#and the way no one was there for her and moved on pretending like all was fine
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A Doe in Fall (part 7)
⟢HumanAlastor x FemaleBurlesquerReader - A Doe in Fall
Part 1 - Pretty in Red smut💦
Part 2 - Liar smut💦
Part 3 - A Tragedy smut💦
Part 4 - Enough
Part 5 - Too Much
Part 6 - Learning smut💦
Part 7 - Recognition smut💦
Part 7 Recognition
It was time to start again. Alastor couldn't forget what his mother had wanted, even if she didn't ask it of him directly. And while he finds his comfort again in killing, Detective Brady finds a lead.
「Warnings/Promises: Human Alastor x Fem Burlesquer reader, smut, reader's thighs as ear muffs, referencing cruel racists in the early 20th century south, reference to marital violence, pussy eaten, p in v sex, no creampie BOO, bad dancing, Alastor's southern accent, Alastor's mother, gossip, murder, greed , two idiots pretending they aren't madly in love, poor family planning, lots of 1920's slang with notes for your ease」
I think I fixed the broken tag list!
....it's been over a month. Here's nearly 9000 words of our favorite idiots. I feel weird labeling this smut now as...we are...kinda past the smut point and just making sweet sweet love. lol ugh gross.
thank you to everyone whose offered help, donated, and shared the word about my mom! It’s been an immense help and has made her a little emotional (in a good way) <Florida stole my moms teeth— explanation and donation link>
unrelated, anyone want some RadioDust?
Minors…. Minors. My inbox counts as interacting when you’re literally in there requesting smut. I know your bio has no age but baby honey darling I can tell by your writing. 🔞 Do Not Interact 🏠🚗
A development he knew was coming even if no one else believed him. A drug addict with debts to the local crime syndicates disappearing was neither suspicious nor a mystery. Everyone was confident it was obvious Tommy was at the bottom of Lake Pontchartrain or halfway to California.
But not to him, not for Detective Brady. He had been on the beat for the better part of a year, convinced there was a connection between some of the disappearances in town.
No one wanted to hear it though, most people didn’t even care the people were missing. Only the occasional wife, concerned how she would keep a roof over her head and food in her kid’s bellies with the man of the house gone. But other than that, no tears or chest beating for the missing men and women.
Which made him confident there were countless more unreported cases. Just because no one missed them, a crime is a crime.
But, no bodies, no blood, no crime scenes… he looked like he had lost the fucking plot to his colleagues.
The city didn’t want the bad press, not to mention the fact there was no actual crime to be reported. Someone up and left down? Okay, he was a wife beater? Probably left with his mistress. The cruel den mother of the home for unwanted kids? Her assistant takes the lead and she moves onto a new town to menace. Probably running from the people angry with her.
But he finally had something. Tommy was pimping out dancers, and even laid hands on one. Surely there was a man looking for revenge for that. Can’t knock around a man’s woman and have it go unanswered.
So he tried again to find the woman whose only name he knew was a moniker. Autumn Hind.
Every time Brady came to the theater, another excuse. You left early. You were on the roof smoking—- oh, you slipped out the back. Weekends were your off days, so that was useless.
“You’re obsessed.” Detective Freeman threw an eraser he’d picked off his pencil at Brady. He had seen the man devolve slowly over the past couple months.
“Thanks.” Brady was staring at his notes.
“Not a compliment, Kenny. Shit happens, people leave town. You’re acting like a handful of no shows are some conspiracy.” Freeman came to stand behind Brady, leaning over to read his notes, “How can you even read that chicken scratch?”
He clapped the notebook shut, “Every report was a person less than liked. What are the chances they all leave town in the middle of the night, last seen in the same general area?”
Freeman patted his shoulder, “Did you just ask me why a bunch of assholes,” he stood up and made a show of stretching out tired muscles, “who liked illegal hooch* and jazz with plenty of enemies disappeared?” (*booze)
Brady slapped his desk, “There! You said it! They had enemies. But what— what if they had one enemy in common. A bar manager or — or a,” he was still looking for that link.
“Kenny, the boogeyman isn’t roaming New Orleans killing people. If the higher ups don’t care, if the families don’t care, it doesn’t matter. Let it go.”
The sleep deprived detective sunk into his wooden chair, swiveling side to side anxiously, “Tommy’s mother cares.”
“Yeah well mom’s are famously bad judges of character.” Slipping on his jacket, he shot a worried look to his partner, “Ya gonna go home? Janet’s probably a mess. You’ve been keeping late hours.”
“Nah not yet. I gotta get to the theater before this dame goes ghost on me again.”
“Yikes, still? You’ve been chasing her for a while.” He was making a slow inching walk to the door.
“It’d be easier if I had some support. I gotta do this on my own time.” A deep sigh, well past the point of hiding his frustration with his colleagues and bosses. Freeman looked over the wrinkled shirt and wilted tie, evidence of a man losing his grip.
“Welp, good luck buddy. Hope you get to the bottom of whatever this is.” He gestured at the messy desk and disheveled man, “See ya tomorrow.”
Brady waved without looking up. His eyes were staring into the black leather of his notepad. Tommy was the only recent assumed victim with any real suspicion. The woman whose husband disappeared after going to see a show? Only enemy to him was her, and she wasn’t strong enough to take him down. Deadend.
Most recent, nice young man from up north. Went out for a good time, hoping to catch a little lady for some stress relief, according to his coworkers. Never showed up at work the next day. No one had a bad word to say about the man. Making him an outlier, but still. He was young, strong, soft spoken. Not an enemy in sight but no family to worry, either. Deadend.
But Tommy. Someone cared he was gone. He was in the jazz game, the drug dens, the illegal drink business, and had a heavy hand. He was the perfect bad man, right?
He looked across his desk. Bad men. The occasional unsavory woman. Maybe it was just their time. They pissed off the wrong people.
Or the wrong person.
Someone who worked downtown, someone into dance and drink, someone with nights free to do his work. Maybe a hired gun? No, some of these people didn’t have the money for that.
Plus, one person and so many missing? That would be unheard of, it’d be some kind of record for Louisiana.
A record Brady could claim.
When he entered the theater James, the manager who replaced Tommy, noticeably rolled his eyes, getting in front of the man. “It’s real bad for business to have a cop in here all the damn time. Come on, if you’re not here for a raid then could you be a little less obvious.”
Brady looked past him, “What do you mean?”
“You’re— what is it? What can I do for you?”
“Here again for Miss Autumn. Care to give her real name yet?”
“No can do. Ain’t my business to tell. She’s finished her set, asked to head home early.” Brady turned and kicked a chair over, a large man approaching behind the manager before seeing the hip badge and backing up. “Nah we’re not doing that. We’ve told her you’ve come by but she’s a busy lady. Several gigs here and there. Enough, you’re harassing the dancers now.”
With a snap, Brady had his finger in the manager’s face, “Whatcha gonna do? Call the cops?”
“She. Isn’t. Here. What the fuck do you want? For me to tie her up and bring her to your station?”
That’d be ideal.
A month, nearly. Coming once or twice a week to try and speak to you but every time he missed you. He was going to snap if he heard one more time you were gone. Maybe everyone was in on it. Maybe you werenin the back right now laughing at him.
Brady scanned the room, “Where’s she live?”
“How the fuck would I know— please, leave.” James gestured to the doors.
He lifted his badge up, waving it at the patrons seated closest to him, “Yall know it’s still illegal to partake-,”
“Jesus! Enough!” The manager pushed him back, flashing an apologetic smile to the guests, “She moonlights Sundays at The Dime near the park on 5th, singing for a friend. That’s all I got about her life off stage. Will you fucking go?”
The detective perked up, “See, was that so hard?”
Finally, he could feel his fingers grasp the shifting shadow that was his only lead.
✦ . ⁺ . ✦ . ⁺ . ✦ . ⁺ . ✦ . ⁺ . ✦
“I never said sorry.”
You turned your head, not expecting him to say something serious. Waiting, he didn’t add explanation. Sorry? What had he done… ran out of milk? Forgot to bring in the towels before it rained last week? A quick search of your memory yielded nothing.
“For what?”
He was staring off in front of him. “For putting you in danger before. In the park. I am sincerely sorry.”
You’d somehow almost forgotten. It’d been weeks. Every bad feeling that night had brought you had been carried away by good morning kisses and gentle words before sleep. Nearly every night was spent in his bed, Alastor dropping you off at your apartment when he went downtown for work. The incident in the park was a different lifetime already.
Had he really put you in danger? Or had you rushed into the danger of his hobby to feel closer to him?
“I put myself in that situation. You didn't throw me at that guy. I don’t do a damn thing I don’t want to do. You should have learned that by now.”
Tough act for a woman who jumped up to pour some man’s coffee.
You shook your head, you had to stop equating doting on Alastor as a show of weakness. It wasn’t. Even if admitting that meant admitting you were wrong.
But he had put you in danger’s way, he knew it. “No, you wouldn’t have ever been in that situation if it wasn’t for me.”
Your laughter bounced off the car windows, “Alastor, you met me getting choked to death by a strange man. People will always make dangerous situations for women to be in. Don’t act like you’re special.” A sly smile to ease his anxious heart. “I’d rather be in danger for you than just because I’m a woman. If it’s gonna happen anyway, might as well be worth something.”
His hand slipped onto your thigh, expression softening before his own smile grew again, “Don’t lie to my face so easily. I am very special, we can all agree.”
You looked around, the two of you alone in his car on a side street, “All? You know the trunk is still empty, right?”
“Oh, is that so? You’re quite dangerous yourself, I nearly forgot why we were here.” He patted his pockets to make sure he had what he needed. “When I give you a wave, back up to me, okay? Don’t leave the car. Just drive off if-,”
You kissed his cheek, “Shut it. Not a chance. Go give em hell, baby.”
Alastor crumpled against his steering wheel momentarily, your words cutting his heart open in a most wonderful way. He could never have predicted getting kisses before beginning his dark work. What had he done to deserve this? Perhaps proof someone in hell was in full support of his actions. Straightening his back and checking his hair and glasses in the mirror, he flashed you a smile before slipping out of the car.
When Alastor said he was ready to begin killing again, you were a mix of excited and scared. Excited for normalcy to return but scared of the dangers presented there in. You’d been dodging the blue eyed detective for a while already, and moving forward meant possibly making mistakes he could grab a hold of. Not mentioning the risk of someone hurting Alastor again…but for your part in everything, you and Alastor found a compromise.
A deal had been made. You’d stay in the car and bring it to him when he was done. He had asked you flee if something went wrong but you both knew that wasn’t going to happen. Crawling into the driver’s seat, you tried to remember what he had taught you. How to get it started up, how to make it go backwards. How to make it go, in general. You’d never driven a car. Well, not until Alastor insisted on teaching you. Driving up and down the long stretch of road he lived on, Alastor white knuckling the door handle as you jerked the car forward with every failed shift. You had started on his land, but he feared for his home's safety with you behind the wheel.
Your hands slipped down the steeling wheel, big and round. Your mother would’ve had a hoot had she seen you in the driver’s seat. Clearing your throat, you leaned into the back of the car and double checked the canvas was properly secured.
Another man tonight. The few times you’d both gone out for leisure, having preferred to spend time alone at home, Alastor had gotten gossip that piqued his interest.
You remembered the way the woman’s hand touched his arm when she leaned in. “You didn’t hear it from me but it’s best to avoid French Study on Thursdays. Real piece of work slipping something in drinks and robbing people.” He reported what she had said back to you. It’d panicked you, realizing you were closer to being on Alastor’s list than you’d realized.
“No, the issue isn’t the stealin’. It’s what he does with the people with,” he had been delicate as he said it, taking another long sip of whiskey, “other things of value. And the fact this man has no need to steal. It’s ridiculous! His family has been land ownin’ and well off for generations.” Alastor was always impassioned when discussing the things he hated, even when slipping into drunkenness. His accent came through when he had too much to drink, his real accent. The accent his mother had. “You robbed men for power balance, for their assumptions you were easy to manipulate to begin with. He? Uh, Him? He’s just a piece of shit. He thinks he’s better than everyone else. And no one would report him ‘cause his family name.”
His drink spilled a little, when you had offered to clean it he just slipped the button up off. He lost his usual classy air as the bottle emptied. Which you actually liked.
The benefits of drinking on his back porch was no need to worry about decorum. Music was softly spilling from the open window behind you, Alastor’s prized record cabinet spinning the newest presses.
“It’s like there’s a little bug under my skin,” he wiggled his fingers over his sternum, “It’s gonna dig into my bones if I don’t cut it out.”
Despite your own drunkenness, you nodded and followed along, “So, ya gonna kill ‘em?”
Alastor pouted, making you snort, “I don’t want to think about that right now.” He enunciated every word clearly in his practiced and professional voice.
You’d ended the evening playfully arguing the merits of prohibition on the jazz scene and watching Alastor dance around the wrap around porch. But the conversation hadn’t ended for him.
Little hints he was still focused on it popped up over the following week. Alastor randomly asking you how it felt to be drugged, did you wake up in pain? Embarrassed? Scared? You caught him staring at the greenhouse from the window one morning, lost in thought. Before he had finally said he wanted to go out again, you understanding what that meant, you’d seen him turning a dinner knife over and over in his hand impatiently.
And now here you were. In the car beside a park late Thursday, Alastor having done some scouting while you’d finished up early at the theater.
It took hours. Which was good, it meant Alastor wasn’t rushing. He liked the stalking aspect of killing, of watching someone from across a room knowing exactly how their night would end. And as that man whose name would soon be buried with him alternated smiling and barking orders at staff, Alastor felt his stomach flutter. Like watching a slab of meat slowly turn over the fire. The crueler he was, the worse he acted, the more Alastor found his fingers tapping on the bar with anticipation. Perfect. Damn yourself more. No fake smiles or double faces, no, people like him didn’t even try to play the game others were forced into. Born with money and land already theirs, they didn’t even know the rules.
But Alastor did. Alastor mastered them at the tender age of 14. When he realized his father’s features were a shield. His mother’s lessons on manners and charm his weapons. The first time he was in mixed company, when someone leaned in and whispered a cruel “prank” he had planned for a young dark skinned woman on the other side of the room, he understood. They pulled back and smiled at him, and he managed to muster one of his own. Just smile, they’d take it to mean whatever they wanted it to mean because they thought he was of the same mindset. They assumed it. Like so many other things people would assume about him as he grew.
When he told his mother the story after getting home, she shook her head. When he had asked her what he should have done, she set down her book.
“Well, I’d love to say you should have stood up for her. But I’d also like to have my son above ground.”
He asked her why she couldn’t have both.
“Sweetheart, we don’t usually get the choice to do either, let alone both.”
He offered a solution, after a moment of thinking, “I shoulda buried him first then.”
“Wouldn’t it be nice if that was how the world worked?” She returned to her book, “If God just struck em down dead as soon as they hurt people. Better yet, before.”
It would be nice. It was nice. Because Alastor couldn’t wait for God to make the world his mother mentioned. He grinned ear to ear, gloves a second skin, as the man crawled backwards in the grass like an animal cornered. His heart was pounding in his ears. Where to cut first? The gut, his family fat and soft from the money they made off the labor of others? The pale neck of a man who never spent a day outside, instead indoors drugging strangers for sport? The chest covered in a fine cotton shirt he didn’t appreciate?
He wished he had many arms, as many as he could imagine, to slash and tear in tandem.
“What do you want? Money?” the animal asked him.
Alastor shook his head no. No, he didn’t want money.
“Do you know who I am?”
Alastor nodded. “That is precisely why I am here.”
Would he beg? Cry? Bargain? Experience told him it’d be the latter.
“Alright well, if you know who I am you know you’re making a mistake. Here.” The man opened his wallet and pulled out a few greenbacks, holding them out for Alastor. Alastor’s smile softened slightly, remembering tossing you a wallet once before.
He reached down with his left hand to take the money, but instead grabbed the man’s wrist. Swiftly, quicker than the man could process, he took the knife tucked into his belt behind his vest and stabbed the man in the stomach.
Staring into his eyes, he could see his own image looking back at him. Smiling.
Alastor grabbed your face with both wrists, hands bloody and one still holding the knife, and kissed you when he’d flagged you down.
“Is this for bringing the car around without running you over?” Your eyes glanced at the knife beside your head. He apologized, tossing it into the trunk.
“No, just happy to see you.” A mischievous grin that made your knees weak, his body shimmied closer until he was pressed against you, stealing another kiss. His arms stretched out to keep from bloodying you. Your fingers slid up his cheeks to return the kiss. “Thank you, dear.”
When you returned home, to his home, that is, you took to task bringing in the laundry he’d left on the line and putting away the things still on the counters from breakfast. You couldn’t resist going to the second floor room and looking down into the greenhouse. You couldn’t see perfectly well, but you could see nonetheless. Alastor didn’t want you in the greenhouse yet when he was working. He said it was the ugliest parts, the kind that would sure give you nightmares or rob you of your appetite.
Considerate. But, it only made you more curious. Would you be sick if you saw? Would you never eat meat again?
What would you do if you didn’t have any reaction at all?
You watched Alastor leave the greenhouse and lock the door behind him, so you hopped down the stairs to meet him in the hall beside the kitchen.
He’d been sweating, shirt open to reveal a thin white undershirt, and under his arm was a canvas roll. He lifted it up, “Tools. Rinsed them off but I’d like to dry them under the electric lights.” You grabbed the aprons from the wall hooks, Alastor letting you slip it over his head and tie it for him. “Why so tight?”
“I like the way it makes your waist look.” You’d seen him wear it when making biscuits. It made his shape so clear. It reminded you of watching water drip down his sides and roll off his hips in the shower.
He beamed, “I’m listening. What exactly do you like about my waist?” Sharp brows raised as that friendly tongue peeked out at you.
“Hush.” You cooed.
You stood on the long side of the table, him at the short, and took turns wiping the tools dry and checking the other’s work.
As he grabbed each one he would tell you what he used it for. Holding up the garden shears and explaining the point along the blade that had the strongest force. The advantage of curved pruning blades when used on a human body. His eyes were gleaming as he spoke, looking so lovingly at each item like it was a loyal pet.
He finally noticed you were grinning and chuckling softly, so he dropped his smile for dramatic effect, “What? What’s so funny?”
Shaking your head, you set down the next item for him to inspect, “Nothing. You’re just so cute when you’re talking about your passions. Your face lights up from the inside out.”
His breath hitched, smile actually lost as he processed every syllable. Your turn now to notice him staring as you looked up from your work. You recognized that look though, the wide eyes and serious lips. The air of the kitchen felt like the atmosphere before a thunderstorm rolled in.
Alastor set the tools back onto the canvas one by one and carried them to the counter. Before returning he picked up a small knife and set it near the edge of the table.
“Come here.” He nodded his head to space in front of him. The way he said it, that tone, made your heart begin to skip beats.
You slid between him and the table, Alastor lifting you up with a startling ease and setting you onto cool wood. Kicking your legs a little, you set nervous hands onto your lap. You wanted to touch him. To pull him by the apron straps into you.
“How do you always say the right things?” He closed the distance between you, one hand on your neck while his mouth came to your ear. “The things I didn’t know I wanted to hear?”
Swimming. Your mind was swimming. “Why is your idea of right the same as my idea of the truth?” You could feel the grin. Sighing into your ear, down your neck, his hands grabbed your hips and pulled you off the table enough to press your core into his clothed erection. Even through his pants and the apron, you could feel him clearly. When did he get so hard? You always wondered in those moments if it was the topic of discussion. Or the knives. Or your need. Biting your lip wasn’t a thought out action, but Alastor loved to see it. Rolling his hips into you in response.
“Wanna go upstairs?” you asked.
He shook his head, slipping off his glasses.
“Oh no, don’t even wanna see me?” You teased, but firm hands held you tighter to him in response.
“I won’t be letting you get far enough away from me for that to be a problem.”
When he leaned down and his lips so very gently pressed into yours, you could feel it. That missing something from before. It was in the air, it was rolling off of his body and dampening your senses. A desire, a drive that you felt that first time you had sex with him in that apartment above the theater. A motivation that was lacking last time in his bed.
His eyes were staring down into yours, waiting for your response. Eagerly you replied by chasing his mouth with yours. A chain of kisses as you tried to ever remember enjoying kissing another person as much as him.
Not a single soul. Why did it feel like this was all you ever needed? Eyes closed and lips on lips, hands in his hair, it felt like you’d been holding your breath all of your life. His body on yours was a gasp of air.
For Alastor, he couldn’t even think of breathing when around you. Let alone when your mouth was on him. Every time you touched him all he could think about was the word ‘affection’.
So when your tongue swiped up his lips, he moaned as he opened for you. Not because he was new to kissing someone with so much lust. He’d grown accustomed to the things you did to him. No, because you were a fever that had taken hold of him and your kiss the medicine that soothed his delirium.
He wondered, was that why people called it ‘love sick’?
“You really like me, don’t you?” He asked, nose sliding up your jaw.
An opportunity presented to you. A chance to spill over the edges.
You pushed it away, legs wrapping around his waist and pulling him closer.
“Something like that, yeah.”
His hands pressed flat against the table to balance the deep roll of his hips against you. One of your own fell behind you to keep from falling backwards, the other flung over his shoulder. When you moaned into his cheek he captured the sound with his mouth and slipped his tongue back into you.
You liked him. He’d known people to love and not like their partner an ounce, but the way you appreciated his quirks made his heart sing in its brittle cage. You never ceased to see him. The issue with always putting on a show is people tend to be disappointed when the actors become human again. But you never met his persona. He was knife wielding, bloodlusting Alastor from the first word. So when he was himself, you recognized him clearly. Because he was all you ever knew.
And you liked him
You appreciated him.
He dared to think maybe he could inspire more from you. A thought that made him twitch below the belt.
Closer. He needed you closer. He needed you so near to him that he’d never forget the feeling of being wanted. It’d be imprinted on his chest and his arms and his lips.
Impatient hands slipping up your sides, along your neck, down your chest. His greedy mouth suddenly understanding the same greed he once marveled at in your own kisses. Hot tongue sliding over yours, delving deeper into you with every return.
When his hands seemed to come to an agreement, they yanked you forward again. You’d fall off ass-first if he pulled you any further.
You watched with only slight horror has he grabbed the small knife and hiked up your dress in tandem. A gulp, worried the other shoe had finally dropped on a too-good situation.
“Are you particularly attached to these panties?” His eyes were looking up and over his glasses.
“No?” Did you really need panties, you wondered. Ever? Girdles we’re falling out of fashion perhaps you’d all be naked again soon enough. Maybe you two could start another Eden. A pomegranate’s juice the new red staining his skin.
Not even a tremble, his hands lifted each side and sliced them free.
“Oh?” You didn’t have a real question in mind when he tucked the panties into his back pocket. Just a need to express you saw it and didn’t understand it.
Alastor took your hand and pressed it against his hardened length, eyes locked onto yours with a sharpness to them. But when your hand took hold of him and squeezed, everything softened in his features. Funny how where one area grew stiff another melted.
He rolled his eyes closed as you finally undid his belt and pants. A struggle you didn’t see, Alastor trying to keep from pouncing on you like a horny virgin. He didn’t want to rut into you, he didn’t need the pleasure. He needed something he couldn’t see or explain. He just knew you held it behind your teeth.
