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pupcuck · 4 months

Text

SLEIGH BALLS !

ft. leon s. kennedy x gn!reader

tags. GILF LEON!!! incest, big age gap he’s 60+ at the very least, voyeurism

note. ignore that this is sort of xmas themed and sorry if this does not live up to any expectations I think I hyped him up too much LMFAOO still getting out of my writing slump so forgive me if this is very clunky and boring! not edited whatsoever so begging u ignore mistakes i’m . really unhappy this fic but still gonna post it bc idk when i will be able to write ab him again 😭 trust this will be rewritten

tumblr has started to remove fics that use tw non-con, tw incest and any nsfw tags in general. for this reason, as i’d like my fic to appear in the tags so i can have the same reach as other authors, please understand that this fic contains dark content under the cut. reading this comes at your own risk.

You’re a good kid. Honest. You don’t do drugs, you don’t drink, you don’t stay out late, but what you do partake in is the act of sitting in your bedroom hunched over your desk and mindlessly scrolling. Dad says to let you be, mom is unable to stay out of your business, and she thinks you need to go outside more often. Fresh air is good for you! What she’s trying to say, essentially, stripped down to the simplest of terms, is that you’re a total loser. That her and dad were fucking, partying, shooting up in alleyways, all the shit that normal teenagers are supposed to be doing.

She forcibly packs your bags, all while you trail after her whining about how she can’t touch that— Don’t be so rough with that- No that’s not to throw out- No, Mom! I wear that all the time—

She threatens to take away Christmas presents, which at your age shouldn’t be so wounding, but you shut up right then and there. “Now,” Mom talks to you like you’re a baby still. You appreciate it sometimes, like now, when your body is wilting as she opens up the curtains, fragility is much appreciated. You fear the sunlight might turn your bones to dust. “Me and dad are going away.”

What— For Christmas, mom says. Where— A few states over, none that really concern you, might be a road trip for all you know. When— As soon as you’re gone. How, why, who— Mom doesn’t answer those, she’s exasperated by your rigorous questioning, by the way you wring your hands and slump when you sit. It’s awful, looks like you’ve got a hunchback forming.

“Why would you do this to me, mom?” You paw at her sleeve, she brushes you off. “Will you pick me up before Christmas? I don’t want to stay there, what if he doesn’t like me?”

“Grandpa’s fun,” She tells you, “He’s been asking about you.”

Liar. You’ve met grandpa a handful of times, and that was as a child. He doesn’t visit for any holidays and vice versa. Doesn’t even send a Christmas card, forgets to call his own daughter to wish her a happy birthday. Grandpa clearly enjoys his solitude and you firmly doubt he’d appreciate having a mopey teen around.

Grandpa’s nice. Grandpa’s sweet, he won’t bother you. Grandpa might need help in the mornings, I don’t want him to get hurt, he works too hard. Grandpa’s quiet, don’t worry about it, both of you are. You’ll get along fine!

No one told you grandpa was hot. Mom failed to mention he was a babe at, like, what? Seventy years old? Not quite, but you don’t remember him being this hot. Good grief. He’s not tall, but his bicep is the size of your face, and his hair is shaggy. A dull grey colour, shiny like gunmetal. When he takes your suitcase, his arm flexes and bulges outwards, you start to overheat, brain sizzling as you’re cooked under his cobalt gaze.

There’s an old pick-up outside his expansive farmhouse, a mailbox that’s in desperate need of another layer of paint, a wooden stable off in the distance that you doubt he uses - other than that it’s barren. This is true torture. Mom’s very own version of those camps they send out of control teens to. Your sneakers sink into the mud, as you walk the soles make that icky squishy sound, your socks are soaked for sure. He doesn’t take his boots off, tracks mud into the house and you recoil. Somebody needs to give grandpa etiquette lessons.

“Can you ask him for the wifi password?” You ask mom quietly, playing with your fingers as Grandpa Leon places your suitcase on the bottom step, grumbling about taking it up later, that you should’ve packed lighter.

“Dad, did you set up the router?”

“The what?”

“The router, broadband, so you can use the phone I sent you? For Christmas?” Mom’s frowning, hands on her hips as Leon waves her off.

“I got a landline.” He gestures to the telephone on the desk that sits pushed up against the wall of the entrance hall, you had to squeeze past it into the open-plan lounge. Rustic. Old. The ornaments that sit tucked between nooks and crannies remind you of the shit that gets sold for two cents in a yard sale.

“Dad, that’s not…” She shakes her head, pushes you forward, “Give grandpa a hug.”

Is this bitch serious? How old does she think you are? Nonetheless, you step forward, outstretched arms being met with hands that gently put them back by your side. Leon pats your head, his smile looks more like a grimace, a few of his teeth are fake - you can tell. Thank god they’re not dentures. You don’t know if you could deal with watching him popping them in and out, and what about kissing? The texture must be awful. Not that you’re going to kiss him. Your grandpa. It’s just the thought of course.

“Uh, you’re big now.” Leon notes, squints at you so hard the skin around his eyes gets wrinkled to the point where they sink into his face. Ew. You’re just lucky he doesn’t have that old person smell, and from what you’ve heard, grandpa’s capable of taking care of himself. No diapers, no IV tubes, no hourly medicine, nothing that you were afraid of happening. Putting you in charge of someone’s life would be a bad choice to put it simply. “How old are you? Twelve?”

“Dad, god,” Mom rubs her temples, “Nineteen, okay? Got that?”

“I was kidding,” Leon huffs, looking to the side in a brooding manner, he wasn’t kidding. He’s a bad liar like mom.

“Okay, just, please,” She has her fists clenched, biting the inside of her cheek, “I’ll be back for you before Christmas Eve, okay?”

“On Christmas Eve? That’s too late.” Grandpa has bad hearing it seems, or the inability to process whatever his child is saying as most men do.

“I said before, dad, before Christmas Eve,” Mom’s eyes almost pop out of her head, “Whatever, I have to go now, just behave for Grandpa, okay?” She does not have to go yet, she just wants to abandon you here, with no wifi— how will you be able to do anything, the panic hasn’t properly set in yet, you’re too busy pressing your hands to the glassy watching forlornly as mom gets into the car and speeds off so fast you hear her tires squeak. She really wanted to get rid of you. Dumping you with an old man who doesn’t even know your name. A hot old man, but you shouldn’t let your judgement be clouded so easily. And you shouldn’t talk about your grandpa like that.

“How you doing in school?” Grandpa’s question is said with so much disinterest you wonder why he tried to sound like he cares in the first place.

“I’m in college.” You say.

“Right.” Leon shrugs in a way that says worth a shot - at communicating with his basically estranged grandchild that is. “How’s college, good grades? Still gotta pay?”

“Yeah.” You nod, to all of it or none. And that’s that.

Staying with grandpa, you decide, is not the worst thing that could’ve happened to you. Going on vacation with your parents who are in desperate need of a fuck so they can stop arguing sounds worse now that you put it into perspective. The old man is quiet, mom was right about that, and he does his own thing. He let you set up the router, but in the middle of Bumfuck, USA, surrounded by flattened fields, connection isn’t the greatest.

Old photo albums end up being your main source of entertainment. Of your mom as a kid, of grandpa when he was sunflower blond and boyish, with all the beauty of a wild mare, long-faced and tow-headed, although not quite. Much softer, similar to that of raw linen, as if he was born from the rib of spring itself. From its newfound petals and holy lambs. You think it’s too poetic, pretentious even, that it gives grandpa too much credit for being blond and blue-eyed. Beneath Leon’s crushed nose you can see the former pretty boy that he once was. His eyes are the same, and his aged face is more rugged than it is handsome, that doesn’t deter you in the slightest. You think you like him better this way, as grandpa.

Among other things, you learn all sorts about grandpa, he doesn’t speak much, and when he does it’s hard to decipher - just kind of nonsensical grumbling that you can’t really make out. But you’ve done your own research. His bedroom door doesn’t shut fully, you noticed it one night on the way back from the bathroom and decided to take a peek. The setup of his bedroom mirrors the spare room you're sleeping in. His nighttime routine consists of taking a shot of whiskey and trying to get through a book that looks like it’s been sitting on his bedside cabinet for centuries. Leon gets through less than a single page and knocks out, mouth wide open as he snores. Loudly.

He never notices you. Or he pretends not to. Or he’s just senile. It might be wrong, that you know more than you’re letting on. Like what his dick looks like when it’s soft - heavy between his thighs, the skin is wrinkled but not to the point where his dick is unrecognisable. Still looks like a pretty solid dick. You know whether his nipples are pink or brown - brown obviously. Y’know, just the usual, what all grandkids should know about their grandads.

One night, you watch him silently through the gap, the only light that remains glowing is the lamp on his bedside. An ornate looking thing, beaded fringe that lines the shade, out of place in his otherwise barely furnished room. It bathes him in its warmth as he undresses, and you’re struck in the gut by this awful need. His body held up well, surprisingly firm for his age, god forbid he turns around you don’t want to catch sight of anything saggy and unholy. Firm muscle is softened by a layer of fat, making him thicker around the middle. The beer is finally catching up with him.

Grandpa sits back on his bed, with a soft groan he lifts his hips and takes off his boxers. There’s a terrible ache between your legs, throbbing and pulsing and downright nasty. His cock rests heavy on his thigh, the tip is fat and dark, uncut on the fat, you want to put your mouth on it. Never sucked dick before, never been inclined to suck one, but now you think it’s a matter of life and death. You need him down your throat or you’ll die due to neglect.

Why he wanders around the room naked and aimless for a good five minutes mystifies you, a sign of dementia maybe, great jerk off material though, so you don’t complain. Your hand rests on the doorframe as you rub yourself raw, he seems to remember what he was looking for and approaches the vintage chest of drawers, opening the first one to grab his pyjamas. They’re always in the same place, he’s forgetful and old you guess.

As your stomach lurches with the onset of your high, you make the mistake of stepping forward, clasping at the door knob to steady yourself as a wave of pleasure washes over you and leaves your legs shaky. Grandpa looks up, and he blinks at you standing there with your hand in your pants. He’s not quite as stunned as you expected him to be, and while you get ready to wing it back to your room - he half-smiles at you. Like he’s amused.

“You enjoy the show?” Grandpa raises a brow, he pats his lap, and you nod dumbly, legs working on their own as your brain tries to process the fact that he’s not reacting to this badly. “Think I didn’t see you, sweetheart?” Once you near him, he sits you down on his thigh, “You just gotta speak up and ask for things sometimes, then you’ll get ‘em.”

“I don’t… I’m sorry.” You don’t follow, clinging to his shoulders helplessly.

