#devil has immaculate drip | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

afterdarkprincess · 2 months

Text

The Devil's In the Details (But You Got a Friend in Me)- Part 6

Pairing: Sami/Jey Rating: Explicit Chapter Summary: Tensions rise between Jey and his brothers before and during Backlash in Puerto Rico

This chapter took me waaaaaay too long to write but here it is!

thank you as always to @elementaldoughnut12 for the inspo for this fic!

this particular part does not contain anything explicit, but the rest of the fic is :)

tag squad: @feelschicken @southerngirl41 @harmshake @jeysbvck @imabillyami

AO3

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5

The days drag on for Jey, as much as he wishes the Puerto Rico trip closer, the hours and minutes drip by like molasses. They’re on the road almost every day, just him and Jimmy trekking it in their rental car, Solo having been whisked away by the Tribal Chief with little explanation.

His little brother’s words linger in his head, fear that he’d be tasked with hurting Jey or Jimmy, or something worse. Solo’s approval of his relationship with Sami won’t stop him from spiking him if Roman commands him to do so. Like the trial all over again.

It should be a comfort to be on the road with his twin, like they’ve been their whole lives, but Jimmy is still being distant with him. On the surface, they’re okay. The truce they struck the night of the draft keeps them from all out fighting but theres an undercurrent that’s impossible for Jey to ignore.

Sometimes on those long nights in rented cars, when their talking lulls and it gets a little too quiet, Jimmy looks at him with this mix of hurt and frustration that cuts Jey to the bone.

The trip to Puerto Rico is no better, the tension palpable the whole travel day. Jimmy being particularly restless and irritable since they left their hotel that morning.

Jey had been on the phone with Sami while Jimmy went out to get them both breakfast, and he’d lost track of time listening to Sami talk about a new brand of coffee he found at the store (it shouldn’t be as cute as it is), only realizing his mistake when the door opened.

Jimmy’d had his hands full with the bags and two large OJs, but as Sami continued on with his story, his face quickly soured.

It didn’t make any sense to him. Jimmy had been the one to accept Sami the quickest, the one to call him the Honorary Uce in the first place. They’d been so close all these months and even during the Waffle House trip after ‘Mania they were getting along just fine.

Jimmy gives him the cold shoulder the rest of the day, barely giving him a glance as they pack up their hotel room and head toward the airport. He gives only grunts and nods when Jey tries to talk to him and finally he stops trying.

The two and a half hour flight to Puerto Rico feels much longer with his silent, unhappy twin crammed beside him and not a single friendly face around them to make things any better.

He shoves his airpods into his ears and tries to focus on the show he’s been watching that Xavier recommended to him a few weeks ago, but Jimmy’s foul mood lingers like a raincloud above both of them.

When they land the hot and humid air doesn’t help the vibe at all, the tension rising as they get to the talent hotel. They check in to find that Heyman has put them in a room together and Jey rubs his hand across his forehead.

“Problem?” The polite desk clerk asks, her immaculate eyebrows drawn in concern.

Jimmy rolls his eyes and Jey feels his frustration beginning to reach a boiling point. He doesn’t want to take it on this poor girl though, so he shakes his head and takes the key cards, stomping towards the elevator and not sparing a passing glance to see if Jimmy follows.

The elevator is crowded when they get in, and Jey’s fingers tap against his thigh as they ascend to their floor. He closes his eyes and tries for a deep breath, conjuring Sami’s voice in his mind to talk him off the ledge, at least until they get into the privacy of their room.

Jey drops his bag on the bed furthest from the door as the door slams, and he swings around to face Jimmy.

“What is yo’ DEAL? Spit it out, M’tired of this!” Jey watches his older brother scowl, crossing his arms and huffing like this is Jey’s fault.

“You tired? I’M tired of this, uce! You runnin’ around with this big secret you ain’t tellin’ me! You said at the draft I gotta trust you, but how can I trust you when you clearly don’ trust me?” Jimmy’s eyes are blazing, a deep undercurrent of hurt in his voice.

Jey feels his stomach sink. Why does it have to be this?

“Listen, I jus’-“ He’s cut off before he can even form his thought.

“Why ain’t you told me?” Jimmy blurts out. “Why ain’t you told me ‘bout you and Sami?”

Silence hangs heavy in the air as Jey processes what he’s hearing.

He clears his throat, “What you mean?”

“Don’t pull that shit with me, you know what I mean. I seen you with crushes before, Uce. I seen you when you in yo’ honeymoon phase before. How long was you gon’ wait to tell me?” The calm disappointment in Jimmy’s voice is somehow worse than the anger he was expecting.

Jey drops down onto the bed, feeling a mixture of guilt and relief. Jimmy knows, he knows. Of course he would know. With very few exceptions they’ve shared everything since birth, why wouldn’t Jimmy be able to suss him out?

“I-“ He starts, rubbing his hands together. What choice does he have but to tell the truth now? “Look I wanted to tell you, s’been killing me not to tell you ‘bout all this, but man with the way everything been goin’ lately? With how Roman has been the last few years? I ain’t exactly trying to shout this from the rooftops.”

“But you coulda told me, Uce! You right that Roman been wack, and I can get not wantin’ errybody to know. But you try sneakin’ around on me?” Jimmy shakes his head.

Jey laughs a little in spite of himself. “Don’t seem like I did a good job at that anyway.”

“True, but it don’ make it better you not trustin’ me, Jey! We supposed to be a team!”

His heart hurts. “Is not that I don’ trust you-“

“Then what is it?” Jimmy interrupts and takes a few slow steps forward towards where Jey sits on the bed.

“I been afraid okay? Afraid of everything n’ everybody, and it sucks for real but…” Jey takes a deep breath in. “Sami’s the best thing I ever had, Uce. He already not 100%, and that’s on my shoulders for not protectin’ him back at the Rumble. Then we started gettin’ closer, then ‘Mania happened, and I didn’t want my mistakes to get taken out on him, cause you know how big Uce is.”

Jimmy nods, though his brow is still furrowed.

“Sami wanted to tell errybody right away, big blabber mouth that he is, but I said no, to keep it between us jus’ for now. I shoulda known that you would figure it out anyway, Solo did too, but I just don’t wanna fuck this up, feel me?” Jey stares at his hands in his lap rather than his brother.

His twin is silent for a long time before he finally takes the last few steps to sit next to Jey on the bed. “I get it, I do. I still think you coulda told me, but I get it.” Jimmy claps a hand on Jey’s shoulder reassuringly. “Also what you mean about Solo?”

Jey looks up, “Yeah like you said, I wasn’t very good at hidin’ things. Solo saw us together when Sami was leavin’ the hotel after ‘Mania, he didn’t say nothin’ ‘bout it until that night we got chewed out by Ro’ though.”

“He have a problem with it?” Jimmy’s voice has an edge to it, ever the big brother ready to defend him.

“Nah man, he was happy for us. Said he wouldn’t tell Tribal Chief, but you never know, you know? He ain’t say much, but he follows orders. Can’t say what he’d do if Roman asked him directly.” Jey finds himself rubbing at his forehead again, scrunches his forehead in frustration and drops his hand. “D’you have a problem with it?”

Jimmy looks at him with his signature are-you-an-idiot face.

“Jus’ checkin’” Jey laughs.

“I only wanna know when you both coming around for dinner so Trin can assess the situation like she been askin’.” Jimmy says, smacking Jey’s shoulder lightly again before rising from the bed to flop down on his own.

“Wait- Trin knows?”

“You know her, she figured it out ‘fore I did. Though that’s on you for callin’ the man every night like some love sick puppy. ‘Bout the second time she heard you over the phone steppin’ out to make a call, she knew what was up.”

Jey shakes his head. “Somehow that don’ surprise me.”

“Damn woman knows errything and never lets me forget it,” Jimmy says, but the smile on his face is fond.

“Yeah you love it tho,” Jey points out.

“I do, I do,” His braids move as he nods. “You love Sami like that?”

Jey pauses, the anxieties that have been weighing on him rising like the tide. But this is Jimmy , the other half of him, and Jey’s had enough of keeping things from his brother lately.

He nods slowly before meeting his twin’s gaze. “Yeah man, it don’ make no sense but… yeah I do.”

Jimmy nods solemnly, before perking up. “Well you always did have shit taste, Uce.”

Jey grabs the nearest pillow and chucks it at Jimmy’s insufferable head.

—

With the tension gone between him and Jimmy, Jey feels much lighter in the days before Backlash. He enjoys himself in San Juan, the two of them taking some time to explore the city in their downtime.

They’re wandering through a street market, Jimmy distracted by the intoxicating smells of food that waft from the different stalls. Jey’s phone buzzes in his pocket, Sami sending him message after message about meeting a fan in the grocery store earlier that morning. He smiles and shakes his head as each notification comes through carrying all the excitement of Sami’s voice.

He looks up just in time to keep himself from running into another shop, this one with lots of very touristy looking merchandise, with shirts and mugs and shot glasses loudly proclaiming I <3 PUERTO RICO in bright colors. But what catches his eye is a penguin plushie adorned with a miniature version of the t shirts, overstuffed so it’s tummy pokes out of the shirt, matching the full rounded cheeks.

Jey can’t help but laugh, the image of Sami in nothing but Jey’s too-small crop top immediately coming to mind.

He grabs the plushie before he can think too much more about it, and pays for it, waving off the bag he’s offered, choosing instead to carry it.

When he finds Jimmy with a street taco in hand, his twin shoots him a questioning look.

Jey shrugs, “S’for Sami, you know?”

Jimmy rolls his eyes, “Gross uce, gonna make me barf up all this good food with your cutesy honeymoon shit.”

They exchange playful shoves as they walk along, until Jimmy stops abruptly, seeing a beautiful knit bikini set, and Jey knows what’s going through his brother’s head immediately.

“Oh okay, ‘see how it is, uce. S’gross when it’s me n’ Sami but when you’re lookin at lingerie for Trin, it’s all good?” Jey exaggeratedly gags, but the smile on his face can’t be denied.

Jimmy shrugs, “Don’t know what to tell you, little bro. You’d be this way too if you’d bagged a smokin’ hot babe.”

“What makes you think Sami ain’t smokin’ hot?”

His twin stares at him, grimacing. “He certainly ain’t my type. Not to mention man’s been puttin’ on some weight since he been out.”

Jey feels his blood boil in an instant. “And?”

“That ain’t bother you?”

“Hell nah,” Jey shakes his head.

Jimmy raises his hands, “Alright then, uce- forget I mentioned it, damn. If you happy, m’happy.”

Jey holds the overstuffed penguin a little tighter to his chest. “Damn right.”

Jimmy buys the bikini and they wander around for another half hour before deciding to call it quits and head back to the hotel for a workout and a shower. Their triple threat match is tomorrow, and neither of them have heard from Solo still and Jey’s mind is far from at ease.

—

After a hard workout and a hot shower, Jey crashes onto his bed. Jimmy offers to go get their food, forever hungry, and Jey waves him off, whipping his phone out and hitting Sami’s name from his favorite contacts.

“Jeyyy!”

Sami’s voice warms him from the inside out. “How you doin’ boo?”

“Not bad, not bad, haven’t done much today, threw on some old matches to pass the time. Watching uhhhh Survivor Series ’04 right now? How’s Puerto Rico?”

Jey can hear the grainy cheers of the crowd in the background, and he tries and fails to remember if his father was at that event. “S’hot that’s for sure. Went out this afternoon with Jim and we was sweatin’ buckets.”

“Thought you guys liked the heat?” Sami teases.

“Not when it’s so damn sticky like this, gonna be a bitch fightin’ in it tomorrow.”

“Mm,” Sami says, and it’s like Jey can hear his mind working. “How’s things goin’ with Jimmy?”

“It’s uhh,” Jey can’t help the smile that comes across his face. “It’s good actually. Things kinda came to a head when we got here, he was pissed at me, n’ I was pissed at him. But we talked it out and… he knows ‘bout us now.”

“Oh? You told him?”

“Yea, but he already knew. Guess I’m easy to read or somethin’.” He laughs at himself. “Turns out I was worried for nothin’. He was more mad that I hadn’t told him.”

“You had your reasons, Jey. But I can’t deny that I’m delighted to hear that he knows, I know how much that was eating at you.” More cheers come from the background noise, and it sounds like Sami is munching on a snack. Jey closes his eyes for a moment and imagines that they’re curled up together on the couch, talking face to face instead of miles apart over the phone.

“Thought maybe he could come by for a day or two while m’there? Might be weird but-“

“It’s important to you, babe, I get it.” Jey can hear Sami’s smile in his voice. “Plus I’m not gonna say no to spendin’ some time with my dawg Jimmy! Solo gonna come too?”

The mention of his baby brother sours his stomach. “Uh, I don’ know ‘bout Solo. He still ain’t really been talkin’ to us, and it don’ sit right with me.”

“You think Roman’s trying to turn him against you and Jimmy?” Sami sees into the heart of him as usual.

“I don’t know what to think,” Jey admits. “I don’ think Roman could really turn Solo ‘gainst us in his heart, but I also know Solo ain’t gonna disobey an order. Too many unknowns goin’ into this fight tomorrow.”

“Well, whatever happens you know I’m rooting for you.” The sentiment means more to Jey than he could ever tell.

The heaviness having past, Sami fills Jey in on the minutiae of his day, the progresses he continues to make in PT.

Before long the hotel room door swings open, Jimmy tumbling back in with his hands full of paper bags. “S’at Sami?” He asks as he dumps the bags onto Jey’s bed.

Jey nods, but Sami beats him to the punch. “’Sup my dawg?? How’s it been?”

“Aw you know,” Jimmy smiles. “Same old same old, just dealin’ with Jey bein’ all sad and dramatic without you.”

Sami laughs, full and wonderful. “I’m sure it can’t be that bad.”

“Oh you don’t know the half of it, uce. It’s Sami this and Sami that and he looks at his phone with puppy eyes-“

“Shut it!” Jey throws a fry from the bag directly into Jimmy’s face, making him splutter and laugh.

When their laughter dies down, Sami chimes in. “Jey and I were thinking you should come with him to visit when you’re done down there- just for a day or two!”

Jimmy’s eyebrows lift, considering the suggestion. “Ain’t a bad idea, I’ll see what Trin’s up to if she wanna come too?”

“Sure thing! I’d love to catch up with her!”

“You say that now, just wait until she’s all up in our business,” Jey’s been on the receiving end of Trinity’s probing questions far too many times.

“Oh I think it’ll be fun…” Something in Sami’s tone sound mischievous and suddenly Jey is regretting all of his life choices.

With plans made for next week and just a few days until he’ll see Sami again, Jey sleeps well the night before Backlash.

He’s glad he’s well rested, as the day is full of appearances and interviews, a fresh hair cut and dye job. The only time he has to himself is in the gym that morning, and even that was disturbed by Jimmy’s moaning and groaning at the early hour.

The heat of the day makes Jey restless and irritable, and he has to check himself a few times for getting testy with people who don’t deserve it. He has a reputation for being a hot head in the ring, but he tries not to let that bleed into real life as much as possible. At least he can blame the anger on the match, this feud with Holland and Butch that has always been so personal, especially for him.

Seeing those two with his belts, the belts that he and Jimmy unified, the belts that Sami stepped up to help him defend, makes him sick. Ridge’s smirk and laugh taking him back to the night when Jey had no choice but to watch as Sami took the blow for him, potentially ending his career to save Jey. The pain he felt at the time that he didn’t understand and dismissed as concern for a brother in arms.

Jey wipes the sweat from his face and bounces on his toes, trying to get focused. Ridge has gotten the upper hand more than once because of Jey’s emotions, he won’t allow them to get the better of him again.

Jimmy paces around him, it’s quiet backstage while half the roster is out for the Street Fight between Priest and Bad Bunny. It’s been just the two of them for a while, with no word from their younger brother.

“Ah there they are!” Paul’s grating voice cuts through the silence as he shuffles out of the dark hallway, with Solo’s imposing form behind him.

“Yeah we been here, where have y’all been?” Jey asks, looking at Solo rather than the beady eyes of the Wiseman.

Paul wrings his hands together, beginning to sweat at the looming angry stares of both twins. “W-well you see, the Tribal Chief, he-“

“Ain’t matter now,” Solo’s soft but stern voice cut through, his taped hand blocking between his brothers and Paul.

The moment of tension passes as a PA arrives to let them know to head to gorilla. Paul relaxes and Solo rolls his shoulders, face blank and impassive as Jimmy still shoots him wary looks.

Jey’s not sure who his youngest brother was protecting from who, but nothing about it helps to sooth his worried mind.

They’re announced first, despite the titles not being on the line. Another insult on top of the injury. Their music hits, and Jey buries all his unease and anxiety under a mask of confidence, fitting into his role in the Bloodline perfectly, ever the dutiful loyal twin.

Sheamus comes out before Butch and Holland, a sign of respect for the tag team champions and an endorsement from the more seasoned wrestler. Jey doesn’t have anything against the man personally, but he’d been a part of the surprise attack on Roman too, and is just as much responsible for Sami’s injury in his eyes. Jey bares his fanged teeth as he enters the ring as a warning.

Samantha’s voice booms through the crowd as she announces Butch and Ridge. The crowd’s response is mixed at best, still getting boos from fervent Sami fans, and it warms Jey’s heart. The pop when Sami does come back will be unreal, and Jey can’t wait for that day. But for now, he has a point to make and an ugly mug to pin.

The bell rings and he stares at Ridge, trying to burn into the man with his eyes alone. Jimmy grabs him buy the shoulders, forcibly turning him back to the corner of the ring where Solo stands with his arms crossed.

Just as he turns, Jey catches Ridge spitting at his feet, and it’s over from there. He darts past Jimmy, fists flying to catch the man in the face before Sheamus gets him back to their corner.

The crowd roars, matching the rage in Jey’s heart as Jimmy hauls him back again, his mouth moving quickly, no doubt trying to talk Jey down but he doesn’t hear a word.

Solo pulls him through the ropes and claps him once on the shoulder, snapping Jey’s attention away from Holland for a moment. Solo nods once, face giving nothing away, but Jey takes a few deep huffing breaths and nods back, thankful at least for the distraction.

Jimmy works on Sheamus for a while, not making much ground as the irishman kept outpacing him. Jimmy backs him into a corner only for Butch to tag in, the smaller man immediately going for Jimmy’s hands.

Jey calls out for the tag, reaching as his twin struggles to break away from the hold Butch has him in, before finally escaping and diving to smack his hand against Jey’s open palm.

He storms into the ring, eyes locked on Butch and he goes for the grapple, carefully keeping his hands away from the smaller man’s.

They exchange blows, and Jey struggles to make any headway even with the crowd cheering him on. He picks Butch up, preparing for the Samoan drop, but he’s caught off guard by his name barked from ringside.

His head whips toward the noise, but it wasn’t one of his brothers calling out to him.

Holland stares back at him, smug grin on his face and waves. Jey growls in frustration, but he’s distracted just long enough for Butch to escape the hold and roll him into a brutal kimura lock, capturing his fingers in the process.

Jimmy’s yelling now, but the sound of his twin’s voice is drowned out by the barking of Ridge from the apron. He’s not far from the ropes, and he’s confident he can reach them, but it means crawling toward the man hurling abuse at him.

“Just lay down and take it ye piece o’ shite, ye ain’t gettin’ these titles back! Not as long as we got somethin’ to say ‘bout it! We’ll take you and yer brothers out the same way we took out Zayn!”

Jey fights for breath, trying to remain calm despite the taunts.

Focus. Don’t let him rile you up

The voice in his head sounds like Sami, steadying him through the pain in his limbs. He drags himself forward a few feet, reaching for the ropes with his free hand.

He’s nearly there when a boot comes down on his hand hard.

“Oops!” Jey hears Sheamus’s voice above him. “My bad, ref!”

Jey can barely see through the stinging pain in his hand, and the thought crosses his mind that he’s maybe broken or tore something.

Butch rolls him over lifting his leg for the pin, and Jey wants to fight it, it’s too early in the match for this, but he can’t make his body move.

Thankfully Jimmy dove in to break the pin, grabbing Jey’s arm to lift him back to his feet.

He breathes hard and stumbles back to the corner with Solo, who’s scowl has deepened further. He drops to the mat and rolls under the ropes, coming to his feet at ringside, hunching over to further catch his breath and assess the damage. He flexes his hand and fingers, finding no further sharp pains and heaves a sigh of relief.

The crowd roars around him after the smack of a tag made, and he hauls himself back up on the apron with Solo.

The match wears on, 15, 20, then 30 minutes dragging by. Solo hasn’t tagged in more than once or twice so he still looks pretty fresh, but Jimmy and Jey are both struggling. Jey’s hand still aches dully, and his chest stings after getting caught in Sheamus’s Ten Beats of the Bodhran.

He’s in the ring and his head swims from the drop Sheamus put on him. The Irishman lurks in his corner, preparing for a Brogue kick that Jey’s not sure he’ll be able to recover from. He can’t see Jimmy or Solo, he could have sworn he’d felt a tap on his shoulder, but he wasn’t totally sure and it looks like he’s been left on his own.

In a blur of ginger, just not quite the right shade, a boot makes hard contact with his face and the mat rushes up to meet him. It’s over, or it might as well be.

He’s pinned again, the smacks of the ref’s hand against the ring deafened by the crowd counting.

1…..2….

Heavy footfalls against the mat, and a trademark primal scream announce the arrival of Solo, but he doesn’t break the pin, choosing instead to grab Sheamus and viciously spike the man directly in the throat. Jey’s certainly not complaining, but he is confused.

Solo delivers another spike before pinning Sheamus for a full three count, the bell ringing as Jey sits up next to the Irishman’s still form.

His younger brother yells again, and before he can process what’s happening he’s hauled to his feet, Solo’s tight grip on his shoulder with his thumb raised to strike.

Jey grabs at the arm Solo’s holding him with.

“What you doin’? What’s wrong with you, uce?!”

Solo has a wild look in his eyes, but he hesitates, huffing out hot air as he scowls at Jey.

Jey uses his remaining strength to shove out of Solo’s grasp. “You gonna hit me? M’your brother!! We your brothers not HIM!!” In hindsight it’s not the sort of thing he should be saying out loud in front of a crowd and cameras, but he doesn’t know how else to get through to Solo.

Jimmy appears in the ring, putting himself between Jey and Solo, reaching a hand out to the younger. “Ey, we cool? S’over uce, we won, there ain’t no need for this!”

Solo’s thick brow furrows but he gives a short nod. The ref nervously raises Solo’s fist and their music hits, but it sure doesn’t feel like a victory to Jey.

