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comfortless · 2 months

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Only Other

chapter three of three.

content/warnings: 18+. minors do not interact. historical au (set around 350BC); potential inaccuracies as i am no historian!, König speaks some German here (as opposed to Gothic), mutual pining & worship, smut (piv), sliiiight breeding kink, violence, as always König is horribly in love and says ridiculously worrisome things, reader feigns ambivalence but is equally unhinged and smitten.

notes: eternally grateful to @wordsbyvani for reading over my shoulder and genuinely being the sweetest throughout every part. ^^ and again to @writersdrug for giving me the idea to begin with!

wc: 9k.

<- previous.

König’s men arrive sometime in the afternoon, a few hours behind but carrying hoards of supplies. There are weapons you recognize to be from your city stuffed into bags, pelts and silks and twinkling stones, meats and fruits. They had not forgotten to bring along wine, either: two barrels to either side of a gray mare led along behind one of their rugged steeds by a length of thick rope.

You don’t ask how they found her, let alone how they managed to actually tame her down enough to follow amidst the chaos that broke out the night prior. A weak string of “thank you”s leaves your lips when you press your nose to the horse's snout, sobbing into her silver fur. She seems less bothered, huffing impatiently as she’s tethered up with the others against broad trees.

You’re not convinced that here or anywhere is safe anymore, and you don’t assist when the men begin to set up their camp. They’ve enough supplies and arms to do it themselves, anyhow.

Guilt, trepidation and confusion, haunt you: cast out for all to see by your forlorn stares and the tremor of your lower lip as you continuously fight an internal battle to keep yourself sane. And how could you? You’ve only come to reason that this has all come to fruition because of you, because of the things that you could not help. Your curiosity, fascinations, and impiety had all led you to be here, now, while everyone you once knew sleeps eternally.

You have condemned yourself to the life of a slave girl, and later to the darkness of the Orcus when you do die.

Though… men do not give their slaves the looks that König gives to you. You haven’t spoken to him in hours, and you do your best to avoid his glances, shoot down his smiles with the curved arrow of your own sullen frowns. Still… amidst setting up the tents and gathering wood for the fire to stave off the chill of nightfall, you catch the very stars reflected over a sea in his eyes.

There is love there, a too-uncanny and harrowing love, but a great devotion nonetheless. It burns like a fire of its own in your chest, inescapable and rampant. You know it in the spaces behind your skull, your ribs, that what he feels is another cage: roomier, softer, but you will never be free of it either.

König does not follow you to the tent when the moon rises. He sits by the fire, watching as you go with the pelt drawn up over your shoulders and curled around you. When you sink into the bed of fur that has replaced the straw mattress from before you find yourself somehow even more fitful here than outside. Sleep is evasive, leaving you tossing and twisting amidst the smell of sweat and animal fur. Not even the crackling fire outside defeats the quiet or the cold in the air.

There’s a sickly pit in your stomach, thorn seedling threatening to take root and spread the longer you stare up at the blackened abyss of the tent ceiling. If you’re to live a life torn, at the very least you could be warm; you take to König’s side in moments, joining him by the slowly dwindling flame.

The brute isn’t sleeping, either, just… lost. Lost like you the day that you met him.

“I need to look at your wound.” Your excuse comes weak and puny, doe limbs and fragile glances when you do sit at his side and speak. You’ve never been anyone’s ‘Göttin’, you don’t know what you’re doing, what blessings to grant or judgments to cast. Avoiding him only seems a punishment for you both, and you’ve had your share of those.

König is anything but small: even amidst the turmoil your silence has gifted to him, he still seems himself, all ego and cruelly cut silver, softened only by your words, your touch.

“Richtig,” he mutters, reaches out to pull you in, and you let him. Straddling his lap with only the moon above awake to witness, cast her curious gaze down and illuminate the expanse of his chest whilst you work to pull away the bandages.

There isn’t much to tend to, it’s healing well. The flesh that once seemed inflamed has only drawn back its redness to simmer to the natural color of his skin. When you begin your careful prodding, it does not hurt him. He doesn’t so much as flinch or huff at your touch.

When you dab your index in the sweet honey that serves as a salve, he grasps at your hand and brings it up to his lips, presses a kiss to your index and middle without hesitation. And you see it then: a glimmer of hesitation in the way his lips pull and his eyes search your own, a silent plea for vindication.

You’ve never been cold to him, not even as he spoke with so much self-importance when you first met, not when he rutted his blade between your parted legs, not even now after all that he’s done. In his own way of thinking, these things have all been some display of courtship. There’s never cruelty toward you, not in his touch, the words that he speaks, and especially not in those somber eyes. These things break down the last fraying edge of your resolve.

You press your mouth to his, sharing the taste of honey pressed to his lips, everything sugary and warm. Over and over until the night begins to close its way in, plump clouds drifting over the pearl hanging in the sky when you finally find yourself tucked back into the tent with König curled at your side. He holds you closer than he ever has, not from a fear you’ll take off under the darkened sky, but in the honoring of something far greater. Some love comes quiet like flower blooms, his comes with fire.

“Wolves pair in winter,” he says quietly, burying his face into your hair. It’s shy, almost, as though the man has not already embedded his scent into your very skin and toyed with your most sensitive parts. It’s truer, more heartfelt, than even his confessions of love.

“Is that what you see us as being?” You laugh, a slow, gentle chime that aches your throat, face still puffy from tears and voice scratchy from those thick clouds of smoke.

“Ja…”

“You really…” The words get caught up someplace in the spaces between your lungs and tongue. You don’t want to cry, not anymore, but you find it difficult not to choke up after so much comfort with a lifetime of so very little. “You do care for me, don’t you?”

He answers your question in a grumble, a string of foreign words only meant for mountain caverns and creatures that walk on all fours and somehow they make sense. A resounding yes, in three gutteral sounding words. The frayed ends of guilt and anger finally drift off as you settle into his hold like a den of pure comfort, warm and buried in a world of fur and a man blessed by trees and the earth rather than gods and myth.

When the breeze picks up outside, rustling sprawling oak limbs, momentarily silencing the fire, its as if they answer him in your stead. You don’t cry, though it aches, but you let go of the memories of all your begging to those that never seemed to listen. Here, in the dark you’ve found the only person that seems to understand without even knowing.

You drag the pelts up over the both of you, clasp your hand over his where it rests beneath them, and fall into a haze of contentment. He draws you nearer, breath filtering through your hair from where his head lies just above your own.

The dreams that come are no longer of places you can not reach, but only of the memory of a city that was never meant to house your spirit.

You wake to König’s pawing. It begins along your sternum, hand placed flat there only to glide further up and push at your tit. It’s gentle and testing, pushes fire into your very veins when for the first time he doesn’t seem to remain entranced there. It drifts, further up to cup your jaw.

“You are awake?,” he rasps, propping himself up to inspect your face where you lie, weakened and warmed by sleep.

“Yes…”

“Are you still bereaved?,” König asks in such a hushed voice, reaching toward you again. His hand seems to tremble when it finds your face, thumb brushing over your mouth with such trepidation it seems misplaced for him.

“Partly.”

You consider your dreams again: the open street, devoid of people apart from those that face down at you with contempt building in hollow eye sockets. Where grass once sprung up beneath the cracks in the stones, there were only small flames. And you do still grieve for those that were innocent in the entire affair, those trampled by cattle when they had only just had a taste of escape. Your very mind begins to darken at the thoughts, your body only tensing further, a bowstring on the verge of snapping,

“Is that why I can not have you?”

“I never said…” Your voice only grows thin, detached almost from the way you purse your lips to kiss the digit toying with you. Your heart is only thunder, the sound of those wretched hooves: yearning was dangerous itself, your own only seemed to take further shape with each passing moment. Claws and a waiting maw, just like the wolves he speaks of.

König hums, a deep rumble from his chest as he gives a slow nod of acknowledgement.

It all becomes tree sap, a sticky confectionery bout. His mouth descends upon your own as though starved, hurried and longing as he samples you, the you who certainly yearned for the bathhouses to clean herself properly. All thought seems to dispel when his hand leaves your cheek and neck to begin its painfully slow descent between your legs, burrow between wax and honey to pull soft cries from your mouth.

He only stills his dismantling of you when you’re trembling and doughy, squeezing around his fingers so tightly you wonder how he can continue to bury them inside at all.

Just as the other gods, Sol is lost here when König crawls over you, all shadow and wretched, led here with the promise of a prey that you are not. Only another wolf… the flame in his winter eyes is the same that’s settled inside of you.

His head dips to kiss into your hair while your leg is pulled to settle over his hip. You feel a kiss, a different sort, when the pillar of his manhood reaches between your bodies to settle over your sex, probing at your slit that only seems to pulse and beg under his touch.

You had never found these silly metaphors enticing with the men of the city, even the entertainers with their pretty words could have never lured you this far down. Yet, here is different, here is cold and lonely and wild: a culmination of all that he is, incarnation of the earth and man and a desperate hunt.

“You are ready for me,” your god hums, pleased, as he coats himself in your arousal, sticky like warm sap. The sounds of his toying with you are something you should be accustomed to now, with him, but still makes your face warm. Not with shame, only a quiet desperation. “Beautiful little goddess...”

It’s summer here; winter tears its claws right out of your flesh when the sun itself sinks inside. The turning of seasons is natural, so dreadfully normal you’ve never bat an eye until you could physically feel it: the strip of your own apprehension tossed into a steaming sea, the dewy wetness all but drowning you entirely.

And it’s König who loses himself first, a sound so pitiful carving its way out of him you would almost believe him to be hurt if not for the way he throbs inside of you. He feeds it, a stuttering twitch of his hips as he slowly brings you toward him by your hips. Far too large to properly bottom out but encumbered and ecstatic by the sensation around him. Tighter than any sheath, but a weapon pushes through you all the same- inch by loving inch, until he manages to fully fill you with himself.

“I don’t want to hurt you, little one.“ Each word is torn from him, punctuated heavily by the shallow movement of his body and the drag of a demanding cock. Restraint is a peculiar thing hovering over him, his brow pinched as though forcing himself to concentrate on not ripping you apart where you lie.

“You’re not hurting me..,” you sigh as your hands find his shoulders, fingernails dimpling the skin there. If anything the urgency is only shared.

When your hips push back to meet him, the lead is dropped, another surrender. Too much trust for a man deserving of none of it.

His response is a breathy groan, mouth finding your shoulder as his hands drift to pull your hips upward to better meet him. Teeth find purchase along your flesh, gentle as he can be, but grinding and desperate to leave a mark, a piece of him behind.

It’s almost with a fury that he stuffs himself into you then, his jaw going slack and eyes wild, hands grasping at every inch of your pillowy flesh that he can reach.

Never could König have looked more beautiful than now, once starved and now tasked, for and now with you. His gaze trails from where your thighs tremble around him, to where the sap pools and nature builds up its own obscene choir at your togetherness… and then, to your face where his gaze only shatters into softness.

Something bubbles right against your lash line, a stray tear, overwhelmed by the feel of the giant ravishing you, pulling you down from your world of jewels and pillars to his own devoid of anything but need.

His head dips immediately, tongue running up the length of your cheek, a hand falling away to pry open your already parted thigh as he licks at and fucks into you like something truly feral. He coos his praises against your mouth, parted and whining, claims a new kingdom all for himself in you, of you.

You feel how the temples must, trodden through and left with gifts, blood and honey and fire as the muscles of your thighs begin to tense. Instinct spurs you to catch his lip between your teeth, push your hips back to laboriously furl around him.

His pace comes to a halt, settling to only grind himself so deeply within you that you feel the last of the stars begin to die out in the recesses of your skull, dim and dumbly smothered until they reignite in a blinding wave of white. König does not give you the time to settle, only spears into you with a renewed fervor as you cinch around him, furthering your rapture to a point that is almost agonizing.

He chases his own end with the same famished glare as before, stares right into your eyes as you pull iron from his lip and cast it into the fire of your waiting mouth. The sting, the bliss, only makes him whimper, a sound so small and choked its unfathomable to have come from a man who slams into you as though you were paid for.

You lick into his mouth in a way so tentative and fragile he immediately crashes down, blankets you in the strength of his arms and kisses you in turn: so soft and chaste it’s uncanny in this moment. His groan of defeat only comes when he stills fully, buried to the hilt, thrumming and shivering through his own release. Honey and seafoam, the rise of a tide touching earth to brim and spill past your joining.

He chases the feeling for several moments longer, bucking his hips sloppily as he lies atop your spent form, barely coherent when he mutters nonsensical praises into your hair, against your neck, the corner of your mouth- any place he can think to leave a kiss.

“… everything,” he mutters when he lies atop you fully, satisfied where he nestles his head into the fur below you both. “Everything I have ever wanted.”

The day passes on like this. Even as his men maneuver about camp, preparing to hunt or practice with their stolen weapons. The only thing König seems keen on doing is bringing you to ruin, repairing you with kisses pressed into your hair, along your cheek.

He leaves you only twice as the day drags onward. Once to gather you a meal of something meaty roasted over the fire, what remained of a boar, a gathering of dried fruit, and water from a small flask. You’re famished and exhausted by the thrill of being shoved down into the fur to tolerate him three times over already. The twinkle in his eye is nothing short of mischievous when you do finally tell him that you need to rest after eating.

After a bout of playfully shoving him away, you only find yourself on top of him, then. He seemed entirely unashamed, more hurried and desperate than before as he bucks at you like a wild horse, voicing his praises and spitting out such sugary sweet nonsense about how you would carry his son and only ever experience him, you almost felt shy. A curled finger hooks under your jaw to force you to look down at him, lose yourself in the vast, uneasy sea of his eyes while he floods you with his seed again. Finally, he seems sated, pulls you down to lie atop him.

König promises you that he will find your mother, that he will take care of you as no other has or ever could, while stroking along your back. He tells you of the mountains, the trees, the animals and the men who live amongst them and inside of them.

He tells you of the sea when you ask, how the sand is softer and sticks as if it never wants you to go. In turn, you tell him that he must be like the sea then, never fully parting from you, leaving his trace imprinted upon your skin with teeth rather than sand. A sea that loves instead of hungers, one that presses you onto your back to wash over you to steal the very breath from your chest and push it back with a kiss.

— — —

The wilderness is cruel. Wild things lurk in the brush and occasionally you pass by other settlements. Less friendly than the small band you have grown accustomed to. You’re always urged to shush, then have yourself tucked further against König while he speaks low and threatening to any would-be bandits. Only once has that resulted in a death, but not to one of König’s own. You didn’t watch when the man with the red hair carved a hole through the trespasser, just squeezed your eyes shut and buried your face into a waiting bicep.

Days pass on horseback, your legs feel stiff and clumsy, and there are no amount of pelts serving as makeshift saddles that could ever help the ache that shoots up from your pelvis. It serves no aid at all that, when riding ahead or too far behind the other men, König takes this newfound intimacy between you two to be a liberty. Regardless of your formation, he never ceases looking at you as though his only wish is to devour you whole.

Those times are often quick, palm pressed over your mouth as he dutifully breeds you beneath the sun, in the softest patch of withering wild grass or barren land available. You melt into him, part your legs like a wife rather than some skittish woman that he himself has whisked away. Each time, he whispers his praises, professes his love in more creative ways, covers you in so many kisses you feel a bit dazed by the time the ordeal is through.

Then, you’re righted back onto the horse with König at your back, the most horribly endearing smile plastered upon his face.

It’s not much of a surprise that his men do start their caterwauling at some point during the journey to wherever— past dormant trees and approaching the silhouettes of hills so tall and vast you’re certain that they must be the mountains you have heard of, even if you had yet to properly see them. König had made it perfectly clear just what you are to him in his coarse words to his companions, but never directly to you. They do not mock your union, but they do often give you strange looks, particularly at your tummy while they discuss you with their leader.

There’s nothing there, you’re sure of that much, but you shoot them your angriest glare anyway and raise your chin to look forward instead. Their talk of the possibility of a little “prinz” does not distract you from your own thoughts, drifting up to scrape the sky just like the peaks of the mountains.

“So that is where the gods live?,” you ask, mostly to yourself as you curl your fingers into the horse’s reins. There’s subdued laughter from either side of you, and you almost shrink at the thought of making a fool of yourself before these brutes. It wouldn’t be the last time, surely. You couldn’t even bring yourself to fully commit to the idea of there being any sort of vast and ethereal field awaiting you when you die anymore; it was already here before you, painted in the color of evergreen and winter blossoms.

König doesn’t laugh, at least. Only places his palm over the front of your neck and guides your head back to look up to him, gives a toothy grin when your eyes light up just from the sight. It was difficult not to when you’ve been fed and pleasured incessantly by him. You reason that your punishment for forsaking all that you once knew must assuredly be your own mind deteriorating to feel the way that you do.

“They are right here,” he says, so quiet and sweet, gesturing between the two of you. He had no interest in your former gods, of what he seems to view as stories for children, but he listens as you tell him the significance of such lofty places cloaked in fog, mist and trees.

His hand finds your cheek, savors in the feel of your skin against his thumb while you tell him of your misplaced belief in him being some son of a war god that he’s never even known, much less prayed to. He then reminds you of the woman he seems certain could have been your mother, says that surely she must have been wed to the shallow of a sparkling lake to birth something as lovely as you.

The men regroup after some time, stilling their horses and your rowdy mare still tethered behind one of the others to speak, access the distance from here and their destination while sipping wine from leather flasks and putting weapons back in their proper places. You listen on, picking up on the few words you did understand from their language, but ultimately gather nothing from it all.

“Where are you taking me?,” you hazard as you try to push yourself forward in a subtle reminder that yes, you were there too, and woman or not you had a right to know.

“Home,” König gruffs simply in response, gathering you back into his arms and taking the reins from your hands. His chin rests atop your head, the fingers of his free hand petting your side in an attempt to snuff out any further questioning. “You will like it.”

Home. Home to the place he had claimed you would find your mother; to foreign woods and wild downs, sprawling hills and little shacks covered in sticks and leather instead of the villas with their terracotta tiles.

You didn’t even know that you had a place to return to at all, not now. Your eyes catch his, though, and you know then just what it truly must feel like to belong someplace. Never had home been Gaius, reduced to smoldering ash in some divine reckoning, but it had always been with someone you truly believe you have wanted. Had you ever even been allowed to want before him..?

Your brow pinches as you shift to rest your head against the broad back behind you, held fast by the iron grip around your waist. The clouds drift by above, the sun casts a warmth over your face and you fall into comfort, into promise.

— — —

Barbarian settlements are strange.

There are no paved streets here crowded with people and decay, no hallowed and looming temples hungry and waiting for sacrifices. The columns are tree bark and very much alive with twisting limbs and growths of green that never seemed to dull even in the winter, not the stiff and lifeless marble you had grown accustomed to.

The homes are pieced together with wood, clay, anything that could be used with no clear rhyme or reason to their architecture. Goats wander about, bleating out for food or ramming into one another for play. The children don’t sit in houses studying or wander from stall to stall snatching and scurrying off, they play and work. There is a strange contentment here, too, something that feathers on the wind as it does the same on each face that you pass,

Everyone seems to have a place, a thing to be, and you feel like the world’s most delicate and forgotten pearl amidst these people who do not even seem to pay you any mind. If anything, they only seem pleased to see the man with his arm cloaked over your shoulders. They smile to him, greet him in their strange words and dip their heads as though he truly were some king.

Maybe he was, to them, to the wild people with no true reasoning to have any sort of monarchy. They barely had land to claim, much less rule over.

You’re not paraded around as a slave: he cups your jaw and lifts your head when your gaze falls to the dirt and dust below your feet, chides you in a rough whisper about how a Königin should present herself. The people do acknowledge you then, with looks of awe and offerings of dried flowers pressed into your palms and tucked behind your ear, Roman bronze dropped at your feet. You look the part of a proper queen too, when you flash them all your loveliest smile and nestle closer to your giant of flame and earth.

Thoughts of your past in the city come to mind when you note their lack of conveniences. Even the dread of forsaking your own gods briefly leaves you halting midstep before a firm hand urges you forward. König’s warmth comes as a comfort now more than ever when your thoughts do eventually circle back to a guilt, heavy and dreadful: the picture of Juno’s altar forgotten and burned away weeks of travel behind you.

“You will like it here,” he mumbles, trailing the same hand up to the back of your neck as he repeats the words he spoke only days prior on your journey. You could, you will, but it all feels so different that your pulse seems to triple its racing.

Your fingers graze over the dried flowers in your hand, sweet smelling as you trace over each petal to center yourself, take back that prideful smile that was in place just a moment ago.

If you’re to run amok, you may as well enjoy it.

You settle, regain your pace and that forced look of utter contentment at his side.

At least, until he begins to speak again.

“I will kill them all if you prefer we be alone,” König whispers into your ear, has the audacity to nip at your lobe, and does not even bother drawing back as if those words were meant to make you wet and pliant for him. All sense of reason must have left you entirely, because a shiver rips its way up each knob of your spine. “Would that please you?”

“No… Do not jest,” you grit out, staring only forward and not offering so much as a glance toward the beast at your side, even as his hand drifts down to palm at your breast.

“I am not.” He laughs, breathy and low when he finds your nipple already hard, thumb grazing over it as though this act of exhibitionism was as natural as any of the other things his madness compels him to do. “I will give you anything. Even blood, meine Göttin.”

Surely… you should be flattered that his loyalty is reserved only for you, but there’s no appeasement held in the glare that you shoot him as you pry his hand away from your chest. He gives you the look of a kicked stray then, even a pout so foreign on a face so scarred, you may have even chuckled if you were in better spirits, but he does relent. His hand drops back to his side and he detached from you after pressing a soft kiss to the corner of your mouth.

