#ample grime | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

zarameraki · 1 month

Text

♡₊˚🥀₊✧ 𝘀𝘂𝗸𝘂𝗻𝗮 𝗶𝘀 𝗼𝗯𝘀𝗲𝘀𝘀𝗲𝗱 𝘄𝗶𝘁𝗵 𝗵𝗶𝘀 𝗰𝗼𝗻𝗰𝘂𝗯𝗶𝗻𝗲 ♡₊˚🥀₊✧

: ̗̀➛ tropes: fem! reader 𖥔 minors do not interact 𖥔 king x concubine 𖥔 lots of plot with porn 𖥔 mentions of abuse 𖥔 mentions of sexual assault 𖥔 normal form sukuna (sorry yall but next time ill do his big boy one) 𖥔 he only has eyes for you 𖥔 you're his darling 𖥔 he would kill for you 𖥔 breeding (!!!!) 𖥔 alternate universe 𖥔 nsfw 𖥔 smut

: ̗̀➛ words: 8.8k

: ̗̀➛ notes: this took a whole WEEK to edit. im so obsessed with this story. it's my favourite thing ive written because i love period movies and dramas and really got to challenge my writing skills to give it more a fantasy-esque element. if you have any requests, don’t hesitate to send them. pls follow, reblog, like, comment—whatever you want! okay love you and enjoy.

The diligent hands of Lord Sukuna Ryomen’s palace attendants scrubbed away the grime that clung to every inch of your weary form. There were no traces of tears in your eyes, despite the discomfort of the cleansing process.

Perhaps it was the residue of gratitude for an escape from a foster family who saw fit to barter you away for a pittance to fuel their vices.

The water surrounding you had transformed into a murky haze, carrying away the evidence of your former life's hardships.

Yet, amidst this cleansing ritual, you couldn’t shake the puzzling thought of why the guards had singled you out from the other young women within the household. Uraume, the overseer of palace affairs, had arrived alongside them, their presence looming over the proceedings with an air of mystery.

That morning, you were subjected to abuse in front of everyone at the central market, longing for someone to stand up for you. And someone did. They offered you an escape from that hellhole and into a world of luxury.

You weren’t going to complain now that you had accepted this new fate of yours.

“Ya’ got too many scars, girl,” remarked one of the elderly attendants, gently assisting you out of the steaming bath, her hands wrapping a towel around your shivering form. “Our powders will struggle to conceal ’em all. How did ya’ come by such marks?”

“From my foster family,” you murmured, gaze fixed upon your toes as if they held the weight of your past. The plush carpet beneath your feet offered a small comfort, a luxury unfamiliar to your upbringing.

Memories of their harsh discipline flooded back—the blistering gravel underfoot as punishment for daring to voice dissent. It was a brutal introduction to a world where obedience was paramount.

“A wretched lot,” the attendant muttered sympathetically.

Enveloped in a silk robe, she led you into a chamber shared by a cohort of women, a realm far removed from the confines of your previous abode. Here, space was ample—the expanse excessive, with beds lining the walls and a high ceiling adorned with a single chandelier.

As you entered, a symphony of pretty faces and inquisitive gazes greeted you. Women of all colours and shapes reclined luxuriously in plain robes, their hair intricately braided or cascading freely down their backs. Conversations paused, curiosity piqued by your arrival, as all eyes turned to welcome you into their midst.

Beneath the weight of their scrutinising stares, you found yourself shrinking. These women, draped in silk and adorned with jewels, were the king's favoured concubines, a fact repeatedly emphasised during your journey to the palace and even in the fragrant confines of the bathhouse.

Every instinct urged you to rebel, to refuse to be just another ornament in the king’s harem, but you understood the value placed on purity by the monarch.

Unfortunately, your innocence had been cruelly stolen from you by your foster father, leaving you tarnished in body and spirit. Lord Sukuna would have no use for a damaged flower in his garden of perfection.

In truth, you couldn’t even imagine an image of his face in your mind. His Lordship remained a mystery to those beyond the palace walls.

“Here ya’ are.” The attendant guided you to your bed. “That vanity there’s yours to use.” She gestured toward the communal area by the window, where two other young women were preparing themselves. “Once your hair dries, one of my girls will assist ya’ in preparin’ for your audience with His Lordship.” Her touch was gentle as she caressed your cheek. “Rest assured, dear, ya’ safe now.”

You attempted a smile, though the effort seemed Herculean amidst your weariness.

As the attendant departed, her scolding to the rowdy girls fading into the background, you nestled into the comforting embrace of your soft bedding, ignoring the hushed criticisms trailing in your wake.

She’s feeble.

Her hair lacks refinement.

The king would never entertain a lowly pauper.

She’ll be gone by tomorrow.

Their words, like venomous serpents, slithered through the air.

Amidst their degradation, you succumbed to exhaustion.

But your slumber was interrupted by the bustling commotion of handmaidens assembling around you.

Disoriented and scarcely given a moment to collect your thoughts, you found yourself swiftly escorted to the vanity, where the clamour of girls jostling for space filled the air.

They manipulated your locks, weaving intricate patterns into your hair, fashioning a crown braid atop your head while allowing the remaining tresses to cascade freely down your back.

Meanwhile, other attendants removed your robe, their hands moving with practised efficiency as they anointed your skin with fragrant oils, infusing it with the delicate essence of lavender.

Between the flurry of activity, the whispers of your fellow concubines hung in the air like a veil of awe and trepidation. Their eyes were drawn to the scars marring your skin, as they speculated about how the king would perceive your imperfections as repulsive.

Good.

You craved precisely that outcome.

If the king recoiled at your sight, it meant he wouldn’t desire you to bear his heir. If the tales circulating in the town about his monstrous nature held any truth, then he’d likely offer you death as a reprieve—and you’d welcome it with open arms.

Before facing the king, you stole a glance at your reflection, the final moments of solitude before your fate was decided. The powder concealed the imperfections of your skin, rendering it smooth and flawless. Your cheeks and lips bore a muted hue reminiscent of crushed cherries. Delicate white blossoms adorned your hair, woven into your braids by nimble fingers.

As you stood, the other women adorned you in a robe of silky fabric, its floral pattern draping over your form, cinched at the waist to accentuate your curves. Barefoot, you followed them out, the chill of the floor beneath your feet a stark contrast to the warmth of anticipation and trepidation swirling within you.

“Good luck, pauper,” taunted one of the concubines, her voice dripping with disdain, echoed by a cacophony of mocking laughter.

Palms clammy with nerves, you shifted your gaze to the opulence of the palace corridors. Adorned with countless chandeliers and swathes of velvet drapery, they offered a stark contrast to the blooming back garden. Memories of tending to the earth and nurturing life back at your foster family’s home flooded your mind.

“Quickly now,” one of the maids urged, her voice tinged with urgency. “His Lordship detests tardiness.”

“I apologise.” You hastened your steps to keep pace with the group of attendants.

She halted before a grand set of double doors, guarded by imposing sentinels clad in formidable armour. With a flick of her wrist, the guards swung the doors open. She gently nudged you forward, and only as you crossed the threshold did the doors seal shut behind you.

You blinked, adjusting to the dimness within, scanning the chamber until your gaze alighted upon a pair of crimson glimmers opposite you. “My Lord?” You inclined your head and took hesitant steps toward the source of those fiery eyes.

“Come closer,” his command echoed through the chamber, sending a shiver down your spine. The low resonance of His Highness Sukuna Ryomen’s voice was unexpectedly rich and velvety. You had envisioned a voice tinged with age, but instead, it possessed a rough texture that awoken something within you.

With hesitant steps, you approached until you stood at the edge of his bed, your fingertips grazing the diaphanous curtains that enveloped him in a cocoon of privacy.

“Closer,” he urged, coaxing you to unveil the enigma lying beyond the veil.

Swallowing the lump in your throat, you obeyed, parting the curtains and gracefully crawled onto the mattress. The silkiness of the sheets were a blatant contrast to the roughness of your foster house’s. A pang of guilt tugged at your conscience as you realized the irony of finding solace in this luxurious confinement of being his concubine.

“Enough.” His abrupt order halted your thoughts, drawing your attention back to the present moment.

As commanded, you obediently settled into your posture, folding your legs beneath you in the dimness. Within his shadowed realm, only the luminous crimson irises pierced through the gloom, studying you with an intensity that made your belly churn. Despite the curiosity burning within you, you restrained the impulse to voice your questions. Instead, you settled in the tranquillity that crowded the space between you.

“What is your name?” His inquiry cut through the hushed air.

“Y/N, my Lord.”

As your name slipped from your lips, he captured it delicately, repeating it like a sacred prayer. Each syllable danced on his tongue, imprinting itself upon the very essence of his being. In that moment, you observed a subtle shift—the shadows that had cloaked the chamber seemed to dissipate.

A soft, golden luminescence filtered through the parted curtains, cascading across half of Sukuna’s face.

You blinked in astonishment.

He appeared . . . young?

The age difference between you and him was not a chasm of decades, but rather a modest gap of no less than five years.

Physically, at least.

His appearance was striking, with locks of hair dyed a subdued pink hue, contrasting with a streak of darker shade beneath. His hair was styled into rugged spikes, lending an air of defiance. Intricate black markings adorned his features, tracing a path from his cheekbones down to his chin, while similar patterns wove across his strong shoulder, cascading over his defined pectoral muscles and sculpted abdomen.

As your eyes fell upon him, your heart quickened its pace, each beat a vicious drumming against your ribs. Gone was the expectation of a lord showing the signs of wisdom, with wrinkles upon his brow and a body marked by the passage of time. Instead, before you stood a vision of breathtaking beauty, defying your preconceived notions and leaving you breathless in awe.

With a graceful gesture, he swept aside the curtains, allowing them to unveil his entirety.

The same markings mirrored the other side of his face and cascaded down the length of his body, a mesmerising display of symmetry. Dark bands encircled his wrists, and his nails bore the same deep hue.

Poised against the headboard, he reclined with an air of effortless elegance, one knee raised as his elbow found a comfortable perch, while the other leg extended out. Though he was unclothed, a veil of silk sheets cloaked the lower half of his form.

“Remarkable,” you unknowingly whispered. Your hand clapped over your mouth. “I apologise, my Lord.”

Sukuna’s lips curved into a sinister grin, his flawless teeth gleaming in the golden light. While many would flee at the sight, you remained rooted in place, unable to tear your gaze away. A delicate flush spread across your cheeks, betraying the undeniable attraction simmering between your legs. He was absolutely divine, and the path of being his concubine suddenly didn’t seem so terrible.

Yet, the reality of sharing Sukuna with ten other women loomed over your thoughts like a shadow. The thought of him spreading his affections among so many others kindled a small flame of jealousy within you, mingled with confusion. Why hadn’t he impregnated at least one of them with the promise of an heir?

“Have you not been schooled in the art of lowering your gaze in the presence of nobility, Y/N?”

Your lashes fluttered as you registered your lapse in decorum, hastily averting your gaze. “Forgive me, my Lord, if my oversight has caused offence.” Surely, he wouldn’t punish you for a momentary lapse of admiration.

Would he?

A gentle touch beneath your chin guided your face upward. His fingers spread across your cheek, the warmth nearly forcing you to curve into his touch. Despite the temptation, your eyes remained obediently downward.

“Look at me.”

Your gaze lingered on him, tracing the delicate patterns etched over his cheek, the fiery hue of his irises, the elegant contour of his nose, and the soft curvature of his lips. Never before had you felt such a rousing desire towards any man. Yet fate had chosen to ensnare your heart with the one most forbidden to you.

“You bear a sadness that weighs heavily in your eyes,” he noted softly, his hand descending to the curve of your neck, his thumb caressing the frantic rhythm of your pulse. A low, melodic sound produced from his throat. “Tell me, my love, does the face before you stir fear within your heart?”

“It does not, my Lord. The fear of your appearance holds no dominion over me,” you declared with quiet resolve. “You’re quite . . . beautiful.”

Sukuna’s gaze sparked with a mixture of surprise and intrigue at your response.

Suppressing a nervous gulp, you silently reprimanded yourself for speaking so boldly to one of noble rank. Back in the confines of your former life, such defiance would have earned you swift punishment, yet here, in the presence of royalty, it could lead to your demise.

As you prepared to avert your gaze, ready to accept whatever consequences may come, Sukuna’s voice cut through the tense air before you could retreat.

“Don’t.”

In that moment, you found yourself questioning your instincts.

Why did you not cower in fear? Why did your body not tremble in the presence of a man who had slaughtered the lives of his enemies without hesitation? And most perplexing of all, how could you maintain unwavering eye contact with a figure of such formidable power?

“Remove your robe.” His grip remained firm around your throat, his thumb delicately tracing your pulse. “And do not stray your gaze elsewhere.”

“Yes, my Lord.” Your fingers loosened the fabric’s bindings, allowing it to cascade down your frame. The robe slipped from your shoulders, revealing the soft curvature of your form beneath. As it pooled around your lap, your breasts stood exposed to his scrutiny.

A shiver danced across your skin as his eyes traced the contours of your body, a faint smirk teasing his lips.

He brushed back strands of your hair, his touch trailing down your vertebrate. His eyes narrowed into thin slits, brows knitted together in contemplation, fingers repeatedly tracing the ridges of your scars.

“Turn around.”

The dreaded discovery that sent ripples of revulsion through the concubines had finally come to pass. Your scars lay exposed before the gaze of a powerful lord. Not only would he slit your throat, but also those of the maids who had tended to your needs, and perhaps even Uruame, who had brokered your purchase from the bastards responsible for your imperfections.

“Never before have I been compelled to repeat myself for a concubine.” His voice carried a lethal edge as he increased his grip around your throat. “Turn the fuck around.”

Your compliance came in slow, measured movements as you turned away, presenting your back to him in a gesture of submission. His hands gathered the strands of your hair, lifting them aside to reveal the raw truth etched into your skin. His fingers traced the jagged remnants of whip lashes, the seared imprints of cigars, and the cruel reminders of knife wounds inflicted by a foster father turned tormentor.

Silent tears traced a path down your cheeks, as you sat in a state of numbness, your gaze fixed upon the closed door of Sukuna’s chamber.

A tender sensation, soft and moist, grazed your back, prompting a reflexive twitch in your left shoulder.

Turning slightly, you beheld Sukuna pressing his lips against the scar that marred your shoulder blades.

“My Lord—”

“I did not ask you to speak,” he murmured over your skin, sending a tremor through your frame. “Rise onto your knees.”

Obeying his command, you ascended onto your knees, feeling the weight of his hands settle upon your waist. His lips trailed a path of reverence, bestowing kisses upon each mark that scarred your skin, from your marrow to your nape.

Your breath caught in a delicate dance of exhales, a whispered symphony escaping your parted lips. The wet caress of his tongue sent ripples of sensation coursing through your being.

His arm circled your waist, drawing you into the sanctuary of his embrace. A fleeting kiss graced the nape of your neck, followed by the suction of his lips upon the tender side of your neck. His soft hands possessively held the curve of your breasts, cradling their weight.

Your head reclined against his strong shoulder.

With his gaze fixed upon you, his lips glistened with a hint of moisture, while his crimson eyes locked onto your own human-like ones. You dared not divert your gaze as he previously ordered. His fingers pinched and pulled at your nipples, sending lightning strikes through your frame.

Unlike the non-consensual encounter of the past, there was no hint of agony; only a tantalising blend of pleasure that left you breathless, without a protest or helpless whimper. Instead, a sigh of pure rapture escaped your lips, encompassing your body in an embrace.

Sukuna’s gaze narrowed, a smile tugging at the corners of his lips as if he had stumbled upon a long-sought treasure.

His fingertips skated down your torso, gliding toward your centre. You captured your bottom lip between your teeth. Holding his gaze became a daunting challenge as he skillfully teased your sensitive nub, causing your breath to quicken and your chest to rise and fall with each exhilarating sensation.

Sukuna slid his middle finger into you. “You’re incredibly tight, Sad Eyes,” he murmured, the endearment he had bestowed upon you almost provoking a smile. His lips grazed your ear as he continued. “Perhaps I should stretch you out”—he pushed in his ring finger, forcing a sharp gasp to tear from your throat and an involuntary arch of your body against his chest—“so that your cunt is able to welcome my cock.”

You stifled the knot rising in your throat as Sukuna plunged his fingers into you. Such profound bliss seemed inconceivable with mere digits alone.

“My Lord.” Your breath caught as he increased his tempo. “My—” Each thrust intensified the knot in your stomach, threatening to unravel you entirely. You teetered on the brink, dangerously close to staining his fingers with your release. A sharp gasp choked out of you as he struck a wondrous chord deep within. “Please, my Lord. I beg of you—I will soil your hand if you persist—” But your plea dissolved into a cry of ecstasy before you could utter another word.

Sukuna’s laughter danced teasingly in the hollow of your ear, leaving you utterly spellbound.

You were overheated, overstimulated, overridden by the explosive undoing of his fingers. Breathless and consumed by lust, your world spun as he seized your jaw and crushed his lips to yours.

In that electrifying moment, his tongue invaded your mouth, initially startling you, yet you surrendered to the rhythm.

Sukuna leaned back slightly after planting a tender peck on your lips. Exhaling softly, he threaded his fingers through your hair, his touch sending shivers down your spine. As his lips met yours once more, gentler this time, your hand ventured to trace the contours of his adorned chest.

“You are quite the vixen.” A playful glint danced in his eyes. “How valiant of you to seduce a lord into bestowing kisses upon his concubine.” A broad smile graced his lips, leaving you uncertain whether his words were playful jest or genuine admiration.

“Do you not bestow your kisses upon all your concubines, my Lord?”

“I do not pleasure their cunts, either.”

His speech carried the brashness of a tempest, a departure from the expected decorum one associated with royalty. Sukuna Ryomen defied conventions. It was a trait uncommon among lords, yet one that intrigued you deeply. His demeanour, both in battle and in the intimate confines of the bedchamber, lacked the softening. But you found yourself drawn to his unfiltered honesty, appreciating the absence of cryptic speech.

As you sat before him, considering your next words carefully, a surge of courage emboldened you to reveal your truth.

“My Lord,” you began, your voice quivering with uncertainty, “I . . . I am not pure.”

“Given the sounds you were drawing out,” he quipped with a chuckle, “I wouldn’t have surmised otherwise.” He assisted you in rising from where you rested against his chest, positioning you before him. Observing your solemn expression, he arched an eyebrow in curiosity. “Was your satisfaction not fulfilled?”

“Indeed, my Lord, it surpassed any expectation,” you confessed, worrying your lip as he sighed impatiently. “But I must disclose . . . I am not chaste.”

Sukuna’s response was subdued, save for the faint twitch in his jaw. He averted his gaze from yours momentarily, reaching for the decanter on his bedside table and pouring himself a measure of spirits.

“Speak,” he instructed, his tone clipped.

“It occurred before I reached maturity,” you murmured softly, your arms wrapped protectively around yourself. “My foster father—” Your words faltered as Sukuna raised a hand, a silent acknowledgment of his comprehension of your unspoken anguish.

“I need not hear more.” He swiftly consumed the crimson liquid in a single gulp. “You are dismissed for the night.”

“But my Lord’s desires remain unmet—”

“Leave,” he commanded, his tone final and unwavering.

With a gulp, you hastily gathered your robe around your form, delicately extricating yourself from his expansive bed.

Just as you thought to retreat, a firm hand seized your wrist, drawing you back into Sukuna’s embrace. His lips melded with yours in an intoxicating kiss, causing both your gazes to flutter open when he pulled away. A faint smirk played upon his lips as he adjusted the robe over your shoulder.

“Next time,” he murmured, plucking a flower from the adornments in your hair and placing it upon his bedside, “you shall grace my chambers without such distracting embellishments upon yourself.”

“As you wish, my Lord,” you replied with a respectful bow of your head, awaiting his dismissal until he gestured for you to depart with a casual wave of his hand.

In the shared chambers, your fellow concubines swirled around your bed, eager to hear of your inaugural encounter with Lord Sukuna.

Each girl shared their own vivid tales, painting scenes of ecstasy under the cloak of darkness, where the king’s touch invoked sensations akin to celestial bodies colliding, or where unfamiliar pleasures erased the boundaries of their throat—whatever that latter entailed.

Though a twinge of jealousy flickered within you, it was swiftly overshadowed by a swell of pride. The concubines pleasured Sukuna in darkness, the same darkness you had willingly entered, before his touch had set ablaze a world of gold for you.

They were merely beautiful means of physical gratification for their lord, devoid of the intimacy you shared—his fingers delving deep into your core. And never had any of them spoken of kisses exchanged. Sukuna had spoken true when you questioned if others received similar treatment.

But why you?

Why, after a mere span of ten hours within the palace walls, did you find yourself, dare you entertain the notion, as his favoured? What magic did you possess that drew him to you, and how had you managed to seduce his lips, his fingers, to meet yours in such an intimate embrace?

“Did he spend himself inside you?” one of the girls whispered, prodding your knee to rouse you from your silence.

“No.”

“Aye, he never does,” remarked a golden-haired girl with a resigned sigh. “He sees to it that we consume some berries afterward, claiming they prevent conception. Strange, isn’t it? Especially if he’s so eager for an heir.”

Another girl hushed her, leaning in with a conspiratorial tone. “Did he take you from behind? That’s his favoured position, you know. He’s had us all that way.”

You stumbled over your words, unsure how to respond.

“And did you savour his taste?” came the next question. “It’s quite rich in sodium—”

“Girls!” A booming voice echoed from the doorway of the bedroom, startling you and the other concubines into immediate attention. You caught sight of the elderly attendant who oversaw your care, hands planted firmly on her hips as she observed the chaotic scene before her.

With a disapproving huff, she pivoted sharply on her heel and departed, leaving a lingering sense of reprimand in her wake.

As the frenzied chatter about Sukuna’s body attributes gradually dissolved into the quietude of sleep, morning arrived with its routine of communal showerings.

Throughout the shared bath, you silently scrubbed away the remnants of the night, indulging your fellow concubines about your previous life in town.

Upon drying off and exiting the bathing chamber, you were met with an unexpected sight: a gathering of the girls clustered around your bed.

Navigating through the throng, you reached your space to discover a resplendent scarlet silk robe embroidered with intricate black floral patterns.

Gingerly lifting the note placed atop the fabric, you read Sukuna’s precise handwriting. Curious glances from the other concubines peered over your shoulders in anticipation.

No distracting embellishments, Sad Eyes.

“What does that mean?” a curious whisper floated through the air, followed by murmurs of intrigue from the other girls. “Why does he call you ‘sad eyes’?”

You clutched the letter to your chest, suppressing a grin as you ignored the questions, the mockery, and the jostling of bodies around you. Your attention was fixated on the magnificent robe gifted to you by His Lordship.

For the remainder of the evening, you slept without any interruptions, seeking to compensate for the countless nights spent battling insomnia within the confines of your foster home.

You observed with a keen eye that none of the other girls were ushered to Sukuna’s chambers; their time seemed to veer toward strolls in the back garden or spent in the dormitory, indulging in wine-fueled scandals about the palace staff, as was their custom.

As the clock struck eight in the evening, a troupe of maids entered the chamber bearing dinner trays. A wave of anticipation swept through the room as the other girls eagerly accepted their meals and accompanying pitchers of water. Your own stomach rumbled in hunger, awaiting your own turn.

But that moment never arrived.

Instead, the maid bypassed your bed entirely, moving on to the next. A surge of apprehension rippled through you as a handmaiden approached, guiding you away from the mattress and toward the vanity.

“What about my dinner?” you asked as the attendants groomed your hair.

“His Lordship has extended an invitation for you to dine with him tonight,” came the reply.

The room fell into a sudden hush.

Dine with him?

The notion sent a flurry of thoughts racing through your mind.

Before you could process further, you found yourself pulled upright, your garments removed to be replaced by the scarlet robe.

Envy flickered in the eyes of the other concubines as they observed, their resentment palpable as they stabbed at their food with exaggerated aggression. It wasn’t your doing that Sukuna had taken an unexpected interest in you.

With no adornments save for a dab of crushed cherry paste upon your lips, you were escorted to Sukuna’s chambers.

Once more, the imposing doors swung open, and you found yourself gently ushered into the chamber. As they sealed shut behind you, the room was flooded with light. Sukuna’s figure stared out at the moonlit gardens outside, clad in a billowing white silk robe.

“My Lord,” you greeted respectfully, inclining your head in deference.

“Draw near.”

Complying with his directive, you approached and stood at his side. His presence loomed over you, his stature commanding and formidable, capable of engulfing you entirely with a single embrace. Not that such thoughts dared to linger in your mind.

“Why is your face flushed?” he asked, his gaze penetrating.

You blinked, attempting to dismiss the telltale warmth creeping up your cheeks. “It’s nothing, my Lo—”

Before you could finish, Sukuna turned your chin towards him, his palm coming to rest against your forehead. A nervous swallow traced its way down your throat at his touch, his eyes trailing down your form, a knowing smirk tugging at the corners of his lips as they settled upon you in your robe.

