The King's Word

🔞 30+yrs A little bit of Bad and a little bit of Good. A writing and Art blog for fandoms I love and enjoy.

[ellorypurebloodculture]

Mildly entertaining idea, but also Fenrir Greyback/Hope Howell:

Lyall Lupin does die on the night when High Alpha Fenrir Greyback accidentally gets Remus. Remus is obviously now cursed with Lycanthropy.

Hope Lupin nee Howell (being squibborn or a stunted muggleborn [no active core]- she has no magic but can interact with it since she was attacked by a boggart cannonically), essentially looks at this man/lycoan and goes "Congrats, you're his daddy now". Cause there's no way a magicless woman can care for a child barely older than a toddler who spends at least one night a month as a highly aggressive and infectious beast- how the hell is she supposed to care for him long term?

He tries to argue because Remus is obviously not his kid, and she just goes, "Which of us does he take after during the full moon, because it's definitely not ME?" And yeah, maybe Greyback feels ashamed because he knew there was a kid (and a magicless woman) in the house, and he shouldn't have gone there to get his revenge. (He could have easily grabbed Lyall before this and done a hunt on his own territory). So he kind of owes it to the kid to not leave him high and dry.

Not to say she's leaving Remus with Fenrir, no - that's her baby boy. Instead, Fenrir is getting a crash course in co-parenting; Full Moons and every other weekend and High Holidays are all his- hell, Hope will even give him Father's Day. And he's in charge of Remus learning all about Mother Magic, because who better than one of her "First Children". And that's kind of the setup for the next decade with Hope and Fenrir bickering over menial things and Hope learning more about her sons culture (magical and to a lesser extent lycoan since Greyback only teaches either of them the bare bones of how NOT to upset the rest of the pack since they aren't actually lycoan). And all of Avalon is trying to wrap their head around the fact that the head of the race with some of, if not the, strongest anti mixing beliefs has a mixed blood ward and regularly RESPECTFULLY interacts with a near muggle.

Skip forward, and it's the night before Remus's 16th birthday, and it's a full moon. And two things happen at the same time.

One, Remus is transformed out at the shrieking shack because Fenrir approves of the Mauraders as a good defacto pack, and there are enough wards to be safe. It's all good until midnight rolls around, and suddenly, he becomes fully aware and pops back out of his wolf form into a human- he's come into a creature inheritance and he's an actual Lycoan. Cue the Marauders all just losing their minds they're so ecstatic for him.

The second is that a disgruntled Lycoan- upset Greyback is interacting with Remus and Hope, whom the wolves view as beneath them - attacks Hope at her home. Except the moment he bites her, she shifts into a wolf as well and starts whooping his ass.

The next morning, some lycoan asshole tries to gloat about the attack on Hope to Greyback- thinking she's either Turned or Dead. Greyback goes to check on her (after dealing with said asshole) only to find a very injured or dead lycoan and Hope making breakfast and smelling very Wolfy.

And maybe the guy realizes he's a little in love with her and kinda wants Remus to be his real son and maybe a few other pups as well.

(Mother Magic: "I like this one. She doesn't take any of your shit. But, wait, my forbidden lovers to soul mates arc won't work if she doesn't have magic. Surprise! I fixed it, she's a Lycoan. Now Kiss." *insert image of two barbies being smashed together*)

🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣

[skyizhou]

7,237 words * ˛ ✦ ･ Caleb watches her process the instructions, sees the flicker of understanding in her eyes, the lingering haze of pleasure making her pliant and obedient. "I have to give you your cummies before you get to school, don't I?" he continues, his thumb tracing her lower lip. "Can't send you off like this, all worked up and nowhere to go. That would be cruel. And I'm not cruel, am I, baby? I'm good to you, so good to you. I take good care of you."

WARNINGS: third person pov (fem!reader), alternate universe – modern, significant age gap — reader is eighteen and caleb is fifty-two, size difference, heavy dubious consent bordering on non-consensual, fingering, exhibitionism — crowded train + public bathroom, groping, stalking, muffling (with his hand over her mouth), overstimulation, cunnilingus, dirty talk, face-slapping (with his cock), throatfucking, corruption kink, cum-swallowing, unprotected sex — vaginal, cumplay, breeding kink / creampie.

The morning rush hour is a familiar beast, all shoving bodies and the stale breath of commuters who decided that since they haven't had their coffee yet, they shouldn't brush their teeth. Caleb stands near the sliding doors, one hand gripping the overhead rail. He's been riding this train for three months now, ever since he mapped her route to school and realized she takes the 7:15 every Tuesday and Thursday.

And today is a Tuesday.

He sees her before she sees him, which is how he prefers it. 

She's threading through the crowd near the turnstiles, that slight frame dwarfed by backpacks and briefcases, the pleated skirt of her uniform swishing against her thighs with each step. The white blouse is too big for her—probably hand-me-downs or thrift store finds, she's careful with money—and it gapes slightly at the collar where she's missed a button. Caleb's jaw tightens. He wonders if she knows. He wonders if she walked through the chill with that patch of skin exposed, if any of the boys on the platform noticed, if any of them dared to look for as long as he is looking now.

She boards two cars down. 

Caleb moves without urgency, sliding through the press of bodies with the ease of a man who has spent decades navigating tight spaces. The train lurches forward with a metallic screech, and he times his approach to the sway of the car, letting the momentum carry him closer to her. 

She's found a spot near the connecting door to the next car, pressed against the wall by the sheer volume of passengers, her delicate hands gripping the vertical pole with white-knuckled intensity.

Perfect. He waits until the train rounds the curve, until the car tilts and everyone stumbles. In that moment of chaos, he inserts himself into the gap. He doesn't ask. He doesn't apologise. Caleb simply becomes the wall at her back, his chest pressing against her shoulder blades, his thighs bracketing hers. She stiffens, but doesn't turn around—she can't, not with him filling the space behind her, not with the crowd pressing in on all sides. He lets his head drop slightly, his nose nearly brushing the shell of her ear, and he inhales deeply. 

Apple shampoo. Cheap drugstore brand. He bought her the expensive kind last month, left it in her locker with no note, and she must have thrown it away. 

The thought makes him smile against her hair.

"Easy," he murmurs, his voice pitched low enough that only she can hear it beneath the rumble of the tracks. "Just getting my balance, darling. Nothing to worry about."

She doesn't relax. Smart girl. She knows his voice now—he's made sure of that, calling out to her in hallways, leaving voicemails she never returns, coming too often at the diner where she works weekend shifts. She's known him for six months, ever since the charity gala where she served rubber chicken to donors twice her age, and he's been a constant presence since, a shadow that lengthens each day.

The train accelerates out of the station, and Caleb lets the momentum press him closer. 

He's wearing his overcoat, unbuttoned, and beneath it his body is furnace-hot despite the chill. He can feel the tremor running through her, the rabbit-fast beat of her heart where his chest meets her back. She's so small. Even in heels—which she only wears for school, sensible black shoes with 2-inch heels and worn-down soles—she barely reaches his shoulder. He could lift her onto his hips and carry her for miles without tiring.

He could do anything he wants, really; the realisation never fails to make him hard.

Caleb shifts his weight, letting his pelvis brush against her skirt. The wool is thin, cheap, and he can feel the heat of her through the fabric, the cleft of her ass settling against the growing ridge of his cock. She makes a sound—small and startled—and tries to step forward, but can't, not when she's already been caught, caged. 

His.

"Quiet," Caleb breathes against her ear, a heavy hand settling on her hip. His thumb presses into the soft flesh of her stomach, pinky resting at the curve where her thigh meets her pelvis. "Don't squirm, sweetheart. You'll draw attention."

She does squirm, though. She twists her hips, trying to dislodge his grip, and the friction makes him groan softly against her hair instead. He tightens his fingers, digging in just enough to leave marks she'll find later, bruises blooming in the shape of his ownership. His other hand joins the first, both palms spanning her waist.

"N-No, stop," she whispers, but her voice cracks on the word, and Caleb knows desperation when he hears it. 

She's not telling him to stop because she wants him to stop. She's telling him because she thinks she should, because some part of her still believes in the fiction that she doesn't want this, that she hasn't been dreaming about it, that she doesn't touch herself at night thinking about the way he looks at her across crowded rooms. She's telling him because she thinks that it's the right thing, what good girls should do, what normal girls should do when they're being touched by a not-so-stranger in a crowded train.

"I can't hear you," he lies, and slides his right hand down, down, over the pleats of her skirt. The fabric bunches under his palm as he gathers it, inch by inch, his movements hidden by the bulk of his coat, by the fact that no one on this train is paying attention to anything but their own exhaustion early in the morning. 

"Speak up, baby. Use your big girl words."

Her breath hitches. Caleb feels it in the trembling of her ribs against his forearm, the way she goes still as his fingers find the hem of her skirt and slip beneath it. Her thighs are bare—she's wearing knee-high socks, white with a navy stripe at the top, but no tights, never tights, she can't afford the good kind—and her skin is soft, slightly chilled from the walk to the station. 

"Please," she breathes out, and that word sends a jolt of heat straight to his cock. He's fully hard now, straining against his trousers, the head pressing insistently against the wool of her skirt. She must feel it. She must know what she's doing to him.

"Hm? What was that, sweet girl?" Caleb asks, his voice is a rumble that she feels more than hears. He trails his fingers up the inside of her thigh, watching the way her knuckles whiten on the pole, the way her head drops forward so her forehead nearly touches the metal. She's trying to make herself small, trying to disappear into the wall, but he won't let her. He crowds closer, his chest a solid weight against her back, his chin hooking over her shoulder. "Should I stop? Or is that you asking for more?"

She doesn't answer. 

The train screams into the tunnel under the river, and the lights flicker, plunging them into darkness for three full seconds. In that darkness, Caleb moves his hand higher, finds the edge of her underwear—cotton, practical, the kind bought in packs of five—and hooks his thumb beneath the elastic. When the lights stutter back on, he's already inside, his fingers sliding through heat and wetness that makes his vision blur at the edges.

"Oh," he says, soft and wondering, like he's found something precious and secret. "Oh, look at you. Look how ready you are. Have you been thinking about this, sweetheart? Have you been walking around all morning with this pretty little cunny wet and waiting for me?"

She makes a sound—denial maybe, or despair—and tries to close her legs, but his thigh is already there, his knee wedged between hers, holding her open. 

The angle is awkward, his wrist bent at an uncomfortable degree, but Caleb has spent thirty years manipulating controls in cramped cockpits. He knows how to make his hands do what he wants them to do, regardless of space or gravity or the fact that they're currently surrounded by two hundred commuters who would scream if they knew what was happening mere inches from their elbows.

He doesn't give one flying fuck; not when he finds her clit with unerring precision, the pad of his middle finger circling the swollen bud with a pressure that makes her jerk against him. 

She's so responsive, so raw—everything he knew she would be, everything he's been imagining during long nights in his empty loft. He can feel her pulse against his fingertip, the blood rushing to the surface, the bundle of nerves hardening as he strokes it. She tries to stifle a moan and ends up making a high, wounded noise that gets lost in the screech of brakes as the train slows for the next station.

"Quiet," Caleb reminds her, his free hand coming up to cover her mouth. His palm is broad enough to seal her lips completely, his fingers curling around her jaw to hold her still. "Hush now. Good girls don't make noise. Good girls take what they're given and say thank you."

He feels her lips move against his skin, maybe forming words, maybe just gasping for air. He doesn't care. He increases the pressure on her clit, rubbing tight, relentless circles that make her thighs tremble against his. She's so close already—he can tell by the way her hips start to roll, seeking friction despite herself, despite the public place and the danger and the hand clamped over her mouth. All his watching, all his waiting, all his careful cultivation of her dependence on him—it's been building to this. She's been his for years already. She just didn't know it until now.

"That's it," he croons against her ear, his voice barely audible over the announcement for the next stop. "That's my good girl. Let me feel you. Let me feel how much you want this."

He slides his middle finger lower, finds her entrance slick and fluttering, and pushes inside. She's tight—god, she's tight, the muscles of her pussy clamping down on him like a vice, resisting the intrusion even as her wetness eases his way. 

Caleb groans, the sound vibrating against her shoulder, and works his finger deeper, curling it to find the rough patch of tissue on her anterior wall. He knows he finds it when she bucks against him, her spine arching, her head falling back against his shoulder. "There?" he asks, unnecessary, because he can feel her response in the way her inner walls flutter around his finger, the way her breath comes in short, desperate pants against his palm. "Right there, baby? Is that your spot? Is that where you need me?"

He doesn't wait for an answer. He sets a rhythm, fucking her with his finger in slow, deep thrusts, his palm grinding against her clit with each inward stroke. 

The train lurches to a stop, and the doors open, letting in a gust of cold air and a fresh wave of passengers. Caleb uses the chaos to adjust his position, wedging himself more firmly against her, his cock nestled in the cleft of her ass, his finger working her with mechanical precision.

She's fighting him still, he realizes—not to get away, but to stay silent. Her whole body is rigid with the effort of suppression, her muscles locked against the pleasure he's forcing on her. He can feel the sweat gathering at her hairline, the damp heat of her skin through the cotton of her blouse. She wants to cry out. She wants to scream. She's eighteen and overwhelmed and he's fifty-two and relentless, and the disparity between them is the most erotic thing he's ever experienced.

"Let go, honey," he whispers against her ear, his tongue flicking out to taste the salt on her skin. "Stop fighting it. You're only making it worse. You're only making me want to hurt you more."

He adds a second finger, stretching her, feeling the burn as her body tries to accommodate the intrusion. She whimpers against his palm, and he shushes her again, his hand pressing harder, his fingers digging into her cheek. The train starts moving with a jerk, and he uses the momentum to thrust deeper, crooking his fingers inside her, massaging that spot with relentless focus.

"Feel that?" he asks, his voice guttural with his own need. "Feel how full you are? That's just two of my fingers, darling. Imagine if it was my cock. Imagine if I bent you over right here and fucked you until you couldn't walk straight. Would you like that? Would you like everyone to see what a little slut you are for me?"

She shakes her head, but her hips are moving now, grinding down on his hand, seeking more pressure, more friction, more of the building sensation that's making her shake apart in his arms. 

Caleb smiles against her hair and rewards her with his thumb, pressing hard on her clit while his fingers pump inside her, the wet squelch of it lost in the ambient noise of the train.

"Liar," he breathes. "You're soaked. You're dripping down my hand. You're going to make a mess of your pretty skirt, aren't you? You're going to walk into school with cum on your thighs and everyone's going to know how dirty you are, haha, my dirty little girl."

The words seem to break something in her. She goes rigid, her back bowing, her cunt clamping down on his fingers with rhythmic spasms that tell him she's cumming, hard and silent against his hand. Caleb holds her through it, his arm banded around her waist to keep her upright, his fingers still working her, drawing out the orgasm until she's twitching, oversensitive, trying to squirm away from the contact.

He doesn't let her. He keeps his fingers inside her, feeling the aftershocks ripple through her muscles, the way she goes limp, trusting him to hold her weight. He can see their reflection in the glass—him tall and dark and imposing, her small and dishevelled and utterly claimed.

"Good girl," he murmurs, finally withdrawing his hand from beneath her skirt. His fingers are shiny with her arousal, and he brings them to his mouth deliberately, sucking them clean while she watches in the window's reflection, her eyes wide and dazed. "Such a good girl for me. Look how well you did. Look how pretty you are when you cum for me."

She sways on her feet, and Caleb catches her, turning her around with careful hands. Her face is flushed, her lips parted, her eyes glassy with the aftermath of pleasure. He fixes her skirt with methodical precision, smoothing the pleats, adjusting the waistband, his touch impersonal now that he's had what he wanted. When he's satisfied, he cups her face in both hands, his thumbs brushing over her cheekbones, and begins to press kisses to her forehead, her temples, the tip of her nose.

"There's my sweet love," he croons, his voice soft as velvet, completely at odds with the filth he was whispering minutes ago. "There's my good girl. You did so well. I'm so proud of you."

She blinks up at him, still dazed, still floating on the endorphins he's given her. Caleb smiles down at her, all tender affection and dark promise, and brushes a strand of hair from her forehead.

"Listen carefully," he says, his tone shifting to something more commanding, though his hands remain gentle on her face. "When we get to the next stop, you're going to get off the train. You're going to walk to the first bathroom on the left. You're going to keep the door unlocked. You're going to lift your skirt and spread your legs and sit on the sink, and you're going to wait for me."

Caleb watches her process the instructions, sees the flicker of understanding in her eyes, the lingering haze of pleasure making her pliant and obedient.

"I have to give you your cummies before you get to school, don't I?" he continues, his thumb tracing her lower lip. "Can't send you off like this, all worked up and nowhere to go. That would be cruel. And I'm not cruel, am I, baby? I'm good to you, so good to you. I take good care of you."

She nods her head slowly, and Caleb rewards her with a kiss to her forehead, lingering there, breathing in the scent of her shampoo.

"That's right. I'm good to you. So you'll wait for me. You'll keep your legs spread and your baby cunny ready, and when I get there, I'm going to fuck you properly. I'm going to fill you up until you're dripping, until you can feel me inside you all day, until every step you take reminds you who you belong to. Does that sound nice?"

The train is slowing for the station. Caleb feels the deceleration in his knees, the familiar shift of weight as passengers prepare to disembark. He holds her face a moment longer, his eyes searching hers, making sure she understands, making sure she knows this isn't a request.

"Yeah," he murmurs, answering for her, his voice thick with satisfaction. "That's a good girl. That's my perfect little thing. Now go. Don't make me wait."

He releases her with a final pat to her cheek, a proprietary touch that lingers too long to be casual. She stumbles slightly as she turns, catching herself on the pole, and Caleb watches her go with hungry eyes, watching the sway of her skirt, the uncertainty in her step, the way she glances back at him just once before the doors open and the crowd carries her onto the platform.

He gives her a thirty-second head start, counting down in his head. His cock is still hard, aching, demanding attention, but he ignores it. Good things come to those who wait. Good things come to those who plan, who watch, who take what they want when the moment is right.

Caleb has been waiting for this for six months. He can wait another thirty seconds.

But only just.

The bathroom is exactly where he remembers it, tucked behind a concrete pillar near the elevators. The door is unlocked when he tries the handle, and Caleb smiles to himself, a slow, predatory expression that doesn't reach his eyes. 

She's already inside; she's already his good girl.

He knocks once, a soft tap of his knuckles against the metal. "It's me, darling. Let me in."

The lock clicks, and the handle turns. Caleb pushes inside and closes the door behind him, engaging the deadbolt with a decisive snap that seems loud in the small, tiled space.

She's exactly where he told her to be, perched on the edge of the sink with her skirt bunched around her waist, her legs spread wide and her feet dangling in the air. The position makes her look even smaller than she is, a doll arranged for his pleasure, her white cotton panties discarded on the tile. Her hands grip the edge of the sink beside her, knuckles white, and her chest heaves with quick, shallow breaths that make the front of her blouse flutter.

Caleb takes a moment to look at her, really look, cataloguing the details he has committed to memory over months of observation. 

"Good girl," he murmurs, and watches her shiver at the praise. He shrugs out of his overcoat, folding it with deliberate care and hanging it on the hook behind the door. His jacket follows, then his tie, until he's standing in only his shirt, the muscles of his forearms visible as he rolls them to his elbows. "You waited for me. You kept your legs spread just like I asked. That's very good. That's exactly what I wanted, honey."

He steps closer, closing the distance between them until his thighs brush against her knees. 

She's trembling, he notices, a fine vibration running through her entire body, and he reaches out to cup her face in one hand, his thumb stroking her cheekbone with tender possessiveness. "Nervous, baby? Don't be. I'm going to take such good care of you. I'm going to make you feel so good you'll forget your own name."

