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imthebadguyyy · 2 months

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Miss Americana and the Heartbreak Prince II

pairing : charles leclerc x reader

fandom : f1

synopsis : you're the only female driver on the f1 grid, and have a secret relationship with ferrari's golden boy.

warnings : allusions to smut, smut

a/n : much awaited part 2!! apologies for taking so long life has been extremely busy lately

pt i

"don't say a word" charles mumbled to you, gently getting up.

god, you were so fucked.

you didn't dare say a word as charles wordlessly got up to find the pair of shoes carlos had so unfortunately left behind in his room. "why did he leave them here" charles whispered harshly, while gesturing to the large closet he had in his driver's room.

quiet as a cat you slipped into it, leaving it a crack open for ventilation. you watched from the gap as charles quickly ran a hand through his tousled hair, lips still red and swollen and eyes still blown wide from the orgasm he had a few moments again.

"just a second!" he called to his teammate, struggling to jump into his jeans and searching for his shirt before he realised where it was : on your body.

cursing under his breath, he inhaled deeply, before striding over to open the door for carlos.

"my god man, you took forever to open the door huh" carlos grumbled, sauntering his way into the room before charles could slam the door shut.

praying to the heavens, charles sneaked a jittery glance towards the closet, praying carlos didn't wander too close.

"ah yes! my lucky sneakers!" carlos exclaimed like a child on Christmas day, spotting the pristine white sneakers in the corner of the room.

"how did you leave them here?" Charles asked, hand reaching up to scratch his neck nervously.

"oh remember when we were all warming up before media day because we felt stiff? i left my shoes here and changed into my loafers" he said matter of factly, changing said loafers for his sneakers.

a flash of orange had him stopping mid way, staring blankly at the papaya shirt that lay just hidden below charles' physio table.

"mate, either you're a secret McLaren fan or.." carlos began, wide eyes wandering over to charles who had turned as red as the ferrari car he drove.

"WHAT no-thats not mine!!" he exclaimed.

groaning softly, you smacked your palm against your forehead, realising how much worse he sounded if he said it wasn't his.

"so you're- YOURE SLEEPING WITH LANDO?!" carlos exclaimed and charles let out a groan of despair.

"THATS WHO YOU THINK HES SLEEPING WITH?!" your stupefied voice rang out from the closet, earning a flurry of curse words from the spaniard.

"y/n?!?!" he exclaimed, watching as you stomped out in just a ferrari shirt, batelt covering your thighs,screaming in surprise as he covered his eyes and turned to the wall.

"PUT ON SOME CLOTHES I DON'T NEED TO SEE YOU LIKE THIS!" carlos shouted, as charles ran to cover up your body, tossing you your jeans to change into.

"you thought I was sleeping with lando?" charles hissed, sheer stress and surprise in his eyes.

"no i- i wasn't thinking okay I saw orange and i thought lando!" carlos defended himself, choosing to ignore the contemptuous snort you let out.

when you were all decent he turned again sinking into a chair to massage his temples, repeatedly muttering "dios mio" under his breath and looking between the two of you.

your hands were interlocked now, thumbs gently twiddling together, and he watched as charles reached for your palms, running a soothing thumb over your knuckles and holding your hand tightly within his. he noticed how charles' gaze softened and the gentility with which he stroked your hand, nothing but love and adoration in his eyes.

"so how long has this been going on?" carlos asked calmly, trying to ignore the mix of excitement and amusement in his chest at the sight of his best friend and the woman he considered to be his little sister anxiously awaiting his take like a teenage couple who got caught.

"um...abu dhabi last year? i got really drunk and so did charles and we just sort of stumbled into my hotel room and-" you began only to be cut off by a loud "tut-tut-tut-tut" from carlos who closed his eyes.

"i don't need details, hermana, just...okay" he sighed, standing up.

"carlos, please don't tell anyone" charles whispered tugging you closer. "Its hard enough for her to be accepted anyway and if people find our we're together, you know what the media is going to spin it into. we're just not ready yet" he concluded softly, feeling you cuddle into him, apprehension evident in your eyes.

"ay, of course I would not do that. you can trust me. I'm happy that youre happy with each other, you are aren't you?" he questioned suddenly, eyes hardening as he looked at charles.

"yes yes, im very happy carlos" you said quickly, knowing he was protective of you.

"charles makes me happier than i thought I could be" you mumbled, cheeks warming as you spoke, and charles pressed a kiss to your temple. "And she makes me happier than I ever thought i could be" he affirmed.

"well then, I'm even happier for you two. you deserve to be happy, and I'm glad it's her you're seeing and not lando" he concluded matter of factly, and you couldn't help but snort with laughter.

"thanks mate" charles chuckled dryly.

"okay I'm gonna leave but please charles, do something about your sex hair, you look like a wild hyena just tried to rip your hair off" he grumbled as you grinned proudly.

"well i suppose we do fu-" charles began cheekily as carlos yelled in protest and covered his ears, shaking his head from side to like a dog trying to get water out of his ears.

"no necesito saber detalles sobre el relacions intimas, ella es como mi hermana menor, ¿verdad?!" no I don't need to know the details about the sex she's like my younger sister!! carlos exclaimed as he sprinted out of the room.

taking a deep breath, your eyes met charles, and in a split second, you both burst into laughter, clutching onto each other to keep steady as you laughed.

"well, that was something" you chuckled, sitting back down on the physio table.

"it really was, non?" he said, joining you, pressing a kiss to your neck.

"i have to go back to McLaren now baby" you whispered, gently stroking the rough stubble on his cheek.

"i know" he mumbled against the skin of your neck. "ill see you at the gdpa meeting okay?" you whispered, pressing him a kiss goodbye as you reached for the McLaren shirt to swap for the scandalous ferrari one you were wearing.

with sweet kisses of goodbye,you dashed off towards the McLaren hospitality.

Jogging back hurriedly, you shielded your eyes from the blaring Barcelona sun, praying that you wouldn’t get in trouble from charlotte.

*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

silverstone as a track was simply iconic.

as many had famously said, everyone wanted a chance to step on the podium there, the birthplace of formula one.

because of lando, McLaren always had a tiny bit of extra pressure on them during the British gp, and this year was no different.

Britain brought with it grey skies, heavy rainclouds and smatterings of rain through free practice and qualis. the track was wet, the skies were gloomy, and boomrd with thunder but the energy around the track was electric. (no pun intended)

the fans at silverstone always brought their all and the weather was never a let down for them. as you stood in the garage, waiting for the skies to clear up a little, you glanced at the crowd, cheering and whooping for lewis, lando and george, and were surprised to see the many posters of your face, cheering you on.

waving at the fans with a quick smile, you turned back to the screen, brow furrowing as you watched the forecast predict even heavier rainfall for quali.

before you knew it, you were in q3, hot on max's trail for a pole position. your race engineer, elizabeth, urged you to speed up, tyres well maintained and checo 4.5 behind.

and so you pushed, putting in purple sector after sector, and when it came to it, beat max by one hundredth.

a shout of delight left your lips as you entered parc ferme, parking your car in the no1 spot and preparing for your pole tyre and interview. max offered you a tight lipped smile, making a quip about "i was on a pole streak!" to which you responded cheekily, "well looks like i took the fast lane to your frustration!"

after quali, you were drawn into meetings, last minute checks, interviews until finally, you relaxed in the hospitality with lando, sneakers off and feet resting on a puffy pouffe, a bowl of salad and an iced latte next to you.

lando had something similar, a burrito bowl and an orange juice, scrolling through his Instragram while you covered your eyes and hummed a song.

"darl, are you dating anyone?" he asked casually, crossing one ankle over the other as he spoke.

"no, why?" you asked, brow furrowing slightly as you lied through your teeth.

lando went an odd shade of splotchy red as he looked at you, taking in the curve of your cupids bow above your lip, furrowed in confusion, to the purse of your lips.

"w-well, i've got a mate yeah, and he'd really like to ask you out, but he doesn't know how to quite...do that y'know?" he stumbled out, hands scratching the back of his neck as he spoke.

"oh!" you said, shoulders relaxing as you smiled.

"im not really looking to date someone right now lan, please tell him that and give him a hug from me okay?" you said kindly, squeezing his knees before jumping off the couch to head home.

"I'll see ya tomorrow lan!" you said, waving goodbye and picking up your food as you left.

walking towards your car, you felt your phone buzz in your pocket, and pulling it out, you saw charles notification.

(ferrari's) amore ♥️

amour, are you done with all your meetings?

y/n

yes darling, im just heading out to my car.

(ferrari's) amore ♥️

come to my room when youre back. i miss you :(

y/n

I'll be right there mon bebe, i miss you too 😙

you couldn't help but giggle at his messages, climbing into your car before making your way to the hotel.

as soon as you reached and managed to make your way past the gaggle of fans, you made your way to charles' room, cap covering your face as you moved stealthily through the hall.

reaching his door, you knocked softly, foot tapping against the carpeted floor, listening for the click of the door lock.

and lo and behold, there stood your italian god of a boyfriend, clad in just a pair of turquoise shorts and a bandana holding his curly locks back from his face, a stray strand peaking out almost cheekily.

"hello you" you smiled, squealing when he grabbed your plush hips and pulled you into him, arms tightening around your shoulders as he kissed your forehead, closing the door behind the both of you.

he walked backwards, guiding you into his dimly lit suite, pulling your jacket off of you and letting it drop onto the couch.

"missed you amour" he crooned softly, pecking your temple as he pulled the both of you into the large bed, laden with pillows and thick snowy white blankets, letting your body sink into the mattress.

"missed you too baby" you murmured.

"how was your day?" he asked, sliding down your body to tug your sneakers off, pressing a delicate kiss to your ankle as he pulled the socks off too, before trailing up to the McLaren t shirt you had on, signalling for you to raise your arms so he could tug it off your body, pressing feather soft kisses to your belly, chest, arms, shoulders and finally your cheeks.

"t'was alright i guess, quali was really great!" you gushed, fingers carding through his hair as a dimpled smile graced his cheeks.

"m'so proud baby" he said, kissing an erratic pattern on the bare expanse of your belly. "love you" you gushed again, tone utterly lovestruck, words coming out thick and syrupy.

charles gave you an equally lovestruck look, an ooey gooey warm sensation filling his chest.

"lemme show you how proud I am of you bebè" he whispered, pressing hot, open mouthed kisses to your neck, body twisting above yours to curve into you.

charles' mouth was diligent on your neck, his lips parted and wet as he worked way up from a particularly sensitive spot on your neck up to the back of your ears, smothering you with hot, open mouthed kisses that had you squirming underneath him. your whole body felt like it was being slowly swallowed by a burning flame, lighting up sharply when when his tongue swept over your skin, followed quickly by a not-so-gentle scraping of his teeth.

you gasped, fingers curling tighter into the thick locks, not caring about how hard you were tugging the luscious strands, legs parting when he let out a soft growl against your skin, the sound reverberating in his chest.

"baby.." you whispered, as his hands slipped to unbutton your jeans, slowly tugging the material down your thighs, hands massaging the fat of your hips and thighs, pinching softly before soothing it with a velveteen caress.

"hush mon amour, let me take care of you" he murmured, mouth hot as it disappeared lower until he was cocooned in between your thighs.

his sea green eyes locked onto yours, as his mouth lowered onto your panties, a wet spot spreading like spilled ink on delicate paper, that had him salivating like a dog.

you closed your eyes, pleasure taking over every nerve in your body when he pressed a kiss to the drenched fabric.

what a night you were in for.

*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

you wake up early, the sun is just rising above the horizon, casting an almost pastel glow in the room from the wide windows. you're supposed to reach the track in an hour, so you have to leave in about 30 minutes. charles however, the lucky bastard, gets to sleep in. he isn't due at the track till almost two hours after you.

grumbling, you stepped out of bed, searching for the sleep shorts charles had kept on the couch for you to slip into in the morning, mourning the loss of his warmth as you get ready in the bathroom, taking out your toothbrush, a hairbrush, your skincare, your makeup, peeking through the half-open door to see him fast asleep in bed, bare arm stretched out over your empty side, quite snores leaving his mouth, a soft pout on his lips. you took in the red marks littering his chest, now fading to a subtler maroon, and the indents of your fingerprints on his back, heat rising to your cheeks in soft pinpricks.

the sight leaves a dull ache blooming in your belly, a need to just go and cuddle with his forever filling every bone in your body. with a sigh, you turn back to the mirror, somehow managing to get through your makeup and your hair before you allow yourself to look at charles again

with a furrowed brow, you note that he’s not in bed anymore.

you almost jumped out of your skin when you notice him standing in the doorway of the bathroom, clad in literally nothing.

charles didn’t say anything, only getting his arms around you in a warm, soft hug,one arm circling around your back to hold your waist, the other bent over the top of your back to cup your head in his hand.

his feet shuffled into the bathroom, head dropping onto the dip in your shoulders, arms wrapped tight around your midriff. his hands splayed on your belly, and he pressed a delicate kiss to the back of your neck. "go back to bed honey" you said, squeezing his hand and smiling at his sleepy face in the mirror.

"mmmhm" was all you got in response, the warmth from his body enveloping you in a snug embrace.

"why do you have to go so early?" he groaned, head nuzzling into you like a cat. chuckling softly, you swipe a berry lipgloss over your lips, adjusting the white floral sundress you had opted for, carrying your team kit in a bag.

"cuz we're shit babe. and if I want to win this race, we need to get some work done off track before we start actual racing" you said, petting him on the head like a kitten.

"ill see you soon then coucou" he said, pressing a kiss to your head before collapsing back into bed.

shaking your head you laughed quietly, slipping out of the room and heading to find gemma, your trainer bringing you a bowl of chocolate oats and dragonfruit and berries to munch on.

"busy night?" she smirked and you stuck your tongue out at her.

"let's just go" you said, pecking her cheek as thanks for the food.

*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

the track was buzzing with the usual hustle bustle, and charles was making his way towards parc ferme to get ready for drivers parade, which was going to be a vintage car display for each team. he caught sight of you, standing with lance and esteban, chatting animatedly about something.

he was standing with max, lando, carlos, checo, george and alex, all happily discussing their plans for the summer break.

he felt a blush rise to his cheeks as he watched you greet lewis with a hug and then laugh as he showed you something on his phone.

he felt his heart flutter when you bit your lip to conceal a grin when toto and christian glared at each other like schoolchildren.

he felt his breath hitch when you twirled a strand of hair around your fingers, exposing the bare skin of your neck where, if he squinted hard enough, he could make out the pale remains of the hickeys he had sucked into the skin.

"you alright mate? max asked, watching the way charles had turned a splotchy red.

"yeah I'm fine" he said, offering him a weak grin.

"you sure?" lando joked, grinning widely at him.

"who are you looking at?" max enquired, peering over charles shoulder to analyse who he was looking at.

"was it maria?" checo asked, referring to one of ferrari's press officer who had stunning red hair and beautiful emerald eyes.

"no no" charles said, shutting the idea down quickly, silently turning to carlos for help.

"leave him alone guys, he was probably just drooling over the track" carlos said, nudging max with his foot.

"yeah, right. don't think we haven't noticed how dreamy you've been recently" lando teased, while carlos and alex offered charles sympathetic smiles.

"it's nothing" he said, voice almost clipped.

"okay, let's leave him alone" alex said, clapping him on the back.

he watched as you skipped over, hair bouncing as you did. "hello!" you greeted chirpily, settling into a spot beside alex and carlos.

a chorus of hellos and grins greeted you. "what's going on?" you asked, cocking your head to one side.

"charles has a crush" lando teased again.

"oh is it?" you asked, concealing a smirk as you locked eyes with the man, eyes glimmering with mischief.

"yes it is!" george said, grinning widely.

"who is it?" you asked innocently, batting your eyelashes at him, watching the crease form in his eyebrow.

"no one" he said, hands slipping into his pockets while carlos sent you an exasperated look.

"oh c'mon tell us something about her" you giggled, hand tracing up to linger on the spot where he had left a bite, bringing a blush to his cheeks.

he watched the teasing glint in your eyes and with new resolve, relaxed.

"well," he began, eyes locked directly onto yours. "shes the most exquisite woman I've ever had the pleasure of knowing" he said, eyes boring into yours.

the chorus of 'oohs' around you didn't register, as you listened intently, heart hammering in your chest.

"she's insanely beautiful, but also has a heart of gold. shes kind, caring, smart, talented and extremely passionate" he continued, listing the qualities on his fingers, ignoring the smirks from his friends, focusing only on the widening of your eyes, and the way your hands fiddled with your rings.

"she's sassy, and isn't afraid to speak her mind. shes always thinking about others and is an angel on earth. she's as beautiful as a setting sun casting shadows on a deep ocean, as beautiful as victory, silent and strong, as beautiful as a graceful ballet, as beautiful as laughter ringing clear in the mountains" he continued, noting the way your eyes has become overbright, while also noting carlos' gaze on him.

"wow mate, you're down bad" alex commented, smiling at his friend, while max and lando sported identical grins. "yeah, never heard you be so poetic before" george commented, before turning to you. "isn't that right speedy?" he asked, waiting for your response.

clearing your throat softly, you nodded. "yeah, she's one lucky gal isn't she" you said, a wide smile on your face.

"time to go!" came a shout, startling you out of your little lovedaze.

"be right there!" lando shouted back, grabbing your arm, but you stopped him, murmuring a soft "I'll be right there" as you bid everyone a goodbye. one by one they all trickled out, carlos squeezing your shoulder kindly.

you gave charles a quick hug, tensing slightly when he pressed a quick kiss to your head away from the prying cameras.

"I love you" he whispered so quietly you almost missed it, and you repeated it, before giving him another lovestruck grin, before sprinting off to join lando.

charles stood there for a second, the same ooey gooey warm sensation filling his chest, before he was snapped back to reality by sylvia calling his name and he too sprinted back.

as you and lando followed redbull, mercedes, and ferrari, he turned to fix his gaze upon you.

"charles seems really in love doesn't he?" he asked, eyes fixated on you to gauge your reaction.

"he really does" you said, concealing a smile.

"how do you feel about that?" he asked, a strange abruptness in his tone.

"what do ya mean lan?" you asked, eyebrow quirking.

"I mean, you had a massive crush on him back when we were younger" he said, and you gaped at him, rendered momentarily speechless.

"um.." you trailed off, turning away from his burning gaze to wave at the crowds with a fake smile. "it doesn't bother me" you said finally, not really lying because how could you be bothered.

"are you sure?" he asked again, an odd tenseness to his voice. "yes I'm sure" you said firmly. "it's just..." he trailed off, unable to vocalise this thoughts.

"what, lan?" you asked, still waving at the crowds, putting up a peace sign for the crowds.

"you've seemed a little off lately...even when I brought up the thing about you dating a friend of mine, you kind of clammed up and i got the feeling that.." "got the feeling that?" you questioned, unease bubbling in your chest.

"that maybe there was a 5.4% chance that you were the girl charles was into" he finished and you almost fell off the seat of your car.

"w-what?" you laughed nervously, tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear. landos gaze didn't falter.

"look, I'm not stupid. I see the way he looks at you sometimes. and I see the way you look at him. but if you're not the girl he's dating, i want you to not be hurt because you're one of my best friends" he said, giving your hand a quick squeeze.

you felt a blossom of affection for your friend bloom in your chest. taking a deep breath, you made a hasty decision.

"lando, what I'm going to tell you is an absolutely top level secret and if you tell anyone I will chop your dick off and feed it to a duck" you said solemnly, ignoring the high pitched chuckle that left his mouth.

"okay i pinky swear" he said, sticking out his pinky towards you. you interlocked yours with his briefly, before taking a deep breath.

"I am charles new girlfriend" you admitted softly, eyes fixed on the ground in apprehension. you almost had a heart attack when he whooped so loudly, you were about a 100% sure that the cars in front of you and behind you would've heard you.

"shush!" you scolded, head whipping back and forth to see if anyone heard. "I fucking knew it! i absolutely knew it, the way he looks at you and the lovestruck puppy face he makes my god i KNEW it" he laughed gleefully, shaking you by the shoulders.

"okay shut up lando but please don't tell anyone" you begged, trying to hide the grin on your face.

"I promised i won't. but I have so many questions!!" he said excitedly, squeezing your hand. you laughed, glancing over to the front where charles was waving happily at the crowds.

"how about you meet us for dinner tonight, and I'll tell you more about it then?" you said, and he nodded excitedly. "we can call carlos too" you said, "since he knows about us as well".

lando let out a dramatic gasp, hand pressed over his chest. "CARLOS KNEW BEFORE ME?!?!" he said, eyes widening almost conically.

"by accident you dipshit, he walked in on us..um...well, actually! funny story, he actually thought it was you charles was sleeping with" you said with a cheeky smile, rolling your eyes with no real malice when he pretended to gag and throw up.

"why?!?!" "because he saw a McLaren t shirt on the floor" you admitted. lando pretended to gag again. "please spare me the details of your sex life" he groaned, hand still pressed to his chest.

"oh really, cuz I was just going to go into details about how good he fuck-" you began cheekily and he squealed and slammed his hand over your mouth (gently)

you let out a cackle, giving him a friendly hug, before turning your full attention to the stands.

*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

the race was tough, rain showering down halfway, making the track slippery and grip a challenge, but somehow, you fought and maintained your position.

there was a tense moment when max had overtaken you rather roughly, making you drop to p3 with a 3 second gap between you, and perez and a 5 second gap to you and max. however, with some spectacular over taking and flawless defending, you had soared to victory, with max in p2, and to your surprise, carlos in p3.

the podium had been a blast, with carlos pouring champagne down your entire body and hair, and lifting you up to hoist you on the top of his shoulders.

it had made for a lovely picture of you laughing, champagne bottle in hand, and a smiling carlos pointing up to you, while andreas 'bowed' down to you.

mclaren mechanics and engineers and staff had cheered for you, with charles and lando watching proudly and clapping for the both of you.

lando had given charles a nudge, before whispering a soft "she told me buddy" and giving him a tight one armed hug and whispering, "dont you fucking hurt her Leclerc or like your girlfriend said, I'll chop your dick off and feed it to a duck" making him laugh in alarm, before smiling softly at him.

dripping in a mix of sweat and champagne, you walked off into the McLaren hospitality, hugging everyone around you, before going straight into your driver's room to change.

a quick shower and a change of clothes later you felt fresh and giddy with excitement, so when lando sent a text in your shared group, saying "club inferno to get absolutely hammered on me, half an hour, look sexy y'all" you had laughed and made your way to your hotel to get dressed.

you hadnt been able to contact charles or heard from him after the podium but decided that you'd just meet him at the club, so you changed into a particularly rivetingly sexy little dress you had bought especially for a moment like this, a strappy little number that hugged every curve and fold on your body.

you paired it with your favourite YSL libre perfume, painting your lips in a dior rouge lipstick charles had gifted her, swiping a glittery lip gloss on top, adding seductive black eyeliner and mascara, a rosy blush and a glittery highlight, and darkened your eyes with kohl.

you slipped on a pair of black rhinestone heels, with little diamond bows on them that just looked absolutely phenomenal on you.

with a sigh of satisfaction, you sent a quick text to gemma, telling her you were ready to be picked up so the both of you could get absolutely wrecked on lando's tab.

she was not complaining.

the dark club was pulsating with heavy beats, bodies swayed in harmony with sultry beats on the dance floor, bathed in hues of electric blue and crimson. the air buzzed with the intoxicating blend of thumping music, the intoxicated giggles of every individual in the club, the mingling scents of tequila, fruity cocktails, earthy whiskeys, bitter beers.

gemma whooped as you walked in, the energy palpable in her body as she flailed her arms wildly with the music.

