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joshsjipple · 3 months

Text

Waiter, please!

JOSH KISZKA X (F)READER

A/N: Hey guys! This is my first fic! I've been writing one shots for a while now, but I've never been comfortable enough in my abilities to post them. Anyways, I hope you enjoy this:)

Word Count: 5k+

WARNINGS: 18+, this is SMUT! graphic sexual content, unprotected sex (you know better) LOTS of dirty talk and praise, oral sex (m/f/rec), fingering, hair pulling, slight slapping kink, a bit of spit play if you squint, small choking kink, language, some degradation, dom (m) sub (f) etc etc, light fluff here and there. Sorry if I missed any!

✯¸.•´*¨`*•✿ ✿•*`¨*`•.¸✯

Your fingers twirl the cool metal stick between your fingers, lazily stirring the plate of overpriced pasta in front of you. The creamy sauce creates a bleak noise that is somehow ten times more interesting than your date sitting in front of you.

It was your friend Nala who convinced you to join Tinder, saying how you “need to get back out there.” You agreed, thinking if nothing went right, you’d still get your fulfillment of sex. Boy were you wrong. Not only were 90% of these men conceited, obnoxious, and blatantly boring, they also had zero direction in the bedroom. You had only yourself to blame for that one.

Your eyes drift away from your half-eaten plate of food and fix on the unlucky winner tonight. It’s not like he’s unattractive, because he’s not. But the more you look at him and the more you listen in on his pathetic talk about this year's upcoming election, the less appealing he becomes. Not once had he complimented you or asked about your life or interests. And you take offense to that first one because you had picked out a particularly flattering dress the night before.

The light blue silk dress hugs your waist perfectly, accentuating all your curves. The top was a loose fit, draping over your chest just barely covering your breasts. You were sure if you bent over just right, you’d give anyone who was looking a show.

Reaching for your glass of wine, you nod to whatever nonsense this guy is still talking about. Noticing your drink has vanished, you let out a small sigh. The expensive wine he had insisted on buying was the only thing keeping your ass in the seat. So, reluctantly, you wave the nearest waiter over your way. A different one from last time approaches your table, a polite grin on his face.

“What can I get you?” he asks, rummaging for a pen in his apron pockets.

“Can we get a refill on the wine?” you smile back to your date who has since silenced his words.

“Yes, please.” he agrees.

The waiter takes your empty bottle and nods his head before turning to leave. You watch him walk away, the dark brown curls on his head whooshing from side to side as he marches into the kitchen area. He’s much shorter than you prefer, but being short yourself, you don’t see an issue.

Within a few minutes, he returns with your wine. Placing it in front of you, your eyes cross paths for a moment. His big brown beads glare back at you warmly, a smile forming on your face in response. You can’t tell if your date is still talking or if he has stopped to pay attention to the newly replaced wine that just arrived at your table.

Your eyes flick down to the name tag stuck to your server’s uniform. Josh. Cute. He turns on his heels and retreats back to the kitchen, leaving you stuck in your worst nightmare.

An hour drags by impossibly slow, and you find yourself chugging half the bottle of wine down in no time. Your date, Paul, is still rambling. Even his name is insanely bland. You swirl the red liquid around in your glass and rest your head on your free hand. With your knees crossed and your eyebrows raised, you grow impatient. You’d like to tell him where he can stick his opinions, but you haven’t drank enough for that yet.

Over the span of the last 60 minutes, Josh has brought out a chocolate desert and the check. Your eyes gracefully meet, and each time they do, your legs squeeze together tightly. He must be able to tell you’re not enjoying yourself, because he smiles coily to you as he passes by.

Paul, who has now moved onto the state of the economy, blabbers on and on. A glass of wine splashes in one hand while the other helicopter around the table. You watch as the color drains from his face and his words begin to slow. You’ve paid no attention to how much he has dranken, but now you seem to fathom a good estimation.

He grabs his stomach as he shuts his mouth tightly. Quickly, he stands and rushes away from your table and towards the bathroom. You can’t help but let out a small laugh. Someone in your close vicinity seems to do the same. You search for him, although you can practically picture the face that laugh belongs to. Josh. Your eyes meet and he casually wanders over to your table, throwing himself into Paul’s vacant seat.

“Bored, darling?” he cooly says, his head in the palm of his hand.

“Since the moment I got here.” you nearly choke on your words at the pet name.

“I get off in five… and seeing your date is preoccupied, can I join you?”

You’re taken back by his boldness, but it’s kind of attractive. “Sure. As long as you stay away from political opinion talk.”

Josh sucks in a breath through closed teeth. “Dang it. There goes my plans for tonight.”

You giggle as the bathroom door down the hall opens. Josh flawlessly stands to his feet and shuffles away, making sure to turn back and give you a quick wink. You roll your eyes and stand to greet your intoxicated date.

“Jesus, Y/N. I’m sorry, but I feel like shit. Can we continue this another time?” he slurs.

“Of course,” you smile, knowing damn well you’re blocking him when you get home tonight. “I called you an uber. It should be here in a few minutes. Maybe some fresh air would help.”

“I agree. Here’s some cash. Should cover everything.” He pulls a few hundred dollar bills and throws them on the table. Without another word, he walks out the door.

You want to cheer as the door closes behind him, but remembering you’re in a very expensive restaurant, you sit back down. To your surprise, Josh has already beaten you to the spot. His apron is abandoned and replaced with a tan jacket. His arms are folded across the edge of a table like a child, his facial expressions matching it. To you, he looks like he doesn’t belong here, which makes your heart beat faster as you take your seat.

“Is he gone?” he asks in a joking tone.

“How did you know?” you chime in, bringing your glass of wine back to your lips.

“You look less stressed now, dare I say younger.”

His accent makes your cheeks helplessly morph into a smile. You shake your head and reach for the money Paul left you. You sift through it, counting four $100 bills. Your mouth falls open in disbelief. You knew he was rich, but you didn’t know he was loaded.

Josh picks up on your energy and cocks an eyebrow. “What is it?”

“He left me $400 to cover the meal.”

“No shit. Really? I’m gonna start letting you set up my dates.” he jokes.

“It was all Tinder actually.” you shamefully admit.

“I figured. I was just too nice to mention it.” he says, sarcasm oozing out of every word.

He jokes a lot.

“Very nice.” you agree.

“I think it’s dumb, by the way. You have to meet people organically.”

“Like disrupting their dates?” you gawk.

Josh acts offended, his mouth hanging open slightly. He places his palm over his heart and sucks in a small ripple of air. “How dare you. I saved you.”

“You did.” you remark. “You’re ten times more fun than he was.”

Your eyes lock and immediately the demeanor changes. You stare at him as he runs his tongue across his bottom lip. You groan internally, embarrassed to admit you’re beginning to pool between your legs.

“You wanna get out of here?” Josh asks after another silent moment.

“Where?” you ask.

“My house. I have an ax sharpened.” he says in a serious tone before erupting into a fit of giggles. You join in, gathering the four pieces of paper in your hands. “I’ll clear your tab.” He offers, his hand extended to yours to accept the cash.

You hand it over, the skin of your hands briefly meeting. Electricity shoots up your arm and travels to your core. His skin is soft and smooth like butter, and you imagine what it would feel like to drag your tongue across him.

After your tab was cleared, you walked side by side down the street. Josh had the idea of ice cream. You agreed, deciding the cold taste of ice cream might be able to bring you back to earth for a second. As you stand in line at the small truck just down the street from the restaurant, goosebumps prick on your arms. Your teeth chatter as if it's 10 degrees outside when in reality, it’s probably only 70. Josh takes notice and silently removes his jacket and throws it over your shoulders.

Feeling embarrassed, you attempt to push it off, but his hand holds it in place on your upper back and you shutter. Josh grabs your cones and you quickly take it from his hands and take a lick, desperately trying to rid your mind of these thoughts.

“Do you want to hang out at my place? It’s just a block over.” Josh offers. Your mind hardly processes his words because it’s too focused on his wet tongue digging to his vanilla ice cream. “Sorry. That was too forward.” he takes notice of your lack of response.

“No no! Please, I’d love to.” you recover. Josh nods and takes another lick of his own.

You didn’t know what you expected his apartment to look like, but it definitely wasn’t this fancy in your vision. You stand in the doorway as Josh flicks on the lights. They blink on, illuminating the entire patio. The floors are lined with wood, creating a cabin-look. The walls are white and filled with paintings of all sorts. A vinyl wall and bookshelf cover the larger area of the living room wall. Plants decorate the dark corners and bring them to life. It smells of essential oils and a fragrance you can’t decipher.

“Gonna come in and stay a while?” he smirks from across the room. You remove your shoes and his jacket before stepping farther in. “You can sit if you’d like.” he offers, handing you your ice cream cone.

You smile and take a seat on his sofa. Feeling oddly comfortable, you lean back against the cushions and eat your treat in peace. Your mind is too busy racing with thoughts that you don’t notice Josh when he takes a seat next to you.

“Something on your mind, sweetheart?” he says softly. The shock of his voice causes you to jump, your ice cream falling into your chest.

“Shit!” you jump up and scrape the cold substance off your chest. It drops onto the floor and dribbles down your dress. “Fuck!” you yell again, kneeling down next to it. You scoop it up with your hands, completely unaware of your surroundings.

Josh clears his throat and you raise your direction slightly to meet his eyes. The big brown beads glance down and then up again. Quickly, you grab the top of your dress and press it to your breasts and stand.

“Oh my god I am so sorry.” you apologize.

“Don’t sweat it. I’m just sorry about your ice cream.” he says calmly.

“Josh-”

“Y/N. It’s fine. There’s a bathroom down the hall if you want to clean up. I can bring some more suitable clothes to change into as well.” he offers, handling this situation rather sweetly.

You nod and stumble down the hall and into the bathroom. Almost immediately after shutting the door, you strip from your dress and hang it on a hanger. Wearing literally nothing under it, you climb into the shower and begin to scrub your body. The sound of the falling water drowns out your thoughts–well, almost all of them; not Josh.

The way his eyes stared at your peaking breasts. The way his tongue swiped over his plump lip and dug into his ice cream. The way he handled your emotions had your hand drifting between your legs. Maybe after this you could actually think right the whole night.

Your fingers worked quick circles into your core, small moans escaping that were swallowed by the shower. You were imagining his hands on your breasts, his tongue tucked away into you and his cock down your throat. His name slips off your lips and down the drain with the suds.

Minutes later, you regain composure and finish your shower. Stepping onto the mat, you notice clothes sitting on the sink. You slip them on after drying your body and comb through your damp hair with your fingers.

“Y/N?” Josh yells. “Hurry up and come out here.”

You finish prepping yourself and find Josh in the living room, his legs crossed at the knee as he sits on the couch. You sit on the ‘L’ part of the sofa, across from him. Josh doesn’t look at you, but he threads his bottom lip through his teeth.

“What did you do in the bathroom?” he asks, his eyes finally meeting yours. His usually high pitched tone has disappeared. Taking its place was a deep huffy voice. It suits him, but it makes you shift in your place. Josh’s eyes are deep and dilated, his body angled towards you in a strategic manner.

No. He couldn’t know, could he?

You swallow. “I showered. I thought you said it was-”

“No.” he says firmly. “What did you do?” he pushes himself to the spot next to you.

Your heart beats in your chest so loud, you’re certain Josh can feel the vibrations. You tuck a strand of hair behind your ear and anxiously let your eyes focus on your hands folded in your lap. Josh is so close to you that you can feel the heat radiating from his body. Maybe it’s still the alcohol, or maybe it's the smell of his cologne or the look in his eyes, but you feel yourself leaking between your legs.

Josh grabs your chin with his finger, dragging your attention back to his. You’re nervous to look him in the eye, afraid that he can see all the things you’re imagining right now. But your arousal is too much, and you give him the best ‘fuck me’ eyes you’re able to whip up. You watch as his lips part and his breathing hitches in his chest. The prolonged eye contact finally snaps as his eyes fall to your chest and wander down the rest of your body.

“How do you think I feel?” he asks, his breath on your cheek. “Knowing a hot girl who I had been so nice to, was getting herself off in my shower?”

Your heart pounds in your chest. “Josh- I’m-”

“Shh, baby. You’ve done enough talking.” he presses his wet lips on your jaw, his hand now resting on your thigh. “I was being nice and dropping you off some clean clothes, but when I walked in, I heard those sweet little moans.” he groans into you, his hands traveling farther up your leg. “I wasn’t going to say anything until I heard you moan my name as you came all over your hands.”

His fingers slip into your–or his– pants and his finger just barely brushes across your hip bone.

“Josh-” you attempt.

“No underwear? You filthy thing.” he purrs to you as he slides a finger through your folds. You open your legs, begging him to continue, which he happily does. “Oh mama, you’re so wet.”

“Jesus.” you cry, wrapping your arm around his neck for support. “Please.”

“What’s got you all worked up?” he asks, his singular digit still moving at an agonizingly slow pace through your folds.

“You, Josh.” you cry, ignoring how pathetic you sound. “Since I first saw you tonight.”

“And when else?” he asks, sliding a finger into your entrance. You gasp and your eyes roll in the back of your head. “Keep talking or I’ll stop and leave you dripping all over my fucking couch.” he threatens.

“When you were eating your ice cream.” you admit.

“What about it, Y/N?”

His finger pumps into you now. “When your tongue was digging into the ice cream.”

“Awe,” he taunts, removing his finger from you. “Did my pretty girl wish that was her cunt?”

“Josh, please.” your body trembles at the loss of contact.

“I know. I just want to kiss you is all.” he says, dropping his act for a moment. Your lips connect softly and only for a few seconds before he pulls away. You groan involuntarily. “Relax, mama. I want my tongue in something else right now.”

He drags himself to the floor, his fingers hooked on either side of your pants. He pulls them down with him and slips them off your feet. The cold air that coats your slick makes you squeeze your eyes shut.

“Hey,” Josh says, slapping your thigh lightly. “Watch me. Wanna see those pretty eyes.”

You nod and stare at him as he reaches down and kisses your heat. Your hips rock upwards, desperately looking for any type of friction. Josh doesn’t like this so he pins your legs with his two arms, his lips curving into a shit-eating grin.

Your eyes don’t break contact as he spits into your core. You watch wide-eyed as his tongue licks a firm strip up your center. You cry out his name as he begins to lap at your clit. Your hands find his hair, tugging on it firmly as he eats your pussy. The eye contact becomes too much and your head falls back, almost immediately after, he detaches his mouth.

“What the fuck?” you shout angrily.

He brings his hand to your cheek and smacks it. It stings for a second but no longer. “Don’t talk to me like that or I’ll go to bed and leave you with your fingers again.”

“No, baby. Please.” you cry from under him.

“Fuck. Say that again.”

“Please fuck me baby.” you squirm.

“Oh, mama. I will, but first I wanna taste your cum, okay?” You nod frantically, unable to form any other words. “But you gotta be a big girl and watch me, okay” You nod again.

He dives back in, mercilessly sucking on your clit. You squeeze his hair, dragging his face into your throbbing cunt. He laps at you as if he’s a starved man, his lips kneading at your sensitive bundle of nerves. It doesn’t take long until you feel a knot form in your stomach. You nearly cry as you haven’t had this feeling in a while. You moan loudly, unable to control it anymore. Josh adds a finger, removing his mouth from your throbbing clit.

“Gonna cum for me, baby? Let it go.” he insists, connecting his mouth to you again as he adds a second finger.

It happens quickly, but your eyes explode with a million little stars. You’re panting like a dog as Josh works you through your orgasm, never saying a word about the mean grip you have in his hair. He encourages you on until you’re nothing but a shuddering mess in front of him. He pulls his fingers out of you with a pop and you watch wide-eyed as he slips them into his mouth. He shuts his eyes and removes your slick from his fingers, savoring every last drop of it.

“You taste like heaven, mama.” he smiles as he crawls on top of you.

You’re painfully aware of how much clothes he has on. Determined to do something about it, you reach for the hem of his white t-shirt and rip it over his head. A wave of shock blesses his face before the taunting demeanor replaces it again. You’ve never been one to like being degraded, but you’d do anything for him. The idea of him makes you wet all over again.

“Needy, eh?” He plants a kiss on your neck before pulling on the skin. “Gonna mark you up. Show everyone who you belong to.”

“Please. Do whatever.” you mutter as he licks up to your ear.

“You’re such a slut, aren’t you?” he buzzes into your ear. “Should have known by that dress you were wearing.” he continues, his hand trailing down your shirt while his lips plant sweet kisses across your collarbone. “The way it hugged you so perfectly. I nearly fucked you right there on the floor when your tits were visabile. You like that, huh? Being looked at?”

His large hand cups your breast through the cotton material and your back arches into his groin. He’s painfully hard against your leg. You squirm and move your hand down to palm him through his jeans. He whimpers into your ear, causing you to go feral.

“Josh. Can I taste you?” you ask.

“How can I say no to you, love?” he pushes off of you and stands to his feet. Peeling his jeans off, he tosses them next to your pants. Then, he backs up, giving you enough room to sink to your knees in front of him.

Sitting eye level with his pulsating cock, your mouth waters. The thin fabric is the only thing between you guys and your stomach quenches at the thought. Teasingly, you plant a kiss on his belly button and latch onto it with your teeth, giving it a soft tug. He watches you below him, his mouth hanging open. You stare into his eyes as you place a sloppy kiss on the head of his dick.

“Y/N. If you keep teasing it will be over all too soon.” he warns, pulling you back by your hair. You run your tongue over your lips as he lets you go.

Finally, you remove his boxers and watch as his cock springs free. You let out a moan as it bounces just inches from your face. Josh’s head falls back, his Adam’s apple bobbing. You stare at the head of it and notice the precum leaking across the top. Growing impatient, Josh strokes himself, leaving you to ogle with drool peaking at the corners of your mouth.

“Take that off.” he demands, motioning to your shirt. “Wanna watch those perfect tits bounces as I fuck that pretty mouth.” He runs a finger across your bottom lip, gathering your drool before sticking it back in your mouth. You suck on it as you pull the shirt off your head and toss it to the side. Then you lean in and lick a slow stripe across the tip of him.

“Jesus, Y/N. Be a doll and open up, yeah?” he whines. You do as you’re told and stick your tongue out. Josh smacks the head of his length on your tongue, his precum splashing into your mouth. Slowly, he slides himself into your mouth, giving you time to adjust before moving any farther.

Your throat burns as he reaches the abc of your throat. Eyes watering, you look up at him and feel him twitch inside of you.

“God.” he groans, grabbing a fistful of your hair and moving you along him. You wrap a hand around the shaft and the other to his balls and begin to suck him. He groans through tightly shut teeth as you take him as best as you can. “Tap on my leg if it’s too much, okay?”

You nod and as soon as you do, he slams his cock into your face. You gag pathetically, but that only seems to turn him on more. He cusses above you as he fucks into your face, tears streaming down your cheeks. You can feel him twitch inside of you as you focus your breathing. Your hand squeezes his balls slightly and he pushes all the way into you that your nose brushes across the thin line of pubic hair. He pulls out, leaving only the tip of himself on your lips.

“Good girl. You look so pretty with my cock down your throat.” he praises, wiping your tears off your cheeks. His hands grab your under arms and pull you to your feet. He kisses your lips softly at first, tasting himself on your skin. It turns sloppy and his tongue dances in your mouth. You try to fall back on the couch, but his hand grabs your back to prevent you.

“Josh, I want to-”

“I know what you want mama,” he growls, his fingertips digging into your love handles. “You said you liked to be watched. So you’re gonna watch.”

He grabs your hand tightly and drags you down the hallway. You pass the bathroom where just an hour ago, you were cursing his name. He opens his bedroom door and turns on a lamp, casting an orange light across the walls of the room. You see in the corner, a large wooden vanity. He pushes you that way and you show no objection. He stops you in front of it and steps behind you. His cock is brushing over your ass, causing you to moan quietly. He brings a hand to your neck and squeezes slightly, straightening your face so you’re staring at yourself in the mirror in front of you.

You’re a mess. Your hair is darting every which way, tear stains on your cheeks. A sheen of sweat covers your body, your pussy dripping with anticipation. You can barely make out the hickeys and bruises on your neck, but you can feel them there. Josh reaches in front of you with his hand that isn’t wrapped around your neck. He drags it down your stomach, his finger tips starting a blazing fire across your skin before reaching your throbbing cunt. He slides his fingers through your lips, gathering your wetness.

