“She will forgive you, I know. Maybe she already has. My daughter wrote the most colourful letters describing your ascent in the military. Nobody was prouder than her. So were we, I hope you know. My wife and I relished every news we heard of you— well— except for your marriage that is.” 

Marcus felt his eyebrows rise in surprise as he shared a laugh with his mentor. He had not realised they would follow his career and life so closely. 

“Her mother was so angry when you had married. She almost beat me up while we were sparring. Blamed me for stubbornly ruining things… If she had her way, she would have foisted our daughter on you as soon as she had turned seven, she would say to me”—His voice took on a higher pitch and an accented lilt to mimic his late wife—“you don’t understand, old man. I have travelled the world. I know a good man when I see one. This one is a diamond in the rough, you will never find someone better for our daughter.” 

Marcus felt humbled, a warm glow spread across his chest. He had been nothing then, he had nothing with which they could trust him with their daughter. But their confidence in him was sobering. 

“You do not have to tell me how you feel about my daughter, Marcus. The truth pours from your eyes. You have never been one for schemes and lies.”

You carefully peel the outer petals of the bloom before arranging it again in the vase; it instantly looks fuller against its companions. You heard the door shut behind you, it was probably someone who collected your empty breakfast tray. Someone cleared their throat, someone with a voice so deep it sent a girlish thrill through you. But you were far too embarrassed to face him this morning. It was best to get this over with as fast as possible. 

Marcus. He looked at home in his soft tunic and wool toga, and briefly, you hated that he still looked so comfortable when he had you so unsettled since yesterday. You gave him what you hoped was a gentle smile and not the grimace you were desperately trying to contain. 

“I’m sorry.”

“I’m sorry.”

You both spoke at once. You couldn’t help but give an answering smile to his amused one. 

“I’m sorry about last night,” you decided to lead, “it was wrong of me to question your honour. I know you would have come to rescue me. But I am used to depending on myself.” 

“And I am sorry that I never visited you at the Temple. I should have been there to lend my protection when you had required it. I know you are more than capable of protecting yourself, but you should not have had to.” He sounded so earnest. 

“It is not your fault, Marcus. You were still a child yourself, and away at war for most of the time. Commodus was also purging those loyal to his father at the time. And with you fighting under Maximus then. Helping this family’s daughter would have just unnecessarily made you an eyesore.”  

He was silent for a while as if considering his next words, he cleared his throat again, “Last night… I spoke to your father. And I expressed my interest in you— marrying you.” 

You blinked in shock, it would have been more believable if he had told you the clouds were green today, and the heavens brown. An incredulous laugh builds in your chest as you realise he is entirely serious. “No.” It was all you said, all you could manage. And it had taken all your strength to say it, you had fought every dream and every instinct to deny him. 

“Why not?” He asked so gently. 

The truth was that you loved him, more than he could ever love you. And if you were to marry him, you would waste no effort in making him love you. But if he didn’t love you then you would grow to resent your marriage because you would be trapped in an endless cycle of begging for his attention and affection then feeling lonely and bereft at the lack of it. Eventually, you would wither away from the loneliness in a marriage to a man who loved another.

You gave him an excuse that was part truth and part lie, “Because we do not love each other, Acacius.” I love you, so much. You do not love me.

“But I love you.” 

For a brief horrible moment, you think the words had slipped past your lips— that your mind had finally tired of keeping it a secret and shoved it out of your mouth. But as you looked at him, standing there with his brows furrowed over hesitant, pleading eyes, you realised he had said it. Acacius said he loves you… He loves you? 

“Of course, I know. You have always loved me… but brotherly affection cannot sustain a marriage.” He didn’t need to go so far as to marry you to compensate for whatever way he imagined he had failed you and your family. Because that could be the only reason for marrying you. Anger curled in your belly, blistering and ravenous, did he truly believe you would settle for his marriage of duty and honour… after you had loved him for so long?

He was slowly stalking towards you, as if you were some spooked little animal he did not wish to alarm. He weaved around the table and the sofa, and you took a step back with every forward step of his until your back touched the wall behind you. 

“You love Lady Lucilla.” You tightly remind him, he had said as much in the arena that day as well. 

“Ah, yes, but brotherly affection cannot sustain a marriage.” He had a teasing glint in his eye that only infuriated you further. He stepped even closer, his hand clasped the side of your waist; you squirmed away from his touch— it was overwhelming. Did he enjoy being cruel to you?

You had never felt so angry at someone and noticed how beautiful they were at the same time. He was infuriatingly perfect— even with all his little imperfections; you adored the enraging way his left eyelid drooped ever so slightly more over his eye than the other, the creases across his forehead, and the crevices formed around his eyes. 

“Do you think I am stupid?” You hissed at him as you fiercely shoved against him. But the bull of a man he was, Acacius didn’t budge at all. Damn him.

His fingers gripped into the softness of your belly, and he pulled you against him until your chest touched his. His other hand came up to roughly tangle with the braids and coils in your hair. He firmly pulled your head back, exposing your neck to him. It made you feel far too vulnerable, he could see the wild beating of your pulse on the side of your throat. He could probably feel the tiny shivers of anticipation racing across your spine.   

“No… I do not think you are stupid.” He whispered, his breath teasing across your lips.

“You”—you were mincing the words in your mouth before they came out—“you… arrogant, stupid, self-centred, BASTARD!” You had shoved against him again, mixing physical strikes with the verbal ones. You clenched your fists and rained blows over his chest and arms. He absorbed the force of your hits as if he couldn’t even feel them. It only made you struggle harder in his hold. 

“No doubt, I am all those things… but tell me why you think so, anaticula.” He sighed his endearment against your throat, his lips brushed your jaw. You flung your head to the side, hitting his nose with your jaw. You paused, panting with effort, and watched him twitch his nose and flare his nostrils to check the damage of your hit. 

“Tell me.” He demanded once he believed his nose was alright. 

Your face contorted into a scowl of rage, lips trembling with the pain you held inside. His hand receded from your hair to cup your neck. Acacius brought his thumb to gently massage the side of your jaw you had hit him with, his gaze on you intent and focused. It seemed he was reading your every fleeting thought and wavering expression. Helpless, resentful tears streamed down your face, they scalded your cheeks. 

You could not possibly bear his gentleness right now; you had used all your strength and courage to leave him behind in Rome, and then again just now to seemingly deny him your hand in marriage. You were weak, your soul fragile— you could not barricade him out of your heart for too long. You summoned the last of your strength. Your hands found purchase on his shoulders and you leveraged their steadiness to fling yourself up and savagely bite his ear. 

He reared back, pulling his ear out of your mouth before you could painfully bite down. He laughed, wild and free, as he squeezed the back of your neck to shove your face in his chest. He pulled the both of you off the wall, while you fought him with flailing arms and legs. Your foot caught his shin with a dull thud, you heard him grunt in pain. Acacius threw you on the seat of the sofa, knocking the wind out of you. 

You gasped for breath while he stood over you, but you were not silent for long. You lunged for him again, screaming long and loud, uncaring of who heard you in your home. In a swift, smooth movement, he had you pinned down under him, his legs pressed down on yours preventing them from moving, your wrists were grasped in each of his hands, and Acacius pushed down his weight on you effectively cutting off both your screams and your breath.

Somebody furiously pounded on the door of your office, “General Acacius! My Lady!” 

Acacius shouted at them to go away while he finally shifted some of his weight to his elbows. You tilted your chin up to take large, gulping breaths of air. 

“If anyone opens that door, they will face my blade, do you hear?” His threat was ironclad; his voice— deep and hoarse. This must be what he sounds like in battle. The thought sent a pleasurable little current straight between your legs. You were embarrassed to feel your nipples tighten under your tunic. Please, please don’t notice them. 

He did not take his eyes off your face, and the footsteps finally receded from the door. A tiny voice in the back of your mind panicked that the servant would return with your brother or, Dear Gods, your father; you would be caught with Acacius on top of you. You continued your struggle against him much more silently but with newfound vigour, arching and turning into him to throw his weight off you and onto the floor next to the sofa. 

Acacius shocked you into stillness by licking a wet, long stripe across your cheek and tasting your tears. He looked at you with wild, overbright eyes. His grip on your wrists was beginning to ache. 

“Stop struggling, you will hurt yourself, dulcissima.” Even though he spoke slowly, his voice sounded otherworldly, like he was possessed by some crazed, bloodthirsty spirit. 

His grin was savage and predatory. “Tell me.” He commanded again. 