“Been a long time since I’ve done this, you gotta be nice to me, I can’t keep up with you.” Leon kisses the top of your head, that’s the most affectionate he's been since you’ve been here. The most you got out of him was a pat on the back so hard it knocked your organs out of place.

“Grandpa, wait,” The air is stolen from your lungs by a single sharp gasp as he takes your hand in his, the one that was previously down your pants, and sucks on your fingers. His tongue collects the slick that coats them, then he pulls off with a pop, lips wet with your pussy. “Wait, wait,” Your chest tightens, and you’re lightheaded.

“What?” Leon pays you no mind, he lifts your shirt over your head, there’s some struggle as you refuse to lift your arms for a moment. He gets his way, leaning down to take your peaked nipples into his hot mouth.

“It’s wrong.” You push at his head, resist the urge to tangle your fingers in his hair and bring him closer.

“Oh, ‘s wrong now?” Grandpa kisses you, his stubble scratches your cheeks and it feels so right. “Wasn’t wrong when you were getting off to me, was it?”

Spit trickles down your chin, he licks it up, kisses you once more, the excessive dribble finding its way back into your mouth. “That’s ’cause… Well, ‘cause I was…” You stammer, clasping at his chest, fingers tickled by the faint grey hairs that cover the expanse of it.

“‘Cause what?” He gives you more spit-slicked kisses till you shut up, growing dizzier by the second.

“Grandpa…”

His nose wrinkles, “That don’t sound right.” Leon mumbles, under his breath, but ‘cause he’s going deaf it's loud and you hear it. It’s more of an announcement.

“Papa,” You try as he thumbs your pout, the ghost of a smile lines his thin lips. He seems to like that.

Grandpa likes to kiss, he’s starved for affection probably, or he’s just a sentimental old man. You’re impatient and young, he knows that, so when he lays you down, caged by his big arms, Leon makes sure to slow it down even further. Watching you squirm brings him joy, you’ve never seen him smile like that. He kisses every inch of tender flesh, from the top of your head to your ankles.

When he finally parts your thighs to get to your centre, you let out a sigh of relief, body growing lax as he peels your underwear off. Practically glued to your cunt with how much you’ve leaked. Leon traces the shape of your puffy lips, his nose meets your clit first with a light bump. The touch has you reeling, hips lifting up in a jolty motion that makes him chuckle. He uses a single hand to pin you down, splayed over your stomach so he can eat you out without being bothered by your level of sensitivity.

A moment after the nudge of his nose comes his lips, pressing a soft kiss to your swollen bud that has pleasure blooming in your gut. Then his tongue swipes along the seam of your cunt, catching on your clit, he parts your folds with his thumbs, catching every droplet that leaks from your drippy hole. Grandpa sucks on your clit like it’s a piece of hard candy, your thighs clamp shut around his head, he doesn’t seem to mind at all, taking the chance to nestle further into your pussy, tongue digging into your clenching hole all while his nose rubs against your clit.

He’s satisfied only when you are, when you cream on his tongue and he can taste it in the very back of his throat, only then does he pry your thighs apart. Emerging with the bottom half of his face covered in a sheen of your slick like he’s just been diving, you’re pretty sure he gave you carpet burn.

From then on, you begin to sleep in grandpa's room, you sit patiently on his lap while he watches black and white westerns dug up from the depths of who knows where. They’re slow paced and soon enough you find his hand cupping your pussy, grandpa gets you off on his fingers, he kisses your neck - but he doesn’t go any further, never gives you the dick that you crave so badly.

Mom calls a few times, not as many times as you would like her to call, but now that you and grandpa have bonded, it’s been easier to pass her off. You tell her there’s no need to pick you up, that you’re quite happy to stay with grandpa for the rest of the holidays, you don’t say that you’re ready to move in with grandpa and drop out of college to tend to his soft cock all day. Theoretically, if you did drop out of college, you think everything would be handled, surely by now he would’ve put his will in your name. It doesn’t sound all that bad. It sounds quite ideal actually. Sure, grandpa’s fussy about the thermostat, he might need dentures in a few years, but you’ve settled in so nicely. Like, all you’re trying to say is, grandpa’s a lonely guy - he could use your company till he’s sent off to a nursing home somewhere.

“I don’t want to go home,” You say into Leon’s neck, your hand sneaks downwards as the two of you lay in bed like you have been doing every night. “I wanna stay with you, grandpa.”

Leon’s brows knit together when you lift the waistband of his boxers, squeezing his soft dick in your warm palm. “Hey,” He warns lightly, there’s no real malice to it.

“Grandpa, I want you just once before I leave,” You palm him, he hardens albeit slowly, painfully slowly - he’s doing well though. No Viagra needed. You're so proud of him, he’s come a long way. The first few times you tried this his dick adamantly refuses to do more than hang limp.

“You can take me if you’ll have me.” Leon hums, and you don’t really know what that means. Feels like he speaks in tongues most of the time, that’s okay though. Not his fault, poor old man. You clamber onto his lap, dressed only in a sleep shirt for easy access, he guides his half-hard cock past your folds, the head stretching your little hole so well.

Your back arches so far he has to straighten your spine himself to keep you upright. Leon takes your wrists in one hand, bringing them behind your back and keeping you tied up like a rotisserie chicken. With some difficulty you manage to take him, both from the fact he’s still partly soft, slipping out more than a couple times, and ‘cause you’re so tense you keep pushing him out by mistake.

“Easy, sweetheart. Nice ‘n slow, don’t rush yourself.” Grandpa coos as your cunt stretches impossibly to accommodate his length. The tip rests snug in your cervix, jabbing at it painfully, and if it wasn’t for the thumb on your clit, soothing all discomfort, you’d be complaining. Grandpa’s cock doesn’t get any harder, but it doesn’t get any softer either. You start to think it might be his limit as you swivel your hips, grinding yourself down into him, the base of his cock splitting you open.

You ache to touch him, to lay against his chest and fuck your hips downwards onto him lazily. Grandpa insists on keeping you like this, he begins to rut into you from below, the thumb on your clit follows the same pace. “You’re too little, sweetheart,” Grandpa chides when he feels you tighten, “Going too fast for me.” The knot snaps, unravelling as warmth spreads through your limbs, makes your legs feel like jelly.

Grandpa takes longer, he doesn’t have much left in him, but you milk him dry till his cock is left sputtering. When he lets go of your arms, you allow yourself to slump down on his chest, kneading it with your hands. “That was okay.”

“Just okay?” Leon snorts, he pats your head like he did when you first met him.

“Just okay.” You confirm, hoping he can feel your smile, and that he knows it was more than okay.

#leon kennedy x you #leon s kennedy x reader #leon s kennedy x you #leon s kennedy smut #leon kennedy imagine #leon kennedy smut #leon kennedy x reader #resident evil x reader #resident evil smut

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hold-him-down · 14 days

Note

🧽 Receiving a sponge bath - Derek

tw: post-prison whump, spongebath, light med whump

notes: read chapter one of derek's back first for context, if context is important to ya :)

from this ask game

✥ ✥ ✥

Derek Lewis, or what's left of him, anyway, sits on the center of the exam table. His legs dangle over the side, his hands limp in his lap. Looking at him, one might think he was completely absent of thought, absent of the ability to process any of the events of the last few hours. Something in the way he hunches his body, though, just a little bit, or in the way his black eyes, every so often, wander from the floor to the mahogany desk in the corner, to the large canvas paintings, to the American flag hung by the door, and then back to the floor, give Agent Brody Grant hope that, at least on some level, he’s aware that his circumstances have shifted.

He’s been stripped of his clothing, or, if not clothing, of the torn, ratted fabric that was constituting as clothing, which has been placed in a bin to be tested for parasites. So far, he hasn’t spoken.

When they arrived to the makeshift medical unit, pieced together on one hour’s notice in the middle of the night in the Consulate, he didn't speak. He also didn’t speak when he was led down the empty, dark hallway, or when his clothes were removed, or when every inch of his battered skin was photographed.

Now, with a nurse at his side, running a wet cloth over his body again and again, seven, eight, sometimes ten times before satisfied with each patch of skin, he still doesn’t speak.

“Mr. Lewis?” the physician asks, approaching Derek cautiously. Derek’s head lifts in acknowledgement, but his eyes do not.

“You need to drink,” she urges. She lifts his free hand and places a mug of water inside of it, then guides him to take a sip. He does not fight it, but immediately coughs the water back up. The doctor's lips are tight, but she sets the mug to the side.

The boy that Agent Grant collected from within the prison gates was unrecognizable from the pictures in his file. The ghost of the smiling, vibrant boy he had not expected, but hoped for, was deposited at his feet without a moment of hesitation. The guard inclined his head sharply toward the gate, handed the agent a well-loved backpack, and turned on his heels back toward the prison. They hightailed it down the gravel road and into the night, with a singular objective of getting Derek Lewis onto U.S. territory while they worked to understand the implications of everything that had gone down.

The nurse lifts his hand now, turning it over, and works to wipe away months of caked-on filth.

“When did you last access a shower?” he asks, his thumb brushing over Derek’s wrist, presumably to get a handle on what is bruising and what isn’t.

“I don’t know,” Derek whispers. Agent Grant writes it down. It’s not of particular interest, but he’s been tasked with writing down everything, and so far that has been nothing, so he takes what he can get.

“That’s okay,” the nurse tells him, dipping the washcloth in the clean water, wringing it out, and wiping away what can be wiped away. “What about food?” he asks next. No one is under any illusion that Derek wants to talk, but getting him comfortable answering questions may be in his best interest. “When was the last time you ate?”

This time, Derek does not look up. “I don’t know,” he whispers again.

“Are you hungry?” the nurse asks, as the doctor tilts Derek’s head down. Gloved fingers press into dark, matted waves, and Derek’s body curls in on itself, just for a second, before he realizes what’s happened and forcibly adjusts his posture.

“It’s okay,” the nurse whispers, moving to his other hand.

Derek nods, and they finish cleaning him up in silence. His hair is shaved, because it’s the only reasonable way to deal with both the matting and the lice. He’s photographed again, now clean, which he flinches his way through but does not protest. This time, the focus is solely on the injuries. On the scars that run the length of his back, on his wrists and ankles, on his neck. There won't be an investigation, nor will there be restitution, but it may help someone in the future to have these, so they take them. Derek is silent through it, but his suffering, well hidden just an hour ago, is clearer now.

He’s given an IV, because every time he drinks, he vomits. He’s given pain medication, he’s given anxiety medication, and finally, to everyone’s relief, he is given clothing.