---

Thank you for reading!! I'm hoping the next chapter doesn't take me two months to write 😅

#samijey #jey uso #sami zayn #wwe fanfiction #my writing

15 notes · View notes

sasorikigai · 1 year

Note

[ FIVE FIRSTS ] send for five times our muses almost had their first time together and the one time it happens. for Hanzo and Liv in modern verse! if you're still accepting <3

♢ — 𝐀 𝐂𝐎𝐋𝐋𝐄𝐂𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍 𝐎𝐅 ‘𝐅𝐈𝐕𝐄 𝐓𝐈𝐌𝐄𝐒’ 𝐃𝐑𝐀𝐁𝐁𝐋𝐄 𝐏𝐑𝐎𝐌𝐏𝐓𝐒 || @somniaxperdita || selectively accepting

一 . Such persistent numbness may have long caused Commander Hasashi to harden, each loss excruciatingly plunging sharp shrapnel into his heart and brain, taking something human out of him. All he dreams, day in and day out, is to be softened; everything feels so static, even amidst chaos amok, and he finds himself stuck in a path that has no exist anymore. Looking at the sky helps him these days to alleviate the indescribable heaviness he feels in his heart, but how he feels apart into the fathomless sea of his abyss. His desolate mind burrowing into his heart; a manifested burning sun, lonely in the barren blue skies, sinking into his skin, and clinging to his existence. Maybe it’s the voice in his head, its oblivion tossing back his shipwrecked, fragmented selves, which presides over the motionless heart, which refused to beat, but alas, Hanzo Hasashi’s unyielding, potent passion still beats, and recalls with all his lives his reasons for unforgetting. His memories were a parasite, feeding off the life he radiated in the fevered passion of his resilience and endurance. Their icy hands, slipping into his mind, pushing and pulling at his thoughts, crawling into his heart, pressing into his very being, preventing him from being imprinted with the newfound love. Resentment of his trauma pushes his beloved away, lest Olivia Winter attempts to entwine into him. And how Hanzo Hasashi circles around the flames of illusion, as his subconscious continues to dance in the dying world, with the fury of the poisonous memory’s defiant clutches.

二. His existence was nothing, but a mere smear against the life he has written and rewritten for himself. It is a black hole that swallows anything, everything - something. His past has written him in tainted blacks of the flaked crimson, against the purity of paperwhite sheets of the chapters of his life, once pristine and immaculate. His life was Harumi’s, for he has entirely devoted himself to the bubble of Hasashis. And yet, the rotten smell of her dripping flesh to fresh blood which once circulated around his veins grind into his bones, which manifest into words, letters, phrases, sentences he has constructed by the cruel whispers of Satan. A part of him will be forever threaded and stitched with the vicious and crude exit of his beloved, into the fabric of his bones called skin as it trembles, flushed in fevered spell of rage, agony, and guilt. Perhaps Hanzo Hasashi was made by her, therefore, he was still hers. Olivia Winter does not make him feel unsatisfied nor unloved, and yet, even looking at her would metaphorically kill him countless times. If such sensation makes him feel alive, torture him to death, making him to see the unapproachable afterlife over and over again, he will continue to paint his hands with his own blood, lest his crippling emotions already creep in the vanity of his insanity. And how he burns like hell, locking himself in the place of torture where the devil replays a moment of when he felt guilty. That thought of him persistently and permanently burning in his mind, as the feeling of guilt he cannot shake off blazes in his ribcage, reaching the unfathomable depth of his chestnut eyes. The dystopia of his subconscious, paired with Harumi’s name etched in the label he has put against the choking carnage still carving his own path in life, prevents him from upturning and repairing his life to the fullest.

三. What about happiness? Could he ever know it well enough to put it into sentences ever again? What about love? Will he ever overflow so much of someone else’s love that he will put it into words? Those ricocheting questions encircling Hanzo Hasashi’s mind constantly suffocates him, as he becomes a prisoner of his own mind hoping to find a way out. His profession had been his salvation, while he still holds himself as a hostage as his aching heart continues to ooze his unsolicited feelings, unfurling floated nostalgic pools of memories, both remembered and unremembered. How could he ever love someone new, when every night he dreams of his Harumi? Wouldn’t it be entirely selfish and undeserving, to simply yearn for all things delighting and sweet solely because flames of sensual love seems enticing on the surface? Hanzo doesn’t think the embers of past bridges will completely burn, lest how much contempt and disgust burns his heart, for letting himself stuck in an impasse. The night may roar with vehement fire, as his heart remains lifted high on flames, but it remains charred, lest his beloved’s embrace revivifies the dimmed light which still shines from within. Olivia Winter couldn’t be more radiant; for looking at her is cataclysmic and lovely. While Hanzo’s heart shines and flickers, he is like a dying star in his chest, as flashes of awe and despair give way to stardust. She could be a gleaming gold entity, for she brings a sense of serenity, but concurrently also a sense of being bursting into flames and stardust. His ambivalence amounts, and he finds himself still waiting in the dark for so long; with nothing, but memories, draped across his body like ephemeral spiderwebs, with remnants of his old love’s hands all over him, seeping through the settling warmth of his and Olivia’s pressed, yet distant bodies.

四. In the middle of an ocean of thoughts, of expectations, pressure, millions of words, Commander Hasashi stays afloat. Within the windblown world of unknown and unexpected predicaments, Olivia Winter, whether in her presence or absence, become a quintessential blaze of light flaming him forever in a timeless, dear love of everything. He still feels, at most things, amateurish. However engrossed and ensorcelled by love he may be, he feels incomplete and undeserving. Bombarded by that singular feeling of suddenly realizing, that he did this to himself. He hasn’t always been so selfish, and yet, having so many priorities dedicated to him and him alone isn’t a luxury he could dare have in his personal life. For there are holes in his head; places where memories have been carved out and jagged edges where he has taken the cleaver to his own brain. The trinkets of his past may embed in his brain, with the weight of the guilt-driven responsibilities becoming a burdensome weight. How could he grant Olivia Winter a new transformed version of him when he had already lost sight of who he is? He couldn’t dare to do his beloved such a disservice by bestowing her a distilled and washed out version of him. So Hanzo Hasashi stays deep in his self-induced quarantine; locking himself out in the battlefield living room where he retreats deep into the rusted crimson of his fire and chaos. The blanket of dark and the cloak of night swaddles his melancholic brain, as the wilted amber light of confidential images continue to guide Commander Hasashi back in memory lane.

五. “Do you ever feel that ache?” Emotions running so deep, it cannot be fake, as the unspent tension inside him continues to rise. Hanzo can also see in Olivia’s eyes; it’s not surprising that they both want each other now, yearning to explore the inside and feel the warm winds against their necks. They have the seed, but he is the one who must plant it. He can visualize; their bodies pressed together with sweat, as he travels through and over her voluptuous body, letting his hands explore as the candor eagerness takes him. His eyes remain submerged in a riptide of bliss, and yet, he never dares to seal them with a kiss. How they drift off into the sky and beyond - despite there being a rapid manifestation of adoration trapped behind his eyes. Only one glimpse of passing look and he knows; that Olivia Winter is one of his favorite views.

六. People say that likeminded people make a map of everything integral to them; everything that they consider a part of themselves. Hanzo Hasashi believes his mind was engraved with the lines of Olivia Winter’s smile and the notes of her singing. It has memorized the crescent of her eyes, the song of her voice, and even when she is not physically present with him, he could still feel all of her. The sun kisses him awake and her name blossoms softly in his heart, its petals unfolding so gently with warmth that his thoughts slow with molasses sweetness. How his soul sparkles in a million verses that glitter with that starry, dulcet confetti of adoration galore. His silent, solemn lips unlocking themselves as they ride with the fevered wind of his breaths.

Hanzo attempts to plant his dreamy seed of his sultry, gravelled voice to travel to tickle her ears with the melody that croons in his throat as it lifts, opening to embrace her with its softness. He wants to take her to the empyrean clouds so that they may float free and that happiness paints itself onto her voluptuous form. The tender breaths of joy that is his translated love would illuminate both of them ferociously, as his heart combusts like an opal, emanating warmth of inextinguishable fire, as flaming gleam of his eyes speak of vigor and wanton passion. How he craves to be carried by brilliant dreams, into peaceful places where his mind conjures visions of ebullient dawn as fibers of his well-sculpted muscles ripple. His eyes close gently as lips entwine, an intoxicating warmth filling his heart and soul like an overflowing glass of wine.

#✗ the ineffable testimony of spawned hellfire (scorpion)#✗ ugly syllables of conjured vindictive crimson (modern au)#✗ successions of binding music (olivia winter || somniaxperdita)#✗ fifty shades of kombat (nsfw)#(took me long enough but here it is)#somniaxperdita

1 note · View note

goldentsum · 4 years

Note

a lil something special for you my dom baby: imagine everyone being intimidated by CEO!Kuroo, with his polished suits and scrutinizing gaze... but, what no one else knows is that every night, Mr. Corporate Man is on his knees for you. you’re his queen, and he’ll dislocate his goddamn jaw as long as he gets to please you and help you cum 👀👀👀

━ intimidating ceo! kuroo who’s a sub for his s/o

𝔴𝔞𝔯𝔫𝔦𝔫𝔤: smut, bdsm!, dom! reader, sub! kuroo, bondage, oral (fem receiving)

“get back to work, everyone! hurry! the devil is back!” an employee relayed the information in the large office and everyone scrambled to get to their desks, fixing and trying to look as if they were working.

when the familiar loud footsteps made by the expensive Italian leather of their CEO echoed in the room, their breath got stuck in their throat. the employees typed into their computer or wrote something to look busy, their hearts beating a mile per minute.

no one ever told them that a boss like Miranda Priestly from ‘The Devil wears Prada’ actually existed. but no one has to tell them now, kuroo tetsurou is the living evidence of that.

“who’s the idiot who made this? take it back and redo it!” kuroo scowled at the report given to him by his secretary and shoved it back into his arms, never stopping as he walked to his office. His sharp molten yellow eyes scanned the room and narrowed at the quiet room except for the pressing of keyboards and pens scrapping the paper and desk. He clicked his tongue and ignored everyone, looking straight.

“o-of course, sir.” His secretary said and ran to match the fast pace kuroo has. the tall intimidating man waved it off with a scowl and entered his office, the heavy door slamming behind him and shutting it in his secretary’s face.

sighs of relief echoed in the office in unison as the other employees pitied the poor secretary who looked at the door, frightened, while he let out a shaky breath.

inside the large office of the ceo, kuroo sat in his comfy chair as he sighed, tired from all the incompetency his employees has. a small bell rung in the quiet room and he looked at his phone that was on his desk. seeing that you texted him, a small smile appeared in his usual stoic face.

he grabbed his phone and looked at the message you sent him. he gulped when he saw a picture. in the picture, you wore a tight black lingerie with thigh highs, a riding crop on one hand while you took a picture with the other. a seductive smirk lingered in your pretty red lips.

5:55 pm

[honeybuns]: we’re gonna have so much fun tonight, baby boy~

kuroo let his eyes scan the picture you sent, a growing hard-on in his tight slacks. he didn’t touch himself though. no, that was against your rules. he was a good boy. your good boy and he will abide by your rules or you’ll be angry.

oh, he remembers it so clearly. he can still feel the ache in his body.

he remembered you tying him up to the bedpost, a ball gag in his mouth as spit escaped from his lips and coated his chin and the ball thickly. his body ached from all the restraints you had on him. there was one on his ankles and legs, spreading him so embarrassingly wide and another on his wrists, going down to arms and torso as a shibari design. on his aching length was a cock ring to prevent him from coming.

tears pricked his eyes when you moved the vibrator to his sensitive cock making him convulse at the intense pleasure. a loud muffled moan escaped kuroo, his eyes closing tightly at your actions and his breath ragged. a hard slap hit kuroo’s thigh making him open his eyes again to stare at you in surprise as a shiver of arousal gone down his spine. he moaned when he saw you glaring at him and you moved the vibrator to the red sensitive head of his cock.

“look at me, slut. don’t you dare close your eyes again.” you spat, slapping his thigh again. he nodded as he cried at the intense pleasure you’re giving him.

you moved the vibrator away while kuroo panted like he just run a marathon. you crawled over his body, removing the gag roughly. saliva dripped from the ball to his chest as you removed it, kuroo panted like a dirty mutt and stared at you with tired and half-lidded eyes, anticipating your next move.

you smirked at him and moved closer, hovering your wet pussy on his mouth. kuroo’s eyes dilated at that, wanting to taste you but you moved higher. the man whined at that while you laughed sardonically at his pitiful sounds.

“make me cum and you’ll be rewarded, whore. i don’t care if you suffocate, take it like a good fuck toy you are.” you cooed out, running your hand through his hair like you didn’t just degraded him. your nails scratched his scalp just like how he loves it and kuroo relished at your affection.

you then glared at the dazed sub under you and gripped his hair, pulling it hard as he gasped.

“aren’t you gonna answer, cum slut” kuroo whined at your words, nodding desperately.

“y-yes, please let me taste you, mistress” he breathes out, gulping when you sat on his face making him taste you fully. kuroo ate you like a starved man, moaning into you like a good cum dumpster he is. you licked your lips and stared down at him. he was just so good to his mistress.

kuroo thought he was gonna drown in your juices but he wasn’t complaining. he wants all of you.

his cock twitched when you let a breathy moan escape you. he was trying to grind his cock in the air, desperate to have any type pleasure on his cock but the restraints on his ankles and legs was not helping him. the aching burn of the ropes digging into his skin only added to his pleasure.

he sucked on your clit and his tongue swiping at the puffy bundle of nerves so deliciously. you reached back and held his cock----

“sir? m-may i come in?” a knock on the door snapped kuroo out of his thoughts and he looked at the closed door as he closed his phone in alarm, clearing his throat. kuroo tried to compose himself and he moved closer to his desk to hide his raging erection that strained his immaculate slacks from view and answered his secretary.

guess he just has to wait later and let you fuck him like there’s no tomorrow. kuroo’s so fucking hard but he’ll wait like the good boy he is. he’s so excited to see you tonight and have you fuck the stress out of him.

[hoonie’s note]: fuck--!! FUCKKK-!! oKAY I NEED TO CALM THE FUCK DOWN--!! THANK YOU IZZY!! I LOVE YOU!! I GOT CARRIED AWAY CUS YES FOR SUB! KUROO!!

: back to thirst masterlist?

1K notes · View notes

real-fanta-sea · 3 years

Text

Prompt for the kiss no. 71

Prompt: "Not to be cringe or anything, but I really like the idea of the kiss 71 (height difference kisses where one person has to bend down, and the other is on their tippy-toes)...where Trevor is his true height. i.e. Ogg's height and Michael has to stand on his tiptoes to snog him."

I'm sorry, anon, but I saved the post as a draft and it just vanished into thin connection. So, I have to answer this way.

This work is more of a spur of the moment thing, but I kinda like the way it turned out, being it just my emotions spilt onto paper. If you'd like, you can read it on AO3 here, or under read more. I hope you'll like it as much as I enjoyed writing it! :)

tw: kissing, child abuse memories

It's been three weeks already.

An unhealthy greenish glow of flickering light tubes and the icy breath of an industrial refrigerator made him shiver as Michael, gliding on the orbit touching stars in his mind, put yet another box of ready-made microwave hamburgers into his shopping cart. If he were not a regular in this particular shop, he would have got lost. It resembled an anthill with seemingly infinite shelves and aisles, bursting with the merchandise, even though the depressed lights covered everything in the same shade of decay green. The same life outlook was shared with most of the shadows roaming around whose name tags qualified them as proud employees of Flormart.

It's been three weeks, and he still stuck around, hanging on his every word.

Michael pushed his cart further from frozen goods, and the pictures swirling and smearing all around transitioned from photoshopped vegetables to flashy fireworks of chips and other guilty pleasures he planned on indulging in later on. Some people would find the height of the shelves menacing, but to Michael, it was just a memory that pulled him from the orbit back to earth and placed him in the middle of a football pitch. The smell of sweat building up underneath his helmet. The crunch of the crisp lawn under his feet. The spotlight following him whenever he scored. Cheering faceless crowds in time with busty faceless girls' pompoms. But most of all, he felt happy again - needed, cherished, innocent, and with a bright future awaiting his embrace. But then, just as he crossed from the snacks aisle to the alcohol quarter, the football stadium lights flickered and turned bright red. All the faceless girls turned around, their mouths gaping as if someone dislocated their jaws, and the cheering turned into a hellish cry of pain. Where their eyes were supposed to be, he saw a flair, screwing itself deeper into their skull, and a stream of scarlet goo drip down on their immaculate white dresses.

It's been three weeks, and somehow, his puppy-like behaviour didn't irk him yet. Quite the opposite if he were honest with himself - he felt strangely peaceful in his company.

Michael gulped in a desperate attempt to wash down the horror that invited itself under cover of a happy memory. Shaking his head only did so much and dispersed the spectators and cheerleaders alike, in the same way shaking a snowy paperweight would. Michael's chest constricted as he felt unable to breathe in properly, people splatting and exploding upon impact all around him in his mind. Suddenly, he felt a pull under both of his shoulders and found himself flying towards the pitch-black sky, where instead of one moon, two shone down on him. As he flew closer, they shrunk into two amber irises - and Michael immediately knew who pulled him out of the memory. As he crashed into a mass of pink candy cotton clouds, his vision blurred just to clear up when he felt a solid surface under his feet and someones hot hands in his. Somehow, he found himself looking at the tips of abused old pair of sneakers he was wearing, the same pair Michael knew he wore that faithful day at the airstrip. A moment later, a couple of dark blue, equally run-down ones stepped into his field of vision. He slowly let his sight slide up on crumpled jeans, the hem of a military jacket, a pair of dog tags hanging around a slender neck, a sharp jaw, a pair of full dark lips and finally, to the pair of amber eyes, eyes that radiated worry, care and, at the same time, something he could only read as love and utmost devotion.

It's been three weeks since the incident, and anytime he woke up from a nightmare that played in his mind over and over again, he was there to soothe him; he was there waiting for Michael's tears to dampen his naked shoulder. He didn't bitch about it and didn't tell a soul in the morning.

Michael let out a shaky breath. Stopping his feet from casually continuing in their stroll proved harder than he thought, and he leaned on the shopping cart handle, running fingers through his hair. He couldn't decide what mortified him more - the creativity his brain proved to possess when playing out the horrible things he has witnessed in just a few years of his fresh adulthood, or the way it put his acquaintance on some fucking pedestal and presented him as the alpha and omega of his thoughts and desires.

"Hey Michael, are you ok?"

Speaking of the devil... "Yeah, yeah, I'm fine. I just.." Michael breathed in again and turned towards the source of the voice, trying to display a small smile by twitching his tired lips "I need a smoke, that's all."

It's been three weeks, and he got that tingling feeling in his guts already. He could barely tolerate touch or prolonged eye contact without getting goosebumps and that ticklish feeling solidifying and slicing right into his groin. Michael wanted to believe it was just his weird head showing gratitude for saving his ass, but anytime he found himself in the company of that amber-eyed twink, the longing grew worse.

"Hey, how about a bottle of something to wash the cig down?" said the guy and his oversized jeans jacket hanging from his shoulders cringed into weird shapes as he took one of his hands out of his pocket and pointed his thumb towards the shelves. He looked so adorably dishevelled in all jeans, and with his silky hair framing his hopeful face, Michael couldn't have said no to anything he would suggest. Instead of mustering the strength to say no, Michael threw another smile towards his companion and turned his back to him to choose the dream crusher he wanted to numb them with before they went to bed.

To someone who grew up in a functional family, all the labels and bottle shapes would seem the same. To Michael, however, to choose the right brand and size meant the same as selecting the bananas or avocados of the proper ripeness would for them. It was a work of art; he learned so much in the ten years of living with his stepfather. While scrutinizing the shelves, index finger and thumb scrubbing on the sides of his chin absent-mindedly, he remembered how they would come to the similar shop together, he and his mother's second husband, and how he slipped behind the shelves. At the same time, Frank chatted with the clerk, and he stuffed his lunch box with a large flat bottle of Chief's Heritage Fire Water whiskey. He had to carefully close it to avoid disturbing the aluminium foil that served as a guard from the primitive electronic protection device they had to pass through on their way out. Michael would then tuck his stepfather's sleeve, babble some cute nonsense to get candy from the unsuspicious clerk, and after they paid for the two packs of cigarettes and a beer, they would leave. Frank would let him chug on whiskey then, and if he were in an exceptionally good mood, he would let him sleep through the night without beating the shit out of him.

Finally, spotting the whiskey he knew so well on one of the top shelves, Michael attempted to grasp it but only managed to graze his fingertips against the bottom of one of the bottles that rocked gently upon touch but otherwise didn't move an inch. "Fuck", he uttered under his breath, cracked his neck and stretched onto the tips of his toes, steadying himself by holding onto one of the lower shelves. But, again, he could only touch the bottle but not get a good hold of it. He even contemplated climbing the shelves to get it, as if the shame of his disappointing height haven't already painted his cheeks bright red and didn't make him want to leave the shop right away. Just as he braced himself for the climb, eyes fixed on that damn bottle, a gentle touch of someone's hand squeezing his shoulder made him turn around. It was Trevor's hand, and even though Michael still had to look up to meet his eyes, the small sympathetic smile put him in ease in a blink of an eye.

"Chief's, huh? Good choice, Mike!" the praise in his voice made Michael shiver, and he desperately tried to ignore the warmth he was receiving through the palm still steady on his shoulder and which upset his heart into beating twice as fast as ever before. "My old man used to drink this. It tastes like cat piss but knocks you out good for the buck." Trevor's grin felt like a warm touch sunrise after countless years of freezing darkness. Michael couldn't help but soak in the warmth, allowing himself to lose himself in the feeling completely. "Let me get it for you, eh?" he heard Trevor say from somewhere near, and before he could object, most of the light was obstructed by a jeans-clad chest.

It was then when Michael closed his eyes and tried to get hold of the situation. Trevor, the guy he only knew for three weeks, pushing Michael's back onto the shelves as he leaned for the bottle but also pushing his chest almost to Michael's. If it weren't for a couple of inches of hot air and fabric between them, their bodies would brush against each other. Michael could only gulp when he opened his eyes again, and his mind provided him with the maddening picture of Trevor's naked lean chest, peppered with dark brown hair as if puberty marked its way down towards his groin with it. Michael's head was spinning when he looked up to see Trevor still busy fetching the bottle. Michael's racing imagination saw him grabbing the guy's head, crashing lips with his and dissolving into what he thought would be the best kiss he would ever receive. Michael gulped again. He had to have him.

He was anxious about the way it was too easy to raise both his hands and grab fists full of other man's jacket as if it was the most natural thing in the world. Michael didn't fight it when he felt his muscles pull on the fabric and only turned his gaze up to where he expected Trevor's eyes to look once he would feel the movement of his clothes. Michael didn't have to wait for it at all, actually; the puzzled expression was already waiting for him to drink it up. However, he couldn't maintain the contact for too long as his eyes focused on something completely different; the dark lips, deliciously parted in the unspoken question. The distance between his own and them unnerved him, and in the sparking silence, Michael again propped himself onto the tips of his toes, pressed harder on the fabric to steady himself and, closing eyes, pressed his lips to Trevor's.