You’re led to a shack larger than the others, but more or less in the same state. It’s simple, built solidly with thick carved wood and packed to prevent weather seeping its way in. It’s humble in a way, far more humble than any ruler’s you’ve only imagined. A bench, a table, a mattress likely stolen away from some Roman soldier’s tent. There’s nothing particularly special about it, but it smells like König, like the trees and the earth in a way that is comforting.

It takes a moment for it to fully register that this is what he had meant by home, not the people and their affairs outside, only this place. Only him. A temple all your own that you imagine he must wish to fill with love and children and an abundance of gifts he may steal away all for you.

His men bring in what little of the supplies remained, stuffed away in a corner and voluntarily relinquished; even if it means they’ll be fending for themselves like the others in the village rather than feasting on stores, they only seem happy. The red-haired one even flashes you a contented look of admiration on his way out, as though you just being there was enough to soothe and patch some void here.

That may have been the case.

When the door is shut and all falls to silence, the barbarian king kneels before you. His hands find your hips, thumbs grinding gentle circles along them and further down to your thighs, your calves, to everywhere that aches. A gentle sort of worship that coaxes soft sighs and a buzzing of flesh from you.

König brings you to the mattress when your eyelids begin to flutter, exhaustion settling over you in full when you’re lifted and brought toward his chest. You could fall asleep in his hold alone, but you settle to only rest your head there and reach up along his vastness to rake your fingers through his wild hair.

Your voice tells him that you do like it here, with him, in this strange place circled by withering ferns and trees so infinite that you could never hope to find your way away without him taking your hand and navigating through. Your touch tells him the words that you dare not speak, a kiss to voice that you too would burn away everything if it only meant that you could share in this at his side, a mimicry of his massage along his own shoulder to whisper a great confession of adoration and boundless promises.

— — —

When the ferns and flowers begin to grow again throughout the spring and into the summer, you find yourself accustomed to everything. You aid the women in caring for their children, though you begrudgingly swear that it is not for practice whatsoever. The stitching and cooking that is done here feels far less harrowing— you do not put it off and leave it in a heap upon the floor as you would have in the city. There’s no looming dread of what’s to come when you perfect your work: you’re gifted only smiles, blessings and gifts.

Though the woman König had claimed to be your mother is not here, you ask him to recount the way she looked and spoke to you often on quiet nights, where his hands drift over you and his voice comes in a whisper. She may not have even existed at all, some lost spirit amidst the trees that wails and cries and leads men like him to their destinies. Your heart only tears when you begin to wonder if Juno herself had imparted such a quest to him. Save the lost woman that she favored so much, grant him some divine luck and intoxicating charm to ensure your safety and happiness.

He does not understand when you gather up honey and blossoms to pray over, but he does sit at your side and listen when you whisper your thanks to this new altar. Kisses the crown of your head when you’re through and lures you back into an embrace where he reminds you that he knew what he needed to do the moment that you met at the stream. No other woman could have swayed him the way that you have.

His offerings are only to you, even after such a length of time has passed. There’s no goddess that he kneels for other than the one that sleeps at his side and tells him of her dreams.

The day he gifts you his seax is one that resonates more than even the necklaces and gowns of silk and linen. It feels heavy in your hands, the blade almost as soft as gossamer when your fingers trail along it, though it does not yield. It’s only well polished and freshly sharpened. The handle bears a strange carving in it now, one of two wolves staring up at a broad moon. It breaks something inside to know that even he does find some things sacred: beasts, the glow of an untouched paradise and you.

“Why are you giving me this?,” you manage to whisper as your diligently ghost over the carvings in reverent repetition. “Don’t you need it? For hunting and fighting…”

“You like it?” It’s impossible not to notice the cocky expression on his face that tells you full well he’s recounting that experience. You liked it then, certainly, but it wasn’t as if you had any use for it in such a way when he kept you satisfied enough with himself.

“Yes… but it’s yours.”

He shrugs then, a great lift of his shoulders as you’re pulled to him with a careful grip to the wrist holding the weapon.

“Will keep you safe,” he huffs against your neck, leaving a kiss there when you sheath the seax at the strap you had also been gifted pulled taught along your hip.

You didn’t even know how to use the thing properly, and you were not quite fond of the idea of chasing down rabbits or puncturing another human with it. Your concerns fall on deaf ears when you’re led out into the surrounding forest to a thicket of wild raspberries. Your wrist is steadied by a firm hand as König diligently teaches you to carve away limbs heavy with fruit without actually bringing any real harm to the plant itself.

There are many things to forage this season, some you had never even heard of before he explains their significance to your wonder-filled face. You hadn’t thought him stupid, not truly, but it still comes as a surprise that he seems to know so very much.

When you find yourself seated beside a slow-moving stream, a ripe berry crushed between your teeth, you’re finally allowed to put your new blade away and set it aside on moss-covered stones.

“You should keep it close. A bear might want to eat you, hm?,” he playfully chides behind you, lifting your drab little gown up and over your head. As if to further his point, his teeth rake over your pulse, applying just enough pressure to draw a whine from your lips.

“You are not a bear,” you huff and turn to pull away his tunic, pressing a kiss over the scar he now dons just above his heart.

“Ja…” He lowers his head again to kiss along your neck, trailing a heat up to your ear as he maneuvers you into the water to bathe.

Your foraging and banter go forgotten, and a different sort of howling fills the air shrouded in tree limbs. There are no wolves or wind, only two so feverishly desperate and in love that any other with their dowries and arrangements would find it even more compelling than the Empire itself.

He sinks into you when you’re brought to your knees, bellows his contentment when he brushes your wet hair away from your face and dives forward to cover you fully, bury you in a world of love and sweetness. Even when the act is done, König does not pull away, only lies you back along to shore and tucks you further against him.

You remain chittering and laughing until the sky begins to reflect the very stars you see in his eyes, glittering constellations that seem to flicker and echo the steady beat of his own heart as you lie against his chest.

The summer wedding that the fortune-teller had once spoken of seemed to already take place here. There’s no need for a lectus or some grand display to reveal to others that you’ve united, it comes in the stillness and shared contentment when your voices begin to quiet, and at last you resign yourself to tell him that you belong to him just as much as he belongs to you.

The final flurry of surrender comes out as a soft whisper, one that only leaves you with your knees folded back to your chest and an insatiable giant hugging his gratitude and love into your ear with each graceless snap of his hips.

He drags you down to your own ruin, spells his own with haste and what comes as a twist between a dispatch of tears and a sigh. You can’t recall ever seeing him cry, not even now as he burrows against your neck and shakily breathes against your shoulder, muttering such nonsense about how he would still take you up and into the sky if only you would continue to let him stay with you like this.

“Always,” you murmur fondly, cradling him as closely as possible. Inside, outside, embedded into your very flesh you feel him near. He does not pull out from you this night, only falls asleep in your embrace, cloaks you from the breeze over the water with his own heat. You follow suit, petting at him as though he’s far smaller than his massive weight suggests. He shifts just enough to not fully crush you beneath him, just as you begin to drift off.

When morning does come, König is already stood at your side, staring off into the distance with an expression that only foretells of something you’re certain you will want no part in. He shushes you when you part your lips to speak, nervously scrounging up your gown and the strap holding your gifted weapon. There are no protests from you, and only the babbling of the stream and sounds of distant yelling break up the silence.

You don’t need to ask to know what’s occurring. Just as you had predicted before the Romans had come to dismantle the village just as they had many others before, take the women as slaves and force the children to learn and take up arms for their empire. You had never thought of the violence before when it occurred, when you saw the faces of those miserable women at the sides of people they could never afford to feel any fondness toward. You had always been lucky and blind.

König, however, must have only known wraith. His fingernails dig into his palms, nostrils flared and expression pensive.

“Wartet hier.”

He does not even hesitate as he begins to move, leaving you behind along the peaceful shore. As if to spur you forward, the shallow water rises to lap at your ankles, and still you do not budge. Your hands feel heavy, encumbered by the seax still set in its sheath, and only then does it dawn on you that König had not even had a weapon his person. What good would he even be without one? When so many men armed with sharpened swords and spears had come for his head…

Though fear creeps in, subdues your limbs with its stiffness, rakes fangs of pure ice along every pulsing vein held within you… you can not bring yourself to flee or stay put. You follow, quiet as a wood mouse as you walk along the forest with trembling hands clutching a weapon you almost hope is not too late to save your home, your heart.

There’s no clear trail, no sign of König, not even a shadow or a whisper that may belong to him. Instead there are shouts and the heavy smell of smoke. The gray billows up, more imposing than even the oaks and pines. The only comfort you will yourself to take is the fact that the words you can make out are Germanic, not Latin. Not all is lost, not yet.

You steel yourself and push your resolve to the forefront of your mind, creeping ever closer with careful but steps far more swift. You wind past throning brush and sprawling vine, past trees but familiar and not until you finally cross over from forest to the tall grass lining the edges of the village.

There lies chaos you expect, and that which you do not. Some of the cabins have gone up in flame, fire that coils and spreads to set your nerves alight with memory and dread. There are men fighting at the heart of it all, weapons slick with blood dripping down to the fallen at their feet. The women and children have all fled or have been taken captive, you couldn’t be certain amongst all that was already occurring around you and beyond. You couldn’t even count your enemies, a smaller army no doubt, the arrogance of the Empire knew no bounds. Twenty men to take down one was substantial enough when the others could be used for further conquests.

And there is no sign of König.

You feel numb when no matter where you look you can’t seem to catch sight of him, and how easy a task that should have been given his stature. The seax is pulled from its sheath when grief begins to settle, and the tears that threaten to spill are forced back with a grimace. There was still some hope, you knew. The village was not so small that you could map all of it from the small lump of a hill, but that desire to find him, bare your own teeth and fight at his side to protect what was yours brims up and chokes back the fear harbored in your chest.

Lady or wolf, you cared not. You would lose your titles just as he would if it came down to it. When the histories speak of how that city burned, how a king without a name brought the Empire to kneel if only for a moment before they sought revenge, you would be written in ink alongside it. A devotion so strong echoed in each page, as a barbarian queen that chose to keep her heart and lose her head.

But it doesn’t come to that. There’s another woman stood at König’s side when you do find him, wielding a stolen sword from one of the opposing soldiers as sweat and blood paint his face.

Unharmed and unknowing of the presence at his side, a mirage carved of smoke she was, his eyes stared out towards where the blade struck while her eyes only settled over you. Your breath catches when your gaze moves from König to her and you do find a resemblance: the way that her hair, the same color as your own frames her face, her frame, the way that her nose shapes, even the expression upon her face.

The mother he spoke of, the feral love and protectiveness outspoken and proud in her eyes. You do not recognize this woman, even amidst the cluster of sparse memories in your mind. Not until now had you ever seen her, but the feeling you’re gifted then… a roaring settling in your chest to extinguish all apprehension tells all.

As the last of the Romans is struck down by König himself, a blade sunk so deep into the other’s stomach as the other man spits out a gurgled wail, the woman only seems to fade out into nothing, replaced by the backdrop of the trees surrounding. Nothing left behind in the wake of the place she once walked apart from fallen soldiers and a trail of blood and König, safe as he could be.

When you come to him, teary-eyed and fretful, your roaming fingers do not catch on a single gash. The blood painted over his face, neck, chest is none of his own. He’s well, just as the other men from the village as they rush to snuff out the flames and clear away the bodies.

Though König pants heavily and his eyes are still wild, mind momentarily lost to the thrumming adrenaline in his veins, your touch seems to settle him greatly. The sword falls from his hands to clatter in the dust and muck, curling around you to pull you in. You think he should be angry that you hadn’t listened when he ordered you to stay, but he only seems as grateful as you to find his other half alive and longing still. Always.

You tell him of the woman as you sob into his chest, describe her and her vanishing as best you could in your own muffled voice. He grins, strokes your hair as though he truly believes every word even with how ridiculous it all sounds. There are things far more demanding to focus on now, and eventually you fall to silence as he holds you there.

Your home still stands, built just far enough off from the rest that its managed to avoid the battle entirely. Untouched, except from inside. The altar you had dedicated to Juno is gone, vanished just like the woman you had seen before. The scent of cinnamon hangs in the air, misplaced and unannounced, but a comfort all the same. You smile to yourself, bittersweet but comforting, with tears drying upon your face.

— — —

The village takes time to rebuild.

You lose time just as much as you lose sleep helping out with the endless tasks. König, thinking himself chivalrous, or perhaps hinting at what your future may entail if he continues to ravage you as though he would die without your warmth, never allows you to carry anything heavy. Even clay pots filled with water from the stream are swiftly taken from your hands. Gods forbid you even attempt to aid in cooking over the fires, either. He pulls you away with a hand clasped over your mouth and nose, delicately caressing your face and reminding you to be careful.

Something has changed. What you knew to be love before only seems to double with each passing day. He fusses and dotes over you endlessly, ensuring that you’re well fed, trailing behind you to bathe and it isn’t even just for the chance to sink into your cunt.

Often, he sits with you in his lap, guiding a wet cloth up to gently wash you, toys with your damp hair beneath his fingers, tells you stories of his own adventures and the people who traveled alongside him. Not of the hundred wives his men had boasted about him having, a ridiculous statement only meant to make you pine for him more than you already had, you supposed. He even tells you, sheepishly, that most women seemed afraid of him, but never you.

When you do make love, it’s an act of endless desperation. Along the bank of the stream, your shared bed, against any tree he deems fit enough to not budge beneath your shared weight, and even once in a field of wild blooms you two had found along a foraging trek. The floral aroma had kissed your skin each place he had, left you more doughy and sweet even as you took to conquer him, straddled over his hips with your head thrown back to the wind. You laughed with him when it was through, curled your hand beneath his chin to you with the rough feeling of his unshaven hair.

Everything— each new thing you learn and see with König as your guide only seems to melt away any wall you put up. Your life before only seems to fade from memory, that lonely bitterness consumed by the well of love he’s pushed you into.

When autumn comes and the trees begin to turn, each wealth of green faded and given way for yellow and red, your mare has finally become more docile and tame. You’re not even sure who to thank for it, for the way she struts about with giddy children on her back and doesn’t fuss when even you will yourself to settle over her saddle.

The saddle like all else in your life only seems softer, stitched together with leather, a cushion made of a rabbit’s pelt and stuffed full with straw and down so soft you don’t even dread the idea of the long ride to come.

The mountains, here, surrounding the valley and the village are wild and beautiful, still layered near to their peaks in abundant fields of late-blooming flowers. The stars still hang above, twinkling and glittering as if only to silently deliver their blessings for your coming journey. It is only the sea that you’ve yet to venture toward, the last on the list of honeyed promises König has made to you.

Your luggage is packed and spread between the two horses, your mare and his stallion. There are blankets and preserved food, light posts to set up a tent someplace a distance from the shore, even a pearl dangling from a thin chain that König dutifully places on your neck. It’s no exchange of rings, but you clutch the little gem tight as you will yourself not to cry. There was no need to be so sentimental not now, not after you’ve already shared so many moments far more tender.

The seax dangles at your hip, catching the glow of the sun above when you pull it free and polish it alongside König as he does with his pilfered sword. He shows you how to use a whetstone, delicately maneuvering your hand to sharpen the blade before dousing the thing in oil, makes you swear not to accidentally nick yourself when you’re inevitably dragged in the throes of some hunt at his side.

You’ve yet to use it for that purpose, but going alone means you’ve no choice but to offer your support… even with the knowledge that he wouldn’t actually allow you to do much at all, frustrating as that was.

When morning comes, you say your goodbyes to the village. You’re thrown flowers both pressed and new, petals latching to the fur of the pelt tied over your shoulders. König receives wine, far more useful than the delicate little blossoms that you brush away with shy smiles and glassy eyes.

The language is easier to understand now, when the others offer you great fortune on your travels, the women speaking greatly of your fertility despite the way it makes your nose scrunch in distaste. They call you Königin, only that, never any name you’ve offered for them to use. Perhaps even above the name the people of the city called you by it is more fitting.

You settle into the saddle with König atop his stallion next to you, reach for the reins when he flashes you a wary look, tells you that you will ride slow and he will keep you safe in case anything does happen to occur. You only think to remark the same, gesturing toward the weapon strapped to your hip, smirking when he snorts in amusement.

“Are you ready to depart?,” you ask him as you reach a hand out to trail along his arm, heart thumping wildly when his gaze only begins to further soften. You almost fear he may begin to cry, just as overwhelmed and sweetly pacified as you feel now. “We can stay a while longer if not.”

“Nein… we still need to plan for the stars after,” he whispers as he takes hold of your hand, interlocks your fingers and brushes against each knuckle with the pad of his thumb before bringing it toward his chest.

The moment is broken when the horses begin to huff in anticipation. You don’t get the chance to remind him that you still see each constellation he’s shown to you in the glimmer of his eyes, but you know well enough by now that he would only tell you the same in turn. Always your only other.

#könig #könig x reader #könig x you #konig x reader #konig #konig x you #cod fanfiction #okay i lied two hours early but i’m tired of looking at words today #f: only other

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gay-dorito-dust · 7 months

Note

Hi! Is it possible for you to write something about Tomas with a very blushy s/o? Like they tend to blush or fluster easily and he pokes fun at them even though he's lowkey the same way.

This was…something that kinda went off request. (Is this OOC Smoke? idk you tell me.)

Tomas didn’t mean to take advantage of how easily you fluster but how could he not when you looked so cute with wide doe eyes that adamantly avoided making contact with his, whilst your hands reached up to cover your heated cheeks out of embarrassment, your voice pleading with him to stop his constant teasing. However You never made it easy for Tomas even in the slightest as he would always end up reaching a hand out to lift your head up by the chin so you were forced to look him in the eyes, using his other hand to remove your own from your face, just to add onto the teasing fun by saying; ‘are you flustered?’ Whilst his eyes engaged in every reaction you gift him.

He’d then gasps, ‘oh you are!’ He coos. ‘Dear gods and here I thought you couldn’t get anymore adorable, you, my beloved always end up proving me wrong like always.’ He’d finish whilst receiving a huge power trip from how you’d weakly try to push against his strong chest to create some distance between the two of you, only for him to cage you in his strong arms and hold you against it instead, smiling dopily underneath his mask, a side effect you’ve had on him for a long while now but he wouldn’t want it any other way. ‘Tomas. Stop.’ You’d whine, burying your head into his chest to hide away from him, feeling all sheepish and squirmy beneath his gaze, cheeks still uncomfortably warm from the previous bouts of teasing.

‘Sorry sweetheart but no can do, you’re reactions only encourage me into teasing you even more.’ Tomas said cheekily as he nuzzles his face against your head, tightening his grip on you slightly when he felt you attempt an break out, wanting to keep you caged to his chest forever if possible. ‘You honestly have no idea what you do to me my love but,’ Tomas then moved his head to be level with your ear, you didn’t need to see his mouth to know there was a mischievous smirk because you could feel it through the mask, plus the way his eyes would reflect that same mischief didn’t make matter better either; ‘I’m sure we can find a more intimate way that’ll spell it out loud and clear for everyone to hear just how bad the effect you have on me.’ You felt your whole body heat up at the insinuation as you then smacked Tomas lightly on the bicep.

‘Behave yourself, we’re in public.’ You hissed as you looked at him, conscientious of the possibility that someone, god forbid that someone be Bi-Han, Kuai Liang or even worse both of them, overhearing this and making their own assumptions. Tomas on the other hand couldn’t help but find some form of humour in your furrowed brows and pouty lips; to him, you looked like a child on the verge of throwing a tantrum if he didn’t give you what you want. ‘I’m not the one who’s got their head in the gutter though am I?’ He retorts as your left once again huffing, you were staring to understand why he enjoyed poking fun at you from time to time, you fell into his traps so seamlessly that he didn’t have to do too much because you already did that for him and for that you condemn yourself.

‘It’s not my fault that you word certain phrases into making me think those types of things, and besides I’m very much aware of how…vocal you can be during our more intimate moments.’ You said with a suggestive smile, batting your eyes at him for added effect as it was you who watched as Tomas swallowed thickly and continued to watch as his eyes grew wide as your ears could pick up the distinct hitch in his breath, along with the way his hands gripped your waist tightly. It was entertaining in seeing how quickly Tomas went from cocky to flustered with a few purposely placed words strung together; When he didn’t responded after a while you reached your hands to hold his face, allowing for your thumbs to gently caresses the parts that his mask couldn’t quite cover.

‘What’s wrong Tomas, you seem a little speechless.’ You said with fake worry as you brought your face closer to his so he could see the smirk growing across your face. ‘Cat got your tongue, pretty boy?’ You added with a whisper, not bothering to hide your amusement at the sudden change of your dynamic as you the pulled yourself away from him and out of his grasp as you walked away, looking back to see him still frozen to the spot you’ve left him in, before rapidly blinking his eyes when they cast their gaze on you with a unfamiliar look, which resulted in your cheeks becoming warm once more but you managed to bypass it in order to give Tomas a warning for the future. ‘Two can play at this game my sweet and we can go at it all night if that’s what you wish.’ You finished with a wink.

#mk1 #mk x reader #mk imagine #mk x y/n #mortal kombat x reader #mortal kombat imagine #smoke x reader #mortal kombat imagines #mortal kombat x you #mortal kombat x y/n #mortal kombat 1 x reader #tomas vrbada x reader #tomas vrbada x y/n #tomas vrbada x you #Tomas vrbaba imagine #vrbada imagines

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hanasnx · 11 months

Text

trust

summary: your little crush on the lord you serve is exacerbated when he saves your life.

word count: 0.8k | character(s): darth vader x reader

notes: it was stuck in my head; you and vader aren’t in a relationship but you work together and get caught in this mess together.

warnings: vader being the lil bitch he is <3 no gore no violence tbh

“Look out!” the man overhead jeered, gripping tightly around your upper arm as he haphazardly tossed you off the open hatch. You yelped out of instinct, before landing hard in the arms of your lord.

