#if you must be doomed then so be it-- I will follow you into hell | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

kentopedia · 15 days

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˚₊‧꒰ა cold embrace (provenance) — fyodor dostoevsky

𝓈𝓊𝓂𝓂𝒶𝓇𝓎. you buy a two hundred year old house with a two hundred year old painting hanging above the mantel. it's not the only thing the previous owner left behind.

𝒸𝑜𝓃𝓉𝑒𝓃𝓉𝓈. ghost!fyodor, f!reader, violence, angst, death, alternate / modern universe, no smut but it is suggestive, fyodor is kind of a pervy ghost so, wc: 6.1k

𝓃𝑜𝓉𝑒𝓈. this one has two titles bc it was supposed to be for my kinktober... never finished it. embarrassing ! but here is a semi-revamped version for this series! i can finally check it off my wips page <3 idk how i feel about it but i hope you enjoy

part of my summerween series !

A chime from the grandfather clock brings Fyodor out of his stupor, the sound signaling another day, another meaningless hour that will only continue his eternal misery. He’s grown used to it now—evening after evening of emptiness, of reading nothing but the same books, playing the same pieces of dull sheet music, and the lifeless chess matches against himself. The house is cold with only his presence, dusty without a housekeeper and a life to make it a home.

There are a million things in Fyodor’s life that he must have done to deserve this misery, but he can’t pinpoint which one solidified his reward of a lamentable, endless cycle.

He’s certain hell is better than this. It’s something he wishes for every day, if only to have an eternal companion with the devil, a challenge to overcome.

Though, even with this boredom, Fyodor refuses to let anyone live in his home. They’ll only serve to be another pain, something that would, surely, push him past the brink of sanity.

The centuries old décor will get replaced with gaudy twenty-first century items, ones that will be nothing more than an eyesore. There are a few already scattered around his home from previous tenants, but only things that he believed useful enough for him to keep; a few books from authors he didn’t live to read, a television from the nineties, a computer that he watched one couple scroll on before he murdered them in cold blood.

Perhaps he is two hundred years dead and gone, but he refuses to be an ignorant ghost, one that is unaware of anything beyond these four walls, caught forever in the past.

Although now, it’s been a while since anyone’s tried to move in, and he’s certain the only reason the house hasn’t been torn down is because its preserved nicely, an eighteenth-century home that has withstood the test of time.

Fyodor, in his lowest moments, wishes they would tear it down. Maybe then, and only then, can he be set free. Or maybe, he’s forever trapped in this exhaustive lot, doomed to decay, even when there’s nothing left of the foundations but soil.

He pushes a pawn forward on the board, putting himself in checkmate for the millionth time in a row. It’s been so long that he’s used to his own tricks. Even the computer, which he’d come to understand quickly, is no match for him. It’s far too exhaustive to play against a machine that utilizes an algorithm he can so easily decipher.

Out of nowhere, the front door unlocks, and Fyodor glances over at the sound, dark hair falling over his eyes. Seconds later, he notices an older realtor with a clipboard leading you around, a woman he’s never seen, dressed up nicely with a darker shade of lipstick smeared across your mouth.

He’s been through this before. It’s a miracle the realtor hasn’t given up on this house yet, a mansion she is determined to sell despite the endless horrors that have been committed by his hand.

“Here it is,” she says, nervous, gesturing around the expansive hall, the crystal chandelier and staircase that immediately follows. “It was built in 1731, but one of the owners remolded it in the style of the mid-nineteenth century. The structure has been stabilized; it’s safe… enough.”

The two of you chat, but he doesn’t bother to listen in. It’s all questions of: when can I move in? can we negotiate? — things you will come to regret once he sets his sights on killing you.

Then, the realtor is sighing, wringing her hands together as she watches you spin around the house in awe. It’s clear that you’re impressed by the layout, the rich furniture and colors that have been used.

That, at least, satisfies Fyodor. Everyone else who has moved in was looking to upgrade it to a modern style, rid the place of its aged grace and charm.

“I’m truly sorry,” she says, brushing curly hair away from her cheekbones. “But I am legally obligated to tell you that every person who has lived here before has suffered a terrible, terrible fate. There have been gruesome murders that cannot be explained, done in ways that I don’t even want to tell you about.”

You laugh, eyeing her with skepticism. “Are you telling me it’s haunted?”

The realtor shrugs. “That’s what people say.”

“I don’t believe in ghosts,” you answer, and Fyodor rolls his eyes, scoffing as he floats to the second floor, unable to listen into the unreasonable conversation anymore. It’s been the same story for decades. No one believes in ghosts, but it is always a ghost that kills them.

He returns to the chess board, irritated, though unable to consider the game any further. Your face is stuck in his mind. For some reason, he can’t remember the last time he’s ever seen anyone with such beauty.

Fyodor stops; your ageless elegance doesn’t matter—it can’t, and it won’t. You’ll be dead by the end of the month, when you gather all your things and invade the bedroom that was once his own. Even if you are beautiful, you are a nuisance, a threat to Fyodor’s eternal torment and quiet existence.

Still, he can’t help but wonder if it would be nice to have something other than his own thoughts to distract him from the endless misery.

You move in on the thirteenth of June, nothing more than a few boxes and a decade old car to keep you company. He guesses you’ve traveled a long distance to get here, and you’ve gotten rid of half of your life in the process.

A good thing for him. That means things can be over relatively quickly, and all your belongings can be disposed of easily after he kills you.

You spend the entire first day unpacking, and Fyodor waits patiently, allows you time to get comfortable in his home. He watches as you bring a stack of thick novels into the waiting room, which once boasted large parties, and place them on a shelf below those that have his name within the covers.

You take a few calls as you hang up your autumn coats, ones that won’t be needed for a few months. The voice on the other line sounds frantic, worried. A local, most likely. You only seem annoyed by his continuous string of anxieties.

When the sun sets, and you grow tired, you rub your eyes and head to bed. The first night you will spend in this place that Fyodor likens to Hell.

It’s the time he’s been waiting for—a moment to catch you off guard. You are so unsuspecting, already so at home in the mansion, that you have no fear of anything hurting you in the middle of the night.

While you get ready for bed, Fyodor slips into your room, observing the pieces of your life that have conquered his bedroom. A soft classical piece plays from your phone, one that he recognizes from his mortal life. Clearly, you are fascinated by the period he once lived in. A shame, really, he won’t be able to tell you more about it.

You leave the bathroom, come back towards him to change into a pair of small shorts, a large shirt hanging over your frame.

He’s forgotten how long it’s been since he’s seen a woman, how long since he’s touched one.

Fyodor finds himself distracted by your body, the smoothness of your skin. His eyes travel over your legs, your hips, the fullness of your breasts and ignores how much he desires to let his thumb graze over your flesh. There is something so soft about you, so gentle and innocent.

Perhaps, that is where his fascination stems from: he has always been the opposite. Even in his human existence, Fyodor was not a kind man, and he doesn’t plan on becoming one now that he is dead.

He shakes away the vision, the thoughts that swirl within his mind. It has been far too long since he has experienced any sort of pleasure, and maybe even a man as cold as himself is not immune to the desires that course within his veins.

Though he tries to be. He ignores his arousal desperately in exchange for a renewed bloodlust.

You climb into bed, put your phone on the white cord, and shut your eyes. Thirty minutes later, you’re sleeping soundly, soft puffs of air leaving your lips as you sleep.

It’s the opportune moment. The silver knife gleams brightly in his hand, streaks of moonlight tracing over the slanted point. It’s the same blade he’s killed every other new tenant with, their screams still echo in the halls like a harmonious melody each time he bring the knife down on another unknowing victim.

He stands before you at the side of the bed, watches as your chest rises and falls, the evidence of your life undeniable. You are a lovely image like this, something to be painted and adored; more beautiful than many of the women he’d met in his time, even those who were of the finest elite in the country.

Fyodor presses the blade to your throat, contemplative. He considers how much lovelier you will look with the scarlet stain of blood seeping down your neck, spraying across the room and ruining the fresh sheets. Will you awaken, gasping as you claw at your throat, or will you drift away without even understanding what has become of you?

He pictures it, and digs the blade close to your throat, nothing more than a pinprick of blood flowering there.

You don’t awaken; but you a little sound leaves you, something between a gasp and a moan, and you shift away from the knife gripped between his pale fingers. It’s a sound that has him pausing, musing, as he regards your vulnerable state, a beautiful figure there with no clue that such a murderous man is also a resident in her home.

You make another one of those pretty noises in your throat, and Fyodor, against two centuries of murderous intent, pulls the knife away. He watches as you roll on your stomach, your shirt scrunching, moving up your body to reveal the undersides of your breasts. Your hand shifts towards him on the bed, reaching in his direction, before you still. Then, your breathing is back to normal, evened out completely.

Your lips part blissfully as you sigh in your sleep.

He can’t stop looking at you, can’t stop wondering what his name would sound like leaving the perfect swell of your mouth, if you’d sound just as pretty when you orgasm as you do when you’re asleep.

Surely, he can find a better use for you—it would be a shame for such a pretty thing to go out so early.

As he draws back, Fyodor notices the chess board on the side table, the pieces arranged nicely, each on the correct square. He can’t tell if you play. You could just have it for decoration, or perhaps it was a gift given to you from a lover that he hasn’t seen pictures of, the one that he’s certain someone as lovely as you must have.

The board is aged; not as old as the one in the drawing room, but a nice set, nonetheless. Fyodor glances back at your sleeping form once more, smiles coolly to himself, and shifts a pawn forward.

The chess piece is the first thing you notice in the morning.

It’s almost ridiculous how easily it catches your eye, a tiny little movement within the chaos that was your brand-new room. A pawn is on a different square, leering at you from the other wall, as if smiling, a flashing sign above its head, calling to you, hoping you’ll pay attention.

You almost think nothing of it; things can move, can’t they? Perhaps there was a shift in the earth overnight… Though, that makes little sense when you think about it rationally.

It’s strange, that much is certain. You remember the realtor telling you about the ghosts, and though you aren’t inclined to believe in haunted houses and scary stories, you find a part of yourself questioning the logic of the chess piece.

You are certain it was on the correct square before you slept.

It’s the only thing on your mind as you get ready, suffer through a tasteless breakfast, and throw on a rain jacket to combat the dreary weather. You’re meeting a friend for lunch—the only friend you have in this town. Sigma is the sole reason you decided to move here, instead of the other arbitrary cities that you’d been desperate to escape to.

Still, the board won’t leave your mind. You take one last glance at it before, on a whim, pushing the opposite color pawn forward as well.

Then you leave, hoping that a conversation with your friend will take your mind off the strangeness of that happenstance, the anxiety you feel about moving to a new place, a new job where no one knows you, a home that stays cold, despite the heat that reigns with long summers.

The walk to the cafe is short, but with the wind and the drizzling rain, you are miserable, your hands wrinkling from the dampness, even within your pockets.

Sigma is waiting for you, his lavender and white hair loose over his shoulders as he peruses the menu, eyes darting across it like he’s never read it before.

You sit, offer him a greeting, and though your conversation is cordial, the two of you catching up on your day, you eventually ask the question you’ve been dying to know.

“Do you believe in ghosts?”

Sigma stops, puts the utensil back down on his plate, and regards you with a thin frown. “Did something happen?”

You think of the chess piece, wonder if another will be moved when you get home. “No, but—”

“I told you not to move into that house,” he says, eyes narrowing. Sigma refuses to step into that mansion, grows anxious every time you mention it. “Over ten people have died there. Do you want to get murdered?”

“No particularly,” you say, staring at him flatly, your mouth pulling into a line. “But I’ve made it one night already. I’ll be fine.”

A hard laugh leaves him, as he shakes his head, unamused by your cheekiness. “That’s what they all say, isn’t it? Then they all die.”

“Very dramatic.” You take a long sip of your water. Sigma’s features don’t crack in the slightest as he stares at you, waiting for you to continue. “I’m not scared. I just want to know if you believe in ghosts or not… Because I don’t.”

Sigma’s eyes flit across your face, searching for any hint of a lie, for any signs of fear. When he finds none, his hands stretch across the table, lacing them together as he glares. “Whether you believe in ghosts or not doesn’t matter. There’s something evil about that house, and you’re putting yourself in danger by living there.”

The conversation with Sigma weighs on your mind for hours after, when you return home, still thinking about the chess board. It was just as you’d left it, two pawns moved forward, staring each other down menacingly. Nothing out of the ordinary.

You sigh and finally put it out of your mind. It was just a coincidence, that’s all. The piece was probably on the wrong square all along, and you’d been too tired last night to notice it.

Instead, you focus your sights on unpacking, and contemplate what to do with the portrait hanging above the mantel.

It’s a dusty old thing, one that the previous owners had, for some reason, never taken down. It had hung over the mantel for centuries, the corners faded from the sun, but the sinister grin of the subject never losing its effect.

You tilt your head, stare at it from a different angle. Looking at it that way, you could, perhaps, see why the painting appealed to them. It’s old, with a style from a different century, and the man composed of deep shadows and pale colors is undeniably handsome. He seems out of place in the portrait, trapped there, too otherworldly to be captured on such a canvas. His features are sharp, molded out of something tougher than diamonds, something more beautiful than this plane is able to comprehend. His deep eyes seem to know all as they stare at you, trace you across the room.

For minutes, you are hypnotized, before a wave of disgust washes over you, and you turn away, unable to look at it any longer. You’ll sell it, you decide. Maybe it will be worth a pretty penny.

That evening, you decide to look into it, but the search into a local art dealer doesn’t get far. When you sit down at your laptop, beginning to type your question into the browser, the lid shuts on your fingertips.

It takes a moment for you to register what had happened. A faint sting dances along the back of your hands, your knuckles tender as you lift the lid back up. Lines bounce along the screen, as if the imprint of your hand had made its way into the pixels, matching the pulse of your nerves.

You curse lowly, hoping that a reset will fix the issue.

The lid had just fallen, nothing serious. It was a newer model, but those things could happen. Issues with the manufacturing, with the way it was assembled. Technology fails you all the time.

You hold the power button, irritated, and upset, when a horrible, screeching noise echoes from the computer. Nothing but a shrill scream, the speakers begging you for help. You slam it shut once more, and the noise stops, but your heartbeat doesn’t slow down.

Shit.

Tomorrow, you’ll have to take it in, and see if anyone can discern the issues. It’s not ideal, but there’s so many things to still need to do, and a broken laptop makes those things very difficult.

You sigh, pushing the chair back into the table. The portrait looms above you as you retreat back to your room, hands shaking. It’s irrational, you know it is, but you swear his eyes follow you all the way up the stairs.

It doesn’t take long for you to start believing in the ghost that is haunting your manor, the one who has let you live for a week and who plays a new game of chess every time your back is turned. Whoever it is, they are much better than you; so far, you’ve lost twice—haven’t even gotten close to winning.

He hides things from you, items that you are needing for the next day, papers that you can’t submit to work on time because the important files have been stashed away.

You find your books opened to paragraphs the ghost seemingly finds interesting, your sheet music scattered in a mess when you return. The candles get blown out unexpectedly, and doors slam when you’re not suspecting it.

If he’s trying to scare you—it isn’t working. You remain in the house, sometimes talking to him like he’s a friend, whispering amongst the walls that know all of the secrets in your home.

You stop at the library on your free weekend, flipping through a dusty copy of the local legends, only stopping when you find your home. There’s a copy of the painting there—your painting, the one that still hangs above your mantel, despite your better judgment.

Beside it, there’s a painting of your home, done when the house was first built. The outside of it is a differently color entirely, the garden in front blooming with pink and yellow flowers. It looks cheerful; the home of a warm and loving family, inviting and kind to each of the neighborhood children. Nothing like the dark manor it is today, with a dead garden in the front and shutters that keep even an ounce of light out.

You read the pages proceeding the painting. The first owner had been a kind man, but the next were not such. After the original owner lost his wealth, he sold the house, passed it to a line of greedy men, ones that were focused only on their money. For a century, it went on this way—until a man named Fyodor Dostoevsky purchased the home for twice as much as it once was.

He was the one who changed it, renovated it, upgraded it to his own personal style, ensuring that it fit in with the times and his own opinions of luxury. Fyodor was charming, but ruthless, deadly with his own intelligence, owning half the town as they lost their money to his schemes.

Fyodor’s rein came to an end when he was poisoned by his closest friend, perhaps the one man he had trusted. It was the first murder in a string of ones to follow within the house.

You close the book, unsure if you regret the knowledge you’d gained or not.

The house feels colder now that you know the history of it. As if you can see the cruelty etched into every wall. Colors of the home bleed into each other, a pastel yellow of warmth and light, and the next room empty, almost uninhabitable, with its royal purples.

You stare at the portrait as you make dinner, feeling like you can never escape the gaze of those oil painted eyes. He has a name now—Fyodor. It feels even more disarming now that you know more about him than he’ll ever know about you.

And though Fyodor watches you, every night, from every angle, you convince yourself it’s just the way that the painting is situated. It would be foolish to think that he’s really watching every move you make, irises pinned on your form, unblinking.

The oven heats up behind you as you cut up your food, humming a soft tune to yourself. It’s getting hotter outside – you’d almost forgotten how miserable the summers could be. You forget every year, even though you’ve lived many.

Just as you’re getting lost in your thoughts, going through a list of things that need to get done in your fixer-upper home, you hear a scratch behind you.

It’s a quick sound, so quick that you almost think it was only your imagination. It’s enough to give you pause, your humming fading out into the night as your eyes dart around your house. Although you’ve tried not to let urban legends get the best of you, you’re paranoid in this aged mansion now.

A few seconds pass. You listen to the sound of your own heartrate, feel it pounding in your chest as you will it to calm down. It’s just enough time for you to convince yourself that it was nothing, that you’re far too nervous about silly ghosts to think rationally.

Though as you turn, a knife flies from the counter, just grazing your cheek, but enough to cause a scratch to open up against the skin. Your finger draws away scarlet as you press it to the wound, staring at the painted crevices of your fingertip.

You can’t move. Despite every cell in your body begging, screaming at you to move, you’re frozen, trapped in the four walls of that kitchen as you stare at your bloodied hand.

It’s all a dream, you repeat to yourself. A dream.

One that you don’t wake up from.

Time passes strangely, when every muscle in your body is on edge, your head pounding from the anxiety that spikes throughout your nervous system. A bead of sweat drips from your temple, and though you aren’t sure how long you stand there, nothing else happens. The knife remains lodged in the wall behind you, and the ghost makes no other attempt to lodge one into your stomach.

It’s quiet. There’s no noise, save for the music that plays softly from your phone.

After you regain control of your racing heartrate, you realize that the song playing isn’t what you’d put on originally. It had switched to a gentle, classical piece. Tchaikovsky, you think… or something similar. Something that a man from a different era would be familiar with.

“Who’s there?” You find yourself saying, perhaps stupidly. “What do you want?”

There’s no response – of course there isn’t. You’re talking to the air. To a ghost. No one had gotten inside the house. You’d checked more than enough times, just as you always did.

“I live here now,” you offer, thinking that, perhaps anger is not the best course of action. Neither is fear, though, if the scary movies you’d watched as a teenager had been any indication. “But I’ll leave, if you want me to.”

There’s no answer to that either.

You sigh, and deflate once more, trying to make yourself believe that there was a logical explanation to knives flying and playlists changing. Just as you’d made yourself believe that everything the “ghost” had done before was just a game, innocently played.

Perhaps, there was never a ghost at all. It could be that stress is driving you to insanity.

With a glass of wine in your hand, you finish up dinner, feeling like you are at your wit’s end. How is it that only a few weeks in this house has already singed your mind, turned you into a believer of things that you are not?