He drops his hand to her knee, and squeezes. Her skin is cold from the tile room, gooseflesh raised along her thighs, and he warms her with his palm, sliding upward slowly, inch by inch, watching her face for every reaction. When he reaches the apex of her thighs, he doesn't touch her where she wants it—where he can see she wants it, her hips tilting subconsciously toward his hand. Instead, he traces the crease where thigh meets pelvis, the sensitive skin there, feeling her muscles jump beneath his touch.

"P-Please," she whispers, and the word goes straight to his cock, making him harder, hungrier.

"Did you say something?" he asks, his voice mild, conversational, as if they're discussing the weather rather than her spread legs and his straining erection. "Use your words, sweetheart. I can't read your mind. Tell me what you need."

She bites her lip, her eyes dropping to where his hand rests so close to her core, and Caleb waits. He has infinite patience for this, for the breaking down of her defences, for the moment when her pride finally loses to need. He has been waiting for months. He can wait for a few seconds more.

"Touch me," she finally breathes, the admission costing her something, he can tell. "Please, I-I need—you were touching me before, on the train, and then you stopped, a-and I need—"

"Shh," Caleb interrupts, his free hand coming up to press a finger to her lips. "Hush now. Don't beg. I'll give you what you need because I want to give it to you, not because you asked nicely. Understand?"

He doesn't wait for an answer. He drops to his knees on the tile floor, the position putting his face level with her spread thighs, and hooks his hands behind her knees, pulling her forward until her hips are at the very edge of the sink. She gasps at the movement, at the sudden vulnerability of being open to him completely, and tries to close her legs, but his shoulders are there, broad and immovable, keeping her spread.

"Beautiful," he murmurs, and he means it—she's glistening, swollen, her arousal evident in the slick heat he can feel radiating against his chin. He leans in and inhales, groaning at the scent of her, musky and sweet and entirely hers. "Look at you. Look how wet you are. Is this all for me, baby? Did I do this to you?"

He doesn't expect an answer, and he doesn't get one. He uses his thumbs to part her folds, revealing the small, hardened bud of her clit, the fluttering entrance to her cunt, every intimate detail that belongs to him now. He studies her for a moment, memorizing the architecture of her pleasure, and then he leans in and licks.

The sound she makes is exquisite—a high, broken cry that she immediately tries to stifle, her hand flying to her mouth. Caleb reaches up and pulls it away, pinning her wrist to her thigh with his free hand. 

"No, little girl," he says against her flesh, his breath hot against her most sensitive skin. "No covering your mouth. I want to hear you. I want to hear every sound you make while I eat this pretty little cunny." He goes back to work with renewed focus, lapping at her in long, broad strokes of his tongue, gathering her taste, learning her responses. She's sensitive, he discovers, incredibly so—every touch of his tongue makes her jerk against him, her hips trying to squirm away even as her hands fist in his hair to hold him closer. The contradiction delights him. He tightens his grip on her wrist and uses his other hand to spread her wider, opening her completely to his mouth.

Caleb finds her clit with his lips and sucks, drawing the swollen bud and flicking it with the tip of his tongue, rapid, relentless movements that make her thighs tremble against his shoulders. She's making noises now, unable to help herself, small whimpering sounds that echo off the bathroom tiles. He hums against her, the vibration making her arch her back, and slides his tongue lower, pressing against her entrance, tasting the source of her wetness.

"So good," he murmurs, pulling back just enough to pant, his chin shiny with her slick. "You taste like honey, baby. Like something I could spend all day eating. Would you like that? Would you like me to keep you here for hours, just licking and sucking until you can't think straight?"

He doesn't wait for an answer. He returns to her clit, latching on with his lips and tongue, and slides two fingers into her cunt in one smooth thrust. She's tight still, gripping him immediately despite how he stretched her earlier in the train, her muscles fluttering around the intrusion. Caleb groans at the sensation, at the wet heat of her, and begins to move his fingers in a steady rhythm, curling them to find the spot inside her that makes her cry out, that makes her heels drum against the cabinet below the sink.

"That's it," he encourages, his voice muffled against her flesh. "That's my good girl. Let me feel you. Let me feel how much you want this."

He sets a punishing pace, his fingers pumping in and out, his mouth working her clit with single-minded focus. He can feel her closing to the edge, her thighs tensing, her breath coming in sharp gasps, and he doesn't let up, doesn't slow, driving her higher and higher until she's sobbing, her head thrown back, her free hand holding on for dear life on the edge of the sink. She cums with a scream that she tries to bite back, her body convulsing, her cunt clamping down on his fingers in rhythmic spasms that he feels right against his tongue. 

Caleb keeps working her, gentling his touch but not stopping, drawing out her orgasm until she's twitching, oversensitive, trying to push his head away with the hand he isn't holding.

"Too much," she gasps, her voice raw. "Please, it's too much, I can't—"

"Yes, you can," Caleb interrupts, looking up at her and smiling with his eyes, the expression is almost boyish. His fingers are still inside her, moving slowly now, feeling the aftershocks ripple through her muscles. "You can take more. You will take more. I'm not done with you yet, baby. I'm nowhere near done."

He pulls his fingers free and replaces them with his tongue, thrusting deep, tasting her from the inside, feeling her jerk against him at the sudden intimacy of it. She's so sensitive now that every touch makes her whimper, her body trying to curl in on itself to escape the sensation, but he holds her open, his hands gripping her thighs, his shoulders keeping her knees apart. He fucks her with his tongue, rapid, shallow thrusts that make her gasp and writhe, and then he moves back to her clit, sucking hard, flicking the tip of his tongue against the overstimulated bud until she's crying in earnest, tears streaming down her face, her body shaking with the effort of processing pleasure that has become too intense to bear.

"N-No, stop," she sobs, her voice breaking. "P-Please, I can't, it's too much, please stop—"

Caleb pauses, just barely, his lips still pressed against her swollen flesh. "Do you want me to stop?" he asks, his voice soft, dangerous. "Really? Or do you just think you should want me to stop?"

He looks up at her, meeting her eyes across the expanse of her trembling body, and sees the truth there—the hunger that outweighs the fear, the need that pushes past the discomfort. She shakes her head, minutely, and he smiles against her thigh, sharp and satisfied.

"That's what I thought," he murmurs, and goes back to work.

He brings her to the edge again and again, using his fingers and his tongue in combinations that make her scream, that make her beg, that reduce her to a sobbing, incoherent mess of sensation. She loses track of her orgasms—he can tell by the way she stops counting, stops distinguishing between each one, her body simply riding wave after wave of pleasure that he orchestrates with clinical precision. 

She's drooling, he notices, her mouth open and wet, her eyes glassy and unfocused. Perfect. Exactly as he wanted her. Empty of everything but the feeling of his mouth on her, his fingers inside her, his will overriding hers completely.

When he finally pulls back, she's limp against the sink, her legs splayed obscenely, her cunt swollen and red and dripping with his saliva and her own arousal. Caleb wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, savouring the taste of her, and stands, his knees popping slightly from kneeling too long on the hard floor. He towers over her, his shadow falling across her flushed, tear-streaked face, and he reaches down to cup her jaw, his thumb tracing her lower lip.

"Look at you," he says, his voice thick with satisfaction. "Look what I've done to you. Can't even speak, can you? Can't even think. Just a pretty little doll now, all empty and wet and ready for whatever I want to give you next."

He keeps his hand on her face, his other hand sliding into her hair, gripping the strands at the crown of her head. "Slide down," he commands, tugging gently to guide her. "On your knees, baby. There's something else I want you to do for me."

She obeys, her movements sluggish and uncoordinated, her body still floating on the pleasure he's flooded her with. She slides off the sink, her feet finding the floor unsteadily, and he helps her, his hand in her hair controlling her descent until she's kneeling before him, her face level with the straining bulge in his trousers. 

Caleb keeps his grip on her hair, tight enough to make her eyes water, and uses his other hand to unbuckle his belt, to unbutton his fly, to draw himself out into the cool bathroom air.

He's massive, flushed dark with blood, the head slick with precum that beads at the slit and drips slowly down the shaft. He watches her eyes track the movement, watches her pupils dilate, and he smiles, cruel and fond. "See what you do to me, darling?" he asks, giving himself a slow stroke, spreading the wetness over his heated skin. "See how hard I am for you? All because you're such a good little slut for me. Such a desperate little thing, letting an old man eat your cunt in a train station bathroom."

He slaps her cheek with his cock, the heavy weight of it landing against her skin with a wet sound that makes her flinch. He does it again, on the other side enjoying the way she tries to turn her face away only to have him tighten his grip in her hair and hold her still. 

"Don't look away," Caleb warns. "You did this. You take responsibility. Open your mouth."

She obeys, her lips parting tremulously, and he doesn't give her time to prepare. He thrusts forward, pushing past her lips, her teeth, lodging himself deep in her throat in one smooth movement. She gags immediately, her body convulsing, her hands flying up to push against his thighs. He ignores her, gripping her hair with both hands now, holding her head immobile as he begins to move.

"That's it," he groans, his hips setting a brutal rhythm, fucking her face with deep, punishing thrusts. "Take it. Take my cock, baby. You can do it. You're doing so well."

She chokes around him, her throat constricting in rhythmic spasms that feel like heaven, her eyes streaming tears that run down her face and drip onto her blouse. The fabric is already ruined—wrinkled from the train, damp with sweat, stained with a mixture of her drool and his precum. Caleb doesn't care. He likes the visual of her in disarray, her uniform defiled, the outward sign of her proper schoolgirl existence corrupted by what he's doing to her.

He looks down at her, at the way her lips are stretched wide around his girth, at the desperate, overwhelmed expression in her eyes, and he smiles.

"Good girl," he pants, his thrusts becoming erratic as his own pleasure builds. "Such a good little cocksucker. Look at you. Look how desperate you are for it. You love this, don't you? You love being used like this, treated like a little fucktoy. Tell me you love it."

Caleb pulls back slightly, giving her just enough room to gasp for air, to form words. She stares up at him, her face wrecked, her throat working, and rasps, "I l-love it."

The admission breaks something in him, some last restraint. Caleb snarls and thrusts deep, burying himself to the root, feeling her nose press against his abdomen, her throat convulsing around him as she struggles to breathe. He holds there, suspended in perfect agony, and then he's coming, pulsing thick ropes of cum directly into her throat, flooding her, marking her from the inside out. She swallows convulsively, her body trying to clear her airway, and he watches her take everything he gives her, and it's the hottest fucking thing he's ever seen. 

He keeps thrusting through his orgasm, milking himself against her tongue, her palate, the tight constriction of her throat, until he's empty, until he's sensitive, until he has to pull back with a gasp that sounds like pain.

She collapses forward when he releases her hair, catching herself on her hands, gasping for air, coughing, her face streaked with tears and saliva and the remnants of his release. Caleb looks down at her, at the picture she makes—slumped on a dingy bathroom floor, ruined, his—and feels a surge of possessive satisfaction so intense it makes him dizzy.

But he's not done. He's been planning this for too long, imagining it for too many sleepless nights, to stop now. He reaches down and grips her arm, hauling her to her feet with an ease that speaks to their size difference, to his strength, to her complete lack of resistance. She stumbles against him, her legs unsteady, and he catches her, turning her around with rough hands until she's facing the sink, her palms flat on the porcelain, her back to him.

"Look at you," he murmurs against her ear, his hands sliding down her sides to grip her hips. "Still so needy. Still so empty. Don't worry, baby. I'm going to fill you up. I'm going to give you what you really need."

He kicks her feet apart, spreading her legs, and pushes her forward until she's bent over the sink, her cheek pressed against the cool mirror, her eyes barely meeting his in the reflection. She's dazed, barely mentally present, her pupils blown wide, her mouth swollen and red from his cock. Caleb meets her gaze and holds it as he positions himself behind her, as he guides his still-hard cock to her entrance, as he pushes inside in one long, relentless thrust.

She sobs, her back arching, her fingers scrabbling for purchase on the slick porcelain. She's tight, impossibly tight, her cunt gripping him like a vice even though she's soaked, even though he prepared her with his mouth for what feels like hours. 

Caleb groans, his forehead dropping to her shoulder, his hands tightening on her hips hard enough to bruise. "Fuck," he breathes, the word reverent. "Fuck, you're perfect. You're so tight, baby. So hot. Feel how you fit me? Feel how you were made for this?"

He doesn't give her time to adjust. He pulls back and thrusts again, deeper, harder, setting a rhythm that shakes the sink on its bolts. The mirror fogs with their breath, with the heat of their bodies, and Caleb watches their reflection as he fucks her—watches the way his hips slam against her ass, the way her breasts bounce with each impact, the way her eyes roll back when he hits a certain angle inside her.

He shifts his grip, sliding one hand around her waist to find her clit, still sensitive, still swollen, and he rubs it in time with his thrusts, driving her back toward the edge he's already pushed her over so many times. She sobs his name—Caleb, Caleb, Caleb—and he rewards her with a particularly deep thrust, angling his hips to grind against that spot inside her that makes her wail.

"That's it," he pants, his own pleasure building again, coiling tight at the base of his spine. "That's my good girl. Take it. Take my cock. You're doing so well, pretty girl. So well for me."

Caleb can feel her tightening around him, her body preparing for another orgasm, and he wants it—wants to feel her cum on his cock. But more than that, he wants to claim her completely. He wants to mark her in the most primitive way possible, to fill her with his seed and know that she'll carry him inside her for hours, for days, forever.

He releases her clit and grips her hips with both hands, pulling her back onto him with each thrust, changing the angle so he's hitting her deeper, harder, his pelvis grinding against her ass with every impact. 

"Going to fill you up," he warns, his voice guttural, barely human. "Going to put my cum so deep inside you, baby. Going to breed this pretty little cunt. You want that? You want me to make you mine?"

She squeals when she comes, her body convulsing, her cunt clamping down on him in rhythmic spasms that trigger his own orgasm. Caleb groans, his head falling back, his hips jerking uncontrollably as he pulses inside her, flooding her, painting her womb with thick ropes of his release. He keeps thrusting through it, milking himself dry, making sure every drop ends up exactly where it belongs.

When he finally stills, they're both panting, sweating, their bodies stuck together with fluids and exertion. Caleb stays inside her for a long moment, enjoying the aftershocks that ripple through her muscles, the way she twitches when he shifts his hips. 

Then, slowly, he pulls out, watching with dark satisfaction as his cum begins to leak from her, dripping down her thighs, marking her as thoroughly on the outside as he has on the inside. But he's not satisfied. He wants more. He wants her to carry him with her all day, to feel him with every step, to be reminded constantly of what he's done to her.

He reaches down and picks up her discarded panties from the floor, the white cotton still warm from her body. He holds them in one hand and grips his cock in the other, pumping himself slowly, coaxing the last thick drops of his release from the slit. He aims carefully, watching his seed spill into the gusset of her underwear, soaking the fabric until it's heavy with his claim.

When he's finished, he tucks himself back into his trousers with one hand and uses the other to guide her upright, turning her to face him. She's barely standing, her legs shaking like a newborn fawn, her eyes glazed and unfocused. 

Caleb smiles at her, tender and cruel, and begins to dress her like he didn't just fuck her raw.

He buttons her blouse, smoothing the wrinkles as best he can. He straightens her skirt, adjusting the pleats, his fingers lingering on the fabric that covers what he's done to her. Then, he kneels and holds out her panties, the gusset dark and heavy with his cum.

"Step in," he commands, his voice soft.

She obeys, lifting one foot and then the other, letting him guide the soaked fabric up her legs, over her knees, settling it against her most intimate flesh. He adjusts them carefully, making sure the wettest part presses directly against her entrance, and just to make sure, he slaps the gusset sharply, making her gasp and jerk against him.

"There," he says, standing and cupping her face in both hands. He presses kisses to her forehead, her temples, the tip of her nose, each touch gentle and proprietary. "Now you're perfect. Now you're carrying me with you. Can you feel it, baby? Can you feel how wet you are? How full?"

He pulls back slightly, looking into her eyes, making sure she's listening, that she understands. "I'll pick you up after class," he tells her, his thumb tracing her lower lip. "I'll be waiting at the corner, in the black car with a plate number of 0613. You come straight to me, understand? No detours. No talking to anyone. And when I get you home, I'm going to check this pretty little cunny and see if you're still sticky with my cummies."

He smiles, sharp and predatory, and pats her between her legs, feeling the damp heat even through the fabric. "You better keep my baby cunny warm for me," he murmurs against her ear. "Keep it ready. Keep it wet. Because I'm not done with you yet, darling. I'm nowhere near done."

He releases her and steps back, dressing quickly, efficiently, while she sways on her feet, trying to process what he's done to her, what he's made her into. When he's finished, he looks like any other businessman—polished, professional, respectable. 

No one would guess what he's just spent the last hour doing to a high school senior in a public bathroom.

Caleb opens the door and checks the platform—still empty. He turns back to her, standing small and dishevelled in the centre of the room, and holds out his hand. "Honey, come here," he says, and she goes to him easily, placing her small hand in his large one, letting him lead her out into the light.

The walk to the stairs is short. At the top, he releases her hand and steps back, putting distance between them that feels like a physical wound.

"Go to school," he tells her, his voice carrying the weight of command. "Pay attention in class. Be a good girl. And remember—I'll know if you touch yourself. I'll know if you try to clean up before I see you. Don't disappoint me."

He watches her climb down, her steps unsteady, her skirt swishing around thighs that are still slick with him. He watches until she disappears around the corner, until he's alone on the platform with the distant sound of approaching passengers and the taste of her still on his tongue.

Then he smiles, slow and satisfied, and checks his watch. Ten hours until school ends. Ten hours until he can claim her again.

Caleb can wait, he's been waiting his whole life for her.

SAINT'S NOTES ! if you guys saw my drafts for this ... it was a fucking mess, like an actual mess; i wrote this in february, and i was literally going crazy by that point—this is the product of my brainrot. here's to hoping that i'll get to my dadleb anthology before march ends.

© skyizhou : do not claim, modify, copy or repost my works without permission. feeding my works to ai is strictly prohibited. minors do not interact.

[the-darklings]

𓈒 ˳ ˳ 𝐁𝐄𝐓𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐁𝐎𝐁𝐁𝐘 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓.

Bobby's been a shit boyfriend for months. When you disappear through a wall in the basement of Clark's furniture store, you wake up in the Backrooms, where a better version of Bobby is waiting. One who actually shows up, one who loves you, one who never, ever wants to let you go.

bobby franklin x f!reader x entity!bobby

cw: emotional neglect, psychological horror, backroom entities/lore, implied creature violence, emotional manipulation by non-human entity, alcohol abuse (secondary character), grief/loss, verbal arguments (no physical violence), angst.

𓈒 asks/mini concepts 𓈒 𓈒 𓈒 playlist

‽ part one / concept. ‽ part two. ‽ part three. ⸘ interlude: entity 0 ‽ part four.

extras:

҉　- main story canon compliant piece.

Ꮺ୧ making out w/ better bobby. Ꮺ୧ better you! ҉　 Ꮺ୧ "baby." ҉　 Ꮺ୧ "open your mouth." Ꮺ୧ pillow fort. Ꮺ୧ in the beginning. ҉　 Ꮺ୧ my, what long tongue you have. Ꮺ୧ sunlight. ҉　 Ꮺ୧ slow dancing. ҉　 Ꮺ୧ rib time. Ꮺ୧ conceiving w/ bb. Ꮺ୧ bb watching you w/ bobby. ҉　 Ꮺ୧ intimacy hdcs w/ BB. Ꮺ୧ memories. ҉　 Ꮺ୧ cuteness aggression. Ꮺ୧ twins au. Ꮺ୧ mr. kitty. ҉　

⎋ M.E.G. ENTITY 0 — RESEARCH FILE INDEX:

↹ MEG-ENT-0000-ADDM-██ — Restricted Addendum: Reproductive Capability Assessment (Filed Under Protest)

[valarrswhitestreak]

snippets of modernprince!valarr pt1

with a snippet of dark modernprince!valarr at the end!