For a delicious moment, the world fell apart as if some invisible force made the dimensions crash down. The trembling soft firmness against his lips sent shivers down his spine with each cautious move. Whenever Michael recalled the moment years later, he could always sense the faint smell of cigarettes, petrol and sun mixing between their bodies and the way the ground shook and cried under his feet when he felt Trevor's palms slide down his sides and pull him closer, effectively sweeping him off his feet.

Trevor seemed to be relishing at the moment as much as Michael was, but when he felt solid ground under his feet again, and the pair of arms letting go of him, Michael reluctantly broke the kiss with a coquettish wet pop and tried to catch his lost breath. Then, leaning against the shelves again, he only dared to peek up when his cheeks stopped burning from what felt like a mixture of acid and a marathon run. Trevor's face might as well have been a mirror, for he looked down on Michael with eyes wide, face red and lips wet and trembling as if he didn't get a grasp of reality yet. Michael couldn't help but let the anxiety scream right to his face in the voice of his stepfather - and there were thousands of things he might have ruined then and there, just because he didn't fight his stupid queer side, because he let himself kiss another man, because by the twisted chain of mistakes he fell from what could have been a good life to longing after a rabid smuggler in the middle of a liquor aisle.

Just as he was about to duck under Trevor's arm and run away from the voice and feelings of shame it brought about, he was stopped by a gentle, almost shy touch of a hot palm on his cheek. The slender fingers brushed against his face in such a delicate way Michael's heart skipped a beat, and closing his eyes, he leaned into the touch, seeking the soothing silence it brought with the warmth. The hand fit his cheek like a glove, Michael mused as he relaxed into slow movements of fingertips on his temples. Right there, at that moment, everything felt so right, so natural. Why has he deprived himself of the delicious heat for three weeks when somewhere deep inside, where the beating of his heart always gave away the truth, he knew he needed it from the start - well, Michael didn't know. Instead, he slid his arms around Trevor's waist and buried his face into his chest.

"Michael?"

The vibrating echo of his name, spoken in such a husky yet caring way, made Michael squeeze his arms around Trevor even tighter. He sought the last bits and pieces of it before he dared to speak up himself, afraid of spoiling the delicious contentment of the moment.

"Let's get out of here."

A gentle kiss on top of his head and long arms lacing his shoulders later, Michael found himself too far from Trevor for comfort. But even with the newly gained distance between them, a quick glance sideways has provided him with a sight of a beaming smile and a fire deep inside Trevor's eyes that made his own lips twitch into a happy upwards bow. As they rolled into the checkout, Michael has noticed the world has changed as well. The depressing shade of green has somehow transitioned into a welcoming warm white; the shadows that they passed by on their way in suddenly bloomed into happy faces. The various packings of goods exploded in all the colours of the rainbow. As Michael and Trevor emerged into the darkness of the parking lot, ready to relive their revelation in thousands of ways, Michael has felt at peace with himself for the first time in forever. The days of the inner night were over.

#michael de santa #trevor philips #trikey #kissing prompts #gta v fic #real_fanta_sea.txt

31 notes · View notes

consumedkings-archive · 3 years

Text

THE LAND OF GODS AND DEVILS, a sequel.

—part i.

word count: 6k

rating: m for now, rating will change in later chapters as things develop, tags will be updated accordingly.

warnings: naughty language, massively canon-divergent, roman gets his own tag because he's a fucking nutso, canon-typical violence, established relationship that might not be the healthiest, age gap, domestic murder family. for this chapter in specific, roman likes to take things to the Extreme (i.e., "i'm going to fucking kms if you say this word one more time") but if you're here i imagine you know exactly what he's about.

notes: it's here! i know that most of my followers and friends on here are my friends through my far cry 5 content, but my return to the fic-writing world was inspired by my first longfic in a decade after watching birds of prey. you could say, perhaps, that i have a Type(TM), given that roman sionis lives rent free in my head forever and always. this is the sequel to my work carry your throne, though i like to think it's fairy user-friendly, especially once we really get into the thick of it.

special thank you goes to my beta and the loml, @starcrier; the first person to ever truly recognize varya for the wretched little beast that she is and love her anyway. thank you for being my beta and for loving my girl!

and, of course, another special thanks goes to @shallow-gravy, @vasiktomis, @faithchel, @tomexraider, and @belorage for being so supportive of my foray out of the far cry fandom and back into one that, in a way, brought me here in the first place!

summary: —by dread things, compelled.

roman sionis is the closest he has ever been to having everything that he wants; a perfect wife, a perfect family, a perfect international black-market arms dealing business signed over to him in its entirety. unfortunately for him, there are people in the world who would prefer to see him without, and that has never been a thing that roman has accepted for himself: being without.

(or: a fic wherein the devil spends his time rebuking sin.)

“If one more person says the word ‘chandelier’ in my presence,” Roman announced, drawing all eyes to him, “I'm going to blow my fucking brains out. Got it?”

There was a brief moment of silence that lapsed before the murmured acquiescence of the workers marked their return to their work. Blowing hot air from his mouth, Roman raked his fingers through his hair and turned back around to where Zsasz was watching him expectantly.

“What?” He demanded. “It’s my wife’s birthday.” Emphasis on the my, not the wife; it was not a favor Roman was doing for Varya, it was something he was doing for himself.

“V told them she wanted it.” Zsasz gestured to the offensive piece of lighting, which continued to haunt Roman’s waking and dreaming hours with its garish crystalline drippings and expensive bulbs. Ever since Varya had found out his fluctuating approval of the chandelier, it had been in and out of the Black Mask Club more times than he could count. Not that he needed to; he could very well put in or rip out a stupid fucking light fixture as many times as he wanted.

“Well.” Roman pulled a glass out from behind the bar, setting it on the top and dropping an ice cube into it. “She does so love to torture me.”

“It's just a—”

“Do you want my fucking guts on the floor, Zsasz? I mean it. Say the word and I’ll do it.”

The blonde regarded him drily. “No, boss.”

“Blood and guts everywhere.” Roman gestured widely with his free hand. “All over the floor. The bar top. You’ll have to clean it up. Maybe wipe down some of the bottles.”

“I won’t say it.”

“I don’t have to tell you how hard it is to get blood out of the carpet.”

Zsasz’s mouth quirked up in a smile. It said, without saying anything at all, no, you don’t. More agreeably, and with the flash of pearly whites and the capped tooth: “Sure.”

Roman poured well over what would have been considered the polite amount of expensive scotch into his glass, capping the bottle and setting it aside. It had been exactly twenty-four hours of making sure the club was perfectly polished and styled for Varya's birthday; though she was shrewd, she was so preoccupied with the twins and the lawyers and overseas business associates that she barely seemed to notice whatever was coming in and out of the Black Mask Club. He didn’t think she’d had a baby nor a phone out of her hands in over two days, and truthfully, it was starting to become tedious. Now that the twins were a little over a year old, they were supposed to be scheduling their honeymoon.

The delay of it hadn’t been a big deal, at the start. But everyday with you feels like my honeymoon, Varya had demurred months before the twins’ arrival, fluttering her lashes and gliding her fingers along the lapel of his jacket—and not even an hour after she’d curtly informed him that any more chatter, while she was nursing a headache, would be met with a swift and efficient extraction of his vocal cords by her own hands. Motherhood was supposed to have domesticated her, Roman thought, and had done the exact opposite; now, she was more assured of her status and power than ever.

So, yes; Varya had been busy, and he was almost certain she’d forgotten her own birthday. Never mind that everything had to be perfect. Never mind that it had to be immaculate. Never mind that Varya had deigned to order a brand new fucking chandelier from the same place they’d gotten one last time, knowing full well that he had made the executive decision to gut the fucking thing and get it out of his club.

“Tell you what, Zsasz,” Roman muttered, taking a swallow of the amber liquid in his glass, “don’t ever get fucking married. You want someone knowing all the shit that pushes your buttons all the time?”

“Maybe you just got a button pusher for a wife.”

Roman grimaced and took another swallow. It was true. “Fuck off.”

The blonde opened his mouth to say something else—and hadn’t he gotten confident in himself too, since Varya had become such a permanent fixture in their life, constantly goading and coercing him to voice his opinion on things, things that normally he would just defer to Roman on—when the doors to the stairwell and the elevator opened.

Eclipsing the doorway was Armazd, Varya’s hand-picked-from-the-batch-of-Russians-left-over-guard. Armazd had to be easily cresting six-foot-five, his dark beard neatly trimmed and peppered with silver, a scar breaking the color of his top lip. Roman had only ever seen the man swathed in dark clothes, like a fucking mourner on parade. His wife had been the one picked to be the twins' nanny, despite the fact that Roman felt like she barely did anything.

Also hand-picked. Thoroughly vetted. Interrogated for hours. No stone left unturned, when it came to Yuli and Ro.

“What are you doing down here?” Roman barked, coming around the side of the bar to make his way across the room. “You’re supposed to be going up and keeping—”

“She is coming down,” Armazd clarified. “In the elevator. Irina called to tell me.”

“Instead of stopping her?”

“She was—”

The elevator dinged in the hallway, and Roman quickly ducked around Armazd and closed the door into the club behind him. As soon as the doors slid open, he planted a smile on his face and closed the distance between himself and his wife.

Nobody would know, looking at Varya, that she not only barely utilized the nanny that they had furiously vetted and now paid handsomely, but that on top of juggling their twins she was actively in the process of getting a massive, international gun-running business signed over in his name. There was not a single hair out of place, not a single crease or rumple in the sapphire-blue silk of her blouse or skirt; the scent of her preferred jasmine perfume followed her like a cloud. She looked as put-together as the day he’d first seen her standing in his club.

And now, he desperately needed her to stay out of it.

“Kitten,” he greeted warmly, his hands—though gloved—immediately scratching the itch by reaching for her; they captured hers to carefully still her procession to the club’s main room. “What are you doing down here? I thought you’d be busy for hours.”

“Yuliana has been fussing nonstop,” Varya replied, her voice light despite what could only have been an expression of frustration quickly following, “all while I listen to grown men fussing nonstop at me on the phone.”

Roman feigned a sympathetic noise, bringing her hands up to his mouth to kiss them. “We have a nanny, V.”

“You know better than anyone else,” the brunette murmured, brushing her nose against his as their hands dropped, “that she is inconsolable without you.”

He tried not to look too pleased. “I’m sure that’s not true.”

“Don’t be modest, Romy.”

“Well, I’ll come up, of course.” He kissed the corner of her mouth. “And console our princess.” Another kiss, to the other corner. “So that you can continue letting grown men fuss at you.”

She beamed at him prettily, and finally they met in the middle for a real kiss—nothing coy, nothing demure, but lingering warm and just between the two of them.

“I love you,” she purred. “Go on, then.”

And then Varya pulled away, as though to go around him and into the club, and Roman blinked rapidly. He had only just caught her around the waist before she could walk in and pulled her in a full one-eighty until she was facing the elevator again.

“What are you doing?” she asked, a laugh bubbling out of her. “I was just going to make myself a drink.”

“Encouraging productivity,” Roman replied, hitting the button for the elevator doors to open again. “Ready for all this paperwork to be done, aren’t you? It’s been over a year.”

A year of wading through mafia-esque bureaucracy. A year of listening to Varya say, these things take time. A busy year, to be sure, jam-packed full of things—the biggest wedding in Gotham since its founding, the twins.

A funeral.

Roman tried more and more every day not to think about his (now) brother-in-law’s funeral, the double burial of the only man that might have stood a chance at being loved by Varya more than Roman himself and the only man who had ever been anything like a father figure to her. Family is tedious, he’d wanted to say, brothers and fathers and mothers, the whole lot of them, cut them loose why don’t you? Why should anyone matter to you outside of the twins and I?

Varya glanced at him over her shoulder. “These things take time.”

He rolled his eyes. “Mhm.”

“Not to mention, we were a little busy,” she added, eyes narrowing playfully as he nudged her into the elevator, “you know—having children.”

“And what beautiful children they are.” Roman hit the button without looking, the doors sliding shut behind him.

“Well, how am I supposed to suffer through those phone calls without a stiff drink?”

He quirked a brow upward. “I’ll make you a stiff drink, Mrs. Sionis.”

The brunette propped herself up against the back rail of the elevator as it whirred into motion. The corner of her mouth, painted ruby, curved and her head tilted inquisitively. “Oh?”

“Of course,” he demurred, sidling forward and boxing her in against the wall. “I’ll make you a stiff drink—”

He dropped his head to the slope of her jaw to plant a kiss there.

“—you’ll finish up with the lawyers, and put on the dress I bought you—”

Varya hummed and sighed sweetly.

“—we’ll go out to dinner for your birthday—”

He dropped his hands to her hips, planting a kiss on her temple so that he could rumble, “And we can get to work on baby number three, hm?”

A sweet laugh billowed out of her just as the elevator came to a stop and the doors slid open to bring to Roman the oh-so-sweet sounds of a caterwauling infant. Over the distressed crying was Irina’s voice, shushing and cooing dulcet words in Russian; he could see her swaying to and fro with a swathe of fabric bundled in her arms.

“I almost forgot about my birthday,” Varya said thoughtfully, completely unrattled by the sound of their daughter’s distress. She stepped out from between him and the elevator wall; Roman fell into step beside her easily, the sound of her heels clipping against the floor enough to draw Irina’s eyes to them.

Roman said, “I know you did,” and did not bother to hide his smugness as he held out his arms for the shrieking baby in Irina’s arms. The redhead regarded him with a sort of weary amusement before she acquiesced; with Yuliana safely in his arms, he watched Varya cross the room to turn the automatic rocker that held their son back on to a slow, lulling pace. The freckled infant babbled happily—ever the quieter of the twins—and as Varya said something to Irina in Russian that inspired the woman to depart to the kitchen, she absently picked up a baby blanket from the couch and wandered over to him.

“Yuli,” she murmured, waving her finger at the already-content infant, tucking the blanket around her “is that all you wanted, hm? Just for your papa to hold you?”

“What else could she want for?” he replied confidently. Soothing Yuliana’s fury had become old-hat for him at this point. And, certainly, it pleased him to know that sometimes, the only thing that would make his daughter stop screaming was being held by him. Not even Varya—who had taken to motherhood like a fish to water—bothered when she was in a fit.

Still, the brunette sighed dreamily, her finger captured by their daughter’s tiny hand before she said, “What a perfect little gem.”

Roman hummed his agreement. “Finishing that call with the lawyers?”

“Perhaps tomorrow,” Varya replied. “They’re in a mood today.”

“They’re in a mood every day.” Russians, he thought venomously.

“Yes.” She smiled, flashing pearly teeth at him. “But only today is my birthday.”

She had him there. Still, he was itching for the whole thing to be done—Ilarion had dragged his feet through the process of even drawing up the original contract, which had only been a spit in his face (“You are the only person who gets to fuck Varya Astakhova, that is as exclusive as it gets”) and by the time all of that nasty business had been wrapped up, Ilarion was dead.

Ilarion, and Nikita—leaving only a single living soul to be in charge of the Astakhov empire: Varya herself.

Which, she had expressed time and time again, she had no desire for; not in the public way that her father had done it, and Ilarion after them. She much preferred the clerical work of it all. Paperwork and public relations. Let the men do men’s work, she’d demurred one night, tangled up in their sheets, when he’d asked her what she was going to do with it. I don’t mind. They like me better as their madonna, anyway.

“You know,” she continued, breaking him out of his thoughts as she made her way to the bar cart, pouring herself a drink, “they will like you more if it’s you they’re talking to.”

“I don’t give a fuck if they like me or not,” Roman replied, lifting Yuliana with both of his hands so that he could look at her. “Isn’t that right, princess? Mommy gets to do all the paperwork so that your papa can spend all of his time with you, instead of listening to some dumbfucks bitch and moan on the phone.” He glanced at her. “Well, anyway, since it’s your birthday we can let it slide.”

“Very generous of you.”

“Get dressed, won’t you?” he prompted, depositing his now-content daughter in the mobile swing with her brother. “The table’s been ready for us since noon.”

Varya watched him, dark eyes glittering amusedly. “And why, my darling, did you make the reservation for noon? It’s nearly six now.”

“Because,” he replied, “I wanted to make sure they held it, regardless of how long it took us to get there.”

“Ah.” She lifted her chin a little, lashes fluttering with contentment when he reached up and brushed the hair from her face. “Or else?”

Roman flashed her a grin.

“Or else.”

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

They held the table.

“Good for them,” Roman said as they followed the server out onto the balcony. The table had clearly been refreshed—a new candle, a new vase, a new bucket of ice and bottle of champagne. He’d heard the waitstaff whispering furiously among themselves as they idled in the lobby to be taken to their table; now, settled across from the birthday girl, Roman was content with the way they had squirmed.

“Quicker than the two-hour wait last time,” Varya noted by way of agreement, smoothing her hand along the edge of the tablecloth.

He scoffed. The only reason they had waited in the lobby for two hours was because Varya had asked him to stay for the table she wanted. If it had been his way, they would have left with a bloody warning and gone somewhere else. “I can’t believe I finally convinced you to leave the twins home for a night and we got stuck sitting in that fucking lobby because they gave our table away.”

“In my defense, they are good babies, Romy. Hardly ever cry. Certainly not too much trouble.”

“But there’s two of them,” he replied, “and toting two babies around is a lot of work. All I’m saying is, what’s the point of paying her that much fucking money if we’re just going to—”

The waiter came by the table, clearly a little stressed; the lines of concern on his face were clear as he cleared his throat and said, “Should I come back?”

Varya, perusing the menu: “No, my darling, you may stay. You were saying, Romy?”

“I just don’t know why we’re shoveling money into her bank account for her to be a glorified accent chair in our house rather than a nanny.” Roman gestured to the champagne bottle expectantly. “Open it.”

The waiter did as he asked, having been standing there uncomfortably for a moment during their exchange. As he worked to carefully open the champagne bottle, Roman turned his attention back to Varya; her eyes remained on the menu, absently twisting the engagement and wedding band on her finger back and forth.

There was no way, he thought, that she was putting off getting the business signed over to him on purpose. Surely, there was no way; even when Ilarion was alive, even when she had anticipated no further problems, it had always been, if you’re going to be my romantic partner, it seems only right you’d be my partner in business too, don’t you think? And yet—

And yet, Roman could not push down the strange, hazy doubt that occasionally flickered through his mind. He had always wanted Varya, had always found himself wanting and wanting and wanting more and more often, and Varya had always seemed content to indulge him. There was, it seemed, nothing she enjoyed more than indulging him. One more kiss, one more minute in bed, one more lingering glance across the room. She was the absolute pinacle of his hedonism, in every sense of the word, and had proven time and time again that she would give him anything that he wanted.

The business had always been for her and Ilarion. He wanted it, and told her he did, and she said, you can have it, if you like, but like in all things, there was a slyness about his wife—a cruelty—that he found endearing and dangerous. Dangerous, because it wouldn’t have been the first time he’d been on the other end of her cruel nature, playfully poking and unwinding and tugging the thread loose until she had pushed him to the limit.

Something echoed in his head, and he realized that the waiter was asking him what he wanted to eat. Varya had handed the menu over and steepled her fingers, watching him with dark, curious eyes and red painted lips, sooty lashes fluttering. A pretty, painted little snake.

“I’ll take whatever she’s having,” Roman said after a moment, setting his menu aside and returning his attention to the brunette across from him. “Something interesting, kitten?”

“Can I not just appreciate my husband?” Varya demurred. “You’re wearing the suit I like best, after all.”

“It is your birthday. What greater gift is there than me?”

She laughed, delighted by him—as she always was—and took a sip of her champagne. “You were away from me, for a moment.”

He watched her, gauging her carefully. Even I know not to drop my pants when a viper opens its mouth, Bianchi had said, just before Varya had unloaded six rounds into his face and chest less than two feet away from him.

“Just thinking,” is what Roman said finally.

“Hm. A dangerous past time.”

His expression flattened, deadpan. “It’s taken a significant chunk of time to secure your father’s business in my name.”

Something flickered across Varya’s expression. at the word father. “To secure my business,” Varya replied, her voice abrupt and cutting, her eyes narrowed, “in your name.” Absently, she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. She looked to be composing herself, like she’d spoken on a knee-jerk reaction rather than with thinking.

Then, glossy and silken again: “You know your patience means the world to me, Romy.”

There was nothing that he loved more than watching her pull back her venom for him. Drumming his fingers against the top of the table, Roman bridled his own irritation to say, mildly, “I’d do anything for you. Even wait...” He made a thoughtful noise. “Over a year to finally take on the responsiblities you wanted handed over to me.”

“Of course.” Varya smiled prettily, absently straightening out her silverware. “And we will speak no more of my father on my birthday, or any day after this.”

He knew what that meant. She phrased it pretty, wrapped it up in silk and velvet and presented it to him as unassuming as a doe, but he knew what that meant. There is my button, she was saying, there is my trip wire. Don’t push it, Roman. The name Nikita had all but been banned in their household, even when funeral arrangements were being made; any time he’d heard one of the lawyers mention her father’s name, there had been a sharp rebuke. Not in my presence, she would tell him later, I do not want to hear that fucking name in my presence.

“At any rate, there is nothing that I want more than for this whole process to be done,” she continued lightly, reaching across the table to take his hand. “It was always what I wanted, you know. Ilya was better suited to be a functional piece of the business; he was the face because he had to be, not because he wanted to be, and I am better suited for the nitpicking and the details. Being the overseer is much more in your circle of talents, Romy.”

Her words assauged something unsettled and prickly in him, the sweep of the pad of her thumb across the back of his hand returning that doubtful monster in his mind back to its slumber. He sighed.

“You’re right,” he acquiesced after a moment, “it is more in my circle of talents.”

“Undoubtedly.”

“I always got the impression Ilarion wasn’t happy with it,” he added. “Though you two certainly enjoyed making work of me that first night, didn’t you?”

Varya smiled demurely. “It was never meant to make work of you, only to make a good impression.”

“Hm,” he replied, eyes narrowing playfully, “but you enjoy pushing me, V.”

She looked pleased. She always did, when he remarked on something that felt like he was really seeing her, beneath the glossy veneer. His girl did so love being seen.

“Only,” V demurred, “because you so enjoy reining me in.”

“Guilty as charged.”

Roman brought her hand to his mouth, kissing the back of it before relinquishing it and glancing around. He would just have to exercise patience, of which he had the most; patience, modesty, and humility, all excellent qualities that he could participate in at will, at any given time. Without any restraint.

“Did the men get the chandelier installed?” Varya idled, snapping his attention back to her. He narrowed his eyes.