The portrait feels like an omen, staring at you with violet eyes, as you wonder where Fyodor is now. Does he watch you when your home, cooking, as you shower, a vicious gaze tracing over each curve of your body, with a sickening thought of all the things he wishes to do to you?

You shiver. It’ s been a while since anyone’s looked at you with a hint of desire. The feeling has become foreign, now, but you can still recall the gratification that comes with being wanted, how it makes you feel, if only for a moment, comfortable in your own skin.

That thought alone quickly snaps you out of your irrational behavior. Thinking of a ghost wanting you? A man that had been buried in the earth for so long that his body would be nothing more than bones?

This house was making you sick, you concluded, wrapping your leftovers up in plastic and tinfoil, placing them in the fridge. Your nervous friend was right – you never should’ve moved into this house, and you never should have stayed this long.

Your hands shook along the banister, heart racing around every corner. You expected that, maybe, you would see a dark-haired spirit there, his body translucent, but still corporeal. Though, there was no spirit hiding within the depths of the shadows, lurking in the places where he still belonged. No sounds startled you, caused you to jump as you brushed your teeth, completed the one last routine of your day.

The bed was colder than usual as you climbed into it, like a flush of a cold spot had settled within the sheets. You remembered what they said about temperatures and ghosts—how they changed, nothing able to survive in the places that they haunted, as they were not of this world, but something in between, something unnatural.

Your lamp flickers as you turn it on, and it’s just one more red flag you choose to ignore. In houses as old as this one, there are issues like that. The wiring is faulty, the electric needs to be monitored, a laundry list of items you will probably never resolve.

There are a thousand rational conclusions, though, and only one irrational one, which puts your mind at ease. Things like flickering lamps and cold spots can be explained simply, even if knives flying at your face cannot.

Still, you settle into bed, deciding that you will talk to the realtor again soon. You’ll move in with Sigma if he’ll have you. Anything to put your mind at ease for good.

That night, you dream of Fyodor, as if he is there right in the room with you, looming above you with those deep, violent eyes. His fingers, long and pale, trace across your cheekbones, as your eyes flutter open, consciousness coming back to you.

He says your name – it’s no surprise he knows it, after living with you for so long. It’s spoken softly, with a hint of possession behind it, like you belong to him. And yet, you’ve never said a word to him, even if all this time, he’s gotten to know you better than anyone else ever has.

You expect a scream to leave your throat, some hint of surprise, of fear, even, to see a stranger in your bedroom. To see him watching you with those familiar eyes, hair falling over his pale forehead as he gazes down at you from the edge of the bed.

No sound emerges.

Your mind feels a little fuzzy, hazy at the edges as you blink at him, closer to a state of intoxication, than you are alertness. Despite that awareness, you can’t seem to snap out of it; maybe you don’t want to. Instead, you sink deeper into the warmth, the honeyed feeling that comes with turning off your rationality. Everything feels as if it’s coming through in blurred, rosy glasses.

“Fyodor,” you mouth, instead of the scream that you’d anticipated, his name coming out in two wistful syllables.

You should hate him – there’s something in your instincts pushing back at you. A flash of a knife, the days of chaos and uncertainty, where you were sure you were losing your mind, come back at you.

But none of that seems to matter now, as you trace your finger across his cheek, feeling the sharp indent below the high bone. His eyelashes are a shade lighter than his hair, soft as they flutter over his forehead. The portrait of him didn’t do him justice… or perhaps, it is in death that he has found his purest form.

“I’m too tired.”

You’re not sure where those words even come from. Calm, like this is nothing but routine, and waking up with Fyodor beside you is the closest thing to normalcy.

He smiles at you, leaning over you again on the bed, lips pulled tightly together in a morbid grin. It does little to sour your mood, to scare you into action, even if you can’t quite understand why.

“I know,” he replies.

It’s the first time you’ve heard him speak, a deep, accented sound smoothing against your ears as he traces his gaze against each of your features; musical, almost. His voice calms you, lulls you back into a meditative state.

You reach for him, in a trance, and twirl a strand of his hair between your finger, just to see if he’d let you. After the hell you’d been through the past week, well – was it really that miserable? He seems content to watch over you, observe the gentle movements of his dark hair coiled up around your pointer finger.

“Why are you here?” you ask, your voice softer than a whisper, carried away by the wind until it never existed at all.

Fyodor never disappears from your line of sight, even when you try to blink, to close your eyes. He’s there, gazing at you with a lustful fondness, one that’s dangerous, perhaps even malicious. If it’s a dream, it sure feels like a vivid one.

“You wanted to leave,” he says, taking your finger away from his face, before bringing it to his lips. The kiss is barely there, and his mouth is cold, chapped, from the brutality of the afterlife. “I couldn’t let you do that.”

“Hm?” You try to sit up. It takes more effort than it should’ve – you’re so relaxed, so weak, that you fall back down, letting yourself sink into the plushness of the pillow. “Why?”

Fyodor releases your hand, before touching his own finger to your mouth. It’s slender, like a piece of ice, gently parting your lips before grazing your chin, hovering over your neck. Then, he drops his touch to your collarbone. He stakes a claim on every inch of your skin, pausing as he reaches your chest, still covered by the blankets.

Your clothing is thin – it wouldn’t take much effort to get his cool hands on your bare skin. But he refrains, still smiling before answering your question, tucking his hands together onto his lap. “It’s been so long.”

It doesn’t make sense, but you can’t muster up the effort to question him, not when he’s contemplating every word, like he’s hesitant to scare you away. You let him think, watch him ponder, as you stare, too exhausted to move a muscle.

“I thought you’d be like all the rest,” he says, taking a seat next to you on the bed, nearly touching your hip. “They were nothing but filth, stains in these halls. It’s a crime for them to ever think that they belonged here. In my home.”

You blink. “It’s my home, too,” you say, suddenly filled with an immense amount of dread. It crawls up your neck, chokes you, and nothing leaves you but garbled sounds, as you panic.

Fyodor doesn’t move – there is no twitch in his features, as he watches you with disguised adoration, a kind you didn’t think a ghost capable of revealing. “Of course it is, darling,” he says, so softly, it could’ve been mistaken for kindness. Fyodor leans down, presses his cold, dead lips to your cheek, a kiss of death. “That’s why I couldn’t let you leave. It’s your home. You belong here.”

“Right,” you breath, steadying yourself, before nodding. “My home.” Once more, you gaze around the room, your eyes flicking over every surface. Things are exactly as you’d left them, nothing out of place. “With you?”

The ghost smiles, and reaches out to you, finally helping you into a seated position. Your neck is so stiff, in pain, and you roll it around, feeling nothing there when you expect shifting bones. “With me,” Fyodor confirms, running his icy fingertips across your throat, tangling them with your hair.

He leans into you, pressing a lingering kiss to your mouth, one that catches you off balance, before you accept it with an eagerness that surprises you further. It doesn’t feel unfamiliar, instead, it’s as if you’re coming home, like the man you’ve never seen until now was always meant to find you.

A thought that should’ve scared you, even though it doesn’t.

Fyodor pulls away, right as you begin to shift forward, maneuver yourself onto his lap. “You should rest,” he replies, keeping you at a distance. “It might take some time to adjust.”

“Hm? What do you mean?” you blink, holding onto his wrist as your gaze shifts from his impossibly dark eyes to the mirror across the room.

There, in the darkness of the evening, shrouded in moonlight, you can see your reflection staring back at you, eyes vacant, lifeless. You expect to see yourself as nothing but exhausted, but when you draw your gaze across the image of yourself, there is blood seeping from your neck, a stream of scarlet. There is thick gash across your throat, slashed so deep that it would’ve killed you instantly.

The expression on your face shifts from one of calm to horror, as you scrape at your neck, trying to clear off the blood that isn’t really there, the permanent wound that will follow you even into your death.

“What did you do?” you scream, tears rolling down your cheeks, even though you can’t feel them, can only see them in the mirror. “What did you do to me?”

Fyodor smiles, eyes crinkling at the corners. Though you fight against him, he takes you into his arms, and you are too weak to fight him off. “I told you,” Fyodor says, shushing you, running his palm over your head as you scream. “I couldn’t let you leave.”

thank you for reading !

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sporesgalaxy · 15 days

Note

The way Dungeon Meshi does gender makes me insane. It’s stated over and over that Falin and Laios really are more similar than anyone is looking for- Laios directly states as much at one point, Marcille mentions it when Falin wakes up the first time and starts bemoaning not eating any monsters, the magic mirror story even has fem!Toshiro crushing on Laios- but Laios is so protective of his little sister. Laios leaves home to start making a life he can one day share with her. And she leaves magic school because he has failed, and failed so hard that she’s worried that she might never see him again if she lets him leave without her. He wants to protect her from the way the world treats him, but he does not or does not want to understand the terrible truth- the world will never treat her as harshly as it does him, because she is a pretty ‘quirky’ girl and he is a big autistic man. Falin is happy, doing well in her own sphere, making a single friend (because she is still autistic, and has struggles of her own, even if they’re a different kind), but Laios still feels a need to protect her because his experience of this world has been nothing but cold shoulders and distrust all the way down. This story makes me want to sprint into the river. Laios and Falin are the best characters of all time.

Ouhhhhh I dont have time to reread dungeon meshi to give you good sources but based on my doodoo memory and vibes therein: I have to disagree that Falin was necessarily doing "well," and I especially disagree that the tragedy here is that Laios was doing something unnecessary by trying to make a place in the world for him and Falin.

Falin gets along seemingly ok in the world but it's because she's agreeable to a fault .

What's so interesting to me about the Touden siblings is the different ways they've learned to deal with being The Odd Man Out. Laios set out to try and forcefully carve out a PLACE for him and Falin in the world, where they could both openly and unabashedly be themselves.....Falin stayed behind, and learned how to hide the things that made her stick out too much, and how to appease people on the verge of rejecting her and Laios.

That can be functional, but it isn't good. It isn't happiness. It hurts in a million tiny ways every single day, to hide yourself out of fear of rejection like that.

At school, Falin must have spent a lot of time alone before she befriended Marcille, since Falin was familiar enough with the surrounding wilderness that she knew where that small Dungeon opening was. She sought out what happiness she could by following her unusual passions in more private ways, where no one would judge her for it. Falin didn't expect anyone NOT to judge her for her "weirdness" before she met Marcille, so Falin didn't even try to connect with anyone before Marcille at a level more personal than "classmate." That's not doing well. That's not living.

This kind of self-isolation is a coping mechanism for neurodivergence that functions for a while, but it eats away at you. Falin considered marrying Toshiro despite not loving him, essentially because it seemed like the normal thing to do and she didn't think she'd get another chance to be married at all. What if she had gone through with that, or something similar by the same reasoning? Laios lived in a state of being rejected over and over, which obviously hurts like hell. In contrast, Falin was willing to live a life she never wanted just to avoid total rejection. That can be incredibly painful too, in its own way.

Falin and Laios were BOTH tragically fighting doomed battles to find a place for themselves in the world during the time they were separated. Working together, supporting each other, they're able to do a lot more. Cries.

#asks #dunmeshi #dunmeshi discussion #FUCK AND I FORGOT YOU SAID THIS WAS ABOUT GENDER SO I DIDNT EVEN GET INTO THE FEMINIST LENS FUCK FUCK FUCK.#LAIOS THINKS IS ROUTE TO FREEDOM IS THE MILITARY BECAUSE OF THE GENDERED EXPECTATIONS PUT UPON HIM #FALIN THINKS THAT SHE WILL NEVER BE FREE AND MUST ADAPT TO HER ENVIRONMENT BC WOMEN HAVE LESS RIGHTS IN DUNMESH WORLD #BASICALLY. YES DUNMESH HAS A LOT OF COOL STUFF TO SAY ABOUT GENDER IN SOCIETY AND USES THE TOUDEN SIBLINGS TO SAY IT LOUDLY

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tragedy-of-commons · 2 months

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killjoy

childe x gn!reader | wc: ~1.6k

You catch your boyfriend setting up the cake.

tags/warnings: bday fun, modern & college au, based off of the American College Experience™ sorry, tooth-rotting fluff, teucer is a national treasure, comedy, possibly ooc, reader has hair

notes: for @staarri's 100 followers & bday event <3 trying to write childe was a nightmare but the wheel of doom has spoken. chosen prompt "cruel summer" :)

It has been one hell of a day.

Pop quizzes in two of your classes (that you are now tanking), getting heckled by that same group of protesters, slamming head-first into a glass panel like a pigeon, and then getting splashed by a puddle via a speeding car.

To give credit where credit is due, you’ve suffered through every incident with class and poise. Despite how you drip with murky street water, the saving grace that is the promise of your warm bed keeps you from inventing new profanities and falling to your knees in the student parking lot.

It’s almost over with, it’s almost over with—

The splintered door of your dorm unit has never looked more welcoming. When your keycard is approved with a click, you heave the barrier between you and uninterrupted sleep wide open. However, what you don’t expect is the little spectacle unfolding in your kitchenette.

Who you belatedly realize is your lovely boyfriend is sticking candles into something - it being quickly shielded from your view as he reacts to your arrival.

“You just had to be early,” he grins, revealing those pearly whites, “Maybe I’ll start calling you ‘Killjoy’.”

“Ajax?” He’s here? Today? But he said— He must notice your sorry state, but he’s wise enough not to mention it. “You really think I’d miss celebrating your birthday in person? Seriously, what kind of partner would I be, just sending you a text? Babe, you gotta start setting some higher standards.”

“Rotten liar,” you mumble, growing smile threatening to split your face in two.

A small flash of copper peeks around the bedroom-adjoining hallway, hyper. Teucer rushes up in front of his brother, the latter ruffling his hair. “Hey, you’re not supposed to be here yet!”

You snort, wondering if anyone else is planning to jump out of the shadows. “My sincerest apologies. I could always leave—”

“No need,” Ajax dismisses the notion with a cavalier wave. “I think we’re all ready, huh Teuce?”

He huffs in agreement, beaming up at you like you hung the moon. “One second!”

Teucer scampers off faster than you can blink, making you bellow a laugh. His energy knows no bounds, necessitating many hours of entertaining his whims. You wouldn’t have it any other way.

“Happy birthday,” Ajax says softly; wistfully.

You stalk over to him, embracing your boyfriend like he might disappear into thin air without a moment’s notice. “If you broke in, I will be calling campus security.” “You’d never turn me in! Also, we just so happen to still be on the guest card from last week.” You part from his warmth so you can kiss him. He tastes of sugar, the bastard.

“Buttercream?” you place, peering over his shoulder. The sight of a round cake on the counter confirms your suspicions, and your heart swells. He would’ve had to bake and decorate it somewhere else, given that ovens are a luxury you do not possess in college hell. You picture him in his too-nice apartment, piping frosting in the familiar loops of your name. “Yes!” Teucer rushes back in (you note that he’s hiding his hands behind his back), while Ajax pokes your nose. “Big brother spent soooo long on it!”

You snicker deviously. “Really?”

“No reason to lie,” your boyfriend pouts, “Though I’m a bit hurt that you’re both trying to embarrass me, after I went to all this trouble..”

Teucer sticks his tongue out in disgust whenever you console Ajax with another kiss, likely wanting you both to hurry up your gross couple stuff so he can show you his gift. It’s presented to you ceremoniously, and you honor the splendor by pretending not to know that it’s definitely one of his toys.

Your acting is award-winning, perfectly ignoring the obvious ridges and appendages of a Transformer. After tearing open the paper, you’re told that his name is Mr. Cyclops and you have to take good care of him - your sworn oath.

(Of course, Mr. Cyclops will mysteriously end up back in Teucer’s bedroom if you can count on your partner in crime to help you out. You and Ajax share a Look that hints at conspiracy.)

Speaking of your boyfriend, you don’t think he is governed by even one modicum of shame. During the Happy Birthday song, he performs with his whole chest, much to your chagrin. You think that Ajax lives the most for other people; even if it shines brightest whenever he teases and flusters. His camaraderie is most genuine when he’s this comfortable - when he knows that the present moment is all he needs to focus on.

When did he start letting his guard down? You find yourself unable to recall among past memories of trudging to the local diner at ungodly hours, cramming for finals at the library, and responsibly talking him down from any antics that would surely get him in trouble.

(Maybe it was when you first held an ice pack over his eye, swollen shut from a punch he shouldn’t have taken just for the thrill of it. Your admonishment must have been jarring, because without any teasing remarks whatsoever, he promised that he’d dial it down. You remember lacing your fingers with his - and promptly threatening to “embalm him with jet fuel” if he ever got hurt again.)

Now your relationship has progressed to the point where spending your first birthday together feels natural. It feels so natural that shitty paper plates stacked high with slices of cake is enough to make you forget that you look like that one damp owl picture. Ajax, as per his boyfriend duties, has to remind you, of course.

“Bad day, huh?”

You rest your chin on your fist, elbow supported by the armrest of your (comically small) couch. In retrospect, the fleeting illusion of a living room probably wasn’t worth it. Squished into a corner by a dozing Teucer and an awake Ajax, you yawn. “The worst, actually.”

“Well, we can’t be having that,” he tips your chin up to meet azure hues, “Maybe my gift will make you feel better.”

You blink. “Gift? You don’t have to, you know. The little guy’s was plenty enough for me.”

Ajax spares a fond glance at his little brother, whose head is resting in his lap, legs thrown over the opposite armrest. “Nonsense! If you’re worried about me having bought out a whole store—”

“Don’t tell me you—”

“—Then you have nothing to fret over, Killjoy,” he laughs. “It’s pretty small.”

You don’t suppress the smile that breaks out on your face. “Okay, I’ll bite.”

“Hopefully not too hard.” He’s so annoying. You want to kiss him stupid.

From what you assume is from his back pocket, he removes a black silk pouch before dropping it into your awaiting hand. He was right about it being small, that’s for sure. Toying with the material of it for a moment, you pull open the bag delicately. Ajax tenses. “So.. whaddya think?”

Inside is a brass key that fits into your palm nicely. Of course you’ll love anything he gives you, but you’re unsure of what this could mean. Is it symbolic? Literal? You thumb over the grooves, unsure of what they could possibly unlock. Your head swims with a fuzzy feeling that you don’t entirely hate.

“What’s it to?”

“Our place.”

It’s perfect. You turn the object this way and that way, swallowing. “Giving me my own copy? You realize that you’re gonna be stuck with me crashing at yours way more often, right?”

Your boyfriend wraps a sturdy arm around your shoulder. “It’s not there for you to crash, it’s there for you to stay. I want you to move in with me.”

The following awed silence from you is clearly taken as something else, because Ajax backpedals in that flippant way that belies the panic he’s actually feeling. You need to tell him that it’s okay; that it’s more than okay.

“Of course you can say no, but the rest of your birthday plans kinda hinge on the possibility that you’ll make me the happiest man in the world and say yes,” he amends.

You pay no heed to his theatrics, because all you really need is him. Gross. “Duh, idiot. As much as it kills me to say this, I’d want nothing more.” Ajax glows. “Because you’re head over heels in love with me?”

“No, because I won’t have to drag my ass to the laundromat anymore.”

The offended sound he lets out is muffled with your mouth against his once more, and the tears that roll down your cheeks are obviously not because you’re ecstatic to be so involved in his life. What a preposterous idea.

His hands cradle your face, a little awkward because of the position, but he’s so warm.

“Killjoy, I have something to confess,” he breathes, pulling back enough so you can see the faint constellation of freckles dotting his features. “You need to start packing immediately, or else the flowers will wilt before you’re able to see them.”

You sigh, happy-sniffling. “Flowers? Is a bouquet perhaps part of these ‘birthday plans’?”