When your skin pressed into his and you both moaned together he was sure you were the same. One person, split into insufficient parts. Finally lined up flush in place.
When you circled your hips against his aching cock, he wondered what you were chasing after. Was it the pleasure? He’d give it to you in spades.
He was on his knees with his face between your legs before you could close your thighs in surprise.
You needed both hands now to keep from falling back onto the table. “Alastor,” a whine.
He knew better than to talk with his mouth full, so he let two fingers work their way into you with shallow thrusts. Easing you open for him.
“Yes?” His eyes didn’t leave his fingers, glistening under the kitchen light. You hadn't thought much ahead past his name, once his fingers were in you and curling up to find your spongy and soft bundle of nerves your mind had gone empty.
“We can just fuck, if you’re horny.” You watched him watching himself.
“Where’s the fun in that?” His mouth returned to your mound, broad tongue forming a point and finding your clit.
A lazy moving tongue would be frustrating if not for his fingers punishing your g-spot. Consistency was key, and his hand was focused and skilled.
Suddenly you remembered the piano in the sitting room. That’s where you knew that movement from. That clearly practiced muscle memory.
Alastor felt confident everywhere but rarely did he feel comfortable. When your thighs came together and squeezed him at the ears, he felt positively cozy. Would you be so kind as to be his ear muffs come winter? He’d have to remember to ask when his mouth was free. How many cold nights he could now rest assured he would have warmth just a little dive of his head away.
Lowering his mouth, nose buried in your muff, he wriggled his tongue in with his fingers. Not enough, rarely was anything enough any more. He stilled his hand and prodded at your sensitive walls with that intrusive tongue, relishing the little movements you made in response. Taking his digits out entirely, he buried his wet muscle as deeply as he could reach.
The huffs of exhales you were making triggered a moan from him that you felt through your skin. His enjoyment was tripling your pleasure.
Goosebumps ran up your arms at the combine sensations of his moaning and prodding.
When his lips and tongue returned to their uneven teasing of your clit, three fingers now swiping past your inner spot with every thrust, your hands came to his head. Fingers slipping through his hair and gripping every time your body shook. Encouragement, the more you tugged the surer he was he was doing the right things.
And oh, he was. You said the right things but Alastor always seemed to act on them. Your senses lodged themselves between the even stroking of your g-spot and the unpredictable movements of his tongue. One kept the pressure rising as your orgasm climbed, the other pushed you along jolt by jolt.
Curious thing. That night in the park he didn’t have much reaction to your enjoyment, but he found himself not fully softening in his lap as he continued. Normally, unless still physically stimulated or the rare time you stirred something in him, he wasn’t very… battle ready.
But the feeling of you pulling him in by the head, fingers in his hair and thighs at his cheeks; this was different than the others. He was sure now it wasn’t just physical pleasure you wanted. His pride said it was more.
Dozens of times before— he truly was a rake in some aspects, though admittedly it was all in the pursuit of avoiding “sex”, as defined by most, not chasing it — he helped a date find release with his tongue. But it never did anything for him. They moaned and said his name and screamed. Which was lovely. Who doesn’t enjoy recognition?
When you said his name, it was heavier. It was material, it had mass and as its gravity began its pull he found his mind circling that sound. He was pleasing his darling, not placating. And it made him react in that unusually crass way.
He felt like an apex predator when killing, tearing open animals made for him to hunt. But you made him feel baser. Prey in your gentle bite.
As your orgasm mounted, you began tugging at his hair to pull him off. You didn’t need him to stop, but everything was suddenly too sensitive. It was alarming to feel your body rocking from overstimulation. A strident cry filled the kitchen as your back arched off the table. He didn’t let up, despite how much you thrashed under his mouth. Rolling pleasure, muscles electrified and shaking beyond your control.
You patted his head harshly, “Good, I’m good. Alas—tor! Fuck!”
Ah, he loved when you swore. It punctuated your otherwise preternatural aura with a touch of humanity.
He stood and leaned over your now reclining body. Your pussy still clenching and legs shaking as he admired his work. You admired his shape in his apron, his broad shoulders and sharp eyes. Caught between your legs like a lion in a mouse trap; he acted like he had no way free of you. His grin widened and he made a display out of licking each finger clean. Eyes never leaving yours.
You knew many men to squawk at going down on a woman. To balk at wearing an apron. To grimace at the suggestion of cooking a meal while their lady took a nice bath or enjoyed a coffee. Alastor seemed to not think twice about any of it. How nice it would be. To have a partner beside you, to not be the woman in the often referenced “behind every great man is a great woman.”
“Alastor, I want you.” You pulled him down by the neck and stole a kiss. When he began to stroke himself fully back to life you pressed that hand to his chest. “Not like that. Though I’m not declining the offer.”
His eyes saw something in yours. “Sweetheart, you have me. There is no part of me that isn’t possessed by you. I know we keep things relatively… tightlipped for safety but I’m your fella and you’re my gal.” His nose touched yours. “But if you want more, I’ll become more. I’ll break myself apart and make myself better.”
Your heart sank. Sitting up to command a little authority, a feat given you were sitting panty-less on a kitchen table, “Don’t you dare. I’ll always meet you where you are, got it? Don’t go… groping around in the darkness for me; trying to find what I need. I’ll always come to you. Because you’re more than enough as you are.”
A little cough to clear his tightening throat, “I’ve not had a day of darkness since you arrived.” A kiss to your forehead before a soft thumbpad wiped at the corner of your eye. “Did I make you sad?”
You wanted to say it. But not now, not like this. You didn’t want Alastor to connect love and sex. To think one was necessary for the other.
While you were coming to learn how lovely it was to pair the two together, it was a fact they were wholly independent things. And you couldn’t allow him to think they were a set.
“You’ve made me too happy. It’s absolutely terrifying.”
But Alastor had found your expressions of acceptance always tumbled the circle of Love to overlap with that of Sex. It was only in that mixed space did he find desire in pleasure.
A wicked smirk, “Let me pile on my affections and drown out your fears.” His hips rolled into you again, a surprising eagerness returned to his lap. “Can I continue?”
With a nod and a smile, “But not another word of change, buster.” You leaned back on your hand for support. Alastor was happy to return to your heat, lining up and sinking into you. An embrace like no other, one he found particularly earnest when with you.
Close. Finally. You began where he ended, a natural extension of who he was and who he could be. The things he could have. A relieved sigh he didn’t try to hide before he began moving, a moment when his tension could melt. You were both an unseasonably warm autumn day and the cool comforting shade of an unfamiliar tree. Both the heat and the relief.
He watched your body rock against the table, even fully dressed you managed to look more scandalous than any show he’d seen downtown. He was grateful he didn’t seek this comfort often in others, the way his mind melted made him feel vulnerable. He couldn’t think straight. And then you began to make those lovely little groans, high pitched and needy, and he was sure his soul was errant.
As his thrusts deepened, cock no longer kissing your cervix but ramming into you with good intentions, you dropped back as you lost the battle against his hips.
Alastor’s arms slid up our waist and pulled your arms towards him, “Too far, I can’t see your face.”
Your arms were slung over his shoulders as your back curved for him, “You don’t need to see my face.”
“Tsk, wrong.”
Your new favorite place was right in front of him, wherever his line of sight was you wanted to be in it. Nose to nose, heads tilting to recapture soft lips and softer moans.
Until the softness left, Alastor’s skin slapping against yours as he dragged those lovely sounds from you. He watched your eyes roll closed, mouth open as you moaned with the safety of the seclusion of a country home. A thought bubbled up, inspired by you.
“I want the neighbors to hear you.” That smile half cocked across his upsettingly handsome face. His hand slipped between you both to repeat the motions he learned before. Hard and fast, no choice but to raise your voice.
Your head fell back, clit still sensitive, “You don’t have neighbors!” A new moan hitting the walls.
“I do— just a few miles down the road, dear.” His mouth latched onto your neck but he didn’t suck like he wanted, he couldn’t bite. Your skin was your job, your body not his to mark. Suddenly he remembered, “Do you still have that make up? For your bruises?”
You couldn’t understand why he would bring that up while balls deep in you but you nodded.
“Would it work on your neck?” He nipped lightly.
It clicked, “Absolutely.”
You felt like a teenager again. When his tongue swiped over your soft flesh before he began to suck on the skin there you could feel the heat rising off your chest. You could feel him everywhere, and with the knowledge he wanted to hear you, you tossed your shame out of the kitchen window and relaxed into the pleasure.
As he moved up your neck he left little marks behind. There was no sense left you didn’t occupy. He could smell the soap and sweat of your skin, taste your cunt still on his tongue, your sights and sounds a decadence he couldn’t get used to. And the feeling of you… velvety walls, a feeling finer than silk as he slipped in and out of you. So incredibly hot on his most sensitive areas, pulling him back in with admirable strength.
He felt his orgasm ratcheting up but tried to hold back. He wanted more time to experience your ecstasy, to wallow in your openness. Even pressed skin to skin now wouldn’t satisfy that deep desire for this unique level of intimacy. So he wanted to enjoy it for as long as he had it.
But, he knew he should prepare. “I don’t want to dirty your dress.” A lust heavy voice penetrating the nap of your neck. He’d made a risky release before at your urging, something he often thought about when work got quiet. But he knew he needed to think clearer now.
“Then don’t.” A terrible reply but you wanted all of him, every drop of his hunger for you. “Keep the mess in me.”
“My dear,” he slowed his hips, autopilot keeping them moving at all, “I don’t think now is the time for,” you tightened around him to trip him up, which worked spectacularly. Alastor had take several seconds before continuing, “talks on family planning.”
A pang of nausea and fear, small and sharp in your abdomen. It wasn’t that you weren’t aware of biology, just that Alastor brought out your baser animal instincts, too. And before, when he came buried as deeply as he could reach, it felt like you’d actually completed some ritual. Bears hibernated, birds migrated, Alastor came in you.
You’d never let a man do that before Alastor. “I just want to… accept everything you are willing to give me.”
He bit his bottom lip to redirect some attention away from his now throbbing member, “And when you’re sure on me, I’ll always provide.”
A pout that he kissed, you accepted the terms. An argument could be made you were already very sure, but you were well aware how naive that sounded when you’d known each other for so little time. Had a coworker told you she’d met a guy and within three months was ready for… the consequences, you’d have laughed and asked if she was drunk or just stupid.
Alastor wanted to provide. But he knew you’d be the one with the raw end of the deal, he couldn’t risk coercing a decision in the heat of the moment. If your mind was half was addled as his with pleasure then you were in no state for big decisions.
Life changing decisions.
Decisions that filled empty homes.
Fuck, why wasn’t he a less considerate man?
When his kiss deepened, so did his ministrations. He was fully sheathed and so unwilling to draw back more than a couple inches you wondered if he had changed his mind. It felt like a man not wanting to stray too far from home. One hand on the small of your back, his other other on the back of your neck. When he pulled out he pressed his tongue further, only stopping the kiss when he came onto the little space of table between your thighs. Soft and swollen lips parted as his breaths ran ragged. A smile spread across your face as you watched his eyes open, witnessing a pleasured blow out of his pupils.
When he grabbed a kitchen towel and cleaned the table, you chuckled at his grimace. “See? My way is cleaner.”
He didn’t reply at first, taking the cloth and hovering over the sink before tossing it into his trash. “Only in the short term. We can finish up tomorrow with the tools?”
Your legs kicked again, not ready to slide off, “Mm, it’ll be easier in the daylight.”
“Instead,” he zipped his pants but removed the belt and set it on the counter, “Let’s get zozzled* and sway around the sitting room? Crash where we land.” (*drunk)
“I’ll pour if you get the music on.”
He turned to leave but paused, “No, I’ll handle the drinks. You always have too heavy of a hand.”
“I didn’t hear you complaining last time…”
“I’m not sure I remembered I was at home and not at a drum* last time…,” He uncorked the label-less whiskey, grabbing two glasses with one hand. “Didn’t wanna insult the pretty waitress.” (*speakeasy)
Fair. You weren’t much for drinking and always underestimated the strength of illegal hooch. Some were weak and some could kill you. But fancy Alastor had connections with the kind of people no one dared to risk harm to, so he always had the most trustworthy goods.
Good music, great whiskey, and even better company. You thanked him for being safe while working, he praised your ability to learn new skills so quickly. After a few drinks he pushed the coffee table against the wall and you drunkenly swayed around the room to something playing smooth and low. As much as you enjoyed your conversations, having your head tucked under his chin as neither of you said a word somehow filled in the little cracks of your heart more so than any talk. For him too. No tension after sex, no stress of how long he’d get to breathe before the next instance of prodding to do it again. He could smile and close his eyes and feel the room swing and sway in total safety.
A safety neither of you knew was being threatened from afar.
When you woke, Alastor was gone. A note on the table letting you know he’d run out to grab some things for breakfast. Telling you to relax and recover.
You put the furniture back, bringing the glasses to the kitchen and his belt to the bedroom.
Coffee and a slow perusal of his home. Intimate details you tried to not stare at when he was there. The rare photo of his mother, a woman you didn’t speak about, a conversation you didn’t need to have, but someone you knew existed fondly still in his life. A silent thank you to her.
No photos of a man to give thanks to you so you turned to the little curios and mementos.
Little seashells and sand dollars, a small gator’s skull. Books, about anatomy and history. Novels about crime and love and mystery. Ticket stubs for films he’d seen. Little bits of his mother scattered in. A woman’s necklace. A chatelaine* with all of the accessories and tools. (*wikipedia page)
When you felt you’d spied enough, you crawled into his side of the bed and inhaled as deeply as you could. His pillow smelled like him. You let yourself sleep off the hangover surrounded by pieces of Alastor.
Pieces you couldn’t contain. Pieces left around town as a dick* hunted for his personal monster. (*a detective, but also, a dick, fuck this dude?)
Beth, or Betty as you called her, the friend you often sang for, was cleaning up from the previous night when Brady walked in. She tried to tell him they were closed, but he took a seat at the counter anyway.
“I’m looking for a singer named Autumn. She been around lately?”
She paused, knowing the name was tied to your work. This man didn’t know you. “Whose asking?”
“The city of New Orleans”, he set his badge on the counter top.
“Is she in some kinda trouble?”
“She the kinda dame to get into trouble?”
Beth laughed, “She doesn’t try to but men, liquor, and jazz tend to make it happen. She’s okay, right?”
He took a deep sigh, trying to blink away the exhaustion and remember he needed to be someone strangers trusted. Being honest hadn’t been working and being rough barely got him a lead. “Well I was hoping you’d know. Found out someone roughed her up a bit ago and just wanting to make sure she’s okay. But I don’t have her legal name, no address, nothing to track her down.”
Shaking her head, she leaned onto the counter, “What? Some egg* forget it’s just a show?” Brady shrugged. “I can’t say. She hasn’t been by in a couple weeks.” (*man)
He asked why. Feeling the deadend approaching.
“She was just doing me a favor. Once she got a guy she didn’t have much time.”
Fighting the urge to slam his fists against the wood and sling his notebook across the bar, Brady took slow breaths. Jaw clenched as he grabbed his pencil, “That is wonderful news. Hopefully a fit guy who can… keep her safe.”
Beth laughed a little, “I don’t know about that. He’s kind of a daisy*, but real kind.” (*a non-masculine man)
“Could I get a name? Or her address? Wanna follow up. See for myself that she’s doing well.”
She tapped the bar with two fingers and winked, “Ah no can do. Flatfoot* or not, I don’t tell men where to find sleeping ladies. But her fella is in radio though. I recognized his voice right away. Popular too, really ritzy air about him.” (*cop, detective)
As he left, he slapped the notebook against his palm over and over. When he stopped to take a second to congratulate himself something caught his eye. Across the street was a park he knew well. Following the block and turning, he could see the white and green awning of the cafe he’d seen you at before.
Had he been there? He hadn’t questioned why you were alone on such a nice day. But maybe you weren’t. Maybe you’d been playing him from the start.
Enough games.
When you took the stage that evening, a Friday show with a promising crowd, you felt like solid gold. Alastor would be there to pick you up in a few hours, you had every need met. And now you had the adoration of strangers to pump up your chest.
Until you passed your come-hither eyes over the crowd and a striking ocean blue pair knocked the wind out of you.
James was standing behind Brady, mouthing an apology. You missed a beat in your routine but forced your smile back. It took a second, to slide back into the actress you were when away from Alastor. Every time it got harder and harder to fall back into that role but you managed. His eyes never left your face, and you thanked God your heaving chest could be seen as fatigue and not the sheer panic that had taken ahold of your body.
When you were on the other side of the curtain you considered rushing out the side door, into the alley and down the street. But you couldn’t. You’d successfully brushed him off for so long but now that he had seen you, had made it clear he was there for you, you couldn’t flee. Innocent people don’t hide from cops.
Feet dragging, you saw some of the dancers standing around the dressing room door. “He’s out of his gourd if he thinks I’m changing with him in there.” One said loud enough to ensure Brady heard. When you entered the room he was sitting at your make up table, legs spread and your shoes in his hands.
“There she is!” standing, he extended the shoes to you, “Don’t stare like a deer in the lights. I’m sure you knew I was coming. Slip these on, we’re going for a ride.” He gave them a shake, “You can call your mac* from the station and let him know you’ll be late.” (*man)
˖ ݁𖥔.Summoning the Horny Little Deer Cult.𖥔 ݁ ˖
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“Kara?”
She doesn’t answer. Lena’s presence doesn’t surprise her; Kara Danvers always knows where Lena Luthor is, at least as long as there’s a way for the sound of her heart to find Kara’s ears, no matter how soft or faint it might be. In her ruminations Kara thinks on that before she speaks. Even when they were at their worst, when they were hurting each other in every way that mattered, Kara would stop and listen.
It was a secret and sacred thing, a transgression that she would never admit. She would confess to scoping Lena out with her x-ray vision first. She’d never actually done that, but she’d pretend-admit before confessing that, sometimes, she’d listen to Lena’s heart as she slept and drift off to its slow and steady beat.
They’re by the sea, at the Danvers family home. It’s been a year since Alex and Kelly married and a small, core group have gathered here in this house by the waves to celebrate the anniversary. It’s just Alex and Kelly of course and Esme, and Lena and Kara. And Eliza.
She lives here, after all.
Nia and Brainy are in town in an AirBnB, and they’ve been by the house but are mostly doing their own thing. They’ll marry soon, Kara thinks. They have that air about them, the way that Alex and Kelly did before the proposal.
There is a sense of finality to it all that has fallen over Kara like the shadow of a passing storefront, and she sits where she can watch the ocean waves roll in, chin propped on arms resting on knees, curled up and watching the waves reach the high water mark and roll back.
Lena stands beside her now, seemingly unconcerned that Kara hasn’t answered her. This happens a lot now. There are companionable silences. Lena spends half her days in Kara’s home, working from a laptop on Kara’s kitchen counter while Kara writes at the kitchen table.
A lot has happened. Cat Grant offered her the role of EIC at CatCo; Kara rejected it. She’d mad furtive plans to reveal her identity, then canceled them. She’d told Cat but asked that it end there and Cat had respected it, then gone on an esoteric retreat at an eel farm or… something. Kara still submitted articles to CatCo but on a freelance basis, and she was submitting more articles elsewhere lately.
Actually, very little had happened. Kara had more time to really write, now. She put on her suit and flew out the window less and less, being less needed.
Lena sits down next to her and assumes a similar pose. Kara can’t help but look at her; she has never been able to resist looking at Lena Luthor. That too has changed. She doesn’t steal a glance this time, she studies, lets her gaze linger. She looks at the way the light of the golden hour plays with Lena’s soft, easy beauty. Her sort-of-roommate skipped putting on makeup this morning and her hair is down in a mop of air-dried dark curls, some of them lazily riding the breeze around her head. Some of it falls across her face and Kara fights the urge to sweep it back with a soft brush of her fingers.
Lena is beautiful. The warm light makes her pale skin glow, brings out the sparkle in her blue-green eyes, as deep as the sea they watch. There is a soft playful hint of a smile on her lips, but her brows are furrowed.
Kara thinks back to the last time she spoke to J’onn. She told the man, the closest thing she had left to a father in the world, about how she was wearing the cape less and working more, about Lena, about how Alex and Kelly seemed to be moving on, both of them now retired from the insanity of her lives and Alex actually planning to practice medicine.
“That’s what happens,” J’onn told her. “Things pass. Stories end. The great deeds are done, the archenemies vanquished, the miracles all performed. After that is just life.”
Kara wasn’t sure what that meant. In her life -almost sixty years, that she’d experienced as less than thirty- she’d packed in the experiences of a hundred lifetimes. She’d watched her world die, found her family, lost them, made a new one. She’d loved and lost and she’d even died- twice. She’d spent two eternities in her own personal hell.
Kara lets out a slow sigh. She’s still looking at Lena.
They have to have this conversation. Kara just doesn’t know what to say or how to say it. The problem is obvious. Lena and Kara had arrived this morning a few hours after Kelly and Alex, and found that Eliza had, as to be expected, already planned out who was bunking where.
“Alex and Kelly have Alex’s old room,” Eliza had told them, after hugging Lena. “Esme has Kara’s old room, and you and Lena can take the guest bedroom.”
When the words left her foster mother’s mouth, Kara’s heart raced. If Lena thought anything of it, she gave no sign. Kara was on the verge of panic.
Eliza had given the two of them a room with one bed. A small room, a shared room that would give two people no privacy.
Does she think we’re…?
Kara had considered the possibility before. She wasn’t blind or oblivious to a fluttering heart beat or lip bites or long stares, but…
“I’m scared,” Kara says, and she looks away.
She can feel Lena looking at her, gaze unwavering.
“What about?”
Kara swallows hard. She doesn’t know if Lena realizes what Eliza has assumed yet, if she’s put it together. She must have, because she came out here looking for Kara. Kara hadn’t run away exactly, but she had fled. She needed to think.
“One thing I’ve learned,” Kara says, “is that once you say something, you can’t un-say it. You can’t change the truth once it’s been told.”
Lena nods softly. She knows. They learned the same lesson from the same cruel trick.
“Do you know why I held on to my secret for so long?”
“You always said it was to protect me, and I didn’t accept that. Then when…” Lena pauses heavily, “when we moved on, I never really asked again.”
Kara swallows. “I lied. I did it for me.”
Lena says nothing.
“I was scared. I was afraid that once I told you, it would be the same with you as it was with everyone else. Once people know Kara is Supergirl, then Kara stops being Kara. Kara is just Supergirl’s real name.”
Kara’s breath hitches. She glances at Lena, who watches intently.
“I was wrong. I should have known better. I should have trusted you.”
“Yes,” said Lena. “You should have. I should have tried to understand you. To understand why instead of projecting my own insecurities onto your choice. But it doesn’t matter anymore. I forgave you.”
Waves crash in the silence.
“I would forgive you anything.”
“Even beating the last potsticker?”
“I’m serious, Lena.”
Lena sighs. “Are we going to talk about it?”
“You saw the room.”
Lena nods.
“Your mom seems to be assuming that we share a bed,” Lena says.
Kara swallows hard.
“The last time I was with Nia, she asked when I’m selling the penthouse, because she assumed I’ve been planning to move into your loft.”