You laughed hysterically, no doubt surprising him, bending your wrists in his grip to scratch your nails against his hand.

“I saw you,” you viciously informed him, “I saw you take that stupid oath to protect her and her child. I saw you marry her.”

Your chest heaved, touching his with every breath, the contact far too sensuous on your oversensitive skin. You had no more tears left, the last of them were drying on your cheeks. But the rage, the frustration, the pain still churned in you— they overwhelmed you, burned you alive. 

“I have watched you for years!” You sobbed, “And you never saw me…”

It was as if the dam had broken with this one little truth; everything you had hidden and suppressed gushed forth with vengeance. 

“I see you now.” He said. Damn you. 

“You didn’t even know my name.” You shouted once more.

Acacius bit the uppermost swell of your breast, leaving indents of his teeth. A broken, keening sound left you and you arched into his mouth. When had he untied your tunic?

“I know your name now.” He swiped his tongue over the teeth marks he left.

“You…”—you swallowed another moan—“you didn’t even remember me. You forgot I existed.” All coherent thoughts had left your mind, you continued to mindlessly thrash against him, throwing your bitterness and aggravation at his body.

“I remember you now.”

Acacius leaned away and slid down your body, you nearly wept at the loss of him. His hands were rough and warm against your thighs; he had lifted both your tunic and stola until they bunched around your hips. He guided your foot over the back of the sofa where it limply hung in shock. He grasped the other foot under your knees and spread you open to his eyes. There was a mortifyingly wet sound at the movement; you could feel a slick moisture coating the inside of your thighs.

You struggled to cover yourself again, trying to pull your clothes down over the most intimate part of you. Whoever this man was, he wasn’t Acacius— Acacius would never do this. He would never take your virginity and deprive you of a choice in your marriage. Desperation burned in your throat. And you resorted to one final act of protest. Your hand reached up to soundly smack against his face. 

There was a stinging current in your palm from the impact. A redness bloomed on his cheek, along with an imprint of your hand. You began to regret your choice of action at the sight of his marred face. For several long moments, Acacius was frozen with his head still whipped away from your strike. You anxiously waited for a reaction, forgetting to even right your clothes. 

He slowly turned around to face you again, and gently clasped the hand that had hit him. He frowned at the redness of your palm before tenderly pressing his lips to the warm centre of it while giving you a reprimanding look through his lashes. He massaged and caressed your palms before interlocking your fingers with his.

Just as you had thought the storm had passed, Acacius swooped down in a swift and urgent motion. His jaw stretched, and the hot cavern of his mouth entirely covered your dripping sex. His tongue started flat against the base of you, between the cheeks of your arse and dangerously close to another hole farther down. It licked a strong swipe between the folds, scratching past the pert bud of nerves on the way to the very apex of her where short hairs curled. You arched into his mouth, quite incapable of sound as your belly contracted with the shock. Your eyes rolled back in your head and fell close until all you could do was feel. 

There was a difference between innocence and ignorance; you had spent enough time with whores on the street to know what sexual congress between two people looked like. But they had failed to inform you of this…

He was tasting you, slow and intimate, as if he had all the time in the world. Each stroke elicited a different sound from you, he perused your reactions to him to draw forth more of your pleasure. His tongue circled the throbbing bundle of nerves sitting at the top of your slit before enclosing his mouth on it and he sucked. You rocked your pelvis into his face to ease the tension building at its spine.

Acacius dragged and pulled on that bit of flesh in his mouth, rolling it between his lips and tongue. You were quivering under him, his hands found your hips and pressed them back down into the seat under you. You felt his teeth graze over that sensitive bud as he nibbled on it. The tension snapped, and an intense white heat spread from your centre until you saw stars behind your eyes. You came, shuddering with the force of pleasure; every nerve felt alive. The loud wails and moans escaping your mouth broke on the need for you to gasp at the intensity. You had forgotten how to breathe.

He was still licking into your folds with devastating accuracy, coaxing more tremors from your body as he cleaned up your release with his tongue. Acacius pressed his tongue deeper into you, barging inside where your flesh was still contracting and releasing. You clenched over the sudden intrusion and… Dear Gods, Acacius was trembling between your legs. A low groan rose from deep within his chest and disappeared into the fluttering walls of your cunt. It was an intoxicating thrill, to know you could provoke such a response in the usually steadfast and composed man like him. 

You waited, limp in the pool of pleasure and warm relief, for Acacius to resurface between your legs. There was a thin, silvery string that still connected his shiny, wet lips to your opening. He licked his lips regretfully, no doubt tasting you, his eyes voraciously trained on your pussy. His head bent down again, and you thought he might repeat his actions. Any resistance you might have had was already melted away from your body. 

But his eyes flickered up to the door, hearing something you could not hear over the rush of blood and ringing in your ears. His shoulders slumped in defeat against your legs. And he pressed a reverent kiss against that sensitive and raw piece of flesh that made you twitch under him again. He looked down at your wanton form, thighs spread wide open for him in invitation, gaze half-lidded and enticingly parted lips. 

There was a rightness that enveloped you as Acacius consolingly kissed inside your knee as he pulled your leg from the back of the sofa. There was… a new awareness, a new yearning as he helped you sit up and pulled your clothes back down your legs. You watched him, fascinated, as he fruitlessly fussed over your hair to fix your coiffure before settling to tuck the loose strands of hair behind your ear. 

He kneeled by your feet. His large hands firmly stroking your thighs over your clothes, it sent another pleasurable thrill down your spine. Acacius reached for his toga that he had abandoned on the floor in your struggle, wrapping the cloth around him and draping it to cover the insistent bulge pushing forth below his torse— you caught a wet patch staining his tunic before you averted your eyes. Your mind configured lewd images of what the whores had taught you, but it was Acacius… Acacius inside you, inside your mouth. His hands came to rest on your knees as he sighed your name. 

“I cannot change the past dulcissima.” The man was obscene. His tongue flicked over the side of his lips to taste you as he called you dulcissima— as if you truly did taste sweet.

“But I can promise you now that I will never have another woman except you in my lifetime— even if you refuse a marriage to me. You are everything I want. You are all I see now.” His eyes were earnest and sincere. 

You looked down at where his hands were clutching onto your knees, his grip betrayed the anxiety and nervousness he felt in the moment. But you were distracted. His hands had new scars. They sprawled over his hands, some of them flat and lighter in colour, others puckered and slightly red. Your nails had scratched into the thin skin of his scars and drawn blood; you gently and apologetically grazed over his wounds before coaxing them around to see his palm. The skin of his palms was coarse, new callouses had formed over abrasions. 

“What happened to your hands?” Your question was whispered into the skin of his palm as you imitated the kiss he had given your palm just earlier. 

“Nothing.” His voice was deeper, lower in octave, you could sense the emotions he was trying to bury. The scars weren’t nothing if he wasn’t able to tell you how he got them. These weren’t the callouses one got from holding a sword or weapon. One of his fingers sat at an odd angle like it had been broken and then fixed. 

A suspicion arose in your mind, “What did you mean last night when you said that you had come for me?” 

He did not answer you, he did not need to. Acacius was a man of his word, nobody could have stopped him from digging you out. 

“But I made a show of drinking poison. They must have told you.” He harshly gulped, his jaw twitching before he gave you a soft smile. His hands climbed from your thighs to hold your waist while he leaned up on his knees to give you a chaste kiss on the lips. It was nothing more than a press of two warm lips but it made a current run through your veins. You were going to marry this stupid honourable man who had fought over your grave to pull you out. 

“I love you.” You finally told him. A wave of joy and euphoria overwhelmed you. 

“I love you, too.” You giggled at his admission, still in disbelief. 

You leaned down towards his face, Acacius turned his head to catch your lips but you jerked your head back from his. You both watched each other, and you admired his features again as he acquiesced to your silent demand to turn his face forward again; he watched your movements out of the corner of his eye. 

You lined your cheek to Acacius’ jaw and in a fluid, cat-like movement rubbed yourself against him until the bristles of his beard scratched all the way down your neck and to your shoulder. You gasped at the delicious scraping sensation on your skin that sent a jolt of pressure to your nipples, through your belly and between your thighs. He huffed a small, amused laugh at your actions. 

“Never known what beards felt like… thought they’d be softer— like fur.” You explained, eyes still coloured with lust.

“Should I shave mine off?” He teased.  

There was a spot just to the side of your folds, inside your right thigh, that was still vaguely itchy and burning, his beard had rubbed that patch of skin raw. You looked down at him, dark and forbidding. 