He dresses quietly, but he trembles he does, and when he’s led to a cot in the adjacent room, he whispers a hoarse, “Thank you,” before collapsing into it. He’s asleep before he can be offered a blanket, so one is draped over him, and the doctor explains to Agent Grant that between the shock, the medication, and the clear sleep deprivation, it’s neither surprising nor alarming that he sleeps now.

By the time Derek Lewis’s family is called, it’s mid-morning. The Ambassador has arrived, and there’s an air of both celebration and frenzy within the Consulate. This has been something of a win for many of them, and a long-overdue one at that.

And, while it feels like a major piece of Agent Grant's time with the embassy is coming to a close, he can’t help but wonder what the next chapter looks like for Derek. There's no doubt in his mind that Jack will be on the first plane to Turkey, visa be damned, and the thought of their reunion, however tense, however painful it may be, gives him some hope that maybe, against all odds, Derek will find peace.

#look two asks in two days #derek's back #prison whump #post prison whump #med whump #sponge bath #i cannot actually do an ask every day probably BECAUSE #they are like 95% prompts #but we're 2/2 for the last two days!

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cuntboyprincess · 1 year

Note

Tw: pissing and shitting for humiliation purposes

The school has to punish you by law. They don’t care if you’re trans, if you plagiarize they must forcibly tie you naked to a medical exam table in the middle of the busiest hallway. With your clothes literally ripped off you and your legs in the stirrups, everyone that walks by will see your girly little pussy and big soft tits.

As you count the minutes until classes end, you think about how you can’t take this humiliation. They had no regard for your comfort or well being. When they unceremoniously stripped you, you were on your way to the bathroom bc you needed to go really badly. That hadn’t gone away and now all your energy was being spent on not pissing and shitting yourself like this.

The bell rings just as you can’t hold it anymore. Sobbing, you start pissing like a racehorse; shooting it out a few feet in front of you. This immediately brings all eyes on you if they weren’t already. They all see your sloppy, wet and now pissy little cunt. They see your piss streaming out of your 3rd hole just like a woman’s would.

The hallway gets overwhelming as students crowd around you for a good look. Most have their phones out to record you.

“Look at her big tits! I always told you that fag had big tits hiding under there!”

“Ugh, how humiliating for her. I bet she’s dying right now.”

“Wish I could rape her ugly cunt right here.”

You can’t hold back anymore as you feel pressure on your back hole. Your butthole begins to clench again and again. You sob while everyone watches as you begin to shit yourself. It squeezes slowly out of your asshole and plops to the floor.

Now the whole hallway has erupted. Most still have phones out and recorded the entire thing. Some are straight up laughing at you and miming the faces you made during it. You will never live this down and those videos will live on the internet forever. Who knows how many real men will masturbate to those videos

Thank you for this story 🥵🥵 I enjoyed reading it 💦💦

#scat kink #pee kink #ftm detrans kink #ftm kink #ftm sub #humiliation kink #degrading #degrade kink #humiliating kink #humilated slave #poop kink #piss kink

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acapelladitty · 6 months

Text

Jonathan Crane/Reader - Captive: Part 2 (Kinktober #16)

Summary - Still help captive by Jonathan Crane, your life is little more than a series of tormets with wicked intentions. (Heavy tw's apply for noncon and various other abuses so beware).

Part 1 available HERE

“Hold still, little whore.” Crane grunted, his glasses perching precariously on the end of his nose as he remained bent on one knee before you. “If my hand should slip free then I will replace it with something you will enjoy even less.”

Chained to the wall, your neck held viciously in place by the thick metal collar which was bolted into the unyielding stone, the constant pressure on your windpipe made breathing difficult as you thrashed in place.

Enjoy.

As if you were enjoying a moment of this, a fact which were compounded as his hand flexed within your walls, cruelly stretching you out from the inside out as you wailed out your distress. It had been no easy feat, but when Crane had decided – almost casually – that he would like to test out how long it would take him to fit his thin fist within your terrified frame, he had decided that there was no time to be lost.

Pleading had been useless. Broken pleas and offers to suck his cock, to fuck him with any hole he wished, had fallen on deaf ears as he easily gripped your hair to force your head against the wall to secure the metal collar and prevent any escape. Your hands hung overhead, also pinned to the wall by a short length of rough rope which bit into the bruised skin of your wrists.

Feet only just able to lay flat on the floor, Crane had set about his task with sadistic precision.

With dry fingers, he had forcibly inserted himself to test the stretch which had already achieved with his daily lessons, and he was quick to add digits until he deemed the noises which were escaping your panicked mouth entertaining enough. Then, using a small bottle from his inner pocket, he had applied the smallest amount of lube to his fingers, enough to ensure that his own skin would remain unhurt by the friction while doing nothing to provide any real comfort.

“This may hurt.” Crane had warned, the visible tent of his slacks speaking his enjoyment of the utter cruelty of his plans. “Feel free to scream, sweetheart.”

The dry, rough stone wall against your back had given you something to focus on as he truly started his work but even that had its limits.

You had screamed.

And he had laughed.

The knuckles were the worst part. His fingers clawing against your walls as he forced himself deep within your hole were uncomfortable but familiar in a terrible way as each digit scratching along your walls in such a way that pleasure was impossible. The knuckles, the bones there unable to shift, formed the thickest part of his hand and the burn of your skin – your hole feeling as though it were tearing through the heat – had drawn a wail from you which was so guttural and miserable in its sincerity that Crane paused long enough to free his rock-hard cock with his other hand.

Still stroking along his length, the girth of his knuckles – now buried deep within you – sparked a deep discomfort which made the bile rise in the back of your throat.

“Just over seven minutes.” Crane mused, his gleeful expression only a few inches from your own. “That’s how long it took for you to open up for me like a common, fucked-out whore. Seven minutes to ruin you.” He shook his head as a twisted smirk settled on his lips. “That must be a record, sweetheart.”

x-x-x-x-x

Time moved slowly in your new life. With no calendar and scant lighting from a strip of window too high to be of any use, how much time had passed was a mystery which gnawed at your mind. Your hair had grown about an inch and that was the indicator which you chose to follow – measuring the strands against your palm to keep track.

The remnants of your dinner, overcooked rice topped with bland raw greens, lay off on a plastic plate to the side of your mattress. Having proven yourself willing to be sensible with your meals, Crane had settled into a routine of bringing meals designed to keep you from succumbing to any nutritional deficiency. Just enough to keep you going without ever truly allowing a comfortable fullness to settle. And it was the first thing to go at any perceived disobedience. Meals would be reduced to scraps which were barely fit for a dog and yet you were made to grovel for them as though they were a banquet.

Standing by the plate, Crane’s eyes grazed across the few grains of rice which your trembling fingers were not quite able to pick up and his features narrowed in obvious displeasure.

“Ungrateful creature. Is there a reason my meal has went unfinished?”

Cowering away in an instant, your eyes drop to the floor as your words stammer free.

“Apologies, Sir. I was unable to pick th-”

SLAP

The blow catches you unawares as you had not heard him move and your head snaps to the side as a pained yelp slips free of your mouth. A ringing settles in your left ear and you grunt as your head is pulled upwards by his free hand until you are forced to look Crane directly in the face.

“I do not appreciate excuses. If my meal was unsatisfactory then I will find you something to replace it.”

His hands drop your hair and quickly fumble with his belt. A sick hope alights in your chest. Sucking his cock would save you from so many other pains. In your time servicing him, you had grown to understand what he liked and, as much as he could draw it out with added cruelties, your throat was well-trained to get him to come as quickly as possible.

But your hope died out quickly as a sadistic chuckle rumbled overhead.

“I see that hopeful look in your eye,” Crane cooed, “and I know that you’re desperate to please me as a perfect little toy should. However, that’s not what I have in mind for you.” Stroking his cock, his free hand dipped once more to grip at your chin roughly. “I’m going to turn around and you will use that mouth to prove to me that you deserve another meal by my hands. Understand?”

“Yes, sir.” You answer, revulsion at the implication rising in your throat.

“Hesitate, or refuse, and I’ll lock that door behind me and leave you here to rot away.”

Fear, genuine fear, pierces your heart as you don’t doubt his threat for a moment, and you nod as your knees lock in place against the cold stone of the floor.

He is quick to turn, balancing his forearm against the wall as he allowed his slacks to drop around his ankles, exposing his thin ass and even thinner legs to your blank expression. Shuffling forward on your knees, you bring your tied wrists together – the small length of rope only allowing a few inches of movement – and place them gently on his ass, afraid to cause him even the slightest discomfort as you know it’ll earn you a severe beating.

Pulling at his ass cheeks, the hair there sparse, a sigh of relief threatens to slip free of your lips as you take in his asshole and the cleanliness of the site. He was cruel, sadistic, and evil in ways you sometimes struggled to comprehend but he was at least clean.

You whimper as the harsh tread of Crane’s boots presses harshly against your upper leg as it remains forced into a kneeling position.

“Is that a hesitation?” He asks sternly, the threat clear. “Because it’s been a while since you required any true discipline, pet.”

“No, Sir. Sorry, Sir!”

Dipping your head forward, you swallow down the disgust which once again wells in your throat as your tongue paints a stripe across his asshole. Grimacing at the act, you push down those feelings as you settle into a steady, faux-enthusiastic rhythm which doesn’t hesitate – even as shameful tears threaten your eyes.

“That’s right you little whore.” Crane groans, pushing back slightly. “Service your master.”

Your tongue is insistent as it brushes along his hole while your hand remain gentle on his ass, your ragged nails nowhere near Crane’s skin as you devour him. He’s surprisingly active – his body shifting in place as you pleasure him as his ass pushes harder into your face, forcing you to work quicker at your task while he hums out his enjoyment.

After a few minutes, the length of which were closer to an eternity, he straightens up and whirls around and you are confronted by his rock-hard cock. His spindly hand jerking along the length with a messy pace, the flush which sits on his cruel features is paired with a animalistic panting as he points his cock at you.

“Enjoy your rewards, sweetheart.” Crane grunts out and the hot splashes of his release arc across your face, streaking across your cheek and lip as your watery eyes blink rapidly. “Perhaps we should arrange for more similar meals as part of your re-education.”

Re-education.

A word which struck more fear into your heart than any punishment could.

x-x-x-x-x

“Tell me what you see.”

Even through the horror which gripped your heart, squeezing the sensitive muscle to dust as you watch the shadows of the cell twist and writhe towards you, Crane’s voice is clear and unyielding as it demands an answer.

“Monsters.” You sob out, arcing your back as Crane tugs at your distended nipples. “In th-the shadows!”

The fire in your chest is brutal, scorching the skin to the bone as the pain is compounded by the toxin which flows freely through your veins. Thick needles, the sharp point having been slowly piercing through the nubs of your nipples as you screamed – his legs pinning your arms to the floor to allow him unfettered access to your chest – remained in place to provide Crane something to latch onto and pull to redirect your attention.