Ajax dries one of his hands stained with your tears off onto his shirt before raking it through Teucer’s curls affectionately. He stirs but does not wake. “Try thirty!”

“Ajax..” The horror in your tone barely disguises the admiration.

“I love you too, Killjoy.”

That night, when you’re both alone in his apartment, tangled in each other’s arms, your overnight bag on the floor - you tell him the same. The few tears he sheds into your hair are also definitely not because you’re finally comfortable enough to say it back. Ridiculous.

taglist: @hanyi-writes, @karagatan02, @bfajax, @aphrodict, @nomazee

#✧ my works #—stellaronhvnters.#childe x reader #genshin impact x reader #genshin childe x reader #genshin x reader #tartaglia x reader #childe tartaglia ajax #childe genshin impact #genshin impact fluff #ajax x reader #genshin impact #zira's lover : event

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obsessive-valentine · 3 months

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hi i really love ur work can we have more yandere farmer content?

Dark-Yandere!Farmer x GN!Reader

What if darling found out about the farms dark secret, your kidnapper is much more cruel than you thought. TW Murder, Man-Eating Dogs, Throwing Up, very bad attempt at comfort (in-fact I wouldn’t call it an attempt at all -more like manipulation)

He was up on one of the pastures again, like every afternoon, pushing a wheelbarrow -spreading hay for the animals. It amazed you that he pushed the bails around with seemingly little effort. Once the barrow was blocking the shed door that was filled with grain for the animals you wanted to feed.

So you went to push it out the way but because it had already been filled with a particularly large bail you almost broke your back trying. It was one of the few times he’d genuinely laughed. You turned to the sound of his amused laugh in shock and saw him jogging to you to move the wheelbarrow for you then letting out a final chuckle opening the shed door for you “sorry love, that was inconsiderate of me”

You know it still takes a lot of effort for him by the way he sweats and grunts and falls asleep the second his head hits the pillow at night, but he makes it seem like a small feat. You turned back to the not so small calf you were keeping company, his mother grazing close by but comfortable with your presence so as the calf who you were there for when he was born a few months ago.

You stroked his nose admiring the adorable creature and cooing at him, you knew you would only have a few more months with him before he was sold. There was no use for him on the farm as you’d been told “as much as I like the fella he’d only drain supplies for no gain” -so when he is old enough he’d be sold to another farmer for breeding purposes or meat.

Today was tranquil, but just thinking that seemed to have jinxed you. There are always a dog or two around, each having jobs on the farm. So it wasn’t out of the ordinary when one of the larger livestock dogs ran past you headed for the tree line in the distance but when it started barking frantically and holding its ground like it was trying to scare off something, you were afraid a wild animal had stalked to close.

Whatever was out there wasn’t leaving and the mother cow seemed increasingly distressed by the commotion. You looked over to the pasture he was working on last, to see him tense up and look over to the fuss. You looked back at the distant tree line and saw a figure emerging slowly trying to manuver around the dog growling and barking warningly.

As soon as the farmer noticed that it wasn’t a wild animal causing the commotion, he dropped the barrow and ran down the field before hoping the fence, he grabbed your wrist and so harshly pulled you behind him you thought your shoulder popped out of its socket.

“The hell you doing here!?” He hollered over to the person in the distance “Can’t you read the signs?!” .......................

“recall your dog, this is the only way through” the intruder finally spoke with a demand, the way his hand tightened around your arm you knew that only made him angrier. But he did just that anyways.

With a sharp whistle the guard dog backed up but still lowly growling “You ain’t coming through turn back around and find a different route” he wasn’t shouting anymore but his voice was eerily dark. “You’ve got to be kidding me, just let me through man” the plea sounded yet again demanding which didn’t bode well for him.

He turned to you not turning his back to the intruder but enough to mumble “Go inside, don’t get nosey just wait for me to get back” he then let go of your wrist and watched you cautiously walk off. A sense of impending doom loomed over the farm but you followed his orders anyways and closed the door behind you.

...

As soon as the door closed you heard the barking start back up just now much more, the rest of the farm dogs must have made their way over. You became increasingly afraid he wasn’t going to handle this dispute well because you failed to hear him try recall the dogs, all you could hear was the trespasser trying to reason with him.

Until you didn’t hear any talking anymore but instead illegible shouting and struggle, the dogs now sounding more like rabid animals than protectors. You felt weak and your legs shook as you walked into one of the front rooms to peak out the window. ‘Don’t get nosey’ the warning almost made you turn around but curiosity won.

And when you pulled back the curtain just enough to see across the yard, you were sickened. Bile raced up your throat and couldn’t bring yourself to scream or cry but rather just stand there in shock as you saw the dogs in the distance rip at flesh of the now dead trespasser. You were glad you couldn’t see it clearly because your sure you would have fainted.

Broken from your trance when you saw the farmer leave the dogs to it and begin walking towards the house, to you. You ran to the toilet and threw up whatever you had, and then dry heaved further when you heard him enter the house.

You flinched hard when a cold hand rested on your neck slowly and roughly massaging it as you gagged, coughed and sobbed over the toilet “what did I tell you about being nosey?” His voice condescending and irritated, but not angry like you’d expected it to be. You began to sob out an apology still on the floor hunched over the toilet, afraid he was going to punish you in some way, again.

But he interrupted you before you could get out a full sentence “Shut it- you’ve already scared yourself sick” he sighed you heard him shuffle behind you as he sat on the bathroom floor with you “come here” his blunt exasperated tone hadn’t left but his hand now gentle attempted to guided you into his arms.

The closeness to the murderer set you off in a deeper panic, instincts telling you to run if you didn’t want to end up like that trespasser. But when you hands flew out to keep some distance between you both, he grabbed your face with one hand “You don’t want to be in the shed do you? I believe you’ve punished yourself enough, don’t make me regret not punishing you further”. You shook you head desperately and dropped you hands utterly powerless against him.

“That’s what I thought, last warning” his hands became gentle once again, one on the back of your head and the other on your back you sobbed onto his shoulder. But wanting nothing more than to kick, scream and bite, but you heeded his warning.

He ungracefully washed your face by cupping cold water in his hand and wiping it over your face, patting it dry with a near by towel “Had you listened to me we could have avoided all this” he lectured “I’m going to put you to bed early, I’ll clean everything up and from now on you’ll let me handle these ...problems, without causing trouble”

He scooped you up and took you to the bed, he drew the curtains closed to block the sun light and pulled the covers over you “let’s hope you learned your lesson” He grumbled before closing the door.

No matter how much you settled back in, years after this incident, nausea would overcome you for a few moments whenever he tells you to not be ‘nosey’. A dread you can’t explain.

#yandere farmer #dark #yandere oc #yandere #x reader

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dewdropdinosaur · 3 months

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As the World Caves In

ALASTOR X READER

Summary: Alastor has heard his fair share of voices in Hell, none quite like yours though.

Warnings: NONE. Except a sassy narrator. Have a wonderful day lovelies!

Requests are OPEN, so feel free to ask!

In the heart of Hell, where chaos reigned and sinners roamed, there existed a peculiar location known as the Hazbin Hotel. The sole purpose of such a place to redeem sinners like yourself dear reader, though let's not get too much into that. (We all know why are you on this website darling.) Among its more eccentric residents was Alastor, the infamous Radio Demon. He was a charismatic and enigmatic figure, whose mere mention sent shivers down the spines of even the toughest souls in Hell.

One day, as Alastor hummed and strolled through the halls of Hazbin Hotel, he heard a melodic voice echoing from a nearby room. Intrigued, he followed the sound and found Y/N, the cleaner Charlie had hired to aid Niffty in the small demon's never ending pursuit of a bug free haven. Gracefully going about their chores, Y/N sang with a voice that seemed to transcend Hell itself.

The song was unfamiliar to Alastor but nonetheless a haunting melody that told the tale of love amidst impending doom. Alastor, ever the connoisseur of entertainment, paused to listen. Must have been from a time later than him, shocking that a song from not the Roaring era peaked his interest. Though, the lyrics did resonate within him, in such a way that made his demonic heart stir with emotions he thought he'd long pushed down.

"My feet are aching, and your back is pretty tired. And we've drunk a couple bottles, babe. And set our grief aside. The papers say it's doomsday, the button has been pressed. We're gonna nuke each other up boys, 'til old Satan stands impressed."

Y/N, unaware of their creeping audience, continued to sing as they dusted and cleaned. A certain sadness filled their voice but the small smile that graced their face fueled the fires of the red demon's listening. The Radio Demon leaned against the doorway, his crimson eyes fixed on the cleaner. The dichotomy of the cleaner's sweet appearance and the dark setting of Hell created an atmosphere for such a song that was both beautiful and unsettling. The Radio Demon did love his ironies.

"And here it is, our final night alive. As the earth burns to the ground. Oh boy, it's you that I lie with, as the atom bomb locks in. Oh boy, it's you I watch TV with as the world.... as the world caves in."

The world caving in, a sentiment not unknown to Alastor though he might try to deny it. Few times had a performance stirred him to pensive thought, at least not a performance in his afterlife. As the final notes of the song hung in the air, Alastor applauded, his sharp teeth revealed in a sly grin. "My, my, my dear. That was quite the performance. I must say, you have a talent for making even the damned feel something."

Y/N jumped with a small yelp, startled by the sudden presence of the Radio Demon. They looked up at him with a mix of surprise and fear. "Alastor! I didn't realize you were there." Whipping around to face her demonic audience, Y/N felt an all too familiar pit of anxiety well up in her stomach at the sight of Alastor.

"No need to fret, my dear. I simply couldn't resist the allure of your singing," he replied, tipping his cane with a flourish. "I've heard many voices in Hell, but yours… it's truly captivating."

Y/N felt their cheeks flush with color, a compliment is a rarity in the underworld. Nonetheless one from the Radio Demon. "Thank you, Alastor. It's just a little something I do. Keeps spirits up, you know?" Rubbing the back of their neck with a sheepish grin, Y/N let out a small laugh. Almost as musical as their singing voice, Alastor noted that for later.

Alastor chuckled, his laughter statically filling the place. "Ah, the irony of keeping one's spirits up in Hell. Quite amusing, my dear. I do have a soft spot for a good performance. Now tell me, what is your preference for---"

As Y/N nodded along and answered his questions, a peculiar alliance formed between the Radio Demon and the sweet-voiced cleaner. Little did they know that their paths would cross again in this chaotic realm, where the unexpected was always just around the corner.

#hazbin hotel #hazbin hotel alastor #alastor #the radio demon #alastor x reader #hazbin hotel alastor x reader #alastor imagine #romance #alastor the radio demon #vizziepop #radio killed the video star #as the world caves in #one shot #help me this fandom has a hold on my soul

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loupetlapinn · 19 days

Note

what do you think about jeonghan making you hump his boot, earn your orgasm with no help on his side. just your tears and his condescending dirty talk keeping you going 🫠🫠

MDNI. ageless blogs will be blocked.

loving this visual, anon.

Hands down, I swear, he's the biggest sadomasochist. (Might be why I enjoy writing him so much...)

"Must you be so fucking noisy," he sighs exaggeratedly, only turning his attention to you to shove a handkerchief in your mouth. Which only muffles your sniveling noises, having to hold back a scoff at how utterly depraved you look.

Eyes burning red, an unending stream of tears staining your cheeks along with your mascara, that obnoxious mouth of yours stuffed with his handkerchief was the cherry on top. Knowing full well you're so fucking noisy when you're this desperate, that the cloth really doesn't do anything but slightly mute your whines and cries.

"God, look at you, stupid little thing making a fucking mess of my boot," his voice is melodic, akin to visions of deep sea sirens luring unsuspecting victims to their doom. You're whimpering around cotton and he flat out laughs at the way your features pinch together.

"You love this don't you, god, you really do," he's flashing his teeth, "You like being talked down to like this? Like the pathetic little thing you are."

"Needy," the corners of his lips curling upwards as he's beaming smugly down at you.

"Aren't you?" he raises a brow, peering at you over the rim of his wine glass as he takes another sip of the burgundy liquid.

You're fumbling with the fabric in your mouth, only able to groan out around it to voice your reply he was so clearly expecting. A pitched moan following with another desperate grind of your hips against darkened leather.

"What was that, baby?" He quirks his head, feigning concern before that devilishly self-satisfied look is once more upon his angelic visage.

"Oh, that's right," he's snickering, a fond look in his eye as he beholds the mess that you are at his feet. "That filthy fucking mouth of yours is too busy, huh?"

Needless to say, he has you do this until he grows bored or too hard to not have you dumb on his cock. All while you're mind fucked to hell.

#han #asks #love answers #svt hard hours #svt hard thoughts #svt smut #seventeen smut #jeonghan smut #tw: degradation #dark!svt #loves ledger

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muneca-lemon-steppa · 7 months

Text

Interviews for New Beginnings: Part 6

Alfie Solomons x Fem!Reader, 6.2k words

Warnings: Violence, Cursing

A/N: GUYS I AM SO SORRY THIS TOOK SO LONG. But it is finally here. After this we only have one more chapter, so y'all I'm just so emotional. Thank you all for your patience and all the love you have shared. I'm so grateful. Special shoutout to @hoodeddreams13 for letting me chat them up to discuss this chapter because I was STRESSED. Anyway, sending all my love to you guys. Enjoy! - Mo

Alfie had convinced himself that he was doomed to hell for all of his evil deeds in life. The lying. The bloodshed. The rage. But perhaps he had done something good in this life. Maybe God finally took pity on Alfie Solomons. Perhaps the Angel Gabriel had put in a good word for him. He must have, because there was no other reason that he got to have the blessing of you nestled in his lap, face buried in his neck, small hand tangled in his unruly beard. He had dreamed of this forever, and now it was finally true. He never thought that he would get to have this. Warmth. Love. Safety. "Alfie? Darling where is your mind at?"

He felt your lips at his neck, and sighed, "Nowhere sweet. Just enjoying your company."

"Hmm… Alfie, I wish every moment could be just like this. I don't want to be anywhere else but here in your arms."

He shifted beneath you, to bring your face to his. Nose to nose, breathing in one breath. "My sweet girl, whatever you wish, you shall have yeah? You can stay here, right next to me. And we'll never leave this spot."

"We'll grow old here in your chair. I on your lap. Till the ages go by. And the vines and trees grow around us. And all of Camden will fall away and here we will be together."

"Exactly right my pet. Exactly right."

As if the Somme had suddenly emerged, Satan's army came hurtling through Alfie's door, with Sabini at the helm. The gun fire lit up the room, and all Alfie could hear was your screams of agony. In his arms you were no longer there. The silken white dressing gown he had just been caressing was stained crimson, and the color in your face had turned to ash. Alfie, who has never been lost for words, who has always had something on the tip of his tongue, had nothing come from his mouth but horrified screams. He kept shaking your shoulders, hoping to God that you would wake up, but your limp limbs gave nothing to life. He screamed and screamed your name, until his lungs gave way.

In a sudden jerk, Alfie sat up in his freezing room, his bare chest covered in sweat. The room was bathed in a light blue from the bright moon outside his window. He was alone, save Cyril on the floor by his bed. The house was quiet, and he was alone. You weren't there. Your lifeless body wasn't there. It wasn't real. None of it was real. The fear that took over his body from the dream shouldn't be so potent anymore. He'd had the same dream every night for the past week. And every night he woke up with his heart coming out of his throat and tears streaming down his face. And every night he would stop by the house you were put up in, patrolling around it with the man stationed there, ensuring that every door was locked.

The plan Tommy and Alfie had concocted had become a bloody mess across the city. Tommy’s men had marked every business and alcove the Sabini’s even had minimal connection to. One by one, they were blown up, burnt to the very foundation. Alfie’s boys had been performing psychological warfare as well. The major Sabini players had been followed by phantoms, never being truly alone, until they were slaughtered in their beds, door frames set ablaze. Everyone in Camden was talking about the horrific curse that befell the Sabinis. How it would soon overtake all of them. The city was simmering, about to burst through and explode. Though the Shelby and Solomons boys were making headway, Alfie couldn’t help but wait for the other shoe to drop.

This war was killing him. The business was killing him. He felt it. And you were seeing it. He was drinking more. Eating less. Even when you tried to touch his cheek, to remind him of the moment you two shared and the fact that you were still here and alive, he huffed and moved away from your caress. Your touch brought back the visions of his nightmares and the smoldering tailor shop. It was killing him. It was killing you.

Alfie had created a moat around you, keeping you at a distance and protecting you from him. You had been relegated to simply his secretary. No more. No less. No longer his confidant. No longer his support. No longer the sweetness or the warmth to his day. And while you knew that he was doing this out of fear and out of wanting to protect you, you couldn't help the feelings of rejection from rising in your stomach. You couldn't shake off the feeling that he saw you as a child. As a small ceramic doll that needed to be shielded and held in a box. He didn't look at the sketches you had drawn up for the club. He wasn't even letting you in on the meetings anymore. It was no longer just hurting you. It was now irritating.

On a cold and wet morning, you had enough. This could not stand. You were more than just a desk girl! You were not a girl who needed to be shielded damnit! During an hour you knew there was not going to be any meetings or meddlings, you knew you had your time. You pulled your sweater tighter around you, and pushed in to Alfie's office. "Alfie, we need to talk."

Alfie didn't even look up from his desk and the accounts he was checking, "Not now Ms. Abraham, I am currently checking your math. Tomorrow yeah?"

You pulled the chair out to sit, "No Alfie we need to speak right now."

His broad shoulders slacked down like weathered masts of a ship, and the breath released from his lungs was low and slow. His eyes pressed together as he scrubbed his face. Looking out the window of his office, rubbing his unkempt beard, "What could possibly need discussing now? You already finished all the work I gave you. And there are no more meetings. You can go home."

You wrapped your arms around yourself, the room freezing but your neck hot, "That's exactly it Alfie. You are treating me like a simple secretary."

"You are a secretary love."

"Let me rephrase for you. You are treating me like an idiot. An idiot secretary. You're treating me like a child."

Alfie just stared at you, eyes smoldering like kindling in the stove. He stayed silent, lips tight, you couldn't even tell if he was breathing. If you didn't know him you would think that he was going to fire you. But this was just Alfie. He was thinking. Plotting his next move in this eternal game of chess. Maybe if you were a more ruthless and emotionless player you would have kept you mouth shut. But who cares about winning a chess game when your heart is being chipped at slowly and painfully.

"Alfie, You shut me out. If... if what happened in the jewelery shop was a mistake -"

"It wasn't a mistake."

You paused, staring into his eyes, but he merely nodded at you to continue. "Alright. Well... if it wasn't a mistake. Why are you shutting me out? Why aren't you... letting me be your secretary like I have been all this time. Who does this benefit Alfie? Because you look even worse every day and... well Alfie I feel alone. I feel alone Alfie. I'm scared. I don't know what is going on. I feel lost. And you aren't sharing with me what I need to know. Do you think i can't do this job anymore?"

Alfie stood up, going to the window, looking out at the rain tapping the window and stones below. Though you were screaming inside for a response, you knew this movement. He was thinking, calculating. Trying to figure out the right thing to say to you in this moment. He turned to you, then walked to the door of his office, "Tea?"

It was so odd watching him make his and your tea. Frankly, you didn't even know that he had remembered how you took your tea. It was perfect. Though it was the perfect cup, and the atmosphere should have made a comfortable and relaxing time, your brow was still furrowed, confused as to what Alfie was playing at. He was drinking his own tea, staring at you in between the breaks of his scribbling in the notebook.

After what seems like hours, he finally paused, "Alright treacle. Let's talk business."

"Business?"

"Yes my dove, because what we have here yeah, is quite a bit of a conundrum so to speak."