“I will never marry you if you shave it off.” You threatened. 

The door of the office flung open; you and Acacius scampered away from each other. Your father and brother stood by the entrance looking livid as their eyes studied the both of you. Oh dear. You stood to say something in Acacius’ defence, but your brother turned to you with an accusing glare. 

“Why would you do this to him? You cannot act like a savage animal in this civilised home!” You gasped, affronted and shocked, looking to your father to rein in his son. 

“Really, anaticula, look at the state of him. What did you do to him? How will we ever find you a husband?” What did you do to him? You should be asking what HE did to ME! 

You looked at Acacius. There was a clear imprint of your hand on the side of his face. You noticed with a wince that blood had dried near his ear, had you truly bit him that hard? His hands were also bloodied from your scratches. Very well, he looked like he had been mauled. It wasn’t fair at all, you were incensed at being unable to defend yourself. Even more so when you realised his shoulders were shaking from laughter.

“About the husband… I have just asked your daughter if she would marry me.” All three men turned to look at you. And you only had your eyes on one of them. Acacius looked… happy. His eyes were warm, twinkling with delight and contentment. He looked like a man in love. He was in love with you. 

“Well… you haven’t exactly asked.” You still replied petulantly. Both your father and your brother whipped around to look at Acacius whose gaze on you was affectionate and devout. The smile gracing his lips made him look boyishly young. 

“Anaticula, I find myself hopelessly and irrevocably in love with you. I know I have made you wait for far too long”—you both swallowed the emotions clogging your throat at the moment—“but will you please reach into your endless reserves of mercy and deign me worthy of marriage to you?” 

You laughed through your tears, the words were so unlike Acacius that you could see him physically searching for them in his mind. 

“Very well, but only because you begged so prettily.” You knew you would pay for your words later when lustful heat flashed past his eyes. But for now, you were drawn into each other’s arms again— as it was always meant to be.    

INDEX A/N: I hope you guys had fun reading that last smut hehe. I enjoyed writing it, it's inspired by this romance novel I read during COVID (can't remember the name or the author) and I remember the heroine fighting the hero because the hero was a manwhore and she was like 'You never noticed me!' and he was all like 'I see you now.'

[mxtx-ships]

MXTX fanfictions I recommend!

🐇WangXian🐇

Afternoon Delight by nuttinonice

It's hard for Wei Wuxian to catch his husband in a bad mood, but when he does, it's his mission to cheer him up again.

As Spring Will Surely Come by silver_sun

Now in their forth year of marriage Lan Wangji and Wei Wuxian are settled into their life together in the Cloud Recesses, looking forward to a quiet, cozy winter together in the Jingshi. A night hunt at a haunted water mill, old injuries and family illness make it a very difficult winter instead.

This Night Will Pass by Taer01

A night terror that felt all too real, picking at the scab wounds of Lan Wangji's heart in a horrifying way.

Wei Wuxian reassures his husband he is still there.

Does anyone even read work titles? idk what to call this by Nighttdust

"Why did I marry you?" he asks and Wei Wuxian laughs awkwardly and touches his neck and his heart beats fast, fast, fast and his throat dries up and-

"Lan Zhan, what do you mean?"

"Why did I marry you?" Lan Zhan repeats and he sounds so honest, so confused and it breaks Wei Wuxians heart. Again and again and again. Breaks and shatters and comes together again and shatters and again, again, again.

or. After 6 years of marriage Lan Wangji falls out of love with Wei Wuxian

my bones into your bones by butterflylungs

He would pour every bit of his own energy into Lan Zhan’s body if it meant saving him, but that’s the thing: he doesn’t know if it will save him. Still, Wei Wuxian will drain himself dry for the chance, even if it would be very inconvenient if he died before making sure Lan Zhan will be okay.

What was supposed to be a regular night hunt leaves Lan Wangji mysteriously ill and Wei Wuxian scrambling to save his life.

💚BingQiu💚

Wife Plots: SQH Approved, SQQ Beloathed by airplanelanding (TheCourtSorcerer)

a sort of bonding experience by airplanelanding (TheCourtSorcerer)

“You’re wrong about many things, I need more than that,” he said flippantly.

Shang Qinghua took on a vaguely offended expression and his mouth opened, as if to retort, before he slowly shut it again after a moment of thought. Shen Qingqiu smirked behind his book.

"Ignoring that,” Shang Qinghua finally opted to say, clearing his throat.

Or

Luo Binghe gets himself and his husband in a bit of a predicament when Shen Qingqiu wakes to find him a cat one morning. Luckily, Shang Qinghua is always available for Shen Qingqiu to force help out of when something goes wrong.

(aka Shen Qingqiu and Shang Qinghua team up to make Luo Binghe not a cat again.)

sixty nine SEXY seductive ways to seduce your husband with your ankles (and more)!! by dearly_anonymous

Let Binghe go alone, defenseless, into the claws of the enemy? What if something happened and Luo Binghe fell into the demoness' ample cleavage? What if she, perish the thought, k-kissed Shen Qingqiu's husband?!!

Or, a diplomacy visit gone wrong. Also known as, Shizun Wears a Cheongsam for Airplane Bro Shitty Writing Reasons, the Fanfic.

eyes on me by orphan_account

Shen Qingqiu loves to travel with his sticky husband. The world of Proud Immortals Demon Way was full of wonders and monsters, and unfortunately, the rest of the Original Luo Binghe's many wives.

Luo Binghe pays these women no mind, especially with Shen Qingqiu by his side, but with one, his eyes begin to linger, and Shen Qingqiu takes matters into his own hands.

Shen Qingqiu will seduce his husband, and teach him a lesson.

Luo Binghe, eyes on me!!

5 Ways to make your Shizun pay attention to you! (Do not try at home, it doesn't work) by Shireyaki

Asking Shang Qinghua for dating advice was probably the worst thing Luo Binghe could have done.

Too bad he didn't know it yet.

.

...

.....or did it help after all?

(Shizun would say no.)

Hush darling, it's you that I love. by Ramune7655

SQQ's body gets de-aged on a monster hunt, to his distress. To save face, he leaves town with Binghe for a while, and of course, where there is not a sharp, elegant, and imposing adult SQQ beside Binghe, he will inevitably be swarmed with women.... Not a problem. Binghe is loyal, and he has no interest in others anyway. SQQ doesn't mind. That's right; he doesn't care at all....

(When Binghe's jealousy and insecurity accidentally caused SQQ's jealousy)

In Sickness and in Health by TheCaptinofSirius

In which Shen Yuan gets sick. He begins to worry that The System has somehow dragged his illness into this world. Binghe helps put his mind at ease.

End Racism in the OTW -- The Golden Furred Sword Trapper by pallas_rose

Post canon, Luo Binghe plans the perfect date: delicious food, beautiful scenery, and a rare Abyssal monster.

Little did he know that The System was also planning a celebration.

Can Shen Qingqiu avert disaster?

a separate homeward way by Miss_TeaDDK

"Luo Binghe has a dream that takes him to a black, shallow lake. Just as he starts to think he's alone, different versions of his husband start rising from the water and staring at him one by one, each body showing a different cause of death. As he hears these bodies calling for him, he starts having more and more trouble trying to return to the waking world."

When Shen Qingqiu is caught offhandedly expressing a longing for his unknown past, Luo Binghe fears that perhaps his Husband still does not consider him part of the home and future he himself has always dreamt of.

Husband to the Rescue by SheiraScar

Shen Qingqiu was assigned to an emergency mission to Haian city, a city with no cultivator and a huge trauma of demons. However, his-demon-lord-husband insisted on coming along. Ever so weak to his tears, Shen Qingqiu finally agreed. When things took unexpected turn and Luo Binghe was in danger, would Shen Qingqiu come to rescue him?

Lessons in possession by some_hag

But in the night time...

Oh, in the night time his face changes completely. His warmth turns into smoldering hot flames and sweet words are dripping with sin, he’s beautiful and blasphemous in a way that makes Shen Qingqiu’s face burn. (Shen Qingqiu tries not to think about it too often, but it’s just so much, too much, one does not simply push away vivid whole-body memories like that.)

A Vision Dressed In Red by straightforwardly

In which Luo Binghe is really, really hot for how Shen Qingqiu looks in red.

a silly question by azunshi

“Husband, do you love me?”

Sometimes, Luo Binghe needs a little reassurance that his husband loves him so.

Self-Care is Getting Bent over the Desk by your Demon Husband by TARDIStime

Being Qing Jing Peak Lord is a lot of work. However will Shen Qingqiu cope?