“I told you I didn’t want a chandelier anymore.”

She looked at him across the table, dark doe eyes wide and innocent. “I thought you liked how polished they make the club.”

“No, you little viper,” Roman replied, clicking his tongue, “Paolo has a chandelier in his club, and there’s no fucking way I’m going to have people comparing it.”

“Ah,” she murmured, “the drama of the chandelier goes on.”

“And while we’re at it, might as well gut that one from the estate, too.”

“There’s more than one chandelier in there.”

“Then the men will be busy, won’t they?” He tsked his tongue. “I know you dream about watching me blow my top, V, but I’m making an executive decision on gaudy light fixtures.”

A smile flashed across her expression, pearly teeth and delighted eyes. She sighed, almost dreamily, like there was nothing more that she liked than to be doing this exact thing, and with him.

“Oh, Romy,” the brunette said sweetly, “you are the only thing I dream about.” And then, almost as an after thought: “Gaudy light fixture terrorism included.” She waved her hand to dismiss any protest or rebuttal he might have given her and said, “Now, since it’s my birthday, tell me all of the things you love the most about me.”

Roman sucked his teeth, eyeing her for a moment as he leaned back in the chair. Wicked little thing, waiting to preen and glow under his attention, a feline seeking him out. Her little bout of cruelty before was already forgiven. He said, “We’re going to be here for a while, if I do that.”

“They held the table for over six hours,” Varya demurred, “I’m sure they’ll hold it for as many more as you need.”

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

By the time they got to the club, Varya was acting as though nothing had happened.

Truthfully, Roman preferred it that way. It just also left a lot of room to wonder—his wife was a talented actress, adept at smoothing his ruffled feathers out and not divulging her own feelings on the matter. And he wouldn’t ask, of course. If Varya wanted to express herself, she would, and had, quite openly in the past.

“I am so happy to be home,” she announced, gliding past the door to the club once Roman had opened it for her. “Do you think the babies are asleep, yet? I always miss putting them...”

Her voice trailed off, pausing a little as she seemed to realize that the club was cloaked in inky darkness, freezing just a few steps past the threshold. Roman let the door swing shut behind him, nudging her forward with a hand at the small of her back. He was met with some resistance; she steeled, stiffening against his insistence, before taking a few steps forward.

He said, barely keeping the delight out of his voice, “You’re holding up the line, V.”

“Roman,” Varya said, her voice pitched oddly soft and tight, “why—?”

The lights flashed on to a loud, unified cheer of Happy Birthday!; the club had been packed with vases of flowers, the tables donned with food and drink, and everyone worth their salt within a fifty-mile radius had made their way there. Not a single thing was out of place—everything exactly where he had instructed it be placed, and not a fucking chandelier in sight.

Roman came around in front of the brunette, grinning. “Happy—”

He stopped. Varya’s expression was not happy, or even surprised; it was something else, something that he couldn’t read, the pupils of her hot-whiskey eyes blown wide and the normally Renaissance-soft lines of her face sharpened and hardened into an expression that was more vicious.

“V?” he asked. Her eyes snapped to him, and for a second she looked the same way she had that night in the loft, her hands drenched in blood and the kitchen knife clutched in her fist with bodies at her feet: like she didn’t recognize him.

It took a heartbeat, but her expression smoothed out and she smiled, almost sheepish—like she’d been caught doing something naughty, instead of being caught being somewhere else. Someone else, more the wolf than the girl.

“The lights,” she explained, hands resting on his chest, “they startled me, is all.”

A frown creased his expression. He brought his hands up to hold her wrists, thumb pressed against her pulse point. It fluttered unsteadily. Unconvinced, Roman pressed, “The lights?”

“Just the lights,” Varya assured him. She tilted her head up and kissed him, one hand departing his jacket to go to the back of his neck—and when she kissed him, he could feel that strange little flicker of energy, like she’d been stamping something out before it could catch, but it still vibrated under her skin.

He opened his mouth to say something else, but she disentangled from him and swept around to the crowd of people waiting, beaming prettily and playing at bashfulness, as though she did not enjoy their eyes on her and did not soak their attention up like a flower did sunlight. Whatever had been plaguing her in that moment was now gone, and she was awash with attention and love, thanking people profusely and accepting each hug and cheek-kiss directed her way.

Roman brushed off the odd feeling that she wasn’t being as forthcoming with him as he would have preferred—no secrets anymore, isn’t that what they’d agreed on?—and instead waded into the crowd. Music kicked on overhead; chatter picked up to a warm humming around them; there was nothing else to think about except letting his girl enjoy her birthday celebration.

By the time Varya had made a suitable number of rounds (which tended to verge much higher than one, much to Roman’s chagrin—what tedious work, to share her with everyone else), she had barely sipped the glass of champagne someone had planted in her hand. She circled back to him eventually; like always, there was that pinprick tugging in the cavity of his chest, like they were bound by a single thread that kept them from parting too much and too quickly, and when she drew closer to him again it oozed relief, warm and vibrant, through his ribs.

“Sufficiently loved on?” he asked as she neared, hand reaching up to slide around her waist.

“By them? Certainly.” The brunette’s hand smoothed along his shoulder, the pad of her thumb gliding across the velvet of his jacket. “By you, though, not hardly. Not ever.”

“You are insatiable,” Roman agreed in a rumble. He splayed his fingers against the small of her back, tugging her in closer and brushing their noses together.

“Just for you,” Varya murmured, and the words brushed their lips together just a little—but everything with Varya, like this, felt like almost-kissing, enough to push him to some kind of edge where his stomach twisted and wrenched with want when she added, “And only for you.”

“You know I can’t resist you when you talk like that.”

She laughed, leaning in to set her glass to the side and curl her fingers into his shirt for a kiss; everything for a second felt normal, and good, and right again, the strange way she’d gone-away back in the doorway having disappeared, the dark cloud over her having cleared, her wretchedness from dinner dissipated.

And Roman kissed her, with the sound of the party chatter ringing in his ears, and kissed her with the faint taste of champagne flooding his senses when she parted her lips against his, and kissed her while his hand fisted the fabric of her dress and he managed out in a voice rough with want, “So you’re trying to rile me up.”

“I always,” Varya murmured against his mouth silkily, “want you riled, Romy.”

“Varya?”

A stranger’s voice filtered through the haze—the rose-colored one that usually accompanied Varya saying anything like she wanted him riled up—and Roman felt the irritation spike straight through it. He turned to look at the interruption at the same time that Varya did, only to find a young, handsome blonde standing just a foot away.

Varya said, sounding faint, “Maxim?”

“It has been a while,” the blonde said, and he sounded sheepish. “I called Armazd, asking after you—”

“Sorry,” Roman interjected briskly, fingers still curled—now possessively—into the fabric of Varya’s dress against the dip of her spine, “but who are you?”

His wife started to say, “Romy, this is—” at the same time that the man began, “I am sorry, my name—” and they both stopped at the same time, a strange little silence stretching between them.

“Maxim,” Varya said after a second, turning to look at Roman now. “This is Maxim. He is Artyem’s son.”

Roman stared at her, more to buy himself time than anything; she said the name like he was supposed to know who that was. Artyem, but it didn’t sound familiar. Almost any Russian name sounded like gibberish to him, and if Varya had said it to him, it had been in passing, an afterthought, nothing but a whisper of information passed between them before it was gone again.

Until it did. Until he remembered that the person Varya had thought was her father had actually been Artyem, that she’d poisoned him, let him bleed to death on the carpet while she had mentally checked out of the moment. That she had watched him die, but she had been somewhere else—someplace else, the way Ilarion had described it, very far away where she couldn’t even enjoy what she’d done fully.

And Maxim—golden, and polished, and clean-shaven—looked awfully pleasant for someone whose farther had choked to death on his own blood because of Varya.

“I see,” Roman said, even though he didn’t. His gaze turned to Maxim. “And you’ve—shown up without calling ahead?”

“I have been in Turkey,” Maxim explained, “finishing up some business, and I did not know how to get in touch—”

“Well, you spoke with Armazd, didn’t you?” Roman’s head tilted. “The man practically sleeps in our bed, I imagine he would have been happy to get you in contact with us.”

“Admittedly,” Maxim said, “I wanted it to be a surprise—”

No, Roman thought absently, venomously, that won’t do at all.

“—Varya’s birthday—”

“So you slunk in,” Roman elaborated tartly, “like a little street dog, hm?”

“Maxi,” Varya interjected, fingers absently tracing the stitching on Roman’s jacket, “why don’t you go get a drink and acquaint yourself with our friends? Armazd is just there—you see?”

Maxim’s eyes darted between her and Roman for a minute. He shifted on his feet, tilting and giving a little smile that might have liked abashed if Roman didn’t think he saw a little squirm of self-satisfaction in his gaze. Fucker.

“Of course,” the blonde replied after a moment. “C dnyom razhdyenyem, Varushka.” He took a step forward, pressing a kiss to her cheek.

Varya’s thumbnail dug into the lapel of Roman’s jacket. “Thank you, Maxi.”

Once the blonde had departed, linking up with Armazd in the crowd to get introduced, Roman straightened up from the bar. It was impossible not to stare at this newcomer—he glowed with an easy charisma, flashed bright smiles that were all teeth. Roman hated him already.

“Maxi?” he asked her, eyes narrowed, and Varya sighed. He waited for her to elaborate. Perhaps she’d say they had dated once, perhaps they were literally nothing. That would be ideal, after all. Ships passing in the night.

She said, “We grew up together.”

Even worse. Roman twisted a loose, dark curl of hers around his finger. “And you killed his father.”

“Well—” She paused, mouth pressing into a thin line. “He does not know.”

“He doesn’t—” The notion that she was keeping secrets, and not from him, coiled high and happy in his throat. He tried not to sound too delighted when he said, “V, surely he knows.”

“Surely he does not, that I did it. Only that it happened. And I will keep it that way,” she added firmly, picking up her champagne glass from the bar top. “Maxim was incredibly loyal to my father because Artyem was, but more than that—he was mine and Ilya’s friend. I’m sure he is missing Ilya almost as much as I am.”

“As we all are,” Roman agreed sagely, planting a kiss on her temple in spite of the dry look she gave him. It was hard to tell, to get a read on this Maxim. What was it he’d dragged himself out of the trenches for? Just to fly halfway across the world to wish Varya a happy birthday? Above all things, Roman understood that his wife was a desirable thing, and knowing that he kept her out of the reach of others was part of her appeal—but that much? Could someone who was just a friend want that much?

He continued, “So what is it that Maxim offers to the business, hm?”

“I wouldn’t know,” Varya demurred, which didn’t sound at all like the truth. “Artyem was the one who sent him out on jobs. My father kept things tight around the top, you know. If anyone would know what it was Maxim was up to in Turkey who wasn’t my father or Artyem, it would have been Ilarion.”

“I find it hard to believe you have no idea what your father was using someone for.”

The sound of delighted commentary drew both of their eyes away; Irina had come down, both dark-haired infants in her arms, and was walking them toward Varya and Roman. Murmured remarks on what could only be their cuteness passed throughout the crowd of party-goers.

“I am putting them down for bed,” Irina announced as she approached, “and I know you like to say goodnight.”

“Oh, you are an angel,” Varya murmured, glass set aside once again. She leaned in, pressing a kiss to baby Ro’s cheek. Yuliana babbled, and she sighed dreamily, “Have you ever seen more perfect babies, Roman?”

Perfect babies, a perfect wife; soon, he would even have the perfect grip on Gotham’s neck, throttling it until it was nothing but dust and ash. Soon, but not soon enough; he’d be content when it was just done and settled, when there was nothing else standing between him and everything that he wanted. Varya, and the guns—what an odd thing, to know that a year ago he’d set out for this and it was just falling into his lap.

“Romy?”

“Never,” Roman replied, smiling and glancing back at his wife, reaching and cradling the back of Yuli’s head. “I’ve never seen more perfect babies, V.”

Across the room, Maxim watched them. There was something about it that Roman didn’t like—the way his eyes flickered, the way he looked between the children and Varya, the way their eyes met and he didn’t deflect away. Like he didn’t mind getting caught. Where had he come from? What little shithole had he crawled out of, over a year after Nikita’s death and Ilarion’s death—longer, still, since his father’s death? Hadn’t he wondered what had happened to his father?

What are you doing here, he thought venomously, that you think you can just come in here like nothing? Like I won’t root you out like the little rat you are?

Maxim smiled. It was a polite smile, unassuming kind of smile.

Roman picked up his drink from the counter, taking a heavy swallow. Suddenly, the evening seemed to stretch out endlessly in front of him, no finish line in sight.

Nothing else standing between me and everything I want.

And he was going to keep it that way.

#birds of prey #birds of prey fic #roman sionis x original female character #ch: varya astakhova #ch: roman sionis #ch: victor zsasz #roman sionis/original female character #my writing #fic: the land of gods & devils #me sweating profusely posting this #i am really excited about this though and i want to really really thank everyone who has been supportive of me pursuing this!!!!#creeping up on varya's birthday and also the one year anniversary of CYT making me super emo #<3 <3 <3

30 notes · View notes

scrrface · 3 years

Text

starter for @unlovc .

absolute and desolate , a silent blanket hovering outside as temperatures had long dropped below zero –– seoul’s winters were unforgivingly harsh and despite the pretty sparkle of eternal quietude , cancelling out all noise beneath it –– did he despise the cold ! always had he found the stark contrast terrible , perhaps mere the only type of beauty he will watch out of a distance , leave it where it is be –– no matter how badly he wanted to stretch holy luminosity over own skin alike dazzling diamonds glow , stand the pain ; if it meant to capture its beauty for just the shutter of the moment . he does nothing of the sort , fantasises , yes ! movement he catches out of the corner of his eye as prior hues must have lost themselves with no particular focus at all ––– what could ever be more satisfying than catching , indulging in beauty ; in anything that he deemed immaculate enough in all of the ways possible . much more than a keeper of gates to an introduction into hedonistic world was he –– a lover of preserving anything that would withstand to crumble within his grip . gaze will drift , watch them move –– he’s still mesmerised by the glimmer that laid there , right in front of them ! temporary illusion , something slipping his imagination , “ anything in pureness that collides with its counterpart – looks so , so wrong . destroys the harmony of the picture , does it not ? wakes demons you would never want to wake . “ , who is the devil to fool –– how often has he quietly , joyfully watched lines of red soaking white masses into their vividly colour , painted a blank canvas with an image of one of its kind ! any of said horrendous creatures to wake long present , a dance of anything macabre ; who said beauty in sin was not the utmost holy to lay gaze on ? who said it was not the trigger to explosive lust of attending such crime ? he does not play with the possible imagination , no , he yearns to experience it again . absolutely in the right is anyone , keeping themselves as farther in distance as physically possible from the red devil and rightfully so , does behind sickly charming , dripping veil hide –– something monstrous , of grand lack of sanity and affinity to anything that may could have been proclaimed hubris ; if male criminal would not actually live up to the cruel , infamous name , an ace of spades in the underworld of crime and even above its surface , well known under the circles of gamblers who played for much more than merely pretty stacks of won bills , to be cautious absolutely mandatory .

hues will yank themselves off the mesmerising landscape and he will yearn to catch the other’s -- seemingly a stranger having joined the ranks in front of the framed depiction with him in quietude and gaze will deviate for a second until returning to the canvas , “ i’m talking about the painting . brügel is famous for his renaissance depictions . ‘ the fall of the rebel angels ‘ -- is it not , indeed rather tragic than triumphant to witness ? i prefer the italian art style much more ! more gracious , grand even ! “ , truly does it pain the saint clad in holiest sin to confess to -- was he not in possession of similar agonising remembrances clouding a rushing mind ? naught to hide nor regret except for the gradual bitterness to be swallowed before poisoning one’s tongue -- sunken had he , in their proclaimed halls of prayer and worship , in deepest resentment between their golden crested pillars in his memory . their grand light of holy rays to spill upon concrete to tremble beneath the feet of a deity . yearned had he -- to become part of such ! to ascend onto a throne worthy of his -- no more ! and within the absence of god -- fearless and in the might of his limitations -- painfully aware and yet , had no place felt and called more for his presence , no energy to match within the spirit of an entity , knowing neither limits nor wordly values of little worth . no ; whom who calls for him , desperate in their mortal wishes and pleas ; there lies no other opposing being as his -- n the halls of past glimmering splendour and submission . he wanders within another realm ; by the constellation of empyrean , neither to echo nor to hold his presence within -- banished , punished with his curse ! much smaller is the frame stood next to him -- a stranger and yet perhaps a companion of empathy , in the hour of sentimental nostalgia to wash over the redhead gradually , tug at his silhouette alike the abyss to follow in the corner of simmering hues to burn and blister . the irony in witnessed symbolism -- and within the male’s very own descriptions remain merely his to stretch simper across features -- veiled within the deceit of all painful , so awfully within the parallels just drawn ! “ in fact -- do i possess a rather famous artwork of said time period ! salvador mundi -- remains in my casino . private , that is ! much more mesmerising -- if you ask me ! “ , simper long stretched into a flashing smile of ivory to gleam within the soft light above both their heads , as the clad sinner swallows a quiet laughter -- curved hand shielding heart - shaped lips as if a confidential , humorous confession shared between him and the stranger of a lady next to him .

#. 「 ♠️ 」 𝖒𝖆𝖓𝖌𝖏𝖊𝖔𝖑 𝖒𝖎𝖓𝖏𝖚𝖓 » 𝐫𝐞𝐩𝐥𝐢𝐞𝐬 . )#. 「 ♠️ 」 𝖒𝖆𝖓𝖌𝖏𝖊𝖔𝖑 𝖒𝖎𝖓𝖏𝖚𝖓 » 𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐞 𝐢 . )#unlovc #minjun: stranger in a museum ? lemme spam you with my own symbolism of my tragic faith i see depicted

8 notes · View notes

darkmindsotome · 3 years

Text

Traditional Etiquette

Title: Traditional Etiquette

Fandom: Love365 Masquerade Kiss

Pairing: Kei Soejima x MC

Word count: 4,189

Warning: NSFW Smut

Written by: darkmindsotome

Summary: Your job leads you to being in attendance at the same festive location as your boyfriend. What will happen on this holy night when you are reunited with the man who turned his back on God and this holiday?

Tagging @voltage-vixen as requested. Prompt #1: Kiss me under the Mistletoe

---

Traditional Etiquette

There was a different kind of chill in the air compared to the winters back home. It probably had something to do with the humidity. The wind here felt cutting against your skin making any exposed part sting in the air.

Space heaters had been placed around the grounds of the immaculately decorated historic house in an attempt to keep guests as far from the wintery chill as possible. Pulling the warm cashmere shawl tighter around my shoulders I made a few calculations trying to decide on the best way to make my exit.

Currently tucked safely inside my garter was a necklace once owned by an Empress. A gift from her husband and currently missing from a collection on display in the London National Museum. On the verge of an international incident that could easily turn into something involving military responses, the EAC had been contacted.

Thanks to the new assignment any plans I had for the holidays were dashed. Curse of a spy strikes again.

Naturally, the fallout from such a disaster was something everyone wished to avoid but that did nothing to improve my mood. The officials and museum had put a truly incredible replica on display to buy some breathing room in order to retrieve the original. Time was unforgiving and it was an inevitable fact that eventually the fake would be found out. This was a race against the clock.

I could still remember the way Kei looked at me the night I received the call.

“Ha-ha, your face is a picture.” His apparent joy as he watched me and my inner turmoil felt completely out of place.

We were in his rooms at Raven in Tokyo, sipping brandy tea with some low music playing in the background when my phone rang disturbing the peace.

“Well excuse me.” Glaring at him, I ended up drinking the brandy tea in my hands almost in one go as I attempted to avoid his all-seeing eyes.

I knew my inner disappointment at how the holidays were already a disaster before they started was on full display but I was trying hard to hide it. I mean it's normal to want to spend the holidays with your partner, right?

While I sulked Kei chuckled, his eyes never leaving me for a second.

“Will you really miss me that much?”

The sound of fine china being placed on the coffee table forced me to look at him. There was a smile on his face that was far from innocent as he stood from his seat and drew slowly closer. Instead of simply moving next to me he lulled me into a false sense of security and circled around my back leaning over so his mouth was millimetres from my ear.

A move that had the world around us blocked from thought as well as my ability to process the information I just received from work. He was demanding my full attention, commanding me to focus only on him.

“Someone is forgetting something very important.” His voice was low and dripping in that sensual honey-like poison that instantly set my heart racing. Cool hands snaked over my shoulders treating me to a massage that felt far more intense than it really was. “No matter where you are, what you do, who you’re with… I am always right here.” The chilled digits slipped further, deftly circumvented the fabric of my blouse. The teasing patterns he mapped out against my hidden body had me warming to the slightest of touches.

“…Kei.” His name ended up escaping me in a near whisper. How easy was it to fall under his spell? Two could play that game.

Taking one of his hands I brought it to my lips kissing the flesh between his fingers, dragging my tongue across the knuckles before giving them a nip with my teeth. I heard his breath catch behind me. I couldn’t see how his eyes had darkened with lust but I knew he was feeling me and that knowledge was enough to thrill me.

He guided his now marked hand to my lips, brushing them with his fingertips before pushing them inside stroking my tongue and the inside of my mouth. My head naturally tilted back catching a glimpse of the awoken devil behind me. It was then that I knew this was only the beginning.

“That’s right. Be my good girl…”

I suddenly felt flushed with the memory of that night. It was the last one we spent together before starting this mission. It wasn’t as if we had specific plans for the holiday. If anything, it was a time of year Kei usually spent avoiding the celebratory atmosphere. We might not share the same associations with the festivities but it didn’t mean I didn’t still want to spend time with him.

The idea of him sitting in his rooms at Raven. Large fire crackling, spiced cider in hand and the way the light would settle on him as he quietly read. It was a comforting image that brought a smile to my face.

Looking around the glamourous gathering with the twinkling lights and elegant festive decorations I suddenly felt very lonely. I wanted to leave, to get a flight out of here as fast as possible. The weight of precious metal and gems concealed under my dress was a reassuring reminder of a job well done. Still, it wouldn’t do to be so close to the end and have it all fall apart because I let my guard down too early.

Glancing around to make sure everyone was suitably distracted I made my move only to then bump into someone behind me.

“Oh! I’m sorry.” I instantly apologised. Curiosity rose as I wondered who could have moved so near to me that I didn’t even sense them.

“Completely my fault, Miss.” An all too familiar voice speaks up before I had a chance to even look.

“Kei?” His name comes all too easily to me. I instantly end up looking to see if anyone else had heard my faux pas.

“My apologies I was drawn to you and found myself at a complete loss of words.” Kei casually covers for me whilst treating me to his Princely performance. “Where are my manners? Kei Soejima at your service.” With a half-bow he scooped up my right hand, placing a featherlight kiss to the back of it.