He took a long drag of his tea before setting it back down and beginning again, "Now...treacle. Like I said yeah? We have a great conundrum. Because you... my viper... have performed a feat like none other. You yeah, have become two people at the same time."

"What are you talking about?"

“Just listen alright? Now, not only are you a damn good secretary… a very damn good secretary; but you are also someone I have grown rather… fond of.”

"Just fond?"

"Actually a third thing too, a pain in my ass. Damn woman I am trying to talk to you! Shit! Listen! I... may... feel quite fond of you. And in this business.. it is very dangerous to have people who you are fond of. Much more dangerous to have people know about your fondness for others. Now... do you understand what I'm saying treacle?"

Eyes wide, playing with the loose string on your sweater you nod and Alfie grunts in assent. "So you see my dove, I am very very fond of you. In fact it makes me absolutely sick. But... I don't want my fondness for you, to affect your safety. You understand? So that is why I have been... more reclusive."

Alfie watched you nod, your eyes wandering to the corner of the office where some spiders had begun building the foundation of their new home. He watched the quirk of your lips, and waited. You weren't about to agree. "Well... Alfie... what if you weren't the only one who was deeply fond of someone? Hmm? What then?"

"Well that would be a problem right? Because that would be a mutual deep fondness and it would be highly innappropriate."

"Why?"

"Because you are a good girl and I am a bad man."

"I don't care."

"Well you should."

"I don't."

"Well fuck treacle it is entirely out of the fucking question. It doesn't matter who is fond of who it does not matter. What matters right? What really matters, is that I keep you safe, and you get to walk out of this office and find someone your age and who is not damned to the fucking gates of hell!"

"I don't care! I don't fucking care! Because even if you are damned to hell, I have been living in one! You think you keeping me in a box will keep me safe and make me happy? I'm alone! I'm scared! And the one person in this whole fucking world who makes me feel safe is keeping me at a distance!"

Tap

The large drops of soft rain trickle down the steamed up window panes like tears from God. And soft blue light of the covered sun illuminates the storm brewing behind Alfie's eyes and the gale force winds sighing from his lungs. These past few weeks you have felt like one of those palm trees you saw in a painting in your childhood books. Swaying in the wind of Alfie's hurricane. You were in the eye of it. You were the eye. The small bit of calm in the center of the madness. But one move to the left or right would put you in the throws of it, threatening destruction and death. Yet it was suffocating in the center. No where to move. All the oxygen being sucked out.

"Alfie... don't keep me away. I can't stand it."

Alfie never took his eyes off you. In his stomach he felt as if rocks had taken up residence. There were so many things he wanted to say. So many things he wanted to do. He loved you. He loved you and he couldn't say anything about it. He couldn't for a million and one reasons and yet it was cutting him up inside to hold in this declaration. He loved you more than anything in this world, and he would absolutely evaporate if anything happened to you. And that is why he couldn't love you. That is why he couldn't say anything. But God did he want to take your tears. To hold you in his chest, to kiss you and tell you that everything was going to be ok. That he would kill every person who even looked at your house or you. That he could do it. That he could change the tides if it meant you were happy. If he could have you... you would never want for anything again.

But that's not what is best for you is it?

With a grunt Alfie stands up, motioning for the door as the clock struck 2, "Come on darling... let's get you home. "

Alfie's heart cracked into two pieces when he saw that first rivulet fall down your cheek. Silent tears that never ended all the way home. He thanked God that you let him walk you up to the door, but was not shocked when you walked in without another word. As Alfie turned back around to head back to the car, your father stopped him, "Mr. Solomons... won't you come in for something warm?"

Alfie had this house furnished and ready for the family in the wake of the fire. But your family brought another level of color and warmth that could never be bought, and it brought back memories of his mother so vividly in his mind. It was warm and rich, and the tea provided by your father was strong and invigorating, much like him. Alfie hadn't noticed how much Esther favored your father. The crease in the brow was carbon copy, and Alfie had to supress a smile on his lips when he made the realization. After the formalities often afforded to business associates, your father spoke, "Mr. Solomons... I will be candid... I know that my daughter works as your secretary. And I know that Eli works in your shops."

Alfie slowly blinked. Nothing could be said, and he had prepped already for this exact scenario millions of times.

Leaning back, letting his hands rest on his stomach, your father continued with a sigh, "And...man to man... I know that my daughter not only loves her job... but also Mr. Solomons... loves you. And I suspect, that you have loved her and do now. Yes?"

This was not something Alfie had prepared for.

"Please do not deny Mr. Solomons. Though you are a gangster you are a man and I have seen many a man fall over their feet for my eldest but you," pointing his finger at Alfie, "you have done more than trip over feet. You love her. Do you deny it?"

"No Mr. Abraham. I don't."

"You want to ask me for her hand in marriage?"

"Fuck me."

"Please Mr. Solomons, Mrs. Abraham will have a fit if she hears that talk. What do you want with my daughter? She will not be made a fool."

Alfie waved his hands in the air, trying to clear out the fog in his mind, "No Mr. Abraham I- yes. Yes Mr. Abraham, I love your daughter very much. More than I should. More than I deserve. If I were a better man I would... I would have married her weeks ago. Proper marriage. Proper ceremony. Or whatever she wanted it doesn't matter to me. She... she's the best moment of my day and the worst is when she leaves. She gives me a headache every time she argues with me but makes me feel better than I have since I was boy right? But I can't love her proper. I can't give her the life she deserves Mr. Abraham because of the nonsense that I bring. Mr. Abraham I'm man enough to say that I don't deserve her. But I'll protect her and your family until a better man comes along."

Your father hummed, looking into Alfie's eyes, as if reading all the other words that Alfie couldn't say. "You know... Mr. Kahn... he told me when I was a young man... that it is often the people who are most deserving of love who think that they don't deserve it. It is the most bravest people who think they are not brave. And the best people who think they could be better. And I wonder... Mr. Solomons... if you have forgotten that love is not a token something to be earned, but rather a gift which is freely given. It's there whether we think we deserve it or not."

Your father put a finger up to Alfie, and tip toed to the cabinet to pull out a clandestine box of cigarettes and match. Handing one to Alfie he says, "Mrs. Abraham has been trying to get me to quit for 30 years and I can't shake it. Indulge with me won't you?"

Alfie greedily sucked in the smoke, as if sharing a secret with a classmate. After a few moments puffing in silence, your father spoke up again, "My daughter is very stubborn as I'm sure you know. My wife and I know she loves you but she cannot say it to herself. She's never been good with admitting a vulnerability like that. But she will. But she won't if you keep pushing her away Mr. Solomons. And I'm sure the last thing you want is for her to be far from you yes?"

Alfie nodded in assent, reeling from this conversation. Your father's large cheeks raised in a smile, nearly concealing his eyes, "Good then. Now Mr. Solomons. regarding your shirts, Eli will be by your house at 8pm with a pack. And I’ve taken the liberty of adding a more secure button and stitch pattern.”

As he turned away he added, “I think you’re a better man than you give yourself credit for Mr. Solomons. Don’t let fear get in the way of life. We’ll all be ok.”

Alfie nodded once again, placing his fingertips on the ornate mezuzah on the doorframe. Feeling a strange peace wash over him as he touched his fingers to his lips. On the drive back to the office and the drive back home, he thinks about what your father said, the way he was welcomed into the home and table. Maybe this could work. Maybe… maybe this war could end. And he could keep you safe. And he could make you happy. Maybe… maybe it will work.

The next day when you came to work, Alfie was already in, talking to Ollie and Ishmael, maps and ledgers all over the place. The fire in the stove by your desk had already been lit and brought to vibrant life. A small bouquet of lavender and baby's breath was at bright attention in a chipped cup on the desk, right next to a blueberry scone and a little note reading 'Can't do this without you' in large and jagged neat script. "Ah treacle! Shalom. Ollie, Ishmael that will be all, get to it yeah? I want proof of death by this evening. Treacle come in please?"

You walked in tentatively, nodding and saying good morning to Ollie and Ishmael as they left. As you take you seat, Alfie is pouring out your tea and putting out the cigar he had been nursing all morning. "Here you go love, drink that down. Listen... I've been doing some thinking... and as much as it stabs me in my cold rotten heart... I do believe you are right, and I'm in the wrong."

Your tea must have been poisoned, because you spluttered at Alfie's admittance, "Alfie? Are you not well? Are you dying?"

Alfie rolled his eyes but couldn't help the small chuckle that spilled out, "No I'm not dying you vile woman! I'm apologizing! Wipe your mouth darling you'll drip on your nice dress. Like that by the way, is that new? Anyway treacle. I have been keeping you away from things. I am fond of you I worry about keeping you safe and away from the mess. I know you ain't a child, but I can't help but feel rather responsible for you. Especially now that your family knows that you're working for me."

"He told you?"

"Yeah, yeah he did treacle. Real shit espionage on your part dear, you will not be given any jobs that require being discreet love I'm sorry, but frankly you cannot lie worth a damn."

Your nostrils flared at the dig at you, but you couldn't help the smile at the corner of your lip due its' truth. Alfie continued on, "This war love, it ain't nothing new to me. And it is necessary for both me and the Shelbys. The Sabinis are right rats and I'm quite sick of their activities. If I am too... rough in my handling of you I am sorry, I do want you in this, and I can't do it without you. But I need you safe. Understand?"

Your eyes bore into his, and he was teetering on the thin line of relief and vomiting due to his new found vulnerability. "So you won't send me home early anymore? We'll go back to business as usual?"

"Yeah... If you'll have me."

You bit your lip, trying to hide your happiness and relief, "I think that is amendable to me."

You shook hands, and shivered slightly at the renewed contact that you had secretly craved for weeks. With a quick release of breath and a final firm squeeze of your hand, Alfie released reluctantly, "Beautiful. Get your little notebook and get comfortable love. We have a lot of business to attend to."

Did you ever. You had mistakenly thought that though Alfie had been sending you home, he was handling everything swimmingly. However, Alfie was actually about to collapse under the amount of plates he was spinning. You reorganized his calendar. Argued at length about the numbers and the accounts until they were perfectly balanced. You reviewed the designs for the gaming club, now named Crown and Horse, and chastised Alfie for failing to choose the wallpaper despite opening night coming in three weeks. More had been accomplished in a single day than had been done in the past week, and you both were abuzz. Alfie could not deny the fact that he had felt better than he had in weeks having you back in his atmosphere. He felt lighter. He laughed easier even if it was at his own expense. Looking at the way your eyes danced along the pages and listening to the ringing of your voice as you hollered and laughed brought him more bliss than any rum or draught that could be cooked up.

As the weeks went by, more and more Sabini strongholds and hiding spots were blown to pieces. More and more Sabini men and soldiers were driven mad by the dark spectors haunting their steps, until they were quietly taken in the night. You were aware of it all, through the whispers in the street and the information Alfie shared with you. The tailor shop was nearly finished, but business was booming more than it had in years. Whether it was due to people feeling sorry for the fire or due to peoples new found respect in the family's tie to Solomons, you couldn't tell. But your father looked more settled than he had in ages, and that was enough for you.

Opening night of the gaming club was to be a grand affair. The Shelby boys had opted to hire a band to play, and gaming tables were to be pushed to the sides to keep room open for dancing. Despite protestation from you, snow would be available along with good drink, anything to keep the crowd raucous and loose lipped. “The only difference between high brow and low brow people treacle, is how willing they are to get their good clothes dirtied up.”

Alfie had asked to escort you to opening night, you tried to decline, as you had nothing quite so suitable for an event. But Alfie scoffed, suddenly producing a wine red evening dress, with nearly black beads dotting the dress, catching the light to look like the night sky. Of course, you scolded him harshly, it was not in the budget you had set for the opening. Alfie smirked, touching the gold locket,that he refused to take back, on your neck, “There’s always room in the budget. I’ll pick you up in the car. 7. Make sure that locket stays on yeah?”

The last ‘date’ you had been on was a abject disaster. You were 17, and your date reeked of cigarette smoke and paint thinner. He took you to the pictures, where he proceeded to kiss a girl who sat next to him on the other side. To add insult to injury, Eli sat behind you to see the entire thing, and swiftly began to punch the living daylights out of your date. Eli did win, but did sport a black eye for a good while, and teased you about him for years to come.

Not that this was a date! This was not a date! This was merely a business event. A business event with your very handsome boss in a dress that he bought that just happened to be the perfect fit.

Or so you argued with Eli as he teased you from your doorway watching you pin your hair up. “Uh-huh of course. So do you think that Alfie will propose to you tonight? Or is the little locket the sign you’re using for your betrothal?”

“Get out! God don’t you have anything better to do?!”

“Mmm no Im off today. Watching you put more effort into your appearance then you ever have in your life is amusing to me.”

You spun around, “I look terrible don’t I? I look ridiculous! Oh damnit that’s it when Alfie comes you will have to tell him I caught a pox or something!”

Eli threw his head back hollering in laughing, throwing himself on your bed, “Oh my gosh!! Dear heart you don’t look ridiculous!!! You look nice!! Like a regular star! I’m only teasing you. Please please you must go. I don’t think a pox lie would keep Alfie from pushing his way into the house to get to you anyway.”

Watching him from the mirror you said, “You don’t think so?”

“Alfie? No nothing. And I don’t think it’d keep you from seeing him either. Am I wrong?”

Your head fell on the desk, “Eli… I don’t know.”

“You don’t know what?”

“I don’t know if… I’m allowed to feel… the way I do.”

“Well you have to say it in order to know if it’s right.”

You turned to face him, “Eli,.. I feel… home. I feel like I’m right where I need to be when I’m with him. And I want to be next to him all the time. I don’t like not being near him. It feels like… I’m missing my favorite book. I’m still me if I’m not with him. But I’m always searching for him.”

With a soft smile Eli responds, “and why wouldn’t you be allowed to feel like that?”

“Because… well… I don’t want him to feel responsible for me. He has enough to deal with.”

Eli looked around the room, waving his hands, “Well… he did all this… and had only asked that you don’t quit. So… not that I don’t think you’re smart… but I don’t think you’ve really thought it through… it seems… like you’re looking for a reason to not love him so that you don’t feel vulnerable… am I wrong?”

Chewing on the nail of your thumb, a persistent habit you've tried to kill for years, you mumble out, "I hate it when you do that."

Eli merely smirks, mirth glittering in his eyes, "What is a brother for if not to see you past your walls? Now!" Eli stands grandly, as if finishing a fabulous routine for a crowd, "It's nearly seven mouse. Finish up so Mr. Solomons isn't kept hostage by Esther for too long."

You waived him away giggling as the memory of Esther attempting to put fake rouge on Alfie glimmers in your mind. Eli was right. He usually is, as infuriating as it is. While you had lulled yourself to sleep with fantasies of loving Alfie fully and replayed the moment in the jewelry shop every quiet moment you had and felt Alfie's breath on your neck with every whisper of the wind... you never allowed yourself to truly imagine and consider love. Never allowed yourself the pleasure of the thought of him loving you. But.

If he does.

If Eli is right.

If Alfie Solomons loves you.

And you love Alfie Solomons.

Who is to say that you can't be together.

What is to keep you apart?

What is to make love unsafe?

Your reverie and final touches are interrupted by sweet Esther bounding in joyfully, "He's here!! Mr. Alfie is here!"

She pauses at your seat on the vanity, mouth agape, teddy dragging on the floor from where it hung from her grasp, "Wow... you look like a princess..."

You laughed out, gathering Esther in your arms to carry her downstairs, "Well thank you my sweet girl. But surely not as beautiful as you."

She sqeauled and giggled as your pressed kisses to her chubby cheeks, dark red lipstick smudged on. Alfie's eyes were drawn away from Eli's story to land squarely on you and Esther. It was as if everything melted away. You were always beautiful. Always. Not a single moment was different. But in this moment you were otherworldly. Your beauty was only enhanced and amplified with the fine clothes and extra time put into your makeup and hair. The smile you had on your face was radiant and true. The love in your heart shone out adding a glow around you. Alfie wanted to live in that glow forever. Eli stopped talking and smiled at you as he watched Alfie walk towards you like a man in a trance. When you finally set Esther down, you turned in a circle, letting Alfie get a full view, "Is this ok Alfie? You don't think it's too much?'

Alfie shook his head, motioning for you to spin again, "It's absolutely perfect. You look like a right star. Every man will want to dance with you sweet."

You chuckled, "Well they'll be disappointed won't they? I only dance for one man."

For the first time in his life, Alfie felt a blush rise in his cheeks. He had never been flustered before. Silently, he grabbed your hand and pressed a whiskered kiss to your knuckles before leading you out. You waved by to Eli and Esther, excited for the evenings festivities.

You were shocked that the floor hadn't broken underneath you. It was packed. It was alive. It was proving a success. The band John Shelby had booked was relatively new but had shown the crowd the best time they would ever have. The dance floor was vibrant with sequined and bejewled bodies. Gaming tables were sending men to the grave and to Olympus in equal measure. Drinks were flowing like a river, and no one was exempt from its effects. When the Shelby boys whisked Alfie away for drinks and business, you were quickly adopted by Esme, Ada, and Polly. And though you knew that the Shelby - Solomons relationship was at some moments rocky, you felt immediate connection with the women, and knew in your heart that a friendship with them would be more than just business. Your face was hot and your body was buzzing from the energy in the room. You and Ada became fast friends, dancing and twirling like silly girls in the playground. Soon enough you collapsed into barstools laughing and whispering about the scenes surrounding you. But soon enough, your conversation with Ada was cut short by a warm and calloused hand on your shoulder. Looking up you see Alfie's glowing eyes and flushed cheeks. Ada smiled and slipped away as Alfie leaned in to your ear whispering, "Dance for me?"

You nodded, allowing yourself to be pulled from your seat to the center of the dance floor. You felt weightless as you were sucked into Alfie's embrace. A slower number was being played by the band, and though you were surrounded by couples, you would never have known. All you could sense was Alfie around you. In any normal circumstances you would have scolded Alfie for holding you so possesively in a public setting, it was improper. But you couldn't care. How could you, when your body was wrapped in Alfie's strong arms, your fingers raking through his hair, and his beard scratching against your cheek. How could you care when you were living in heaven.

"Are you having a good time my sweet girl?" Alfie husked in your ear.

You smile, bringing his nose to yours to whisper against his face, "Yes, now that you're here. Only one thing could make it better Alfie."

"What's that?"

You force your eyes to meet his storming ones, letting your hand run through his beard, "A kiss."

Alfie's large hand slides to the back of your head, making a mess of the pins holding your hair. His face came to yours, kissing you fiercely, and all the months of waiting, debating, and worrying finally melted away. You let your hands rush into his hair, mussing it as you have longed to do for nights and nights and nights. Sweet and tender and hungry and longing, Alfie's lips against your own was the only thing you could understand in that moment. It was the only thing you could comprehend. Pulling away, Alfie huffed out, "Fuck..."

You laughed at his toussled visage, "Is that all it takes to make you silent Mr. Solomons?"

His eyes grew dark, and you suddenly felt a thrill in your stomach, "Careful treacle might just have to do that again."

Alfie was reaching for you again when a commotion began at the bar.

On top of the crowded bar was Sabini, with a gun pointed directly at you. You could see Tommy pushing people out of the way telling them to get out, trying to get to Alfie. John and Arthur and other Peaky boys were fighting men off, trying to pull down Sabini

"SOLOMONS! You think this is how business is done?" Sabini howled from his place on the bar. "You think you can do this to me? You think this is how you kill a Sabini? You think I'll let a bitch destroy this business? I'll kill you all!"

Bang. Bang.

You fall to the ground. The smell of smoke and iron filled the air. You felt warm liquid on your body, and the sound of people screaming and running fill your ears.