“Thank you for your gracious gift,” you murmured, feeling the warmth rise to your cheeks.

His fingers trailed through your hair, a mischievous glimmer dancing in his eyes. “I anticipate nothing less than thoroughly enjoying the privilege of removing it off of you.”

You blushed deeper at his statement.

“Come now. I’ve brought a surprise for you.” He took your hand in his with a tug, guiding you towards a doorway. With a simple flick of his fingers, the door parted, revealing a dimly lit hallway beyond.

Your gaze widened in astonishment. “How did you do that, my Lord?”

“Do what?”

“You opened the door without laying a hand on it.”

Sukuna’s striking blood-coloured eyes cut to you. “There is much about me that will be unveiled in due course, my love. What you perceive is but a guise for my true nature.” His smile, oddly childlike, sent a chill down your spine.

Was he some sort of sorcerer? You’d only heard whispers of human anomalies lurking beneath the earth’s surface or sealed within vessels, but historical accounts weren't exactly your cup of tea.

“I ventured into town today,” he said.

“Oh.” You swallowed hard, recovering from his previous statement. “I hope it was a fruitful trip.”

“Indeed, quite fruitful.”

In the soft glow of the distant hallway, Sukuna’s face came into view, casting a spell of trepidation upon your heart. His features were drawn into a mask of stoicism, his eyes devoid of warmth, and his lips pressed into a firm line, jaw rigid with tension.

Parting the curtains, Sukuna drew you near, his arm sweeping out to reveal a horrifying sight: your foster father, bound to a chair with chains, bearing the cruel marks of torture.

His face marred by countless wounds, an eye cruelly absent, and teeth scattered at his feet. His dignity stripped away, his vulnerability laid bare in his nakedness, and his manhood amputated.

The sickening lurch in your stomach threatened to betray your composure. “F-Forgive my intrusion, my Lord, but is he . . . is he dead?”

Sukuna’s response was a gilded dagger from within his robe, its handle decorated with a jewel reminiscent of your own captivating eyes. Nestled within the hilt was the very flower he had plucked from your hair. Upon the blade, your name was inscribed.

“Do as you wish, my beloved,” he whispered, his voice stained with dark fascination, offering you the instrument of your foster father’s fate with a chilling sense of detachment.

You couldn’t possibly bring yourself to commit such a heinous act.

Despite the unspeakable cruelties inflicted upon you by the bastard, the idea of taking another’s life filled you with a trembling dread.

Yet, the itch to end the torment, to rid the world of such a vile presence, simmered just beneath the surface as you stood before him, his life slipping away.

A hand trailed down the back of your head, guiding your trembling fingers to grasp the dagger tightly.

Looking up, you met Sukuna’s gaze, his expression hollow, his features obscured by shadows. This was the face of the Devil that cursed his enemies on their knees and had them willingly submit to death.

With a push from behind, you stumbled forward, drawing closer to your step-father’s prone form.

Glancing back at Sukuna, you were met with an incongruously bright smile. Quite a twisted paradox, His Lordship.

Your step-father sat unconscious, the stench of his bodily fluids assaulting your senses. His wounds oozed with a sickening mixture of blood and pus, his laboured breaths the only indication of life remaining within him. The scene was painfully familiar, a mirror image of the torment you had endured countless times before.

But now, someone had intervened, offering you a chance at liberation, a chance to end the cycle of abuse once and for all.

You glanced back again.

Until Sukuna.

Your gaze reluctantly returned to the true embodiment of cruelty before you. With a steady hand, you raised your arm, wielding the dagger with purpose.

It found its mark in your foster-father’s chest, a chilling silence punctuated only by the sound of steel meeting flesh. Ignoring the strangled cry that erupted from him, you withdrew the blade, then drove it back into his heart.

Out.

In.

Out.

In.

His lifeblood painted your face and stained your pristine garments, mingling with the fabric in a macabre dance of crimson. To the untrained eye, it could easily be mistaken for a mere splash of vibrant colour upon your robe.

No one would dare suspect the truth.

No one would dare come near if they knew of your sin.

No one, except Sukuna.

Once the monster over your bed was consigned to the depths of hell, his guts spilling onto the floor around your bare feet, you allowed yourself a moment of grim satisfaction.

With a contemptuous snarl, you spat upon him, a visceral response to the years of degradation he had inflicted upon you for every misstep.

A comforting warmth touched your back.

Startled by the sudden contact, you tensed before easing at the sight of Sukuna’s faint smile.

As he reached to caress your cheek, you instinctively recoiled, lowering your gaze in deference.

“Forgive me, my Lord,” you murmured, “but I cannot permit you to spoil your hands with the blood of this man.”

Sukuna’s shoes entered your line of sight as he tilted your chin upward, his moon-white sleeve wiping away the traces of blood from your mouth and its vicinity. “You appear rather exquisite painted in blood, Sad Eyes. Perhaps I ought to designate you as my prized assassin instead of a mere concubine.”

“I beg your pardon, my Lord, but I cannot partake in killing . . . again.”

“You need not worry,” he whispered, his breath warm against your ear as he drew near. “I will defend you from any who cast their gaze upon you, let alone lay a hand upon your delicate form. Those who dare cross that line will face my wrath, their very existence extinguished before your eyes. Not a single tear shall stain your cheeks.” His lips brushed against yours. “From this moment forward, fear shall not reside within you. By my side, you shall command fear itself, my love.”

That night, Sukuna bathed you in the sanctuary of his chambers, washing away the traces of blood from your skin as you gazed at him with a sense of wonder. It wasn’t the superficial admiration the other concubines whispered about—it was a profound affection blossoming within you, nurtured by power and protection.

He draped you in the luxurious folds of one of his silk robes, summoning servants to prepare dinner. Seated upon his lap, he fed you spoonfuls of rice and chicken, even as your stomach protested its fullness. Soft kisses peppered your neck like a sweet dessert, culminating in one upon your lips before he reluctantly released you to retire to your dormitory.

In the ensuing weeks, Sukuna would consistently send a crafted robe ahead of each meeting—in the serene seclusion of his chambers, where the flickering candlelight cast shadows upon the walls as you dined together.

Over the course of these intimate dinners, he eagerly absorbed your musings, whether they revolved around the narratives of books discovered within the palace library or your adeptness with herbs and plants, nurtured by your profound knowledge.

On occasion, as the first light of dawn painted the sky with hues of pink and gold, Sukuna would summon you for a stroll in the haven of the back garden. Woven between the fragrant blooms, you’d dance about with childlike enthusiasm, identifying various flowers and tracing their lineage.

Ever the attentive listener, Sukuna trailed behind you, his gaze fixed upon your animated figure. He would only speak when you fell silent, demanding you to continue sharing the familial ties between apples, plums, and the roses they stemmed from.

Within the crevice of your soul, the once withered garden of affection had flourished into a lush wilderness, blossoming with untamed wildflowers and clouds that spelled out his name.

Sukuna inhabited your every waking thought, his intoxicating mouth that worshipped your body left you giggling in delight behind your hands.

Yet, each encounter with a fellow concubine, flushed and eager with tales of their rendezvous with him, felt like thorns piercing your tender heart. Jealousy, like ivy creeping upon stone, entwined itself around your every plagued thought. Your gaze often strayed to the bedside drawer where the dagger lay dormant. The mere mention of his physique by the other women tormented your soul relentlessly.

Why hadn’t Sukuna taken you as he had with every other concubine? You had grown accustomed to his presence, even eager to reciprocate the pleasure he gifted you every evening. You had offered yourself willingly, aching for the intimacy that would bind you even closer to him. But he had not claimed you in the same manner, not entered you fully, not seeded his legacy within you.

Did he question your worthiness? Did he see you merely as a transient pleasure? Were you destined to remain just a concubine, forever denied the honour of carrying his child?

“Why do you remain silent?” Sukuna asked, turning the pages of the book you had suggested to him; he was already half-way through.

You were seated snugly between his legs upon the bed, your back rested against his chest, fingers idly toying with the strands of your hair. “I find myself devoid of words this evening.”

“Hmm.” Sukuna took a leisurely sip of his drink before placing it aside. “Surely you can conjure something. You know well enough that I cannot endure your silence.”

With an exasperated sigh, you rolled your eyes. “Well, I apologise for failing to provide you with amusement, my Lord.”

Sukuna snapped the book shut.

You instinctively pressed your lips together, silently chiding yourself for the unintended sharpness in your voice.

With a heavy sigh, you resigned yourself to maintaining your composure, forcing yourself to take slow, steady breaths. Deep down, you believed that he wouldn’t inflict harm upon you or cast you out of his chambers. But the nagging thought chewed at you.

This was Sukuna Ryomen, and you . . . well, you were merely a shadow in comparison.

“If you crave my touch,” he breathed softly into your ear, “all you need to do is utter the request.”

With a determined resolve, you turned to face him, settling yourself upon his lap. Sukuna regarded you with a quirked eyebrow, a quiet acknowledgment of your unconventional audacity.

“I do crave your touch, my Lord,” you confessed, your voice a hushed plea, “but not only with your hands or lips. I long to feel you in a different manner.” Your gaze drifted down to his pelvis, the unspoken appetite evident in your eyes. “I crave that.”

Sukuna exhaled heavily, his gaze piercing as he addressed you. “So, you’ve been withholding your words simply because I haven’t fed you my cock?"

Heat rose to your cheeks at his blunt proclamation, though you had grown accustomed to his coarse mannerisms over time.

“Yes, my . . . Lord.” Your voice carried a mixture of embarrassment. “I’ve endured three long months of anticipation, patiently waiting to share in the pleasures enjoyed by your other consorts. Yet, with the arrival of autumn, I find myself still untouched by the experiences they so openly boast about.”

His lips curled into a smirk. “Are you asking me to bed you merely for the purpose of becoming a notch in your bragging rights?”

“Never, my Lord!” you protested vehemently, a hint of hurt flickering in your eyes. “I would never demean you with such vulgar talk in public. I’ve spun tales to the others, concealing the truth of our encounters. They remain oblivious to the pleasures you’ve granted me.” Your fingers traced the intricate markings on his chiselled abdominal muscles. “If my spoiled state displeases you, if I am deemed unworthy of your touch, pray, inform me now. Regardless, my sole wish is to fulfil His Lordship’s needs.”

Sukuna disentangled your hands from his chest, a gesture that caused a fissure to form within your heart, forcing your body to instinctively withdraw from his touch.

Just as you began to pull away, he swiftly encircled his arm around your waist, tugging you back onto his lap with a firm grip. Before you could utter a single word, his lips descended upon yours, silencing any protest with a passionate kiss.

With a purposeful touch, he skillfully divested you of your robe, revealing the curves of your form beneath. His hands, warm and adept, began to massage your supple breasts, kindling soft gasps from your lips. His own trailed a wet path downward, leaving a bridge of feverish kisses along the expanse of your throat, lingering over the rapid pulse beneath your skin.

As his lips found purchase on the tender flesh of your neck, his actions became more urgent, his touch more demanding. A pinch at your pebbled nipples sent a shiver of sensation coursing through you, followed by the heat of an open-mouthed kiss.

Your gaze drifted downwards, enchanted by the sight of his tongue encircling the sensitive spots, suckling on the swollen buds like a babe. Already, heat was building within the depths of your being, igniting a flame that spread between your legs.

Sukuna laid you back, relishing the delicate flavour of your lips as his fingers skillfully sought out your throbbing clit, stimulating it with unhurried circles.

With practised ease, he slipped two fingers inside you, quickening his rhythm without preamble. Your hand instinctively traced down to his chest, undoing the fastenings of his robe.

“Take it,” he whispered against your mouth, his breath mingling with yours. “Satisfy your lord, my love.”

Your fingers curled around his pulsating cock, the very object of desire that the other girls had passionately recounted. The knowledge of their previous intimacies with him only stoked the flames of envy within you, spurring you to intensify your ministrations.

With a surge of determination, you quickened the pace of your caresses, applying pressure with your thumb upon his sensitive tip while fondling his sacs.

Sukuna’s grin widened against your lips as he reciprocated with equal zeal, slipping a third finger into your slick heat until he was fully engulfed by your swollen core.

Together, you sailed upon the waves of raw carnal desire, locked in a lecherous race to reach your climax, each vying to be the first to cross the finish line—

Sukuna’s low, guttural moans resonated throughout the chamber.

You had achieved victory.

His essence spilled forth into your waiting hands, his cock convulsing with the intensity of his release. Moments later, you succumbed to your own climax, a soft cry escaping your lips.

With care, Sukuna withdrew his hand from your centre, and you instinctively examined your palm, noting the striking resemblance of his essence to your own.

You tentatively brought your fingers to your lips, savouring the taste of him.

“I did not instruct you to do that,” he growled, his gaze blazing as you tasted him. “But I suppose I’ll permit it.”

“It is salty,” you murmured, almost absentmindedly.

“Oh for fuck’s sake, are you women incapable of discussing anything besides my cock?” he exclaimed, frustration evident in his tone.

You couldn’t help but laugh, the tension dissipating as he cleaned his fingers with his tongue before tenderly cradling the back of your head, drawing you to sit upon his lap. Your laughter softened into chuckles, a smile playing upon your lips.

“Did I please you, my Lo—”

“Sukuna,” he interrupted firmly. “Only you may address me by my given name.”

“My L—”

“I command it.” His tone left no room for argument.

You affirmed your agreement with a nod.

He was Sukuna.

Your Sukuna.

“Very well, Sukuna.” You felt a subtle shift in the air between you. His chuckle rumbled softly. “Shall I turn around for you?”

“And why do you deem such an unnecessary act necessary?”

“Because—” You suppressed the urge to divulge the whispers of the other concubines regarding his favoured position. “Never mind. How would you prefer me to present myself to you?”

“As you are,” Sukuna answered, his grip tightening around himself. “How you managed to have me spend by your hand in under five minutes is a marvel beyond my comprehension.”

Internally, you gave yourself a congratulatory pat on the back.

“Now, my love,” he said, inclining his chin towards his erection, “will you do my cock the honour of sitting on it?”

Licking the grin of your lips, you nodded, rising to your knees. With nimble fingers, you positioned his hardened length at your entrance, gradually lowering yourself onto him.

A sharp intake of breath escaped Sukuna’s lips, his hands instinctively grasping your hips. You bit down on the inside of your cheek, enduring the initial sting of penetration. Perhaps every touch of his fingers had been a meticulous groundwork for this pinnacle moment.

As you settled into your seat upon him, you granted yourself a minute to acclimate to the sheer magnitude of him stretching and filling your tight, supple walls.

Sukuna tilted his head back, impatience evident in his eyes. “Will you begin moving at a pace befitting this century, Sad Eyes?”

“Just a moment,” you retorted, your tone tinged with irritation.

“Unfortunately, the sight of your leaking cunt is testing my patience,” he remarked, his gaze lingering provocatively on your flushed form.

Collecting yourself, you affirmed your resolve with a nod before subtly adjusting your position, and swaying your hips forward. His strong hands guided you, aiding your movements as you sought a rhythm. “Gods, you’re—you’re quite large. It’s rather discomforting.”

“Ah, where has the enthusiasm to please your lord vanished, my love?” His laughter echoes through the chamber as he leaned back, amused by your scowl. “I must confess, your defiance is perhaps your most alluring trait. It has crossed my mind more than once during moments of handling myself in the bath.”

Your brow furrowed in dismay.

It was evident that the other concubines possessed far greater expertise in pleasuring him than you ever could. All you could manage was to feign enthusiasm, your movements faltering and disjointed, as you struggled to produce even a fraction of the satisfaction they effortlessly blessed him with. His laughter, which wasn’t helping your cause, bore an uncanny resemblance to the mocking tones of the girls who had taunted you in the past.

You no longer wished to endure this charade.

You halted in your tracks, unable to muster the courage to meet his gaze, your eyes fixated instead on his throat. “It appears . . . that I may not be adequately versed in fulfilling your needs. I shall endeavour to educate myself further before making another attempt. For now, I request permission to retire for the evening, my Lord.”

Sukuna’s grip tightened as he seized your jaw, compelling you to meet his gaze. “You dare to defy my command to address me by my given name?” His smile remained wicked as he drew your face closer to his own. “Remember, my love, there is a boundary to which I tolerate your rebellion. Do not allow my affections to cloud your judgement. I remain your Lord, above all else. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” you managed to gasp out.

“Yes what?”

“Yes, Sukuna,” you replied, your voice trembling with uncertainty.

With a swift motion, he released your sore jaw, and before you could even consider easing the ache, his lips crashed against yours.

In that moment, control slipped from your grasp entirely. His hands gripped the flesh of your buttocks possessively, guiding your movements as he claimed you with a primal savageness that left you shaking in his embrace.

“Does it pain you, my beloved?” Sukuna growled, his fingers curling around your nape possessively. “Do you feel the strain of my cock as I breach your tender walls?”

You whimpered softly, your head nodding against the curve of his neck.

“Fear not, my darling. I will diligently train this cunt of yours to accommodate every inch of me, dusk, dawn, and twilight. Your throat, too, shall be honed to fulfil my every whim, wherever and whenever I demand.” With a swift motion, he tugged your hair, forcing you to meet his glare. “And should you dare to entertain thoughts of defiance with any other man beyond the confines of my chamber, rest assured, there will be consequences.”

“Sukuna,” was all you gasped, eyes rolling back as his tip probed the depths of your womb. His tongue traced the delicate curve of your throat before shoving into your mouth, drawing out your own to suckle on. In the heat of the moment, your hands roamed aimlessly, torn between grasping at his waist, clutching his shoulders, or caressing his cheeks.

“Oh, how I love the sight of your breasts greeting me in my face.” Sukuna tightened his hold on each of them with a deadly grasp, savouring the melodious cry that escaped your lips. He lowered his head and teethed each nipple, drawing it out and relishing in the masochism of your sharp nails clawing down his back. “Deeper, my darling. You alone hold the privilege of marking my flesh. Let my scars mirror yours.”

With caution, you shifted your hands to rest upon his firm pectoral muscles before you could accidentally claw out his spinal cord.

Sukuna’s touch drifted from your bruised breasts to cradle your face, guiding your gaze to meet his crimson one.

Encouraged by his comforting presence, you arched your hips forward with newfound confidence. His fingers swept through your hair, pushing it away as he offered reassuring nods.

Now, the reins rested firmly within your grasp.

“Fuck . . .” Leaning back against the headboard, he released soft sighs. Warm breaths escaped his parted lips as you continued increasing your ministrations. Your gaze momentarily flickered to your favourite book resting on his bedside table before returning to his face.

Suddenly seized by an impulse, you leaned forward to plant a tender kiss upon his lips, trailing upward to gently brush against his cheekbones, tracing the intricate markings lining his skin.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

“Someone must play the role of the tender one between us, Sukuna,” you answered, mirroring the attention he had given your scars during your initial encounter. With each kiss, you felt his eyes tracing your movements, following the path of your lips as they journeyed across his face, landing upon his nose or the pulse of his neck.

“My beloved,” Sukuna’s voice caressed your ears, drawing your focus entirely to him, “listen closely to my words.”

You halted your movements, a curious expression dancing in your eyes. “What troubles you?”

With a deliberate motion, he guided your hips forward, his gaze unwavering. “Throughout the night, I will fill your womb ceaselessly, and in mere weeks, you shall carry my legacy within you.” Your heart leaped into your throat, fluttering with an overwhelming rush of emotion. “Peril will shadow your every step. Those who oppose us will stop at nothing to eliminate your life and the life of our child. Do you comprehend the gravity of our situation?”

You blinked back the tears, resigning yourself to the inevitable.

“But I vow upon my honour, such an atrocity shall never come to pass. I will sever entire bloodlines if even a single strand of your precious hair were harmed.” His movements quickened as he thrusted into you.

Your grip tightened on his shoulders again, gasping for breath between erratic pants.

“At dawn’s light, all concubines shall be reassigned to palace duties. You need only point out those who have dared to trouble you, though their transgressions are already known to me.” His motions became more intense as he pressed you onto your back, pinning your arms above your head. “And when the sun graces the horizon, you, my beloved, shall be proclaimed as my queen.”

Your voice wailed through the chamber as you cried out his name, drowning in the waves of scorching pleasure never before experienced.

Instead of seeing celestial bodies colliding, your gaze met the deep crimson of his irises, those same eyes that had captivated you on that very first night.

“Sukuna . . . ”

With a smile mirroring his own, you tilted your head upward, silently beckoning him to seal the moment with a kiss. As he obliged, his cock pulsed within you, filling you with his warmth until every fibre of your being was tethered with his.

But he didn’t withdraw. Just as he had promised, he intended to keep you close throughout the night, to claim you as his own.

And in that moment, as you laid with him, you welcomed the dawn of a new chapter standing beside him, prepared to reign as Sukuna Ryomen’s queen.

8K notes · View notes

lexsssu · 1 year

Text

Pretty (Leon S. Kennedy)

TAGS: Leon/F!Reader, fatherhood, smut, breeding, pregnancy

Iɴ ᴡʜɪᴄʜ ʏᴏᴜʀ ʜᴜsʙᴀɴᴅ ғɪɴᴅs ᴛʜᴇ ɢʟᴏᴡ ᴏғ ᴍᴏᴛʜᴇʀʜᴏᴏᴅ ᴏɴ ʏᴏᴜ ᴜᴛᴛᴇʀʟʏ ɪʀʀᴇsɪsᴛɪʙʟᴇ.

Eat well, my children ٩(^ᗜ^ )و ´-

It’s the change in your scent that serves as an early sign.

After his brush with the Plaga all those years ago, it had left Leon with a few…quirks, so to speak. Enhanced vision, hearing, and smell were the biggest and most noticeable ones.

It was only when he’d finally found you that he became…more aware of just how much the Plaga had changed certain parts of himself.

You always smelled sweet to him, what with your love of using body mists, perfumed soaps, body lotions, and the like. He’s so used to the blood and grime that’s become a staple in his line of work that when he manages to take his first whiff of you, it takes all his mental fortitude not to sniff you like a pervert and scare you away.

And when one day you begin smelling even sweeter, the scent of strawberries & cream somehow becoming headier, more intoxicating, and more alluring than usual, he feels his blood practically heating up in response.

“Is that a new body mist?”

“Hmm? No, I’m not wearing any body mist right now. Why?” The way you tilted your head and gazed up at him with so much trust and innocence never failed to bring out the darker parts of his being.

It’s no surprise that in spite of your negative answer, you still end up bent over the kitchen counter as Leon slammed his hips against your ample derriere. His face buried in the junction between your neck and shoulder, inhaling the scent of your skin as he left countless love bites over your supple skin.

That was another thing he’d realized the Plaga had left him.

There was always this innate need to leave his mark on you, particularly through physical ones such as imprints of his lips and teeth on your neck or bruises the shape of his fingers on your hips.

The way you mewled so feebly as his much bigger body draped over yours only served to fuel his hunger even more.

When you present him the positive pregnancy test a week after that incident, Leon feels something inside of him snap.

“Can’t believe my little baby is gonna have our baby…”

The heat the flows through his veins and seemed to pool in his loins, pouring load after load in your sopping cunt that seemed all too happy to receive it. If you weren’t already pregnant, then you’d certainly get knocked up at this point.

“You’re gonna look so pretty all big and swollen, sweetheart. Gonna be the prettiest mama in the world. MY pretty ‘lil mama…”

Even if some of his actions were slightly influenced by the Plaga, Leon knew that he didn’t need any virus to know that he wanted nothing more than breed you.

His pretty little wife, the love of his life, and the mother to all his children.