Darth Vader holds you much like a bride, and the chaos around you falls away. The gaze of his visor is fixed on the ship you were just thrown from, and he is eerily silent. In one dark second, you fear you’ve disappointed him, and the current compromising position becomes most dire.

“Put me down!” you demand, thrashing in his grip out of humiliation. Complying, he drops your legs, and your feet are met with the nimble peak of the spire you both now balance on. Your toes overstep the edge, and once your eyes meet the ground far below, you panic. The adrenaline of the setting controls you, and you cling onto the Sith Lord. “Pick me back up- pick me back up!” Whatever is within reach: his cape, his robes, his shoulders are all fair game to use to your advantage, climbing up him without a second thought.

His concentration and his freedom to force the shuttle to hold— to tear it back to him in order to escape this and teach those who wronged him a lesson— is broken, now focused on you and your frightened idiocy. The arm around your middle remains, but he grabs hold of your wrist as he stumbles back because of how you throw yourself at him. You scream in the face of death, and he counter-balances with your weight. As the two of you straighten, sharing the limited space chest to chest, an intense red cakes your cheeks from the proximity as well as your display of cowardice. He towers over you, and you feel the weight of his arms around you.

If it were anyone else, he’d care not if they plunged to meet the Maker, but it was you. As infuriating as it is.

“I’m—“ you begin your apology, but you are swiftly interrupted.

“Calm yourself.” His rumbling command rolls through like a thunder, and you obey him so as to not worsen your unlucky circumstances. “I have no time for your groveling. There are more pressing matters at hand.”

You gulp, and you nod.

His arm moves to grasp your other wrist, raising them above your head, and twisting you delicately— much like a dainty doll— so your back is to him, his indicators jabbing into your skin. You try to ignore how much you like him taking control of a situation, so you don’t have to. Habitually, your fingers cup over his gloves, and tighten when he lifts you. Your feet part from the ground, and point, swaying in his hold as you gather the words.

“Wait, wait, what are you doing?”

“I’m going to drop you.” he replies as he steps forward, the vision of life-defying height causing a lightning bolt of terror to course through your veins.

“What?” you cry out, your legs kicking out, begging to be reinstated to the spire as narrow as it is. “No, no, my lord, please, I’ve done nothing—“

“Quiet! I am not condemning you to execution! I am going to catch you.” The anger in his voice, reminiscent of frustration rather than wrath, makes you tremble like a newborn fawn anyway.

“What? No!”

“It is the only way.”

“It is not!”

Still he keeps you as you are, and you fight off tears.

“You chose to ruin our chances when I could’ve caught the prosecutor's stolen shuttle! Accept your fate or die.”

“Stop!”

His grip loosens, and you slip through, the thrill of falling shooting your stomach into your chest. Wind rips through your hair so loud you cannot hear your own scream. A cushion of air, invisible to the eye, envelopes you, slowing your descent. It’s nothing, there is no matter nor pressure; you float yet you are not feather-light. Your confusion interjects your cry, looking up to see Vader’s steady and shaped hand. He caught you, like he said he would.

His range is incredible, and you wouldn’t have believed it if you didn’t witness it. The spire he remained at the top of, was kilometers tall. Yet you sense no struggle as the force around you dissipates, and you land curtly onto the sand. You check on the Sith, your predicament now resolved means you adopt a new one. How is he going to get down?

Your question is answered as quickly as it was asked.

The dark red of his sith blade ignites, filling into its form. You watch as he steps off the spire, and sinks his saber into its side. He slides down at a record pace, but he outstretches his hand, combining the efforts of the minimal friction of his weapon with the padding of the force.

Heavy, he dents the ground when he makes contact, and like the lovesick fool you are, you’re entranced the entire time. The spire crumbles behind him, influenced by his opposing force pressure, the dust and debris clouds everywhere but him and where he steps.

You’re not even spared a side glance as he passes you.

“Come.” he recalls. Loyal, like a dog, you do as you’re told.

#indy: drabbles #ch: vader #darth vader drabble #x gn!reader #darth vader fanfiction #darth vader imagine #sw #star wars #darth vader x reader #star wars fanfiction #no smut #slow burn #romance #burnt!vader

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vermillionsappho · 7 months

Text

MISS AMERICANA | ELLIE WILLIAMS X READER

MISS AMERICANA | CHAPTER THREE

"Leave with my head hung, you are the only one Who seems to care"

-Still reeling from meeting Ellie at the party, and seeing her again, Y/n now is dealing with complicated feelings and thoughts of Ellie, all while getting closer and forging a friendship with her.

2.0k Words | sfw

Content Warning: Cursing, drug use, anxiety, slight homophobia, lmk if I left anything out!

Tags: @pillowprincessleia @milahnoz (reply to post to be added <3)

Semi-proofread

“You want me to stay with you, hon? I can stay for like an hour or two.” Oliva offers with a small smile, and you shake your head before smiling wryly.

“It’s okay, Liv, I’m okay. I’ll see you around.” You say softly, turning around to walk up the steps of your house. Olivia watches you go up steps, your feet heavy and your head hung and she frowns, but still begins to reverse out of your driveway, waiting for you to get inside before pulling off.

The house is dark when you get inside, and the air is still, which is expected; but it always throws you off anyways no matter how used to it you are.

You lie out on the couch, thoughts racing.

Is Ellie a lesbian?

Is Ellie a lesbian that’s interested in me?

Does Ellie want to have sex with me?

You’ve heard things about Ellie before, but they’ve never stuck in your head, and you never been one to truly engage in gossip and drama; not to mention you had your own shit going on.

You heard your friends whisper about her, you heard neighbors and parents talk about her and condemn her.

The things they say about her are awful; and it’s all because she’s a lesbian.

And now she’s a lesbian that’s possibly interested in you, which could make sense actually. No one’s done anything nice for you out of the goodness of their heart since freshman year. Everyone’s always trying to work an angle with you, play the long game, figure you out and use you. It would make a lot of sense if Ellie defended you, and was so nice to you to get into your pants.

But you’re not a lesbian, though.

You’ve been dating Grayson since you were both thirteen (courtesy of your mom and his); but even then, you’ve never even thought about another girl in a romantic way. You know who you are- and some random girl you just met can’t uproot that and “turn you out”.

But still, you can’t stop thinking about it, or her in particular. Ellie is pretty, to say the least. Truth is, she’s gorgeous, even with the mullet; and the tattoos, scarred pink lips and slit brows only add to her charm. Ellie’s not like any girl you’ve ever met…she’s not like any person you've ever met either. If there’s a slither of a possibility that Ellie defended you because she’s a good person and is being friendly to you because she wants to be your friend, a part of you wants to believe that.

For another hour, you drive yourself insane thinking of Ellie before you turn the tv on to drown out your thoughts of her.

Until you flick the tv onto another channel, and your once favorite show is on.

And you start to think of her, your mother.

All of sudden, the television isn’t interesting anymore, and you quickly turn the tv off, before stalking off to your room; burrowing in your bed and forcing the heavy duvet over your head as you will yourself to take a nap.

You dream of Ellie while you sleep.

You dream of her freckles, the dots on her creamy skin, and her skin against yours. Her scarred lips on your lips, and her tattooed arms and hands, holding yours. Ellie laughs in your dream, a soft laugh, and it brings a smile to your face.

But somehow, it sends a chill down your spine, and you’re shooting up from the bed like it’s on fire, covers splayed across the floor and a sheen of sweat on your forehead and chest.

You’re panting, and panicking, sitting down on the floor as you swipe your hand through your messy hair, gripping at the strands as you try to think clearly but to no avail.

You dreamt of her.

You dreamt of her kissing you, holding you, smiling at you and it sent the butterflies in your stomach in a tizzy.

“Fuck no, fuck no. That was a nightmare, right?” You whisper to no one, trying to gather yourself, but the panic isn’t subsiding. You sit up on your knees, trying to lean and reach your phone, feeling for it and pulling it off the cord when it’s finally in your hand.

You unlock your phone with shaky hands, and you’re incessantly tapping on contacts as you search for Ellie’s.

You call her, without any hesitation, and when she picks up, you switch to speakerphone, your breathing heavy and audible.

You think of what to say for a moment, but it doesn’t matter, because nothing can stop the words from flying out of your mouth when you finally speak.

“Do you want to have sex with me?” You ask heavily, the words said quickly and the moving on the other side of the phone pauses.

“Pretty girl? What the hell are you talking about?” Her raspy voice finally fills the space in your room, and you can’t ignore the flash of weirdness you feel at the sound of her voice.

“Why do you call me that, Ellie?” You ask, exasperated and she chuckles.

“I don’t know, ‘cause you’re a pretty girl. You don’t like it?” She asks and you close your eyes for a second before sighing.

“No, I- I didn’t say that.” You say softly and you can hear slight crackles from her end of the phone before her voice becomes clearer.

“Y/n, are you okay?” Ellie asks, her voice softer now, a tint of concern in it and you lean your head against the wall.

“I don’t know, really. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I shouldn’t have called, I’m sorry, I’ll go now.” You say, about to hang up the phone but she interrupts you.

“No, stop. Don’t do that, I told you to call. I’ve got a joint, I can come over and we can smoke if you’re comfortable with that?” She suggests and you smile a little, taking a deep breath before responding.

“I thought you told Grayson you don’t let just anybody smoke your stuff?” You ask and she chuckles.

“You’re not just anybody, Y/n.”

You open the door for Ellie, and she steps in smoothly. She’s wearing a wife beater, and a pair of shorts, her muscles on display, and you get that feeling in your chest that you had the first time you saw her, all over again.

“Make yourself at home.” You say quietly and she nods and sits down on the couch, before reclining, propping her feet up.

You hover, not really sure what to do or how to move, your body rigid and she looks at you and laughs, before patting the empty space next to her.

“I’m not gonna bite you, I promise.” She says with a grin and you nod before plopping down next to her, glancing at her for a quick second before averting your eyes to a random wood spot on the coffee table.

“So, what was all of that about on the phone? Are you okay?” She asks and you groan, moving your hands over your face.

“That was so stupid, I’m sorry. I don’t even know why I called, but I definitely don’t know why I asked you that. I let my friends and Grayson get in my head, or whatever.” You say, panicked, and she leans forward before turning to face you.

“What did your friends and Grayson say?” She inquires and you finally meet her eyes.

“Grayson said that I shouldn’t hang around you…I guess because you’re a lesbian or whatever; and my friend said that you probably want to have sex with me or something, I don’t know, it’s stupid.” You say quickly, shaking your head and Ellie laughs before scoffing.

“Y/n, I’m not blind, you’re a pretty girl, why do you think I call you that? But I’m not some creep trying to get into your pants. I want to be your friend, if I wanted to fuck you, I’d literally just ask if you wanted to fuck.” She says, shrugging and you nod slowly, her words seeping into your brain.

“I swear, people in this town are so bored. Still talking about me being a lesbian like it hasn't been years since I came out.” She says and you put a hand on your shoulder.

“I don’t care…if you like girls or anything. You’re a nice girl, Ellie, what you like doesn’t change anything for me.” You say softly, and a blush blooms beneath her freckles and you smile at the sight.

“I appreciate that, pretty girl. Now, ready for this?” She asks, pulling a baggie out of her pocket and a lighter.

Ellie helps you like she did the first time, placing the joint between your lips and lighting it for you, while she coaches you through the process so you don’t hurt yourself. When you finally get the hang of it, she takes it back to take a hit herself, and you finally get comfortable on the couch, spreading out.

“How’d you get this scar?” You ask, lazily moving your hand up to touch at the scar, hands moving on the soft skin of her lips, sending shivers down Ellie’s spine.

“I-I got into a fight. He got me good, but I kicked his ass.” She says softly and you hum at her response.

“Are you always fighting people?” You ask, scanning her face with lidded eyes and she gazes at you before blinking.

“Only people who deserve it.” She says, taking another hit of the joint before giggling absentmindedly.

“Why are you so nosy?” She teases and you giggle yourself before cocking your head to the side.

“Just curious about you, that’s all.” You say softly and she nods slowly, eyebrows furrowed like she’s deep in thought.

“Everyone already seems to know everything about me.” She says quietly, and you shake your head before moving closer to her, closing the space on the couch.

“Fuck everyone, Ellie. Everyone’s full of shit, they don’t even try to get to know you.” You say wholeheartedly and she leans her head back against the cushion of the couch, her eyes closed.

“You’re my friend now, Ellie. You were the first person I called, and I know I called for a stupid reason, but it means something to me.” You say softly and she opens her eyes again, turning her head towards you.

“That means you have to beat people up for me, now. Like I was going to do for you at the party.” She jokes, a small smile on her face, and you nod your head profusely.

“I am so ready; I will beat everyone up for you if I have to!” You say, giggling and she passes the joint back to you, to which you accept, taking a hit.

“Nah, but I’m just joking. I don’t want you getting in trouble and shit for me; only one of us can be a fuck up.” She says, smiling softly and you blow the smoke out.

“You’re not a fuck up. Ellie, trust me when I say this, you can go and leave all of this shit behind. It’s never too late.” You say earnestly, before passing the now short joint back to her. Ellie doesn’t respond, only getting up to dispose of the joint, and you sigh.

“This was fun, but I should head home; but I really did have fun, seriously.” She says, hovering by the door and you smile, biting your lip softly as a swell of affection grows in you.

“I’m glad you had fun, but should you be driving right now? Aren’t you high?” You ask, concerned and she shakes her head.

“No, my tolerance is pretty high, and you’re not a smoker so I didn’t bring anything strong. I’m fine, I promise.” She says and you lean over the couch, putting your hand out.

“Pinkie promise? Don’t make me worry about you, Ellie.” You say, sticking your pinky out and she chuckles, smiling warmly as she approaches you.

“Pinkie promise. I’ll text you when I’m home, okay pretty girl?” She says, locking your pinkie with her and you nod. She grins at you, waves, and walks out the door, leaving you more confused than ever.

Dividers by @cafekitsune

WHOOO CHAPTER THREE YAYY! I'm actually excited because things are finally picking up and going in a good direction. I'm so excited to expand more on Y/n and Ellie's personal lives and add more to their friendship!

lmk if you enjoyed this chapter, and like always, like, comment, and reblog if you enjoyed this chapter <3

#Ellie Williams x reader##Ellie Williams smut#lesbian#the last of us fanfiction#ellie williams fanfic#ellie williams#ellie tlou#ellie x reader#ellie x you#ellie williams #wlw fiction#ellie x fem!reader #bisexual #vermillionsappho #vermillionsapphoworks

#vermillionsappho #vermillionsapphoworks #lesbian #abigail anderson #ellie williams imagine #ellie williams x reader #the last of us fanfiction #wlw fiction

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thekillpetition-if · 2 years

Photo

The Kill Petition is an interactive fiction Twine game where the law has failed, and the only way to satisfy the masses is through a new system: The Kill Petition.

Warning: The Kill Petition is rated 18+ as it touches on mature topics and is littered with moral dilemmas. It will also have suggestive (but not graphic) sexual content.

Demo in the works. || Support me on Ko-Fi

The law has failed the people.

The masses had taken to delivering justice themselves with their own hands- and a very well-placed knife. To cull chaotic justice and vigilantes, the government had passed a new law in place: The Kill Petition.

Anyone is allowed to file a request, petitioning for someone's execution with attached files and evidence that would justify killing their target- Anything to convince others. If it reaches a certain threshold of signs at a specific time, the person in question will be eligible for execution.

You are a prosecutor. Your job is to condemn those petitioned in a trial. It was a cakewalk, but some strings are pulled, and you’ve now found yourself dancing to someone else’s tune.

Will you follow the will of the people, the will of those lurking behind the scenes, or will you stand for what you believe is right?

In this game, you play as a prosecutor:

Customize personality, appearance, and moral boundaries.

Customize background and motivations.

Investigate different cases that act as a story arc, with different choices and outcomes depending on how you handle the trial.

Interact with (And maybe romance) different characters, be it your co-worker, your rival, your neighborhood nosy troublemaker(s), or even your defendant.

Peel back the veneer and uncover just how filthy your country’s judicial system is.

1. You: A prosecutor that specializes in kill-petition cases.

You were famous (or was it infamous?) for winning against charismatic criminals with a squeaky clean record ala Ted Bundy or influential and powerful people in power. Eyes are on you, and targets are on you.

2. Lucy 'Luddy' Deniz [She/her]: The Assistant Prosecutor

She's been with you through thick and thin with a penchant for holding a vendetta against most people you (were forced) to work with.

3. Hector Z. [He/they]: The nosy reporter.

He’s made it their life-long mission to cover every one of your ongoing cases- And to leak any juicy information they could get their grubby hands on.

1. Samudra 'Sam' Sagala [He/him]: Your rival lawyer

He’s somehow fated to always go against you in court. So far, your record against him was a win at 13:11. You won't let it turn into a tie. And he’s finding any way possible to get that tie.

2. Eva Friedmann [She/they]: The defendant.

She's been acquitted 4 times already with very different charges. All four times with you as the prosecutor and Sam as her lawyer.

3. Morgan Choi [He/him]: The nosy private detective

He specialized in investigating affairs and compiling other people's dirt. God knows how he kept getting himself entangled in every one of your cases these past few months.

4. Roxx De Leon [They/them]: A serial petitioner with a six-kill-streak.

They’re not a paragon of virtue. They simply know the right person to pick, and the right things to say. Now: Is it time to put a stop to their streak, or are you going to quench their thirst for justice blood?

#interactive fiction #twine #game #thekillpetition

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poisonous-honey · 4 months

Text

Hello hello! I deleted some of my other blogs and will slowly re-upload the fics and drabbles I made here. I hated having everything separated, this is just my attempt to make navigation less confusing for me. Also, so I can tag everything properly from the beginning lol

Website Master list/To Be Uploaded

Mobile Friendly Version under the cut (Work In Progress. Some links won't work I think, I just copy-pasted from my other page)

Masterlist - Word Wall

Hello! You found the word wall :) I’m using this as both a master list to stay organized and to keep track of what I haven’t finished yet.

If there’s no link, it hasn’t been uploaded. If you can’t find it, it might be in a collection page. If it’s neither then send an ask, I forgot lmao.

Genshin

Honestly assume it’s SAGAU unless stated otherwise

3.3 Tier List Mayhem

Scaramouche- I guess you should say Wanderer, has finally been released, and you’ve used him all week. After you’ve basically drowned yourself in content surrounding him after the Sumeru Interlude Quest you feel an update to your tier list is in order

36-Stars Of Jealousy

After a year worth of grinding you’ve finally conquered it, but at the cost of Venti’s exclusion. He should be happy for you, but can’t break away from his seething jealousy and sadness.

Cats On Crack (Collection)

Luck never seems to be on your side. You always seem to end up helping other unlucky souls on their own journey, as if fate itself thought it was your job to be a substitute guardian angel. Maybe that’s why you find yourself standing in front of a group of cats protecting one of their injured. It doesn’t matter if it’s Lady Luck or the Goddess of Fate condemning you to this role, but you hope they step on a Lego Brick. (Not SAGAU)

The Cruel Act Of Breaking The World

They try their hardest to keep you entertained. To keep you within their realm of ones and zeros, so your immersion doesn’t fall, and their mind doesn’t shatter. They know their walls are fake and lives are merely code, but that doesn’t make seeing the out-of-bounds any less harsh.

Fontaine Is Committing Childe Slander FR

Childe’s treatment in the Fontaine Archon Quests puts you in a terrible mood

Garden Of Eden

The world has ended and there was nothing they could do about it. Xiao and Aether share a quiet moment in a sea of flowers. (God Reader || Not SAGAU || Reader Isn't Even Physically Present In It)

Genshin Is Crossing Over (Collection)

Where all the crossover fics are kept (i.e. The Venti Parable, Does Having Animal Ears Make You A Pokémon etc.)

Genshin Incorrect Quotes (Collection)

Silly and crack. Basically what the title says.

In The Abyss We Learn To Worship

Why does Childe seem to be your most devoted acolyte, even surpassing that of the Archons? (KINDA CULT AU (ALSO OLD))

Irodori Festival

Little blob!

Just Unbuilt, Or Am I Unwanted?

As you try to improve Xiao’s build for the 100th time, some of the others finally lose their patience

Losing Your 50/50

An ask by Coldbarbarianpeace!

Nahida’s Precious Tailor

The little lord of Sumeru calls upon your aid as she wishes for a wardrobe change.

Naming Wanderer Something Silly

An ask by Anonymous!

SAGAU Darling That’s Been To Other Games

What if for the SAGAU Darling doesn’t end up in Genshin first, but in a different game. Or maybe they were in multiple different games before they landed in Genshin. (HAS IMPOSTER AU IN IT (AND OLD))

Skipping Dialogue

What do the characters do when they find out you’re not paying attention?

Soul Crushing Guilt

The Knowledge That You’ve Been Controlling Real People With Thoughts And Feelings Has You At A Loss

Twins In SAGAU

For the self-aware Genshin AU there have been some slices where Darling has a twin and the twin either isn’t respected as much or in the villain au they’re treated as the imposter. That’s cool and all, but what if the twin worked for Mihoyo (OLD)

Why Are Their Designs So Complicated???

You thought Kaveh would be an easier character to draw. At a glance, his outfit is much simpler than a majority of the casts, so you thought he’d be a safe pick for fanart. How wrong you were.

(18+)

Honkai Star Rail

Losing Your 50/50

An ask by Coldbarbarianpeace!