But no pain. No fading and no light coming towards you. A heavy weight is on you groaning out your name. It takes a few moments to understand what was on you.

Alfie.

Your body suddenly awakens. Sabini was on the ground, pale and being carried out by his men leaving a trail dark blood in his wake. Alfie had pushed you to the ground to take the shot meant for you, covering your body with his in his fall. You pushed yourself out from under him, holding his face in your hands, screaming above the crowd, "Alfie! Alfie look at me!"

His eyes were searching for you, "Treacle... treacle you alright love?"

"Alfie you stupid stupid man why did you do that! Alfie please!"

He smiled weakly, "It's alright sweet girl. Old Alfie's alright. Barelt a scratch on me love. Couldn't let my best girl get hurt yeah?"

You looked down at his stomach, a sickly red bloomed on his crisp white shirt. Not a scratch. Not alright. You felt the tears streaming down your cheeks, "Alfie we need to get you to a doctor. We need to go now."

Alfie shook his head, raising his hand to your trembling face, "Nah... I don't think so sweet girl. Just give me a moment. Just let me look at your sweet face for a little. Just give me a moment."

Alfie's eyes fluttered shut as he passed out. Shaking, you began screaming his name, "Alfie... Alfie! Alfie wake up!! Ollie!!! Ollie fuck get over here! Somebody help!!! Somebody please help!!!"

Tag List: @jokersqueenofchaos @hoodeddreams13 @satur9-saturnalia @autumnleaves1991-blog @mysteriouslydeafeningwerewolf @character---obsessed @solomons-finest-rum @cookiez56-blog , @teapartydreams , @sciencewithottsnpotts , @6asm0ne , @purrrrfect, @bluejellyfiish @jassiefayee

#alfie solomons #alfie solomons x reader #alfie solomons fanfic #alfie solomons x you #alfie solomons x y/n #peaky blinder fanfic #Interviews for New Beginnings

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howi99 · 3 months

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???: You must unite humanity, these relics will be of help.

????: But why me!? Why not anyone else!

???: Your wife was the cause of this suffering and you were the catalyst. By saving her you doomed humanity.

????: But Gods! Please! Have mercy on me! And if not me please make her mortal again!

???: it is her punishment. And you were chosen to bear her pain. Now go, and when the time comes, you know what you'll have to do.

___

Jaune: *shaking his head*

Ruby: Jaune? Are you sure you are ok?

Jaune: Yeah, just had a weird dream. So yeah, you said your uncle wanted to see me?

Ruby: *uncertain* Y-yeah... Though he isn't... In the best condition to see you right now.

Jaune: *eyes flashing for just a moment, fast enough for ruby to miss it* Let me guess, he got himself drunk and couldn't come?

Ruby: *surprised* H-how did you know? You only saw him once!

Jaune:... Uh... I'll be honest Ruby, i have no idea how. I just had a feeling, you know? I guess he has the vibe of a drunkard?

Ruby: ... I adore him, but fair.

Jaune: I heard about Yang, is she...

Ruby: She woke up not long before you did. She... Isn't taking it well.

Jaune: And what about Blake?

Ruby: ...

Jaune: Ruby?

Ruby: She left... Not even saying goodbye.

Jaune: oh...

Ruby: ... Jaune? Am i... A bad leader?

Jaune: ... No. I don't think you are a bad leader.

Ruby: *water building up in her eyes* But... I screwed up. I couldn't protect anyone!

Jaune: *snapping his fingers to get her attention* Hey, hey! You saved civilians! You stopped the sabotage! Hell, you might have saved more people than anyone else!

Ruby: But i couldn't help my sister! I let Blake run away! Weiss got taken away by her father and... Penny is... *Crying* i couldn't save any of my friends!

Jaune: *sigh* I... Can't even begin to understand your pain Ruby. I was lucky. Had Pyrrha managed to push me in the locker she would have died. If i didn't collapse both of you might have tried fighting Cinder and... God i don't want to think about that. *Eye flashing* It would have been Summer all over again...

Ruby: *still crying* What... Am i supposed to do?I want an answer but i don't know where to search them...

???: *whisper in Jaune's head* Mistral... Lionheart...

Jaune: ? ... Wait, weren't they from Mistral?

Ruby: *crying less* Y-yeah... Wait, you think...

Jaune: Maybe. Though i refuse to let you go there alone... I will ask my team if they would like to follow us.

Ruby: *wipe away her tears* You... You'd help me?

Jaune: *smiling at her while patting her head* Hey, we are friends, right?

Ruby: *hugs* Thanks... Really, you are the best friend i could ever ask for...

#jaune arc #ruby rose #rwby #rwby au #sword and sorcery au

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lookbluesoup · 2 years

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Thinking about G'raha and Emet at the climax of Shadowbringers, mmm there’s too many words, let’s see...

Emet freaks out the way he does and reverts back into mask-up genocidal self-righteous rage-monster mode because he thinks you’re going to die. Become a sin eater consumed by Light. You were his friend in the world unsundered, even though you don’t remember him now, and your soul is just going to be obliterated, there will be no saving it. He accepts this as inevitable, he’s too hurt to hope for anything else. You’re already gone in his mind. He’s going to do what he has to do, to end this broken world and save the rest of his people, even though it means losing you. The angst of that gets me every time.

And then there’s G'raha. Who was also your friend in disguise, working alongside you to save the world. Just like Emet, G'raha's a dear companion from another life who’s true face you weren’t able to see, who’s name they would not tell you, but who loves you still and hopes you might save the world.

The moment Emet-Selch gives in to grief and decides you can’t be saved is the same moment Graha commits to sacrificing himself to save you.

Emet prevents G'raha from doing that. And takes him captive. And the days that follow where the rest of your friends are desperately trying to preserve your life, G'raha does not know if you are ok.

But he does not give up.

He knows you are doomed, just as much as Emet does. But unlike Emet, Graha does not give up.

He fights for you, for the world, for a future, against Emet in the Tempest with no certainty that you are even still alive, and no reason to believe anyone will rescue him, and no second chance for any of it if you are gone.

But you come for him. You come for him bleeding Light and barely able to stand but you also did not give up. Both of you are defiant in the face of Emet’s despair. Graha is bloody and beaten from days of abuse, far from his tower, and still finds it in himself to summon aid for you when you make your final stand against Emet for the fate of a dying world.

And ultimately you triumph over the Light, you defeat Emet, you give hope back to the entire broken world and most importantly... you are not going to die. And neither is Graha.

And I just... cannot imagine how hard that realization is going to hit G'raha. After days in basically hell, not knowing, not giving in, you showed up like the hero he always believed you to be but even more, and you brought him home again, and you’re alive.

When the adrenaline and exhaustion fades... It must hit hard enough to be its own wound. He must break down sobbing. You cannot feel so much relief and stay on your feet. All that he hoped against hope for came to pass, and he loves you and you’re still alive.

#idk man i love them both so much #they give me feels #g'raha tia #emet selch #emet-selch #graha tia #ffxiv #wyn gabs #meta #text #shadowbringers #shadowbringers spoilers #final fantasy 14 #final fantasy xiv #ff14 #long post #shower thoughts

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inaconstantstateofchange · 5 months

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I come to you on my hands and knees (relevant to the topic right lol) begging for any and all info on Bane, Banites and how it all ties in with Gortash. I love you in advance. <3

Bane and His Cult

Alright, so after twelve and a half hours of research I still don’t fully feel like I have enough, but at a certain point I just need to get this out there, and if there is anything you – or anyone else – would like to see explored in more detail, please feel free to ask!

Note: I love getting asks like this! There is such a vast quantity of Realmslore that having some sort of specific focus for my deep-dives is a huge help, and knowing the topic is of interest to others is a huge motivator. I also greatly enjoy getting to put my training as a historian to work, as there is so much to interpret and archive alike.

As ever, these writeups will align with current 5e lore, and draw from 3.5e for additional supporting information. On rarer occasions – and always noted – I will reference 1e and 2e, but with the caveats that there is much more in those editions that is tonally dissonant with the modern conception of the Forgotten Realms, and thus generally less applicable.

We’ll begin with one of the most recent conclusive descriptions of Bane, from the 5e Sword Coast Adventurer’s Guide, an overview of the current world-state of, well, the Sword Coast:

Bane has a simple ethos: the strong have not just the right but the duty to to rule over the weak. A tyrant who is able to seize power must do so, for not only does the tyrant benefit, but so do those under the tyrant’s rule. When a ruler succumbs to decadence, corruption, or decrepitude, a stronger and more suitable ruler will rise. Bane is vilified in many legends. Throughout history, those who favor him have committed dark deeds in his name, but most people don’t worship Bane out of malice. Bane represents ambition and control, and those who have the former but lack the latter pray to him to give them strength. It is said that Bane favors those who exhibit drive and courage, and that he aids those who seek to become conquerors, carving kingdoms from the wilderness, and bringing order to the lawless.¹

This gives us the briefest summation of what draws people to the Cult of Bane: the desire for power and control, often deriving from a sense that they lack exactly those two things. Bane is the quintessential deity of lawful evil, which – if you’ve read any of my previous posts on the sociology of the Nine Hells – bears a striking similarity to Baator itself, the realm of lawful evil, and the place where Enver Gortash spent at least a portion of his formative years.

The majority of the following excerpts derive from 3e, which went into far more detail on the specificities of the Faerûnian gods, including their dogmas, holy days, et cetera. One important point to note, however: any discussions of Bane’s scope of power are no longer accurate, as the time period in reference is about one hundred and twenty years before Baldur’s Gate 3 is set, at a time when Bane had just returned to life – and godhood – as nothing less than a greater god. By comparison, during Baldur’s Gate 3, he is a quasi-deity, having abandoned most of his previous godly power in exchange for the ability to directly meddle with Faerûn – forbidden to the gods by the overgod Ao – and gambling that he would be able to regain his lost power and prestige in so doing.²

The dogma of Bane – that is, the core tenets and philosophies that his followers seek to emulate – is as follows:

Serve no one but Bane. Fear him always and make others fear him even more than you do. The Black Hand always strikes down those that stand against it in the end. Defy Bane and die — or in death find loyalty to him, for he shall compel it. Submit to the word of Bane as uttered by his ranking clergy, since true power can only be gained through service to him. Spread the dark fear of Bane. It is the doom of those who do not follow him to let power slip through their hands. Those who cross the Black Hand meet their dooms earlier and more harshly than those who worship other deities.³

Even were there nothing else to go off of, this would tell us a great deal about the group dynamics of any followers of Bane, whether established church or fragmented cult. Just as in the Hells, hierarchy is everything to proponents of lawful evil. Any cult of Bane would have a strict order to its power structure, and there would be limited – practically nonexistent – tolerance for any questioning or insubordination of that order. To the minds of Banites, such is simply the natural and superior ordering of the world. These interactions are detailed below:

Within the church, the church hierarchy resolves internal disputes through cold and decisive thoughts, not rash and uncontrolled behavior. Bane’s clerics and worshipers try to assume positions of power in every realm so that they can turn the world over to Bane. They work subtly and patiently to divide the forces of their enemies and elevate themselves and the church’s allies over all others, although they do not fear swift and decisive violent action to help achieve their aims.³

The manner of tyranny that Bane holds to is similarly calculated – he is not interested in mere shows of force, but rather in insidious plots that twist and make use of existing rule of law to legitimize tyranny wherever possible. A social tide operated ostensibly within the laws of the land is far more troublesome to fight back against than a simple army.⁴

As far as specific ritual and day-to-day workings of the cult, some can be evidenced here, in broad strokes:

Bane’s clerics pray for spells at midnight. They have no calendar-based holidays, and rituals are held whenever a senior cleric declares it time. Rites of Bane consist of drumming, chanting, doomful singing, and the sacrifice of intelligent beings, who are humiliated, tortured, and made to show fear before their death by flogging, slashing, or crushing.³

In this sense, rituals seem most likely to be used as a display of power and a test of subservience, leaving lower-ranked members of the cult at the whims of their superiors, expected – as noted previously – to attend to their commands with the same alacrity they would use were Bane himself to speak. The rites themselves are designed to reinforce and glorify the primary aspects of their god’s domain: the tyranny of forcing submission and pain from the weak.

Faiths & Pantheons, published a year after the Campaign Setting supplement, provides a similar description of the rituals of the cult of Bane, along with some intriguing and flavorful additions (noted in bold for ease of comparison):

Their religion recognizes no official holidays, though servants give thanks to the Black Hand before and after major battles or before a particularly important act of subterfuge. Senior clerics often declare holy days at a moment's notice, usually claiming to act upon divine inspiration granted to them in dreams. Rites include drumming, chanting, and the sacrifice of intelligent beings, usually upon an altar of black basalt or obsidian.”⁴

As, in the “present day” of Baldur’s Gate 3, Bane has lost much of his foothold on power and his Faith’s old domains, the specifics of architecture of Banite keeps are no longer quite so relevant. However, in times past, when his Faith worked far more openly and held much greater power, the philosophy of Bane was expressed through the architecture of his churches and strongholds:

Tall, sharp-cornered stone structures featuring towers adorned with large spikes and thin windows, most Banite churches suggest the architecture of fortified keeps or small castles. Thin interior passageways lead from an austere foyer to barrackslike common chambers for the lay clergy, each sparsely decorated with tapestries depicting the symbols of Bane or inscribed with embroidered passages from important religious texts.⁴

The social capital of a Faith – a broad term used to encapsulate all followers of a single deity – is often heavily intertwined with the power of its god, a mutualistic relationship that runs in both directions. More social weight behind the Faith means its god’s name and will is conveyed to more people, some or many of whom might apportion some worship or act in alignment with that god and empower them by so doing. More power for the god means more divine actions that can bolster their own image and the reach of their clergy. At its height in the late 1300s, the Faith of Bane was one of the most prominent and powerful, with comparable might to that of a small kingdom.⁵

Something that is important to bear in mind in a setting such as the Forgotten Realms, not only polytheistic, but an environment where the gods being worshiped are demonstrably existent, is that the followers of evil gods are not likely to be obtrusive with the less savory aspects of their dogma. Not only would that, in the majority of cases, do more harm than good to their deity’s long term goals, in the words of Elminster:

A dead foe is just that: dead, and soon to be replaced by another. An influenced foe, on the other hand, is well on the way to becoming an ally, increasing the sway of the deity.⁶

All of this aligns with what we see of the Cult of Bane and its operation in Baldur’s Gate 3. While it does not have the same sway and might behind it as it did a hundred years before, through manipulation of law and carefully applied pressure – of whatever form most likely to yield the desired results, be it threats, bribery, blackmail, or use of hostages – Gortash has enacted a steel web of delicate, ensnaring tyranny across the entire city.

We can even find present-day expressions of the interactions of the cult members, and find that they hold true to what their forebears experienced, further proof of the consistency of lawful evil. A personal note found on the body of a dead Banite guard at the Steel Watch Foundry calls the Black Gauntlet in charge of the Foundry Lab, Hahns Rives, a “disgrace to the Tyrant Lord”, and notes the writer’s intent to “compile a list of Rives’ shortcomings for the Overseers.”⁷ These shortcomings include:

1. Rives failed to reprimand Polandulus for making jokes about Lord Gortash! 2. Rives missed the morning mass to Bane - twice! 3. Rives didn't punish Gondian Ofran when she missed her gyronetics quota merely because she'd lost a finger that day in the punch press.⁷

We can see evidenced here the constant scheming for position and recognition consistent with this manner of lawful evil hierarchy. Both devils and Banites orient their day-to-day lives around how to prove themselves to their superiors, while also undercutting them at any chance they have to prove their own superiority, with hopes of being raised above them.

This is only reinforced further by another text found within the Steel Watch Foundry, Bane’s Book of Admonitions. Its text is not written out for us, but described as such:

A book of adages and precepts for Banites, providing the basic tenets of worship of the Lord of Tyranny, with suggested prayers for common situations. The heart of the book is Bane's Twelve Admonitions, a dozen rules for proper Banite conduct, with punishments specified for failure to comply. The book opens easily to a page with two of Bane's most popular admonitions, number six, the Reprimand for Leniency, and number seven, the Rebuke for False Compassion.⁸

The most likely scenario is that this book was used by the “Overseers” referenced by the anonymous Banite writing of Rives above. The exact position of the Overseers is not made clear, but from context and knowledge of Banite hierarchy, we can infer that they inhabit a place in the hierarchy above both the guard and Rives himself, and that their role is to ensure all those below them uphold the tenets of Bane at all times, never losing sight of his will.

In that context, it makes sense that they would both have a book of specific punishments for specific infractions – rule of law, after all – and that, given the attempted report on Rives, punishments (“admonitions”) for the crimes of leniency and false compassion – and all compassion is false when your conception of the world does not allow for its existence – would be those most referenced. It would be incredibly important to the unity of the cult, as well as to Gortash’s plans, to harshly punish any observed leniency or break from Bane’s law among members of the cult.

Not only would failure to control the situation at the Foundry potentially spell failure for the schemes of Bane’s Chosen, any unpunished step out of line by members of the cult would be seen as tempting others to do the same, a trickle of dissent quickly becoming a flood. Better to ensure that all adherents live in merited fear of the consequence of failure.

After all, it is said of Bane himself: “He has no tolerance of failure and seldom thinks twice about submitting even a loyal servant to rigorous tortures to ensure complete obedience to his demanding, regimented doctrine.”⁴

And, in an appropriately lawful hierarchy, the same rule must apply from the bottom, to the top.

¹ Sword Coast Adventurer’s Guide. 2014. p. 26.

² Descent into Avernus. 2019. p. 231

³ Forgotten Realms Campaign Setting 3E. 2001. pp. 237-8

⁴ Faiths & Pantheons. 2002. pp. 15-16.

⁵ Forgotten Realms Campaign Setting 3E. 2001. p. 93

⁶ Ed Greenwood Presents: Elminster’s Guide to the Forgotten Realms. 2012. pp. 135-6.

⁷ Rives’ Failures as a Banite. Baldur’s Gate 3. In-Game Text.

⁸ Bane’s Book of Admonitions. Baldur’s Gate 3. In-Game Text.

#voidling speaks #asked and answered #realmslore #meta #my meta #bg3 meta #bg3 #bg3 gortash #bg3 bane #enver gortash #bane #baldur's gate 3 #forgotten realms #cult of bane #d&d 5e #d&d 3.5

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winkliee · 11 months

Note

Hello I'm back! How are you? I really loved your first Hantengu's clones fic ! Your writing is really amazing !

Could I request some Yandere Hantengu's clones when they first find out about their s/o ? How would they become obsessed with them ? It can be either separate or together !

If you're too uncomfortable with this request, could you maybe write the same but without yandere please ?

The reader can be either gn or fem, it doesn't matter to me !

Thank you again and have a good day/night ! 🫶

i am so happy you liked it! ty for your request!! hope you are having a good day!

yandere hantengu clones finding out about their s/o!!

warnings: yandere theme, blood/gore, slightly suggestive, mentions of stalking, smut in karaku's part, y/n is seen in different professions and perspectives

sekido!!

he found you out after following some slayers for a surprise attack. you were a nurse at the infirmary, and once he laid his eyes on you, he was in awe. you had a charm, and it worked like magic on him, not only him, but also the others. he didn't complete his mission then, if that leads to you and the others relocating to a safer place? every night he would sneak back to a safe hiding spot, and watch you through your window. by now, he knew your exact routine, since you were so punctual. he would stay all the time you were sleeping, once even burning himself in the sun as he was late to move out. he burns in unimaginable rage when he sees you tending to other slayers, while he cannot receive the same treatment. his jealousy was fueled even more when he saw you concerned over the plight of a missing slayer, someone he had butchered to death just that day, the stench of blood on his hands stronger than ever.