“Look at how pretty you are, Y/N.” he says, your eyes glued to each other in the mirror.

“Please.”

“Please what?” he says. “Say it.”

“Fuck me, Josh.”

He works circles into your clit again and you swallow loudly. “Meh. Gonna have to ask nicer than that.”

You don’t even care how pathetic you sound. You need it. “Please, baby. Please fuck my pussy. I need to feel you in me.”

“Look at you, crying for my cock. Bet you haven’t been fucked right in a while, huh? Them Tinder dates don’t know how to fuck my girl, do they?”

“No!” you cry. He pulls away and presses you against the cold wood. Your breasts smash against it and your cheek is laying flatly against the surface as well.

“Gonna give it to you, okay? Gonna fill you up so good, and you’re gonna watch.” He growls, grabbing a fistfull of your hair and pulling you up so you’re watching yourself in the reflection in front of you. Josh is just as fucked-out as you are. His curls are damp, sweat beads running down his neck.

As you open your mouth to speak, he pushes the tip into your aching entrance. Your eyes roll in the back of your head, Josh’s doing the same. You both sigh in unison before he pulls out almost completely. With no warning, he crashes back into you, a pornographic moan filling the room. Using your hair as a handle, he fucks you merciessly. Skin slapping on skin fills the house, your moans leaking out into the hallway.

“You’re so fucking tight. Squeezing my cock just right.” he informs you through hooded eyelids. “Look at yourself. So perfect.”

“Josh, I'm so close. Don’t stop!”

“Yeah? Yeah, baby? Gonna cum on my cock?” he hisses. “Fuck. Are you on the pill?”

“Yeah.” you say as he thrusts into you.

“So dirty. You’re fucking getting it. Is that okay?” he half demands, half asks.

“Yes! Please, whatever you want, Josh.”

“Jesus.” he cries, picking up his pace. His thrusts are becoming sloppy, letting me know he’s close.

He reaches over you and cups your breast, his teeth sinking into your shoulder. He squeezes your hard nipple before moving it down to your cunt. His fingers work your clit and you’re about to explode.

“Cum, darling. I can feel you clenching me so tight. I’m right here with ya. Make a mess.”

With his encouragement, your body explodes for the second time tonight. You let out a raspy curse of his name and he falls over the edge with you. You can feel him painting your insides as he continues to wreck you.

“Yes, baby! Take my cum, take it.” he cries into your skin.

After Josh rides out his high, he pulls himself off your sticky back. His face is a deep red and is coated with sweat. He pulls out of you with a sigh and you flinch at the feeling of being empty of him. Within seconds, you feel his hot release begin to run down your leg. You’re still beant over the desk, trying to regain your composure when you feel a hand on your back.

“Hey, mama. You okay?” he asks, worriedly.

“Mhm.” you nod.

“Can I?” he asks. You’re not sure what he means, but given he just came inside of you, you nod. He places a towel between your legs and works the fabric across your thighs. Your heart warms as you realize he’s cleaning you. A few seconds later, he sets the dirty towel on the vanity and pries your hands off the wood. Feeling a bit stronger, you stand but throw your arms around him anyways. Could you walk? Probably. Did you just want to feel his skin again? Yes.

“How about a nice bath?” he asks.

“That’d be nice.” you agree. He kisses the top of your head and you close your eyes.

You stare at yourself in the mirror. The hickeys are more visible now and you run a hand over them.

“So I belong to you now?” you joke, remembering his words.

“Oh mama,” he pulls you closer. “You’re crazy if you think I’m leaving you after tonight.”

#greta van fleet #josh kiszka #jake kiszka #sam kiszka #danny wagner #josh kiszka smut #josh kiszka fic #josh gvf #greta van fleet smut #jake kiszka smut

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merakiui · 1 year

Note

YOUR DISCORD MOD SCARA...I am thinking about him so hard. I've never even considered becoming someone's discord kitten before but I'd do it for him (even if he's terrible). SO... could I get a layered cake and sweet lollipops (him and his kitten not long post-abduction) from the miscellaneous menu, along with lemon squares and sea salt caramels from the midnight menu, all with my babygirl discord mod scara?

yandere!scaramouche x (gender neutral) reader cw: yandere, modern au, nsfw, dub-con, unhealthy behaviors/relationship, kidnapping/captivity, restraints, drugging, obsession, loss of virginity, alcohol/intoxication, force-feeding, brief use & threat of knife, coercion, scaramouche calls you kitten a few times, implied stockholm syndrome note - thank you for checking in, dearest guest! enjoy your order! [lunar love hotel]

There’s a warm meal waiting for you on the foldable table, its delectable aroma enticing you to eat despite your apprehensions. You lift your head from where it once rested on your knees, staring at it from where you remain huddled in the corner on a certain someone’s bed. A metal cuff clings to your ankle, and from it a chain extends to connect to one of the metal bed frame poles, only going far enough to let you walk into the adjacent bathroom. You’ve tried to squeeze your foot out, but doing so has only succeeded in chafing and tearing your skin; and so now you sit against the wall and sulk in defeat.

Scaramouche—at least that’s his Teyvatcord alias; he’s yet to tell you his real name—plops down in his gaming chair, running his hand through his hair and exhaling a slow, measured breath. His kitchen apron matches the color scheme in his room, making him seem like a chameleon in a space composed of reds and violets. His three monitors are alight behind him, framing his face in a halo of light. One of them is open to Teyvatcord, displaying the chat log of a server you were once part of—and still are if you haven’t yet been kicked for prolonged inactivity. You think it’s been a few weeks since your kidnapping, but at this point time doesn’t serve any purpose here. It’s all the same within this room, blending together like pastel watercolors on canvas.

“I didn’t know you could cook. You’ve only ever served me the bare minimum, so this is new. Feels fancy.”

“Shocker, right? Be grateful I’ve gone to the trouble.” You peer at the meal that sits before you, brows furrowed. Scaramouche rolls his eyes, scoffing noisily. “Don’t tell me you actually thought I eat all that gross instant shit.”

You shrug. “Dunno. It suits you. Shitty diet for a shitty person.”

“You…” His eye twitches and his hands curl into fists. “Whatever. Either eat or starve.” He swivels around in his chair with a huff. “Not like I care either way.”

But you do, you think, looking back towards the food, steam rising in wispy curls. If you didn’t, you wouldn’t have spent so much money on me. You wouldn’t have told me to go to sleep early, to eat three meals every day, to drink enough water, to continue living.

“This isn’t going to kill me if I eat it, right?”

“Relax. I’m not a murderer.”

“Oh, so you draw the line there?”

Scaramouche whirls to face you, his pierced features twisted in a nasty scowl. Your eyes are drawn to the snake bite piercing on his bottom lip, and for a minute it stuns you that such a pretty face could be so vile both online and offline. Perhaps it would be best if he didn’t talk at all. Maybe then you could appreciate him from afar, never having to confront all of the bitter hatred he seems to harbor.

“You’re even more unbearable in person. I can’t believe I let someone like you kick my ass one-hundred-something times during every game we’ve ever played.”

“One-hundred and sixty-eight to be exact,” you correct, scooting closer towards the tray to inspect the rice dish one final time. “Someone had to humble you. For a mod, you’re awfully full of yourself. They don’t pay you to collect kittens and police VCs, you know.”

“Well, they should.”

You fail to contain your laughter. “That was…actually kind of funny.”

A thought flutters into your head: I’m losing my mind. Since when was he ever funny?

His stare is fixated on you when you gather a bite on your spoon and bring it to your lips. As criminal as he is, he’s been surprisingly tame in the time following your captivity. You suppose you just haven’t seen the worst of him yet and that these civil moments are merely the result of his desire to connect with you. Before you found yourself on the sixth floor, tucked away in his apartment, you spent most weekends talking to him through games. You’d chat about your character builds, swap tips on strategies for certain FPS games, spend hours constructing towns in creative open-world games, and even laugh about the placements in the tier lists you’d compile.

You could call what the two of you had a competitive companionship (or if you wanted to get technical: a Teyvatcord mod who was spoiling his kitten outside of the competitions), where both of you were constantly trying to best the other. If it was a matter of money, Scaramouche always had you beat; he’d emptied plenty of that into his favorite games to amass a vast collection of rare gear and resources so that he could claw his way to the top of the weekly leaderboards.

If anything, you admired his determination. Beyond games, you only knew that he lived alone and had a few piercings and liked to wear chains and rings. He’d talked about it before when the both of you had strayed from gaming and had discussed fashion styles and aesthetics late into the night. He appeared normal beyond the bratty attitude he often displayed during rematches. You even found yourself wanting to know more when he’d divulge little facts about himself on occasion.

But now that you’re sitting in front of him, entirely against your will, you realize this relationship should have remained in Teyvatcord.

Underneath your artfully crafted bravado and sarcasm, you’re absolutely horrified that he had found your address so easily and had been able to pull off such a clean kidnapping. He’d pulled you into the darkness of his car while you were on your way home, pressing a knife to your throat and insisting you stay perfectly quiet otherwise your neck would be mired in red. At the time you were too overwhelmed with raw panic to even consider the familiar intonation of the man who had so suddenly stolen you from your peaceful life. But it became clear when he’d forced you into his apartment after a long drive, and you’d finally gotten a look at him in the light when he shed his disguise.

An introduction wasn’t necessary; you recognized him, and he seemed to know everything about you.

Now it’s almost humorous to consider that a Teyvatcord mod actually went outside, touched grass, and collected a captive all in one night. And you never suspected a thing, completely oblivious to his mounting obsession. Although how could you have ever noticed it when he was so intent on masking infatuation with hatred?

You wonder if things would have transpired differently if you hadn’t been living within the same city. Perhaps he wouldn’t have been tempted to take you away from your life and confine you to a single room where the sun never breaks through the curtains and you’re constantly bathed in the sensual hues from the LED lights that border the room. Maybe he would have lost interest and you could have continued your one-sided rivalry without any unhealthy attachments.

Those what-ifs don’t quite matter anymore, though, do they?

Flavor explodes on your tongue when you sample his cooking, and you hastily gather a second bite and then a third. Scaramouche watches from his chair, looking quite satisfied with your submission. Foregoing etiquette altogether, you eat as if this is the last meal you’ll ever have the pleasure of enjoying, so fulfilled by the fluffy rice and bitter tea that tears gather in your eyes. You stop halfway to wipe at your glassy eyes, sniffling pitifully.

You’ve forgotten the joy that accompanies homemade meals.

“It’s okay,” you mutter around another mouthful. “Better than convenience store snacks.”

Scaramouche chuckles. “For something that was just ‘okay,’ you had no problem getting your tears in the bowl.”

You bark out a laugh, but it comes out strained and sad. “Lay off, will you? I haven’t had a home-cooked meal in forever. It was a little nostalgic, even if it’s coming from you.”

Scaramouche stares at you, his cheeks tinged the softest shade of pink, before he turns in his chair. “Whatever. Don’t get used to it.”

“Wasn’t planning to.”

You set the now empty bowl back on the tray and retreat to your corner, observing Scaramouche as he clicks through various tabs before he returns to Teyvatcord. His fingers, adorned with sterling silver rings, fly across the keyboard to respond to some user you can’t quite see from where you sit. Noisy click-clacks fill the air, and it’s a sound that pulls you closer towards sleep. By the time Scaramouche has swapped to his second monitor to play a game—the very game that got you into this nightmare to begin with—you’re already falling into the void of unconsciousness, tugged under by drowsy tendrils.

It’s the soft thump that alerts Scaramouche, who turns slowly in his chair to see you slumped over on his bed. He rises to his feet, crossing the distance to gather the bowl and accompanying utensils. Before he departs from his bedroom, he leans over to press a lingering kiss to your cheek.

“Dummy,” he mutters, rolling his eyes at you. “Never eating proper meals… Honestly, what would you do without me?”

Though he told you not to get accustomed to homemade meals, Scaramouche has presented you with breakfast, lunch, and dinner every single day, all prepared by his generous hand. It’s a luxury to be served food that has been assembled out of some form of crooked love—Scaramouche claims he’s only keeping you well-fed so you won’t die and rot away on his bed; the smell would be horrendous, so he claims. There’s one meal that always manages to put you to sleep. Whether it’s just the result of a satisfied stomach or your own frazzled nerves in desperate need of sleep, you always slip away shortly after finishing it. As childish as it sounds, you often wonder if he’s put a spell on it.

Or maybe you’re just always hungry, craving his cooking because he’s the only one capable of feeding you when you’re stuck in chains. And luckily for you he’s memorized all of your gastronomic preferences.

You’re not sure if you’ve surpassed a month’s time, but when you wake up one morning to Scaramouche slamming his cat ear headphones down on his desk, which is followed by a foul tirade of grumbled curses, you feel as if it’s already been a year spent in his room. To think that you’re starting to find it normal, as if waking up to him is to be expected in this situation.

You must be losing your mind.

“Rough match?”

Okay, you’re really losing your mind if you can be so casual with your kidnapper.

Scaramouche deflates in his seat, groaning at the ceiling. “More like a rough team. None of these idiots know how to play! I’d have better luck digging through the dirt and assembling a team of worms than continuing to rely on these guys.”

“Then just leave and join a new lobby.”

“‘Just leave and join a new lobby,’” he mocks in a high voice. “I can’t. These teams are locked in for the upcoming tournament. I’m stuck playing with a bunch of losers.”

I’m more stuck than you, you almost blurt, but you hold your tongue.

“Like?”

“Like Tartaglia, Dottore, Signora… They suck. I hate them. And they expect me to tolerate them for a bunch of rounds? That’s not even a good joke. We’ll just look like fools trying to force teamwork.”

You peer at his monitor. He’s muted himself, so they have no idea of the complaints he’s launching at you as if you’re a suitable outlet.

“Sounds tough.”

“Believe me, it is.”

“Have you tried reworking your strategy?”

“You’re asking me to kiss ass here.”

“Never said that.”

“You’re implying it.”

“Oh my—” You flop back onto his bed with a groan. “It’s not that serious!”

“It is when it’s a competition. You think I want to look stupid in front of the other teams? We’re up against some lame group that calls themselves the Knights of Favonius. I am not about to lose to them.”

“And what’s your group called?”

“The Harbingers.”

“You honestly think that sounds any better?”

He turns in his chair to glare at you. Before he can retort, he’s fit his headphones back over his ears and unmuted himself to address the VC. “Can you stop spamming the chat for five seconds, Tartaglia? Damn!” There’s a brief silence and then he adds, in a low hiss, “I’m not running away! I muted for one minute! Come off it, Signora.”

Absorbed in the conversation, which sounds more like an argument that’s quickly boiling over, Scaramouche exhales slowly and resolves to try again through grit teeth. You can’t hear his teammates, but you think they all reach a mutual agreement because within the next few seconds you’re watching another practice match on his monitor. Your gaze slides away from him and centers on the posters and tapestries that adorn his walls. Some days, if you ignore the metal cuff on your ankle, you forget you’re a prisoner and he’s your warden. Some days, if you really force optimism, you picture him as a friend and a roommate.

Most days you wonder if you’ll ever get outside. You miss the sun and the wind, lively aspects of nature that are nonexistent in this stifling cave of a bedroom. And, as odd as it may seem, you miss your old life, struggles and all. You miss ranting to your friends about finances or an empty refrigerator. You miss staying up late into the night playing games, laughing about casual enjoyments, and indulging in a freedom you took for granted. When you were struggling, you could be comforted knowing that there would be better days, even if those days only consisted of small joys—like feeding a stray cat or feeling the sun’s rays smile upon you with bright warmth. Now you live your days in a loop, waking and eating and sleeping, and this sort of cyclical madness is more entrapping than Scaramouche’s infatuation with you.

Although perhaps it isn’t right to call it an infatuation when it feels so far from one. Aside from meal times, he hardly acknowledges you during the day, too swept up in a game to pay you any attention, and when he does speak to you you’ve already submitted to your dreams. He never touches you (at least not when you’re awake). In fact, he treats you more like an annoying pest rather than the person he supposedly loved enough to kidnap. Perhaps, instead of an infatuation, it is an obsession driven by greed and the twisted desire to control every inch of you, down to the very foods you ingest.

You know one thing is certain: He is the kidnapper and you are the kidnapped.

You’ve sorted through all possible means of rebellion. You’d refused to eat anything the first week, which was why he chose to feed you cheap convenience store snacks out of pettiness, and by the end of the second week you were beyond starved. You’ve thought about destroying his monitors out of spiteful anger, but that wouldn’t accomplish much aside from satiating your hunger for revenge. You would remain shackled no matter how many things you trashed, which makes destruction a useless venture. All you can really do is feign friendship, if only to keep your current predicament peaceful.

But lately you’ve wondered if there are other ways to get Scaramouche to trust you. It’s obvious he still has some level of distrust for you, evidenced by the terrible cuff attached to your ankle and the fact that he never leaves you alone in his room for more than five minutes. Perhaps there’s an easier way to shatter his defenses.

After all, the reason you’re here is because he likes you so much. And if it really is a hidden infatuation, you plan to poke at it until it’s no longer his little secret veiled within manufactured hatred.

Scaramouche is scolding Tartaglia for his “stupid, shitty aim” when you slither off of his bed, standing behind him with an expression so pensive it’s as if you’re considering life or death. Although perhaps this idea of yours really is akin to that.

Briefly, while eyeing the headphones that rest on top of a head of midnight-hued hair, you wonder if you’d have the confidence to attack him while he’s distracted. Your arms reach out, readying to tear his headphones off and coil around his neck in a chokehold, but then it occurs to you that if you really do hurt him no one will be around to feed you. You’ll shrivel in his room, alone, cuffed, and cold.

You decide, with mounting unease, that your original plan is much better (and safer) than murder. And so you lower your hands with a muted sigh. Even if he’s the worst person you’ve ever had the displeasure of meeting—even if he’s taken you from your life and forced you into his—you still couldn’t bring yourself to fatally injure him.

But you can bring yourself to your knees, swallowing shame in order to survive.

If Scaramouche realizes you’ve slipped under his desk, he doesn’t immediately acknowledge you, his eyes tracking his screen as he shouts into his mic for Dottore to cover him. You peer up at him from where you sit, studying his facial features as they morph into various expressions, all centered on frustration, impatience, and the occasional glare-frown. It’s your hand on his thigh that momentarily strays his focus, his eyes flitting down to you for a mere second, glazing over with an emotion you can’t quite place. Your lips quirk up in the beginnings of a sly smile, and he huffs, nudges your side with his foot, and returns to shouting orders at his teammates.

Slowly, as if moving with weights attached to your wrist, you reach out to palm his flaccid cock through the fabric of his sweatpants. Scaramouche nearly flinches out of his chair, his head snapping down to look at you.

“W-What the hell are you—” He’s silenced when you squeeze just slightly, gazing up at him through your lashes. “N-Nothing. Just…talking to my cat. Shut up and focus on the match, losers,” he grumbles, not to you but to his teammates.

You intend to draw away, thoroughly pleased after having gauged such an amusing reaction, but his fingers pursue your wrist, pinning your hand in place. He’s not looking at you, but his cheeks are warming considerably.

“I’ll kill you if we lose,” he mutters, and this time you know the threat is meant for you.

But, as you’ve come to learn, this is his own version of acceptance, however frigid it may have sounded. Scaramouche likes a good competition; that much is apparent from how engrossed he becomes when playing any type of game. Most importantly, you think he just enjoys the prideful satisfaction that comes with being labeled a winner. If you look at it from a gaming perspective, this is just another challenge—another rematch the both of you have agreed upon in order to determine who’s the best.

And, like always, you’re certain victory will be yours.

His hand slides away from yours, returning to its rightful place on his desktop, and it gives you the opportunity to continue your teasing touches. His stare hardens into something deadly when he attempts to retain his focus, his fingers mashing the keys in a loud cacophony of clacks, but within just a few minutes of experimental squeezes his cock is straining against his pants. You admire the outline for a brief moment, considering an approximation of his size just from the bulge alone. He’s definitely larger than any of the beginner dildos you’ve browsed online out of sheer boredom and curiosity, and the idea that you’re about to willingly subject yourself to this is enough to cow you into premature defeat.