#Pois.Posts #i just need to remember when i wrote all of it #some are easy to guess #some not so much unfortunately #might've done me good to write the dates down before i deleted everything #:qiqi-has-fallen:#Since my blog theme is freaking out and I remembered they don't even work on the app anyway #I'm adding this here so my to-do list is still accessible #masterlist

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abyssruler · 2 years

Note

It’s Ei’s birthday tomorrow!! May I request for her s/o (they’ve been together even before she locked herself in plane of euthymia) celebrate her birthday with her for the first time again in 500 years? Thank you!! And sorry if my grammar is wrong, english is not my first language

birthday festival

raiden ei x gn!reader

summary: you go above and beyond for the first celebration of ei’s birthday in five hundred years.

word count: 1.4k

note: it’s 12am here now so happy birthday to my beloved raiden ei who always carries me in spiral abyss! thank you for the request anon, and don’t worry your english is fine!

warning/s: slight angst but it gets better!!

It is a known fact in your life, set in stone and enshrined for the rest of eternity: Ei does not celebrate her birthday.

Or at least, she doesn’t anymore.

Back in a simpler time, before the cataclysm, before the loss of friends and companions, Inazuma would hold a festival once every ten years for the celebration of their god’s day of birth.

The sky would light up with fireworks alongside flashes of drunken youkai sailing through the air. The streets would be filled with booths and games, and you would be there, holding Ei’s hand as you pulled her along with you to enjoy the festival.

Disguised with masks and dressed in humble clothes, one would hardly think that the two people running merrily along the lamp-filled streets would be the Raiden Shogun’s kagemusha and her righthand advisor.

When you returned to the Tenshukaku, faces bright with merriment and hands full with spoils of war from the several games you had—rather unfairly considering the nature of your immortality—won from the booths, Makoto would laugh and ask if you enjoyed yourselves. And your sweet, shy Ei would mumble a quiet yes, a small smile on her usually passive face.

It is a good memory, one of the dwindling few you hold close to your chest.

But like most things in history, the festival has been lost to time and erosion, just like Inazuma’s god who has condemned herself to eternal isolation.

“How is this reasonable, Ei?” you once argued five hundred years ago, just before she sequestered her consciousness in her Plane of Euthymia. “Was it not enough for you to create two puppets and discard one? Must you subject yourself to this pointless endeavor?”

She had looked at you sadly then, the last emotion those eyes held before her puppet took over as the Raiden Shogun.

“Here,” she told you, handing you the gnosis which once belonged to her sister. “I have no need for such connection to Celestia in my quest for eternity.”

It was her last order to you as Ei, and so you kept your word and protected it as one might protect a precious artifact, keeping it with you at all times.

It isn’t until five hundred years later that it leaves your person.

(He watches you approach him calmly, almost bored with the way he leisurely has his hands stationed by his sides. The discarded puppet. You wish you had done more for him back then, but your first priority was and always will be Ei.

“Miko sent me,” you explain. “In exchange for the Traveler’s safety, I shall give you the heart you’ve always desired.”

His face twists at your words, electricity sparking from his fingertips. You calmly place the gnosis within the palm of his hand, unbothered by the faint shock that runs through your skin at the contact. His fingers close around it gently, touch featherlight, a stark contrast to the dark frown marring his face as he looks at you.

He begins to turn away. You do the same and approach the prone form of the Traveler.

“Kunikuzushi,” you call to him one last time. He freezes. You smile at him, soft and parental. In the dim lighting, he looks much like a mix of yours and Ei’s features. You’ve always wondered whether it was her intention when she crafted him. “It is good to know that you are well.”)

✧

“Five hundred years.” You approach her with slow steps, each clack of your sandal upon the tatami mats echoing across the slowly shortening space between you. “You have made me wait for five hundred years, Ei.”

She stands frozen in place, her pacing long forgotten as she gazes at you with wide, apprehensive eyes. She makes no move to run away even when you are merely an arms-length away.

“You stupid, selfish girl,” you say before closing the distance between you and meeting her lips with your own.

She tilts her head, reciprocating the kiss and holding the sides of your face so tenderly, it takes all you have in you not to collapse in her arms. Your lips slot together like puzzle pieces reuniting after a long, long time, leaving you heady and breathless like you’re eight hundred years younger and only just having your first kiss with the love of your life.

“If you ever pull that stunt again, I will dump you and leave you hanging for the rest of your beloved eternity. Archons help me, Ei, I am not kidding,” you whisper upon her lips, forehead resting against hers as you hold her tightly and remind yourself that this is real. She is real.

“Never again,” Ei promises.

And you know in your heart that her words are true.

✧

“This reminds me of a time long gone,” you comment wistfully as you stare at the paintings depicting the Five Kasen.

Your eyes linger at the blank space where Kuronushi should be. A deceptive fellow, that one, he reminds you much of Kunikuzushi. Or perhaps it is the other way around, since Kuronushi lived long before Kunikuzushi was created.

“Oh, that’s right! You’ve lived long enough that you must’ve met them back then, haven’t you?” Paimon asks.

“Very astute of you, Paimon.” She laughs sheepishly at the compliment. “The paintings are not quite accurate to what the Five Kasen once looked like, but they are rather close. This Calx fellow is talented, isn’t he?”

The Traveler nods. “Albedo’s one of the best artists I know.”

You hum, looking away from the paintings and roaming your eyes around the festivities happening around you. It’s not as lively as the festivals that used to be held before, but it is nostalgic all the same—which reminds you.

A certain Archon’s birthday is coming up. Her puppet declined every request you made before to host a festival in honor of her birthday, even when you suggested celebrating it once a century.

Perhaps this time, Ei will be more amenable to the idea of a festival.

“I should schedule a meeting with the Head of the Yashiro Commission,” you muse out loud.

“What for?” the Traveler asks, Paimon nodding her head beside them.

You smile at the blonde traveler and their flying companion cryptically. “It is time to bring back an old tradition.”

✧

Ei looks at the mask you place in her hands with confusion. You roll your eyes and tell her to just put it on.

“But what purpose will it serve?” she asks but still does as told.

You grin. “You’ll see soon. Now, let’s go!”

Dressed in cheap clothes and wearing fox masks—courtesy of Miko who helped orchestrate your plan—the both of you sneak out of the Tenshukaku and into the festival being held by the entirety of Inazuma. From the gates of the Tenshukaku to the docks in Ritou to the military station in Yashiori Island, everyone is celebrating the birthday of their Archon.

Ei stops, eyes wide beneath her mask as she watches the sea of lanterns across the streets of Inazuma City and even beyond it.

Right on cue, a series of fireworks light up the sky, an exact replica of the image the skies of Inazuma held five hundred years ago. You make a mental note to tip the Naganohara fireworks generously for managing to reproduce the sight.

There are no youkai soaring the night sky, laughing merrily as they drunkenly sung the night away without a care in the world, but the sounds of people singing across each household is enough to make up for it.

“What is this…?” Ei asks beside you, voice thick with emotion.

You stand silently beside her, letting her stew in her thoughts.

Her hand finds its way into yours after a few moments, and this time, it is her that drags you away from the Tenshukaku and into the festival. This time, it is her that pulls you along as you sweep through the streets and visit each booth that captures your interest.

Gradually, even as the night deepens, the celebrations only become livelier and more animated. A sea of lights and faces blur past you, but you only have eyes for one person.

Her hand is warm and her laugh is bright and if you don’t look too closely, it feels like you’re back to that day five hundred years ago. Young and unburdened and so lost in love.

You smile even if she won’t see it behind your mask.

“Happy Birthday, Ei.”

#can you tell how much i love ei #genshin impact #genshin x reader #genshin impact x reader #ei x reader #raiden ei x reader #raiden shogun x reader #gn reader

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ellekhen · 1 month

Text

Hand, Hearth, and Home

Chapter 38 - To Dream Alone

Chapter Summary: Gale sits with Church as he consumes another tadpole. The tiefling's training with Tavi doesn't quite go as planned, and Church finds himself making a decision when faced with a literal wish come true.

Pairing(s): Astarion x Male Tav (Main); Past OC x Male Tav Rating: Explicit Length: 177K+ words; Chapters 39/54

Excerpt below:

Tavi looks preoccupied for a moment, before looking reproachfully back at him.

“All I want is for our world to be safe,” he says wearily. “For you to be safe. I thought that seeing this face would make you happy. I thought encouraging you to indulge in Astarion’s company would give you enough of something to live for. But I’ve seen your mind — you’re still the same fool, intent on being a martyr.”

“I don’t… live for people, Tav,” Church scoffs.

“No, but you do try to die for them,” Tavi says pointedly. “The whole point of these powers is for you to survive at the very least long enough to defeat the Absolute. So no, I will not give you one more means to destroy yourself.”

They both stand stock-still — facing each other in tense, reproachful silence.

“It’s not just for the sake of being a martyr,” Church says quietly. “Every terrible thing that has happened or is going to happen will be worth it if I can ensure the others come out of this intact. I want to protect my allies. My friends. Tav…” his voice shakes. “I wasn’t there to protect you. And I can’t let that happen again. Not to…”

“…Astarion?” Tav finishes for him flatly.

“Well, he’s… among my friends,” Church flounders. “So of course.”

“Hells, when will you admit that it’s more than that?” Tav asks exasperatedly.

The tiefling closes his eyes for a long moment, before sighing.

“Tav… I know that I really do care about him,” he admits, choked. “Like I haven’t cared about anyone else since… you. But I don’t think he feels the same way. I think I’m just a means to an end for him, but…”

“Maybe you just like to be used, petal!” Auntie Ethel had cackled spitefully.

Church looks defeatedly at his friend.

“I don’t think I’m meant to be with anyone, Tav. I’m condemned. I’ll either be consumed by shadows in a few days or, best case scenario, in sixty-some years I’ll be like Withers in the ruins — a caretaker for Mother’s temple until I die.”

He huffs frustratedly. “And I don’t know why I even bothered letting myself get attached to someone again, given that I know what’s to come…”

“You wanted to be known,” Tavi says gently.

Church eyes him, frowning at the similarity of his phrasing to Astarion’s that first night they spent together.

“You wanted to be known,” Tavi repeats gently. “You wanted to be seen and heard. Understood. Remembered. And Church… you are known.” He hesitates before gently brushing his hand against the tiefling’s cheek. “You are loved.”

His hand drifts slowly to the back of Church’s neck, and the tiefling’s breath hitches as he stares up at his old friend.

“I know everything about you,” Tavi murmurs to him. “Your hopes. Your fears. The things you’ve dreamt for a future you once never dared to imagine…” his mouth quirks up into a small, wistful smile. “…but you still imagined it, didn't you?”

“…yes,” Church breathes.

“So, what did you imagine?” Tavi asks him gently. “For a scared blacksmith’s boy, marching off to be a paladin for the sake of his father’s dream?”

Church closes his eyes, reaching up to press his friend’s hand to his face.

“I dreamed you wrote to me,” he chuckles ruefully. “Every month, like you promised. You came back to visit the village every summer, and it would be just like things were before. We’d run up to the top of the bell tower to watch the sunset. We’d tease Lydia and Mairead and prod them into sorting out their feelings faster.

“Your father would warm up to me, but…” Church scoffs, “...perhaps that’s the most improbable fantasy of all. Still, I’d have dinner with you both on occasion. He’d stop leaving the tavern as soon as I walked in, at least.

“I’d still set out from the village not too long after you, though,” he rambles. “I’d follow you to Neverwinter. I don’t think I’d try to be a paladin but maybe I’d join an adventurers’ guild there. I’d see you nearly every day we were both in town. Maybe we’d even work together. Either way, I could just… spontaneously meet you for drinks. Food. Maybe even dancing…”

He sighs, stepping closer to Tavi.

“…maybe eventually more, if that’s what we still wanted. Or maybe we’d have found someone else instead, but we’d still be friends. I’m certain of it.

“But…” he chuckles sheepishly. “I used to imagine that you’d be my… first. Or by some miracle I’d be yours, even though you had a couple years of the big city life on me. I imagined it would have been just as awkward as our first kiss, but still in that way just as perfect, you know?

“And then no matter how things turned out over the years, whether we drifted apart or stuck together, we truly would know each other. We wouldn’t have had to make up for years of growth over a stack of letters. We’d have already… had this.”

Church chokes on a sob as he curls his fingers against Tavi’s chest.

“They wouldn’t have taken this from us before we even got to try. I could have had… years. I could have stayed away from her and the shadows entirely and had a lifetime. I…”

His voice breaks off into a frustrated growl as his fingers clench into Tavi’s shirt.

“…you wouldn’t have had to feel so alone,” Tavi nods in understanding.

“Yeah,” Church says emptily, looking up into those infernal, honey-colored eyes. “…and neither would have you.”

Read from the beginning!

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horanghaejamjam · 2 years

Text

Spider Lily Chapter 3

Story Summary: You really do love Felix and Changbin despite what everyone thinks. You love them more than anything, that’s why you can’t be near them. Heaven forbid they get too close, or worse, get hurt.

Chapter Summary: After the stressful events of the last few days, you try to reassure Felix that your relationship is fine.

Pairing: Human Changbin x Vampire Reader x Human Felix

Chapter Rating: PG

Genre: Mostly fluff, slight angst at the beginning

Word Count: 4k

Chapter Warnings: None, just Felix getting the love and affection he deserves.

Disclaimer: Images used in header are not mine. All written work is 100% my own, editors and beta readers will be credited as needed. Do not copy, translate, or repost my work onto other sites without my permission.

Previous Chapter . . . Next Chapter (TBA)

Spider Lily Masterlist

“Felix!” you call out as you knock on the door again, “come on you can’t hide from me forever!” You can hear shuffling on the other side but the male in question makes no effort to actually open the door or even talk to you. You groan and hit your head against the door before sliding down dramatically and resting your back against the wall. Fine then, if he wanted to be stubborn then two could play at that game. You could, theoretically, sit there forever while he would need to come out of his room eventually. All you had to do was wait for that moment.

Ever since that garlic incident and the very awkward dinner that followed, Felix had been distancing himself from you. He never avoided you, but he would never cling to you and the second Changbin was around he seemed to back away entirely. You had wanted to confront him the moment you noticed it but Changbin assured you that he just needed space and would come around eventually. Well, that had been almost a week ago and you were tired of waiting.

You had tried approaching Felix after he got home from practice, Changbin staying late at the studio with Jisung and Chan to finish up a track. Felix came home to find you waiting on the couch for him, occupying yourself with some random drama you found on television. Things had been tense already but the second the words, “We need to talk,” left you he was locking himself in his room. As fast as you were, you didn’t react quick enough to catch him so now you were stuck waiting outside the room until one of you gave up.

Yeah, you had realized by now you had probably gone about this the wrong way and scared Felix, but there wasn’t much you could do about that now. You didn’t have the ability to turn back time and you couldn’t exactly explain yourself when your boyfriend refused to listen. If he could at least open the door and look at you that would be a start.

“I just want to talk to you,” you called out, much softer than when you were chasing him, “I promise it’s nothing bad.” Silence was the response you got and by now you were starting to lose your patience. Your teeth dug into your lip to keep from saying anything that would condemn you and you took a deep breath before speaking again. “Lix I just want to know why you’ve been avoiding me? Ever since that night, it feels like you’ve become a stranger. Talk to me please! I just want to know what’s going on.” Silence again and you were about to call it quits when you heard a thump from the other side of the door, signaling that Felix had sat down as well. It wasn’t opening the door but at least now you knew he was listening so you would take it. You were thinking about what to say next when he beat you to it.

“You hate me now, don’t you?” his voice was small and he sounded like he was going to cry. You sighed softly and shook your head despite him not being able to see you.

“Why would I hate you?” you asked as gently as possible. Felix sniffled a bit before answering.

“I keep messing up, I almost hurt you and I make you uncomfortable. I see how close you are with Changbin and I’m left out so I figured you didn’t want me around anymore.” There it was, everything was slowly starting to make sense and you had to huff to stop yourself from laughing.

“Baby boy I don’t hate you,” you assured, “you’re not messing up anything. You made a mistake but no one got hurt and I already forgave you for that. I thought you knew that after dinner.” You shook your head and took a deep breath before continuing, “Yeah I got a bit closer to Changbin but the only reason you feel like you’re left out is because you’re the one leaving yourself out. How am I supposed to give you attention when I never see you huh?”

“I guess…” Felix whispered. You rolled your eyes and stood up, gently placing your hand on the door. “Can you let me in please? I’m sorry that I made you feel left out so let me prove to you that I care. It’s too late to go out but we can play games or watch a movie until Changbin comes home, how does that sound?” He didn’t answer verbally but you could hear him scramble to stand up. The sound of a lock clicking echoed and Felix opened the door, peeking through a small crack and looking up at you. He didn’t look like he was crying but you could see the sad look in his eyes and the glistening of tears in the corner. Exhaling softly, you gently pushed open the door and let yourself into the room, Felix stepping back to invite you in.

You softly pushed the door closed with your foot, not taking your eyes off of your boyfriend. He looked conflicted as his gaze darted around the room. Part of him wanted to believe what you said and embrace him, but he was still really unsure about all of this. You didn’t give him time to overthink and make things worse as you stepped forward and pulled Felix into a hug. He tensed under you but you didn’t care as you held him close to you and nuzzled your face against his neck. It had been a minute since you had been close to Felix and you were reminded of how different he was compared to Changbin.

Felix had a smaller frame despite being taller, it felt like you were the one holding and protecting him. He also wasn’t as warm as Changbin, feeling slightly cooler against you and his skin was softer. Lastly, and most prominent, his scent was much sweeter. Whereas Changbins scent struck you as a natural musk, Felix was lighter and almost sugary. It was a distinct contrast between the two of them but surprisingly pleasant. It made both boys stand out more while also blending in together, you couldn’t imagine one without the other. A part of you also wondered how you felt to them if they could feel your presence the same way that you felt theirs. You would have to ask them one day.

After a minute of just standing there Felix finally returned your hug. His arms wrapped around you and gripped at your shirt desperately as he hid his head in your shoulder. You smiled and relaxed a bit as you held him, humming softly and rubbing his back. Neither of you said anything, just standing in the middle of the room and holding onto each other. Felix was the one that pulled away first, keeping his hands around your waist as he raised his head to look at you.

“So you promise you don’t hate me?” he asked, making you giggle a bit.

“I love you too much to ever hate you,” you leaned forward to place a quick kiss on his nose which made him laugh as well. Though Felix was quickly back to pouting as he tightened his grip on your waist.

“You gave Changbin a proper kiss, why don’t I get one?” he whined. All you could do was huff in amusement, trying to look serious but your smile betraying you.

“As you wish,” you reached up to cup his cheek before leaning down to press your lips together softly. Felix immediately responded by kissing you back and bringing one of his hands up to rest at the back of your head. “Happy now?” you asked once you pulled away, Felix had turned a good three shades of red and was smiling wider than you thought was humanly possible.

“Much better!” he confirmed, “now, what movie did you want to watch?”

It took a couple of moments to select a movie and gather a few snacks, as well as letting Felix shower and change into his pajamas before you two were curled up in bed together. A few pillows supported you as you rested against the headboard with Felix snuggled into your side. His head was against your chest and his arm was lazily thrown across your stomach. Occasionally he would move to grab at one of the snacks but otherwise, he was still, focusing on the movie as you lazily played with his hair. You let Felix choose the movie, not really following it but as long as he was happy you didn’t care.

You guys were maybe a quarter of the way through when Felix began to shuffle against you. “It’s kind of weird that you don’t have a heartbeat,” he mused with a laugh.

“Bad weird or good weird?” you asked as you adjusted to look down at him. His head was perfectly still on your chest, no movement from you that would cause him to move. To you this was normal but it was likely he wasn’t used to that fact yet.

“It’s definitely not bad,” Felix assured, “it’s just strange in a way. Like you look human and you act human but you’re not. You’re cold, you don’t have a heartbeat and you don’t even have to breathe if you don’t want to. It’s like you’re an illusion or something?” You raised an eyebrow at his rambling, not understanding exactly what he was talking about. You reasoned it was just Felix coming to terms with how you worked now that the changes were obvious. Yeah, he knew you were a vampire, he could see in some instances that you were a vampire, but if someone didn’t know better they could assume you were human.

You also, ironically, weren’t that well educated on your own kind. Did schools even teach students about vampires, was that necessary? You guys weren’t born, you were created so you just instinctively had the knowledge you needed to survive. The urges took some getting used to but you knew what you could do, what you were capable of, what you needed, and what you needed to avoid. You also weren’t a part of a coven or family like other vampires, staying by yourself with maybe one or two close friends so you really didn’t care about the norms or ins and outs of your species. If you needed to know you could figure it out then but as of right now you didn’t care. Perhaps that was why your boyfriend’s fascination confused you because you didn’t really stop to consider that it would be odd. Then again, in all the time you had known both of them they had only asked a handful of questions. Seems that would change now that you were starting to open yourself to them.

Felix had returned his attention to the movie by this point. You had been too far in your own thoughts to pay attention to what was happening. You just stared at the screen trying to process what was going on. If Felix noticed you weren’t paying attention he didn’t say anything about it. He reached for another snack before freezing and looking back up at you. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you eat anything, can you?” The question was so innocent that you couldn’t find it in yourself to be offended by the assumption.

“Depending on what’s in it, yes,” you answered, taking the chip he offered and glancing at it before taking a bite. It was much too salty for your liking but you quickly finished it before licking your lips. “My tastebuds are a bit sensitive and regular food won’t sustain me at all, but I can eat it just for the taste. I don’t often because it’s pointless but there are a few snacks I like.” He hummed in thought for a moment, staring at his food intently.

“Could you eat meat? If it was raw or undercooked then maybe that could do something because, you know?” he asked. This time you made sure he could see your questioning expression, silently asking if he was serious.

“I’m afraid that wouldn’t do much,” you informed, “it’s not enough.” The last part you practically whispered, not wanting to dive into such a sensitive topic. You never talked about feeding and there was a reason for that. Partially for your own peace of mind and also to make sure you didn’t come off as scary. Felix didn’t seem to get the hint though as he kept pushing, making you bite your lip as you thought about how to answer in a way that didn’t make you seem like some sort of monster.