#lexsssu writes #resident evil #leon kennedy x reader #leon s. kennedy x reader #leon kennedy x you #leon kennedy x yn #leon kennedy x y/n #leon s. kennedy x you #leon. s. kennedy x y/n #resident evil x reader #leon kennedy x reader smut #leon s. kennedy x reader smut #re leon kennedy x reader #re leon s. kennedy x reader

1K notes · View notes

iliketangerines · 2 months

Note

If you're still doing requests, what about Bi-han falling for Madam Bo's granddaughter?

come visit soon

a/n: i gotchu cuties. this turned out much fluffier than i thought.

pairing: bi han x fem!reader

warnings: nsfw (MDNI), praise kink

Kuai Liang had managed to convince Bi Han that they all should go to Madam Bo’s for dinner as a treat for a difficult but successful mission

and so, they all were sitting at Madam Bo’s, drinking the complementary green tea while waiting for the waiter to come and take their order

you walk on over, a pretty smile on your face and sweet voice greeting the three of them and ask for their order, and Bi Han is enraptured by your beauty

his eyes trail over your body, and he notes how there’s clearly some muscle build-up in your arms and legs, especially your ample chest

but he tries to hide his feeling, just grunting out his order as Tomas and Kuai Liang ask for today’s special and anything you would recommend

you smile and laugh at Tomas’s joke, and Bi Han shoots him a dirty glare, but then shakes it off because it’s not like the two of you are dating or anything

you take off with their orders, and Tomas smiles back at Bi Han with a shit-eating smirk, and Bi Han growls at him to not say a single word

Madam Bo comes over soon after you’ve left and asks the three of them how they’re doing, and they all respond cordially

she asks whether her granddaughter is treating all of them well, and Bi Han figures that all the muscle in your body comes from training in martial arts

you come back soon with their drink orders, and Madam Bo introduces the three of them to you and says you should train with them, that they’re some of the best and that Bi Han is the grandmaster of them all

you light up at her words, clearly excited to go and improve your martial arts skills, and Bi Han reluctantly agrees, he respected Madam Bo a great deal and would allow this

after dinner, you tell them to pick you up in one week as you’ve got some unfinished business to take care, and he grunts out an agreement before leaving with his brothers

but he can’t hide the small blush on his face without the mask and hopes you didn’t see it

as agreed, he comes back a week later and picks you up by himself

you’ve packed light, only the essentials and an extra pair of clothes, and he hums approvingly, eyes maybe lingering a bit too long on how the uniform fits your body perfectly

he takes you to the Lin Kuei base, and you unpack and immediately start your training with fighting against some of the lower-level foot soldiers

but you prove to be much more formidable than he had thought

he watches from his own training area as you easily dispatch of the foot ninjas, letting them come at you in groups at a time and taking them down in a flash

you may not have any special power, but you certainly had the hard work and training and muscle to prove your strength

by the end of the day, you’re hardly covered in a scratch, some sweat beads at your hairline but otherwise you look unaffected as you bow and head off to the showers to wash off the day’s grime

Bi Han watches as you walk away and feels his heart stutter in his chest as your hips sway back and forth

Tomas pokes at his arm teasingly, and Bi Han swipes at him with an ice spear, but the assassin disappears into a cloud of smoke, only his laughter echoing in the air

the next day, you ask Tomas to a duel, smiling teasingly, and Tomas agrees

Bi Han stands on the sideline, officiating the spar and calls for the spar to start, and for a moment, nothing happens, the both of you sizing each other up

finally, you strike first, and Tomas retaliates, dodging and disappearing as you go to hit him

but you quickly learn his weak spots and land a few quick strikes on him, and he lands a few hits on you as well

it’s mesmerizing, and Bi Han watches in fascination as you move like water on the ground, moving effortlessly and redirecting your momentum and energy rather than fighting against it

you lose, caught in a moment of weakness when your eyes glance over to Bi Han, and Tomas has you pinned down to the floor

you yield, and he gets off of you, and you two bow towards each other before Tomas engages in a much more friendly conversation with you

he offers to train you, and Bi Han stalks up to the both of you, ordering Tomas to go on some useless errand, and Bi Han tells you he will train you personally

you smile and salute him lazily, asking him when the lessons start

he says now and walks into the training field and beckons you to come

he walks you through the basics, making sure nothing was out of place and only makes minute changes to your stance

he moves through the levels of training slowly, making sure all of your stances and hits are perfect, and you move through them patiently, never once complaining

by the end of the night, you’re sweating but have worked through most of the stances and hits with Bi Han correcting you every so often

he tells you good job, and you smile and blush and Bi Han’s glad his mask hides the flush on his cheeks

he tells you to go and grab dinner and wash off the day, and you hurry off while Bi Han goes to the dining hall and tries to get his thoughts off of you

the next day, he meets you for training and tells you to spar with him

you smile and stay light on your feet as you both circle each other, and Bi Han attacks first

you easily dodge, and the two of you engage with each other in a blur of fists, but soon enough, Bi Han has you pinned down to the ground, wrists pinned above you and chest heaving up and down

Bi Han can’t help but blush at the sight of your breasts raising up, and how you’re so exposed to him right now, but he gets off, shaking off the lewd thoughts

you smile and grin and ask him to go again, and he grunts in agreement

the rest of the day is spent sparring, only a small break for lunch where you regale him with tales of tourists coming to Madam Bo’s and hitting on you with terrible jokes

you tell him about one time how a guy decided to get too handsy, and you flipped him on his back in front of everyone

Bi Han tells you good, that’ exactly what you should’ve done, and you grin widely at him

your days are spent training with Bi Han, sometimes Kuai Liang and Tomas when Bi Han gets too busy, and the two of you get closer and closer

you two always make time to eat lunch with each other and sit closer and closer together until the both of you are squished right next to each other despite the ample space

he can’t help himself from thinking about how soft your thigh is pressed against his, and he has to think clean thoughts as his dick starts taking an interest

after sparring that day, you finally beat him, standing over him proudly with the wooden sword pointed at his throat, and he congratulates you

you smile and help him up, giddy that you had finally beaten the Grandmaster, and throw your arms him, wrapping him in a tight hug

he freezes at the contact, and you realize what you’ve done and let go of him apologizing, but he drags you back into his embrace

he buries his face in your neck and breathes in your sweet scent, and his face heats up at the feeling of your chest pushing into him

he finally pulls back, and you stay in his arms and ask him if you can kiss him

he breathlessly tells you yes, and you reach up to cup his face before kissing him softly

he’s not quite sure of how to kiss you at first, having spent his entire life at the Lin Kuei, but he learns quickly and it has you groaning into his mouth

you both part after a few seconds, both breathless and flushed pink, and he clears his throat and averts his gaze from your wide eyes

he escorts you back to your room, and you grab his hand, asking him what this is

he stands quiet for a moment, contemplating whether or not he wants to tell you he’s wanted you since the second he saw you, he wants to tell you how he wants you all to himself, and how badly he wants to fuck you

he just tells you that he wants to court you properly, and you smile and nod before disappearing in your room

Bi Han’s head spins as he returns to his room, and he can’t help himself from pulling out his half-hard dick and pumping himself, thinking about your soft lips

he comes into his hand quietly and cleans himself up and goes to bed, thinking of how to court you properly

he brings you small gifts throughout the days, fills up your plate for you, walks you to and fro from your room to the training rooms, the dining halls, and everywhere else

on your final day at the Lin Kuei, late at night after he’s finished sparring with you, he gives you a soft kiss goodnight but before he can leave, you hold onto his hand and invite him inside, face burning red

he blushes and enters your room and closes the door behind him softly

you wrap your arms around his neck and kiss him softly, he deepens the kiss, prodding at your lips with with his tongue, and you let him in

the two of you make-out for a few moments, grinding against each other slowly, and Bi Han can feel his dick hardening

he walks you backward, still kissing you, until the back of your knees hit the bed, and you fall backward

you look like an angel, lips swollen and hair spread around your head like a halo, and Bi Han groans at the sight

he undresses you slowly, slipping off the training uniform, and he traces your soft skin with his fingers, fingertips dragging along the grooves of your muscles flexing underneath his cool touch

you let him explore your upper body, tracing your body and cupping your breasts and softly squeezing them

he gets rid of his own shirt, and you explore him just the same, sitting up to trace your fingers along his arms and his stomach

Bi Han takes off his pants, dick springing upwards, and you undress yourself similarly, and Bi Han drools at the sight of your bare cunt laid out for him

he gets on top of you, cupping your face and kissing you gently as you wrap your legs around his waist and grind your wet pussy into his dick

the both of you just gently grind against each other, small moans of pleasure escaping Bi Han’s lips and little whimpers coming from your throat

eventually he breaks away from your lips and lines himself up with you and slides in slowly

you whine at the stretch, tears pricking at your eyes, and Bi Han kisses them away softly and gently thrusts in and out of you

you’re so warm and tight around him, and he can feel the way your pussy clenches down on him when your moans turn sinful

words naturally come to him, saying that you’ve been so good for him, that you’re such a good girl him and only him, that you’re so beautiful

he tells you that you’ve been so so good, listening to him without complaint, and that you deserve so much more

you whine at his words and beg him to go faster, and he complies with your pleas

he quickens his pace, and the sound of wet slapping fills the room along with your moans and his grunts

you reach one of your hands down to rub at your clit, and he takes note of how it makes your whines increase in pitch and how your pussy spasms around his dick

he kisses you deeply, intertwining your free hand with his, and you cum on his dick, your whines swallowed by Bi Han

he cums soon after you, leaving his dick buried inside of you as he lets his weight fully settle on his body

you groan and tell him he’s too heavy, but he just hums and keeps you pinned down under his body

after a minute, he pulls out of your warm pussy and lays down next to you, and the two of you cuddle and kiss each other until you fall asleep

when Bi Han drops you off in front of Madam Bo’s, you throw your arms around him and kiss him one more time

he leans into the kiss and your both part from each other, and he pulls something out from his bag

it’s a flower made of ice, and you gasp and hold in gently in your hands, afraid it might break

he tells you it won’t melt, he made sure of it, and you thank him quietly and then look up at him and promise to visit as much as you can

you kiss him one more time before you go off and greet your grandmother

Bi Han watches you for a few more moments, and then disappears to go back to base, hoping your next visit is soon

369 notes · View notes

morallyinept · 3 months

Text

A Cup Of Love - A Dieter Bravo One Shot ☕️

Summary: Dieter makes you a cup of tea.

Pairing: Dieter Bravo x F!Reader (No name or physical description of reader. It’s you, bub. However, I have made a brief mention of Reader having a real body with stretch marks, as with Dieter with him ageing and greying.)

Word Count: 2.1k

Scoville Smut Rating:🌶️“Don't hurt me, cadejo.”

Check out my Scoville Smut Ratings here.

Warnings/Triggers: Established relationship/unprotected PIV (wrap up, folks!) Brief mention of drugs - nothing graphic. Dieter and Reader have REAL bodies. Mostly fluffy and soft. Dieter is a total sweetheart.

NSFW. MINORS DNI! OVER 18’s ONLY. YOU ARE SOLELY RESPONSIBLE FOR WHAT YOU READ.☝🏻Don’t come at me; you’ve been plenty warned.

I write for me, and I share with you. If this story isn't to your taste, that's fine. Just slip quietly out the back door. No need to make a fuss. It's just a work of fiction.

Author’s Note: The amazing Gi @tightjeansjavi and I got to talking today about Dieter and tea, and we were both inspired to write a little something about, uh, Dieter and tea! ☕️🫖 Please ensure your check out Gi's amazing Tea Party story! And her other Dieter story Chamomile, which started our adventure down the tea-drinking rabbit hole! Love you, Gi 😘

MAIN MASTERLIST | A CUP OF LOVE MASTERLIST | DIETER BRAVO MASTERLIST

Enjoy! 🖤

As Dieter stands in the kitchen, preparing the tea with careful precision, he can't help but marvel at the stark contrast between the often debilitating chaos of his career, and the tranquillity of his home life with you.

It still feels new, that band around his puffy wedding finger gleaming up at him, not tarnished like his other rings. Shiny, untainted.

Like a whirlwind on set, he often finds himself swept up in the frenzied gluttony of fame, dabbling in the temptations that lurk in the shadows with shiny lacquer talons beckoning him in.

They whisper his name with insidious crackles, sharp teeth that glisten in their false fanged smiles. His dishevelled face imprinted on sleazy tabloids, and ruthlessly scathing reviews of his work, that seek to further besmirch his tattered legacy.

There was a time when Dieter Bravo gave them two thick fingers, caring little and indulging in the hedonism that such a career and all of its chromatic glitz offered in abundance. It literally fell into his lap and gyrated suggestively on it.

And instead of pushing it away, he stuffed crumpled, one-hundred dollar bills into its g-string and snorted lines from its ample cleavage without a care in the world.

He was sucked in, drowning in front of an unsatisfied audience, who clapped lazily and jeered instead of throwing him a much needed life buoy. The drowning man, coughing water from his lungs as they hand him gold statues, and plaques with his name engraved on.

A name that sounds more like a third wheel in his life with you, dragging its baggage in from the doorstep and forgetting to wipe its feet as it traipses the clotting mud of his life over the polished wooden floors.

But here, in the quiet sanctuary of your shared kitchen, humble with the soft glow of morning light filtering through the window, Dieter feels it all wash away; the bawdy grime of a soiled past rinsing down the plug hole.

Gone are the days of wild partying with yes-men, drug-fuelled binges and scandalous social feeds, to be replaced with knuckling down, taking the better scripts with characters of substance, and potential Oscar nominations attached to them.

He’s traded the bizarre, the outlandish, for the quiet and the subdued. For the homemade, the curated and the simple joys of growing older with an aching back.

He’s traded it all for something far greater than any of it all; coming home to you.

With each measured movement - the precise amount of tea leaves, the exact temperature of the water - he finds solace in the routine of making a simple cup of tea, a stark departure from the unpredictability of his previous, voracious world.

With the tea steeped to perfection, Dieter pours it into your favourite cup, feeling a sense of contentment wash over him.

As he stirs the heady tea, watching the leaves dance in the whirlpool of hot water, he can't help but think of you; his anchor, his steady hand in the midst of the choppy storms.

With you by his side, he feels grounded, connected to the earth by his feet once more; his erratic impulses tempered by your steady presence and a spiritual awakening.

The heavy drag of his hand over his weathered face as he yawns, an itching nostril that tickles, and he tosses the spoon in the sink, metallic chimes echoing in his ears.

He allows himself a moment to savour it, the scent, the quiet. A moment to just breathe. In and out, his chest expanding as he closes his eyes, hands resting on the counter.

Leaving the nagging ache in his shoulder from the stunt work dulling into a silent pang. The bruises will fade, it all heals in the end. Regrowth, second chances... another shot at the important things.

With the cup cradled in his hands, rings chinking delicately against the porcelain, he makes his way to the bedroom, where you lay in the billowy sheets, your features softened by sleep.

He takes a moment, lingering in the crack of the door silently, a ghost in his own home watching from afar, unable to be fully corporeal, a real boy.

Hovering in the draw of you, he wonders what you dream about. If the world you’re in is better than what he offers you. He tells himself to stop being ridiculous, that he’s deserving of your love, right?

Right?

You looked so fucking beautiful on the day you vowed to love and cherish him, warts and all. A lump in his throat, seafoam in his eyes as the wind tousled the flowers in your hair.

The hushed, reverend tones of your friends and families, they all washed away, swept out with the tide, and it was just the two of you for a few moments, hands knotted, hearts entwined. An intricate lace dress and a sand coloured suit. Dieter knew then he could do this, with you.

For you.

He could pick himself up, dust himself down and be what you needed. He vowed to be strong for you when he'd spent so long feeling weak, small.

On that day, he finally learned how to be selfless.

A tender smile unfolding over his crooked lips, Dieter observes you for a moment, marvelling at the gentle rise and fall of your bare chest on display for him. Nipples swollen, seemingly double their circumference in the heat, and it doesn’t go unnoticed by his own body as he stiffens at the sight of you.

Throbbing and heavy between his legs, the view of you melting him into the floor.

As he holds the scalding cup in his hands, the steam curling into his nose in gentle tendrils, he pushes the door fully open and approaches the bed.

He knows just how to rouse you from slumber without disrupting your tranquil state.

The aroma of the tea wafts through the room, a delicate rapture of fragrances that wilt in the air. With each inhale, Dieter is greeted by the rich, earthy scent, mingling with delicate notes of jasmine and bergamot.

It’s a quietly comforting aroma, one that envelopes him like a warm embrace, soothing his senses and calming the restless tornadoes in his mind.

A smell that is familiarly and uniquely, you.

Sitting gently on the bed beside you, resting on his elbow, he traces the curve of your jaw with his fingertips, watching your eyes flicker under the lids.

A soft moan escapes you on a gossamer breath, barely heard over the timid whistle of the radiator in the room.

As Dieter leans closer into you, he buries his face in the crook of your neck, inhaling deeply the sweet scent of your hair. It’s a fragrance that never fails to intoxicate him, a delicate blend of coconut and vanilla that lingers long after you've left the room.

He’s transported to the beach once again where you'd promised you were his, forever. A hand he can squeeze and show off on the red carpets, look, she’s mine. She loves me… A smile he can eagerly chase with his lips.

A partner he can grow old with and reminisce about life whilst your bones shape around the rocking chairs on your porch. Papery hands held tight together as you wait for the pearlescent dust of death.

An eternal cup of tea he can make for you, just because.

With each breath, he feels a sense of calm wash over him, as if your very essence has the power to chase away the lingering shadows of doubt and uncertainty that like to piggyback on his shoulders.

It’s in these quiet moments, when the world seems to stand still, that Dieter feels the full force of his love for you wash over him like a tidal wave. The drowning man, coughing water from his lungs as you pull him out of the salty brine and into your arms.

He could just paint you right now, whip out another canvas and let your love guide his brush once more. Your face adorns the walls in collections of his signature style; a wallpaper of affection. Your eyes, your smile; the way your hair dances and beckons him into the acrylic world created by his once numb fingers.

Dieter presses his cracked lips to your forehead and then your cheek as you stir.

When you wake up, your eyes slowly flutter open, adjusting to the soft morning light filtering through the curtains and the delicate smooches painting your face.

As your gaze meets his, there’s a fleeting moment of confusion, followed by a dawning recognition that spreads across your features like the first golden light of the sunrise. Your lips curve into a sleepy smile, your eyes alight with warmth and adoration as you take in the hazy, messy aura of him beside you, holding the steaming cup in his big hands.

There’s a certain softness in your gaze, a tenderness that speaks volumes without the need for words to be sounded out around clumsy vowels. It’s as if you can see straight into him, unravelling the layers of his complicated and erratic being with a single glance that strips him to bone and sinew.

“You look tired, baby.”

“Long flight.” He yawns, all fillings in his back molars, all deep crinkles around his eyes.

He slips you the cup as you smile at him, offering him that grin that makes him feel so big and powerful, even when he feels like sludge.

He watches you take a sip, eyes closing in blissful contentment and humming at the warm taste as you feel it make its way down into your chest.

“Good?”

“Perfect,” you say, your fingers stroking the fine, grey scruff of his jaw as he blushes.

He nestles into your palm, mouthing a kiss on it, deep brown eyes lancing at you longingly. A lost boy in a tired man’s body coming home to you, offering more than the riches of a name chiselled inside a scuff-worn star on a boulevard in a dirty city with dimming bright lights.

No, he offers you his love in fragrant liquid form, a small yellow ocean to sail together in a teacup. An I love you curated in the moments of the simple art of patience and preparation.

You can taste it as it warms through your insides.

“Come here,” you open your arms out, after discarding the cup, and he can’t resist, shuffling out of his clothes that carry the stress of his journey quickly, leaving the sag of them hanging off the bed like shedding his skin.

He seeks your own for that one-on-one comfort, sharing your sleepy heat in the soft sheets. He covets to feel you pressed up naked against him, slotting easily around the misshapen lumps and bumps of a body well-abused.

He sniffs you in deep, to the back of his nostrils, but you don’t burn or fizz as you go down. Dieter can breathe you in freely and doesn't choke when you make his head spin.

You're his favourite kind of drug.

Wrapping his thick arms around you, Dieter pulls you close, revelling in the familiar weight of your body against his; your fingers sweeping across his broad chest, rifling through the sparse grey hairs here and there. A journey finalised when you finger in the grey, fluffed curls at the back of his neck, twirling them around the tips.

Nose pressed under his jaw as you inhale notes of his dying cologne and musky sweat from his travels. Eyelashes tickling softly against a constellation of freckles. Your clammy thigh hooked over the softness of his belly that he grips, his own fingers stroking at your marred skin with crinkly stretch marks.

He runs his fingers up and down the zig-zags of them, making you shudder, and he hums into your scalp, awed at the reaction from his touch.

Dieter takes a few moments, remembering what it feels like to be home in your arms. To understand finally that home isn’t just some fancy condo on a hilltop overlooking the City of Angels, nor a place full of frivolous, pointless things - it’s you.

Home is in the smile you blind him with, the sound of your laughter pummelling his ears deafening him. The feel of your body crushing him into the mattress as you gift him every piece of your love without expecting anything in return.

But he gives you all of him back, because that's all he has to offer.

And you accept this disasterous, frail human, cradling him tight like a scraggly bear left out in the rain, cold and discarded.

He gives you all his love in the only way he knows how; raw and scarred.

Dieter kisses you, tilting your chin up to his and losing himself in you. He’s been lost for so long, only being found the day he met you. The day he fell head over heels for an angel.

Lips sweep over one another, reminding him of your taste, the way you moan gently into the cavities, how your nails rake gently, but tingly, down the broad expanse of his back making him shudder in turn with want and need.

The way you simply kiss his bruises and aches, from weeks of throwing himself around sets, away, makes him fall harder to his knees.

You reach out to him, your hands seeking his naked flesh in the crumpled sheets, your legs cinching around his paunchy waist, the brush of his hardened cock catching in the crease of your thigh.

He feels your breath, warm and pleasant on his eyelids when you gasp, filling you up with him. Thick, warm, wet…

Pushes his thick cock slowly and deliberately inside of you, equally burying himself in this feeling that comes without a name, an unconditional tattoo inked on a pair of stumpy hearts.

You bind him to you, his face in your chest, kissing, nuzzling. Your hands in his hair, stroking, combing. A ghost of his name falling from your lips, mouth full of him.

“My tea will get cold…” You pant softly into his eyelashes as you take him all in, connected as one again; hips gently grinding against one another. Chests pressed together, hearts beating as one.

“I’ll make you another cup.” Dieter murmurs, as his mouth latches onto yours.

Thank you so much for reading this little, soft Dieter story. I hope you enjoyed it and as always, would love to know your thoughts. 🖤

MAIN MASTERLIST | DIETER BRAVO MASTERLIST

#pedro pascal x reader #dieter bravo x reader #pedro pascal #dieter bravo #pedro pascal characters #dieter bravo x you #dieter bravo x female reader #dieter bravo x f!reader #dieter bravo the bubble #jett's writing

246 notes · View notes

nincompoopydoo · 3 months

Text

CAUGHT IN A CROSSFIRE

BETRAYAL — ; PART 8 / 9

PAIRING: Theseus Scamander x Female!Reader WORD COUNT: 2.7k SUMMARY: Awakening in an unfamiliar setting with restored memories, you encounter someone familiar. However, a lingering sense of betrayal clouds the reunion. Meanwhile, Theseus uncovers a concealed message in your letters, hinting at the potential discovery of your location. A/N: Hi everyone! I know I said I was going to put this on permanent hiatus until I was ready to pick it up again, but your girl finished her degree (kinda did badly, but glad it's over!), and now I have ample time to put all my energy of my one brain cell into finishing this series before I fall into depression again lol. Anyways, I really hope you enjoy this and thank you for all the love for this series and my baby, Theseus <3 I'm also sorry for ending it with another cliffhanger haha WARNINGS: Angst. Kinda scary shit (I literally scared myself while writing this lol) no beta we die like men. MASTERLIST ; MASTERPOST

Your environment is an enigma through the lenses of tunnel vision—hues of darkness circle in textures, contrasts of colour that dance along with your darting eyes. Your slow mind tries to keep up with your sight, unravelling the mysteries of your surroundings.

You first notice wood. Brown, battered, dim–a wooden beam trailing along the expanse of plastered white walls, grimed with dirt and age. Through blinkered sight, you catch a glimpse of light, dim orange hues casting fluttering shadows on the wall. You see it now, a flame dancing upon melting wax perched on a rustic candlestick.

Flame. Fire. Heat.

You remember it all now.

Inferno swept through the foundations of your tiny household, leaving you and the fragility of your lungs gasping for air as you stumbled around for an exit. Yet, things were dense, billowing colours of deep grey and red, blinding your vision. You still feel the parchedness scratching down your throat.

You remember how your hands clambered to grasp something before falling to your knees. You remember how your environment began to twist and spurn before your very eyes, vivid colours of the blaze swirling.

Then, everything went black.

…

…You…

You remember emerald cobblestones—a mesmerising golden statue.

You remember the warmth of the colour red – the trees in fall, the crackling of a fireplace, a desk with scattered papers across its surface.

You remember.

Theseus.

Dim blue eyes. Sad. Freckled cheeks. Flushed. Brown hair curled and tumbled in autumnal hues. Trees. Barcham trees that line the sidewalk are carpeted in autumn gold. The tenement. His home. Warm, petite, charming. Gardenias. Tea. Your suitcase. Magic.

Little glimpses of returning memories flood your whirling mind like gushing water. It’s overwhelming. For weeks, you sat with a sense of longing, a missing piece, settled within the depths of your mind. And now, it all traces back to the odd familiarity of the man you met on the bus. Perhaps you recognised the glint in his eye when his eyes met yours or the patterned freckles along his cheeks, tinted in blotches of red from embarrassment.

You remember.

Your elbows immediately shift under you, perched as you rose midway, wondering yet blurry eyes moving along your surroundings. You’re in a room, and it’s not your own. Small, humble, solid walls encircle your surroundings. You have seen places like these during the war. You push yourself up, weight now on your splayed-out palms on what you realise to be a settee. It creaks at your very touch, and every little shift echoes throughout the room.