Binghe has an idea (or several).

Breaking The System by justkillthetitan

Shen Yuan is kicked back to his original world.

Luo Binghe wants to find his beloved Shizun.

lavender honey by forestsongs

"Binghe was so good to him, he thought. As caring and attentive as always, putting up with Shen Qingqiu’s fussy moods. Sometimes, Shen Qingqiu felt almost bad. Most of the time, it was Binghe touching him first, Binghe using his honeyed words to coax him into bed, Binghe taking place between his opened legs. What did he even get out of it?

It was unfair!"

or; Shen Qingqiu tries to be a good husband.

I can't say no when you look at me like this by Speechless_since_1998

“Shizun, no,” Binghe sighed wearily, while Shen Qingqiu held a demonic beast large enough to crush a child's head with its paw.

“But look at it, Binghe. It's a puppy!” he told him, showing him that horror in black fur and red eyes, which wagged its tail happily.

It must be said that, if he too were an animal, he would be more than happy to be in Shizun's arms. But that wasn't the point.

The demon said, “That is a hell tiger. It's not a puppy."

(In which Shen Qingqiu has a little too much fascination with monsters and the like and Luo Binghe can't resist her husband's puppy eyes.)

Can't Sleep Without Your Warmth Next To Me by HiyoriTomioka

For a while now, Shen Qingqiu had been wondering whether Luo Binghe would have fallen in love with him if he still looked like Shen Yuan, like his original body.

Familiar Stranger by GooseRot

After accidentally killing one of the most powerful criminals in the country in a tragic, ice cream related mishap, Shen Yuan is spirited away by witness protection to a foreign country.

There he meets a sweet stranger who, as the years pass, grows more and more familiar.

-

Or: Shen Yuan’s would-be assassin becomes his (extremely) overprotective boyfriend.

A Strong Need by TheCaptinofSirius

Shen Yuan wakes up horny, and Binghe is aroused and confused. So are all of the other people in the throne room.

Red Robes by TheCaptinofSirius

Shen Qingqiu braces himself for his wedding night. The next morning he is treated to warm cuddles with his new husband.

The Termination of Bliss by TheCaptinofSirius

"One word could bring disgrace and the termination of a bliss.”

― Ali Ibn Abi Talib A.S

Shen Yuan snaps at Luo Binghe, and finds himself doing the chasing for once.

Still Beautiful to Me by TheCaptinofSirius

Shen Yuan was no stranger to body issues. After having his son, they return with a vengeance. Luckily Luo Binghe is there to help put his mind at ease.

Time Well Spent by TheCaptinofSirius (Added In Later)

Shen Yuan is the one hit by a fuck or die plot. He might as well get it over with.

what's your love language? by the_nerd_youre_looking_for (Added In Later)

5 times Shen Qingqiu shows his affection and 1 time he actually uses his damn words

🦋HuaLian🦋

i will wait for you by toaster_mommy

It was just a normal morning.

The night before went the same as usual, Hua Cheng and Xie Lian holding each other as they drifted to sleep. Nothing out of the ordinary.

They braided each other's hair before going to sleep, hopefully to eliminate wasted time in the morning spent brushing each other's hair.

Nothing new, nothing different. Just a normal day. That’s why Hua Cheng spent the majority of his morning watching his husband sleep.

He watched his beloved’s chest rise and fall. He caressed Xie Lian’s pretty face as he slept, thankful his husband was a heavy sleeper when they laid next to one another.

He was so entranced by his husband's beauty he didn’t even notice the absence of a certain piece of cloth over his non-existent eye.

Or

Hua Cheng isn’t as sure of himself as he looks, and truly is just a coward that hides behind an eyepatch.

But his Gege is there to prove him wrong.

Why Worry When You Love Me? by Edward_The_Vampire

Xie Lian thinks about how lang waited so long for him and his devotion starts to feel unworthy. A new god ascends and is upset he is no longer pure and “princely” which makes him feel useless and unworthy of ruling the heavens as well. He forgets the day and ends up having a mental breakdown where Hua Cheng comforts him.

safe by iJoke

xie lian has a nightmare about his first banishment and hua cheng is there to help him through it

Next time, bring a napkin by beesonvenus

Pei Ming has a sudden urge to drink, and he goes to Ghost City to sate it. Something he will regret later on.

The Sun Behind My Eyes (And The Mouth On Mine) by starry_stan

Xie Lian gets kidnapped. When he thinks it can't get any worse, he's put in a situation that sends his mind straight back to being buried alive for 100 years. Luckily, he has a husband that would burn the world to save him, and save him he does.

The Exploits of a Prince, and His Forbidden Love Affair by debwriting

Prince Xie Lian and Royal Guard Hua Cheng have known each other since they were young. Though the two were raised in entirely different worlds, their connection deepens as they grow older. Until eventually, a simple crush transforms into an all-consuming love affair.

Watch the two lovers as they navigate their forbidden romance, and a war that threatens to sever them apart.

Unfold My Desire by nuttinonice

When a new god ascends, he's shocked to find that the pure and virginal Dianxia he once worshipped is now the very much sexually active husband of a demonic ghost king. Xie Lian deals with the fall out of being shamed for the sexual confidence he's worked so hard to build.

Alternatively, Xie Lian struggles to kickstart his slut era.

transfer my tragedy by nobirdstofly

Hua Cheng has had centuries to worship him, to show his devotion, but to see it reflected in Xie Lian’s eyes is staggering. Like this, Xie Lian is a barely leashed guard dog. A beast that smiles up at Hua Cheng with all the love in the three realms and blood in his teeth.

Xie Lian will do anything to protect Hua Cheng, and Hua Cheng can't help but be into that.

like sailors swimming in the sound of it, dashed to pieces by namelessflower

"Don't ever leave me again," Xie Lian whispers against Hua Cheng's lips, fists clenched in Hua Cheng's robe, voice quivering.

“I will never leave you,” Hua Cheng answers fiercely, with the ardent devotion of a lover, the unyielding conviction of a believer. “I will never, ever leave your side again, Dianxia, I swear it. Believe me.”

After Xie Lian has a nightmare about losing Hua Cheng for good, Hua Cheng holds him until he is able to fall asleep again.

Can’t Be Alone by Gigglemite

Hua Cheng has a bad morning. Xie Lian is more than willing to spend all day in bed cuddling his husband until he feels like he can get up.

nobody else but me by nikkiRA (Added in Later)

Often, if people were to stare, it would be at Hua Cheng (Xie Lian couldn't blame anyone for it—he understood). But today, perhaps amplified by the high quality clothes he was wearing, Xie Lian's beauty was shining through for everyone to see. And everyone did see; whether Xie Lian had noticed or not, people were staring.

Hua Cheng had certainly noticed.

come back to me by miska_kuura. (Added in Later)

When Hua Cheng catches a cold, Xie Lian is naturally worried and determined to take care of his husband. This time, however, it turns out some fever dreams can end up being a nightmare for both of them.

i feel you reflecting me by tiredjunkbag (Added In Later)

A hand slips up his neck to grasp roughly at his chin, tilting his head. “Look at yourself” Hua Cheng mouths into his shoulder. Xie Lian squirms, freezing in place. He can’t. It’s embarrassing, he won’t look, he-

he really wants to see.

**

Or: hualian try out a new bed.

There are mirrors.

🤜FengQing🤛

Poison and Flame by DAY_DREAM

Buried feelings are brought to light when Mu Qing gets injured by a mysterious creature. Can love find its way through a vicious curse? Will it get burned by a flame of awakening desire?

Make Me Forget Myself by Gigglemite

“Tell me,” Feng Xin urged, the worry in his gut only building in intensity the longer he stares at such an emotionally raw Mu Qing. “Tell me what you need.”

Mu Qing’s eyes only opened wider at those words, more tears welling up. He couldn’t speak, he could barely even move from the position he had lodged himself into before going stock still.

“Mu Qing,” Feng Xin had to forcefully swallow down the words that almost spilled off the tip of his tongue. Saying, ‘I would give you anything you ask for’, probably would not go over too well in this situation. “What happened?”

“Am I unloveable?”

I've Got You by xiaaa101 (Added in Later)

Feng Xin was shaking. Violently shaking as he stood there, in Mt Tonglu watching the scene unfold. Xie Lian was to his right, being held back by Hua Cheng, his mouth open, screaming and screaming. But Feng Xin couldn't hear. His sound had become muffled, his eyes glued on what he saw before him. Mu Qing.