I won’t make any progress if he doesn’t trust me, you tell yourself, steeling your electrified nerves and reaching out to slide the waistband of his sweatpants and boxers down to free his cock. It springs out, pre-cum beading at the tip, and your eyes follow the curvature. For such an aggressively high-strung moderator, he’s surprisingly well-groomed. You wonder if he’s always lived a life so nicely assembled. Perhaps you’ve misjudged him entirely and he’s never been the stereotypical gross, smelly, hermit of a Teyvatcord mod everyone likes to think he is. Maybe it’s just his personality that’s so foul.

You were confident before, but then he’s passing you a bottle of lube and now what little courage you could muster is beginning to ebb away, squeezed out of you much like the dollop of lubricant pushed from the tube. Your eyes flick to his. He holds your gaze for a minute before a sly smirk crawls across his face.

Hope you like swallowing, he mouths, indigo irises flashing with arousal, because if you get a single drop on the floor I’ll end you.

Arrogant brat, you mouth back.

You roll your eyes and wrap your slick fingers around the length of his cock. He sucks in a sharp breath at the contact, chewing his bottom lip bloody to muffle any suspicious sounds that are eager to slip out. You’ve only ever viewed handjobs in erotic films, and you’ve never given one to another person before. So you slide your fist up and down, mirroring the movements from memory, in hopes that the experimental pace you’ve set isn’t too awkwardly inexperienced. Scaramouche seems to pay it no mind, for his shoulders shudder with every exhalation, and he’s bent forwards, his elbows resting on his desk.

There’s no way he’s this easy, but that thought quickly evaporates when you squeeze just a little tighter, and he whines through grit teeth. Your eyes snap up to find his foggy hues, which are clouded with lust and peering right through you rather than at you, and it becomes abundantly clear that perhaps he truly is simple to seduce. Or, at the very least, it’s only easy because he’s stressed and needs release; or maybe it’s because this is the first time you’re touching him of your own volition, stringing him along with every graceful pump of your hand.

I’ll never understand him, you think, halting your movements once he’s been brought to the very edge, his cock flushed pink and leaking.

The vicious, disapproving scowl he sends you is such a sight to behold! When you’re viewing him from below, it’s almost as if he’s a vindictive deity sitting pretty and untouchable on his throne and you’re the mere mortal granted permission to kneel before him, an amusing comparison considering he has, in a way, proven to be your saving grace on many occasions. Even riddled with impatience, he’s pleasant on the eyes. If only the same could be said for when he opens his mouth.

“Did I give you permission to stop?” he hisses, humping into your hand to force friction.

Your gaze strays to the cat ears on his headphones; you wonder if his teammates can pick up either of your hushed whispers. “What happened to your oh-so-important practice match?”

He narrows his eyes at you and reaches to seize your chin in a vise-like hold, forcing you in close proximity with his cock. “You can do much better things than sit there and run your mouth, so finish what you started.”

“Anything for His Royal Highness,” you mutter and close your mouth around his tip.

Scaramouche inhales sharply, his fingers ghosting over your head as if he intends to grip your hair and force you to take more of his size, but then you hear obnoxious keyboard clacks. He’s back to berating his teammates, albeit in a louder, higher voice than before, leaving you to your own pace. You pull away, tasting flavorless lubricant and pre-cum all at once, and lick a stripe up the underside, which has him humming through a clenched jaw. With your confidence restored, you lean in once more and, fingers wrapping around his length, slowly fit him in your mouth, only stopping at where your hand rests halfway.

Despite your initial unease, you manage to settle into the rhythm as naturally as you possibly can, bobbing your head back and forth in slow, even motions. Your other hand slithers up his leg, fingers creeping like spiders, and rests between his legs to fondle his balls, squeezing ever so slightly while your mouth works him towards the edge of ecstasy. It prompts a guttural groan from him, and your lips twitch around him, as if attempting to rise in an amused smile. He’s falling apart in his chair, shivering through every salacious sigh and curse, all produced in barely restrained hisses. He mutters something to his teammates, but the words hardly reach your ears when you’re so hyper-focused on pleasing him.

You continue your careful ministrations, hollowing your cheeks in the same manner you’ve witnessed actors in films do, and at some point you’ve shut your eyes and have resigned yourself to the moment, relishing in every lewd sound. His reactions bolster your pride, feeding it as though it’s a ravenous monster, and you muster enough bravery, courtesy of your inflated ego, to peek at him through lidded eyes.

Scaramouche is peering down at you once more, but this time his headphones are off and he seems to have ceased playing altogether. You attempt to pull off of him to ask, but his hand rests atop your head, mapping lazy patterns in your scalp in a way that’s almost reminiscent of petting, and that’s enough of a response for you.

“I thought you’d be terrible at this, but it looks like you’re good at something after all,” he remarks with a mean smirk. “Or maybe...” He moans lowly. “Maybe you’ve had practice.”

Or maybe your standards are low because no one’s ever touched your dick before, you think, closing your hand in a tight fist just to draw another pathetically desperate whimper from him.

His fingers curl into your hair and he tugs you up to meet his haughty countenance. The head of his cock prods impatiently at the inside of your cheek and you narrow your eyes at him, drool running down your chin. His tongue darts out to wet his bottom lip, running over the piercings that reside there like twinkling stars. With a breathy chuckle, his other hand traces the bulge in your cheek and his lips only seem to widen with exhilaration. There’s a near-manic glint in his eyes now—an unhinged sort of sparkle that could only shine so brightly in the midst of pleasure. He’s a frightening sight, but then of course he’d be when he had so callously held you at knifepoint all those weeks—or has it been months?—ago.

Now it makes sense—all of the mean jeers and insults. Scaramouche likes to see just how small he can make others when they’re caught in his shadow like vulnerable butterflies in a spider’s wicked web. And aren’t you just the most unlucky butterfly?

“This is a—haah—a good look for you.”

You’d bite him if you were feeling particularly masochistic, but there’s no telling what he would do in retaliation. So instead you continue your pace, idly stroking him in time with the movements of your hollowed mouth, holding eye contact for the entirety of it. He keeps his hands on you the entire time, locking you in place between his legs, and your warm, wet mouth and tongue send delectable bolts of pleasure racing through him. It causes more delicious sounds to spill in plentiful amounts from his parted lips, enticing you to work more vigorously. He gasps through backhanded praises, each one meant to chisel you into something weak and self-conscious, but all it does is prove your previous observations.

“Hey.” His knuckle is on your cheek again, and you blink tears away to look at him more clearly. “You haven’t done this with anyone else before, have you?”

You know it’s a trick question. No matter what answer you give, it’s going to prompt a visceral reaction either way. Rather than a clear, concise response—not that you could possibly give one when he’s stuffing your mouth full—you hum lowly, and the vibration has him twitching on your tongue.

Scaramouche scoffs and attempts a glower, but it crumbles when he arches in his chair. “What… Whatever,” he manages through grit teeth, swallowing yet another sweet love cry. “Consider yourself lucky I’m here, otherwise—hah… Otherwise you’d have no one to practice your lousy, little technique on.”

This time, you’re afforded the chance to detach yourself and your mouth comes off of him with a wet smack, strands of saliva still connecting your lips to his cock. He peers at you, studying your face for a moment, and if it weren’t for the dim lighting in his room you’re certain his blush would be brighter than the sun.

“You seem to enjoy my lousy, little technique,” you purr, leaning in to press your puckered lips to his tip. Your hand slows its once quick pace, and you watch miserable frustration stretch across his features. “If you’re going to be ungrateful, I’ll just stop and—”

But the rest of that sentence is shoved down your throat when he catches your head in resolute hands and forces you to take all of him in a rough thrust. The head of his cock hits the back of your throat, and you choke on it with a gagging cough. Your hands grasp his wrists in an attempt to steady yourself, but he pays it no mind as he continues to pound into your mouth, a string of filth falling from his parted lips like torrential rain. Tears prick your eyes, obscuring your vision and blurring reds and purples into a haze.

It only takes a minute, but it feels like many when he eventually halts his erratic pace, his cock lodged in your mouth, and shoots his load down your throat. You have no choice but to force yourself to swallow, your eyes squeezed shut as you choke through the deed. Scaramouche laughs at you, a short, sudden sort of sound that’s more grating than nails on a chalkboard. And only after he’s shuddered through the aftermath of his ecstasy, heaving soft breaths as he settles from his orgasmic high, does he finally release you.

You pull away with the residue of his spend sitting heavy on your tastebuds, sticky and bitter, and you’re only allowed a moment to catch your breath before he’s gripping your face with one strong hand, the cool metals of his rings digging into your cheeks. You stare at his sickly sweet smile and narrowed eyes, two indigo pools reflecting haughty victory, and your heart sinks with his next words.

“Oh, and nice try.” His finger flicks your forehead, and a taunting smile darkens his features. “But I’m not taking the chains off, kitten.”

It was worth a try, you think, swallowing a scoff and resolving to try again next time. You are nothing if not stubbornly resilient.

It’s a dangerous game, waiting and watching, hoping for a moment in which you can execute your plan. When Scaramouche isn’t glued to his monitors, when he isn’t feeding you meals that immediately send you to sleep, and when you aren’t on your knees satisfying him in the most carnal of ways, you’re wrapped in your thoughts like a mummy perfectly preserved. For a while you weren’t sure if it was worth the risk, nor were you sure if he could even come to trust you, if only slightly, but by some miracle you’ve sacrificed so much time tending to him and it has paid off handsomely.

Though the cuff remains, he’s grown to exercise some leniency, allowing you to sit on his lap while he browses online, his chin resting comfortably on your shoulder. Sometimes the two of you watch a movie; other times you play a game, gambling your dignity in exchange for a chance at victory. Lately Scaramouche has been on a winning streak—though you’re certain he’s just cheating, even if he claims it’s pure skill—and more than once have you found yourself at his mercy, submitting to wandering hands and lips, dutifully playing the role of his obedient prize. He always gloats, flashing his teeth at you in a cruel taunt, and you have no choice but to accept it. Everything you do is for the sake of survival; you’ve reminded yourself of this fact when you wrap your arms around him at night, pressing yourself against him and slowly slipping into sleep just as he cautiously returns your embrace.

You usually fall unconscious after you’ve had lunch, condemned to sudden sleepy spells that are beginning to seem more drug-induced than natural, and this unfortunate happening leaves you completely gone for many hours into the afternoon and early evening. You’ve narrowed your options down after observing Scaramouche for so long, committing his cyclical ways to memory. Either you force yourself to wake at the crack of dawn and hope he isn’t still gaming, or you wait until he’s left the room to prepare your lunch. You’ve deliberated over both, almost acting on one when the opportunity presents itself, but you’re always stopped by the uncertainty. Will this work? Will you be fast enough?

And if you aren’t successful, what will happen to you? Will he truly kill you like he claimed he would all those months ago when you first started living with him? You suppose there’s only one way to find out.

There’s a specific person you have in mind while you lie curled and comfortable in Scaramouche’s bed, feigning sleep to ward off the jittery sensation in your nerves. If he still exists within the server—and you’re hoping he does because your escape plan hinges on his presence within it—he will be your ticket to freedom.

You almost flinch out of your skin when Scaramouche’s hand rests atop your head, stroking your skull so fondly. “I’ll wake you up for lunch,” he whispers to you, pressing his lips to your cheek. And then his hand is drawing away, and your pulse settles once more. You can feel his eyes pinned on you, and you picture him standing at the bedside, casting a terrifying shadow over your slumbering form.

“It’s too quiet when you sleep so many hours,” he mutters, and you strain to hear the rest of his complaint. You think he might be in the doorway because you can’t sense him near you anymore, and his voice is distant and soft, a strange contrast to the harshness in his usual intonation. “Regardless, I’m glad you’re here.”

He says something else that doesn’t quite reach your ears, and you listen to his footsteps as he retreats to the hall and then the kitchen. You wait until you hear movement before slowly sitting up. Even though you’re alone and he’s a good distance from you, you fear he might hear your quick heartbeat. It pounds inside your rib cage, on and on like the loudest war drum, and you clutch at your chest with trembling hands.

Without wasting another second, you slide off of the bed as carefully as possible, mindful of the noisy chain at your feet, and creep over to his desk. All of his monitors are on, each luminescent screen displaying something highly contrasting from the previous one. The screen on your left showcases an online shopping site (the page he’s currently on is new microphones, each more high-quality and expensive than the last). The screen on your right blinks back at you, and you spy a photo album of pictures screencapped from every social media connected to you.

You’re not surprised, but that doesn’t mean you aren’t disgusted. Gross, you think, biting back a shiver. If he touched me with the same hand he used to—

But then your attention is stolen by the middle monitor and before you know it your fingers are gingerly tapping out keys one at a time, so agonizingly slow that you think your rapid pulse might give you away before the clacks do.

Alatus, you’re thinking, eyes skimming the member list. Alatus. Come on, Alatus. Where are you?

Miraculously, you spot his profile picture before his name—a cute, mint-colored bird with fluffy plumage and narrowed eyes. For such an adorable image, the one behind it is so silent and intimidating. You wonder how you even managed to befriend him when he’d been so terse in the early stages of your online friendship, but you’re glad to have this connection.

Relief floods through your system when you notice the tell-tale green circle near his profile. He’s online! And with that, you pull up a private chat and begin to write to him, your heart skipping a beat with every word added to your desperate SOS message.

this is gonna sound crazy but this is (name) from server need u to help me out ive been kidnapped by scaramouche call the authorities or someone just let them know i’m missing please believe me

You don’t have time to proofread it, nor can you even consider adding anything else in your frenzied panic, and so you hasten to send it. Your finger just brushes the Enter key when two arms coil around your waist, yanking you away from the desk with so much force that the horrified gasp sticks in your throat. Before you can register the danger, you’re on the floor, the chain rattling with the movement, as if foretelling of the threat that’s about to descend upon you like the Grim Reaper coming to capture a wayward soul, and Scaramouche stands over you, a kitchen knife held in a trembling fist. There is a foul tempest raging within those ominous eyes of his, each dilated pupil darkened with thick, syrupy betrayal.

You attempt to sit up on your elbows, readying yourself to reason with him before he can slice your throat to ribbons, but then he’s pointing the knife directly at you, his face contorted into a glower so monstrous it has you flinching away.

“You’re a special kind of stupid,” he snaps, and you press yourself into the floor as if you intend to melt into it. “Did you really think I wouldn’t notice? Did you think I was so foolish that I wouldn’t suspect the motive behind your little game?”

You open your mouth to profess faux innocence, but the words won’t come. They’ve dried up on your tongue, leaving you to wallow in silence. You’ve never been so obviously, painfully guilty before, and the evidence of your disobedience is printed blindingly bright on a screen for his perusal. Scaramouche gazes at his monitor, cold, cruel eyes taking in every word. Ice crackles through your veins, crystallizing your blood, and for a brief second you consider what might happen if you seize the knife while he’s distracted. Perhaps it works in your head and your attempt to force him to his knees with the threat of death is successful. But realistically you know it wouldn’t be that easy and he certainly wouldn’t give you the chance to one-up him like this, especially not when so much is at stake.

For once, this has nothing to do with the childish concept of pride.

“Alatus, huh?” he muses with a monosyllabic hum. “Is that your friend? Well, it’s not like it matters. You don’t need friends.”

With a sunken heart, you watch as he deletes the message you mustered the courage to draft. Within seconds the faulty plan you’ve considered for months crumbles before your despairing stare.

“I hate you,” you whisper. Brimming tears are on the verge of overflowing and you will them away with quick blinks.

“Yeah? Not the first time someone’s told me that.” He turns to face you, and you follow the knife as it’s set delicately on his desktop. It’s an obvious trap, but even so your hand still tenses as if you intend to lunge for it. He bends down to where you remain on the floor, his elbows propped on his knees. “I should commend you for your bravery. Were you working yourself up to this? Were you counting down the days until the moment for rebellion arrived? I’m not sure I should even call it a rebellion. You’re not very smart. I mean, you had access to the internet! You had so many resources at your disposal and yet you chose to message some loser on Teyvatcord! Just how moronic can you possibly be?”

What irks you more than the degradation is the fact that, unfortunately, he’s right.

He clicks his tongue at you, laughter in his tone. “I would’ve been in trouble if you actually used a sliver of your puny brain. Lucky me, huh?” His fingers cling to your chin, pulling your face closer to his. “I have the cutest, stupidest kitten.”

You narrow your eyes at him and, gathering your mounting revulsion, spit at him. It spatters on his cheek and he seems to pause momentarily, a tense beat stretching taut between the both of you, before he releases you with a huff. The next thing you feel is the harsh sting of his slap as it comes down upon your cheek. It’s more so the shock that has your head turning in time with the impact rather than the dull ache, and you lift your hand to feel raw skin beneath burning fingertips. The tears are now falling in silent streaks.

It’s hopeless. You’re stuck here forever.

Scaramouche swipes his thumb along his cheek and scrutinizes the saliva coating his finger with a frown. “Not fond of ‘kitten,’ huh?”

“Of course not, you freak.”

“Ouch. That smarts.” Feigning offense, he dries his thumb on his kitchen apron. “A shame. ‘Kitten’ suits you. They’re soft and clumsy and weak. Just like you.”

He retrieves the knife and, after admiring the red-and-purple lights that reflect off the silver blade, offers you a smile so sweet it contrasts his sour threats.

“But as cute as you are on the ground, looking oh-so-terrified, it’s not going to save you from your punishment.”

You watch him carefully, awaiting a catastrophic change in temperament. Despite how cheerily nonchalant he appears, you’re certain there is anger swelling within. It’s clear in his eyes; his glee stems from sadism.

“Should I even ask what your idea of a punishment is?” you venture. You intend to sound bold with your inquiry, but your heart is still stuttering with the aftermath of your failure and it causes you to trip over your tongue. “L-Living with you is punishment enough…”

Scaramouche hums, unfazed. “If you were in my position, what punishment would be most fitting?”

You roll your eyes. “I’m not answering that. You just want me to list the worst possible things.”

“Perhaps,” he drawls, tapping a fingernail along the blade. His gaze strays to his desk drawer and he opens it and withdraws something you can’t yet see. The jarring jangle of handcuffs alerts your keen ears, and your expression must have twisted into something akin to potent odium because he chuckles. “Wandering hands ought to be properly restrained, don’t you think?”

You hold his gaze for a long minute. “Why? What’re you going to do?” When he doesn’t reply, merely continuing to watch you with that deceptive smile of his, fear sizzles within your electrified nerves. He takes a step towards you and you scoot away instinctively. “Seriously, what is it? Don’t you dare put those cuffs on me.”

“And allow you to misbehave again? As if.” He stands over you, peering down at you with a mixture of disgust and distrust. His foot is pressing on your stomach before you can even think to grab at his ankles and force him to the floor. “In case you’ve forgotten, kitten, you’re mine from now on. So unless you’d like me to tear you a few extra holes with this knife, you’d better shut your mouth and let me put these cuffs on you.”

He seizes your forearm, yanking you up with surprising strength, and you squirm in his unyielding hold, kicking out uselessly. It does nothing to deter him, but it does spark a wrestling match between the both of you, in which you fight desperately to grab hold of the cuffs or the knife before either can find themselves on your person.

“Let go of me! You can’t put those on me!” You elbow him in his ribs and he responds by shoving you down onto his bed, slotting his knee between your legs. His fingers dig into your arms with a harshness that has you wincing.

“Should’ve thought twice before you decided to act like a brat!” he hisses, squeezing tightly.

The discomfort soon becomes the least of your worries when he pins your wrist to one of the metal bed frame posts, readying it for one of the cuffs.

“No! Let go of—”

The knife is at your throat next, promptly silencing your terrified protests, and you don’t dare open your mouth.

“Try again.”

It’s spoken like a demand or a particularly harsh dare, the ice in his voice a perfect match for his scary expression. For however long his eyes bore into yours, you return his ogling with the same amount of ferocity, challenging his overbearing aura despite the blade poised at your jugular. You’re not sure how sharp it is, but you aren’t intending to find out with misplaced disobedience.