Valarr is the grandson of the King of Westeros, the third in line to the throne, and he’s constantly dealing with the expectations put on him, not only by his family but by the nation.

He attends King’s Landing University, the country's most prestigious institution, where he studies business and politics, per the King's request.

Valarr is the darling of the media, never causing a scandal or getting into any trouble. The worst thing he's ever done is stumble a little after a night out, the camera's catching him righting himself and going along his merry way.

By all accounts, he's a dream of a future King. No one is worried about the future of Westeros with him in charge.

He has social media, but all very proper. Pictures of charity galas, polo matches, and an occasional run around the lake at their summer home.

His social media is where the young (and sometimes old) women of Westeros thirst over him. He's pretty, with his tousled hair and mismatched eyes, and considering the frenzy that Baelor caused as a young man, people are expectant. He’s always touted to be the number one bachelor in Westeros, and the daughters of noble families are lining up for a chance with Valarr.

In one of his university classes, Valarr meets the woman who he determines will be his future wife - a kind girl who treats him normally (he'd so like that, much more than he lets on), joking with him and sharing her notes with him after he missed class due to a royal event. They have the same group of friends, and soon the pair spend more and more time together. They are able to discover their feelings for each other freely, as the King arranged for no paparazzi on campus, and soon, their relationship is somewhat of an open secret at the school. They still do their best to be subtle about it.

She meets his family quickly, easily getting along with Baelor and Matarys, though his cousins are less pleasant. Baelor likes her, thinking her sensible and good for his son. He won't make any judgments about her capacity to be a royal, as she and Valarr are still young, but he doesn't discourage his son from the relationship.

And so, the pair keep their relationship lowkey, spending their summer at the palace and their days at university cuddled up in Valarr's dorm, watching silly tv shows and eating greasy Chinese food.

All is going well, until...

One day, a video is leaked showing Valarr and his girlfriend at a party, the one they had attended on campus only a few days ago, with her sitting on his lap, the pair kissing slowly and deeply. They were sitting by themselves in a small, secluded corner, and yet someone had zoomed in on them as they got lost in each other. Valarr's hands were gripping her waist and thigh, holding her close to him, while she had her hands tangled in his hair and holding his shoulder, dragging up and down his arms. It's clear to viewers that the pair aren't strangers.

The video blows up online and Baelor is frustrated, but he knows it’s not Valarr’s fault. Someone invaded his privacy, likely someone he trusted.

Valarr’s girlfriend is mortified, ashamed that the entirety of Westeros had seen her feeling up her boyfriend as they shared spit, and that their relationship, which had once been quiet and peaceful, was now loud and public.

He’s caring for her, gentle and kind, soothing her worries and wiping away the tears that spill over as she cries into his chest. He’s just such a good boyfriend, even when his family give him knowing looks. He’s always been soft, but he’s at his softest with his girlfriend.

It doesn’t help that Valarr wants to show her off publicly, now that their relationship has been exposed. He's proud of her and somewhat proud of himself for being worthy of someone like her.

He starts bringing her to his events, the bigger ones like his annual polo match, or his family's Christmas party - the ones where cameras are allowed. Their photos together make the front page of the Daily Westeros, speculation coming around whether the royal family will have another wedding soon.

There are still some critics who hold their video against them, but mostly, the public doesn't mind the couple. In fact, they end up quite popular with a number of TikTok edits being made of the pair.

It's no surprise to anyone when a few years down the track, the King is announcing that his grandson will soon be married in the great sept, and the bells are ringing all across King's Landing to celebrate the new nuptials.

Okkkkkkk, however.....

The idea of a darker side to modernprince!Valarr is tickling my brain. It's not just a random video of him and his girlfriend making out that gets leaked, but instead, it's the sex tape the pair filmed one weekend on a trip to the coast. Both their faces are in it, and no one can deny what they're doing. It's simple, just a phone propped up on a dresser, capturing the couple on the bed - nothing elaborate. But it's what's in the video that captures Westeros's attention. Harsh rutting, loud whines, long and drawn-out moans. Prince Valarr might be the pinnacle of propriety in public, but in the bedroom, he's calling her 'good girl' or 'my pretty whore' as he tugs her hair back, hitting it from behind. He's making her cum on his cock as she whines into the sheets. He's slapping her ass until the handprint is visible to the lens, and cumming inside of her and making sure it stays inside.

The video has both of them staying inside for days, lying low as the scandal blows up. She's despondent, horrified at the leak and the media attention. It pushes her further into her boyfriend's arms, Valarr doing his best to console her as she sobs.

Valarr can only stroke her hair and hide his grin, for it was he who leaked the video to the press. He'd looked at her phone the week before, seeing a message to her friend saying that she didn't know if she could do it anymore - the attention and constant eyes on her were too much. He had decided then that he just couldn't let her leave him.

Now, she would have to stay with him. No one would want her now. She'd have no career, nor any future away from him. All she could do was stand by his side, rebuilding their image as a deeply in-love couple. A few attendances at his next polo match would surely smooth things over, Valarr thought. Maybe an heir would help too, but all in good time.

(Aerion congratulates his cousin on the mess happily, thinking back to the time his own sex tape got released.)

[louloucake]

valarr refuses to soil you before your wedding night so he helps you in another form ⊹˖᯽ ݁˖

-fingering, oral f receiving, overstimulation, squirting, makin' out, and valarr just being a service top! ᥫ᭡

the firelight paints the stone walls in shifting shades of gold and shadow, but the heat is nothing compared to the fire banked low in your belly. you are a squirming, desperate thing beside valarr on the furs, your hands roaming over the hard planes of his chest, your mouth seeking his in a series of frantic, needy kisses.

“valarr, please,” you whimper against his lips, your fingers tangling in the silk of his hair. you pull him closer, trying to roll him on top of you, trying to align your bodies in the way you crave. “i need you. now. take me. forget the vows, forget the morrow. just fuck me.”

you can feel his arousal, a hard bugle straining against his breeches, pressing into your hip. he wants this too! you know he does…but his hands, which had been gripping your waist, still you. 

he pulls back from your kisses, his breathing harsh, his eyes dark with a conflict that makes you want to scream.

“shhh,” he shushes, his voice a low, strained rumble. “be still my dove.”

“still?” you almost sob, arching against him in frustration. “i cannot be still! i feel like i might burn alive from the inside out. you feel this,” you insist, grinding your hips against his. “you know i need you inside me.”

a ghost of a smile touches his lips, a mixture of adoration and torment. 

“oh, i feel it,” he admits, his voice dropping to a near growl. “but to have you now, to take you before the seven have witnessed our union…it would be a theft. from you, from our future, from the honor of the house we will build.”

his words are noble, but they feel like a cage. you thrash beneath him, a wild thing caught in chivalry. “i do not care about honor now! i care about you! about this ache only you can soothe.”

“and i will soothe it,” he vows, his gaze intense and unwavering. “i swear it. but not with my cock. not yet. the waiting will make it all the sweeter, i promise you. every moment of this torment will be paid back tenfold on our wedding night.”

“valarr…” you whine before he cuts you off.

“but for now…” he shifts, his weight pinning you more effectively, “…for now, you will learn a different kind of patience. and a different kind of pleasure.”

with he begins a slow, deliberate exploration of your body. he does not rush. he traces the line of your jaw, the column of your throat, the swell of your breasts above the tight lacing of your nightgown. his touch is a mark, a promise of what is to come. he watches your face, his eyes drinking in every flutter of your lashes, every gasp that escapes your lips.

he unlaces your gown with an infuriating lack of haste, his knuckles brushing against your skin, sending shivers through you. when the fabric is finally loosened, he pushes it down, baring you to the warm air and his ravenous gaze. 

he takes his time with your breasts, palming their weight, thumbing your nipples into tight, aching peaks before lowering his head to suckle them, one at a time, his tongue swirling in a way that makes your cunt clench with empty need.

“valarr…valarr, i beg you!!” you pant, pulling uselessly at the fabric of his shirt. 

“begging is good,” he murmurs against your skin, kissing a path down your stomach.  he pushes your thighs apart with his broad shoulders. he settles between your legs, his breath a warm gust against your soaked folds. “but you are begging for the wrong thing. let me show you what you should be begging for.”

his mouth is on you then, hot, wet licks as if he is memorizing your taste. 

he groans, a deep, guttural sound of pure satisfaction. “seven hells, you are perfect,” he praises, his words vibrating against your clit before kissing it with a smack. “so wet for your husband to be.”

he eats you like a man starved, his tongue delving into your entrance, his lips closing around your clit and sucking hard.

“oh! my prince please, i’m- i’m overwhelmed! i need…”

he then slides two thick fingers inside you, and the sudden fullness is a bittersweet relief. he curls them, stroking that hidden place inside you that makes your vision blur. his mouth and fingers work in a perfect, maddening rhythm, pushing you higher and higher.

“you will take my fingers, and you will take my tongue,” he commands, his voice muffled by your flesh. “you will spend for me like this, again and again. and you will thank the gods i am strong enough to wait.”

“my love!” you writhe against his mouth, your hands pulling at the pillow behind you and his hair to try and get him off you for the way he’s eating you so is wonderfully intense. 

“beautiful wife, i am going to fuck you for a day and a night, insure your legs are of no service.”

his debauched promise is what shatters you. your orgasm is a violent, beautiful thing, a rush of wetness that soaks his face and the furs beneath you. 

you scream his name, your body arching off the day bed as wave after wave of pleasure wracks you. 

he doesn’t stop, lapping at your release, prolonging your ecstasy until you are a limp, trembling, sobbing mess.

“no more- no- no more.” you hiccup

when he finally moves back over you, his face is glistening with your essence. he looks down at you, he is still hard, still unsated, but his resolve has not wavered.

“satisfied?” he smiles triumphantly.

[starry-bi-sky]

The Anita Ekberg Treatment

Jazz Fenton is not blind to her social reputation in the ever-evolving food chain of Lemures Middle School.

Why would she be?

She’s curated it since the second grade, when she was sick and tired of being picked on by her classmates for reasons involving her parents’ occupations, and the teachers wouldn’t help her. Just like they wouldn’t — and didn’t — help Danny.

It was armor for herself. Fighting back physically or verbally wouldn’t do anything, since she already knew the teachers wouldn’t take her side. She’d seen it happen to the other kids that were disliked like she was. She was at a natural disadvantage that her other classmates were free from.

Fighting openly only got people in bigger trouble and their tormentors more ammo.

So she took the opposite approach. The “kill em with kindness” approach.

Make everyone like her to the point they won’t feel the need to be mean to her anymore.

If that fails, make enough friends that any of her enemies will risk tanking their own reputation trying to cross her.

And, quite smugly, Jazz is happy to say it worked.

This is all to say—

Jazz knows she’s popular. Very popular. And while she couldn’t care less about the “celebrity rankings” that followed around everyone like a stain, that didn’t mean she didn’t know she was solidly in the “S-List” in the eyes of most everyone else.

(A list that her baby brother’s “popular” bullies will never even touch, on account that they’re only popular because they’re mean and have the backing of the teachers.)

(As opposed to Jazz herself and all the other S-List kids, who were popular because they’re nice to everyone and had the backings of the teachers to boot.)

It suited her just fine.

It meant she got away with everything, could talk to anybody regardless of their own social standing, and that anybody who cared about the rankings would listen to just about anything she said, regardless of the request or the reason.

It also meant that she knew just about anything, and everyone told her everything.

Which brought her to her next problem.

“Weston’s creeping again?” Spike asks, frowning as he leans against the wall beside her. His jewelry jangles against his arms pleasantly, and his presence is almost a soothing balm to Jazz’s soul.

Keyword: Almost.

The simmering, protective fury bubbling up inside her chest burns just a liittle too hot to be appeased by anything less than Wes Weston’s weasely little head on a spike.

Jazz promptly pulls her mouth back into a hiss, and spits out a quiet, vitriolic: “Yes.”

Wes Weston: a fourteen year old, ginger-haired boy in Jazz’s 8th grade class that’s been stalking her twelve year old baby brother since the beginning of the academic year. Maybe even before that.

Where Jazz is standing, she has a clear view of Danny and his friends huddled in a little alcove. Danny’s hiding a bruise on his cheek that he couldn’t get to heal fast enough this morning, when an impromptu ghost attack occurred during breakfast.

Jazz had distracted their parents to give him the time to run off, and when she ran into him at the school gate a few minutes ago, she stuffed a few snacks into his hands that she snagged from the pantry. He didn’t get to eat.

He’s leaning into Tucker’s side, some of his curls squishing against his friend’s shoulder, and he’s laughing at something Sam said.

The sight makes Jazz fond beyond words. Danny deserves his pockets of joy, he does so much for the city and never gets acknowledged for it.

What doesn’t make her fond, however, is being able to see the back of Weston’s head, peering around the corner — because Lemures is built strangely and asymmetrically, and Jazz is at a diagonal that allows her a great deal of sight across the quad — and watching her little brother.

There are other students around, coagulating in groups with their friends, but they’re hardly paying him much mind.

There are no teachers. They’re all inside, watching the kids in the gym, waiting to be dismissed for first period.

Jazz digs her nails into her palms and folds her arms into her chest, forcing some sort of pressure on herself so she doesn’t go up behind Weston and drag him to the ground by his stupid hair.

(It’d be the only fight Jazz Fenton would get in, and she has plenty of get-out-of-jail free cards to get away with it. It’d be only a slap on the wrist for her, and utter social death for Wes Weston.)

(All she would have to do is tell the truth anyways: Weston has been stalking her little brother. She has plenty of friends to confirm it for her — they’ve seen it too, both by her asking to snoop on her behalf, and witnessing it themselves independently — and even more willing to lie for her.)

(But if she did that, word would get out. “Danny Fenton has a stalker” would blaze through the grades like a bushfire.)

(It’d reach Danny’s ears, and it’d reach his bullies’ ears too. He’d be horrified and ashamed that something like that was found out, and they’d have material to attack him with.)

It’s a very near thing.

From the corner of her eye, Spike side-eyes her. “Do you want me to get him for you?” He asks, a displeased lilt in his voice.

Jazz’s eyes narrow; she tries to blow up Weston’s head with her gaze alone. “No.” ‘Not yet’ she almost says, because she’s terribly tempted.

Spike’s not as popular as she is, and he’s been in fights before. He can’t get it on his disciplinary record, and she’d need to gag-order him not to tell the teachers why he did it. It’d be a lose-lose all around, and only temporary relief.

She needs to figure out what to do, and fast. She’s been trying to take it slow ever since she found out about Weston’s stalking habit, gathering evidence and witness statements, plotting with her best friends on what to do.

But she’s not sure how much more of it Danny can take.

He’s trying to hide it, but it’s fraying on his mental state. She can tell.

(Jazz is not blind, and there’s a reason she picked up psychology after he died in their HOUSE had his accident. It was to help figure out what was wrong.)

(Like all the times before, it was coming in about as handy as Cassandra’s curse.)

And he has so much to deal with already.

(Jazz peeked into his room once. It was 3am and she woke up sweating from the heater. She’d gone to mess with the thermostat in the hallway, and saw Danny’s glow from beneath his door.)

(She’d laid down flat on the floor to peer underneath, too nervous to actually knock and offer her assistance.)

(They’ve been getting close again ever since Danny told her about dying his powers. But there’s still a glass wall there that Jazz can’t climb yet.)

(She misses the way their relationship used to be, the grief gnaws in the pit of her chest like a gaping wound some nights.)

(But she’d peered under the door one night anyways, and saw him bleeding out across the carpet. Green, viscous, with Danny staring blankly at the ceiling like a corpse.)

(The same way she found him in Mom’s arms the day of his accident. This time, he wasn’t breathing.)

He looks so tired these days when he thinks nobody’s looking. Jazz is always looking out for her baby brother.

So she has to do something soon, before Weston breaks off more of whatever’s left of him.

(Vlad’s doing enough of that already. She’s never forgiven herself for encouraging their family to stay in that house and allowing Masters to get his hands on Danny.)

(She should’ve stayed close. Shouldn’t have left him alone. She wants to snap Vlad’s neck some days.)

(Jazz doesn’t know when she became so violent. Probably around the same time her brother died.)

Her thoughts trail off as she sees Weston shift, tilting to the side — for a fleeting, glorious moment, she thinks he’s going to leave — and reaching into the pocket of his jacket.

He pulls out his phone — Jazz’s stomach twists — and taps his thumb across it briefly. Turning back towards Danny, she catches, even from a distance, the familiar buttons of the camera app.

(She’s had her SUSPICIONS—)

Her blood runs cold.

Wes Weston is dead meat.

[cdragons]

Modern BSF Daeron HCs ft. Modern Yearning Vallar

pairings: platonic bsf! daeron targaryen & platonic bsf!fem!reader, and yearning! valarr targaryen x oblivious! fem! reader

synopsis: daeron wins the title best girlfailure in our hearts - no, i will not take any criticism on that take

a/n: a following crack to this crack but with bsf! daeron as an mc!

modern bsf! daeron who went back to university after rehab because the fucking therapist maekar pays for said 'it's important for still-budding men such as yourself to seek out their potential.'

modern bsf! daeron who was probably the oldest student in the lecture halls and seminars, sat in the back because he couldn't stand the idea of people sneaking looks at him, wondering why the familial failure still bothers to try

modern bsf! daeron who went back to his old habits of crashing frat parties and sending his liver to an early grave with whatever jungle-juice swell they decided to serve

modern bsf! daeron who blacked out, only to wake up with ice water dumped on his face as he belligerently stared at his 'savior.'