“Lily Dunaway, a pleasure to meet you Mr Soejima.” I greet him with my alias and a smile that expertly hides any of my surprise at finding him here of all places.

Kei is far from stupid. He both knows I am on a mission and also what my alias is for work. I watch as he gracefully takes two glass flutes from a passing waiter.

“Champagne? Or were you perhaps looking for something else?” Narrowing my eyes at his suggestive comment for a second, I then accept one of the offered glasses.

“Champagne would be fine, thank you.” Playing the part of the perfect agent I timed my sip to his. “I have to wonder what small miracle would bring such a distinguished guest to me.” I ask in part as a curious agent but also as his girlfriend.

“Miracle? Well, I suppose it would be the season for it.” His smile was as ambiguous as his answer. Taking another sip from his glass I watched as the alcohol coated his lower lip like a gloss. It was a practically mouthwatering image.

We have an agreement not to interfere with work. Both of us stood there in our own private world sizing each other up, playing one suggestive comment for another. Reading between the lines as our little game continued.

“I wonder if you might grant me the opportunity to dance with the most beautiful lady at this rather stuffy affair?” He says with a slightly dramatic flair that felt like it overlapped with a Prince in a fairytale.

“Stuffy affair? Is that really how you would describe this event?” I can’t help but giggle in response.

“Attend one charity gathering at this time of year sadly they all seem to blur into one. All worthy causes, but the crowds sadly are nearly always the same.” His face takes on all the charms of a puckish little boy which only serves to cause my heart to flip.

“In that case, I would love to dance. You almost make it feel as if you are saving me from impending boredom.” I give a light and breezy reply hoping he can’t see how easily he has me bending to his commands. I’m still on a mission.

“Ha-ha, the pleasure is all mine I assure you.” Elegantly taking my glass from me, he placed it on a passing waiter’s tray along with his own. Slipping an arm around my waist he then began to lead us in a waltz that guided us deeper into the gardens away from the grand house and guests.

The music became fainter as we lost ourselves in each other’s eyes and embrace. His body moving perfectly in sync against mine was a sinfully chaste motion. It left me wishing for more contact than the minimal required to dance. We are so close yet so agonisingly far apart. He planned this, didn’t he? It is a very Kei thing and yet I still can’t get a clear read on the guy even after dating him.

I pondered this idea while maintaining eye contact with my boyfriend. His unreadable eyes reflecting only me while he continued to smile and move us in time with the muted tune. A large golden ornament hanging from a set of trees that made up the entrance to another part of this lavish historic garden caught my eye. I swear rich people…

For all my inner protests about flashy displays of money, there was no denying its beauty. A refreshing scent filled the crisp night air around it. It was a set of five golden hoops, wrapped in evergreens and fresh herbs with what looked like an ornate fruit bowl trapped inside. To finish it all off this spherical link cage had a familiar white berried plant hanging in a tumbling bunch beneath it all.

“So pretty.” I ended up expressing myself honestly and feeling a little childish in the process. I’d attended lots of luxurious events in the line of duty and here I was looking at a giant decoration like a cat that had found a room with a glitter ball in it.

“A Kissing Bough.” Kei didn’t seem to mind he just turned his head acknowledging the oversized ornament. He inclined his head after turning back to me relaxing his arm around my waist putting an end to our dance. “You aren’t familiar with it?”

“I think I saw something like it once on a European period drama but up close it's even more beautiful.” No point in lying at this point. We were alone and even if I didn’t account for Kei being able to see right through me, I couldn’t deny that tonight of all nights I didn’t want to lie to him.

“Well then allow me to explain. You are familiar with the tradition of Mistletoe?” He naturally straightened his posture in preparation for his impromptu lecture. I actually love it when he does this although I have no idea if he knows that or not.

“Yes, you are supposed to share a kiss under it.” I nodded and answered ever the perfect student causing him to smile warmly before he continued to fill in the finer details.

“Exactly but traditionally it was slightly more than that. It was part of the celebration in ancient Greece during Saturnalia that there was an act of kissing involving the plant. It is associated with fertility, peace, love and friendship. Druids are thought to be some of the first to bring the Mistletoe inside believing it to also imbue good luck and ward off evil spirits.” He was talking as if he were reading a story from one of his collections of old books.

His breadth of knowledge was really something. Kazuomi wasn’t joking when he said Kei was something of a know it all, able to hold conversations about anything and everything with ease. I imagine it is what makes him such a good diplomat.

“It has a long history then?” I chimed in encouraging him to continue.

“Yes, Romans used to settle agreements and conflict under it. Even in Norse mythology, you can find this little parasite. Did you know there was a time when it was not only frowned upon as a decoration but it was on a list to be banned from adorning a church? The idea didn’t take.” He whispered the last part in my ear as if sharing a secret which gave me goosebumps on my neck.

“How did it get to be such a well-recognised holiday decoration then?” Attempting to maintain my composed mask of an elite spy I casually brought my shawl higher up and tucking myself in tighter. He wasn’t fooled for a second and only chuckled seeing me react to him. Still, he didn’t touch me just continued with his history lesson.

“Well now in the UK it is connected to the Yule season but that isn’t the case in others. You could argue that the origins of this quaint little custom as we know it came from England in the 1700s but it was far more popular by the Victorian era. Before we had the tradition of a tree as a symbol of the holiday there was this.” He pointed above us at the hanging festive orb. I followed his reach and looked up.

I felt something shift but was not fast enough to react. Something about Kei always seemed to render me sluggish with my reactions. He had a way of making every movement of his feel like it naturally just belonged. Warmth pressed against my back and I felt his arms circle around mine.

His fingers located the back of my hand that was holding the shawl tight against myself. His long fingers began to stroke the skin there. Tracing the veins, following the lines to my inner wrist and back again in lazy slow patterns. He continued to speak, his voice low in my ear making it impossible for me to think of anything other than his sultry voice and touch.

“You said you are familiar with the tradition of kissing under Mistletoe but are you aware it is, in fact, a very poisonous little plant? Such a symbol, shrouded in all this romance. Providing a dash of poison to the whole affair.” His lips brushed against my ear lobe. The soft kiss made me shudder sweetly in his arms. “There are actually two traditions involved with this plant. The first involves plucking a berry from the bunch for every kiss stolen.” He reached up and stolen a single white berry from the greenery, balancing it in the palm of his hand in front of us. “When the berries are all gone so too are your privileges.”

Spinning me around in his arms so I couldn’t avoid his darkened gaze a devilish smile crept over his face. It felt like I was pinned in place while his fingers now at my back began tracing my spine through the fabric of my dress. I had never wanted to curse such a thin barrier between us more.

“The other follows a more common route. Anyone under the mistletoe that refuses a kiss will suffer from a curse of bad luck. What are you thinking?” He was seriously unfair. He knew exactly what I was thinking and insisted on teasing.

“That I’d very much like to avoid that curse.” At some point, I had begun to feel like I was floating, bound in his gaze the only thing in my world was the sound of his voice, and the temptation of his sinful lips.

“Well then. What do you say, ‘Lily’? Shall we escape the madding crowd and explore this little tradition for ourselves?” Taking my hand in his he led me through the tree entrance and into a walled garden.

It felt like I was following him through a magical world, the scents of the flowers blooming in the winter mingling with his natural musk kept me firmly in a dreamlike stupor as my body trailed along automatically with his guidance. I really would walk through Hell itself and fear nothing of it with this man. Where is the perfect student and spy now?

The house and its guests were hidden behind the high walls covered in the fragments of trailing plants. A thick frost had covered the world around us making it feel as if it was frozen in time.

Suddenly Kei came to a stop glancing around us briefly before pushing me into the shadow of some of the immaculate large topiaries. It put distance between us, breaking the spell.

“Kei?” The loss of his touch even for the briefest of moments had me searching for him again. I hated to admit it but this was part of me. A neediness I never knew I had. It was something he accepted and encouraged, drawing it out of me.

“I told myself I wouldn’t go this far. But then… you had to look at me like that. When did you become so cruel?” Kei was standing in the moonlight whilst I was covered in shadow. The way the shadows danced over his perfect face made his pained expression look so very lonely. His eyes were wavering as they looked at me. That devilish smirk on his face was unmoving as he took in every inch of me.

“I wasn’t—mmm!” My protest was cut short by his remarkably fast movement. I barely had enough time to catch my breath before his lips crashed repeatedly into mine stealing it away leaving me light-headed and almost limp in his arms that held me caged in the dark.

“You forgot your lesson again. You looked so lost and alone… standing there…” He continued to speak in a pitifully pained voice as he peppered me with kisses. His arms holding me up as his hands ran over the confines of my dress.

“You were watching me?” I could hardly speak above a breathless whisper. My mind was telling me to keep it together but the way he was robbing me of oxygen and the way his hands were running over me had my heart hammering so loudly in my head I couldn’t focus on anything but him and how he looked so hurt.

“Only since the second you arrived. I only ever see you and yet you teased me by following THEM.” The way he spat out the final pronoun had me remembering the disdain he had for Boss. He was clearly feeling a lot of emotions right now and knowing Kei couldn’t pin down one strong sensation above another.

“I’m on a mission Kei you know that.” I raised my hand to his cheek trying to get his eyes to focus on me and not the memories he had that was causing him so much pain.

“Yes, I do but it doesn’t mean I have to like it. You know that even if you wanted to leave me, I would never let you go.” He stopped his movements with his hands. There was a fire in his eyes that could have melted the polar ice caps. The shawl slipped from my shoulders exposing my flushed skin to the night air. I would have shivered had it not been immediately chased away with his burning hot lips as they glided over my collar bones.

Soft cashmere wrapped around my free arm from behind, locking it to my side as his grip around me tightened. Grabbing my raised hand by its wrist he gave me a stinging bite to the inside of it.

A crimson flower bloomed on the pale flesh and he dragged his tongue over it. Past the love bite and up the palm, wrapping it around several fingers before giving them little nibbles on their tips. All of this without once taking his eyes from mine. Those glass-like doll eyes, dark with lust.

I licked my lips before finding strength enough to pounce. I forcibly covered his lips with mine trying to suck out all his pain and confusion. A poison that had no place alongside the honeyed darkness we shared.

“Mm… Mc?” He hummed against me. I placed my unbound arm around his neck as I leant in to whisper my sweet nothings in his ear. He stiffened with the pressure of my body against his. For a second it seemed he didn’t quite know what to do with himself.

“So don’t. Take me, mark me… hold me. Make me yours--.” I tried my best to coax him into moving but he stood still as a statue. I didn’t know if he was still struggling to organise his feelings or if he was simply teasing me.

“Someone said she was on a mission.” He sounded amused even as he chastised me for my failing work ethic.

“I am.” I walked my fingers up his check finding the edge of his bow tie and pulling it loose. The sight of his perfect image becoming undone at my hand thrilled me and I found myself urged on to start popping the buttons at his collar.

“You don’t sleep with targets when you are working.” He raised a hand to stop me going further. Ever the one to prefer to remain covered even at times like this. As much as I respect that I also found it extremely unfair that I was always the one to be stripped bare while he wasn’t.

“You aren’t the target. I already took what I wanted from THEM. Now I want something from you.” I was past the point of playing, the fire building inside me was his creation and I was damned if he was going to keep me waiting any longer.

“So greedy. You know? You’re so incredibly sexy when you are honest with your desires. My girl…” He chuckled in a deep voice as he finally seemed to cave to demand.

As our body temperatures rose in the wintery climate our hands roamed over each other eagerly seeking out the next sensitive point. Before he could bind my other arm to my side, I found his jacket pocket by chance. My fingers removing what was hidden inside.

“Mhm… ngh… Kei what is that?” He pulled back enough for me to see what I had in my hand. A small sprig of greenery with white berries.

“I thought I’d twist tradition a little.” He said conspiratorially. Holding my hand in his while raising it above us so the Mistletoe was over our heads.

“Oh?”

“A berry for every time we--.” His free hand slipped through a gap he created in my dress without me realising. Plunging low, attacking me at the apex of my legs over my underwear. The pressure of the heel of his hand rubbing as his fingers stroked along the fabric covering me was blissful torture. Releasing my hand he took the opportunity to loosen his belt as he raised the hem of my dress.

“Mmm Kei…?” I bucked my hips against his hand as the cold air hit my heat. It wasn’t enough to put out the fire. He continued rubbing me over my underwear even as he kissed me, pumping his hardened desire in his other hand a few times.

“Gah, shhh… keep your voice down. Unless you want us to be caught.”

I bit my lip pleading with him using my eyes to hurry. This was so risky and so unlike us that it felt overwhelmingly good. The thrill of location and the way he was possessively pursuing me was doing a number on how hard my heart was pounding. The perfect Prince was gone.

Pulling the fabric covering me to the side he pushed into me filling me up and moved his hands to support my hips whilst I wrapped my legs around him.

“Such a naughty little spy… my bad girl.” His words bled into my ear as he brought himself closer to me removing all light between us as he plunged deeper.

In the shadows of a garden attached to a historic house in England. During a party intended to celebrate a Holy night. Here I was finishing up a mission in a less than professional manner and I couldn’t care less.

As our bodies moved together in the shadow of the topiary, our muffled cries and moans were lost to the night. This wasn’t exactly how I saw our holiday going, but I wouldn’t change a thing.

I still had to hand over the jewels tucked inside my garter but right now all I could think of was the man in front of me. My wonderfully sinful, “bad” boy. My prince, my Kei.

---

#'tis the season for smut

31 notes · View notes

monstersandmaw · 4 years

Link

Well, surprise! Here's the full story, available for all patrons ($1+). I previewed it earlier for the Pixies and Goblins, and folks seemed fairly keen. It's 4k words of fluff and smut, with no pronouns mentioned, though the ghost is able to penetrate our reader... Whether that's shapeshifting ectoplasm or something else, I'll leave up to you. And yes, we do make use of that big mirror...

I hope you like my take on a friendly, slightly horny, spirit!

Chunky preview:

“I still don’t see why the place is so cheap,” you muttered to the estate agent as she showed you around.

Hardwood flooring, slightly weathered and a beautiful dark brown; immaculately painted walls that were a nice unobtrusive creamy colour; a huge bay window in the open-plan living and kitchen area, with more windows on either side to let the clear light of this part of town flood in; a bathroom that was almost wastefully spacious; two bedrooms - two! - and a tiny little nook of a room that was probably supposed to be either a cupboard or a study: the whole apartment was breathtaking, and should have been stratospherically beyond your budget, especially in the historic part of town.

“Seriously,” you pressed, coming to a halt in the middle of the master bedroom a moment later, “What’s the catch?”

The estate agent looked a little uncomfortable for a moment and said, “Well… It’s nothing anyone can really put their finger on, but… the person who lived here before said they felt… like the place was…”

You bit your lips. “It’s haunted, isn't it?” you said, trying not to laugh. That was ridiculous. Places didn’t go for under half the expected rent just because someone said it was haunted. Did they?

She looked up at the ceiling and then over at the huge mirror that was sitting on the floor in the master bedroom, resting against the wall and facing the only spot where you could put a bed. Interesting… The thing was so big that it apparently came with the apartment, but you didn’t mind. It made the room feel even bigger, for one thing.

The woman shrugged. “It’s true that that much has been said, but honestly, I’m not sure. There’s no record of anything grizzly happening in the building - no murders or anything -” she said with a slightly spooked laugh. “So I’m not really sure. People just don’t seem to stay, so the owner dropped the price.”

“This close to the university, and in this part of town, I’ll take it,” you said. “Extra roommate or not.”

“Wonderful,” she smiled, shoulders dropping fractionally. Apparently she’d been genuinely worried about you refusing it. As if you’d turn down that acreage of hardwood flooring!

The day you moved in was probably the hottest day of the entire year. It was disgusting. By the third trip back to your battered old car for another groaning cardboard box, perilously held together with peeling selotape, you were dripping with sweat and more than a bit dizzy.

“Fuck, I’m so thirsty already,” you wheezed as the box slithered from your palms onto the floor and you slouched against the wall for a moment, panting.

A minute or so later and marginally less winded, you turned, puffing your cheeks out and sighing, and staggered back down the higgledy-piggledy old path to grab another load of boxes and bags. Dumping them behind the others, you straightened and blinked in surprise as your eyes fell on something across the kitchen. The kitchen tap was dripping ever so slowly, but beside the sink on the counter sat a glass full of water. Warily, you looked around. Had someone entered the house while you’d been ferrying belongings back and forth?

“Hello?”

Nothing happened. Of course. Maybe you’d poured it yourself before you got started and had somehow just forgotten? Unlikely. Shrugging, you navigated your self-made labyrinth of bulging bags and disintegrating cardboard boxes, and downed the glass in one, refilling it and sipping the second one more slowly.

“Thanks,” you smiled. “If there really is a ghost here, at least you’re thoughtful. No peeking on me in the shower though, ok? That’s rude.”

The house groaned softly, like the wooden framework was expanding in the heat, but the timing of it was too much to be coincidental. You fell still and listened, but nothing else happened.

“Is that you?” you asked, and the sash window thunked softly in its casement, as if the wind had rattled it, but the day outside was as airless as the Devil’s armpit. “Alright,” you said, folding your arms. “If you’re there, shut the front door for me…” But it wasn’t as if you actually expected anything to happen.

A sudden tension filled the room, as if the air had crystallised, and, even as you stared at it, the front door very slowly closed itself and the latch clicked shut. Even if a breeze had nudged it, the latch wouldn’t have gone. You swallowed.

“Wow,” you hissed under your breath. “Are you the reason that no one stuck around then?”

A single knock, as of a rapped knuckle on a tabletop, rang out through the apartment.

You swallowed again, throat feeling thick and dry, heart thundering. Distracting yourself, you ran another glass of cold water and sipped it. Then, leaning your bodyweight against the counter, you turned and said slowly, “Ok, I’ve got questions for you. Knock once for yes, and twice for no. Alright?”

After a tiny pause and a slight tingle in the atmosphere, a single knock answered you. Yes.

Read the whole thing right now, as well as the Mermay 2020 posts (five in total, including this Friday’s leopard seal selkie story), plus everything that’s been posted already on Patreon!

#ghost #ghost lover #haunted house #haunted house story #exophilia #i can't believe i haven't written a ghost yet???????#gender neutral reader #gender neutral monster #patreon #4k words for $1

60 notes · View notes

mysterioh · 4 years

Text

𝘥𝘦𝘷𝘪𝘭 𝘯𝘰. 𝘧𝘰𝘶𝘳 | 𝘣.𝘣.

Pairing: Devil!Bucky Barnes x Reader

Summary: In order for the devil to steal his victim’s soul they must sign a contract. This is has never been a problem for Bucky before—until he met you.

Words: 3.1K

A/N: This is based off a webtoon that I enjoy reading. You can find it here. I am in no way plagiarizing this author’s lovely work. I just had a stupid idea with Bucky. I am reposting because some lovely people asked me to.

The sick divider is from @writeyourmindaway

Who would’ve thought that something as colorless as water could make the clouds so dark?

Above, the sky was colored in tumbling grays, thick and heavy with rain. Tugging on the hood of your black sweater, you quickened your pace. With your eyes on your feet, you rushed down the uneven slabs of concrete. Small pellets of rain hit the top of your head and trickle down the back of your drenched jacket. Your shoes are soaked, socks squishing under your skin with every step.

A sense of cleanliness enwraps the atmosphere, and as the sky threatens for heavier downfall with mellow hums of thunder, teardrops threaten for release at the corner of your eyes. You sniff the tears away as your strides grow wider.

A series of unfortunate events had fallen on your shoulders, one after the other without a pause.

It started on Monday, when the landlady of the old, rundown apartment you lived in decided she was selling the place with only a two week’s notice to move out. Then on Tuesday, your professor refused to give you an extension on the paper you couldn’t finish because the power went out, causing a major blow to your hardly decent grade. Now it’s Wednesday. It’s cold and rainy. You’re soaked to the bone and fresh out of a job. It was a simple job at a family restaurant with a decent pay and good hours. You worked with every ounce of dedication in you, but simple dedication wasn’t a good excuse for mixed up orders and spilling cold beer on a customer’s pants. You had the manager pulling his hair from the roots, begging you to leave.

Every step towards home grew heavier as your burdens started to bear their weight on your shoulders one by one.

A single tear slid down your cheek, then another, and another. Your eyesight blurred and a dry ache formed in your throat as you stood there with the rain hurtling down on your head.. You drop to the ground and hide your face in your knees to muffle your whispered sobs.

“My, my,” a husky voice croons, “you look absolutely miserable.”

Your head whips up to find a man, handsome with broad shoulders, looking down at you. He was sleek and rugged at the same time. His ice blue eyes were a startling contrast to his dark hair. He’s crouched down to your level, arm propped up on his knee with the side of his face resting in his hand while the other held a black umbrella above the two of you.

Startled, you fall back onto the wet sidewalk and out of the shelter of his umbrella. Bucky tilts his head to the side slowly, examining your features with cool steel eyes sharp enough to cut through iron. You sense something rotten underneath his sophisticated demeanor—something dark and dangerous, wild and ruthless.

A wicked grin spreads across his pale features at the confusion and traces of fear written on your face.

“Who are you?” you asked.

He chuckles darkly, tilting the umbrella to cover you.

“I’m the devil that’s come to save you.”

It rolls off his tongue sweetly, but drips with a deadly poison. “You’ve got it pretty bad. The apartment, then the crappy professor, and now your job.”

Your eyes widen. “H-how do you know that?” you question.

“I’ve been following you for some time, Y/N,” you bounce back when he says your name. “The big guy up there’s been pretty rough on ya,” he points to the sky. “But good thing, I’m here to help,” he smiles wide. “Now tell me—” he starts, he licks his lip like a predator ready to pounce. “what is it that you wish for?”

You remain silent, as if you were pondering on his question. Bucky smirks inwardly.

“That’s it. Think stupid girl. Tell me your greatest desire and I’ll give you just that. All for the price of your pathetic little soul.”

“Am I on television?” you ask him, turning your head from left to right, looking around for hidden cameras.

Bucky blinks in confusion.

“What?” he asks incredulously with furrowed brows. “No! You’re not on television. This is the real deal!” he hisses. “I’m a devil and I’m here to give you your heart’s desire.”

“Oh,” you nodded calmly.

“Well?”

“Well what?”

“What is your wish?!”

“Oh, um,” your words trailed, “I don’t really have one.” Bucky looks at you completely dumbfounded, You stand up and pull your drenched hood over your head. “But it was nice meeting you,” you walk past his crouched form.

He jumps up and pulls you around by the shoulder. “That's not how this works!” he shouts at you. “You can’t just not have any wishes! Everyone wants something!”

“But I don’t really need anything,” you shake your head innocently, pissing him off even more.

He huffs. “You don’t have anything to begin with, stupid.”