What did Mu Qing go through during the Xianle Trio separation?... What if White No-Face had come after Mu Qing?...

I Think I'd Die For You by dianxiasbussy (Added in Later)

Feng Xin and Mu Qing live in hiding and live like every moment might be their last. They kiss in the rain because it’s cliche. They fuck in the back of their car because it’s convenient, and most importantly they tell each other “I love you” every day in case they might not get to say it ever again.

bigger than the whole sky by sequinhaze (Added In Later)

“This is where I buried our daughter,” Mu Qing whispers.

Feng Xin’s entire world comes to a halt right then and there.

The Labor of Love Produces the Sweetest Fruits by foxfeast (Added In Later)

In the decades that had passed since the fall of White No-Face, Mu Qing had learned three things about Feng Xin:

One: Feng Xin was, apparently, in love with Mu Qing.

Two: Feng Xin was, apparently, very sexually frustrated.

Three: Feng Xin was, apparently, not interested in having sex with Mu Qing.

———

Thirteen years ago, Feng Xin confessed his love to Mu Qing. Thirteen years later, and they still hadn’t had sex. Mu Qing can only come to one conclusion:

Feng Xin is not sexually attracted to him.

Mu Qing’s solution? Seduce his partner.

love me even when it's terrible by luminvies (Added In Later)

“I’ve had a whole lot of experience of you being a fucking annoyance. If I didn't love you, I wouldn't have stuck around for this long. Lucky for you," he leans back, bops Mu Qing's nose, and revels in the way his eyes go cross-eyed, "I've loved you for so long I don't know how else to feel."

In which Mu Qing is Feng Xin's favorite.

Can you tell who my favorite is??? I'm new to reading fanfiction of these characters so please give me recommendations as well!!

[rip-quizilla]

We Could Be Beautiful: Dead Girl Walking

Eddie Munson X Fem!Reader

🔹An AU in which you and Eddie are both actors in a community theater production of Heathers: The Musical🔹

Word count: 1.6K

A/N: Just an idea I’ve had rolling around in my head for a while. This will probably become a series of short blurbs within this AU, taking place between the auditions and the cast party following the final performance of the show.

Tags: mutual pining, unconfessed feelings, allusions to sex, passing mention of suicide (pertaining to the plot of Heathers), references to Heathers: the Musical, song lyrics

If you’d like a visual for the scene described from the original musical, click here

🔹divider made by @k1ssyoursister 🔹

You took your role as Veronica’s understudy seriously. 

You’d copied down every stage direction, every line, every director’s note- you’d made sure you were prepared. Now, the ultimate test would determine just how prepared for this you really were.

Barb, the actress playing Veronica, had warned you that her sister might go into labor early, and that had been exactly what happened. That meant she would be in the delivery room on opening night, and every program in every audience member’s hand would have a little insert with your picture on it, alongside your name followed by “-will be playing the role of Veronica Sawyer.”

Already, you had managed to make it to the first quarter of the show. “Beautiful” had gone without a hitch, and you’d gotten through “Fight for Me” without your voice cracking. But next was “Dead Girl Walking,” and you were just about ready to fling yourself in front of a bus. Or drink some drain cleaner. 

You hadn’t rehearsed this song with Eddie yet; you knew the words, knew the blocking, knew exactly which note you were expected to sing and every riff you had to hit. But standing behind that velvet curtain as you waited for your cue, you were practically on the verge of a panic attack. When you finally had to enter the stage, you channeled it all- the panic, the nerves, the terror of what comes after tonight.

I need it hard

I’m a dead girl walking

I’m in your yard

I’m a dead girl walking 

You’d watched him sing this song with Barb so many times, and each time you’d wished it was you- now, you had your chance. 

Sorry, but I really had to wake you

See, I’ve decided I must ride you ‘til I break you

Tonight I’m yours, 

I’m your dead girl walking

Get on all fours, 

Kiss this dead girl walking

You knew Eddie’s wide, wet eyes were those of an actor. The eyes of JD as he watches the girl of his dreams. Still, the heat and want you felt right now wasn’t Veronica’s- it was purely yours. So you let it feed Veronica’s words as you held his face in your tender hands and told JD the things you wished you could say to Eddie.

And you know, you know, you know

It’s ‘cause you’re beautiful

You say you’re numb inside

But I can’t agree

You were the one in the blue blazer now. Tonight, he was your JD, and you were scared shitless that when your lips hit his in a stage kiss that was supposed to have so much fire it set the stage ablaze, it might feel a little bit too real. 

So the world’s unfair

Keep it locked out there

In here it’s beautiful

Let’s make this beautiful

Eddie- JD- gazed at you with all the wonder and adoration of a man on his knees for a generous god. His head shook gently, bewildered by his luck as he delivered the next line. “That works for me.”

Then your lips were on him, and for a second you let yourself pretend he was kissing you back and not Veronica. His mouth was warm, his hands hungry as they roamed over your clothes and subtly squeezed until you felt your blazer’s polyester pucker.

When you pulled away for your high note, you gazed into his eyes and saw nothing but truth looking back at you. That fire you’d been feeling all this time was reflected in his eyes tonight. Sure, maybe it’s the stage lights. Maybe he’s just a really good actor. Maybe you’re fucking obsessed with him- but whatever it was, you felt wanted in those eyes. So yeah, you let yourself believe it. You let the script burn you alive.

Full steam ahead, 

Take this dead girl walking

Let’s break the bed,

Rock this dead girl walking

You were drunk on the awe in his gaze, the way he looked up at you like he wasn’t sure if you’d really just barged in through his window to ride him until he was a broken mess, or if you were a fantasy his mind had conjured to fuel his desire to belong to someone who would cherish all he had to give. 

Again, Eddie was a talented actor. You knew that was his interpretation of how his character felt about your character. Still, you let yourself fall into the script as you straddled his tense, shirtless body, his abs crunching under the blue stage lights in a way that made you salivate. You wondered what your spit would look like on his skin. 

You were far too horny to be professional. At least you weren’t so far gone that you couldn’t remember your blocking. 

No sleep tonight for you,

Better chug that Mountain Dew

Your heart fell into your core upon hearing Eddie’s whimpered ‘okay, okay’ in character, needy and submissive beneath you. 

Get your ass in gear,

Make this whole town disappear

His eyebrows pulled together, voice stronger and raspier as it ripped from his chest. ‘Okay, okay!’ His fingers snuck underneath your skirt, fingertips digging into the soft flesh of your ass. You wished it was real. 

You eyed him like a predator eyes a kill, determined to stay in his head until he needed you for real. You ran your palm over your cheek, brought your other hand up to fist in your hair, and pretended both hands were his.

Slap me,

Pull my hair,

You grabbed his wrists forcefully, bringing them up one by one to grope each of your tits. 

Touch me 

There (left tit)

And there (right tit)

And there 

To punctuate the final syllable, you couldn’t stop an involuntary writhe of your torso into Eddie’s hands as he grasped your white button down (which was actually a snap-up) at the chest and pulled hard, simultaneously pinching your nipples through your bright blue bra and ripping open your blouse to showcase the swell of your chest for the whole audience to see. You didn’t notice them, though- you noticed the way he looked at your chest like it was the second coming of Christ. You witnessed that fractional widening of his eyes, the way he was entranced by every move you made as you writhed in his lap. 

And no more talking

Love this dead girl walking

Eddie’s voice was lightning in the wake of thunder, bright and jagged and beautifully raw with power as he crooned a harmony to your lead as the song drew to a close. This song wasn’t an easy one to sing; had you not been so distracted by how it felt to have Eddie’s hips between your thighs you might have been nervous that you’d flub your high notes- but you didn’t. In a moment of sheer improvisation you did what just felt right, and that meant grabbing Eddie by hair at the base of his neck and wrenching his head back as you rolled your hips into his.

You knew your blocking was to arch your back away from him, but instead you brought your face close enough to his that it’s possible his mic picked up your perfect, clear falsetto as you pleaded, ‘Love this dead girl walking’ with the cadence of a lover asking, begging their beloved ‘don’t stop, don’t stop, don’t stop’. Eddie’s eyes registered your improvisational choice, and maybe you imagined it but behind those big brown button eyes he seemed to come alive with you, sitting up even further and digging one hand into your soft, hot skin while the other flexed against the stage floor to keep him balanced. His little ‘whoa, whoa, hey, hey, yeah yeah’s were short and breathy, sounding more like moans and whimpers as he rolled the sturdy bones of his hips into you as you matched his rhythm. 