"im gonna go order some shots!" you shouted, rushing to the bar immediately. you were intercepted by a very drunk Pierre, who congratulated you with a hug and promise to buy you shots.

you were further intercepted by carlos, who, despite looking ready to pass out still had impeccable hair and was about the down another shot of tequila.

"shots on me hermosa!" he said, passing you a shot of tequila and a lemon with salt.

in your excitement, you missed charles, clad in a black shirt and white linen pants, watching you giggle and reach for the lemon. he watched as you put the salt on the back of your wrist, licking it up, tongue sweeping along the skin, and then dousing the shot of tequila, exposing the skin of your neck, and drowning the shot, only to flick back into position and suck on the lime.

he licked his lips, feeling the groin region of his pants become uncomfortably tight.

he made his way over to you, the thumping beat of travis scott's fein filling his eardrums. he watched as you leaned over to the barman, breasts pushing up against your dress, ordering shots, pushing your hair back over your shoulder. he walked with cemented purpose, as the beat changed, turning more sultry.

you were leaning over the bar when a familiar scent of dior sauvage filled your nostrils, and a strong pair of arms wrapped around your midriff.

"baby!" you squealed, leaping into his arms, lips pressing messily against his, momentarily forgetting about the secrecy of your relationship. charles savoured it, tilting your chin to kiss you deeper, counting on the barely there lighting to hide the two of you.

you downed another shot with him, pulling him towards the dance floor before stepping back softly. you pushed your hair away from your chest so it fell down your back, hips swaying as the seductive beat of vixen by miguel filled the club, the rnb vocals adding depth to the sensual rhythm your body was following, hands running up and down your body as you swayed your hips in a pulsating rhythm, bending at the knees as you sunk to the floor, wining your hips as the chorus came on.

charles ignored the fact that literally anyone could see you right there, as he stepped towards you, hands on your hips as he pulled you flush against his body, hips grinding rhythmically with your own.

you let out a soft moan,turning so your back was pressed against his crotch. you let your head drop to his shoulder, bum pressing against his crotch and wining softly against him, feeling his breath hitch.

"fuck, mon amour, you're making it hard for me to not fuck you right here right now" he groaned.

"you know as much as I like dancing and clubbing" you murmured, fingers dancing across his thighs, "I think id much rather prefer to celebrate at home with my baby" you continued, letting your teeth sink into your plush bottom lip.

"thats it" he growled, hand grabbing yours and tugging you along, making his way into the park to his car.

"im gonna fuck you like the winner you are" he whispered, kissing the shell of your ear.

your hotel room was on the 16th floor, and as the two of you made your way into the elevator, he eyed you up and down, eyes lingering on the curve of your breasts.

the moment the door shut, he pushed you against the wall, capturing your lips in a steamy kiss you'd be remembering the next day. his hands moved to your ass, squeezing hard, eliciting a moan from your lips. the moment your lips parted, he was pushing his tongue into yours, his other hand coming up to pull on your hair roughly, relishing in the gasp that left your lips. as suddenly as he started, he stopped, pulling back and standing almost nonchalantly against the wall.

you stumbled forward on weak legs, trying to wrap your head around what happened, gripping the wall with whatever remaining resolve you had in your body.

you could feel your wetness dripping, threatening to run down your thighs, as the throbbing became even more painfully exciting. you looked down at the floor, eyes closing as your frustration grew more and more by the second.

finally, with a little 'ding', the elevator stopped at the 16th floor. the moment the door opened you stepped out on wobbly legs, trying your best to walk properly.

but of course, that wasn't going to happen. as you turned one long corridor, charles grabbed your waist, pushing you up against the wall, to reach down and suck on your neck. you let out a gasp, head falling back against the door, and let your pussy rub against his hardening cock, but charles retaliated with a slap to your ass, smirking when a high pitched moan left your lips.

he let the door swing open, carrying you inside, letting you drop down, and kick off your heels, chest heaving. he made his way towards you, unbuttoning his shirt and letting it fall to the floor.

"such a fucking sexy drive, the way you defended and fought like a beast on track" he said, stalking towards you, hands dropping to the straps of your dress, tugging it downwards. "ma belle fille" he murmured, lips trailing hot kisses to your neck and sucking dark hickies on it. his tongue swept out, licking repeatedly over the sensitive spot, sucking and nibbling on the sensitive skin, teeth nipping and leaving dark marks.

he pressed open mouthed kisses that seemed scorching, while his hands dropped lower, peeling the satiny material off of your body, groaning when it peeled off to reveal your breasts, heaving with tension and arousal, nipples hardening as the cold air touched them.

"were gonna do something special baby" he said, sucking the skin of your neck in between his teeth, before pulling away with a smacking sound.

he walked backwards towards where there was a bottle of dom perigon in ice, popping the cork, letting it fizz down. he walked over to you, taking a dull sip of the liquid.

he motioned to the bed, and you followed silently, laying down, resting on your forearms.

he walked over to you, hands slipping to your tits, tugging on your nipples and running his thumb over them. he watched your breath hitch and your body quake as he played with your nipples, other hand reaching up to grab your cheeks and force your mouth open.

he kissed you harshly, lips closed to keep the champagne in, before his thumb and forefinger dug into your cheeks, forcing your mouth open.

you shuddered as he leaned over, breath fanning over your face as he let the golden liquid pour from his mouth into yours, warm and delicious as it overflowed from your mouth, dribbling down your chin.

you gasped as you swallowed the burning in your throat.

he pushed you gently, body laying against the linen. he pressed another searing kiss to your lips, biting at the plush bottom lip, sucking it in between his own.

he kissed you harder, yanking the rest of your dress off of your body, dropping it to the floor.

he leaned down, sucking hickeys onto every bare expanse of your chest, sucking dark marks, teeth nipping, breathing harshly, tongue licking over the expanse of skin.

he trailed lower, mouthing over your breasts, sucking on the nipple of one while his fingers toyed with the other, tongue flicking harshly and sucking harshly, feeling you arch into him. his tongue flicked wildly against the bud, before treating the other one the same, groping and grabbing till he felt they were marked enough.

he sunk lower, pressing kisses to your belly and sinking till the gap between your thighs,before reaching up again. you watched with bated breath as he grabbed the bottle again, tipping it over so it flowed into your belly and pooled into your belly button. he let his tongue dip in, sucking up the champagne, and making you moan at the sight.

he tipped it up towards your mouth again, letting you have a swig of champagne, licking up the beads that dripped down your chin.

"so fucking delicious, have to taste the rest of you" he murmured. "ma belle fille, mon amour" he whispered, leaning down to his thighs, pressing kisses to your thighs, all the way till your ankles, letting it rest on top of his shoulder as he leaned up.

he pressed kisses all the way till he reached your pussy, clad in black lacy panties. he inhaled the scent deeply, a sight that brought a sob to your throat.

"fuck please baby, I need your tongue in me" you sobbed, a strangled wail leaving your lips when his tongue sucked over the lady barrier through the arousal seeping out.

he licked and sucked till the material was drenched, fingers tracing up and down your thighs gently, making goosebumps erupt on your skin.

he hooked his fingers into your panties, tugging it down, leaving your pussy quivering when the cool air came into contact with your pussy.

charles reached for the bottle again, tipping the bottle just a little so it dripped a tiny sprinkle of champagne down your thighs. he licked it up, hands gripping into your thighs.

and then, his fingers were spreading you open, moaning as he saw your pussy lips struggle to seperate as your sticky arousal clung like a golden thread. he broke it with his fingers swirling it into his tongue, moaning at the taste.

"you taste sweeter than honey, bebe" he whispered, moaning into your pussy. his tongue licked up the expanse of your pussy, flicking erratically against your clit, licking all around the engorged, throbbing bud, before he began to suck on it with fervour. he bent your legs are an angle, so he had better access to your pussy, his head resting temporarily on your thigh, and drank up the sounds of you moaning and whimpering above him.

above him, you were moaning and whining his name, letting out a squeal when he started licking his initials onto your clit, tracing a curved c and an elongated l.

"please please please" you chanted, overcome with pleasure.

his finger slipped into your fluttering hole, thumb helping as he sucked on your clit, the overwhelming sensations sending you ricocheting towards a high.

"baby baby please im gonna fucking cum" you screamed, hips bucking wildly against his mouth as he continued to suck and lick at your pussy.

and just as you thought the pleasure was at its peak, he began to shake his head in your pussy, the erratic movement bringing an even more intense onslaught of pleasure onto your pussy. "oh fuck charles" you screamed, thighs quaking and head falling back in pleasure as you came violently, cum squirting from your pussy that he lapped up like amortentia.

but to your pleasure, he didn't stop there. he kept sucking, with more vigour and more intensity, slurping from your pussy like it was the most delicious thing in the world, moaning and groaning into your clit, sloppy and messy but oh how fucking good it felt

"cum for me, let me taste you again mon gagnant" (my winner) he murmured, the vibrations sending you over the edge again.

you came with a cry against tears dripping against you cheek.

panting, charles crawled his way back up your body, kissing your lips and gently wiping away the tears, pressing saccharine sweet kisses to your red cheeks, tracing the puff of the muscle with his pinky and pressing kisses to every corner of your face as you calmed down, whispering sweet whispers of "my sweet girl, my angel, my baby, my heart" like a mantra in french.

"baby please I need your cock" you sobbed, hands gripping onto his back, wrapping around his neck, nose reddening and eyes teary as you looked at him.

"you want my cock, mon coeur?" he cooked, voice syrupy sweet and sticky, tracing soothing circles on your thigh.

you only blubbered a yes in response, watching him cup his cock, getting it ready for your throbbing pussy as he spread his pre cum around it, body still pressed warmly against yours, pressing sweet kisses to your shoulders.

he lined up with your entrance, watching as you let out a shaky breath, eyes falling shut, as you clenched in anticipation. "my sweet angel drove so spectacularly, she deserves the world, doesn't she?" he cooed again, pushing a sweaty strand of hair away from your face.

"please baby, i think I do" you whined, swollen lips curling into a pout. "of course you do, mon chat" he murmured, lips pressed to your hairline, before slowly, in a single thrust, he had slotted himself inside you.

you gasped, gummy walls stretching to accomodate his cock. "fuck!" you whined, back arching off of the bed to meet his chest.

fuck, mon coeur, tellement serre" he groaned (so tight), hand interlocking with your own, fingers interlacing, the feeling adding such an addictive homeliness to the passinate moment.

his hips thrusted slowly, steadily, deeply, hitting spots that had you seeing stars. your hands clung to his back, nails raking down, tearing the skin, and you hear him hiss and moan at the sensation, hand squeezing you're tighter.

"I love you!" you sobbed out, when he raised your hips to grab onto your leg, pushing it away towards your head, and wrapping the other one around his waist, the new angle allowing him to fuck you even deeper into the mattress. his fingers dropped to your clit again, circling, rubbing roughly, even pinching softly enough to leave your body jolting, lips dropping back to your nipples to suck on them.

"je t'aime ma jolie" he moaned out, head dropping into the crook of your neck as his thrusts increased in pace, and the room echoed with the lewd squelches, groans and moans, pants and whines, as you clung to him tighter.

"charles m gonna cum" you whined, eyes rolling to the back of your head as charles sunk his teeth into the juncture between your neck and shoulder.

"cum for me" he growled, and with a cry, you came undone for the third time that night. thighs shaking, breath quaking, your squirted over his cock, soaking the bedding and his thighs as it dripped everywhere, and the mere sight was enough to make charles cum, shooting his cum into your, watching it drip out of your pussy.

panting, he rolled off of you, pulling you into his chest as you both lay on the bed, completely winded and tuckered out.

your chest heaved and breath came out laboured as you came down from your high. charles peppered kisses on your face, kissing your nose, chin, cheeks, lips, forehead and your eyes softly, drawing soothing circles over your heart to help you calm down.

"did so good for me, ma cherie" he cooed, syrupy and sweet like honey. "I'll be right back amour" he said, pressing a kiss to your hairline, to disappear into the bathroom.

you heard the tap running and he returned with a warm soaked towel, cleaning up between your thighs and all the way up your body, letting you cool down after the passionate session. he peppered kisses to every spot he cleaned, pulling your hair into a delicate ponytail.

he cleaned himself up and joined you in bed again, holding up your back as he made you take small sips of cold water, ordering room service for a good pasta for you two, and a chocolate mousse.

"I love you so much" you mumbled, pressing a kiss to his chest. "i love you more" he said, a soft smile on his face.

"im so lucky to have you in my life" he confessed, taking in your sleepy face and the slow pattern of your breathing. "you make everyday a hundred times more beautiful, when I'm with you, the sun moon and stars don't compare" he continued his poetic confession.

"you make me feel like the luckiest woman in the world by letting me love you" you said,voice cracking as you looked at his form, so beautiful, so sweet, so loving.

your peaceful moment of tranquility was broken by a series frantic beeps from both your phones.

raising an eyebrow, you let your head drop to charles' chest while he reached for your phone.

his eyes widened, fear creeping into them as he sat up abruptly.

"fuck" he cursed, carding a hand through his hair, turning to look at you, an odd look of fear in his face.

"what's wrong?" you asked, dread rising in your chest like an ice cold steam, fearing the very worst.

in response he just showed you his phone.

there, on instagram and twitter, were a series of dark, blurry, pixellated picture of a man and woman in a club, hands all on each other, and a very telling video of the woman grinding her body seductively against the man.

you and charles.

*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

a/n : part two!! might make a part three or might just....leave it here 👀 as always likes comments reblogs opinions are appreciated!! always down to make new friends and do let me know what you think! happy reading and much love always 🩷

TAGS

charles :@chanshintien @eternalharry @janeholt3 @magicalcowboyarbiter @oneafterdark @leclerc13 @crlsummer @electrobutterfly @superlegend216 (f1) @formula1mount @f1lov3r @livsters @inkfablesandstories @ivegotparticulartaste (all f1) @moon-enthusiast (all f1 @ssararuffoni @dark-night-sky-99

also tagging those who responded to this series!

@tempo-rary-fix @marymustdie @p4st3lst4rs @thesstuff @lauralarsen @notleclerc @dreamcarsound @dhe3read3 @urfavnoirette

437 notes · View notes

mamayan · 8 months

Note

I’m 26 just shy as fuck with using my blog for asks, but I will literally owe you my life for Sanemi yobai if you ever feel like doing it.

I don’t need your life nonnie, fear not! I will be taking your soul though Your ask will be answered! Except, Sanemi is such a stubborn baby, and due to this, his potential sweetheart will be the one who needs to initiate… deeper relations.

★彡Yobai☆彡

Sanemi Shinazugawa x Fem! Reader

Yobai “Night Crawling”

The pre-Meiji Era practice of slipping into a consenting woman’s room at night for sexual relations or even courtship.

Synopsis: Your sweetheart, Sanemi, won’t open his heart further out of fear for your safety. His efforts to protect you ultimately pushing you away. You set the record straight.

CW: NSFW • FLUFF • Virgin! Sanemi • Creampie • Oral (F)

Read Kyojuro Rengoku’s Yobai story here!

The Shinazugawa estate lays ahead in the distance, the night nearly swallowing it within it’s starless sky. You raise your chilled fingers to your lips to blow quickly dissipating warmth, feet shuffling through the ankle deep snow. The streets are silent, even the wind still. The world a mixture of purity and loneliness around you. You glance around, doors tightly shut, the inhabitants likely all asleep. Leaving you utterly alone with only a stubborn resolve clenched in your heart.

“You need to leave.”

“Sanemi—,”

“Please…” how could you do anything else? His hands shaking as he fists them at his side, his head turned as if even looking at you would crack his resolve. He wouldn’t let you speak the words, the sentence you’ve both been aching to utter to one another for months now.

I love you.

It was left unsaid. How could you not feel defeated? You regretted walking away, not turning around and grabbing him, screaming to the world how you truly felt. That the big bad Hashira, the respected Wind Pillar, Sanemi Shinazugawa, held your heart in it’s entirety. You’ve watched and waited for months, never pushing, always resilient, but it was getting you nowhere. If his own younger brother couldn’t reach him, what were you capable of? What did you have that could crack his resolve, make him give in, to be happy for once. Selfish. Even just a little.

You stare up at the wide gates, the entrance to his home tightly closed. You were no demon slayer, no professional, but you’d scraped your knees enough as a child to handle scaling his walls with the help of a nearby tree.

Your heart beat a mile a minute, palms sweaty despite the freezing cold, as you slowly made your way to his front door.

You sent a silent prayer it was unlocked like you assumed.

It was. The doors push open and you’re quick to slip inside the warm walls and push the cold back out. It’s still and quiet inside as well, but it was the middle of the night and you knew Sanemi kept himself on a strict routine. You briefly frown, the thought of him all alone within such a large house. Your resolve further solidifies, your own anxiety and fear nothing to compared to his suffering and pain. You didn’t foolishly believe you’d cure anything, your presence wouldn’t return anyone lost, but if he could just live for himself… even just a little, didn’t that count for something? You vowed you’d do all within your power to make him happy.

You slip your shoes shoes off, not wishing to track the soaked snow ridden things onto the clean floors.

Softly padding down the hall, you used your memory to find his room. Only once coming close to the space, a moment he’d smashed with his own hands, when you’d nearly kissed that day.

It didn’t matter. Not tonight.

He’d either fully reject you, tell you he doesn’t want you, and nothing about safety or whatever excuse he’s dared to already use. He’d reject you or… he’d take you.

You knew the secret rendezvous lovers this day and age participated in. Night crawling a popular and relatively safe way to find compatible marriage partners without harming reputation.

Though… you grimace, reminded how it’s normally the man’s position to initiate…

You shake it off. Sanemi not the sort of man to act on such desires. His self control nearly masochistic.

Creeping closer, your hand softly touches the shoji door separating his sleep space. It opened silently, your relief palpable as you run over the scenario you’ve created in your mind for how this might play out. His reactions and words already mapped so you can reply and retort strongly to make your case.

Except your mind goes completely blank when you fully open the door only to be greeted with a full katana only an inch from your face.

“Hck!” It’s a choked noise which escapes you, your quick retreat causing you to land on your bottom as you look up into the intense dark amethyst gaze of a scared white haired man. His hair more tousled and fluffy than usual, his loose yukata hardly on his imposing frame, more skin exposed than covered.

His brows furrow, a twitch to his eye as veins visibly throb around his temple.

“You better have a damn good reason,” his irritation clearly displayed as he glares down at you. “For showing up in the middle of the night, in winter for fucks sake!” His sword is sheathed and set aside as he stomps towards you, wrapping a large palm around your bicep and pulling you rather gently to your feet. His threatening display and looming figure over you juxtaposed to his soft handling of your body.

Strike one.

“I love you.” His eyes can’t widen any further.

“Sanemi, I love you, I’ve loved you for—,” he cuts you off. Stubborn man he is.

“Stop! You don’t know what you’re saying, you need to go home.” His face turns away from you, but the moonlight shining from the hall onto you both illuminates the pink tint his skin has taken. He’s furiously blushing.

Strike two.

“I know exactly what I’m saying. I love you Sanemi Shinazugawa, I want to be yours.”

He’s nearly choking at your words, looking visibly startled and insulted.

“Do you even know what you’re saying idiot?!” He’s making himself angrier, believing you don’t truly understand what you’re implying. You stand unwavering before him though.

The tall young man at a loss of how to handle this entire situation delicately. He couldn’t toss you out, it’s the middle of winter, and you lived no where close to him. How you even made it here so thinly dressed causes another vein to nearly burst at your carelessness.

“I’m going to get some blankets, you can stay on the other side of the house tonight—“

“No!” The furrow of your brows and cute pouty display of stomping your foot had him pausing, flushing even deeper and becoming even more furious if possible.

“Hah?” If his face could twist any further, you’d wonder if he sucked on a lemon.

“I want to sleep with you.”

“W-what?” For all he’s worth, Sanemi is not an experienced man. No, in the end, he’s still a hot blooded young man, and he’s easy prey to the charms of the woman he loves claiming to want to share his bed.

Strike three.

You didn’t hesitate anymore. Despite Sanemi being bigger and physically much more powerful than you, he let himself be manhandled by you. Your soft hands touching his bare chest enough to make him tremble, so he was truly unable to fight as you pushed him further into his own room and shove him down onto his bed.

He’s dumbfounded, looking up at you now, your pretty face set serious as you start fumbling with your clothes.

He reacts late, realizing you’re stripping. For him. In his room. In his fucking bed.

His voice is weak, pathetic really.

“S-stop, please,” he has to stop just to swallow, breathing shallow as your smooth skin becomes bare for his eyes. He can only wet his dry lips as you let your robes slip, his room illuminated from the hall, your curves nearly all visible. A thin band of fabric over your chest.

“We-no, w-wait—,” really, it’s got none of his usual gusto behind it. You’re made to move on him, and he acts as helpless as kitten as you straddle him, pressing yourself so close he’s reeling with panic and arousal. Hands twitching just before your waist, unsure if he wants to give in and pull you closer or stop this madness like he should.

You don’t let him debate further. Hands cupping his scared cheeks, before you lean in to press your lips against his.

The kiss is stiff, only you kissing him as he sits below you frozen.

It’s not until you tentatively let your tongue slip out to lick the seam of his lips that he snaps.

You’re flipped, landing cushioned by the bed beneath you, as Sanemi stares down at you. Wide eyes staring at you for only a moment before he’s crashing his lips against your own passionately now. Softening and molding them to you, so needy and sweet you open your mouth, his tongue entering and warming your body up as your arousal spikes.

His form is still shaking, muscles flexing and seeming strained as he kisses you like he’ll never get the chance again. He seems to melt as you wrap your arms around around his neck, pulling him closer as he drops to his elbows, letting a little weight rest on you. He tastes sweet, you can’t help but note. Nearly as sweet as he smells.

You’re both forced to break for air, panting as you look into his half lidded gaze, his facial expression more lax.

“I love you,” you whisper it against his lips, his reaction visceral as he finally digs his hands into you, gripping your hips tight as he groans. You giggle, letting your own hands wander as he bows his head to rest on your soft chest. You’re reminded of a cat as he lets his cheek rub against your breast, his eyes closed as he breathes you in.