Eventually, the first cuff clicks around your wrist, and you watch warily as the next cuff attaches to the bedpost. Your arm hangs limply from where it’s been restrained, and the other receives the same attention shortly after he’s retrieved the second handcuff pair. While he’s fumbling one-handed with it, the knife is held in place in his white-knuckled grip. The cool metal kisses feverish skin; you can already smell the river of iron that will drool from a precise slice. After it’s closed around your wrist and the bedpost like its predecessor, you yank arms to test the resistance. Your wrists have been secured tightly, but it isn’t uncomfortable. Rather, it’s the uncertainty that settles under your skin, lighting your senses with raw anxiety.

“Please don’t kill me,” you whisper, gazing at the handle of the knife. It’s close—too close.

You think he lives to torment. He must, otherwise there would be no plausible explanation for why he presses the sharpened edge deeper into your neck, applying just enough pressure to break skin.

“I’ll make one thing clear, so listen and listen well.” His voice drops a few octaves, a perilous murmur. “Don’t ever touch things that aren’t yours again.”

You think he says something else along the lines of, “And don’t ever think you’ve earned a shred of leniency just because we’ve been intimate,” but the words sound far-off and muffled like they’ve been processed through a jar of cotton or an unfathomable depth of sea. Registering them doesn’t seem so important, though, not when the sting in your throat worsens and a thin rivulet of something slick trails its way down your neck, staining your T-shirt—Scaramouche’s shirt (but you refuse to dwell on that distinction). And this time you don’t need any laced meals to slip away. This time it’s the stressful threat of near-death that puts you to sleep.

With the world having slithered away, narrowed down to a singular point devoid of terror, you fall into a familiar darkness.

At first you think you’ve woken enshrouded in muddy earth, buried alive in some forsaken place, but then the haze of LEDs is piercing through your eyelids and you know you’re not resting amongst soil. With an exhausted groan, you peel your eyes open, searching the room for a figure who is oddly absent. Intending to sit up, you’re stopped short when your wrists catch on the cuffs, the metal digging into sensitive skin, and there is a spreading stiffness in your outstretched arms that’s becoming more unbearable with every passing second.

Something soft and scratchy is wrapped snugly around your throat. A bandage, you think, and it brings forth the not-so-distant memory of the knife and the blood and the dazed look in Scaramouche’s stare. As if he was not entirely there when he was pushing, pushing, pushing the blade into your jugular

As if he intended to carefully saw through sinew as if cutting slices from a block of cheese.

Inhaling a steadying breath, you consider your options. Escape has become a daunting challenge—an impossibility if you’ve ever known one—and with the way you’re so tightly restrained you’re certain you won’t get close to freedom anytime soon. After all you’ve endured, you’re not sure you want to fly close to that sun again.

Is it even worth it? you catch yourself pondering. I’m under a roof. I’m fed. I’m washed. This isn’t any different from my usual routine, only I have a housemate now and I’m living here permanently. Right. He’s a housemate. A housemate. A housemate.

He’s not a housemate. He’s a horror wound into human anatomy—a perfect shell for what you assumed was a normal person. But does the distinction truly matter now? Kidnapper. Housemate. The latter sounds much nicer, but then the latter is also a lie sweeter than caramel and it’s easier to swallow a delusion than confront the looming truth.

You sigh, your gaze sliding towards the monitors. They’re off this time, three dark voids silenced in the corner in which they’re kept. You tug at your restraints even though you’re aware they won’t come off no matter how much you struggle. For however long it takes Scaramouche to return, you lie on your back, watching the ceiling and counting the tiny bulbs in the strand of LEDs. Finally, there’s movement beyond the room. He pushes the door open with his foot, carrying a tray of food and bringing with him all manner of kitchen scents.

“Wakey, wakey, sleepyhead,” he teases, and you muster your meanest scowl. He laughs. “You should eat something.”

“I’m not hungry.”

Scaramouche sets the tray on his desk, picks up the bowl of ochazuke, and gathers a bite between wooden chopsticks. “Don’t drag this out just to be a pain in the ass. Sit up and eat.”

Slowly, you manage to sit up, your wrists still confined. “I’m not eating unless you remove these cuffs.”

“Hm. Let me think about that.” Scaramouche drums his fingers along the ceramic bowl, considering. “Not a chance.”

“Looks like I’m going hungry.”

“You are so insufferable. You had no trouble eating yesterday.” He narrows his eyes. “Licked the bowl clean and everything.”

“That was before you decided to nearly kill me!”

“But I didn’t.”

“You say that as if you’re proud! Eat your own food. I don’t want it.”

“Alas, I made it just for you,” he says with a dramatic sort of flair that does not fit the smug pride that drapes itself over him like a linen shroud. “With love and everything.”

Your lip curls into a hostile sneer. “Let me think about that. Yeah, no. Not a chance.”

“You do realize you’ll starve if not for me.”

“I look forward to that.”

“You little—”

Scaramouche covers the distance with graceful strides. He sets the bowl on the bedside table and, much to your dismay, you can’t reach it with the position you’re stuck in, unable to swipe or kick at it. After pulling his gaming chair up to the bed, he lowers into it and takes the bowl in his hands, chopsticks poised. You turn your head away when he tries to feed you and the bite he’s gathered misses its mark, poking your cheek instead. Grains of sticky rice adhere to your skin like glitter. Despite your obvious refusal, Scaramouche persists, pushing another bite of ochazuke at your lips. He’s calm for all of three seconds before the thread of restraint snaps and he grabs your chin, yanking your head in his direction.

“If you don’t want me to shove these chopsticks so far down your throat, then stop being difficult and open your mouth.”

Still, your lips remain sealed and he huffs indignantly, digging his nails into your skin in hopes of eliciting a reaction. You swallow the wince and frown instead. The next bite prods against your lips and you narrow your eyes, silently daring him to try again. And he does, his fingers tracing along your jaw to find your cheek. He pinches—ruthlessly, unforgivingly rough—and you open your mouth to snap at him. Knock it off, you intend to say, but the words never leave your mouth because the next thing you know you’re tasting a mouthful of fluffy rice flavored with bitter tea, strips of nori, and salmon flakes.

You almost spit it out, but you’re already chewing, relieved to taste gastronomical goodness. Scaramouche smirks at you, his thumb rubbing circles against your cheek.

“I win.”

“Whatever,” you mutter, turning away, mouth ajar for another bite.

He feeds you with a hum. “That wasn't so hard, was it? It’s almost as if acting like an annoying baby made this entire thing more unbearable than it should be.”

You scoff around a mouthful. “You’re the unbearable one.”

“And yet here we are.”

You don’t protest at that. What else can possibly be said? Instead, you resign yourself to the meal, finishing every bite he offers and clearing out the leftovers in the bowl. And, as usual, it’s delicious.

Scaramouche pats your head when you’ve finished, a smile sharpening on his lips. “Good job.”

You roll your eyes. “You could’ve been nicer about it.”

“I was very nice,” he says, his tone clipped, as he sets the bowl down and lifts a glass from the table. “See? I even brought you a drink. Aren’t I a portrait of magnanimity?”

He’s a pain in the ass, you conclude, but you allow him to bring the glass to your lips so you can drink. You expect a mouthful of water; what you don’t expect is the sheer burn that comes with swallowing, and your noise of surprise comes out as a cough. Scaramouche sits back in his seat while you stare at him, searching for any indication that he’s joking.

“Scaramouche—”

“You’ll be a good kitten and drink it all, won’t you? I’d hate to waste something special I picked just for you.”

Your lip curls in abhorrence at his utterance of that dreadful name. “Maybe if you stop calling me ‘kitten.’”

“Not a chance.”

He takes a sip from the glass and leans in until his face is centimeters from yours. Your eyes find his, and for a moment you’re connected only by this contact. But then, within the next second, he’s closing what little distance remains, pressing his lips to yours in a sloppy, sake-tinged kiss. His hand cradles the back of your head so that you’re pinned on his mouth as it molds against yours. His snake bite piercing pushes against your lips and when he licks into your mouth to savor the alcoholic notes on your tongue you think you taste the cold sterling silver of his tongue piercing. With mounting unease, you realize it’s not a terrible sensation. And though saliva and sake drip down your chin in a thin, sticky rivulet, it’s not the worst kiss you’ve ever had.

It’s over before you can even think of reciprocating. Thankfully—otherwise you’re certain doing so would have been more sickening than a simple teasing nickname.

He pulls away to observe your dazed expression, his dark eyes alight with manic glee. His laugh comes out breathless, almost like a gasp, and he touches two fingers to his lips. “Your lips are softer than I thought…” he mumbles, curling his fingers against his chin.

Before you can retort, the glass is poised at your mouth again, enticing you to drink, and you struggle to swallow the amount that’s tipped onto your tongue. You taste tropical citrus this time, flavors reminiscent of sunny days and palm trees and sparkling seas, each one so out of reach in your current predicament. Things you might never see again. Scaramouche climbs onto the bed and sits between your legs, preventing you from shutting them. With your back pressed against the bed, wrists still bound, you have no choice but to remain where you are, entirely at his mercy.

“That’s a good expression,” he purrs, reaching out to pet your cheek. You turn your head away with a scoff. “To think you could be so cute when you’re terrified of the unknown.”

“Not funny. Take off these cuffs and get me some water. My wrists hurt.”

“Oh, boo-hoo. Cry me an ocean.” His free hand splays across your stomach, applying just enough pressure to your pelvic bone, and a devious smirk twists his lips. “That’s not the only place that’ll hurt.”

The reality of his intentions—of why he has you restrained—dawns on you like a sun risen from the grave, blindingly, searingly hot.

“You can’t be serious.”

You intend to squirm, to kick out at him with your legs, and push him as far from you as possible, but your legs just won’t move. It’s as if you’re attempting to tug yourself free from a pit of molasses, crushed under a new weight. You manage to lift your foot a mere centimeter from the bed before Scaramouche gingerly lowers it back onto the mattress, all the while clicking his tongue at you.

“No need to panic. I’ll take good care of you.” He glances at you, spidery digits tracing tantalizing lines along the length of your leg. “I always have.”

The grogginess spreads throughout the rest of your body like the thorny tendrils of vindictive vines, stifling all possible movements and replacing your usual taut, alert muscles with a sleepiness that's awfully familiar. It doesn’t take long for you to reach a harrowing conclusion: He’s drugged you. Again. You blink rapidly to gain your bearings, and it takes you a moment to recognize the glass that’s at your lips. Foolishly, you drink because he’s already tilting it and you’re not sure how many more sips you take, but by the end of it the glass is empty and your head is spinning, nerves buzzing with static.

Scaramouche slips off the bed with graceful steps, practically floating about his room, to retrieve a bottle of lube and a pair of scissors. Your thoughts are a tangled mess, coming to you in nonsensical clumps as the alcohol thins your rationality, numbing you to the encroaching unease that so desperately wishes to fill your veins. Rather, you’re overwhelmed with a very pleasant, dizzying warmth. You peer at him from where you’re slumped against the headboard, and the red-and-purple lighting in his room paints him in hues so alluring you find yourself at a momentary loss, staring blankly at him like he’s a fascination you’ve only just fallen for. And then you’re reflecting on the way his lips fit against yours, soft and sweet and metallic…

The scissors run up the fabric of your shirt in a flawless snip. When the tattered material is pulled from you and you feel the rush of cold air upon bare skin, prickly realization manages to sober you.

“W-Wait…” You shake your head slowly, tongue heavy and clumsy just like the rest of your limbs. “I’ve never… N-Never done this before…”

He gazes at you, searching for a lie. Finding no such thing, he chuckles and leans in until you’re practically breathing him in. “I would’ve thought otherwise.”

“And I…” You try to narrow your eyes at him, but he’s placed his hands on your hips and so your gaze is inevitably drawn downwards. “And I would’ve thought you were letting me win all those times.”

“Not this time,” he promises, pressing his lips to the corner of your mouth. “If it means having you all to myself like this, I’ll gladly indulge in the pity prize.”

If your wrists weren’t bound to the bed, you may have pushed him away. Or perhaps you would have embraced him, tugging him closer against your chest so that you could feel his heartbeat, taste it on your lips, allow it to thrum between the both of you. The sake muddles your mind, aiding the muscle relaxant in soothing pre-sex jitters. As Scaramouche’s hands wander, fingers tracking up and down your waist, sliding across your bare stomach, climbing further upwards to pinch your nipples between dexterous digits, someone starts to whine, each faint gasp just barely slipping past lips that have been chewed bloody.

You realize, when he pulls away to grab at the waistband of your sweatpants, that you’re the one producing such sinful sounds.

“Wait,” you whisper when he’s yanked it down to your knees. He peers at you with glazed eyes, and you’re certain you’re looking back with the same amount of lustful ferocity. “S-Scara, I don’t know if… Don’t know if we should…”

You shake your head, utter a frustrated curse, and squeeze your eyes shut. What do you truly wish to tell him? You wonder if it even matters anymore. He has you right where he wants you and, frighteningly enough, this is exactly where you’d like to stay. You have to remind yourself it’s the alcohol and the drugs and the sensual lighting that twist your reasonable senses. Even so, your fear trumps any lust that might have been simmering under heated skin.

But before you can verbalize these anxieties, he’s tugged your sweatpants down with ease. Your underwear goes next, leaving you utterly, humanly bare. Scaramouche stares for a moment, taking in the sight of you, and his licentious ogling is enough to send a bolt of embarrassment rushing through you. Avoiding his eyes, you manage to shut your legs, which earns you a breathy chuckle from him. Scaramouche lifts his shirt over his head next, casting it aside without hesitation. You’re treated to the view of his chest, porcelain-pale, creamy skin aglow under the dimmed lights, and upon noting your wide-eyed stare an easy smirk sprawls across his pierced lips. When he cocks his head to the side, you follow the way the tiny chains on his ear cuffs tilt with the movement, star and moon charms jingling faintly. He’s touched by the very cosmos above, shaded in light so beauteous he’s seraphic.

“There’s no need to be so nervous,” he whispers, drumming his fingers along your knees. “You’re in good hands.”

You open your mouth to object—I don’t want this; I’ve never done this before—but his hands part your legs, spreading them agonizingly slowly as if the universe has benevolently graced him with all the hours in the world. You watch him consider your nude form splayed before him, and the temporary stillness is interrupted when he reaches for the bottle of lube sitting so patiently on his bedside table.

It’s a chore to follow his hands as they uncap the bottle and squeeze a generous amount onto his fingers. Everything spins and blurs into a messy portrait of colors and shapes. You taste the raw acidity of bile in your throat and promptly swallow it and the rest of your apprehensions, forcing yourself to turn off what’s left of logical thinking and submit to the moment—to allow yourself to be fondled by such good hands.

The slick index prodding curiously at your unrelenting hole tightens the tangle of nerves in your stomach and has you squirming once more.

“W-Wait! Wait, wait…”

“It’s only my finger, scaredy-cat.” He laughs and lies beside you, one hand between your legs and the other curled under your chin. He moves your head until you’re looking right at him, and he’s already moving in, lips ghosting over yours. “Unless you’d rather take it raw without any prep. That can be arranged…”

With a half-lidded stare, you spy his lips rather than his eyes as they capture yours in a sloppy smooch. He chases after your breath, swallowing reedy, needy gasps, and traces a circle along your hole before sinking his finger inside. You choke on a whine and wriggle your hips in discomfort. He pulls away only for a brief respite, soon reclaiming your mouth in his greedy pursuit, experimentally curling the lone finger inside you. You’re on fire, burning up with sheer desire and shame and a dizzying intoxication, and everything tangles into a mess fueled only by mounting lust. Fears shrugged away like worthless fabrics, you melt into the mattress’s cushiony embrace, lashes fluttering against your cheeks, as Scaramouche draws little gasps and groans from you, each one spilling out in between kisses.

The hand on your chin falls away to grasp your nipple between cold fingers, and the chill slithers through your flushed form. You whine a pitiful sound.

“Look at you, falling apart on one measly finger.” His voice, hushed and husky, wraps around your head like the softest scarf. “Am I the first to touch you down here?”

Foolishly, you try to nod and shake your head all at once, but he seems to catch the truth veiled in your response, for he hums into your mouth again. You kiss back with more desperation this time, chasing his tongue with a delightful fervor. He pushes a second finger in, slick enough as to not cause discomfort, and it soon finds residence with the other digit curled within.

“No wonder why you’re so easy. It’s almost cute.” Scaramouche lazily works you open with the two digits thrust up inside you. Lewd squelching permeates the otherwise quiet room, and it spurs you into submission. Instinctively, you arch your back when he pinches your nipple harder than before, rolling it between the pads of his fingers. “See? Isn’t it better when you’re enjoying yourself? And all it takes is a little reciprocation.”

“I… I’d never—mmh—never reciprocate,” you mumble, but the words are spoken in a gasp.

“It’s a little too late for delusions and denial, kitten,” he says, practically singing the sardonically spoken pet name.

You grit your teeth in an effort to stifle your sounds, turning your head away when he tries to steal a quick kiss. “Hate you,” you mutter, jaw clenched.

Scaramouche barks out a disbelieving laugh. The finger that had been toying with your puffy nipple traces an invisible pattern along the expanse of your chest, sliding further down under he’s gracing your privates with feather-light touches. A moan hums low in your throat, betraying your poor attempt at defiance.

“That’s not what your body’s telling me.”

He scissors his fingers, stretching you wide enough so he can slide a third in. You hardly feel the pain when you dig your nails into your palms. It’s so fierce you think you might break skin, and if you do the muscle relaxant prevents you from truly feeling it. You peer at his sly smirk, but the disgust melts away when, combined with the fingers working you open and the hand petting your sex, you find yourself shuddering through a sudden climax. Scaramouche marvels at the way you clench around his fingers, and before you can even try to avoid him he’s pressing a fleeting kiss to your temple.

“Look at you, cumming from three fingers.” He removes each finger one by one just to watch you writhe bonelessly beneath him. He presses two slick fingers against your lips, tilting his head as if you’re a morbid curiosity he spies through the bars of an invisible cage. “My cute, pathetic, virgin kitten. I quite like that dazed look in your eyes. Perhaps you should look at me like that more often…”

You manage to roll your eyes, unamused. “You had your fun. Now take the cuffs off.” You fix him with a pout. “Please?”

“I couldn’t possibly when we’re just getting started.”

There’s a playful lilt in his voice, and your eyes follow his hands as they grasp the waistband of his boxers. It’s only then when you realize he’s painfully hard in his underwear, his cock outlined so starkly against the constrictive material, and your heart plummets into your stomach.

“Hold on. Wait. H-Hold on…” You try to shut your legs, but the sedative in your system has you reacting as if you’re pulling your limbs through unforgiving tar. Every inch of you craves the comforting release of a long slumber, but the alcohol keeps your nerves sparking with a fiery need that greatly outweighs any languor. “N-Not inside…”

“Why not? We’ll be closer this way.” He wipes the cold sweat from your forehead before placing a gentle kiss upon it. The look in his indigo hues is lionizing, and when he cradles your cheek in a warm hand he is uncharacteristically fond. But then of course he’d be; he likes you, after all. For all of the cruelty, you forget he does this out of love. “Don’t you want to be closer—to find all of the right spots together? We’ll fit together so perfectly…”

He’s already squirted lube onto his hand, and he runs it up the length of his erection, all the while holding smoldering eye contact with you. You swallow dread so thick it almost lodges itself in your throat, mumbling a slew of slurred protests that fall upon deaf ears.

Scaramouche forces you to look at him next, his hand still on your face, and you lean into it out of emotional instinct. He smiles—it’s tender this time, almost welcoming—and strokes your cheek with his thumb. “You’re okay,” he whispers, sincerity weaved into the promise. You blink tears away and your breath hitches when the soft, fleshy head of his cock kisses your puckered hole. His fingers trail along the bandage secured around your throat, and his eyes glaze over with an unknown emotion. “You’ll be okay.”

And hearing it twice has you believing it with a mindless nod of your head.

If your hands were free, you’d reach out to touch him, run your fingers along his porcelain chest, loop your arms around his neck to pull him into you so that your puzzle could be complete. Instead, you look up at him with pleading eyes as he cages you between his arms.

“Please be gentle.”

He noses the crook of your neck. “We’ll see.”