If you closed your eyes, you could pretend. If you didn’t have blocking to follow, you might have kissed him again, might have bitten his lip, might have reached for his belt buckle with reckless abandon and let a summer’s worth of pining win over in your mind. Instead, you channeled that passion into the way your hips ground into him with the fervor of a woman with nothing to lose. 

Together the two of you finished out the song with heavy breaths and belted lyrics. You writhed. He thrusted.  ‘Love this dead girl,’ your voices intertwined in a desperate dance for release from the tension between you that, at some point, had grown thick as two oak trees planted near enough to forget where one ends and the other begins.

‘Yeah!’

Your hand on his chest splayed out over faded ink. Your hips swiveled against his groin.

‘Yeah!’

His hand fisted in the plaid fabric of your skirt. That wasn’t in the blocking- had they added that? Was this improv?

‘Yeah!’

Using the grip on your skirt, he tugged you further into him as his hips bucked up just enough to bounce you on his groin and shake your exposed cleavage. Without thinking, your hand flew into his hair, grasping the sweaty curls at the nape of his neck and tugging sharply back. You weren’t supposed to do that. 

‘Ow!’

It wasn’t supposed to be a moan, but that was definitely what you would call the sound you pulled from Eddie’s mouth. A soft yet sharp, breathy moan that existed somewhere in the valley between pleasure and pain and definitely sounded more sexy and less funny, which is how it was supposed to sound. You saw Eddie’s eyes go wide as he too came to this realization. 

No matter; if you played it off, no one in the audience would know the difference. You let go of his hair and flung your hand into the air above you, reaching for heaven and belting out your last ‘Yeah’ into the stage lights that lined the rafters above you. Your back arched, and you felt one final push of Eddie’s pelvis into yours, weaker this time as he too came down from the endorphins that ravaged every thought in both your mind and his. 

Taglist (people I've been talking to about this since the idea spawned): @ghost-proofbaby, @the-unforgivenn, @munson-blurbs, @hellfire--cult

[nikalaeva]

While this could just be me speculating but I have a feeling that the night court is the type of place to openly have both slaves and child soldiers in it, and both would be treated as completely fine by the narrative.

All the best to you, anon, and sorry for keeping you waiting 🫰🌼

I'll say this: I'm not against the NC having slavery, patriarchy, child soldiers and other problems. In the end, it's a la medieval... well, or a fairytale society. Let the NC be a slum, a shithole teeming with evilest villains.

But!

Then the narrative should give logical reasons why this is so. We see that Illyrian children are brought up extremely cruelly, women and children of the Hewn City live inside a mountain for decades, the ban on clipping wings is not observed - and the government, possessing all the plenitude of power, including magic, just liken 🤔🤷‍♂️🖕 Rhysand, supposedly "the most powerful" High Lord, who terrorized Prythian with Amarantha, says: "Sob-sob, I'm a bastard, that's why I'm despised.". I swear, the IC is like a kindergarten group that saw "Game of Thrones" episode and decided to act it out at a children's party.

The Night Court is a failure on all fronts. We are being told that it's a wonderful place, and problems are everywhere, but Rhysand's gang, led by him, are working day and night to solve it. But the narrative clearly shows otherwise, and you would have to have a jellyfish brain not to see it.

I always see the same argument that Rhysand can't execute Illyrians left and right, and kill Keir, 'cause he needs an army (and he's not a tyrant, yeah). Okay. But the Illyrians' social status is rock bottom, they are beggars. In normal lore, they would be mercenaries, robbing Rhysand's treasury every time he needs to organize a military campaign. We are shown that these warriors are proud, tough... but obviously brainless, because they fight for nothing.

And the Darkbringers? They are part of the NC, and Keir, despite his status, the subject of the High Lord. But instead of giving orders, Rhysand bargains for his support.

(I give Keir credit that after 50 years of Amarantha's terror, he has the balls to say "no" to her minion)

So the army (which is supposedly the strongest in Prythian) doesn't recognize either the ruler or his entourage and still fights for him? Without receiving money, titles, favorable changes in the laws? Keir demanded access to Velaris and didn't foresee Rhysand would use loophole of "you will not be welcome anywhere and will be denied any service"?

ACOTAR is not sewn with white thread - it's a fucking ruin covered with tinsel. That's why you, dear anon, think in the NC any, even the most ridiculous crap will look like a glove. The narrative (read - the author) ignores logic in favor of emotions, worldbuilding - in favor of 💫 aesthetics 💫, character development and plot - in favor of "spices". Child soldiers? So what, Cassian coped, their fathers and generals are to blame. The CoN, trapped in a mountain? They are moral freaks, all of them, like Caligula or Hitler.

And as for slavery, Velaris is essentially in slavery too. Its civilians are merchants and artists, defenseless against any danger. Yes, they are well fed, provided with housing, protected by the fact that they are unknown outside the NC. But then their High Lord shows this paradise to a delegation of queens, strangers, mortals whose ancestors were enslaved by the fairies, and after a while, Velaris is attacked by enemies. What does it look like? Are they really safe - or is it an illusion? I think, Velaris is like a woman whose husband convinced her not to work because he provides for her, distanced her from family, friends, and made himself the center of her world, existence. We all know what it's called and how it ends.

P.S.: Imagine the Russian roulette, Night Court version. 5 bullets: "Illyria", "Court of Nightmares", "an unknown city lost in the barren mountains", "death", "Velaris". Would you play for rebirth? With a fate-dependent and unknown chance of being High Fae/lower fairy/Illyrian (I don't remember the books ever mentioning the species ratio)? If you were not Y/N, but an Illyrian boy, a woman from the CoN, a lower faerie outside of Velaris, a priestess with no money, no home, no family to leave the library - would you be proud of your government's "efforts"?

[eldritchelfwriter]

A few Baldurs Gate 3 Fanfics I recommend on AO3

So long as it has meaning by ohholymoves

Relationship: Shadowheart and Selunite Paladin Tav

The fic that started it at all and inspired me to write my own Shadowheart fanfiction (Shadowheart Begins). This the first BG fanfic I had ever read. I was so blown away I read it 6 times in a row, just to catch everything that happened and the little clues seeded within, and to just admire and be in awe of how incredibly well written and beautiful the whole thing is.

Shadowheart is EXTREMELY sassy in this fic and I am here for it.

Consonance by @eliteseven

Relationship: modern Shadowheart & Tav

A profoundly sweet and meaningful story of Shadowheart & Tav getting together against the backdrop of being a band putting an album together. Isobel and Aylin also make appearances (bonus!!). Once you've checked out Consonance you'll also want to read Of Night Orchids, Lace & Steel by the same author.

Give it up for DJ Shadowheart by @capriclonus

Relationship: modern Shadowheart (a disc jockey) and modern Lae'zel

It took me a while to dip my toe into AU and modern BG3 fics but this one has blown me away. I'm on my fourth readthrough and I'm sure there are more readthroughs to come.

The characterisations and the plotting are just ... I feel like I'm reading something I've taken from a bestsellers shelf. It's absolute goals.

You really feel like you've been taken on a complex and wonderful journey by the end. This one will stick with you for a long time to come.

To Defy the Gods by @shadowfalllen

Relationship: Mother Superior Shadowheart x Tav

Shadowheart had taken the Dark Justiciar path and kept on seeing Tav, but Shar had other ideas about their continuing relationship. A Shadowheart redemption work with moments of awe, terror (I'm a lightweight and sometimes had to take a breath before continuing a chapter) and HOPE.

Also, this is one of the few works where I've seen Nocturne really being fleshed out as a character in her own right! (As she deserves!)

Hand on a Dagger (Head in the Sand) by @future-ghoost

Relationship: Dark Justiciar Shadowheart x Selunite Tav

VERY original concept where only Shadowheart was abducted, and Emmeline & Arnell hire Tav to try and rescue their now adult daughter from the cloister.

The tension is amazing, as is the growing relationship between Shadowheart and Tav and the kinds of compromises and decisions Tav is having to make while infiltrating the cloister as a Selunite. Delicious!

swear i was born right in the doorway by @tadpoleeater

Relationship: Isobel and Aylin

An absolutely hilarious rendition of how Isobel and Aylin got together. The characterisation of Aylin (a difficult character to write) is just spot on and the whole thing is so delightful, I will be surprised if you don't end up with a huge smile on your face at the end.

My Thesis is a Demigod? by @griffinisgae

Relationship: Isobel and Aylin

Fabulous AU in which Isobel, who is writing her thesis on Selune, finds Aylin dormant in a temple after thousands of years. Fish out of water / time displaced shenanigans ensue.