Then had come the toxin.

In a twisted game, he had allowed you to choose where to inject it and, like the good little toy you were, you had first told him that it was his choice and your opinion didn’t matter. He had laughed at that, his fingers stroking along your cheek in mock affection before he had insisted that the choice was yours.

And you had chosen your neck.

But only because he was more careful when working with that area, just in case he should nick something important. Any other choice would have seen the needle jammed into your flesh with no regard for comfort or safety.

The toxin still raged through your system, even now, hours after the initial injection. The hallucinations had lessened slightly – reduced to shifting shadows and a sense of dread which made your heart flutter within your chest as tears flowed freely from your stinging eyes.

A vague sensation of something being thrust within your mouth makes you moan and a sharp pain at the corners of your mouth alerts you to the dental gag which was now holding your mouth open, almost splitting at the sides.

“As obedient as you are, pet, my toxin would make any attempts at enjoying that lovely mouth difficult. I’m sure you don’t mind.”

Unable to speak, your words gurgle free in an indecipherable mess but Crane’s expression narrows as he watches your head thrash in place.

Dropping to one knee, his face hovers over your own and his features are barely perceptible through the veil of tears and blurriness which his toxin has afforded you. Nevertheless, you flinch in place as something warm and wet splatters across your cheek.

Spit.

“Now be a good whore and please your master.” Crane demands, rising once again to his feet as his fingers once again spread to tug at the needles which are impaled through your nipples – the rush of pain forcing you to kneel as high as possible to alleviate the raw pain which lances through your chest.

He’s as rough as ever, his cock thrusting within your mouth with no preamble or time to prepare. The gag making it impossible to do anything other than accept him, you slam your eyes shut to hide from the creatures which still moved within the shadows and laughed at your distress.

A sharp pull of your hair draws a strangled cry from your lips as Crane jerks his cock free and his voice booms from overhead.

“Open your eyes or I will pin them open with some of those left-over medical needles.”

Fresh terror flooding through your trembling limbs, you open your eyes immediately and fixate them on his stern gaze. Through the sadistic glee which shines free of his expression, there is a definite satisfaction there which sparks despair deep within your soul. As his little project, his desire to break and mould you into something for his amusement has been relentless. The abuses, the stuttered sleep, the withheld meals. Each cruelty breaking off another small piece of your will until what remained was tattered and useless, just waiting to be stripped off as was all the rest.

His cock returned to your lips and you moved your tongue to accommodate him, lapping at his length with a put-upon reverence which you knew he enjoyed. The ache in your jaw and throat meant little compared to the pains in the rest of your battered body but you ignored it in favour of pleasing him as he abused your mouth.

Please him. The little traitorous voice inside your head which had saved you from more punishments than you cared to think about, coming at the cost of your dignity. Let him do what he wants and you’ll be safe.

Toxin-filled and suffering beyond what any reasonable person could accept, what little defiance burned deep within your heart stuttered out and was replaced with something cold.

Clenching your fists against your lower back, you pretend to ignore the grunt of pleasure which escapes Crane as he once again tugs at your nipples and relishes in the scream which vibrates around his cock.

#Jonathan crane #scarecrow #jonathan crane x reader #scarecrow x reader #jonathan crane x you #scarecrow x you #scarecrow smut #gotham rogues #dc comics

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hasensalat · 6 months

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Is there a way in which fem!Laurent could have survived the canon storyline?

Let's think of an AU where everything is exactly the same except for one thing: Laurent was born a girl. A very depressing thought under the cut. (TW: Rape, abortion)

Our Laurene would be just as cunning, beautiful and skilled as her male counterpart, but at a heavy disadvantage. Because being a woman in her current situation would add a whole new layer of fuckery: The risk of pregnancies.

The Regent used rape (by himself and by proxy) as a weapon against male!Laurent and he barely survived that. But being targeted by a murderous rapist in a society where pregnancies out of wedlock equal social suicide, while having an uterus? Yeah no. This would be the biggest threat Laurene would face, and the Regent would use everything it takes to make that threat come true. That alone is a horror story in itself, but the consequences of it would be just as horrendous for Laurene if she indeed falls forcibly pregnant:

Option 1: The Regent makes Laurene's pregnancy public, feigning she had some kind of affair, and thereby defacing her. Possibly stripping her of her titles and legally skipping her in the line of succession, making the Regent actually the next in line?

Option 2: The Regent pretends to be the worried uncle and makes her secretly abort for "her own good". Maybe even with the council's knowledge and blessing. Medieval abortions were highly unsafe in the first place, often done by drinking questionable herbal tinctures with poisonous ingredients. Not surviving this procedure was a very real possibility. And now, if somebody spiked that already poisonous mixture with yet another deadly poison, who would even question if Laurene doesn't make it through?

Option 3: The Regent pushes for Laurene to marry her rapist, so the child won't be a bastard. Married off, Laurene would be basically out of the picture, especially if the husband is some low-born guy like a... Govart. And not only would she be terribly miserable, but her reputation might be damaged beyond repair regardless.

All of this would be such a dire problem to deal with for Laurene, I can hardly see a solution for her to survive.

Male!Laurent was sent away with a small army for border control, unfolding all the events past CaPri. And while this had been originally a plot by the Regent to get Laurent killed, Laurent eventually managed to use the situation in his favor. Would it be the same for fem!Laurent? So far, every soldier we have seen was male. In a society were gender is strictly seperated, would she be allowed to travel with a few dozen men as a sole woman? I don't think so...

But even if she does somehow find a way to overcome the danger of potential pregnancies (and all of the added trauma), there is another thing...

Meaning, non of the events past book 1 would unfold in an AU as this, and Laurene would be stuck in Arles.

I believe there is only a single advantage Laurene has over her male counterpart, which is offering herself in marriage to somebody powerful. She could strike a deal with Torveld or similiar (if it isn't too late for her at that point). Actually, marrying as soon as possible would probably be her safest bet, keeping her somewhat safe from the horrors mentioned before. Though, that would not necessarily make her happier. Laurene would end up an unhappy teenage bride marrying out of a dire need for survival.

I can't see a way for her. Poor girl seems to be bound to lose, no matter what she does...

What do you think? Is there any way forward for Laurene?

#captive prince #laurent #fem!laurent #angsty musings #hello darkness my old friend

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rreskk · 1 year

Text

Make me

Boohoooooo, I’m copying some fanfics from my Ao3 (WHICH YOU CAN CHECK OUT BY THE WAY~)

Right here: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RRESKK

TW: Bottom boy Trevor, and implied smut at the end Summary: To all the hotties who’d like to see more of bottom boy Trevy Trev.

He flared his nostrils and breathed in the intoxicating smell of gasoline from his red plastic cup. Trevor lets out a satisfied groan from his throat and leaned against the kitchen counter, hazily watching the News. It was sunset and he had an exhausting day of dealing with business (totally not assassinating anymore of his enemies).

“I found it!” He heard from his bedroom.

“Found what?”

You appeared in the doorway and smirked, raising a visible steel tweezer. “This.”

Lowering his cup, he stood alarmed. “Don’t you go anywhere near me with that fuckin’ weapon.”

“Yeah… But your eyebrows need plucking.”

Trevor shook his head. “My eyebrows are fuckin’ beautiful, leave ‘em alone!”

You squinted your eyes at his dismissive behaviour. You could see his monobrow from here. Where did it even come from? Who knows. You only hope you pick it.

“Come here.”

“No,” He refused. “You drop that fuckin’ thing or I will make you regret it.”

You rolled your eyes and walked closer. Your smile grew wider with every step you saw him took back. Big bad Trevor afraid of some tweezers? Priceless.

“Don’t you FUCKING dare!”

“It’ll be fine if you lowered your voice, sweetie.” You teased with a laugh. It took several minutes to properly hold onto Trevor, managing to reach his shoulder despite his cries of help. Dramatic.

Trevor tried to corner himself in the kitchen and failed TERRIBLY. He lifted his head up, soon feeling your harsh grip around his neck. Suddenly his fears were not existent. He tilted his head and smirked widely.

“Babe… If you wanted to fuck me, just say.” He cooed.

You scoffed. “I’m not fucking you. I’m trying to pluck your goddamn eyebrows.”

Your hand dug deeper on his throat as he slowly dropped to his knees, watching you closely.

“You know, your tattoo should say ‘choke here’ instead of ‘cut here’.”

Trevor licked his lips. “Are you suggesting that we-“

“Oh my God, no Trevor. Just let me fucking pluck your eyebrows!” You protested with frustration, forcibly pushing his head back against the cabinets so he sat stationary.

“Fuck babe,” He choked out, impressed. “You never told me you were a good choker.”

To shut him up, you dived into his eyebrow and yanked out a mismatched hair which led to him yelping.

“Fuck! You sadist!”

“Stop being a baby,” You winked. “Only a few more hairs and we’ll be done.”

Trevor gulped but remained silent. His hand found your wrist, using it for support whenever he can feel the cold steel move closer to his face.

You managed to pluck as much hair as you can, releasing your grip from his neck, “We are done here.” You moved to the sofa and sat down.

“You can relax now.”

With a sly grin, he lifted up your right leg and moved it over his shoulder. His scarred hands began moving up and down your leg, squeezing and rubbing.

“I can’t relax.”

Using your free foot to press against his forehead, you showed no mercy and threw him back. He liked it rough.

“Jesus!” Trevor laughed. “You can’t just do that and expect me to relax?”

“Oh my God, Trevor! Just sit down and chill!”

He looked at you through his eyebrows.

“Make me…”

The next hour was a blur. You recalled grabbing his neck once again but what did you do? Out of your memory. Was it the adrenaline? Probably. You were tired, maybe you called it a day and forced him to sleep? Well… The position you woke up in says otherwise.

His face was buried in your lower stomach, hands cradling your hips and legs open wide. You were positioned beside him with your leg wrapped around his body keeping him close. You were still fully clothed, but Trevor was stripped naked.

God.

His back was covered in claw marks and his neck, if you looked closely, was smothered with bruises and hand marks. He looked so peaceful sleeping? Like he doesn’t look brutally assaulted.

He unknowingly lifted up his and gazed over to you.

“Remind me to tell you that… You can pluck my eyebrows any damn day you want babe.”