But his words are warm and inviting. And—oh. Oh, he cares for you! Scaramouche, the one who’d ensure you were always fed, who’d go out of his way to check in at night after a long day, who’d entertain you with an argumentative back-and-forth regarding his favorite games, who’d let you win every single match just to be able to spend more quality time with you...

Who loves you more than he loves himself, relying entirely on you in order to fill the cavernous void in his heart with sugar and sincerity and serenity.

He cares for you, and no one has ever quite cared for you in the way he does, as sickly obsessive as he may be. Knowing that someone likes you enough to look after you is more saccharine than honey.

Illuminated in red-and-purple luminosities, you shimmer beneath him, a lone star plucked from a dark, desolate sky. His hand falls from your face, finding your hip instead, and he rubs soothing circles into it as he presses in, the head of his cock pushing past rings of tight, lubricated muscle. It doesn’t hurt nearly as much as you thought it would, but then the relaxant and the alcohol have you at ease. His brows are knit in concentration, breath hot and wet on your bare skin, as he slots himself inside inch by inch.

A shaky groan spills from his lips. “(Name)...” Your name is candied ambrosia in his mouth, the sweetest song. “(Name), (Name), (Name)...”

He exhales slowly, tears glimmering in glassy eyes, and locates your lips in the gloom, drawn in like a fool blinded by the deceptive light of an anglerfish. You kiss back as if this is the last time you’ll ever have the chance to do so, pursuing his whimpers in the same fashion he seeks your keening cries. And when he snaps his hips forwards to fill you completely, joining your bodies in unholy communion, you throw your head back and sob like you’ve never sobbed before. It’s a wonderful fit, snug and tight, and he rocks in experimentally. You shiver under him, crying out a string of incoherent phrases.

“Scara… Scaraaa,” you sigh dreamily, and his hands brace themselves on either side of you so that he won’t crumple when he thrusts in, settling into the rhythm, following the thrum of your conjoined heartbeats. “Aah… Don’t stop. Please, Scara, I want it deeper… Haah… Please don’t stop.”

“Kuni,” he corrects, breathing it into you in an open-mouthed kiss. “My name. Kunikuzushi.”

It’s lovely. It’s everything. It’s your own heavenly delicacy.

“Kuni. Kuni. Oh, Kuni…” you parrot, voice thick with need.

He’s moving in and out gradually, savoring each time he thrusts up into you and your bodies meet in a perfect connection, slowly rolling his hips into you as if he’s too fearful to destroy something so fragile. Or perhaps he wishes to keep himself intact—to prevent himself from crumbling into a love-drunk mess. When he kisses you, it’s flavorful passion, and the both of you exchange saliva and breath as if you’re each other’s lifelines. You’re not sure what you’re saying anymore, or whether any of it makes sense, but then he’s murmuring all manner of things into your skin as if every admission will tattoo itself upon your very being, engraved into your soul.

Though it’s spoken in a voice barely above a whisper, you catch it. Faintly, like flickering candlelight, admitted like prayer, he says, “I love you.”

And with that you fall, vision whiting out as your orgasm seizes you, and you whine your relief when he fucks you through the highs and lows of it. Your chest is heaving when you return, and you bury your face in his shoulder, wanting to feel all of him, to have his warmth affixed to you.

In that moment, there is no such thing as hatred or revulsion. There are no drug- and alcohol-induced feelings. No handcuffs or shackles. There is only love. Lots of it—all of it—filling you to the brim entirely.

The shadowed space you’ve been confined to is slightly brighter now that you’ve found a star for yourself, and he is a celestial comfort crafted by the threads of fate—for it’s handcrafted destiny that brought the two of you together in a virtual world. Regardless of what awaits you when you’re shaken from this inebriated fantasy, you hope it is just as bewitchingly dazzling as the puzzle you make with Scaramouche.

“I love you… Kuni, I love you.”

He’s crying then, tears falling in twin rivulets, and in response he drives his cock in so deeply it has you arching your back, the motions coaxing precious love cries from the depths of your very heart. Sealing what’s left unsaid in a final kiss—every other emotion, all of the twisted obsession and the horrors of the past month—he empties his load inside, moaning into your mouth. Like a lotus at midnight, you open so obediently for him, your legs wrapped around his waist to pin his body to yours like butterflies spread on an entomologist’s board.

Of course you love him. After all, there’s no one else for you to adore in this vast, lonesome outer space.

#yandere genshin impact #yandere genshin impact x reader #yandere scaramouche #yandere scaramouche x reader #lunar love hotel 2023 #tw: drugging #tw: dubcon #n/sfw

1K notes · View notes

espinosaurusrexex · 1 year

Note

Bucky and presumed dead 🔥🔥🔥 you can chose if he thinks y/n is dead or y/n thinks he’s dead

You already know what I had to go with ahah. This was fun! 💗

Presumed Dead (Bingo Game)

!BINGO ASKS CLOSED!

Bucky Barnes x Female!Reader

word count: 2.2k

warnings: angst, language, fluff, some fighting, mentions of blood and injuries

part one | part two (each can be read individually)

“Sergeant Barnes, the Mountain Base Mission Jet just arrived in Hangar 3.”

F.R.I.D.A.Y.’s voice echoed through the room and Bucky was quick to push himself off the sofa and head towards the door. He was excited to see his teammates again. You, Steve, Natasha, and Clint had been sent out to raid a Hydra Base hidden in an Alaskan mountain eight days ago. And even though Bucky had missed you a lot these past days, he knew that it was part of your job. Just as it was part of Bucky's. You occasionally checked in with each other every other day when missions lasted that long, but when things got difficult, it was common for either of you to stop communicating to focus on the mission. And that was okay. Of course, Bucky still worried about you and his friends, but he also knew that each and every member of the mission team was a capable agent that knew how to handle difficult situations.

It had happened this time as well. The last time you had contacted Bucky was about three days ago. Which was why he was all the more excited to finally hold you in his arms again.

The elevator dinged and the doors opened to reveal the Quinjet Hangar. The hatch had not been opened yet, as the jet was hooked onto fuel and checked by the crew. Bucky stood by the metal reiling leading up to it with a big smile on his face and soon, the team appeared one after the other. First Clint, who was supported by Natasha as he limbed across the bridge. They were both covered in soot and blood. And as they weakly smiled when passing Bucky, his heart sank, smile fading slightly as well. He nodded in their direction.

Then Steve appeared with an equally devastated look on his face. But Bucky was still hopeful. He had yet to see you, and he knew your presence would light that positive fire within him like it always did. Steve hugged Bucky before a couple agents crowded him with paperwork and signatures.

“How’ve you been, pal?”

“Oh, you know... bored. Stark covered me in paperwork.”

Steve just hummed in response and Bucky peaked behind him to the open jet. Where were you? He was nervous, he always was. But this time, it felt different. And when Bucky's eyes wandered from the jet back to Steve who was still signing forms, uneasiness pooled in his stomach.

“Where’s my girl? She already inside?”

That’s when Steve excused the agents and pulled Bucky aside. His hand was still lingering on his arm when he spoke again. “She’s not here.”

“What? Why?”

“We needed to regroup. We’ll go back to get her in an hour.” Steve’s eyes were drilling into Bucky’s when he said it. Bucky swallowed thickly. What the hell was that supposed to mean? Why hadn’t you come with them in the first place?

Steve nodded sternly once and then he stepped aside and made his way to the medical wing. Bucky followed him hastily. There were still too many questions swarming his brain.

“An hour? It’s freezing up there!” He stumbled behind the blonde until he finally caught up to him. Goddamn it, you hated the cold. Bucky despised the feeling of panic surging up his spine. He pictured you hurt and alone in the snow - lost and thinking that your team neglected you, which they had!

“We had complications. It was the only plausible move.” He pushed past the double doors and into the room Clint was being treated in.

“Complications? What complications?”

“They knew we were coming. A bomb detonated when we pulled the files from their servers. Y/N was hurt. We barely made it out of the base,” Natasha spoke up when Bucky’s eyes searched the room in a panic.

“Then why didn’t you bring her home?” His voice was shaken but he willed himself to calm down. There must have been a rational explanation for your not being here. Steve didn’t just leave people behind. Not unless...

“Buck..,” Steve reasoned, but it brought an uneasy tension into the room. The way they were all looking at him - looking at each other. It was dead silent. Clint pushed a nurse away when she approached him and Bucky knew something was very very wrong. “The explosion caused an avalanche that separated us. We looked for four hours, but we couldn’t keep going without putting the rest of the team in danger.”

Bucky clenched his jaw in the small pause Steve made. “Her wounds were fatal. She most likely didn’t make it… We’re going back to recover her body.”

Everything muted when Steve’s little speech was over, and Bucky just stared ahead. You weren’t dead. You couldn’t be. You were tough. You didn’t just die on a stupid mission. Not when Bucky had so many memories to make with you still.

“No...” He whispered sorely, the lump in his throat growing as he watched the faces in the room sadden around him. “You just didn’t search properly. Maybe she hid away. She’s smart. She thinks tactical.”

“I told you we will fly back in 55 minutes. ETA 1300. If she is alive, we will find her.” If she’s alive.

Bucky’s heart was racing. He felt it pulsing in his neck, along with a strong urge to punch a hole in the nearest thing around. “Why are you all so calm?! 55 minutes is too long! The damn flight there is too long!”

“Bucky-” Steve laid a hand on his shoulder.

But Bucky whipped around with vigor, stern eyes staring down his friend. “She’s not dead, Steve.”

They held eye contact for a solid minute, but the urge to hurry passed over Bucky again. You didn’t have time. Steve was staring at him with those stupid captain eyes. Those might have worked on others but not Bucky. Not him, he had always respected him - he just wanted a little of that back now. But Steve was too stubborn, and Bucky couldn’t grasp why.

“I can’t believe this.” Bucky shook his head and then turned to suit up. He would definitely not wait 55 damn minutes.

-❁-

Surprisingly, Steve had gotten the Jet ready when Bucky arrived at the Hangar in his suit, along with a change of clothes for you and some other necessities he thought he’d need. And when the two friends started their journey to Alaska, it was dead silent in the aircraft. The only noises were the initial communication with the compound and the constant whirring of the quinjet.

They were flying on autopilot now, sitting in their seats, keeping quiet as if it were a contest. Bucky actually had worrying thoughts about you that would occupy his brain for the remaining hours of the flight. He had to keep himself from crying when he packed up some clothes for you earlier and, to be honest, it wasn’t easier now. He hated that he didn’t know where you were, or what you were doing - how you were doing, most importantly. And he also couldn’t believe Steve would just leave you behind like that. Because Bucky knew for sure that his best friend was just as protective of you as he was himself... at least he thought so.

Steve watched him from across the room, his hands folded in his lap, a sorrowful look painting his features. And if Bucky weren’t so angry at him, he would have comforted the poor fella in front of him. But what he had done was unforgivable. He had left his girl to die.

“What?” The brunette spat after another thirty minutes. God, the time was passing in slow motion.

“I just want to say I’m sorry.” Steve looked up. “I know you’re angry and worried - I would be too - but you also need to understand that I have to think about the whole team in these situations. She would have wanted me to keep the others safe.”

“Are you kidding me right now? Why are you talking as if she’s already gone?!”

“Because she-” But Steve stopped abruptly, his mouth shutting, jaw clenching. The silence took back over and it was unbearable this time. The worrying, the anger, the fear - it was all too much.

“Fuck!” Bucky shouted as he buried his head in his hands, body folding over. The tears were brimming in his eyes, and his breath was shaky. “I can’t do this, Steve. I can’t lose her. She’s my- I can’t lose her, Steve...” By the end, it was only a whisper. One that held the most painfully truthful words he’d ever said. And when the first tear fell between his legs to the ground, Steve laid his hand on Bucky’s shoulder.

“We’ll find her, pal. We will...”

-❁-

Icy winds were whipping in their faces as the two super soldiers trekked over the mountain. They had already swept the place the bomb went off at, just to find the site was impassable. A little down the hill was where the debris had settled and beyond another elevation, was the place Natasha had last seen you.

Bucky was cold and drenched, but he wouldn’t stop searching until he found you. He had sworn himself that and he had made Steve swear on it too. There was no way he would leave this mountain without you, this much was clear. Whether he would die on the journey there was yet to be discovered.

They passed another ice plane before Bucky finally stopped. Steve caught up to him and together they took in the new territory before them. It was hopeless, daylight was fading but Bucky wouldn’t relent. Not when your safety was on the line. Their view was obstructed by the grey sky and stormy clouds, and the high altitude made it hard to catch enough oxygen. Bucky swept the snow-covered landscape a second time. His eyes wandered over a rock to the valley.

“Bucky!” A fist met his shoulder and then pointed ahead into the snow. And upon further inspection, Bucky caught a spot of deep red disrupting the harsh white.

He surged forward, stumbling down parts of the mountain with the newfound energy this sliver of hope it had given him. And when the men finally arrived, the big spot had already been covered by a thin layer of new snow. Blood.

“She went this way,” Bucky shouted over the wind as he trailed the growing accumulation of blood along the hillside.

It took another hour of stomping through the deep snow until Bucky and Steve finally came along a caved-in rock deeper in the mountain. Here, where the snowfall wasn’t as heavy, the blood was more visible. Bucky swallowed thickly before moving inside. He wasn’t prepared for finding your dead body - he couldn’t possibly. Because up until this point, he could still pretend you were alive. If he would find you now... there was no denying the worst outcome he could have possibly imagined.

For the umpteenth time, Bucky felt his best friend’s hand squeezing his shoulder. But this time, it gave him the strength to finally move forward. Together, they went inside and followed the narrow gap between the rocks, their board shoulders barely fitting between the stones, But there was no way they would turn back now. They were close, Bucky knew it.

When the cave opened up again, Bucky immediately called your name. The echoes bounced back strikingly loud in the opening, but nothing else reached his ears. He tried again, and again, each time moving deeper inside, his hand guiding him along the walls of the dark place and then, suddenly, his feet hit something soft - softer than stone.

He leaned down, his hands immediately feeling up a body he was all too familiar with. But this time, cold and lifeless. A little clicking went through the cave and Steve’s flashlight turned on.

“Doll, thank god!” Bucky shook your frame. As if in trance, he felt your weekend pulse. He moved you, called your name, anything to get you to wake up. But your face looked lifeless and cold, your suit covered in blood and drenched in ice-cold water.

A pained moan left your lips, suddenly, weak and quiet, but definitely there. And Bucky felt his heart start beating for the first time since he set foot on Alaskan soil.

“Oh my god, Angel. You’re safe now. I promise you’re safe. Thank god!” Tears streamed down his cheeks when he turned to his friend again.

“Steve, help me. Help me get her out.”

Together, the friends carried your body outside into the biting cold, over ice and snow, hills and debris until they finally reached the quinjet. And when Steve started the aircraft, Bucky cradled you tightly in his arms and rocked you, while he tried to warm you as best as he could. He had changed you out of the wet tactical suit and tended to your wounds as well as possible. His hands never left your body. Not when he changed into dry clothes, not when he got you blankets, not when your beautiful eyes finally opened and met his.

“I knew you would make it, Angel. You’re a fighter. I’m so glad you’re alive.” He whispered to your temple after pressing hundreds of tiny kisses to your skin.

He would never let you go again. Not now, not ever.

Wanna be added to the Taglist?

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chloedrewitt · 5 months

Text

My Tears Ricochet - Ascended!Astarion x Reader

summary: You helped Astarion ascend, not knowing what consequences this would have for your future together. After the changes become more and more noticeable, you realize you have to undo this mistake

pairing: Ascended!Astarion x Reader

word count: 1.7k

warnings: angst, light gore, major character death

a/n: I am back from the dead with an Astarion story <3 At the moment, I won't be taking requests so I can focus on my bachelor's and family as we're going through a bit of a rough time, but I will be uploading a Taylor Swift series here and there. Essentially, I'll write multifandom one-shots inspired by Taylor's songs to get back into writing. When my situation improves, I'll open my requests again! And don't forget to join my Discord server if you wanna be kept up to date with my writing

Masterlist - Discord Server - Request Info - Taylor Swift Series

We gather here We line up weeping in a sunlit room And if I'm on fire You'll be made of ashes, too

You stared at your hands. Your skin was dry were blood did not cover it, your nails dirty. There was a faint scream in the distance, but all you could hear was the loud ringing in your ears. It felt hard to breathe, as if you had to force out every single breath and keep reminding your body to suck the air in and push it back out of your lungs. It smelled metallic, and it made you sick.

The clock to your right ticked away time you forgot you had. The ticking was, in fact, the only thing reminding you that time was still passing. Your muscles were frozen, unable to move as even the slightest twitching of your fingers felt stiff and forced.

The shutting of a door made you jump, and you instinctively wrapped your hands around the armrests of the chair you were sitting on, smearing blood all over the dark wood. You looked up in the direction of the sound, and found your lover entering the foyer, humming a triumphant tune as a thin trail of blood ran down the corner of his mouth. When he spotted you, his lips formed a grin.

“My love,” he said, flashing those pointy fangs at you. Astarion raised one hand toward you, a silent order for you to stand up and take it, but you remained seated, hands still wrapped around the chair. Silently, you looked at him.

He waited a few seconds, his gloved fingers flexing in annoyance as you did not comply. “My love,” he repeated with a more assertive tone this time, and when you still did not react, his red eyes narrowed.

“Get up, dammit,” he said through pressed teeth, emphasizing every word while his outstretched hand took on the form of a claw. You felt your breath quicken, something he no doubt noticed as well.

You tried to ignore the shiver that ran down your spine as you stood, wiping your hands on your trousers while you approached him cautiously. Keeping your eyes locked with him so he wouldn't notice the way your hand shook, you placed it into his and withstood his gaze with a raised chin.

The moment your hand landed in his, he abruptly pulled you towards him, digging the fingers of his free hand into your shoulder. His lips were near your ear, and you could smell the same metallic scent tainting his breath which had invaded your nose as you looked at your hands before.

“You come when you are called,” he hissed, digging his fingers deeper into your flesh. “How does it look to our subjects when I cannot even control my consort?”

You swallowed, only barely managing to meet his gaze when he pulled away, keeping his hand wrapped around yours. You forced a smile, your eyes glassy.

“Of course, beloved. I apologize.” Your voice did not shake, and you were proud of that, yet you could not help the faint jump as Astarion took a strand of your hair and twirled it between his fingers.

“The fishermen have sworn their loyalty to us,”he proclaimed, any hint of anger gone from his voice. “I only had to drain three of their blood for them to comply, but I believe it certainly left an impression.”

“You always had a thing for theatrics,” you replied, your voice void of emotion. “If it is one thing you know how to do, it is how to leave a lasting impression.”

Astarion laughed at that, briefly touching your cheek. It was a soft gesture, almost as soft as he had been with you that night after Moonrise Towers when you were badly injured and he had tended to your wounds.

You squeezed your eyes shut, trying to suffocate the memory.

“I am an expert in quite a lot of things, my dear.” He laughed again as he turned his back on you, finally wiping the blood from his chin. He tasted it once more, reveling in the sweet taste. It made you sick to know this was the blood of innocents.

“Tomorrow night you will know the sweet taste of blood. You will drink from my wrist as if it were the most precious goblet, carrying the most exquisite of wines. For a moment, you will know no greater luxury,” he proclaimed before his voice dropped an octave and he turned back around, wrapping an arm around your waist. “That is, before you taste yourself on me, of course.”

Weeks ago, this would have excited you. But now, knowing that you had little choice in the matter, it turned your stomach. You stared into his eyes, a shade of crimson that you had learned to love in the most unconditional ways, and yet now their weight seemed to almost crush you. There was no spark of the man you once knew, he merely bore his face like a mask, grotesque in the way it gives you comfort while stripping you of it in every way.

“I should rest,” you said, laying your hand over his in an attempt to break physical contact, but still trying to make the touch feel loving to him. “Today tired me. I don't have the benefits of vampiric endurance yet.”

“Emphasis on yet. Soon, you will.”

You smiled faintly. You saw in his eyes that he thought you were merely saying goodbye to your mortality, but you would never think of it. You would rather flee this palace and Baldur’s Gate and never return to this wretched city. Your Astarion, the old Astarion, would have never expected you to become his spawn, not after the pain he had experienced as a spawn himself. How it had made him a puppet, ready to do his master’s bidding at any given moment. This was not love, and though it was hard to accept, you recognized it now; it was obsession.