He lifts, kissing your covered chest, as he meets your eyes. They’re soft and desperate all at once, your heart constricting as he kisses your lips so softly.

“I love you too,” it’s hardly audible but you swoon, reconnecting your lips and letting your thighs spread.

He does it unconsciously, digs his knees into the bed and pushes your legs up even further to slot himself perfectly against you. You just feel so good, soft warm beneath him as he squeezes and feels all of you for once.

Your cool hands work into his robe, pushing the fabric easily off his chest and shoulders, and he’s happy to allow you to admire his physique. Sliding his arms out of his sleeves and sitting up so you can feel more of him, down the rough panes of his chest to his abs, and the light trail of hair going from his navel down.

“Hmph,” his smirk is mouth watering, “see something you like?” It only brings a bigger smile to your lips, giggling as you pull him back to your lips, moaning into his mouth when his own hands begin to tug on the covering over your chest, and you happily lift to allow him to remove it.

He breaks the kiss to look at you, embarrassed by how his mouth waters and cock aches as he takes you in. He’s almost hesitant, despite all your bold proclamations, he resembles more of a young maiden than you for a moment.

“Is it alright…?”

“Sanemi, please,” it’s your soft little whine that makes him groan, happily to indulge as he gropes at your chest and lowers his head to lick and suck.

His gentle, so feather light in touch, worried about hurting you or scaring you. You, showing up to his room like a dream, his wildest fantasies playing out and making him scalding hot. It’s when your fingers thread through his hair that he nips at your areola, licking when you jolt and cry out in apology before he returns the same treatment to it’s twin.

“Sanemi!” Your moan is intoxicating, and he can’t help how he grinds against you, but still too focused on touching you to rush anything.

“So fucking soft…” he’s muttering under his breath, eyes wild as he looks at your panting pretty image.

“Please, touch more…?” It’s all the confirmation he needs, one hand traveling from your chest down your stomach, dipping into your soaked core.

“You’re wet,” he chuckles, more amazed than anything else because he did this, made you look like this. He’s not mean though, sinking a finger inside you as you arch your back and moan for him. His gaze trained on how your small hole stretches so nicely, becoming even wetter as he moves and rubs inside you.

You take a second to adjust as well, his hand on your breast leaving in favor of shoving your knee up to your chest so he can truly watch.

“This position… wait your face, oh!” He’s smiling but you can’t see, not as he removes his fingers to lick up your dripping arousal. You dig your fingers back into his tresses, making him moan as he begins to really dig into your pussy with conviction. Letting his nose grind into your clit as he sticks his tongue inside and swallows you, your hips unable to stop how they twitch and squirm.

“Sanemi I think I’m gonna—,”

Your pitched voice has his fingers digging into the plush of your thighs.

“Fuck, go ahead baby, let me taste you.” His words coupled with his renewed vigor to feast on you, has you breaking for him. Crying out and tugging on his hair as you shake and moan.

He doesn’t let a drop go to waste, nearly overstimulating you accidentally as you huff and beg for him to fuck you.

“What was that?” His tone is teasing, grin feral as he looks down at you with those pointed cat eyes. You kindly indulge his ego though, reaching out to him with watery eyes, saccharine tone making him puff up. “Please…” you draw cutely.

“Fuck me already you idiot,” you laugh, breaking the mood just a bit as he rolls his eyes, shoulders dropping and relaxing as he covers you again, now fully naked beneath him as he works to throw his yukata to the side, focusing on keeping you distracted as he grips his cock tightly in his hand.

“Little minx, look at you,” his demeanor is so different like this, melting with kindness and compassion as he kisses you. The taste of yourself combined with his sweetness making you wrap your legs around his waist, trying to pull him closer.

“Eager?” You nearly revoke your statement of kindness at his cocky attitude, but you tense up as bit as he allows the head of his cock to drag through your folds. Wetting himself with your arousal.

You try to look down, but his hand catches your jaw and redirects your attention with another deep and sloppy kiss.

You break away when he begins to push in, a bit panicked as you finally look down to see he’s trying to push that into you.

“Sanemi, that isn’t going to—,” he kisses you again, mumbling against your lips and pushing you to lie back, “Shh… you’ll relax for me, won’t you flower?” It’s a cliche nickname, but from his lips it’s nothing if not perfect as you try to obey.

You didn’t need to get cold feet now, even if he was enormous and your gut churned in anxiety, he was yours wasn’t he? The thought calmed you, his lips and gentle touch keeping you pliant as he begins to sink into you.

His flushed appearance doesn’t help hide it, but he’s on the verge of panic himself.

Pushing into your tight heat has his toes curling, teeth grit for concentration and control, and his breathing so similar to training it would be impossible to tell the difference.

You feel too good, feel so perfect, gooey walls squeezing his cock and turning his head mushy, unable to really think as he sinks a little deeper.

He’s trying to be gentle, give you time to adjust because he’s not ignorant of his size. Your cute reaction certainly boosting his ego plenty, but he’s cognizant watching you, checking for any sign of real distress.

“Sanemi, I’m so full…,” but he’s still just an inexperienced young man, so hearing you moan like that? His hips jerked and he shoved himself completely inside, sharp hiss of pleasure and wide eyes growing terrified as you cry out.

“Shit, sorry, sorry, are you okay? Should I stop?”

“No, don’t stop!” It’d be worse to start all over again, you knew.

He holds you close as you pant, kissing your face, hair line, nose, and lips to keep you distracted. His thick cock filling you so much, stretching your walls and hitting so deep inside, you briefly wonder if sex is even going to work.

Until you relax. Your body allowing him shockingly deeper and you moan because it feels good now, the stretch and feeling him so close to you.

“C-can I…?” He’s gone too, looking ruined and sweaty, so red it’s adorable, despite his size and intimidating appearance. You nod, your soft noises encouraging as he pulls out, slowing pushing back into you.

“Fuck,” he’s gripping you close, leaning on his elbows again so he can bury his face in your neck. Your cute expression of pleasure too much for him to look at without finishing too quickly.

He has to bite his tongue not cum.

His hips working awkwardly inside you, unsure how deep to go or what makes you feel good as you pant and moan beneath him. You’re overwhelmed, certainly not in pain, but feeling so much of him had you choking. The man you love trying so hard to make you feel good and be gentle despite his soft whimpers and whines into your neck. Too embarrassed to show his face anymore.

“I love you—“ you hiss, his cock sinking hard and deep into you at the confession as he shudders against you.

“Don’t say that, fuck,” his thrusts increase, a bit of sweat dripping onto you now, mixing with your own as you cling to him.

“Coming into my home,” he’s getting more aggressive, one of his hands moving down between you two, rubbing at your clit as you clamp down and cry. Your wet eyes finally spilling over into tears. “You don’t get to cry,” he’s nearly on the verge of tears himself, “not when you offered yourself to me like this,” he can’t help watching your pussy take him, “no, you’re mine now, aren’t you?” His smile is wobbly, his own eyes a bit wet as he feels his end nearing.

You nod, unable to speak as your back arches and you come around him, throwing him over the edge as he throws his head back and fills you. His shout bleeding with pleasure.

He comes a ridiculous amount. Painting your insides and excessively flowing out of you despite his cock remaining inside. Each twitch felt as you milk him for all he’s worth.

He can only weakly collapse against you, dragging you to the side while still connected to hold you close as he buries his face in your chest.

You catch your breath together, no one speaking as you pet his soft hair and he listens to your heart.

You smile, letting sleep slowly take you as you thank Kyojuro’s younger brother for giving you such good relationship advice.

Though, you still had to wonder how the young Senjuro knew about yobai…

#lmao match maker Senjuro though #it’s now an ongoing joke #kimetsu no yaiba #kny Sanemi #sanemi shinaguzawa #Sanemi x reader #Sanemi x reader smut #sanemi smut #18+#request filled #kny Sanemi smut #virgin Sanemi #Sanemi Yobai #kny #kny x reader #he’s a damn virgin in my mind

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stealingyourbones · 1 year

Note

Hi! So I was into DP years ago, then earlier this year got into Batfam fics, then saw my first DC x DP crossover and just 💥

So now I’m on a new obsession that has me reading every one of your prompts and any stories that come from it and I just had this one flood my brain:

Presumed Alien Danny

So for [insert reason here] Danny has to flea Amity and the living world to stay in the Zone. He’s injured, and therefore forced to use the Fenton Specter Speeder, and flies it into the portal. Only, whether due to a malfunction, Clockwork, or something else, instead of the Ghost Zone, the Speeder gets spat out of a portal in the DC universe.

So, on the other side, the Watchtower gives an alert that an unknown energy is spiking nearby, and then a spaceship/pod looking thing comes flying out of a flash of green. It’s spinning out of control, and headed for a desert on Earth. A team is dispatched, I’m thinking Superman (alien), Green Lantern (alien law enforcement) and Batman (obvious. Kid bait).

So they get there within moments of the crash, find the thing totaled, Superman hears a strange, humming/thrumming accompanied by groans, and he cracks what’s left of it open to see this green-eyed, white-haired kid with very bad injuries and green blood covering what looks like it could have been some kind of space suit. He grabs the kid, gets him out, and Lantern makes a shield that contains the massive explosion that leaves the ship/pod nothing but charred bits lying scattered across the sand.

They get the clearly alien child to the watchtower for medical help, and though they heal very quickly they still need a lot of stitches, mainly because the first set melted and they had to use ones designed for metas with corrosive abilities.

Then, a day or so later, still healing but not in danger, the kid wakes up, stares wide-eyed at the people around him, and exclaims something I a strange language.

Yeah, definitely alien.

Danny wakes up, sees a bunch of weird, costumed people all around him, and tries to ask what the heck is going on. They all stare in confusion. One guys, who’s glowing green but a different shade, had a ring that starts speaking in a different language.

So, I figure, in an alternate dimension, the English language developed differently, so Danny’s English and the DCU’s English aren’t the same. Hence more Misunderstandings.

Also, if Connor is in this, it’s not until after Danny’s been found. 😎

So Danny gets introduced via the Green Guys magic translating ring, finds out they think he’s an alien, thinks he’s still in his world, where the Anti-Ecto Acts are a thing, and goes with it. They introduce him to the younger hero’s his age, and once he’s better they set him up in their base to live, since obviously he can’t stay on the watchtower or blend in. A few weeks in is enough for Danny to get confused by all the differences and look into it, and realize he’s in a new dimension. But he’s already knee-deep in this, so he just doesn’t ever mention it, and just refers to his ‘home planet’ as Amity.

Meanwhile, the alien kid, Danny, seems to be adjusting well, if a bit confused by the strangest things at times. The planet he mentioned as home was listed by the Lantern Corps as one destroyed by a black hole a few days before Danny’s pod showed up, so they avoid asking about the clearly painful and traumatizing experience. Superman, upon learning about the boys skill set, takes him under his wing.

TLDR-

Through a series of misunderstandings and coincidences Danny is premised to be an alien child by the Justice League and taken in as Superman’s apprentice/son. He does not correct this assumption, either ever or until he is outed by something/one else.

homie I am in love with this idea. Presumed Alien Danny makes me so happy.

I will like to add: The not-quite-english that Danny is speaking is akin to old English.

#Presumed Alien Danny #danny phantom #dp x dc #dc comics #writing prompts #dpxdc #dp x dc prompt #bones replies #norasalina

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ceruleancattail · 1 year

Note

HELLOOO CONGRATS ON 700!!! as for the event... u get to choose between 3 of these challenges (bc I couldn't choose lmao)

"Azul! I trusted you!" (yandere)

"Jade... what have you done?" (yandere)

"Please let me go...Floyd." (yandere)

ABYWAYS HAVE FUN AND CHOOSE WHICHEVER U VIBE WITH AND FEEL LIKE DOING AND AGAIN CONGRATS ON 700!!!!!

All you could see was blue.

Submerged completely, the cold biting into your skin. Enclosed within four panels of glass, you were quite literally imprisoned. Fingers trailing over the glass, your palm closes into a fist, clenching it in frustration.

Raising a hand, you bring it down onto the glass, hoping against hope to see the spidery starts of cracks, some sort of weakness in this prison of yours.

Nothing. It only worsened the throbbing pain biting at your knuckles. Throwing your hands up in frustration, all you could do was sink back down. Catching a glimpse of your lower half, you bit back a groan.

Where your legs would normally be, a fish’s tail was there instead. Scales shimmering, fins spread out, gracefully flowing with every breath you took. Gills on either side of your cheeks, filtering the air from within. Bubbles form, puffy little shapes drifting upwards, towards the surface.

At least something’s free in this cage.

Your walls shake slightly. The imprint of a hand, pressed tightly against the glass. You rush over, placing your hand over it. Eyes wide open, pounding desperately against the walls. Your mouth moves in a silent plea.

“Help.”

“Oya, oya, what’s this?”

A velvety voice, crooning into your ears. Dripping with malice, hissing and spitting. Mismatched eyes gleamed with cruel amusement as they watch your every movement.

Jade Leech. Your upperclassman. He should be worried about you, right? Maybe even help you get or of this cage…

He tilts his head, a curious gesture. Walking around the tank slowly, admiring every inch of you. Jade seemed in no hurry to help you out. You heart sank with every step he took.

“Jade… what have you done?”

He feigns ignorance, before turning behind him, beckoning someone closer.

“Azul, you’ve really outdone yourself this time.”

You felt yourself freeze, blood growing ice cold.

A prideful laugh, from someone rather satisfied with himself. A figure emerges from the darkness, curls of grey sliding down his scalp, perfectly framing his face within. He strolls right up to the tank, a smug smirk playing on his lips.

Azul Ashengrotto, the Head of Octavinelle himself. He presses his palm against the glass himself, breath slightly fogging it up. A misty patch of white, pressing against the wall of the tank. He watches you almost gleefully, a sparkle in those grey eyes of his.

“Of course! The potion was my magnum opus, after all. I’m glad that prefect drank it all~”

Drank it all? Your mind flashes back to the previous day. A vague memory of Azul offering you a drink, asking for your thoughts on Mostro Lounge’s newest recipe. How he seemed so thrilled when you chugged it all down, clasping your hands in his.

Balling your hand into a fist, you trash against the walls once more, startling the two. Throwing your tail against the glass, making your tank shudder with every syllable.

“Azul! I trusted you!”

Rapping the tank sharply with his knuckles, Azul gives you a small smile. A gentle, horribly patronising expression. You scowl, before slinking off to the back of the tank, far as possible from the two.

Ripples creep across the surface of the tank, the dull splash of something entering the water. Whipping around, your shoulders tense, fight or flight instincts going into overdrive. Heart pounding wildly, throwing itself against your rib cage rapidly.

Scaly arms wrap around your waist, webbed fingers pressing deep into your flesh. Upon ensuring a secure hold across your body, they squeeze as tightly as possible, pulling you closer into them.

You gasp, gagging from the pressure. A shudder, as a body slides against yours, fitting itself against your back. You could feel a tremble, someone laughing, that movement flowing through your skin.

“Shrimpy~ You’re so cute like this!”

A clawed finger dragged across your chin, pressing into you ever so slightly. A tail wraps across yours, intertwining like the fingers of lovers.

An affectionate gesture… if he wasn’t literally squeezing the living daylights out of you. Between sobs, you manage to choke out a plea.

Desperate clawing at Floyd’s back, begging him with tears brimming in your eyes.

“Please let me go… Floyd.”

He hums to himself, before spinning you around, a torrent of bubbles surrounding your feeble form. Floyd’s claws press deeper, blood spilling out in clouds of crimson, trailing off in the water.

“What if I don’t want to, Shrimpy? You can’t do anything about it~”

He drawls, a certain childish quality in it. Mocking you, voice dripping with sadistic glee.

“Just stay here with us.

His fingers flick at your gills, chuckling darkly.

You don’t have a choice, either way.”

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happyhauntt · 2 months

Text

and i am coming home to you — nikolai lantsov.

series masterlist | writing masterlist | askbox

─── summary: there are some things that cannot be saved. nikolai swears she won't be one of them.

─── pairing: nikolai lantsov & anya kamenev (original character.)

─── warnings: serious angst, pre-established relationship, descriptions of injuries, blood and torture, oc was held as a prisoner of war, allusions to ravka's war with shu han, suicidal thoughts if you squint. trauma. fluff & romance but in an angsty way. nikolai is so in love and so am i.

─── word count: 2.5k.

There’s a soft, dusky twilight bleeding in through the window. The last few seconds before the sun goes down, and the shadows stretch like yearning fingers out of all the cracks and crevices.

Anya used to love the sunset. Used to lay in her bedroll beneath the trees and wait for the world to go quiet. All the colour would bleed away until the blue and black and stars were the only witnesses left.

She loved the sunset until one day, the darkness came and never left. It settled over her like a second skin, and that once-familiar comfort became something she feared she’d never shake off. She feared she would die there, in the dark.

Once or twice, she even wished for it.

The dark comes calling again, now. It no longer feels like an old friend. The light fades from the window, cloaking the cabin in a strange half-dark. The waves crashing against the sides of the ship are a dull roar in the back of her mind. An unwelcome accompaniment to the rest of her terrible thoughts. Her head aches. Her skin burns.

He saved her, but what was left of her to save? What is left of her now but a ghost, a corpse, a pile of skin and bones and blood that can do nothing else but scream and scream and scream?

That's what it feels like. Her body. Her heart. Little more than a carcass left to rot, picked over by crows.

She would love him if she could. A fierceness rests between her lungs, the single spark of life left within her after they stripped her of the rest. This, she'd cradled close, clutched between gnarled, bloody fingers. This is his. This, they couldn't tear from her if they tried.

And they had tried.

The bed rocks beneath her. After so long trapped in a dingy cell, the mattress should feel like the height of luxury, stuffed with goose feathers and lined with linen, but it all feels like stone. She tastes blood in her mouth, and she doesn’t know if it’s her own. The silk sheets ghost over her flesh, feeling sharp as razor blades.

Anya never learned to love her cage, but she doesn’t trust freedom, either. Not yet.

It's not that he's the reason she lived. He isn't her reason to keep breathing. Anya Kamenev is her father's daughter, and has endured untold horrors, and if there is one certainty in the world, it is that she is not weak. She survived for herself, for her parents, for her country. She wanted to be home again. The trees blossoming in the summertime, fresh ripe fruit on her tongue, winter air that smells like snow.

She wouldn't die like this. Not at their hands. Anya would go quietly in her bed at a ripe old age, surrounded by people who loved her. Or she'd go to her knees on a battlefield, still screaming as the bullets rip her wide open, and with her last breath, she'd take them down too.

Not like this. Not in a dark laboratory, or a torture chamber. Not at their hands. Anya is stubborn. She'd bleed green if someone told her she was wrong. She'd make it true.

But he loves her. He loves her, and that is everything. He’d appeared before her like a vision sent by the Saints, like something holy in a place she knows no god would ever touch. Like a miracle. On the bad days, his love is blossom trees and fresh fruit and winter air combined. He has held her hand through darkness, guided her through battle, and even when he left for his apprenticeship, he'd kissed her like it was a promise.

They'd taken everything else. Broken her bones and slashed her skin. Wrought her apart to scratch at her soul. She'll bear the scars for the rest of her life, long after the wounds are healed. Her body will never be the same. Her mind may never recover.

But this wasn't hers to give up. This is his. Loving him had been a candle in the darkness. A reminder that she was human still. A reminder that even in the blackest night, dawn will come again.

But now, lying alone in his bed in a dim cabin, Anya grows restless. The mind is a strange thing, and something about this safety feels foreign to her. There are voices in the walls. The shadows have eyes. The ship lurches in the waves and she swears there is a hand right there, reaching out—

She's on her feet before she realises what she's doing. She never was a girl built to run — her instinct has always been to stay, to fight — but this is different, and blood doesn’t always feel like blood when you touch it.

Her knee buckles beneath her the moment she puts weight on it. A strangled shriek escapes her lips as pain streaks through her like lightning. The cabin door slams open, and Nikolai appears. His tailored-red hair glows in the candlelight, a halo of bronze. His face is still different, crooked nose and freckles and green eyes, but he will never be unfamiliar to her.

He crosses the room in two strides and falls to his knees beside Anya. His teal overcoat has been abandoned, and what remains is a loose white shirt, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, still speckled with her blood. Her stomach twists at the sight of it as his hands find her shoulders. Something solid, finally; her guiding light once more.

The chill that had stolen over her body vanishes where he touches her, and Anya leans into him heavily, her face pressed into the warmth of his shoulder. An agonising moan rises up within her, but she holds her breath. She bites her tongue so hard it bleeds.

"You shouldn't be up, love." His voice is still the same soothing cadence in her ear. One hand brushes through ragged, tangled girls. It seems someone tried to brush her hair while she was unconscious; bathed the worst of the blood away, changed her into fresh clothes, but the scent of iron still lingers on her skin. His fingers catch in a knot, but the sharp spike of pain on her scalp goes unnoticed. The rest of her is screaming too loudly.

"I cannot be in that bed any longer." Anya shakes her head, once, and breathes in the salt-and-cedar scent of him. Hands outstretched, clawing blindly, she grasps him tightly and swears she'll never let go again. "I cannot be here."

How long had the Shu held her? How many days have passed since they killed the last member of her unit, since his cries grew too quiet and she'd been left alone with her worst nightmares? Had anyone notified her parents? What will they say, when they learn the truth? When they discover their worst fear has come to pass, and their darling daughter was tortured for being Grisha?

"You cannot be anywhere else, Nastya," says Nikolai. He sounds like aching. His lips brush against her temple as he speaks, voice soft as silk. His hands are gentle, too, as he scoops her up from the floor and settles her back onto the bed. She holds herself stiffly, choking back another scream as her knee jostles and jerks.

He winces as if every choked-off cry is a blade through his heart. He murmurs sweet apologies as he readjusts the pillows and perches on the bed beside her, close enough to touch, wary of disturbing her leg any further. His hands linger on hers. The tips of his fingers trace light patterns over the inside of her wrist.

For a moment, nothing has changed.

"Do you need anything, Captain?" The voice in the doorway is a little startling, and for a second Anya is back in that cell. She stiffens as the woman watches them both, a soft frown toying at her mouth. Golden eyes shine with pity.

Nikolai rolls his lips together for a moment. "Perhaps some water, please, Tamar." The woman nods, and tugs the door closed behind her as she departs, leaving the pair wrapped in stony silence.

Nikolai's eyes trail over Anya, searching, inspecting her injuries as if committing every scar to memory. He cannot count how many times he has done this since he found her. Sitting on the bed just like this, close enough to feel the warmth of her, counting each breath as if they might be her last. His eyes harden at the bruises on her throat, the gash across her cheek. Sweeping lower, his gaze settles on her knee again. He swallows roughly. Darkness sweeps over him like a burial shroud.