Its walls are far from pristine, with petite flowers scattered across the yellowed wallpaper with tears at its curling edges, perfectly still yet timeworn.

Your eyes trace the trails of sunlight that glow through the room, diluted by a translucent curtain that hangs before a window, shadows of a tree swaying in the gentle wind.

There’s a bed on the far left of the room, narrow and meticulously made with a quilt reminiscent of autumn hues. You can barely distinguish its patchwork from where you are, and it itches a part of your brain – a sense of familiarity.

Before you can make sense of that feeling, you are overcome with searing pain. Tearing through your head and coursing through the very confinements of your skull as if something was begging to break free from the back of your mind.

Eyes squeezed shut, you cannot help but bring your palms to the sides of your head, the heels of your hands harshly pinned to your temples, yet all you see are flashing lights dancing around in the darkness.

Then, a flash. White. Blinding.

At that moment, you found yourself transported to an apartment. Yellow-bricked, warm honey-coloured hues of Autumn. Golden, falling leaves. Bright eyes, cheeks tinged with a touch of red. Theseus looks at you like you’re the sun. Like you hold a weight of significance, a tapestry to his existence.

“I know I’ve said this a thousand time before, but I’m sorry. Truly. You don’t deserve to be involved in this.”

You feel yourself smile; tears threaten to slip from your saddened eyes.

“I would usually say it’s alright, but I don’t think I can say it for everything that has happened. But, thank you.”

A hand reaches for his, gentle and soft to the touch. You feel his fingers twitch under your hold.

“Truly.”

Theseus looks at you like you’re the sun.

Theseus looks at you…

Theseus…

Suddenly, you find yourself in a narrow bus. You see him blinking wide-eyed at you, his expression paled. You had said – no, asked something.

“No. I don’t think we do.”

You see it, the pain in his eyes, the sadness in his tone. It clenches your heart, but you don’t know why.

That was the first time he had lied to you.

…

You hear your name.

Distant but frantic. It repeats again and again and again.

A grip on the curve of your shoulders, and you find yourself back in the narrow, unknown room you awoke in moments ago.

But then you see his eyes, his tousled hair. It’s him who calls you.

“Theseus?” you breathed, disbelief flickering in your wide eyes. Without a second thought, your hands reach out to grasp his shoulders, fingers digging into the fabric of his dress shirt as if to ground yourself in the reality of his presence. A counterpoint to the disarray within your mind.

But as Theseus meets your gaze, a furrow forms on his brow, and a shadow eclipses the warmth in his eyes. The frown, subtle yet profound, settles an uneasiness in you. Your grip weakens.

“We need to go. Now.” His tone is cut-throat, laden with urgency, and you cannot help but jolt at his words. You find your fingers slowly releasing their hold as the weight of his statement settles in the room.

He pulls away and reaches for your elbow, swift and deliberately, that reflects the gravity of the situation. His touch is so firm that it prompts you to stand. Questions hang heavy in the air, but you know you’re in some kind of trouble. Yet, you catch your eyes lingering on the dark look in his own, and you can't help but think he's changed since you last saw him. Since you last remembered him.

Something feels…wrong, but you don’t give yourself a chance to even think about it before you’re being led out the door.

The narrow corridor stretches ahead, dimly lit, bricked walls with a single lamp casting a glow across the space, revealing its worn walls and your flickering shadows. The air is cool, carrying a faint scent of dampness that permeates the space. All you hear is footsteps reverberating along the narrow passage, echoing against the walls. You realise you are underground and feel your stomach lurch at that thought, making your skin crawl.

“Come on.” Theseus pulls you along, the grip on your elbow never weakening. You can feel the tension emanating from him, the stiffness in his movements, the rigidity of his jaw.

You find yourself staring at the back of Theseus' head, studying how the dim light catches on his hair. He seems so different.

“Where are we going?” You finally ask.

He doesn’t respond.

Theseus continues to pull you down the corridor, and you take the time to scan your surroundings despite the quickened pace. You see the occasional rusty pipes that snake along the ceiling, contributing to a low mechanical hum and the flickering of overhead lights that seem to swing periodically at a light rumble that makes the ground shake for a second or two.

Then, he eventually comes to an abrupt halt, revealing a dead end. Your feet stagger back, trying to stop yourself from bumping into him. You see Theseus' brows furrowed in thought, eyes darting between the walls, searching. His fingers trace the rugged surface and abruptly pause as you catch sight of a carving on a specific brick, nearly invisible.

Theseus taps it, and a warm glow emanates from the wall. The carving becomes illuminated, and the wall seems to dissolve into seemingly ethereal dust. It shines golden under the dim buzzing lights. What once was a wall reveals an entrance to an alleyway; it greets you with a rush of cool air and the sounds of the city.

You step through the entrance after Theseus as he beckons for you to follow hurriedly. Yet, your focus is elsewhere as you close in on the intricate symbol carved into the brick. As you inch nearer, the features sharpen, and a sudden recognition sparks within you.

It's a Gardenia, delicately depicted.

Gardenias always had a particular significance in your life, and it’s all because of your mother. That same Gardenia on your mother’s necklace is an heirloom that spanned many generations. It was important and personal to her, and you don’t know how or why it is doing here.

Flowers for your mother – a bouquet of Gardenias.

The bigger picture materialises as if the puzzle pieces are beginning to click.

Your place in the unfolding mess remains unclear, but it hints that you've anticipated the arrival of this revelation for a long time.

Theseus is calling for you, a slight note of panic in his voice, but you ignore his calls, remaining rooted in place. As you watch the glow that details the symbol disappear, you wonder if Theseus knows everything, even though you swore you never told a soul.

Unless…

You still don’t know how you got your memories back.

As you finally turn to Theseus, there’s a gripping sense of uncertainty. His approach, marked by a frustrated expression, erodes the strong familiarity you once held for this man, a trust built in such a short time. With each step towards you, that trust begins to dissipate.

That vulnerability quickly turns to anger – betrayal.

“What the hell is happening, Theseus?” you question fiercely, pressing him for an explanation.

Again, Theseus dismisses your insistence and attempts to reach for your arm, but you instinctively step back, maintaining a wary distance.

“Answer me.” you insist, voice growing louder, eyes boring into his.

His gaze lingers on your face, and you watch his expression harden, jaw tense.

“Look, you’re in deep trouble right now and it’s best we leave right now he’ll come looking for you.”

He.

Not they. Not she.

Not The Restoration Movement. Not Morrigan.

Something is very wrong.

And his eyes. You can’t quite place it, but something about the look in his eyes has shifted. They look so different.

In moments like these, you aren’t sure what to do, but you know to trust your gut. Your mind races at the possibilities of how this could all end, and the only thing you can think is to run.

And so, you run.

—

Theseus believes he has only survived through self-deceit – the deception of his ability to stay grounded and keep his emotions at bay. His heart was never to be trusted, never to give in or give up. Yet, how does one cope when a situation relies on promised perseverance but is tangled amid his emotions he suddenly lacks control of in your presence?

Theseus knows there was something between the two of you, but he will never admit it despite his now aching heart caused by your sudden disappearance, even though you might as well be considered dead to the muggle world. The thought of your death pulls his thoughts to the night he first met you, how an unforgivable curse nearly struck you, how you looked at him, knowing you couldn’t have survived if he hadn’t been there in time.

Merlin, he hopes you aren’t dead.

No, you’re not. He knows it. You’re relentless. So relentless that death would never want to claim you without a fight. So relentless that you manage to squeeze yourself into his thoughts at every waking hour. Every fibre in him wishes he hadn’t let you slip away that day, wishing he hadn’t abandoned you, betrayed your trust.

He wishes you hadn’t agreed to leave.

To leave him.

Now all alone.

Alone.

Theseus was never certain of his feelings for you when you were ambling within the expanse of the four walls he calls home. Whether affections were simply out of pity or was it his admiration for your entire being, your perfections, blemishes, and everything in between. Yet, at this very moment, he couldn’t be more unequivocally sure that his affections are true because presently, you have consumed all his waking days and nights, leaving a hollowed space perhaps once filled by your presence. The constant worry in his brow made his eyes tired but sleepless due to his fear of the worst for you.

Dread fills his senses, and tears threaten to seep through the cracks of a carefully sculpted, hard-headed man he had spent years practising, performing as a so-called war hero. Theseus never let himself cry, especially over you, not even when you parted with a touch to his cheek. Not even when he set his eyes on you again and you were completely unaware of him.

Yet, it’s the possibility he has lost you forever that he’ll never see you again. Never.

Theseus breathes a shaky breath, fingers clamped in his trembling hand as he tries to remember what he’s been told to do. To find you. To stop Morrigan. To stop whatever mess he has landed you in.

No, you’re not. You’re not dead. He reminds himself again.

The sun had set moments ago, darkness creeping between the cracks of light, shimmering from the candle alight by his tableside and the flames of the fireplace. Its crackling grounds his very notion of stirring into panic. Theseus finds himself tucked in the same corner of his living room, and his couch now houses a collection of books and particular pieces of evidence of your whereabouts.

He merely fears this has everything to do with Morrigan, the Restoration Movement, your supposed living brother and perhaps your mother – also dead. Theseus gains a strong premonition, a gut feeling that your disappearance is all a part of a larger plan than he had initially expected. Your disappearance may have caused a flurry of commotion amongst the Aurors. Still, the ministry has its sights on the movement rather than your supposed connection as more than just your brother, which Theseus feels strongly about. Yet, with Travers breathing down his neck to arrest Morrigan and her acolytes, Theseus needs solid evidence rather than vague instances and misdirected clues that all seem to lead to spiralling trails.

Frankly, his career is at stake, but he couldn’t care less.

He just wants to see you again.

Theseus heaves, fingers carding through his deep brown locks when his eye catches sight of the only two letters that he found to be related to you in one way or another. He finds himself drawn to it, finding the letter from your brother within his grasp for what seems like the millionth time this month. The same words, again and again, were already engraved in his mind.

When he shifts his elbow, the letter catches the candlelight from behind, and something immediately seizes his attention. Something he hadn’t recognised before now.

Inscribed in the very material of the parchment – the symbol of a Gardenia, its intricate lines glowing against the candlelight, seemingly burning. Theseus props up in his seat, back straightened, shoulders tensed, and eyes wide.

Bloody hell…

He scrambles for the other letter, holding it up against the light, eyes settling on the darkened edges of the page only to discover the very same symbol.

A Gardenia.

How could he have been so blind?

It must have been instinct when he decided that the two letters were puzzle pieces meant to be joined. Theseus would try anything at this point.

Seemingly, luck was finally on his side when he pressed the letters together, above one another – new words formed before his eyes, written with burning lines, every curve of each letter appeared between the gaps of the original text to only form a new paragraph.

Sister,

If you're reading this, I'm likely gone, and you're in trouble. Morrigan and The Restoration Movement hide a darker truth. Their agenda involves our mother and a woman named Miriam Monet. I'm unsure of the details, but Miriam plays a crucial role. Stay safe.

As his eyes shift down the page, his heart nearly stops when his name comes into view.

To Theseus,

If you see this, my sister is in danger. You know more than you think.

TAGLIST (tagging everyone who commented in my last post just because it's been awhile <3):

@crumpets-are-better-with-jam

@inlovewithfictionalcharacters27

@aterriblelangblr

@yournewmommy

@mariaelizabeth21-blog1

@never-let-them-change-your-self

#theseus scamander #theseus scamander x reader #theseus scamander imagine #theseus scamander x you #theseus scamander oneshot #caught in a crossfire

167 notes · View notes

maryangelex · 7 months

Text

Never Let Me Go (Pt. 3)

John Price x f! Reader

Part 4

A/N: this is a long one!!! but here's the smut i promised ;) believe me when i say there's plenty to come.

Song is In My Feelings because of course!!!!!

Happy reading <3

Warnings: NSFW like always, smut, a bit dubcon (?), price is a perv and steals panties.

Tomorrow at 8.

Those were the only words occupying your brain ever since they came out of John's mouth. The feeling of his fingers against your temple, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear, was still tingling on your skin a whole day later.

You had gone to work the next day thinking of nothing but the upcoming date. Your cousin couldn't be more elated for you, even telling you to get out much earlier than your regular closing time just so you could get ready. You shook your head at the request but did not decline it, knowing that you would need ample time to soothe your nerves and perfect yourself before meeting with John tonight.

During your shift, you didn't expect to see him because of your plans. But he made sure to make a quick appearance at the cafe, and you couldn't complain.

As you wiped down the counter, you caught a glimpse of the man's hulking form through the large windows at the front of the store. Your cheeks were immediately pulled by the smile that grew across your lips. As he walked in, he returned the expression; a kind tight-lipped smile that crinkled the corners of his eyes.

And although you loved the man's handsome face, your eyes were more fixated on his toned body, an image you had not been graced with since you met him. You knew those sweaters weren't doing him justice. John had athletic wear on, sporting a tight thermal shirt that contoured every bulging muscle on his arms and chest. His hair was dampened by sweat and his cheeks lightly flushed.

You practically drooled at the sight. Something in you told you that he was only here to show off, too. Again, you couldn't complain.

His body pressed against the counter, propped on his elbows for support as he leaned forward to speak to you. It only made his solid biceps bulge even more under his shirt, looking like they'd tear through the fabric if he shifted ever so slightly.

"Mornin', John," you greeted him politely, raking your eyes along his body briefly and subconsciously.

His smile turned into a sly smirk as if knowing the effect he had on you.

"Mornin', love," he said, "thought I'd pay you a quick visit on my run."

"Too eager to wait for tonight?" you quipped, as you took a bottle of water from the cooler behind the counter, handing it over to him.

He accepted with a light 'cheers' as he downed it quickly before saying, "I just can't go on 'bout my day without seein' ya."

You rolled your eyes at him, suppressing your smile from growing wider, but your cheeks betrayed you by staining in pink.

When he finished his water in a final gulp, with a heavy sigh of relief, he tipped the empty vessel at you in gratitude before leaving.

"I'll see you at 8 tonight then, love," he said with certitude. You scoffed, giving him an affirmative nod as you tried to play it cool. In your best efforts to hide the nerves raging within you.

At 5 in the afternoon, your cousin couldn't push you out of the cafe any more adamantly. You kept insisting that you should stay otherwise she'd kill herself managing the closing shift. But of course, she succeeded at pushing you and locking you out, shooing you away and saying "Go put yourself together for the man!"

You raced to your apartment, kicking your shoes off peeling every layer of your outfit off and tossing everything in your hamper, and scampered to the shower to wash yourself as if you were covered in all sorts of grime. You washed your hair, exfoliated, did steps of your skincare you didn't even know you had and coated yourself in body lotion to the point you could have slid through the bars of a jail cell.

Some three hours to go, you stood in front of your closet wrapped in a towel, sorting through every article of clothing you owned with the sound of the hangers scraping across the rack echoing through your empty apartment. You cursed at yourself when nothing was deemed fit for the occasion. If anyone saw you right now and didn't know any better they'd think you were about to meet the king.

John had texted you earlier about the location of your date. You had noticed in the time you two had texted each other that the man misused emojis and had no concept of abbreviations of slang; you found it endearing.

Pub on Wright Street. x

Was marked as read on your phone screen.

You settled for jeans and a top you hadn't taken the tag off, in your best efforts to remain casual, still trying to put up the facade that you weren't as eager as you were to go on a date with John.

Truth be told, you hadn't gone on a date in months. Maybe the whole year, actually. There just weren't any blokes that you wanted to give the time of day. None of them left an impression on you the way John had, with his kind smile and his crystal eyes. He was magnetizing, and the fact that he made it seem like all his attention was reserved for you made you feel like putting some effort on him was worth it.

In your remaining time, you dabbed some makeup on your face and put some finishing touches on yourself. You felt strange when you looked at your reflection like a different person was looking back at you. But it was in the best way possible; this person was someone more confident and sure of herself. You only hoped John saw the same in you at your date. You hoped this was worth the effort.

Though the pub was relatively close, you called yourself a cab to preserve your look, not wanting to show up sweaty and disheveled to your date. By the time you made it, it was still 20 minutes till 8, and the sight of John already being there brought an immense sense of relief. Like a true gentleman, he had arrived much earlier than you had agreed. Maybe he was as nervous as you were and needed time to collect himself. But someone as suave as him, who stood with a confident posture, most likely did not feel an ounce of worry, you thought.

He opened the door of the cab for you, stretching out a hand to help you step out. He took your hand in his, and you felt the roughness of his palm. A calloused hand held your much silkier one with a supportive grip as you stepped out of the cab and scanned your eyes over him.

God, he's stunning, you thought. The smell of his cologne wafted into your nostrils, a teakwood mahogany scent mixed with the smokey smell of a cigar. It was intoxicating, making your chest burn like a bonfire. He was dressed quite handsomely, like always, too. Nothing fancy, but the fact that it was him wearing the clothes made him automatically attractive.

You felt his gaze on you as well, except he was much more shameless than you when it came to his observations.

"Fuckin' hell, love, you look gorgeous," he crooned. You gave him an embarrassed look and lightly swatted at his arm, which still hadn't let go of your hand. He chuckled lightly at the effect his words had on you.

"You don't look too bad y'self, John," your voice was almost a whisper, and he gave you a flattered smile and a squeeze of your hand.

He escorted you inside the pub, a booth for the two of you had even been arranged. To call the place a pub was underselling it. It was more like a newly opened restaurant with the inspiration being a pub. You'd be lying if you said you weren't impressed, and maybe even a little bit embarrassed to think John would pick a place any less grand than this for your date.

"This is a really nice place, I feel underdressed," you confessed as you looked around at the wooden details and old-fashioned decor.

John scoffed at your statement, "You couldn't be more perfect, doll." He hadn't taken your eyes off you as he sat next to you in the booth, his knee lightly bumping against yours. The close proximity to his grandiose presence made you feel claustrophobic like you were witness to a greater power next to you. The warmth of his body was impossible to close, and his much larger frame made you feel shielded from the world around you.

John ordered for the two of you. Normally this was a turn-off for you, to have a man dictate what you should eat. But the fact that it was him and that you sensed no ulterior motive of disrespect on his part, made it almost attractive, like it was a display of his leadership.

And you were glad he was the one to order when the food and drinks came around. He confessed he came to the pub often because he wasn't the best cook; the most he could make himself was a decent breakfast but was clueless when it came to proper meals.

"I'll come around here for dinner and to your shop for the sweets," he proposed.

"Or you can come by mine and save some money," you blurted out with a sense of confidence you didn't know you had. The alcohol of the drinks he ordered was certainly taking effect on you.

John smirked at your response, a hint of pink dusted his bearded cheeks, "I'll take your offer then, love." His voice was sultry as he took a sip of his bourbon, his eyes not straying from you through a half-lidded gaze.

The two of you cleared the plates of food between conversations. The alcohol made the flow of your banter easier and less reserved. Your laughs went from timid chuckles to your more natural, louder guffaws. It made John beam whenever he made you laugh, watching you bear your true, uncensored self to him bit by bit.

When the waiter took the plates away, you were only left with your third round of drinks, maybe fourth, actually; you'd lost count. Your ears and cheeks were flushed red and your mind was woozy. John was hardly fazed in comparison, now reclined back against the seat with a long, beefy arm outstretched behind you on the booth, almost as if claiming you to the public. It made you feel smaller than you were compared to him.

He brought his refilled glass of bourbon to his lips, his blue eyes rested on you, pupils masking his irises like a waning crescent moon. Could be the dim lights, you thought, or something else. You didn't want to assume, but you wouldn't be upset if it was the latter. You'd be kidding yourself to think you weren't starting to get hot and bothered from the mix of liquor and the fact that the man you were crushing on was mere inches away from you.

There was a beat of silence for a moment between the two of you. John's stare was burning your skin like a laser, and you avoided his eyes in fear you'd be turned to stone from looking at him. You minded your drink until he spoke up.

"I've got a confession to make, love," he sighed heavily, glugging the contents of his cup before continuing, "don't want us startin' off without any secrecy."

Your eyes now snapped up to his face, giving him a puzzled look.

Fuck, so he is married, your mind immediately jumped to conclusion. Of course, he was married, this is just your luck! And who wouldn't want to marry a man this fit? His poor wife--

"Please don't tell me you're married!" you blurted out impulsively. John's eyes widened and he took a moment before snorting and erupting into a boisterous laugh. The man was practically in tears as he rubbed a knuckle across his eye, deescalating from his bout of laughter.

"No, love, no need to worry 'bout that," he clarified. He turned to look at you again, adoration in his eyes, as if you making him laugh was carving even more space for you in his heart.

"Right, erm, sorry," you apologized in embarrassment but couldn't help but chuckle a bit with him, a bit of relief washing over you.

"Truth is, erm, the day we met I wasn't really lost in your bookstore," he started as he rubbed a hand behind his neck, "I knew exactly what I was lookin' for, it gets borin' on leave 'n I had a good book in mind..."

Your face was still puzzled as you watched him get flustered.

"I know how awfully corny this sounds but, I saw you behind the counter 'n thought 'Fuck I've gotta find a way to talk to this pretty thing', so I made m'self look like an idiot so I could talk to ya."

You paused for a second, taking note of multiple things in his confession. One, he thought you were pretty from the get-go. Two, he was itching to talk to you. And three, he made the effort, as silly as it was, to approach you. This big ol' bloke was just a big softie.

His face contorted into a concerned expression at your silence, his body shifting and tensing. "I know it sounds odd but-- I mean--" he stammered, interrupted by the sound of your laughter.

"Oh, John," was all you could manage shaking your head in disbelief at his confession. His body relaxed and the smile returned to his pink face. Suddenly, you felt no sense of nervousness around him, given that he was pining just as much as you all this time, feigning as much nonchalance as you had been (more successfully, though).

Once your laughter toned down you mindlessly placed a comforting hand on his thigh. The solid muscle beneath your touch flexed, the feeling shooting straight to the space between your legs. But you peered up at him with glistening eyes, giving him an affectionate look.

His eyes locked with yours and he brought a hand up to your cheek, giving the fat there a light scolding pinch, "Can't believe you're laughin' when 'm bein' vulnerable."

You giggled, "How could I not!" you retorted. The two of you shared another moment of pleasant silence as you stared at each other, feeling like you had known the man in front of you for decades. Like you were two old lovers on their nth date tonight.

"Y'wanna get out of here, doll?" he cooed, and your response was a nod and a hum.

John paid for the two of you, of course, despite your adamant protesting. His excuse was that you had given him too many teas, coffees, and sweets on the house, and scolded that that was no way to run a business.

When the two of you exited the pub, you stood facing him at the front of the place. He had draped your jacket over your shoulders and was adjusting the front to keep you cozy from the chilly wind. You felt woozy on your feet but nothing you couldn't handle. John's radiated body heat mixed with your jacket and the alcohol in your system was keeping you warm.

Once he was satisfied with how he placed your jacket on you, he moved his hand up to your face. Again, he tucked a stay piece of your hair back into your eat, but this time he brushed the knuckle of his index finger over your cheekbone. Then it trailed to under your chin. You peered up at him with your doe eyes and you were greeted with those shadowy eyes. There was something else in them, though, something beyond kindness, with more intensity, maybe even desire.

It made you feel a burning sensation in the pit of your stomach, the heat radiated between your legs as well. And you wanted John to help you put out that fire.

The man whispered, "Let me take ya home, dove." And you gave him an approving nod. He took your hand in yours again, tangling your fingers together as he took you back to your flat.

The two of you stood outside the front door. John's body was towering close to yours and he looked down at you with the lustful glint in his eyes. Your cheeks burned and your body ached for him to make a move, any move. You just wanted to feel his touch once again. Your hands twitched at your sides.

His hand went up to your hair again, twirling a strand between his fingers this time. Then it reached up to pet your hair on the side of your head. It found its way back to your cheek, brushing his knuckles against the soft, flustered skin, before cupping your face in one hand. You leaned against his touch. His other hand joined at cupping the other side of your face, his thumbs brushing your cheeks. You could feel his hot breath near your face.

"May I?" he whispered, his voice husky and seductive yet gentle and considerate. You nodded in his hands and let out the softest 'of course,' granting him permission.

John didn't hesitate the second you gave him your approval and leaned in to plant a kiss on your lips. It was gentle but didn't lack an ounce of desire. He pulled back for a moment to savor the first taste of your lips. Your hands were shyly placed on his waist, feeling the tenderness of his body as they scaled up to his back.

You rose up on the tip of your toes to meet his lips as he leaned back in to kiss you a second time. Your gesture showed him you were just as eager, that you had just as much desire to kiss him again and again. It was more passionate this time, less reserved. His lips were buttery soft and you melted in the taste of him, in the feeling of his mouth on yours. You felt bold enough to let your tongue pry between his lips and he welcomed it with his own.

You emitted a soft hum within the kiss. One of John's hands snaked around your waist, pulling you flush to his body. He was a furnace, the feeling of his body slotted against yours burnt you like hot coals. Your hands draped over his shoulders, melding your body with his as he kissed you deeply.