There are so many heartfelt, gorgeous little scenes, including laugh out loud ones.

Juniper & Starlight by @shewhowas39

Relationship: Durge and Astarion

Even though 'I don't even go to this school' as a Shadowheart and Aylin megafan, I am utterly transfixed by this continuing story of a Southern gal, heart of gold divination wizard durge and her journey with Astarion and friends. Shadowheart is the Tav's bestie in this fic and as with all the other characters in the game, is beautifully rendered in word.

As with all the other recommendations in this post, the words flow over you like music. Tav and Astarion's inner world contain so much emotional truth, a difficult feat for both of these incredibly complex characters but the writer here makes it look easy.

Before the Last Brew by @shadowfalllen

Relationship: Shadowheart and Tav

What if Shadowheart doesn't actually have a crap ton of trauma from Viconia and Shar? What if she is the new barista in a small town who has caught the eye of an author who is getting quite distracted from writing at the cafe?

What if WITHERS owns that cafe? What if it's so sweet and fuzzy and lovely and warm and you just can't wait for the next chapter?! What if! What if then?!

Born of Silver & Night Orchids by @cylinderarts

Relationship: Shadowheart and Selunite Tav (Trans Fem)

Here Shadowheart & Tav meet under VERY different circumstances - a one night stand! But soon one night leads to a few more and then one night they aren't particularly careful Shadowheart has a lil bun in oven she has to hide from the cloister while simultaneously trying to deal with her undeniable (let constantly denied) feelings for Tav!

Tav is besties with Karlach in this fic which is the absolute BEST and cylinderarts has also created a bunch of awesome art that goes with this fic that you can view on their profile.

[sgojoenthusiast]

ﾟ.*･｡ﾟ☆ KINKTOBER 2023 ☆ﾟ.*･｡ﾟ

➸ DAY TWO: HORROR MOVIE.

ﾟ.*･｡ﾟﾟ.*･｡ﾟﾟ.*･｡ﾟﾟ.*･｡ﾟﾟ.*･｡ﾟﾟ.*･｡ﾟﾟ.*･｡ﾟﾟ.*

summary: Mikasa loves when you and her stay in to watch a horror movie together. For her, theres nothing better than the way you cling on to her, scared, because fuck does it turn her on.

CW: fem reader, bondage, knife play, mikasa accidentally cuts reader, reader lowkey into it, pain, blood, injury, thigh riding, scissoring, oral, spitting, 'Good girl', 'Baby'

word count: 3k

likes, comments and reposts are deeply appreciated! <3 enjoy.

masterlist.

ﾟ.*･｡ﾟﾟ.*･｡ﾟﾟ.*･｡ﾟﾟ.*･｡ﾟﾟ.*･｡ﾟﾟ.*･｡ﾟﾟ.*･｡ﾟﾟ.*

Mikasa couldn't help the rush she felt watching horror movies with you, curled up in your bed in matching plaid pyjamas. It wasn't the kind of rush you'd expect someone to get whilst watching a horror movie.

For you, there was a lurking feeling of not knowing what to expect and the terror that comes with it. There was an addicting thrill that came in the form of gorey murders and jumpscares.

However, Mikasa remained unbothered by the predictable plot twists, non-frightening jumpscares, shitty acting and the fake blood. Yet, out of all the dates she had taken you on, all of the nights watching movies she enjoyed and the endless amounts of romantic moments the two of you shared, her favourite times were when you insist you watch a scary film. The way you'd hold tightly onto her arm and bury your head into her side, admiring her fearless state - and don't even start on the cute squeals that would come out of your mouth at the most predictable jump scare.

Nothing made her so desperate to slam the laptop shut and haul you over her lap so that she could take you right then and there.

Like, for example, right now. The two of you were laying in your bed, cuddled up with a blanket as candles illuminated the otherwise dark room, the only other light being the one coming from your laptop presenting the movie.

Mikasa had one arm around you as you were bunched up next to her, your head buried in her side, peeking out of the corner of your eye as you watched with dread what was about to come up next. Mikasa had no clue what was going on as she hadn't been paying attention to the screen in front of her, more so to the way your hand was placed on her thigh, your grip tightening whenever you got scared.

She knew you’d be annoyed if you figured out she wasn’t paying attention, but what was she supposed to do? 

The way your eyes were glued to the screen, yet your hand only wandered further up her thighs made her wonder whether you were doing it on purpose. She was almost positive you were clueless to your own roaming hand, yet something about the way your fingers danced dangerously close to her aching cunt was telling her otherwise. 

Though, this wasn’t an uncommon situation you’d put both you and your girlfriend in. For example, like when you’re out at one of friends houses, you’ll commonly place your head on her thighs and look up at her with an unknowing glint in your eyes whilst she glares warningly at you. Or, when your hand slips down her arm and around her waist, and even when you’d hug her and your head would sit comfortably on her chest. Perhaps, it’s Mikasa’s mind diverging to risky places from your innocent, yet lingering, hands. Or maybe, it’s you putting on a faux act of innocence just to get her riled up.

Nevertheless, you were driving her further away from her own sanity with just the touch of your hand. It was shocking how much control you had over her, even though you weren’t paying the slightest of attention to her.

Without warning, a sudden jumpscare flashed onto the screen of your laptop. You jumped, a squeal living your lips as one of your hands tugs at Mikasa's shirt, and the other… the other squeezes her thigh, hard. 

“Fuck-” Mikasa cursed, her thoughts running wild as she instinctively placed her hand over yours through the blanket separating you both.

You sat up quickly, a panicked expression painted on your face. “Oh my god, Mika, I’m so sorry! I did I hurt you?--”

She looked at you inquisitively and in disbelief. “You have seriously no fucking clue what you’re doing to me, don’t you?”

The look of panic morphed into one of shock. There was a hint of anger and frustration in Mikasa’s voice which made you slightly nervous. Have you done something wrong? Is she angry at you? You couldn’t find the right words, her sudden aggression confused you and threw you off slightly. You felt hot and nervous. All you could do was gulp in anticipation and ask: “What do you mean, Mika?”

She rolled her eyes at you and swiftly moved the laptop to the floor and threw you over one of her thighs so that you straddled her. This time, it was her hand that wandered up your arm and up to your cheek, taking your chin in her grip and leaning forward. 

Staying silent, her lips hovered in front of your own, yet when you tried to lean in to kiss her, the grip on your chin grew more harsh as a warning. You whimpered slightly. 

“Did you not like the movie?” You muttered against Mikasa’s lips. In response, she laughed slightly, it was curt yet fond.

“Baby, I couldn’t pay attention with your hand rubbing my thigh like that.” Her hand dropped to your hip, rubbing her thumb affectionately.

“Oh.” You felt flustered and slightly embarrassed that you hadn’t even realised, too immersed in the movie to care about what your own body was doing. Your head had turned away to look at the wall, too self-conscious to look into Mikasa’s eyes, yet your actions only annoyed her further.

Her affectionate hand on your hip turned harsh as it once again gripped your chin to turn your head back to look at her. “You don’t take your eyes off of me, understand?”

You mumbled out profuse apologies, earning Mikasa’s hand to drop back down to your hip before an idea had sparked in her mind.

Leaning over to your bedside table, she opened the bottom drawer to find some of the rope from the last time you had needed it.

A malicious smirk grew on her face to contrast the nervous one on your own. She tilted her head at you, silently telling you to put your hands behind your back and yet you had heard every word of it, slowly putting your arms behind your back, your eyes never leaving Mikasa’s.

“Good girl.” She tied your hands together tightly, and moved the rope around to see if it was too tight. “Is that okay?” 

You nodded silently, biting your lip.

However, Mikasa had realised that there was another problem standing in between the two of you and her bringing you pleasure. Going back to that same drawer, she pulled out a knife from within it, making your eyes go wide as she began to cut through the material of your plaid pyjama bottoms.

“Mika!” you scolded, yet she only gave you a look of ‘What else was I supposed to do?’

“I’ll buy you some more.” was the only other response you got, yet just as you were about to reply, she pulled your panties to the side and guided your hips to grind back and forth against her thigh. 

You let out a cry of pleasure as your clit made contact with the material of her matching pyjamas, yet you could feel the muscle of her thigh nevertheless.

The hold she had on your hips as she dragged you along her thigh and the pace that she had set was ruthless as she watched you with half a grin on her otherwise emotionless face.