“How often do you have to feed?” you really didn’t want to answer but didn’t really see a way out of this that wouldn’t make Felix feel bad.

“Do you really want to know the answer?” when he nodded you sighed, “it depends on how much I get. Donations tend to vary in amount but I can last over a month most of the time. Even then it takes a while before I really feel hungry.” Felix seemed content with that answer, nodding again and deciding to stop interrogating you for the time being. You felt relief wash over you when he shifted and focused all of his attention on the last part of the movie. You were now laying beside each other, your arm around his back and his resting on his leg as the other found a place beside his head.

The movie ended and you got up just long enough to clean up a bit before returning to bed and putting on the first recommended movie that popped up. Judging by how quiet Felix got and him gradually curling up more in the blankets, you knew he would fall asleep soon. Your plan was to stay with him until he did and then sneak out. Changbin should be home by then and you could leave them to rest while you dealt with your own business. You could always come back in the morning if you needed to.

It seemed that Felix read your mind though, as he practically wrapped himself around you once you got back into bed. Both his arms and legs were wrapped around you and his head was snuggled into your shoulder. “Y/N,” he muttered tiredly, “can you stay with me tonight, please? I really don’t want to be alone.” You wanted to argue that you couldn’t but you stopped yourself when you look down at Felix. His eyes were closed and his cheeks puffed slightly as he pouted in his tired state, hair falling in his eyes. His grip on you was tight and even the slightest movement had him clinging to you even more. It was almost embarrassing how much of an effect he had on you by just existing but you couldn’t bring yourself to tell him no.

“Just for tonight, I will stay,” you promised, pressing a kiss to the top of his head, “now go to sleep, you had a long day.” Felix muttered something you couldn’t quite understand but you felt him relax against you as he finally let sleep take over. You alternated between rubbing his back and playing with his hair while humming softly until you were sure that he was asleep and wouldn’t wake up. Even then you were careful not to wake him as you adjusted to a more comfortable position that let you move your arms freely while Felix used you as a pillow. This was the state Changbin found you both in when he finally came home from the studio. You slightly perched up watching some random romance drama that popped up with Felix curled up against you fast asleep. He chuckled softly and gave you both a quick kiss before getting ready for bed himself, leaving with a whispered promise to see you in the morning.

As your second movie came to an end, you realized this was probably going to be a really long night, though you wouldn’t dare move.

You ended up breaking your promise slightly and getting up just as the sun began to rise. Dashing over to the window and closing the curtains before the invading rays could reach your skin and burn you. Felix didn’t even stir at your absence, simply curling up to fill the empty space you used to occupy. Seeing that, you decided there would be no harm in staying out of bed as long as you didn’t leave the apartment. Both boys would be waking up to get ready for work shortly anyways.

You turned off the TV in his room and tucked the sleeping boy in before quietly exiting his room and making your way to the kitchen. Knowing your boyfriends, they wouldn’t get up until the last minute and wouldn’t have time to eat anything before heading to practice. You had learned from one too many experiences that them working all day without food was not a good idea so you decided to surprise them with breakfast. Something light so that they would at least have some food in them but not enough to make them sick with all of the intense choreography they had to do. Just watching them perform made you feel tired so you couldn’t imagine what that did to their stamina.

Pushing your hair out of your face, you rummaged through the kitchen to figure out what you could make that was quick and easy. By no means were you a good cook, but you had enough knowledge and experience under your belt to make something edible. The fact that they had just gone shopping a few days ago also made your job significantly easier. Instant rice, meat, seasoning, and a few vegetables and you were good to go. It wasn’t exactly the ideal breakfast, especially considering the more traditional Korean breakfasts you’ve seen, but it should be enough to last them until their lunch break. The heat from the pan made you hiss a bit, dodging a few hot juices being flung at you as you tried quickly cooking the meat and vegetables together while also watching the timer on the microwave to make sure you got the rice before it went off and woke up both the boys. Coffee was also an essential so you found yourself dashing all over the kitchen like a frantic chef working alone at a restaurant during a dinner rush. It was times like this that you were beyond thankful for your enhanced speed.

You could hear distant shuffling and footsteps which told you that one of your boyfriends was now awake. A few minutes later and you felt small arms wrap around you and pull you into a warm embrace. The build and scent immediately told you that the person behind you was Felix, making you smile as you leaned against him.

“Good morning Sunshine,” you greeted, turning your head enough to kiss his cheek. Felix laughed softly as he snuggled against you.

“You scared me when I woke up and you weren’t there, I thought you left,” he whined. The raspier tone of his voice was an indicator that he was still quite tired and you frowned a bit. It felt at times like they were working more than resting and that concerned you but you knew nothing about their job so who were you to question it. You trusted that the boys knew their limit and would rest if it became too much.

“I figured you guys would be hungry so I thought I would make you a quick breakfast before practice,” you explained. Turning off the stove, you separated the food into two portions before placing the dishes in the sink to be washed once they left. You set both breakfasts on the counter before turning around in Felix’s hold. Wrapping your arms around his neck, you smiled softly before giving him a gentle peck, “How did you sleep Lix?”

“So much better than normal with you there,” he confessed, “you’re a really good pillow you know?”

“I wouldn’t know actually, you are the first one to ever use me as a pillow,” you teased. Felix laughed as he rubbed your arms softly.

“Well I wouldn’t mind having you as a personal pillow more often, you’re really comfortable,” he joked back. You rolled your eyes and pulled away, nudging him towards the food you just finished making.

“Hurry up and eat you dork, I want to make sure you guys have some food in you before going to practice. By the way, is Changbin planning on getting up any time soon?” Felix put his hands up in mock surrender as he walked over and grabbed one of the dishes.

“I’m pretty sure I heard him getting up when I went to the bathroom. I’m sure he’ll be out here shortly,” he said as he took the first bite, “this is great by the way! Thank you Y/N.” He continued to eat as you worked on putting everything away. You were planning on cleaning properly when they left but you didn’t want to risk leaving anything out because food was sensitive. Sure enough, Changbin stepped into the kitchen shortly after you gave Felix his breakfast. He also looked tired but slightly more awake than your younger boyfriend.

“Good morning,” he said with a smile, walking over to the both of you. He gave Felix a quick hug and kiss on the cheek before walking over to you and doing the same.

“Morning Hyung,” Felix greeted before motioning to the other plate, “Y/N made us breakfast.” You hummed in agreement as you handed it to him.

“You guys should hurry up and eat before you’re late, I would hate to be the one to get you guys in trouble,” you said half teasingly. You didn’t actually know if they would get in trouble for being late or not but you were assuming that would be the case given how demanding every other aspect of their job was.

“I’m sure Chan won’t mind if we’re a few minutes late,” Changbin said with a chuckle, “especially for such a good reason.”

“When you say good do you mean me or the food?” you questioned with a laugh of your own.

“Why not both?” Felix mused. You playfully rolled your eyes which made him smile. The boys quickly finished their food and thanked you before grabbing their things and getting ready to head out. You exchanged very brief hugs and quick goodbye kisses to the both of them before practically pushing them out the door with the promise to see them later.

Once they were gone you made your way back to the kitchen, doing the dishes and cleaning off the counter before wandering around a bit. You decided to make yourself useful a bit by straightening up so they wouldn’t have to worry about chores before calling it a day and returning back to your own place. It was still way too bright outside so you needed to rest a bit and catch up on a few things hopefully before the sun set. Though you kept your phone on and within arms reach the whole time, that way you would be available the second one of the boys needed you.

If anyone asked, you would definitely deny it, but it was becoming more and more obvious how devoted you were to Felix and Changbin. That thought alone was more than enough to terrify you, but you also wouldn’t want it any other way.

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nickyroethemarinebiologist · 3 months

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This chapter really dragged me through the mud but hey-ho. It's here!! Sincerely hoping it will be more enjoyable to read than it was to write :)

Chapter VIII

Linsey was taking breakfast the next morning; a pleasantly simple meal of boiled eggs and slices of pork, freshly cut; when Mr. Dowset informed him gently of another fellow there to see him. He looked about with interest, thinking it was Captain Riley, or perhaps Lieutenant Gardner, though indeed he certainly favoured the former; then he halted in alarm, for it was Captain Elliot who stepped inside, bearing her aviator’s coat and neckcloth well-pressed, and smiling warmly as she stopped to speak with Mr. Dowset.

‘Captain Linsey?’ she said, coming over. Linsey blinked stupidly at her for a moment, before he righted himself and frowned, folding his hands over in his lap lest they begin to fidget in his unease. He was uncomfortably aware of the dull ache at his shoulder, made only more so when Elliott paused to look him over, inspecting the padding of bandages with a troubling amount of concern.

‘I wonder at your coming here, Captain: if you mean to humiliate me, you’ve a queer way of going about it.’ Linsey said sharply, disinclined to be polite in his displeasure.

Elliott looked up and blinked at him; her brow furrowed minutely. ‘Oh, no, that is not it at all; you were hurt,’ she said, slowly, ‘I only came up to see whether you were alright.’

Now Linsey paused, faintly puzzled; he stopped his first response short, feeling it unfair to condemn her, when this was a gesture so clearly made only in kindness. ‘I am well enough,’ he said instead, amending his tone, though he was afraid he sounded unnaturally stiff.

Elliot smiled, genuinely and with such warmth that Linsey did not quite know what to do with himself. ‘Then I am glad, and I am only sorry we could not be out there with you; Fancy was needed over in Port Royal, but dear old Riley has relayed it all: you fought very bravely, very bravely indeed.’

Linsey halted. ‘Oh.’

Elliot laughed, softly. ‘Oh, poor fellow, I supposed you will be used to our rotten manners by now.’ She said, ‘You must forgive us; there are good men here, they are only misunderstanding.’

‘And I suppose I am to give them my sympathy,’ Linsey said quietly, bitterly; Elliot blinked, somewhat puzzled.

‘No; but if you are so hell-bent on making yourself miserable, you might at least be a little kinder about it.’

Her tone was gentle, and softly spoken, as was her habit, but there was a firm quality that brought to it the weight of a command, or at the very least a reproval; Linsey was quiet, considering this, then he said, ‘No; of course.’ The words were stiff and frustratingly stilted in his mouth; he cursed himself silently and asked, by way of reparation, ‘How is Timor?’

‘He is missing you,’ Elliot said kindly, evidently marking the unconcealed worry in his tone. ‘I have spoken to him, and Malcolm too; he spent all of yesterday sleeping, or near enough.’ She frowned a little, ‘Dear Fancy has tried to keep him company, though he tells me Timor refuses to speak with him.’

‘Ah.’ Linsey said, ‘Yes, I may take fault for that.’

Elliott looked at him with amusement. ‘Oh, maybe not,’ she said, ‘He is only young, and has very strong opinions. It is a wonder you ever harnessed him at all.’

Linsey smiled at this faint sympathy, before he caught himself and drew his lips to a thin line: he found himself longing for the same easy company he had seen shared about the covert, between captains and their officers alike, in such a way that reminded him sharply of the men of his crew. But he could not share his loyalties—he cursed the very notion harshly, and may damnation seize his soul if he ever stooped to let such treacherous ideas slip his mouth in company so unpleasant—so frowned and turned deliberately from Elliott’s expression of sympathy, looking instead at his own hands, clasped together and twitching faintly in discomfort.

Elliott was silent for a long while, such that Linsey began to wonder if she had slipped away; then she hummed, a quiet, dispirited sound, and said, ‘I understand you are unhappy, and perhaps I wish we might set you at liberty, if only for sake of Timor.’ She paused, as in uncertainty, and then added only, ‘But you cannot expect to find respite in making yourself so miserable, and all those about you.’

She paused; the quiet afterwards was wholly discomforting, Linsey frowned and focused instead on the faint throbbings in his shoulder, if only to distract himself from his own displeasure.

Elliot sighed a little, apparently disheartened. ‘Well then; keep well, Captain,’ she said, and then she was gone.

By the end of the week Linsey was beginning to feel restless, and pulled at the bandages around his shoulder until the surgeons sighed and looked him over: the wound was healing nicely, to his great relief, and so Mr. Dowset gave the grudging approval for his release, and called up Commander Davis to discuss how best they might work him back into training. He was given a cautionary word to stay to simpler manoeuvres for another week, and to keep from sharp motions until they could be sure the wound would not reopen; Linsey was not a little discomforted by this notion, but could not ignore a sudden and foolish pride at his bearing a fresh scar, like a sailor fresh out of boyhood, taking his first scrape upon the sea.

He was putting on the fresh linens left folded at his bedside, and working the coat carefully over his shoulder, when a servant came running in, calling for him; he was young, and a little frantic, and Linsey set at once to considering what misfortune might have befallen Timor in his absence, such that by the time they set out walking he was all but overcome with dread.

They came up to the courtyard to a scene of wild disorder: Timor was at the centre, thankfully unharmed, and snapping at the men crowded about him, his ruff quivering in outrage. Linsey spotted Riley stood before him and waving frantically, shouting something indistinct; his lieutenant Powell was backed up against the fence to avoid the lashing tail, and looking helplessly at Davis, who stood with his hands clasped firmly at his back, looking on in apparent disapproval.

‘Damn you all! What have you done with Linsey?’ Timor was saying, his head bent low and snarling. If you have taken him away, then I will go after him, and if he is hurt, I will kill you all.’

‘I am here, Timor,’ Linsey called, crossing swiftly. Timor turned about to look at him, crooning softly as he rubbed the side of his head against Linsey’s face and shoulder; Linsey stepped gratefully into the encircling forelegs, putting his arms about Timor’s neck and stroking the smooth hide gently.

‘Oh, Linsey,’ Timor said, so very softly, ‘Linsey, please do not leave me again; they would not let me see you, I was worried you had gone away.’

Linsey shook his head. ‘No, Timor, I will never,’ he said, ‘I am alright, I promise you.’

‘By God, Captain, you ought to have him under control—we cannot be expected to manage these outbursts for you.’ Davis snapped, coming over; he could not speak directly to Linsey without stepping over the great scaled forelegs, so stood just before them, halting a little when Timor growled, very low in his throat.

‘You ought to keep your mouth shut, Commander,’ Linsey spat, whirling on him, ‘He is not mine to control, nor yours, and I damn well think you had better give him the liberty he deserves.’

Davis stared at him, going a little red at the cheeks. ‘Quiet, Captain, I had hoped you were past such impudence,’ he said, in a voice just short of shouting, ‘Or perhaps we will have to reconsider your liberties—come out of there, damn it, I won’t have you acting a fool.’

Linsey would hardly have liked to oblige him, except to strike him down, which indeed he was sorely tempted toward—but Timor growled before he could react either way, and curled his talons about him; his wings rose, mantling, and the long spines clattered frighteningly along his back.

‘I will not let you take him again,’ he snarled, the long tail lashing, and his dark eyes narrowed to slits. Quietly Linsey laid a hand upon his scales to placate him, taking hold of the harness straps that looped around his neck.

Davis was going nearly purple now, his face made only the more unpleasant by the deep lines drawn in outrage across his brow and under his small eyes. ‘You will damn well have to, unless you are wanting your dear captain to be put to the gallows, and to take a new fellow as your handler—or you might rot in the grounds, but by God I will not tolerate your insolence any longer—’

Timor was aloft before he could finish, his golden wings beating in great, sweeping thrusts and driving them out over the cliffs; Linsey was still clinging to the side of the harness, his legs swinging out beneath him, with only the rolling grey swell of the sea below to receive him if he should fall.

They were going at a great speed, racing over the waves with the wind beating hard upon his face; Linsey made a wordless sound of alarm, inaudible over the rush of air all about them. He reached up with his free hand to grasp at the straps over Timor’s back; his shoulder burned as he hauled himself upwards, and he set his teeth to still a gasp of pain. His hands fumbled over the straps, working his fingers into the metal rings and trembling with the strain. There was little below to offer up a foothold, but he found purchase on Timor’s side, pushing out and upwards; then he was at the reins and crouched low, and the wind pulled at his hair and face and set his hands shaking.

His heart was beating very fast with the familiar thrill of flying, and he found it a struggle to restrain the boyish laughter that kept threatening to rise from his throat; he composed himself only with difficulty and a quiet whoop, and set a hand on Timor’s neck to assure him that he was unharmed; the tight muscles unwound slightly, and Timor turned his head back to look at him, the amber eyes shining with relief.

The crack of gunfire sounded behind them, followed by a tremendous roar; Linsey turned about as Timor shook his head uncomfortably at the noise, the small ears flickering: Tolerans was sweeping out in pursuit, with Riley and maybe half a dozen officers upon his back, still hastily clipping themselves into the harness.

‘Timor!’ Linsey called, needlessly: the muscles under the golden hide were already tightening in preparation; Linsey took the reins tight in one hand to steady himself and put the other over his shoulder, steeling himself for the inevitable strain.

Timor tucked his wings in close to his side, spiralling out and upwards—then they snapped open abruptly, stretched wide at his either side like a great sail, and catching on the wind. Tolerans could not stop quite so gracefully, and went driving past them, turning to swoop out ahead; Timor snapped his wings shut and stooped, sweeping out and under him, trilling a little in barely restrained delight.

Linsey found himself grinning, though the expression was strained, he held his hand firm against his shoulder until the ache began to ease a little; then he took up the reins and pulled sharply westwards, setting them in a wide arc and drawing swiftly over Tolerans. The other dragon halted a little as they swept past, and Riley shouted something inaudible from his back; Linsey could not resist: he laughed aloud, and Timor rumbled happily in response.

This pleasure was short lived: Tolerans swept out in an arc to drive them again eastwards, in such a way that reminded Linsey uncomfortably of a working dog set to herding flocks of sheep; from upon his back Riley’s crew hailed a second warning, sending up gun-smoke, and Linsey thought faintly of his first flight alongside Timor, having encountered much the same trouble in face of their Navy captors.

The realisation sank like a stone in his breast. There was little else to be done but to repeat that same misfortune, and trail meekly back to the covert with head hung in shame; likely Linsey would be put to the gallows, and Timor made to take another captain, and they would not ever see the other again. But he could not risk Timor’s life where he would risk his own, and bargain on the slight chance that the aviators would not fire upon them; so he swallowed his misgivings and raised his hand, very slowly, in signal of holding, though it felt in the moment more similar to a sign of surrender.

But as Riley received this and sent up a call in return, Timor made an odd sound—guttural and desperate, from deep in his throat—and then he was stooping low, his wings tucked tight, dropping like a stone and sweeping back up just short of the waves. Linsey looked up in horror as they spiralled upwards, the long talons outstretched and reaching, aimed for Tolly’s exposed belly.

‘Timor—away, damn you!’ Linsey roared over the wind, throwing his weight backwards against the reins, ignoring the burning set at once into his shoulder.

Riley gave a shout of alarm from above, and set Tolerans quickly stooping, sweeping out just short of Timor’s reaching claws; Timor pulled away, very reluctant, and nearly turned about for a second strike before Linsey put a hand upon his neck to soothe him; even then he went up slowly, his head drooping a little in sulking as they drew beside Tolerans, who looked over them with an almost doleful expression of betrayal.

Linsey kept his hand on Timor’s neck as they swept back towards the cliffs, hoping at least to quiet a little of his anxiety; his heart hung heavy with the weight of defeat, and the humiliation of surrender, and though he longed terribly to cast his duty off and take their liberty by force, his usual defiance would not come: he felt a cold, deep-set misery, as though he were making his final walk, hung in chains, to hang before the gallows.

A small party was waiting for them in the courtyard; they scattered below them as Timor landed, then took up their swords and called Linsey down sharply. He was taken roughly by the arms almost before he had dismounted in full, and was given not even a moment to speak with Timor before he was hauled aside, his shoulder complaining sharply at every motion.

He was brought before Davis in a small tent of brown canvas, set nearly at the very edge of the covert, where the cobble roads drawn up from the harbour were laid out near overcome with soil and brushwood, and crowded on either side with smaller tents, seemingly abandoned, or set aside for later occupants.

‘Captain.’ Davis said, waving him to his seat; the tent was assembled a little like an office, with Davis taking post behind a bench of polished dark wood, and a second chair set out before it. Davis had his arms propped at the elbows and both of his hands clasped over the other, presenting a comfortable height to rest his chin upon; he tilted his head slightly forward to look Linsey over, examining his windswept hair and the fresh clothes already rumpled with unhidden distaste.

‘Commander,’ Linsey returned, matching his expression of disdain.

‘I have a good mind to call up your Admiral Chauncey; he will happily see you off the gallows, of that I am certain.’ Davis went on, ignoring this small indignity, though his brow twitched momentarily into a furrow of displeasure. ‘Though that will bring us again to the same issue: the beast you have under your command is remarkable enough, despite whatever unpleasant ideals you seem to have been putting in his head,’ he raised a hand sharply to silence Linsey’s rising protest, ‘We cannot spare him, His Majesty’s Aerial Fleet is weak enough as it is: the Spinewing is our most valuable dragon, and with your Timor—a Goldcrest, I hear?—I expect they will make quite the formidable asset.’

Linsey frowned in hearing this; he ought to have been pleased he would not yet be put to the gallows, and that Timor would not be made to take on another fellow as his captain, but the expression upon Davis’s face was much too self-satisfied to bear such kind news, and Linsey could not ignore a faint simmering unease.

His anxieties were quickly confirmed when Davis leaned back in his chair, laying his hands folded over upon the table before him. ‘But your treachery certainly cannot go unpunished,’ he said, smiling a little, ‘You are to be put out of service for the next week; Mr. Malcolm will take care of Timor in your absence, and you may take the quarters set aside for you in the captain’s round—I trust you have your holdings there already.’

Linsey stared at him, suddenly very short of breath. The very notion of being so long away from Timor was sickening, but he could not in the moment summon the strength enough for a protest: he was tired, so very tired, and had no heart at all to argue.