You pulled away from the kiss momentarily, only to catch your breath. John held your face with one hand and kept you close. The tip of his narrow nose brushed against yours. His eyes held yours as his thumb rubbed your cheek once more.

You anticipated him to ask to come inside your flat. Well, you were praying he'd ask you if he could come inside. The heat between your legs was simmering, the wetness was physically palpable and you ached for him, partially blaming the alcohol for your body's intense reaction.

"I'll see you tomorrow, love," John purred, planting a goodbye kiss on your other cheek. It took a moment for you to catch on when he stepped back from you and you felt the cold from his absence. Your mind was dumbfounded, but you nodded hesitantly before turning slightly to unlock your door. John flashed you one of his kind smiles before he went on his way back to his apartment. You returned it out of politeness, to not make it obvious how confused you were.

When you entered your flat and closed to door, you leaned your back against it and let out a heavy sigh. You felt like a knobhead for thinking someone like John would just fuck you on the first date. He wasn't just some bloke that had a one-night stand and never called you back, not what you were used to, and you kicked yourself for even remotely thinking John would do the same. He actually wanted to take his time with you and put effort into you. You rubbed your hand over your face in frustration and let out a groan.

But quickly you decided to look on the bright side, though, bringing your fingers to your kiss-swollen lips as you savored the lingering taste of John, and the memory of mere minutes ago when he kissed you flooding back into your mind and making you squeal.

That night you fell asleep giddy like a schoolgirl at the thought of seeing him again tomorrow.

It was very early in the morning when you came into the cafe. The door of the cafe was unlocked but the sign was still flipped on 'Closed' so no customers would come in as you got the shop ready. You had already gotten everything behind the counter arranged; pastries set out, espresso machine cleaned, counter wiped. So you moved on to the shelves to do some light dusting over the books, arranging a few of them that had been misplaced.

You heard the ringing of the bell, letting you know someone had just come in. You knew it wasn't your cousin because she had asked you to take over for the day since she went on a girl's trip, so you assumed it was a customer and politely raised your voice to say, "Sorry, we're still closed!". You peeked over to the door to see if you were correct to assume it was a confused patron only to find John walking past the entrance. He approached you with an apologetic smile.

" 'S just me, love, sorry for showin' up so early," he said, standing in close proximity to you now between the bookshelves. You smiled at him with a faint blush; it was hard not to see him differently after last night.

"No worries, John," you said, but your smile faded as concern crept on you, wondering what he was doing here. He seemed uneasy, fidgeting hands finding comfort in the pockets of his jacket. "Something the matter?" you asked softly.

" 'Bout last night, doll," he started. Your mind was racing again, worrying that he regretted kissing you, that he felt he made a mistake in kissing you or even asking you out or pursuing you to begin with. You were about to tell him it was alright, that you could pretend nothing happened, that you'd forget about it and return to normal.

"I shoulda gone inside with ya," he sighed. Now you were even more confused.

"What do you mean?"

"I spent all night kickin' m'self for not...askin' you to let me come into your flat." His hands came out of his pockets as he stepped closer to you, his body inching against yours the same way he did last night. You froze looking up at him, taking a couple of steps back as he was almost pressing his tall body against yours. You were now trapped between his large figure and the bookshelf behind you. John's hands found their way to your waist and you felt a ragged breath against your face, the smell of cigars flowing into your nose. You shakily placed your own hands on his strong forearms. The proximity of his body against yours pooled arousal in your underwear.

"J-John, I don't--" you stammered, confusion still persistent in your mind. He wanted to come inside with you, the same way you did?

"I couldn't stop thinkin' 'bout you, dove," he purred, lips brushing against your own, the hairs of his mustache tickling your upper lip. "I know y'wanted me to come inside with you, I saw it in your pretty face... s'that right?"

You nodded more hastily than you intended; your heart was beating out of your chest as your breath hitched. Fuck, did you want him, did you spend the rest of the night thinking of him, of the things he could have done to you if he had come inside. Your hands stroked up his arms and up to rest on his shoulders, gripping and lightly tugging the fabric of his jacket, as if beginning him to kiss you again in the seclusion of the bookshelves.

He complied and gave you a deep all-consuming kiss that you drowned in like a flood. John pulled away but kept his nose against yours and whispered into your lips, "Let me make it up to you, so you can forgive me, yeah?"

Your eyes widened as you watched the man kneel in front of you. His palms massaged the sides of your body, stroking the tender flesh of your outer thighs. He peered up at you with pleading, dark eyes, like a man begging for God's forgiveness on a church pew. You felt his burning touch on your skin, the sensation making your core flutter and dampen even more.

"J-John, what are you--" you gasped when you felt the wetness of his lips over your thighs as he peppered kisses over the soft flesh. You didn't know what to do with your hands (or yourself, for that matter) so you settled them over his broad shoulders, unsure if you should push him away or if you wanted to pull him closer to let him do whatever it is he wanted to do.

" 'M just apologizin', pretty girl," he cooed against your thigh. His hands scaled up your thighs, slithering under your mini skirt, grabbing the waistband of your knickers and dragging them down painfully slow, making sure to graze his knuckles against your skin. You watched his movements and he watched your flustered expressions react to every one of his actions.

When your knickers reached your ankles he helped you delicately step out of them, and he pervertedly pocketed the garment with a light smirk tugging at his lips. "Don't worry, I'll give 'em back to you next time, sweetheart." was all he said in that regard. Your pussy twitched at the gesture, making you bite your lip coyly as a small moan escaped you.

John folded the hem of your skirt up lightly as he kissed the inside of your thighs, teasingly close to your sopping sex. He gave the plump flesh light nips to taunt you further, loving the sounds that came out of you every time he did so. His rough hands kneaded at the flesh of your thighs before hooking one of your legs over his shoulder, making your bare cunt more exposed for him, granting him access.

You gasped when he buried his face between your legs, your skirt masking the rest of his face except for those clear blue eyes that feigned innocence as they peered up at you. His lips kissed your sex tenderly, the same way they had kissed your mouth just moments ago. You let out a low moan at the sensation, his facial hair brushing over your vulva made you shiver. Another tender kiss was planted against your slit, followed by another, and another.

"John," you begged, desperation surging in you. And who was he to deny you anything? So to please the pretty girl's request, his flattened tongue slowly lapped at your lips. You threw your head back, a slow moan emanating from your throat, and your fists clenching on the fabric on his shoulders.

"Fuckk, your pretty moans, baby," his voice was muffled. Another slow swipe of his hot tongue, this time the tip of his tongue was pointed and it slid between your folds, caressing your pleading clitoris. It made you jump lightly, and it only prompted him to lick over the sensitive bud even more.

Now the man hungrily licked your pussy, paying utmost attention to your swollen clit. His hands firmly held your thighs as he smothered himself with your cunt. The pace of his tongue quickened, and not an inch of your pussy was left untouched by his mouth.

You were made a mess of indecent moans as John devoured you, your hips lightly rutting against his face. You mentally thanked the security camera guy for not showing up to fix them, and you prayed that everyone passing by would read the 'Closed' sign and that the bookshelves shielded any outsider from the sinful act going on between you and John.

John alternated between piercing his tongue into the entrance of your pussy and suckling on your desperate clit. His eyes closed as he lost himself in your pussy, humming in pleasure as he savored your taste and drank in your moans. His hands snaked up your torso to knead at the tender flesh of your breasts, rubbing his thumbs over your pointed nipples through the fabric of your shirt.

"Perfect fuckin' pussy, baby...so fuckin' sweet," he said, not removing his mouth from you. You whined, one of your hands coming to grip at the hair on the crown of his head, pressing him further against your cunt which made him moan and go absolutely mad. He grabbed the underside of your thighs and draped both of them over his shoulders; the only things supporting your body were John's strong arms and the shelf behind you. Your other hand gripped the shelf behind you to find some leverage.

John was drunk on your juices, fervently eating you out. One of his hands snaked under you to press two thick digits against your entrance. His lips sucked mercilessly at your clit as he pumped your pussy with his fingers now. You practically screamed his name when you felt the intrusion.

"Love hearin' you say my name like that, sweetheart," he slurred, his fingers curling within your walls and pressing against that spongey spot inside of you that made you roll your eyes to the back of your head. You were so fucking close and John knew it.

"Be good 'n cum for me, darlin', he moaned, becoming more and more desperate to feel you clench around his fingers, to feel your juices coat his face.

And you did just that. With a few more pumps of his fingers and more laps of his tongue on your pussy, you were sent over the edge. You let out a final choked-out moan as your body convulsed against the shelf. Your thighs tightened and quaked around John's head the same way your walls clenched tightly around his fingers.

He hummed against your sex, slowing down as he let you ride your orgasm on his face and fingers; your slick dripping down your thighs and onto his face. Those ocean eyes lovingly watched your face contort as you reached your high. But you were too lost in euphoria to even notice; your body was almost going limp in John's hold and all you felt was overwhelming pleasure crashing over you.

You cursed breathlessly, trying to gather yourself. As you slowly came to, you could hear John's soft praises against your thigh, "Did so good f'me, love... my sweet girl." He planted tender, innocent kisses against your flesh as he praised you. He delicately helped you stand up on your own. He rose up to his full height and held you, offering you support on your shaky legs.

"Alright, darlin'?" he said, to which you nodded your head and managed to find your bearings. John chuckled at the sight of your helpless self. Something sadistic in him enjoying watching you like this, depending on him, basically.

You looked up at him, your pupils were still blown and your face was hot. That damned kind smile of his was plastered on his face, but there was a hint of malice hiding behind it. Smug bastard, you thought. You couldn't find any words to say to him, realizing what you just let this man do to you in the middle of your store.

"All's forgiven, then, love?" he had the nerve to say, smoothing the flyaways on your hair and brushing his knuckles over your cheek tenderly. You nodded sheepishly. You didn't even know what you were really forgiving him for, you were never upset with him to begin with, but with the indulgent pleasure he had just given you, you didn't mind forgiving him more often.

You averted his gaze, opting to look at your feet in embarrassment. And it was then that you caught a glimpse of the tightness in his pants. His hardened member peered back at you in the confines of his jeans. You looked up at him, cheeks flushed, silently asking him if he needed you to take care of him in return when your hand reached to palm him. He hummed, but his hand engulfed yours and brought it to his lips, giving them a soft kiss, beard still damp with your juices.

"Leave that f'next time, pretty," he chuckled. Next time, you thought, if it was anything like this then you couldn't wait for next time. You were already pining for more of John after having just finished all over his face.

You moved your hand and placed it on his cheek wordlessly; he leaned into your touch as he looked at you lovingly.

"Can I kiss you again, John?" you stammered shyly, your tone hushed.

The man chuckled, "Of course you can," leaning in to crash his lips on yours. You tasted yourself in his mouth, smelled yourself soaked into his beard. The kiss was soft but prolonged as if he was getting ready to say bye once again.

The two of you stood there in silence for a moment. You completely forgot where you were and that you had a shift to start, but you didn't mind forgetting if it involved staying with John like this the rest of the day. Except John had to snap you out of your fantasy when he whispered to you that he had to go. You nodded your head, the most you could fathom to respond with lately.

The man gave you another chaste kiss on your lips, then a peck on your nose, and a last one on your forehead before he announced his departure and went on his way out the door.

You stood there recalling what just happened, burying your beet-red face into your hands as you squealed. The absence of your panties became evident all of a sudden as well and it only increased your ever-growing embarrassment. You decided no one was going to die over the shop being closed for the day as you gathered your things and dashed out the door, locking up before leaving, of course. No way you'd work comando with just a skirt, you thought, and no way you'd work after all that just happened in the very business you ran.

On your way back to your apartment you smiled to yourself, biting your lip as you thought about John. You thought about how no man in your life had ever done something like that, much less made you feel that good.

John was bringing out a side of you that you didn't know existed.

288 notes · View notes

joshusten · 4 months

Text

love the sinner (albus york/faith koria, bastard warrior || good boy audios)

Albus York takes a bath and Faithful washes his hair. (angst, slight argument, hurt/comfort)

2.2k+ words [ao3 link] [masterlist] [CW/notes: religious imagery ofc (this fic was basically an excuse to write that), typical albus york language, lots of self-loathing and some suicidal thoughts. albus is just having a bad time but hes also so whipped for faithful. speaking of her, i didnt make faith's physical descriptions vague or made it so that she's a "listener" but rather a character of her own! and i based it off of gba's description of her + my own interpretation hehe.]

once again THANK YOU SO SO MUCH to @slushiepizza for all the AMAZING suggestions and support like omfg i SWEAR i keep on saying this but this fic rlly wouldnt be finished without them!! i appreciate it sm!! and im shaking and kissing my irls that ive also bothered with this fic that will probably not see this THANK U SM!! edit: I FORGOT THE FUCKING READ MORE LMFAO

—

Albus York steadily sank into the half-filled tub of one of the ship’s quarters—stripped of his clothes, and left bare to no witness.

Gentle waves of the bathwater rippled against hardened, battle-torn skin. He dementedly mused that if he could go down further, he might finally drown.

He chuckled at the thought, shifted his position, and got to work. It's been a while since he last had an actual bath—way before he even agreed to this suicide mission of an adventure—with warm soapy water and scented products.

The constant near-death experiences and whatnot had interrupted the trio to get any time for themselves, much less to do any sort of basic hygiene. Since the route Devlin had charted for the ship to follow allowed for ample downtime, the Forgemaster had practically shoved his younger half-brother into the common bathroom and forced him to take a much-needed bath (Of course, not without a snobby comment about how his stench matched his personality perfectly well.)

Albus’ inexperience was made clearer with the stiff, awkward motion of his large, calloused hands as he attempted to wash himself. The unpracticed movement made the unfamiliarity of it all fully realized. How long has it been since he felt this safe? Does he even remember how to take care of himself?

Does someone like him even deserve this luxury?

The warrior submerged himself lower, down until his eyes were right above water level. He was thinking again. It was all that he had been doing for the past hour. If the gods wouldn't allow him to drown, then he hoped that the water would at least cleanse the grime and sin embedded into his flesh.

But he knew that filth clung to his skin like how a believer clings to the idea of repentance. No matter how hard—how desperately—he scrubbed (until pale skin turned into blood red, until rough turned rougher), it was all pointless. He had learned long ago that a bastard's prayers were never left answered.

The mark on his chest was a bleak reminder of that reality. Damnation was basically his birthright. Albus York was dead the moment he came out of his mother’s womb—dead to his family, dead to society.

Cursed to hell for being sin itself.

Life had a funny way to remind him—that goodness is something he can be in the presence of but never be a part of it.

"Albus?"

Speak of the devil, his ever-so-naive angel had arrived.

“Albus? Hello?”

Tender, serene, heavenly.

The voice was melodic—like the somber hymns he used to hear in his youth when his mother would take him into the temple and meet with her fellow brothers and sisters. At that time, he always felt drawn to the choir’s performance, despite not being old enough to understand the words (not that he was any more literate in the present). Back then, he was just a kid, blissfully unaware of the blasphemy he had committed for existing.

He had grown since then—in every aspect of the word.

"Albus! Are you still in there?"

A deep grunt, muffled slosh of water, and the pitter-patter of droplets on the tiled surface were all that Faith Koria had heard from the other side of the metal door before a familiar, gruff voice answered back.

"Calm ya tits, woman. I knew you were eager to see my dick but I never knew you were this eager!"

The outside replied with an annoyed groan, a sound Albus was all too familiar with, especially when it came from her. That being said, he couldn't fight the smile forming on his lips as he hastily dried himself up with a nearby towel.

"You've been using the bathroom for more than an hour, just what are you doing in there? Some people want to get cleaned up too, you know!”

The metal door swiftly slid open with a sudden 'woosh!', hot steam dissipating before the runaway nun to reveal Albus’ tall stature, half-naked and slightly dripping wet. Faith frantically averted her eyes on instinct, ears immediately burning with embarrassment. It wasn’t like it was her first time seeing him undressed—for gods’ sake, she treated his wounds like this when they first met! But to have him fresh out of a bath with his toned body exposed and his dampened long hair was—Wait! His hair!

"Alright, alright! I’m out, ya happy? I’m decent too so you don’t have to be a prude about it,” The bastard huffed, a little irritated with how his peaceful bath (or at least, as peaceful as it could be) was abruptly cut short.

“Albus, your hair!”

The man scrunched up his face in confusion. He gathered one of his dark locks and examined it with an intense focus. “Huh? Looks fine to me. What, you're not expecting me to be all prim and proper now, are you?”

“No, no, no! It's all matted and uneven!” The woman replied with a horrified concern in her voice that was rare for the warrior to hear directed at him.“It’s probably from all those monster attacks. Some of them must’ve managed to get to your hair! How long has it been like this? Does it hurt? Do you even have shampoo?”

“Uh…what’s that?”

“Ugh, never mind. Just—” Before Albus could process what was happening, Faith grabbed his arm with a surprisingly strong grip for a nun. She dragged him down near the bathtub he just got out of. He can even hear the water still slowly swirling down the drain.

“Faithful, what are you—”

“Stay right here. You got that, York? I’m just going to get something and I don't want you to move a muscle.”

A deep chuckle resonated within the man’s scarred chest—he always enjoyed it when she got this bossy. He gave her a mock salute and answered with a hearty “Yes, ma’am!”

The sister paladin made a face, letting out a flustered huff before hurrying to wherever she needed to be. So cute.

Albus had put on his clothes at this point while he waited (lest he risked Faithful suffering from a heart attack). A few minutes had passed by when she returned with a rather large pouch that Albus recognized was packed with the rest of her belongings. He deduced it must've been from her childhood with how worn down the embroidery was. Once vibrant floral patterns dulled from years of usage.

“Lean back by the bathtub,” Faith instructed. “I’m going to start detangling your hair. I might cut off some of the more unsalvageable parts too. If anything hurts or if I snagged on it too hard just let me know, okay?”

“Okay,” The man repeated simply, not really knowing how to react to all of the amount of consideration he was receiving. Abrasiveness was what he was more used to responding to, not the care that she unabashedly gave him.

She beamed brightly at his compliance (and no, his heart did not just skip a beat), soft hands found their way to his head and started brushing away the more manageable tangles before using a wide-tooth comb for the bigger ones. Despite the numerous warnings, her fingers were nowhere near to being rough. She was as gentle as a lamb—her slow brushstrokes eventually formed a rhythm that filled in the silence of the room. Albus decided to break the comfortable atmosphere.

“How are you so good with this shit?” He mumbled, voice heavy with drowsiness. Fuck, he felt like he could sleep until his next life. “Never knew sisters of Cindergorn get to be part-time hairdressers too.”

Even with his sluggish state, Albus could almost sense the nun’s eyes rolling above him, brushing out his hair with a slightly more forceful than usual tug.

“I'm the one usually taking care of the children at the temple. I’m used to seeing this kind of stuff whenever they play too hard. Obviously not on this level but you get the gist.” Faith snipped off the last of a particularly challenging knot.

“I've also been doing my own hair ever since I was a kid, so really, it's like second nature to me at this point,” she followed up, running her fingers through his hair with a satisfied nod.

Now that Albus thought about it, he had seen Faithful braiding herself earlier on their journey when they had just…tastefully borrowed the flagship meant for his father. He remembered swift, practiced hands twisting sections after sections of dark, coiled hair and had mentioned in passing how it was a hairstyle she often did to withstand the Eastern Faithlands' harsher seasons (Fortunately, it also turned out to be great for going-on-a-quest-to-kill-your-priest-brother-and-save-a-child seasons too.)

Faith’s hands suddenly paused. Before the man could ask if something was wrong, she signaled him to stay still while she rummaged through the pouch to get a small bottle. She squeezed a moderate amount of product into her palm and spread it evenly. As she was about to apply the substance to his head, Albus jerked away, quickly stopping her hand with his own as a furrow formed on his thick brows.

“Faithful,” He chuckled. “Please, I’m a warrior. You don’t need to waste your fancy shit on me. My hair’s going to get fucked up again eventually so what’s the point?”

Faith struggled to wriggle herself out of his grasp. “Wha–Albus, it’s fine!”

“No, Faithful, I’m serious. It’s just hair. Hell, it’s my hair. Relax.” The man sat up straighter at this point, the water from his long, damp hair trickling down along the scarred tissue of his back but it was the intensity in those familiar brown eyes that made him feel a chill.

“And I told you it’s fine just let me—”

“Why are you making it a big fuckin’ deal? What do you want from me?”

“What?” Faith’s voice cracked, appalled and confused. “Albus, what are you even talking about? I’m not asking for anything—”

“I’m just a bastard you hired to kill your brother! I was paid to do the dirty work for you, not to be your fucking toy—”

“Albus, wha—Y–You’re not a toy! Why do you—”

“If I’m not then why are you being like this to me? There’s a catch—there’s always a fucking catch. So what the fuck do you want from me?”

The nun managed to finally yank her hand away from his harsh grip and angrily slammed at the smooth surface of the tub.

“I just want you to stop being stubborn for once and let me do this for you!”

The silence that followed between them felt suffocating.

Faith’s breath hitched, shocked by her outburst. She immediately straightened up her posture only to look down shamefully at the tiled floor. A shaky sigh left her lips, and Albus was doing everything in his power to stop himself from reaching out to her, seeking salvation he knew she shouldn’t give him because he was not sorry that he was like this. He wasn’t afraid to show his filth to the world because it was all he knew to do—all he was taught to do. There’s no excuse, no justification, no escape. She’s everything good and he’s just scum or worse yet—he’s a bastard.

Because she’s an angel and he’s far worse than the devil.

“This isn't anything all that fancy…just something to keep it healthy and less stressful on your scalp. I just want you to feel okay. So please…” She trailed off. “Let me.”

“It’s…It’s just hair, Faithful. I’ll be okay, I’m a big boy,” Albus joked, but his words were sincere. He almost found the whole thing amusing—having the ever-so-snappy sister paladin fuss over him—if he didn’t get a feel for how much…his comfort seemed to mean a lot to her.

Faith pursed her lips, her gaze still fixed downward. “I just think…you deserve at least one good hair day.”

It's that word again. Deserve. Does she really think that? That he's worthy of all of this?

The man cleared his throat with a curt nod. Hesitantly, the nun's fingers slowly found their way back to the crown of his head, resuming whatever she was supposed to do. Steady, rhythmic brushstrokes filled the quiet once again.

After what felt like hours of stillness, the bastard dared himself to shift his head and face her timidly—as if he was afraid he could melt under her piercing gaze.

"Thank you, for…for this," Albus grunted. He hadn't only meant for his hair.

Faith graced him with a dimpled smile—the one that made her eyes squint and showed the tiniest bit of the gap between her front teeth. She proceeded to tuck away a stray lock behind his ear, trailing down to hover over his cheek. Albus can practically feel the nervous tremble on her fingers as if she were hesitating on something. It all came to nothing in the end, closing her hands in a fist before withdrawing to her pouch to start cleaning up.

“Anytime, Albus. Besides, with how you always manage to find yourself in trouble,” the sister murmured, her voice playful (it never failed to leave Albus’ mind racing). Her eyes glinted as they locked into his almost like clockwork. “How can I not?”

Albus York sat by the empty bathtub of the ship’s quarters—fully clothed yet he had felt the most bare that he had ever been in front of someone.

Faith smiled at him again and he swore he could make out the faintest halo crowning her head under the fluorescent bathroom light. ---- a/n: this is probably my most favorite fic that i wrote and i hope you enjoyed! lemme tell u this fic took way to long and got me so stressed for no reason idk ! i was worrying abt how this would happen in the timeline and all the lil details and then !! its a fic!! and im suppose to be having fun!! i am being self-indulgent!! (although i hope was able to characterize them well) again, feedback and comments r highly appreciated!! :DD have a good day/night and thank you for reading!!

#good boy audios #gba albus #albus york #gba bastard warrior #gba faithful #gba fanfic #THIS TOOK WAY TOO LOOOOOONG BUT ITS FINISHED see you guys next year /j

123 notes · View notes

iamthecomet · 8 months

Note

Okay, so, how do you think all the ghouls and ghoulettes go to sleep? Like, who has 3 fans on them even in the dead of winter for the noise and so they can burrow under the blanket/into their partner? Rain I feel sleeps with like, silk sheets and thunder sounds, or maybe the sound of rain against the window. Dew or Aeon sleep with the TV on, or music, cause it makes them feel less alone? One of the ghoulettes has a squishmallow collection and if you spend the night in her room you have to learn every single one's name. Who showers right before bed so they go to sleep feeling clean and who showers in the morning to rinse off the grime from the night? Who wakes up in the middle of the night dying for a snack only for that snack to be a handful of shredded cheese they unceremoniously shove into their mouth, leaving ample evidence of their crime on the floor in front of the fridge?