"i will definitely have you only for mine one day," he promises to himself.

karaku!!

karaku must be grateful to daki and gyutaro for guiding his trip in the red light district. how else would he have met you? you were cute, an oiran, and utterly beautiful. he wanted to know her even more, also going to the extent of teasing daki that you were more beautiful than her, when he got to know that you and daki weren't on good terms, he was underwhelmed, since he wanted to get introduced to you. soon enough, he understood he was falling for you, whenever he would get jealous hearing your moans from other men pleasuring you, while he stood outside your window, his hands palming his erection. there was some sort of excitement in this which he felt, which even dragged on to the moment he killed the men who came out from your bedroom, as he would not keep any man who came out from your bedroom alive. he hopes one day he can lay his hands on you, as your customer, and make you his forever.

aizetsu!!

[can't imagine aizetsu as yandere but here we are]

he knew he was doomed from the moment he laid his eyes on you. you almost killed him, and he-he likes you now? he was embarrassed and ashamed with himself as he blushed to the scars you gave him, deliberately not healing them. he started lurking around close to the corps location, checking on your whereabouts, when he was heartbroken to see you already having a lover. he tried to console himself but he couldn't, only watching both of you share kisses and hugs in the vicinity of your bedroom, while his heart burns with jealousy. he wants you to be happy, even though he often finds himself crying on lonely nights, being sure that muzan kibutsuji would kill him if he came to know of his "love story". but all hell broke loose when he saw you two having a quarrel, and he was shouting at you, while you cried. aizetsu was filled with so much rage, he would not let anyone hurt what is his, let alone her lover. as he came out of their house, aizetsu came out of nowhere, punching him, strangling him and almost leaving him half dead when he realized what he had done. he fled, but somehow the stench and sight of blood in his hands made him happy, until he saw you crying for him, and not for aizetsu, when his heart was broken again.

"someday would surely come when you will cry for me, and that day i am even ready to accept death."

urogi!!

his emotion of joy changes to sadistic pleasure as you scream into his ears and scratch him, telling him to release you. but he won't. after all he has won you. why did he take all the trouble, from following you helping your family bring logs from the forest to seeing your stomach rise softly as you breathe, of course all of this is to win you. although he does regret not getting to consume your now dead family, it would have been such a meal for him. but now he is satisfied with you, as he laughs as you helplessly cling onto him, while he flies high in the sky, taking you to somewhere only he knows.

"you are mine now princess," he says lovingly with a smile on his face, "although i might break a bone or two if you try to escape."

thank you for reading. likes and reblogs are appreciated.

#demon slayer #kimetsu no yaiba #kny #kny smut #hantengu #hantengu clones x reader #karaku smut #aizetsu #yandere sekido #sekido #yandere karaku #yandere urogi #urogi #karaku #yandere aizetsu #yandere #yandere kny #yandere hantengu

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lostinforestbound · 2 months

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It's finally here! I'm sorry it took me so long, with work and art projects I got completely swamped. But now it's here! I'm aware I'm posting this incredibly late so no one will see this until morning probably hahaha! Requested tag: @snoozeeebee

Rolan/M!Tiefling Tav

Third Time's the Charm - Ch.1

Rolan intends on doing great things when he finally gets to Baldur's Gate, but an utter idiot named Tav is distracting him. Unfortunately, against his better judgement, he's starting to fall for him.

Word Count: 5.9k (AO3)

Relevant Tags: Graphic Depictions of Violence, Rolan's POV, Makeout, No smut (yet) but it gets frisky, Slowburn

(If there's any tags I missed, please let me know!) NSFW, MDNI

They've been at this grove, stewing and waiting for too long. That Archdruid (Halsin was his name, he believes) might have been welcoming, but the other druids have not. Now he up and disappeared after he decided to follow a group of weak, loud, wannabe adventurers who were only out for themselves. When they cowered back inside the grove with less than half their group, he knew that this place was doomed. What's worse than all of that mess is that Lia is stubborn about leaving, and now they're in an argument again. They've been having them a lot in recent months, ever since the fall and rise of Elturel.

"-and all you care about is your stupid apprenticeship!" Lia shouts at him, his mind finally tuning back into the conversation- no, not a conversation, a damn shouting match.

Her words make him bristle and grind his teeth. How dare she? How dare she ever think this was all only for the apprenticeship? It's an insult to injury, knowing no matter what he does, trying to take care of them results in him being called selfish. What is selfish about wanting a better life for the three of them? They only have each other, their mother long gone. She's gone, and now he carries the sole responsibility of taking care of them.

She's gone.

"Take that back. Right now." He hisses, getting in her face as they glare each other down.

Cal immediately inserts himself in between the two of them, palms out in front of them both. "Can we all just take a moment? Please?"

Rolan idly notices the sweat gathering on Cal's temple as he pushes Lia back slightly by her shoulder, creating more space between all of them. He does the same to Rolan, but stays put in the middle to form a weak barrier- wait, who is that tiefling that approached? No, it doesn't matter.

"Hells, we can't just leave. They're kin!" Lia begs, almost pleading with him.

"I will not gamble our lives- our futures, on people who are as good as dead," He says somewhat calmly, though his tail still flicks behind him in irritation. "We must leave for Baldur's Gate at once."

Lia looks ready to bare her teeth at him, angry with him. She's always angry with him. "What's the point of blades and spells if we don't bloody use them?! We should stay! These people aren't fighters, we can help!"

"Or yell louder, that's fine too," Cal says with a familiar bitterness in his tone; gods, he hates that tone on Cal. He's been hearing it more often, these days.

"Have you forgotten Elturel?" A voice breaks through, and he finally acknowledges the presence beside them.

It's another tiefling, a much larger one at that. He's not part of the refugees, as he hasn't even seen him around until now. Did he just arrive here?

This one isn't that much taller than he is, only by a few inches; but hells, his mass absolutely dwarfs his own. A fighter most likely, or even worse, a barbarian. It doesn't matter which one he may be, he looks like an idiot that isn't worth his precious time.

"We should stand by our people. You know no one else will." He says lowly, giving a knowing look of both annoyance and sadness.

He loathes that look. He’s never wanted to blast someone more than in this moment. How dare he look at him as if he was some child throwing a tantrum?

"This isn't Elturel, and I'm not responsible for every damn tiefling in the world!" He exclaims, almost furious.

Lia pokes him harshly in the chest with her pointer finger, and he has to suppress a wince. "Just be responsible for yourself, then! We have to stay; it's the right thing to do."

He hates that fucking tiefling even more now. Not only has he butted into his family affairs, but now he turned his sister- Lia, even more against him. For once, why can't things go his way? Why do they not listen to him?

When did they stop listening to him?

"Zurgan. Fine! We'll stay. If we survive, it'll make for a good story, I suppose." He airs, rubbing a finger to his temple as he feels a headache form there.

For the first time in a long time, Lia gives him a genuine smile, putting a hand on his arm and squeezing. "Thank you, Rolan.” She says sincerely.

Cal now takes the calm moment to usher the two further into the grove, seeming to want to get away from the entranceway as soon as possible; for once, Rolan lets him. He doesn't pay any mind to the strange looks they get by going further into the grove with the other refugees, and he certainly doesn't pay any mind to the oaf of a tiefling that they left standing there by himself.

He decides he hates that man, and he pisses him off to no end.

"How long until Rolan shows off his Thunderwave?" Cal asks as they settle down near an old human woman's tent, who seems to be organizing some herbs in her storage crate. Something is off about her, but Rolan can’t put his finger on it. Either way, it doesn’t matter.

Lia snickers at that moment, crossing her arms over her chest. "Depends, how many people are dumb enough to ask?"

"Hah! True."

Rolan rolls his eyes, trying to dust off the dirt on his robes. He hates the smell of this damned grove, it stinks. Is he truly supposed to arrive to Lorroakan with his clothes smelling like this? He'll have to burn them, no question.

"Don't be grumpy, Rolan. We'll get to the city soon." Cal chirps, bumping his shoulder with his own.

"I am not grumpy."

"The scowl on your face would frighten a troll."

Despite the foul move he's in, he smiles at his little brother. "Heh. You're an idiot."

-----

It's been days, and that tiefling is still here.

He's heard about his many exploits; saving one of the children the druids held hostage, saving another orphan child from a group of relentless harpies, getting their money back from that tiefling brat with the eyepatch, and slaughtering Kagha. Emphasis on slaughtering.

When he came out of that grove where the ritual had stopped, he saw the amount of blood that was covering the large man. None of it was his own, he realized. The man barely had a scratch on him and seemed proud when exiting.

He caught himself staring at him many times, watching how the muscles stretched across his skin, seeing all the little imperfections. Scars, beauty spots, all the like. He internally curses himself and looks away when he feels his face growing hot.

Paying back attention to his siblings, he notices how Cal stares at the blacksmith across the way, rubbing his hands absentmindedly as he thinks of something.

"You shouldn't waste precious time on distractions. We need to head to Baldur's gate after this goblin fiasco is over." He remarks, getting up and brushing off dirt.

"Rolan." Lia warns, but he ignores her and walks away with a roll of his eyes. They need supplies, so he will go get them if they are too lazy to do so.

And, of course, the oaf is already buying them off of one of the druids. Damn it all!

"Need something?" He asks, inspecting him as if Rolan was much shorter than him.

He scoffs, even more irritated than he was originally, "I was in need of potions, but it seems you got them all already."

"What did you need?"

"It doesn't matter, you beat me to it!” He instinctively snaps, briefly pinching the bridge of his nose between his index finger and thumb. “Bloody health potions are so short of stock these days-"

Wordlessly, the man puts three large health potions into his arms, which, for once, renders Rolan speechless. He doesn’t even remember the original tangent he was about to go one. Something about price inflation, probably.

Staring down at the red potions in his arms, he snaps back into reality when he speaks again. "You three need it more than I do. I, at least, have a healer."

He sneers at him, gripping the potions tight. "So what, you look down on us?”

"Not at all."

"We are not charity cases,”He almost growls, baring his teeth. “What is your game here?"

"…Can I tell you a secret?"

Why is this his life? How did everything turn out this way? Why is he even entertaining this fool??

After a bit of contemplating his life choices, he finally responds. "What?"

The tiefling suddenly leans in to put his mouth near his ear, and gods he's so close. Tav was his name, wasn't it? He heard it in passing by one of his group mates. Balsam, rogue's morsel, and acorn truffle are what he smells on him, a strong scent that is surprisingly pleasant- gods, what is he thinking?! Feeling his face starting to heat up, he tries to take a step back, but Tav stills him with a hand on the back of his neck. It makes his breath catch in his throat.

Finally, Tav whispers to him, "I'm just being nice."

Tav pulls away, leaving Rolan completely dumbfounded as he continues. "I'm not trying to look down on you or be a pest, I just think you need the potions more than I do. Cause gods forbid these fucking druids try and help out people who need it." He spits with a roll of his eyes, staring directly at the Druid that was still besides them through this entire ordeal. He looks uncomfortable.

"Well, that is shockingly intelligent of you." He huffs, hoping the jab aggravated him. "Although, aren't you fighting a swarm of Goblins out there?"

"I am, but bold of you to assume they hit hard enough to hurt me." Before he could come up with another insult for his remark, Tav interjected. "Anyways, I have to return to my camp as it is getting late. Good luck to you and your siblings. Cal and Lia, right?"

He didn't have the chance to respond before the idiot sauntered off, back outside the grove. Great, now he's indebted to the bastard. Slowly, he stalks back into the grove, tying the potions to his belt as he does so.

-----

Some panic swept across the grove when people realized the goblin army planned to raid it for all it was worth. He's heard so many horror stories of slaughtered tieflings, their enemies sawing off their horns to keep as trophies or as foghorns.

If they think they could do the same to his family, they are sorely mistaken.

As others run and hide in Zevlor's war room, others stay to help fight, including himself. But, once again, the three of them can't stop arguing about their positions; he can tell Cal is getting pissed off, but so is he.

"I'm telling you to stay back. My Thunderwave will make short of any goblin that dares to come close. If you two are in the way, I'll knock you both over!"

"And I'm telling you to just get behind us! Spellcasters can't take a punch or a blade!" Lia shouts.

"Can we not argue over this? Please? How about we all line up together?"

"No." They both state and Cal immediately shuts up.

"Wow, you three must love each other very much." A familiar voice says sarcastically.

He grits his teeth and turns towards Tav. "Oh, piss off you oafish-"

"Wait! Wait, maybe Tav can help us out. Figure out positioning and whatnot?" Cal suggests quickly.

"Great idea Cal! Let's ask the professional harpy slayer."

Tav looks at them all, seeming to take in the equipment and weapons that they have on hand. In all honesty, Rolan didn't even think Tav could think.

Suddenly, Tav grabs Cal and moves him to the front, and in the next moment, he gently moves Lia to the back, leaving Rolan in the middle. "There. That's a good positioning."

"See? Easy!" Cal says cheerfully. "Now can we just-"

"Why can’t I be in the front with Cal?”

“Lia come on-“

“I want to be able to help out!”

Tav yawns briefly before explaining, "You will be helping, a lot. Both of you and Rolan are range users. You will hit goblins better by staying in the back where you'll be more effective. Cal here is in melee, with both a pike and a shield. He can protect you both and be your frontliner, while at the same time, you two cover his blind spot. Although, alternatively, you two could be next to each other, but stay behind him."

Rolan blinks slowly, processing the logic behind it. Damn it all, it's incredibly smart. Maybe Tav isn’t an idiot.

"There, good enough explanation?" He asks.

"It's great! Thank you, sincerely." Lia says, patting Tav's shoulder.

"…You're welcome." He pauses before putting a hand into his bag. "We'll kill those bastards out there, no doubt. But I would feel better if you all have this just in case."

Taking out a bright scroll, he holds it out to the three of them to take. Rolan instantly recognized it, especially with the unique binding on it.

A Resurrection Scroll.

Lia is the first to react and take it. "We won't need this, but thank you! Doesn't hurt to have a backup plan if things go wrong."

"I'll make sure it goes smoothly." He reassures, cracking his knuckles.

"What do you have planned, anyway?" Cal wonders aloud.

"I stole a bunch of smoke powder barrels in their camp and set them up along the perimeter. Anyways, they could be here any moment. Stay vigilant. If all goes super well, you won't even have to fight."

-----

They feel the explosions before they hear it. A deep rumbling in the ground that shakes them, awake and alert. There are so many of them that go off after the first one, like a domino effect. How many barrels could Tav have possibly gotten his hands on??

Unfortunately, those explosions didn’t stop a giant spider and some goblins from coming in.

Goblins were easy. He made quick work of them with his thunderwave, blasting them back into the stone wall. Though with his distraction of mentally stroking his own ego, he didn’t see the giant spider coming up until Cal quickly got to his side, blocking its oncoming fangs with his shield, the force of the bite splintering the wood.

His eyes widen, and he blasts a magic missile at the spider right as Lia shoots an arrow into one of its eyes. It screeches in pain, but it’s stubborn in its conviction. It lunges, and Cal cries out when it tears into his arm, trying to rip off his flesh.

Rolan shoots off another thunderwave in his anger and panic, killing the spider in an instant. He watches some of the legs get cut clean off, the body flying and crashing into some crates, destroying them, and its sickly green innards spilling onto the dirt floor. A disgusting sight, indeed.

“Cal!” Lia yells quickly, snapping Rolan back into reality and he quickly rushes over.

Cal is teary-eyed but tries to wave it off, even as Lia tries to get a better look. “I-I’m fine, I’m fine.”

“No, you’re not. Come here.” Rolan says maybe a little too harshly, making his brother sit down on a wayward crate and grabbing his elbow to hold it still.

“Rolan please-“

“You look close to crying! Just-“ He stops himself and takes a deep breath, eyes meeting his. “Let me help. Please.”

Cal sighs shakily but nods, letting his arm be lifted for him and Lia to see.

It’s a deep injury, but nothing deathly serious. It looks painful. The spider managed to inject some kind of poison, but Cal resisted whatever effect it could have taken.

Rolan takes out one of the health potions he’s received from Tav and carefully pours it over the injury, and it slowly seals the wound. No scar is left behind, surprisingly enough.

“Does it hurt?” Lia gently presses.

“Not anymore. Thanks, Rolan.”

He wants to yell at him so badly, the argument already bubbling up his throat. Why wasn’t he more careful? Why did he jump towards his side so quickly? He had it handled! He’s supposed to protect him, not the other way around.

Instead, he settles on, “You’re welcome.”

Knowing it’s safer, Cal leans against him quietly, and Rolan carefully holds him with Lia. It wasn’t even a close call, but it’s clear Cal needed some comfort.

No more enemies come through. There were no casualties, either.

Zevlor ends up making a speech at the gate when they check out the damage, and he’s sure others are inspired, but he’s barely paying attention to it. He doesn’t care, in all honestly. He wants to leave this fucking grove and never look back; it is by far the worst place they’ve ever stayed in, second to Avernus. Though, he might be being dramatic.

He found himself looking around for Tav, but he didn’t see him anywhere. Why was he looking for him, anyway?

When he finally spots him, he shouldn’t be shocked by the amount of gore he’s covered in, but he is. He’s completely drenched in blood, whether from the goblins or the Drow leading them. Some of it was his own since he spots injuries littering his frame.

He shakes his head and straightens up, shifting his attention to his siblings and ignoring the warmth growing in his cheeks. “Now that this fiasco is over, we will head to Baldur’s Gate.”

“Are you serious Rolan?! Come on, there’s going to be a party!” Lia complains, bumping her hip with his. “We have to go.”

“We don’t have time for parties! Lorroakan is waiting for me, I cannot be late.”

“What’s one party, Rolan? It’s just for a night. We need to rest anyways.” Cal says, looking around the other excited tieflings. When was the last time they saw a crowd of them so happy? He certainly doesn't remember, and it makes his original conviction crack a little.

“I will not-“

Cal takes hold of one of his arms, tugging him. “Please, Rolan? Just for tonight.”

“There’ll be free wine, provided by the heroes.” Lia sing-songs, leaning against him and almost making him stumble.

“…Free wine?” He questions, genuinely thinking about it.

“And free food,” Cal confirms.

Gods, he hates the pathetic puppy-dog eyes that they use. He can’t stand to look at their faces, and he hates it even more that he's falling for it, just as he always has.

He sighs heavily in defeat, head hanging a little low. “Fine.”

“Yes!” Cal cheers, giving him a tight hug.

To his surprise, Lia joins in, the both of them crushing him. “Thank you, Rolan!”

He rolls his eyes but lets a smile break through, even when he can hardly breathe. “All this over a party?”

“It’ll be fun! You’ll see!”

He smirks knowingly, finally separating from the two. “All right all right, I trust that this will be an exceptional occasion. I look forward to seeing you say you love me while drunk, Lia.”

"As if, brother."

It doesn’t take long for Tav to offer up his area with his party members, so they gather with the Tieflings and head to the camp. It doesn’t look like much, but it’s secluded at least.

That bard, Alfira, starts decorating the place in an instant; lantern lights go up, colorful ribbons decorate the trees, and boxes get moved to the side. Others help out, including Lia, but Rolan and Cal sit back and relax for the time being.

When the party finally starts, they pass wine between the three of them.

“Can you give us a magic show, Master Rolan?” She teases.

Rolan rolls his eyes playfully. “Already?”

“Oh! Can you make an owl bear?? Or a dragon!” Cal suggests, scooting forward more on the log.

He stretches out his arms in front of him, cracking his knuckles while doing so. "Patience! Have you no respect for showmanship?"