Kara groped her knees because her hands are shaking. She grips her knees to stop them but it makes her legs shake instead.
Lena shifts closer, scooting across the grass. She’s not touching Kara but it feels like she is. Her touch becomes and threatens. They share space, the sea breeze passing over them as one. Lena looks at her through a tangle of inky curls and her eyes are infinite, searching Kara for something.
“I have deemed a dream,” Kara whispers. “I fear if I dream it too deeply I’ll suddenly wake, and when I wake it’ll be gone the way dreams always are, and it will fade as fast as any dream. The thought of losing it hurts so bad it makes it feel like my chest is caving in.”
Kara looks at Lena now. She looks so young, she is young. Her power suits and makeup and air of command and defiance all make her seem almost matronly but here with Kara that mask is gone and beneath it is her true self, her secret self that not even their friends see, a young girl who’s never been young.
Just like Kara.
“What if you woke up and the dream came true?”
“Sometimes,” Kara admits, “I wonder if you’re real. I used to dream of things when I floated in my pod and they seemed so real…”
“It’s real, Kara,” Lena whispers, soft and breathy. “It’s real and I’m not going anywhere. Nothing has to change. It’s just going to evolve. I know what you want to say and I’ve been scared of it too. What you’re saying, I can feel it in my soul… when the Luthors took me in, I used to dream that my mom was alive. I’d wake up smelling breakfast and hearing her sing and when I realized it was just a dream it was like she died again every morning.”
“I love you.”
Lena stares at her. Kara hears Lena’s steady pulse flutter and begins to stammer.
“I know I’ve said it before. I mean I’m in love with-“
Lena presses a finger to her lips.
“I know. Stop telling me and show me.”
Kara freezes, not sure what she meant. Lena twisted languidly and leaned towards her. Kara freezes briefly and then just lets go, moving on instinct. Using a little strength she pulls Lena into her lap, gently touches her chin, and tilts her back a touch, to kiss her.
It is at once tentative and soft and absolutely explosive. Kara forces back tears, as Lena embraces her with all her strength, molding herself to Kara as if she means to climb inside her. For all her urgency, her kiss is just as delicate, just as tender and exploratory.
It is as it has always been. They compliment each other perfectly, moving together without a word needed, Kara breaks the kiss because Lena needs air and lowers her to the grass, fully on top of her now, brushing lose strands of hair back from her face to kiss her again and again and again, each kiss ah apology, each brushing of lips a lament for time lost.
They could have been doing this for years.
Lena arches under her, grinding hungrily, kissing her furiously. She moans softly as Kara’s hands find bare skin and Kara murmurs a Kryptonian prayer against her lips, and her thighs rise to bracket Kara’s hips.
Kara feels it all. The desire, the lust, the need, and above all the unbridled joy. This is no dream. It’s real. It’s happening. It’s…
“Eww,” Alex says.
Kara snaps up, acutely aware that her hand is halfway up Lena’s now-askew top, and that Lena has leg-locked them together. Lena lets her head fall back and peers up at Alex.
“Eliza sent me to find you two. Dinner is ready,” Alex sighs, then turns, muttering,
“Get a room. Sheesh.”
Lena cracks first, unleashing a gale of laughter.
“Let me go,” she protests.
Kara lets her…. briefly. Play-wrestling ensues, and Lena just know that Kara is letting her win as they roll in the grass, but it no longer matters. Lena is flushed and grass-stained and joy burns her in her eyes and-
“Come on!” Alex bellows.
Kara helps her up, and they head for the house.
#supercorp#supergirl fanfiction#supergirl#supercorp fanfic#lena luthor#kara danvers#kara x lena#karlena#supergirl fanfic#ficlet#love confessions#play wrestling#lena luthor x kara danvers#sad lena luthor#sad Kara danvers#let them kiss#hugging it out#soulmates#idiots in love
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The Soulmate Theory - Todoroki Shouto x Reader
I welcome you to my probably last-ever Soulmate fic. As much as I love reading this trope, it's gotten harder and harder to write. I hope you like it. This is for @shoulmate
Trope: You share your Soulmate's pain.
Soulmates used to be a thing.
A long, long time ago, way before the first ever Quirk was documented, Soulmate bonds were just as common as Quirks are nowadays.
Your grandmother used to be fascinated by it, told you stories about her grandmother who was convinced she shared a soulmate bond even though not one case had been documented in the last hundred years before her.
It’s only natural, you’d say, that you didn’t realize you had one. After all, why would you think that?
-
Pain has always been part of your life.
Your wrists hurt and your legs hurt and your back hurts and your stomach hurts… all the time. The doctors cannot find anything, some even accuse you of pretending for attention. You’d gladly trade all that attention against a pain-free day.
Your Quirk’s Telekinesis and you’re so glad about it, because how else would you be able to move that pen and write that notes when your hands hurt like this?
You’re getting better at it too, threading a needle or picking up the last grain of rice with your thoughts alone.
-
A dull ache has settled behind your left eye after what has been the most intense pain flare you’ve ever had. All you want to do is rest.
But your mind is reeling, craving an outlet for all the thoughts inside your head.
Your restless eyes find some fabric in the corner of the room. Soon enough a few needles are working their magic, a creation coming to life before your eyes.
You might not be able to walk around most days, but at least you can still create outfits you’d love to flaunt in.
-
Years later
-
“Can you take over my student?” Kameko asks, “He wants a completely new costume.”
“What year?”
“First year. And his old one wasn’t even destroyed.”
“So? Maybe he found something out about himself.”
She huffs. “Please? I still have to finish Amajiki’s new design and you know how anxious he gets.”
“Yeah, no problem. Can you take another first year off my plate then? His name is Midoriya and he ripped it in half, it seems.”
“Oh yeah, give it to me.”
Someone clears their throat. You look up from your work into a set of heterochromatic eyes, one blue, one grey.
“Yes?” You ask. “How can I help you?”
“I’m here for my new Costume.”
“Are you Midoriya?” You point at the green fabric on your desk, or rather what’s left of the costume.”
“No, I’m Todoroki Shouto.”
“Ah,” Kameko doesn’t even look guilty at being caught. “You’re with her then. Do you need the think tank?” She points at the cubicle where you can go and plan outfits.
Todoroki looks like he isn’t quite sure, so you carefully slide off your chair and shuffle over.
“Come, come,” you wave at him, “It’s never wrong to brainstorm.”
“Are you hurt?” He asks and has the decency not to point at how you clearly favor your left leg.
“Not more than usual,” you try to joke and though he looks a little confused, he doesn’t ask more questions.
.
Todoroki is a quiet individual. He’s not shy, that you perceive immediately, but he makes sure to check if he’s allowed to speak before he opens his mouth.
He’s also insanely pretty, the red, rough skin over his left eye giving him even more appeal. But he’s also one year younger than you, so you keep those thoughts locked away in the back of your head.
“If you want to change the design, we can do that, no problem.” You remind him when you’ve finally found something he seems almost happy with.
“I don’t want to cause you more work.”
“If you don’t cause me any work I’d have nothing to do,” you joke and he looks at you quietly for a while. You wonder if he’s ruminating over your joke or waiting for you to talk on and sadly, you’re more than likely to ramble in a confusing silence.
You gesture, somehow now talking about the importance of fresh orange juice for the human body, a topic you didn’t even know you could talk about beforehand when your hand connects harshly with the door behind you. Your wrist catches the doorknob and the pain is immediate, sharp and cool, like you’d imagine being stabbed with an icicle would feel like.
Todoroki hisses behind you and you’d compliment him on the empathy if it wouldn’t hurt like that.
When you turn, hand pressed against your chest, he’s cradling his own hand before dropping it. “Musclespasm,” he explains quietly, offering you a hand that is covered in ice. “Do you want me to cool it? It helps.”
-
“I’d like to add some more details to my costume,” Todoroki approaches you with a Bento Box in hand.
You nod, unable to speak for a moment as you focus your Quirk on a particularly tough seam.
“No problem, as I said. What’s it about?”
“Could we use the think tank?”
You turn to check but it’s clearly occupied.
“Sadly not. Is it more complicated then?” You nod at the Bento Box. “Do you think it will keep us occupied during lunch break?”
“No, this is…” Todoroki hesitates for a second before holding it out to you. “It’s just something I wanted to give you. My sister made these.”
You open it with curious fingers to reveal twelve perfectly shaped cookies.
“That’s lovely, but why me?”
His cheeks turn pink and his lips curl into an adorable pout before he eventually talks.
“I mentioned that I was pleased with the changes and she told me to say thank you.”
“Aww,” you coo. “Your older sister then?”
“Yes,” the pout exaggerates, “I would have said thank you without her intervening.”
“Of course you’d have.” - “But my cookies didn’t turn out good.”
You both speak at the same time, or rather you accidentally interrupted him and he still talked on.
You stare at him now, mouth agape as you process his words.
“You made cookies for me?”
“Yes,” Todoroki nods, “I wanted to say thank you.”
“It’s my job.”
“I still want to say thank you.”
“Next time,” you joke, not quite realizing what you’re saying until it has left your lips and your brain has caught on, “just bring me the Cookies you made. It’s the thought that counts.”
He stares at you with wide eyes for what feels like eternity before a soft pink blush blooms on his cheeks.
You hide your own face in the box of Cookies, hope that he won’t hear the thunderous beating of your heart over the noise of you eating one.
They’re delicious. Of course they are.
-
You don’t know how or when or even why, but clearly, there’s a friendship growing between you and Todoroki Shouto. He’s stopped claiming he’s only dropping in for new additions to his costumes and in turn you’ve tried quite a few of his food creations, each one of them worse than the last.
But he’s cute and honest and real about it and you couldn’t do better if you tried anyway.
Your pain, however, doesn’t stop just because you’ve found work you enjoy or friends to spend your time with.
There are days where you cannot get out of bed. Days where strong painkillers allow you to get to school only for everything to go past you because those painkillers leave you loopy and tired, falling asleep over some costume in the early afternoon hours.
At least you’re not in the Hero Course, you think on the worst days, because you’ve seen the bruises Training leaves on Shouto’s arms and legs.
That’s before you realize that Training is the least of all his problems.
-
Third Year
“How are you?” You ask, because what else do you ask your Crush Slash Good Friend you haven’t seen in months?
Shouto’s got new scars, he’s grown, and he’s fought in a war while you were bedridden from pain, your mother scared out of her depths that you’d die in an attack, unable to move.
But you survived and so did he and if you can believe what you’ve heard on the news, he’s found out some things about his family too.
“Tired,” he admits, dragging a hand through his hair, “I missed you.”
You wonder how hard it was for him to admit that.
“Think tank?” You ask, slipping off your chair when he nods.
The last few days have been painless and even though you’re anxious about what’s to come after that, you can’t help but enjoy it.
When the door closes after him, you realize just how small that cubicle really is.
Or maybe it’s just that Shouto doesn’t step away like he used to do, staying so close to you that you could count every single one of his long lashes if you wanted to.
“Can I hug you?” He asks and you nod, unable to say anything, even less when he pulls you in.
He’s tall and strong, cool on one side and warm on the other and your face nuzzles into his neck like it was meant to be like that anyway.
You don’t speak for a while, just hold each other in the semi-privacy this room provides.
“I want to take care of you,” Shouto whispers at some point. “Can I?”
Somehow it doesn’t surprise anyone that you two end up dating.
-
Your third year is almost painless.
Sure, there are frequent days where you’re sore for no reason whatsoever, but that is nothing against the blinding pain that had tied you to a bed for weeks before.
Sometimes, Shouto pouts about that. He thinks it’s his job as your boyfriend to look after you and what good is he for if you don’t need looking after?
His friends tell you that he’s less reckless now - as if he’d ever been - making sure to keep himself safe because you need him.
You’ve met his sister, one of his older brothers and his mother, all of them nice, though maybe a bit distanced.
Emotional vulnerability doesn’t seem to come easy to them.
Shouto, however, likes to talk about his feelings in depth. And he wants to know how you’re feeling too, listening with wide eyes as you explain.
Should it be weird that you’re dating someone younger than you? If so, you’re doing it wrong.
-
The first(?) hint
“Do we need anything from the store?” You ask, phone crammed between your ear and shoulder as you grab your stuff from the passenger seat.
“I was going to get the groceries,” Shouto huffs on the other side of the call and you can see it, how he pouts at the thought that you’re doing it instead of him.
“I was already on my way. You can do the laundry.”
“I hate doing the laundry,” he groans and you giggle. “I know. I’m going to help you with it, don’t worry.”
“I could cook,” he offers and you giggle again, opening the door to step out. “As much as I love you, Shouto, I don’t love your cooking.”
“Fine,” he says, sounding exactly like a child that didn’t get its way, “But we do face-masks while doing the laundry.”
“Of course. I’ll call you back later, okay? I need both hands for shopping.”
“Sure. I’ll buy you more headphones in the meantime.”
There are a few more teasing remarks, a last “I love you” and then you shove your phone back in your purse and turn to where you think the shopping carts are located.
You don’t see the step in front of you before it’s too late and then you’re tumbling through the air. It happens slowly and then all at once and you’re not really sure what hurt first and what hurts the most.
For a moment you’re just lying there, face down on the pavement, trying not to puke, collecting your thoughts as if they scattered on your floor just like your open purse.
Your phone starts ringing and that seems the most manageable task so you pick it up from right in front of you and press it against your ear.
“Yes?” You ask.
“Love, are you okay?” Shouto sounds worried.
“No, I just tripped and fell,” you pick your head up from the asphalt and squint at your stuff in front of you, “in the middle of the parking lot.”
“Just after you hung up I felt a lot of pain and I just… I knew it was you.”
-
It keeps happening after that.
It doesn’t help that you’re clumsy, but maybe that’s for the best now, as you try and figure out this weird coincidence.
If you hurt yourself, Shouto feels the pain.
If Shouto hurts himself, you feel the pain.
It’s only after he almost gets buried by a collapsing building that you actually tell a Doctor. Or rather Midoriya unloads all the Data he has collected on the poor, unassuming Recovery Girl.
The most likely answer, as strange as it might sound, is the Soulmate Theory.
“Since you’re the first documented case in hundreds of years we don’t have anything to prove this theory. But I’m quite positive that more cases will follow.”
You blink back at her, not quite understanding. Shouto’s left hand, one of the few places of his that are not covered in bandages, squeezes yours.
“You know what that means, right?” He asks.
“Yeah. We’re most definitely never going to break up.”
His eyes widen in a way you’ve grown familiar with. No matter how long you’ve been dating, you still seem to be able to surprise him.
“No,” he presses out weakly, “I meant… That all the pain you went through as a child and teenager, that was me. It’s my fault.”
You lean down to press a kiss to the little spot above his eyebrows that has come away unscathed.
“I’m not saying it was nice, but if I could take at least a little bit of the pain you went through, I’d say it was worth it.”
-
You’re pretty sure Shouto would disagree, but in your eyes Soulmates are not quite as fancy as they’re made out to be.
After all, you found him on your own, didn’t you?
#my writing#shouto todoroki#todoroki shouto#shouto x reader#todoroki x reader#todoroki fluff#mha x reader#mha fluff#mha#bnha x reader#bnha#bnha fluff
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Plans Changed | Jung Wooyoung
-> Pairing: Jung Wooyoung x Wife!Reader ft Kyungmin
-> Request: No
-> Synopsis: Wooyoung's brother's weekend with him is disrupted when Wooyoung gets a last minute call into the studio. To take his mind off it, Y/N takes the younger Jung out for ice cream and to the arcade.
-> Warnings: Pregnancy thing near the end. Fluffy and Cuteness overload.
-> Word Count: 1,087
-> Requests: Open.
Wooyoung Masterlist | Tag List Sign-Up | Requesting Guidelines
©️ 2024 dancinglikebutterflywings - do not copy, modify and/or repost anywhere.
"Can we take a photo and send it to Wooyoung hyung?" Kyungmin asks Y/N before stuffing his face with another spoonful of ice cream. “Show him what he’s missing.”
“Sure thing," She laughs, grabbing her phone. Kyungmin scoots over, holding his ice cream up. She snaps a few photos - one with them smiling, one with them pulling a silly face, and one with them pretending to be sad.
After sending the pictures to Wooyoung, she sets her phone down and resumes enjoying her ice cream. "How about going to the arcade next and then grabbing some snacks for our movie night?"
Kyungmin eagerly agrees, "Can I still choose the movie this time?"
Before she can respond, her phone rings. It's Wooyoung video calling her. Kyungmin quickly moves closer to be in the frame, almost sitting on her lap.
"You guys seem to be having a blast," Wooyoung smiles after she answers the call, watching them through the screen. "I wish I could've been there with you."
It was supposed to be free weekend for Y/N and Wooyoung. His little brother has been pleading for months to spend the weekend with them. When they found out they were both supposed to have this weekend free, Wooyoung contacted his parents and arranged for Kyungmin to stay with them.
Unfortunately, the night before, Hongjoong called and asked if Wooyoung could come to the studio so they could rework one of the songs they’ve been working on. Kyungmin was obviously disappointed that his big brother wasn’t about to go through with what they originally planned.
However, when Y/N offered to take him out for ice cream and to the nearby arcade, he became excited again. In fact, he seemed even more thrilled about that than what Wooyoung had initially planned. He even teased Wooyoung, bragging about ice cream and saying that Y/N likes him more than him, her own husband.
Naturally, this made Wooyoung pouty until she reassured him that he is, without a doubt, her favourite Jung Brother.
Kyungmin exclaims with a huge grin, "We’re having so much fun! After ice cream, we're heading to the arcade. I'm going to win all the prizes!"
Wooyoung jokingly asks, "Hey, can you win something for me?"
His brother replies with a straight face, "Nope, I'm going to win something for Y/N but not you because you’re not here." The mischievous twinkle in his eyes gives away his playful intentions.
“Yah! I’d be there if I could,” he starts rambling. “Blame Hongjoong hyung. It’s his fault that I can’t be with you. I’ll take you to the arcade tomorrow before I drop you off home. You can win me something then. Okay? Okay.”
"I'm sure we can win something for you," Y/N says as her and Kyungmin giggle at his rambles. "You won't miss out, Jagi. I promise."
He's about to say something when San calling him could be heard in the background. "I have to go but I'll see you both later. Enjoy the rest of your day out. I love you both," he says blowing them kisses through the screen.
"I love you too," Y/N & Kyungmin say at the same time. The call ends and Y/N places her phone in her handbag.
As they finish their ice cream and make their way to the arcade, Kyungmin's excitement grows. He rambles just as fast as his brother does about all the games he wants to play and the prizes he hopes to win. Y/N can't help but smile at his enthusiasm, grateful that she could still salvage the weekend for him despite the change in plans.
At the arcade, Kyungmin's eyes light up as he ran from game to game, trying his hand at everything. Y/N watches fondly as he concentrates intently, his determination evident in the way he furrowed his brow and stuck out his tongue in concentration, just the same way his brother does. She joins in when he asks for her help or when he needs a second player. He also has Wooyoung's competitive spirit.
After a few hours of gaming, Kyungmin began to grow bored. With a bag full of prizes, he asks Y/N if they could go get the snacks for movie night and then head home. She agreed and they made their way to the convenience store.
Later that evening, when Wooyoung returned home, he found the lights dimmed and the faint sound of the TV playing in the background. Kicking off his shoes, he enters the living room seeing Y/N and Kyungmin on the couch. Kyungmin is laying down, his head on Y/N's lap, sound asleep as she absentmindedly runs her fingers through the boy's hair, watching the ending of the second movie they put on.
"Sorry, I'm home late," he says leaning down to press a kiss to her lips before placing a kiss on his brother's head.
"It's okay," she tells him, smiling reassuringly. "We saved you dinner and some snacks. Kyungmin wanted to wait up for you and show you all his prizes he won."
"How long has he been asleep for?" he asks, looking down at his sleeping brother.
"About 20 minutes," she replies.
"I'll go put him in bed," he says, picking him up carefully to not wake him. He carries him into the guest bedroom and puts him to bed.
He leaves the room, finding Y/N in the kitchen heating up his dinner. Wrapping his arms around her from behind, he places his hands on her stomach and kisses her shoulder. "You're going to be an amazing eomma."
"And you're going to be an amazing, Appa," She smiles, turning around, handing him his food.
"Even though our original plans completely blew up in our faces?" he asks, still feeling some guilt over how things went.
"That has nothing to do with whether you'll be a good father or not. There will always be plans that will need to be changed and that's okay. We just make new plans instead," she assures him.
"I love you," he smiles, taking his food and kissing her once more.
"I love you too," she replies, kissing him back. "Now go eat and look at the table."
Wooyoung walks over to the table and takes a seat. In front of him are all the prizes Kyungmin won at the arcade but what catches his eyes is the black cat stuffed to with a note written in Kyungmin's handwriting.
"To Wooyoung Hyung, thank you for being the best big brother. I love you."
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ten — jerk
mess it up — gojo x reader & sukuna x reader
⁀➴ when i told you i’m fine, you were lied to.
when the love of your life falls for someone else, you decide to move on—by pretending to date your best friend, the campus fuckboy.
previous — masterlist — next
word count. 1.8k
content. profanity, mentions of reader’s not so happy life, alcohol consumption, violent confrontation, sexual content [oral m receiving]
It’s been a while since Sukuna’s been to a party. “A while,” of course means two weeks in his world, but nonetheless it seems like it’s been ages since he’s gone to one. So when Mahito tells him that there’s a party happening near his dorm tonight, he really has no choice but to go.
As soon as he gets in his car to leave, the first thing he thinks about is you. Should he text you? Ask if you want to come? But he soon remembers that you have a test the next day and he doesn’t want you to go to class hungover.
So he tells you he’s going out tonight and wishes you luck on your test, tells you that he’s just a call away if you decide you want his company. He can’t help the smile that grows on his face when you respond within seconds.
you: thanks! have fun loser <3
He tucks his phone into his pocket and drives over to Aoi’s house.
When he steps inside, the place is packed. There’s a bunch of people dancing, a few that are already slurring from all the alcohol they’ve consumed, and more than enough girls clocking him and giving him goo-goo eyes.
“Sukuna! You’re here!” Mahito comes up to him, pats his back, and hands him a beer. “Didn’t think you’d show.”
Sukuna takes a sip of his drink and frowns. “What made you think that?”
The boy just shrugs. “I heard you’re all tied down now,” he says. “I assumed your girl wouldn’t be too happy with you coming. What with your… reputation.”
There’s a strange feeling that grows in your best friend’s stomach at the thought of you being called “his girl.” Weird, he thinks, but he brushes it off. It doesn’t mean anything.
“I’m still allowed to have fun,” he says, placing a hand on Mahito’s shoulder. “I’m gonna get a stronger drink,” he lifts his beer, “this is basically juice.”
Mojito guffaws. “Alright, big guy. See you around.”
Sukuna winds his way over to the kitchen and opens the fridge to find something stronger. He isn’t necessarily proud of his alcohol tolerance—you give him shit about it all the time—but he’s never been one to enjoy a party without being at least a little tipsy.
“Looking for something?”
He closes the fridge and sees a girl watching him with a smile. She’s leaning against the counter, all dolled up in a pretty little dress with a beer in hand. He swears he’s never seen this girl before, but it doesn’t matter. If there’s one thing Sukuna does best, it’s pique the interest of strangers who just so happen to be incredibly hot.