You gasped and whined at the feeling of your pussy grinding on her thigh as your hands itched to be freed so that you could touch her, and if it wasn’t for her own hands holding you up, you’re certain that the pleasure would have made you lose balance. 

Your eyes were tightly knitted shut and she uttered comforting words and praises into your ear. “You’re such a good girl f’me, baby.” Her eyes were glued to the wetness of your cunt, soaking the material of her bottoms. “Look at you, so wet and needy. You like rubbing your desperate pussy all over me, baby, hm?” She asked before sliding her index finger through your wet folds and brought it to her lips, licking it clean.

She hummed in delight, sighing at the taste of you. “So sweet. Now answer my question baby. You like this?”

Your mind was foggy and your eyes were still on her lips from when she had slipped her finger past them. You nodded endlessly. “Feels so good Mika. Please don’t stop!--”

Nearing your high, you pressed your hips harder down onto her thigh, aiming desperately to finish. Your clit was throbbing and your mind was all over the place yet stayed only on one topic - Mikasa. She was making you feel unbearably amazing, you had never felt so pleasured and had never reached an orgasm so intensely or quickly before.

“You about to come, baby? C’mon, come for me.” She asked you. Mikasa adored the look on your face whenever you came. Your lips would part, and your eyes would shut securely as the cutest noises of pleasure would exit your lips.

At her words, as if your body reacted to her demand, you came instantly, gushing all over her thigh as your juices soaked through and dripped down her bottoms. You clenched around nothing as your core pulsated.

Throwing your head back, one of Mikasa’s hands naturally went to support your head as the other held you firmly, unwilling to let you go.

Your breaths were heavy and laboured, yet both of you knew it wasn’t about to stop there. 

Mikasa grinned as you attempted to shuffle off her lap, jumping when she brought her leg up to bump against your clit, earning her a scornful look which morphed into a pout on your face.

As she took off her pyjama bottoms, she laughed and said: “Might have to buy some more for myself as well, you know.” 

But, just before she removed her underwear, another one of her ideas, which were only ever fun for her, popped into her head as she lay back down on the bed. You could tell that she was soaking wet.

You gave her a serious look. “If you want me to eat you out, Mika, you’ll have to take those off plus these ropes.”

In return, she only gave you a playful smile, accompanied by a sly glint in her eyes. “Hm…” She pretended to think as you tilted your head at her and raised an eyebrow. “No, I don’t think I will.”

You could tell that it was somewhat of a challenge, and though, sure, it would be fun for her to watch as you struggled to take her underwear off with just your teeth and then to bury your face into her pussy without the support of your hands to hold you up, yet it would only prolong her pleasure and take more time for you to make her feel good. 

Therefore, it was about 10 percent less humiliating as you tried to take her panties off with just your teeth. Eventually though, you had managed, and as you slid them down her legs, she caressed your head and purred out a ‘Good girl’, resulting in your legs shifting against each other desperate for friction once more. She only gave you a small scolding look before telling you to start and not to tease her.

Her hand held onto your head and kept you up as your tongue began to run through her folds. Mikasa was typically quiet, so she only let out a small sigh and threw her head back at the contact. 

Your tongue glided through her pussy and slurped up all her juices whilst you teased her hole with your tongue. 

The grip on your head became harder. “What did I tell you about teasing?”

You took her words seriously and began to only focus on pleasuring her. Your tongue moved in all the right ways, switching between circling her clit and prodding at her tongue. You moaned into her pussy, sending the vibrations straight through her and making it harder to contain her voice, though she remained persistent.

The sounds of slurping smacked against the walls of the room, you sucked and licked as though you’d been dehydrated and deprived of any liquid for far too long. Her juices leaked down your chin and covered the bed yet you continued to relentlessly eat her out.

Mikasa couldn’t take much more before she was pushing your head further into her pussy and came all over your face, yet you continued your attack on her pussy, tongue still pummeling in and out of her hole through her orgasm. 

A string of profanities spewed out of her mouth as she grinded herself up against your face, bucking her hips into your mouth.

When she had come down from her high, you removed your mouth and peppered kisses all over her thighs as she attempted to catch her breath.

“Fuck, you are amazing at that.” Mikasa moved away from you, standing up off the bed as you rolled onto your back and grinned up at her, licking your lips. She grabbed a tissue from your bedside table and leaned down over you to clean around your mouth before she placed her lips against yours and shoved her tongue deep down your throat.

Soon, she was over your lap, hands roaming all over your body as she kissed you intensely. Your lips were so soft and she could taste herself against your tongue.

“I need you again, Mika, please.” You whispered against her lips, she started to trail kisses across your jaw and down your throat and you could feel her smirk through each kiss.

“Oh yeah? How bad do you need me, baby?” Her voice left goosebumps all over you.

She took her shirt off, and with your hands still bound behind your back, cut yours open with the same knife she had used previously. 

“So fuckin’ bad, Mika. My pussy was made for you to fuck it, I need you against her so, so bad.” You whined and writhed underneath her, yet her lips continued to trail down your chest until they got down to your tits. Taking one in her mouth, she groaned lowly and looked up at your face contorted with pleasure.  

Her tongue moved and teased your nipple before she spat between your tits and moved onto the other nipple. Your hips bucked up into her, pleading and eager for more.

Mikasa sat you up and grabbed the knife once more, too impatient to take her time to undo the knot she had formed. She reached behind you and severed the ropes, though in the process she accidentally grazed your hand. 

“Shit!” Mikasa winced, the ropes fell behind you on the bed as both of your hands were quickly brought forward so that Mikasa could inspect the damage. Her mind was so clouded by the fact she had cut you, that she didn’t realise the soft moan that had escaped your lips reluctantly until a few moments after.

Her eyes widened. “D- did you just–”

Your lips went to hover in front of hers. “Don’t worry about it Mika,” referring to her initial worry and concern at hurting you, kissing her gently and then pulling away and smirking against her lips. “I kinda liked it.” 

“Shit- I knew you were perfect for me.” She brought her lips back down to yours, her panic having subsided and replaced by a throb in between her legs. “What I didn’t know… was that you were such a pain slut, baby.”

Mikasa dragged the knife down your chest, the feeling of cool steel against your warm breasts made you shiver and roll your head back moaning. Yet, Mikasa had decided to store this newfound kink of yours into the back of her mind, as right now, her pussy was begging to feel your own. 

Throwing the knife to the side and swiping the rope off the bed from behind you, she laid you down on the bed and lifted your legs up and spread them apart after tearing your panties off.

Her pussy hovers over yours and when she finally settles down, closing the gap between the two of you, you gasped in delight.

Mikasa began to grind against your pussy slowly, holding onto you for some stability. 

As time moved on, Mikasa grew more eager and unable to refrain from holding back. She ground up against you feverishly, incapable of going easy on you and unwilling to stop.

She humps against you, rubbing her wet pussy against yours, your clit bumping against hers in the most ethereal way. 

The room was crammed with the sounds of your pussies smacking against each other in the most filthy and lewd way possible. The sounds of squelching and slapping made its way to your ears along with your voice whimpering and crying out Mikasa’s name. “Faster, Mika, please!”

You buck your hips against her own, attempting to get closer and go faster. Mikasa let out a low groan at the friction. “Fuck– Shit your pussy’s so wet.”

Your arm reached up to hold Mikasa’s hips, and when Mikasa looked down, she saw a trail of blood running down your arm. “Shit, you actually into that shit, baby? So fuckin’ hot.” When she heard the way you moaned, she took her hand and slapped you harshly across your face. You gasped a mixture of pain and pleasure, your mouth hung open silently. “You’re such a dirty girl, aren’t you baby?”

Nodding your head at her words, your hands gripped the sheets harshly.

Your thighs were soaking with both yours and Mikasa’s juices and you bit your lip at the thought.

Mikasa leaned down, her chest pressing against yours and your lips connected in a passionate kiss. The feeling of her tits rubbing against yours along with your pussies was driving you insane, you couldn’t hold it in anymore.

“‘M gonna cum, I cant- fuck!” you squirted over Mikasa’s pussy, drenching her yet simultaneously sending her over the edge.

She cried out your name in pleasure as she came, her hips stuttering against yours.

Mikasa collapsed on top of you, sighing deeply into your ear as she pulled you close and kissed your neck. The two of you bathed comfortably in the silence of your own breathing and the feeling of being pressed against one another as you recovered from the breathlessness.

A few minutes later, she pulled away and caressed your cheek, staring at you with lovesick eyes. “I knew you were perfect for me, baby.” She smiled, kissing your face. “Let's get you cleaned up, okay?”