"Having performance issues Rolan?" Cal whisper-shouts playfully, and Rolan idly notices Tav approaching.

He turns his nose up high momentarily before holding his hands out. "Hush, you. And behold!"

It's a brief performance, but amazing nonetheless if he says so himself. He makes it look like stars that spark, fly, and explode into various lights. He has always been irritated he could never make it last long, but that is what his training will be for.

He looks over at Tav as soon as he claps, seeing the way his eyes glide over the lights. His face doesn’t change in the slightest, so he can’t tell if his clapping is meant to be some sort of taunt or if he’s genuine.

Either way, he does a dramatic bow. "Adoring applause? You're too kind."

"Remember when he couldn't cast that?" Lia teases.

"They grow up so fast," Cal states.

"Never have I met such troglodytes. Now, pass the wine." Rolan demands, but a content smile is plastered on his face.

It seems Lia was about to offer Tav some of it, but when she and Rolan turn towards him, he’s already gone.

“Looks like he already got bored of you.” Lia sings to him.

“Oh hush up.” He huffs, snatching the wine bottle and taking a long drink.

He will never admit how much that comment stung. He doesn’t know why he was so bothered by it in the first place. There are many possibilities he goes over as he feels the alcohol give him a pleasant buzz; was it her wording, or was it the fact that Tav disappeared without a word? Did he get bored?

Whatever, it doesn’t matter. He doesn’t care what that man thinks of him. He swears he doesn’t.

Later in the night, he drank- no, chugged wine while Cal and Lia chatted with the other tieflings partying. As much as he loved to perform for them both, even someone as great as he gets tired after using a bunch of magic in rapid succession.

The wine wasn’t good; nothing compares to Arabellan Dry, but what else was there to drink? He refuses to partake in ale or beer, he never found the appeal of it. Honestly, it’s disgusting, and he doesn’t understand why Lia likes it so much. Cal seems to be looking for someone in particular but isn't finding them. He looks disappointed.

As he wonders about Cal and debates checking in on him, he doesn’t notice the brute approaching him until his giant form sits next to him with his own alcohol, the bark of the fallen tree groaning from the extra weight. He covers up how it startled him quickly, tilting his head up towards the brute with a bored expression.

“What do you want?”

“Nothing. I’m here to drink.” He says nonchalantly, sipping on the wine bottle. “Impressive display of magic earlier.”

His nose scrunches up, yellow eyes settling on his flaming ones with a glare. “Was that sarcasm?”

“No. Are you self-taught?”

Of all the things he expected tonight, it wasn’t this. Tav, a person who hits things and asks questions later, is curious about him? He wonders if he has an ulterior motive.

He pushes the thought to the back burner of his brain for now but approaches the conversation cautiously. “I am! And a man with many talents, may I add. I’m going straight to Baldur’s Gate to learn from the best: The Great Lorroakan.”

He sees the imposing Tiefling roll his eyes, putting his bottle down to stare out at the water surrounding the camp. Tav looks a little different, in the moonlight. Seeing him up close is a different experience entirely, and now he can see every little detail about him, including how he was shirtless-

Wait, did he just roll his eyes?

“What?” He demands, posture straightening as he grows defensive.

“Nothing. Just heard he’s a cad is all.” He mutters, deciding to pick the bottle back up and taking a long swig.

“Common gossip and rumors! He’s the greatest wizard in all of Baldur’s Gate. I’ve never imagined he would answer my letters.” He states with a happy sigh, idly swirling the liquid in his bottle. “I will become his apprentice as soon as I arrive. I cannot be late, yet Cal and Lia insist that this party is a wonderful idea. An adoring crowd, fine wine - I daresay this place is almost civilized.”

“Do you regret staying?”

“Of course I do. But Cal and Lia…” He trails off for only a moment but snaps back to it. “They deserve to have some fun for a little while. We’ll leave at dawn, either way.”

The Tiefling stares at him for a moment, seeming to be searching his face. For what, Rolan had no idea. Some kind of lie, perhaps?

“All right then. Good luck to you.” Tav eventually settles on.

“…That’s it??” He exasperates.

“If you’re looking for someone to argue with, find someone else.”

“You-“

“You talk too much.”

He settles a death glare on Tav's form. “Prick.”

Tav slowly looks at him with his own glare, determined to play his game. “Entitled fuck.”

“Dumb oaf.”

“Prickly bastard.”

They both stare each other down, faces too close but neither of them breaks their stare. He feels Tav's hot breath ghosting over his lips, and the tension could be cut with a knife.

“You’re insufferable.” Tav huffs, suddenly gripping Rolan’s jaw and kissing him firmly.

He moans in surprise at the force but isn’t against it. In fact, his face gets incredibly red before he remembers he can kiss back.

It’s not like this is his first kiss. He’s given and received kisses before, he’s not some kind of reserved prude. But this is the first one that’s so heavy. Hot. He’s completely out of practice and can do nothing but grip Tav's thicker forearm.

Something about being desirable to Tav makes him throb in his pants, though it also may be the way Tav's tongue is tracing his bottom lip, seeking entry.

Tav's free hand trails to his rear and squeezes, making him inhale sharply; a perfect opportunity for Tav to slide his tongue in to taste him. He knows he's losing his composure and by extension, himself, but what's the harm in indulging in this? It's pathetic, but he's never felt so desired up until this moment, even if this ends up being a fling.

Why did the thought of this being a fling make him feel hollow?

He pulls away to give himself space and to breathe, but Tav doesn't pause, kissing along his jaw and ear. "My tent is west of here if you're interested. No one will hear us."

He shudders at the feeling of sharp teeth grazing the edge of his ear, teasing and provoking. Swallowing, he nods, and Tav pulls him away from the party towards a more secluded part of the area. He hopes that Lia and Cal didn't see him, but they most likely did. He’ll never hear the end of it when he returns.

Almost clumsily, Rolan finds himself in Tav’s tent quickly after, their kissing getting more heated between them. It was a strange feeling, exchanging breaths with someone else, but it felt good. Better than he thought.

They settle down on the floor of the tent, him sitting in Tav’s lap as they continue their make-out. Their tongues dance almost…lovingly. No, he can’t be reading into it right. They barely know each other; he's overthinking again.

He feels his large hands attempting to find the hem of his robes, and he seems to find it quickly as if from experience. Fingers start to dance across the bare skin of his back, running up the ridges of his spine. He sighs out shakily, goosebumps prickling out as his tail anxiously flicks about. Nerves hit him like a loose carriage, fast and suddenly, settling into the pit of his stomach. He felt cold, heart racing a mile a minute.

Why? This was good. Everything was good. This was supposed to feel good.

Why isn’t it?

He’ll give it time. It’s normal to be nervous about this kind of thing, right? Most definitely his lack of experience is a contributor, and doesn’t he deserve this after all his hardship? What’s the harm in pleasure for at least a night.

He feels his back hit the bedroll, warm calloused hands trailing over to the front of his body instead. Their kisses were feverish, desperate, and pent-up. All Rolan could do was grip the bedding below him as nails teased the textured skin of his sternum, a hand rolling a nipple between two fingers.

Tav’s lips go to his neck, finger tips trailing teasingly down his stomach before he begins to palm at his crotch through his smalls-

He can’t do it.

A cold sweat beads on the back of Rolan’s neck, panic and bile rising in his throat as it closes. He can’t do it, and he quickly grabs Tav’s arm with a death grip with wide eyes. “W-Wait, stop!”

Tav immediately gets his hands off of him, giving him space to move. His head reels from the sudden adrenaline, but also because Tav’s stoic demeanor is no longer present, and the man genuinely looks concerned. Fearful, even. “Did I hurt you?”

“No! No.” He reassures quickly, but his vulnerable mind is scattered and unfocused as he sits up.

There’s so many reasons why he couldn’t do this, but he can’t pin one down. Surely, Tav deserves an explanation, so he rushes to think of one.

It’s too soon, he hasn’t done this before, and this isn’t the place for it, he’s not a degenerate, his siblings are nearby, Tav is too imposing, it might hurt, it’s too vulnerable, he’s never been with a man, he’s never been with anyone, this is the wrong place to do it, he’s a coward, he’s scared-

“I can’t.” He grimaces, with no actual reason good enough to say out loud. Part of him is worried about what Tav would say; would he be upset with him? On one hand, if he does, Rolan knows that Tav was never worth his time. But on the other, he found Tav not as insufferable as he thought, and he may have just ruined the strange bond they made by stopping everything. Gods, he is pathetic, isn’t he?

Tav sighs slowly in relief, sitting back. “That’s okay.”

It’s not good enough, not for Rolan. As a wizard, he demands answers for a multitude of reasons when things happen. It’s only fair that he gives an explanation, is it not? Finally, he pins down a reason he could give: he doesn’t want to do it after having so much wine. There, that should do it.

Before he could start his tangent, he felt a hand cover his mouth.

“I don’t need a reason. It’s okay.”

He’s about to argue, completely insulted, but it gets muffled by the hand on his mouth.

“You don’t ever have to explain to me why you want to stop.” He says, finally moving his hand away. “I’m sorry if you felt like you couldn’t say no to me earlier.”

“I did want it.” He assured quickly, because he did. He truly did. Why did he panic?

“But you changed your mind.” He began, not unkindly.

“I did.”

“That’s fine.” He says with a small shrug. “If you want, we can keep kissing. Nothing further than that.”

He laughs in disbelief, running a hand down his sweaty face. “And why would we do that?”

“Doesn’t hurt to have company for a night. Besides-“ He gently takes hold of his chin, tilting his face up. “You seemed to enjoy what we were doing. Why not indulge? Just for one night.”

He smirks up at him, leaning forward with false confidence. “Am I that irresistible?”

“You have a pretty face.” He noted, swiping his thumb across his kiss-bruised lip before kissing him again.

The kiss is lazy and less heated, but it makes his heart pound all the same. Being held so tenderly is new, and he’s growing attached.

He cannot have attachments. What is he thinking?

After kissing for a little longer, he lets himself be held in the bedroll as they lay down, indulging in the quiet night with Tav. They didn’t need to discuss what happened or question it. It’s exchanging favors. For Rolan, it’s just wanting the comfort of another body near him, letting him pretend that he’ll have something like this in the future. One day, he’ll be good enough for someone. He’s not sure what this does for Tav exactly, but he seems content to hold him.

“You can ask for more if you’d like.”

“I’d rather not embarrass myself more than I already have.” He barks before glancing at him in apology, eyes softer.

“Would it help if I said I will keep my mouth shut about this?” Tav suggested, pushing some hair away from his face.

He shifts to glance at his face, seeing if he is genuine. He can never read his face that well, but when he makes his judgment, he sighs and takes one of Tav’s hands, lacing his fingers through his.

“This is pathetic, I know.”

“I don’t think it’s pathetic.” He mumbles, squeezing his hand. “This is nice for me, too.”

Rolan feels himself relax more, body almost relieved that this hasn’t been rejected.

“What will you do, when you finally get your apprenticeship figured out?” Tav asks in the quiet.

“I’ll learn everything I can about all schools of magic. Then I can put on a real show for Cal and Lia.”

“They seem to love your shows already, why change them?”

“It’ll be different.” He pledged, “Bigger, better, and more sustainable. I’ll make them last so much longer, I’ll bring it more colors, and the illusion will look realistic. You will see.”

“I’m sure they’ll be great.” He yawns, nuzzling into the back of his neck.

“I will show you when you reach to Baldur’s Gate, my friend.”

There’s no response, only a quiet snore greets him. At first, he’s annoyed, but it’s hard to be angry when he is just as exhausted from today. For now, he falls asleep in his arms, hoping that for once no nightmares haunt him.

The Tiefling beside him is still fast asleep when he wakes at dawn, though he’s impressed by how the man can sleep through the screeching birds outside.

Quickly, he fixes his robes and hair, trying to not look like a mess. Cal and Lia are surely going to tease him, knowing he never returned to their tent. He debates on whether to wake the idiot up to say goodbye, but that seems foolish. He needs to sleep, and they need to head to Baldur’s gate immediately.

So he opens the tent, sparing one more look back before leaving.

He cannot create attachments. Not now, not ever. Not until he’s done with his apprenticeship.

#forest-writes #holy rolan empire #rolan #bg3 rolan #rolan bg3 #bg3 #rolan x tav #cal #lia #rolan fanfic #rolan brainrot

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gelatinouscubed · 6 months

Text

Overkill

I'm a long time lurker, first time (snz) writer. I wanted to try my hand at writing something like this, and decided to pull out a couple ocs I've had for a bit. Kinda experimental, dipping my toes in the world of writing for this kink so any feedback is appreciated!

Only about 1k words, background is that Jay and Elliot are both students at the same college and roommates and that's pretty much it! Their relationship is not romantic yet, unsure of if it will be but idk, I'll see how it goes.

Cw: contagion mention, fever

God, Jay wishes his professor would just shut up about Greek mythology already.

In his foggy mind, those stupid fucking stories from this stupid fucking lecture are the only things that seem to stick. Icarus with his wax wings, flying too close to the sun. He feels a sort of kinship to that doomed boy, his hubris, his downfall. If Jay is Icarus, Elliot is his Daedelus. Setting a bottle of Dayquil on the counter seemed like such a nice gesture at the time, too, considering his roommate was the patient zero to this nightmare plague.

Jay usually has such good impulse control.

With a cold from hell, too much medicine sounded like an oxymoron. Anything would have to be a step up from drowning in his own mucus.

A shiver shoots up his spine, but he barely shifts from his slumped position on the desk in the back of this classroom. With the edge of his sweater over his hand, pressed against his sluggishly leaking nose, he sniffles. He feels and hears a pitiful squeak of pressure stab through his sinuses, ears crackling loudly as he swallows.

He's not sure if it's better or worse, being too dazed to fully comprehend just how disgusting he must be right now. Through the thick haze in his mind, he can vaguely feel the stinging of his rubbed raw and chapped nose, abused by the rough wool of his shirt sleeve. In any other case, he'd be too self-conscious to do this openly, too afraid to be seen as gross by his peers.

Now, as his head periodically bops back up after slowly drifting down, exhausted eyes trying their best not to close, he can't quite muster up the energy to care.

“hhHIT’sschUE!”

He wrenches forward into his elbow, sneezing for what feels like the hundredth time since he's woken up. A couple hoarse, grating coughs follow after, and if he weren't in public he would've allowed himself to groan in misery.

People are probably staring at him, he knows. It's cold and flu season, and he's basically Typhoid Mary right now.

Let them. If the teacher hadn't made this lecture mandatory attendance, he wouldn't have shown up at all. Through red rimmed, watery eyes, he glares at her with as much rage as he can muster. He hopes someone coughs on her doorknob.

One of his knuckles paws at the side of his nose weakly, letting out a small sigh of annoyance at the inevitable. His breath hitches.

“HhHhuhhggh’shkew!! HtxcHH-shEWW!” Hands cupped around his face, his fingertips rest against overheated cheeks brush against the bottom of his teary eyes. God this sucks.

Something taps his shoulder, breaking him out of his dazed self-pity. His head lazily swivels around, vision swimming sickeningly for a short moment.

A figure comes into focus- Jenn, one of Elliots's friends, he vaguely notes- holding something out to him wordlessly. Tired eyes dart down, and out of pure relief, he almost feels himself sober up a bit.

It's a pack of tissues. He could cry. He might cry.

He accepts them readily.

“Thangks.” He rasps, at least attempting to blow his nose. It barely budges, but it's still nice to clean his upper lip with something besides his clothes.

“Of course man. You um… you alright?” Jenn questions, what little attention she'd been paying to the lecture replaced with concern.

Jay sighs, keeping the tissue wadded in his hand as his shoulders slump.

“Fidne.” He grumbles, turning to cough weakly into the tissue.

“Elliot finally gave you his cold?”

Jay scoffs.

“How'd you figure that ode out? Thought I was hidi’g it well.” He complains, punctuating it with a blocked sniffle. Jenn tuts sympathetically, patting him gently on the shoulder. He knows he must be out of it, as he doesn't move away. She seems to notice this too, her eyes darting to the large digital clock on the wall.

“Think you can tough it out for fifteen more minutes?” She asks, getting a half-hearted shrug in response.

“It wod't kill mbe.” He mumbles.

Nodding in understanding, Jay pulls out her phone.

“I'll let him know to come pick you up. No offense dude, but you probably shouldn't be driving right now.” Knowing him, she expects at least a little push back from this, as he's been historically against anything even vaguely considered coddling.

He simply sniffles, wipes his nose, and nods weakly, trying hard not to pay attention to the room spinning as he does.

“Sou'ds gguhh…

hhuh-ghhTCH'SSCHUEww!” Oh god that one was so loud. He can tell Jenn is looking at him without turning to her, even as he lets out a breathy, congested groan into his hands hiding his face.

The professor launches into some lengthy discussion about Sisyphus when Jay completely tunes her out again. All he has to do is make it fifteen minutes.

———

Jay finds himself blinking back into semi-awareness after a bit, not having realized he'd dozed off.

“Snrk- wuh… huh?” He mumbles, distantly feeling the cold touch of a palm against his forehead.

Before he could do anything too embarrassing like lean into the hand, he turns to cough, reaching up a hand to rub his throat with a swallow and a wince. The sleep did nothing but make him feel even more clogged.

When he finally blinks his watery eyes clear, his roommate's form finally becomes visible. He knows he should feel mortified, at least a bit more than he is right now.

But, at least that means he's got a ride home now. The thought of finally laying in his bed is almost enough to make him sob with relief.

“El…” He practically whines, feeling the much larger man's arm gently guide him out of the desk by his shoulder.

“Looks like this thing's kicking your ass, huh?” Elliot comments, the slight amusement in his tone not appreciated by Jay.

“You gave mbe this shit, jackass.” He grumbles with what little anger he can muster. His head resting on Elliot's shoulder as he's guided away certainly doesn't help his case.

“Hey, I warned you. Not my fault you didn't take the multivitamins I offered.”

Jay lets out a single, breathy laugh.

“You act like you're fifty.” He comments, breaking off to muffle a couple coughs into his fist at the end.

“At least my cold wasn't this bad. You look like death.”

“Gee, thangks.” Jay knows Elliot is probably right, though. Which is only more embarrassing given that he knows Elliot still managed to look like a runway model even while running 101°. That man has to be blessed.

Speaking of, Jay stalls for a moment, causing Elliot to stop as well. Jay's breath hitches, one hand weakly coming to cup his face, leaning into his roommate's supportive frame as his eyes flutter.

“HhhhITSCH-UEe! hhgsh'TCHEWww!! Hhhhuhhh…nghohgod-” He groans, stumbling back with the force of the sneezes, lightheaded and drained.

Elliot's hold around Jay's shoulders tighten, noticing him falter. Unintentionally he pulls the smaller man closer, Jay's face towards Elliot's body as he curls into himself.

“Oh hey, easy man. We can just-” Before Elliot can finish, Jay snaps forward into Elliot's shirt.

“hhhhHIITSCH’HEWW!!”

Jay doesn't need to cup his face anymore. Any potential mess has been contained, right into Elliots chest.

Immediately Jay's already overheated and feverish cheeks somehow redden further, shame permeating that constant bleariness for once.

“Nghh- shit. I'mb sorry, that's- that's so fucki'g gross.” He mumbles into Elliot's shirt, not wanting to look up in fear of his friend's possible expression.

The chest beneath his hands and nose stutters a couple times in a chuckle. A hand pats him on the back, and he looks up.

“Hey, I already had it once, so I'm basically immune to it now. No harm no foul.” Elliot offers, a soft smile on his lips.

A set of coughs release themselves from Jay's lungs, a weak fist half-heartedly covering it. Elliot hums in worry, and nudges Jay to keep walking with him.