He holds up the bottle of gin he found. “Just something to drink,” he says, cracking it open and taking a swig. He holds it out for the girl. “Want some?”
Her red lips quirk into a smile and she takes the bottle, downing quite a bit of it before she hands it back to him. They pass the bottle back and forth until Sukuna drinks the last of it, emptying the liquid into his mouth.
The girl giggles, resting her hand on Sukuna’s chest. “That’s quite the introduction.”
“What can I say?” He grins. “I make one hell of a first impression.”
Now, the alcohol does its trick. He can feel himself get a little hazy, he can feel himself loosen up. And he can feel the awfully apparent hard-on in his pants as the girl leans forward and whispers in his ear, “Wanna have some fun?”
He doesn’t even think, instinct and intoxication kicking in as he says, “Sure.”
Sukuna pulls the girl into a bathroom and she’s on him before he can even close the door. She wraps her arms around his neck and kisses him. It’s sloppy and messy, probably driven by booze, but he kisses her back.
He doesn’t know why. It’s almost second-nature to him, this whole song and dance. But as he kisses her, a part of him screams that what he’s doing is wrong. Why?
He pulls back from her and trails his lips down her neck, searching for the spot that has her moaning at his touch. It’s so predictable, so normal, the way she pants against him as his hands slide from her waist up to cup her breasts. Women are so easy, he thinks.
The girl’s hands move down his chest, past his abdomen, and land on his belt. She unbuckles it and pushes it aside, tugging his zipper down.
With a smile, she sinks to her knees and pulls his pants and underwear down. His cock springs out, already painfully hard. She bats her eyelashes at him and in a sickly sweet voice asks, “Can I suck you off?”
And Sukuna says the only thing he knows to say.
“Sure.”
The girl places her dainty fingers around his cock and pumps it a few times before she wraps her mouth around it. Sukuna groans and reaches for her head, guiding her to take his length all the way in. When she chokes a little at the sheer size of it, he closes his eyes in ecstasy.
As the girl bobs her head up and down his shaft, the warmth of her mouth pushing grunt after grunt from his lips, Sukuna’s mind starts to wander as it is wont to do at times like these. His pleasure builds with every flick of her tongue, with every touch of her hand. It’s been a while since he’s felt this good, he thinks—and then he remembers.
You.
He thinks of you padding around your apartment in that one worn-out shirt you’ve been wearing since high school. He thinks of you getting into his car after a day of class, immediately launching into a rant about your professor and your useless groupmates. He thinks of you lying in your bed beside him, that one night after you’d confided in him about your nightmares. And he thinks about how he’d looked at you then, when you were fast asleep, and he thought that you’d never looked so beautiful.
“I made a promise,” he’d said. “Let me keep it.”
His eyes fly open and he looks down at the girl with her face pressed against his groin. All at once, the pleasure fades, and all he’s left with is disgust. And guilt.
He moves the girl off of him and quickly tucks himself back into his pants.
“What’s going on?” she asks, getting up with a bewildered expression. She tries to grab him as he zips himself up and starts heading for the door. “Hey!”
He dodges her grip and shakes his head, grabbing the doorknob. “Sorry,” he says before he goes outside.
As he moves to close the door behind him, he stills.
Satoru stands in front of him, an arm wrapped around who Sukuna can only assume is his new girlfriend. He looks startled, confused. Sukuna feels his blood run cold.
“What the fuck is wrong with you?” the girl demands as she comes out of the bathroom behind him.
Satoru’s eyes narrow. Realization. Anger.
Sukuna tries to get away before the situation escalates any further, but a hand grabs at the collar of his shirt before he can leave.
Your ex presses him against the wall. His eyes are dark and his other hand is balled into a fist at his side.
“What the fuck are you doing?” Satoru growls.
Sukuna pushes him off roughly and glares. “None of your fucking business.”
Satoru grabs Sukuna again and raises his fist, ready to land it on your best friend’s nose, and for a split second Sukuna has one thought on his mind: I deserve it.
“Satoru.”
Kimi’s voice is even as she calls out her boyfriend’s name from behind him. Satoru’s hand stops in the air for a moment before he lowers it and pushes Sukuna away. He backs up, but his eyes remain cold and hard as they shoot daggers at the man in front of him.
“Whatever,” he says, placing a hand on Kimi’s waist before he leads her away.
Just when he thinks it’s over, Sukuna feels a sharp sting on his cheek. A slap.
The girl whose name he doesn’t even know snarls at him. “Jerk,” she says as she gives him the finger and backs away into the crowd. “Asshole!”
Sukuna raises a hand to his cheek. He lets out a bitter chuckle. He deserves it.
You blink as Sukuna’s messages come into your phone in quick succession.
booger: going to a party
Then—
booger: gl with studying
Then—
booger: and gl with ur test
Then—
booger: just call me if u want company
You snort. Most people don’t know this, but as his best friend, you know just how soft Sukuna can be. You call him out on it most of the time, make fun of him when he’s being excessively clingy or sweet, but you have to admit that you actually like seeing this side of him.
And the fact that this side of him only seemingly comes out for you?
Yeah, you can’t deny that you like it a lot.
You reply to his message and put your phone away to confront the pages of notes on the table in front of you. With a sigh, you grab a highlighter and decide to start studying.
No one knows this, but in your senior year of high school, you’d actually considered not going to college. You were definitely expected to, what with the path you’d paved for yourself, but after years of toiling away at your academics, you considered letting yourself take a break. And what with your family fracturing in the last few months of high school… It was safe to say that ditching college wouldn’t have been what was expected, but it might have been what you needed.
Then the offer came in. A scholarship for a school far away from home, one that would handle everything from your tuition to the better-than-most apartment you now lived in. It was the best-case scenario, only made better when Sukuna rushed over the morning your results came out to say that he had gotten in too.
You have no idea what kind of luck had suddenly been granted to you, but you never questioned it. You took what you could and ran.
Maybe you never stopped running.
You lean back in your seat and stretch your back, yawning as you look down at your notes. You’re nearly done, just have to memorize a few terms before you can turn in for the night.
You glance at your phone. It’s been surprisingly quiet tonight, void of anyone asking for help with classes, projects, or life in general. You check the time. 10:27 PM—still pretty early.
You open your contacts and press on Sukuna’s to call him.
It rings.
And rings.
And rings.
And, “Leave a message or whatever.” Then, in the background, you hear your own laugh and your own voice teasing, “Are you trying to make your voicemail sound cool?”
You drop the call and frown at your phone.
Weird, you think. He’s never ignored your calls before.
notes. uh-oh 🫣
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A Favourite Service
A/N: Just a drabble about darker!aemond. Could’ve probably made it longer but it is what it is
Warnings: Darker!Aemond, prince regent!aemond, reader is a dragonseed, smutty talk but no actual physical smut,
Taglist: @humanpurposes, @watercolorskyy, @omgbrcat @blue-serendipity @arcielee
Sometimes it hurt to be the Prince Regents favourite.
You do not know why it was so, as the prince didn’t exactly spend his hours telling you why. Instead, he spent those hours between your thighs making them glisten with his spent.
When the prince fell asleep beside you, making sure his arms were interlocked tight behind your back to refuse you the right to leave, you would find yourself debating the possibilities in a strange sort of twisted way to help you to sleep.
When you felt your lowest with your skin damp from a mix of sweat and other unnamable bodily fluids, you’d imagine that the prince kept you because he found you to be the most beautiful maiden he’d ever seen in his life as a noble. But when you thought about it reasonably, you knew it was only because you were the only woman with eyes resembling that of the Valyrian shade of purple within the whole of the silkstreet with light as falling snow hair to match.
It appeared after the sudden desire for dragonseed during the war, the majority of them all fled to Lys where most of their kind walked among everyone else. Yet it seems you never got the call, as soon after the war stopped there was a sudden demand for your unique looking services. The once common exotic had became once more a much rarer sight to behold.
When the true king Aegon demanded to meet you whilst he was delirious on a multitude of substances beyond both yours and his comprehension, he let out a loud deep laugh and claimed that the reason for your own unique shade of eye colouring, as it was much darker than both his and his brothers, was due to your obviously whorish roots.
He spluttered and grinned obnoxiously as he gulped a third goblet of wine down his throat claiming he could smell the sweat and cum staining your skin.
Aemond said nothing while he stood by the corner with a face looking both solemn and bored. Yet when Aegon suggested with another laugh on his wine stained lips that you should demonstrate on him what your usual serving protocol is, as according to him since he was a well regarded patron of the trade he should be able to tell whether or not your services were good enough for his brother.
You looked to the Prince Regent unsure of whose orders to truly follow, and that is when Aemond finally moved from his statue like position in order to demand you to return to his chamber.
And soon as you took two steps away from the closed chamber doors, you swore to yourself that you heard the high pitched pained cries of the true king as he was beaten bloody by his younger, yet taller and more enraged brother.
So it really was no surprise when Aemond burst into his chambers a little time later and as soon as the doors shut, demanded you to strip yourself of all your clothing and to lay yourself arse up on the bed. It was his favourite position you think, as that way Aemond could feel he had a willing wife who loved him, and not some whore on her knees he’d paid to do so.
“Perfect cunt…” Aemond would sometimes grunt behind you, his infrequent words of praise sending a rare bolt of pleasure down your spine which most nights with the prince regent you’d be forced to exaggerate and play pretend too. As no matter how knowledgeable and scholarly the prince claimed to be in front of his much older peers, you knew an inexperienced man when you saw one.
It was a mere stroke of misfortune that the one that had been attracted to you was unwilling to learn about the idea of womanly pleasure it seems.
He had no idea how many times you exaggerated your fake cries of pleasure and clenched down on his cock pretending to orgasm all from his if anything quite average cock. Yet with how many times the prince regent pulled out of you just before he came so he could spill himself on your sweat layered skin you don’t think he cared if you came to begin with. Perhaps he was one of those so called gentlemen who believed women didn’t need to cum, thinking female pleasure to be a myth? Still, you’d never ask no matter how much your curiosity plagued you. Especially when the cries of the firstborn son plagued your mind whilst the prince regents breath taunted the very edge of your skin.
He had never let himself cum inside you when thinking of all the times he’d fucked you, as no matter how many times he would imagine you as a trueborn Valyrian child of his uncle, Aemond Targaryen knew you were nothing but a loosened up whore whose purse is filled daily by the coin of the treasury.
When the time comes for the death of either the true king or the death of the Prince regent, you know either way you will not be safe from the iron thrones wrath. For the true Queen Rhaenyra is still in hiding, with her precious uncle-husband guard dog close to her chest. It’s no secret within your old place of work what the rogue prince did to dragonseeds he came across.
#prince regent aemond#aemond#aemond targaryen#house of the dragon#aemond targaryen x reader#ewan mitchell#aegon targaryen#prince aemond#prince aemond targaryen#aemond one eye#hotd aemond#aemond fanfiction#aemond x you#aemond targaryen smut#my works#aemond targaryen/reader#aemond x reader#aemond fic
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Loose control: Jason Todd x reader
NSFW! MDNI!
warnings: smut, oral, mention of hormonal contraception and swearing.
***
She was confused.
In her best knowledge, she believed that if anything, going on a pill would make her moody, whiny and oversensitive, therefore not fond of sex.
Instead she found herself hot and bothered and needy at every fucking second of every fucking day!
Her thoughts were filled with dirty, steamy scenarios, definitely not involving any clothes at all.
Certain smells were reminding her of the moments they used to share together, tangled in the sheets in each other’s arms.
Hell! Even sounds were making her so fucking horny!
“Hey babe, you good? You look a little-“
Before Jason could form his concerns into words, her lips were on his and her hands in his hair. She was not good. And she definitely looked a little whatever, but at that moment it was not important at all. What mattered though, was getting his hands on her body as soon as possible, under the threat of her combusting from desire. God, she needed him now and long and hard. The way her hormones were messed up due to contraception could really put Ivy’s sex pollen to shame, but at this point Y/N was way past pretending and holding back.
Meanwhile, Jason, instead of putting his hands on her, according to her silent wishes, raised them both in the air in pure shock. What happened to his girl? To the one who never ventured further than missionary? To the one who refused to let him eat her out for the longest time due to (quote) thick thighs and belief she did not deserve it? To the one who was always so shy and timid? And now she was all over him?
Not that he complained, but before he got as much as a glimpse of a chance to wrap arms around her waist and pull her on top of him, she withdrew.
“I’m sorry-“
“Come back here-“ he muttered this time doing all the things his body was commanding him to. He was never the one to refuse his girl, especially not when she was initiating one, for once. It was fucking hot to see her like this.
Their tongues entwined in an intricate ballet, dancing on the thin edge between soft passion and roughness, testing the barriers, almost teasing the other to step over the bridge. He lead and she followed. That was how it always was. But this time was about to be different.
She needed control. She wanted control.
Or even more – she demanded it.
And from the moment he spread her legs so she could straddle him, things were about to deviate from established order.
“Y/N…” Jason whispered in her ear, kissing her neck in so familiar way, his hands moving up her body, over her thighs, lifting the hem of her dress in the process, tracing over her hips and resting there, starting to guide her movements, even if they were both still in clothes and –
“No.” she suddenly said, grabbing his hands and patting them away.
“No?” Jason repeated, his voice and face full of mixed feelings including confusion, amusement and leniency. “No?”
The hell?
Y/N was refusing him the pleasure she knew he could bring her.
But a second ago she was ready to take what she wanted from him, not caring whether he liked it or not.
The fuck was going on?!
“Not like that.” She elaborated, easing the anger stemming from within him “Not like always…”
“Oh, so my feisty vixen wants something new?”
“Something like that” she smirked
“Let me see…” he switched position a little, making sure that his already erect cock brushed over her core. “There are so many positions I want to try with you. You were so shy during all this year, we have a lot to experience together…” while he was whispering those sweet promises against her body, his tongue dared to taste her skin.
“Mmm. No…” she muttered again, though it was a little harder this time. Reaching to the deepest layers of her strength she managed to push him onto his back, so she was towering over him.
“Oh, I see…” he smirked, crossing arms over his head. “If that's the way you want to play, be my guest tonight baby. I’m more than curious to see what- oh! Fuck!”
His mocking tone was cut off abruptly when she grind against him. Just once. Through the clothes. But for some reason, unbeknown to either of them, there was something so deeply sensual about Y/N taking control it only fueled the intensity.
And seeing the way his face was already twisting with need for more?
Let’s just say that good girl Y/N was gone instantly.
“Come on baby, don’t stop now. Loose control for me…” he muttered, grabbing onto her hips, ready to tear off that stupid dress from her body. Anything to get that warm, wet folds clenching over his shaft.
“Stay down, boy.” She patted his hands away and onto the bed. “No touching until I say so, you hear me?”
“Fuck…” the fire in her eyes melt all the objections and refusals he might have.
“Be a good boy for me or I’ll have to bind you…”
As much as he wouldn’t mind going a little rough, binding was something he wouldn’t handle well, dur to his past experiences, so the only thing left to do was nod his head. Yes, he’ll be a good boy if that meant continuance of watching her transform into some sort of sex goddess above him.
Even if keeping his hands to himself might also result in torn-up sheets.
Y/N only smiled wilder and placed both hands on his chest, running them all over, relishing in the sense and scope of control over both his and her pleasure she was having now. Purposefully, tracing his muscles over the material of his shirt, touching all the places she knew was making him harder and more needy.
Under any other circumstances, he would hate being toyed with like that and his head would fill in with the memories where he was forced to stay sill while someone else’s hands were torturing him. But this was Y/N. His Y/N. His woman, who was only the bringer of pleasure, in one form or another. And now it took the form of her pampering him and being reduced to clay she was forming to her liking.
When she was done with testing his self-control, almost making him wet his pants she focused on putting her hands to some other use.
Still straddling him, she traced over her thighs, slowly, sensually, then her hips, lifting them off his bulge, swaying a little, causing him to burn and grit his teeth. The hem of her dress was going higher in time with her deft fingers, slowly moving to her waist. That tantalizing waist that was meant to be gripped by him, but instead was caressed by her soft touches while Jason could only watch and fantasize. At this point he could see the edge of her tiny panties, so infuriatingly close and already moist from her own arousal.
And then came her breasts, palms moving over to those perfectly round soft molds, touching, squeezing and forcing sweet sounds from the back of her throat.
Fuck.
She was moaning and throwing her head back, imagining him touching her like this.
He was groaning, digging nails into the mattress, envisioning quite the same thing.
“Take that dress off…” he couldn’t stop himself from the silent plea, throwing himself to the knees of this powerful celestial being that his woman became.
“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” she teased, slowly lifting the material higher and higher until after what seemed like forever, it was gone from her body and carelessly tossed aside, messing her hair while being taken over her head.
“Y/N…” he gasped
“Hush. Hush baby…” she reached behind her to remove her bra, sliding straps of it down her arms first, exposing her shoulders, before undoing the clasp and shaking it off completely. Biting her bottom lip, messing her hair up with one hand, while using the other to play with her breasts, she was giving him an erotic show he would never expect from her. What happened to this shy girl, insecure in bed? Now she was grinding on him, making him use all his strength to not cum in his pants, while she was a sex goddess above him.
“Fuck!” despite all the promises at this moment there were zero chances for him to stay still. His arms shoot up, cupping those soft globes, thumbs finding ways to nipples, circling around them like a lion hunting the gazelle. Her skin was burning, instantly covered with goosebumps under his touch, immediately craving for more.
It would be so easy to just give in, let him continue, melt into his touch, surrender. And it was his sole intention. To make her putty. Remind her of what he could do for her. How explosive it was when he was guiding.
“I said no touching…” she managed to squeeze out.
“I don’t care. I want to touch you and I will –“
She cuts him off again, stopping her erotic act and crawling to his lips, brushing her naked upper body against his like a wild feline, kissing him hungrily.
He was defenseless. Boneless. She got so deep under his skin that all that was left was the empty shell of a man, allowing his owner to use him in any way she found pleasing.
One more try at squeezing her butt and tearing off her panties ended with a bite mark on his neck and complete surrender.
“Y/N!” he groaned when she kneeled above him, slowly sliding that little fabric of her most intimate part, hovering above him.
“Make a wish baby and I might grant it...” she whispered leaning to his ear, kissing that sensitive spot behind it.
She was driving him to ecstasy faster than F1 bolide, making him barely able to corner.
“What do you want Jason….?”
“Fuck!” he squirmed under her, the view of her naked folds just inches above his jeans causing his head to spin.
“can you maybe make one sentence for me?” she mocked lowering herself on his bulge and rocking on it. Once. Just fucking once.
At his point all he could imagine was her wet, soft, warm inside squeezing his cock, milking him dry, taking him hard and rough. His face was flushed, lips parted.
“Like that?” Y/N teased again, repeating her actions, making it almost painful, judging by low grunts and groans. “don’t worry, baby… I;m not a monster you know…”
Finally she started to remove the belt from his pants.
Undoing the button.
Opening the fly.
Sliding the material down his legs (with a little bit of his help in the form of kicking those fucking obstacles)His boxers did nothing to cover the rock hard length.
And she was the one who did this to him.
“All for me?” she whispered with a glint in her eyes, caressing the piece of skin just above his boxers line.
“Only for you…”
“Very good…”
Once his underwear was down, no holds were barred.
However –
He did not expect what she was going to do next.
Instead of going for a cowgirl she bent her head down, sending him a teasing smirk and planting little kisses on his abs.
“Y/N…” he groaned, fighting between stopping and not stopping her. “You don’t have to-“ every other word was harder to formulate, replaced by deeper and louder grunts in time with the descent of her lips. “I don’t want to force you and – Fuck!”
She was as far from being forced as possible.
Taking the tip into her warm mouth. Just the tip, but the sensations were already so intense his mind was spinning.
“Y/N!” they were definitely going to have to buy a new set of linen.
Her tongue swirled around his tip in an almost practiced way and despite everything he started wondering where the hell did she learnt that?! Not with him and from what he knew, not with any other guy.
She was a natural.
Or a witch, that casted a spell on him, reducing this huge muscled man to the whimpering little boy, craving more.
And just when he thought it couldn’t get better she took more of his length inside. Not all of it, but with the way her tongue and hand cooperated in pleasuring him, he didn’t even notice anything else.
“Y/N!”
She bobbed her head up and down a little faster.
“Y/N!”
This was getting too good.
His hand tangled in her hair guiding her movements, the other squeezing her shoulder almost painfully, the force he used about to leave the skin bruising in purple.
“Y/N!”
The way he was calling her name was causing her own body to shiver and writhe on the bed, bringing him even closer to ecstasy.
“Fuck!”
She scratched his thigh hoping to finally make him finish.
“NO!” he grabbed her head harshly, pulling her away from his cock and upwards, capturing her lips in a bruising, predatory kiss, dominating her again. For a few seconds they fought for control, but finally she relented, ending up with her back pressed to the bed and his entire body weight on her and wrist pinned above her head.
So full of him.
Once again being the receiving and not giving part.
And enjoying it thoroughly.
As for Jason, he was more than happy to be on the passive, pleasured side of their tryst, but he valued her too much to just cum in her mouth. Besides, that would be such a waste of a perfectly good load, even if she was not going to get pregnant due to pills.
“Jason!”
Ironic how the tables turned.
“Jay!” she gasped, locking the ankles on his body, holding him in an iron grip to the point when he was barely pulling in and out, creating the friction that made her pussy burn and redden.
They were both going to sport such beautiful marks the next morning.
“Fuck Y/N, let go cause I can’t hold back much longer.”
“Then let go” she challenged him with a moan.
“No. You first.” He intensified his movements, adding the thumb on her clit that he knew would drive her crazy.
“It’s always the same… Stop being a gentleman…”
“I’ll fuck the words out of you…”
He was not going to stop being a gentleman in bed.
Rough? Yes, the thrust and snaps of his movements being the best example.
Dirty talk? Oh, absolutely with the way it made her shiver.
But being a dick? Never.
She thought she was ready for oral, but he knew better. All the little telltale signs were more visible to him than to her.
So for now, they were going to stick to classic after all.
Her pussy clenching on him, her moans filling the room and finally – her juices coating him and her body cradles in his arms.
Both full of pleasure and both reaching their peak.
***
“Why didn’t you let me switch roles?” she asked some time later, after getting cleaned up and they focused on cuddling, tangled together under the blanket.
“Was it what you really wanted?” he responded with another question
“Was I bad?”
“Is that what you think?”
“Can I please get one clear answer from you?” she chuckled patting his chest playfully
“Only if you give me one in advance.” Jason grabbed her wrist, pulling her hand to his lips and kissing softly. “Did you really want it? Or was it some sort of liberated woman thing?”
“Now that’s mean…”
“Y/N, baby, please just tell me.” He lifted her chin so her eyes met his.
“Those hormones are making me crazy… I’m sorry I’ve put you through trauma. I really don’t know what’s happening to me….” Self-doubts were back, triumphantly announcing his return, taking the form of Y/N withdrawing back to her cave. “I did want it… At the beginning. But somewhere in the middle I sort of got second thoughts, though didn’t want to disappoint you and –“
“Shh. Stop it. You never disappointed me. You could never do that. But yeah, I saw the slight hesitation in you.”