"hey, you prick!" the large blur was talking. it sounded female. "did you really think you could just fucking vomit on me, and then knock out?!" daeron blinked. he tried to speak, but it just came out as "shhhhhhhhh." the blur groaned before lifting him up, using her body as a resting spot for his attempt to stand. "do you at least got a phone on you?" phone. phone... daeron thought for a bit. "...chucked it..." "god-fucking-dammit."

modern bsf! daeron who woke up the next day in his boxers, but wearing a soft, too-tight Hello Kitty t-shirt - oh, and a clearer image of the blur whose stare wasn't nearly as scary as maekar's, but fairly damn close

"um, miss, we didn't...um..." gods, this was fucking mortifying, "there was no-"

you pointed to the door. on the hook was a spare towel and Head-and-Shoulders 2-in-1 inside a caddy. "you're taking a shower and paying for my dry-cleaning." "yes, ma'am."

modern bsf! daeron who, do not ask him how, ended up with the nosiest, helicopter-y, nit-picky woman in all of Westeros as a best friend

modern bsf! daeron who couldn't be more grateful for you in his life and wouldn't trade you for anything in the world

modern bsf! daeron who still struggled with his demons - insomnia, sleep paralysis, depression, anxiety, grief, as life didn't suddenly become rainbows and gold after you barged yourself into his life - but now had you to help in making it manageable

modern bsf! daeron who dropped out of business and moved to art after you stayed when he told his father during a surprise visit that went shockingly well and tame

-

-

-

...assuming no one commented on the bite marks on maekar's arm that day when he returned to the office

"say that again, you fucking boomer! say that again to my fucking face!" "sweetie! sweetie - you made your point!" "lemme at him, daeron! i can take him!"

modern bsf! daeron who realized in that moment, he got hit with the found family trope irl and when second-year came, asked you to be his flatmate

modern bsf! daeron who is now almost a year into his sobriety, pursuing a passion he forgot he loved, on not terrible terms with his father anymore, and isn't dreading the long vacation at summerhall for once because you'll be there bitching about everyone in the corner with him

modern bsf! daeron who got fucking hosed down in medium roast summer isles brew by his baby cousin when he innocently showed him your instagram page

modern bsf! daeron who forgot how much of a nosy brat modern! valarr was as kid and already planning on making up some long-winded tale on how your grandmother suddenly got too ill and you could no longer grace his family with your presence and you needed to go to Dorne immediately to nurse her to health

---------> you didn't have a grandmother in Dorne, but valarr didn't know that, did he?

modern bsf! daeron who was going to announce the tragic news to his family, when Egg is talking his ear off about showing you all his favorite spots in the woods, Aemon listing off his favorite parts of those new books you and daeron got him for his birthday, and the twins, Daella and Rhae, are squealing his ear off because you were so nice and you got the boys to listen and make them sit and play princess with them and - oh, seven fucking hells, he couldn't do it

modern bsf! daeron whose phone is contemplating suicide by the sheer volume of texts modern! valarr keeps sending him - all about you

valarr: she seems really quiet and polite, makes sense she'd be interested in art. do you know what specific time era she likes best? does she like romanticism or prefer post-war modernism? daeron: valarr, it is five in the fking mornig

modern bsf! daeron who can admit, alright, if he had to lose you to any one of his family members, then he supposed he'd want it to be his younger cousin

modern yearning! valarr who was the golden prince of the targaryen dynasty, the shining heir, the eternal bright light son who could never disappoint

modern yearning! valarr who, at the very least, wouldn't ever treat you less than how you deserved and would absolutely give you the princess treatment you gushed over when reading one of your many, many romantasy books

modern yearning! valarr who could pretend all he wished, but modern bsf! daeron could see the streak of obsession in those mismatched eyes whenever he brought up your name, it was the very same one that cursed every targaryen one way or another

"hey, did you know my cousin's in your class?" daeron not-so-casually brought up during dinner one day. "maybe you've seen him?" "hm?" you glanced up from your plate, cheeks full with food - oh, yeah... you quickly nodded and swallowed so that you didn't accidentally choke. "yeah, i think so - it was um...it's uh... valor, i think?" gods, he tried to stop the giant shit-eating grin taking up his face - but to no avail, "yep, that's the one - so, how come you've never asked about him?" now you were really confused, "why would i ask you about him?" "dunno, just thought you might be curious, is all," daeron casually shrugged, relieved to know that your friendship wasn't never borne from the desire to get closer to his perfect cousin. "just wanted you to know it's okay if you do." "yeah, not interested," you forked a piece of stir-fried broccoli into your mouth. "tries to talk to me sometimes - probably feels bad for me or something." "what, why?" "hell if i know - pretty sure he doesn't even know my name."

modern bsf! daeron who's now about...86% sure that his cousin's obsession with you has more to do with your lack of worshipping him, and not because he actually knew anything about you

-

-

-

...no, seriously, did you have some alter ego he didn't know about? when have you ever been quiet throughout the entire time he's known you?

modern bsf! daeron who, in good conscience, couldn't let his cousin think that he'd hand over his best friend without further investigation - surely the golden prince knew that he needed to prove himself to the fair maiden

modern bsf! daeron who spied in the corner of his eye the invitiation to the same tennis championship match he and his family were invited to every year without fail, the very same that daeron hated attending because of all the attention that was forced on him

modern bsf! daeron who, if he had to suffer another year of all eyes on him, he'd at least bring someone who'd make it fun

you were coming out of the showers to wash off the sweat from your workout when you got a text from your roommate/best friend/sponsee since second-year, daeron. you checked the screen and were shocked to see the list of missed calls from the lazy dork. it was thursday - he only had the seminar, and you didn't need to pick him up until at least another hour. worry was quick to set into your bones.

was daeron hurt?

did he relapse?

did his dad know? what about his brothers?

you didn't bother drying your hair before you made a mad dash for the lockers to change. the fabric clung to your still wet skin, but all you could think about was the idea that your friend was scared or hurt or gods forbid - dead in some ditch. you burst out of the gym lockers when you called him back.

*ring* *ring* *ring* *click* "oh hey-"

"daeron! oh thank fuck! send me your location, i'm on my way -"

"you're coming with me to the Westerlings championships," dareon interrupted, sounding exhausted - the last few words were spat out like a kid needing to go to the dentist to get a cavity filled. "please..."

you stopped in your tracks, hair still dripping and slowly soaking the back of your cardigan. daeron sounded fine - tired, sure, but definitely not-injured, and most importantly, sober.

relief quickly replaced fear. sober daeron was good, safe, not dead, and... called you twenty times when he was okay and let you think he was dead in a ditch sending a quick 'hey, not dead and drunk' took too much fucking effort.

yea, anger was quick to slap relief the fuck out of you.

daeron cleared his throat, "um, hello-"

"...are you kidding me?" you spat out. "are. you. fucking. KIDDING. me?"

"ah, there she is."

"have you gone batshit mental, daeron?! you called me twenty times! TWENTY. FUCKING. TIMES! what the actual FUCK is wrong with you?"

"well, come now, darling - you already have my med list," daeron chuckled (a chuckle, the pretty-faced prick thought this was fucking funny). "you have a better idea of my ailments than me."

"i am going to beat you with a fucking pineapple, you damn prick. you-" you stopped and pinched the skin just above your nose bridge - breathe in, breathe out, breathe in, breathe out - and repeated that twice more. "this could've been a fucking text."

"and miss the chance to hear your siren voice? i could never."

straight to hell. straight to hell, you were gonna send this buffoon.

"...is the vein there?"

cheeky. fucking. bitch

"i'm moving out."

"fine, fine -but first, sit with me next week at the westerlings matches."

"daeron, i'm not interested in attending some fucking tennis match, watching two people hit a ball for hours under the sun for gods know how long-"

"-all the food is complimentary with our seats."

...fucking hells, the lout knew your weaknesses...

"can i wear my flip-flops to this?"

"not if you want everyone to call you a trollop."

you stared up at the ceiling, weighing your options - although, there really wasn't much of a choice in this, and the asshole knew that.

"...your dad's paying for my outfit."

"pick up mine while you're at it!"

modern yearning! valarr who is experiencing a new form of hell every time he looks from his seat and sees you with his cousin - the two of you, sitting together, secret smiles and soft laughter like two lovers exchanging secrets and sweet nothings

"okay, so who's that one in the pink?" "the one looking like a pepto-bismo fever dream? or the one wearing a hat with the giant vagina?" "giant vagina hat." "right, so that's Talla Florent." "ooo, what'd she do?" "not so much as her as her husband - on the right, beer-bellied wrinkly fellow - city watch discovered an underground sex dungeon last month, they found him bound in leather and squealing like a pig." "let me guess, her brother, cousin, or twice-removed-nephew was the one with the whip." "all that - and she watched in the corner."

honestly, it was beyond maddening to have to watch the ardent display

modern yearning! valarr who, despite his early training in propriety and self-discipline, continues to lose more of his sanity and self-control the more he looks at you

by the mother, you looked gorgeous in white. did daeron buy you that dress? were the two of you meant to match? no, if that were the case, you'd show up wearing green - thank gods, not green. fuck, you'd look incredible in blue. the crowd cheers as people outside their box begin to stand. kiera is clapping like mad before proceeding to shake Valarr's shoulder to get his attention, "yes! they got the point!" "huh? what?" valarr's mismatched tore away to watch in confusion as the excitement. "who?" "really, valarr?" kiera couldn't help but roll her eyes at her friend. honestly, this was getting ridiculous. "can you stop being jealous over your cousin for two seconds?" "wha - i am not jealous!" a light pink dusted valarr's cheeks - something he'd later blame the heat for. "i am merely...concerned that daeron might be distracting our guest from the match." "his guest, you mean." "right, yeah - that's what i said."

modern yearning! valarr who, in the corner of his eye, spies you slipping out of your seat and quickly excuses himself to his father before doing the same

modern yearning! valarr who walks out the walkway, sees you make your way into the Rose Pavillion, and follows you - only to be bombarded with a flurry of elderly nanas and mothers who were desperate to introduce him to their daughters, nieces, and granddaughters.

modern yearning! valarr who barely makes his escape, only to find that he's lost you, but just before he begins pulling his hair out of his roots in frustration, he spies your familiar figure sitting all by your lonesome on a secluded bench, head down and staring intentaly at the pink 3DS XL in your hand

modern yearning! valarr who, took a deep breath, straightened his jacket and brushed off any dust off his pants, walked straight towards you with the steadfast determination of finally having a proper conversation with you

modern yearning! valarr who made a mental checklist of topics that were appropriate for the occasion

modern yearning! valarr who, if he played his cards right, could turn the feeble acquaintance between you two into something more substantial - maybe he'd finally get your number!

modern yearning! valarr who swore to himself that he'd get this right - no room for mistakes - and, with any luck, use this as the opportunity he needed to finally settle this overwhelming need to be around and know everything about you

modern yearning! valarr who stood before you, his shadow touching yours as you remained oblivious to the world - still engrossed in your game

modern yearning! valarr who couldn't help but notice the way your eyelashes curled and the shine of your lip gloss and the fullness of your bottom lip and -

- he cleared his throat to stop himself from thinking further, and accidentally broke your concentration in tandem

modern yearning! valarr who now has your full attention, just as he wanted, but with the caveat being that startling you from your game instead of just saying your name like a regular person with normal cognitive functioning was the exact opposite of how he wanted your attention and - oh shit, you were waiting for him to speak, weren't you?

"...hello." "...hey." "..." "..." "..." you held up your 3DS, "wanna play?"

-

-

-

fuck it all, modern yearning! valarr actually forgot the topic list

a/n: if you actually stayed to read this, wow - bc this got away from me and i genuinely no idea where tf i was going while writing this

tagging (lemme know if you wanna join it!): @hyilux, @theoriginalwifeofhanjumin, @iissza, @petraavisco, @li-zayne-wife, @girlisjustagirl, @ravenpuff7879, @nixtape-foryou, @powpowjinxlife, @aurora0-0-0, @wooceanic, @iicarusflew, @rebeccawinters, @thekingswin

[kthologue]

beguiled — valarr targaryen

contents. fluff, grumpy!valarr x sunshine!reader, wife!reader, possessive!valar, he is smitten your honour

notes. this can be read as a continuation of this valarr fic! (but can be read alone). consider it snapshots throughout the day of our favorite couple’s marriage.

You have bewitched him.

Slipped something subtle into his wine.

Performed some quiet, twisted Valyrian sorcery beneath the sept’s candles while the High Septon spoke the vows.

There was no other explanation that satisfied him.

Valarr had always considered himself a man of orderly thought. His tutors had praised the discipline of his mind long before they praised the steadiness of his sword-arm. A prince who allowed sentiment to crowd his judgment was a prince who endangered the realm, and so he had spent years cultivating the rare ability to set aside distraction with efficiency. It had served him well.

Until you.

Now his thoughts wandered with embarrassing frequency. If he was not recalling some past exchange—your laughter in the solar, the precise moment you had turned that cyvasse victory into scandalous triumph—then he was inventing entirely new ones. Conversations that had never occurred. Remarks he imagined you making with that infuriating confidence that had undone him since the beginning.

He caught himself doing it during council. During training. Once, mortifyingly, while listening to his father speak about trade levies.

It was terribly intolerable.

And yet, seated beside you at supper in the smaller hall reserved for the royal household, Valarr discovered that his attention had wandered once again.

The table glowed with the warm reflection of candlelight. Servants moved quietly between courses, setting down platters of roasted quail and bowls of stewed apples. Conversation flowed easily along the length of the table—his father discussing the day’s petitions, a cousin recounting some minor absurdity from the city below.

Valarr heard none of it.

He was thinking about the way your hand felt inside his.

Your fingers rested in his grasp beneath the tablecloth, warm and soft against his palm. He had taken your hand absentmindedly at the beginning of the meal, intending nothing more than idle affection, yet some quiet instinct had tightened his hold and refused to release it.

You shifted slightly beside him.

“Husband,” you murmured pleasantly, “as much as I enjoy the touch of your hand, I should also like to enjoy my dinner.”

Your fingers wiggled in a patient attempt to loosen his grip.

Valarr blinked, drawn abruptly back to the present.

“Ah—sorry,” he said at once.

The apology was sincere.

His hand did not move.

You glanced sideways at him, brows lifting in amused disbelief. “Your words and your actions appear to disagree.”

He cleared his throat, finally loosening his hold by perhaps half an inch. “I did not realize I was holding so tightly.”

“You have imprisoned my hand for the better part of a course.”

“I was distracted.”

“So I have gathered.” The corner of your mouth curved as you reached for your spoon with your free hand, attempting to resume your meal. The attempt lasted all of three seconds before Valarr, still watching you with quiet concentration, lifted his own spoon instead.

“Allow me,” he said.

You stared at him.

“What?”

“You said you wished to eat,” he replied, as though the matter were self-evident. “If your hand is otherwise occupied, it seems proper that I assist.”

His logic was delivered in perfect seriousness.

You looked from the spoon to Valarr’s utterly composed expression, clearly attempting to determine whether he was teasing.

He was not.

“Valarr,” you said carefully, “I am quite capable of feeding myself.”

“Ordinarily, yes,” Valarr agreed.

“And also presently.”

“You are presently missing one hand,” he tuts.

“Because you refuse to release it!”

“Oh, but that does not negate the inconvenience.”

You stared at him for another moment before a soft laugh escaped you despite your efforts.

“You cannot be serious.”

He raised the spoon slightly closer to your mouth.

“You will grow hungry otherwise.”

A faint murmur of poorly concealed amusement rippled along the table. Valarr ignored it with princely indifference, his attention fixed entirely upon you as though this exchange were the most reasonable arrangement in the world.

Your eyes narrowed with playful suspicion.

“I do not like how much you are enjoying this.”

Your husband looks at you innocently, “I am merely solving a problem.”

“You created the problem.”

“And so I am addressing it efficiently.”

The spoon remained suspended patiently between you. 

For a moment you seemed inclined to refuse on principle. Then your gaze flicked toward the observing relatives who had suddenly developed a deep interest in their goblets.

Your shoulders lifted in a small, conceding sigh.

“Very well,” you said.

Valarr’s expression did not change, but the faintest flicker of satisfaction touched his eyes as you leaned forward and accepted the offered bite.

“There,” he said calmly. “Problem solved.”

You chewed thoughtfully.

“Have you considered,” you said after swallowing, “that you might simply release my hand?”

He looked down at your fingers still resting securely within his.

“The thought has yet to cross my mind.”

The answer arrived without hesitation.

“And why not?”

Valarr regarded you with mild surprise, as though the reason were obvious.

“Because I prefer it where it is.”

The simplicity of the admission caught you off guard. A faint warmth crept into your expression, though you quickly disguised it by reaching for your goblet.

Across the table, Baelor finally gave up any pretense of ignoring the exchange.

“Valarr,” his father said dryly, “your wife does possess two perfectly functional hands.”

“Yes,” Valarr agreed.

He offered you another spoonful.

“She is choosing not to use one of them.”

You covered your face briefly with your free hand, laughter escaping despite your best efforts.

“Your Highness,” you said between breaths, “I fear I may have married a madman.”

Valarr tilted his head slightly, considering.

“If that were true,” he said, lowering his voice just enough that the others could not easily hear, “you would not look quite so pleased about it.”

You turned toward him again then, meeting his gaze directly, and for a brief moment the playful noise of the hall faded around you.

His fingers tightened almost imperceptibly around yours beneath the table. Nothing else explained why something as simple as holding your hand across a supper table felt more satisfying than any victory he had ever claimed in the yard.

Valarr lifted the spoon once more.

“Another bite,” he said.

You studied him for a moment, amusement lingering in your eyes.

Then you leaned forward obediently.

The court that morning had assembled in the long audience chamber where tall windows admitted pale light, spreading across the polished stone floor in long bands of gold. Banners bearing the three-headed dragon stirred faintly in the draft from the galleries above, and the chamber hummed with the low murmur of noble voices.

The formal petitions had concluded not long before, leaving the court in that softer hour where conversation replaced ceremony and the true work of politics continued.

Valarr stood among them with the patience expected of a prince who had been raised within such rooms all his life. His posture remained relaxed, his expression attentive, though he had long ago learned to hear the direction of a conversation before it first began.

The lord presently speaking to him possessed the unfortunate confidence of a man who believed himself very clever.

Lord Harwyn was not an important man, though he behaved as though he might become one if he spoke often enough in the right company. His beard had gone mostly silver, and he held his wine cup with the thoughtful air of someone preparing to deliver an observation of significance.

“Your Grace,” he said warmly, inclining his head. “It seems scarcely a moment since the realm celebrated your wedding. Time passes more quickly every year, does it not?”

Valarr acknowledged the remark with a polite inclination of his own.

“So I am told.”

“Two moons already, I believe?” the lord continued. “Perhaps three?”

“Two,” Valarr said.

“Ah.” Lord Harwyn nodded, swirling the wine in his goblet. “A young marriage still, then. The realm, of course, watches such unions with great hope.”

Several courtiers within earshot grew subtly attentive.

Valarr recognized the turn of the conversation at once. It was not an unfamiliar path.

“Hope,” the lord repeated thoughtfully, “for the continuation of so distinguished a line. Naturally one understands these things take time. Still, one cannot help but wonder when the gods might see fit to bless the union with… news.”

The remark hovered politely in the air.

It was delivered as sympathy.

It carried the unmistakable shape of a provocation.

Valarr regarded Lord Harwyn for a moment with mild consideration, as though the man had asked an unexpectedly practical question about taxation.

“You are quite right,” he said calmly. “The realm is very interested in such matters.”

The lord smiled, satisfied that his point had landed.

Valarr lifted his goblet and took an unhurried sip of wine before continuing.

“I can assure you, however,” he said, “that there is no lack of enthusiasm in the royal apartments.”

The silence that followed arrived with impressive speed.

Lord Harwyn blinked.

“I—Your Grace?”

Valarr seemed faintly surprised by the confusion.

“You appeared concerned that the marriage lacked… progress,” he explained with perfect courtesy. “I wished to reassure you that my wife and I are very diligent.”

Several listeners abruptly found the far wall fascinating.

The lord attempted a laugh that emerged somewhat thinner than intended. “Oh, I would never presume—”

“Quite right,” Valarr agreed pleasantly.

He tilted his head slightly, as though recalling something important.

“Although,” he added, with the faintest suggestion of amusement touching the corner of his mouth, “I should mention that two moons is hardly an extended campaign. Even the most determined efforts require a reasonable span of time.”

Lord Harwyn’s goblet hovered halfway to his mouth, forgotten entirely.

“I see,” he said weakly.

Valarr regarded him with polite interest.

“Do you require further clarification, my lord?”

“No!” the man said quickly. “None whatsoever.”

“Good.”

Valarr inclined his head once more, entirely satisfied that the matter had been addressed.

Across the chamber, several courtiers exchanged looks that balanced precariously between admiration and disbelief.

Because the Crown Prince of the Seven Kingdoms, ordinarily the most composed man in any room, had just spoken of his marriage with scandalous candor.

The murmurs began almost immediately after he excused himself and crossed the chamber.

A lady from the Stormlands leaned toward her companion with quiet amusement.

“Well,” she whispered, “one cannot accuse the prince of neglecting his duties.”

Her companion’s smile was thoughtful.

“Indeed not.”

She glanced toward the far side of the hall, where you stood speaking with one of the ladies of the court, sunlight catching the pale silk at your shoulders.

“It seems,” she added softly, “that the princess has discovered how to coax a very disciplined man into honesty.”

Across the chamber, Valarr approached you with his usual composed stride.

You glanced up at him as he reached your side, your expression brightening immediately.