“C’mon, we're almost home. A little sleep will do you some wonders.”

Jay wanted to retort with the fact that his little nap in the classroom did nothing but make the problem worse, but can't bring himself to. With little to no other choice, Jay allows himself to be guided back to Elliot's car, face still half buried in the man's shirt.

Tomorrow he'll blame it on the medication. But he feels unfairly safe in his roommate's arms.

#snz #snz blog #snzblr #snzfic #oc writing #snz ocs #sickfic #sick oc #fever #contagion #jellys ocs #jellys writing

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denspollen · 5 months

Text

some very sick and sneezy d/ennis r/eynolds under the cut ft. very caring m/ac :] 3.4k words, cw for non-graphic mess towards the end

for @snzfanatic !! my first fic on here pls be nice loll

It starts on Tuesday evening, when Dennis arrives back at his and Mac’s apartment after a quick detour to Dee’s place — he’d been stupid enough last week to lend her their copy of Temple of Doom, having forgotten about the whole ordeal until they’d settled on it for their movie night. Naturally, Dennis had done the noble thing and gone out to pick it up, sans Mac, on account of the weather outside being “too goddamn awful” to warrant him tagging along.

Speaking of…

“Jesus Christ, dude,” Mac says incredulously as Dennis hangs up his coat, the violent shudder that runs down his spine not going unnoticed. He’s dripping rainwater all over the floor, once-perfect curls now matted against his forehead. “What the fuck happened to you?”

“C-car broke down,” he mutters irritably, swiping a slender finger discreetly underneath his nose. “H-had to… t-to walk back half the way.”

Mac scoffs. “And you didn’t think to call me? You— you took so long; I was worried!”

“Well,” Dennis starts, sniffling softly against a curled finger. “I’m f-fine, aren’t I?”

Mac, ever overbearing, furrows his brow, unconvinced. “Are you?”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“Come on, man,” he sighs, shifting over on the couch to make room for Dennis, who sits down promptly, setting the DVD down on the coffee table and shivering a little too violently for Mac to pretend nothing’s amiss. “You must be freezing. And you’re all…” He gestures vaguely to his nose. “…drippy, here.”

Dennis’s cheeks flush the same shade of pink as the rims of his nostrils, one hand jerking upward to wipe abashedly at his face. “It’s rainwater.”

Mac sighs. If he knows Dennis — and he does, better than anyone else (except maybe Dee, the bitch) — there’s no way he’s going to admit to his “perfect” immune system having been compromised in even the slightest possible way.

“Whatever, man,” he mutters, slowly rising to insert the disc into the DVD player. “Just don’t get all pissy with me when—”

“hk’SHHhuh!”

There it is.

Mac cringes at the thick sniffle that follows. “Bless you.”

“Mm… thank— thahh… h-huh’TSCHhh!” Dennis groans weakly, hands steepled over his nose, eyes tearing slightly.

“Bless you. Don’t use your hands, man, that’s disgusting.” Mac ignores the downright murderous glare Dennis gives him in response as he reclaims his seat on the couch, unable to help the way he reaches over to give his shoulder a little squeeze. “You alright? Need a tissue?”

“No,” Dennis murmurs stuffily in response, rubbing at his clearly irritated nose with the heel of his palm. “No to— to needing a tissue, not… ‘m fine, man. Just put the goddamn movie on.”

“At least go change into something warmer,” Mac suggests, borderline exasperated. “You’re soaked. There’s no way that’s comfortable.”

Dennis sniffles; wipes his nose on his sleeve — a very un-Dennis-like move, and something that’s immediately telling of the cold he’s no doubt coming down with. “Fine.”

He stands shakily, nose twitching and lashes fluttering in a vain attempt to hold back another sneeze as he stalks past Mac and over to his bedroom. His breath hitches once, twice, before inevitably—

“eh’SCHhhh!… guh… hh’ehh… hh’ESCHhuh!”

The sneezes are harsh and leave him doubled over, face buried into the elbow of one arm while the other reaches out, clutching the doorframe to steady himself. They leave his nose dripping, irritated tears trickling freely down his cheeks. He whimpers softly, a shiver coursing through his body just as Mac sets a hand on his back.

“Jesus, Den,” he sighs, his thumb rubbing little circles against Dennis’s shoulder blade. “Are you sure you’re gonna be okay to watch the movie tonight? You’re clearly not feeling—”

“I’m fine,” he interrupts curtly, words muffled by the sleeve clamped over his nose and mouth. “Just got… got ahh… huh’RSHHhue!… ugh. Just got a tickle.”

Mac clicks his tongue, arms folded. “Clearly. Bless you.”

Dennis glares at him through watery eyes, sniffling sharply as he steps into his bedroom. “Look, I’m gonna get changed, and I’ll be fine. Don’t bother me in there.”

Mac nods; turns away as Dennis closes the door behind him. Pretends he doesn’t hear the next sneeze just barely muffled behind the wall between them. He knows how this game goes — Dennis is obviously sick, he pretends he’s not, but really he’s only pretending to himself, because anyone with a brain could work it out. He doesn’t even try to conceal it; doesn’t try to stifle the sneezes and coughs that catch him off guard. He just repeats to himself, like a daily prayer to a god he doesn’t believe in, that he’s fine, that there’s no need for Mac to worry, that he’s not sick, and even if he was, he’s a grown man and he can take care of himself.

Either way, Mac’s not going to let Dennis’s inexorable stubbornness prevent him from at least trying to look after him, denial be damned. As he waits for him to return, he sets up a couple blankets on the couch; rummages around for a tissue box to set out on the coffee table beside the bowl of popcorn he’d prepared earlier. It’s not much, sure, but he knows anything bigger is only going to piss Dennis off. He just has to take it one step at a time, until he finally cracks.

Evidently, though, it’s not going to take very long.

Dennis ambles back into the living room, clad in an old college sweatshirt and pyjama pants, and it’s clear as day to Mac that he’s not doing good. He’s shivering, even under the newfound warmth, and the amount of times he’s wiped his nose has now resulted in the skin around it to appear noticeably red and irritated. He coughs weakly into his shoulder, just barely bothering to cover properly, and Mac knows it’s only a matter of time until he admits to feeling shitty.

Now, though? He just… waits.

“Comfy?” Mac asks as Dennis makes his way over to the couch.

He hums distantly, running a hand through his roughly-dried hair, and Mac can only interpret the sound as a murmur of assent. His brow furrows as his gaze lands on the pile of blankets atop the couch cushions.

“Wh… what’s all this?”

Mac shrugs. “Thought you might be cold.”

“Mm.” He sniffles, tugging one around his shoulders as he settles down beside his roommate. “Just a little bit.”

His nose twitches, eyes remaining open just long enough before they flutter shut completely to see the tissue that Mac offers in preparation, and he cups it over his nose as his breath hitches thrice in quick, desperate succession.

“hh-hehh… huh-! ihh’TSCHHhh!… mm…”

Mac winces at the sheer exhaustion audible in Dennis’s voice, even more so as he discards the tissue to his side in favour of muffling a series of chesty coughs into the crook of his elbow. Fuck, he sounds awful, and there’s no way he’ll be able to keep up the act much longer (not that it had ever been the slightest bit convincing in the first place).

“God bless,” he offers dutifully, rubbing Dennis’s back as he blows his nose quietly. “You sure you wanna watch this movie, man? You’re obviously feeling miserable. Why don’t you just get an early night?”

“But it’s Tuesday. Tuesday night’s movie night, right?” Dennis’s brow furrows as he tentatively lowers the tissue from his face, revealing just how red-raw his nose has become, standing out almost comically against his otherwise pale skin.

Mac frowns, inexplicably reaching up to stroke the wispy curls along the nape of his neck. The way Dennis’s eyes flutter shut; how he doesn’t pull away — the fact he’s allowing himself to be touched so affectionately is immediately telling of just how bad he feels.

“Hey, no… it’s alright. We can just watch it tomorrow.”

“No, no, I… ‘m fine, man, I promise.” His protests are growing weaker and weaker by the second, each one further marred by the thick congestion building in his sinuses, consonants slowly becoming duller and more rounded out.

“You’re sure?”

Dennis nods, movements heavy with sleep. “I’m sure.”

The next hour drags on without the commentary they’d usually have on a night like this. Mac keeps his opinions on Harrison Ford’s physique to himself, only really opening his mouth to bless Dennis for every sneeze, which have been growing not only in frequency, but in intensity, too, along the course of the film, crumpled tissues having piled up around him.

They’re about halfway through when Mac glances over to check on him, as he’s been doing every so often, his efforts lessening in subtlety each time upon realisation that Dennis is really too out of it to notice. Now, though, he’s gone completely — lips parted slightly so he can breathe through his stuffy nose, trembling a little with each quiet snore that passes. Mac chuckles fondly. No doubt he’s exhausted.

“Den?” he whispers, the backs of his fingers brushing over his cheek. “Dennis. Hey.”

He stirs, mumbling incoherently to himself before his eyes open slowly, a sliver of blue peeking out from beneath heavy lids. His bleary gaze meets Mac’s, nostrils flaring in that telltale way as he tugs the blanket tighter around himself in a fruitless attempt to mitigate the chill slithering through his bones.

“Hey,” he murmurs drowsily, sniffling in an effort to quell the tickle. “Did I… h-how long was I… h-huh’KSHhh!… out for?”

Mac whispers a soft blessing, offering him a clean tissue. “Doesn’t matter. Let’s just go to bed, alright? We can watch this when you’re feeling better.”

Dennis groans, so weak it’s damn near pitiful. “I’m fine, I told you…”

“Come on, Den. We both know that’s not true.”

He shudders, eyes slipping shut as he wipes gingerly underneath his nose. “Just… tired.”

Mac shrugs. “Alright, then you should still go to bed. C’mon, seriously, let’s go. Don’t make me carry you, dude.”

This earns a groan from Dennis, who shifts uncomfortably on the couch as Mac extends his hand toward him. He can’t quite contain the triumphant smirk that tugs at the corner of his lips as Dennis obliges, taking his hand albeit reluctantly and with all the grace of a newborn kitten as he drags himself up off the sofa.

“Not sick,” Dennis murmurs, snuffling wetly against his sweater paws as Mac helps him into bed, gentle and tender as ever. “I don’t… don’t get sick.”

“I know,” Mac mutters, clicking his tongue affectionately as he drapes a throw blanket over his shivering form. “You’ll be fine tomorrow, I’m sure. Now get some sleep.”

“Mhm… whatever, asshole.”

Mac wakes at 4AM to a sound that confirms what he was already well aware of — Dennis is utterly, undeniably, miserably unwell. He can hear him coughing from across the apartment, each one rattling in his chest. With a soft groan, he drags himself out of bed, filling up a glass of water and grabbing a pack of Advil and the half-empty tissue box on the coffee table on his way.

He knocks gently on Dennis’s door, knowing that even while with a nasty cold, he’d still kick his ass for coming in unannounced.

“Den? You okay, bud?”

There’s only another fit of coughing in response, followed by a hitching breath that he desperately tries to talk his way through.

“I… h-heh… I’m f-fihh… h-hehh’TSCHhhue! ihh’ESCHhhh!”

Mac winces. “I’ll take that as a no. I’m comin’ in, alright?”

The door creaks open, and upon entrance Mac is greeted with the sight of Dennis curled in on himself, face buried into his sleeves, quivering under layers of blankets. Definitely sick. He’s shaking, breathing heavily — Mac doesn’t hold a single doubt that his chest must be killing him.

“Oh, Den,” he cooes, perching on the edge of the bed and reaching over to card his fingers through his curls. “What’s wrong?”

Stupid question, his inner monologue tells him the second the question leaves his lips, though knowing Dennis, any number of things could be causing this distress — he might not be willing to admit his illness yet, but maybe he’s had a bad dream or something, or—

Dennis coughs again, whimpering in pain as fresh tears spring to his eyes from the sheer force of it. Nope, definitely the illness.

“Think… think I m-might be coming down with something,” he croaks, words so pathetically weak it’d make Mac laugh if he didn’t look so goddamn terrible.

“Yeah, no shit,” he chuckles, hand drifting over to feel his forehead, moving down to his cheek; his neck. “You got a fever, man.”

A thick sniffle, then a barely-audible groan of discomfort. “I’m… s-so stuffed up.”

“I know, buddy.” Mac frowns sympathetically, rubbing his shoulder with a tenderness that could soften even the roughest of edges. “Here, take this.” He pops two Advil out from the packaging, pressing them carefully into Dennis’s palm along with the glass of water. Dennis nods gratefully, eyes watery, and swallows the pills with a tentative sip. The cold water feels heavenly against his raw throat.

Mac smiles. “Good. Alright, um… shit, what helps a stuffy nose? Vicks, right? That’s— that’s good. You know if we have any?”

Dennis nods, movements slow and languid. “Yeah… in that drawer there. Second one down.” He gestures vaguely to his bedside table with a hand that quickly becomes preoccupied with jumping up to rub harshly at his itchy nose. It’s clearly not enough, though, because the tickle still prevails, quiet moans interlaced between hitching breaths as he fumbles for a tissue.

“Mm… h-ihh… hih’TSCHhhue! hk’GSHHhh!… ugh… heh-hh’EISHHhiew!” The sneezes sound just as exhausted as the rest of him, though they’re harsh enough to leave him breathless for a moment. Mac opens his mouth to bless him, when Dennis holds up a quivering finger to signify that he’s not quite done yet. “huhh’RSHHhhu! ihh’KSCHHhuh!… oh, f-fuck…”

The tissue in his hands is fairly saturated, and he eyes it with disdain as he lets it drop to his side. Mac’s expression is one half of sympathy, half of amazement. “Jesus Christ, dude. Bless you.”

Dennis sniffles, collapsing against the pillow. The fit clearly knocked the wind right out of him, and Mac can’t say he doesn’t feel awful for the guy. He looks miserable.

Mac sighs, shifting over on the bed so that their thighs brush against one another. On any other day, Dennis would pull away; shoot him a disheartening glare, but right now, he’s way too out of it to give a shit. The contact’s a little soothing, even. Though he’d never admit it out loud.

“Here,” Mac murmurs, holding out the tub of Vicks. “You want me to do it?”

“Mhm… please.”

“Alright. Just, uh, take your shirt off, and…” He trails off, rolling his eyes when he looks up to see Dennis’s resulting skeptical expression. “Not like that, man. I gotta put it on your chest. Might be good to get that fever down, too.”

After some gentle persuading, Dennis eventually obliges, lifting his sweatshirt over his head albeit reluctantly and with a shudder that seems to wrack his entire body. “Mm… ‘s cold.”

“I know, Den, I’m sorry.” Mac gives his shoulder a little squeeze before twisting the cap off the tub, scooping a generous amount of the balm onto his middle and index finger. “C’mere. Just want you to feel better, alright?”

Dennis nods, allowing Mac to massage his fevered skin, his touch like magic as his fingers drag across his collarbone. He lets out a delicate whine of pleasure as he feels the congestion start to loosen up, his sniffles becoming wetter every time.

“God, that… that smells s-so strong,” he breathes, words hoarse and just above a whisper. “It’s… o-ohh, God… ehh… hk’SCHHhiew!”

He sneezes openly down toward his knees, giving Mac just enough time to move his hand away to avoid the fallout. It’s… well, the menthol’s clearly doing its job, given just how productive that last sneeze was. Dennis groans, already-flushed cheeks growing an even deeper shade of crimson.

Mac chuckles softly. “Might wanna keep some tissues handy.” He sets the box down in Dennis’s lap, plucking one out and holding it up to his nose. “Blow.”

Dennis rolls his eyes, taking the tissue from him between his index and thumb. “Don’t need to baby me.” He blows his nose anyways, messily, too focused on getting all the gunk out of his nose to care about upholding his usual composition.

“Better?”

He nods, if only slightly. “Little bit.”

The relief, however, is short-lived, when his briefly blissfully unblocked nostrils soon succumb to another unbearable tickle, eyes tearing as Mac continues to massage his chest.

“O-oh, fuck, ‘m gonna… guhh… ghh’TXCHhh! hh’DSHHhhue!” Harrowed, he reaches for the discarded sweatshirt beside him, mind set on relief more than logical thinking as he raises it to his face to muffle the sneezes and catch the mess. “M-mac, you… hh’ESCHhhuh!… y-you gotta stop, man, it’s… ihh… hihh’EISHHhh!… m-making me sneeze…”

“Yeah, no, I— I can see that, dude; bless you,” Mac stammers, hurriedly screwing the lid back on the tub and opting to rub Dennis’s back tenderly as his shoulders shake with sneeze after sneeze. “You’re alright, Den, I gotcha… there you go, just get ‘em all out…”

The fit doesn’t seem to show any signs of stopping for another solid minute — messy, desperate sneezes after torturous buildups that tease him endlessly, irritated tears leaving tracks along the curves of his cheeks. Mac can only hope that this shirt wasn’t a particular favourite of his. He slings an arm over Dennis’s shoulders, holding him close until the sneezes finally die down.

“Hey. You okay?” His gaze meets Dennis’s, greenish-brown puppy dog eyes locking with hazy blue. “Those were… big.”

Dennis sniffles, face still buried into the now-soaked sweatshirt. “Y-yeah, no, I’m… hh’ISHHhue!… god, last one… I’m fine.” When he speaks, his words are muffled, but even then Mac can tell that the fit at least assisted in clearing him out a little.

“Good.”

He smiles; strokes Dennis’s hair delicately as he lowers the makeshift handkerchief from his face, revealing the pallor in his skin and a nose so red it’s borderline clownish.

“Aw, buddy,” he murmurs, clicking his tongue with an almost motherly affection. “You really look awful. I-I mean, you— you still look handsome; you always do, you just—”

“Save it,” Dennis interjects, chuckling weakly. “I look like shit, I know.”

The tension in Mac’s shoulders dissolves into gentle laughter just as quickly as it first appeared, and his hand runs up and down the length of Dennis’s trembling arm.

“You should, um… Do you want me to grab you another shirt?”

Dennis looks down at the one crumpled in his hands, brow crinkling in disgust. “Oh, gross. Um, yeah, please.”

Mac nods, pulling his hoodie off over his head. “Here. Got a t-shirt on underneath; I’ll be fine.”

Usually, Dennis would be averse to borrowing Mac’s clothes, but right now he’s too beat to care one bit. He gives a soft murmur of gratitude, tugging it on with the slightest of difficulties. The warmth is soothing, no less the fact he’s got something to wear that’s not entirely drenched for the second time in the last 24 hours.

He yawns, settling against Mac contentedly. “Stay with me?”

Mac nods; pretends the words don’t make his heart flutter and cheeks flush as red as Dennis’s. “Oh— y-yeah, no, totally. Of course.”

“Thanks.” Dennis sniffles, eyes closing as he tugs the blankets up and over his shoulders. “Just… just make sure I don’t, like, choke on my own mucus or anything.”

Mac’s own nose crinkles at that, lips curling up into a grin. “Oh, dude, gross.”

“Mm…’m sick, leave me alone.”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever.” It’s funny, Mac thinks — whenever Dennis is sick like this, he denies, denies, denies like his life depends on it, until he finally admits that his body isn’t as godlike as he likes to think. And when he eventually does, he milks the fact he’s unwell until it’s goddamn bone dry, using it as an excuse for absolutely everything, and it’s fucking infuriating.

And Mac loves that about him.

Dennis’s breathing evens out, worry lines in his brow unfurling at last. Mac smiles; presses a kiss to the top of his head.

“Yeah… get some sleep, Den.”

#my writing #i/asip #d/ennis r/eynolds #m/acdennis #snz #cw mess #snzfic #sickfic #snzblr

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