“Your perceptiveness is truly admirable” she mocked, rolling her eyes.
“It saved your self-appointed honor tonight, didn’t it?” Jason smirked
“You really do want me to admit you are a hero In this scenario, don’t you?”
“Damn right I do.”
“thank you” she sighed “and I mean it. I don’t think I was fully ready.”
“See that’s why you have me to save you from yourself lately.” He pulled her closer, signaling that this sentence was not meant to be teasing or mean, but loving and caring.
“guess that’s the role a partner takes on sometimes, right?” Y/N nuzzled into him, understanding and appreciating his behavior.
“I guess so.” The deal was sealed with a tiny kiss on the top of her head ‘but I have to ask – where did you learn how to-?”
“Not answering that question.”
“Y/N!”
“You drop the subject or you’ll never get to experience my fast learning skills on you ever again.”
“Is that a threat?”
“Damn right it is!”
“Just swear to me you would never –“ he looked at her with a little bit of uncertainty in both eyes and voice.
“never. I’m here. And moreover, I am here to stay.”
“Thank you.”
“You’re the only living organism I want to experiment on.” She chuckled, using the standard technique of covering the sudden wave of sweetening with a bit of sarcasm.
“Then consider me your personal lab rat. Volunteering as a tribute, to quote the classic meme.”
She laughed at his words.
It was good to have someone like him in her life.
And he was thinking exactly the same about her.
#jason todd x reader#red hood x reader#jason todd smut#red hood smut#jason todd x you#red hood x you#jason todd x y/n#red hood x y/n
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Dress
[emily prentiss x reader]
summary: you're dressed in red, her favorite color. and emily has a hard time wrapping her mind around that or around the fact that she wants to kiss you senseless tonight.
pairing: emily prentiss x f!reader
w.c: 2K
warnings/content: morcia & their antics; flirting; suggestive content (no smut); kissing; fluff; friends that want to be more than friends but haven't had the guts to say that to one another trope.
A/N: here is my entry for the @imagining-in-the-margins's CM Pride Challenge! The chosen prompt was “Are they... flirting?” “Big time.” with the pairing emily prentiss x reader slightly inspired by taylor swift's dress. I hope you like it! I had so much fun writing this.
[part of “the taylor swift anthology”]
navi
masterpost
cm masterlist
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❝ say many name and everything just stops,
I don't want you like a best friend.
only bought this dress so you could take it off. ❞
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“Are they... flirting?” Derek squints trying to see you and Emily's figure angled towards one another in the bar. His sight isn't perfect but he can't be imagining things.
Penelope huffs out a laugh, giving him a look of that's your question? “Big time.”
"It was about damn time." He mumbles, sipping into his whiskey as a gasp beside him makes him direct his attention back to his favourite blonde in the whole world. She was staring at him wide-eyed as if he had just described the secret path to Atlantis. "What?"
Penelope slaps his chest, causing him to protest in disbelief.
"Baby girl, what the hell?"
"You know something!" She points her perfectly done long nails at him, earning a raised brow. "You know about... them." And then, as he follows to where she's pointing attempting to be discreet, Derek finally understands. "Yeah, yeah, spill the beans. Now."
Derek takes another sip of his drink to hide the smirk stretching out on his lips.
"We all know they're completely head over heels for one another, that's not news."
"But you know more and I don't need to be a profiler to notice that in your entire handsome face. Derek." She presses impatiently. "Did Emily say something to you? Is she finally gonna make a move?"
"Oh, please," Derek chuckles, patting her shoulders sympathetically. "The move already happened. They are just attempting to pretend it didn't. And they are doing a poor job at it. Just look at that." He mentions the pair across the room from them. You were currently brushing a dark strand of Emily's hair behind her ear, a sideways smile dancing on your lips.
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Emily hadn't been in a party mood. Or a little gathering, as Rossi likes to call it. But she was convinced to leave her house by a very compelling text that came from you, who was the only person who could really convince her to do anything, even knitting, which is something she had no idea how it even worked, but if you asked for a knitted beanie, she would buy the materials right this second.
Joy Rossi. That is who the gathering in Rossi's fancy place is for. Emily is currently celebrating you and the dress you picked for this event because that proved to be more important.
"Red looks really good on you, did you know that?"
The disarming smile you send her way is enough to make her falter on her feet.
"Yes, I do." You step closer. "And... did you know that I'm only wearing this one because I know it's your favorite color?" Her breathing fails for a long minute and her eyes fall on your red lips. It's like you're taunting her with that smug grin.
“Really?” Emily tilts her head to keep staring at you as she takes a sip of her drink, her lips pursing around the reusable straw. She watches as your eyes travel downwards to her mouth and satisfaction bubbles inside her chest. Clearly, she's not the only one being affected tonight. “So you're wearing it for me? I feel special.”
A smirk stretches across your mouth as your hand lifts to brush back a strand of her dark silky hair behind her ear. Emily tenses up when your fingers graze the back of her neck, but you quickly draw your hand back and she almost frowns in disappointment.
“You are special.” You gently bump your elbow with hers when you rest back to stare at the enormous area in the backyard of David Rossi's mansion. Small groups of people shared conversations and the kids played around without a care for their sleep schedule. Alex waves at you from across the room and you watch as she starts walking over. “So special that I only bought it so you could take it off.”
As expected, she chokes up on her drink and you caress her back tenderly while holding back a laugh. “You good, Em?”
She gives you a look that can only be interpreted as a glare mixed with lust as she glances up and down your frame.
“I'm— I'm perfect.” Emily clears her throat when Alex gets to where you are. She hugs you first and then Emily, you're smiling like a Cheshire cat probably. You love it when you successfully get what you want: tease Emily.
“Oh, look at the two of you. I've missed this.” Blake comments, sipping on her champagne.
“We missed you,” you say truthfully, squeezing her arm with a soft smile. It is the truth, Alex Blake was an important addition to the team and you will forever miss her on your daily routine at the BAU.
She offers you a grateful smile and the conversation follows for a few minutes until Alex has to go and you and Emily are left alone. Again.
Somehow, you don't find any complaints about that.
“Hey,” you nudge the back of her hand to call for her attention. She had already been looking at you, when you take notice of that you feel the side of your neck warm-up. “Dance with me?”
Emily finally diverts her attention from you and it settles on the empty makeshift dance floor.
“Nobody's dancing.”
You hum, dragging your hand towards hers to pull her softly with you. She follows with a groan, feigning annoyance which you know couldn't be farther from the truth. An annoyed Emily would have a permanent scowl on her pretty face and lips pulled downwards. But now she's displaying one of her award-winning grins and there isn't one single limb in her body that holds tension. Not as you're here, anyway. Not as she's in your presence.
“We are,” you inform, guiding both of her hands to your waist and placing both of your arms around her shoulders, your fingers immediately reaching the back of her neck. “You look beautiful tonight. I forgot to say that before.”
She pulls you closer carefully and you feel her hands move upwards, fingers drawing circles on your back.
Emily suddenly doesn't care that she's in the public eye not trying to hold herself back from something she's wanted for years. She's been so used to hiding that whatever it is that the both of you are doing is frightening and freeing at the same time. It might be the alcohol —she hasn't had that much of it — but you're showing interest and she doesn't feel as if this is one-sided anymore.
“Thank you.”
“Of course,” you caress the baby hairs on the back of her neck. “It's not like you ever get out of my mind and you look beautiful every day so...”
Emily looks away and laughs and you feel your brain burst in flames because yes, she really is beautiful and I can't think straight right now with her laughing.
“You should stop that.” Emily warns. She's teasing you and you decide to play into her antics by pretending to be completely innocent.
“Stop what?”
“That.” She lowers her hands to the small of your back, tightening her hold there as you sway to the slow song. “I'm trying really hard not to kiss you right now.” The way her breathing tickles the side of your face, makes you immediately close the gap between your lips but you refrain from doing so. There's still some common sense left in your slight inebriated state of mind.
“Why are you trying,” you croak out, voice rough, lifting your thumb to her jaw, outlining the thin scar she earned when she was a kid. You lean back a bit to be able to look her in the eye so there's no breach in your communication. “Stop trying, Emily. I'm here.” I want to kiss you too. You've no idea how bad I want that.
Her eyes fall to your lips, “are you sure?” The warmth of her hand is grounding and it is possibly the only thing keeping you upright at that moment.
“Yes.”
But she takes too long and you're the one who closes the small distance left between the two of you. Her arms wrap around your middle and she brings you closer to her body when your lips connect.
It's a damn loud whistling that splits you apart. Your brows are pulled into a frown of confusion when you take notice of your friends gathered together laughing. You caught Penelope shushing Derek and this is what you need to know what's going on. All eyes are on you. Not all of them, most people had left already and now it's only whoever is part of the BAU and their partners. Even Rossi's daughter, who the party was for in the first place, had already left.
“You couldn't have done that a month ago?” Luke Alvez whines from his table beside Spencer, who's outstretching a hand towards him. When the money is placed on top of his palm, he winks at Luke in victory.
You hide your face in Emily's neck, cursing under your breath. She attempts to comfort you by rubbing her hands up and down your back.
“Cut it out.” Emily rolls her eyes at her friends.
“You bet on us?” You exclaim in disbelief, disentangling yourself from her to place your hand on your hips. Emily watches you get ready to put everyone in their place and she can't even be mad about anything else when the scowl on your face is one more thing she wants to kiss. Though what you say surprises her and everyone who's waiting for you to yell at them. “Who won?”
Derek, JJ, and Spencer raise their arms as a trio of toddlers admitting they did something wrong.
“We bet something was going to happen tonight.” Derek wriggles his brows. “But I think I can say for everyone that we all knew you're completely whipped for each other.”
JJ groans loudly, “yes. It's embarrassing.”
Thanks to your friends, your face must be the same color as your dress.
“I think half of that money should be ours.” Emily tugs you closer to her again, wrapping a protective arm around your shoulders. “We technically made you win.”
“But you had no idea,” Spencer interjects, shaking his head. “Technically, you weren't even going to come tonight. She convinced you. So she should get half of the money, not you— Ow!”
“Pretty boy,” Derek hisses. “Shut up. There are no technicalities, we won!”
“Well, I'm just saying—”
You block off the rest of their bickering to realize Emily's dragging you away from all the attention, something you're very grateful for.
“Sorry about that.” Emily gives you a guilty smile as you finally get inside the house.
“Are you sorry for kissing me, Emily Prentiss?”
Her eyes widen comically, “wha—No! I just, I was saying sorry because of that whole thing they did—” you cut her off with a peck to her lips, chucking at her bewildered expression.
“I'm messing with you. And don't be sorry, cause I'm not.”
The grin plastered on her face is contagious. When she kisses you again, it's more urgent, needy, desperate.
“My apartment or yours?” You ask breathless when your back hits the kitchen counter and she starts kissing down your neck.
“Mine. It's closer.” She pulls you in for another passionate kiss before you drag her to exit the house.
“Great, cause none of us is in any condition to drive and I can't wait for you to take this dress off of me.”
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#lesbian emily prentiss#criminal minds fanfiction#reader insert#emily prentiss x reader#emily prentiss fanfic#emily prentiss x female reader#writing challenge#CM Pride Challenge
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Cw: 18+ only! Smut content.
Domination:
Konig kicks the door down, sending the door crashing into the wall. He glares at you. "I don't think you were raised correctly, so I'm here to correct you."
I jumped slightly as he towered over me, I backed up unintentionally, falling on my bed, the softness of the bed molded against my back as i looked up at him. "wha- are you doing?"
Konig steps towards you, his feet shaking the floor with each step, his eyes are like a lion looking down at its prey, his voice is a low growl "What is a little girl like you going to do about me?"
I swallow hard, my face is red, and my body is trembling, but I still try to maintain my toughness. "I'll..uhh......I'll......I'll tell someone."
Konig gets on top of you, his weight on top of you holding you down. "And what would they do? It's not like they could stop me anyway."
I tried to push him off me, but his weight was no match for me, I was at his mercy, body, and soul. "What are you going to do to me?"
Konig grabs your hands and pins them above your head. "I think it's obvious what I'm going to do."
"You wouldn't do anything to me. You're a big softie." I looked away, thinking of a way out.
pinning your writs with one hand, his other hand gripping your chin, forcing you to look into his eyes. "I've dominated woman just like you. You're nothing special."
I curse under my breath, I look at him with anger in my eyes, I can't admit how good his body felt on mine. "You won't do anything!"
Konig's grip tightens. It feels like he could snap your neck if he wanted to. He leans down so his face is right in front of yours. "Are you sure about that, Liebling?"
"You're all talk, bet you have to ask your cock permission just to touch it." I smirked, Taunting him.
his hand rips my shirt with such power, that he could hear me gasp, he liked he made me feel fear, all that defiance was a front, he knew I wanted him, Konig moved his face to my neck, I could feel his hot breath against my skin.
I whimper, trying not to show how much I was enjoying this.
Konig's lips trail up her neck, his hand lifts the back of her neck, pulling her closer, his lips leave a trail of kisses, but there's an edge of a bite, he whispers to her "Don't pretend you don't want this."
My eyes fluttered a little, the mixture of fear and pleasure mixed on my face, his lips were soft like cotton, but his actions weren't gentle.
Konig's lips move to her ear, and his voice is a low growl. You're afraid, but you don't really want me to stop, do you?"
I shook my head no, I didn't want him to stop. I wanted him, every inch of him in me, on me, his arms, his lips, his body. I wanted to be one with him.
Konig's lips leave her ear, and he smiles at her. He sits up on top of her, looking down at her body. "Do you know why I do this?"
"I haven't been listening to you?" I really didn't know what he meant.
Konig brings his face close to her, his breath is hot on her neck, his hand slips from her chin to her cheek "I like doing this, I like seeing a strong woman be so weak and vulnerable for me."
"You're so terrible!" I push him away, but he doesn't budge. He's pure muscle and strength.
He whispers again, "I want you to admit it. Tell me that you want me to keep going."
"why- why should I enjoy it from a tyrant?" I look away, The blush on my face betrays me.
Konig lifts her chin, so she's looking at him. His voice is a low whisper "because you have a weakness for men like me. You crave dominance and a man with power. Just admit it."
his hand slips under my black laced bra, squeezing my breasts, rolling my nipples between his calloused fingers, I moan slightly, biting my bottom lip, my head tilts back as he kisses my neck again, my hands holding onto his broad shoulders.
Konig smirks at you. "See, what did I tell you, Liebling, eine unterwürfige Muschi ist die beste Art von Muschi." (A submissive pussy, is the best type of pussy) He chuckled.
he lifts my shirt over my head, leaving me in just my bra. He smirks "yes you are, you know exactly how to manipulate me." I say, my voice cracking
Konig's smirk grows as he sees my body, and his eyes flicker with amusement. "I know what you want. You're so easy to manipulate, and your body is telling me everything I need to know."
he removes her pants, leaving her in her bra and underwear. I looked down in shame. He had me where he wanted me, in his little game.
Konig stares at me for a moment before grabbing my chin again. "Do you think this is wrong?" I looked into his eyes and shook my head
Konig leans forward and kisses me. His lips are gentle but firm, his hand slides down my body, his touch sending shivers down my spine. I bite my lip, knowing where this will go. As I kissed him back, his lips were heaven.
his fingers travel to my pussy as he gently rubs it through the lacy fabric. "Konig ah."
Koning chuckles as he hears me, and he whispers into my ear. "That's right, I'm the one in charge."
he takes the lacy underwear off, sliding it down my soft legs. I shiver at the feeling of being exposed just for him.
Konig's tongue glides between my wet folds, licking every inch of my tasty skin, before suckling down on my aching clit, his middle finger sliding in and out of me slowly, my moans are so beautiful, my hand grips his hair as he suckles on the bud harder, just to hear me scream. I gasp, my back arching off the bed, my fingers digging into his shoulders.
Konig pulls away for a moment to see my reaction, my face is flushed red, I'm panting heavily, I look down at with pleading eyes for him to continue.
Konig smirks and goes back down, his lips and tongue work at a fast pace, his fingers are working at a rhythm, i can't believe it, he's so good at this.
My breathing is quick and heavy, my body moving with every movement he makes, bucking my hips down onto his face.
he continues to move his tongue at a fast pace, his fingers keep their rhythm, my moans are so loud, he's not sure anyone can hear me, but I can't even think about that right now.
I bit my lip, my body shivers as Konig continues to move his tongue, I'm shivering with pleasure, I've never felt anything like this before, he keeps moving his tongue and fingers at the same pace, he's making me feel so good, my legs are shaking, I feel like I'm gonna explode. I climax on his face, I'm left a sobbing mess as I come, I'm panting hard, my eyes closed as I try to catch my breath.
Konig pulls away, pulling his shirt off to wipe my juices off his face, unzipping his pants before releasing his massive cock, he looks down at me, I'm in a state of euphoria after my release, I'm panting, Konig slaps the tip of his cock on my pussy, jolting me back to my senses and my eyes widen, with a smirk, he rubs his cock all over my creamy pussy, smacking it on my sensitive clit before sliding inside her velvety tight walls.
my hands instinctively find his back, gripping tightly as he pounds his 12 inch cock into me. It was gentle at first, but every so often, he'd slam inside me with hunger. "Ah Konig, more."
he grabs my arms and pins them down, his pace quickens and his breathing becomes heavy, his grip on me is tight, he's not holding anything back, he's getting what he wants, I'm his, he's the one who gets to decide what happens.
I wrap my legs over his waist, as he pounds into me, my eyes watered by his length, and girth, it was the biggest I've ever taken, he kept repeating, "meine Frau, ganz mein" (My wife, all mine) in my ear.
his pace becomes faster, his breathing grows heavier, his grip on me tightens even more, he starts to mutter things in German that i can't understand, but I can tell that he's very pleased, he keeps repeating "meine Frau, ganz mein" as he pounds into her, it's such a beautiful sight to see.
I claw at his back with my nails, my legs tighten around him, our moans filling the room as he speeds up his pace, I feel like I'm in heaven.
he groans out her name as he reaches his peak, his grip on me tightens even more, his body shudders with pleasure, my nails are digging deep into his back, but he doesn't mind at all, he's enjoying this, he's enjoying her grip on him, he's enjoying her body, he's enjoying everything about her.
"Come for me, liebling, show me how much you enjoy my cock inside you." He increases his pace, as I'm on my knees, my stomach pressed against the bed, my hands clutching the sheets tightly.
The sound of skin clapping against each other is loud, my little squeals, and moans, as his relentless assault on my little hole, gripping my hips so tightly, his hand slapping my ass occasionally to assert his dominance.
he's balls deep, stretching my cunt from behind, his balls hitting my clit sends my mind into a frenzy, as I'm nearing a second release.
"Konig, I'm coming, I'm- Ah!" My second release was well deserved, tears spilling from my eyes once more.
Konig's grip on my hips intensified, they started turning purple by his iron grip, his thrusts increased, he grunted even more, he was close, I could tell by the way he started fucking me senseless.
"Liebling, I'm coming ah! Fuck!" With a finial thrusts, I feel his hot seed filling my hole to the brim.
Laying in each other's arms, Konig pulls me closer. "du bist mein und nur mein, meine Frau." (You're mine, and mine alone, my wife)
I nod my head and chuckled. "Are you calling me your wife?" He nods, burying his face in my neck.
"I'll be your wife." I smile and hold him close.
-THE END!
#konig x female reader#konig x reader#könig x you#cod fanfic#cod x reader#konig call of duty#cod smut#konig smut#18+ only#call of duty x reader#kon#konig mw2#konig cod#call of duty x you#call of duty#konig fanfiction#konig mw3#konig modern warfare#konig mwii
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Imagine
1024 words / Prompt: Empty
Let’s say it didn’t happen that way. Instead, let’s say John looks up a moment sooner, and sees Sherlock approaching. He has a minute to process what he sees instead of realising it later, when the waiter is rambling on about vintages and stranger’s gazes….
Maybe he’s just had a thought about Sherlock, about how he wouldn’t be sitting here with a ring box if Sherlock hadn’t died. He might be a bit sad, trying to buoy himself up to smile when Mary returns, and he looks up to check whether she’s on the stairs yet— and he sees Sherlock instead.
And Sherlock— let’s say he’s had a giddy thought about pretending to be a waiter, but now he’s seen John’s face and isn’t sure what to do. He’s come through the door, and the headwaiter’s phone is buzzing, and he’s just staring at John.
Maybe John thinks it’s an hallucination. Maybe he’s seen Sherlock (ghost? Vision? Hallucination?) before now— across a crowded street, disappearing into a Tesco or coming up from the underground. Maybe he’s heard that voice. (Sitting in his chair one evening, a voice drifts up from the street below— he can’t even make out words, but he knows. By the time he’s out the front door, looking around, wild-eyed, there is no Sherlock in sight.)
He listens, always.
He’s not good at deducing things like this, but when he sees Sherlock, he might notice something, a detail he wouldn’t have imagined. He looks tired, thin, sad. Not the way John usually remembers him.
If John tries to remember him, it’s always with his coat swirling, his collar popped, his hair a bit windblown. It’s the Sherlock who gives him that smile, the one he reserves for John, who has no idea what it means. But he knows that it’s only for him.
Let’s say that here and now, on the edge of this knife, about to change his whole life, giving it to a woman who has been good to him, saved him from drowning in grief— let’s say that when he sees Sherlock, he realises that he’s not certain.
Maybe he doesn’t really love her. They could get married and he’d learn to love her. But she might grow tired of him, impatient if he keeps talking about Sherlock, or even silently missing him. He should be over that by now.
Maybe she isn’t who she seems to be. He wonders what Sherlock would deduce if he got a look at her.
He wonders if he wants to know.
Let’s say that Sherlock, when he sees John’s awful moustache, realises that it’s too late, that John has moved on. He’s had this thought before, if he’s honest with himself. He got careless in Serbia because he kept thinking two years, two years, too long...
He’s looking at John and he’s suddenly ashamed. Never ashamed that he loves John, but ashamed that he never said, that it was always something he put off saying because he had calculated the possibility of John loving Sherlock at nil. Even if he once might have been open to that (unattached, like me…), how could John love Sherlock now, when he’s grieved for two years, believing a lie that Sherlock orchestrated? John is alive, and that’s all he wanted. What he wants now, he sees he can’t have, and he’s ashamed.
His face flushing, he turns back the way he came in, pushes past several people waiting to be seated. He flees the look on John’s face. He’s mortified that he came here, thinking he’d make John laugh, see him smile, and sweep him away, back to Baker Street.
He’s got on with his life.
Outside, he stands on the pavement, deleting the happy scene he’d imagined.
Is that sentiment talking?
Everything will be different now from what he’s imagined. He might hail a taxi and go home—
But it isn’t home now. It’s an empty house, without John.
Imagine John now, seeing the hallucination turn away, exit the restaurant. He doesn’t think about Mary or the ring or what he’s going to say to her. He stands, stumbles away from the table, then runs towards the door.
He sees him from the back— a tall man wearing a dark coat, the collar up, curly dark hair. His head is bowed, his shoulders slumped.
It can’t be.
But at this moment, before he takes another step into a new life, he’d rather make a fool of himself than dismiss the possibility that it could be him.
One more miracle, for me.