#trevor philips #trevor philips x reader #trevor philips/reader #trevor philips/you #trevor philips x you #gta fanfiction #grand theft 5 #grand theft auto #grand theft auto 5 #trevor philips fanfiction #GTA V #kms

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tieflingkisser · 29 days

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In a week, Israeli army executes 13 children in and near Al-Shifa Hospital

tw for link: child death, corpses

Palestinian Territory - In blatant violation of international law, particularly international humanitarian law, the Israeli army has executed 13 children by direct shooting in Al-Shifa Medical Complex and its Gaza City environs. This is a war crime and a crime against humanity, and is part of the genocide that the Palestinian people in the Gaza Strip having been experiencing for the past six months. For over a week now, the Israeli army has been conducting systematic and horrifying military operations inside and around Al-Shifa Medical Complex. These crimes include extrajudicial executions and deliberate killings of Palestinian civilians. The Euro-Med Human Rights Monitor field team has received identical testimonies about the killings and executions of Palestinian children between the ages of four and 16. Some of the fatal shootings occurred during an Israeli army siege while the victims’ families were inside their homes; others occurred when the victims attempted to escape via routes that the Israeli army had designated as “safe” after forcibly evacuating them from their homes and places of residence. Palestinian Islam Ali Salouha lives close to Al-Shifa Medical Complex. Salouha stated that Israeli forces killed his sons Ali, nine, and Saeed Muhammad Sheikha, six, in front of their families and fellow locals. They specifically targeted the children, he said, with live bullets. According to Salouha, the family chose to stay in their apartment with several other residents because there was no safe way for them to leave after more than a week of Israeli forces besieging them inside their home amid frequent raids. He explained that on the afternoon of Sunday 24 March 2024, the Israeli army ordered everyone in the vicinity, through loudspeakers, to leave their residential area immediately or face having their home bombed. As a result, the residents were forced to leave the area with a number of their neighbours and cross a corpse-strewn road that the Israeli army had designated for travel. Salouha said that they were only able to walk for 10s of metres before they were suddenly exposed to intense gunfire, which targeted the two children, Ali and Saeed, in particular. The children then fell in front of them, their bodies covered in blood. As they attempted to pull the two kids off the ground, he said, the Israeli forces opened fire on them again, forcing them to leave Ali and Saeed on the ground and to continue walking. Salouha emphasised that his son Ali was killed in a field execution crime after he had been deprived of food for days because of the Israeli siege. He also pointed out that the area around Al-Shifa Medical Complex had become a hotspot for field executions and murders, with the bodies of the victims discovered in the streets serving as evidence.

[keep reading]

#free palestine #palestine #news

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sayruq · 4 months

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[CONT] that the Israeli forces are carrying out field executions against civilians in Gaza after forcibly removing them from displacement centers and stripping them

Tw for the video: forced undressing, extermination camp

Tw for the next part: forced undressing for adults and children, sexual violence, child abuse,

#yemen #jerusalem #tel aviv #current events #palestine #free palestine #gaza #free gaza #news on gaza #palestine news #news update #war news #war on gaza #genocide

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whumpkinz · 2 years

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School institutionalized whumping. Idk what this is but take it. I lost a little steam towards the end.

TW: corporal punishment, I accidentally went off on Monster Whumpees, conditioned whumpees, living weapon whumpees, creepy/intimate whumper meantioned, non-descriptive examples of of non-con possibilities, meantions of electric fences, meantions of tracking devices, meantions of shock collar, meantions of paddles.

---

Uniforms or appearance standards that are enforced at all times. Forcibly cutting or shaving a students head if their hair is too long. All students being forced to wear long skirts regardless of gender for humiliation purposes, acess to legs, conformity, hiding cane marks/another way to enforce the dress code.

Whumpees who have perhaps grown up in a whumping institution that looks and is structured like a academic school. Whumpees never leaving the grounds being conditioned that the outside world doesn't want them, doesn't exists, fear gaslight them and shows them horrifying videos and using it for propaganda. Whumpees not allowed to leave by force or conditioning or a combination of both. Whumpees having tracking devices installed on them but they're all in different places on each person so they can't rely on the same spot in case they ever figure it out. A invisible electric perimeter fence that could pair with the tracking device, a shock collar or both.

If it's a Living Weapon/Training institution they could be conditioned to belive they are too dangerous for the public, they've been rejected, they will be killed if they leave. Whumpees who have razor sharp reflexes that end up hurting their team mates/other Whumpees/caretaker/Whumpers/random stranger in public, you name it. Whumpees who have a trigger word/switch that when it goes off one moment they're perfectly fine and the next they're just lost in the sauce either sleeper agent style or just literally killer instinct and doesn't realize it until after. Cue quilty conscious, self blame, possibly survivors guilt, isolation, the anxiety eating them alive, perhaps they're so worried about hurting someone else it becomes a self fulfilling proficy. Whumpee's deep in thought about themself while doing a daily task when Caretaker/Whumper passes them/brushes against them/touches them and Whumpee responds violently. Whumpees who belive they are a monster.

Or are actually being turned into a monster. Feral monster Whumpees have my entire heart, so maybe a Whumpe that is injected with a serium that makes them go feral. Other Whumpees have to try and reverse it, Whumpee struggles to fight it and wins, whumpee struggles to fight it and fails furthering the feralization if you will. Bonus points if it was by accident and the person who did it, either another student or professor/teacher/headmaster whatever does it. Perhaps the perpetrator blames someone they have power over? I love someone abusing power over others.

Ok I got a little lost in the sauce there BUT back to the school specific stuff. Punishments being canes, public humiliation, hair cutting/shaving, forcibly stripped to undergarments or naked in front of the entire class. If they're wearing skirts I saw a picture of a bunch of girl students being forced to have their panties down to their ankles and in a mixed/neutral gendered setting it could be humiliating for everyone to drop their underwear to their ankles. Skirts are like the best accessible whump clothing next to dresses and robes.

Detention but it's just a formality before being taken to the "punishment room" where there is a dungeon. There's a Saint Andrew's cross, a table with straps on it, a stool, a bunch of canes, gags, wooden stocks and more.

Whumpee is bent over the table with their skirt hiked up. Non-con possibility with creepy/intimate Whumper commenting on their underwear, their legs, touching their legs, running the cane up and down their legs and smacking their butt/sex. Whumper commenting on how many cane marks Whumpee has, trying to burn their cane marks over other Whumpers in a possessive or sadistic manner. Whumper hitting whumpee in the same spot, perhaps even disguised as a merciful gesture to avoid bruising and marking more skin, Whumpee not realizing it hurts more when they do, or if/when they do begging to be hit somewhere else but Whumper enjoys their tears and shreiks so much they refuse. Whumper doing the same but with paddles. Paddles can hurt man, in good ways and in bad ways. They have firehouse rubber paddles and I could never imagine getting hit with one of those. My worst nightmare. So stingy!

#whump #whumpee #whump prompts #whump scenario #whump writing #whumper #caning whump #whump drabble #whump community #whumplr #monster whumpee #intimate whumper #creepy whumper #meantions of non-con #caretaker

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kilannad · 2 years

Text

Chapter 1 of Decay and Growth

Masterlist

In this chapter:

Nesta receives a visitor, spirals, does a puzzle, spirals a little more, and receives a visitor again.

Meanwhile, Eris attends a lords' meeting and has a perfectly dull night ruined.

tw for mentioned miscarriage of minor oc.

Once upon a time, in a small, inconsequential village on a small, inconsequential strip of human lands, a little queen grew up. Many things about this little queen were important, but one shone out above any others.

Nesta Archeron was drowning.

Drowning in her desire to please her mother; in the love for her tiny sisters; in her hatred and spite. Every moment, of every day, Nesta drowned.

The moment she fell into the Cauldron, it simply became more literal.

Even after she fell out, Unmade and Made; old and new; Fae and Not; Nesta kept drowning.

And unlike when she was human, when she had a purpose to chain her chin above the water, Nesta had nothing anchoring her anymore.

She just

kept

drowning.

Ianuarius 2nd, Year 1 A.W., Velaris

The pounding in her head woke Nesta.

It was a familiar, comforting feeling that covered up the burning feeling in her veins, that made sure she was here in her apartment and not--

“I loved you from the first moment I held you in my arms.”

Forcibly shaking off the memory, Nesta took a deep breath, smelling the comforting scents of her apartment: mold and stale sex. So completely different to anywhere else she'd ever lived, that there could be no question of where and when she was.

The pounding came again, and she realized it was actually someone knocking on her door, and only the hangover made it seem louder. She tried to yell, but her mouth was fuzzy, and turning over made the room spin dangerously. Nesta breathed, letting the nausea pass and waiting for whoever was at the door to leave. It couldn't be Feyre, since she would've barged in by now to make sure Nesta was alive; Miss Dolla, her next-door neighbor, would've simply left the newest casserole by the door after the first knock; and it couldn't be Cassian since--well, since he never came by except to stand on the neighboring building and stare.

Annoyance and morbid curiosity dragged Nesta out of bed when the polite, rhythmic knock came the third time. She yanked the door open, ready to insult whoever the newest unwanted guest was until they left and never came back, but stopped short at the glint of red hair.

Lucien Vanserra looked much the same as he had the last time Nesta had seen him during the post-war conclave. Long red hair tied into a few braids, thick scar dragging across one side of his face doing little to detract from his attractive features, and golden eye whirling in its socket with a quiet clicking sound that grated on her nerves.

“Nesta,” he greeted neutrally. He scanned her once, before yanking his russet eye back up, red lightly dusting his cheeks. She realized she was wearing only a thin silk nightgown that clung to her sweaty skin, but she couldn't bring herself to care about propriety anymore.

That human instinct died in the Cauldron.

“What do you want?” she demanded instead.

“A brief moment to speak with you,” he assured.

“Tell my sister--”

“I'm not here for Feyre. Or Elain, for that matter.”

“Than Rhys can go--”

“Wrong again,” he cut in cheerily. “Now, can I come in, or are we going to be playing a guessing game on your doorstep for the next half-hour? I'm more than happy with either.”

Nesta snorted and spun away. Purely because she suddenly and desperately needed the bathroom.

By the time she came back out, Lucien had settled on the single threadbare couch, her chipped tea set on the low table, steam gently curling up into the cold air. Unlike the few times Feyre had deigned to visit, Lucien neither sneered at the grubby, peeling wallpaper, nor insisted on lighting a fire despite the near glacial chill in the poorly insulated apartment.

“Most people consider it rude to make tea in someone else's home,” she said, staying standing. She did pick up the tea, though, since she couldn't afford to waste and it was awfully cold.

“Considering how you greeted me, I hadn't thought you cared much for manners these days,” he responded cheerily. He kept both his eyes on her face, never once dipping to the slip of silk she still hadn't covered up.

It was her home and she could damn well dress how she pleased. Of course, as a male with a mate, she doubted he would look even if she gave him a strip tease.