The skin of Anya's leg is mottled, black and yellow and purple, a medley of half-healed bruises intermingled with fresh ones. They hurt her. They broke her. And for the first time since he left Ravka, anticipating a bright and shining future filled with adventure, Nikolai is drowning in regret.

"Tolya did his best, but he's not a healer." His throat feels tight, like there's smoke in his lungs. Her skin is littered with newly-pink scars and stitched-up wounds. Her leg is the worst of it. Nikolai doesn't recall seeing injuries like this, even in the army. "We'll get you healers when we dock. The best healers. They'll be able to help with the rest of it. They'll be able to—"

"Fix me?" Anya sounds hollow. His eyes snap to hers, and he finds someone staring back at him, but it isn't Anya. It isn't the girl he fell in love with. Somewhere within, she might be hiding, but here and now, he's faced with a ghost. "I lost count of how many times they broke it. Sometimes they'd drag a healer in to mend the bone, and then... snap. Other times they'd just leave it. There are some things that can't be fixed if you break them enough."

A rough shake of his head. His heart sits like lead in his chest. "We'll fix it. You'll be good as new in no time, Nastya, I promise you."

Silence falls over them for a moment, filled with nothing but crashing waves and crackling candles. His fingers keep drawing circles over her wrist, and her pulse flutters gently beneath his touch. Her hands remain in her lap, pale and thin.

"How long was I gone?"

He doesn't need to ask what she means by that. His heart squeezes. "Six weeks, we think. They reported you missing-in-action when your unit didn't reach the checkpoint."

Nausea rises like a tidal wave in Anya’s throat. Six weeks? Every horrible moment had felt like an eternity, and yet she never believed, never could have guessed it had been that long.

"Sturmhond came to find me. Why?"

An old fury lashes through him, one that had only settled when he laid eyes on her, half-dead in that dingy cell. Fingers curl into trembling fists as that anger rises again, unbidden, but not at her. Never at her. His jaw ticks at the memory. "Command thought attempting a rescue would be too... risky." He spits the word through gritted teeth. The Saints only know what he’ll do the moment he gets his hands on the First Army General responsible for that decision. "They couldn't prove you were in Shu Han, and crossing the border to rescue you would have risked an international incident."

A necessary sacrifice. Collateral damage. A most unfortunate loss. That's what the bulletin had read, when he finally received it. Sturmhond kept up-to-date on Ravka, its military engagements, its economy. When he'd docked in Os Kervo eleven days ago and sent the twins out for supplies and information, the last thing he expected to hear was that a scouting group had gone missing near the Shu Han border.

His last correspondence with Anya had mentioned that she was being deployed there, that she'd been tasked with leading a reconnaissance mission with the aim of finding new ways around the Fold. It had only taken a little digging to discover the names of the personnel who'd gone missing.

He sees Lieutenant Colonel Anya Kamenev: MISSING IN ACTION every time he closes his eyes. It might be seared onto his brain forever.

Anya’s eyes fall closed. Her jaw is tight. With pain or anger, he cannot tell. It was a sound tactical decision, she thinks. She cannot blame them for that. She might even have made the same call.

But her leg screams at her. Nikolai's hand squeezes her own. Your country abandoned you. The words ring through her mind like a death knell.

"You disagreed with their decision?"

That familiar crooked grin slips over his face. He almost looks like a boy again, and not the man who loves her, made world-weary by the things he’s seen. They could be home again. It almost makes her cry. "Ravka was concerned about tensions with Shu Han. Nikolai Lantsov was unable to risk an international incident. Sturmhond had no such concerns."

A ghost of a smile. His heart twinges at the sight of it. "Your letters never mentioned why you chose the name Sturmhond."

"I'll tell you some other time, darling. It's quite the tale." He leans and kisses her forehead, lingering a few long moments just to breathe her in, feel the warmth of her skin beneath his lips.

She'd been so pale when he found her. So cold. He thought he'd been too late. Every moment of the past eleven days had been agony as they docked in Shu Han and scouted out any scrap of intel they could find about Ravkan prisoners of war.

"We'll dock soon. I sent word ahead to the generals, to let them know you've been liberated. I'll take you home."

Home. A long journey around the Fold, most likely through Fjerdan territory, and then a trek up to Balakirev, and yet— A whimper escapes, almost too quiet to hear. Home. She thought she'd never see it again.

"They'll want to question me, though." The thought of interviews, of recounting every detail of her torture, of having to admit that she's Grisha, that they killed the rest of her unit but spared her for experimentation, it all makes her sick.

Nikolai shakes his head. His eyes are steel. "If they want to try, they'll have to go through me. Now sleep, love. Rest. I'll be right here."

When sleep comes for her, finally, it does not come with those long, yearning fingers. Anya fears she will never love a sunset again, nor wish for the blissful peace of the night. But Nikolai lies down beside her, wraps her up in warm, solid arms, his chest beneath her head. She hears him breathing in her ear, a slow and steady rhythm, though she knows he isn’t sleeping.

He’ll stay awake the whole night, to keep her demons at bay.

#* chapter update.#nikolai lantsov #nikolai lantsov oc #nikolai lantsov fanfic #shadow and bone oc #shadow and bone fanfic #nikolai lantsov x reader #grishaverse #six of crows fanfic #grishaverse fanfic #* fic: gold rush.

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tadpolesonalgae · 4 months

Text

Demon!Azriel x reader: Teeth and Talons - Chapter 11

Warnings: murder, general death, Azriel, gore

Word Count: 3,549

-Part 10-

——————————————————————————————————————————————

It’s been simmering away long before he turned you. Maybe even before he met you. Bubbling and festering deep in the marrow of your bones, suppressed and denied over and over until it became something awful and ugly, untameable and unstoppable once it’s leash finally snapped. Wreaking devastation with wide-grinning teeth, talons that snicker-snack through flesh, crushing corpses beneath its leather covered paws.

You can feel it cracking open an eye, a slimy, translucent film beneath its lid, opening blearily, fully fledged at last, and ready to wreak havoc on everything around it.

And you know just the place to begin your destruction, how to set the doomsday in motion.

The twisted fucker that got you into this situation in the first place.

—————

It’s been a long time coming, this selfish sense of justice that you need to bring.

How many other women and innocents have they murdered in the name of mild boredom. The devil makes work for the idle, and their palms are softer than cotton. Easier to shred through.

Night hasn’t even fallen when you crawl up the walls of the palace, built in the centre of the citadel, able to see the priestess’ temple from the high crenellations. In a fleeting thought, you wonder what she’d think of your actions, if she’d condemn them or turn a blind eye for the sake of your own suffering. But she won’t be spared either—she should have warned you. Not sat you down over a cup of tea and given out her own simpering story.

Your claws hook over the balcony, effortlessly hauling yourself into the boy-king’s chambers. Take in the gaudy and lavish spread, undeserved opulence at its finest, long past the line of decadence. Nobody needs a golden chamber pot beneath their bed, no matter how well they eat.

Heightened senses pick up the beat of two hearts outside the door, filthily-paid guards positioned at the entrance, and your forked tongue flickers out over dark, rubbery lips. Drool drips onto the floor, but you pay it no mind, snaking silently across the marble before flinging the doors from their hinges. Blood splatters and bone splinters beneath the force, glittering talons making a wretched mess of the spurting bodies, unthreading sinew as you crush their lungs beneath your paw, the steel of their weapons nothing against the raw hide coating leathery limbs. At your back, your tails thrashes, gouging slashes in the stone as spikes slice through marble, putting breaks in the castle that nearly broke you.

Your nostrils flare, picking up the scent of someone young, blood too sour to enjoy laced with the overripe flavour of age. The sag of skin practically a flavour in and of itself as you skitter down the hallway, scrambling up the walls, clambering along the ceiling as you spot a familiar pathway, ones you’d been forced up when you were human. A human woman with bare feet and scrappy clothing, still shot through with remnants of sickness.

The great hall looms before you, and your pulse spikes, screaming for you to loose hell on the people within. Your back arches in a stretch, easing your muscles into working condition, warmed from the earlier blood-bath.

With a flick of your great, thrashing tail, the massive doors cave in, being flung from the frame in a crash of dust and stone. It doesn’t even take a minute before the guards within are splattered upon the pristine walls, dripping blood and viscera onto pretty, marble floors. Staining the stained glass red.

The boy-king screams, a high pitched wail that grates on your ears as you slither through the hall, only to come to a stop at the foot of the dais, watching as an acrid smelling liquid drips from the too-large throne where he’s cowering. Blacked-out eyes flick through the room, but the advisor is no where to be found, fury lighting you ablaze, rage rippling through your soul as magic pulses through the room, shattering the glass, sending bloody fragments raining down on the gardens below.

You hardly feel his tiny bones crack beneath your palm, as simple as squashing a fly—the difference being you’d feel bad about the latter, stealing food from the spider. Hot flesh is crushed into the floor, leaving a mushy pile of indiscernible parts dripping from the throne, iron mixing with ammonia.

Again your nostrils flare, heart pounding with bloodlust as you search for the man who’d sentenced you. Who’d been responsible for casting you out into that forest, beyond reason.

A broken cry sounds from the entrance, and you whip around, rubbery maw sharpening into a grin as you find your meal, held upon narrow, shaky legs that wouldn’t make more than a mouthful. His eyes are round and terror-filled as they take in the hell-beast you’ve become.

Shadows writhe at your wings, crowing them in a corona of darkness, tail thrashing and tearing at stone.

The advisor stumbles back on doddery old legs, stumbling and tripping as he falls on his bony behind, hands scrambling as he frantically pushes back from you, like a baby trying to crawl away. Razor-sharp teeth glitter, kept clean and pristine, waiting to be used.

You prowl forward, excited to take your time stripping his skin from his skeleton, feeling it peel from his flesh. Claws click on the marble floor, ticking like the second hand of a clock as you revel in the rising scent of his terror, so many wonders afforded to you with this new body.

His mouth opens in soundless scream, a wet gasp rasps from dry, old lips, hot breath wheezing from sinking lungs.

You press your paw over his chest, pinning him to the ground as his skeletal hands weakly rub at your fingers, trying to remove the great things from spearing him entirely as they curl into his back, tearing at sagging muscle. You wish you could gloat, could tell him who you are, see if he remembers what he did to you. See if he remembers being the one to suggest leaving you to the devil you’d sold your heart to in order to be cured from the plague.

His eyes are wide and glassy…the old man with already fading hair and wrinkles that swallow his eyes beneath flaps of loose skin.

The memories pour in, the rope biting into your wrists, weakness coating your muscles…eyes as black as the devils. The look alone had been enough to have nausea roiling in your stomach, threatening to upend it right there on the marble floor you’d been shoved to. Eyes that had swallowed you whole—black like you’d never seen black. Dark as pitch.

(alarmingly void, more than anyone’s have any right to be…and lacking in definition. Just one solid layer glazing across the obsidian coloured surface. Depthless.)

Terror-stricken blue eyes stare up at you, watery and weak as they strain and bulge beneath the pressure on his chest.

Ice glazes through your veins, blood freezing over just as a wave of pure power slams into you, throwing you back through the hall.

Your head cracks back against the marble, spine aching from the shockwave and you slide down onto the floor, collapsing behind the throne before slithering back to your feet, snaking down the dais. Eyes locking with cocoa.

There’s a brief moment of sorrow that flashes. It’s hardly noticeable, and passes before you can fully grasp it, but it’s enough for her to slip in.

Elain raises her thyrsus, knocking its base against the floor, a thrumming wave of power gathering in a shield as your talons clack against the stone, warily prowling forward, mouth watering to sink into his flesh. Cocoa flicks through the room, finally taking in the carnage—the blood splatters, and splintered fragments of bone dripping from the dais you’re standing on. The warped and crushed corpse of the young king.

“What have you become?” She breathes vehemently, delicate brow narrowing over cold eyes, shields rising up and locking down, sceptre spinning in her hand as she sets one foot before her, the other behind at five o’clock, pointed outward. A snarl rips from your chest, watching as she takes up a defensive position between you and the exit—between you and the rasping advisor. Between you and your meal.

Before you can think properly, you’re darting forward, faster than a shadow, shooting across the floor as talons crack down on her shield of magic, the staff appearing as a way from her to convert her power into a weapon. Burning rage pounds through your skull, yearning to obliterate as magic gathers at your fingertips, rubbery lips stretching into a grin when it coats your claws, slicing through her barrier.

She’s thrown back in the room, robes skidding through cooling pools of blood until she reaches the threshold of the caved-in doors. Glee beats in your chest as you skitter forward, the sound of leather stretching as your grin widens, showcasing gleaming rows of razor-sharp teeth, ready to rip and shred to your pleasure. The staff has been knocked from her tender hand, and she grapples for it as you scuttle closer, speeding up the closer you get until darkness is building at your back and your wings are flared in a display of dominance, keeping her pinned to the bloody marble with shadows.

Incisors glitter in the light as your jaws part above her, preparing to bite down and end when steel wreathed in fire slides beneath your throat. “Step away from her.”

Eyes flick up, jaw locking as stinging, searing pain lances down your right collar bone, bleeding into your shoulder as your gaze locks with a whirring, mechanical eye. Golden and russet narrows with unforgiving fury, glowing like the flames from a forge as the blistering steel raises in warning before pulling back. Fire sparks across the floor, aiming for your limbs to burn you alive as he spins, making to slice the blade across your throat.

Darkness flares out of nowhere, colliding with rampant and furious fire, and you’re thrown back as another figure joins the fray. One that’s packed with deadly power, great wings wreathing his back as he looms over Lucien.

“Step aside, Azriel,” the male hisses, flame licking up the walls, heat sweltering.

“Put the blade away, and I’ll consider letting you keep your other eye,” he drawls lowly, syllables dragging like gravel from his throat. Fury gathers in the room, settling like oil over your skin, so heavy and greasy you can feel it practically weighing you down.

“Look around,” Lucien snarls, flame deepening with sizzling rage, held in check by a leash of thread. “Your mate has killed dozens of humans, as well as trying to murder mine.” His power flares on that last word, as if instinct is roaring at him to protect but he’s restraining it. “Put. Her. Down.”

Even through your haze of anger, the words clang through, reverberating across leathery skin, hackles raising at the threat.

Azriel shifts on his four great paws, wings flaring menacingly as a snarl rips from his throat, settling between you and the male. “You look after yours and I’ll look after mine,” he growls, darkness taunting flame, building steadily at his back.

A little further behind Lucien, Elain shakily pushes up from the pool of blood, a trembling, pale hand reaching for her staff, brimming with a pale light. With a flick of her wrist, the magic flares, beaming like a spear for the unprotected underside of his throat. Faster than thought, faster than instinct, you’ve shot across the marble, skittering beneath his front left paw, jaws snapping viciously as your own power grates against Elain’s before sending it careening off, gouging marble from the crumbling castle.

Tension ripples as the four of you are locked in on one another, senses keyed to the slightest movement, waiting for the coil to snap so the others can be torn to shreds.

The room explodes in glittering black, razor sharp talons clicking skittishly as power splits your two sides apart, blasting a wall of physical adamant between you, just translucent enough for Elain and Lucien’s figures to be wrought in shadow.

Azriel’s body lowers, both in a bow and in a circle of protection, paw shifting forward to keep you tucked beneath him. Instinctively you follow, curling back into his power, tail pulled tight—ready to lash out.

The darkness simmers away, revealing the tall, powerfully hewn figure of a male. Wickedness practically drips from his finery, raven-black hair pushed neatly back from his brow as sharp violet eyes settle coldly over the scene. A wave of dread ices across your skin, a weight dropping in your belly as you take in the immense power that’s rolling from his shoulders—a god.

Azriel doesn’t so much as breathe different, but his shadows gather beneath you, thick and lush like a rug of black wool, drawing his magic in closer as a circle of protection. A suggestion of defence.

“Azriel.”

The voice is deep and icy, dripping with malice, and the spines at your back prickle. Your own magic weaves through with his shadow, hiding in plain sight but ready to spring free as fear pools in your stomach.

Violet flicks through the room, taking in the splatters of blood, dripping viscera, then his gaze locks with yours. It’s a new kind of fear, you realise, being singled out by a being so much greater than you are, and you shrink away, pushing back into the protective power of the male above you. His stance broadens, covering more of you as great paws settle further apart, braced for sudden movement.

“What happened here?” The god doesn’t remove his attention from Azriel, but it’s clear the question is not addressed to him. The shadowy wall fades entirely, and your gaze shifts to the two figures opposing you, Elain having gotten to her feet, robes soaked in blood, staff gripped dismally in her hand with grim determination.

“Your brother let his mate run free,” Lucien replies lowly, tone like gravel—lined with restraint. “She tried to kill Elain.” Fire brightens before again banking, as if being soothed by the reminder of her presence at his side. Sharp, violet eyes once again cut to you, “is that right?”

You manage a quiet snarl, fear drumming in your pulse, paws shifting like a great cat preparing to pounce. Muscle coils tight with terror at being faced with the god, having his attention settle like ice over skin, preparing to rip away. His sharp eyes narrow on you, and you pull your magic tighter.

Is that right? He repeats, and you recoil into Azriel’s chest, flinching as the god’s voice echoes through your mind. Through your peripherals you can see as a frail body starts to life, gangly limbs trying to heave up his torso as the king’s advisor return to consciousness. Once again you shift on your paws, hissing viciously at the trembling man, blood and vomit coating his front as he takes in the four beasts before him. Five.

“She wouldn’t kill Elain,” Azriel growls from above you, shifting his paw to block your line of sight from the advisor. “I wasn’t asking you,” your god replies coldly, attention pinning you to the ground as violet bores into you. “She won’t be able to speak yet,” Azriel bites out, power thrumming at your paws, curling up your arms, brushing at the leathery hide you’ve been coated in. “She changed less than a week ago.”

“Then why weren’t you watching her?” Lucien growls sharply, eyes blazing.

The god casts a warning glance at the fiery male, but does no more than that, evidently also seeking an answer.

Azriel shifts above you, and you can feel the oiled gears of his mind clicking effortlessly, spinning his information into a silky web. “I was,” he growls, gaze turning to the god appealingly. “You know as well as I do everything is well warded. The only way she could have escaped is if someone let her out.”

“If someone let her out?” Lucien echoes disbelievingly. “Those wards are practically impenetrable. It would be impossible to unlock them from the outside.”

“Lucien’s correct,” the god drawls icily, gaze drifting to Azriel’s, warning glittering in their depths. A timer counting down as his patience begins to fray, the metallic scent heavy in the air. Azriel makes no obvious moves, but you can feel his frustration curving around your bones, wrapping you tight to him.

It seems the god senses his hesitance, pouncing on the second of indecisiveness. “Don’t try and hide things from me,” he bites out coldly, power weighing heavily in the air, so intense it sets your iron stomach churning.

A muscle feathers in Azriel’s jaw, before charcoal eyes raise to violet. “She wasn’t going to make it,” he growls lowly, resentment coating his tongue. “Elain can attest to that.”

Violet flicks to hardened cocoa expectantly, but the priestess is already watching you, peering beneath a strained brow. Her jaw is tight, but she gives a curt nod, fingers still bone white around her staff. “That’s true. We both saw her before,” she answers, gaze briefly meeting Lucien’s. “She was feverish and already going into delirium. It’s unlikely she was going to survive.”

The god’s attention returns to Azriel, the edges of his irises slightly thawed but remaining hard.

“She was going to die,” Azriel repeats, words pulled taut as they leave his tongue. “She had to go through the Pit, or she wouldn’t have survived.” The three figures stiffen preternaturally, colour draining as something cold and awful settles uneasily across the room.

“The wards were likely weakened from residual magic,” he grits out, still keeping you wrapped beneath his shadows, as if trying to keep you hidden from them. “Enough for someone to get through.” You press a little closer into the lines of his body, tension beginning to drip away, releasing its hold on your heart. “They’d already tried to take her once. They thought this would be their chance to get back at me.” Shadows writhe across the marble floor, flaring with concealed rage, fury manifesting in his power.

“You think your brothers caused this?” The god asks slowly, eyes once again touring the room, filled with drying gore. Azriel nods, and you begin pulling slowly at your magic, gathering it close to your skin, preparing to jump.

Tension and fear knots your stomach, twisting in vicious carvings as you keep yourself coiled tight beneath the solid frame of Azriel’s form, keeping pressed tight.

Cold violet flicks over the squashed carcass of the young king, distaste passing through his features. “You’re telling me your brothers created a gap in your wards, and she managed to do all this before you noticed?” The god drawls skeptically, voice clean-cut like glass. Azriel’s talons pierce the marble floor. “She went through the Pit,” he repeats lowly, “she’s much stronger than—”

The advisor starts in your peripherals, body jerking to life as the contents of his stomach is heaved upon the floor.

Your tail cracks like a whip, coil snapping free, splattering pieces of flesh against the already blood-caked windows.

Body obliterated in the blink of an eye, before curling back tight to your paws.

Silence buzzes across the room, four pairs of wide eyes watching as bits of intestine drip from the sill, pooling in a gouged-out puddle in the floor. Almost immediately Azriel’s own tail is curling around you comfortingly, shadows stroking at your sides as if to lull you back into a state of ease, soothing the wild drum of your heartbeat, tail twining with your own.

Cold power raises from the floor, darkness thrumming in warning as tension buzzes in your ears, having them flatten against your head.

“How much blood did you give her?” The god’s tone puts fractures into your bones, like rock grinding against rock, grating on your soul.

“As much as she would take,” Azriel replies quietly, and you feel his attention brushing affectionately over your leathery skin. Silence reigns heavily, stretching out as you huddle back into his power, wanting to escape from the immense power of the god.

“You did what?” Elain breathes, eyes wide as she stares at Azriel, grip tightening on her sceptre. She seems to be the only one of the three capable of formulating a response, something blazing in her eyes. “She was going to die, Elain,” he snarls protectively, body settling closer to you. “Because you neglected her,” she hisses, brown eyes cold and hard as they bore into the male. “You plucked her up out of her life, you refused to properly care for her, you were the one who refused to teach her anything because she wasn’t what you wanted.”

Azriel’s snarl is like thunder breaking across the heavens, marble trembling beneath your claws, and you settle against the sound.

Yet it doesn’t seem to bother the priestess.

“If she was the one who tore all these people to shreds,” she breathes, pale blue light blazing from her staff. “It is because you put that anger into her.”