He walked out in silence, and found Gardner there waiting for him; Riley was stood just beside, with a surprising amount of sympathy on the scarred face, evidently aware of the toll a man would take when separated from his beast. Gardner took Linsey sharply by the arm, and paid no attention to his noise of protest at the stinging ache set into his shoulder; Riley frowned at him but said nothing, falling silently into step just behind.

Gardner released him at last when they reached the courtyard, though even then would not take his leave; Linsey turned from his frowning expression to look instead over the cliffs a little ways upwards, finding some deep sorrow in imagining Timor curled about himself in their small clearing, alone but for the pairs of gulls wheeling about overhead, joining occasionally with the small flocks of Slights and sweeping out wide over the deep blue-green surges of the sea.

‘I am very sorry, Linsey, I cannot help but feel I ought not to have done it,’ Riley said, coming to stand with him, and then laughed a little; a soft, comfortable sound. ‘Though of course that would have me put out of service—I suppose you would not have me as your lieutenant?’

Linsey blinked at him. ‘No, I would not.’ He said, and felt a strange disappointment in seeing the shine of amusement go out of Riley’s eye.

‘A shame; I might have liked to be a pirate.’ Riley said, ‘It is a curious thing, to risk putting your neck in a noose, for little more than what I might understand as—oh, I cannot say that lightly, but it is only greed, is it not?’

‘Certainly for some,’ Linsey said, the growing dark and his own quiet misery making him speak more freely than he meant to. ‘Not so much for me, or for my fellows. It is not only wanderlust, either, though I would not be so sorely tempted by such work apart from the sea.’ Here he paused; Riley was quiet, listening with all patience, and Linsey found himself warmed somewhat by the easy company; he took a deep breath and said, ‘In an honest service there is thin commons, and hard labour; in this, plenty and satiety, pleasure and ease, and all the liberty a man might ask for; I cannot imagine how your fellows find themselves so displeased by our manner, when all the hazard that is run for it, at worst, is only a sour look or two at choking. No; a merry life and a short one, shall be my word.’

Riley had been watching with bemusement, then a quiet wonder; now he hummed a moment in thought, and Linsey turned to find him looking out upon the ocean, somewhat solemn. ‘You are quite the poet, Captain,’ he said at last, turning to Linsey with his eyes shining.

Linsey found himself smiling a little, and could not now bring himself to hide it, when it offered the warmth he so desperately longed for in Timor’s absence. Riley smiled in turn and patted him lightly upon his uninjured shoulder, and let his hand rest there for a moment: a comforting gesture, of gratitude and consolation both.

‘Lord, I do not think I am quite a fool as that—though please, if you find me mistaken, you may put me to ground for the week.’ Riley said, earning him a short concession of laughter from the other captains; he had invited Linsey for a late supper in the mess hall, to relieve him of eating alone. Linsey was quietly grateful, but with the aviators largely turning to talk of aerial strategy and tactics, or friendly repartee between themselves, he found he could not insinuate himself into the conversation quite so easily as he would among his own men, so remained quiet and put his head down a little as he ate.

‘Mind, Captain, you won’t like to give our dear commander the excuse—you’ll be put off with poor Linsey,’ said Clemet, a young man with a sharp nose and cheerful look, and Gishni’s captain—that was the little Dipper, snoring quietly in the quivering lantern light just outside. His tone was not at all scornful, rather sympathetic, though regrettably unconscious of the resultant sorrow brought on by his words.

Elliott was sat on Riley’s other side, and gave the younger captain a meaningful look, which served to quiet him only a moment before he burst out, ‘Oh, but it is a damned shame! I’d think it dreadful, to be away from Gishni for so long, and I can’t imagine I would take it quite so mildly.’ He smiled, not at all disapproving. ‘Do not fret so, Linsey, it will not be forever.’

Linsey blinked and glanced up at his being addressed, pausing a moment in considering the faces looking back at him; the obvious sympathy was kind enough, yet still he found himself somewhat uneasy, and discomforted by their pity. He made a wordless murmur of agreement and shovelled greens into his mouth to conceal his displeasure.

Riley hummed in noticing this, but thankfully said nothing, only patted him lightly upon the shoulder and said, to Elliott, ‘Why, Mary, you have scarcely spoken to us; how is it in Port Royal?’

With this easy enquiry all three lapsed back into conversation, laughing lightly and making good humour between them; Linsey was again excluded, and so watched them for a moment, feeling at odds even in their company, and wishing impractically for the familiar fellowship aboard the Delight, and for his quiet nightly conversations with Timor.

‘Here; the fleet in Spain is well enough, if you mean to say we’ll take second to their Navy also, I’ll have you put out of service.’ Clemet said; the tone held something of a challenge, but his face was bright and shining as ever.

Riley gave a shout of laughter; a couple of the aviators taking supper gave him a curious look, much to his blithe disregard. ‘Lord, I sincerely hope not; their dragons are a damned nuisance, but ours will have their vessels in a bother right enough. It is the pirates you ought to worry for,’ he said, ‘Though I dare say Tolly thinks of it as play—he’ll wreck a fleet and come away capering.’

‘Oh?’ Clemet said, raising his brow in surprise. ‘You are certainly far more fortunate than I, Captain: I have been seven times to the Caribbean now, and not a single one, though I might like to take a crack at them. Oh, but I mean no indignity to you,’ he added quickly, glancing at Linsey.

‘So you say,’ Linsey said, so bitterly he surprised himself; there was quiet, and he glanced up to find the aviators staring at him, with some palpable uncertainty. He blinked at them and said, slowly, ‘You may count yourself lucky, man; those sorts are hardly more honourable than dogs, and they won’t take to you kindly.’

Clemet smiled, relaxing visibly. ‘Oh, a man like you must have quite the account; I take it you find far better tales in piracy than our service,’ he said, ‘Here; it is no good of you to keep so quiet there.’

He spoke with too much eagerness for Linsey to take offence; as the sentiments were repeated by the other captains, he made a tentative endeavour towards a tale told to him by his first quartermaster, though he was inclined to embellish it somewhat, that young man having been rather lax in any thrill in regards to his telling. This being received with great enthusiasm, Linsey found himself becoming bold; he could not resist, and so set to detailing one of his more impressive triumphs: a week long pursuit of the smaller naval frigate Greyhound, in precedence to a valiant attempt from her crew to come aboard and capture the Delight, which devolved quickly to a grim struggle, all throughout a gale in full wind.

‘Why, I suppose it is no wonder why Timor took to you so fiercely,’ Clemet said, ‘You have the right sort of spirit, no doubt.’

‘Spirit indeed,’ Elliott said, ‘Oh, he is a marvellous beast, Linsey, you are certainly fortunate. I cannot lie to say I know of any dragon as magnificent as my dear Fancy, but I have never seen a hide so golden—oh!’ she laughed lightly, ‘You pirates certainly have a fine eye for treasure.’

Her sentiments bordered perhaps on mockery, but Linsey took no offence, warmed somewhat by the clear admiration in her tone.

‘Thank you, Captain.’ He said, and meant it genuinely. ‘I suppose I am lucky to have him at all: I did not take him from the egg, and by all sense he was a stowaway aboard my ship.’ Here he halted, frowning at the sudden misery brought on by this memory: how he longed for the ocean, and the simplicity of command, with his dear Timor all the while beside. He thought briefly of Timor, likely curled about himself and sleeping, or perhaps he had his head turned to look over the sea, listening to the swell with the same such longing that Linsey felt now.

Linsey lingered a moment on this notion, before he blinked and set his focus forcibly elsewhere, all but overcome with a deep and aching sense of sorrow.

‘Captain,’ Riley said, very gently, ‘We are for bed; you might come up with Tolly and I, he will not mind the extra passenger.’

It was a tempting suggestion, but Linsey barely paused a moment in thought before he shook his head: to go aloft with another man’s dragon felt uncomfortably like a betrayal, he would more easily be damned than stoop to such disloyalty.

‘No; I should think I will manage.’ He said shortly, and nodded stiffly to Elliott and Clemet, as tentative gratitude. Then he took up his coat, folded over his lap while he was taking supper, and quietly took his leave.

It was scarcely coming twilight when he came up to the captain’s round: for he had been some several months now in the covert, a notion which troubled him greatly, and so found little difficulty in finding his way. He went to his quarters, rather more drab in appearance than those around, and far less well-kept, though this was likely through fault of his own neglect, and of the dull look of the canvas, where the others were adorned carefully with stitching in varying colours, or illuminated pleasantly by the warm glow of the lanterns set out at every entrance.

Linsey came into his quarters and paused, feeling some immediate displeasure—to a man adjusted to the confines of a ship, the room was spacious, if a little compact, but without the familiar warmth of Timor’s scales, or the deep regular sound of his breathing, Linsey found it terribly cold. His heart grew only heavier in realising this; he had grown used to Timor’s presence always beside, in the several months they had spent with only the other as company, and now felt a great sorrow in his absence; he stared miserably about and drew his lips to a thin, frowning line.

The entrance flaps behind him opened; Malcolm stepped inside and looked about in apparent dissatisfaction. He made as though to speak, then abruptly he paused, staring as in disbelief. ‘Good Lord, man, what is the matter with you?’ he said, sharply, and Linsey started in horror; for his face was wet, and hastily he wiped his eyes with the back of one hand.

‘Malcolm,’ he said, concealing his shame. Malcolm frowned and tucked his hands under either arm, as was his habit.

‘Forgive me, Captain; I suppose I am intruding,’ he said, though made no motion to dismiss himself, and glanced over Linsey with his brow furrowed a little in displeasure, or perhaps disapproval. Neither spoke; Linsey stood with bearing uncomfortably stiff, clasping his hands tightly behind his back, lest their fidgeting risk him further humiliation.

Then Malcolm sighed. ‘Timor is well,’ he said, a little rigidly, as though he were uncertain.

‘I am glad,’ Linsey said, very softly. ‘Thank you.’

Malcolm marked this with a frown. ‘You needn’t thank me,’ he said, rather harshly, before his tone softened. ‘He will do quite nicely, I should think; I am not so certain for you.’

Linsey frowned; this was not at all the sort of sympathy he had anticipated—least of all from Malcolm, who had bothered him all the while for their first months of fellowship—and he was put momentarily at odds before he said, slowly, ‘I am well enough.’

‘Oh?’ Malcolm said, ‘Then I must tell you again; your hair is out of tie, and you have your coat in rumples.’

‘Oh.’ Linsey paused and looked down at himself, finding a faint dissatisfaction in the bedraggled state of his dress—yet strangely, Malcolm’s words gave him no outrage, only gladness at the change in conversation. He neglected to condemn the lieutenant as such, for this small kindness warmed him somewhat, and served at least to dismiss a little of the misery settled heavy in his breast; instead he found himself smiling as he said, ‘Thank you, Malcolm.’

Malcolm smiled in turn; only faintly, a small twitching at the corners of his mouth, but with a sort of warmth that Linsey found wholly pleasant, despite the sullen lines still drawn across his forehead and brow.

He took his hair again into its tie after Malcolm had taken his leave, finding himself in better spirits, despite that same bone-deep, aching misery that set him still to sorrow. He did not turn immediately for bed; instead he lifted the cloths thrown over his holdings, stooping a little to pass a hand over Timor’s old harness, the leather somewhat stiff from its weeks of disuse, and the buckles still odd and substitute as they were. For a moment he paused, finding a faint comfort in the feel of the leather beneath his callused palms; then he straightened up abruptly and went outside.

The air was somewhat cool with the coming of night, and Linsey was at once grateful for his coat and neckcloth, which served despite their continued discomforts to offer him some warmth. He glanced over the other tents in brief unrest, and found some great relief in the absence of any company; with a quiet satisfaction he walked up to the edge of the round, where the brushwood grew thick upon the gentle rise of a slope. This he climbed, rather ungracefully, and stood looking over the sea, dull and grey in the shallows, and fading dimly to the deep rolling blue of the ocean, so very distant. The wind was in the southwest, thrown in from the Atlantic, and casting a faint sea spray, caught up from the cliffs, into his hair and his unshaven face; his breath quivered a little in longing, and he stood with his face lifted to the wind and the briny sea air, flung about him like an embrace.

#nearly on the final quarter now!!#i am IMMENSELY excited #timor: here be dragons

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doctormacchiato · 2 years

Text

Drawn to the Surface - Part 1

Inspired by @six-feet-sleep‘s art of tattooed Silco that you can see here. Don’t try to tell me that man isn’t completely tatted up under those fancy shirts and vests.

So many thanks to @of-the-argonath for supporting this. Means more than you can imagine.

AO3

Young(ish!) Silco x Tattoo Artist!Reader SFW Next Part

You’ve finally finished wiping down your station and have just picked up your sketchbook, lead in hand, when you hear the bell ring out above the door to your little studio.

“We’re closed!” You call out absentmindedly as you shade in the scales of a new snake design you’ve been working on for a client. It’s several moments later when you realize that you haven’t heard the bell again. Your intruder isn’t leaving.

With an annoyed huff, you get up, sketchbook still in hand, still shading, and round the corner to emerge into the front lobby, inwardly cursing yourself for forgetting to lock the front door. That would have to be fixed.

“I said we’re closed! And I don’t take walk-ins.”

“Even for an old friend?”

Your heart skips a beat at the sly tenor of the voice, which had just enough grit that it couldn’t be described as smooth. Your shading pauses, caught in your surprise.

You’d heard so many different stories: ones that incriminate, ones that condemn. You’d told yourself they were wrong. The man you knew would have never—

But he had missed his last appointment, and every one after that. Then came the rumors, ones you wished were true and others you knew couldn’t be, and you had had no idea what to believe. He wasn’t supposed to have disappeared. That hadn’t been the plan.

Now? It’s been years. The shock and dismay have since faded into memories. What you were left with is anger, sadness, and more hurt than you were willing to admit.

Finally, you look up. Your sketchbook and lead fall from your grasp. You ignore them.

His head is cast downward when you see him, leaning against the front desk. He is exactly how you remember. Tall and lean, with a secret strength you know he possesses despite his unassuming frame.

Wiry, you had once called him.

But he’s changed too. The sides of his previous, unassuming shaggy cut have been razored short. The rest on top has been pulled back neatly with a tie, with just a few errant strands that have escaped over his forehead. You force down a memory of carding your hands through those same strands once upon a time.

Yet, you know this is not the same man that ha spent hours in your chair in the back, as you discussed everything and nothing to make the time pass. You remember each design, traced and shaded, etched permanently into his pale skin. You wonder if they’ve faded.

“Silco?” You finally say, almost like it was an accusation.

He looks up and your heart catches in your throat. He sees your expression and his gaze hardens. You don’t look away, despite the desperate need to do so.

It’s not every day you match a stare that can only be compared to molten lava as it pours out from the beneath the broken earth. Yet, despite the heat in his gaze, you are left ice cold.

You try to focus towards his right; towards the eye with the shade you remember. It’s a shade you had once drunkenly told him could have resembled the Pilt if it wasn’t so polluted or the sky if it wasn’t filled with ash and smoke. He’d laughed and you’d relished the sound, the warmth.

“It... it’s been a long time,” you manage to croak out.

He nods sharply, slowly straightening himself up, as he’s staring at you, through you. The dark scar reaches up towards his temple, carving deep valleys in his skin, all the way up towards his hairline, where the strands are tinged with grey.

“A lot has happened,” he says.

You want to ask him a million questions. Where has he been? What has he been doing? What really happened that night? But what you really want to ask him now, is how he simply could have abandoned you.

But instead you say nothing, finally breaking his gaze to find your sketchbook on the floor. You bend over to retrieve it. Your graphite must have rolled somewhere. You can’t find it.

He watches you, but doesn’t offer to help, keeping the front desk between you both. When you finally right yourself, you hope that maybe your tongue can find the words for all of the nuanced emotions that you are feeling. You want to scream. You want to cry.

You gather your thoughts, until you are satisfied that you will be able to string together a coherent sentence.

“What the fuck, Silco?” It comes out angrier than you had intended.

He snorts.

“Now, that’s the girl I remember.” The corner of his mouth turns up slightly, but it’s not quite a smile. Still, it feel’s like you’re falling. And you’re not quite sure how you are going to catch yourself. You know it won’t be a soft landing.

You shake your head. He’s as infuriating as you remember.

“You can’t be here. You’re supposed to be...” you falter, unsure.

“Dead?”

“That was certainly one of the options.”

“I can assure you I am not quite so easy to kill.” Silco says, his hand reaching up towards his neck before it wavers halfway and is instead shoved into his pocket.

It’s the first time you notice his attire. The material of his unbuttoned burgundy shirt may have been expensive at one point, but the edges are frayed with use and the sleeves have been sewn in several spots. Over it, he wears a patched vest that may have been black at some point, but has since faded to brown. Several golden buckles adorn it. One is broken.

He wasn’t easy to kill, perhaps, but he’s seen his fair share of hardships. That sense of sadness floods over you again.

You sigh, shaking your head. “Silco, what are you doing here?”

He stares you up and down again, as if dissecting you. You notice his eyes linger at the fresh ink across your shoulder, arching towards your neck.

He’s more intimidating than you remember, the eye certainly helps with that. But, you refuse to look sheepish in front of this man. You cross your arms as you wait for your answer, coyly raising your eyebrow at him.

“Well?”

Only his right eye narrows before he turns away, stalking out through the front door.

“Follow me,” he throws over his shoulder, and then he’s gone.

You’re surprised when you don’t take a moment to consider, instead scrambling for your keys to lock the shop behind you. You jog after him to catch up.

“Silco! Damn it, wait!”

He stops. “It’d be wise to stop shouting that name through the Lanes.”

“And it would be wise for you to actually explain what’s going on here,” you huff as you catch up to him. You refrain from reaching up to grab at his sleeve.

“Soon,” he utters.

And then, you’re following him Out of the Lanes, through back alleys and over rooftops, you’re desperately trying to keep up. It’s almost exhilarating to do this again, like you’d never even missed a day.

You can’t help admire him as he swings across a bannister and balances gracefully on the edge of a narrow stone wall. He holds his hand out for you. Without giving yourself a chance to chicken out, you jump. Your balance isn’t nearly as practiced as his, however, and you stumble, your arms swinging wildly as you slip.

But then a firm hand wraps around your wrist, pulling you forward until you’re stable.

You can feel the heat rise up the back of your neck and you snatch your hand away before he can feel it spread to your palm.

“Thanks,” you mutter, looking anywhere that isn’t him.

With a nod and a slight smirk, he’s off again, before you can even catch your breath.

“Jackass,” you swear under your breath.

You don’t question him further as you leave the Lanes. You realize you’re nearing the old cannery down by the docks. You eye the shattered windows and crumbling brick of its facade. Fitting, you muse.

Finally, you’ve reached solid ground. Soon after entering the Cannery, you reach a darkened staircase that leads underground. You hesitate, realizing where this man is taking you.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” Silco says with a roll of his eyes, as if reading your mind. He inclines his head towards the stairs. “Come on.”

“Thanks for the reassurance,” you scoff, as you follow him down the stairs, careful not to touch the odd purple vines that snake around the bannister.

You don’t know what you’d been expecting. Maybe a damp, cramped basement? Perhaps. What you hadn’t expected was a wide expanse of a room that you can only describe as a lair. The ceilings soar and the walls and staircase are fitted with sharp, curving metal adornments.

You find tables cluttered with several vials and other laboratory equipment. Tall, glowing vessels are filled with motionless creatures you don’t know how to describe. You cringe, not caring to find out.

The air is slightly sweet, not the moldy, musty smell you would have predicted.

Silco waves and you follow his line of sight to a gaunt man with safety goggles crouched over one of the desks. The man nods back before returning to his work.

“Don’t mind him.”

You nod sharply, before turning back to Silco, who is stalking towards the edge of the room.

Your reply catches on your lips, however, when you notice movement behind what you had originally pinned as a wall. It’s not a wall, however, but glass, a window to what must be the River Pilt behind it.

Before you even realize what you are doing, you’ve stepped right up to the window, pressing your palm against the glass. Your eyes widen as your jaw grows slack.

You never knew anything could even grow that huge.

“They’re beautiful, aren’t they?”

Only Silco’s low timber would be enough to break the trance you’ve found yourself in, staring out into the depths. You tear your gaze away to find his own boring into you.

“I...” You stutter. “I’ve never seen anything quite like it. No one knows they’re there? How... how are they so big?”

Silco chuckles softly at that, which surprises you.

“I suppose they’re not the only creatures cursed by Piltover’s runoff.”

You quickly glance to his scarred eye, before catching yourself, biting at your bottom lip as you turn back to glass. In the distance, you see several long limbs, tentacles, dancing through the water. You swallow hard.

“I mean, thanks for the view,” You start, “But you can only imagine what I’m feeling with all of,” you wave your arm in arc over your head. “this.”

You mindlessly take a step towards Silco, who is now staring down at you past his nose. “A mysterious man, who was either dead or who I’m supposed to wish should be, showing up on my proverbial doorstep, a nighttime stroll over rooftops, giant monsters in an underground lair—”

You’re rambling, you realize, and so you take a deep breath. You take another step towards him, though you’ve crossed your arms again.

“I just... I’m still waiting on some answers here.”

Silco is motionless for several moments. His mouth opens and closes several times, and for once, you think he is uncharacteristically at a loss for words. He’s nervous, you realize. Somehow, that notion emboldens you slightly. You’re on more level playing ground.

“How... No matter what you did, what Vander did, whatever happened between you that day...”

You don’t get a chance to finish your sentence before Silco’s eye narrows and he shies away, turning sharply as he stalks to the center of the room, his back towards you. His shoulders are set back a little too far, his posture a bit too tight, hands clenched in fists.

He runs his hand over his hair to smooth back a piece that had fallen from the tie.

You wait in silence, to finally get the answers you’ve waited years for.

“The thing is...” He falters.

You only barely restrain yourself from throwing your hands around his bare neck and strangling him.