“My husband,” you said lightly, “why does Lord Harwyn looking at us as though he has swallowed a lemon?”

Valarr followed your gaze briefly before returning his attention to you.

“I believe,” he said mildly, “that he asked a question and received a thorough answer.”

You studied him for a moment.

The faint, suspicious curve of your smile suggested you did not entirely believe that explanation.

Nevertheless, your hand slipped easily through his arm, and as you leaned closer to murmur something that drew a rare, quiet laugh from him, several observers arrived at the same conclusion at once.

Whatever enchantment lay upon the Crown Prince of the Seven Kingdom was not subtle.

And he did not appear to mind it in the least.

The chamber reserved for your afternoon preparations overlooked one of the inner gardens of the Red Keep, where roses climbed the stone walls and the early light filtered softly through tall lattice windows. Within the room, however, the atmosphere remained pleasantly unhurried.

Your handmaiden stood behind you, drawing a brush through your hair while you examined your reflection in the tall mirror set beside the dressing table. A tray of pins and ribbons lay neatly arranged nearby, and the gown selected for the evening. It is something dark and elegant, appropriate for court—waiting across the room where it had been carefully laid out.

For the moment, however, you remained comfortably seated in a simple shift of soft linen, your hair half-brushed and loose about your shoulders.

“Your Grace,” your handmaiden said after a moment, her tone careful.

The brush slowed slightly as though she were debating whether to continue.

“Yes?”

She hesitated, watching your reflection through the mirror as though deciding whether the question might cost her position.

“I do not mean to overstep my post,” she said finally, “but I have wondered something for some time.”

You lifted one brow with polite curiosity, tilting your head just enough that a loose strand of hair slid across your shoulder.

“Oh?”

“I was wondering,” she said, lowering her voice conspiratorially, “what charms you used on Prince Valarr.”

You blinked, the surprise entirely genuine.

“What?”

“He is just so…” She searched for a word. “…enamored.”

Your smile appeared almost immediately, slow and amused.

“Is he?”

“Yes, Your Grace,” she said with the earnest of someone who had spent weeks observing the evidence. “Everyone sees it.”

You leaned back slightly in the chair, the linen of your shift rustling softly as you shifted.

“Everyone?”

The brush paused briefly in your hair.

“You always know how to parry with him,” she continued. “In words, I mean. And he looks at you as though he has just remembered something important.”

You laughed softly, the sound light in the quiet room.

“That sounds awfully dramatic.”

“It is true,” the girl insisted. “You could wear a sack and he would still want to jump your—”

The door opened.

Your handmaiden stopped speaking so abruptly the brush nearly slipped from her hand.

Valarr entered mid-stride, clearly intending to finish whatever thought had occupied him before crossing the threshold.

“I wanted to speak with you about the arrangements for the evening audience because I believe the steward has misunderstood my—”

He stopped.

Entirely.

The remainder of the sentence dissolved somewhere between his mind and his mouth.

You turned slightly in your chair, the movement causing the loose fabric of your shift to shift along your shoulder.

“Good afternoon, husband.”

Valarr did not answer at once.

His gaze had fixed upon you with the kind of stunned look that suggested whatever he had come to say had completely abandoned him the moment he saw you.

Your shift, light and unadorned, slipped loosely over your shoulders, the linen catching the afternoon sun where it gathered at your collarbone. Your hair, only half-brushed, fell freely down your back in waves that had not yet been arranged into the composed elegance usually seen at court.

It was, by all reasonable standards, a perfectly innocent sight. However, your husband looked as though he had been struck by something invisible.

Your handmaiden, sensing with sudden clarity that she had wandered into dangerous territory, lowered her eyes and very quietly pretended to rearrange the ribbons on the dressing table.

Valarr cleared his throat.

“You cannot wear that.”

You stared at him through the mirror.

“I beg your pardon?”

“That,” he repeated, gesturing vaguely in your direction as though the concept required no further elaboration.

You looked down at the shift, pinching the linen lightly between your fingers.

Then back at him.

“It is a linen shift,” you said patiently.

“Yes.”

“You are aware that it is worn beneath clothing.”

“I am very aware,” Valarr said stiffly.

“And I am presently getting dressed.”

“Yes.”

“Then why,” you asked sweetly, “is my undergarment suddenly a matter of royal concern?”

Valarr opened his mouth. Closed it, gaze flickering briefly toward your handmaiden before returning to you with visible restraint.

“Because,” he said carefully, “the door was open.”

“And?”

“And anyone could walk in.”

Your handmaiden coughed softly, still facing the table, her shoulders rising slightly as she tried to remain invisible.

You tilted your head, studying him with growing amusement.

“Anyone did walk in.”

Valarr’s jaw tightened slightly.

“That is precisely the issue.”

You studied him for a moment before your smile widened with unmistakable mischief.

“Husband,” you said, “are you jealous of my shift?”

“I am not jealous of a piece of garment.”

“Then what has got you so worked up?”

Valarr did not answer immediately. Instead, he stepped farther into the room and shut the door, the latch settling firmly into place.

Your handmaiden froze where she stood.

Valarr returned his attention to you.

“I am objecting,” he said calmly, “to the possibility that anyone else might see what I am presently seeing.”

Your brows lifted.

“Which is?”

He gestured again.

“You!”

You spread your hands lightly, the gesture causing the loose sleeves of the shift to fall farther along your arms.

“I should hope so.”

“In that,” he continued dryly, “there lies the problem.”

You laughed, the sound bright in the quiet room.

“Valarr, if you wish me to remain unseen by the world, you will find court life very inconvenient.”

“Believe me, I am already finding it inconvenient,” he mutters angrily.

Your handmaiden’s shoulders trembled slightly as she attempted to remain silent.

You caught the movement in the mirror and raised one brow.

“Am I amusing you?”

“No, Your Grace,” she said quickly.

Valarr folded his arms.

“You encourage this.”

“Encourage what?”

“The habit of speaking freely in your presence.”

“Would you prefer I frighten the servants?”

“That might simplify matters.”

You turned in your chair to face him fully now, your eyes bright with teasing.

“My prince,” you said, “I am really having a hard time imagining how you survived before marrying me.”

“I was calmer,” he said at once. “And lonelier.” He paused.

Your handmaiden watched the exchange with growing fascination.

Because what she had said earlier was true: you did parry with him, effortlessly, and the Crown Prince—who intimidated half the court into respectful silence—appeared strangely content to be challenged.

Valarr exhaled quietly.

“You should at least have closed the door.”

“Might I remind you that you were the one who opened it.”

“Well, you should have anticipated that.”

“You are suggesting I should predict your movements now?”

“Precisely.”

You tilted your head thoughtfully, one finger absently tracing the edge of the mirror frame.

“That seems like a great deal of responsibility.”

“It would spare me unnecessary distress.”

“Distress?” you echoed, delighted. “Over a shift?”

“Yes,” your husband affirms, exasperated.

You leaned forward slightly.

“Husband,” you said softly, “if this distresses you, I dread to think what will happen when I put the gown on.”

Valarr looked genuinely uncertain.

Your handmaiden’s eyes widened slightly at the exact moment the formidable Crown Prince of the Seven Kingdoms realized he had walked into a battle he might not win.

“You do this deliberately,” he said.

“Of course.”

“Why?”

Your smile softened just a fraction.

“Because you look very handsome when you lose your composure.”

He stared at you.

Your handmaiden stared at both of you.

And slowly Valarr’s expression shifted. “Well,” he said quietly, “that is an unfortunate habit.”

Valarr stopped beside your chair, looking down at you with an intensity that made your handmaiden suddenly very interested in the arrangement of hairpins again.

“Then,” he said softly, “you should take care.”

“Why?”

His mouth curved very slightly.

“Because I will return the favor.”

You studied him for a moment. Then your smile returned, brighter than before.

“I look forward to the attempt.”

Behind you, your handmaiden finally understood. It was not charms that bewitched the prince. It was the simple  truth that you spoke to the Crown Prince as though he were merely a man. And Valarr  seemed to adore you for it.

That midnight, the heavy curtains around the bed stirred faintly with the breeze from the open window, carrying with it the cool salt smell of Blackwater Bay.

You had been asleep. Very soundly, in fact.

Until you woke with the distinct and increasingly urgent realization that you were terribly thirsty.

For a moment, you lay still beneath the blankets, blinking into the dimness as you gathered your senses, your mind slow with sleep. Your throat felt dry, and somewhere on the small table across the chamber sat the pitcher of water that suddenly seemed impossibly far away.

You sighed softly.

It would only take a moment.

Carefully you attempted to sit up.

You did not get far.

An arm tightened around your waist with immediate precision, dragging you firmly back against the warm solid weight behind you before you had even lifted your head from the pillow.

Valarr.

His bare chest was pressed along your back beneath the blankets, warm and solid, his skin still heated from sleep, and his face was buried somewhere near the curve of your neck, his breath slow and warm against your skin. One arm was wrapped so securely around your middle that it felt less like an embrace and more like a restraint devised by a particularly affectionate gaoler, his hand splayed across the soft fabric of your shift as though even in sleep he required the reassurance that you were still there.

You attempted again, gently shifting your weight.

The arm tightened further, his body instinctively following yours so that your back pressed even more firmly into him.

You sighed again, though this time it came out quieter, more resigned.

“Valarr,” you murmured softly.

No response.

You nudged his forearm where it lay across your stomach.

“Valarr.”

Still nothing.

He made a vague sound that might have been a hum or a protest and pulled you a fraction closer, if such a thing were even possible, his face pressing more firmly against the warm hollow beneath your ear.

You stared at the canopy above the bed.

This was going to be difficult.

You reached back, patting lightly at his arm.

“My prince,” you tried again, your voice barely louder than a whisper.

A long moment passed.

Then, at last, he stirred—only enough that his brow shifted against your shoulder and his grip tightened once more, subconsciously ensuring that something precious had not wandered off in the night. His fingers flexed faintly against your waist, brushing the fabric of your shift as though seeking skin beneath it.

“Mm.”

You waited for his reply, but nothing else followed.

“Valarr,” you said again, a little more insistently now, though still quiet enough not to shatter the fragile peace of the room.

He inhaled slowly, the breath warm against the back of your neck, and muttered something into your skin that was decidedly not a word.

“I need to get up.”

Another pause.

His hand slid lazily over your waist as though attempting to soothe you back into stillness, his thumb tracing a slow, absentminded line along your side.

“No,” he mumbled, voice thick with sleep.

You blinked.

“Stay.”

You turned your head slightly, peering back at him over your shoulder.

His eyes were still closed, lashes resting against his cheeks, his hair a dark and thoroughly disordered halo against the pillow. For a prince who spent his waking hours composed and precise to the point of severity, he looked thoroughly rumpled now—bare-chested beneath the blankets, hair mussed, his arm stubbornly locked around you like a man who had no intention of surrendering his hold.

And entirely unmovable.

“Valarr,” you said patiently, “I cannot stay.”

A faint frown appeared between his brows, though his eyes remained stubbornly shut.

“Why.”

“I am thirsty.”

Another long pause followed as your husband processed this grievous piece of information.

Then his arm tightened again, pulling you back against the steady heat of him.

“There is water,” he said vaguely.

“Yes,” you replied, glancing toward the table across the room. “Over there.”

Silence.

Then, very slowly, his eyes opened.

He stared at the dark canopy above the bed for several seconds as if deeply reconsidering the existence of thirst itself, before his gaze drifted downward toward you, lingering with slow reluctance.

You waited.

He blinked once, heavily.

“Drink it in the morning.”

You let out a quiet laugh.

“I would if I could survive that long.”

Valarr made a soft, dissatisfied sound and buried his face back into the hollow of your neck, his nose brushing the sensitive skin there as though the argument might simply end if he held you closer.

“No.”

“Valarr.”

“No.”

“Valarr,” you repeated, this time gently prying at his arm. “I truly must go.”

He groaned softly, the sound low and entirely put-upon, but after a moment his hold loosened just enough for you to slip free, though his hand lingered stubbornly at your waist as though reluctant to let you escape entirely.

You barely managed to sit up before a hand closed lazily around your wrist.

You turned.

Valarr was watching you now, his eyes half-lidded and unfocused with sleep, his expression the particular kind of weary irritation reserved for inconveniences occurring in the middle of the night.

“Where,” he asked slowly, “do you think you are going.”

You gestured toward the table.

“Water.”

His gaze followed your hand.

He squinted at the distant pitcher as though it had personally offended him.

Then he sighed—long and dramatic—and pushed himself up onto one elbow, the blankets sliding slightly down his torso.

“Wait.”

“I am already halfway there.”

“Wait.”

Before you could argue further, he dragged a hand through his already unruly hair and swung his legs over the side of the bed, still blinking like a man who had been dragged unwillingly from the deepest sleep.

You blinked.

“Valarr, you do not need to—”

“I am coming with you.”

You stared at him.

“To fetch water?”

He gave you a look that suggested this was an extraordinarily foolish question.

“You are wandering across the chamber in the middle of the night,” he said hoarsely. “I am not letting you do it alone.”

You could not help the smile that tugged at your mouth.

“It is merely three steps.”

“It is still across the room.”

“Goodness, you are being absurd.”

“And you are terribly demanding for someone who woke me,” he muttered, pushing himself fully to his feet and immediately reaching for you again.

You laughed quietly as he guided you toward the table with a hand resting at the small of your back, his palm warm even through the thin fabric of your shift, his movements slow with lingering sleep.

The floor was cool beneath your feet, the chamber peaceful in the dim glow of the dying fire.

He poured the water himself, blinking down into the cup like a man performing a complex diplomatic task.

Then he handed it to you.

You drank gratefully, the cool water easing the dryness in your throat.

Valarr watched you the entire time, his expression softening slightly as the last of your sleepiness faded, his gaze lingering with quiet attentiveness as though ensuring the crisis had truly passed.

When you finished, he took the cup from your hand and set it back beside the pitcher.

“Well?” he asked quietly.

“Well what?”

“Better?”

You nodded.

“Much.”

He seemed satisfied with this answer.

Without another word, he took your hand again and guided you back to the bed, pulling the blankets aside with sleepy determination.

The moment you settled beneath them, Valarr followed immediately, drawing you back against him with quiet urgency as though reclaiming something temporarily misplaced.

This time he pulled you closer still, one arm sliding firmly around your waist while the other slipped beneath the blanket to rest against the bare skin of your side, clearly dissatisfied with the barrier of fabric. His palm settled there, warm and possessive, his chest pressed along your back once more as he tucked you securely against him.

You smiled faintly into the pillow.

“You realize,” you murmured, “I could have fetched the water myself.”

Valarr’s voice came low and drowsy beside your ear.

“I am aware.” His grip tightened slightly, his fingers brushing slowly along your skin now that they had found it, the touch absentminded and deeply content.

“But,” he said after a moment, his voice softening with that rare warmth he saved only for you, “if you are awake, I would rather be awake with you.”

You felt the faint press of his lips against your temple before his face settled once more into the curve of your neck, his breathing gradually slowing again as sleep reclaimed him.

And though the pitcher now sat only a few steps away, you found that you no longer minded being held quite so tightly by the same man who, in the daylight, unhorsed knights before roaring crowds yet seemed entirely incapable of sleeping without his wife firmly within reach.

thank you for reading <3 reblogs and comments are always appreciated!

[progressivepower]

Yup http://news.usaunify.org/TSNwpQ

[tired-biscuit]

you know that trope where it’s princess + knight, but they’ve both been captured by the bad guys and the princess is now gripped by the jaw by the villain, receiving a thin cut to her cheek while remaining completely still with a defiant look in her eyes even as a droplet of blood begins to trickle out of the wound, all while 3 people AT THE VERY LEAST need to have their hands locked on the knight because he’s thrashing around like a wild animal, trying so so so desperately, violently, to get to her?

yeah, that’s porn to me.

[chiphungxoxo]

Obedient

Warning: NSFW, smut, targcest

Sub!Valarr Targaryen x Cousin!reader

A/N: It's been a LONGGG time since I last wrote smut so... 🤪✌️

You, eldest daughter of Prince Maekar, had been taught composure before you were taught letters.

A princess does not frown in public.

A princess does not betray temper.

A princess does not begrudge a harmless ceremony.

So when your cousin, Valarr, rode beneath the banners and halted before the stands, you kept your chin high.

The tourney field shimmered in the afternoon light — steel flashing, silk snapping in the wind, the roar of the crowd rising and falling like a tide. Knights had bled for that moment. Horses had thundered. Lances had shattered.

And then he dismounted.

He did not look at you at first.

He took the laurel crown — pale blossoms woven with careful hands — and crossed the grass toward Lady Gwin Ashford. The court leaned forward as one body. The gesture was expected. Political, even. The Ashfords were well-placed. Well-funded. And it was her birthday.

Well-suited.

You told yourself it meant nothing.

Yet something sharp and unseemly tightened low in your chest as he lifted the crown and set it gently upon the lady’s dark hair. His fingers lingered — not long enough to be scandalous, but long enough to be noticed.

You watched the way he bowed to her. The way he smiled — courteous, distant. A prince every inch. A future king in the making.

And still, beneath the silk of your sleeves, your nails pressed crescents into your palms.

You and Valarr had both come of age this year. The court buzzed with speculation. Alliances. Betrothals. Lineages to be strengthened. Lords brought daughters in brighter gowns; mothers assessed you with calculating eyes.

He declined them all with quiet firmness.

“I would sharpen my sword before I take a wife,” he would say. “There is enough time for marriage.”

They praised his discipline. His focus. His restraint. They did not know that his discipline faltered only behind locked doors.

They did not know that his hands, steady on a lance, were far less restrained when they found your waist in the dark. That the prince who refused every maiden at court knew the path to your bedchamber without a torch, without hesitation. They did not know how his voice changed when he spoke your name alone.

And as the tourney ended and the crowd began to thin, he finally looked toward the stands — toward you.

Lady Gwin Ashford wore the crown of beauty and love.

But you wore something far more dangerous.

Later that night, when the noise of the feast had dulled into distant laughter and clinking cups, Valarr walked the quiet corridor toward his chambers.

He should have kept walking.

Your door stood slightly ajar. No guards. No attendants. A sliver of candlelight spilling across the stone floor like an invitation.

He hesitated only a breath before stepping inside.

The room was warm, heavy with the scent of roses and melted wax. Your outer gowns had been discarded with careless elegance — silk draped over a chair, laces undone and trailing. You stood near the edge of your bed, hair loose, jewels gone, clad only in a thin white underdress that caught the candlelight and softened every line of you.

It was not the first time he had seen you thus.

It did nothing to steady him.

Color rose immediately to his cheeks, spreading down his throat. His gaze dropped to the floor as though the stones were suddenly fascinating.

“Cousin,” you greeted, voice smooth — not surprised in the least.

His pulse stumbled.

“I— forgive me,” he murmured quickly, already turning toward the door. “I did not mean to intrude.”

You crossed the distance before he could take a full step.

Your arms slid around his waist from behind, your body pressing lightly — deliberately — to his back. He stiffened, breath catching, hands hovering uselessly at his sides.

“Do not leave,” you said softly. “I have not dismissed you yet.”

Not a plea.

A command.

He exhaled slowly, surrendering already settling into his shoulders.

“You crowned her,” you continued, lips close to his ear. “Lady Gwin Ashford. The Queen of Beauty and Love. So you want to leave me to join her, then?”

“It was expected of me,” he answered, almost too quickly. “It meant nothing.”

You tightened your hold, fingers spreading over his stomach. Through layers of fabric you could feel the tension coiled there, the way he leaned back into you despite himself.

“Nothing?” you echoed.

He shook his head.

You moved around him then. His eyes lifted, hesitant, searching, and then dropped again to your throat, the delicate line of your collarbone visible beneath the thin fabric.