If anyone could be that clever, fake his own death, and return—
Sherlock raises his head, gathering himself for what’s next. There is no solution. He can’t go back, so he must go forward. He’ll see John at some point, and he’ll apologise. If he’s lucky, John will accept his explanation. But they’re in different timelines now: John moving into the future, Sherlock stuck in the past.
He raises his hand to hail a cab.
Imagine: a hand on his back, tentative, trembling.“Sherlock?”
Imagine: the face he always looks for, the voice he still hears. “John?”
Let’s say it happens this way.
John doesn’t hit Sherlock. He falls into the arms that are already open to receive him. He weeps. He curses. He laughs. And weeps some more.
Sherlock doesn’t make fun of John’s moustache. He doesn’t make a joke about tuxedos, or say, short version, not dead. Instead, he reaches for John, saying, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry…
John forgets about Mary. He hugs Sherlock.
When Sherlock asks, “Your date?” John hits his forehead, pulls out his phone and sends a text. Something’s come up. I’m sorry. We’ll talk tomorrow.
John forgets about Mary, again. He looks up at Sherlock, who is smiling now, giving him that look, the one that’s only for him.
Sherlock can’t let go. He’s not sure what comes next, but he’s less afraid now, and maybe he can finally say it.
John remembers every time he went to Sherlock’s grave, never able to say it.
“I love you.”
Let’s say it happens like that.
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May Prompts (28)
Day 27 here. Start from the beginning here.
Empty
He stares at the empty box.
Sherlock isn’t saying anything.
Sherlock opened the gift a good two minutes ago and still hasn’t said a word.
He watched Sherlock for the first minute or so, and saw only a blank expression. So now, he stares at the empty box because he’s terrified about what that blank expression means.
God, he had been so relieved that this was finally happening. His plan coming to fruition. He wanted to wait until Rosie was having her nap for obvious reasons but the past few hours have been excruciating. To be honest, it had taken quite a bit of will power not to thrust the gift in Sherlock’s face the second they arrived at Baker Street.
The hopeful glances from Molly this afternoon hadn’t helped.
But, he made it. And a few minutes ago, Sherlock removed the paper, opened the box, and pulled out the silent violin, various accessories and case. And then said nothing.
So, John is staring at the empty box. He was wrong, the wait this afternoon was a cake walk compared to this.
Finally, after another minute of silence, he looks up tentatively. He lets out a quiet sigh of relief at what he sees.
Sherlock, standing perfectly still, staring at the instrument in his hand.
This is an expression he’s seen before—back when he asked Sherlock to be his best man. It’s a sort of far away look that means Sherlock isn’t angry or busy thinking of how to weasel his way out of this conversation. It’s a look that means Sherlock has made a deduction he can’t quite believe.
It’s time to force Sherlock to say that deduction out loud. Make it real.
“Happy birthday, finally. What do you think?”
“It’s a silent violin.”
“Yes.”
“Top of the line. The London Philharmonic violinists use these to practice.”
“That’s what I was told.”
“You like when I play my violin.”
“Very much.”
“And Rosie loves it.”
“Yes.”
“So, this isn’t a gift for when you are here during the day.”
“Course not, you have your Strat.”
“And, if there is no one to disturb, I can play my Strat at night.”
“True.”
“Mrs. Hudson can’t hear it from her flat.”
“Hmmm.”
“I would only need a silent violin if there was someone else here at night. Sleeping.”
“Yes.”
“Your old room—it’s Rosie’s now.”
“Absolutely.”
“We made that decision during the rebuild. A child’s room. She naps there sometimes. Plays there a lot.”
“Yes, she loves it.”
“Your old bed and dresser are gone. The room upstairs just has a little toddler bed and that child-sized table and chairs. And toys.”
“That’s true.”
“Plus the bookshelf Mycroft made but pretended he bought. All the books he filled it with.”
“Yes. It’s the perfect room for her.
“We could fit a little dresser in there but not much else.”
“No. That’s all she needs though.”
“You can’t sleep there. Couldn’t sleep there.”
“No, it’s Rosie’s room.”
“You can’t sleep on the couch in here either. It would have been awful for your shoulder before your fall. Now it’s out of the question.”
“Agreed.”
“If Rosie is sleeping here regularly, I could use the silent violin so I don’t wake her.”
“Yes. Every night.”
“But that means you would be sleeping here too.”
“Of course.”
“You would need to sleep in a bed. That only leaves one option.”
A deep breath. “Correct.”
“Well, two options. But, you would never ask me to move from here.”
“Course not. This is your home.”
A pause.
“People would talk.”
“Good. I’d expect no less.”
Another pause.
“You have assumed I am gay for some time now.”
“Yes. Is that assumption correct?”
“Yes.” A sharp inhale. “I have assumed you are not entirely straight from the beginning.”
“I think that’s a fair way of putting it.”
“You rebuked people when they assumed we were a couple.”
“I did. Years ago. Haven’t for some time now. You said you were married to your work, but that’s not true anymore either, is it?” He knows he needs to push Sherlock, just a bit.
It works. Sherlock shakes his head, as if coming out of a daze. “I … what’s that?”
He blushes. Sherlock has spotted the case. Was that too sentimental? “It’s errr…the case. For the violin.”
Sherlock slowly runs his hands over it. “It’s her handprint.”
“Errr … yeah. I know pink isn’t exactly your thing, but I let her pick.”
“Her hand is so small.”
“Yeah. But soon it won’t be.” He takes a deep breath. “Thought it would be a nice snapshot of how small she was when she moved in. Because I hope we’ll be here for … well, as long as you’re here.” In for a penny. “If you’ll have us. If you’ll have me.” He smiles. “If there’s space for me in the room down the hall. ‘Cause you’re it for me, Sherlock. I think you always have been.” A feeling of relief washes over him. Whatever happens, at least it’s all in the open now. At least the box is empty.
A long pause. “I think I am going to faint,” Sherlock finally says and then promptly crumbles to the floor.
@keirgreeneyes @raina-at @totallysilvergirl @meetinginsamarra @jolieblack @phoenix27884 @friday411 @calaisreno @lisbeth-kk @safedistancefrombeingsmart @momma2boys @helloliriels @dapetty @quimerasyutopias
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What are some examples of benevolent (or at least benign) dragons in classical western folklore? I recall you mentioning that they did indeed exist, but I don’t recall you ever mentioning any specific examples.
Well, firstly, most of the dragons from Greek mythology. Like, the dragon that Cadmus slew was Ares's pet, and Cadmus had to build an army to fight war in Ares's name as penance. The dragon of Colchis was beloved by Medea and viewed as a protector by her people, and in some versions of the Argonauts myth was put to sleep peacefully instead of slain. Ladon, the dragon who guards the Hesperides, was specifically beloved by the nymphs who lived alongside him, and in the versions of the myth where Heracles slays him, Ladon is explicitly mourned by those same nymphs. Dragons were agents of the divine in Greek myth as often is not more so than they were enemies of it, which makes sense given that so many of them were, like, first cousins with the Olympians. It's really funny that people will cite the Greek myths as examples of dragons as "agents of evil" in the same way it's funny when people cite Greek heroes as moral paragons, when any actual look at Greek mythology shows its morality was always very murky shades of gray rather than the black and white view we like to pretend all European mythology shares.
I think this inflicting of Christian black and white thinking on a morally gray mythology also occurs with Norse myth, though sadly we don't have a lot of pre-Christian Norse literature to serve as concrete evidence for this opinion the way we do with Greek dragons. Like, outside of Ragnorok (which some have argued is not a REAL Norse myth, but something concocted during the Christian-ization of Europe as a way to placate Christianity into not destroying all of Norse culture), Jormungandr doesn't do a single malevolent thing in any Norse story. The most he ever antagonizes anyone is when he lets Utgard Loki (no relation to normal Loki) make him look like a cat to teach Thor a lesson in humility that the god of thunder never fully learns. All subsequent encounters are a result of Thor fucking with Jormungandr out of spite for the cat prank. The corpse chewer dragons in Niflheim are terrifying, but the souls they're gnawing on are the dishonored dead, and they don't cause problems for the living until - well, until Ragnorok, which again, may not be a real Norse myth. Fafnir's a piece of shit, sure, but he's not a dragon by birth - he's a dwarf who turned into one out of greed for gold.
Then you have a myriad of stories about dragons who were tamed by saints or heroes only to be killed by townsfolk who thought they were still vicious, and promptly mourned afterwards - the Tarasque is probably the most prominent of these, but there are other stories that are variations on the formula. I'd also include Maud and the Wyvern/Dragon of Mordiford in this category, as while the dragon is never fully tamed by Maud's affection, it's nonetheless kind to her, and the story ends with her mourning its death rather than the townsfolk celebrating it. You are clearly supposed to feel sympathy for these dragons, even if the stories present their deaths as necessary or inevitable.
There are even examples of good dragons in explicitly Christian Medieval stories, despite them usually opting to treat dragons as purely evil. You have Y Ddraig Goch, the red dragon of Wales, whose defeat of a white dragon is an explicit omen of how the wicked Saxons will be overthrown and driven out by a good (or at least better) king in time, and who becomes the heraldry of King Arthur, a paragon of virtue by the standards of the times each of his stories are told in. There's one saint - I think Carantoc? - who found a dragon sleeping in a well and convinced it to move without much complaint, and another, St. Simeon, who removed a thorn from a dragon's eye to the amazement of all and was shown gratitude by the dragon in turn.
Benign/benevolent/not-explicitly-evil dragons may not make up the majority of European dragons, but they're not as rare as modern generalizations of it would have you believe.
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.22
a short thing using your favorite characters to remind you that 22 veterans commit suicide a day, and that this memorial day is not supposed to be a party. veterans get chewed up and spit out by a system that doesn't care about them, and while fiction is fun, we should remember that.
mentions of canon typical violence and suicide. it's a fic about military men, you should already know.
The 7.62 is hot.
Yesterday was another funeral, skipped in favor of the shooting range. There's a new one almost every week.
22 veterans die everyday!
A deafening crack - one thick finger on the base of a hair trigger. The casing burns his forearm when it flies out.
Today is 23, but he's almost sure that the poster in the base's med hall doesn't count the ones on the other side of the scope. Or maybe it does. It's not his job to ask those kinds of questions.
Price's voice cracks in the comms. He sounds old - they all sound old these days. This is not an old man's job, not with the way the arthritis is starting to eat at the base of his spine; not the way the hairline fractures spiderwebs away from his left knee.
But they move on like young men - him and Kyle crawling in the dirt towards another bunkhouse, another step closer to Makarov, another step closer to bullet for Johnny.
Simon is tired of feeling old. He's tired of the dirt beneath his nails, the gunpowder smell that clings to him no matter how long the shower lasts. Him and Johnny used to joke about going on vacations with the wives they don't have, watching the children they don't pretend to name chase each other on the warm sand of some beach they've only bled on before. They were supposed to feel young again in their retirement.
But Simon gets older with every passing minute; every knife that knicks the bones and cartilage that threatens to break down. Retirement isn't coming, he thinks.
He's not Superman after all.
There's a .22 in the drawer of his bedside table.
Lately he's been sleeping with it underneath the pillow. Memory foam. Thick. It's supposed to block out the feeling of the mattress springs digging into his neck, but it doesn't block out everything.
He's a dog, spinning around in place to make the bedding more comfortable. But the grass isn't laying down evenly, and there's just a stick digging into the tender flesh of his abdomen beside something that was probably once a set of black stitches.
22 veterans die everyday!
The 7.62 is hot; the bullet shatters another skull, another set of dreams. Another mother with a notice of her son's death at her doorstep, falling into a crumpled heap while her husband tries to hold back his own tears.
24 now.
Suicide is the biggest killer of veterans, mowing them down the way an enemy force could only wish they could. But isn't this all suicide?
Isn't it suicide to stand in front of a fucking open window when you know there's an unknown sniper on the knoll? Is it really warfare?
Price barks at them to get up, to get going into the house.
Vengeance doesn't wait after all.
22 veterans die everyday!
Simon is exhausted by it all - by the blood and viscera, and the death and destruction. Nothing prepares you for the way fat melts, the way it makes your skin sticky and you can taste it on your lips; the house burns behind him after they ransack it. He doesn't remember who dropped the match. Does it matter?
Does it matter who's pocket it came out of?
22 veterans die everyday!
The .22 is cold beneath Simon's pillow. He can feel it when he gets home and crashes into bed, still dirty from the long flight and his refusal to shower in unfamiliar hotel rooms. He shouldn't be able to feel it through the memory foam - it's supposed to block out all those lumps and bumps anyway.
22 veterans die everyday!
Midnight rolls around - the 12:00 flashing red in the darkness.
It's back to 0, Simon reckons, shifting so the .22 isn't pressing into the base of his skull.
He needs to get some sleep - tomorrow is another day of hunting down Makarov.
Another 22 gone.
#simon ‘ghost’ riley#simon riley#simon ghost riley#simong ghost riley#my fics#call of duty modern warfare 2#call of duty modern warfare#call of duty
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Took the ‘rock’ in rock n roll too seriously - xodarling
includes: dom!beidou, fem!reader, modern au, bassist!beidou, gold digger!reader, established relationship, not a healthy one tho, g!p beidou, you like her money and dick, lowercase writing, muscular!beidou, size difference, daddy kink, spanking, breeding kink, grinding, degradation, overstim, choking, you don't like her
a/n: this came to me in a dream
beidou has very clingy lately, much to your dismay, this was supposed to be a transactional relationship but she went ahead and fell in love, now you have to pretend to like her back. she’s snuggling up to your lap, she’s so clingy it’s getting on your nerves..
“babe, can you get me a new car? that rolls royce i’ve been wanting for months, please?” you give her a pout and bat your eyelashes, your manicured nails softly scratch her scalp. her eyes linger on you for a moment and then she life her head up from your lap.
“oh, really?” both of you are in her garage, sitting on the random couch there with pizza boxes and soda cans everywhere, along with some cigarettes thrown everywhere; the dingy appearance conceals that you’re literally in her mansion. beidou’s strong hands move to your hips and she manhandles you with ease onto her lap.
“didn’t i get you that jeep just last week?” she manspreads as she makes you sit on her lap. her eyes zone in on the hickeys she’s left on you the days before and a few hours ago. you open your mouth to protest but she smacks your ass which makes you giggle softly, “yeah, well, that was last week. i’m talking about now, it’s only fair you spoil me with something big.”
“something big?” she chuckles. she’s so big that her hands dwarf your waist tremendously, she rubs your smooth skin. her lips attach themselves back onto your neck and suck more bruises and leave even more bite marks on your already littered skin. “i fuck you with something big every night, no?” her tongue runs across your throat, she switches to each side of your neck to suck even more bruises.
your body jerks at her rough touch and the feeling of her big hands all over your skin. the sudden shift of her kisses made you whimper in delight and squirm under her burly touch. you can’t help but shiver as she goes from nibbles and pecks to bruising sucks. “ugh, you know what i’m talking about.” you glance away and pout, but in a playful manner.
her eyes roll back as she licks, sucks, and kisses your neck, collarbone, and jaw. your skin feels smooth under her touch, so smooth and soft, there’s nothing she loves more than leaving bruises on your pretty body. she moves her lips away from your neck and brushes them against your ear, nibbling your earlobe softly, “i’ll get you that rolls royce, baby, don’t worry. i’ll even get you a porche to make you feel better..”
she hums against your ear. her hands palm at your ass from above those slutty shorts she bought you that are practically underwear, she just can’t keep her hands off of you. one of her hands suddenly send a strike to your rear, a loud clap echoing through the garage.
she bites her lip and leans back on the couch, admiring your gorgeous body and running her hands across your curves. you smile sensually as she admires your body. her broad hands go up to fondle your chest, biting her lip and ogling at you, she squeezes your chest and then rests her arms on the back of the couch. she smizes and slightly bucks her hips up, enjoying the way your body bounces every time she lifts her hips.
your manicured nails grip the fabric of her tank top, a tight one that emphasizes her toned, broad body. your lips curl up into a faint smile as you begin to rock your hips back and forth, the movement is subtle but gets accentuated by her small thrusts up. “enjoying yourself?” your voice is low and throaty, trying your hardest to sound seductive and flirty.
“mhm. yeah, i fucking am.” she hums and watches your body bounce, her eyes half-lidded and filled with nothing but lust and love. “i’m gonna fuck you so good. till’ you can’t walk for weeks.” she whispers with arousal heavy in her tone, rolling her neck and groaning in discomfort as the bulge in her pants grows with each second that passes.
your face heats up hearing her vulgar words. the way she describes the situation makes your imagination run wild and your nether region quickly becomes wet. you try not to squirm too much as you glance to her eyes, which are looking at you with a hungry gaze. there���s nothing more sexy than big, powerful woman losing control of her cool and getting aroused because of your body.
“goddamn, you slut.” she growls after bit after your grinding. her large hands grip the bottom of your thighs and manhandle you so you’re laying flat on your back with beidou looming over you, some soda cans and old cigarettes clattering from the impact. she groans and growls, leaning down and leaving more hickeys on your neck, alongside bite marks.
the way she suddenly moves and pulls you into such a submissive position had you squealing in delight, your body arching forward to grind your slick shorts against the stiff area in beidou’s pants. with each bite and suck, your eyes roll back to your brain and your chest heaves heavily, each exhale sounding desperate and exhausted for the brute.
after a moment, beidou leans up and put your ankles on her shoulders, leaving pecks on each of your calves. her large, calloused hands sneak their way under your waistband and pull them off, she smirks and wolf whistles when she does rip the damp fabric off, “commando, princess?” she teases, rubbing your clit with her rough thumb, keeping eye contact with you.
“uh huh..” you shakily whine, closing your eyes to enjoy the flicks and rubs of your clitoris. after a few circles later, she slithers her hand away and pulls her sweatpants down, showing the bulge in her boxers. looking at her with a dazed expression that she finds adorable, she pulls down her bulging underwear and sighs when her cock flings out.
she chuckles when she notices your stare at her shaft, grabbing the base of if and playfully swinging slightly, “i’m guessing you like it.” she coos, rubbing your calf with her free hand. as much as you lack love towards beidou, you most certainly do not lack lust towards her, because the sight of that monster has you drooling and nodding quickly.
“you are just the cutest thing.” she coos and starts to rub her throbbing tip against your slit, playfully nudging your clit with her head. with a final kiss on your leg, she pushes herself into you, rubbing your clit once more to ease the uncomfortable stretch, “shh, it’s okay, breathe for me.” she murmurs, looking down at you with love in her eyes, “you’ve done this before, you can do it again, princess.”
“good girl. all mine.” she leans down and starts to whisper in your ear, easing you through the painful sting. after all, you’re very fragile compared to her. you arch your body forward, legs kicking a bit from the ache beginning to kick in… still, there’s nothing more attractive than being dominated by this muscle-bound brute. usually, you’d be disgusted by this. but, the bliss she brings melted your brain.
“fuck… so big.” you wince, looking up at the ceiling. beidou’s words were a nice distraction from the pain, as much as you find her annoying and boorish, she has quite a handsome voice. however, the ease was disrupted by her large hands wrapping around your neck, and the stillness of her hips dissipated. her shaft now inching out of your hole.
now, beidou really tried being gentle. your size difference was obvious, and she didn't want to hurt you! but, you were just so tight and felt so good around her that the languid pace turned into an absolute savage one. a laugh that radiated cockiness rumbled out of beidou’s chest, the tightness of your walls, and the lewd moans you let out stroked the hell out of her ego. “such a fucking slut. say that you love me. scream it…”
her pupils darkened, staring down at you like you were nothing but a cocksleeve. but, you knew that wasn’t the case, beidou loved you, even if you showed nothing but disgust towards this rockstar. “i f-fucking love you…!” you yelped, her tip ramming against your spot, barely giving you time to breathe or even process what’s happening before your g-spot is pushed again.
now, the sounds of skin slapping reverberate throughout the garage, her growls and your desperate whines syncing together to make perfect harmony. “you… are such a nympho.” she huffs out, “just money and dick, right? that’s all someone needs to make this little bitch happy.” her throat bobs, sweat cascading down her body in such a perverse way you can’t help but start to touch all over those toned muscles.
such degrading words… they make your walls clench and eyes widen. your mouth forms into the shape of a circle, limbs begin to tremble madly. you two just started, yet, your orgasm comes way faster than both of you would’ve expected. your legs kick harshly as the sound of screams leaves your throat, your hips buck, and tears start to form. it feels so good, and beidou shows no sign of stopping. “…daddyy..” the word leaves your mouth before you notice, luckily, all she does is laugh.
“daddy, huh?” she teases, leaning down and kissing away some of your tears. her chapped lips curve into the cockiest of smiles that if you weren't being fucked dumb, you’d want to slap off her face. her form gets sloppier, but her eyes never leave your euphoric face, “i’m close. get ready.” she pants, “daddy’s gonna cum inside you, okay, baby?” her tone melts into one full of mockery, her hands tightening around your throat, cutting off your airway only a bit.
her hips slammed into you, groaning at the feeling of your snug walls clinging to the walls of her cock. “gonna be big… and full of my kids.” she grunts, the fat of your ass and thighs rippling with each plow of her body. your moans start to turn into squeaks, the lack of air in your lungs makes your head spin, and it’s only intensified by the aggressive slamming against your spot.
your sharp acrylics, something beidou paid for, scratch at her abs, tracing the crevices of her stomach and the curves of her waist. your whines are accompanied by screams of ‘more..!’ and ‘it’s so big!’, all those words fuel her ego more and more. her hefty hands tighten around your throat, she growls and throws her head back, leaning back up as she keeps the brutal pace she established.
”fuck…” she groans, using all her might to slam into your cunt. it was sudden, spontaneous, and without any warning. beidou lets out a howl and then erupts into your walls, coating every inch of it with her seed. it was warm and thick, and her thrusts didn't stop as she kept filling you. the feeling of being filled up sent you head first into that euphoric release.
“fuck, yes…!” you screamed hips bucking rapidly as your eyes rolled back into your skull, a dopey smile on your lips. it was addicting. the firey burst inside of you sent your head reeling and your body trembling like a leaf. your throat was raw after the scream you let out, her cum filling you and filling you to a hilt. your lower belly bulging from the pistoning cock inside you.
you both came down from your euphoric highs with pants and sighs, the sweat that covered your bodies felt cold now that the two of you had calmed down. her hands settled at your waist, occasionally thrusting into you to ensure all of it had dropped inside of you. after a bit of panting, beidou let out a chuckle, rubbing circles into your stomach with her calloused thumb.
“damn. i really filled you up!” she cockily says, pulling out her semi-hard cock from you, watching in awe as her fluid spills out from you. she pats your stomach and lets out another prideful laugh, a big smile on her lips. “that was fun! do you wanna take a bath? i mean we are covered in sweat!” her happiness pisses you off, especially since she just fucked your soul out of you.
“beidou…” you murmur through gritted teeth, panting from the harsh sex, you maneuver your legs to wrap around her burly waist, “more…” your eyes almost seem angry. you are, you cannot fathom how this stupid, annoyingly handsome idiot can make you feel so good! “m-more…?” she questions, eyes that were once happy now confused. her question was only met with a whine and you bringing her down to smash her lips against yours.
you two are not going to stop until you know for sure beidou’s only gonna be shooting dry shots, and who knows how long that’s gonna take.