——————————————————————————————————————————————

general taglist: @myheartfollower @tcris2020 @mali22 @amygdtjhddzvb @sfhsgrad-blog @needylilgal022 @hannzoaks @hnyclover

az taglist: @azrielshadows1nger @jurdanpotter @positivewitch @nightcourt-daydreaming @assassinsblade @marvelouslovely-barnes @v3lv3tf0x @kalulakunundrum @vellichor01 @throneofsmut

#azriel x reader #azriel x you #azriel x yn #demon!azriel x reader #teeth and talons

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hoasens · 8 months

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cw for: discussions general of misogyny, colonialism / racism, transphobia & homophobia, ect

i hc vietnam to be a futch bi girl, and i think her sexuality is heavily intertwined with her womanhood and gender nonconformity.

homosexuality between women was not look down upon for centuries, though of course ancient vietnam still had patriarchal systems in place. a lot of the deities and gods within the vietnamese folk religion were also genderfluid, and people who didn’t fit the gender binary weren’t ostracized either.

though i think vietnam struggled with being a woman and being seen as inferior for her gender, i don’t think she felt ashamed of her attraction to women since it was normal in the society. but i think she still felt somewhat of a disconnect to other women from having to take on a masculine role to be taken seriously as a female nation, so she didn’t let herself explore those feelings and generally just shunned herself from romance.

however, the 18th century gender nonconformity and homosexuality began to really be stigmatized with the arrival of the french. french settlers claimed vietnamese women were too masculine and that gender nonconformity would cause homosexual urges to arise. they would say how vietnamese women had too broad shoulders and wide hips, and even examine their bodies and say how their sexual features were “indistinguishable and blurred.” french gender norms were heavily enforced, where women were expected to be corseted and gowned to be considered civilized.

france probably made vietnam hyper feminize herself, maybe with the knowledge of her own insecurity with womanhood, maybe with the promise of being able to live life as a woman when she never got that chance (though only through restrictive eurocentric standards.) she was discouraged from her masculinity and stripped of her choice to present how she wanted. it probably effected her own perception of her sexuality too.

even after decolonization, the vietnamese state cracked down on what they saw as “social evils” (aka lgbt people) and enforced traditional gender norms. it probably further caused internal identity issues inside vietnam.

in the modern day, i think she’s able to reclaim her femininity and masculinity and perform them for herself. she’s able to express her sexuality more freely and be open about her gender nonconformity even after being forced to suppress those parts of herself for so long.

vietnam still has a long way to go with lgbt rights and acceptance, i personally can’t speak too much on the lgbt scene there since i’m not a mainlander. i encourage you to look into the ballroom culture and lgbt scenes in vietnam anyways! @/bongsuvn here on tumblr also has a lot of in-depth posts on lgbt in ancient vietnam :)

#hws vietnam #rambling tag #heed the warnings this is a heavy post #i have a lot of thoughts abt vietnam gender and sexuality

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lxm-memories · 2 years

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Hi! Congrats on 500 followers!

Can I request kiss in the rain and "you've been sleeping late, everything okay?" for Ikey wikey? It's sounds like mellow I guess (?) ╥﹏╥

lxm-memories' 500 followers event drabble

✧ ike eveland x gn!reader

✧ prompts: "kissing in the rain" & "you've been sleeping late, love, everything okay?"

✧ a/n: cracks knuckles. ahh, hurt and comfort. my favorite type of angst. but everyone !!! this is the last drabble from the event !! Updates will slow down now since uni is about to start again, but I'll make sure to plan for the next event in the near future! Thank you once again !! ( ◜‿◝ )♡

If anyone were to ask Ike if he liked rain, Ike would answer with a simple: "Yes. Yes I do like the rain." Even though there were only one aspect of the rain he actually liked. And like many others, it was the sound it would make when it would hit the window or roof, giving everyone a serene and calm feeling.

He loathed every other aspect of it though. The memory of rain, and being within it and not outside of it always gave the novelist unpleasant memories after all.

Because it was raining when he first crashed into this timeline. He's mentioned it a couple of times in passing, but the events that happened that day and the feeling of anxiousness and dread never failed to leave him after.

The rain is a stark reminder of that evening. With all the questioning stares to his attire and a language he couldn't speak well. The rain would never fail to throw him back to that fateful day. And while he himself believes that everything is better today, because of course it is - there's just a few times where that memory overthrows every other happy memory he has made after he had settled down.

It's been raining non-stop for the past week now.

And while Ike is able to put up with the rain during the day, he's notoriously woken up throughout the night because of it. By the second day the novelist had already foregone sleeping to just work, nodding off whenever his body was too tired and not listening to his anxious mind.

It's a problem Ike didn't want to bother you with, but a problem you either way managed to catch just by noticing his baggy eyes and how his usual soft smile seemed a bit somber lately.

But the clearest evidence was how you would always notice whenever he crawled out of bed to head outside the room to avoid disturbing you.

It was the 5th night of you waking up to Ike's empty side of the bed and the pouring rain outside that you decided to head out yourself and give your lover some comfort, because god did he deny himself the chance to even ask for your presence in these trying times.

If you could guess, he would've probably brushed off his inner turmoil with a: "Just a bad day, nothing more, love."

But your careful trip downstairs to avoid scaring Ike gets thrown out the window once you see his figure out on the balcony, completely drenched.

Eyes widening in panic, you throw away the blanket you had haphazardly thrown on and yank the door open. The harsh loud of the door doesn't even faze Ike, the novelist not even flinching at the loud sound: "Ike?! What are you doing out here in the rain?! It's pouring!"

The novelist only turns around to face you once he hears your voice, eyes wide with surprise, but soon after he gives you a smile. Tilting his head in confusion, he only chuckles when you try to drag him inside, but his feet stays rooted to the ground. "Darling, what are you doing up so late at night?" he asks, and you only glare at him in response. A glare he has long figured out is out out concern and not anger, so he closes his eyes with a chuckle, waiting for you to ask him more questions.

"Because I wake up whenever you get out of bed, and I can't fall asleep again before knowing you're okay! But, you've been sleeping late, love, everything okay?" you ask, cradling his cheek with your hand

It's cold, so, so cold.

And perhaps sensing how warm you still are, Ike leans into your hand, covering your own trembling one with his own. His closed eyes open slightly, green hues almost void of any sparkle you usually see on the novelist.

You don't know if he's crying or if it's the rain at this point.

But the only thing you're most concerned about is bringing him inside so he can stop being inside the weather he hates so much.

So with your face still cradling his own, you lean in to press your lips against his own, the warmth of your lips somehow being the only thing that made Ike physically react to your presence.

"... Let's go inside, okay?" You ask.

Ike can tell that there's a hidden plea behind that request. So he only nods, worming his hands around your waist to give you one more brief kiss.

"Of course, love."

#luxiem #luxiem x reader #luxiem imagines #nijisanji #nijisanji en #nijisanji x reader #ike eveland #ike eveland x reader #[[ lxm memories 500 event !! ]]

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tally-kiza · 1 year

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A New Addition

You come home to a very pleasant surprise from Arthur. Words: 2025

(This was supposed to be a 500ish word drabble. And I had 3 drawings to work on that should take priority over this. But the muse struck and I ran with it. Oops, haha.)

Your apartment is quiet when you arrive home. Tall lamps cast the living room in warm inviting light, the windows shutting out the oppressive darkness of night. You make a small noise of surprise as you kick off your shoes in the entryway and deposit your keys on the console table. Arthur always gets home before you; normally when you yourself arrive home from work, Arthur will be puttering away either in the living room or kitchen, either collapsed on the couch watching a vintage film or cobbling together an early dinner for the two of you.

But all you’re met with is silence.

“I’m home! Arthur?” you call out.

A distant splash of water. “In here!” he calls, a smile in his voice.

Ah. You assume you’ll find him soaking in the tub, smoking through half a pack, as he is often wont to do after a stressful day at work. You’d joined him in the tub on those nights more than once even, when he chose to relax in other ways, and eagerness sparks in your tummy at the thought that you might get to have some more fun with him tonight.

But as you approach the bathroom door down the hall, slightly cracked open a few inches, you find a completely unexpected surprise on the other side.

The first thing your eyes catch are the sleeves of Arthur’s pale yellow button-down rolled up to his elbows, the top few buttons popped open, and his hair pushed back out of his face. His expression is caught somewhere between a squint of concentration and tender joy. The sight alone of his handsome visage alone is enough for butterflies to flutter within your chest. The second thing you notice is how he’s leaning over the pedestal sink, massaging lathered soap into the water-slickened fur of a small, squirming kitten.

“Oh, goodness,” a wide smile overtakes your face as you dart to Arthur’s side. “Arthur...”

Arthur’s crows feet crinkle as his smile turns shy. A strand of his bangs falls in front of his face. “Surprise?”

It mustn’t have been more than a couple months old. The kitten was a skinny little thing, with long white fur with large black patches. Wiry whiskers were bent, a small corner of its ear missing. You could just spy that it had little white paws, a stark contrast from black legs. The kitten squirms and splashes further in the small water-filled sink, though as Arthur’s thumbs move to massage behind its ears, it quiets. Its blue eyes squint half-shut and it almost sags against his hands. You’ve never seen a cat look so relaxed.

Arthur must’ve been fully focused on the kitten since the moment he got home, if he hadn’t even changed into his house clothes or turned on his favorite oldies radio station.

“Where’d you find this lil’ guy?” you coo.

“Cardboard box in an alleyway. I spotted him on the way home from work. He looked hungry. And dirty.” The cloudy water was a testament to that.

Arthur continues, voice growing softer. He doesn’t meet your eyes. “He was all alone...”

“And you couldn’t leave him,” you finish when he trails off.

He worries his bottom lip.

A warmth blooms in your chest. Arthur had always struggled connecting with his peers, you knew this, on both a social level and empathetic. You’d talked about it at length together often late at night when he couldn’t sleep and attempted to find solace in your arms. How he’d spent so many years waiting for anyone to see him. To show that they cared. Of the fluffy black cat he used to daydream about, one that lived with him and Penny, who would listen to him when no one else would. When he lacked companionship with others, at least he’d always found comfort knowing that animals wouldn’t care about his quirks. (“Quirks.” Your words, not his. You’d vehemently disagreed with him when he’d described himself as “fucked up,” instead.)

Arthur had seen a creature in need and reached out to help it. Just as he’d always needed. He’d found a cat just like the one he’d always dreamed of.

Your heart melts in your chest into a lovesick puddle. You lean into him and connect your lips with his in a tender kiss. A small noise of surprise hums in his throat, before his eyes flutter shut and he deepens your connection. His sopping hand caresses your flank and hip, thoroughly soaking your shirt with suds, though neither of you hardly even spare it a moment's notice.

You break away first and wrap your arms around his middle, resting your head on his shoulder. Arthur’s eyes remain closed, though you can feel more than see the heat of the flush on his face.

“You’re very sweet, you know that?” you sigh.

Arthur ducks his head, silently preening as he always does whenever he’s under the spotlight of your compliments.

Water splashes; the kitten mewls, restlessness renewing without Arthur’s full attention. Without hesitating, Arthur switches his focus back to it. He fills a small cup you hadn’t noticed before with fresh water and gently pours it over the kitten, carefully rinsing off the suds of the soap. As he works, like before the kitten drifts back into that happy, squinting state. Its pupils become quite dilated.

You assist Arthur how you can, mostly chatting with him while watching him work. Has he fed the kitten yet? Yes, as soon as he got home, along with a bowl of water. Did he have a collar or identification? No―and after a bit more prodding from you: even the box he’d found him in was unmarked. And questions of Arthur’s day as well―did his gig at the grand re-opening of a two decade old mall go well? It went fine, he’d said, though it went unsaid how he’d felt unnecessary there. (It was a big enough event as is; it didn’t need a clown like him there. Most of the burgeoning crowd of Gothamites had ignored him, as they often did whenever he worked with crowds. But it hadn’t stopped him from putting on his best happy face and working as hard as ever to garner attention and smiles.)

Before long, Arthur’s draining the water in the basin and drying off the kitten with a small, cream-colored towel. He works carefully, especially as he gently dries its face and ears. Impossibly, your heart melted further, all your blood rushing to the flush on your face. The kitten's fur sticks out in all directions, its eyes wide as saucers of milk. A far cry from its previous tranquil state. If you didn’t know any better, you’d say this cat wanted to go back into the bath. As Arthur worked, however, you could tell he was mulling something over. There was a tenseness in his face, a knot in his brows, a distance in his eyes.

You tuck a piece of his bangs back. Arthur startles back into awareness, green eyes darting to yours. “Tell me what’s on your mind?”

He averts his gaze again and goes silent for a few long moments. You give him the time to work out putting his thoughts into words. Long enough to finish drying the kitten and wrap it fully in the blanket. It looks not dissimilar to a burrito, with its little fuzzy head poking out. It blinks owlishly.

In one quick breath, like he has to get it all out before he loses his nerve, Arthur blurts, “Can we keep him?”

You ought to be taken aback; the two of you aren’t exactly living paycheck to paycheck, but finances get tight sometimes and you know caring for a cat on top of that would only strain your wallets further. But... the hopefulness written on his face, more plain than the text in any book, with shining eyes and a vulnerable heart, crushes any resistance you may have. It’s crystal clear how much he cares for the little bundle of fur in his arms.

Soft purrs fill the silence as you think; Arthur’s gentle petting lulling it back into pleased relaxation.

You soften, a smile tugging at your lips. “Well, I certainly can’t separate the two of you, can I? I think he loves you already.”

Arthur’s face lights up, an eager smile spreading wide and his brows shooting up in near disbelief. “Really?”

With a tug to his arm, you lead him into your shared bedroom to sit on the edge of the bed together. The kitten doesn’t seem to mind as he’s repositioned in Arthur’s arms and subsequently set down on soft, forest green bedding.

“We can pop down to the pet store tomorrow for supplies,” you say. Your hold on his wiry arm slides down to intertwine your fingers with his. Arthur beams impossibly brighter. “But in the meantime, I think we have enough cans of tuna to tide this little guy over.”

“Yeah... Y’know, I’ll take good care of him,” he says, as if still trying to convince you. As if you’d think he was burdening you. By now, the kitten had wriggled out of his wrap and had taken it upon himself to explore the strange new world of your bed. “You won’t have to worry about him making a mess, or bothering you―”

“Arthur.” He freezes. You squeeze his hand tighter. Grounding him. “I want this just as much as you do. You don’t have to worry about taking this all upon yourself. We’re a partnership, remember?”

Almost more to himself than you, he responds quietly, “I know. Sorry.”

Not for the first time, your heart breaks. He apologizes so much. He’s gotten better about it over your two years of dating, but you still ached for him every time it happened. How often has he had to apologize to his mother, his peers, his coworkers just for expressing his worries? You pull him into a tight hug; if only you could squeeze away all his pain and sorrows. Arthur’s arms settle around you loosely, though he buries his head in the crook of your neck.

“You have nothing to apologize for,” you remind him.

He nods back silently, Adam’s apple bobbing. His hold tightens around you. Even if he struggles expressing it, you know he tries to take it to heart, couple it with the advice his new therapist often gives him, a patchwork chisel to cobble away at his insecurities.

The poignance is broken by the pricks of sharp tiny claws digging into your thigh as the kitten takes it upon itself to join the conversation. He crawls into your lap as your hug with Arthur breaks off. You try and fail to smother a wince of pain. Arthur laughs softly at the kitten's antics, and you playfully scowl at him. To your relief, it mewls at him and crawls into his lap instead. He doesn’t react to the pricks of claws on his legs, instead taking it into his arms once again to resume petting and scratching it behind the ears.

“So,” you breathe, “any ideas for a name? I don’t think he can just stay, ‘that kitten,’ forever.”

Arthur’s smile quirked up again, bashful this time. “I did have one idea. I like it a lot.”

“Oh?”

“What about... Francis?”

“Franc― Oh,” understanding dawns on you as the kitten's bright blue eyes dart to you again, and you chuckle. “I see. Francis. Frank. Ol’ Blue Eyes, himself, huh?”

Playfulness glints in Arthur’s eyes and he shrugs with one shoulder. “It suits him, don’t you think?”

You look hard at the kitten that weighs at most 6 pounds sopping wet, with frazzled fur and twitching whiskers, looking about as far from Sinatra’s jovial dignity as a living creature could get. Then up at Arthur again, the sheer amount of love radiating off him for this tiny feline he’d only found two hours ago.

Warmth blooming within your chest and a lovestruck grin pulling at your lips, you lean against Arthur, and stroke your preening kitten alongside him. Francis. To stroke Francis.

“Yeah. I think it sounds perfect.”

#arthur fleck #joker 2019 #arthur fleck x reader #arthur fleck x you #fanfiction #oneshot #mine

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shamandrummer · 3 months

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Honoring the Spirits of the Home

Shamanism is a way of perceiving the nature of the universe in a way that incorporates the normally invisible world where the spirits of all material things dwell. Shamans have different terms and phrases for the unseen world, but most of them clearly imply that it is the realm where the spirits of the land, animals, ancestors, and other spiritual entities dwell. Spirit encompasses all the immaterial forms of life energy that surround us. We are woven together into a net of life energies that are all around us. These energies can appear to us in different forms, such as spirits of the land or spirits of the home. Spirits of the home are the spirits that inhabit our place of refuge: where we live, where we work and where we play. These kinds of spirits share our homes with us and help us in our times of need.

Honoring the spirits that share our homes is important for our well-being. House spirits in many ways are the heart of the house itself and can affect the home's atmosphere as well as influencing the occupant’s moods and physical health. All homes have spirits, and in many cases there are layers of spirits. Spirits of the home are the echoes of people, of events, of ideas which have become imprinted upon a location, for better or for worse. House spirits may manifest as vague feelings or impressions associated with an area, but more often they appear with a clear physical form. Spirits of the home may be the manifestation of a home's spirit or they may be a spirit that is strongly tied to a home, but either way they have the ability to influence a person or family's luck, health, and mood. Most homes will have several different spirits associated with them, usually at least one with the home itself and in homes with an attached yard possibly more.

Honoring the spirits of a home is much easier than most people realize. It requires being open and aware of their presence without judgment or expectation. Know that the spirits are there and acknowledge their presence. Be respectful of them in word and action. Here are some good ways to honor the spirits of your home:

Cleanse Your Home

Honoring the spirits of your home begins with cleansing your abode. Your house holds the energies of all your emotional ups and downs. It collects the energies of all of your houseguests, domestic disputes, family emergencies, holidays, and so on. Picking up negative energy that is not ours can make us less balanced and can cause blockages to the natural flow of energy in our body. We may feel tired, unbalanced, anxious, depressed or even sick. The most important thing you can do is to smudge yourself and your home each day. Smudging is a method of using smoke from burning herbs to dispel negative energy. Sage, cedar and sweetgrass are traditionally used for smudging. To smudge, light the dried herbs in a fire-resistant receptacle, and then blow out the flames. Then use a feather or your hands to fan the smoke around your body and home. I recommend cracking a window or door for ventilation and for releasing unwanted energies.

Bless Your Home

Blessing a home, similar to cleansing one, is merely working to keep certain energies flowing within the house. We perform blessings on our homes to attract harmony, happiness, and prosperity to our dwelling and that can be done as often as we feel the need to. Many shamanic practitioners recommend the use of holy or consecrated water for blessing a home. The practice of charging water with intention, words, and sound is widely practiced in indigenous cultures throughout the world. In fact, people have believed in our ability to influence water since the days of antiquity. The Christian tradition is the obvious example, with the ongoing performing of rituals that turn regular water into holy water. Essentially, holy water is water with salt added during a rite of blessing. Learn how to make your own consecrated water, and use it for cleansing, protection and blessing. Pour some holy water into a spray bottle. To bless and protect your home, spray holy water around the perimeter of your dwelling and yard. You can also incorporate an incantation or spoken prayer into your blessing. This can be as simple as saying, "I bless this home with happiness. I bless this home with love. I bless this home with prosperity…"

Make Offerings to the Spirits

Offerings are a beautiful way to acknowledge and honor your household spirits. Giving and receiving are an essential part of any relationship. Anything can be used as an offering, but food is common in many cultures across the world. A simple way to incorporate food as an offering is to simply leave a portion of your meal for the spirits near the hearth or on an altar. An altar is any structure upon which we place offerings and sacred objects that have spiritual or cosmological significance. It represents the center and axis of your sacred space. A simple altar can be created with a cloth, a candle and other symbols that mean something to you. Offerings can be made weekly, monthly or annually and might include fresh flowers, herbs, incense, fruits, milk, or wine. The offerings serve as an acknowledgement and sign of gratitude for the spirits presence and beneficial activity.

Listen to the Spirits

Developing a relationship with your house and its spirit is very important for your home is your sanctuary; it keeps you safe and warm and protected from the elements. Let your home speak to you. As shamanic practitioners, we are often able to hear things that others cannot. And we know that it is not uncommon for spirits to speak up when they want something specific. Our houses can be the same way. Take some time to sit quietly in your house and listen to it. Be open to communication and let it tell you what color walls it was happiest with, what kind of music it prefers, or what holiday traditions it was fondest of; and let these messages guide your offerings.

As with any relationship it takes time and effort to build a connection with your house spirit, but it is worthwhile. Most home spirits are more open to human connection than the spirits of the land. Keep in mind that spirits choose to come into relationship with the person seeking. You can seek a connection, but the spirits must choose. Respect and connection to spirits is what makes for an authentic relationship, which is what the shamanic practitioner yearns for in a society that has severed itself from nature and spirit. Humans have lost touch with the spirit world and the wisdom of inner knowing. The spirits, however, have not forgotten us. They are calling us to a path of environmental sanity, to rejoining the miraculous cycle of nature.

#shamanism #shamanic practice #spirituality #spirits #spirit work #house blessing

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asnowfern · 2 months

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Til Forever Falls Apart - Chapter 3

Summary: The great kingdom of Ye was not always held captive by Hybern and their three suns. Up until over a year ago, the kingdom still teemed with life but the invaders came with their unholy deal with the heavens and entrapped their lives in an endless cycle of heat waves and forest fires. Faced with the ultimatum to either fight or perish with the world, Feyre agreed to be a spy within the Moonstone Palace. There were just two people she had to look out for: Raven, her ally and fellow spy that she was to assist in the rebellion efforts, and Prince Rhysand, the cruel prince that betrayed their country.

A Chang E/Moon Goddess inspired tale🎑

Read on AO3 | Master List

A/N: LNY might be over but the story is still progressing well! ☀️☀️☀️ Once again, the biggest hug and thanks to my lovely betas, @reverie-tales and @witch-and-her-witcher for the never-ending kind words and encouragement! I love the both of you!💕💕💕

Chapter 3: We are the wolves that swallow the sun

Rally the people. We strike three nights after the wolf swallows the sun.

It was a folded parchment that opened up to less than the size of her palm. The curve of the scrawl was decisive, almost dismissive in the enormity of its content.

Feyre’s eyes darted around, stormy blue searching for any evidence of the spy’s presence in her room. Even though she knew, as always, that there would be none to be found. He knew how to avoid suspicion in more ways than one, as she had bitterly learnt.

She carefully folded back the note, fingers idly tracing along the crease line of the paper. She tucked it deep within the lapels of her plain dark robes, her hand stilling in the robes that she still wore to sleep out of habit. Even though there was no real need to wear them anymore. Not when there were no more night jaunts around the mountain.