You brought yourself to plant a soft kiss on his cheek, inhaling his scent as you closed your eyes and pretended you were still in that camp, celebrating your victory for the tieflings, with wine and laughter at every corner. It was the first night you had spent with him, reduced to a bittersweet memory that had burned itself into the back of your mind.

That night, you waited in your chambers on the bed, the soft silk sheets beneath you feeling luxurious and comforting. A single flame danced between your fingers, which you had produced to warm yourself. The Szarr palace was not doing much to shield a mere mortal like you from the coldness of the night, but you knew how to help yourself. Magic had never failed you before.

Your gaze fell upon the window in front of you, pressing your lips together in a fine line. It would have been easy to break it and flee, but he was not easy to trick. He would hunt you down, you were sure of it.

Without warning, he entered your shared chambers, sighing deeply as he shut the door behind him. Astarion was wearing a dark red bathing robe, and his silver hair was slightly wet. There was no sign of blood when he let the robe fall to the floor, and an image of the red liquid forming tendrils in clear water crossed your mind, but you only blinked the mental picture away.

When his eyes locked with yours, he smiled as if you were a special dessert he had been looking forward to all day. Astarion crawled on top of the bed before he came to a halt before you. Though he was kneeling on the sheets, you still felt smaller than him. You knew that to him, you would always be just that.

“There you are, darling,” he said in a low voice, pulling you closer towards him as he buried a hand in your hair, softly massaging your scalp. “My little treat.”

You blinked the tears away and tried to ignore how fast your heart was beating as you placed a hand on his cheek, cold skin meeting your palm. “Hello, Astarion,” you whispered, smiling at him as tears blurred your vision.

“Do not be afraid,” he reassured you, but it did not sound sincere. His hand dropped from your hair to your chin, where he trapped it between two fingers and forced you to look at him. “You will awaken as a creature of the night. Mine and mine only.”

You sniffled, brushing a strand of hair out of his face, eyes flickering between his. In his irises, you saw the blood of those brave enough to withstand his tyrannical reign. You could have sworn they had deepened in color, too.

“When I asked you if you were still the same Astarion, you said that you were,” you began, and the grin faded from his lips. “But that is not true. You changed. I wanted to give you everything you ever yearned for, I wanted to give you the whole world. But I failed to see that what you wanted would ruin you. I should have believed that I was enough to make you happy. I wish I could have believed that.” Your voice broke, but you saw the anger in his eyes, so you quickly continued. “You already had a dream. I only wish that instead of his power, that dream would have been me.”

Hot tears fell down your cheeks as you finished, and before Astarion could even reply, you stood and spoke the words you would regret for the rest of your life. Almost immediately, a ray of light so bright appeared, that you had to shield your eyes for a moment. His screams penetrated your ears as the smell of burned flesh forced its way into your nose. You lowered your arms when your eyes got used to the brightness, possibly only thanks to your affinity to magic, and you immediately regretted having looked at him; his wide-eyed stare was fixed on you, and his face turned into a grimace of pain and agony.

You sank to your knees on the floor as you watched him get weaker and weaker until the screaming stopped and his body lay motionless on the floor. He had fallen from the bed when he tried to get away from you.

It was now your screams that filled the room, pressing your hands to your heart as you felt it physically ache. You had just saved countless lives and kept families together who would never thank you or even know about this sacrifice. And yet, it felt as if you had killed a part of yourself in the process.

You had to kill me but it killed you just the same Cursing my name, wishing I stayed Look at how my tears ricochet

#astarion #astarion x reader #baldur's gate 3 #bg3 #bg3 astarion #bg3 tav #angst #astarion fanfiction #astarion angst #astarion x tav #ascended astarion #ascended astarion x reader

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jobean12-blog · 7 months

Text

Finding Home (10)

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x reader (Animal Rescue AU)

Word Count: 1,887

Summary: You and Bucky make a big decision and you're overwhelmed with happiness... for everything.

Author's Note: So this is the final chapter for my Finding Home story with Animal rescue!Bucky! I'm sorry it took me so long to get to this but then the Buck's and Noble server Summer Send Off Event gave me a great idea (using the song September, by Earth, Wind and Fire-listen HERE) on how to end it and my sweet friend @newgirlintheneighborhood sent me THIS great post that just made it all come together. Thank you all for the inspo. You can definitely read this as a stand alone but I will give you a few little bits of info just in case:

-Bucky and Sam own an animal resuce called Shelter to Soldier which helps rescue animals find homes with veterans (and everyone else too)

-Reader first saw Bucky when he was walking Alpine on a leash down the streets of the city

-Bucky has his metal arm in this AU since he's a war hero/veteran and he's come a long way both by himself (with Sam's help) and with reader in their relationship

-He rescued the dog Winter (mentioned in this story) and he's a white German Shepard with three legs (he's a war vet too)

-Bucky rescued Alpine from the streets and the cat has been a big help during his rehab

-This part takes place about 2.5 years after reader and Bucky have met

Thank you all so much for reading! Much love always! ❤️❤️❤️Divider by the lovely @firefly-graphics Thank you Daisy! 🥰

Warnings: lots of super soft and sweet fluffs, LotR references, the animals and kisses!

Finding Home Masterlist

The morning light peeks through the thin curtains of your bedroom, warming and illuminating your skin. You slowly open your eyes and see Bucky’s soft profile, his eyelashes fluttering ever so slightly with his even breathing. Winter is at the base of the bed, keeping your feet warm, and Alpine is perched atop the spare pillow on Bucky’s other side.

The moment you shift your feet you hear the thump of Winter’s large white tail and then feel him rise up and do a big downward dog stretch.

“Oh big stretch Winter,” you coo quietly, giggling as you watch him try to tentatively hop over Bucky’s body to get closer.

Alpine lifts his head and blinks at you several times then seems to glare at the dog who is still desperately trying to find a place to settle between your body and Bucky’s.

Bucky starts to move, his long legs tangling even more with yours as he wraps you up and curls you into his bare chest. Winter finally finds a suitable spot next to Bucky, the dog’s big white body pressed into his side and his tail still thumping on the bed.

“Mornin’ doll face,” Bucky mumbles as he nuzzles your neck.

Winter let’s out a small whine and pushes his wet nose into Bucky’s skin while Alpine paws at the top of Bucky’s head.

“And mornin’ to you two fuzzballs,” he adds, peeping one eye open to survey the bed.

The moment he locks eyes with Winter, the dog scoots closer like a worm and starts to nose his shoulder. Alpine promptly joins in by chasing the glittering rays of sunshine that dance along Bucky’s metal arm every time the breeze blows through the curtains.

“It’s a party already,” Bucky chuckles.

He pulls you impossibly closer and hums into your skin, placing a soft kiss under your ear.

“Morning baby,” you whisper, inhaling his scent.

Winter, apparently unhappy with the possibility of you two going back to sleep, starts to lick Bucky’s cheek and cover it with kisses. Bucky’s large hand lands on Winter’s head and he scratches him before lightly giving him a shove.

“Winter, down boy,” he says. “I’m busy.”

Winter doesn’t give up, only shimmying closer and becoming more determined in his quest for kisses. You sit up and take in the scene, smiling widely when Alpine starts to bat at a piece of Bucky’s long hair that’s laid out across the pillow.

Without warning you lean down and press a big kiss to Bucky’s other cheek. The corners of his eyes crinkle with his smile and you continue to pepper his skin with kisses, hitting every spot you can find.

Winter seems to catch on as his tail swishes faster and he keeps up his licks on Bucky’s other cheek. Your lips trail along Bucky’s jaw, then you nibble his ear, then move back down and cover the whole side of his face with more kisses, catching the corner of his mouth before doing it all over again.

“Best. Morning. Ever,” he sighs.

After several more wet kisses from Winter and sweet ones from you, and even a few paw bats from Alpine, Bucky slips free and flips you over onto your back, dislodging everyone in a heap of blankets and pillows.

“Oops,” he says sweetly, but there’s mischief dancing in his eyes. “My turn!”

He pins you down with his body and proceeds to smother you with feather light kisses on every inch of skin he can find. You arch into him, wiggling beneath his body which makes him rumble with pleasure.

His kisses become slower as he moves along your neck and when he reaches your lips he hovers just above them as he stares into your eyes.

He brushes his nose to yours and presses a kiss to your mouth before slowly rocking his hips.

You moan out his name and nibble his lip before pulling away.

“What?” he pouts. “I was just getting started on having you naked.”

You smile against his lips. “I have an idea for a wedding date.”

His pout disappears as happiness takes over his expression.

“I’m listening doll,” he says, but continues to place butterfly kisses along your face.

“So we had talked about Fall and I was thinking September might be nice. Not too cold but hopefully not too hot if we do it toward the end and there’s a special date that would be perfect.”

“Still listening,” he hums as his lips graze your collarbone. “Which date?”

“How about September 22nd.”

He stills, his lips still pressed to your skin. “I know that date,” he muses, finally lifting his head to meet your eyes.

You nod with a giggle.

“It’s Bilbo and Frodo’s birthday!” he says excitedly. “That is perfect!”

“YAY!!!” you squeal, doing a dance under him.

He sits up and pulls you into his lap.

“I can’t wait doll,” he whispers.

“Me either Bucky.”

“We just need to find the perfect spot.”

“Exactly.”

You both sit in comfortable and cuddled silence for a few moments before he breaks it.

“What about in Central Park? I bet there’s a tree we could find that’s big like the party tree in the Shire!”

“You’re such a dork and I love you.”

He beams at that but before he can get you under him again, Winter has nosed his way between you two, impatiently asking for love too.

“Alpine and Winter are coming to the wedding of course,” you add.

“Of course doll,” Bucky says. “Besides, I think they would be like Merry and Pippin and invite themselves anyway.”

You bury your head in his chest and laugh.

“So September 22nd is our day,” you whisper, toying with his dog tag.

“September 22nd,” he echoes.

He’s just about to kiss you when your eyes go wide and you yell out, “OH! And we can play that song at the wedding and on every anniversary…you know the one by uh…um…it goes ‘do you remember…’.”

He studies you, waiting for you to think of more.

“Is this a song from Lord of the Rings?” he asks, looking confused.

“No, no, it’s by…OH MY GOD Bucky, it’s an older song…”

As you start to recall the lyrics you sing them and shake your body to the rhythm.

His face brightens in recognition and he grabs his phone, typing quickly into Google.

“Got it,” he chimes just before ‘September’ by Earth, Wind and Fire, starts to play.

You both start to sing along and Winter begins howling with his pack, much to the dismay of Alpine who seems to want to disappear into the pillow.

“Wait!” Bucky says, pausing the song. “Don’t they say the 21st night of September?”

He clicks on the lyrics and rewinds the song, singing along as he reads. “Yep they do!”

“But that’s not Hobbit day!” you say.

“We’re definitely sticking with the 22nd baby doll. It’s perfect.”

In a fit of excitement you curl into Bucky’s arms and kiss him all over. Winter takes the opportunity to smash himself under Bucky’s arm and even Alpine saunters over to join in the happy cuddle pile.

~September 21st of the next year~

“You need…”

Those are the only words you get out before Bucky’s mouth is on you again, your body pressed into the wall and his hands wandering under your shirt.

“Bucky,” you gasp, gently pushing on his chest. “You need to go. Nat will be here soon and then we’ll never hear the end of it!”

He pulls away slightly but lifts his arms so he can plant both his hands along the wall on either side of your head, caging you in.

“I don’t wanna,” he whines. “This is the last night before you’re officially my wife and I want to make it count.”

“We spent all day making it count,” you giggle, grabbing his shirt and pulling his mouth back to yours.

Your fingertips trace the broad width of his shoulders before delving into the hair that hangs loosely at the nape of his neck.

“Thought I needed to go doll face,” he smirks against your lips in between kisses.

His metal fingers dance along your skin, inching higher until he’s toying with the little boy in the center of your bra.

“I should never have agreed to this girls night,” you pout.

He nibbles on your extended bottom lip before deftly unhooking the clasp of your bra.

“Now who’s whining,” he teases.

“Buck!” you squeak. “Fix that!”

“Well, lemme see here,” he starts with a grin before he lifts your shirt so he can stick his head under it.

Instead of fixing your bra he kisses your skin as he loosens the silky fabric more.

“BUCKY!” you admonish playfully as you try and push his head out. “You’re stretching out my shirt!”

“It’s my shirt,” he says from inside, his voice muffled.

There’s a loud knock on the door followed by Nat’s excited shouting.

“Shit,” you grumble. “Shit, shit.”

Bucky reluctantly pulls his head free but not before he has you pinned to the wall again and he quiets any of your protests with his kiss.

When he pulls away you’re breathless and flustered.

“I’m going out the fire escape,” he says with a wink.

“What?!? You can’t do that!” you whisper shout.

“Better than getting yelled at!” he says as he grabs your hand and rushes into your bedroom and to the window.

He opens it and then turns back to you, pulling you into his arms and kissing you breathless all over again.

“I love you. More than anything. And I can’t wait to marry you.”

“I love you the most Bucky. I can’t wait either.”

With one more kiss he slips out the window and starts to climb down. The banging on the door becomes louder but you can’t tear your eyes away from him.

“Give Alpine and Winter kisses for me!” you shout down to him. “And Sam too!”

You giggle when Bucky gives you a scowl.

“Sam will be lucky if I don’t punch him,” Bucky jokes. “And don’t worry, I’ll make sure the babies are well loved and ready for tomorrow!”

Once he safely reaches the ground he looks back up and blows you a kiss, mouthing ‘I love you,’ before running down the street toward Sam’s apartment.

You watch until he’s out of sight then rush to the door and open it.

“It’s about time!” Nat screeches. “Is he here!?!”

“NO!” you say and throw up your hands in surrender. “It’s just us girls. Not even Alpine and Winter are here!”

She pushes past you and looks around suspiciously.

After a thorough inspection she turns back your way, one eyebrow lifting to her hairline.

“WHAT!?” you ask, going to cross your arms over your chest.

You stop mid gesture, realizing your bra is still unhooked and hanging off you under your shirt.

Nat stares at you and you stare back but it only lasts a few seconds before you both burst into laughter.

Once you’re calm again, Nat asks, “he just left didn’t he?”

“Down the fire escape,” you giggle.

“I knew he was perfect from the moment we saw him walking Alpine across the street,” she states with a warm smile.

“Me too,” you reply dreamily. “Me too.”

@blackwidownat2814 @buckysdollforlife @goldylions @hiddles-rose @randomfandompenguin @book-dragon-13 @lizette50 @mazarinqueen @matchat3a @abigailbeloved @pineprincess @lalalalokii @blossomedfloweroflove @danireal17 @ginger-swag-rapunzel @buckybarnessimpp @mugi-chwan95 @hibernocaledonian @gloriouspurpose01 @adoringsebstan @aedicn @thepurpletie797 @buckrecs @openup-yourmind @lettersandsodas @kingfleury @moonlightreader649 @kmc1989

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em-writes-stuff-sometimes · 1 year

Text

ñuhus prūmӯs (my heart) │Chapter 6: Retribution (NSFW!)

terms of endearment ‘verse: see my Masterlist for the correct series order!

Chapter 1 │Chapter 2 │Chapter 3 │Chapter 4 │Chapter 5 │Chapter 6 │Chapter 7 │Chapter 8 │Chapter 9 │Chapter 10 │Chapter 11 │Chapter 12 (COMPLETE!)

Synopsis: Childbirth is the duty and dismay of all highborn women. Together, you and Daemon experience the trials, tribulations and triumphs of expectant parenthood. Your husband seeks justice.

(Set post-episode 7, though Daemon never married Laena or Rhaenyra.)

Thank you to @angelqueen04 for beta-ing! Thank you also to @evisnotok, @ewanmitchellcrumbs and @ajthefujoshi for holding my hand throughout the drafting, teehee!

Triggers: incest, age gap, purity culture, detailed depictions of pregnancy, graphic violence, graphic depictions of blood and torture, graphic depictions of murder, erectile dysfunction.

He can hear you screaming the moment he alights upon the top of the stairs.

“Guards! Guards!” he roars, already running.

Bolting down the corridor, his mind whirls with terror. What will he find when he gets to your rooms? He braces himself, thoughts whirling uncontrollably. Thoughts of stained sheets and the scent of copper and death upon the air, your tear-stricken face wild and wretched with the anguish of being ripped apart by babes too small to survive, the still forms of infants in miniature, slick with blood and already greying upon the ground below you—

What he discovers is infinitely worse.

The Mallery knight is engaged in a tussle with an unknown assailant, the clash of steel ringing in his ears and reminding him of battles past. You lay on the stone floor beside a body, one of two, your face and hair and gown wet with gore. A man straddles your legs, brandishing a knife that inches its way toward your belly. Toward his heirs. You’re giving him a good showing, kicking your legs and shoving at his weight with all your might and shrieking—but you are not strong enough to sway the encroaching threat of the blade in his hand.

“Shut up, girl!” The malefactor grapples against your stubborn hands preventing the knife from reaching its target, holding it at bay. “Not ‘ere for you… just them babies in you. Hold still!”

“No!” you yell, spitting in his face. The man snarls, backhanding you. You yelp.

Daemon moves instantly, unsheathing Dark Sister and striding toward the fray with barely a second thought. The Valyrian steel slides through flesh like butter, piercing straight through the assailant’s back and up through his ribs while being careful to miss his heart.

Non-lethal, painful. I want him to feel this.

The man shouts, dropping the knife. He yanks the sword out and kicks him away from you, sneering as he watches his prey scramble through the ooze of his own life essence. He’s still alive. Daemon casts aside his sword and falls upon your attacker, taking up the other man’s blade and slicing cleanly across the jugular, just enough pressure to release a gruesome spray that wets his face and tunic. He wants this creature to die bloody.

“Daemon—”

He presses his thumbs into the cut, smiling darkly as the man thrashes and gurgles. Ichor stains his skin and fills his nostrils with the stink of metallic warmth, humanity reduced to its basest form and lashing about in its final throes—

“My Prince—ah!”

In his periphery, he catches a figure scrambling from the room through the narrow server’s passageway, Mallery falling to the ground and clutching his leg. The man below him is still twitching. He cannot let him go until he is certain he’s dead, until he has paid the price for daring to lay his hands on you.

The guards burst into the room from the main entrance, taking in the scene with shock. Fucking useless.

“What the fuck took you so long?” he growls, releasing his hold on the man below him. He’s dead. The knowledge that he has taken care of this immediate threat to your safety soothes him somewhat. And yet, not all have been vanquished. Jerking his head in the direction of the opening in the far wall, he says, “One of the attackers escaped. After them!”

They nod hastily, sprinting away with a clang. Daemon readies for the influx of more people; the Kingsguard, the servants, the nobles, his fucking brother—

“Daemon…”

Your weeping reaches his ears, little fingers brushing tentatively against his shoulder. The gentleness of the motion breaks him from his violent spiral. His gaze jerks to yours, the burning rage cooling to a simmering ember as he takes in your terrified demeanour: wide eyes and quivering lip and tears tracking through spattered crimson akin to grisly warpaint.

You swallow. “He—he—”

He is momentarily struck by fear. What if you’ve been wounded? What if your pains have started? That old urge to run at the first sign of strife rears its ugly head, but he tamps it down viciously. I am not that man anymore.

“Sh.” Pulling you bodily to him, he feels the weight of you solid in his arms and on his lap, a reminder that he has not yet lost what is most important to him.

She is safe. She is safe. The rest can wait.

He runs his bloodied hand along your jaw, down your spine, across your belly, cataloguing every iota of you as though it is the first time he has ever held you. It might have been the last. He cannot help that the movements are rougher than he’d like, frantic and desperate.

“Are you alright?” he asks, trying to keep his voice gentle so as not to plunge you further into hysterics. “The babes?”

You nod shakily, tugging his hand back to your swollen middle. And oh, what a moment to feel the thudding motions of his children, the first time he has been able to lay a palm there and experience the sensation himself. They are active within your womb, small thumps and jabs that are more delicate than he had expected—but they are alive.

Tears burn in his eyes, angry, boiling things that he cannot, will not let loose. Not now.