#beidou x reader#beidou x reader smut#beidou smut#genshin impact smut#genshin smut#genshin x reader#genshin impact x reader#sub!reader
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Blue and Fire Engine Red Pt 8
Kara tries to pivot them back towards the normal they’ve established so far. After all, nothing for her has changed– Lena is still a hero, and Kara still… Kara still wants to love her. But she can sense the difference in the way Lena behaves towards her. Responses to Kara’s texts over the following days come fewer and farther between, personable enough but lacking the spark they’d held before. Soon, Kara realizes that what little communication there is, Lena’s stopped initiating.
There’s a wall between them, even when they manage to sneak a dinner together midweek. Lena’s smiles are thin, distant, like a wall has been erected between them. Lena guards herself now in a way she hadn’t before, and the longer Kara lets it be, hoping things will naturally drift back to the way it was, the more Lena pulls away.
Finally, on a night Lena begs off a meet up due to pulling an extra shift at the firehouse, Kara goes to visit her– only to find Lena not there and not ever scheduled to be on duty. A finger of icy dread creeps down Kara’s spine as she drives to Lena’s.
When she arrives, she pounds on Lena’s door. “Lena! It’s me! Open up!”
There’s music from inside, loud and angry and patent evidence that Lena is within. She pounds again and again, then ceaselessly until finally she hears the lock snick back. The door opens, revealing Lena sweating and flushed, hands wrapped for boxing.
This time, Lena doesn’t bother to feign interest in Kara’s presence. Her eyes remain dark, features stormy when she retreats back inside without a word, leaving the door open to follow if she wishes.
The music continues to blast from the mid-sized speaker in the corner, soon accompanied by the beat of Lena’s fists slamming into the punching bag again and again. Kara waits a moment for Lena to pause and catch her breath, but she continues without flagging, until Kara loses her patience and yanks the speaker’s power cord from the wall.
It does nothing to slow Lena’s pace. The force of her blows swings the bag to one side then the other, to the point that it rattles Kara’s bones when she moves to brace it. Still, she refuses to back down.
“We need to talk,” she states with a calm she doesn’t quite feel.
“So talk,” Lena huffs, jabbing with an uppercut that nearly knocks Kara back a step. Kara doesn’t relent.
“I said we.”
Lena’s jaw visibly clenches, and she finally breaks away from the bag, breathing heavily. Kara hesitates, suddenly unsure what to say to navigate the storm gathering around Lena. She crosses her arms over her chest to steady herself.
“Shutting me out after I told you I wouldn’t push is a dick move.”
Lena snorts. “Yet here you are.”
“Because I care about you. Respecting your boundaries doesn’t mean I have to just stand there as you drift away. Not after everything–”
“Everything? Everything over, what, a month? How special.”
“Don’t,” Kara growls. “Don’t trivialize how I feel, and don’t you dare pretend you don’t feel it too.”
“And so what if I do?!” Lena’s shout cuts through the air. “Compatibility consists of more than just good sex–”
“Oh fuck you,” Kara snaps back. She takes a step forward even as Lena moves back. She sighs. “Look. I know I pressed closer than you were ready for. I’m sorry.” She gazes at Lena, searching for her girlfriend beyond the anger. “Could we just– reset?”
“Reset? Really?”
Kara nods. “Yeah. Because one month or no, I like you, Lena. And that’s all I’m asking for. You.”
That at least, seems to give Lena pause. She hesitates, brow furrowing as she studies Kara. In the end though, her gaze slides away once more. Kara’s heart falls.
“It’s not that simple,” Lena murmurs.
“And that is 100% your choice,” Kara shoots back. Complicated doesn’t have to be complicated if Lena doesn’t want it to be. If she does, Kara doesn’t care. “I’m not looking for simple.”
Lena scowls, but says nothing. Kara scowls right back.
“You have trauma. Trust me, I get it. But you don’t get to punish me for caring about you.” At that, Lena nearly flinches, guilt flashing behind her eyes as she looks away. “And waiting for me to drift away is just mean.”
Lena still doesn’t say anything, but now it feels less guarded and more at a loss for words.
“I get that you’re not ready to share, okay? And I get that you may never want to. I just want to be the one there if you do. That is what I’m looking for.”
When silence answers her yet again, Kara loses patience. “And if that’s not something you want– if I am not what you want, fine. But at least have the balls to tell me outright.”
With that, Kara turns on her heel and storms out. She’s just jabbed the button for the elevator when she hears a door open behind her. “Kara!”
Turning, Kara sees Lena standing in the middle of the hallway. Her anger seems to have evaporated, leaving her bereft of anything more to say. The elevator dings open behind Kara, and she has half a mind to enter it out of spite, but her heart speaks louder. She retraces her steps back down the hall, drifting to a stop in front of Lena. She waits.
Lena takes a breath to speak, then another, but nothing comes out. Green eyes meet Kara’s, as though imploring her to understand whatever it is she can’t say. Though the ball of anger in her gut cools, she stands firm.
“I’m not a mind reader,” she says.
Exhaling, Lena closes her eyes. Again, her words seem to fail her, but Kara gives her time to gather herself. Finally, Lena rallies against whatever ties her tongue.
“I like you,” she says, her voice low. “More– more than I should.”
Kara frowns– she doesn’t necessarily like the sound of that. But at least it’s honest.
“I don’t– jesus.” Lena wipes the sweat from her upper lip, her frustration plain. “There are things… things I never want you to know.”
In spite of herself, the words kick Kara in the chest. She means it when she says she doesn’t need Lena’s past. But she does want her trust. Kara releases a breath. “I told you I don’t care.”
Lena shakes her head. Suddenly, Kara realizes it’s not the only part of Lena that shakes. Her hands tremble, as much as Lena tries to hide it by picking at her hand wraps.
“You say that now–”
Kara’s features harden. “Don’t insult me by comparing me to anyone else, and don’t you dare assume for me that I’ll change my mind.”
Lena swallows audibly, and only then does Kara realize the anguish in Lena’s posture. She’s never seen Lena like this, and she knows Lena had pulled away from her because drifting away was the easiest way to let her go. But right now, Lena is facing the most difficult path– for her. Kara softens.
“Hey,” she says, reaching out to still Lena’s fidgeting hands. “We’ve been having a good time, haven’t we?”
Lena exhales, nodding. “Yeah,” she breathes.
“And we were having a good time before Hector told me anything, and without me knowing anything you don’t want me to know. We can keep this going without it.”
“But…”
“If anything changes, for either of us, we can have this conversation again.”
Lena frowns. “It’ll be harder then. To let you go.”
Kara offers her a thin smile. “That’s the risk we take, when we decide to share any part of ourselves with another person. But I promise you– all I want is now, with you. Now, and however much of the future we get.”
The next thing she knows, warm lips press against hers. Lena’s mouth is soft, transferring the salt of her sweat to Kara’s tongue. Wrapped hands frame Kara’s face, before Lena’s forehead rests against hers.
“I want that too,” Lena breathes. “God, I want that so much.”
Kara hears the shake in her whisper, the tremble in Lena’s hands against her skin. She’s afraid, Kara realizes. Truly afraid. Questions and dread bubble in Kara’s chest, but she tamps them down, curling her fingers around Lena’s and giving them a firm squeeze.
“Then let’s do it. Together.”
Lena takes another quaking breath.
“Okay.”
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KoH - What Good May Come (Baldwin IV x Reader)
Fandom: Kingdom of Heaven
Pairing: Baldwin IV x Fem!Reader
PoV: Mixed/Split (Tiberias - Fem!Reader - Baldwin)
Length: Long (8k+ words! 😬)
TW: Vague mentions of disfigurement/leprosy
A/N: FINALLY, I've finished the Y/N fic that was voted on so long ago in this poll. Since the results were fairly close, I simply eliminated the least-voted option and went with a combination of the rest. 😁I've tried my best to keep Y/N truly generic, although she is female; in all other ways, though, it was my hope to make her vague enough that readers could envision whomever they liked in whatever universe/version of the story they wished. Backstory and circumstances are also left as vague as possible. As far as personality, I tried to go with what seemed most popular in general, again in an attempt to appeal to the widest audience. I sincerely hope you enjoy, and thank you all for being awesome! 🤗
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“She adores you, you know.”
It was these words from Tiberias that broke the silence between king and vassal – a companionable one… one born from years of acquaintanceship that had seen both parties through their fair share of strife and misunderstandings. A type of camaraderie perhaps only two leaders in their position could comprehend and be satisfied with.
The Count of Tripoli watched as his liege-lord’s attention was drawn from the bright Jerusalem outdoors into which he was all but forbidden to emerge. Watched as eyes as blue as the sky Tiberias knew was above drifted to his own. One was clouded, now – a sign of impending blindness. But Tiberias remembered well when both possessed such a clear and sharp forget-me-not stare, bidding all who beheld their gaze to indeed forget them not…
“I beg your pardon, Raymond,” the king replied, the silver mask he wore slightly muffling carefully-chosen words, smooth as the waters of the Jordan. “My thoughts have wandered, as they often do these days, and I am uncertain as to whom you refer.”
The smallest of laughs escaped Tiberias’s lips as they briefly twisted into a half-smile – a response to His Majesty that perhaps only he could get away with. He swirled what remained of the deep claret wine in his goblet, leveling his gaze at the king over the rim; the Count had known his lord since before he had come of age, and no amount of masks could cover the fact that Baldwin IV of Jerusalem was always aware of more than he pretended.
“Forgive me for my lack of clarity, my lord,” Raymond answered wryly. “I speak of Lady Y/N.”
“Ah, yes.”
Baldwin’s response was accompanied by the slightest nod, silver shimmering with the movement as it caught a sunray. His eyes fell to the chess pieces that functioned not as part of an actual match between them, but merely an occupation for restless hands. Particularly the king’s. Gloved in white, one of those half-numb hands still somehow moved with grace, a slender finger perched atop the head of a knight, resting upon the carved arch of the stallion’s mane.
Tiberias noted the short answer, half-sighed. No doubt His Majesty’s thoughts continued where his lips dared not to go, if the Count knew him as well as he thought he did…
“She speaks of you fondly and often,” Raymond added, sipping of the wine. “I believe she is single-handedly determined to bring your presence back into court by mention of your name and titles alone.”
White fingers released the knight. “The court is far too vicious a place for as good a soul as hers,” Baldwin said at length, sitting back in his chair, another sigh escaping him like the hiss of steam behind his mask as he glanced away. “Lately, I have been thinking of what to do with her. It is increasingly obvious there is no place for her here. Not amongst these vultures.”
“Oh?” Tiberias’s brows arched high. “Isn’t there?”
“No. There is not.”
At that, the Count’s lips pressed together as he leaned forward, setting his goblet on the chess table and folding his hands in his lap. “My lord, surely you aren’t thinking of sending her away. Not from here, where she has found joy despite everything.” He caught his liege’s gaze as it returned to him, adding pointedly, “Where you have found it.”
“My joy is irrelevant,” Baldwin replied flatly. “And as for hers...” he paused, and Raymond could see the king’s throat bob past his bandages. “It will not persist. It is best she seek it elsewhere, before that which she has found here meets its inevitable end.”
The corner of the Count’s mouth twitched. “You, or Jerusalem?”
“I am Jerusalem,” the king answered simply.
Tiberias glanced away, closing his eyes for a moment as silence stretched between them. The Count in him knew that Baldwin was, in a way, correct. Disaster loomed on the horizon – a kind of calamity from which they might not return, and it would most assuredly begin with His Majesty’s death. If the physicians were right and not being overly generous in their assessment, then the king had less than a decade left in his short life. And imbeciles like Guy de Lusignan seemed determined to shorten it further. Yes, she would be safer – and perhaps happier in the long term – elsewhere…
Yet there was something so terribly tragic about it all that Tiberias couldn’t help but feel sympathy grow in his heart for the boy. Yes boy. He hadn’t even had the chance to grow a man’s whiskers on his cheeks before that damned disease had twisted his face almost beyond recognition. And Tiberias had seen it all. Even through the at-times frustrating trials of Baldwin’s kingship, the Count of Tripoli had watched as the golden-haired warrior of sixteen years had wasted away into this silver-faced specter that had become far too wise, far too young…
…but he had also watched those specter’s eyes glow with a long-absent light the moment Y/N had stood before him. For a fleeting instant, he had once again seen the eyes of a younger king, reminiscent of past joys and glorious victories.
Baldwin would extinguish that light in an instant for her sake, romantic fool that he was. Or perhaps it was Raymond himself who was the fool, as he thought of Y/N and how she, too, had been drawn to the king the moment they’d met. How such a precious creature, so rare upon this Earth, had fallen into such a deadly trap… and now it seemed, like a snared rabbit, her only option was to chew off her own limb before the hunter found her.
How to rescue them both from such a fate?
“The girl is in love with you, my lord,” he began after a moment, his voice a growling murmur. “To send her away would break her heart. It would destroy her.” He shook his head, meeting the king’s stare with his own. “As it would you, and you know it.”
“What would you have me do, Tiberias?” Baldwin asked, Raymond’s more familiar moniker finally coming out now that the Count’s words had pierced past the royal façade. “To let her stay will cause her only despair, and that will destroy the both of us as well. And I cannot be that selfish to such a benevolent soul.” Tiberias heard a long exhale behind the mask as the king cast his eyes to the ceiling, as if searching for answers amongst the lofty vaults. “Were it not for this disease I would ask her father for her hand and devote my life to her as her husband before the altar of God. But I am a leper, and I am forbidden that.” The pale gaze that returned to the Count’s was a haunting one now, as if all the ghosts of Purgatory screamed through it for salvation. A mirthless laugh followed, a dark sound born of darker thoughts. “It seems I can do nothing else but waste away before her very eyes. So tell me, my wise vassal – if I cannot protect her from what is to come, what is it that I can do?”
A flicker of a smile crossed Tiberias’s lips. “Love her, my lord. As I know you already do.” He paused, propping his elbows on the table and rubbing his sword-calloused hands together as he thought.
“It’s the whole reason for your self-flagellation, is it not?” he continued after a moment. “This talk of sending Y/N out of Jerusalem – your crown tells you one thing, but your heart tells you another, and for the first time you want to toss the crown by the wayside, and that makes you fear you are an incompetent king. So you pick up the crown again in hopes it will crush the heart, and perhaps the love along with it.”
Another sigh, the lids of the king’s eyes fluttering shut for a moment. “I only wish to do what is right, Tiberias. It is what I have striven for my entire life, and I will not abandon such principles now. If it means my own suffering, so be it. And as for her,” his eyes opened once more, latching to Raymond’s, “tell me what good may come from the love of a leper.”
This time, it was the Count who sighed, sitting back in his chair. “Peace. Mercy. Comfort. Everything you have brought to this kingdom.” He crossed an ankle over his knee, peaking his fingers. “You cannot know that a little cruelty now will not hurt her any less than what will come later. But you do know that loving her can only bring happiness to you both in the present moment – and that is what she lives for. Not the future.” He cocked his head at the king. “There is nothing wicked in what she desires. Nor in what you wish for her. The both of you want nothing more than the other’s well-being. How can that be anything but right?”
Raymond saw Baldwin’s throat bob again, the mask shimmering in the sunlight as he shifted in his seat, first looking down towards the floor, then back to the illuminated arcade.
“How shall I court her, then?” he inquired at length, his voice softer, cynicism at last yielding to tender warmth. “How to show her this affection of mine without forever staining her honor?”
Tiberias’s jaw worked as he thought for a few moments in silence. “If you wish to be discreet, my lord, I believe I may assist in this matter.”
It was then, as Baldwin returned his attention to the Count, that the latter saw a glimpse of boyish mischief sparkling in his liege’s eye. “I would trust no other to the task.”
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“My lady, a courier flagged me down today and told me to give you this.”
Your lady-in-waiting approached, holding out a small wrapped parcel.
“What is it?” you asked, interest piqued.
The handmaid shook her head. “I have no idea, my lady. The courier didn’t say.”
You felt your brow furrow as you took the parcel in hand. The fabric was fine, but not terribly so – a soft cream color, tied with a simple yellow ribbon.
“Hmm. I wonder who it is from.”
“He didn’t say that, either,” your companion commented.
Curiosity mounting by the second, you decided to succumb to the impulse to open the parcel, tugging at the ribbon. Casting it aside, you pulled back the corners of the fabric to reveal a folded piece of parchment, within which had been tucked something slightly weighty…
Merely tilting the parchment to the side let the object slide free into your waiting palm, and you couldn’t stifle the gasp that escaped you. There, in your hand, lay a lovely brooch, sparkling in the sunlight that streamed in from your window. A small disk of gold, swirling floral patterns weaved across its surface and wound about its edge like vines of roses. At its center was set a sapphire cabochon, polished and glimmering, and from its bottom edge hung a single creamy white pearl, like a teardrop in shape.
“Oh, it’s beautiful!”
The words came from your lady-in-waiting; you were too busy still holding your breath as you took in the details of this exquisite piece. You ran a finger over the filigree and atop the smooth stone in wonder. Who could have possibly gifted you something so beautiful and why?
As if reading your mind, your fellow courtier prompted, “Maybe the parchment says who it’s from.”
Finally remembering to breathe, you nodded, carefully unfolding the small piece of vellum to see a tight, neat script, punctuated with neither signature nor seal:
You will never know how much light you bring into the lives of others. It is my only hope that this small token of my regard brings a measure of light into yours.
This time, it was both you and your handmaiden who gasped in unison, barely stifling squeaks of girlish delight as you exchanged looks with one another.
“You, my lady, have an admirer!”
In awe, you stared at the parchment, reading the words over and over again. But who could have possibly written them?
“So it seems,” you replied at length, running a thumb across the surface of the brooch.
“Well,” your comrade continued, straightening and putting her hands on her hips, “that will give you plenty to talk about at the feast tonight.”
Your brow furrowed. “Feast?”
She nodded with a grin. “Yes, feast! Princess Sibylla arranged it. Perhaps you’ll find your mysterious admirer amongst the guests there, hmm?”
At that, you could only blink for a moment, your thoughts a whirlwind in your mind. Of all the things to find in Jerusalem, you hadn’t quite expected an admirer to be one of them…
“I’m not sure whether to be frightened or excited by the prospects,” you finally replied honestly, a nervous chuckle following your words.
“Oh, lady,” your handmaid admonished, swatting a hand playfully at your shoulder. “It will be quite fun, I’m sure. The princess’s functions are always lighthearted affairs, or so I hear. I imagine there will be dancing and merry music aplenty. Just plan to enjoy yourself, and if something – or someone – intriguing comes along…” she trailed and winked.
You tried to fight the blush that sprang to your cheeks, but to no avail, leading your handmaid to laugh heartily. “Ah, my lady. By your leave, I must see to a few things before evening falls, but I will return to help you get ready.”
You couldn’t help but smile back, giving a nod of assent. “Of course.”
With that, the lady-in-waiting dipped into a polite curtsey and left, closing your chamber door gently behind her and leaving you to your increasingly-anxious thoughts. Your attention returned to the parchment and brooch – both were fine indeed, indicating that, whoever your admirer was, they were certainly someone of status. Yet there was a certain practicality to both; the author’s penmanship was practiced and elegant, but not overstated, and the brooch itself was obviously expensive, but neither was it overly extravagant.
It was also a rather fitting gift, considering you had only just lost your old one on the way to Jerusalem…
And then it hit you.
It can’t be…
Your heart began to beat harder in your chest as it all came to you in a rush. Yes, you’d lost your beloved brooch on the long journey to Jerusalem – one of your last remaining ties to your homeland. A silly thing to get upset about, you told yourself later on, and yet the loss of it affected you even after your arrival at court. Nevertheless, no one up until that point knew besides your lady-in-waiting. And there was only one Jerusalemite native to whom you had confided that little detail.
The king.
Your mouth ran dry as you remembered the instance as clearly as if it had been yesterday. It was only your third day at the palace, and you’d yet to become accustomed to its maze-like halls. Couple that with your fascination with the local architecture, and that led you to places, in hindsight, you probably ought not have tread. Yet no one stopped you, even as the number of palace guests thinned and you emerged upon a quiet, sunlit terrace…
…only to run right into a tall man in white.
It hadn’t taken you long to figure out that you’d plowed headlong into the king himself – quite embarrassing that. In fact, you were so mortified that you were sure you would die of it on the spot, even as you apologized profusely with the deepest curtsey you could manage on weak legs.
To your surprise, however, not even the slightest admonishment came from him. Instead, he chuckled, the sound muffled by the mask he wore. That caused you to look up, still frozen in your curtsey, and that was when you saw the bluest eyes you’d ever seen in your life looking back at you, their squinted corners evidence of a smile behind the almost-angelic visage of silver.
You smiled back nervously, at which point he bid you to rise, assuring you that you had done nothing wrong. An awkward introduction followed, during which you admitted that curiosity had gotten the better of you, and you praised the well-kept grounds and the lovely accommodations you’d been given…
As it so happened, however, he already knew precisely who you were from your name alone – where you were from and why you’d come to Jerusalem. Whether he had gleaned this information from spies or the rumor mill of the court, you weren’t certain, but the more he spoke, the more difficult it became to keep the flabbergasted look off your face. And along with that astonishment came the slightest bit of fear – if he knew this much about you, how much did everyone else know?
Despite your best efforts, though, you must have been unable to keep your face expressionless, as that was when he had invited you to his chambers to speak further in private.
To say you were surprised by such an offer was something of an understatement; it was the last thing you expected to hear after what had just transpired between you, especially from a king to a freshly-acquainted subject. And yet you found yourself quite unable to decline even out of modesty. For one thing, declining the offer of a king seemed most imprudent, and for another…
…well, you were actually rather curious about His Majesty, unwilling to end the encounter just yet.
So you followed him, marveling at him all the while. You knew he was a leper – that was something you’d been informed of before you’d departed for the Holy City – but that didn’t frighten you. You had seen lepers where you were from, and they hadn’t frightened you, either. You also knew the mask was meant to hide the deformities beneath. In fact, it was the presence of that mask that had led you to guess the identity of its owner before it was ever confirmed by his lips – it was a symbol as powerful as a crown. None of that was what had drawn your curiosity; you were motivated neither by morbid fascination nor a sense of pity.
No, it was his astonishingly-welcoming demeanor that had you almost spellbound. The easy willingness to listen and to forgive. The quiet, yet poised decorum. You’d known men and women alike with rank much lesser than his who possessed a cold and domineering manner that was immediately off-putting to almost everyone around them. Yet here was the king of this realm, conversing politely with a lady who had merely lost her way.
Already you had learned volumes about his character, and he’d barely spoken at all.
He had posted guards, you noted, but they kept their eyes straight ahead as you passed them, following King Baldwin into his private quarters. It was a mighty struggle, but you managed to resist the urge to succumb to the eye-wandering that had gotten you into this situation to begin with. Instead, with the same discipline of his guardsmen, you glued your gaze to his back, occupying yourself by mentally tracing the subtle patterns in his coat of white damask silk.