Your lips twist into a pout. “Just because I’m poor doesn’t mean I’m stupid.”

“Yeah, well your grades say otherwise,” he jeers.

You gasp offensively. “You are not a nice person,” you point a scolding finger at him.

He slaps your hand out of his face. “Hello? I’m the devil! I’m not supposed to be nice!” he bellowed.

You huff, your wet hair flipping around as you stuck your nose in the air. “I don’t need anything from a mean guy like you.” You turn around and stomp down the sidewalk.

Bucky watches your retreating form as raindrops trickle down the sides of his umbrella. He clicks his tongue in indignation.

He wasn’t going to let you go that easily.

“The class average was pretty low this time around,” your professor announced as he pulled out a stack of papers. “So I have decided to give a very generous curve that I believe most of you will appreciate very much.”

A chorus of hushed cheers resounds in the room as the professor begins to call names one by one.

Your heart hammers against your chest so hard that it feels like it’ll crack your ribs. You close your eyes and take slow, deep breaths, anxiously waiting for your name to be called.

“Y/N,” he calls, swerving through the desks to get to you. He hands you your paper face down. If that’s not enough to tell you it was bad, the strained awkward smile he gave you really gave it away.

You flip over the exam carefully to limit any nosy eyes from peeking your grade. Your heart plunges into your stomach at the giant red “D-” in the upper right corner of the paper. Letting out a deep exhale, you slump into your seat with a pained grimace. If you did this bad with the curve, how bad did you do without it?

“Tsk, tsk, tsk,” Bucky whispers in a deep, gravelly voice from behind. His hot breath tickles your skin, making the hairs on your neck stick straight up. “A “D”?” he reads off the paper. “And after you studied day and night for three days?” he says with a mocking lilt to his words. He shakes his head in pity. “What a shame.”

You roll your eyes and tuck the exam into your folder then slip it into your bag.

“How about I make it better?” he asks with a sultry smile. You get up and hook the bag over your shoulder and walk away. “C’mon, princess, what d’ya say?” he drawls. “You just gotta say the words and I’ll turn that D into an A.” he tempts, following behind, pushing past other students without them feeling a thing.

No one can see or hear him but you.

“Or better yet, turn that crappy GPA of yours into a pretty 4.0?” he raises the bar. “Wouldn’t that look real nice on your resume?”

You refuse to give him even a second of your attention. Your eyes look onward while strutting down the hall like you didn’t just fail a curved exam.

“Hey,” he states flatly. “Quit ignoring me.”

You don’t utter a word, but simply smirk to get him riled up.

His face contorts into a petulant snarl, hating the confidence that radiated from within you.

“Don’t you feel bad at all?” he questions, flailing his arms.

You turn to look at him and shrug. “I’ll just do better next time.”

Bucky opens his mouth to speak but he’s speechless. He stands there, mouth open wide with furrowed brows, trying to figure out what to make out of you.

Your lips lift slightly in amusement. He was a rather funny character for a devil.

Bucky glares like a pouting child when a chuckle escapes your lips. Bright and sweet like a tuneful melody. It’s like a cat screeching to his ears.

“The hell is wrong with you?”

You turn the page of the textbook while sitting in the silence of the campus library. Your eyes are strictly on your book, walking along the trail of words that could bore anyone to death, but you can’t help but feel like someone’s staring at you.

You peek from the top of your textbook and find the devil sitting in front of you. The textbook drops onto the desk.

“You again,” you deadpan.

“It’s me,” he chuckles mischievously.

“What do you want from me now?”

“Hand.”

“What?”

He clicks his tongue in impatience. He shakes his hand towards you. “Give me your hand.”

You cautiously place your hand on top of his. Streams of bright lights erupt from the ground and encircle the both of you. The next thing you hear are seagulls squawking and ocean waves crashing in the distance.

You look around in confusion.

“Where are we?!” you asked him. “Take me back!”

Bucky simply smirks. “See that pretty house over there,” he points to the immaculate modern style mansion sitting on the cliff that hangs over the shore. “It costs two hundred million dollars and it’s all yours.” Your jaw goes slack in shock. Bucky snickers and pulls a golden contract and fancy pen out of his jacket. “All you have to do is sign this contract.”

Your eyes flit between the mansion, him, and the contract, but don’t say anything. It’s hard for him to tell what you’re thinking so he asks eagerly.

“Well, what do you say?”

A short pause.

“I’d like to go home please.”

“Are you kidding me?” he exclaims. “I’m giving you this huge ass mansion and you wanna go back to that rusty old apartment?”

“A home is a home,” you point like a wise old philosopher. “No matter how small, no matter how big.”

Bucky snorts at your stupidity. “But wouldn’t you rather have this big shiny house instead?” he asks sweetly like he’s trying to make a deal with a kid. “All you have to do is sign this contract and boom it’s all yours. No warranty. No money back guarantee.”

You bring a hand to your face and hum to yourself in contemplation. “There’s definitely a catch. You smell rotten.”

Bucky grunts and shoves the contract and the pen into your chest. “Listen, punk, sign this contract right now or face my wrath,” he threatens in a sinister tone.

You shove the paper back into him. “I will not.” you retorted. “Now take me home,” you ordered.

Bucky gawks at your boldness. “Are you—Do you KNOW who you’re talking to right now?” he hisses.

“A dumbass who doesn’t know what the word “no” means. Now take me home or else!” you shout at him.

Bucky’s shoulders slump and his lips follow.

“Give me your hand.”

The rain hammering against the windows sounds like heaven knocking at your door.

Relentlessly determined to gain your attention. Much like a certain someone who’s been following you around for the past week. For every minor inconvenience that came your way, he popped out of nowhere like a fairy godmother. A fairy godmother dressed in all black coaxing you into selling your soul to him.

Wise men say “resist the devil and he shall flee”, but in your case he keeps on coming back. And now he’s standing out in the rain on the tiny balcony of your apartment in protest.

Fresh out of the shower, you head towards the kitchen and pull out a soda from the fridge and grab the pizza box you bought on the way home.

Yeah, you’re broke, but you deserved this pizza.

You walk to your living room and place the two on the table and look over to see Bucky glaring at you through the sliding door that led to the balcony. You placed your hands on your hips and glared back. He doesn’t waver, only tightens the scowl on his face.

Getting on the devil’s bad side was obviously not a wise thing to do, but who said you cared? You weren’t ready to die and he wasn’t going to force you into it.

You walk over to the balcony and open the door. “Would you like to come inside?”

“No,” he says, teeth chattering softly due to the cold wind the rain brought.

“‘Are you sure?” you asked nicely, “it’s pretty cold out here”

“I am fine,” he lies. He sticks his hand on the inside of his jacket and pulls out the shining gold contract. “Sign it.”

You huff. “I already told you no!”

“But you have to!”

“What do you mean I have to?” you questioned incredulously. “Who are you to tell me what to do? You’re not God.”

He grumbles venomously. Despite the shivers running down your spine, you keep a straight face. No devil had the power to intimidate you. You stand tall and cross your arms.

“You know what I think?” you ask, smirking at him.

“What?”

“I think you follow me around because you’re lonely,” you spoke boldly.

“Lonely? Me? Lonely?” he barks incredulously. “The entire world is mine! I don’t need anything from you!”

“Then why do you keep following me around?” you mused.

“Because you’re on my list,” he explains.

“Why don’t you just skip over to the next one?”

“Because I can’t, dumbass, that’s not how it works.”

“Imagine having the entire world in your hand and you still have to follow some stupid rules,” you tease. “You’re probably not that powerful at all. You’re probably just lonely”

Bucky growls. “Even if I was lonely, why would I want to spend time with a plain ass girl like you?” he hurls. “Have you seen me?” he points at himself. “Have you seen this sexy jawline?” he turns to show you the side of his face while running a hand across his jaw. “These smoldering blue eyes,” he points at his eyes. “I’m fucking gorgeous,” he states boldy.

You roll your eyes at him as he continues.

He opens his jacket just a bit. “This jacket? Dolce.” He picks up his foot. “These shoes? Gucci. And you?” he points at you. “You’ve been wearing that same old ugly hoodie for the past two weeks. I’m sick of looking at it.”

“I’m not a psychologist but I think you might have a god complex,” you interrupt his spiel.

He slides his fingers through his hair and tugs at the roots. “You’re not supposed to act like this,” he groaned.

“And how am I supposed to act?”

“Afraid!” he shouts. “You’re supposed to be afraid of me! Everyone is afraid of the devil. And you’re not! What are you, huh? An alien or some shit?” He crouches and sighs. “I swear you give me a headache.”

You look down at him in pity. The man was just trying to do his job.

Was your only job to cause others trouble? Even for the devil himself?

“I’m sorry about that,” you whispered, playing with the hem of your hoodie.

He quickly stands up and whips out the gold contract again and hands it to you. “Then sign this.”

You stomp on the ground with a huff and throw back at him. “I already told you. I’m not selling my soul to you.” You turn around with a sigh. “But I’ll leave this door open just in case you want to come inside.”

“I’m not stepping into that shithole,” he sticks his nose in the air and crosses his arms.

“Suit yourself then,” you shrug, walking away from him. You plop down on the couch and reach for a slice of slightly cold pizza while turning on the television.

Bucky watches you from the door, snuggled up in a warm blanket, enjoying a peaceful Friday night as he shivered in the rain.

Your eyes are glued to the television while using everything in you. You felt that if you did, you’d lose the silent battle he was having with you.

The couch dips as Bucky takes a seat next to you, arms crossed and eyes set on the television. You give him a side eye and chuckle quietly making him mutter curses underneath his breath. He’s kinda cute when he’s all grumpy like that.

You reach over for a slice of pizza and offer it to him. He snatches it from your hand rudely, but you don’t mind. He takes a bite as you reach for another slice.

“What are we watching?” he asked, chewing loudly.

“Friends,” you replied.

He clicks his tongue and waves his pizza around. “Even your taste in entertainment is plain.”

“I’ve had a bad week, alright?” you snap at him. “So leave me alone.”

Bucky slumps into the sofa and quietly watches, trying his best not to laugh when someone makes a sarcastic comment or a stupid remark. He wasn’t going to show you that he enjoyed it. As the show progresses, Bucky becomes more invested in it’s characters, finally allowing a small smile to appear on his face.

Bucky felt a soft thud against his shoulder and turned to find you sound asleep with your head resting against him. Scarlet red gushes on his cheeks and tints the tips of his ears as he sits frozen for a few minutes in silent panic.

Should he move? Should he leave?

Confused and embarrassed, the devil decided that he’d stay where he is. Bucky reaches over for another slice of pizza and falls back onto the couch, making sure you were resting comfortably against him. He takes the blanket and covers your shoulders so you wouldn’t get cold.

Your steady breathing mingles with the soft murmurs coming from the television, running in harmony with the gentle pitter patter of the rain against the window sill.

It’s peaceful and warm. It’s something that Bucky’s never experienced before but he likes it.

“You’re gonna sign that damn contract or my name’s not Bucky Barnes,” he whispers as he starts to get comfortable.

To him, you’re an enigma and although he’s never really taken a deep interest in his previous clients, he had to admit, you were kinda cute in a stupid kinda way.

Permanent Taglist: @murdermornings @marshyrebelcloud @chuckennuggets1213 @miraclesoflove @fckdeusername @undiadeestos @hailmary-yramliah @andiebell2023 @anjali750 @gabbie-is-sad @drayshadow @the-wayward-robot @vxidnik @ivvitm1109 @myboyfriendgiriboy @thecurlsofgod @sesyeuxocean @fanfic-fangirl

Bucky Barnes Taglist: @infinity-saga @marvelloonie @chewymoustachio @my-drowning-in-time @shoesonpointe @buckybabyy @inactivewhore

#bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes x y/n #bucky barnes fluff #bucky barnes imagines #bucky x you #bucky x reader #bucky x y/n

61 notes · View notes

sweetlangdon · 5 years

Text

Steal Into My Melancholy Heart (Michael Langdon x Reader Beauty and the Beast AU)

Notes: Here it is (finally), the start of the AHS: Apocalypse Beauty and the Beast AU. There’s going to be a lot of changes to canon. Some characters have been left out, others have a different backstory and purpose to suit this AU ‘verse. Hopefully everything makes sense as the story goes on! The title comes from the song “Evermore” in the 2017 version of Beauty and the Beast, because I can’t help myself.

Word Count: 3.7k+

Warnings: Some violence, mentions of gore and blood.

{Prologue}

A thin veil of moonlight fell across the obsidian spiral, a monolith shrouded in a layer of dense fog. It parted around Cordelia Goode’s shoes, chilly and damp, clouding an otherwise clear night. The Hawthorne School looked abandoned. That was for a purpose, for protection, but a feeling clawed its way deep into her gut that suggested maybe they were already too late.

That the warlocks had suffered the same fate as her girls.

She could still hear their screams, their agony echoing in her ears. The shadow of their blood still clung to her hands. Even in the dark, she saw the trails it had leached under her nails and how it sat in the creases between her knuckles. The house had reeked of it, the blood and carnage heavy in the air, bright red pooling on the immaculate floors. She’d sat there for the longest time, minutes turning to an hour she didn’t have, hollow with grief. That house was now their tomb. Cordelia had left their bodies where they’d fallen, cold and still and pale. Fingers and lips turning blue. The halls of her school silenced.

Four had survived. It was enough, for now, to hold together Cordelia’s shattered heart.

Madison, Mallory, Coco, and Emily trailed in her wake, footsteps whispering across the dry, desert earth. She could hear their quiet weeping, their sniffling and heartache so palpable it settled on her chest like stones. They hadn’t spoken on the plane ride here, too stricken with heartache and shock and anger that words didn’t seem enough. The march up to the doors of Hawthorne felt like a funeral procession. Somber. Bleak. Their black clothes, still holding the scent of their fallen sisters’ blood, a sign of mourning rather than tradition.

Cordelia steeled herself, wiping the last of her tears from the corner of her swollen eye with the edge of her thumb, as she came to a halt at the doors. Where they were still coming from, she didn’t know. How could she have any left to cry? What would she do if they found the warlocks slaughtered inside their school?

The quiet unnerved her. The hum of crickets, the distant sway of leaves in a nocturnal wind. The strange, dark cylinder towering over them stood resolute and still as a grave. If it had become one, then she couldn’t see a way out of this. She couldn’t see a light beyond the hurt and despair. Not right now. Not when they’d already lost so much.

Every muscle in Cordelia’s body tensed when the door slid open. The surviving witches, gathered at her sides, looked up once warm, flickering light spilled over the threshold and broke the chill of the night. Golden candle light illuminated the tears that glistened on their faces.

John Henry Moore leaned against the doorway, a pale wisp of smoke coiling up from the cigarette between his fingers. Cordelia’s knees almost buckled from relief.

“Oh, thank god,” she exhaled. “Are you all right? The students—are they all okay?”

One of John Henry’s dark eyebrows rose. “Yeah,” he drawled. “Why?”

“Michael Langdon isn’t here, is he?” Her tone had turned dangerous, the hate dripping from her curt question.

“Haven’t seen him since he fucked off into the woods, Cordelia.” He pushed off the wall and moved to let her and the girls through, then took a drag from his cigarette. He sounded annoyed. “What is it? Kind of late to be making unannounced house calls. It’s past curfew.”

“We’re not here for your witty comebacks, asshole,” Madison countered.

Before John Henry could take offense, Cordelia started down the hall toward the elevator, the girls following close behind, a cacophony of heels ricocheting across marble and stone.

“We don’t have a lot of time.”

“You want to explain what’s going on?”

They took the elevator down beneath the earth. John Henry leaned against the wall, taking long drags from his cigarette and eyeing the group of young witches congregated tightly opposite him. Madison was silently furious, arms crossed over her chest, her sharp glare fixed on the closed doors. Mallory sniffled, drabbing at her eyes with the edge of a long, black sleeve. Emily found solace in Coco, her head pressed to Coco’s shoulder. Cordelia looked beside herself, her gaze distant, restless as they waited for the elevator doors to hiss open.

“You were right.” Cordelia’s voice broke, frayed with the tears that still trickled down her cheeks. “About everything. You were right.”

“Now what’s all this?” Behold Chablis joined them as they filed into the cavernous heart of The Hawthorne School, a labyrinth of candle lit staircases and hallways. His question, rising sharply at the end, filled up the quiet. The students were locked away in their dormitories for the night. Safe and oblivious to the danger heading their way, for now.

“Miss Goode was just about to tell me.”

“Langdon,” her voice cut deeply into the name as her eyes fluttered closed to stave off more tears, “Michael Langdon…murdered my girls. We were lucky to escape when we did. And if we don’t act now, then this school—you and your students are next. I don’t know how much time we have.”

“Jesus.” John Henry muttered. He turned away, scratching at an eyebrow with the edge of his thumbnail.

Behold’s dark eyes widened. “I’ll evacuate the school.”

“No,” Cordelia said. “We might need them.”

“For what?” Behold asked. “I’m not leaving our boys to be some Antichrist’s cannon fodder, Miss Supreme. Not after he slaughtered your girls.”

“Coming here wasn’t about just warning you. We need a curse,” she explained. Madison and Mallory exchanged looks of surprise before they caught her eye. She’d kept her plans to herself, an impulsive decision on the flight to California. “And if memory serves, the reigning expert on curses is you.” She turned to John Henry.

At her pointed look, he scoffed. “We need a firing squad, not a curse.”

“Shockingly, I agree,” Coco said softly.

“You never said shit about that,” Madison said. “I mean, what the fuck, Cordelia?”

“We have to fight him,” Emily agreed. “I don’t care what it takes.”

Mallory’s eyes narrowed. “What kind of curse?”

John Henry held up a hand. “Forget it.”

“He has too much power now,” Cordelia reasoned. “We can’t kill him…we can’t even stop him if we tried. I felt that power when he broke past the defenses at Robichaux—Langdon’s the Devil’s son, and that makes him invincible. Our only choice is to play the long game. Survive the impossible, together, and create something that tears him down, bit by bit. Make him his own demise.”

“So your solution is,” Behold drawled, “to…sit back and watch the world go up in flames? Let him win?”

“He’ll think he’s won,” Cordelia said, a determined grin curving one side of her mouth despite the tears that welled in her eyes. “And then he’ll get what he deserves for all the chaos he’s wrought, slowly, until his death sets things right again. A hard reset. Everything back to the way it was.”

She’d had a lot of time to think on the plane.

John Henry laughed, but there wasn’t much humor in it. “That’s a tall order.”

“Yeah, no shit.” Madison rolled her eyes.

“Wait,” Coco interrupted. “Can we…really do that?”

“No,” Behold answered at the same time John Henry deadpanned a halfhearted, “Definitely not.”

“Yes,” Cordelia insisted, her voice shaking. Her gaze flittered to Mallory, who hadn’t spoken a word of dissent or skepticism. “There’s enough power in this room—in this school. If we combine that magic, I know we can. I have to believe it, otherwise what else do we have left?”

“Curses are stubborn. Delicate,” John Henry said. “They have to be precise, not to mention the amount of magic they require. You can’t engineer a curse in a single night, Cordelia, it can’t be done. Not for what you’re asking.”

“We have to find a way.”

“It’s just not possible,” seemed to be John Henry’s final answer. Resolved to defeat.

“I’m sorry,” Behold offered. “Wish we could—”

“I think we should do it,” Mallory said. “I know…I know Cordelia’s right. We have enough magic right here in this room. We have to try.”

“What the hell, right?” Madison flicked her long hair behind her shoulder. “Mallory’s magic could power the whole curse by itself. I’ve seen it.”

The witches murmured their agreement.

“It’s not the magic I’m worried about,” John Henry replied. “Curses are unwieldy. I’ve never designed one this complex.”

“Well,” Coco said brightly. “First time for everything.”

***

They settled into the central hub of The Hawthorne School, their work lit by roaring fires and sconces on the walls. John Henry gave each of them a task based on their skill level, some facet of the curse that was theirs to render with their magic. By that time, he and Behold determined that they’d only need a few of the students lend their talents, and the rest would be sent in groups to scatter themselves in different directions across the state. To escape and survive the impossible, as Cordelia said.

Three Hawthorne students had joined the witches and John Henry, chosen by Behold’s own meticulous eye. He knew those boys well enough, saw their magic at work in his classes. They’d proven to be the most proficient with the incantations and sigils needed to design their curse.

Timothy, Andre, and Gallant circled around John Henry like a trio of baby ducklings, a force of habit that couldn’t be broken even under the unusual circumstances. The boys cast wary glances at the witches in their midst, unused to working alongside them. They were half-dressed in their Hawthorne uniforms, not quite so polished, the dress codes forgotten. Sleep still clouded their vision as they struggled with whatever archaic texts John Henry shoved at them.

The room was a mess—papers littered with John Henry’s inelegant scrawl, more discarded on the floor than kept for revision; old books heavy with a musty scent in careless piles for reference. Most were in Latin, others almost unreadable even to Cordelia’s rather astute magical knowledge.

She hoped these archaic words and symbols would be enough. There had been more than one argument ricocheting off the vaulted ceilings in the long hours they’d spent working on this. Cordelia knew what it would take, how she wanted the curse to evolve as time wore on, but translating that to magic had John Henry at his wit’s end.

There were variables to consider. And layers upon layers of incantations, each with a specific purpose. Not to mention, they had to put the entire world back together—and billions of lives—once the curse had slowly withered Langdon away. One wrong link in that chain and everything else would crumble. So, of course, there had been shouting matches and a litany of swearing and one instance of John Henry walking the fuck out of the room for another cigarette as tensions ran high.

“We need a failsafe,” John Henry decided.

Cordelia reached over the table of papers and books to reach her wine glass. “Like what?”

John Henry sighed, ink-stained fingers splayed on the tabletop. He slumped forward a little and stifled a yawn. “You said it yourself. Kid’s got the protection of fucking Satan. If this isn’t enough to wear that down and kill him over time, we’re gonna need backup. Another way to take the shot. So to speak.”

“Well, he’s still half-human.”

“I think that ship has sailed,” Behold mused. He refilled Cordelia’s wine glass with a languid sweep of his fingers.

“I’m talking about emotionally,” she explained. “He’s…sensitive. You saw his reaction when we retaliated. The way he cried over that woman. I don’t have much hope for whatever humanity is left in him, but if we can use it to bring him down, that might be our only shot. If the evil in him doesn’t break him, then maybe his heart will.”

“You think the Antichrist is capable of love?” Behold raised an eyebrow.

“I don’t know.” She shook her head. “That human heart of his—Michael’s heart—might.”

John Henry heaved another long-suffering sigh. “That’s a gamble.”

Cordelia took a sip of wine, her gaze downcast to the scattering of notes. “It’s all we have.”

They chose the main foyer to lay their trap.