He bands an arm beneath your knees and lifts you from the ground—the cold stone is no place for his little niece, his sweet baby wife—reassured by the heaviness of you and his heirs all. Conveying you swiftly to the bed with hardly a care given to the large stains smearing across the covers, he supposes you shall need an entirely new set of chambers, what with the mess soaking the stone ground.

Several arrivals occur in quick succession. Four of the Kingsguard enter and move immediately to secure the perimeter, one breaking off to aid Mallery across the room by tamping the ichor oozing steadily from his leg. Good man. He’d have hated to have to slay your sworn shield for incompetence, but his performance had been admirable in the face of the odds laid before him. It looks likely that he will not be able to use the limb again, though.

The healer woman is the next to toddle in, exclaiming in dismay at the sight. Your lady-in-waiting—and oh, fuck, the body that had been beside you is the other, he realises—follows swiftly on her heels, immediately bursting into tears when she absorbs the carnage.

Ūlla picks her way around the debris in a manner that is almost comical. “Princess! Princess! Are you safe?”

One of the Cargylls—he can never fucking tell them apart—steps before her, blade pointed in her direction.

She scoffs. “Move, boy! Pah—are you ‘Princess’, then? Go away!”

As much as he’d love to see the ensuing standoff, now is not the time. It’d be best to have the physician verify that you and his heirs are well. No doubt the shrew will bring you a measure of matronly comfort that he cannot.

“Let her through,” he commands.

The knight steps aside reluctantly, allowing her to proceed onwards. Daemon moves away for the woman to begin fussing over you, for your attendant to step into place so as to comfort you. He is wrenched by the sound of your plaintive whimper when he has gone too far for you to reach.

But needs must—this is not over.

He rolls over each of the attackers lying dead on the ground with a foot, examining them with pursed lips. There’s a blotch on each of their cheeks. At first, he assumes it is no more than a discolouration of the skin, perhaps a curious disease or a sign of familial relation—but leaning closer and wiping some of the blood away reveals that they are in fact identical stars carved and scarred over. Seven points.

Mellos makes his way inside, no doubt summoned for Mallery. It is a rare occasion indeed to see him act decisively; he dithers in overdramatic fright but for a moment before moving along to his task.

Lord Cunttower himself appears then, accompanied by his bitch of a daughter with the King in tow.

Daemon sees red.

“You,” he whispers, or maybe he shouts it. He can barely hear anything over the pounding in his ears as he shoves his brother’s prized lackey against the wall, cursing his lack of a blade. “You’ll die for this.”

“Daemon!”

“Look at her!” he snarls.

Hands wrapped around the man’s throat, Daemon revels in the distressed gasps and choking gags as the lord’s face slowly turns purple. The snake tries to pull at his grip, but a pompous fuck from the Reach is no match for a seasoned Targaryen warrior. Viserys is at his back, pulling at his shoulder with his one remaining hand. No doubt that is the Hightower whore crying out from further away.

“Look at my fucking wife, Otto! Mark my words”—he hounds ever closer to see the panic and the fear in the eyes of a man so usually unshakeable—“if this is your doing, not even the King or the gods themselves will stop me from taking your head—”

“Guards!”

“Kepus!”

He is dragged back by the nearest of his brother’s soldiers, forced to release his punitive grip. Otto sags with a guttural heave, water streaming from his eyes and clutching at his neck. Alicent rushes to her sire, staring between him and Daemon with sheer distress painting her features. Her hands flutter uselessly over the bruise already blooming across the flesh, though her overtures are quickly batted away.

“What is the meaning of this?” Viserys asks, even greyer as he looks about the scene of your attack; the blood, the bodies, your sworn shield emitting a muffled howl through a strap of leather between his teeth as the Grand Maester cauterises the wound. “What—”

“They ca—came for the babes.” Your speech is slack and monotone now that the shock has properly set in.

I can’t fucking do this, Daemon thinks.

He nudges the healer out of the way and ignores her grumble to sit beside you on the bed, to clutch at you once again and remind himself that you’re here. You grip his hand for support, heedless of the dried gore flaking off between joined palms.

“Three of them,” you say, numb. “They—oh, gods. They killed Miriam. They killed her.”

“Sh.” He presses his lips to your head, the smell of the rose oil apparent even through all the blood. She’s safe. She’s safe. He turns to your present company, to the figures of the King and Queen and Hand, arranged in various poses of horror. “This was not an accident. These—these scum knew what they were doing. They made their way into your Keep. They meant to slaughter your daughter’s babes, and in doing so, murder my wife. This is treason, Your Grace, of the highest order.”

Viserys looks as though his spirit is about to part from his body, pallid and desolate in the face of this hidden menace. “But why?” he asks, a child at prayer.

Daemon scoffs at the naivete. Is his failure to acknowledge the wound he has let fester for so long really so great? Of all the people in this room, the King ought to know best that all choices have consequences.

“My daughter’s never caused harm to a single man, woman or child,” the King continues. “Who would do this?”

“Ask him.” Daemon glowers at Hightower, who is still covering the line of his neck with his own hand.

The man makes a noise of incredulity. “I have been ever loyal to your King and your House these many years, Prince Daemon,” he says, or tries to. His voice is gravelly, raspy in the way that belies a considerable trauma inflicted upon the area. He affects a moue of outrage, though the alarm lingers. “To accuse me of such a—grievous crime—as to engineer the slaying of the Princess’s babes is simply preposterous!”

“And to what cause?” his daughter asks, forcing an aura of regality. It does not suit her. She’s far too common to view as anything more than a descendant of wildling savages. “Where is the benefit to doing such a thing?”

This time, Daemon cannot help but snort aloud. He stands, passing you back into the care of the healer, who has gathered a basin of water and some rags with which to start shedding you of the layers of congealed blood upon your face. You do not need to hear this part, and so he strides closer to the trespassing forms before him.

This time, he directs his poisonous inquiry to the Hightower woman, finally laying the truth of the matter bare.

“Have you yourself not openly alleged that the Princess Rhaenyra’s sons are bastards, my Queen?” He keeps his tone deliberately light, though it is clear all can sense the danger lurking beneath each intonation. “It stands to reason that, to those who might be persuaded to believe such falsehoods, my wife would be her heir by right of precedence. And if my wife should bear a son? Well, that makes your son’s claim rather difficult to advance, doesn’t it?”

“How dare you accuse me—”

“Enough!” his brother say, hushing himself when he notices he has caught your attention across the room. His next words are spoken far softer. “Did I not say that such rumours would incur a stay in the Black Cells? I do not wish to hear speculation as to the legitimacy of my grandsons!”

“Your Grace.” Daemon genuflects.

His rage is a seething, smouldering thing, but he needs Viserys on side if he is to tear the capital apart to find this cunt and rend him into pieces. There are plenty who believe him to be an unreasonable beast when the fire burns through his veins, but he is more than just an unmoored conflagration; he’s a fucking Prince, and he knows how to play the game when the occasion calls for it.

Assuming a countenance as servile as he can manage, he appeals directly to his brother. “Close the city gates,” he begs quietly. “Give me the City Watch. Let me root out the last of these cu—these reprobates, street by street, door by door. Let me gift my wife the justice she is owed.” He steps aside so that Viserys can see straight to you, to the way you have begun to tremor despite the huddled warmth of the women who are tending to you, to your face streaked scarlet with the blood of others, to your hands clasped tightly against your belly in protection of your children. “Please. If not for me… then for her.”

Viserys may be a wretch, but he loves Aemma’s girls.

“This affront must not be allowed to go unpunished,” the King says, suddenly weary. “I give you leave to find this assassin, brother, so that we may learn who has placed a price on my daughter’s life.”

Daemon is one step closer to meting out punishment. He can already taste the death and destruction that awaits. Staring down the Hightowers, he says, “I will find the perpetrators, Your Grace. And there will be no mercy for those responsible.”

Let this be a warning to all who believe the Rogue Prince to be a tamed man. He is a fucking dragon, and this city will soon feel the flames of his wrath.

He gives Rollingford the orders to start the search without him.

“Thin build, dark hair, has a star cut into his right cheek. An old wound.” He rattles off all he has gleaned from his observations and yours and Mallery’s testimonies to the Commander of the gold cloaks. “Likely to be bleeding, probably limping on his left leg. I want him located. I want him surrounded until I arrive. No one is to touch him. This one is mine. Is that understood?”

“Yes, Ser,” the solemn soldier says, snapping to attention jerkily before striding off with his captains in tow. He is already issuing directives as he rounds the corner.

Ser. It is easy to sink into the role of combatant, doing away with titles and courtesies to embrace the mortality and mayhem of battle—but he cannot allow the bloodlust to consume him just yet.

Though you insist in a small whisper that it is not necessary, he carries you from your (old, spoiled, defiled) chambers to the King’s rooms himself. It is a temporary respite for you and your staff until the final attacker has been caught. He chafes at relinquishing you to your father’s care—it tastes strangely of defeat—but even he cannot deny that these apartments are the safest in the city, if not the Realm.

There is a self-indulgent joy that seeps through the cracks of his fury at the sight of Viserys so flummoxed by your insistence that he remain as you are bathed and dressed in nightwear, finally free of the wash of thick crimson that had crusted in your silver hair and stained your blossom-soft skin. His brother’s own bed has been stripped and redressed for your use, a surprising concession—or perhaps not. You are one of two pieces left of Aemma, after all.

Daeron had been brought to you for comfort, and you hold him as tightly to you as you had held your dolls in gummy fists as a tot, meek and withdrawn. It makes his chest ache to see you so terrified.

He uses the very last of his patience to help the healer woman coax watered dreamwine to your lips, to bundle you in tight in the bed beside your brother, to stroke at your hair and your belly and hum some half-recollected lullaby from your childhood or his until your eyes droop, exhausted and overcome.

As he rises to depart from the room—to seek his retribution—he shares a glance with the King, one that is mayhaps a beat too long to lack meaning. In it, he tries to convey what he cannot say aloud. ‘Protect her for me. Keep her safe while I cannot. Do this for me, brother.’

It is the first time in many a year that he is united in common cause with this man. A single nod, and then he exits, the Kingsguard closing ranks and barring the door from all who may seek entry.

The air is sharp with the chill of night and the stifle of smoke wafting from lit torches, the dim orange smoulder a gloomy spotlight throwing the shadows of soldiers into stark relief. Daemon can hear the cries near and far of alarmed citizens and distressed patrons as the City Watch raids homes and taverns and storefronts. The sound is intoxicating, a pulse of vicious pleasure loosening the strain in his shoulders and the tightness of his breath.

This is what he does best—bringing chaos and cruelty to his enemies’ doorstep. It’s a reminder of the fate that awaits those who dare to cross the House of the Dragon. Until this man is found, the entire city is his enemy.

“My Prince.” Rollingford falls into step beside his horse as he crosses into the Great Square, seemingly appearing from the shadows. An impressive skill. He slides down from the saddle, absently patting the mount’s flank when he chuffs at the motion. With an arched brow, he wordlessly prompts the Commander to continue. “We have guards manning all seven gates, as well as postings along the Blackwater. The harbour has been closed and the ships at dock searched, and the men are working their way through the city.”

“Good. What of the High Septon? I want him questioned. Make use of Largent.”

“The—the High Septon?” Rollingford asks. He does his best to sound carefully blank, but Daemon can hear the underlying pitch of nervousness.

“Yes, the fucking High Septon,” he snaps. “He’s here, isn’t he? Some business with the King. Tell him that the Prince wants to know why three assassins bearing the Seven-Pointed Star attempted to murder my wife and heirs earlier tonight. If he resists—bring him to me. I care not for the wrath of his gods.”

“Ye—yes, Ser.”

He doesn’t actually believe the Faith to be responsible for the attack. Those petty worshippers have become unmanned since the days of Jaehaerys, and the High Septon is far too gutless a creature to conjure up such a scheme. He also doubts any of the man’s underlings have the capacity to act without first being thoroughly vetted by the circuitous bureaucracy of the Most Devout. But it will send a message that none are safe from his wrath, one he hopes will lure forth the real culprits.

It nears dawn when the search bears fruition. One of the soldiers—Cressey, he thinks, or perhaps Hayford—brings forth a location.

“We’ve got ‘im surrounded, milord,” he says, “so ‘e’s not likely to escape. But those nearabouts all say they saw a bloodied man with a star on ‘is cheek limp inside and not come out. That was some time ago.”

It might just be a form of irony that the answers I seek are to be found once more in the whorehouses of King’s Landing, he thinks to himself.

He retraces the familiar route to the Street of Silk—straight down the Street of Sisters, left onto the Street of Flour, right along Copper Street—the sound of hoofbeats against cobblestone overloud in the early morning. It is easy to tell which of these establishments houses his quarry, the glimmer of the gold cloaks easily recognisable even in weak light.

The men part for him as he stalks along the way directly to the heavy oak door. Curious. Run-down, moth-eaten and hosting some of the most common girls in the Realm, this particular brothel had been one of the cheaper bastions of debauchery in his youth. A fuck was a fuck no matter which way it was dressed, though, so it is not as though he had refused their attempts to solicit his coin. A good Prince is a fair one, after all. The door is new, and already he can see signs of refurbishment in the scrubbed-clean stone and the pale thatching of the roof.

Daemon barges directly inside, immediately being struck by the thick clogging scent of incense and sweat and bodily fluids. Gone are the thready chaises and faded portraits and the half-destroyed staircase. Instead, the space is dark and richly furnished in deep reds and blacks, the walls inlaid with lacquered wood and gleaming with the flicker of burning braziers.

Several whores squeal at the suddenness of his importunity, turning wide kohl-lined eyes to his form from where they sit in the laps of strangers in various stages of undress about the open foyer. He scans each of the patrons critically, seeking out one who matches the description of his target.

Bald, pot-bellied, pockmarked, old, young, yellow hair, black hair… A veritable array of men soused on drink and desperation, and yet there is no sign of your assailant.

A woman moves from the shadows, her speech carrying above the sighs and moans despite the soft, lilting cadence. “Welcome to the Gilded Doll, good Ser. What pleasures do you seek this day?”

I know that voice.

“Mysaria.” His long-time paramour smiles teasingly at his shock, flicking her dark hair over her shoulders at the recognition. Little about her has changed since their separation. “I thought you’d be in Pentos.”

He had left her there in the Prince’s palace what seems like so long ago now. It is strange to think upon the version of himself who had been so afflicted by desire for Rhaenyra. Sometimes, he forgets you have only been wedded to him for a comparatively short period. There is a settled comfort in his life with you, a conviction and dependence that still surprises him. Peace is not a feeling he thought he’d ever find in marriage.

“My place is in Westeros, My Prince,” she says. She steps closer—too close. His tense demeanour does not go unnoticed, for she wisely elects to drop the carefully cultivated mask of temptation to speak honestly. “You are not the only one who has been called back to these shores by those in need.”

He scoffs. Ah, yes—I’d forgotten about her delusions of grandeur. “And you’re doing your great philanthropic work as the madam of a brothel? I suppose it’s not a terrible advancement for a common whore.”

“Not so common, perhaps.” Her crimson lips twist, the old insult stinging still. She will accept a great many indignities, but never has she abided being regarded as someone unexceptional. “My women are well-cared-for, which is more than I can say for most of the brothels along the Street of Silk.”

He rolls his eyes, already growing bored by the conversation. He’s not here for a reunion. “Such a noble cause. Effigies ought to be built for you, I’m sure.”

“What brings you here, Daemon?” she asks.

“A trio of assailants tried to murder my wife earlier this evening,” he says, afforded some measure of privacy by the collection of sounds filling the room. Though his blood is up by the promise of violence, there is none left to fill his cock—and truthfully, he does not know if the sight of whores’ tits or the wet squelch of overused cunts or the shrill performances echoing from the second floor are even enough to elicit such a reaction now. He’d much rather stare at your tits and hear your moans and fuck your cunt. “Two have been dispatched, and the last has been tracked to your establishment. You’d do well to tell me where he is.”

She stares up at him but for a moment, something unreadable in the set of her features.

“I have a great many customers walk through these doors, My Prince,” she says, brow arching challengingly. That veiled insolence had been what had drawn him to her in the first place, when she was just an exotic dancer from Lys baring her body for him and his lackeys in the Blue Pearl. So few dared to test his famed temper, fewer still who’d let him fuck them whichever way he pleased. It rings hollow now. He wonders if her defiance had always been so trite. “You will have to describe the man to me.”

He rattles off the description in a short tone, a warning that she ought not to tarry much longer lest his malice seek out the nearest recipient. Her answer is prompt, wary: “Second floor, fourth door on the right.”

He pulls Dark Sister from its sheath in a pre-emptive motion, again startling those nearby, and makes to climb the steps.

“Daemon.” She lays her hand on his arm, stopping him briefly. “Try not to destroy the furnishings. It costs a pretty coin to maintain such luxury.”

She knows me well. He nods, and then pulls away.

The surprise of Mysaria’s return is one he discards to the recesses of his mind for the time being, allowing the ire to scald in his veins as he trudges to the far quieter upper landing. The sounds of groaning and rustling are muted, almost far-off, a mere backdrop to the thunder of his heart in his ears.

So close. I’m so close.

The fourth door does not open on first attempt. He tries again. Locked. Once more. He takes a few steps back and slams his full weight into the barricade, bursting the wood clean off the hinges.

The whore inside screams in fright, clutching her shawl to her chest. ‘Tis strange to see a clothed whore in a private room, he thinks, surveying the mousy-haired woman and her dull brown eyes and too-thin lips. How drab. That she is still dressed is a promising sign, one that suggests that mayhaps she is not alone. He looks around the room for another; there is no evidence of any company.

Then, he spots the wardrobe ajar, a slight wobble to its frame—as though a heavy being has flung themselves inside. There.

“Get the fuck out,” he growls, levelling the whore with the most vicious look he can muster. She squeaks and darts out into the hallway, vanishing from sight.

His focus affixes itself once more to that sliver of darkness, within which he is certain his mark has tried to hide. He tarries, waiting to see if the other will make the first move; he cannot help the incredulity that arises when he encounters nothing but silence.

Does he honestly believe he has successfully concealed himself from retribution?

With a baring of teeth that is more a grimace than a smile, Daemon strikes, darting forward to fling the door wide and grasp onto whatever part of the man he can reach.

“Lemme go!” your assailant yells, crying out as he is dragged free from discarded gowns and thrust onto the floor.

How… disappointing. He’s already pissed himself, and Daemon hasn’t even had the opportunity to make him regret ever stepping foot in this world yet.

“I didn’ do nuffink, good ser—”

He cuffs the man across the face, a return upon the strike so callously landed across your sweet little face. It knocks more than one tooth loose, leaving him dazed and groaning on the ground, the fight abruptly beaten out of him.

“You were in the Red Keep earlier,” Daemon says, pulling the commoner upright by the hair and dealing another wallop to the nose. An audible crunch sounds out as the bone gives way beneath his knuckles, and the man moans weakly, stunned and bleeding from his leg and his face. “Your co-conspirators are dead. Tell me what I want to know, and your end will be quick.”

He matches your account exactly—dark hair, thin, and that fucking star emblazoned in scar tissue across his cheek. There is a curious pin on his lapel, an insect of some sort rendered in metal.

“I dunno what you mean,” the wretch moans, caterwauling when Daemon steps down on his fingers and grinds them into the ground. Each digit gives way with small pops, pulverising into jagged puzzle pieces no healer is skilled enough to patch together. “I wos here visitin’ my sister, and I ain’t done nuffink in no Keep, Ser!”

I’m almost glad for the resistance.

“A pity,” Daemon says. The man relaxes at the affected resignation in his tone. His mistake. “We’ll do this the hard way, then.”

He shoves the man against the wardrobe and drives Dark Sister cleanly through the meat of his shoulder, pinning him to its surface like a butterfly on canvas. His screams are piercing, surely disrupting the business taking place throughout the brothel. The scarred star stretches grotesquely as he vocalises his agony.

“Who sent you to murder the Princess? Who?!” Daemon snarls, twisting the blade for good measure. Scarlet trickles from the wound, blooming dark down the fabric of the man’s shirt. The howl that releases itself from his throat is nearly inhuman, a drawn-out choking heave that tingles in his extremities. “Talk!”