Ultimately, he offered you a seat, and as you accepted with another curtsey, he sat himself a respectable distance away, only the slightest stiffness of his limbs betraying his condition as he settled into the chair opposite you. In fact, you could imagine he occupied his throne in much the same manner as he leaned back, both white-gloved hands curving over the ends of its arms. A servant, unbidden, came forth out of the shadows with a fresh cup of wine, which you took with a polite nod. The man then retreated as quietly as he had arrived, disappearing beyond sheer curtains of pale fabric.
And then, you talked.
It was mostly he who asked the questions, and you answered them as best as you were able; you weren’t brave enough to ask him much of anything, and so you settled for what small bits of information he voluntarily divulged over the course of your conversation. All in all, it was a relatively light discussion. He mostly inquired about your homeland and of your journey – of whether you had experienced any hardships or had witnessed anything of interest on your way to the Holy City, and if you had troubles acclimating to Jerusalem. It was during this exchange that you revealed the caravan’s run-in with thieves… how they had stolen what small bit of jewelry you possessed, sneaking in and out of the tents of the pilgrims and vanishing into the desert night before anyone could catch them.
You only offhandedly mentioned the brooch as the one piece you had any sentimental attachment to. In all honesty, you weren’t even sure if he had been listening at that point, as he had closed his eyes for a long time. You thought perhaps he might even have fallen asleep for a moment; if so, you couldn’t blame him, as you knew his condition was exhausting – you couldn’t imagine dealing with it on top of everything else expected of a king.
It was also quite possible that you were boring the poor man out of his mind with your lengthy and rambling answers, and he was simply too polite to cut you off.
Yet if what your gut was telling you was right, then he had indeed been listening, and far more closely than you could ever have realized…
You hadn’t known, however, at the time. Instead, you’d felt increasingly self-conscious as his eyes opened again, their gaze meeting yours with a piercing stare. Truly, it was as if he was looking through you rather than at you as you turned the conversation to lighter matters – mostly all the wonderful sights you’d seen since arriving in the Holy Land, especially Jerusalem itself. Your observations seemed to please him, and he voiced his gladness that you were, for the most part, enjoying yourself. You’d thanked him for his hospitality, and it wasn’t long after that the discussion ended, king and subject cordially parting ways with nod and curtsey.
Little did you know that one meeting would soon turn into two. Then three. Then more.
Somehow, a few days after your unexpected first encounter, you ran into him again in the garden – though, thankfully, not literally this time. After exchanging a few pleasantries, he once more invited you to further conversation in private, and again you accepted. This time, he inquired if you knew the game of chess, and to your surprise (and secret amusement) he appeared rather pleased when you affirmed that you did. He then promptly challenged you to a match, to which you heartily agreed. Yet even though you were handily beaten, it was an enjoyable game, and you found yourself acquiescing to a future rematch.
It wasn’t long before these games became almost a routine part of your afternoon, save for the days when His Majesty was busy with his council or holding court. And it was during the course of these games that you realized just how lonely he must have been. For the more games you shared, the fewer of them were seen to completion; far more time was spent talking with the board sitting untouched between you than it was actually playing.
He never kept you longer than you desired to stay, and certainly never more than was appropriate for an unmarried lady such as yourself. In fact, he seemed to leave the coming and going mostly to you. Yet you didn’t fail to notice the way his eyes lit up when he saw you, their corners crinkling with a smile you couldn’t otherwise see. It broke your heart that he spent so much of his days, outside his duties, in near-isolation, when he was such a thoughtful, inquisitive, and intelligent soul… such a joy to converse with. And so you’d been sure to praise these qualities amongst your fellow courtiers whenever the chance arose…
It had only just occurred to you in the middle of a recent sleepless night that the reasons behind your persistent compliments might have run a bit deeper than the simple desire to keep his spirit alive in the court he barely saw.
You couldn’t deny the way your heart sped up when your eyes met – those eyes that you couldn’t quite decide were more like the sea or the sky. And it wasn’t just the content of his speech you enjoyed, but the way he delivered it… with a voice that was so easy to listen to for hours on end, so reflective of his serene and introspective nature.
And then there were the times, when he accidentally fumbled the pieces, that your fingers and his gloved ones nearly touched. When you both reached for the fallen pawn only for one of you to swiftly withdraw, each time followed by a soft chuckle. But you couldn’t ignore the sensation that charged the atmosphere, like the feeling that permeated the air just before a storm, and your heartbeat was the warning thunder in your ears…
You shook your head, your thoughts returning to the present as you rubbed your thumb over the brooch’s smooth gem. It was then that the tiniest doubt began to tickle and nag at the back of your mind. What if it wasn’t him at all? What if it was merely a coincidence? Something your heart foolishly yearned for, but that your mind knew well would never happen?
A frown pulled at your lips. Baldwin had proven to be someone to whom you could speak about almost anything without fear of reprisal. Nothing you had confided in him had ever escaped the bounds of his chamber – and there was plenty you had discussed, especially lately. Even if he hadn’t sent this jewel, you could trust him to advise you with wisdom. And despite his relative absence from court, there was no one who knew its members better…
By the time your handmaid returned to help you prepare for the evening, you’d made up your mind.
“I shall wear the blue bliaut tonight. To match this lovely brooch.”
================
Even past the bandages of thin linen and the silken veil covering his ears, Baldwin could still hear the distant strains of music floating through the palace’s long and lonely corridors… the latest in Sibylla’s efforts to keep the place lively even as its king slowly wasted away, out of sight and out of mind.
He could have made a surprise appearance, he supposed. He did that on occasion, whenever he felt particularly energetic, much to his physicians’ chagrin. It was mildly intriguing to see what kind of looks he would receive and from whom– though by this point, those expressions and their bearers had become almost boringly predictable. Fear and awe were ever present, manifesting in the form of slackened jaws and widened eyes and hushed whispers behind hands and veils. Rarer looks of disgust and revulsion were always quickly covered by feigned indifference. Then there were those especially-bold souls who dared to reveal their open contempt in their thinned lips and narrowed eyes.
It was pity, however, that he despised the most.
Dread, loathing, hatred – these were all traits with which any monarch could be clothed whether they wished to or not. Such was the burden of leadership. But pity…
Pity was a mantle that was distinctly his to wear.
Every time he saw it in the faces of those who looked upon him, he was reminded that his crown was secondary to his condition. That they saw the Leper before they saw the King. It was not that he lacked appreciation for those who truly worried for his health and his well-being, but in their eyes he saw reflected back at him what he tried desperately to ignore from the moment his physicians departed in the morning until they returned at night to dress his wounds.
The corner of his mouth twitched beneath his mask, and his quill stilled, poised for a moment in the one hand of his that still had life in it before he reached to return the pen to its stand.
Lady Y/N had never looked at him that way.
Sitting back in his chair, he wondered if she was enjoying herself this night. If Sibylla was hosting her well. He hoped that she was, and that his sister had not overwhelmed the poor girl with her almost shamefully lavish tastes. It was evident that Y/N was quite unused to Jerusalem’s abundance in almost every respect; those first few days after her arrival at court, her wide-eyed wonder had rendered her speechless on more than one occasion, or so he’d heard.
A light hum escaped him at the memory of their first meeting. It seemed as though it was forever ago, and yet, at the same time, it felt as if it were only yesterday.
She had been rather distracted, he recalled… so distracted, in fact, that she hadn’t seen him in the corridors, watching as she’d unwittingly wandered into the realm of the royal apartments. With great accuracy, he’d anticipated the trajectory of her meandering steps, and he purposefully made to intercept her before she breached the threshold of what the guards deemed acceptable, even for a lost lady.
Baldwin wasn’t quite as quick as he used to be, though, in part due to that damned dragging foot of his, and he’d neglected to account for his reduction in speed, resulting in an unfortunate collision on the terrace above the gardens.
Or perhaps, he thought in hindsight, it was fortunate after all…
He’d heard enough from his informants to guess who she was. Tiberias and others amongst his court might have suspected she was an assassin simply playing the part of a lost newcomer, and he had to admit that the thought had crossed his own mind, if briefly; in a world such as theirs, it was difficult to imagine anyone without some kind of ulterior motive. Yet it soon became apparent that she was as innocent as the day was long – if there was anything his disease had given him, it was experience reading tone and body language, and he wasn’t certain the best actress in the world could have feigned her level of self-conscious nervousness.
No, Y/N was simply curious and lost. And from what those same informants had told him, she was in desperate need of someone local she could trust. Though evidently satisfied with her new home in every other way, she had been slow to acclimate to the social environment of the court, preferring to keep to herself whenever possible. From this, he suspected her need to get away from the appraising gazes of total strangers was what had initially propelled her away from the great hall, and her natural inquisitiveness had continued to pull her into the quieter depths of the palace.
But the faint smile she’d worn and the sparkle in her eyes had been replaced with fear the instant she realized who she’d run into, and the stuttering apology and low curtsey she’d given him betrayed her anticipation of reprimand.
That was something he’d had to correct, and quickly.
In the moments that followed, he’d gauged it most appropriate for them to smooth over this encounter by getting to know each other better, and thus he’d invited her to do just that in the privacy of his quarters, where they would face little chance of interruption.
As he’d hoped, she’d accepted. And it was this first conversation of theirs that had led him to believe that Lady Y/N was terribly lonely.
Her chatter was slightly nervous and yet, at the same time, somewhat eager. There was little doubt that he’d learned far more about her than she had about him; with but a little coaxing, he had discovered much about her circumstances and about what plagued her. It had displeased him greatly to hear about the thieves that had raided her entourage’s tents on the way to the Holy City, and it irked him even more that she’d lost a treasured possession because of it. Her journey had already been a long and arduous one – had that not been enough?
Y/N put up a rather convincing façade of indifference on the matter, but when he focused on her voice alone, he heard her pain. No, she was no actress, he concluded.
He also hadn’t failed to notice her willingness to make eye contact with him… to look him full in the face and speak freely with every question he asked; she dodged neither query nor gaze. Outside her initial fright on the balcony, she displayed few other signs of trepidation regarding his presence. In fact, it seemed as though she’d just been waiting for someone with whom she could share her thoughts and feelings – as if she’d bottled up everything he’d asked about since arriving in Jerusalem and finally found someone willing to listen.
Had she truly felt so comfortable with him already, or was she simply a trusting soul? He was unaccustomed to both, and it was… refreshing.
His instincts warned him that the jackals of the court would surely eat her alive, and he feared what their viciousness might do to her. What kind of slander and gossip would come from what had been innocent curiosity on her part. How much her character would be maligned for sport. The very thought of it being a possibility made his blood boil.
Over the course of their subsequent conversations, however, he was forced to rethink that initial assumption. Kind-hearted she was, and still too good for the likes of her peers, but she could hold her own among them better than he had anticipated; a few casual inquiries over a few chess matches revealed that much. She saw, heard, and understood far more than her outward appearance would suggest. Behind that warm, gentle, and charmingly-inquisitive exterior was a clever and tenacious woman whom he found to be utterly captivating. No matter the storm around her, she always projected an air of geniality and good cheer, evidently determined not to let this unsettled world tear her down.
In short, the court didn’t deserve her.
He didn’t deserve her.
She never asked him for anything, and likewise she didn’t press questions upon him about his condition. Whenever they passed time together, he felt like neither king nor leper, but like an ordinary man. In her sparkling eyes and healing presence, he saw not pity, but life. A normal life for once. One where he did not have to dread what the next morning might bring.
Alas, that glorious feeling of contentment left him with her every departure.
The sound of exuberant cheers down the corridor pulled him from his musings, and he found himself back in the relative darkness of his chambers, watching the candle’s flame flicker upon his desk. He wondered which dance it was they’d just finished, imagining Y/N in his mind’s eye moving as hypnotically as that very flame. If she danced as beautifully as he envisioned, she would have the whole court entranced…
“Sire, you have a request for an audience.”
The guard called from the entrance to his quarters.
“Who is it?” he asked, hope, dread, and fear all churning in his stomach in a toxic maelstrom. He hadn’t the patience or the energy to deal with most petitioners this night, other than-
“Lady Y/N.”
His eyes widened.
That was quick.
Hope surged forth at the mention of her name, but neither dread nor fear was eliminated by this revelation. Not completely. He had a feeling the gifting of the brooch he’d commissioned would bring her to him sooner or later, but he hadn’t anticipated it being that very day, and especially not with the festivities Sibylla had planned…
Perhaps it is not that, he reminded himself solemnly, but something else altogether.
“I will see her,” he called back at last. “Let her pass.”
There were precious few seconds for him to compose himself before he saw her, at first a shadow at the entrance to his chambers, and then illuminated by lamp and candlelight as she cautiously strode forth. His breath caught in his lungs at the sight of her, her eyes glittering like stars from all those dancing fires. She wore the most beautiful court dress he’d ever seen her in – a sapphire-blue silk bliaut, laced tight at the sides to flatter her form, seemingly a thousand shimmering pleats flowing from her hips to the floor. At her waist had been tied a fabric belt of lighter blue, embroidered in gold, double-wrapped about her body and knotted in front in Frankish style. Her belled sleeves, with their golden trim, allowed only a glimpse of her stark white chemise beneath, and there, upon that same trim that adorned the dress’s wide neckline, had been pinned the brooch, pulling the dipping V above her heart into an elegant keyhole.
“Your Majesty,” she greeted him with a curtsey, offering a smile that shot straight to his heart. “I hope I haven’t come at an inopportune time.”
“Not at all,” he gestured for her to rise, turning in his seat to fully face her, “although I would have expected you to be at my sister’s gathering.”
Another smile. “I was, in fact. Alas, I felt the need to speak with you on a matter of great import. I hope Her Highness can forgive me for my early departure.”
The king nodded once. “I am all but certain she will. I am, however, glad you were at least able to make an appearance,” he remarked as he slowly rose from his chair, stifling a groan that threatened to escape him from his aching limbs. Then, pausing, he tilted his head as he allowed himself to take in her attire once more. “You look lovely. It would have been a shame to have wasted such beauty on my poor eyes alone; better indeed that you allowed others with keener sight the chance to appreciate your taste and talents before slipping away to these dark and distant halls.”
Even in the low candlelight, he could see her cheeks flush, and as her gaze briefly flicked away from his, he felt his twisted lips pull into an unseen smile.
“You are too kind, my lord,” she replied. “In truth, I found myself… inspired… by this new jewel I received just this afternoon.” Her fingers drifted to that very piece, pinned above her heart, and Baldwin forced himself to school his gaze… to pretend he hadn’t been the one to write up the specifics of its creation for the royal jeweler… that he hadn’t entrusted it to Tiberias to give to a capable courier… that he hadn’t prayed to God he hadn’t made an irreversible mistake by daring to tread on this unknown path.
“Do you like it?” she asked suddenly, her eyes meeting his. “Believe it or not, it is, in fact, the subject of my concern.”
Something in both her gaze and her tone told him she’d made the assumption he wished. Good. He had no desire to drag this out; indeed, hadn’t the time for it. And now that she was here, following the lead he’d purposefully fashioned, his only task was to find out if Tiberias was truly right about her and her feelings…
Swallowing back where his heart had gathered in his throat, he replied coolly, “Yes, it suits you. Although, I am uncertain as to why you would approach me for such an opinion,” he added with a chuckle, slightly bemused at the way she was choosing to approach this mystery. Indicating the chess table where they’d held so many conversations of late, he beckoned, “Come. Sit.”
Wordlessly, she acquiesced, dipping her head before moving to take her usual place, as he did his.
“I…” she began after a moment, her stare focused on one of the pieces as he settled himself opposite her. “Well, the truth is, I was hoping I could ask you for advice in a matter related to it. Regarding the one who sent it to me, in fact.”
“Yes?” he prompted as he watched her. Time to confirm that assumption.
“Well, you see… I don’t really know who sent it…”
His eyes met hers, squinting a little. “You don’t?” he asked, keeping the skepticism from his tone as he began to pull her thoughts from her.
“No.” She shook her head. “There was no name on the note that accompanied it, so I cannot know for certain who might have sent it. But,” yet another smile tugged at the corner of her mouth, her eyes sparkling again as she leaned forth and propped her elbows on the edge of the table, “I do have an idea, and I was hoping perhaps I might pass my thoughts by you. You know a great many in your court, after all. Perhaps you could confirm or deny my suspicions?”
Oh yes, she knew. He knew she knew. And now she played with him as much as he with her, both seeking confession…
“Perhaps I could,” he answered musingly. “What are your thoughts, then, Lady Y/N?”
“Well,” she began, dropping her gaze to the pieces once more, her fingertips toying with the white king, “I was just thinking of how appropriate such a gift was. Indeed, the person who sent it must know me rather well. It appeals so much to my tastes and is so fitting given recent events.”
His heart felt like it was about to beat itself out of his chest. “How fortuitous.”
“My thoughts precisely,” she agreed, glancing up at him. “And of those whom I’ve spent the most time with, there are few who would know me in such a manner.”
“Truly?”
“Truly.”
She paused, and he felt her eyes studying him intensely. “In fact, there is only one man who would have known just how fortuitous it was. Only one who would have known I would have need of such a piece. Now,” she leaned back a little, offering him a pointed look, “I do realize that brooches are popular as courting gifts,” she paused, her gaze latching to his, “but even so, I find the choice rather… convenient. Don’t you, my lord?”
“Yes,” he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. “I understand your meaning.”
Deafening silence stretched between them during which neither of them moved.
“Only one man,” she repeated, her own voice having gone quiet, and Baldwin saw her eyes glimmer in the lamplight. Before he could even open his mouth to offer another comment, she leaned forward again, her gaze burning a hole through him. “Only one man who bothered to know me. To know my heart. To care for me and my life enough to remember what I held dear.” He saw her swallow heavily. “You, my king. You sent it to me, didn’t you?”
“Yes,” he breathed, nodding once in affirmation.
“Do you mean it?”
Her question was barely a whisper, yet Baldwin felt it in his heart – a probing inquiry seeking out the truth of his intentions.
His blood was rushing in his ears. “Every word, written and unwritten.”
And with that final admission everything was confirmed on his part. But as for hers…
The tears were obvious in her eyes now, pooling at the edges of her lashes. In that moment, he was sure he understood how the condemned felt just before the stroke of the headsman’s axe, before the tightening of the hangman’s noose. What would her answer be, then? He knew in his heart it would be better for her to simply walk away. But would she? Would she willingly doom herself to heartbreak?
At last Y/N spoke once more, her voice a tremulous whisper, and he hung upon every word as though his very life depended on it.
“I know this cannot be a courtship in the traditional sense,” she began softly, her liquid stare never leaving his, “and I know what the others will say…”
He began to feel lightheaded. At this rate, he was going to faint before he could hear her answer in full.
“…but I don’t care. For as long as there is life left in both of us, my king, I am yours. In whatever capacity you desire.”
“Oh.”
The word left him on a whoosh of breath, hissing behind his mask as relief washed over him in a powerful wave, every muscle in his body relaxing at once. Yet he couldn’t help the warped smile that overtook his countenance behind that façade of silver at the implications of her words.
She…?
“Yes,” she said with a nod, as if hearing the question his thoughts posed. A soft laugh followed, even as a shimmering tear slowly tracked down her cheek. “I love you, Baldwin. With all my heart. And I have since the day we met.”
At that, then, there was no longer any question of her feelings. He felt his own eyes welling with emotion, and he leaned towards her as close as he dared, propping his good hand on the table for support. “I regret that I will never be able to show you the extent of my own for you, my dear Lady Y/N. But understand this…” he paused, swallowing heavily. “My purest devotion has and always will belong to you. As much as a wretch such as I can be, I, too, am yours.”
She shook her head. “You are no wretch. Not to me.”
It was then her hand slowly moved towards where his gloved one yet lay on the table’s polished surface, and he flinched, a spike of fear darting through him like the bolt from a crossbow. “Y/N, no…”
Her gaze bored into his, her hand yet poised above his own. “I’m not afraid, my lord.”
“Y/N… please…”
The word was barely a whisper, slipping between the slightly-parted lips of his mask before he could catch it – a cry for her to stop and yet a plea for her not to. It was as if he had been paralyzed, unable to move away despite every corner of his mind screaming at him to withdraw.
If the glove was not enough… if it couldn’t safeguard her…
And yet all thoughts of everything came to a halt the moment her fingers lightly grazed his own, his breath catching in his throat. He felt it – the warmth of her through the thin silk – and it took all of his strength not to flinch away from her again, to curl his hand into a fist and recoil in upon himself to protect her from his horrid disease. Her eyes searched his, seemingly sifting through his soul as further she went. Slowly. Steadily. Her fingertips brushed with a feather-light touch over each set of knuckles, back and forth, and he couldn’t breathe. His lungs were desperate for air as she traced the delicate golden embroidery on the back of his hand; they finally betrayed him then, a shuddering exhale followed by a hitched intake of air he was certain she heard.
Yet Y/N only smiled at him once more, in that warm and gentle way of hers, her hand stilling as it rested atop his. And the entire world stilled along with it, his fear slowly ebbing as reason returned to replace it. These touches were all they had, he realized. All they could permit themselves. And yet still they could hold all the tenderness of a kiss.
Speaking of which…
He moved much more gently, then, as he twisted his hand underneath hers to catch her fingers in his grip. His gaze holding hers, he stroked his thumb across her knuckles before bringing that hand to his mask, where the cold and unfeeling lips touched the back of it in place of his own disfigured ones.
Despite not being able to give her a proper kiss, though, she evidently still understood the gesture, as another blush flushed her cheeks. A soft chuckle escaped him, and he remarked dryly, “There appears to be a bit of an obstacle here…”
At that, uncontrollable laughter burst from her, merry and full, and she clamped her other hand over her mouth to muffle it, leaning against the back of the chair as she continued to shake. He, too, laughed softly at her merriment, and for a moment the sound filled the room with a kind of joy it hadn’t witnessed in years.
After a moment, Y/N finally recovered, and she glanced over her shoulder as the faint strains of another song could be heard. Her gaze glittering with stars, both hands grasped his now and gently tugged as she stood. “Come. Dance with me.”
He blinked even as he slowly rose before her. “I… fear I’m not capable of much these days…”
“Not to worry,” she assured him with a grin, “I’ve just the dance in mind. Like this…”
With that, she pulled him to the open floor at the center of his chambers and began to show him the steps – two sidesteps here, two sidesteps there, a slow twirl of the lady in his arms, and begin again. For the first few cycles, she counted quietly until he caught the rhythm, and then there was only a warm, comfortable silence between them, the two gently swaying and turning to the distant music.
Tiberias was right. In that moment, Baldwin knew only happiness. Peace. Comfort. And so long as Y/N, too, felt these things, he could be content with whatever God had willed for him. He could only pray that, upon his death, the Almighty would be merciful to this woman, a living angel on Earth…
================================================
If you made it this far, thank you so much for reading! If you want more of my writing, I also have a WIP Baldwin-centric longfic posted on Ao3 (shameless plug)! 😁Do let me know if you want me to continue this Y/N story! I'd love to hear your thoughts.
Also, the dance mentioned at the end of the story was inspired by this lovely one:
youtube
#kingdom of heaven#kingdom of heaven 2005#kingdom of heaven fandom#king baldwin iv#baldwin iv#tiberias#raymond iii of tripoli#koh fandom#baldwin iv of jerusalem#the leper king#fanfiction#reader insert#baldwin iv x reader#fem reader#my fanfiction#Youtube
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