“Why are you here, Lucien?”

“I have a letter for you.”

“Good try,” she snorted. After the single time Elain had come to see her, and decided she was uncomfortable with how Nesta spent her time, Nesta had learned not to expect anyone to contact her except for the occasional time she was dragged to 'family dinner' on pain of being cut off. These days, Amren was the only one she saw, and even then only on the truly awful days when not even drinking and fucking could get the power in her veins to quiet.

As if to spite her, he pulled a cream envelope from an inner pocket of his fine jacket, placing it on the table next to the old blue tea set. It did indeed have Lady Nesta Archeron in a picture-perfect cursive along the outside. She didn't recognize the writing.

“What is this,” she demanded.

“A letter from my brother Eris.”

“What?” Even with only minimal time spent among the Inner Circle--and even less of an introduction to fae culture and history--Nesta knew the name. And the reputation that went with it. “Why is your brother writing me?”

“He wouldn't say,” Lucien replied with a shrug. “Only asked that I deliver it. It's considered presumptuous in upper society to magic letters to people you haven't had an official introduction to. If you want to respond, drop it off at my apartment and I'll get it to him. He'll take over from there.”

“I don't want to respond,” she snapped immediately. “And I certainly don't wish to know where you live.”

“I don't blame you,” he responded. “I'm utterly awful company from what I can tell and my brother is even worse.” He stood, brushing off his legs. “Thank you for the tea. If you change your mind, I have an apartment in the redstone building at the west end of the Sidra, near the docks. First floor, second door on the left. If I don't answer, just slip it under the door.”

“If you think this will endear you to Elain,” Nesta said coldly, enjoying the way Lucien's face closed down. “You're sorely mistaken. I rather think she's more taken with Azriel, these days.”

He stared at her for a long second. “If that's true, than I wish them the best. How Elain lives her life is her business, not mine. I'm here as a favor to my brother, and nothing else.”

Lucien stepped past her, opening the door with a loud creak of the rusty hinges. He paused on the threshold. “I'll continue to offer out my hand to Elain until she tells me to stop or rejects the bond.” His eyes, one russet and one gold, both seeming to burn, glared her down. “Has Cassian offered you the same courtesy?”

He left before she could respond, the door closing with a polite click. His words lingered though, the final barb landing harshly.

“My only regret is that we did not have time.”

Cassian had promised her time and never delivered. Had decided, in the aftermath of that final battle, of laying together bloody and dying on the ground, that she wasn't worth it.

Nesta spun on her heel, suddenly furious. Her eyes landed on the letter and it made her anger burn brighter. How dare Eris Vanserra reach out to her? She'd never met him, besides the Summit meeting where they hadn't exchanged a single personal word. Now, he sent her a letter, reaching out when even her--when even Cassian didn't speak to her except to run after her after spending an entire night ignoring her in favor of Morrigan. She wanted to burn the letter, to make a mockery of Autumn's power, but she couldn't bring herself to light the stone fireplace.

In her veins, Nesta's power stirred, rising up with dizzying speed. She pushed it down, buried it, drowned it, anything to keep it away. It'd done nothing to save her father, to protect Cassian or those thousand Illyrians on the battlefield. She didn't want it, had regretted nothing more in her life than going into that Cauldron and bringing part of it back out.

Sober. Nesta was far, far too sober. Even her hangover was gone now, due to her awful fae healing that she'd never asked for. That had been forced upon her, as the Night Court had been, as Velaris, as the fucking bond she felt snap in the wake of the Cauldron aiming its power, given to her just before it was going to kill Cassian, her--

She didn't bother to pull out the buckets she used to bathe. Only scrubbed quickly with a cloth, threw on her cleanest dress, and stormed out the door.

Ianuarius 5th, Year 1 A.W., Velaris

The corner piece clicked into place, a few more easy edges quickly following. Amren was one of those people who put together any pieces she found, but Nesta preferred starting with the edges. It made it easier in some ways; they both just sat quietly, the clink of their glasses of wine when they took a drink and shuffling of pieces creating a soft cadence to relax with.

Nesta didn't need to worry, here. The simple buzz of wine covered the roaring of her veins; the easy company required no softening of her edges. Her mind drifted, there only enough to match the edges together, otherwise free and loose in a way that she only found chased between the sheets.

“Will you show up for Starfall?”

“No,” Nesta responded immediately. Some of her regular drinking companions had started to speak about the street-level celebrations for the Night Court's sacred holiday and she could almost be excited to see it. Almost.

Nesta didn't really feel much of anything these days.

“Your sister will be offended,” Amren pointed out, snapping two large sections of the puzzle together as Nesta finished the third side. She didn't bother to moderate her tone into anything but cruel condescending fact. As always she said whatever she wanted, no matter the implications or consequences. Amren was worse than Nesta, in some ways.

“I don't care.”

She dragged the last handful of edge pieces towards her, clicking them together and then lining Amren's collection up with the top edge.

“Don't you?”

No, Nesta didn't. Hadn't cared for a long, long time. Not since Feyre had seen her apartment, the first place Nesta had ever chosen for herself, and sneered at it. Or maybe it was before that, when Feyre had left them trapped in that awful House of Wind, with Elain catatonic and Nesta something other, all with no support but strangers who didn't even like them. There'd been something broken between Nesta and Feyre for years and years and she didn't know how to fix it.

She didn't know if she wanted to.

It was an awful thing to think from an awful person. Nesta had loved Feyre since she'd been three years old and had held her baby sister for the first time.

“I've loved you since the moment I held you in my arms.”

She'd failed her, in that cabin--Nesta knew that. But she'd gone to the wall to get her back, had put herself and Elain in danger because Feyre had asked it of her, had walked onto that battlefield all because Nesta would always fight for someone she loved.

It made her a cruel, wicked creature that she could no longer find that passion for her sister. It made Nesta a witch and viper and every other evil thing anyone had ever called her, to not be able to reach out as Feyre had done after her time Under the Mountain. Nesta was weaker than Feyre though, had never had the same strength to find something to live for, and she hated herself for it. Hated it as much as she hated her body, her sharp tongue and cold heart, hated the cold fire that curled and sparked and couldn't be beaten down--

“Girl.”

Nesta twitched, her hand knocking into her glass of wine. She caught it before it could break, draining it in one long swallow. Amren watched her too closely, silver eyes shrewd.

“You have all the last pieces,” was all she said, but Nesta could barely hear her, and certainly couldn't stand to sit here and finish a puzzle. As if she wasn't a monster with too much power, as if she hadn't abandoned her little sister, as if she couldn't taste each of her failures, each worse than the last.

She left Amren to her puzzle.

Ianuarius 8th, Year 0 A.W., Velaris.

Nesta had several neighbors, most affected by the war in some way. Miss Dolla was the only one she really interacted with--a sweet young 'lesser faerie' who'd been orphaned during the war and was too old for the orphanage but too young for any real line of work. She'd been using the meager money left to her to rent an apartment in the cheapest part of town and try to find a chef or baker willing to take an apprentice. It was hard though when she had no connections and no formal education, so Miss Dolla resorted to plying Nesta with whatever dishes she made and didn't finish off herself.

There were several others in the building, but the only other one that Nesta knew the name of was Old Man Kane. And she hated him. Not for any fault of his own: he was a gruff, straightforward veteran that had been old--but still a soldier--during the Slave War and was downright ancient now. Nesta liked that he didn't judge her for her drinking and she liked that he didn't care if she was rude in the hallway and she liked that he was openly against most of Rhysand's policies, often grousing about missing the old days when Llyr ruled. The only thing stopping her from liking him was one simple fact that wasn't even really his fault.

He was dying. And Nesta could taste it.

Taste didn't really cover it though. There wasn't a word in any language she knew that explained what Nesta felt when she looked at Old Man Kane. She would see him in the hallway and the back of her throat would tingle, her bones would creak, and some dark part of her soul would sit up and watch. A beast waiting to be fed.

She always knew when Old Man Kane was home because the back of her neck would tingle and she could follow the ash and decay and power quivering inside of her to pinpoint the exact place he was. Worse, every day that he got closer to death, the more she could feel it. And it happened for everyone. Any time Nesta stepped outside her building, she could tell who was close to death. The cafe owner with a bad cough; the regular bar brawler; the old fisherman that always smelled of the docks. The only way Nesta had to drown it all out was to drink and surround herself with so many people that she could no longer tell where the power was coming from.

The first time she'd felt it was on that battlefield, the Illyrian army flying above her. There'd been so much death already that she was drowning in it, but then above everything else rose a tidal wave of power, a cruel cocktail of blood and decay that set her bones vibrating and she had known what was coming for that army. For Cassian. She'd felt it, then, the snap of the bond. The connecting, guiding light that she never touched, tried to avoid thinking of.

Nesta jerked out of her contemplation, shoving her thoughts down, rummaging up a bottle of something hard and nasty to drink like water. It soothed her, but her mind kept spinning and she was desperate for a distraction as she collapsed onto her couch, unwilling to return to Amren again.

The letter from Eris still sat on her low table, mocking her.

She should burn it, or rip it, or just throw it away. Anything. A snake like him didn't have anything good to say.

Nesta recalled, though, the look Eris had given her at the Summit. When she'd balked at the attention of all the High Lords, he'd stared her down. It'd given her enough spite to stand straight and keep talking, even as her stomach rolled with anxiety. And he'd lingered, only for a moment or two, to stare her down. Cassian had growled in warning, but Nesta had seen the way Eris acknowledged her. The near respect on his face.

Even back then, Cassian was territorial. Though never enough to come look for her after the war. Not enough to talk to her when she was dragged to the townhouse.

He cared about Nesta up until it stopped being convenient.

She picked up the letter before she could change her mind.

To Lady Nesta Archeron of Night,

It has come to my attention how little I've heard of you since the war. As Night's Emissary--here, Nesta rolled her eyes. No matter what pretty title Rhysand pretended she carried, she'd been given no actual job or responsibilities as an Emissary besides that one meeting of the High Lords--you left quite the impression during the Summit last year, and it baffles the mind of intelligent fae such as myself--“What an absolute ponce,” she muttered--how minimal contact has been. Here in Autumn we continue to rebuild in the aftermath of Amarantha and Hybern, and are always looking for ways to extend aid and helping hands.

While I doubt Autumn will be blessed with a personal visit--she snorted--I hope you will consider this letter the beginning of a dialogue between two individuals with much in common, so that we might build a connection between ourselves and our Courts.

In hope I might hear from you soon, I remain,

Prince Eris Vanserra, General of Autumn.