He looked like a prince before the court all day.

Here, he looked like a boy awaiting judgment.

“You do not look at anyone else the way you look at me,” you said quietly.

He swallowed.

“No,” he admitted.

There was no defiance in him. No attempt to wrest control. Only that steady, almost reverent devotion that made your possessiveness coil warmer instead of sharper.

You reached for his chin, tilting his face up until he had no choice but to meet your gaze.

“And whose chamber do you return to,” you asked, voice low, “after you place crowns upon other women?”

His breath trembled slightly.

“Yours.”

The answer was immediate. Certain.

Your thumb brushed along his jaw, feeling the heat there. He leaned into the touch without thinking, submissive in the smallest, most telling ways.

He had refused every maiden presented to him. He had bowed to expectations, to politics, to appearances. But here, in the privacy of your candlelit chamber, he waited for your approval like a knight kneeling before his sovereign.

And you smiled, slow and dangerous, knowing full well that whatever crown he offered the realm—

“Such an obedient boy, are you not?” You chuckled quietly.

He did not answer at once.

His eyes were unfocused — not from wine, but from you. Heavy-lidded, darkened, fixed on the slow rise and fall of your chest as though it were the only thing tethering him to the present.

You tilted your head.

Silence did not suit him.

Your fingers caught his chin, but instead of lifting it gently, you gave his cheek a light, sharp slap.

Not enough to harm.

Enough to command.

“Answer me, Valarr.”

The sound seemed to jolt through him. A flush bloomed where your palm had touched, heat spreading beneath his skin. His lips parted; his breath came uneven.

“Yes,” he managed, voice smaller than it had ever been on the tourney field.

That obedience — immediate, instinctive — sent something molten through you.

You stepped into him and pushed.

He fell back onto the bed without resistance, boots barely clearing the carved frame before he landed against the sheets. His hands instinctively reached for your waist, but they did not grip — they hovered, uncertain, waiting for permission.

You did not give it.

You climbed onto his lap, straddling him with deliberate slowness, your underdress riding higher as you settled. The thin fabric did little to hide the warmth of your body pressing against him. You could feel the sharp inhale he tried — and failed — to swallow.

“I warned you,” you murmured.

Your hands slid into his hair, and you kissed him — not sweetly, not cautiously, but with possession. Your mouth claimed his, demanding, teeth grazing just enough to make him gasp into you.

He made a soft sound in the back of his throat — a broken, helpless whimper he could never have imagined uttering before anyone else.

You rolled your hips slowly against him.

The friction drew another tremor from him. His fingers finally dared to touch you, clutching at your hips as though anchoring himself, but even then there was restraint in it — a silent question.

You pulled back just enough to look at him.

“Did you enjoy crowning her?” you asked softly.

His head shook at once. “No.”

You pressed down more firmly, grinding in a way that made his breath stutter again.

“Who do you kneel for, future prince of Dragonstone?” you asked.

His eyes fluttered shut. “You.”

There it was. Devotion.

Your lips curved.

You leaned down once more, kissing him slower now — deeper — letting him melt beneath you as you set the rhythm. Each movement drew another quiet sound from him, his composure unraveling thread by thread under your touch. Beneath you, he wore nothing but want.

You did not give him time to think.

Your hands worked quickly at his breeches, pushing fabric aside until the last barrier between you was gone. The sight of him— flushed, breath unsteady, entirely at your mercy — made something dark and pleased curl inside you.

When your thigh brushed against his cock, he gasped sharply, hips twitching at even that small contact.

“Please…” he breathed, fingers tightening against your leg as though afraid you might pull away.

You laughed softly — not cruel, but indulgent.

“So undone already, my prince?”

You guided yourself over him slowly, deliberately, watching every flicker of his expression as you lowered your body. The moment you took him fully, a broken sound escaped both of you — his head falling back against the pillows, your nails pressing into his chest for balance.

“So tight…” he muttered, voice shaking. “Please…”

“You feel so good, so big,” you whispered, leaning forward until your foreheads nearly touched.

He tried to move, instinct taking over, but you pressed a hand firmly to his shoulder and kept him there.

“Stay,” you ordered quietly. “Be good.”

He swallowed hard, nodding.

“I’m good,” he said at once, breath catching as you began to move. “I’m good for you.”

The praise in his tone — the need for approval — made you roll your hips slower at first, savoring the way his composure unraveled. Each motion drew another soft, helpless sound from him. His hands gripped the sheets instead of you, as though even touching without permission felt too bold.

You increased the rhythm, steady and controlled, keeping him exactly where you wanted him. His restraint trembled under your pace; every time he started to lift his hips, he stopped himself.

“Look at you,” you murmured, brushing your thumb along his jaw. “So obedient. You like this don’t you? Love being so submissive…”

His eyes were glassy now, lips parted, completely surrendered, head nodding frantically.

“Please,” he begged again, softer this time, desperation creeping in. “I— I want—”

You slowed suddenly, making him gasp in frustration.

“What do you want?” you asked, voice low and deliberate.

His fingers twitched against the sheets.

“I want to finish,” he admitted, flushed deeper than before. “Please. I want to cum.”

You studied him for a long moment — the prince who had stood so composed before the realm, now undone beneath you.

“Yeah? You want to fill my womb?” You bit a sensitive spot on his neck. He nodded frantically, still in a haze of pleasure.

“A good boy waits,” you said quietly. “And good boys ask properly.”

His throat worked as he tried to steady himself under your slow, teasing movements.

“Please,” he whispered again, eyes fixed on yours this time.

And the power of his surrender made your smile soften just slightly before you leaned down to kiss him again, deciding how long you intended to make your prince beg.

You chased your own pleasure, “So good…”

He moaned at the feeling of your insides pumping his cock. He could not control himself but fuck his hips up into you to chase his own. In a short period of time, you both arrive at your peaks.

He moaned your name loudly as he filled you up with his thick seed.

“Fuck you came so hard,” you chuckled, breathing heavily.

Both of you laid down, mind hazed.

Afterward, the storm passed as suddenly as it had risen.

The candles had burned lower. Wax pooled along their bases, shadows stretching long and unsteady across the chamber walls.

You lay beside him, both of you breathing slowly now, the earlier tension melted into something heavier, quieter. The air felt thick — warm with the aftermath, scented faintly of sweat and crushed roses.

Valarr stared up at the canopy for a moment, chest rising and falling in deep, uneven pulls. His hand found yours almost absentmindedly, fingers lacing through as though he needed the reassurance of contact.

His mind felt distant. Hazy. Not from wine — but from the way you had taken control of him so completely.

You shifted closer, resting your head against his shoulder. The earlier sharpness in you had softened; your thumb traced slow, idle patterns along his skin.

He turned his face slightly toward you.

“Are you well?” you asked quietly, voice no longer teasing.

He nodded after a moment.

“Yes,” he answered, almost shy again

Masterlist

[ildico-the-golden]

♥︎ fluff | ♦︎ suggestive | ♦︎♦︎ NSFW

A Court of Dragons AU (Baelor x f!lady in waiting!reader / Maekar x f!lady in waiting!reader)

SUMMARY: a court of stolen glances, careful hands, and two Targaryen princes undone — each in their own devastating way — by the same lady in waiting

Three Heads of the Dragon AU (Baelor x sister-wife!reader x Maekar)

SUMMARY: a princess, her two dragon husbands, and the specific devastation of being completely known by the people who love you most

Baelor and Maekar general works

meeting their tiny newborn for the first time (Baelor x wife!reader / Maekar x wife!reader ) ♥︎ the unexpected happiness of arranging (Baelor x arranged wife!reader / Maekar x arranged wife!reader) ♥︎ the dragon bears its teeth (Baelor x betrothed!reader / Maekar x betrothed!reader) ♥︎ the Red Keep's peculiar sons (vampireAU Baelor x f!maid!reader x Maekar) ♦︎♦︎

ModernAU works

look at your dad (such a dork) (modernAU Baelor x f!reader // Maekar x f!reader) an almost date with dada? (modernAU Baelor x f!reader // Maekar x f!reader) best friend's dad syndrome (modernAU Baelor x f!reader // Maekar x f!reader) ♦︎♦︎

a questionable choice miniseries - Maekar x arryn!ofc (no physical descriptions other than name and house)

part 1 | part 2 | part 3 | part 4

[the-darklings]

𓈒 ˳ ˳ 𝐁𝐄𝐓𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐁𝐎𝐁𝐁𝐘 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓.

Bobby's been a shit boyfriend for months. When you disappear through a wall in the basement of Clark's furniture store, you wake up in the Backrooms, where a better version of Bobby is waiting. One who actually shows up, one who loves you, one who never, ever wants to let you go.

bobby franklin x f!reader x entity!bobby

cw: emotional neglect, psychological horror, backroom entities/lore, implied creature violence, emotional manipulation by non-human entity, alcohol abuse (secondary character), grief/loss, verbal arguments (no physical violence), angst.

𓈒 asks/mini concepts 𓈒 𓈒 𓈒 playlist

‽ part one / concept. ‽ part two. ‽ part three. ⸘ interlude: entity 0

extras:

Ꮺ୧ making out w/ better bobby. Ꮺ୧ better you! Ꮺ୧ "baby." Ꮺ୧ "open your mouth." Ꮺ୧ pillow fort.

⎋ M.E.G. ENTITY 0 — RESEARCH FILE INDEX:

↹ MEG-ENT-0000-ADDM-██ — Restricted Addendum: Reproductive Capability Assessment (Filed Under Protest)

[milkysea-02]

The Fox with Blue Eyes

Fox Mask!Gojo x Reader (a bit of Geto x Reader too)

Synopsis: You refused the arranged marriage the moment you heard about it, so you left. But the fog-covered village won’t let you leave, and a strange man wearing a fox mask keeps appearing to guide you through the nightmare. What you don’t realize is that the man behind the mask is the very person you were meant to marry.

Cw: Spoilers for the game (Silent Hill f), emotional distress, character death, body horror, violence, smut (eventually)

Next chapter

Chapter 1: Forest of Whispers

“Why don’t you go play with the other girls?” your sister asked.

You shook your head, clutching the small doll in your hands.

“They said I can’t play house with them anymore,” you murmured. “They said I play with boys too much.”

Your sister was quiet for a moment, the cicadas humming loudly in the summer heat.

“Well…” she finally said, brushing a strand of hair from your face, “how about you play with your big sister instead?”

Your eyes lit up.

“Really?”

The memory lingered like the faint echo of laughter. You remember sitting alone in the yard with your doll, watching the other girls whisper together beneath the shade of the trees. None of them ever really told you why they didn’t like you. They only stared.

Looking back now, you think you might know the reason.

Geto was always there beside you back then, following you around the school halls, sharing  toys and candies with you, talking to you when no one else would. The other girls didn’t like that he gave you his attention.

It never made sense to you. You were just children.

Still, growing up with so few friends left a quiet ache you never quite understood. 

“Thank you for waiting.” A soft voice pulled you from your thoughts, making you turn quickly.

“Utahime!”

Seeing her again filled your chest with warmth. It had been almost a year since she married and moved away from the village. Since then, your visits had become rare. You missed her terribly. She wasn’t just your older sister. She had been your guardian… and the first friend you ever had.

Utahime tilted her head slightly, studying your face.

“Did something happen?”

You shook your head.

“No… I was just thinking about when we were little. You always looked out for me.”

A gentle smile touched her lips.

“I only did what any older sister would—”

Before she could finish, you stood up, fumbling slightly with something in your hands.

“I brought something for you.” You stepped closer and carefully tied the small red bell to the edge of her sleeve. It chimed softly when you let go.

Utahime looked down at it, surprised. 

“It’s beautiful,” she said quietly. “Thank you.”

Before you could think too much about it, you wrapped your arms around her. For a moment, you didn’t want to let go. But the moment couldn’t last forever. You slowly pulled away.

“I should go back now,” you murmured. “Before mother and father notice that I’m gone, again.” You hesitated before adding softly, “But I’m really glad I got to see you… I missed you.”

Utahime reached out, gently brushing your hair back.

“I missed you too,” she said.

“Little sister.”

For a moment, you simply just looked at her, taking in the softness of her face. Then you looked aside. moving in the direction of home. With the faint sound of the red bell ringing behind you, you started walking along the way home, which stretched silently in front of you.

You walked quietly, gazing out at the forest. The mountains stretched endlessly around the village, their dark silhouettes softened by a drifting mist. Though you had lived here your entire life, there was something strangely beautiful about the scenery before you. The trees swayed gently in the wind, and the distant sound of birds hummed through the morning air.

It should have felt peaceful, instead, it felt like mockery. You lived surrounded by all this quiet beauty, yet your life at home was anything but. Your father’s anger was something you had grown used to—sharp words, heavy footsteps, the constant tension that filled the house like a storm waiting to break. He was cruel in ways that left marks you could see… and others you could not.

Your mother never stopped him. That was the part you could never understand. You knew she suffered too. You had seen the bruises she tried to hide, the way her voice trembled whenever he raised his. In some ways, she was just as trapped as you and your sister were.

And yet… she never left.

Why?

The question had followed you since childhood, lingering in the quiet corners of your mind. No matter how many times you turned it over, you could never find an answer that made sense. Why stay with a man like him? Why let all of you continue to suffer?

When you were younger, you used to imagine a different life. One where she gathered you and your sister in the middle of the night, where the three of you left the village behind and never came back. But that day never came, and the anger you felt towards her for that had never truly faded.

When you arrived back home, you quietly slipped inside and made your way to the dining room. Lunch would be soon, and the last thing you wanted was another lecture from your mother about sneaking out again. You sat down on the zabuton and straightened your clothes, hoping your parents wouldn’t notice you had been outside. About ten minutes later, your mother entered the room. She placed the plates of food on the chabudai, along with two cups of water and a small cup of sake for your father. When she finished setting the table, she glanced briefly at you but said nothing. Then she sat down on the zabuton besides the one reserved for your father, the silence between you stretching uncomfortably.

Another fifteen minutes passed, and your father entered the dining room. He looked like a mess. His hair was loose and disheveled, his clothes stained and wrinkled. Even before he sat down, the heavy smell of alcohol filled the room.

The sight of him made your chest tighten with anger.

You knew exactly where the money had gone. Gambling. Drinking. All the savings your family had managed to scrape together, wasted on things he cared more about than his own family.

Money you needed.

Money your family couldn’t afford to lose.

Without saying a word, he lowered himself onto the zabuton across from you and began eating. Only after he took the first bite did you and your mother quietly did the same.

“I have good news,” he declared.

You slowly lifted your head to look at him.

“The debt I owed—the one you kept nagging me about,” he continued, glancing at your mother before turning his gaze back to you. A crooked smile spread across his face. “I can finally repay it.”

A cold feeling settled in your chest. Your father had never been a kind man. Whatever this “good news” was, it would come at someone else’s expense.

“Oh?” your mother asked gently. “And what might that be, dear?”

Her voice was soft, but you could hear the tension beneath it.

“Our daughter will finally be married,” he announced. “The Gojo family has agreed to it. Their eldest son. The wedding will take place in a few days.”

Your mother blinked in surprise.

“Oh… that’s wonderful. Congratulations, swee—”

“No.”

The word left your mouth before she could finish.

Your father slowly looked up from his bowl.

“No?” he repeated.

"No," you said firmly. "I'm not getting married to anyone. You can’t sell me to the first buyer who expresses interest; I'm not livestock. I refuse to go. I'm not getting hitched.”

Your mother hesitated. “Please… think about—”

“Enough!”

Your father’s voice exploded through the room, cutting her off. He slammed his hand against the table so hard the dishes rattled violently, a few lifting off the surface before clattering back down.

“How dare you speak to me like that!”

Your mother reached out to him, "Dear, please calm down."

Her attempt only seemed to make things worse.

“At least Utahime knows how to show respect,” he snapped. “Why the hell can’t you be more like her?!” 

You pushed yourself up from the table and turned away, heading quickly down the hallway. Behind you, your mother’s voice followed.

“Please… you’ve already made your point.”

“Then why isn’t she listening to me?!”

His shouting echoed through the house.

By the time you stepped outside, you heard the sharp sound of glass shattering behind you—likely another sake bottle thrown against the wall, just like when you were younger. Back when he used to do it to frighten you and your sister.

“If you hadn’t spoiled her so much, she wouldn’t act like such a brat!” he continued yelling somewhere inside.

You closed the door behind you, the midday sunlight quickly drowned out the commotion from the home. Without looking back, you began walking down the path towards the town. Your mother hurried after you, stopping in the doorway.

“Don’t go,” she called softly. “Your father is just… worried.”

“I’m going to see my friends,” you replied, glancing back at her over your shoulder.

“Come back home soon, alright?” she called after you.

But by then you were already walking away, the house growing smaller behind you as you made your way down the mountain towards the town.

The path into town was a sight to behold.

The forest surrounding it had its own strange charm. The tall trees stretched endlessly towards the sky, their branches swaying gently in the evening breeze. It was beautiful in a quiet, unsettling way—almost eerie, but beautiful nonetheless.

When you reached the edge of town, the road was blocked. A car had been left parked sideways across the street, as if abandoned in a hurry. The dim light caught the side mirror, and for a moment you could see your own reflection staring back at you.

“Excuse me?” you called out cautiously. “Is anyone there?” You stepped closer to the vehicle, trying to peer inside the darkened windows to see if the driver was still there.

As you approached the door, your foot landed on something with a soft crunch.

You froze.

The ground beneath your shoe felt wrong—wet… sticky.

Slowly, you looked down.

A small gasp escaped your lips.

A trail of blood smeared across the dirt, leading directly to your foot. Beneath it lay the remains of a bird, its body already decomposing. Flies buzzed lazily around it, crawling over its feathers and the darkened flesh. You quickly stepped back, your stomach twisting; better find another way, there should be a shortcut up ahead.

Moving away from the road, you slipped through narrow alleyways and small passages between buildings, weaving deeper into town as you made your way toward the convenience store.

The streets were eerily quiet.

As you walked, your thoughts drifted back to the argument at home.

An arranged marriage, for you. Just like what had happened to your sister, and for the same reason. Your father, an alcoholic who wasted the family’s savings on gambling and cheap alcohol, only to stumble home late at night angry and unpredictable. His debts had grown over the years, and now he was paying them the only way he knew how—by trading away the futures of his daughters.

You remembered the day your sister was married.

The man she was forced to wed was someone you had never seen before. She stood through the ceremony with a calm expression, pretending everything was fine, pretending she accepted it.

But her eyes had told a different story. You had always been able to see the truth in them. She was miserable. Before that day, she used to tell you stories about someone she had met—a man she had grown close to over the years. Somewhere along the way, their friendship had quietly turned into love.

When your father announced the arranged marriage, she begged him to reconsider. She pleaded with him to let her marry the man she loved instead. Your father struck her across the face. He told her to stop dreaming about foolish fantasies. The man he had chosen for her was better, he said. A man with a name, connections, influence… money. The one she loved was nothing more than a simple townsman who worked on his family’s farm. A few months after your sister’s wedding, he disappeared. His family said he had moved to the city after finding a better job. But you never believed that. He had loved your sister too much to simply leave without a word. Every night, he used to leave a white flower beneath her window. It was a quiet, romantic gesture. One that made something deep inside you ache. Not because you wanted him—but because you realized you had never known that kind of love. And part of you feared you never would.

“You traitor.” A familiar voice pulled you from your thoughts. 

You looked up. “Shoko.”

She was leaning over the balcony of her house, resting her arms on the railing as she stared down at you. “Where are you off to?” she asked. “Don’t usually see you around here this late.”

“A truck was blocking the road,” you replied, glancing up at her.

“Heading to Chizuruya?”