“I was hoping I could... commission some work from you.” It’s said softly, shyly almost.

That doesn’t stop the scoff that wells up in your throat before you’re able to stifle it. You stare him up and down, dissecting the state of his clothes, suddenly realizing that you have the power here. It’s refreshing.

You strut up to him. He can surely hear your footsteps, but seemingly refuses to turn around to look at you.

“Are you sure you can afford me?”

“Don’t be insulting,” he replies firmly over his shoulder, turning his head just enough to catch a glimpse of the scarred eye.

“So that’s it?” You say, undeterred. You don’t hesitate this time as you wrap your fingers around his arm, pulling, forcing him to look at you. “After all this time, you could have just come into the shop like a normal person, and made an appointment.”

He’s quiet for a moment, staring down at you. You stare back.

“You and I both know that’s not true.”

“Yeah, fine,” you concede. “Still, did you really need to drag me halfway across the Undercity to make your point? I’m sure there are plenty of places that we could have found a bit of privacy.”

Instead of answering, Silco shifts his gaze to your hand, which has found itself in a vice grip around his firm bicep. He arches his right brow back towards you. You release his arm as if burned.

“Sorry... I—“

“Don’t be.”

“I uh...” you mutter as you walk over to one of the chairs by the edge of the room, throwing yourself into it. To think you thought you were going to get some sort of answers from this man. You’ve finally found you’re exhausted. Focus on what you’re comfortable with.

“Do you have any—“ you sigh. “What were you thinking of getting done?”

Silco’s follows you over. You don’t appreciate how he now looms above you. He seems to notice, however, and pulls up a chair besides you, straddling it, folding his arms over the back of the chair.

“Why do you think I brought you here?”

At that, you follow his gaze back to the sea creatures drifting out in the dark waters.

“So... sea creatures? That’s what you want done. Gotta spot in mind?”

Silco nods.

“All of it.”

“You mean?”

“All of it.”

#silco x f!reader #reader insert #tattoos as therapy #Drawn to the Surface #Silco with tattoos #Tattoo Artist!Reader #Post-betrayal #Pre-Act I #Silco #Reader #Fanfic

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giacomettislament · 2 years

Note

This with idia, leona and trey please and thank you :))

four figurines on a stand

“feel us under the moon.”

trey. leona. idia.

content warning(s): explicit content, possessive sex

—Trey’s undeniably skilled at putting on this show of being the nice guy. You’re embarrassed, and you want him to take the lead? Of course, he’ll do whatever it is that his dear darling wants him to do! He’ll promise to be sweet and gentle and have nothing but your well-being at the forefront of his mind, despite the fact that all he can think about is letting his hands wander all over your defenseless body and pushing you past what you would expect. Just thinking about it makes his dick twitch and throb against his pants, and the shy smile you give him doesn’t help his case at all.

“What’s wrong?” His voice feels like he’s mocking you, when you’re whimpering into his arms. His cock is almost too much for your overstimulated body to take—stretching you out, invading your tight insides, leaving you struggling to even breathe. “Do you need me to slow down?”

Your cheeks burn with heat, and you buck your hips weakly. You don’t know what you need at this moment. You want him, undoubtedly, but feeling him buried this deep into you and feeling the tip of his cock press inside of you is so foreign that you don’t know what to make of it. It borders the line between pain and pleasure, and it’s terrifying how this man can bring you to such an impossible place with faux smiles and promises of something you won’t forget.

“N-No, I’ll be okay. I’m just- This is all so weird,” you breathe out. He kisses the corner of your lips, the tip of his tongue darting out to trace the silhouette of your mouth. It’s romantic, at least as romantic as you’re willing to make it, and when he bounces you slowly in his lap, your body greedily begins to take him in the way he’s molded you to take him.

“Trust me.”

What does trust matter to you in this situation? All you can wrap your head around is the physicality of it all: your body matching his, the earth-shattering feeling of knowing you’ve given yourself wholly, and wallowing in that area of near condemnation where ideals become nothing.

—Leona has a clear tendency to take snide pride in whatever it is that he does, even when it comes to the most personal of things. After all, you are his lover that has promised your entire soul, heart, and future to him, so he expects nothing but the finest from someone as innocently devoted as you. It’s a mix between a need to conquer and claim and devour as much love as he can, all the love he had been denied, but also a way of testing you to see if you can truly live up to whatever it is he has set in store for you. A life with him is surely to be far from idyllic, so can you really prove yourself to him?

“You’re so big- You’re going to break me!” You whine, clawing desperately at his back. He hasn’t let you take a break in a while, both you and him too focused on delving far into your respective lusts, and your thighs burn from how long you’ve been letting Leona tear your body apart.

“Already? How disappointing, herbivore… Here I thought that someone like you would be able to keep up with me. How are we going to continue doing things like this if you’re already going to tap out?” He teases. A moan bubbles up in your chest when his rough tongue laps sensually at your jaw, and your stomach coils up with arousal at the lewd gesture.

You roll your hips carefully, your breath shallow as you try and gain your bearings. “I can keep going- I know I can! Don’t stop, just… just be more gentle…”

“Gentle,” Leona repeats the word, smirking, “You’re asking me of all people to be gentle. You’re amusing. We’ll see if I can be gentle enough for your tastes.”

Your mouth goes dry, and you smile back at his words. He’s cruel in that sense, never willing to give up whatever it is he wants, but it’s his way of loving you, of keeping you by his side where he knows no one else can compare to him. You wouldn’t have it any other way: almost reminiscent of the untainted love you once believed in.

—It’s difficult to tell who’s more overwhelmed in this situation: you or Idia. He can’t seem to stop staring at your body and the way your flaring hole gobbles up his swollen cock. His pupils are blown wide open, his teeth are gritted down on themselves, and his hands clutch desperately onto your thighs. His eyes are fixated between your legs, right where his member is shoved into you, right where creamy ropes of cum cling to his shaking thighs, right where your body meets him in carnal union.

You can barely bring yourself to look at his flushed face. You fix your stare on his wall, lost in your own moans and mewls whenever he bucks his cock deep into you. His thrusts are starved, fast, and bruising, him keeling over your body and trying to stuff as much of himself into you as if he’ll never get to fuck your body again. It’s hard for you to believe that you two have already had so much sex already, especially when Idia acts like he’s seeing your bare body for the first time and ravages your sensitive hole until you can barely hold onto your thoughts.

“Y-You’re going so fast- Hold on…,” you choke out, barely squeezing your eyes open. Idia doesn’t even slow down to breathe, too focused on the addicting feeling of your walls clamping down on him like he’s the only one you ever cared about in your life.

“Feels good… Can’t stop- I can’t stop moving…” His eyes flare up dangerously, as if he’s utterly entranced by something out of his world. You grit your teeth again when you feel him lurch inside of you, and his slick cum dribbles out of your sex. “This is the sorta shit all the stupid normies do, huh? I could get used to this… It’s not like they can appreciate anything worthwhile.”

You keep your mouth shut, your chest rising and falling rapidly with each mind-numbing thrust of his dick. His possessive streak wasn’t something for you to deal with using logic, and frankly speaking, with how much your own body was reacting to his, you didn’t want to calm him down either. That crazed, drunken look in his eyes must be the same look reflected on your own face, and you let him chase whatever high he was going after, as if he hadn’t been doing so this entire time.

#twisted wonderland #twst #twisted wonderland x reader #twst x reader #trey clover #leona kingscholar #idia shroud #x reader #gender neutral reader #lemon

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tricksters-captain · 3 years

Text

Helmut Zemo (TFATWS) imagines - Craving

AN: Okay I’ve given in and become a Zemo simp but Bucky is still my number one don't worry.

Summary: After playing the part as Zemo's arm candy in Madripoor, Zemo tries to confront you on your unspoken connection, only to be rudely interrupted...

Pairing(s): Zemo x Fem!Reader, very slight Bucky Barnes x Fem!Reader

Word Count: 2,326

Warnings: Some small spoilers for Ep3, lots of sexual tension

“I still can’t believe I agreed to do this.” You grumbled as you climbed the stairs, falling behind at the fear the men could see straight up the skirt of the dress Zemo had chosen for you.

“I, for one, think you have the easiest job of us all. James must be someone he detests, Sam must be a notorious criminal he doesn’t know and you must sit and look pretty.” Zemo spoke under his breath as you came to the entrance of Selby’s HQ.

You glared at the man but he didn’t care. He was too busy worrying about Selby.

The door was opened for you by one of Selby’s men. Zemo nodded curtly at the guard before entering.

You went ahead of Bucky and Sam to stay close to Zemo, following your role as his current inamorata.

It was a short walk into Selby’s office but with every step you could feel the fear rising in your chest. You weren’t convinced that you’d get away with this; Sam wasn't exactly the most kosher criminal and Zemo’s story didn’t quite add up on just how he managed to have the Winter Soldier in his mitts again.

“You should know, Baron. People don’t just come into my bar and make demands.” Selby spoke as she came into view. She was an expensively dressed woman with a short white pixie cut.

Zemo sat down opposite her but you remained next to Sam.

“Not a demand. An offer.” Zemo waved his finger as he spoke. It was a small yet dominant motion directed towards you. You tried not to clench your jaw as you walked towards him.

“A lot has changed since you were here last.” Selby’s eyes followed your every move as you made your way over to Zemo. “By the way, I thought you were rotting away in a German prison. How did you escape?”

“People like us always find a way, don’t we?” Zemo held out his hand to you, guiding you to stand behind him. “I’m sure you’ve already figured out what I’m here for.”

“You’re taller than I’d heard, Smiling Tiger.” Selby cocked her head towards Sam.

Sam’s only response was a quick nod of his head. Selby purred at Sam, a wolfish smile on her face.

“What’s the offer?” Selby turned back to Zemo. Her eyes flickered up to you before landing back on Zemo’s face. You weren’t stupid you knew what her gaze meant.

“Tell us what you know about the super-soldier serum.” Zemo pushed himself out of his chair. You watched him cross behind Bucky, placing his hands on Bucky's shoulders. “And I give you him, along with the code words to control him, of course. He will do anything you want.”

Selby grinned widely as Zemo wobbled Bucky’s chin with his forefinger and thumb, showing just how under control the ‘Winter Soldier’ was.

“Now that’s the Zemo I remember. I’m glad I decided not to kill you immediately.” Selby seemed to be convinced. “Yeah, you were right to come to me. Arrogant, but right.”

Zemo returned to his seat before Selby continued.

“The super-soldier serum is here in Madripoor. Dr. Wilfred Nagel is the man you wanna thank. Or... condemn, depending on what side of this you’re on. The Power Broker had him working on the serum, but... things didn’t go as planned.”

“Is Nagel still in Madripoor?” Zemo asked.

“Oh. The bread crumbs you can have for free, but the bakery is gonna cost you, Baron. And before you get all cute, don’t think you can find Nagel without me.” Selby rose from her chair, finding a place beside Sam as she very openly let her eyes roll down your body now that you were in her full view.

“What else do you desire?” Zemo questioned. He had clocked onto Selby’s behaviour and didn’t really need to ask to know what the answer was going to be.

“Her.” Selby pointed you out. She gnawed on the inside of her cheek as she awaited Zemo’s response.

“No, no, no.” Zemo tutted, holding out his hand for you to take. “This little bird only sings for me.” Zemo guided you round the side of his chair and pulled you gently onto his lap. You crossed your legs as you tried not to seem uncomfortable. The scent of the Baron’s cologne, mixed with his strong grip on your waist was making your heart race. You had never been this close to Zemo before and now you were sat on his knee with his arm around you.

“Well, you’ll make her sing for me or you won’t be getting what you want now, Baron, will ya?” Selby wasn’t playing games. She folded her arms across her chest, cocking her eyebrows at Zemo.

Zemo titled his head as he thought.

You felt yourself tense up when he placed a cool leather clad hand on your thigh. His fingers started to draw circles on your skin, edging your skirt higher, drawing Selby’s eyes down to your legs.

“She is very dear to me.” Zemo stated. He retracted his hand from your thigh to brush your hair from your shoulder, his finger traced a line from your jaw down your neck to your collarbone. Zemo, being so close, could see the goosebumps that covered your skin at his touch.

“Unless you have something better to offer other than your two play things, Baron, I suggest you hand them over to me... unless you don’t want the whereabouts of Dr Nagel.” Selby let her smile drop.

“I will––” Zemo was cut short by Sam’s phone going off.

“Answer it.” Selby suddenly lost all interest in the deal and only desired to prove the authenticity of the Smiling Tiger. “On speaker.”

That’s where things went wrong.

For the rest of the trip in Madripoor, you didn’t get the time to confront yourself and Zemo on what happened back there.

You were so confused to why you reacted the way you did. You had never been attracted to Zemo before but you couldn’t stop thinking about the way he smelt, the way his breath tickled against your arm, the way the heat radiated out from under his thick coat.

You knew he was thinking about it too.

Every time you let yourself glance over at him, he was watching you and not in the same way as he usually would. You knew too well that Zemo often studied his surroundings like a hawk. He was silent and observant; he always knew where he would go next and he often watched you, Sam and Bucky as if he were calculating your next moves.

It wasn’t until you arrived in Latvia that you were confronted by your feelings again.

You were sat at the island in the kitchen as you ran your hands over your face and hair. You were tired.

“You should rest.” Zemo’s voice suddenly snuck up on you.

He had been so quiet walking into the kitchen that you hadn't even noticed he was there.

“I should but insomnia kinda comes with the job.” You sat up, trying not to act any different from how you usually would.

“Ah. My time in a cell has acquainted me with such the dilemma.” Zemo confessed as he moved towards the cupboards on the back wall.

You didn’t respond. You couldn’t help but watch his hands as they reached for the coffee pot, his fingers gripping it lightly. You could still recall the feeling of the cool leather on your thigh, his touch climbing higher as he pushed your skirt up...

“Coffee?” Zemo offered, interrupting your thoughts as he raised a mug and an eyebrow at you.

“Please.” You folded your hands together as you leant on the island.

There was a brief comfortable silence as Zemo fixed up some coffee for you both. He could feel your eyes on him but he didn’t say anything. He just let the corner of his lips tugged into a smirk as he poured you a cup. He let the smirk drop when he turned to face you.

He slid the cup along the countertop and you thanked him quietly. He pushed a thin smile onto his face for a second before returning to his usual stoic expression.

“There was something I wished to discuss with you actually.” Zemo announced as he picked up his own cup.

You almost choked on your drink at the words but you hid behind your mug, hoping he didn’t notice. He did.

“About what?” You asked.

“I wanted to apologise for Madripoor.” Zemo surprised you with that.

“Apologise?” You were confused to what he was talking about.

“I am aware that it was merely a role, that we were undercover, but I touched you without your consent. I wanted to apologise for when we were with Selby.”

You were completely shocked. You didn’t not expect this from Zemo at all.

“It’s okay. We all have to do stuff we don't want to do on missions like these.” You tried to brush it off. After all, Bucky had to become the Winter Soldier and Sam had to drink a cobra’s heart back in Madripoor. There was definitely worse things that could’ve happened.

“I never said I didn’t want to do it. I am simply apologising for not asking for permission first.” Zemo’s eyes were glued to your face as he sipped his coffee. He was watching for a reaction.

You felt your mouth go dry, you tried to swallow as you began to rise from your seat.

“Uh, t-thanks for the coffee, Zemo but...” You tried grabbing your mug but you only knocked it to the floor by accident.

“Shit!” You hissed as you bent down, picking up the broken bits. You felt your heart racing from the look Zemo had just given you.

Zemo rushed around the island with a rag, he placed it over the split coffee before taking hold of your wrist to stop you from picking up the pieces.

Electricity shot up your arm and your head snapped up to meet his eyes.

“No use crying over spilt coffee.” Zemo muttered, a smile tugging on one corner of his mouth.

“I-I wasn’t––”

“––Is there a particular reason you are so jumpy tonight?” Zemo inquired.

You rose back to standing; Zemo let your wrist go as you did but followed your action.

The air was thick between you as you withheld your answer.

There was no way you could admit you were worried of being close to him because of the undeniable pull he had on you since that night.

“I think...” Zemo stepped over the soaked rag which only made you take a step back. “...You enjoyed being touched and now you are confused to why.”

Your chest began to rise and fall heavily as Zemo continued to walk towards you until your back hit the wall behind you.

“But forgive me if I am wrong.” Zemo held his hands up with a smile, taking his final few steps until he was close enough for his cologne to engulf the air around you.

“You are.” You whispered but your voice had failed you in sounding convincing.

“Is that right, little bird?” Zemo used the pet name he had given you in Selby's office. He lifted his hand to brush your hair from your cheek behind your ear. “Because I believe you haven’t stop thinking about it. Just as I haven't.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” You only just breathed out your words. If Zemo hadn’t been so close, he wouldn’t have heard them.

“Don’t you?” Zemo titled his head at you. “Because I am at liberty to remind you that I once worked for Sokivian intelligence. It was my job for a long time to study people, learn them, read them.” Zemo let his eyes drop down to your body before coming back to meet your eyes. “I can tell how a person is feeling just from observing their body. The way they move. The way they are breathing.” Zemo placed his hand in the centre of your chest where your silver necklace sat. The metal burned against your skin underneath Zemo’s warm flesh.

Your slow deep breaths lifted Zemo’s hand up and down as you stared back at him.

“I can feel your heart racing.” Zemo uttered. “Are you afraid?”

“No.” You shook your head as your eyes flickered to the man’s lip for just a second.

“Good.” Zemo smirked.

Suddenly Zemo was ripped away from you.

Bucky had teared Zemo back and pushed him across the room. Zemo staggered backwards before standing and adjusting his sweater from how Bucky had grabbed him.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Bucky growled at Zemo with a look in his eye that could kill.

“I was merely having a conversation with (Y/n).” Zemo shrugged, acting as if everything was perfectly innocent.

“Oh yeah it looked like a real polite conversation with (Y/n) backed up in a corner and your hands on her!” Sam was stood behind Bucky. The both of them were squaring up in front of Zemo to protect you.

“I didn’t need your help.” You stepped forward, trying to intervene.

“You put your hands on her again; I won’t stop myself next time. I’ll turn you into a new coat.” Bucky warned Zemo as he ignored you.

“I apologise.” Zemo lifted his hands up in defence.

“No.” Sam pointed back to you. “Apologise to her.”

Zemo turned his head to you. When your eyes met, he smirked just ever so slightly, you knew the boys didn’t notice at least.

“I apologise, (Y/n).” The way your name sounded in Zemo’s mouth made your stomach flip.

“It’s fine.” You said before pushing past Bucky and Sam. You hated it when they played protective big brothers and you didn’t even need saving... You think...

(PART 2)

#baron zemo #Helmut Zemo #Zemo #Zemo x reader #zemo imagines #Helmut zemo x reader #Helmut Zemo imagines #the falcon and the winter soldier #the falcon and the winter soldier imagines #daniel brühl #Daniel bruhl imagines #Daniel bruhl x reader #Bucky barnes #Sam Wilson #imagines

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archived-kin · 3 years

Text

on the curse of immortality

note from kin: right, so - the prompt here is that you’re immortal (the kind of immortal where you physically cannot die) and have had the misfortune of becoming infected with an incurable disease

long post ahead! this also gets pretty dark so reader discretion is advised - please pay attention to the warnings (and let me know if i missed any!)

fandom: obey me

character(s): gn! reader, lucifer, mammon, levi, satan, asmo, beel, belphie, diavolo, barbatos, simeon, luke, solomon

pairing(s): everyone/reader (as always, completely platonic for luke)

warning(s): thoughts of suicide/suicide attempts, body horror (i think?), disease, some EXTREME existential dread, the Big Sad

genre: this is absolutely angst

You don’t remember the last time you truly felt alive.

You aren’t afraid of death. You never have been. You’ve always known that it will come for you in the end, just as it comes for everyone else. With a deafening bang, with a devastating crash, or simply with a quiet little sigh - whichever route you take, the day will come when you drift away from this world, and the universe will move on, unhindered by its loss.

That, in its own way, is something of a reassurance. Everyone has go, one way or another. How you go doesn’t matter.

And yet…

Death - the one constant that you had been able to hold onto - seems to be the one thing that you can never have.

Not for lack of trying. In the beginning, when you first began to tire of life, of losing people and places so many times that it all seemed to become a meaningless pattern, you’d tried nearly everything you could think of. You tried to destroy yourself over and over again. But nothing came of it - nothing worked.

Shattered bones and dislocated joints fell back into place, torn muscles sewed themselves back together, failed organs repaired and restarted, air forced itself into your lungs even through the deepest reaches of water you could find. Poisons simply didn’t work, smoke couldn’t choke you, and fire would burn and burn, but never enough. You’d always open your eyes to a new day, and nothing would have changed.

After a while, you’d come to accept it. Life will continue in its nothingness, and you can only follow its endless march forever. There will be no release for you at the end of the road, and that is simply something you’ve had to come to terms with. You can only keep moving forward.

You’ve always seen eternity whenever you look in a mirror. Before, you had always stood before it alone - forever had been a condemnation, a chain keeping you bound to a world that you had no wish to remain in.

After you met them, however, forever became a promise. You still saw eternity in the mirror, but you saw them, too. And maybe that was all you really needed after all these years of struggling through infinity alone - someone to stand by your side, and promise to stay there.

Strange how things flip themselves around so quickly. Almost as soon as you came to see your everlasting life as a gift, it became a curse once again. And those most special beings, the ones who had kept you grounded through the ever-spinning motions of eternity… in the end, they became the manacles keeping you locked down.

Death takes its revenge in funny ways. It is angry that you have cheated it for so long, but it cannot carry you away as it as carried away so many old loves, old friends, old families. So, instead, it visits you at every turn, and each time it lays its curse thicker upon you.