Muttering to herself about annoying, presumptuous pricks, Nesta set aside her bottle long enough to scramble around for pen and paper and write a short, scathing letter back. She folded it up crisply but had no wax to seal it with. Before she could use a candle and simple coin as a seal--which would've been very embarrassing--she was interrupted by a knock at her door. She considered ignoring it, but it came again with the same funny pattern--a knock, knock-knock, knock sort of rhythm--and she knew who it was.

“I hadn't realized you enjoyed my company so much,” she taunted as she pulled the door open for Lucien. To her surprise and disgust, he held several bags filled with groceries. “No,” she said immediately.

“Hello Nesta, lovely to see you so lively,” he offered drily. “The enchantments for my kitchen unraveled this afternoon and I can't get anyone in to fix it until next week. Can I use yours?”

“No,” she repeated. “Aren't you filthy rich and connected to His Royal Darkness?”

His face tightened, something like distaste flashing in his russet eye. “I'd rather not use Rhysand's name when it can be helped.”

“Then use his kitchen. Last I checked he had three with a fourth on the way.”

“And deal with their awful family dinners? No thanks.” Well, she couldn't blame him for that. “Look, I promise that every time I use your kitchen I'll make enough to feed you and clean up after myself.”

She didn't particularly like Lucien but she also didn't want to burn him off the face of the planet, so he was already better liked than ninety percent of the people she knew.

“Complain about my apartment and get kicked to the curb.” She twisted on her heels, leaving the door open.

“I wouldn't dream of it,” he offered drily, stepping in and closing the door behind him. He didn't speak as he began puttering about the tiny kitchen, making no commentary about the dirty dishes in the sink, her minimal cookware, or the thick smell of stale sex and old booze that permeated the entire apartment.

Nesta let the silence hover, stepping into her room only to realize she had nothing to do. She spent so little time in this apartment--and when she was, she usually had company or was asleep--that she didn't actually have anything much to do. She puttered around, mostly tossing piles of clothes from one end to another without actually cleaning them up. In the kitchen, Lucien clanked his way through whatever meal he was making.

Annoyed at herself for hiding in her own home, and even more annoyed at the silence, she swept back into the main room and swipped her still open bottle of liquor.

“Enjoying your new position as the Night Court's lapdog?” she demanded.

“Not even a little,” he responded with just as much bite, beginning to chop vegetables. “Spring is in ruins, it's various lords and sentinels are scrambling for control of the strongholds and destroyed villages and they no longer trust me. Tamlin won't do anything about it. Princess Cressida of Summer has been very firm in denying me a meeting with Tarquin since its become known I work for Night. Kallias of Winter met with me once and made not so subtle remarks about my shifting loyalties before cutting my visit short when he realized I couldn't offer him trade deals with Spring to feed his people. Rhysand ordered me not to bother with contacting Day, and since what friends I did have with that Court were all murdered during Amarantha's rule, I can't even make a guess to what Helion's position in all this is. Eris tells me he's reaching out to the Seasonal Courts to reaffirm alliances but the Mother only knows what's actually happening in Autumn. Thesan is about the only High Lord still in power that I've maintained a good relationship to all these centuries and even he's been gently side-stepping any final deals with me.”

Nesta blinked at the onslaught of information, the growing fuzziness of her head making it hard to sparse everything. She knew all the names invovled vaguely from the war, but found herself surprised at the quick, easy way Lucien spoke about all of them as if they were nothing more than chess pieces.

“Needed to get that off your chest, did you?”

He snorted softly, slidding the diced peppers and onions into a pot on the stove, the apartment quickly growing warmer from the stove. He added chopped pieces of chicken to another pan and begin frying them. “You're an emissary yourself, aren't you? These are the sorts of things you should know about.” He looked up, raising a mocking brow at her. “If you ever bother to do your job, that is.”

“My job ended with the war,” she snapped. “Rhys and Feyre have asked nothing of me in any official capacity.”

“Have you asked them for any work?” he shot back. “For any details on their connections to the other courts or the continental countries? For ways to contact the human queens?” The whole kitchen was beginning to smell divine and her stomach grumbled, making her temper raise higher as Lucien added water to the pot.

“Isn't that what they have you for?” she mocked.

“They keep me on a leash because I'm useful when nullified and dangerous in any other court.”

“And they know you'll be loyal while Elain is here.”

“Yes,” he admitted darkly, adding noodles to the boiling water. “There's that. Tell me though, not-quite emissary: how are they controlling you?”

Through money, if she was honest. After the war, when she'd declared she wanted to move out, Rhysand had told her to use his accounts as payment for her services in the war. She hadn't had the energy to argue about getting her own account or funds, and certainly hadn't bothered finding other forms of work. Not when she had to be half a bottle deep just to function these days. She wasn't about to tell Lucien that though.

“Haven't you heard?” she simpered. “High Lord Rhysand is so benevolent to let his mate's mean older sister live in his precious city. Why would I ever want to leave?”

That got a quiet chuckle from him, as he drained the water from the pot and began serving up dinner. “You know Nesta, I think I might be starting to like you.”

“Then Amarantha clearly took your sense when she took your eye.”

He offered her a plate filled with pasta and chiken, topped with cheese. She grabbed silverware for the both of them and led him over to collapse on the couch. She didn't keep a dinning table.

“Amarantha took a hell of a lot from all of us.”

She didn't have a response to that, so shoved a bite in her mouth. It was good, in a simple, homely way. Nesta had no idea where he would've learned to cook, but he was surprisingly decent at it.

She nudged her half empty bottle towards him, the only concession to gratefulness she'd allow when he'd invaded her home. He didn't make a comment as he took a swig straight from the bottle.

Her mother must have been turning in her grave at Nesta's hosting skills.

“Who were your friends in Day?” she asked after she managed to stomach a handful of bites. It was the most she could managed.

“The Heir, Prince Eosphoros, his wife Iris, and his brother Aeolus were all friends of mine. High Lord Zephryos always looked at me strangely and seemed uncomfortable any time I visited, so left Eosphoros to do dealings with me.”

“Wait, Helion wasn't heir? How did he inherit?”

“When Amarantha first came, Day and Summer had very large royal families. When Zephyros was about 300 he became High Lord and married nearly immediately Lady Hestia. Together they had a son who was Prince Eurus. The problem was that Eurus showed no signs of being the Heir, even after he'd reached his third decade. No one did.”

“How is that possible? Since he was the High Lord's son, shouldn't he have automatically been Heir? Like Eris?”

Lucien shook his head, placing aside his plate and getting a little more comfortable. Nesta, despite herself, was riveted. She'd always been a fan of history--had even memorized every family tree of each noble family up to four generations back in the human lands--and found it fascinating to think that fae were as concerned with heirships and inheritance as humans, despite their long lives.

“You have to understand that High Lords aren't chosen by any laws or social constraints. They're chosen by the magic of the land. No one knows how, or why, but when the first seven High Lords agreed to each rule a court, they tied themselves to that court and with it, its magic. It's one of the only examples of wild magic in the modern day. When one High Lord dies, the magic seeks out another to take his place: the only requirements being that it's a male of the blood from the first High Lord of that land.”

“Feyre isn't male,” Nesta felt the need to point out.

“Feyre also wasn't chosen as a High Lady by the magic. She was made High Lady by Rhysand, and probably the only reason why it worked was that she had a drop of Rhysand's power. Anyway, the point I'm getting at is that the magic has all the control over who takes over, and we don't really know who that's going to be until it happens. But there are signs of the magic favoring one heir over another. Stronger magic, a deeper understanding of the land, that sort of thing. A lot of High Lords can feel who the magic is going to choose as Heir. Of course, sometimes it changes its mind, skipping around from various princes, sometimes going dormant for years before it opts to show itself in someone. Usually by twenty-one, when fae reach magical maturity, they'll have been some sign of it.”

She took a moment to digest what he said, letting the soft fuzzy edges of her growing buzz fade away. “But Eurus showed no signs,” she prompted finally.

“Correct. Zephryos didn't have any family besides some very, very distant kin and his widowed mother; he worried someone unknown would take over. This was back when the fae still kept slaves, and discontent had been growing both among fae and humans so he knew war might be coming. He arranged a marriage for Eurus so that he could produce another child, hopefully an Heir.” Lucien paused to laugh, grin growing. “At the wedding, Eurus felt a mating bond snap to his bride's sister, so you can imagine the chaos and scandal that followed.”

“I wish I could've seen that.”

“Me too. Anyway, about fifty years before the Slave War began, Eurus and his mate had Helion, who was declared Heir the day he was born. Apparently, every building in Avalir, Day's capital, glowed in time with his cries.”

“So how did Eosphoros become Heir?”

“Zephryos's wife was killed during the war,” Lucien continued. “He remarried a few decades later and produced three more children in the centuries that followed: Eosphoros, Aeolus, and Princess Aphrodite. When Eosphoros was born, the magic started favoring him more than Helion, and Aeolus was just as powerful as the both of them. Eosphoros had twin boys who were also showing signs of great power. It was generally accepted that Helion had gone from Heir to fifth in line in the course of half a century.”

“So when Day rebelled...”

“The entire family was killed,” Lucien murmured. “Helion alone was spared because he hadn't even been Under the Mountain at the time. As a grandson of the High Lord, but one that was ultimately last in line, he'd been left behind in Day when the courts first went to meet Amarantha. He'd been the main one organizing the rebels outside the mountain on orders from his grandfather. It wasn't until he became High Lord that she managed to find him and drag him down with the rest of them.”

Nesta swallowed heavily, letting the silence hover. Even now, Lucien looked sad for his lost friends. Nesta couldn't even comprehend what it'd be like, to have an entire family you knew to be dead within moments of each other, all because of a single female.

“You're well versed in Court history,” she finally said, trying to regain some of her bite. “Should I be warning Rhysand about defection?” It fell flat, but Lucien smirked anyway.

“What can I say? My education was very thorough.” He didn't comment on the second part, only stood and began collecting their dishes. He paused when he saw the papers, and Nesta realized she'd left the letters out. “You want me to send that to him?”

“Might as well,” she said with a shrug. “I mostly just told him to fuck off.”

“Let me know if it works,” he responded, picking up her unsealed response and making it vanish in a whisp of flames. In her chest, her own power shifted in answer and she hurried to grab the near-empty bottle. “I've been trying to get Eris to leave me alone for centuries.”

“It can't be that hard,” she muttered. “He has no reason to be sending me letters anyway.”

O.0.O

“Prince Eris,” a slick, simple voice called. Eris hid his distaste behind a blank mask of neutrality as he turned to the short, spindly male that had called his name. “I'd been hoping to speak with you; if you have the time.”

