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amourcheol · 10 months

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paris (teaser)

❝You and Jeonghan, jazz-filled corners, hidden history, and the city of love.❞

historical! au | exes to lovers! au | angst, fluff, smut | approx. 45k words (teaser wc. 1.4k words)

s u m m a r y : disgraced by hollywood for the last time, you, a once superstar-turned-alcoholic, escape to the city of love to seek sanctuary from the ruthless tabloids. your sanctuary comes in the form of film noir superstar yoon jeonghan, the enigmatic man who taught you the art of acting, lust and love before your fame. when he asks to meet you once, just like old times, you cannot refuse. what is meant to be a simple date turns into a path of passion, pain and everything that comes with fooling around with your ex in the jazz-filled corners of paris.

c o n t e n t s : actor! mc, actor! jeonghan, mc is incredibly bitter and makes bad decisions, agent! seungkwan who is tired of fixing them, jeonghan is the suavest, sultriest mf, mentions of parisian landmarks in this fic, also a bit of french peppered throughout, greek mythology art references, tons of fluff which is also layered with angst, this will be very hurt-comfort, hella ansgty but will have a happy ending mature warnings -> alcohol consumption and abuse, smoking, this is basically sexual tension with plot, slightly drunk making out, oral sex (f. receiving) unprotected sex (refer point to bad decisions), very soft angsty sex, body worshipping, petnames (chérie, mon ange, darling, angel), overall emotional rollercoaster, more tba!

p l a y l i s t : here!

t a g l i s t : @hyuckworld @sysymei @alaypsy23 @belladaises @jjeongddol @sparklyshuji @forcoups @ilovesungjun @wonwoo24 @scandal-in-bohemia @hopefulchick @superbbananananana @onedumbho3 @fragmentof-indifference @cuntycheol @rubywonu @if-i-like-i-reblog @yoonzinoooo @jungwoos-luvr @crookedwolfruins @leclercloverbot @alexai (let me know if y’all want to be tagged!)

a u t h o r ’ s n o t e : after three years ... four rewritings later... she may finally see the light ... i am releasing the teaser now but will post the fic when i’m back from holiday! i hope you all enjoy the lil extract <3

read this fic here!

SHIT. YOU COULD NOT DO THIS TODAY.

Suddenly, you wished he was a mere figment of your imagination, because then he would not have to see you in your drunken, disordered state, looking for art that was not there, looking for the past in the present.

But then he began to move.

This very real presence walked closer to you, and you felt your entire body constricting, because Yoon Jeonghan was in front of you, the greatest star in the world was approaching you, the man of your distant memories was coming too close.

“Wait,” he then said, and your throat was closing up, you were blinking rapidly, chest growing heavy, and you needed him to get away. He came closer, and you knew then and there you were going to die on the cold floor of the Louvre, marble eyes on you—

And then your own gaze was glistening, and when he noticed it became harder to contain yourself. “_____, are you all right?”

“Yes!” you got out, but then you proved yourself wrong when a few tears slipped out, staining your cheeks.

The man wasted no time, closing the last space between the two of you as he reached out. Instantly, you repelled from his touch, almost flinching from his surprise. “No!” you rasped out, bringing out your own hands to create distance, taking a step back. “No, you don’t need to do that…I’m fine.”

You breathed sharply through your nose. “I am fine.”

Hastily you turned to the empty space where he last was, before you followed him like a madwoman around the hall. He watched you, your back almost to him. “What…what are you…” you paused, trying to normalise your shaking voice. “What are you doing here?”

You could feel his inquisitive stare upon you. “I could ask you the same thing.”

That question was not being answered. “I asked you first.”

Because you could not see him, you were not aware of his reaction. Still, it was enough for him to answer, “Well, in the Louvre, or in Paris?”

You gritted your teeth at that. “I think everyone knows why you’re in Paris at the moment.”

“Do they, now?”

You could not help it.

Casting a momentary glance at him, you were taken aback to find his gaze upon you. “Are you aware, at least?” he asked you.

Despite his simple questions, your impending headache, you had to clamp down on your remarks. “Of course I’m aware,” you muttered. “The papers are all over the press tours you’ve been doing.”

A perfectly groomed brow arched at your comment. “I’m surprised you follow the papers at the moment.”

You knew exactly what he meant. “One must keep check of the stories they gossip about,” you only said, focusing back on the empty space. “Those journalists cannot be trusted.”

“Hmm…” you heard shuffling amongst his clothes—no doubt crossing his arms. “I have read the stories.”

A scoff. “I suppose you believe them, don’t you?”

He noted the cruelty in your response. The actor did not take it to heart.

“I have always believed in the stories you told me, chérie.”

This time, curiosity controlled your movement.

Curiosity had you turning back, forcing you to observe his expression, catch his lie.

But you found no deception.

No, there was only sincerity—pure as the moonlight shining on the two of you.

Chérie.

The last time someone had called you such a sweet name was too long ago.

How ironic, that it was the same man beside you who had bestowed you this very endearment.

A shuddered breath left you.