You hesitated for a moment before answering. “I just… want to talk to someone.” The confession felt strangely heavy leaving your mouth.

Shoko studied you for a second before nodding. “I’ll be there in a bit, okay?”

“Alright. See you.” You turned to leave.

But just as you took a few steps away, you thought you heard her voice again—this time quieter, almost a whisper. “Traitor.”

You looked back toward the balcony. Shoko was gone. You weren’t sure if she had actually said it… or if your mind was simply playing tricks on you.

The walk to the convenience store was short, just around the corner. The thin mist hung in the air, drifting lazily through the streets. It had been raining for the past three days without stopping, so the fog wasn’t surprising.

When you turned the corner, you noticed someone sitting on one of the benches outside.

Suguru. Your old friend.

You slowed your steps as you approached him, taking in his appearance. It had been a few weeks since you had last seen him.

Suguru had always been handsome in a quiet sort of way—sharp features, a strong jaw, and a narrow nose that gave his face a serious expression. His black hair had grown longer since the last time you saw him, reaching his shoulders now, half of it tied back into a loose bun. His eyes were almond-shaped, their dark irises reminding you of the night sky. He wore earrings now too, those were new. From where you stood, you noticed he was holding something in his hands, studying it carefully. A small box. He slowly lifted his head when he heard your footsteps approaching.

“Hey, partner,” he said.

That was what he had always called you ever since you were kids. A small title of affection—his way of honoring the friendship you both shared.

“Suguru…”

You sat down beside him.

“I, uh…” He glanced at you briefly before looking forward again.

“Say something,” you muttered, the silence between you suddenly feeling awkward.

He huffed softly.

“What about you? Isn’t there something you want to say?”

There was. Too many things, actually. You had been trying to hold them back all evening, keeping the dam from breaking. But this was Suguru, the one person you trusted more than anyone else.

“I’m getting married.” The words slipped out before you could stop them.

Suguru turned to you immediately. “What?” His eyes widened in disbelief, his mouth parting slightly in shock.

“My father…” you began, swallowing hard as you tried to steady your voice. “He announced it this morning.” Your hands trembled slightly as you reached out, gripping his arm and leaning closer to him.

“I’m scared, Suguru.”

“I don’t want to get married,” you said quietly. “I don’t want to go through what my sister went through… or what my mother went through.”

The thought terrified you. You were being forced to marry a man you had never even met. What if he was just like your father? The idea of living the same miserable life your mother and sister had endured made your chest tighten with fear.

“The Gojo family,” you continued, clearing your throat as you looked down. A few tears slipped out before you could stop them. “My father said they have a son around my age. He had another debt to pay… so he sold me off, Suguru.”

Your voice trembled. “I’m getting married.”

“What?” Suguru repeated again, still staring at you in shock. 

Before he could say anything else, another voice suddenly spoke from the shadows. “What??? Did I hear that correctly? You’re getting married? About time, if you ask me.”

You turned to your left.

Manami stepped out from the darkness, leaning casually against a nearby wall. She was one of your friends… or at least you thought she was. Your relationship with her had always been strange. One moment she could be friendly, the next she would lash out for no clear reason.

A bicycle bell rang from the other side of the street.

Shoko.

She rolled up slowly, stopping near the bench.

“Is that what you wanted to talk about?” she asked. “Congratulations.”

You stared at her. Shoko had always been kind to you, which made her comment feel strange. She wouldn’t normally say something like that. Maybe they had only heard the last part of your conversation with Suguru—when you repeated that you were getting married.

“If I’d known you’d be here,” Manami said casually, “I would’ve brought that book you let me borrow.”

“It’s alright,” you replied. “I already knew I wasn’t getting it back when I lent it to you.” Everyone laughed, the tension from earlier loosening slightly.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Manami said, suddenly sounding offended.

She turned sharply towards Shoko. “And what are you laughing at? Didn’t you borrow something from her too?”

Shoko immediately stopped laughing, her eyes widening. “Wait… did I borrow something?” She paused, thinking.

“Wait—does this mean I don’t have to pay back the 500 yen I owe you?”

Manami scoffed.

“What happened to paying it back with interest?”

“I never said that!” Shoko protested. “You can’t prove it.”

Their bickering continued, but your attention slowly drifted away from the conversation. Your gaze wandered down the road. The mist had begun to gather there, curling slowly through the empty street. It twisted in the dim light, forming strange shapes as it moved. For a moment… It almost looked human. You slowly stood from the bench, unable to look away as the fog thickened, creeping closer.

“Hey…?” Suguru’s voice broke the silence.

“What’s wrong?”

“…Sorry. What?”

Shoko and Manami were staring at you.

“Traito—”

Shoko suddenly stopped mid-sentence. Her body tensed. She stared at you with wide, horrified eyes before slowly lifting her hands. Small red dots had begun appearing across her skin. They were spreading. “Shoko…?” you whispered. The red spots multiplied, blooming across her arms like tiny wounds. Then she collapsed to the ground. “Shoko?!” 

The fog thickened around all of you, swallowing the street in seconds. Red petals drifted through the air as the wind twisted violently, gathering into a shape that almost looked human.

“Run!” Suguru grabbed your shoulder and shoved you forward.

You ran. Down the opposite end of the street, away from the creeping fog that chased after you. Red spider lilies burst from the ground as you ran, blooming from cracks in the pavement, from the edges of buildings—appearing as if the fog itself had brought them to life. You pushed your legs harder, jumping over obstacles. Crawling through narrow spaces. Turning corners without thinking. But the flowers followed. Sometimes thick stems burst from the ground or walls, curling around your legs and arms, slowing you down just enough for the fog to creep closer.

You turned another corner—

A dead end.

Your heart dropped.

There was nowhere left to run. The fog monster moved towards you slowly, swallowing the street behind it. You were trapped.

Then—

“Don’t give up!” Your sister’s voice echoed suddenly through the air.

You looked up. A ladder leaned against the side of a nearby house that hadn’t been there moments ago. You rushed forward, grabbing it and climbing as fast as you could. The mist swirled below you, and you swore you could hear laughter rising from it—low, mocking laughter.

Finally, you pulled yourself onto the rooftop. The fog monster couldn’t reach you here.

You slowly climbed down the other side, dropping carefully into the street below. The mist was thinner now, but it still clung to the air. At the bottom of the steps, a figure stood waiting. This one wasn’t made of fog. It looked… real. Its body was twisted, its limbs bending like a doll’s with visible joints. Its face was malformed, stretched into something almost human—but wrong. In its hand, it held a knife. When it noticed you, the creature smiled. A horrible, crooked smile.

“Stay back,” You jumped backwards as it lunged toward you—but the creature was faster. The knife slashed across your right arm. Pain shot through you. You grabbed your injured arm with your other hand and ran past the creature, sprinting across a small bridge to the other side of town. A small shrine stood nearby, offerings placed carefully before it for the local spirits. 

One of the nearby houses had a back door slightly open. You slipped inside. “Um… hello?” you called out cautiously. No answer. Inside, a chabudai sat in the middle of the room. Resting on top of it was a metal medical box. You opened it quickly. Inside were bottles of isopropyl alcohol, cotton swabs, pills of different colors, and bandages. Exactly what you needed. You wrapped one bandage tightly around your injured arm and took another with you just in case. At the bottom of the box was a pill container filled with red capsules. The label read: Warning: For headaches only. Take one pill every 12 hours. Taking more than prescribed may cause hallucinations. Contact a doctor immediately if symptoms occur. You slipped the bottle into your pocket. Just in case you needed it later on.

You searched the rest of the house for anything useful, but there wasn’t much. On the dresser in a nearby bedroom sat a comb. It looked old… ceremonial. The comb was red, with an orange-yellow flower painted in the center. Three of its teeth were missing, and the paint along the edges had begun peeling away, revealing the wood beneath. Next to it lay a key. Probably for the front door.

You turned to leave the room—but the door across the hall, the one that had been locked earlier, was now slightly open. Strange. You slowly approached it. The moment you pushed it open, another one of those fleshy creatures burst out, lunging at you. You reacted instantly, turning and sprinting down the stairs towards the front door. Your hands shook as you jammed the key into the lock. It didn’t turn. Wrong door. The creature crept slowly around the chabudai, watching you, waiting for you to panic. You grabbed the medical box from the table and hurled it at the monster. The metal case struck it hard enough to send it stumbling backwards.

You ran back upstairs. The key had to belong to the room you hadn’t checked yet. You shoved the key into the lock—

This time it turned smoothly. The door opened onto a balcony. Behind you, the creature’s screeches grew louder as it climbed up the stairs. You jumped over the wooden railing and climbed down as fast as you could, dropping back onto the street.

This isn’t good. 

You needed to get back to your friends.

The journey back to the convenience store was exhausting. More of those creatures leapt across rooftops and alleyways, trying to corner you. All you could do was dodge their attacks and keep running.

Eventually, the familiar street came into view. The same place where you had been sitting with Suguru earlier.

Then you saw her.

Shoko.

She was still lying on the ground. Her body was covered in red spider lilies.

“Shoko!”

You rushed forward, desperately pulling the flowers away from her—but she didn’t react. She didn’t speak. She didn’t move. She wasn’t breathing.

Your hand rose to your face. Wet. Tears. You hadn’t even realized you were crying. Your best friend was gone. And you had left her behind. When the fog came earlier, you had frozen in shock. Suguru had been the one to pull you away. Shoko had died alone. You slowly stood and lifted her body into your arms. She deserved better than this. It was the least you could do.

 — — —

You pushed the doors open with your hips, your hands full as you carried Shoko’s body inside. The medical office was quiet.

You walked slowly to the center of the room and gently laid her down on the floor. From the doctor’s office in the back, you retrieved a blanket and carefully placed it over her body.

At least now she could rest somewhere peaceful. A place where she had been happy.

You remembered how, when you were younger, Shoko used to tell you about her dream. She would laugh and say that one day she would become a doctor, help people all across Japan. You had laughed in support of her back then. Now the memory hurt. At the very least, you could let her rest in a place she would have loved. You knelt beside her and bowed your head, whispering a quiet prayer.

“Be at peace, Shoko,” you murmured softly. “You always said you wanted to become a doctor… to help people, to save them.” Your voice trembled slightly.

“You would’ve been a good one. The best, probably.” You swallowed, your throat tightening. “Thank you… for all the memories. For being my friend.”

You hesitated before whispering the final words. “Sweet dreams.”

After what felt like several long minutes, you slowly stood. You turned off the lights, stepped outside, and gently closed the doors behind you.

The reality of everything began to settle over you. Your sister’s forced smile on the day she married. Your father announcing your own arranged marriage. The fog turning into something alive—something cruel—that had taken Shoko from you. The creatures. Suguru and Manami still missing. It all felt unreal. Like a terrible joke.

Why? 

What had you done to deserve any of this?

A wave of anger rose inside you. Another one of those creatures slowly approached from the mist. You glared at it.

“The doctor’s office is closed,” you said bitterly. “Go home.” As if the thing could understand you.

Your hands clenched tightly, your jaw trembling.

“Shoko… no matter what happens, I’ll keep my promise.”

Your eyes fell on a metal pipe lying near the entrance. You picked it up. The creature staggered closer. With a sudden shout, you swung the pipe hard against its side. The impact twisted its body backwards, stunning it. You swung again and again. Each strike felt heavier than the last. Every hit carried the weight of the day’s horrors—your father’s words, your sister’s suffering, Shoko’s lifeless body. 

The blows became wilder. 

More violent.

Eventually the creature collapsed onto the ground, its body going still. But you didn’t stop. You kept swinging. The sound of metal striking flesh echoed through the empty street as blood began to stain the ground beneath it.

Finally, your arms gave out. You dropped the pipe and staggered backward, breathing heavily as tears streamed down your face. 

From somewhere behind you, a cold breeze brushed against your back. Your body tensed. The fog. You swung the pipe behind you instinctively—but nothing was there. The mist had already drifted away.

A sudden pounding headache struck you, sharp and overwhelming. You dropped to your knees, clutching your head as your vision blurred. The ground rushed up to meet you. And then everything went dark.

 — — —

When you awoke, everything was black.

“Are you alright?” A voice whispered somewhere nearby.

“Huh…?”

“Do not push yourself. Take a moment if you need to.” You couldn’t recognize who the voice belonged to.

You slowly stood up and took in your surroundings. There was an altar with candles behind you.

“Where am I…?”

Two fox statues stood at each corner of the altar. In the center of the table were five small metal plates and five wooden stands, each carved with drawings meant to hold offerings. On the plates rested several strange objects: a dead rat, a dead bird dressed in a small doll’s robe, a closed traditional fan, a dried fish, and a small red clay urn. A note lay before them.

You picked it up and read:

Thy restless heart betrays thee as unfit for this auspicious day.Thou must first pay respect to the gods and spirits of thine ancestors.A restless heart leads to a corrupt soul.Only through sufficient offerings laid upon many stands may thy soul be cleansed.

You slowly picked up the offerings, placing them on the stands.

First, you placed the fan on the lower-left tower, the one carved with bamboo. Second came the dried fish. Third, the clay urn on the tower marked with flowers. Fourth, the bird dressed in the small robe. Lastly, the dead rat on the tower carved with leaves. As the final piece settled into place, something shifted behind you.

A loud bang echoed through the room.

The lanterns on the first pillars flickered to life.

Then another bang.

Another lantern ignited.

One by one, the lights awakened, forming a glowing path toward the exit doors. You began walking towards them.

Another sharp headache struck you—far worse than the last one. Pain throbbed violently through your skull as your vision blurred, the world around you tinting red. You staggered forward. Your head pounded as if something inside it were trying to break free.

You reached the doors and shoved against them. 

They didn’t move. Locked.

“Help! Is anyone there?!” you shouted.

“Calm yourself.”

“It’s stuck! It won’t open!” you cried, pounding on the doors.

“That’s enough.” The voice spoke again. It sounded calm, controlled, almost commanding.

“Give me a moment. I will unlock it.”

“Open it!” you shouted, striking the doors again.

“OPEN IT!” Your voice broke as panic overtook you. 

You stepped back and threw your weight against the doors. This time they burst open. You stumbled forward, but someone caught you before your body could hit the ground.

“Good morning,” the stranger said calmly. “That must have been quite a nightmare.”

You looked up.

A tall man held you in his arms. Snow-white hair fell loosely around his face, soft strands brushing against the edges of the fox mask he wore. The mask appeared to be made of porcelain, smooth and carefully carved, with delicate red markings painted across it. Its narrow eyes curved upward like a fox’s sly smile, giving the impression that it was always watching. 

But the most striking feature was what lay beneath it.

Through the mask’s eye slits, you could see his eyes clearly—bright blue, almost unnaturally so. They shone in the dim light like shards of glass catching the morning sky. When they looked at you, it felt as though they could see far more than they should.

He wore a traditional white kimono, simple yet elegant, the fabric flowing softly with his movements. A thin sash held it in place, and a single gold earring hung from one ear, glinting faintly in the lantern light.

There was something unsettling about him. Beautiful… but not entirely human. And the way he looked at you made it seem as though he had known you for a very long time.

“A nightmare…?” you murmured, swallowing nervously.

“Are you injured?” he asked gently. “You mustn’t be so reckless. You should take better care of yourself.” He slowly helped you back onto your feet. Your legs still felt weak.

“Thank you,” you said quietly.

He handed you the lantern he had been holding.

“Shall we go?” he asked, already beginning to walk ahead.

You followed him outside. The world beyond the shrine was nearly impossible to see. Everything was dark.

“Where are we—”

“What’s wrong?” he interrupted gently. “This way.” He continued walking, now holding his own lantern.

You noticed something odd. His lantern glowed blue. You stared at it for a moment, wondering why it was different from yours—and what that might mean.

Here is my second fanfic, chat! Hopefully you guys enjoy it. Any recommendations on how I can improve my writing are always appreciated. I promise, this and my Pyramid Head!Sukuna x Reader fic are the only ones I have based on Silent Hill.

Fanart by: momoya 348 on Twitter/X

Dividers by: Diviniyae

Taglist: @missglaskin

[missglaskin]

Your talent is out of this world I swear, I look forward to every one of your fics JUST CHEFS KISS

[pope-codys]

yeti - titus danforth x reader

pairing: titus danforth x reader

song: yeti by paris paloma

warnings: angst?, i'll be honest idk what genre this is, ex!reader, past relationship, exploration of a break-up/separation

requested by: @marvelsimps

authors note: tthis fic was requested from my birthday event! the fic is inspired by the song that was chosen

It was your wedding day and you hadn't seen Titus in years.

You'd dated, briefly, many years ago, and when it ended the two of you severed all ties. You'd managed to avoid each other all these years, your paths never crossing. You only caught glimpses of each others shape through the crowd at parties or functions, like the shaky picture of a cryptid caught on a polaroid. Everything you learned about each other was in passing, through other people, always a second or third hand account of what happened. You never quite knew if the information that floated to you was true or someone elses version of the truth. No one ever mentioned Titus mentioning you.

You found that you were indifferent about the stories you heard about Titus. They didn't interest you nor did they bother you. Titus didn't occupy your thoughts, he was a ghost that you couldn't see or feel. There was never any sign of him. His cologne never lingered in the air, you didn't hear his laugh carry over the chatter of the party, all traces of him erased. When you did hear his name called out, you felt no urge to turn your head and look for him, but you also felt no need to run away. There was a sweet indifference, an almost wholesome dispassion when you thought of him. Titus was a stranger to you now, his name so foreign to your mouth you weren't sure you even knew how to make the sound anymore.

Titus was like a myth, only existing to you in the stories of others. He was a myth you didn't believe in, and the evidence of his existence didn't interest you. Everything said about Titus was just rumors to you, whispers about encounters with the creature you used to love. You never thought you'd stop caring about Titus, you thought you two were meant to be, but here we are now.

You finished the last of your touches, making sure your makeup and hair were to your satisfaction before grabbing your bouquet to head downstairs for the ceremony. You left the room and paused, movement to your left making you stop. You turned your head and saw Titus at the end of the hall, who also stood still. You both watched each other, quiet and still like you might spook the other, like one would a deer. Titus' face was neutral and expressionless. No remorse, or anger, or disgust, or sadness, or interest. Just nothing.

The moment only lasted a second before you both moved, you turning away to finish closing the door to the room behind you and Titus towards his original intended destination of the stairs. He was gone in the blink of your eye, almost like you imagined him. A phantom walking through walls.

You headed towards the stairs, not following him, but moving towards the wedding ceremony where he was merely a guest and you were the bride. There was no tug between you, no force pushing the two of you together, no impulse to track him or follow the traces of him.