I have answers to all of your questions and MORE! Aether: Quintessence makes him run cooler than others. So when it's cold he really feels it. Sleeps with lots of blankets and pillows. A big nest. Sometimes takes him a while to fall asleep. Needs it to be very quiet. Once he's asleep though, he sleeps like the dead. Takes forever for him to really wake up for the day. Sleeps in late, always. Aeon: Can sleep literally anywhere. Curls up in a ball, falls asleep. No trouble falling asleep--bad at staying that way if he's alone. Can sleep all night on the bus floor as long as there are other people around him. The second they all go to be? He's up. Needs the sound of other people, absolutely watches TV before bed. Aurora: Her bed is an oasis. So soft. So fluffy. Covered in pillows and blankets. Lots of soft fuzzy blankets, plushes. Falls asleep in a nest of soft things. Sleeps curled up small. Like Aeon, hates to sleep alone. But she loves her bed more than anyone else's so is usually inviting people into hers instead of going to theirs. Listens to music to fall asleep. Cirrus: Needs complete silence to fall asleep soundly. Otherwise, she gets distracted. Prefers to sleep alone because she's a light sleeper. Goes to bed very late, gets up moderately early. No one knows how she does it. Definitely the first person you will run into on her way to get a midnight snack. Cumulus: Like Aurora, has made her room and her bed into her sanctuary. Listens to sleep sounds to go to bed (rainforest noises are her favorite. She likes the birds). Manages to get Cirrus to sleep with her more nights than not, despite Cirrus' insistence that she's better off on her own. A pretty heavy sleeper, who doesn't wake up very often in the middle of the night. Dewdrop: Massive bed hog, somehow. Starfishes, sprawls out. Moves a lot in his sleep too. Generally not fun to sleep with but somehow is usually not in his bed alone. Light blankets. A handful of pillows. Has never slept through the night once in his life. Is absolutely the one shoveling shredded cheese into his face at 3am--unless Cirrus gets to it first. Mountain: Light sleeper, but like Aeon can doze off almost anywhere. Swiss is sure he saw Mountain fall asleep standing up once. Big on comfort. Has a massive bed that is usually the location of most ghoul piles. Snores when he's really tired. Sleeps with the window open all year round. Rain: Always cold. Always showers before bed, without fail. Usually found in Dew's bed with an extra blanket wrapped around him. Also moves a lot in his sleep. Talks too, nonsense mostly. Massive drooler. Has never snored once in his life (Dew says this is a lie). Can only sleep in very specific places. Hotel nights are really hard for him. Sunshine: Like Aeon and Mountain can sleep literally anywhere. But once she's out she's out. She fell asleep on the floor? She'll be there until morning. Wakes up with the sun, goes to bed early. Almost never sleeps in her own bed and definitely not alone. Doesn't move once she falls asleep. Drools always, like Rain. Swiss: Spends maybe one night a week in his own bed. Always is cuddled up with someone. Will never admit that it's because he doesn't like waking up to an empty bed--that the touch of his pack mates is what relaxes him enough to actually fall asleep. Light sleeper, but falls back asleep very very quickly if he's woken up (like seconds). Because of this he's absoltuely useless in a crisis.

#comet comments #comet canons #ghoul headcanons #ghost headcanons

83 notes · View notes

inanimatefan1 · 9 months

Text

Mall sneaker fascination

Josh had always been an observer. Working in a shop at the mall gave him ample opportunities to watch people come and go. But among the throngs of shoppers, one guy stood out. This guy always wore the most exceptional sneakers Josh had ever seen. Mesmerized, Josh began to notice a pattern in the guy's visits and his sneaker purchases. Driven by a strange mix of curiosity and envy, Josh hatched a plan. He discovered the exact sneaker model that the guy had recently ordered. After order online a bottle of TF fluid, Josh transformed himself into that very sneaker. As soon as Josh's transformation was complete, the familiar weight of the guy's foot pressed down on him. The forces pulling and pushing with every step made Josh's new form tense and flex. The guy's foot, snug against Josh's inner lining, produced warmth, which soon turned into sweat. Josh, now the sneaker, absorbed it, feeling the dampness spread. And then came the smell – a mix of leather from the shoe and the distinct odor of feet. But there was something intoxicating about the experience. The intimacy of being so close, of bearing the weight and movements, was different from anything Josh had ever felt. It was personal, immersive, and in a strange way, liberating. Days passed, and with each, the boundary between Josh the person and Josh the sneaker seemed to blur. He felt connected, tethered to the life of the man who wore him. The sounds of his live, the conversations, the rhythm of steps – all became a symphony that Josh relished.

However, as time wore on, the reality set in. The initial excitement faded, replaced by a growing desperation. Josh hadn’t planned on how to return to his human form. He was trapped. Every crease, every speck of dirt, every footprint became a reminder of his predicament. But as the days turned into weeks, Josh made peace with his new reality. The sensation, the intimacy, the symphony of sounds – he didn't want to give it up. At least for now, Josh decided to remain the sneaker, living a life so distinct from the one he once knew. And who knows? Maybe one day, he'd find a way back. Or perhaps, he'd choose not to.

In the beginning, the scent was subtle – a gentle musk that reminded Josh of new shoe leather mixed with a hint of foot odor. For Josh, now transformed into a sneaker, it was a novel experience. The fragrance was an intimate note, a testament to his bond with Michael, whose foot he cradled.

But as the days went on, the odor began to intensify. What was once a light musk transformed into a powerful, pungent aroma. It became a mix of sweat, grime, and the wear of daily life. Every step Michael took, every puddle he stepped in, and every humid day added layers to the ever-growing scent. Josh, unable to move or escape, felt the weight of his decision pressing down on him, much like the weight of Michael´s foot. The smell became overwhelming, permeating every fiber of his being. There was no respite, no moment of fresh air. Just the constant, stifling aroma. It became a sensory prison. Each day, as the scent grew stronger, the line between pleasure and discomfort blurred. Josh yearned for a breath of fresh air, a momentary release from the suffocating scent. But he was trapped, with no way to break free. The aroma, which had once been a symbol of his adventurous spirit, now became a reminder of his predicament. He was bound by his own choices, ensnared in a world of overpowering scent with no way out. Though he had embraced the experience at first, the relentless onslaught of the odor made him long for his old life. But how could he revert to his human form? Was there a way out of this fragrant prison? Time seemed to slow, every moment stretching longer under the weight of the scent. All Josh could hope for was a reprieve, a chance to break free from the aromatic chains that bound him.

Each day was a testament to Josh's resilience. With every step Michel took, every flex of his foot, Josh felt the strain on his fabric, the wear on his sole. He could sense the material thinning, the protective barriers breaking down. The inescapable odor was a constant reminder of the passage of time and his impending fate. Sometimes, during the quiet moments when Michel would rest on a bench or take a moment to tie his laces, Josh would reflect on his existence. From the bright, shiny days at the store, where he was admired by all, to the slow degradation under Michel's ownership. The thought of ending up discarded, forgotten, was a looming shadow over his existence. He imagined the dark, cramped confines of a wardrobe, pushed to the back, overshadowed by newer, shinier sneakers. Every once in a while, light would penetrate the dark corner, a fleeting moment of hope. But soon, even that light would be eclipsed by the weight of neglect. Worse yet was the thought of ending up in the trash. Cast aside, deemed unworthy, and left to rot in a landfill, amongst the detritus of other forgotten objects. The thought was unbearable. For someone who had once walked the bustling corridors of the mall, feeling the thrill of the world beneath him, this seemed a cruel twist of fate.

The irony wasn't lost on Josh. In his quest to experience life from a new perspective, he had inadvertently trapped himself in a cycle of degradation and neglect. Every morning, as Michel's foot slid into him, Josh braced himself, hoping to endure another day, to stay intact a little longer. As the days passed, Josh's thoughts shifted from escape to acceptance. He began to find solace in the memories of his time as a sneaker, the unique sensations, and experiences he'd had. The pain of wear and tear, the overpowering odor, they all became badges of his journey, of a life lived fully, albeit differently. In the end, all he hoped for was a dignified farewell, a gentle acknowledgment of the miles they'd walked together, the adventures they'd shared. And perhaps, just perhaps, a quiet corner in Michel's home where he could rest, reminisce, and slowly fade into oblivion.

The day had an aura of finality. The leather was cracked, the sole almost worn through, and the laces frayed. The once vibrant sneaker, where Josh resided, now seemed a mere shadow of its former self. Michel glanced at the sneakers, noticing the undeniable signs of wear, and decided it was time to let them go. As Michel gathered his household waste, Josh braced himself. He felt a gentle hand grasp him, felt the pressure as he was squeezed into a black trash bag. The surroundings were immediately dark, oppressive. All around him, the muffled sounds of discarded objects, the residual remnants of meals, and the weight of other waste bore down on him. It was a strange sensation, being amidst the discarded remains of someone's life. Every once in a while, a stray ray of light would pierce the darkness, illuminating the confines of his prison. But those moments were fleeting, and the oppressive darkness would return. The journey to the dumpster was brief, but it felt like an eternity to Josh. Every jostle, every movement was a stark reminder of his plight. And then, the finality of it all hit him as he felt the trash bag being tossed, landing with a soft thud amidst other discarded remnants. The environment inside the dumpster was stifling. The combination of odors – rotting food, old items, and the unmistakable scent of decay – was overpowering. But amidst the stench, the overpowering smell of the sneaker seemed to blend in, becoming one with the surroundings. Despite the grim surroundings, Josh tried to hold on to the memories, the times when he walked the mall's floors, the sensation of every step, the bond he'd felt with Michel. They were now cherished fragments of a life once lived. In the hallowed confines of the dumpster, amidst the discarded remnants of many lives, Josh awaited his fate. Whether it was to be part of a landfill, recycled, or perhaps, in some twist of fate, rescued, he did not know. But he took solace in the experiences he'd had, the unique journey he'd undertaken. For in the end, life was about the journey, the experiences, and the stories, even if one's existence ended up in the quiet confines of a dumpster.

The days inside the dumpster seemed to blur together. Each day, more trash bags were dumped, piling atop one another. With every new addition, Josh felt the weight increase, pressing down on him, squeezing the life out of the sneaker. The once roomy confines of the dumpster became tighter, more oppressive. The mingling odors became more pungent. Rotting food, discarded items, old fabrics, and a host of other discarded remnants created an aroma that was almost suffocating. Yet, in this environment, the worn-out sneaker with its overpowering scent seemed almost at home, blending in with the surrounding decay. Time seemed to lose meaning for Josh. The moments of daylight that occasionally pierced through the layers of trash became rarer. The weight above him continued to increase, making every moment an exercise in endurance. Then, one day, a change. There was a rumble, a vibration that resonated through the entire container. Suddenly, the dumpster was lifted, its contents shifting, causing Josh to be further pressed into the compacted waste. The movement was swift, and before he could comprehend it fully, there was a powerful force, a massive compression.

The compactor was ruthless. It pressed down, squeezing every inch of space, crushing the contents within. Josh felt an intense pressure, a force unlike anything he'd ever experienced. Every fiber, every thread, every bit of cushioning in the sneaker was compressed, squeezed, and flattened. And then, as quickly as it began, it was over. The world around Josh went silent. The pressure, the weight, the odors – everything became still. The journey, which had begun in a shop at the mall, culminated in this final moment of compression.

In this stillness, a strange serenity enveloped Josh. The memories, the sensations, the unique experiences all flashed before him. From the vibrant days in the store to the daily grind under Michel's feet, and finally, the oppressive days in the trash. Each memory was a testament to a life lived fully, albeit in a form most would never understand.

Josh's heart raced as he bolted upright, his sheets tangled around him. The pale morning light filtered through the blinds, casting a soft glow over the room. The familiar surroundings of his bedroom stood in stark contrast to the oppressive darkness and weight of the dumpster he'd just been in. He touched his face, feeling the sweat that had gathered on his brow, and took a deep, shuddering breath. The memories of the dream – being a sneaker, the mall, Michel's steps, the unbearable stench, the crushing weight – were all so vivid, so real. Shaking his head, he tried to dispel the remnants of the nightmare. The sheets were damp with his sweat, bearing witness to the intensity of the dream. With trembling hands, he took a sip of water from the glass on his nightstand, trying to ground himself back to reality. He swung his legs over the side of the bed and stared down at his own feet, feeling an unexpected wave of relief. "Just a dream," he whispered to himself. But the level of detail, the emotions, the sensations – they felt too real to be mere figments of his imagination. As the day progressed, Josh found it hard to shake off the memories of the dream. Every shoe he saw, every step he took, brought back flashes of his surreal experience. He was more appreciative of his own feet, his own shoes, the freedom of movement.

That night, as he prepared for bed, he hesitated for a moment before placing his sneakers in the closet. A brief shiver ran down his spine. Gently, he placed them side by side, giving them a pat of appreciation. With a wry smile, he thought, "Better treat them well, just in case."

#inanimate tf #inanimate transformation #inanimate object #inanimate sneakers

54 notes · View notes

sssm1l3 · 10 months

Text

Let's talk about SA in the walking dead.

tw// talk of sexual violence/sexual assault against a minor

Spoilers for the walking dead ahead

In this I'm going to focus on Carl Grimes and the incident with The Claimers in 4x16 "A"

While I understand that this was mainly used as a way for Rick to go a little wacko and show how far he's willing to go to protect Carl and also probably loose like that last little bit of faith in humnaity.

However, it needed to be addressed. Carl is, what, fourteen? In season four, and so they put in sexual violence against a child and then just...left it be.

In issue #58 of the comics, after the whole claimers thing, Rick and Carl have a discussion about it, even if it's short. I don't know if it's mentioned again after that or not, but I know in #58 Carl speaks about how he liked watching Rick kill that man.

Which you know fair enough, we all enjoyed it too.

However, in the show, it's never brought up again. Because in the next episode they almost get barbecued. Which, can distract them from addressing that at the moment, but once they get to Alexandria and that little bit of peace before it gets over run, and everything else, they had ample time to have Carl sit down with literally anybody and talk about it.

We get a single parallel, that being Dan (I think that was his name?) Push Carl on the ground, and then Negan push Carl on the ground during the lineup.

Carl could have freaked out. He could have. He could have freaked out, or at least done something to indicate that he was not a big fan of that at all, in a different way to an aversion to having his arm cut off.

And, if we wanna go cynical with it, when Carl decided to star in a shoot em up western and murder two of Negan's dudes, and Negan was like "Oh, sing me a song" and made Carl talk about shit, he could have asked about it.

Could have made Carl talk about his sexual assault as a way of mentally breaking him down.

And even though Negan is a rapist via coercion, he doesn't think he is, and has a strong hate of like, violent rape, basically anything besides coercion.

And while I would have much rather Carl talk about it with Rick, Michonne, hell Daryl, or even Glenn before he kicked the bucket, maybe Maggie since she was also SA'd and they actually talked about it, Carl being forced to talk about it with Negan would have been interesting.

When one of the Savior's runs his finger down Enid's cheek while she's begging for her balloons back, you can see Carl seething. That he's uncomfortable with it.

Because of fucking course he is. Not only is that Enid that he cares about deeply, but you can not tell me that that didn't bring back memories of that Claimer sniffing his hair.

There's another opportunity. To have Carl and Enid talk about their shared experiences, even if the details of the situations are different, they're sill under the same category, and that thing with Enid isn't ever talked about again either.

If AMC had them speak about it, it would have been 2 birds with one fucking giant stone with the word "COMMUNICATION" written on it.

And no matter who Carl ended up talking about it with, it didn't have to be a big sit down conversation in front of a window while it rained with dramatic background music.

After the balloon thing with Enid, he could have gone with her, sat with her and been like "Hey. I get it." and her look at Carl while he looks at her and they both sort of have the same expression of understanding.

Hell, that's realistic.

It just...any way it could have been talked about, it should have. But it wasn't.

And I will forever be bitter about it.

Thank you for coming to my ted talk

#Thee Walking Dead #carl twd #twd #rick grimes #carl grimes #rick twd #the walking dead negan #carl the walking dead #enid twd #Enid the walking ded #tw #amc #amc the walking dead #the walking dead comics #glenn twd #glenn the walking dead

57 notes · View notes

vulpes-fennec · 1 year

Text

Prythian's Fantasia 🎪 (Ch. 1)

Summary: It’s 1889. Desperate to save her ailing mother’s life, Feyre strikes a bargain with ringmaster-witch doctor Amarantha. As the Archeron sisters join Prythian’s Fantasia and head for the World’s Fair in Paris, they begin to realize the circus’s magic runs far deeper than its enchanting nightly performances.

Read: Masterlist | AO3

Friday, March 8th, 1889

***Nesta***

The rain had let up by the time 25-year old Nesta Archeron stepped out of the St. John’s Wood Road station. Taking the family carriage was preferable to clustering with all the grimy plebeians, but riding the Metropolitan Railway was considered en vogue for young adults in 1889. Besides, showing up to a suffragist meeting in a fancy carriage wasn’t very humble.

Political disagreements—revolving around Prime Minister Gladstone and Irish Home Rule—had left the budding suffragist movement in disarray. Still, Nesta’s particular group of women’s activists managed to meet every Friday. Which was why, even on freezing March days like this, Nesta was committed to trekking out to central London.

Central London itself was a veritable sludge of shit, coal soot, and rot. But she’d rather be wading through the mucky Victorian streets than walking up the front steps of the Archerons’ house. Nesta didn’t have issues with the four-story building crafted from warm red brick, with its ample windows and three full-time staff to attend to their needs. The home was even outfitted with running water—what more could she ask for?

Nesta had issues with her mother’s disagreeable presence.

Nesta hadn’t minded being her mother’s favorite child when she was younger, for it meant receiving pretty dresses, compliments, and plenty of dance lessons. But as Nesta grew older, she realized Isabella Archeron cared only about social status. And once Nesta joined the suffragist movement, it became abundantly clear that her mother saw her as a marriage mart project—and never as an actual person.

Isabella Archeron had fallen ill last spring. Her health failed to improve at their country home, at the southern coast, and even at the hands of their family doctor. So shortly before Christmas, Nesta’s father returned the family to London.

“The pollution is not ideal, but there will be better doctors in London,” he’d reasoned. “And better chances of finding a husband for you, Nesta.” Nesta had agreed to the move, but not because she wanted to get married. If she couldn’t go to Manchester, where the beating heart of the suffrage movement lay, she would find like-minded women in London.

Society in the country moved at a snail’s pace, as things often did when the closest neighbors were a carriage ride away. Women’s suffrage was met with blank stares, and then revulsion once Nesta explained it in simple terms. Really, did no one find it illogical that in a family with three daughters, the father was the only individual with any say in matters of politics? The women in the family outnumbered him four to one!

“Miss Archeron.” A maid dusting the vases in the front foyer gave a little bow as Nesta entered. Her brown eyes lingered on Nesta’s muddy boots. Though the servants turned a blind eye to Nesta’s comings and goings, she was certain they gossiped amongst themselves.

“Hello, Bridley.” Nesta gave the maid a nod. Poor, poor Bridley, a sweet girl married at such a young age to a boorish man who drank and gambled away into the night. This was precisely why Nesta had no intention of getting married, for upper-class men were hardly any better.

“Your mother called for you several minutes ago. I tried to borrow time, saying you were in a bath, but—”

“Yes, yes, I know. I must make haste.” Nesta waved Bridley off and ran up the stairs. She felt a bit guilty for tracking in street grime, but her mother was a woman who did not appreciate being kept waiting.

Nesta hastily threw on a tea gown and undid her braid, making sure there was no dirt on her face before opening the door to her mother’s bedroom. “You called, Mother?” Nesta greeted cautiously.

“Nesta, dear.” Only Isabella Archeron could make terms of endearment sound unpleasantly cold. “Come, sit by me.” Nesta entered and perched delicately on the edge of the four-poster bed. “Sit up straight, Nesta. You won’t attract any aristocrats with that slouch. And goodness, I know you just got out of the bath, but there is no reason for your hair to be undone,” her mother chided sharply.

Nesta automatically tilted her chin up and squared her shoulders. Surely even Queen Victoria would not meet her mother’s standards for appearances and proper etiquette. “My apologies,” Nesta gritted out.

“Hmm…I just purchased the scarlet dress for you from the catalog.” Her mother’s attention flitted from one topic to the next like a butterfly, and she waved a ladies’ fashion pamphlet at Nesta.

“Mother, I have five dresses that have not been worn in public yet. The scarlet dress is hardly a necessary purchase,” Nesta protested. Prices in those catalogs were astronomically expensive, but of course Isabella Archeron loved spending money like it grew on trees.

Nesta refused to balk at her mother’s icy look. “Yet two of those dresses have already fallen out of fashion! You must make a stunning entrance at the Beddor’s gala next week. It’s the debut event of the season, and I heard that several families from the House of Lords will be there, with sons of marrying age.”

Nesta suppressed the urge to roll her eyes at her mother’s obsession with marrying up in society. Didn’t she realize that most courtships these days were based on love—not social and economic value? Did she ever think about how much potential was wasted when women were limited to marriage, children, and managing households? Clearly not.

Her mother continued chatting. “...and Tomas Mandray should be a fine option. Did you know that Lord Mandray’s wealth increased by 40 percent since last year? He was so smart for investing in those railways…”

“With the Beddors hosting, it would be poor taste for me to upstage Clare,” Nesta said carefully.

“Clare? Upstage her? Why, Nesta, that poor girl is so plain, even Bridley could upstage her in last season’s frock.” Her mother chuckled cruelly. “Oh, don’t give me that cross look. You know it’s true.”

Nesta suppressed the urge to defend Clare. Perhaps Clare lacked remarkable features, but at least she didn’t possess a nasty personality like her stunning mother. Besides, vying for attention from men was as close to pathetic as one could get. “But Mother, how am I to attend the gala if you are unwell and Father is still away?”

Isabella Archeron bristled. “Unwell? My dear girl, I am just a bit under the weather. I will be in perfect health to accompany you to the Beddors.”

Nesta highly doubted her mother’s chronic illness would magically clear up in a week, but she chose not to say anything.

Her mother pressed a pair of garnet and gold earrings into Nesta’s hand. “Wear these earrings to the gala, Nesta. They were your grandmother’s, and they will surely catch the eye of every man in the room. I know this to be true, because your father asked me for our first dance when I wore these 27 years ago.” Icy gray-blue eyes glinted with cunning.

It was nauseating. What kind of mother expressed affection in the form of social-climbing strategy and materialistic goods? Where were the hugs, kisses, or warm words of comfort? Although the earrings were beautiful, they reminded Nesta of her fate: you will marry, just like the generations of women who came before you.

“Thank you,” Nesta managed to say, closing her fist.

“You may take your leave now, my dear. And tell your sister Feyre to join me for afternoon tea.” Isabella Archeron’s placid tone indicated she’d grown bored already.

“Yes, Mother.” Nesta closed the door, gripping the earrings so tightly that the metal backings left pricks of pain in her palm. Days like this drove her to dance away her self-loathing in the parlor downstairs. The waltz, the tango, the metal pole…Nesta was a master—or should she say, mistress—of these forms. But first, Nesta needed to find Feyre.

***Elain***

A colossal structure of wrought-iron stretched up, up, and up into the twinkling night sky. What a magnificent building! If Elain craned her neck, she could barely make out the tricolor flag of France fluttering from the upper viewing terrace. The grand lawn before her, a bursting promenade of shops, exhibits, and worldly wonders, invited her to explore at a leisurely pace.

A solid arm looped over her shoulder, drawing her close to a warm body. Elain gasped, startled at the rush of sensations he—for the person was definitely a man—elicited. She felt warm, like she was sitting by a toasty fire. Secure, as if she’d come home. Elated, like champagne bubbles rushing through her body. Elain glanced to her right, trying to see who the stranger was…

Knock, knock, knock. Sharp raps on her door woke Elain from her nap. “Elain! Elain!” Her younger sister’s muffled cries sounded from the hall. “Are you in there?”

Elain stifled the urge to snap at Feyre when she opened the door. She was fairly certain her dream had featured the Tour Eiffel: the architectural wonder waiting to be unveiled this summer at the Exposition Universelle. Photographs of the attraction had been kept hush hush, but if Elain had just seen it in its full glory…that meant it wasn’t just any dream. It was a premonition.

“Elain, look what I managed to get!” Feyre was excitedly waving three slips of paper in Elain’s face. With her mismatched servant’s clothes and faint smell of coal, Feyre must have been wandering the slums of London again.

Elain blinked, trying to regain her post-nap bearings. “What is that?” She took the shimmering crimson slips of paper from Feyre’s hands. In gold lettering, the paper read:

Admit One | Prythian’s Fantasia

A magical night awaits you at the greatest show this side of Earth…

“Three tickets to see Prythian’s Fantasia!” Feyre gushed breathlessly, her blue-gray eyes shining with excitement. “Remember, the circus that arrived last week?” Ah, yes. The circus that Feyre had been raving about every spare minute.

“This side of earth?” Elain repeated. A craggy mountain with two branches of magenta amaranth flowers crossing below it was printed on the ticket. A strange choice of imagery for a circus. “What does that even mean?”