“I—I—I’m sorry, we wos offered coin—there ain’t none to be had wif the Order—”

Pathetic. Daemon had hardly needed to incentivise him overmuch and yet the scum is already spilling everything. No wonder he had run. Cowards never change their stripes, after all.

“A Poor Fellow, are you?” he asks, angling the blade up slightly and pushing in just a little further.

Daemon had suspected as much. The Seven-Pointed Star is a sure indicator that the attackers are sworn to the Faith Militant, though it is obvious that the evening’s trials had not been the work of those particular sycophants. It seems that an attempt has been made to lay the plot at the High Septon’s door—which means the architect is intelligent.

He continues his line of questioning, manipulating the hilt of his sword to widen the wound, each press shredding fresh slices into overwrought tissue. He basks in the squalling and weeping below him, the singular sound of flesh rending apart, the rich heady aroma of fear and gore. The desire to split open his guts and feed him his own entrails is tempting, but this is not the time. He needs information.

“What price was enough to make you abandon your precious Faith and risk eternal damnation, hm? Three stags? Four? A gold coin?”

The man gasps, spasming with each shift of the blade. “Three! Three, Ser—”

Three gold coins. A wealthy mastermind, then. It narrows the field considerably. Only the nobles at court would have that kind of coin to spend on a plot with a variable chance of success.

Daemon brings his foot down on the Fellow’s knee, crunching the joint beneath his steel-capped boot. With an almighty crack, the bone gives way, its owner leaning to the side to vomit. The acrid stench of sourness permeates the air, tangling with the scents of blood and piss.

He sneers, kicking the man’s leg for good measure. It splays at a misshapen angle, bent back upon itself on the ground. The jagged edge of his shinbone has pierced clean through the back of his knee, a macabre lance of pearl-white tearing through skin and muscle.

“A measly three coins to murder a girl heavy with child,” Daemon mocks. “A Princess. Your gods must be so proud.”

“Please!” The craven weeps, spitting blood and bile from his mouth. “Please.”

“Tell me what I want to know. Tell me who ordered the attack.”

“I—I—I dunno his name, Ser. He wears a hood. Calls himself the Firefly.”

Daemon nods absently in acknowledgement, his mind ruminating over this discovery. It is not an epithet he recognises. Firefly. He’ll have to conduct a careful search to find the owner of this sobriquet.

He refocuses his gaze upon the last of your assailants, the remaining member of the trio who had so callously threatened your life and the lives of his children. As pathetic as this creature is, he has been rather valuable in providing enough intelligence to further his own search. But the man has outlived his usefulness. Daemon cannot afford for his benefactor to learn of his loose tongue.

“In the name of the Princess, I—Daemon of House Targaryen—sentence you to die.”

In a single swift motion, he wrenches Dark Sister from the place where it is embedded and basks in the vile satisfaction of hearing the man release an unearthly squall. He swings the sword in a high arc, the momentum slicing cleanly through flesh and sinew and bone and cutting the shriek off at its full. Blood sprays over his armour and across his face, the wayward Fellow’s head rolling across the floor.

Daemon removes the pin from the man’s shirt and stows it away for later examination, using one of the whore’s ruined dresses to wipe his blade clean of gore. He surveys the scene. The door is splintered upon the ground, the wardrobe soiled and defiled, the room itself a painting of crimson upon lumber and metalwork, silks and leathers.

Fuck. He’s made rather a mess of things. Restitution will have to be made.

He leaves the body where it lay, having little care for the remains now he is dead. For now, the job is done. It is with a sense of relief that he retraces his steps back to the lower level of the brothel. The whores and patrons stare at him with mingled shock and fright, taking in his red-soaked armour and ichor-stained face. At the sight of him, the whore from earlier darts up the stairs. She will find her brother dead in her rooms, his life essence puddling out upon the floor and seeping into the wood.

He turns to Mysaria, fishing out a handful of coin and holding it out to her. She takes the proffered gold with an arched brow, surveying his dirtied form with an unimpressed expression.

“For the damage,” is his gruff explanation, tipping his head in the direction of the upper landing. “Unavoidable.”

The whore starts to wail her lamentations from above.

“I see.” Her feline eyes glitter dark and mysterious, lips tipped up ever-so-slightly. She had always found his aggression captivating, and it seems such a sentiment remains unchanged. He shifts in discomfort. She leans further into his space, laying a careful hand upon the line of his arm. “I hope you found the justice you had sought.”

He grunts, making no move to encourage her.

“It is good to see you again, Daemon,” she adds, looking up at him through sooty lashes. Her body presses closer, just shy of touching. He doesn’t know if she holds back to avoid sullying her gown or if she intends to tempt him into closing the space. “You would be welcome here if you should want the company of one of my girls. Or mine.”

Her breath, wine-tart and candied, puffs against his jaw.

“I don’t,” he says stiffly. He is poised, rigid, barely restraining himself from the urge to throw her bodily from him, to backhand her for daring to touch what is not hers by right. “Take your damn hands off me.”

She is as beautiful and sensuous as ever, but she does not arouse desire in him the way she had once done. How the mighty have fallen, he thinks.

Should a version of Daemon from his youth encounter him now, he would make of himself a laughingstock for the single-minded veracity of his ardour for his own niece, a girl half his age. But how could one return to consuming boiled mutton after partaking in roast venison for the first time? Mysaria had been a companion and nothing more. You are his—niece, confidant, wife, lover, mother to his heirs. There can be no other now. That she thinks she might persuade him to wet his cock in lesser cunt is insulting.

At once, her seduction ceases, the veil of allure dropping and resettling into feigned amiability. He has insulted her—but why should it matter? Dragons do not concern themselves with the opinions of sheep.

She smiles dryly, stepping aside to clear a path to the exit. “Then I wish you farewell,” she says.

There is nothing left for him here but the ghosts of a former life. It is easier than breathing to turn from her gaze, to cast her aside as a memory from long ago, to stride past her and leave her in the past where she belongs.

He departs the Gilded Doll without another word, mind already settling on returning to you.

You are still asleep when he enters his brother’s rooms.

“Gods be good,” Viserys mutters, hobbling over from his chair as he takes in the sight of Daemon covered in blood. What did he expect, he thinks in irritation, that I would sit down for a civilised meal with her attacker? “I can only assume you found him.”

“The last one is dead,” he says, unbuckling his baldric and setting Dark Sister, scabbard and all, upon the table as quietly as he can. Through the gauzy drapes, he spies your still form ensconced in the bed. “I got the information I needed.”

“Must I ask for it, or shall you tell me?” the King asks.

Daemon glances over at him. Dark circles bloom purple-grey under his eyes, the contrast to his blemished skin so severe it is as though he is looking at a human skull instead of a living man.

“Not now.” He suppresses a shudder at the malformed creature his brother has become. “I’d like to get this shit off me.”

The bath is warm, but he takes no joy in it. Now that his enterprise is concluded, he is left with naught but his own thoughts. If I had been there, she wouldn’t have been risked so dearly. If I’d refused to leave, she’d be safe and happy instead of fearful and desolate.

He tries to tamp down the maelstrom, scrubbing vigorously at his flesh and his hair as though to physically force the notion from his mind. By the time he is done, the water is pink, flecks of dried blood forming a ghastly film upon the surface.

All he wishes to do now is sit by you. He bypasses Viserys, treading barefoot through the sheer curtains and settling himself gently upon the mattress beside you. In repose, your expression holds none of the fright or devastation that had marred it so many hours ago. You are young, sweet, mouth slack with sleep and cheeks plump and rosy from the heat of the coverings over you.

His eyes burn again. I’ve failed to protect her. Stroking your wild silver hair back from your temple, he trails his fingers along the line of your jaw, over the curve of your lower lip, your throat.

“She has not awakened,” the King says softly behind him. “The boy’s gone to his lessons, but—well, I thought it best not to rouse her.”

“Good,” he murmurs, hand wandering below the sheets to feel the swell of your belly. There is faint movement, and relief blooms anew at the liveliness of the babes within your womb. Tap. Tap. Tap. He had almost convinced himself that it had been a delusion conjured up in his maddened state. “She needs to rest.”

You stir faintly, and he brings his palm to your face once more. You lip insensately at his thumb, easing back down into unconsciousness. A creak to his left makes him think that Viserys has sunk into the chair beside the bed. He can feel the stare boring into him, though he has little desire to entertain whatever it is that has his brother so absorbed.

“When you sought my daughter’s hand,” the King begins, “I assumed the worst.” He knows that. “You are not the sort of man capable of providing the care she needs: patience, attentiveness, placidity… devotion. Someone who would regard her as the treasure she is. Yes, when you asked for her, I thought all manner of abhorrent things, even if you were the one she chose for herself. I was so certain you would destroy her.”

So little trust in me, as always. There is a point to this spiel, a mellow timbre that suggests the aim is not to remonstrate—but to hear how lowly his brother thinks of him is nonetheless cutting.

The King huffs a laugh. “Imagine my surprise, then, to see her so… happy with you.” Daemon stills for a moment, then carefully resumes caressing your cheek, smoothing over the contour of your chin. “She is a new person to me now, and I regret that I was not able to grant what it is she needed to best thrive. I have many regrets… but I do not regret conferring her upon you,” Viserys says. “I was wrong, Daemon. You make a fine husband to my girl. And I am glad she can give to you what I never did.”

Oh, brother.

There was a time when he wanted nothing more than to earn his brother’s approval; when the attainment of such was a far-off dream, one that would have required him to unmake and reforge himself anew so that he might finally earn what ought to have been his all along. The denial of it had made him bitter and angry, a hot-tempered rake of a being that had terrorised nobles and commoners alike with debauchery and hostility and brutality. It is ironic that having the man finally—finally—proclaim that longed-for praise carries none of the weight he once imagined it would have.

His worth is no longer shackled to the whims of an ailing King. Perhaps it is unhealthy or even unfair to place the care of it in your hands—but for all his poisonous ambition, he knows his is not a nature meant for standing alone. The second son of a second son, he has been bred and built to seek purpose from those designed for a higher calling than he. How he had railed against his fate, once! And how very poetic it is that he has found himself so beholden to you.

He does not need Viserys anymore. But he nods and thanks his brother nonetheless, pays little mind to him as he departs from the room, and waits for you to rouse.

It normally takes time for your faculties to return to you after your eyes first open, but it comes to no surprise that consciousness strikes you with full force after the evening’s events. Your eyes snap open and you jolt, casting about for a half-moment before alighting on the form of your husband. He adjusts himself so that he reclines against the headboard, allowing you to easily wiggle your way onto his lap.

Fretful and fragile, a baby princess seeking protection in the arms of her big, strong uncle. Moisture wets his clean shirt, your face buried against his chest and little fingers clutched to his sides like you are afraid he’ll vanish. He pets over your spine and breathes you in.

“Do you want to talk about it?” he asks, breaking the silence.

You shake your head, voiceless. He’ll not press you yet, not now—but there will come a time in the near future where you’ll have no choice but to recount the attack. He needs as much intelligence from as many involved as he can seek out if he is to determine the identity of the Firefly.

You are small and quiet and slow-moving as the day passes, wanting little else than to cling to him and doze. He doesn’t know what to do with this version of you. He is helpless to conceive of a way to break you from this strange trance. Guilt and fury and exasperation mingle like noxious fumes inside his body, pressing against his chest cavity and constricting around the organ there like a bloodied fist. Each hushed whisper, each tenuous tremble, each lamenting little-girl rebuff of all save him only serves to spur the tumult within.

“Is… Are they all gone?”

You finally string more than two or three words together, sat upon the edge of the bed in your new chambers. They are nice enough, he supposes, though he’s not particularly enthused by the prospect of being so close to Viserys and the Hightowers. For a moment, he thinks you are speaking of the attendants that had flitted in and out of your presence throughout the afternoon, but the uncertainty of your countenance suggests otherwise. His stomach drops.

“Those—those men?” you clarify, voice cracking.

Daemon lays Dark Sister back upon the desk and tosses down the cloth he’d been using to work away at the stray crusts of ichor, returning to you.

“Yes,” he says, sinking down upon the mattress.

You lean into him, warm and real and alive. Alive. “I was so… frightened. I thought I was going to di—”

“Don’t.” He shakes his head. I cannot hear it, cannot abide even the thought of it. “Don’t say it.”

You pause, staring up at him, nodding when you take in whatever expression has affixed itself on the planes of his face. He jerks slightly when you push yourself up on your knees and bring your lips to his, hot and wet and sweet. It is ingrained into the foundations of his very self to press into the kiss, to cradle your jaw in his hand and feel the throb of your pulse feed into his skin, his cock twitching in his breeches. There is no pleasure to it, but instead a disconcerting agony that prickles along his shaft and cools the fire that ought to stoke itself.

He draws away, suppressing the tremor that threatens. “What are you doing?” It comes out more abrasive than he’d like.

“Please?” you ask, mouthing at his lower lip, desperate and frenzied. “I—I just want to feel something good again.”

He understands that need. Hells, it’s a feeling that has fuelled many of his own debauched eves across the brothels in King’s Landing and the Realm beyond. Though he cannot fault you for the urge to drive away the memory of those who had nearly carved your babes from your belly (I wasn’t there, why wasn’t I there), his body is refusing to heed your wishes and rise to the occasion.

It tears at him to tilt back into you, to crowd against you and take your mouth with his own, to press his tongue to yours and pull the hem of your shift up. He drives you down into the sheets, nipping at your throat and shoving a finger then two into your grasping cunt, feeling the way the silky walls catch and ripple eagerly as he hooks into the high soft sponge of you, listening to you gasp. You writhe and moan below him, tugging at his pants and taking hold of his cock, and it begins to burst to life in your capable hand. He looks down at you and his mind flashes to the way you’d looked beneath that man, red-stained and terrified and scrabbling to save your own life, and he cannot—

He lurches away from you, from the memory of what had nearly happened. I wasn’t there. You try to pull him back down, but he shakes off your touch. “No. Stop, sweetling.”

“Why?” You pout, reaching for his shaft and making a soft noise of confusion.

Oh. Whatever blood had fought to stiffen him up has dissipated, leaving him limp despite your best attempts to coax it to rise.

“I said—” He bats your hands away, suddenly wrathful. Stumbling off the bed, he stows himself away and fumbles with the laces, whirling on you. “You almost died, and you want to fuck?” he asks, grinding his teeth and snarling at you. “What in the hells is wrong with you?”

He regrets it as soon as he’s said it—even more so when he sees the bewildered tears begin to collect along your lower lashes, lip quivering and looking so, so small. Why wasn’t I there to protect her, she could have di—

The room feels like a cage, like iron bars squeezing tight against his flesh, he has to get out, he has to get out—

“Daemon. Daemon!”

He flees the trappings of your apartments, past the Kingsguard manning the doors to the bedchamber, the hall, Maegor’s Holdfast, leaving you there upon the bed alone.

Scarcely even realising he’s left his blade behind, he moves with purpose throughout the Keep. He knows not where he’s headed, only that he must find a safe haven where he might begin to pull together the edges of himself that are fraying to bits, threatening to send him crumbling.

It hurts. It hurts unlike anything he’s ever felt. The anguish only serves to wind him tighter, a maimed creature lashing out at the world for its suffering.

His steps lead him aimlessly around his childhood home, and he indulges the wanderlust. He avoids the main thoroughfares, not wishing to encounter the absurdity of courtly gossip on his day. The journey takes him past the Great Hall and the Small Council chambers and through the servants’ passages, down to the scullery and the royal cellars. He pilfers a carafe of wine from the kitchens, imbibing periodically as he trudges through hallways and up flights of stairs. Eventually, he makes his way to an old sanctuary from his youth, a lone balcony in an abandoned portion of the Holdfast overlooking the courtyard and, beyond, the Dragonpit.

Daemon leans against the edge and stares blankly at the horizon, taking steady draughts from the jug and letting the drink numb the sharp stabbing pains of his thoughts. The wine loosens him, slows the racing of his heart, and time finally starts to run leisurely again.

She might have—She nearly—

“Princess said you ran from her.”

Fuck. He ignores the healer woman as she shuffles forward, joining him in the dimming light. Her eyes bore into his side profile, but he won’t give her the satisfaction of acknowledging her.

“Said you were angry,” she croaks.

It is the truth, but it is still unpleasant to hear.

“How is she?” he asks. It is relatively easy to assume she’s ventured forth in search of him after making her customary rounds to her sole charge.

He hopes she can hear the words he does not say. Are my children well? Will they survive this?

“Good. Babe both good, too.” He despises how unlike herself she is being, how gentle and kind her tone is. It is not the way she speaks to him usually, and he wants at least one thing to remain normal and logical and sane around here. “You are very, very lucky,” she adds.

He grunts. He doesn’t feel it.

She sighs, thumping him on the back. “You are rude boy. But you are good to her. She need you now—no more hiding.”

“How?” It takes him a moment to realise it is he who has spoken, a rustle upon the breeze. That damned wine. He can no longer control the torrent that he has kept tamped down and locked away, the dogged attempt of a man long accustomed to outrunning all weakness. “How can I just—pretend?”

“Pretend?”

Swallowing the lump in his throat, he tries to put into words the venom that is eating away at his insides. “That I’m not fucking—terrified.” Daemon hisses the term as though it has personally offended him.

To finally say it aloud is both a bizarre release and an epiphany of sorts. He’s overcome with the curious urge to laugh at the realisation.

Fear. How common of him. But it rings true nonetheless, and the rightness of the admission settles in his bones. How can he not be afraid? There’s an ever-present threat to your life somewhere in this place, a place that should be safe and happy and home for you. Someone has marked his children for death before they are even allowed the chance to breathe air on their own, to open their eyes and see what exists outside the safety of their mother’s womb.

And you are a Targaryen woman. In any other context, this makes you superior, a diamond nestled in amongst the coal. But he cannot help but recall those names once more, the names of your forebears who had undergone the toilsome task of childbirth and met their end there.

Alyssa. Daella. Gael. Aemma. Laena.

He will not survive your death, should it come. With the ever-expanding heft of the babes inside you, the possibility that he might have to face such a dreaded reality looms closer by the day. There is not a fucking thing he can do about it, either. There’s no physician or liniment or spell or prayer that he can avail himself of to keep you alive, to keep you with him should your body fall to the conquering force of childbed.

The woman—Ūlla—hums consideringly. “Fear is… natural. Human,”

He finally turns to look at her. Her countenance is warm, sympathetic, a tilt to the head that belies something other than the deep-seated vexation he had been sure was all she’d felt for him. She takes his hand, and he lets her. All at once, he is a boy again, clutching onto his lady grandmother as his mother’s pyre burns gold in the morning light.

“We all fear something,” she says. “It is stupid to try and push it away like it never happen. Do not waste time to master your fear, or you will forget to live. To fear is to love, boy—and you love her, yes?”

He nods. Gods help him, he does.

She smiles, squeezing his grip. “Then the rest is for later. Go to her—love. And let yourself fear. It is okay.”

The sky is darkening to deep amber by the time he is ready to return to you. He takes the long route back to your new chambers, concealing himself from public view as much as he can, for he does not wish to incite the rumour mill of King’s Landing to pass judgement on his dishevelled state.

You are almost exactly where he left you, though you’ve settled back against the pillows with a book, appearing for all the world as though it is an evening like any other. It isn’t. When you see him standing at the door, he fully expects you to rail at him, perhaps to cry or even avoid him.

Instead, your lips twist compassionately, eyes impossibly soft, and you put the tome aside. “Come,” you say, patting the space beside him.

And how can he refuse?

Daemon clambers onto the mattress, shuffling into the open space of your arms and collapsing there in your embrace. The hard bulge of your belly pushes against his chest, a reminder of everything pure and real and necessary, everything he has fought for. What I would die for.

He cannot speak his apology aloud. It sticks to the roof of his mouth, coagulating in the liminality between his body and the air. Cursing himself for his inability to perform something so simple, he buries his face into your breasts, breathing in the smell of you, the feel of you, safe and whole and alive. His eyes burn.

“It is alright, kepus. Sh.” Your palm strokes the back of his head, trailing between his shoulder blades and up again in soothing rhythm.

My darling, forgiving girl. You are everything to him, and you are here.

The tears finally fall.

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