There was nothing there.

dividers by @ cursed-carmine

taglist under the cut:

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[pope-codys]

taglist 3:

@getitoutofmymindwrites @tedmustache @goblinbabyy @istanbulnotconstantinopal @kaylapfarr @sincerely-yours-marsbar @callingallslashers @svperscnic @isuckcigbuds @phera-money @ajeff855 @ohyams-25 @aerangi @ecsecretbeans @1dhoe93 @loftilyvioletthunder @snake-in-a-flower-crown @superemobitch @aleexoxosstuff @theory-saturn @lunaleah @ruewritesstuff @the-doctor-9-10 @skepticalriddleimp @aressmokes @peachiestevie @alexxavicry @itzpixiebabe @veryberryjelly @czarina55 @peachyfckingkeen @nebuleuseeeeee @myotakureprieve @mistressmkay @ezmina98 @livlovesfastcars @withakindheartx @hahahahaylie @girljusttrying28 @velvetumbranightmare @nyxmoretti @berrybisous @nikki-plum

[valarrsgirl]

just read only yours and the part where he says "“plus, my father would kill me, quite horribly and very publicly if I ever let go of you. " made me imagine baelor coming home one day and she's there like cuddling valarr on the couch but has dyed her hair so baelor thinks valarr is cheating or has a new girl without telling the family or something and is giving him murder eyes while politely (he's always polite) kicking 'new girl' out of his house LOL and valarr is just like ????

this is actually so adorable, i needed to add my girl kiera in this somehow

the key turned in the lock of the front door with a solid, familiar click. baelor sighed, a long, weary sound that carried the weight of a day spent in the viper’s nest of corporate mergers. all he wanted was silence and a glass of brandy.

the scene that greeted him in the living room delivered on only one of those desires.

the soft glow of the television illuminated two figures on the large sectional. valarr, his eldest, was stretched out, one arm resting along the back cushions. and tucked against his side, head nestled in the crook of his arm, was a young woman. she had her back to the door, but baelor could see slender shoulders, a familiar-looking sweater, and a riot of… pink hair. soft, candy-floss pink.

a cold wave washed over baelor, momentarily freezing him in the foyer. valarr had someone new. he’d brought a girl home. and he hadn’t said a word. a quiet, private hurt flickered, he and valarr told each other things, before it was swiftly buried under a tidal wave of paternal outrage. this stranger was in his house, in your spot, wearing what looked like your clothes, and valarr had his arm around her as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

valarr, sensing a presence, glanced over. “dad. you’re home early.” his expression was its usual calm, but there was a slight tension around his eyes as he registered his father’s stance.

the pink-haired girl didn’t move, seemingly asleep or deeply engrossed in the film on screen.

baelor moved then, his steps silent on the plush rug. he walked into the living room, his gaze fixed on the back of that pink head. his voice, when he spoke, was the epitome of cordial, icy politeness. it was the voice he used right before dismantling an opponent’s argument in the boardroom.

“valarr. i wasn’t aware we were expecting company this evening.”

valarr blinked. “we..aren’t?”

“i see.” baelor’s eyes, dark violet and sharp as obsidian, finally cut to his son. “perhaps you could introduce me to your… friend.” the pause before ‘friend’ was infinitesimal but charged.

now the girl stirred. she mumbled something sleepily, nuzzling further into valarr’s side.

valarr looked from his father’s murderously polite face to the girl beside him, genuine confusion dawning. “dad, it’s just—”

“it’s quite late,” baelor continued smoothly, cutting him off. he directed his words to the pink hair. “and while you are, of course, welcome as valarr’s guest, i’m afraid family time is rather important to us. perhaps we could arrange a proper introduction at a more suitable hour.” he took a step closer, his presence commanding the room. “i’d be happy to call a car for you.”

finally, you pushed yourself upright and turned around.

your face—your face, the slight crinkle at the corner of your eyes, was the same. but framing it was a stunning, shocking mane of bright rose-gold pink.

you took in baelor’s rigid posture, the cold fire in his eyes, the way he was looking at you like you were a fascinating and unwelcome insect. then you looked at valarr, who was staring at you both with dawning, horrified comprehension.

a slow, wicked grin spread across your face.

“a car?” you said, your voice laced with playful innocence. “but baelor, i practically live here.”

for three full seconds, there was absolute silence. baelor’s brain, usually a precision instrument, short-circuited. the eyes were yours. the voice was yours. the face was yours. the hair… the hair was an atrocity.

“what,” he said, the single word flat and dead.

you reached up and ruffled your own pink locks. “oh. this. yeah. i lost a bet.”

valarr found his voice, a strangled sound of relief and amusement. “dad thought you were… someone else. he was about to have you ejected from the premises with extreme prejudice.”

you looked back at baelor, your grin softening into something tender and mischievous. “you thought i was some random hussy your son had brought home? and you were going to be polite about throwing me out?”

baelor finally moved, stepping forward to grip your chin gently, turning your head side to side as if examining a forged painting. the pink was undeniable, and up close, he could see it was actually quite skillfully done. “a bet,” he repeated, his voice still rough with the remnants of misplaced fury.

“with kiera,” you nodded. “she bet me I couldn’t identify the vintage of three different dornish reds blindfolded. i lost. the penalty was letting her dye my hair the same color as hers for a week.” you shrugged, the movement jostling valarr’s arm, which was still around you. “she’s had pink hair for years, i thought i could pull it off. do i not pull it off?”

baelor’s gaze finally left your hair and traveled to your eyes. the cold anger had completely dissolved, he dropped his hand from your chin.

“you,” he stated quietly, his eyes locking with yours, “are a menace.” then his gaze shifted to valarr, whose arm was still draped around your shoulders in a casually protective, way. “and you. you couldn’t have led with ‘It’s her, dad, she just looks like a confectionary nightmare’?”

valarr finally withdrew his arm, raising both hands in surrender, a real smile breaking through. “in my defense, you started speaking in that ‘i-am-the-law’ tone before i could get a word in. and i was enjoying the show.”

baelor sighed, the sound now purely theatrical. he sank into the armchair opposite you both, running a hand over his face. the image of him, nearly having a heart attack and preparing to coldly evict the love of his sons life from their own home because of a bottle of wine and a pot of pink dye…it was absurd.

taglist: @valarrmylight @icebearcucumber @wooceanic

[siyorii]

— 𝐂𝐀𝐋𝐄𝐁 𝐱 𝐌!𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐄𝐑

FANDOM: Love and Deepspace

TAGS: TW! Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Explicit Incest, Unhealthy Relationship, Codependent Behavior, Self-Depreciation, Dehumanization, Dead Dove (Do Not Eat), Manipulation, Guilt-Tripping, Self-Gaslighting, Feminization, Reader is scared of love, Reader is MC's brother

PROMPT: Face-to-face with your big brother. You can’t run away now.

REQUESTED? No

A/N: I don’t condone anything that happens in this fic!! And I apologize in advance… this’ll probably be the last time I write for LADS :’)

˖᯽ ݁˖· ─ 𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 1, 2, 3, 4, 5

You were free from him the day you heard he had died in an accident. A mishap in the aviation center. It was a tragic accident, the reports all said. As your eyes trailed over those words, illustrating how, among the many victims, Caleb of all people was one of them, you couldn't help the sick sense of relief that took hold in you—nauseating all the same.

But you were never worthy of whatever ‘good thing’ happened in your life. You ‘mourned’ as your sister did, as your gran did, as all of Caleb's friends did. Yet you had never felt so free before. There was no threat to you and your fragile heart. 

He wouldn't flood your mind with praise and tell you over and over again how pretty you were under him. How good you felt around him...Yet in Caleb’s absence, a gaping hole was left in your soul that no other could fill.

You tried your hardest to, that’s for sure. 

It’s why you slept with all those men women. Then, Sylus, for the first time, both of you up in the late hours of the night, on the rooftop of one of his newly acquired apartments, your mind gone to whatever drug you had been offered by that damn crow. He was a better substitute for Caleb than the other people you slept with, rough enough that when you closed your eyes, you could almost imagine Caleb instead of him.

It fucked with your mind. How could you miss Caleb after all the shit he's put you through?

Then again, you were glad it was you and not your little sister.

Sex with Sylus—it didn’t feel the same way as Caleb felt as he fucked you, taking full advantage of your smaller, weaker, younger frame, all while you made it even easier for him by reciprocating. He was being a loving older brother, showing you what to do when you had a girlfriend, all while calling you MC. Sweet, sweet MC. What a sick man he is.

You love him either way. No matter how much you loathe him, your mind would twist that hate into whatever bullshit excuse you could give him.

How could he be in the wrong when you were so eager?

How could he have hurt you when he made you feel like heaven?

How could you hate him when he loved you so much?

Sylus was nothing more than another outlet, the closest thing you had to your big brother, using you again. Yet frustration gripped you because he could never replicate the euphoria you felt when Caleb fucked you senseless.

Maybe it was the way Sylus kissed your body, as if it were something to be worshipped, something that could hold a torch to your sister’s greatness. Maybe it was because he whispered your name instead of MC’s. Maybe… just maybe you finally felt loved despite the circumstances for your fornication on that rooftop. 

That was the difference, wasn't it?

He was making love to you. Caleb was using you.

And it scared you so bad that you avoided Sylus, too, when you ended up getting that research opportunity that brought you miles and miles away from all your problems.

You were never one to hold onto good things, though, were you? 

Part of you thought you were slowly healing now that Caleb was gone. You were happier, pursuing your passion for science away from what was familiar, surrounded by fellow scientists you looked up to. When you came back, you were the happiest you could ever be,  but like the parasite he is, he returned. For whatever reason, he was still alive. Breathing. Heart beating.

MC was happy, so you were happy, despite that terrified look in your eyes as they locked with Caleb’s.

He faked his death, he explained, but everything else he said was a blur.

Only one thought circled your mind, and that’s the fact that he was still alive.

Something in your mind clicked as you felt his hands on you the night after he came home. You felt it then, the feeling your body had been craving ever since his ‘death’. He gave you everything you wanted, and you took it selfishly, hungry for whatever he had to offer. 

He told you how much he missed ‘you’, how he had waited so long to fuck ‘you’ and ‘your’ pretty pussy again. 

Bile stained your taste buds at each honeyed word he whispered in your ear. 

You could have fought back.

You could have said you didn’t want this anymore.

You could have told him how horrible he was for taking advantage of you all those years, but you’d be lying to yourself if you said this wasn’t what ‘you’ wanted—to be used so you wouldn’t feel so useless.

Maybe Zayne was right.

You always did defend those people, men and women who’d take advantage of you because you were just that easy—oh, so convenient. More attainable than your baby sister. This was what you wanted anyway. In your search for someone to fill the hole Caleb left, in the end, he was the only one who could.

He was the only one you allowed to fill it.

"[Y/N]! I'M SO HAPPY YOU'RE OKAY, I—"

Ah.

MC.

Thank God she's here. 

Your heated conversation with Zayne melted away in an instant the moment you both heard her voice, clearly concerned about to rapid-fire apologies at you. Without even questioning why you and Zayne were arguing, she ran up to you and wrapped her arms around you in a tight embrace. 

A smile quirked at your lips as you returned the embrace, your mouth pressed at the crown of her head whilst her face was buried at your chest. The feeling of her hands trembling sent an ache straight to your heart, her grip on your clothes weak as she sniffled against you.

"I'm so sorry, [Y/N]... I tried—I really tried to get to you on time.” MC’s voice shook almost as hard as her hands. “I-I thought I lost you.” 

No. There’s no way you’d ever leave your sister.

Taking a deep inhale, you pat her on the head. “Like hell I’d let that happen, MC.” Then, you leaned forward, arms fully wrapping around her figure. “I’m never ever going to leave your side.” 

Your sister huffed right into your shoulder, her tears wetting your clothes. 

“Are you okay now?” She asked after a beat of silence.

Contemplation took hold of you for a moment. Were you okay? Physically—“Yes, I am.” But emotionally? Well, that’s a different story. 

MC broke into a relieved smile, nuzzling into your shoulder. It was clear she wasn't going to leave your side for a while now, and you were happy about that. You just wish you could get discharged soon. You never liked hospitals. There's a reason you avoided them and Zayne by extension. 

Looking over at Zayne, he only gave you a look, his shoulders sagging as he let out a quiet sigh. "I'll give you two some space..." He muttered before leaving.

Thank god...

You patted your sister's back as her breathing slowed, no longer a mess of tears and snot. She gripped the front of your shirt, her breath coming out in stuttered gasps. "Are you okay?" You asked with half-hearted playfulness.

She chuckled against you and nodded her head in reply. "Yeah... I'm okay. And... I'm still sorry."

A frown once again tugged at your lips as she apologized once more, adding to her long list of apologies today. She didn't need to give you any 'sorries'; you'd never be mad at her, no matter what wrong she'd be capable of doing to you. That much you told her. Too bad she's a tough nut, too stubborn to let you tell her she had no fault to make up for.

"We were supposed to admire art, and I ended up involving you in..." She trailed off.

With furrowed brows, you looked down at her. "Involving me in what?"

MC stiffened in your hold, slowly letting go of your clothes as she pulled away. When she did, you saw the guilty look on her face. One that told you she had been doing much more than normal. "What exactly were you doing in your last mission, MC?" Your voice came out exasperated, guilting MC more than you probably intended. You were ready to scold your sister should she reveal something that put her into more danger than she needed to be.

"The mission I went on was a solo one but... Xavier happened to be around the same area—again." She paused to rest her chin on your shoulder; you shifted to rest your hands on her back, "Then I found... a lead."

"A lead?" Your brows furrowed. "A lead to what? What have you been investigating?" There was a growing frustration in your voice, clear as day.

If MC could shrink in your arms, you bet she would have right now. "My heart."

Oh...

"Your heart?" Your voice was barely a breath; you let go of MC. She pulled away from you and moved to sit at your bedside instead. 

"Look... I know it's dangerous for me to be investigating the aether core in my heart, but you know I can't help it." She put a hand over her chest, right where her heart is. "I need to know why, out of everyone, do I have this? And why, despite so many people in this world, I can't seem to find similar cases to me?…”

You stared at her as she explained herself, her shoulders slumping uncharacteristically, her head bowed, her voice barely a whisper as more words flew out of her mouth.

Of course, you understood why your sister would go this far to know more about that damned cancer in her heart; you went as far as studying in your university solely for Protocore Science for fuck’s sakes.

But finding out that MC was putting herself in danger like this? It was reckless, so damn reckless of her; it made you so, so angry. “Oh, sure, that’s all good and reasonable, but getting yourself killed in the process won’t get you anywhere, will it?” The look you were giving MC was one you’d rather kill yourself than give her in any other case, but you couldn’t help yourself now. 

She was being so careless, and for what? Something you could easily give her more information on? Her Aether Core has been the subject of your extensive research for years, and she knew that. So why would she put herself in so much more danger just because she has a lead’. 

Oh, no… no, no, no.

“Wait, MC…” Tears teetered down your sister’s cheeks before you knew it. This time, it wasn’t from guilt; it was because you made her upset. You made your baby sister cry. Swallowing thickly the sudden lump that grew in your throat, you pulled MC back into your embrace. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it… I’m sorry. I completely understand why you did that—I-I’m just really worried.”

I really am my sister’s brother. We’re so alike. We’re practically the same person.

”I’m sorry, I’m sor—“ and it went on. She didn’t stop my barrage of apologies as I did hers, because I didn’t deserve that sympathy for making her cry, right? 

We’re alike in so many ways. But one thing’s clear: she’s perfect. You are not. You’re her imperfect older brother.

Your mind tends to forget things it deems unnecessary for you to dwell on. Maybe that’s why you always feel so numb after everything… You didn’t remember when MC left, you didn’t remember what happened after you made her cry, you just knew that…

Nevermind.

You didn’t know anything.

Lying on your hospital bed, staring up at the ceiling, you didn’t think about anything; you were too tired to. A heavy sigh slips past your lips as you deflated upon the hard mattress—pillow the same. What were you doing with your life? After you get discharged from the hospital, you’re moving out of your sister’s apartment and getting your own. You couldn’t keep slacking off on your research, lest MC gets into more dangerous situations to sate her curiosity—her need to know more about that core in her heart.

No more distractions. No more fucking around, no matter how much you crave being used—being of use. 

No more love. You didn’t deserve that, not from women. Especially not from men. What a disgusting creature you were to think that—to think you let yourself believe other men fucked you without thinking you were a substitute for your sister. 

His words were true, no matter how much you tried to deny it. No matter how much Zayne tried to convince you otherwise. He just felt bad about you because MC felt bad about you. 

Caleb…

Somehow tonight, you found yourself missing him.

People say a lot of things about attraction, manifesting, yadi-yadi-yada. 

You didn’t believe any of that was true.

Until this moment.

“You made MC cry today; that’s quite mean of you, [Y/N].” 

When did he get in? You didn’t know, but you were too paralyzed in your bed to even look at him just from hearing his voice. After years of avoiding him, of course, he’d find you at your lowest. No. Of course, he’d find you when you needed him most. 

“What’s wrong? Cat got your tongue?” He spoke with a smirk so comforting that you felt relieved to see him as he loomed over your figure.

There he was in the flesh. Pale skin, chiseled jaw, sharp eyes holding all the mysteries of the world, and his hair, still the same stupid hairstyle since childhood. Your big brother was here for you. For you? Maybe that’s a stretch. He’s here because you made MC cry. Never just to see you—to use you maybe. And you were sure more than ever that you wanted his dick inside your fucking pussy.

That want was the most shameful thing you’ve ever felt in a while, but you couldn’t bring yourself to be abashed. 

“How’d you get in… visiting hours are over…” Your voice was weak as you spoke, with no fight left in you to give your words any bite.

He laughed, taking a glance at the window, which you didn’t notice was now open until you followed his gaze. “You left your window open, so I took that as an invitation. You know better than to do that, silly.” Caleb gave you a smile, amused, as if this were all some joke, not the unsettling scene it is.

”Right, I guess I did forget to ask the nurse to…” Your voice trailed off as you felt Caleb take your chin, lifting it so you met his piercing eyes properly, just as a real man should. You are a real man, aren’t you? Not some faggot? “I’m sorry,” you mumbled.

Your big brother just shook his head, putting a knee on top of the space of your bedside, his other hand next to your head as he leaned down. “It’s alright… You know big brother will always forgive you, just like a big brother should.” He only moved closer with every word, while you lie frozen. As his lips met yours, you felt the prick of tears at the corner of your eyes.

Was that relief you felt? Suddenly, the weight pressing down on your shoulders was lifted, just from one kiss. Your big brother’s loving kiss… he exhaled shakily through his nose as his hand on your chin traced the line of your jaw before descending to your neck, fingertips brushing the curve of your Adam’s apple—undeniable truth of your masculinity. 

“Caleb—“ you whimpered as he pulled away, a pathetic sound.

In your hazy bliss, you saw characteristics you had grown fond of in the men you’ve felt shameful attraction for the past few weeks.

His gaze was like Xavier’s, gentle and caring.

His touch, rough yet loving, was the same way Sylus handled you, not as if you were broken, but as if he desired you.

His words, genuine, like Rafayel’s, not even a lick of a lie spilling from his lips.

His eyes, like Zayne’s, were analyzing you, taking you in in your entirety, like he saw anything but MC, as if he saw you. 

And suddenly you found yourself wanting him to fuck your brains out over and over until you were used up to dust—until he got tired of using the same pathetic fag to sate himself. Maybe he’d get tired of your asshole—too loose to be even considered that anymore when it yielded as easily as a pussy. 

You could feel how hard you were against the fabric of your hospital gown, precum making you feel like a perv. Why would you ever think of your big bro like this? Shameless man. Shameless slut. You’re so dirty, you don’t deserve to be kissed by your big brother. But here he is, so kind and loving, so, so forgiving. He doesn’t care that you’ve slept with other men. He doesn’t care how much of a faggot you made yourself out to be.

All logic left your brain, and all you could think about was how badly you wanted to be fucked and used and ravaged by Caleb. It’s an all-consuming desire, and you let yourself fall into his grasp.

He’s already getting on top of you.

Look at him doing all the work while you lie there like some useless fuck. 

His mechanical arm slides up your thigh as he lifts your hospital gown, the cool metal sending shivers right down your spine—a new sensation entirely.

Oh God, you could vomit—

“Awe, did you miss me that much? You’re dripping all over,” he chuckles, stroking your cock, “Look at how excited you are… such a cutie.” All you can manage is a soft moan as his lips meet your cockhead, showering it in simple pecks, enough to have you crying.

Sylus wouldn’t be able to do this to you, would he? He’d never be able to make you feel all of these overwhelming feelings from his presence alone. He was and will always remain a poor substitute for your big brother.

Why did you ever run away from Caleb? Silly boy. Silly, silly.

Word Count: 3,096

Taglist: @quill-for-glory