Nesta’s angular face appeared behind Feyre like a ghostly apparition. “Feyre! You’ve been out of the house again, haven’t you?” Nesta accused sharply. “It’s a miracle you haven’t been robbed, stabbed, kidnapped, or caught some venereal disease!”

Feyre’s expression soured. “Says the one who went to a suffragist meeting today!”

“Be quiet.” Nesta whipped her head around anxiously. “Unless you want me telling Mother about your dalliances.”

“Look, Nesta,” Elain tried to diffuse the situation. “Feyre got us tickets to Prythian’s Fantasia.”

Nesta’s icy eyes narrowed at Elain’s hand. “Where’d you get those from? Isaac Hale?” She spat his name like a bitter root on her tongue. Elain winced. Isaac Hale, the butcher’s son in the seedier side of town, was Feyre’s paramour. She’d met the man once, and found him relatively handsome and well-mannered. But she privately agreed with Nesta: Feyre could do better.

“He gave them to me for free.” Feyre crossed her arms indignantly. “Why are you in such a mood today?”

“Nothing in this world is free. Especially between men and women,” Nesta scoffed.

“Well, they’re for tonight’s show. Eight o’clock. Do you want to go or not?” Feyre jutted her chin out stubbornly. Eldest and youngest Archeron sisters faced off, like a viper versus a wolf, their matching blue eyes blazing. Elain held her breath, preparing to intervene again.

“Fine.” Nesta was the one who relented. “By the way, Mother asked to see you for afternoon tea.”

“How is she?” Feyre asked, cooling down quickly from their verbal exchange.

“As superficial as she always is.” With that, Nesta turned and left. She didn’t have to specify that their mother only wanted to see Feyre. Isabella Archeron rarely asked for Elain.

Perhaps all middle children were simply doomed to be forgotten.

It was always like this: Elain meekly sandwiched between Nesta and Feyre, the two rebellious and squabbling women of the Archeron house. Nesta, who openly derided the male species and passionately spoke about women's rights. Feyre, who renounced high society by excelling at archery and sneaking off to the seedier parts of London.

While Feyre’s artistic talent was her only refined hobby, Elain seemed the perfect lady, all agreeable manners and poised like a princess.

But it was all a defense mechanism. Excelling as a high society lady prevented her cruel mother’s scrutiny. And if the peerage saw Elain as a docile, conventional woman, they would not suspect her of seeing the future. For what man would marry a woman who fell into fitful dreams, one who could predict his death and misfortunes?

At least Elain’s visions only came when she lulled herself into a meditative state or dreamed. If she fell into random, episodic trances, she would definitely be sent off to an asylum for insanity. The future came in flashes and snippets, always cryptic but never subject to change. And with the number of startling—and sometimes horrific—premonitions she received outnumbering the pleasant ones, Elain would hardly call her ability a “gift”.

“Any news from Papa?” Feyre asked Elain. Reginald Archeron, a renowned merchant who sailed to the four corners of the earth to do business, had set off for Continental Europe just after Christmas. He still had not returned.

Elain shook her head. “The postman didn’t have any correspondence.”

“It’s unusual for him to be gone so long, and not send any word.” Feyre chewed her lip worriedly. “Perhaps we should alert the authorities?”

“What good will that do?” Elain replied shortly. “We don’t even know what country Father is in.”

“I don’t see how you can be so calm about this.”

Elain blinked, trying to keep her expression neutral. Why worry about her father, when he was probably having the time of his life cheating on their mother? The terrible premonition arrived three years ago: Reginald Archeron kissing a woman with dark hair and emerald green eyes in a continental-style opera house. Possibly in Moscow. Or perhaps it was Berlin.

The most striking detail was the ornate golden locket that had glinted in the woman’s hands. Elain went rooting through her father’s study when he returned from his trip, and she found the exact same locket, complete with the woman’s picture in it. Holding the offensive jewelry piece in her very hands had Elain tasting bile.

Elain had been 21 years old and well aware that not all marriages were pleasant. Still, the realization that her own father was unfaithful had been a shock. That her loving Papa was one of those types of husbands. But Elain didn’t dare breathe a word of her findings to her sisters, who knew nothing of her abilities. Nesta…Nesta would probably tear their father apart with words alone. Feyre…Feyre, who valued their family unit more than anything, would be crushed.

Feyre sighed, not waiting to hear Elain’s response. “Well, I’ll see what Mother wants. Be ready for the circus by seven. We need to travel to the south bank.” Elain nodded, closing the door distractedly.

Elain’s mind returned to that mysterious man from her vision. Oh, how she longed to return to that hazy dream, so warm and tantalizing it was! He existed somewhere. He had to. Elain didn’t catch any of his features, but she felt so sure that he wasn’t anyone she knew at that moment. The man was waiting for her in the future. In Paris, too!

Oh, Paris! The Continent! As her father’s favorite child, Elain was shown the goods he’d help procure, like beautiful fabrics, spices, rough-cut gems, and wood carvings. She had fond memories of spending hours in his office, staring at the large maps on the walls and devouring books about foreign lands. “I’ll bring you to the continent next year, Elain,” Reginald Archeron had promised. Then he promised again, the next year. And again, the following. Many years passed, a slew of broken promises in their wake.

Not that she would ever want to explore the continent with her father now, knowing that he spent those trips canoodling with mysterious women. But the London gloom outside her window had Elain wishing her life was different.

If Nesta and Feyre were shamelessly carving their own unconventional paths, why couldn’t she do the same? She didn’t need to wait for her father to take her to the continent; she was 24 years old, a modern woman with the means to travel the world.

As if an answer to her thoughts, the mystery man’s phantom touch seemed to linger on her shoulder, urging Elain to make her way to the Exposition Universelle. To find him in real life.

***Feyre***

Isabella Archeron had been a formidable woman just two years ago. Her golden-brown hair had been a luscious mane that shimmered even under England’s clouds. Her back had been ramrod straight, the sharp lines of her cheeks and jaw had nary a wrinkle. Flitting from one party to the next, Isabella Archeron was truly London’s finest social butterflies.

But her mother’s hair turned limpid, even gray. The pale hue of her skin was almost sickly, and the angles of her face only made her look hollowed out, older. Now, Isabella Archeron spent most of her time confined to the bed or the bath.

Watching her mother’s chest rattle with phlegm-filled coughs and her frail hands tremble, Feyre wondered if something swift and sure like cholera would have been better. It would’ve been better than this gradual chipping away at life over the months.

“How are you feeling, Mother?” Feyre asked cautiously when she entered the room. Although illness had dulled Isabella Archeron’s quick mind, it soured her temperament, leaving her prone to mood swings.

“Feyre. Pour me a cup of tea, won’t you?”

“Yes, Mother.” Feyre dutifully placed a sugar cube into the dainty china cup, and poured steaming tea from the ornate teapot.

She was about to stir the sugar and cream with a spoon, when her mother snapped, “And do not stir the tea. I may be ill, but I am not invalid.” Feyre set the spoon down cautiously and dutifully walked towards her mother’s bed, hating how her shaky hands rattled the cup and saucer.

“Have you heard from your father?”

“No, Mother.”

The difficult pregnancy had meant that Feyre would be the last Archeron child. Feyre suspected her parents hoped she would be a son who could inherit the family business and lead the household while Reginald Archeron was away for work. Feyre wasn’t a son, but her parents still expected her to be the “most responsible” of her sisters since early childhood.

For example, ever since she was 16, her father assigned her to managing their bank statements while he was abroad. All Feyre had to do was sign the checks and record the transactions in the balance book, but at this point, she could forge Reginald Archeron’s signature in her sleep. Feyre had also tended her sisters whenever they got sick, bringing them warm soup and administering tonics. Thanks to those years of “experience”, Feyre was now charged with managing the rotating circle of doctors, household expenses, and servants ever since her mother fell ill.

Perhaps she was assigned this role of “caretaker” because her parents were reluctant to change their attitudes toward her sisters. Nesta, the first-born, could have easily been taught the tools of the trade. But Isabella Archeron was keen on shaping Nesta to be the wife of a lord or a prince, not a merchant’s apprentice. Then came Elain, who took after their father and automatically became his princess to dote on.

That left Feyre at the scrutiny of both, but without the love from either parent.

“Hmm. I’m feeling rather abysmal today. I fear these doctors are not helping me whatsoever.” Her mother gestured to the array of tonics and powders on the bedside table. Feyre’s eyes widened in alarm when she noticed a pile of brown-stained handkerchiefs.

“Are you coughing up blood?” she said in alarm.

“Don’t be silly. Why would I be coughing up blood? I just spilled my tea.” Her mother sounded like she even believed it herself. But Feyre was doubtful; she’d seen those tell-tale colors on Isaac’s work apron numerous times. “Do write to your Aunt Ripleigh and ask if she could send some more of that rose and daisy tea. It was delightful.”

Aunt Ripleigh had been dead for six years now. There was no rose and daisy tea in the house, either.

“Of course, Mother.” She made a mental note to ask Nesta if their mother had experienced another bout of memory loss during their session together. Isabella Archeron’s diminishing moments of lucidity were concerning.

“Well, Feyre. You’d better hurry along and get ready for Watson's charity ball. I’ve already told Mrs. Watson that I’ve fallen ill, but your father should be able to accompany you three.” Isabella Archeron’s blue-gray eyes closed, and within moments, she’d fallen asleep.

The charity ball her mother spoke of had occurred two seasons ago.

Hopefully she would sleep past supper and continue assuming her daughters were at a charity ball instead of a circus. Isabella Archeron considered anything below the opera or classical music hall a lowly performance unfit for their presence. Laughable, considering the Archerons were only wealthy merchants, not the aristocracy.

“Yes, Mother.” Feyre said, even though she couldn’t hear her. She touched her mother’s hand before she left the room. It was deathly cold. Feyre didn’t love her mother, but she didn’t want her to die. Despair rose within her like the tide, as if it was her fault Isabella Archeron wasn’t getting any better.

It was rumored that Amarantha, the circus ringmaster, was a powerful witch doctor. Apparently she learned her craft from the natives in the tropical latitudes and left a trail of miracles from town to town. Feyre had nearly laughed in Isaac’s face when he told her that.

A female ringmaster? Impossible. And a witch? Those were from the Dark Ages.

But now, Feyre was desperate. If modern science could not cure her mother, why not try other methods? The Archerons had money. Jewels. Exotic antiques. Feyre was quite confident she could pay Amarantha for a little healing spell.

Nesta was wholly focused on the suffragist movement. Elain was swept away by the pageantry of fancy dinners and shows in London. Both seemed rather ambivalent about their mother’s health and their father’s suspicious silence over the last few months. Once again, it fell on Feyre to do something, anything that would keep her dysfunctional family together.

Tonight, she would see for herself what this Amarantha was all about. Even if the ringmaster turned out to be a dud, at least she got a famed circus show out of it.

✨

Taglist: @velidewrites @reverie-tales @highladysith @shadowsxgwynriel @foxwithagoldeye @sunshinebingo

#feysand #nessian #elucien #acotar #acotar fanfic #feysand fanfic #nessian fanfic #elucien fanfic #Prythian's Fantasia

83 notes · View notes

lovergirl-78 · 8 months

Text

REDEMPTION

Rick Grimes x Dalia Thompson(oc)

‿︵‿︵୨˚̣̣̣͙୧ - - ୨˚̣̣̣͙୧‿︵‿︵

AN:This is a test run. Seeing if you goes like this version if not just tell me please I would really like your feedback. Bare with me this is my first fanfic.

Warnings: mention of death, apocalypse,suicide, depression

659 words.

‿︵‿︵୨˚̣̣̣͙୧ - - ୨˚̣̣̣͙୧‿︵‿︵

The night was still; the beeping from the monitors and chittering from the people were still, yet Dalia seemed unmoved. Imagining what could be wrong with the world, her family and friends are all dead, while she remains untouched by the atrocities right outside the building. You see, Dalia often imagined that if she just opened that door and got eaten alive by the dead, just like her family, she would be free from the guilt of leaving them to die.

Dalia... DALIA!" a voice exclaimed, breaking Dalia from her zoned-out state.

Huh," Dalia responded.

"Did you not hear anything I just said?” Candace questioned.

"Is it about the cells?

"Honey, I know it’s hard right now, but you’ve got to understand that I’m here for you. Everyone lost something, and you staying alive is something your family would want.

Candace Jenner was a mother figure or a mentor figure for many, especially Dalia, who is fresh out of college. It’s been hard on everyone here at the CDC with the minimal scientists that remained. Some scientists decided to stay; some left to be with their families, while others decided to opt out of this nightmare. Dalia didn’t blame them; if she could, she would have too.

‿︵‿︵୨˚̣̣̣͙୧ - - ୨˚̣̣̣͙୧‿︵‿︵

Vi, start recording!" Dalia yelled.

"Starting recording in three, two, and one," Vi replied.

"Well, here we go. Hi, my name is Dalia Thompson. I am currently twenty years old and a scientist at the CDC. Ummm.. I honestly don’t know why I did this, but Candace mentioned it’s good to keep a video diary to document or rant. Dalia sighed while taking a deep breath.

"It started on April tenth, two thousand and ten... I woke up with a crazy hangover from partying the night away with my friends Savannah and Mindy. I was tired as hell. I checked my phone, and I saw a barrage of messages from my parents angry about me missing Susie's seventh birthday. I really didn’t understand why they were so upset. There isn’t anything a seven-year-old and a twenty-year-old have in common. I digress. I worked at the CDC as a public health analyst, which is an entry-level job. When I entered work that day, Candace Jenner, who leads the CDC, reported about a strange virus that was found in France that changed people into empty, cannibalistic versions of themselves. We needed to research the effects immediately, but I guess it was too late.

It started small and manageable, and the government told us they had it under control. They sent out nationwide messages about the dangers of going outside and staying safe. Scientists and researchers were told to keep looking. Many hurried to leave to be with their families, and some decided to opt out. Since then, we've gotten rid of the bodies and placed ourselves in lockdown. No one can come in. Many came in hopes of food, shelter, and protection, but we couldn’t break protocol; we had to keep the doors shut. A family came by a couple days ago pleading for help, but we couldn't, and I watched as they got torn apart by the dead. Dalia takes a long pause. Her eyes tearing up and lips crumbling together at her meager attempt to hold in a cry.

‿︵‿︵୨˚̣̣̣͙୧ - - ୨˚̣̣̣͙୧‿︵‿︵

Later that day,

Candace, Edwin Jenner, and I walked into the test room, which holds one of their dead colleagues. They needed a sample of the colleagues' DNA. Dalia offered to do it, but Candace said she would. They took an ample amount of safety precautions to prevent any way for them to get hit or scratched by the disgusting piece of sh*t.

Candace went in a full hazmat suit, looking like a marshmallow, which made Dalia laugh her ass off. But as Candace was turning away from collecting the DNA, all of a sudden it came back to life.

"WAIT!" Dalia screamed.

TBD..

#carl grimes #rick grimes #rick grimes x reader #shane walsh #the walking dead x reader #twd fanfiction #twd x reader #daryl dixon #lori grimes #dale twd #dale horvath

27 notes · View notes

finniestoncrane · 1 year

Text

Your One True Nemesis

Chapter 4: also on AO3 Masterlist Here Arkham!Riddler x Female!Reader, word count: 2.6k and here we see the dorkus problemus in it's natural habitat, being sarcastic and egomaniacal and entirely adorable 💚🔧 request info • prompt list • send me a request • kofi • masterlist minors DNI!! 🔞 cw: nothing!

Interview over, employment secured. But there was no certainty that you could grasp, nothing to latch on to. It was fine though, you would savour the moments. You had been hoping for this for so long, even the gift of attention from Edward Nigma was enough to satisfy you. And you were happy to endure his difficult nature, especially now that you knew he actually preferred to have someone who had a limit.

Following behind him as he led you through the corridors, you could feel your mind wandering. Not intending to do so, but managing it anyway, you made ample notes on the way his slender frame carried more muscle than you had imagined it would. It must have been something to do with the images you’d seen of him, or the preconceptions you made based on his more intellectual activities over the physical ones. Either way, you appreciated it, in a way that made you feel almost guilty. But your mind snapped back to attention as he turned to you, strong forearms gripping the large iron handle of the door you had reached.

“Are you ready to witness my mastery, first-hand?”

With his self-assured grin, he shifted the heavy handle, exposing you to the damp, stifling room beyond. The Gotham Water Company. The sewers. Edward took a deep breath in, throwing his arms out to the side, as though displaying to you the majesty of something more than just the dingy, damp tunnels.

“Ah, the smell of genius.”

As you let yourself giggle, Edward flashed you a sincere smile this time as he stepped through the door, one that suggested that however long he had worked alone, he still enjoyed an audience.

The space beyond the heavy door was different to the areas of the lair you had seen so far. It looked liveable, there was at least flooring, not covered by mud and grime, and the bricks on the wall were dry enough that Edward had fixed appropriate lighting and boards for his various plans and notes. As well as one dedicated solely to Batman, which admittedly was concerning in its detail and size.

Edward gestured vaguely at the doors on your right, speaking sharp and short.

“First one is the bathroom. Although, while my practical skills have ensured that the plumbing is effective and adequate, it’s not particularly aesthetically pleasing. Second one is my bedroom. Don’t go in there. And the third one is my office. Please try and avoid interrupting me if I’m working at my desk. It’ll only distract me. And you’ll cloud the atmosphere. There’s never been less than a 150 IG beyond that door, and it would be nice to keep it that way.”

Beyond the narrow corridor that led off to the smaller rooms, closed off to you for now, there was a wide open space, arched ceiling, bricked walls, and remarkably some warm comfort in the form of several rugs which were scattered around.

“This is-”

“You have a little living space?”

“Why are you surprised?”

Scolding yourself, you tried to remain casual and light-hearted, though you were panicking over the offense you seemed to have caused him.

“I just thought you… I didn’t think you lived.”

“Hm… a reasonable, if not stupid, assumption. But everyone needs to unwind, don’t you think?”

Stepping further into the space you could make out a refrigerator, two hobs, a microwave oven and a sink, accompanied by a moveable island and a cardboard box filled with pots and dishes. Beside it, there was a table with a single chair. And in the middle of the room, a sofa that was bursting at every seam, and a small television.

“I suppose so. Though, if I’m being honest…”

“I encourage it.”

“When I think of you relaxing, I think of puzzles and light crime. Not television.”

“Ah, so you don’t know me as well as you thought you might.”

You could briefly make out his light smile as he breezed past you to the other side of the room, where a further three doors sat.

“First one is a closet, you can feel free to use this. Second one is my closet. Third one is your bedroom. I’ll leave you to settle in.”

“Wait!”

Edward was already walking away from you when you turned to him.

“So I really have to… live here? With you?”

“Where else are you going to go?”

There was no emotion on his face. He spoke with cold facts, though a lingering sense of irritation at your inability, or unwillingness, to understand what he was saying, was building up behind his neutral façade.

“I don’t know… but won’t that be weird?”

“Not as weird as having you interrupt me every morning or having the GCPD stomping in here because there’s been a lot of activity at the door. You can leave now, if you want. Nothing lost, nothing gained. For me anyway. You’ll have lost the opportunity of a lifetime.”

Edward turned again, walking away from you, not waiting to hear your answer. Most likely, you assumed, because he knew what you were going to do.

“Ok, sure. I’ll… stay.”

Your room was bare. Basic. But the floor was clean and the brick on the walls was less damaged than some of the others. As you sat on the undressed bed, you considered why he might have set this room aside in the first place, or whether he had thrown it together for you, specifically. To save yourself from the emotional reaction, you pushed it out of your mind. And to avoid letting the thought linger, you left the room, with no intentions of setting foot back in it until you absolutely had to.

Standing in the living space, still entirely taken back by even the minimal décor Edward had deigned to scatter around the place, you followed Edward’s footsteps before he had left you to your room, heading through the arched hallway you hadn’t been down yet. As you rounded the corner you were met by his workshop. And crouched in the corner by some miscellaneous wires was Edward himself.

Approaching him silently from behind, you stood still, observing him. Though you were certain he had heard your footsteps, he didn’t react to your presence, instead seeming content to let you watch him work. You were in awe of him. In the way his fingers moved with such purposeful intention and accuracy, though entirely swift and nimble. The way the veins and tendons on the backs of his hands moved with his hands as he worked. Realising that you might have seemed intense, or rather intensely strange, just staring at him, you spoke.

“So… what is it you expect of me?”

“I expect you to annoy me and to get in my way, so you are definitely meeting those expectations thus far. Let’s meet again to discuss it at your performance review next week.”

Eventually, he sighed, turning to you when he realised that you weren’t going to respond to him, instead waiting for a reasonable answer to his question. It was painful to put into practice, but you knew you had to offer him a resistance to his attitude and a resilience in the face of it.

“I’ll tell you what I would like you to do when I need you to do it. And at that point, first and foremost, what I would like it for you to do what you’re told to do the first time I tell you to do it. If you can manage that then I won’t have to kill you off.”

“Noted.”

“You’re only here until I can finish my robots. And if you’re lucky, I might let you help me with that project.”

“So, to clarify, you want me to assist in your creation of my own replacement.”

“Of course. Why don’t you start by getting out of my way. I’m feeling generous. Take some free time to admire my work. You’ll find it around the work space. There is a system, a method to the madness down here. Try and see if you can pinpoint it!”

He seemed genuinely excited to finally be posing you a challenge, and his grin only sealed that assumption.

“Oh, there’s a radio on the table. Take it. This is a big space, and you… look like you could get lost easily.”

“Perfect. Thank you.”

Once you were far enough into the far reaches of the cavernous workspace, you realised he wasn’t just insulting your intelligence. From the main space, there were multiple tunnels, all leading off in different directions, and within them, tunnels that veered off from tunnels. It was maze-like, incomprehensible. Which was probably why Edward liked it down there. It suited him.

There wasn’t a path you followed that didn’t lead to some sort of artifact, a testament to Edward’s inability, it seemed, to focus on one great creation, or to complete one for that matter. Strewn all over the place were half-finished and unrecognisable pieces of machinery, inventions that could be grand, but were left half-finished and abandoned for something he deemed to be more challenging or of more intellectual, or criminal, advantage.

As you pondered a piece as you might at an art gallery, you reached your fingers out, over the imaginary red rope, to touch the smooth curve of the metal that encased whatever it was that lurked beneath, a sharp crackling drew a small yelp from your throat that echoed and tingled against the bizarre art.

"… 3751945 a-a-a-and… 4! Oh, is-i-is this thing on-on? I was just mentally c-calculating pi to-t-t-to ten trillion digits. Yes-es-s, I'm that g-g-good. Anyway-w-w-ay where are you? I'd l-l-like to make sure you're n-not up to anything nefarious-ious or idiotic-tic-or-idiotic. In fact, why am I asking-ing you, as though you would know y-you-would-know! Stay right w-w-wh-where you are, I'll find you f-f-find-you.”

As the radio crackled again, signifying the end of his message, you took a shaky breath in. The implication of him coming to get you, threatening and nerve-wracking as it was, was also strangely… captivating, or exciting. You couldn’t quite place it. But you felt something beyond what you assumed were his intentions.

You waited patiently for his arrival, which was preceded by the heavy footsteps he created in his boots.

“Ah, you really are admiring my work. It’s nice to have some appreciation that isn’t forced.”

“Even if I don’t understand it, huh?”

He raised an eyebrow, the goggles balancing on his forehead shifting with the movement.

“Yes. Indeed. Anyway! Let me show you something special, as a treat.”

“You’re in the habit of giving out treats?”

“Good behaviour should always be rewarded. A motivated… employee, I suppose… is a happy one! Now, follow me.”

Moving quickly through the tunnels and hallways, no hesitation for direction through the endless options of similar paths, Edward led you to a small room with a large, barred window. He stood to the side of it, gesturing his hand, one ‘tah-dah’ short of complete showboating.

“The observation deck. Come and glance upon true genius.”

You stepped beside him with a smile, looking onto the painted path below as Edward closed the gap between you.

“A racetrack?”

“Of sorts! I mean, it is, yes. But with added challenges.”

He pressed a button off to the side, a metallic crunching quickly giving way to a red cube which jutted out from the wall.

“You are staring at, with stupefied incomprehension, at a mechanism I have calibrated to respond to an extremely precise radar pulse. When the time comes, I will lure the Dark Knight here, though his own habit of having to be at the centre of everything will surely drive him, pun not intended. He will then be subjected to the difficult task I will lay out for him below.”

“A… racetrack?”

“Yes! A racetrack. I’m wasted on you.”

He flicked the button again, leaving the room, and you, without another word. From the corridor, you heard his voice echoing.

“Keep up! Plenty of sights to see.”

A light jog had you behind him once again, his pace so determined. In the centre of the room he had led you to were the beginnings of what appeared to be large, mechanical legs.

“This, is something I am very excited about. I’ll be able to sit atop this mechanical beast and beat the Dark Knight at his own, brutish games.”

Judging from the size of the legs alone, the ‘beast’ would be ginormous in size.