“Lord Aubert,” Eris greeted simply. “What do you require?” Lord Tarsus Aubert, Marquis of Ignis, was a short fae male with too long limbs that always gave Eris the vague idea he was looking at a pale red-haired spider. The fact that he'd been ruling Ignis, the northernmost region of Autumn, for the last six centuries and had made himself thoroughly liked by Beron--as much as Beron was capable of liking anyone that was--meant that despite having only mediocre magic and nearly no skill in battle, he was an incredibly powerful male.

Eris had hated him since he was five.

Around them, the Lords' Gathering spun on. Every three months, Beron liked to call all the Lords and their wives from around Autumn to join him for a soiree. It was reportedly to allow any of them to offer up worries to their High Lord and maintain close ties with the ruling class. The reality was that Beron used it as an opportunity to dispense punishment and make fools of anyone who'd displeased him.

Already Lord Conall Torna, a Governor of one of the Inanis farmlands, had been made to drink boiling oil for his projected crop shortage when the harvest came. At least his wife, Lady Ena, had managed to not make a fool of herself: she'd stayed quiet and obedient through the torture. She'd even managed to thank Beron with a straight face for his mercy in not outright killing Conall. Eris made a mental note to make sure she was taken care of if Conall didn't survive the night. Her son wasn't nearly as competent as Conall.

By this point in the evening, with dinner and dessert cleared away and the dancing dismissed, all the females had retired to his mother's receiving room for tea and gossip while the males remained in the throne room for scotch and gossip.

It amazed Eris sometimes the sheer amount of hypocrisy inherent in governance.

“Nothing much, my Prince,” Aubert prattled on. Perhaps it was no wonder hypocrisy and ineptitude defined Autumn's ruling class when males like Aubert were one of the three most powerful people outside the High Lord's family. Eris, not for the first time, wondered how difficult it would be to kill Tarsus so his son Aiwin could take over. “I heard recently that you've paid a visit to Winter. I'd hoped only for an update on our dealings with High Lord Kallias.”

Which meant Aubert wanted to know if he could continue his constant antagonistic relationship with Winter's border guard over the Suntona mountain range and who had mining rights. Eris was more inclined to let Kallias and his people suffer the labor of the mines and then have him turn a large portion of the iron and jewels over to Autumn in exchange for grain and vegetables, but Beron had already denied that proposition.

“Winter is hoping for favorable trade agreements concerning food, in the wake of Spring's instability,” Eris offered. “But we have yet to reach a contract.”

Aubert's russet eyes glittered, no doubt contemplating how he could twist this to his advantage. Not for his people's sakes--Aubert cared little that over half of Ignis starved while he made himself rich, the limited farmland along the Donnarone River becoming hoarded by the Marquis and whichever of his Viscounts he favored most at the time. Eris had been trying to manage the food shortages in the north of Autumn for centuries, but couldn't do much while Tarsus was Lord Aubert and had Beron's favor. Aiwin, at least, had been quietly making reform plans at Eris's behest for decades, waiting for the day Tarsus could be dealt with.

Across the wide, high-ceilinged chamber, Eris caught sight of Lady Alanis slipping back into the room through a servant's passage. Making a curt goodbye, he slipped away from the Marquis and skittered his way along the outside of the room until he came up behind her. She didn't see him, busy as she was trying to both stay out of sight and catch sight of Cormac. A pity his brother was busy speaking with Lord Ivins Marbot, Viscount of Barrcona.

“What do you think you're doing?” He kept his voice low and quiet, but Alanis jumped anyway. As Tarsus's daughter she had the same red hair and dark eyes, but little else of her father. Like Aiwin, she had the oval face and splattering of freckles of their late mother.

“I--nothing, Eris. I only wanted to speak with Cor.”

Taking her by the elbow, he slipped them both out of the throne room before Beron could catch sight of them. Having first married Finnegan only to lose him near immediately and then be married to Cromac, Alanis had been a Vanserra for over 250 years and should have learned centuries ago not to enter a Lords' Gathering after being dismissed with the rest of the females.

“Are you looking to get whipped?” he demanded of her. “What could possibly be important enough that it couldn't wait until Cormac returned to his chambers?”

“Not something you need to concern yourself with,” she demurred, sliding her eyes away from his. Eris actually liked Alanis--she was usually smart enough to be obedient but not so empty-headed as to assume females couldn't have their own sort of power if they were smart about it--but she was also a female in the Autumn Court and knew what happened if you displeased a Vanserra male.

“Alanis,” Eris said quietly, drawing her further away from the servants' entrance they'd slipped out of and into a shaded nook. He glamoured them as best he could, knowing that there were a few assumptions that would be made if they were found like this and fewer still that would end well for either of them. “I will give you three seconds to tell me why you were stupid enough to step into a Lords' Gathering.” He didn't bother with a specific threat. Eris had never once hit Alanis but his reputation proceeded him. Her already pale face paled further, and Eris realized her eyes were red and a little wild, her hair tangled as if she'd been pulling it.

For a moment he thought she wouldn't answer and he truly would need to punish her, but then all at once her eyes welled up and she twisted until she was griping him, nails biting into his forearm. “I have never asked anything of you Eris, not as my Prince, not as my brother-in-law. But please, don't tell the High Lord.”

“Don't tell him what, Alanis? I can't help if you won't tell me what's happened.”

“It--it's Lura. Lura Marbot.”

“Lord Ivins daughter? What of her?”

“She's pregnant,” Alanis breathed, barely moving her lips as she said: “The youngling is Cormac's.”

“What?!” Eris hissed.

As if admitting the truth made it impossible to stop, Alanis hurried on. “She's been hiding her changing scent with perfumes and oils, but it's growing stronger. I stumbled upon her just a few minutes ago getting sick and smelled it on her. She plans on telling Cormac tonight. I tried to convince her not to but she's terrified of what her father will do and if the High Lord finds out--” She didn't finish the thought. She didn't need to.

Beron hated bastards and he hated being made a fool of. The fact that Alanis had yet to produce a child in over two centuries was already an embarrassment, but if it became apparent that Cormac would rather produce a bastard with an unmarried lady than his own wife, heads would burn.

“When was the last time Cormac joined your bed?” Eris asked.

Alanis went pink, staring at the stone floor. “He--often. He joins me often.”

Eris blinked, trying to put the pieces together. The Vanserra's had long been fertile, Beron and Niamh especially. Considering Lura, Cormac clearly had no problems producing heirs and Alanis's own mother had managed two children in the span of three decades before passing from an illness. If Cormac was still joining her in bed then there was no reason why she shouldn't be pregnant herself unless she was--

“You didn't,” Eris breathed. She didn't look up. “Tell me you aren't taking a contraceptive.” She didn't respond. “Burning Mother, Alanis. Are you trying to get yourself killed? Beron would have grounds to execute you if he found out.” A female taking a contraceptive without their husband's approval had been made illegal shortly after Killian had been born and Niamh had been caught trying to avoid another pregnancy. For a female to do it to a member of the royal family was grounds for treason.

“I know,” she hissed, finally looking up. Her russet eyes burned with a spark of fire, making her unshed tears glisten. “I know, alright? But if I have youngling and Beron does to them--” she choked, shaking her head.

Despite himself, Eris could understand where she was coming from. He'd barely survived watching his younger brothers face Beron's wrath. He never wanted a child of his to be anywhere near the High Lord. Of course, his sympathizing didn't solve any of the current problems.

“Where is Lura?” he asked finally.

“In Cormac's chambers,” she admitted.

“This is what's going to happen,” he started strictly, locking their gaze. “We are going to Cormac's rooms. You're going to put on the most provocative nightgown you own and ensure Cormac is thoroughly distracted for the rest of the evening. You will stop taking a tonic, where ever you've even been getting it from, and will do your best to produce a child.”

“What...what about Lura?”

“I will deal with Lura.” When she opened her mouth, he cut her off firmly. “You will never, ever, ask questions on this situation again. You will not make comment or reference. You will forget it ever happened and do your duty as a wife.” She looked so terrified, so concerned for a child that hadn't even been conceived yet, that he softened himself enough to say: “If you produce a child we'll find ways to protect them. But until then I do not want to hear another word of this conversation. Cormac is never to know. Am I clear?”

She swallowed heavily but nodded. “Yes, Eris.”

He led her through back hallways and secret passageways, those used by servants and ignored by guards. The Forest House was less a single entity and more various sunken buildings all connected through underground passageways, many of them forgotten or hidden away among roots and stone. At their age, each of the Vanserra brothers had homes to themselves that were separate from the central body of the House.

Alanis had calmed by the time they reached the connecting suit of rooms that she and Cormac had. She stepped into her room, giving only a simple nod before she disappeared through the wooden door. Eris stepped into Cormac's room, making a mental note that he apparently didn't bother to station guards when he wasn't in.

It took less than an hour, in the end. When faced with Eris, Lura had a breakdown, not unlike Alanis. Her father was as much a monster as Beron and she knew that if it was discovered she'd not only lost her virginity before marriage but gotten pregnant at the same time, she was as good as dead. As much as it made Eris an asshole and a monster of his own, he had no problem capitalizing on her fears to get her to listen to his orders.

Sneaking her out to his personal healer was child's play, considering how often he got away from the Forest House. Getting her to drink the tonic to cause a miscarriage, less so; but in the end, she did it.

By the time Eris made it back to the Forest House, Lura back in her own rooms and claiming to all her servants that her cycles had come, he wanted nothing more than to down a glass of scotch and fall into bed. Forgetting this day ever happened was high on his list of wishes that would never be granted; so he settled for the hope Cormac would never learn Eris had helped kill his unborn child.

He had one last surprise waiting for him though: when he went to lay down, paper crinkled underneath his pillow. Knowing only one person sent messages to him like that, he quickly pulled it out. It had no seal, no outward address, but the fire and steel scent was one he would never mistake.

To Prince Eris Vanserra of Autumn,

I wonder if whatever spy whispers in your ear told you I was an emissary to the human lands, not Prythian Courts. Perhaps redirect your ego stroking--he laughed outright here--and false flattery towards your dearest brother Lucien. Or even Morrigan, if you have the courage for it.

In hope I won't hear from you again,

Lady Nesta Archeron, Human Emissary of Night.

He couldn't help the slow smile pulling across his face, and for once Eris didn't bother trying to hide it. After the first days of the new year had passed, he had given up hope that she would write back. He'd made peace she didn't want to hear from him, and hadn't even blamed her for it.

Eris certainly would not direct his next letters to Morrigan. After all, by responding Nesta had given him tacit permission to begin sending her letters directly.

#ACoDaG #eris vanserra #nesta archeron #lucien vanserra #a court of thorns and roses #acotar fanfiction #my writing #tw miscarriage #eris/nesta #neris

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