Right below where the two central staircases converged, there was ample floor space. Langdon would have to set foot there when he arrived at Hawthorne, and by the time he recognized the power that surrounded him, it would be too late. For that to work, they needed the curse to soak into every single fiber of the room, to make the space itself alive with the full force of their magic.

And piece by piece, it did.

Sigils were burned into the floor, where they disappeared out of sight. That was Mallory’s doing, her strong, unwavering magic building the foundations of the curse. She had the most work of all, though she didn’t complain about it. Not once. Not even when she and Cordelia and Behold had to figure out the complex magic involved in restoring the entire Earth. The hard reset Cordelia insisted on seemed to be beyond anyone’s capabilities. But she was the exception.

More sigils were inlaid in the walls. John Henry oversaw the precise order and placement of each one from the notes that no one could read because he’d written them. The incantations were the most important—and required every single witch and warlock to chant the ancient words as one. That was the trickiest part. John Henry, Behold, and Cordelia went over the exact pronunciation beforehand until their students were tired of it; archaic Latin wasn’t everyone’s best subject at either school of magic, and one wrong syllable would topple all their hard work.

Designing a curse was fucking exhausting.

Emily slumped onto the staircase. Through a yawn, she asked, “So, what happens now?”

“This is going to get ugly,” John Henry said, running a palm across his face. “He’s coming here for revenge. He’ll want blood.”

“Which means you all need to get yourselves out of here,” Behold agreed.

“The three of us will stay behind,” Cordelia said. She studied the weary faces in front of her, so young, trying to hide their fear. “We’ll get out once we know Langdon’s activated the curse. But if this works—”

“And it should,” John Henry grumbled.

“We’ll have to stick close,” Cordelia told them. “We have to see this through to the end.”

***

A midday sun blazed scorching hot across the dry desert earth. Michael Langdon inhaled the scent of dust and heat, pausing to consider the gruesome scene in front of him. Three large birds, their pitch black feathers fluttering, beady eyes reflecting the bright sky, poked at an animal carcass. He couldn’t tell what it was. Maybe a rabbit or a squirrel; tufts of brown fur were lost in the gore, dark scarlet staining the cracked earth. Two of the birds fought over the animal’s innards, pulling at them with their sharp beaks. Michael turned away, slightly unsettled, the edge of his cape rustling in the wind. He had no reason to fear the blackbirds—they were harbingers of his father’s presence, they kept a watchful eye from above.

And they wouldn’t be the only ones to spill blood today.

Michael drew in another deep breath, his fingers curling into light fists at his sides. He wasn’t so blinded by his own rage and vengeance that he couldn’t sense the magic inside Hawthorne. It was almost oppressive. It had never been that way before, not when he was a student. Maybe then he hadn’t been so sensitive to it. The power inside him was far stronger than it had been when he turned the library into a furious snowstorm. But now Hawthorne’s magic felt different to him, seeping out of the strange building to coil at his shoes like a fine mist.

It was strong. Defensive, he thought, if he had to give it a particular quality. But it wouldn’t give him any trouble. No witch or warlock had the power to rival Satan’s own son.

Hawthorne was quiet. Michael noticed an unusual tension in the air, a breath away from snapping. He could still remember the meticulous class schedules and customs, how the halls were always buzzing with noise and footsteps and voices chanting. Lessons took up every odd corner and room. The only time he’d ever seen it this quiet had been long after curfew, when he’d slip away to visit Ms. Mead, memorize the layout of the school, or try and contact his father.

It was just after twelve thirty in the afternoon. And yet, the halls were abandoned.

No, Michael thought, a snarl on his lips. Evacuated.

Someone told them he was coming.

“Cordelia,” Michael growled.

“Hello, Michael.” The voice was a gruff, familiar one that hadn’t so much said his name as it had spat it back at his feet.

Michael found John Henry Moore sitting in the middle of one of the main staircases. A single, flickering flame from a lighter—which he appeared to have some trouble igniting—illuminated the purple shadows beneath his eyes and his jaw shadowed by stubble. His gaze was dark, sharp as a razor.

“I thought you would have been smart enough to leave,” Michael said. His voice carried, bouncing off the cavernous walls as he approached. “After all, you were the one to see past the bullshit. You had me all figured out.”

John Henry’s gaze didn’t break from him, not when he took a long drag from his cigarette. Michael tilted his head a little, a provocation for whatever sarcastic comment John Henry had to offer him. The school’s magic still pressed in on him at all sides, in relentless waves, though there was no one else in sight. He listened, fingers flexing at nothing, stirring up the air. Testing it.

With a rough flick of his wrist, Michael sent John Henry flying backward up the staircase. His lighter clattered onto the steps at the same time his body landed with a crack, his neck twisted at a sickening, abnormal angle. A thin ribbon of blood trickled from the corner of his mouth onto the floorboards. His open, sightless eyes reminded Michael of the blackbirds feasting on their gory prey.

Michael lifted his chin in approval. But when he stepped forward to admire his grim handiwork, the magic in the room seemed to shift. Michael staggered back from the intensity of it, the crushing weight he felt from all sides. It immobilized him, kept him rooted to the spot where he stood. His hands curled into fists so tight that his nails bit into the skin of his palms. He tried to push against it, break it down like he’d torn through the defenses at the witches’ school. A hoarse, mournful, frustrated cry ripped free from his throat as the magic overpowered him and forced his knees to collapse.

And when he looked up, beneath the curls that had fallen into his eyes, he saw how the room itself had changed. He watched the markings surface on the walls. Symbols that meant nothing to him, scored into the stone and wood and tile as if they’d been etched there by fire. He lifted his palm when they appeared under him like they’d scorch his flesh. The complicated patterns arranged one by one, circle by circle. There was no one else in the room with him, not that he could see, but the air echoed with voices. They chanted as one, their ghostly chorus filling up the silence. Words he’d never heard before.

Words, he realized, that were meant to harm him.

“You’re not used to weakness, are you?” another voice asked.

“Cordelia,” Michael spat.

The ground trembled under the influence of magic. Some of the fires in the sconces on the walls flickered out. Michael let out a sob when the suffocating weight of the magic surrounding him turned into a sudden flash of pain. He fought again, pushing a hand toward Cordelia, fingers rigid with agony and a surge of pure hatred. Cordelia didn’t even flinch.

“You’re just a sad, scared little boy,” she told him. “And if you want to embrace that evil, then fine. You do that. You can tear apart the world until there’s nothing left. But now…it will cost you, Michael.”

“It already has,” Michael sobbed through gritted teeth.

“No.” Cordelia shook her head. “Not like this. If you want to become a monster, then who are we to deny you that? Your actions will have consequences, now; ones you won’t have any control over. The further you descend into darkness, you’ll have to live with what your choices have done to you. Every time you look at your reflection—when you see all that beauty withering away, you’ll think of the lives you’ve stolen and all the times you could’ve stopped. But no amount of regret will help you. It’s too late, Michael.”

A pain Michael couldn’t find the words for took hold of him, forcing another strangled cry from his lips. He was sprawled on the floor, muscles tense, tears streaming down the swell of his cheekbones. He felt the magic seeping into him, latching onto his bones, branding itself onto his very soul.

“Enjoy your apocalypse.”

The air went still and silent. Michael sensed the remnants of the magic as it receded and let go of him. There was nothing left except the sound of his ragged breathing. When he pushed himself off the floor onto his elbows, ignoring the deep, lingering ache in his body, Cordelia had disappeared. Her escape, and the warlocks’ covert plan to destroy him, renewed the flicker of rage in his heart.

Michael staggered back into the daylight with a curse sitting in his veins like poison.

***

Tagging my usual list + people I think might enjoy this fic (I hope you don’t mind)! And as always, if you want to be tagged, just let me know!

@lastregasolitaria @mylippo @zeciex @lvngdvns @langdonsdemon @wvntersldr @sojournmichael @gabnelson98 @antichristlangdxn @keavysmithxoxo @batgirlbride @dead-witch-boy @boofy1998 @gentianea @cryptid-coalition @kinlovecody @yuriohoe04 @electricurie @marvel-rpdr-and-ahs @gallxntdean @jcshadowkiss-blog @frozenhuntress67 @sebastianshoe @dixmond-taurus @bookobssesed99 @sassylangdon @queenie435 @holylangdon @angsty-otters-blog @denaexr @mr-langdonn @micheallangdons @lostin-fern @crazedcatcuddler @michaelsapostle @wroteclassicaly @monsucre @ritualmichael @queencocoakimmie @bluelancesredswords @theharvestgirloffire @punkysouls @sevenwondr @prettykitten123 @zoebensvn @kylosbabe @sloppy-little-witch-bitch26 @readsalot73 @americanhorrorstudies @tiny-ruby-seeds @confettucini @xavierplympton @kaetastic @blakewaterxx @duncvns @codyssfern @avesatanormalpeoplescareme @langdonsoceaneyes

#michael langdon x reader #michael langdon x you #michael langdon x fem!reader #michael langdon x oc #michael langdon imagine #michael langdon fanfiction #ahs apocalypse imagine #ahs apocalypse fanfiction #fic: batb au

277 notes · View notes

enchanted-prose · 4 years

Text

#18 Blackberry Night iii

the last of our fancy antics

Word count: 2,384

Characters: Roden, Nila, Merry (Original character)

Enjoy!

Blackberry Night had a grip on every building and on every person. However, Renlyn and Amarinda’s strict color rule only applied to the castle.

Roden wondered if he’d get an earful for skipping the grand party for something calmer.

Hopefully.

The instructions were clear. They were to meet outside the city gates beside the Roving River. He was to bring every weapon known to man, a full suit of armor, and barrels of pitch.

Unfortunately for Merry and her extreme hatred for crawfish, Roden hadn’t been able to mobilize forces.

But he did bring Nila, who didn’t really mind crawfish. She didn’t really mind anything, much to the horror of her tutors.

Merry was standing at the river bank, mud covering her bare feet. She waved.

“I hope you don’t mind,” Roden tilted his head in Nila’s direction. “Sadly, waging war against water bugs wasn’t able to find space in my schedule.”

“Lady Harlowe, it has been far too long,” Merry said, nearly scraping the ground with her head as she bowed.

“The pleasure-,” Nila mimicked the bow. “-is all mine.”

“Your trousers are impeccably tasteful, if I do say so myself.”

“They’re quite nice to tell the truth.”

Merry put her hands on her hips, “Did you do the braids in your hair?”

Nila shook her head, and pointed at Roden. He coughed. “I did them.”

As captain of the royal guard, Roden was responsible for ensuring that Princess Amarinda and Imogen were watched over during their travels. He rode outside their carriages and kept vigil outside their tents. During their travels, he was with them for almost every single moment.

Of course they’d taught him how to braid hair.

“That’s- bravo, Captain Harlowe, you’ve earned a little bit more respect from me,” Merry whistled.

“They’re just braids,” said Roden.

“Very nice braids, mind you.”

“Do you like the ribbons on the ends?” Nila asked, holding up the ends of her two golden braids. A pair of blue ribbons were tied to the edges in immaculate bows.

Merry looked to the side and pointed to her own blue hair ribbon, “We match.”

Nila looked at Roden, her smile reaching her eyes. “We match!”

“Ah, yes, that you do,” he said.

He’d have to start giving away different colors of ribbon.

“I hope you don’t mind helping me catch crawfish,” Merry scratched the back of her hand. “I slept in again and I didn’t get to pick my chore.”

“I’m good at catching crawfish, they get really big in Libeth so I’m not scared of the little ones in the Roving River,” Nila said. “The village boys like to have team contests with catching the buggers, everyone wants me on their team.”

“The crawfish here are small?!” Merry tapped her right shoulder and then her left.

Roden recognized the sign. Bymarian and outdated. Meant to expel evil spirits from entering the soul. Amarinda explained it to him several years ago.

“Sometimes they’re red,” he added.

“With glittery black eyes!” Nila held her fingers to her face, imitating a pair of spectacles.

“By the Saints! Do the Devils wander Libeth too?” Merry stepped back, disgusted.

Taking Nila by the hand, Roden stepped off of the main road, approaching the silty riverbank. “Haven’t seen one yet, but there’s a first for everything.”

A large bucket waited for them, supporting a series of sticks of varying length. There was a cloth inside the bucket, and upon further inspection, a sausage too. Nila sat down in the reeds and peeled off her boots.

“I brought string,” Merry fished around in her patched apron pocket. “Do you have anything to cut it with?”

“Are you using a stick and bait like you’re fishing?” Nila scoffed.

“Are you going to catch them with your bare hands?”

Nila tied both of her braids in a knot at the base of her neck, and slowly waded into the Roving River without a word. Roden tensed. She knew how to swim, but he still struggled with keeping a safe distance.

It was hard to stay away knowing the various dangers that could occur at a whim.

“Right, well, ah, I don’t like holding crawfish, so I’m using a stick and string,” Merry mumbled.

Roden motioned for the string, “Why don’t you like crayfish?”

“They’re scary and their pincers hurt. Don’t get me wrong, I like to eat them, but I don’t like looking at them.”

Completely fair.

He cut through a length of string, handed it to Merry, and cut a length of string for himself. Nila’s fearlessness was completely different from Roden’s. The more he thought about crawfish and their spindly little legs, the less he wanted to hold one.

“Jolly said you frequent the chapel,” Merry dug around in her skirt pocket.

“Yes, ah, I do,” said Roden. He rubbed the back of his neck, wondering just what Merry hoped to

accomplish by pointing that out.

She frowned, still patting at her skirts. “I swear if I lost it-”

“Lost what?”

“I made you something. But I won’t tell you what it is, and it’s not a tart this time. I didn’t know Nila was coming, otherwise I would’ve brought something for her too.”

“She’d understand.”

Merry stuck her tongue out as she searched another skirt pocket. She gasped in delight, “Found it! Here, if you don’t like it, don’t tell me.”

A string of beads, bits of polished glass, stones, and another fish coin dangled from her grip. She held it from the middle to point to another charm at the top of the string: A silver shield bearing an ‘x’.

“Are these-?” Roden asked, holding the string up to the setting sunlight.

“Prayer beads? They’re a little unconventional, but I know that’s important to you and I’ve gathered too many stones, they needed a purpose,” Merry shrugged. “I bought the charm, and the coin at the end matches the other one I gave you.”

The unorthodox beads, mostly green in color, matched the springtime season growing between his ribs. Encompassing his bones. Roden held the string in his fist, unsure of what to say. Unsure of how he could describe what they meant to him.

“Thank you,” Roden grinned. “It really-”

Merry brushed her chin, “Ah, don’t mention it. It’s just trash I’ve collected over the past few weeks.”

Except that it wasn’t trash.

He wouldn’t put pressure on her. Roden knew exactly what pressure did to a person, and it rarely worked out in the end.

What turned a heart to stone?

Turned a smile to ice?

Pressure.

“I caught one!” Nila shrieked, yanking her prize out of the water. The crawfish in her hand pinched at the sky, trying to reach backwards to attack Nila’s hand.

“Absolutely revolting,” Merry gagged as she dumped the sausage out of the bucket. She held her skirt in her hand as she stepped into the mud, holding the bucket beneath Nila’s crawfish.

“You really did catch that with your bare hands.”

“She’s really our best offense when it comes to a crawfish battle,” Roden said.

The bucket found a permanent place wedged in the mud not far from where Nila stood. Her knotted braids came loose, resulting in both blue bows dragging in the river water each time she dove for a crawfish. By the time Roden had both poles ready for himself and Merry, Nila had caught three more crawfish.

“By the Saints, can I give her my wages if she always comes to help,” Merry put her hands on her hips. She yelped, and leapt away from the water. “Something touched my foot!”

“It’s probably just a plant,” Roden said.

Merry nodded, and once again stepped into the water; Roden slid out of his boots and socks as fast as he could, splashing in after Merry. The silt between his toes conjured up unpleasant images from years ago.

But he’d ignore them for now.

His battle was with crawfish, not with boys his own age at the wrong side of a war.

“I can’t, I just keep thinking about-,” Merry swallowed. “-about one crawling over my foot.”

“A reasonable fear, your ankles are too small to put up much of a fight,” countered Roden.

“My ankles are most certainly not too small.”

Roden gestured for Merry’s hand, “Step where I stepped, there’s a rock you can stand on.”

“You found the rock first, you can stand on it.”

“I have hardy ankles, you don’t.”

“I caught another one!” Nila bellowed. “How many have you caught with your pole, Merry?”

“Fifty, but sadly, they are all invisible.”

Ultimately, Merry did step on the rock. Roden took several steps to the left, and tossed the sausage into the water. The silt sliding beneath his feet reminded him too much of a familiar substance he’d tried to avoid for as long as he could.

Distraction. He needed a distraction.

“Are you doing anything once you’ve captured every crawfish in the Roving River?” He asked, pulling the string a little closer to him.

Merry laughed, “Not exactly. It’s my first time in Drylliad for Blackberry Night, and I’m one of the only girls who’ll have to pass around tankards of ale to all the young lovers at the Dragon’s Keep.”

“Somebody will try to steal you away.”

“You’re right. Jolly has grand plans and apparently I’m the only one who can help with them. Something about getting all of the Gelynian’s in Regar’s army to demonstrate their signal songs.”

“My voice teacher’s Gelynian!” Nila called.

“Then perhaps you can join us at the Dragon’s Keep and show off your skills,” Roden said.

“Really?”

“No.”

“Roden! I’ve been to the Dragon’s Keep before!”

Merry clicked her tongue, “You got yourself into this one, Captain.”

“Friends help friends?” Roden tried, once again tugging his string to a new patch in the river.

“Nila, love, the Dragon’s Keep is going to be horrifically crowded,” Merry explained. “Besides, somebody needs to make sure Roden gets into bed on time.”

“Exactly! Ah, Merry, your string’s gone tight.”

“My string’s gone- My string’s gone tight!” Merry burst, jerking the string up. The crawfish and sausage piece shot out of the water, and landed in the grass. An odd slapping sound confirmed that the crawfish hadn’t escaped to the water yet.

Roden caught a small crawfish not long after he picked up Merry’s for her. As expected, Nila brought in several. Her trousers were completely soaked, and river water dripped from her once pristine braids.

She looked like a mess, but the giddy laugh that came with every caught crawfish excused the dirt stains.

Merry and Nila began a spying game, each one taking a turn quietly spotting an object and letting the other try to guess what it was.The game was familiar, and Roden joined in after a few rounds, but gave up after Nila chose a tree for her object three turns in a row.

The silt. That slippery, dirty grip it had on his ankles and calves. It was nowhere near those old memories. If anything, the silt was cleaner.

But it felt too much like blood soaked grass.

The makeshift rod in his hand felt too much like a sword. He-

“Roden, can you help me?”

A crawfish was swinging in a circle, picking off pieces of sausage. Merry held the string at an arm’s length. The crawfish waved a claw in the air. Roden nodded, and pulled the crawfish free from the sausage.

Mosquitos buzzed, signalling that it was time to either go home, or face the wrath of hundreds of cursed bugs. Nila had already pulled her boots on. She held the bucket with price, and pointed out each crawfish she’d caught.

The roar from the Dragon’s Keep echoed all the way through the streets and almost past the walls. Merry gave Nila a tight embrace.

“Really, it means the world to me that you caught that many,” she laughed. “I’ll never doubt your claims ever again.”

“Good, because you shouldn’t,” Nila clasped her hands behind her back. “I’ll think of you when I see a crawfish.”

“Saints, I hope you don’t. Now hurry along, I’m not responsible if you turn into a fish from wearing those soaking clothes for too long.”

Nila stuck out her tongue, and bounded ahead of Roden. He lingered for a moment. “I, ah, I’d rather not be trapped in a room filled with nobles.”

“I don’t blame you, though Carthyan gentry is much more favorable than any other court I’ve been t- I’ve heard of,” Merry crossed her arms. “Are you sure wild noise and Jolly’s eternal lute playing is something-?”

She didn’t need to say it. Roden knew what she was hinting at; Merry wanted to know if he needed a quiet place.

And the answer was no, he didn’t. Quiet places left him alone with his thoughts, and Roden didn’t want to be alone. Not tonight, anyways.

“I can get past the lute,” Roden promised. “Can I come see you?”

“If you don’t mind watching me clean, then yes. If you stick around till I’m finished, we’ll steal an entire cake and eat it ourselves. Or feed it to a very lucky pigeon. And you’ll get to see Gelynians belting their hearts out. That’s a sight to see.”

Roden caught himself nodding. The roar of noise at the Dragon’s Keep was different from the porcelain chatter that would undeniably be at the great hall. Nobody cared at the Dragon’s Keep, but everyone at court was waiting to rip somebody to shreds in a moment of weakness.

He could ignore what happened at the river if he was given the right tools.

Take the matter up with his father once the situation calmed.

“I’m glad I got to help you conquer crawfish,” Roden said, the prayer beads were almost heavy in his pocket.

Merry smiled, and patted his cheek, “Thank you for putting them away because I hate them.”

There was no need for goodbyes, Roden knew he’d be back.

“Oh! And Roden?” She added. “Bring ink and a quill, I’ll bring flowers. We’ll toss something over the bridge.”

Tossing flowers and wishes into the Roving River, turning a blazing flow of death to a place of good memories.

He couldn’t stay away if he tried.

#the ascendance series #theyre pals #roden #nila #ocs #the streets of drylliad #kinda edgy ngl #feral nila rights

8 notes · View notes

keeroo92 · 4 years

Text

Truce

Hi, guys! This was my contribution to the INVICTUS zine. Thanks again for having me, it was such a pleasure to work amongst such talented people. Enjoy!

Word count - 1,627

________

---Vergil---

The shattered remains of the Qlipoth stood vigil as the two brothers circled each other on the already brutalized terrain. Their heavy breath fogged the chilly air of the Underworld, not a breeze to be found. Splashes of his kin’s blood stained his normally immaculate vest; his own was almost invisible on Dante’s crimson leather.

Vergil smirked. He’d drawn more blood.

My victory approaches.

Yet the thought lacked the satisfaction he expected. It didn’t make sense, defeating Dante was his goal for years, it was what drove him to split himself. Where was the sense of achievement? The glory? What changed?

Irrelevant. He tightened his grip on the Yamato and growled, setting his stance in preparation for a lunge. Dante followed suit, dropping into a low crouch and holding his blade defensively. No matter; he’d target lower. Perhaps a feint?

Ha darted forward and despite his adjustments, steel struck steel as Dante blocked. The flesh of his arms trembled from the reverberations. Icy crystal met stormy depths as their eyes locked and for a single heartbeat Vergil wondered what his life would look like if not for that one terrible night.

He blinked and the strange thought dissipated. Now wasn’t the time to get nostalgic, what was wrong with him? With barely a thought, he flashed away to regain his bearings.