You’ve seen and heard this pestilence be called by many names, each one more flowery and poetic than the last - ‘Devil’s Despair’, ‘the Stygian Curse’, ‘Angel’s Despondency’, ‘Wrath of Hades’, and so on. Little is known of its origins; little is known of its cure. In fact, as far as anyone is concerned, there isn’t one.

It isn’t contagious. No one knows how it is spread. It only seems to crop up once in a generation, somewhere on the most distant reaches of society. The afflicted scarcely realise what’s happening to them before their bodies have already failed, and it’s only on a few occasions that any kind of doctor has been able to reach the ill before they die. Then the disease vanishes again - only to reappear, years later, to extinguish another poor soul in a matter of hours.

It’s different for you, though. The disease tries - oh, of course it does. It eats through the chambers of your heart, day by day, trying over and over again to consume that last flicker of life that nothing and no one has ever been able to extinguish, not even you. Sometimes it succeeds, but only for a moment.

Most of the time it comes and goes, but every now and then, when the air is still and you lie alone, you can feel it. Your heartbeat drops to a crawl, until the even weak pulsing in your ears is drowned out by sheer, deafening silence. And you… die.

But it never lasts. You die again and again, sometimes alone, sometimes not - and each time, before everything can truly fade away, the clock restarts, and you live again.

Mammon has nightmares, sometimes, of how it looks when the light disappears from your eyes. He’s seen it, held you as the life drained from you, only for you to come back to him mere moments later - he’s been there so many times, too many times, so he should surely be used to it now, right?

But he isn’t. Each time, the same paralysing fear seizes him, as if he’s the one clutching onto life by the tips of his fingers - and, in a way, he is. He’s terrified that this time will be the moment you truly disappear, that this time, he really will lose you. And what is he without you?

It’s tiring. Sometimes he wishes he could rewind time, go back to the days when he could go without thinking about you even for a moment. Every now and then, when he remembers what life had been like before, when this disease hadn’t ravaged your body and wiped away your smile… he wonders if it’d be better if he didn’t remember. If he didn’t have those memories, if he’d never fallen in love in the first place… he wouldn’t be hurting now, would he?

He knows, though, that he’d never choose to foget. You mean too much to him, and these memories, however bittersweet they feel now, are his. He’d do it a hundred, a thousand, a million times more - falling in love, over and over again, even if this is what it leads him to. An aching heart, and endless nights spent awake in a cold sweat.

Where Mammon spends hours upon hours reliving every time that he loses you, however, Belphie tries to forget. He talks to you the same as always, he takes care of you in his own little way the same as always, he takes naps by your side the same as always - as if everything is perfectly fine.

“Hey,” He’ll say abruptly every now and then. “There are some things I want to buy. Promise you’ll come shopping with me later?”

And you’ll try to smile back, and nod, even though you know full well that you aren’t strong enough to go out. Belphie knows that, too.

In a way, he wishes you wouldn’t play along with him - that you’d just tell him what the both of you already know. He’s been running this whole time - always desperately trying to run from the truth. Maybe, if you’d stopped him, gently forced him to confront it, it wouldn’t have been that bad.

But you don’t, and so Belphie continues to act as if nothing’s wrong. And yet, even if he treats you like he always does, he can’t control the way he looks at you.

You say you can’t die, but to him, it seems that he’s losing you just as if you had. You don’t speak with the same warmth as before, and your short sentences only ever come every now and then, each word slow and lifeless. You don’t smile the same way anymore, either - on the worst days, you can barely summon the strength to even muster one. You don’t laugh; you don’t cry.

You have days where you are stronger, and that semblance of your former self that he sees so sparingly is the only reason he’s able to keep up the facade. But, on the other days, when every little movement seems to cause you pain, and he can barely look you in the eyes for fear of how blank they are… it’s hard.

Those are the days when Beel hears him crying in the dead of night, trying to stifle quiet sobs behind mounds and mounds of blankets. Some nights, he goes to comfort him. Other nights, he simply lies there, gazing numbly up at the dark ceiling - because he knows that there’s nothing he can do or say to make it hurt less.

He doesn’t know how to handle it himself. In the first days, when he’d realised what was happening to you, it had been easy to simply copy Belphie - to act as if nothing was wrong. But then the days turned into weeks, and weeks became months, and as your condition worsened, he found it more and more difficult to keep turning a blind eye.

He wishes that he was smarter - that he could come up with a solution to all of this, and then you’d be cured, and you wouldn’t have to drift about like a ghost anymore, and you’d be happy, and— and then he could finally be happy again. Things would go back to normal. You could spend endless hours messing around in the kitchen together again… and you’d laugh like you used to.

But Beel knows nothing of how to help you the way he wants to, and so all can do is try to make you as comfortable as possible. He spends almost every moment he can hovering by your side, attempting to press food on you at every opportunity - sometimes, he even forgets to feed himself in his efforts to coax you into eating more. He’s the one who carries you around when you feel too weak to walk, even when you try to insist you don’t need his help.

In a way, he finds a selfish relief in the fact that you cannot die. He knows that it’s something that you despise, but to him, it’s almost a reassurance. When he holds you, and he can feel your weight in his arms, no matter how frail you are, you’re there, and you’re still with him. He can’t lose you.

But the unknown power forcing you to stay bound to this plane of existence is nothing if not your greatest enemy. And you want nothing more than to be rid of it.

That’s why, one day, you beg Diavolo to help you find a way to end it. You don’t want a cure. You don’t want to keep struggling through this. You just want to go... and, if anyone has the raw power to obliterate you, scorch each last piece of you to an ash until there is nothing left to recover itself, it is him.

But Diavolo only shakes his head and turns away. He would raze the tallest mountains to the ground, empty the deepest ocean to the dregs, fly up to the sky and tear down each and every star, if only you asked - but this is the one thing he could never do for you.

Diavolo knows well how selfish he’s being. But he can’t help but hope that if you can just hold out for long enough, if he can keep you tethered to the living world, tethered to him, just for a little while longer… surely there is a way? After all you've endured throughout your long, long life - doesn’t the universe owe you this one tiny thing?

But, of course… the universe doesn't make bargains. He knows that. He can only shake it off and try to move on.

Something changes, though, on a quiet evening a week or so later. You’re sitting with him and Barbatos in the garden. Barbatos is barely even sitting; he fusses over you constantly, adjusting your cushions and offering every tea and sweet that he can think of. You, meanwhile, simply sit quietly and smile along as he talks, nodding every now and then.

Then you look at him, and though your eyes are soft, Diavolo imagines he sees something accusatory in your gaze, and his heart sinks. You’re disappointed, and it’s because he didn’t have the strength to give you the one thing you truly wanted. But how could he have given you any other response when all you wanted was death?

The next day, he confides in Lucifer, asking both his friend and himself - would he do it? Could he do it? The next time you ask, clutching at his sleeve with fingers so weak that he can scarcely feel them - will he still say no?

He doesn’t know the answer to that question. And that terrifies him more than anything else ever could.

Lucifer himself simply listens in silence as Diavolo speaks. When he finishes, breathing heavily and on the verge of tears, Lucifer admits that you’ve come to him with the same request - and that he, too, refused.

What Lucifer doesn’t tell Diavolo, however, is that he didn’t give you his reply immediately. And, in that moment of silence, that flash of eternity that had passed between the two of you… just for a heartbeat, Lucifer had thought he might have said yes.

He isn’t blind to reality. He knows how painful each day is for you, how desperately you wish you could just move on and let go of it all. He knows the sheer amount of loss you’ve carried with you all these years, and he knows how hard it had been, even before this disease came, to lift your head and keep moving forward. In a way, he understands why you’d asked him to do what you did.

But then, as that transient moment of indecision passed, Lucifer’s answer became clear in his mind. How could he even consider accepting? You, one of… no, the most precious person to him - how could he be the one to take your life?

He’d rather die himself.

He wants to hold onto you for as long as possible, keep you by his side for the rest of time. Maybe, in another world, where this curse had never descended on you in the first place, he could have. In this one, however, he cannot be that selfish. In comparison to the endless deaths you’ve died, his own feelings about the matter are trivial.

He can’t ask you to keep fighting - not for his sake, and not for anyone else’s. You’ve been fighting for so long now… you deserve to rest.

And, should the day come that you find a way to go, he will be there to say goodbye. He will not stop you if you choose to die. But never - never by his hand.

When the night passes, and it’s time to see you again, both Diavolo and Lucifer make a silent promise to never mention the matter again.

Not even Barbatos is told, least of all the rest of Lucifer’s brothers, but, somehow, Satan manages to hear about it. And his reaction is one of unprecedented rage.

Diavolo cowers - actually cowers - as Satan advances on him, tail lashing like a whip and voice thunderous enough to shake dust from the ceiling. Diavolo tries to tell him that he said no - of course he did, could there be any other answer? - but it doesn’t seem to placate Satan in the slightest.

In the end, Satan is subdued and forced back home to simmer in his outrage alone. For once, Lucifer doesn’t punish him for his insubordinance - because he understands that despairing tremor in his brother’s voice.

His room is quiet, and there is no one to attempt to direct his disoriented wrath at. Gradually, as the adrenaline is washed away, the rage fades.

In truth, he hadn’t been angry at Diavolo or Lucifer. He’d been angry at himself… and at you, in a way.

Unlike his other brothers, who seem to take your every spare minute as needing to be filled by their presence, Satan hasn’t seen as much of you as he used to ever since this disease first settled into your body. He’s spent almost every moment he can reading feverishly - page after page after page, and when he runs out of books, he simply looks for more.

There are plenty of books on diseases, curses, and all sorts of magical maledictions in the House of Lamentation, and once he runs out of those, he starts borrowing them from the R.A.D.. Then he moves onto libraries and book shops out in town, no matter how steep the price or how shady the owner, chasing every lead he can find that might lead to something resembling a solution. He starts ordering medical journals and textbooks from the human world, too - even though he knows full well that your malady won’t be in any of them.

He’d reassured himself that you had plenty of company, that there were plenty of beings who loved you almost as much as he did who could lavish you with the attention and care that he couldn’t. But now, realising just how sick you are of living… he wonders if that was the right decision.

Even a small grain of rice can tip the scales in another’s favour. Maybe if Satan had spent more time with you instead of cowering in his room, building piles upon piles of books as if to create a barrier against what he knew was the truth, it’d have made a difference. Maybe you wouldn’t want to leave so badly.

It’s Levi who finally comes to check up on Satan after the rage has subsided. He doesn’t say a word about the books strewn across the floor or his brother’s red-rimmed eyes, only silently helps him tidy up.

He’s another one who doesn’t see you as much as he used to - though not to quite the same extent as Satan. You still find him nearby on many a given day, and he never fails to return to your side with a game in hand in an effort to cheer you up. But there are days where you don’t see him at all - when he locks himself in his room and spends hours just staring blankly into Henry’s aquarium.

Games don’t seem to be any fun when you can’t play along or cheer him on from the sidelines. It doesn’t feel like there’s any point to watching anime or reading manga when you’re nearly always too exhausted for him to hold a conversation with you about it. You try, of course you do, but the way you attempt to give him consistent and coherent replies, the way you try to force your eyes to brighten like they used to - it only ever makes him want to cry.

He’s not used to being this apathetic, to spending so much time simply sitting listlessly, gazing at the reflection of his eyes in Henry’s tank’s glass. On days like this, when he can’t even face his other brothers for fear that he’ll break down upon making eye contact, nothing seems to have any appeal… not when when you can’t be there to have fun with him.

When he does come to find you again, and you lean against his side as he plays through some RPG, the way he curses at his screen making your lips twitch up just a little, he kicks himself for staying away for so long. The truth is, though, is that it’s just so frightening to see you the way you are that, sometimes, it’s easier to just avoid you.

On those days, no matter how desperately he wants to hear your voice and feel your touch, he remains in his room. He doesn’t want to see at you and realise just how much of you he’s already lost.

He wonders how much more of you he can lose before he loses himself as well.

Asmo doesn’t understand Levi’s fear of seeing you. He notices the way you withdraw when you realise that he’s refusing to come out of his room again, and sometimes it sparks a flare of anger so red-hot that he’s storming into his brother’s room to scold him before he even realises it.

Well… no matter. He shouldn't be wasting precious energy on getting angry. Regardless of what his brothers choose to do, Asmo will still be there. He’s determined to always be the one to lift you up - to always be the one first by your side.

He tells you constantly that you’re still just as gorgeous as ever - and yet, at the same time, the decaying face you see in the mirror tells you that he is lying. You disgust even yourself, so how can anyone look at you with anything but revulsion?

You tell him this one day, when your cracked skin and crumbling flesh are too much to bear, when you can scarcely look at yourself without feeling hatred swell like acid in your chest. At that, he becomes quiet and contemplative, and creeps away when you’re occupied by someone else, when he thinks you aren’t looking. You are.

The next day, all the mirrors in the house have disappeared. The windows have been painted with a strange enchanted matte gloss - one layer, two layers, three layers, four - until no reflection can be seen in them, no matter how hard you stare. Asmo takes your hands and promises that he will be your mirror from now on, because his eyes don’t lie to you like your reflection does.

He starts taking the things that make him happy and lavishes them on you in as many quantities as he can. Your nails are a different colour every other day, and every shopping trip he goes on places yet another new outfit in your wardrobe. He doesn’t mind if you don’t wear them for now - they’ll all still be there for when you get better. Because you will.

Solomon spots Asmo out in town one day. For once, his arms aren’t full of bags upon bags of new things for himself - he’s been milling around your favourite shops for the entire trip, appraising each item with care to make sure it’s perfect. Even as Solomon watches, he shakes his head and turns his nose up at a jumper with slightly uneven embrodiery and flounces off to find something else.

He chuckles slightly and turns to make his way home. The substances in his own bag are volatile; he doesn’t want to chance keeping them close for too long.

Solomon understands you better than any of the others can. Like him, you are a human far removed from humanity; like him, you’ve lost many on the long road you walk. Solomon chose to forget that loss and absolve his failures by amassing all the power he could; you, however, bear each loss with you, each one weighing you down further, and maybe that’s why he’s felt the need to protect you so deeply for so long.

He understands, too, why you want death so badly. And maybe he could’ve given it to you - but, like the others, Solomon cannot stop himself from being selfish. There’s something arrogant in the way he’s sure he can come up with something eventually, as well. If anyone can find a cure, it should be him, right?

Nothing seems to come up, but he persists, making use of every single connection he has and digging up long-buried tomes in search of information. His eyesight isn’t what it once was, having been blurred by the endless amounts of magic-thick vapour that his concoctions produce, but it’s good enough to read, and he can always pass the books to Satan once his eyes truly become too weak.

Between his efforts to find a cure, Solomon has been employing himself in creating more temporary solutions as well. Tonics to restore strength, potions to ease pain, elixirs to provide peaceful sleep - all sweetened with honey so that the bitter herbs go down easier.

They never last long before the effects are swallowed by the disease infesting your body, but those short hours where you really do seem stronger are enough to spur him on. He mixes his medicines with even more fervour at every turn, always looking for ways to extend or concentrate their effects.

He refuses to let despair creep into his heart, even when things seems to be at their worst. The moment he lets himself give up, he loses you.

Barbatos, strangely enough, is a frequent visitor to Solomon’s self-proclaimed laboratory. Sometimes it’s to help him, but more often it’s because he needs to make sure Solomon doesn’t end up poisoning you in his attempts to make the medicines more palatable - no matter how proficient he’s becoming as a magical pharmacist, his cooking remains utterly inedible.

He looks in on everyone every now and then. He keeps up to date on which books Satan has been trying, regularly checks what sort of routines you’ve had lately with Lucifer, makes sure Beel knows what sorts of flavours and textures go down easier for you when your throat is so dry that swallowing anything burns. It seems that acting as a constant assistant to the others’ efforts is the only thing he can do - he doesn’t seem to be able to find an individual duty to take care of that hasn’t already been taken over by one of the others.

There had been one duty he had hoped he could fulfil, but... he’s failed you on that front, again and again. He’d tried it endlessly back when the disease first began, and he continues to try it now - but each time feels more hopeless than the last. No matter how many timelines he blips through, how wildly he attempts to wind back the clock, nothing changes.

The world and time itself consists of little more than variables - endless amounts of once-weres, no-longers, and never-will-bes. Barbatos has dealt with these variables for long enough to know that, when one truly settles into place, there is no shifting it. He cannot staunch the wound before it is made, cast the bleeding seconds from his hands like water, even if he rubs them raw.

Time cannot tick backwards, even for a demon like Barbatos.

And, with his power rendered useless, there isn’t anything left that can make his help unique to you. All his connections are Diavolo’s as well, any spells he can cast are just as easy for Lucifer (or, indeed, Solomon) to use, and simple care is something anyone can do. But - and he can’t quite explain why himself - he wants to stand out somehow. He wants to do something special… be special to you in a way that no one else is.

He’s been by the Young Master’s side for so long that it seems anything he does is from within his shadow. There had been a time when he didn’t mind it, but now it seems to be forever plaguing him. When you look at him, he doesn’t want you to see Barbatos, Diavolo’s butler - he just wants you to see him.

When he isn’t checking in on the others or doting on you as much as his limited time can allow, he’s in the kitchen, trying and optimising as many recipes as he can ge his hands on. Perhaps unsurprisingly, Luke is his most common helper in the kitchen.

Or maybe helper isn’t the best word for it. Luke’s come into his own as a baker superbly - if only it had been for a happier reason, it might have been cause for celebration. In his efforts to cheer you up, he’s learnt to innovate and invent by himself, and more often than not he doesn’t need Barbatos’s help.

It’s frustrating, sometimes, the way everyone acts like he’s just some little kid who doesn’t fully understand what’s going on. Luke wants to help, too, but he’s still constantly being brushed aside because he ‘doesn’t understand’, or because he’s ‘too young’.

Too young? He’s lived for plenty of years, and he knows full well how awful the illness affecting you is. He knows that your state is too fragile to let you go out, he knows that you barely even look alive, he knows that you won’t be able to beam at him like you usually do. He knows all of this, and he understands it - so why, why won’t they let him see you?

It’s only rarely that he can properly see you, and even then they never let them stay for long. He comes to drop off cakes and biscuits, and before he’s even said three sentences, he’s being herded out by the others under pretence of letting you rest.

The worst part is that you don’t protest. You only smile weakly and wave as he attempts to shake off the demons guiding him out, as if… as if you don’t really want to see him.

He kicks himself as soon as he thinks that, though. It’s not that you don’t want to see him - you don’t want him to see you like this.

But he isn’t a baby, and he doesn’t need you to protect him from confronting the truth. All he needs is to see you, to talk to you… to know that, despite everything, you're still alive. As long as he knows you’re still there, he can hope that you’ll get better.

He has all the time in the world. He can wait for a cure to be found - and then, when the day comes, he’ll be there, with fresh pastries in hand and the biggest smile he can muster. There’ll be so much to talk to you about by then. And… he supposes there’s a kind of comfort to knowing that you’ll be able to listen to him with your old liveliness, instead of this new dead exhaustion.

One day. The cure will come… one day. Simeon’s promised that it will, after all.

He looks where none of the others can, using his own permissions as a higher-ranking angel and Barbatos’s help to sneak back and forth between the Devildom and the Celestial Realm. He’s spent so many hours in the Celestial Library Pavillion that its marbled walls and arching bookshelves are almost as familiar as his own bed, and he plucks flowers and herbs from the garden so often that his fingers are almost constantly stinging, scratched raw by thorns that his gloves can’t fully shield against.

He doesn’t dare to bring things back in large quantities for fear that it’ll raise suspicion, and he chooses the most deserted corners of the Library Pavillion to read, brushing off questions with the excuse that he needs the quietude to concentrate on research for something or another. Most of the angels that he does come across don’t bother questioning him, and they’re low-ranking enough that they wouldn’t have any contact with the higher-ups that might be more cautious.

Lucifer warns him multiple times of the dangers of stealing or attempting to imitate the Celestial Realm’s remedies - after all, he’s witnessed first-hand what the consequences can be for an angel who commits such a crime. Simeon doesn’t care, though. He can be cautious, he can be secretive; as long as he maintains a low profile, he won’t be caught.

One day, Solomon asks where he got this confidence from, only half-jokingly. Simeon simply shrugs in reply.

The real answer is simply that he cannot be caught. There’s a real chance that the cure lies somewhere in the Celestial Realm’s endless books or sprawling gardens, or maybe in a combination of the two, and as long as that chance is there, he’ll cling to it for all that he’s worth. He won’t let it get away.

And, should he get caught… he has a plan for that. A desperate and foolish plan, of course, the kind of plan that a hero on the page might come up with when their back’s against the wall, but it just might work. Simeon never used to think of himself as a particularly reckless angel, but he supposes that everything changes when it’s you on the line.

After all, there are some smiles worth losing an angelhood for.

You watch as, day by day, your boys rush back and forth, some attending to you, some with their nose buried in a book, some chasing after leads and interrogating someone over the phone. They seem to be stuck in perpetual motion, always rushing, rushing from one idea to the next, digging desperately in hopes that they might finally strike gold.

Sometimes you don’t understand why, but you can’t bring yourself to ask them - what is it that makes you special enough to warrant all of this?

Funnily enough, it’d probably be easier to find a way to simply end you entirely than to find a cure for this pestilence. But they’d never even considered it; the idea would never have come to mind if you hadn’t begged Diavolo and Lucifer to help you end it. They’d never thought of anything but to help you get better - and, if they couldn’t do that, to at least make sure you were comfortable and cared-for as possible.

So you begin to hold on tighter to that hope that your boys seem to cling to so desperately. If they can still care for you, still hold you in such high regard, still consider you so special and precious, the least you can do is believe them when they tell you that you are well and truly loved.

And, who knows? Maybe, one day, the cure really will come.

You smile to yourself. Wouldn’t that just be the most wonderful thing?

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