A familiar knot twisted in her stomach, sending acidic bile up her throat at the memory of the public execution of the guard. Bloodied beyond recognition, stepping into the gallows with his sister. Even from her spot far into the crowd, the crystal clear sight of streaming tears and terrified eyes would forever haunt her.

It’s time you accepted the new reality we live in.

Licking dry lips, Feyre swallowed heavily. She hastily extracted her hand and pushed aside crimson stained guilt. She redirected her focus back to devising a way to deliver the message — even as the memory of wide, teary eyes that turned glassy and vacant continued to weigh heavily on her mind long after.

***

The content of the note remained a flowing stream in Feyre’s brain for days, blue grey eyes traced the words she had memorised by heart, eroding and reshaping until it was the only thought.

Rally.

Strike.

There was one word missing — as if just a mere mention could curse the entire operation. A word that would have Feyre’s heart beating wildly. The start of an end.

Revolution.

She lowered her gaze to the ground immediately, not wanting to catch the eye of any wandering patrolling soldier for an unnatural display of jubilance.

Feyre fixated her stare at the hem of rough fabric on the gatekeeper. Her hand peeped out with a slightest glimpse of a fair wrist as she passed the man a simple wooden plaque, the dips and grooves etched into its surface denoting her exit pass and her lowly status as a palace maid. She pocketed it a couple of seconds later, her mouth locked in a tight polite smile.

The door creaked open in protest, streaming in harsh light so bright Feyre bit back a hiss. She winced, attempting to adapt to the change in environment.

The gentle creep of orange lanterns were eclipsed by the blazing assault beams of the four suns that presided over Ye. The cool flow of the mountain air overtaken by the oppressing heat waves.

The umbrella spread open over her with a crack. She pulled the brim of her straw hat over her eyes, fingers tugging on the soft cloth covering her face until nothing but silvery blue pupils were all that could be seen. She soon felt the familiar heat radiating off the cracked ground through her slippers. Her lungs tightened, the heavy air no longer something they were accustomed to.

Feyre followed the cracked path out of the mountain, cloaked in the anonymity of the working class. She huffed through the fabric now sticking uncomfortably to her face. Despite it all, a pressure loosened in her chest, facial muscles relaxing as lips curled upwards when the sight of her beloved city came into view.

Her brows furrowed as she walked through its streets. A knot twisted in her belly. People were hunched below straw mats, forcing their bodies to shrink under the paltry cover. Their most treasured possession, the gourd shaped clay bottle, clipped at the belt closed to them. The stink of despondency ruled the air.

How had things gotten so bad in a mere number of weeks?

Feyre took a turn into the alley of master crafts and ducked into the shelter of the upscale tailor. She blinked twice, pupils dilating in adjustment. Her head swivelled around, taking in the rolls and rolls of silk of various shades and beautiful patterns.

To her left, behind the counter, someone cleared their throat, drawing her attention. She whipped her head towards the sound, only to be greeted by an unexpected but definitely welcomed face.

Dark brown hair, a freckle splashed nose, and chocolate eyes that glint in warning as he greeted her, “Welcome, miss. Are you picking up an order?” Play along.

Feyre didn’t hesitate to retrieve a note from her sleeves, unfolding it on the dark surface of mahogany and said in a no-nonsense manner, “Yes, I’m picking up a order from the Moonstone palace on behalf of Lady Amarantha.”

Jurian picked up the paper, humming in feigned satisfaction as he scanned through the contents. “Ah, yes.” He disappeared underneath the countertop, “We expected you days ago.”

She pressed her lips into a line, brows knitted. She had only received the order earlier this morning. What was he driving at?

She racked her brain, replying only after a few belated seconds in what she had hoped to be a humourous and harmless manner, “The order might have gotten detoured along the way. Lady Amarantha has been awfully preoccupied recently,” she wrinkled her nose in distaste, “especially with Prince Rhysand.”

His head popped back up, the muscular triceps of his arms flexing through the loose material of his sleeves to place a large box on the counter with a gentle thud.

He asked lightly as he carefully took out the elegant folded robes, “Prince Rhysand, huh? I heard they are close.”

Feyre swallowed back a grimace at the convergence of two of the most feared people under the mountain. “Yeah, they seem to have gotten even closer since the escape of the two prisoners.”

She looked pointedly at the rebel leader who levelled a stern look at her. Don’t go there.

She raised a brow. Make me.

He tutted and lifted his hand away from the paper wrapping to rest it dramatically on his chest, “Terrible incident that was. The city was on lockdown for days. Practically every house was raided.”

Her heart picked up a beat, her saliva turning tacky as she forced out evenly, “Was anyone taken in for questioning?”

Blue grey eyes told a different story, shining desperately. My sisters?

Jurian’s face softened in understanding. “There was some rough housing at the Archerons just as there were at a few other homes but nobody was hurt and the soldiers always left soon after.”

Her eyes squeezed tightly in relief and she exhaled with a shuddering breath. “I’m glad.”

He stacked the last of the wrapped clothes and pushed it towards her across the table, flashing her a warm, reassuring smile. “Here’s the order for Lady Amarantha. Always a pleasure doing business with the palace.”

She took the package from him, subtly sliding the note from Raven into his waiting palm underneath. “Likewise, mister.”

With a final nod at the not-quite shopkeeper, Feyre inhaled deeply before stepping back out of the shop, her eyes narrowed into slits to direct her sight at the sandy floor and avoid the blinding light. It was only when the signature crack of a horse carriage sounded from behind in warning that she made to shuffle to the side, her head raised slightly and noticed the young child squatting in the middle, playing and tossing around little stones.

Her limbs surged forward, her mind propelling her with blinders, nothing but a single thought: get the girl out of the way.

The package slipped through her arms as they wrapped around the kid, yanking her snugly into her middle and rolling them away from the path. The carriage didn’t even slow, the gust of wind it generated as it passed them shoved her back, her feet shuffling to maintain balance, her grip tightening around the scruffy girl.

A rock dropped in her stomach and anchored her damningly into an ocean’s floor when she let the kid down with a gentle smile and glanced back out onto the road. She ran over to her fallen trampled package, fingers trembled as she gingerly pulled the fabric out. She traced lines down the torn material for the fitted dresses, her body shivered in anticipation.

And to think she had been so careful to avoid the “Amarantha orientation.”

***

Feyre couldn’t help the pathetic whimper that escaped her as a cracking whip inflicted liquid fire ran down her back. Her eyes were squeezed shut, her nails digging deeply into her own arms, drawing blood — an ant bite compared to the agony growing in her back. Her body flinched at the sound of the next crack, in awful anticipation of the next stroke to split tender skin.

A silky drawl pulled her away from the all-consuming pain, “Oh, Amarantha. I didn’t realise you had other activities going on.”

She unwittingly lifted her head just an inch. Just enough for blue grey eyes to meet violet. Just enough that she caught a glimpse of icy fury that overtook violet eyes and flashed dangerously. She didn’t question what her pain-addled brain might or might not have concocted. With her petite frame still keeled over where she remained prostrated to the lady of the palace, her lips shaped into a silent desperate plea. Help.

The redheaded lady surveyed her long nails with cool detachment, the gold and turquoise detailing of her acrylic nail extension glittered in the interior light. Her pitiless black gaze lit up in amusement. “Rhysand,” she purred, “Please, join me. We have just started.”

The prince blinked and the gleam in his eyes dissolved into indifference. The smooth hem of the prince’s robe swished past Feyre, his slow yet graceful movements were a blessed reprieve. He settled into the armchair next to Amarantha, raising his hand to summon a plate of delicate confectioneries.

Dread coiled within her, there was no help to be found. She shifted her gaze back to the cold, hard rock floors.

The guard next to her raised his punishing device and sent it flying towards her once more. The strike on her already torn back rendered her unable to hold back pained cries. Not that it mattered to the two nobles carrying out casual conversation, the sound of their chatter rising above its tortured counterpart.

“Oh, the clumsy thing,” the lady tutted, condescension and disdain leaking with every word, “she had the nerve to tear up my newly tailored dresses. Imagine that! One of them is worth at least a year of her salary.” Her cruel smile could be heard rather than seen, “A whip for every month’s pay seemed to be the most logical exchange.”

There was a crunch of nuts with the cool reply. “Indeed, it’s so hard to find good help these days.”

Tears rolled down her face the next time the thick leathered coil hit her back.

“I’m bored,” There was a shuffling of heavy fabric falling to the ground as the prince proclaimed with heavy intent, “Amarantha, finish up and come find me after. We have affairs to discuss.”

The Hybern official lifted a hand to command the guard, “Hold.” Picking up the folded paper fan from the outstretched hand of one of her attending ladies, she flicked it open, covering a portion of their faces as she whispered into Prince Rhysand’s ear.

Prince Rhysand gave a brief nod before he walked away from Lady Amarantha, his lips curled in disgust for a brief second.

It was with sweet merciful relief that Amarantha ended the punishment without any further strikes and let Feyre get dragged back to her room. Her will folded in an instant as she draped herself over her bed, the entirety of her front pressed into its firm surface. She allowed her heavy eyelids to fall closed and the darkness to swallow her whole.

***

She drifted in and out of consciousness, eyelids at a constant flutter. At first, alternating between quiet bliss and scorching burn. But even that small mercy was taken away as the torment started to seep in like water through dense soil.

Night had fallen and held her room in its dark grasp when she next opened her eyes. Feyre rounded her back to prop herself on her elbows, groaning as her muscles screamed in protest at the movement. Shakily, she reached for the pitcher of water on the table.

Unreliable muscles gave way and sent her crashing towards the ground, only to be stopped by strong arms that wound carefully around her — holding her front firmly while avoiding pressure on her back.

“Careful there,” he murmured.

Her traitorous heart stuttered at the familiar baritone voice. “Raven?”

The spy didn’t reply, opting to lift her gently back on the bed. He slid the stiff pillow beneath her armpits, rolled up towels just below her breasts and beneath her waist so that the entirety of her back was elevated.

“I am going to cut your clothes open now.” Raven announced flatly, the signature clicks of scissors bounced around the room.

“W-wait,” she weakly protested even as the scissors smoothly slid along the length of the fabric. The slicing stopped immediately.

With a different type of heat blossoming over her cheeks, she remained silent, acutely aware of the large hand that still remained at her side.

“Feyre? Is everything alright? Did I hurt you?” He asked in audible alarm.

“Feyre?” He repeated in slight bemusement when he realised she hadn’t said anything.

Feyre huffed despite the pain it sent spiralling through her, embarrassed by her reaction, “Just do what you have to.”

The spy emitted a sigh as if the sight of the red marks splashed across her back pained him just as much as it did her, and the scissors glided along her back once again. She whimpered as he peeled the sticky cotton away from the coagulated wound. His hands never shook or wavered, a quiet but gentle strength that applied salve and wrapped clean bandages around her torso. The double agent murmured soft apologies and soothing encouragement whenever she hissed at the contact.

“Thank you,” she muttered in relief after her wounds had been wrapped up, the pain now much more muted beneath snug bandaged covers.

“Shhh, I’m not done.” A mild amusement laced through his voice.

She stiffened for a moment when thick fingers began to skillfully release the multiple pins holding her hair up and send matted curls cascading down her sides. A splash of water and a warm towel began wiping her hair, careful fingers skillfully teasing out the knots.

Feyre felt a tension in her release with each untangled knot. The next sound that escaped her mouth was no longer a whimper or a hiss but a content sigh.

“Relax,” the spy murmured, his hand sliding skillfully through tresses to rub at her neck.

Feyre did the opposite, stiffening at the sensation. “You don’t have to—”

“I don’t have to do anything.” He cut in sharply, “but I want to. So just keep quiet and relax.”

Raven was quick to stifle any further noise of protest climbing up her throat, moving skilled fingers to press into the corded muscle of her neck and elicit another relieved breath.

She should still be mad, still angry. At him for manipulating her, at her own naivety to assume her actions would have no consequences.

But just for tonight where her back was torn apart and comforting hands combed through tangled curls and glided smoothly over tired neck and shoulders, she couldn’t find the strength to pick up the anger and resentment. She found herself melting into the pillow instead, helpless against the ministrations.

“I’m still upset,” she grumbled, the tone petulant even to her.

“So be angry with me,” he agreed easily, his fingers in a constant motion, weaving locks into a simple braid, “I did what needed to be done but it didn't get easier. Or maybe, it shouldn’t get easier.” The last tortured word was a drop into the ocean, a self-reminder perhaps. Or a secret confession? She wasn’t sure.

Feyre expected the seasoned spy to make his move after his fingers made a parting reluctant caress and secured her hair into an easy braid, but he remained still, a hovering presence.

She twisted slightly, hissing at the movement, and asserted quietly, “There is always another way. It’s up to us to find it.”

The demonic mask jerked away, the moment shattered, splintered glass falling down. Raven said harshly, “There is no more us. You should leave the palace. Take your sisters and head west to the Illyrian camps. You’ll be safe there.”

“Leave?” She asked, her mind unwittingly drawing up the contents of the note once more. “And you?”

“The plans are already set in motion.” He drew himself to full height, brushing his hands along the neat lines in the front of his robes. “You should leave while you can.”

Her lips pursed into a line at the dismissive tone. “You’re not answering me.”

“There is nothing else for you to do here.”

Despite the burn that each move revived, she pushed herself off the bed to sit upright to meet the black mask head on. She challenged, echoing his words, “And when the wolf swallows the suns? Is that the day the tide turns? Where we take back what we are owed?”

“The palace will be a bloodbath, Feyre. Until Cassian and Azriel succeed in taking over the city and storming the palace, this place will be nothing more than a battlefield. It’s not,” he shot out, full of agitation, before taking a breath as if he needed the moment to collect himself, “it’s not what you signed up for.”

Feyre snapped.

“I signed up to fight against Hybern, to drive them back to whatever hellhole they spawned from! Exactly what I’ve been doing since the day they conquered Ye!” She jabbed a long index finger at him, chest heaving. “So don’t treat me like a child.”

She held his gaze unwaveringly. “I can help. Let me stay and fight with you.”

The beat stretched between them, then the mask sucked in a breath.

“Don’t make me regret this.”

***

The bandages loosened and dropped into its usual mess at her waist, tacky with the hours old salve. She gathered it aside and stood in front of her desk. Using her handheld mirror sat in the heart of her outstretched palm, she bent her knees in varying degrees trying to catch a glimpse of the status of her back in the letter-sized mirror propped on her table.

The criss-crossed lines had scabbed over with significantly less red inflammation. The skin was tight, the telltale healing itch crawling like ants around her back.

It had been mere days, all too fast for her to have recovered so much, and there was no doubt in Feyre’s mind that this was largely due to the salve stored in the shallow cylindrical container fancier than anything in this room. A healing salve that exceeded the capabilities of anything one could find on the open market.

She tried not to dwell on it: the salve or the man who first applied it on her.

After awkwardly but gingerly wiping down her back, she refreshed the wound with a fresh application of balm and a new set of bandages. Shrugging on her robes and neatly tying the knots of the cord around her waist, Feyre noted her much improved back mobility and left the room.

Servants were typically allowed no more than two days of bedrest after receiving a corporal punishment. However, the work responsibilities would unofficially be lighter for at least a week — a sort of solidarity amongst the peasants who were nothing more than cogs in the machine.

It was with this privilege that Feyre could have the luxury to squat over the wash area, relishing the refreshing sensation of cool water travelling from the bamboo tubes to her opened palms to her cheeks, in the middle of the afternoon.

She hummed contently as she raised the water pooled in her palms to her lips. The thud of the bamboo tubes swinging from one to another with the weight of the travelling liquid was a warm rounded noise, pleasant to the ears.

Then a spark of movement from her peripheral ensnared her attention. A snaking manoeuvre in the corner of the cavern that felt distinctly familiar.

She maintained the minute distance between her mouth and her palms, her face hidden by her hands. Subconsciously, the maid crouched lower so that she remained out of sight, her frame hidden behind the water conveyance system. Stormy blue eyes tracked the action until they widened as she registered the all too recognisable cut of aristocratic lines on beautiful brown skin.

While still dressed in dark silks, the robes he wore today clung to his body, fitted to give its wearer better mobility. The prince had a bow slung over his chest, a quiver of arrows was secured around his shoulders. Shrewd violet eyes gave the space one last look over before he slipped away.

It was none of her business, really. As a wearer of the crown, the heaven blessed royal could behave in any way he wanted and nobody would or could question him for it.

Still, this meant nothing to Feyre as her palms relaxed to let clear water splash back into the large receptacle and she followed after the prince. Keeping a healthy distance between the both of them, she curved herself and melted into the shadows of the dips and divots of the rocky surface that she now knew intimately.

Rhysand led her through a long tunnel that Feyre vaguely recalled wound to the upper caves out of the mountain. Up and up they climbed. So single minded in her focus to escape notice that she pushed away other thoughts, including the nagging feeling that she was missing something important.

Then she spotted Rhysand slide a dark shimmering cloth over his eyes, drew back the bow and sent an arrow flying towards the blinding sun. The image was a striking blow in her mind.

Raven?

Rhysand?

Raven.

Rhysand.

Could Rhysand be Raven?

With the prince’s face obscured, even by nothing more than the flimsy fabric, there was no denying her gut that demanded her to recall the same muscular silhouette, the same way he moved through the tunnels earlier, the same wordless power he commanded.

But it couldn’t be, could it?

Even as self-preservation demanded her to stay hidden, Feyre felt her limbs stretched to reach out to the prince (or spy?) as he collapsed onto his knees, arms visibly shaking in effort to get back up on his feet.

A pressure closed around her throat as she saw how the tremors ran through his body when he pulled back the bow once more, lightning blue crackling around him. She breathed with him only when the second arrow speared through the sky once more, now in a different direction.

Lightning split down the sky through the prince and the bow clankered against the ground, taking its archer with it.

To hell with it.

Feyre moved frantically, muscles acting on their own accord, too late to halt his crash to the ground.

“Rhysand!” She cried out, decorum thrown off the cliff edge they were on, shaking his spasming body into her lap.

A low groan escaped him, eyelids fluttered beneath the clothed surface. “Feyre?”

Her stomach lurched at the distinctly familiar lilt. “I’m here.”

Rhysand closed an iron grip around her arm and despite her sputters, continued to tug on her sleeve sharply in a bid to pull himself up. He explained in between pants, “All three suns need to be down or all of this will be for nothing.”

His now upright chest rose and fell rapidly, his body still racked with spasms. He barely managed to draw back the bowstring when more lightning blue sparked from the bow and into his body. A guttural growl escaped his throat, muscle feathering at his jaw.

“You can’t,” she whispered in dreaded realisation, watching as more sizzling energy swirled around him, a sickening singe of smoke filled the air.

Sure enough, the bow clankered against the ground once more, next to the unconscious prince.

Her heart thundered, pounding drum beats in her ears. But gently, gingerly, Feyre pried the bow from his hands and untied the sash from his face. His brows were creased, frantic micromovements of eyeballs fluttered long, dark lashes and bellied his distress.

She shifted her gaze to the weapon, fingers tracing lightly over the archaic symbols etched into the hard yew surface of its limbs.

Drawing the final arrow that laid on the ground, she darkened her world under shimmering fabric, astounded at how it transformed into the sparkling outlines of the suns above.

With a shuddering breath, Feyre released the bowstring and sent the third arrow spiralling towards the sky.

A/N: Soooo the cat's out of the bag👀

#feysand #feyre x rhysand #feyre archeron #rhysand #til forever falls apart #loosely based on the Legend of Chang E

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snowbellewells · 1 year

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Self Promo Sunday: “Just As Much As I Do”

Notes: This is another little one shot I originally wrote in the summer after Season 3 of OuaT. Post Season 3 finale, this one is meant to be the very next day, waking up back in the present, the Wicked Witch defeated,and Pirate and Princess maybe - just maybe - stealing a quiet moment or two in the afterglow. Rated T, though the reasons for that are only implied. Title and song lyrics included are from Snow Patrol's "Crack the Shutters", and of course I don't own that lovely song any more than I do OuaT or its characters. Enjoy – and please leave a review!

Also available on AO3 or ff.net, if that’s more your preference

Summary: The morning after the finale, waking up in his room at Granny's, for Killian Jones, it seems like his wildest dreams have come true magnificently.

“Just As Much As I Do”

by: @snowbellewells

Sunlight pours in through sheer white curtains, bathing the small room in golden glow and warming the darkness into hazy morning. As the sun's rays fall across the tangled sheets on the bed and heat the bare skin of a pirate, Killian Jones' eyes ease open, blinking in the sunrise and slowly regaining his bearings.

He rubs a hand over his face and back through his tufted, disheveled hair, confused and disoriented for a moment, not sure how he is once again in his familiar room at Granny's when yesterday he was sitting at a campfire in the Enchanted Forest of his past. Memory filters back to him with the same sort of gilded pleasure as the morning light. 'Emma,' his mind whispers, 'I brought her home.'

Turning from where he sits up in bed, bare to the waist as the sheets pool at his hips, he sees her lying beside him drenched in the wash of gold through the window, that cascade of blond hair lit up as if on fire. She is still fast asleep, splayed out luxuriously on her stomach, pale, flawless back on display for his perusal. As Killian gazes on her, admiration swirling within him, Emma mumbles drowsily and smiles without conscious thought, looking so much more peaceful and satisfied than he believes he has ever seen her while awake. She scoots closer to him, seeking contact in the depths of her slumber.

He reaches out to brush a lock of hair off her shoulder, smoothing it down her back with its fellows and letting his fingertips trail along the graceful path of her spine. That he can touch her at last, after so long – after so much wanting and denial – seems almost a dream. Killian's breath catches for a moment as he wonders whether he is awake at all.

Smiling to himself, he cannot help snuggling back into the mattress, studying every relaxed, glorious inch of Emma Swan while she is still unaware, knowing she would be blushing and trying to hide from such frank adoration, ducking her head self-consciously to avoid his gaze, if she were awake. Somehow he has earned his place beside his golden goddess – and no one or nothing, not even the sun itself gilding her in splendor before his very eyes, can worship her as much as he does.

Crack the shutters, open wide

I wanna bathe you in the light of day

And just watch you as the rays

tangle up around your face and body

I could sit for hours

finding new ways to be awed each minute

'Cause the daylight seems to want you

just as much as I do

The peaceful quiet of morning's first light is broken before he wishes as Emma's cell phone rings from the nightstand of his rented room and stirs her from her slumber. Her hand shoots out blindly to snag the offending object, and she mumbles "Hello?" blearily.

Emma sits up as she listens to the voice on the other end, bringing the sheet to wrap around her body as she does. Killian can tell already that it is someone needing something from either the Sheriff or the Savior, but she doesn't seem to mind the duty settling back onto her shoulders as she has in the past. Instead, she seems pleased, as if she finally knows that this is not a curse or a burden so much as her calling, part of belonging to people and a place of her own at last. She glances at him over her shoulder, a sly smile on her lips and a sparkle in her eyes; even as she nods and goes back to assuring the person on the line that she will be right there.