But Dante didn’t relent. A streak of red and a familiar battle cry warned him just in time as the legendary devil hunter attacked with a flaming series of punches that would’ve shattered his ribs. Another perilous thought pierced his mental barricade as he guarded his core and dodged what he could.

What happened to us, brother?

A flash of cold steel; Vergil stepped to the side as Rebellion crashed down, forcing his attention back to the current moment. He raised Yamato and targeted Dante’s exposed rib cage.

A clang rattled up his arms as Dante blocked his calculated blow with his gauntlet. He pushed against it, using the red-clad man’s resistance to propel him a safe distance before he had a chance to retaliate.

You will never understand what I have endured. How could you?

The roads they walked were too different. Dante’s smooth and unblemished. Vergil’s, cratered and treacherous at every turn. Perhaps once they had a chance to walk the same path, but no longer.

If only it were that simple.

---Dante---

Damnit Vergil, I’m so sick of this!

Dante glared at his twin and sighed. He was so tired, all he wanted was a nap but stupid Vergil wouldn’t stop trying to kill him. It was nuts, didn’t he realize they’d never actually be able to kill each other?

Not with our heritage...

At this point, he attacked out of habit alone, lunging forward to strike at Vergil’s red-splattered chest. He knew the hit wasn’t going to land; it rarely did. His brother was too clever to fall for such a simple move and as expected, by the time he reached his target a slim blade blocked his way.

“Too slow, little brother,” Vergil taunted, darting to the side to aim a slice at Dante’s throat.

But what has trying to kill me ever gotten you?

The man in red ducked, dodging the blow with barely an inch to spare. Familiar spite and anger tinted his brother’s eyes, the same look as when he tried to pull the jerk to safety on the Temen-Ni-Gru. The same stubborn pride that kept him from accepting his twin’s hand. The same arrogance as when he chose to fall deeper into the Demon Realm instead of coming home at last.

When will it be enough? Just get over yourself!

Red leather danced out of the Yamato’s path as it searched for his flesh. It whistled through empty air, Vergil’s annoyed snarl echoing a beat later.

Dante spun on his heel and switched gears, pulling out his latest acquisition, nunchucks imbued with the power of Cerberus. He couldn’t resist letting out a few stylistic whoops as he flung the icy end right at Vergil’s knees.

A sharp hiss slipped through his brother’s clenched teeth as the blow landed. Once, they would’ve laughed over Dante finally managing to hit him.

Will we ever get back to that?

In a single fluid motion, the legendary devil hunter switched weapons once more to one of his favorites. Rebellion hummed in his grip as he swung it with a mighty grunt at the same kneecap.

Is it even worth trying to?

Sparks flew from where the brothers’ blades met, their minds battling as fiercely as their bodies. Red and blue leather rose and fell with every strained breath, sweat dripping from matching brows to mix with the blood soaking into the dirt. Neither would back down, not with the stubbornness they shared.

“Ready to admit defeat?” Vergil spat.

Dante barked a laugh, his eyes hazy with fatigue. “Heh, never… got ya right where I want you.”

The younger man blinked and his brother vanished, as if he never existed at all. Dante lowered his guard, turning in circles with confusion plain in his eyes. Vergil was fast, there was no ignoring that, but to vanish entirely? That was a new trick.

“We playing hide and seek now, or what?”

His panting breath hitched as a cacophonous ringing erupted nearby. Thin lines of sharp steel flashed to and fro in a dance of death on all sides. Dante cursed and lowered the walls within his mind, letting demonic power flood his senses as thick armor blossomed across his body. Ash tainted his tongue but he barely noticed as he felt an answering surge of power.

Shit! He’s right behind me!

He tried to react, but it was too late. A scorchingly hot hand latched onto his shoulder and held him still. A heartbeat later, the all-too-familiar caress of metal sliced through his body as Vergil drove the Yamato home, embedding the family heirloom deep in his side. Copper overwhelmed the ashen taste in his mouth and Dante spat, a thick gob of crimson to join all the rest. No matter how many times he got his sorry ass stabbed, it never got any less painful.

But he wasn’t considered the best in the biz for nothing. His lips split into a feral grin, teeth stained red as he drew his oldest friends and angled them through his own shoulders as the Yamato vacated his body, already angling for the next jab.

This is gonna suck…

Dante tensed and squeezed both triggers. Ebony and Ivory sang in his grip, bullet after bullet aimed through his body at his brother. Agony rippled across his skin as his scapula and ribs shattered and a howl parted his lips.

Vergil’s barely audible gasp marked his success, his hand falling from Dante’s shredded shoulder. The pain was unimaginable, but he shoved it aside. First things first.

Dante turned to find his twin on his knees, riddled with holes. His vest darkened as the man in blue took a wheezing breath, glaring promises of death at his brother. Pained gasps forced unnatural pauses in his words, and with each breath his icy eyes flashed with rage.

“I should've expected such... foolishness from you. You never needed... to learn tactics, after all. Not with the life you’ve lived.”

Oh, he cannot be serious.

“What, you think I had it easy just cuz I didn’t end up like you? Do you have any idea how many people, how many friends I’ve seen die?” he snapped back. The wounds in his chest itched already, healing every second he stayed in demon form. He couldn’t hold it much longer, just long enough to keep himself alive.

Vergil scoffed, a derisive sneer twisting his lips. “You weren’t left behind.”

You fucking dumbass.

Dante growled, the urge to strangle Vergil a powerful temptation. But maybe there was another choice.

He shuffled his feet in the bloodstained dirt, fingers twitching by his weapons in case Vergil made a move. This was a terrible idea, he knew it. He was just going to get stabbed again.

But he had to try.

Someone’s gotta go first. For Nero.

“Yeah, I was! She hid me in the damned closet and ran off to look for you,” he cried. “She never left you behind, Vergil. You’re the one that left us, asshat.”

The moment stretched into eternity. Emotions tugged at Vergil’s expression, none fully revealed but if you knew what to look for… A twitch of the cheek, a tiny furrow in the brow. The smallest of signals, but enough.

Damnit, this is weird. What do I do now?

He didn’t have a clue. All he knew was that he was tired of fighting, tired of bleeding and really tired of getting stabbed. Enough was enough, and Vergil sure as shit wasn’t going to spontaneously not want to murder him anymore. It was up to him.

Leather rustled as Dante stepped closer, holding a hand out to his brother despite the jangling warnings screaming at him to attack, finish him off while he had the advantage. He might never have a better chance.

Yeah, for Nero.

Instead of striking Vergil down, Dante spoke. “How about we take a break? You can kill me later.”

Vergil’s conflicted gaze darted to his own, a triumphant curl to his lips. “Are you finally surrendering?”

“You wish, jackass. Consider it a truce.”

Hesitation colored those blue eyes so like his. Suspicion and hope mixed into guarded acceptance as a trembling hand extended to grasp its twin. A heave later, and the two Sons of Sparda stood eye to eye.

“This isn’t over,” Vergil growled, carefully sheathing the Yamato.

Dante rolled his eyes and snorted. “I know.”

But maybe someday it will be.

#fanfiction #fanfic #my writing #one shot #DMC #dmc dante #dmc vergil #devil may cry #invictus #invictus zine

22 notes · View notes

anathemafiction · 5 years

Note

got some angsty ask here: what will the ROs do if the MC got kidnapped?

The room fell silent as Rayna finished reading the message. She folded the immaculate white letter into its blood red envelope and lifted her eyes to him. They were all staring at him, waiting with bated breaths. Three thousand gold coins. They didn’t have that amount, and bringing it to Tarek would only mean an order to leave you behind.

So they stared at him, because they didn’t know what else to do. But he knew. He knew it from the moment you went missing, all those days ago. The words circled around his mind all hours of the day, all minutes of the night. He needs to get you back. He will get you back.

Hadrian stood very still. He could feel the muscles on his arms tightening, his fingers itching to hold steel. A dark flame, familiar and oh so tempting to fall into, rose from within, spreading like wildfire across his nerves. His eyes were watering but not out of despair. Hadrian was in fury. How dare they? To touch you. To steal you away from him and then have the gall to ransom you. As if you’re an object, as if-

He lifted his head and looked in the eyes of his three companions. “What are we waiting for?” he spoke, voice low and rough, and barely hinged. Hadrian grabbed his sword, its weight heavy and promising, and strove to the door, not bothering to look back. He knew they would follow him. They better.

Please, love, hold on, he sends a quick prayer your way. I’m coming for you.

And may the Lord grant you unharmed. Or they would know the true meaning of holy wrath.

You have been absent for days.

Not a word was left, or a message written. No clue to where you had gone to. They called it a tragedy at best, desertion at worst.

Alessa had called them fools.

And set out to find you. You wouldn’t abandon them, you wouldn’t abandon her. Her heart twitches at the thought, but Alessa is quick to push sentiment aside. This is not the time. Now, she has to find what happened to you. After, she will find you.

And only then, she can feel again. Her fingers tighten on the pommel of one of her knives, as her eyes sting. Not the time, she reminds herself. Not when he’s about to crack. Alessa leans forward, her knee pressing harder on top of his weasel-like chest, and her blade sinks further on his neck.

Her face is right next to his, the stench of blood from his broken nose nauseating, and she whispers. “I do not have time for games. Tell me their location and I shall refrain from slaughtering you like the filth you are.”

She watches as the man’s wide, panicked eyes suddenly shift, and a slow smile is born on his lips. She has him.

“Eh, ya too late, she-devil,” he chuckles, his brown teeth showing. “The Blood Corpses took'em. I’d wager for torture until their lips sing a sweet melody. Must’ve cracked by now, and ya know what the Corpses like to do to their prisoners. Good luck-”

He chokes as she slides the knife across his throat in a quick, almost casual movement. His next words came in the form of blood. His eyes, blue almost like her own, are wide again but Alessa is no longer paying attention. She rises from on top of him and looks east.

The Blood Corpses.

Red blood drips down her knife, the steel seeming to be trying to absorb it. She makes a silent promise to it, as her legs start running.

Worry not, little blade. I have more blood to feed you.

#long time anon #sorry about that #asks #scenarios #Hadrian #Alessa #The Golden Rose #Anonymous

139 notes · View notes

unknownb0dy-blog · 5 years

Text

the painsmith’s apprentice (m)

pairing: tibalt X reader

rating: explicit

warnings: bloodplay, s&m, smut, violence

words: 2,991

summary: having been hired as an apprentice in tibalt's pain related studies, the reader finds themself wondering what it would be like to be one of his victims.

notes: descriptions of the reader’s body are dfab, but their gender is meant to be up to the reader.

ao3 link: 😈😈😈

"You've been such a loyal apprentice," Tibalt smiles, wiping the blood off his hands as the two of you wrap up another one of his 'experiments', "I never expected to find another who's bloodlust was on par with my own."

You return the expression with a nod of your head. "I feel the same, Master Tibalt," you reply, following closely behind as the other leaves one of his many torture chambers, waving to a few passing demons to clean up the mess he'd left behind.

He lets out a scoff at the use of his title. "You know you don't have to call me that," he murmurs, his voice much softer than usual.

"But what if I want to?"

His eyebrows raise, a look of surprise on his face. You have been skirting your obvious attraction for months now, trying to keep a professional relationship around his disgusting taste in study. Not to mention you're a tad uncomfortable with how interested you are in a man who keeps people alive and suffering for his own entertainment. But something about being around him this much has caused you to reconsider the morality of your draw to him. You can't help but wonder what it would be like to be the one he chains down to the table.

Bringing your mind back to the present, you nearly trip over your own feet as he begins to ascend back into the main house. He hasn't said anything since your comment, and you start to question if you should have been so forward in the first place. You can feel your face flush as he suddenly pauses, turning back in your direction and looking down at you from a few steps above. "You know, I believe I left my notes back there - Would you grab those for me?"

You hide a sigh of relief as you nod and head back the other direction, thankful for a break in the awkward silence that had begun to brew. As you walk, you do your best to refocus your thoughts on the work. The two of you have more important things to do than play around with each other, and he's clearly only interested in you as his assistant and nothing more. You cross your arms as you speed up your pace, reaching the door and turning the knob as you walk into the lab you'd just left. The demons have already taken the body and dragged it off to who knows where, and one looks up at you as it sops up the last of the blood with a deeply stained rag. It hobbles past you as you begin to search for any sort of pad or notebook, though at first glance, the room appears immaculate and without any sort of clutter.

Stepping past the large metal table in the center of the room, you begin to look over the back counter when you hear footsteps approaching - slowly, quietly, like a creature stalking it's prey. You barely have a moment to turn around before you hear the door slam shut and find yourself face to face with the fiend you'd just left on the staircase. "Tibalt!" you shout as you catch yourself on the surface behind you, trying not to lose your balance after the startle, "What are you-"

As you exclaim, Tibalt quickly closes the gap between the two of you and cuts you off with a harsh kiss, leaning into you and placing a hand on either side of the counter behind you. It doesn't even occur to you to break it off - you'd be lying if you said you hadn't been wanting this almost as long as you've been working with him. He doesn't hesitate at all, pressing his tongue against your lips and deep into your mouth as soon as you let him in. You feel it run along your teeth as he runs a clawed hand up one of your arms. It isn't long before you feel his teeth as well, much sharper than your own, brushing cautiously against your mouth, as if he isn't quite sure how far he should take things. You can tell what he wants, though, and you know exactly how to get the invitation across.

Your tongue intertwines with his and push it back into his own mouth, finishing the kiss with a swift bite. He jumps, surprised at the sudden change in roles, and runs a finger along his lip, only to find you broke the skin. The two of you make eye contact, dwelling in the tension, before you gently place your hands on either of his shoulders and run the tip of your tongue over the gash you'd left. You pull back and look into his gaze again as the inky blood enters your mouth with a slurp. You smile just before he grabs you by the waist, one hand behind your head, as the passion begins to truly ignite.

His mouth is on yours again as he keeps you close to his body, the two of you stumbling over each other as you move towards the metal slab in the center of the room. He backs you up against the edge and you guide yourself onto the surface as he follows on top of you. You suck on the wound you left as the two of you position yourselves; you can't help but get a buzz off the metallic taste it leaves on your tongue. A moan escapes his throat in response as he begins to frantically undo the buttons on his collared shirt. The kiss breaks once more as the two of you pant, and you begin mirroring his motion, grabbing the hem of your own top. You don't even have a chance to lift it up, though, before his claws tear through the fabric and he tosses it aside.

The energy of the room slows as he looks over your figure below him, sitting back on his haunches and grinning. You lay as still as possible, draping your arms delicately above your head and nibbling your own lip. "We've been putting this off for too long, don't you think?" you giggle, reaching a hand up to gently press your fingertips against the rouge skin of his exposed stomach.

The half-devil's lips part into a grin as he runs a hand up your body, over your chest and into your hair, bringing his face close to yours once again. "I've wanted to fuck you since the day you started working for me," he growls, his breath hot on your face, "I have to agree, I'd say it's time we moved things along."

He grips your waist with both of his clawed hands as his head dips below yours, running his tongue along your jawline and down your neck. You can feel the pressure as he begins to suck at the skin, bringing the blood close to the surface. He doesn't bite down, though, instead leaving a black and blue mark behind before beginning again in another spot on your flesh. You can tell he's teasing you, well aware that you're more than ready for him to dig his teeth into you. He moves lower as you feel him raise a hand to cup your breast, his tongue trailing over the teardrop surface before twirling around your nipple. You let out a sigh as he wraps his lips around it, taking it into his mouth while his other hand runs a finger along the waistband of your pants.

You're so focused on the sensation of his tongue that you barely notice him undo the zipper, pulling it down gently until he finally shoves a hand down the front, flattening his palm against you before beginning to rub. The noises you're making come quicker now as his mouth moves across your chest, his touch on your other breast slowly kneading it. After a bit more of the heavy petting, he brings his face back up to yours and gently places a hand to your throat. "You're feeling wicked tonight, aren't you?" he purrs, adjusting his grip so he can run a claw over the surface of your skin, "It's hard to believe you're looking to tear into me - you're much too sweet for that."

He pushes down a little harder. "I think you'd like to be torn into, though - Is that what you're trying to tell me?"

Your mind is swimming in satisfaction as he continues to rub one hand against you; you're barely able to nod in response. "P-please..."

As soon as you ask for it, you feel him make a delicate incision, just above your collarbone. "You've gotten a taste of what's inside me," he looks into your eyes, his own heavy lidded, "It's only fair that I get a taste of what's inside you."

The wound barely has a chance to open before he's lapping up what's leaking out of it. He runs his claw over it again, cutting deeper, watching you squirm before bringing a finger to his lips and licking off the red coating the tip. "Mmm, you're delicious, you little angel," he flashes his jagged teeth, running his claws down your sternum and leaving five little red lines behind, "I bet the rest of you tastes just as good."

You're gasping for breath again as he grabs your waistband with both hands, taking your bottoms off in one swift motion before shoving your thighs apart. His claws dig into you as he buries his face between your legs, too lustful to even bother to tease you any longer. His tongue darts in and out of you as he runs a finger over your clit, pinching it between his finger and thumb until you audibly shout. "Did that hurt?" he coos into you, golden eyes gazing up at you over your body as you give a shaky nod.

He brings his face up just long enough for you to see his salacious grin once again.

"Good."

His grip on you tightens as he continues to eat you out, occasionally turning to suck up the blood dripping down your inner thighs. Though he's been trying to maintain a cold exterior, it falls away as he begins to groan, his tail flickering in the air behind him as he coats his mouth with your fluids. You slide your fingers through his dusky hair, wrapping them around his horns and holding on as he continues to ravish you. You start to feel dizzy, but you're unsure if it's from desire or a loss of blood. The thought drifts off, though, as he lifts himself up onto his knees and begins to undo his belt.

You catch a second wind as you as you watch the painsmith strip, exposing the rest of his tantalizing figure. Now as bare as you are, you find yourself drawn towards him, pushing up from where you lie to sit on your haunches, and pressing your front against his. He wraps his arms around you as your hands explore his form, running down his back, over his ass, around his thighs; everything about his scarlet physique makes you throb with desire. You barely even notice his own touch until he runs a claw down your spine and brings the sanguine fluid into his mouth. You whine as he sucks it off his finger before running the talon over his own tongue to invite his own gore to join the bloody mess the two of you continue to make.

As you forcefully invite him back into your mouth, you feel his hand slide in between the two of you, beginning to pump his cock with a clawed fist. The feeling of it bobbing against your midriff draws you to deepen the kiss, sucking longingly on his tongue to draw out the iron taste. Tibalt sighs into your mouth as he tugs himself faster, his tip rhythmically bouncing against you. You give his wound one last lick before pulling back, both of you bursting into violent panting. Overwhelmed by a thirst for the devil before you, you waste no time leaning forward and taking him into your mouth. He lets out a fast exhale before wrapping his fingers around the back of your head, thrusting against the back of your throat.

Feeling a sudden urge to be the one in control, you grab his wrists and pull them away from you, taking over with your own, slower tempo. Though his first instinct is to resist, you find him more than willing to dig his talons into your shoulders as you take full control. Somehow, in the mess of gore and passion, you end up on top of him, having taken a similar position to the one he held as he dug his tongue into your folds. Your thirst for him floods all of your senses; the taste of his cock, the sound of his whimper, the feeling of his violent grip, now digging into the base of your skull. You weren't expecting him to submit to you so easily, but you can't say you aren't enjoying it. You pull your head back for a breath and enjoy the view of the half-devil fully exposed before you, who's hands immediately drop to the edges of the table in your absence. "Don't stop now," he begs as you gaze down from above him, "Don't fucking stop now, please."

You scrape as his sides, leaving long gashes behind as you glance up at him. "But, I'm enjoying you like this, Master Tibalt," you coo, crawling forward to position yourself face to face with the man below you, "I had no idea you liked the pain yourself, just as much as you like administering it."

Taking a couple slower breaths, he regains a sense of his smug personality. "Well, I've got to teach you somehow, don't I?"

Unable to hold back any longer, you dive back into your shared fervor, taking him in your grip and speeding up the motion until he's whining for you to bring him to climax. You toy with him a bit longer, digging your own nails into his chest and lapping up the ebon mess you leave behind. Your hand bobs with a steady cadence until he calls your name over and over, clinging to the surface he lies on as cum begins gush from his erection; you drop your head to take the rest of it into your mouth, finishing him off while he continues to moan and howl. As the flow stops, you lick your lips and swallow before lowering your head onto his chest and wrapping an arm around him. "Well?" you ask, looking up, "How did I do, painsmith?"

It takes him a moment to say anything while he catches his breath. Eventually, he turns his head to face you. "Not to bad for an apprentice," he jeers in a still shaken tone, "Though I think that in order to continue improving your practice, we'll need to continue this hands on training."

He rolls on his side and gives you a playful push onto your back, trailing his claws in circles over your stomach. "But for a first performance, that was impressive."

His fingertips trail slowly downward. "And I'd say it's only fair I reward you for that, don't you think?"

Without warning, he slips two fingers inside you, thumb pressing hard against you as you gasp. You whine as he pleasures you slowly, his talons sending little bursts of pain through your core. He pushes his body up against yours and whispers the things he'd like to do to you into your ear. The thoughts of your future escapades are enough to bring you to the edge, which he notices just in time to stop thrusting inside of you. He slides his sopping fingers over your clit, teasing it as you begin to beg for release. "Promise me you'll stay here," he murmurs, his lips brushing your ear as he speaks, "Promise me we can hurt each other again."

"I've n-never wanted anything m-more, Tibalt," you pant, "Please, oh god, please..."

He smirks. "That's Master to you, little angel."

You let out a shout as he finally gives you the orgasm you've been waiting for since he first cornered you in the laboratory. With a mess of moans spilling out of your shuttering mouth, you focus on the burst of rapture enveloping your whole body as he presses his fingertips against you. He only lets up on the pressure as you begin to slowly come down, your eyes shut tight as your inhales and exhales lengthen. You open them just in time to watch him lick your fluids off his fingers. You look into his amber gaze for only a moment before he sits up, stretching his arms over his head. "Well, now that that's over, we best get back to work, don't you think?"

You let our a little groan and roll your eyes. "You're not even going to clean me up?"

He hops off the table and begins collecting his clothes, running a hand through his tousled black hair. "I'm a Master of Pain, darling," he says with a wink, "I'm not exactly one for affection."

Rolling onto your front, you kick your feet behind you as you watch him dress, picking up a stack of papers he'd left by the door. "Oh look, it would appear I had my notes all along," he grins deviously, with a final lick of his lips, "Imagine that!"

The door clicks open and you watch Tibalt walk out of the room as if nothing had even happened between the two of you. While you think this should make you angry, you actually feel a welcoming burn rise through your body. For some reason, it makes the excitement of your next 'hands on training' even more enticing.

#mtg #magic the gathering #tibalt #tibalt mtg #tibalt x reader #x reader #smut tw #kink tw #blood tw #violence tw

24 notes · View notes