“Are you compensating for something, Edward?”

“What?”

He span to you, spitting out his question.

“Nothing.”

“Yes… well…”

Trying to steer the conversation back to friendlier terms, much preferring Edward’s enthusiastic, if not maniacal, excitement over his complete irritation, you probed him, knowing that a discussion around his favourite topic, himself, might win you back his favours.

“It’s certainly impressive! But how exactly do you plan on getting Batman to engage with… this? I mean, if it were me, I would surprise him with it. Burst through the door, a mechanical triumph over him.”

“A good plan indeed. At any rate, I’m afraid the full particulars of my plan will have to remain unannounced, for the time being, but I see no harm in rewarding the harmless little glimmer of initiative you have shown with a sneak peek, a preview if you will, of the kind of conundrum I have in store, if you would like?”

“I… of course!”

The genuine pleasure on Edward’s face was all it took to make your heart skip a beat as you followed him back through the tunnels, ending up at the large, rusting door he had brought you through after your interview. You held your breath, trying to hide your excitement as he opened the door to his office and stood aside, letting you enter first. The way he was staring at you when you turned back around made it obvious that he was completely aware of your feelings. Of your admiration, or adoration. And you made a note to nip the smugness in the bud before he developed a larger ego.

Still smiling at you, more of a smirk, he picked up a small recorder on the desk and hit the play button, his voice coming over the speaker smooth and clean.

“Why hello there, detective. Yes, it’s me, your most feared nemesis, the Riddler! Congratulations are in order! For you have arrived at the location of the next generation of my Riddles.”

The tape clicked, indicating the end of the recording. You were intrigued, excited for his plans. But you held back.

“Is that… all you have so far?”

Eddie scowled at you and raised a finger, mouth open to say something no doubt intensely rude and condescending, if not outright insulting. But he closed it again and dropped his hand, turning on his heel and walking away from you. Giggling lightly, pleased to have succeeded in at least possibly convincing him that you weren’t some wet-eyed fangirl, you chased after him.

“Wait, Eddie! I’m sorry, I’m kidding!”

“Yes, well, maybe humour isn’t something you’re skilled at either. I’ll be excited to find out what it is exactly that you can do well, other than annoy me.”

“Yeah, yeah. Ok, you got anything else to show me?”

As you followed him back to the workshop, his voice echoed around the walls.

“All will be revealed in good time, and only if I decide that I trust you or can afford to waste my efforts explaining it to someone who won’t understand.”

Feeling entirely guilty, you spent the rest of the day offering him genuine, if not overly enthusiastic, encouragement. It was immensely pleasing to watch him work, excited and hyperactive, as though finally working with an audience were inspiring him or, at the very least, comforting him in some way.

#finnie writes #arkham riddler #arkham edward nigma #riddler x reader #arkhamverse riddler #the riddler #arkhamverse #riddler #the riddler imagine #riddler smut #the riddler fanfic #riddler fanfic #riddler x you #edward nigma x reader #edward nigma #arkham!riddler #the riddler fanfiction #arkham!verse #finnie yotn

96 notes · View notes

separatist-apologist · 1 year

Text

Young Gods

If there's a light at the end, it's just the sun in your eyes

Summary: When invaders come to Elain's shores, she's certain it means death.

Taken to a foreign land, Elain finds herself a princess of a people she barely understands and married to a man she's not sure she can trust. But Elain will need more than her wits if she wants to survive.

Chapter 1 | Read on AO3

Elain didn’t know what to make of Rhodes. They walked the length of it, giving each of them ample time to appreciate the splendor of the city. Elain had never seen anything like it. Here, everything was made of gleaming white sandstone and the roads were neatly paved with carefully lain cobblestones. People moved about unrestrained wearing fine clothes made of nice fabric, just like the man who’d been speaking with Lucien.

She did notice just how few women seemed to exist. Men were the primary majority, and she wondered if that meant women and their children were indoors. It seemed miserable, given how hot it was. Elain was dripping with sweat by the time they reached the sprawling, marble palace. Some part of her was relieved they hadn’t been taken to some shanty where they’d be sold to whoever paid the most.

Servants in the place were likely treated far better than they were in the city. It was also cooler—the moment they were ushered through the door, the temperature seemed to drop twenty degrees. Elain wondered how they managed that.

They were separated almost immediately. Unbound individually by women, which made Elain think her hypothesis about women being kept indoors was correct, they were then ushered off not to be assigned work, but to bathe.

The bathing room was nice. The water was hot and scented with jasmine oil. Elain managed to convince the two women responsible for her care to spare her dress, which was the only thing that still belonged to her. It had her herbs, if nothing else, still inside.

The water was almost blisteringly hot and felt incredible against her aching bones. She was given time to soak before the water was dumped and refilled from a gleaming bronze tap. The first bath, she realized, was for removing the dirt and grime from her skin, and she second was for actual washing. Her hair was scrubbed and conditioned and her skin soaped and oiled before she wrapped in a warm towel, dressed in a soft, off-shoulder lavender gown that was easily the most beautiful thing she’d ever seen. It made her nervous when her hair was dried and carefully curled, pinned with pretty pearls before a large mirror.

She tried over and over to ask questions. What’s going on? What is happening? Why are you doing this?

No one offered her any response. They merely shuffled her through resplendent marble halls so quickly Elain wasn’t able to commit them to memory, before depositing her in a bedchamber so large it could have fit her dilapidated cottage three times over. No one locked the doors and in theory, she could have escaped, though when Elain pulled them open, one of the pretty servants who’d curled her hair turned to look at her with such disappointment that Elain meekly closed the door again.

Instead, she explored this new prison, if that's even what it was. She stood in a large sitting room made of the same marble as the rest of the palace. A large fireplace lay unlit, a relief given how hot it was. Books were neatly arranged on shelves along a wall, some of which had titles she could read and others in languages she’d never seen. All of them had cracked spines, betraying how well loved they’d once been. A large sofa faced a long table with even more books and a pretty white vase that held purple and pink flowers she’d never seen.

Curtains covered a wall of windows and when she pulled them back, she realized she had a stunning view of the sea. Elain had seen the ocean many times in her life—gray and moody and dangerous. Never had she ever seen it so cerulean and clear and placid. Elain could have spent the rest of the day sitting on one of the chaises on that sweeping, curved balcony staring at the water.

The next room was a bedroom. Elain didn’t know what to make of the massive bed draped in cream and gold, or empty vanity she supposed belonged to her. More doors lead to that same balcony, and more books that seemed as if they must belong to someone. She didn’t want to consider that, either. Elain ignored the furniture for lounging to open one of the curved doors etched in gold to find another bathing chamber with more of those taps that pumped hot water through pipes. A large, square basin tub was set against clear glass, making it seem as if she was bathing over the beach below.

The other door led to a closet that was half filled with men's clothing. The other half was utterly empty, as if someone had come in and intentionally cleared space. She didn’t poke around, though the heady, masculine scent of salty air and sun warmed apples washed over her.

Was she meant to serve this mystery man, then? Was that why she’d been bathed, because her service would be required in his bed? Elain closed her eyes and allowed herself to think of Graysen. Was he still alive? Had he seen her carried through the village—did he know what fate awaited her? It made her want to cry, and Elain was determined not to. With the bruise on her face, crying would only make her swell up worse, and it made her face ache.

He’d told her to keep herself safe and Elain had disregarded his instruction to help Arina. She didn’t regret it. She couldn’t regret it—what kind of person left someone in Arina’s condition to her fate only to save herself?

They were in this together, and no matter what happened, Elain knew whatever future she’d wanted with Graysen no longer existed. He wouldn’t risk his reputation on a potentially ruined woman. If they escaped—and she believed they would—it would be to start over entirely.

Elain was good at surviving.

That didn’t stop her from coming out of her skin when the doors opened. It was only a servant, bedecked in a pretty gold dress and laced-up sandals. She beckoned Elain to follow to which Elain did without protest or complaint. Her success in getting out would lay in her compliance…though the memory of cutting that soldier—Lucien—floated through her mind. She’d seen him on the docks, his face still wounded. She’d felt such satisfaction at the sight, a vicious sort of pride knowing she’d given him that scar.

Elain was led through open corridors alight with sunlight and walks that contained some of the most stunning artwork she’d ever seen. She could have spent a week studying it all and perhaps she might once she was settled.

Elain wanted to be optimistic. Her dreams were shattered when she was led into a large, open throne room. A beautiful woman with the most gorgeous shade of auburn hair sat on a golden throne. Bright russet eyes and a pleasant smile made Elain ache for the mother she just barely remembered–this woman oozed warmth. She leaned forward in a dress of rich orange when Elain stepped in the room. Standing just beside the raised platform sat on was Lucien, removed from his leather armor and dressed in a tunic of white and gold. He’d bathed and was regrettably handsome, even with the slash down his face—or perhaps because of it. He, too, was watching her, hands folded in front of his body.

Arina was there, in the prettiest gown of sage green. Her blonde hair had been scrubbed of the blood and half twisted from her face. The back of her dress scooped low and might have revealed the golden brown of her skin had it not been carefully covered in delicate bandages. She stood in the middle of the court, looking far too nervous for Elain’s liking.

There were too many players. The king was there, crowned in gold beside his wife, with amber eyes watching her approach. Arne was there, too, kneeling on the floor in a way that Elain didn’t think she quite liked. And another man—Lucien’s brother, she guessed, based on that same shade of red hair, stood three paces behind Arina, his arms crossed over his chest and his face utterly inscrutable. She’d walked in on something.

Elain stopped shoulder to shoulder with Arina. Arina turned to Lucien and said something in his language she didn’t understand. It clearly angered him—his body became rigid, his lips pressed in a harsh line. Elain wished she knew, though she couldn’t focus. Not when the queen rose, graceful and lovely, and made her way to Elain.

Elain managed a bow that seemed to amuse her. “Don’t be silly,” she murmured, her voice soft and musical. There was a lilt to her words that Elain didn’t recognize, but found reassuring all the same. Elain didn’t realize she was caressing her cheek, or gripping her jaw so she could look at the bruise Elain had been hiding until she felt the queen's soft fingertips brush the bruise that still warmed her face.

“What happened?” she asked, her voice deceptively kind. Elain jerked back. She couldn’t trust these people.

“Nothing,” she said, certain she wanted no part of whatever was happening.

“Were you hit?” she asked, still soft and sweet. “Was it my son who struck you?”

Elain looked at Lucien. She could lie, she realized. What would happen, she wondered? Their eyes locked, and she swore he was all but daring her to do it. The only thing that stopped Elain was Arina, who had undoubtedly told the truth. To punish Lucien, she might condemn Arina.

Her eyes fell to the floor. “No.”

“No you weren’t hit, or no it wasn’t my son?”

“No, it wasn’t your son,” Elain whispered in an attempt to conceal the warbling fear in her voice.

“Tell me who.”

She didn’t dare look at the kneeling man as she raised a finger to point.

“Did he tell you why?”

“I…” her eyes blurred with tears. It was too humiliating to say before all these strangers. No one moved, and so Elain managed, “I refused his advances.”

Lucien turned to his brother, one hand outstretched. Chaos erupted when Arne began shouting that Elain had been making advances, an absurd proposition given Elain was currently shaking. The brother handed Lucien a sword and before the king could intervene—could offer clemency or lay down judgment, Arne’s head was on the floor.

The queen sighed with exasperation. “Lucien,” she chided as both Elain and Arina skittered far, far back to avoid the thudding, open-lidded head rolling on the floor. Arina pressed a hand against her mouth, as if she needed to keep herself from screaming, while Elain could no longer contain her tears. It was too much—the casual violence of the gesture might have emptied her stomach if there been anything to throw up.

“Eris,” the king finally spoke, looking to the elder son with a grave sort of seriousness.

Eris snapped to attention, turning to look about Elain and Arina, moving further and further from the royal family. Elain wiped her eyes as he approached, halting dead in his tracks when Arina spat a string of words at him.

They all turned to stare at her, eyes wide with a mix of surprise and horror.

“Not whore,” Eris finally managed, his voice strangled as if he might like to wring her neck. “Wife.”

Elain did give in to the blackness that had begun creeping against the edge of her vision. Wife. It was the nail in the coffin that was her captivity. Whore might have been better. Bedroom slave, even. Wife was wholly different, was the rope around her wrists now bound to her throat. She didn’t have any awareness beyond that. No dreams, no nothing. Just utter, unconscious bliss for the first time since she’d found herself in this new nightmare.

Elain woke with a start to near darkness. She was in bed, covered beneath thin, yet pleasantly heavy blankets. The fireplace had been lit just across the room and though it was dying, it still cast a warm glow over the room. Elain was not alone. She’d woken too loudly to pretend she wasn’t aware of the man seated at the far end of the room. His legs, still encased in the same well-tailored pants, were crossed one over the other. He had his head braced in his hand as he stared blankly into the night.

When he heard her soft gasp, he turned to look. Their eyes met, his still scarred, and hers swollen from being struck.

Wife.

“Oh, no,” she whispered as they faced each other. He didn’t answer her, nor did he betray an ounce of his emotions. He merely surveyed her before he turned back to his vigil. Of course the room she was in was far too elegant for the like of her—or for a mere noble. She should have realized the size, the ornamentation all spoke to royalty.

Elain’s hands began to shake. She ducked them beneath the blanket and carefully sat up against a wall of pillows. This was a mistake, she reasoned. He’d found her with Arina and assumed things about her. Elain tried to tell him, but the words stuck in her throat. What if he was disgusted? What if wherever she went was worse?

“What happened to Vassa?” Elain asked instead with some guilt. What about all the women she’d come with? “Where is Arina?”

“Safe,” he replied. His voice was deep and rich, and if Elain hadn’t known better, she’d have said it was pleasant, too. “In the palace.”

“I want to see them.”

He didn’t look at her. “In the morning.”

She looked upward to the domed ceiling. “I’m not a princess. In my village, I—”

“I don’t care what you were,” he interrupted, turning his head to look pointedly at her tattered dress folded neatly against the vanity. Ah. She supposed he’d known the whole time, then. Elain was too afraid to ask him anything else. Terrified that he had expectations of this night she was unwilling to meet. What had the mistress told her? To lay there and go somewhere else.

First time is always a misery.

Elain figured they were all about to be misery. She waited, but Lucien didn’t budge from his place in the chair. He continued his watch until she thought he might say nothing at all. It was comfortable, but with each passing minute, Elain felt a little better.

“You should sleep,” Lucien finally told her, rising from his chair. Elain shrank, cringing when she thought he was coming to bed. He saw, freezing in place with wide, horrified eyes. Had it never occurred to him what she’d think of him? Of the assumptions she’d make? That only made her hate him more.

The moment passed. “I’ll be in the drawing room if you need me.”

She wanted to tell him she wouldn’t. That she’d never need him. She wanted to scream at him that this act of chivalry was a low bar given he’d decided to marry her without even consulting her—there’d been no wedding, no courting. Nothing but his own desires, put ahead of her. Maybe he knew, deep down.

It didn’t change anything, and she knew it. Lucien paused only for the closet, devoid of anything that belonged to her. She suspected he’d fill it with things and Elain would always be reminded of her home, that her life now depended on this man's will.

“I was supposed to get married,” she told him, thinking of that final kiss and Graysen, who she’d never see again. Lucien froze, his back facing her. “Before you came, I was going to be married.”

When he turned, there was no apology in his gaze. “And are you not married now?” he asked, his voice dangerous and low.

“To the wrong man,” she hissed in response, hating him even more. There seemed to be no upper limit to how much she could hate him.

Lucien didn’t react. If she angered him, he kept that to himself. “Have a nice night, Elain.”

She watched him stride from the room, closing the doors politely behind him. Her first night married to the invader had gone, perhaps, better than she’d imagined.

And still she twisted, buried her face in her pillow, and wept bitterly.

She hoped Arina was having a better time.

ARINA:

“Don’t you fucking dare—” Glass shattered beside Eris’s head when Arina flung the crystal vase at his body. Eris ducked, narrowly missing both the initial impact and the spray of glass from where it exploded against the wall. Arina didn’t consider herself trapped so much as she imagined it was Eris was trapped with her. He wanted a wife?

He would have better off making her his whore. Arina was furious at the calculated shrewdness with which she’d been hunted down. Lucien’s demand that none of the women be touched felt less like good manners and more like a practiced diplomat recognizing he needed his brother's new wife unharmed and untouched.

And poor Elain, fainting when Eris announced they were meant to be wives and not bedroom slaves, like she’d been imagining. Arina had managed to keep her head from bouncing off the marble before Lucien swept her up dutifully. Just as his mother wanted, if her smile of adoration over her youngest was any indication. It left Arina to be all but dragged out of the throne room and deposited into Eris’s bedroom.

Eris’s face was alive with rage. “Would you prefer your uncle—” More glass just barely missed his pretty face.

“Are those my only options?” She hated him. Hated him for his handsome features and his burning eyes, and hated him even more for knowing even one thing about him. He’d planned this.

“You couldn’t send a letter?” She threw another little trinket as Eris lunged, missing her assault so he could grab her around the waist. Thrashing, Arina managed to kick him once in the gut and elbow him in the chest before he tossed her to the bed. Eris was quick and despite the grunt of pain that escaped him, Eris had her pinned beneath him before she could scramble back.

“You wanted a letter?” he panted, his eyes flashing with some emotion she didn’t recognize. Behind closed doors, Eris wasn’t as well controlled as he liked to pretend. “You wanted, what? To be courted?”

Some of the fight drained from her at his mocking words. Was it so absurd to imagine? That she might like some kindness before a man sank his cock into her? Eris had her pinned beneath him with his thighs, though she noticed he was careful not to press the weight of his body fully against her. She suspected that would change—or that he was waiting for her to grind against him to give him some flimsy pretense to strip her out of her clothes and fuck her.

Arina immediately went still.

Eris, still red faced and furious, didn’t realize what was happening beneath him. “Would you have preferred a husband forty years your senior? Your father's brother?”

She turned her head as tears pricked at the corners of her eyes. He wouldn’t see her cry. She’d be damned if he saw her break. Eris removed himself from her body, swinging his long legs off her with graceful agility. He paced the floor, running a hand through his short, auburn hair.

“I recognize this isn’t ideal,” he conceded, ignoring the way his boots crunched over glass. “I thought—” Whatever he thought, he chose not to vocalize. “There is no going back now. Your home is now under our protection—”

“You mean stolen, just as I am,” she spat, wiping her cheek on her shoulder quickly so he wouldn’t see the tear that had escaped despite all her best intentions.

Eris waved a hand, unconcerned with her venom. “It still belongs to you, which is more than you could have ever hoped for.”

“Do you want me to thank you?” she spat. Eris turned those amber eyes on her, the intensity almost frightening.

“You know, wife, maybe I would like to hear you say thank you. Twice, now, I’ve come to your rescue.”

“Who asked you to?”

“Yes, I can see you were managing just fine. Tell me how your father died, again?”

She couldn’t look away though she knew she should. There was something in his gaze that almost made her want to tell him everything. Something about the way he held himself, about that look on his face that said he might like knowing what she’d done.

What she was capable of doing again.

It was foolish to think of him as her ally. As a potential friend. As it stood, Eris had ordered a raid of her home in order to make her his wife, circumventing all the protocols that governed royal marriages. If he allowed her to keep her crown or not, Arina was still in Rhodes, and Eris still made decisions on her behalf.

It meant that Elain’s captivity–and Vassa’s, and everyone on that ship—was her fault. They’d scooped up every available woman they could get their hands on, but she’d been the reason they’d left. Guilt flooded through her, weighing her down until Arina felt she was drowning in it.

“I want to see Elain and Vassa,” she said instead, her voice pathetic and meek.

“In the morning,” he dismissed, turning to finally look at the mess that was their shared bedchamber. He wrinkled his nose with distaste. “So long as you do nothing to embarrass me, I don’t care where you go and what you do.”

“And if I decide I don’t care for this marriage and would like to leave?”

Eris narrowed his eyes. “Don’t drag sweet Elain into one of your ill-conceived plans,” he said softly. “You saw how delicate her constitution was. I would hate for my brother to be forced to punish her.”

“You’re a bastard,” Arina screamed, her fury returning all over again.

“And you’re a witch!” Eris retorted furiously. “If you try to flee the city, I’ll drag you back by your hair and keep you bound to my bed and subject to my every filthy whim. You might enjoy it, but your friends, I think, would not like similar treatment.”

Arina rubbed her eyes. Duty. Eris, for all his crude threats, was reminding her that her duty was to her people, to her fucking crown. And now to him, because he’d woken up one day and decided he wanted a wife and it ought to be her. More likely, his father had decided he wanted more territory and ordered Eris to marry her before sending Lucien out to retrieve her. All of them, in their own terrible ways, were bound to the same irons.

Trapped in the same prison.

She needed to be reasonable. Eris made good points—she’d killed her father and had Lucien not come storming in, Arina would have been hanged, making way for her uncle without the pesky marriage.

It was over. She could fight him, but she’d already lost. She couldn’t go home without him, and if she failed in her escape, it would be all of them who were punished. Eris watched, head cocked, as if he could read her thoughts.

“I will hunt you down,” he warned her softly. “There is nowhere in this world you can hide from me. The sooner you accept that, the better off we’ll all be. Surely you didn’t expect a love match?”

“No,” she said, strangely bewildered. “No, I—”

He waited for her to finish her thought. Arina, who was so articulate, didn’t know how to explain what, exactly, was wrong with this scenario. Was it not exactly what she’d been preparing for her entire life? Arina hadn’t expected love—had never once hoped for it.

“It’s done,” Eris declared, ignoring the look of hatred she knew was burned against her expression. “I’m perfectly content with how this has turned out, and happier still to lie to my father in the morning and tell him our marriage is consummated.”

Arina’s blood ran cold. Eris had begun undoing the buttons on his jacket while Arina sat on his bed exactly where he’d left her.

She’d forgotten about that.

“Unless you think you’d like to tattle in the morning, to get me in trouble,” Eris continued, draping the article of clothing neatly against a chair. “In which case, we can get it over with this evening.”

“I…” she swallowed. “I won’t…”

“Good.” She didn’t imagine the relief that shuttered over his expression. “We’ll have to eventually but maybe not as strangers. In the meantime, all I ask is that you don’t embarrass me. This doesn’t have to be unpleasant…but it can be.”

Arina put her head in her hands. “Great.”

Eris vanished behind a door, shirtless and lean—well-muscled and not wholly unappealing. She could close her eyes and try and enjoy herself. Grit her teeth when the time came. Arina knew they merely delayed the inevitable. Weeks, perhaps, during which Eris would expect her to get accustomed to his presence. Months, maybe, if no one looked too closely. But eventually, people would begin to wonder about children, and there would be no dodging what they should have done from the beginning.

She was still grateful for the reprieve. Arina changed into a night dress and tried to pretend she wasn’t fascinated by the system of taps that brought hot water directly into the tub. She’d asked the servants, when she’d first arrived, to explain it to her. Perhaps she’d make Eris, instead. Would he bring that technology to her home? She wanted to ask and had the sense she was demanding too much already—or worse. She’d ask him for something and be required to give something in response. Eris seemed like the type. She very much doubted there was any kindness in him that didn’t come with strings.

And so she turned her back to the bathroom door, curled in on herself, and tried to sleep before he returned. Arina didn’t succeed, and when the door opened and Eris padded out, the curling steam brought the masculine scent of him with it. Like wood burning fires and crisp, clean air. Like sunlight over the last breath of an autumn wood before it faded into winter.

His weight settled against the opposite end of the bed, enveloping her in that scent. She tried to bury her nose into her pillow to escape it, but when she closed her eyes, she thought that there was something comforting about it.

Nothing was spoken in the darkness for so long Arina might have been lulled to sleep by the soft crackling in the fireplace. Beside her, Eris shifted. She felt his fingers slide over the smooth satin of the sheets and stiffened, halting him in his tracks.

Please don’t touch me, she thought desperately. If he’d changed his mind, she wouldn’t stop him, but it was too much. Too much after learning Eris could just declare her his wife, and every woman who’d come with her was also just married without any say in the matter. And while that was hardly different from home, it was still exhausting. Arina was tired and wrung out and emotionally raw.

Eris cleared his throat. She didn’t want him to speak, either. They’d said too much already—he’d made too many threats for her to think him kind now.

“My mother was married before all this,” he said softly. Arina twisted just enough to look over. Eris was on his back, hands folded over his shirted chest. That made sense, given Eris’s fair complexion and the features that seemed so starkly different in comparison with Lucien. Lucien was easily the better looking of the two, and that was because, in Arina’s opinion, he favored his incredibly handsome father. He looked over at her and whatever it was he saw on her face flattened his expression.

She couldn’t muster up the emotions to care.

“Goodnight, Arina,” he whispered, turning his back to face her.

She didn’t wish him the same.

#elucien #what did eris and lucien expect???#i think they HOPED for peace #LOL get wrecked sirs

73 notes · View notes