Once she has hung up, she glances at him sheepishly. "Back to work," she says with a shrug and that quirk of a smile at the corner of her mouth.

"Aye, Darling, so it would seem," he replies, reaching out to run his fingers through her hair and pull her in for a quick kiss.

To his surprise, she nuzzles into his touch, eyes closing for a few precious moments, savoring the warm expanding feeling rising in her chest. He half expected her to pull away – push him back and shut him out once again – when she woke this morning. It would seem instead that his Swan has bested him one more time, and his devotion to her only grows.

"No rest for the wicked, as they say," she murmurs affectionately, pulling back with reluctance to stand and begin redressing in the clothes they had shed in such haste the night before.

"And just which one of us are you calling wicked, Lass?" he questions, brow arching and grinning at her in a way that he hopes will sorely try her resolve not to crawl back across the bed and let the dwarves deal with their stolen trash bins on their own.

"Oh, I meant both of us," she teases back, mischief in her expression, "but those lips and that hand of yours leave no doubt where you're concerned."

He laughs, taken so by surprise that he tips his head back with it, a full-bodied, strong chortle. "Oi, Swan, what would you have had me do, you vixen? You were practically begging me!"

She actually giggles, looking so happy and completely pleased with herself that he wishes to keep that expression on her face forever. The flush that colors her cheeks and spreads down her neck to disappear in her shirt is so fetching that Killian is hard pressed not to haul her back into his arms and refuse to let her go.

"Shall I accompany you, Swan?" he offers, moving to get up as well and already scanning for where she had flung his shirt and vest.

"No, you stay put," she says with a hungry glint in her eye. "Go downstairs and have breakfast or something. It shouldn't be long before I can get back here."

"Oh," he smirks, looking terribly proud of himself, "I see. Am I under house arrest because you cannot get your fill of me, Sheriff?"

"More or less," she grins evilly.

"Insatiable minx," he returns, tongue peeking out to brush across his lower lip in a way that sends sparks along her veins and graphic images flashing behind her eyes.

"You've got no one but yourself to blame, Pirate," she throws out, giving him one last playful look before she slips out the door. Inside, her heart is swelling while she marvels at the absence of panic, at the fact that she truly wants to stay in the perfect little cocoon the two of them have created, and yearns to be back with him as soon as possible.

It's been minutes, it's been days

It's been all I will remember

Happy lost in your hair

and the cool side of the pillow

Your hills and valleys

are mapped by my intrepid fingers

And in a naked slumber

I dream all this again…

The next morning dawns in much the same way, and Killian's eyes crack open with the sunrise once more; years ever-alert from life on the high sea never failing to pull him into early wakefulness. He is stunned all over again by his good fortune: Emma is with him still. This time, instead of a sprawl, she is curled up into his chest, head tucked under his chin.

Still reverent as he touches her, almost afraid to shatter the illusion, he lets his fingers ghost over the apples of her cheeks, along the line of her nose, and twine themselves in her hair, cradling the back of her head, his handless arm tucking her even more securely into the shelter of his body, stump gently caressing her lower back. Her sleep seems calm and dreamless, which she had confided in him is new and rare, and Killian dares to believe that he has helped to make it possible. Her presence is soothing to him as well, banishing haunted nightmares he never thought to lose. There are no creases of worry marring her forehead, and the tiniest smile rests on her senseless lips, tilting them upwards in a captivating, if unknowing, manner.

Killian places the softest of kisses to her smooth brow, loving her just as he has ever since she stared deep into his soul in the diner when Storybrooke faced oblivion and offered him a second chance – a way to belong to something, to someone…to her. He had seen it then, desired it so ardently that it has fueled every action he has taken since. The intensity of this love, now that Emma recognizes and even welcomes the power she holds over him, and is even trying to give herself to him in return, is overwhelming in its power.

He simply rests here, ignoring the sun's rays spreading across the covers and attempting to rouse him from the most peaceful moment he has ever known. He has traveled a dark, harrowing road to reach this place and moment in time, searched lifetimes for the feeling of completeness in someone who loves him, who will fight for him as fiercely as he fights for her. He can see the warm wash of light over Emma's skin and appreciation for her steals his breath anew. A vision forms of each new day beginning like this one: the pattern of their future together.

Allowing his eyes to drift closed, Killian gladly disregards the dawning day for staying beside his love a little longer. He does not need the sun's help to adore the sight of Emma in his arms; she is branded on the back of his eyelids and in the depths of his soul, every detail of her safeguarded in his heart.

I could sit for hours

finding new ways to be awed each minute

'Cause the daylight seems to want you

just as much as I want you…

Tagging a few who might enjoy: @jennjenn615 @kmomof4 @searchingwardrobes @jrob64 @whimsicallyenchantedrose @laschatzi @apiratewhopines @spartanguard @therooksshiningknight @tiganasummertree @optomisticgirl @jonesfandomfanatic @xarandomdreamx @cosette141 @stahlop @sotangledupinit @elizabeethan @donteattheappleshook @the-darkdragonfly @gingerchangeling @gingerpolyglot @xsajx @teamhook @revanmeetra87 @winterbaby89 @hollyethecurious @thislassishooked @drowned-dreamer @wefoundloveunderthelight @zaharadessert @caught-in-the-filter @ineffablecolors @let-it-raines

#self promo sunday #cs one shot #post season 3 missing moment ff #just as much as i do #cs fluff #ouat canon divergent

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untaemedqueen · 2 years

Text

The Deal

Drug Lord!Yoongi x Coffee Shop Owner!Reader

Genre: Strangers to Lovers!AU, Angst, Fluff, Smut

Chapter 28.

Series Warnings (Will Be Updated): Mentions of Drugs and Drug Deals, Blood, Smut, Emotional Damage, Love, Gunshot Wounds

Warnings For This Chapter: Revelations

The prison yard is bustling with the known bad guys of the area early this afternoon and your boyfriend is smack dab in the middle of all of them.

Yoongi really didn't want to be forced out into the open with other drug dealers and murderers, even going so far as to try and bribe the overnight prison guard on duty.

But unfortunately, it didn't work out in his favor.

Every inmate in his place knows he's the biggest fish here and they either love that or they really, really despise it.

He has no choice but to sit here and listen to the loud cacophony of bad men speak about what they're going to do when they get out of this joint.

But at least it shrouds him in a veil of uniformity where he can do the same.

"Did you do it?" he inquires softly, pulling from his cigarette.

Taehyung hums in agreement, sitting down beside him casually.

Yoongi can tell that the younger man isn't affected by being in this prison, he's been locked up on a few occasions and it's like going back to a summer camp for him.

Your boyfriend on the other hand can't wait to get out of this fucking place.

Taehyung turns toward the boss and pulls the zipper of his jumpsuit down in one smooth motion.

"Oh dude, come on," the scarred man complains.

"Gotta let 'em know who's the big dog around here, Boss," the younger man shrugs, shoving the jumpsuit off the older man's shoulders.

Now, with his tattooed torso on display, people begin to avert his gaze and he cracks his knuckles in turn.

Taehyung nods to one of the passing inmates from another drug family when he gets handed a cigarette.

"No charge," the inmate announces.

Tae nods thankfully, putting the tobacco stick between his lips.

"So…," the younger man begins. "Excited to see the princess when you get out?"

Yoongi leans back on his hands as he extends back on the picnic table he sits atop of. "More than you know. I didn't even know she existed and now… I love her more than this whole entire universe and can't wait to fucking meet her."

Taehyung hums in agreement, leaning back on his hands as well. "I wish I could have brought in a sonogram picture for you. She's so tiny and cute."

The drug lord smirks then thinking of the little baby he's made with you that sits safely within your belly.

"I bet she's gonna look like Y/N," your boyfriend breathes happily.

"We'll see in a few months."

Yoongi stayed up all night last night thinking about you and how lonely you must be. It evaded his mind for the past two months and if he's being honest, he pushed the thought out of his head just so he wouldn't feel that type of sheer pain and misery all day everyday.

When he first got taken here it plagued him. And when every day became so monotonously routine, he tried to never think about what was going on outside of his cell walls.

Pulling from his cigarette, his fingers drift over the gnarled scar by his eye.

Now that his time in this place is coming to an end, he can only look forward to new beginnings with you as parents.

"What do you think about leaving the drug game?"

Taehyung turns his head slowly to his boss with wide eyes. "Uh… I'm not sure. I didn't finish high school… I wouldn't get a job anywhere."

Yoongi nods thoughtfully. "Maybe we can figure out something else for you to do. Make our own jobs."

The younger man turns to him, eyes alight with curiosity. "So what're you saying? We're gonna leave the drug business behind all together? Business is booming."

"It's not safe." Yoongi avows, flicking his finished cigarette onto the yard floor.

Taehyung only shakes his head confused, turning his attention back to the multitude of people in the yard.

When the men begin to form groups and huddle around each other, he taps Yoongi's knee.

"It's starting."

The groups of men begin to brawl with one another, some even going so far as to shiv other inmates with homemade weapons like carved plastic toothbrushes and sharpened bobby pins.

Yoongi makes no move when the loud sirens above the prison yard begin to screech with warnings of dubious intent.

"Okay, Banchae. Don't fuck this up," the drug lord hisses beneath his breath.

He watches the prison guards flock to the yard with unrivaled quickness and when he doesn't see the man that keeps an eye on him at night along with the crowd, a veil of comfort wraps around him.

Staring down at the construction trucks, you watch with folded arms as they begin to fortify the area around the forest homes.

You've spoken to Jeongguk on multiple occasions about moving but you've decided to stay in this place long enough that when Yoongi does get out, he'll have a familiar place to come back to.

With all the dogs laying down at your feet, it's the only comfort that you receive these days.

If you're being honest, you hate this fucking forest now.

You can't stand this godforsaken place.

There was such charm in it not long ago but now you can't find a single thing you like about it.

Everything is miserable, just like you.

"Y/N."

The dogs perk up at the bedroom intruder and you slowly tilt your head to Namjoon.

He enters with a cup of tea in hand and you give him a measly smile of gratitude that doesn't reach your eyes.

"I heard from Taehyung," Joon croaks, sitting down on Yoongi's side of the bed.

You want to snap at him to get up, that the scent of your boyfriend is already faded from the sheets and pillows like leaves in the wind but you hold your tongue and simply sit down beside him.

"And?"

"The plan is underway," he promises, handing you the tea.

"My plan or… Yoongi's plan?"

You hate saying his name sometimes. It's like bringing up a ghost.

Namjoon doesn't reply, taking to looking down at the men who put metal sheets around the compound instead.

The silence is a clear answer.

Yoongi's got a plan on the inside of that place. While that should comfort you, it only makes you more angry.

If he was out here instead of being trapped in there, he could have the whole fucking world in his palm.

Joon simply tilts towards you, almost as if he can feel the anger rolling off of you in waves, and places his hand atop your growing bump.

Yes, Jin is second to your command but Namjoon feels like a whole army solely made for you most of the time.

He lays back on the bed, blonde hair sprawling out around him as his thumb swipes slowly over your distended stomach.

"It's gonna work, Y/N," he avows, looking over at you.

Your lips sputter as you stare down at the hardworking men that fortify your surroundings.

"But what if it doesn't?" you inquire softly, watching curls of steam rise from the top of your tea glass.

"Can't think like that," he rasps softly.

You roll your eyes, letting just the smallest bit of hope swirl through your limbs even if it's for a moment.

"Have faith. We follow you on faith," Joon breathes, pulling out a cough drop.

"You follow me because the person you should follow isn't here," you blink, closing your eyes.

Joon simply sighs, pulling out his phone when it begins to ring loudly.

"Younghan," he answers stiffly.

You set down your tea, eyes alight with curiosity.

Your army of one shoots up in a flash, smiling widely as if what the lawyer is saying is something victorious.

Namjoon just nods and nods, his smile getting wider and wider until he looks like he's gonna pass out with happiness.

"Well, let's bring him home."

You turn fully to him, pulling your legs into your body at his hopeful words.

"Thanks, Younghan."

When he hangs up, he gives you a wry smile. "Yoongi's plan worked."

Your heart flutters triumphantly within the recesses of your chest and you finally feel some sort of gratification coarse through your veins for the first time in months.

"So what did he sa-"

Jin enters the bedroom with a sullen look on his face and you raise an eyebrow at his expression.

"What's wrong?" you inquire, picking up your tea.

"I found out who framed Yoongi," the oldest announces.

Taking a sip of your warm tea, you nod expectantly.

When the name breaches past your right hand man's lips, your tea goes flying out your mouth and coating Joon's bare chest.

"Oh what the fuck!"

Yoongi itches at his neck as he looks around the sterile interrogation room.

Not long after the riot in the yard both him and Taehyung were sent back to their cell and not long after that the drug lord was brought to the other side of the penitentiary.

When he was brought in here he only assumed someone had found out what Baechan had done but now he's not so sure.

It seems like they're trying to string him out.

They want him to lose all perception of time.

And for while it was working.

Until he forced himself to get a grip.

The drug lord is pretty confident that they're trying to whittle him down and break him but he can't allow that. There's too much at stake.

"I'm bored!" Yoongi sings loudly, stretching his arms out and yawning.

He waits patiently for another minute before throwing his ankles up onto the desk before him and digging at some dirt under his nails.

"Holy shit, you guys really know how to hang a guy by his fucking foreskin. Come on," he complains.

And then finally, the door opens.

He's greeted by a woman with her hair tied up in a long bun and her breasts on full display.

The drug lord nods his head to her politely, his eyes faltering to the file in her hand.

"Good afternoon, inmate 39214."

Yoongi closes his eyes to shield his massive eye roll.

By the time he opens his eyes, the woman is already sitting across the table from him.

Your boyfriend takes his feet off the table and the file is opened with a flourish.

"My name is Miyoung Lee and I'm the head of the drug affairs for this area."

Oh shit.

"How can a random inmate help you, Ms. Lee?"

She wrinkles her nose at his attempt to push anything incriminating off of himself.

"Random, yes, of course."

Yoongi simply blinks, letting his expression fall passive to the point of being bored.

"I have some photos I'd like you to take a look at here."

Yoongi sits forward, looking down at the photos that are now sprawled out over the table.

His eyes skim over the photos, seeing the Snake clan taking the brick of cocaine that incriminated him to begin with.

The drug lord also notices that Hyunwoo is nowhere to be found in these pictures.

"What about them?" your boyfriend inquires, leaning back in his chair and folding his arms.

"Notice anything interesting about them?"

Yoongi wants to laugh, this woman thinks she's going to bait him?

How unfortunate for her.

"Seems like some bad men."

She tilts her head, clicking her teeth impatiently.

"Ms. Lee, if you're coming to a random inmate to show them photos that means you have absolutely nothing to go on. I certainly can't help you. I have no idea what the fuck you think this is gonna do for you."

Yoongi does know one thing, when he gets out of here the Snake clan is fucking dead.

<---- Last Chapter Next Chapter ---->

The Deal taglist – @jeon-junggoop, @btsarmy9593, @slothykrueger, @jcsmae, @milesjeon11, @cloudyblisss, @borahae-reads, @secretlycrazyhummingbird, @rjsmochii, @sugas-bbygirl, @ggukkieland, @hyungieyoongi, @chxmachxps, @dvalitaes, @vintageroses10, @maerawrrr, @flowerblu00, @veronawrites, @seoqity, @wozwaid, @hisbutton-nose, @sweetempathprunetree, @jinsearthh, @codeinebelle, @serious-addiction, @bt21chim, @rosquilleta, @dunixxd, @rkchmestizangmaldita, @openup-yourmind, @shesaysweirdthings, @marslena, @deathkat657, @yoonlattesworld, @that-funny-alien-28, @clutterfied, @belladaises, @silentkei, @btsnina, @shydestinyyouth, @thefreddieman, @kkklaudiaaa17, @moonchild1, @ronie1974, @jeonghanniehae, @rinkud, @giselleg7784

#the deal #btswritingcafe #thebtswritersclub #yoongi #min yoongi #yoongi x you #yoongi x reader #drug lord!yoongi #drug dealer!yoongi #yoongi smut #bts fic #bts fics

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nichenarratives · 8 months

Text

Hurricane Heller 9

A Niche Narratives Fanficiton

last | first | next

[Trigger warning for strong references to violence, bloody descriptions and forceful imprisonment of an expendable OC]

9. Butcher for Hire

Once a primary producer of domestic chemical cleaners, the now defunct Solvay Process Company factory stands grimy on the outskirts of the city, towering over its surroundings and casting bleak shadows reminiscent of pollution it once spilled into the nearby river. Now it looms over Mordecai as he exits the vehicle, an isolated island of concrete amongst otherwise wild, natural ecosystems.

Mordecai gazes up at the abandoned building with dread in his veins, sharp eyes slit to study this new environment, his possible last destination. He swallows and draws his tail to the back of his legs, only to startle and spin back toward the car when the door slams closed behind him. The siamese smirks and offers a cursory wave before the engine revs.

Tires squeal and spin, kicking up gravel, then it's silent once more. Mordecai can feel his heart beating as he turns back to the factory, a rapid samba thrumming in his throat before it echoes in his ears. An overwhelming urge to go home hits then; an idiotic notion he could just crawl into bed, pretend this never happened and return to the tracks in the morning, somehow resetting the day's events and erasing them from history.

But of course, he can't go home. Even if he knew which way to walk, even if he could feasibly walk that far. There is no hard reset, either; in doing his job, 'Elijah Katz' made himself too valuable. Influential undesirables have taken notice and now he's on a very different path, one that might end today if he can't live up to unspoken expectations.

Leveling his gaze forward, he spots an open door, a fire exit left innocuously ajar on an abandoned building miles out of the city. It's an invitation, one the newly christened Isaiah Fitzgerald knows he cannot refuse. He takes a deep breath - a shakier one than he'll ever admit - and clutching onto the strap of his Father's satchel for support, finally steps inside.

Unsurprisingly, it's dark in the abandoned factory. Vaulted ceilings and high, industrial windows do little to light the floor level walkway he enters. Remnant scents of chemicals still permeate the air, tainting each new breath with a bad taste. Mordecai scrunches his nose and tries to keep his breaths shallow, not wishing to draw unknown substances that could be toxic into his lungs.

A steady drip-drip accompanies the click of his loafers over the cracked tile floor, echoing off the empty walls. Desks left overturned, papers abandoned to rot and unidentifiable wet patches are all carefully stepped around as he heads deep into the factory's carcass until, anxiety overriding an innate urge to keep a low profile, he calls out in an embarrassingly cracked voice. "Hello…?"

The response is a muffled yell from his right. Mordecai turns on the spot, though he doesn't approach immediately, taking a moment to extract and open his pocket knife. Leaving his letter opener tucked into a boot for emergencies, he finally takes slow, calculating steps towards the sound, eyes wide to saturate his vision and adjust to the low light.

Just around a corner, he finds the source; illuminated by a rare high window that shines directly onto the tiled floor, he finds a feline tied to a chair. Large black ears come forward as he approaches, eyes darting around the area for danger, the uncertainty of the whole arrangement raising his hackles and heightening his senses even as the restrained man gets louder and more desperate on his approach.

"There's the man of the hour," a slow, almost drawling tone declares from the left. Mordecai pivots, turning his knife on it in an instant, coming within inches of slicing another man's flesh. Another new face - a large, white feline with amberish eyes and black stripes around his muzzle that aren't echoed elsewhere on his pelt - smiles slyly. "Savage's new favourite Pussyfoot. What was it? Katz? Ritz? Fitz?"

With both old and new aliases mentioned, plus another he assumes was a possibility the siamese dug up investigating the non-existent Katz, this man must be associated with the company. A quick glance shows another time pin identical to the others and slowly, the tuxedo lowers the pocket knife to his side, not yet content to put it away. "Fitzgerald."

"Fitz," the man responds, apparently pleased with himself in creating a nickname, as he chuckles softly and places an arm around the tuxedo's shoulders. Mordecai tenses, but it doesn't stop this man pulling him into his own shoulder for an approving half-embrace, forcing close proximity. "Good, good. I hoped it wouldn't go sour in the car. I've heard things about you. Great things. Hopeful things. But enough of that!"

He lets go of the tuxedo. "Let's get started, shall we?"

"Get started with what, precisely?" Mordecai asks warily, his gaze briefly tracking to the now silently shaking man tied to a chair. A sharp scent of ammonia fills the air, likely from the residual gasses still present in the factory, but Mordecai still scowls at it, causing the prisoner to cower before the tuxedo turns his gaze back on the white cat. "Who are you? Who is he? Why am I even here?"

"You ask a lot of questions," the larger feline responds, then digs in his pockets. Mordecai freezes, anticipating a gun or a blade to be leveled in his direction, demanding something of him. His knife feels heavy as attempting to defend himself crosses his mind, until the white cat only pulls out two tools; pliers and a hammer. He offers them to the monochrome cat without pause, nodding to the prisoner. "Save it for him."

Mordecai sags and tucks his pocket knife away as he looks at the other feline. Body tied to the backrest and forearms secured to arm rests with thick rope, hope has abandoned the captive's eyes entirely. Large orange ears flatten to his head and whimpers shake free of a mouth gag as torture implements are offered to not a saviour, but another enemy.

Emerald eyes fall back to the tools, ones he'd used a dozen times to make small repairs to his mother's home, tools that never felt dangerous until now. Mordecai once again gets an urge to run, this time to his Rabbi. He burns to admit to his sins and take whatever retribution the wise man feels fit, if only to avoid this exact happenstance entirely, even though he knows he can't, that his life will end as soon as he tries to leave, the young Jew wishes he could.

Instead he stays rooted to the spot, then turns his gaze to the man offering him the implements, a last chance to avoid taking this irrevocable step down the awful road he's been on for five years. "I'm a bookkeeper, not a…" His vocabulary fails not because he doesn't have the words, but because saying them makes the situation feel too real. Tormentor. Torturer. Sadist.

"You were a bookie," the white feline corrects. His fur so out of place on such a vindictive man, a halo of white around his face sharply contrasting the dark soul he must house. He continues to offer the tools with a flat expression, serious and unyielding. "Now, you're whatever Savage wants you to be. Today, that's his interrogator."

That's the end of it; there's no arguing, no compromise, just orders. Almost too carefully, Mordecai pulls the satchel over his head and drops it to the floor, too distracted by his boss' new expectations to concern himself with how messy that is, and takes a few steps towards his accomplice.

Mordecai feels dazed, actively struggling with the reality of the situation as he reaches for the implements with shaking hands. Every teaching in his childhood should prevent him from taking and using them as Savage intends, but it isn't so easy to refuse when it's not just his soul on the line; all he can think about is his baby sister's coughs as she died, how it broke his mother, what it would do to her if another of his sister's passed… all far heavier than his own eternity.

He hesitates a second, then two, before stiffly taking them.

"Good," the white cat comments, lowering his hands. While he seems content to approach their prisoner, Mordecai can only stare down at the tools. Despite the moral weight they represent, they aren't as heavy as the tom expected, fitting easily into his palms as he grasps them. It's as he closes his hands around the handles the orange cat is freed of his gag. "Ready to sing like the canary you are, Micheal?"

"Please, I don't know nothin', Mister Gabriel! It was only-"

The gag is shoved roughly back into the lad's mouth, pleas for mercy swiftly silenced. "Guess not," the white feline says as he turns back to Mordecai, who has only just glanced up from the hammer and pliers, barely even contemplated their intended use before he's encouraged closer with the curl of a finger. "Micheal here is a little flea, feeding off information from a rat and taking it to the feds. You're going to get me the name of the rat, Fitz. By whatever means necessary."

His chest suddenly tight, Mordecai turns his gaze to the lad in the chair, who whimpers and quivers with fear, shaking his head no. Tears pool in terrified eyes, orange ears lay flat to his skull and feet curl against the chair legs, trying to appear small. Nausea and guilt swim in the tuxedo's gut for a moment, but he squashes it down again, forcing any sentiments away.

Backing out is impossible. It would end his life and perhaps, also his family's. He needs that information.

Mordecai inhales sharply, forces them deep down and nods to Gabriel, flexing his palm on the pliers. The teeth part and gnash together threateningly in thin air. "Are you planning to watch?" He asks, honestly curious now he's fully detached the tenants of his morals. He wants to get this over with as fast as possible, which will be easier without interference. "Or can I have some privacy?"

With a chuckle, Gabriel raises his palms between them. "If you want it private for your first rodeo, I won't stop you," he says with far too much enthusiasm for Mordecai's liking, then pulls a cigarette out from behind his ear. "I've needed a smoke since you walked in anyway. Just try not to kill him before he squeals, would you? I'll wait for you outside."

The tuxedo lets him leave, then waits even longer to be sure the pale feline is gone, only then does he turn back to the cowering prisoner. Micheal's whimpers grow louder as he approaches, the orange cat flinching away from his hand until it removes the gag, only to shiver when his ensuing yell is smothered by the same cloth held over quivering lips.

Terrified eyes meet steady greens as Mordecai crouches to his level, hand firm on the fabric over his sniffling face, gaze piercing and tone low. "I'm sure you've realised you're going to die,* he begins honestly, then presses harder as the sniffs become yowling wails. He doesn't want to hear it, in case it breaks his resolve, a growl infecting his tone. "Listen. This is an opportunity for you to make that inevitable demise less painful. Tell me who's feeding you information and I'll ensure a swift, painless death. That's all you have to do."

With a last pointed look, Mordecai releases the man's mouth and waits, an elbow resting on his thigh and fabric gag hung precariously from two claws, not wishing to touch more of it than necessary now it's been inside the lad's mouth. For the smallest of moments, Micheal looks like he'll comply, thick, quivering lips parted to speak before he starts to beg. "Please! I don't-!"

Mordecai shoves the gag back into his mouth almost too aggressively and stands, turning his back on the man to run his hand through his hair and desperately think. Tools left at the whimpering man's feet, Mordecai tilts his head back and he clutches at his scalp with both hands, closing his eyes to ask - to beg - Hashem one last time for His guidance.

Give me another way I can protect my family, a way my soul remains intact, anything, and I will take it without question.

Silence permeates the air around him, deafening and empty at once, destroying what remains of his faith as he's forced to face the reality that there is either no Hashem, or nothing that can be done to redeem his tainted soul. Emerald eyes open and stare blankly at the ceiling, faith leaching from his body, finally leaving Mordecai Heller an emotionally decrepit shell.

He turns back to Micheal with a cold glare, his ears rotated back and brows knit together. This man is his fall from grace, his severance from faith, one if many he's sure to have to handle once today is complete. For the first time in Mordecai's life, he feels hatred for this whimpering, pathetic man who forces his hand, and it shows in the way he stands and approaches his prey.

The orange cat sinks as far into his seat as his restraints will allow, yelling for help through his gag as retrieving the tuxedo tom retrieves his tools and stalks the last few feet, advancing in silent determination. If I must spill others' blood to safeguard those I care for, if I must be forsaken by God for protecting my family, then I spill it without remorse.

There's no enjoyment; the screams are deafening, the blood is repulsive, the snot messy, but thirty minutes later he has the requested information. Mordecai leaves without offering any words of closure or comfort, aware on some level he's too calm as he retrieves his satchel. His slow steps echo through the silent factory, a rhythmic click of the small heel his only companion until he slips outside.

Hearing the door creak, Gabriel turns to face the tuxedo, his expression dark. "You killed him, then?"

"He's fine. I'm efficient, not careless," Mordecai rebukes and without explanation, holds out a fisted handkerchief bundle to his co-conspirator. A little bemused, Gabriel accepts it, whereupon the tuxedo straightens his suit jacket, unaware of the speck of blood on his collar that perfectly matches his tie. "One of your bookkeepers is skimming funds and paying triggermen for information. Mr Herman Schmitt. He was just stupid enough to share it with Micheal, as well."

"Schmitt," Gabriel growls openly, then slaps the tuxedo tom heartily on the back. "Good job, Fitz. A roaring success, I'd say. Here-" He tucks a thick wad of money into Mordecai's jacket, patting it with a palm afterwards to make a point of it. "Here's compensation for a job well done, plus a little extra to call a cab from the phonebox a half mile down the road. I think you'll find it more generous than your other wage."

He then tries to return the handkerchief, but Mordecai takes a step back with a grimace, pushing his hand away with an index finger. "That's yours," he states, eyeing what used to be his pocket square with open contempt. "Call it a souvenir. I assume you don't not want evidence left behind, after all. If that is all, I'm going home. I need a shower."

With that said, Mordecai turns on his heel and walks briskly away, not looking back. The sooner he gets back home, the sooner he can strip off his work persona and do something to tforget what he did today. A few of his plants need a trim, and it's been a while since he buried his nose in a book in solitude. He needs to decompress before he gets so lost in Isaiah Fitzgerald, he forgets who Mordecai Heller is.

"Enjoy that raise! I'll be in touch with another job soon!" His new supervisor calls after him, then chuckles and turns back to the factory. Before he heads inside however, Gabriel can't help but open the handkerchief, then whistles, unexpectedly impressed with his gall. "You're not as squeamish as you look, are you, Fitz? Isn't that interesting."

Three freshly extracted claws rest in a white handkerchief, glistening in the morning sun, clumps of raw tissue yanked from their internal flesh housings on each root slowly dyeing the crimson

----

I know I don't usually do author's notes, but I wanted to take a moment to thank everyone that shares/ reads this post on both AO3 and here, and.especially those who leave feedback on the chapters. The positive reception and hype has made it so much fun to expand on this story and get the chapters out fast - hopefully well written too!

So thank you, and I hope you've enjoyed Mordecai's downfall. It's only going to get worse from here.

#mordecai heller #lackadaisy #fanfiction #lackadaisy mordecai #lackadaisy cats #fanfic #hurricane heller #no beta we die like atlas may #tracy j butler #niche narratives #hurricane heller chapter 9

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theevangelion · 2 years

Text

Alpha Daddy: Chapter II

The days passed. Friday came quickly, though Lena wouldn’t tonight. A night to settle and adjust and see if things felt comfortable seemed more appropriate, Kara wanted to get all of this as right as she could.

Sunset this high up in the city loomed burned orange through the windows, felt aesthetically pleasing in a way that superseded Kara’s ability to string words and explanations why, but the place laid in comfortable disarray like a penthouse doing its best impression of a loft, there were books stacked everywhere, paintings propped and leaned, mismatching antique furniture and restored brass furnishings and all of it sat bathed in terracotta dusk. A wave of honey dulcet quiet in the air. A Friday evening doing its best impression of Sunday afternoon.

All the dust in the air sat trapped and visible like it should, like one expects from hot early Autumn evenings and homes filled with antique brass and mismatching woods overlapping, and so without words to explain why it was all so quietly clean and exactly as it should be, everything felt right regardless, and Kara’s anxieties unwound from the day and took their thumb off tight muscles in her jaw.

Kara pottered around Lena’s place waiting for her to reappear from the shower. She disregarded conversations several blocks away and sirens that could cope without her tonight, fully aware Alex would call if help was needed, half-suspecting that her sister actually probably wouldn’t call at all.

Thinking about it, missile silos could fire nuclear bombs either direction. Alex would still insist she needed some semblance of an ordinary, normal twenty-something year old life—girlfriend included.

So Kara stood there mindless and blank headed, in her girlfriend’s kitchen but out of her body, listening to the running order of cabinets opening and closing in the bathroom, a peeled banana in one hand and a glass of cold white wine in the other. She wasn’t convinced the combination worked. Another bite followed by a sip confirmed her hypothesis. It didn’t stop her, she nibbled and sipped, expecting a different outcome each time, then wrinkling her nose and slapping her mouth from the taste.

It was thick with heat in the air, the warmth kicking out from vents that left sweat prickled on her back and awkward clinginess to her boxers, but Lena liked the place stifling, liked the grey boxers and the shape of her shaft, the sway, the bounce, the absence of tight panties that smoothed and hid away a part of her body that, no matter how many times Lena saw, she always looked then looked again with wide eyes.

It was sweet. It was textbook adorable baby girl behaviour, a clinical symptom of Lena’s softest layers of subspace stirring and nibbling at her bottom lip and slippering pretty panties wet and damp. Lena never liked to admit it, Kara always asked anyway.

“You look so pretty when you squeeze your thighs together. Does it always make you wet, or only when I wear the grey ones?” Kara beamed with quiet confidence and all the correct answers in her back pocket.

“I…” Lena laughed nervously and looked everywhere and anywhere. “I just…”

The blush always went cherry-coloured, and Lena would stutter and stumble and get so embarrassed she couldn’t speak. Around this point, Kara decided it wasn’t adorable or funny and put her out of her misery.

“It’s okay if you’re shy with explicit words. You can just say you like the grey ones, baby.”

The pandering got to her. Kara saw it clear as day when Lena’s jaw went tense, tight and clenching. She loved being managed so softly, she hated being managed so softly, and while the war was going on within her brain, Kara often reached down and briefly stroked her cock over the material of her boxers—adjusting herself a moment too long to be decent.

Something would change in Lena’s eyes.

It wasn’t the same as heat, not even close, it wasn’t frantic or cracked or so desperate that Lena ever looked as though she were fighting against her skin. But Lena would exhale softly between her little crimson lips, then wind the corner of her mouth in her teeth, antsy and chewing and smirking into a primal subspace she felt inadequate and embarrassed about.

“Daddy I like the grey ones,” Lena always managed to quietly rasp the words out.

The rasp got Kara every time—shattered her each and every way. The husking, textured need in the back of her voice. If she wasn’t hard, which she usually already was, then the embarrassed little voice sent her up like a flare.

People rarely guessed her assignation right away—not correctly at least. Everyone had an opinion about that kind of thing, whether it was pertinent, whether it was important to conform and conduct and present. What was an Alpha supposed to look and behave like? She was polite and mild-mannered because that was inherent and earnest. It was Alpha to be those things because Kara felt the statement correct and true.

She didn’t bristle or flare her nostrils or speak crudely.

Except sometimes—usually in grey boxers.

There was something inexplicable about it. Lena would look at her, all green eyes and blushing cheeks, feeling things in parts of her body that she didn’t know how to hide or be discrete about despite wanting to be. Kara growled in those moments and felt her nostrils flare because how could they not?

Lena called her Daddy.

Game over.

No resolve or restraint or mild-manners to be found anywhere.

Daddy. Kara felt that word, felt it everywhere in her body, like all the dumbest stereotypes and cheesiest romance novels were scientific research studies. And so she would growl and clench and touch her like a woman, babytalk her like a little well-behaved good girl. Take her thighs back with warm palms and kiss her dripping cunt and swelling little clit, some nights, slip her tongue inside places that left them both too embarrassed to mention about the next morning.

She handled Lena in precise, dominant ways that were sometimes a little cruel and sometimes abundantly adoring and always so connective that, for days after, Kara felt if she were expected to present publicly in a way that accurately communicated her identity?

White sneakers and the crispest socks.

A baseball cap.

Her phone secured to her belt in a holster and her shirt rolled up her forearms.

Kara wasn’t sure what being an Alpha had to do with anything out there in the world, but it had everything to do with who she was in the small four walls and quiet warmth of privacy. She was Lena’s Daddy—that was that.

The shower ran, the water went in loud splashes off limbs and shoulders and edges of bones. Kara heard it and that was enough, she imagined dripping jet black hair and gleaming pale skin and damp clean freckles, and she smiled wider, thinking of all the places she wanted to kiss and suck and nibble in long trails going back and forth nowhere and everywhere. Little sensitive pink nipples that needed to be bitten and sucked too hard. Lena broke every time and whimpered through croaking rasps where her pronunciations usually sat prim and ladylike.

Kara loved it, loved touching them, loved the feeling of a warm nude body careening into bed on Friday night with a movie on the agenda, Lena’s lips coming up to kiss and peck along her jaw innocently enough, and Kara slipped her hand up a push-pulling belly and grazed fingertips over little puffy nipples that stiffened on her lightest touch.

“Daddy…”

It always came so shakily out of her mouth, so quick and responsive and desperate.

Kara would coo over her always, push her on her back, kiss little stiff nipples in a flurry of pecks and grazing teeth and swirling tongue. A bounce in her upright cock, it stiffened awake with rushing blood flow and webbing precum.

A shower and grower, Kara was humble about it, maybe only because she had felt so ashamed when she was younger. It wasn’t fun being a shy, awkward introvert adolescent with changes and development that sat so at odds with her demeanour. Her cock spilled out of her panties, rarely behaved, hung low and heavy and threatened the hem of her skirt with foreskin and accumulating inches she wanted to slow to a halt. It took time to be okay. It took time to know it was more than okay to feel good and care about girls feeling good, that she was capable of making them feel good. Kara got there, in her own time.

Older and alright with herself, Kara had ten thick solid inches that took up space between her slender legs and could not be avoided or glanced past. She wouldn’t care if she had five, but she had ten, and she wouldn’t push them inside Lena even if she did ask.

Even if she wasn’t a virgin, even if the stars aligned and Lena’s pink lips pressed open on the stretch of her reddened slippery gland, nudging at the little pristine hole, dribbling and webbing from the end of her cock with desperation to fuck the first blood out of her, Kara still would not give leverage and break her way slow and steady inside.

Lena hadn’t proved a heat and Kara would hurt her.

Not intentionally, not saviour-complex overanxious worrying, nor in some arrogant assumed way by virtue of her size and overbearing thickness. Lena hadn’t proved a heat and the little hymen in her cunt was rigid, tight and hypersensitive as a result. A single finger inside, Lena whimpered and winced in pain and puffed the kind of moans that had to be pressed against Kara’s pulse point in order to feel safe and grounded and okay.

If Kara pushed with her cock, Lena would break not as a temporary burning pain giving way to shared pleasures. She would squeal and scream and break the way a dress seam rips under duress and can never be whole or healed after. Kara would never and could never.

It would hurt Lena.

Gentle as she was, Kara made her take the steady slipping finger, hushed and cooed and told a woman four years older to be her brave good girl, relax her muscles then let her little cunt hurt regardless.

There was something about the tight oversensitive hymen barely stretching, sucking so tight on her knuckle that Kara could imagine the burning achiness with clarity. A sudden and constant shifting in Lena’s hips and legs from the pressure. A gasp and wince. An outreach of needy arms thrusting forward that needed Daddy, that slipped and clung tight on Kara’s shoulders.

There and then, Lena’s lips craned and pushed and pressed rapid moans and struggling whimpers into the pulse point of Kara’s throat. Sometimes, more often than she felt proud about, Kara spurted and emptied and glugged out a ruined orgasm that didn’t feel ruined at all.

“Daddy it hurts,” Lena croaked and moaned into her jawline, some nights that always led to ruined orgasms dribbling out of her cock. “Daddy it’s burning—your finger. Inside. It’s stretching and it’s making me sting.”

“Do you want me to stop?”

“No Daddy. No, you don’t—you’re not understanding. I want more?”

“Well you can’t have more.”

“Please just break it?”

“Break it? Honey, no, it will hurt you.”

“I’m not a silly little girl.”

“You don’t feel like a big greedy one. You really want me to pick you up and force my cock inside? You can’t even get your hand around it, princess. I would have to press you against the wall and slam at your little pinprick hole with everything I had just to break into your cunt…”

“Daddy. Daddy fuck please? You can hurt it. Kara, please—”

“No.”

The pressure alone from a single finger moving in and out, slow and careful and so gentle through her tight hole, had tears dribbling and strangled pain in her whimpers.

“Please Daddy?”

“Remember how much it hurt when I pushed inside your asshole? You begged me to fuck you in your ass, you begged for weeks, told me just how good you had gotten with your fingers, remember what happened that night?”

Lena’s expression slackened and her moans grew loud and close.

“Your head popped inside my bottom too fast, and it hurt and I couldn’t take you any deeper and started to cry, but you kept your head…”

“Kept my head where?”

“Stuck inside my bottom, Daddy.” Lena couldn’t remember it without a flood of arousal dripping her thighs. “You kept it stuck there and made me reach back and stroke your shaft until you came inside of my…”

“Your very pretty, very sore, very stretched asshole.” Kara could count her down like clockwork. “You cried like a little girl. Do you remember after I finished inside of you?”

“Mhm.”

“If you make me ask I will stop and put your panties back on myself.”

“Daddy kissed it better. You kissed it better and rubbed your finger over and round the edges, in circles, until I went to sleep.” The moans went high and warbly and gasping. “Kara please push inside?” Lena always tried one last time.

“No baby.” A little come hither and quickening on her clit was all it ever took. “Sweet baby girl. You look so pretty when you cum so hard that it makes you cry. See, you didn’t need more. You just needed to hear Daddy say no.”

Kara loved rewarding, loved kissing and sucking on little pink nipples, loved the way Lena trembled and rose up and wailed into the feeling of a suddenly lavished clit and French kissed cunt.

Daddy loved saying no.

Daddy loved Lena’s good, cathartic loveliest tears. The whimper when her sensitive little nipples were bitten a little too hard. The croaking, rasped and textured wail when Daddy bit harder anyway. The wide helpless arousal in her green eyes when Daddy twisted and pinched her nipples, cooing the little good girl, twisting and pinching past the tears, past the useless slaps drumming rapid and quick against everywhere and anywhere, focused only on the bucking little cunt lips grinding a puddle on Daddy’s knee until the request came.

Daddy loved saying yes too, sometimes.

Daddy whispered reassurance, permission and praise that swaddled orgasms into happy little baby girl tears and subspace calm. Daddy loved a sore, stretched and hypersensitive little hymen on her finger.

And of course, Daddy loved edging Lena’s pretty fat cunt lips, all swollen and spread and dripping the sheets puddled and damp, to then pull Lena’s panties back up too quickly and pat at her puffy little cunt twitches like she was a sweet, cherished pet, to then feel the frustrated tears dribble on to her hips with a lapping tongue and suckling mouth bobbing her straining cock.

The chastity belt would be on the top of the list of things she loved.

Kara knew it.

She heard the bathroom cabinets open and close. The deodorant. The faucet gushing to brush teeth and gargle. It wasn’t quick enough. Kara wanted to hurry it along and burst in and take her to bed like a little girl to be thrown over her sturdy, solid and strong shoulders. She wanted to be all the things Lena needed. She wanted to rub a nervous, push-pulling tummy, feel the lock click and the belt stay tight and secure on Lena’s hips and waist and denied little sex, smooth on her fingertips running each and every way along the steel straits.

She wanted to hush the inevitable tears.

She wanted to hold her close.

She wanted to ask, just to be sure, and then soften with relief at the inevitable answer.

“Feels good Daddy, I don’t want to take it off. It’s just different. It’s new and it’s a lot.”

Kara half-planned out the things she might say, probably would say, if the words came as she expected, and the moment felt as sweet as she hoped.

“It’s new and it’s a lot and that’s a big deal. It’s not chastity for denial baby, it’s for Saturday mornings curled up eating breakfast in bed and Sunday afternoons pulling my fingers down to your pretty parts at the movie theatre and…all of quiet, perfectly ordinary moments during the regular day that you can feel me there whenever you want to feel close and held…”

In Kara’s mind, she absolutely saw it as earnest truth.

It wasn’t a reason to avoid intimacy. It was a way to embrace it, keep it present and constant, find more reasons and ways to touch and be close and navigate what it meant to be intimate like other couples and yet, somehow, never intimate like other couples despite both craving it.

Kara wasn’t trying to be gross with her runaway thinking, she couldn’t help it, but she heard the faucet turn off and the running order of the bathroom draw to its end, and she tried to not be consumed with the wrong things—tried at least.

The banana had gone straight to her head.

It was the excuse in the absence of needing one. The one that made her laugh to herself. In her comfiest grey boxers and nothing else, Kara stirred back to life and topped her wine glass and poured one for Lena.

“Kara, baby?”

The bathroom door creaked wider, Lena slipped the towel around and Kara smiled at the way she smiled. Dripping black hair, gleaming skin, damp freckles and a thousand other perfectly good reasons to take her mouth and kisses in slow directions and lose herself in the little clean wonder of her girlfriend’s shape.

“Oh. You’re being naughty, uncouth and unsavoury” —Lena’s eyes flew open, then she laughed with the widest grin despite her exasperated and slumping posture— “Do you know how loud your dirty thoughts are? The neighbours complain, Kara!”

Kara snorted into the sip of her drink.

“Sorry baby,” Kara whispered with a smile.

Lena glanced to the empty waiting sofa then back to Kara’s eyeline.

“Wine and cuddles and nauseatingly sweet kisses over trash garbage television?”

“Afterwards.” Kara took Lena’s wine glass from the counter and carried it for her. “Bedroom first. I want you to be a good girl with an edged little pretty cunt under lock and key, and you’re going to be a good girl and take it like I tell you, Lena…” Kara stopped and turned her head as they stood parallel in the hallway, her voice as lavender calm and ordinary as it ever was. “I like it when you cry on my shoulder because you’re feeling things between your legs, baby. I’m going to love holding you tonight in your pretty little new belt and tomorrow I’ll take it off and suck the frustration from your little clit, and we’ll go for breakfast and talk about how it all feels.”

Lena stared like a lame rabbit in headlights.

“Daddy—”

Kara didn’t hang around for the conversation.

“Bedroom, Lena,” Kara whispered sweetly.

Read more, read all my things, come little one.

#supercorp #supercorp smut #abo #omegaverse #supercorp omegaverse #omega lena #alpha kara #daddy kara #lesbian daddy #dom kara #sub lena #d/s supercorp

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