You could not do this now.

You were going to say as much when Jeonghan interrupted you.

“Were you looking for something in here?”

Your furrowed brows had him humming. “I thought as much.” Gently, he jerked his head beyond your figure. “Strangely enough, I was looking for it as well.”

Confused, you glanced back at the empty space, where that certain, mysterious sculpture was supposed to be. “That is why I came to the Louvre,” you heard him say.

There was still suspicion laced in your features. “How do you know that we are thinking of the same piece?”

That ghost of a smile crept up again. “You act as if you don’t remember.”

Your sigh was a little sheepish. “I do,” you said, reminiscing on the memories. “But the name…”

No matter how hard you endeavoured, your memory of the sculpture was too hazy for your half-drunk mind.

You searched him for an answer. “I’m sure you have not forgotten.”

“No…I have not.”

You waited. His silence had you insisting, “Well?”

When you saw a slight glimmer in his whimsical gaze, you knew that he had something else in mind. The implications had you biting your lower lip, anxiety blooming.

The nerves grew when Jeonghan spoke.

“I will tell you if you see me tomorrow.”

You blinked back.

“There’s an exhibition opening here tomorrow afternoon,” he continued, taking a step towards you, careful not to startle you again. “It’s centred on the sculpture we both wanted to see, but it’s been moved to another hall.”

He confused you a great amount. “How do you know that?”

His stare went beyond you, to the wall. “It says on the plaque.”

Sure enough—when you looked back, there was the notice. Because your French was adequate at best, you did not understand it fully. You simply had to trust his linguistic abilities.

That you could do—you were aware of Jeonghan’s fluency in the language of love.

He cocked his head, a few strays cascading the side of his face. “You and I could see it there.”

The offer had shaken you. “Why?”

“Why?”

You knitted your brows suspiciously. “Why do you want to go with me?”

The film noir star watched you then, you shuffling uncomfortably under his scrutiny. God, you forgot how intense his eyes were—in fairness, you had not been the subject of his stares for a few years.

He locked his gloved hands behind his back. “Because you need a break, _____. From everything.”

He offered you a smile. “Let me be the one to give you that. If only for the day.”

You could have crumbled before him.

It was at this stage you cursed yourself for being in such a state. Perhaps if you were sober, you would have carried on this conversation in a more respectable manner, taken more caution.

It was incredibly difficult, composing yourself around the man.

“I can’t…” you inhaled sharply, trying to form the words. “I cannot do midday…too many people, you know…staring, judging…”

“Ah.” He nodded, parting his mouth in thought. “Then tomorrow night?”

Stretching your mouth, unsure, he assured, “They will not follow you here at this hour.”

“How are you so sure of that?”

This time, he sighed, surprised at your anxiousness. “I see you’ve not changed, then.”

You narrowed your gaze. “What is that supposed to mean?”

But the actor did not seem like he was going to elaborate.

He instead took another step towards you, a mere two feet left.

“Do you trust me?”

You tilted your head back.

What kind of question was that?

Do you trust me?

You did not trust anyone. Not after this whole debacle back home, when almost all your friends within the industry had contributed to your downfall. Hollywood was filled with traitors, the worst being the people who haunted the journey of your disgrace at every moment.

It was impossible to place any ounce of faith in another.

As you watched his eyes settle on you, you noticed an emotion you had not witnessed in forever.

Tenderness.

Tenderness with no ulterior motive—gentle acceptance, as if he recognised your position. As if he recognised your change, the apprehensive nature of your questions, your pauses. It physically hurt being stained with such compassion, when you had been begging for it from the world all those weeks ago.

It hurt, having someone who understood you.

You, however, should not have been surprised.

Yoon Jeonghan had always been like this. Especially when you both were together.

You could have smiled.

What a time that was.

As if he could read your mind, the film noir star began, “You remember, don’t you? That I’ve never let you down?”

You decided to let yourself slip—you could always blame it on the alcohol.

“What time do you want me here tomorrow?”

#seventeen imagines #seventeen smut #yoon jeonghan imagines #jeonghan imagines #yoon jeonghan smut #jeonghan smut #seventeen scenarios #seventeen x reader #jeonghan x reader #svt smut #svt imagines #yoon jeonghan x reader #seventeen hard hours #svt hard hours #yoon jeonghan #seventeen angst #jeonghan angst #yoon jeonghan angst

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goldenempyrean · 1 year

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Maybe a slight au one where r and Nat are in college where they are dormmates and newly a couple. Nat hasn’t been at dorm for a few days but wouldn’t say why but R goes to their shared class and when natasha sits down it’s obvious shes sick and trying to push through it? “Don't come too close. You don’t wanna catch this.” And “I can see you staring at me. You’re not discreet y’know?”

Close Quarters

〚Notes - I thought this req was super cute :D enjoy, very unedited so excuse that :p I was meant to post this yesterday so oops 〛

〚 Pairing - Natasha Romanoff x Reader〛

〚 Summary - Nat had been avoiding you and when she turns up sick to lecture, you make sure to take the best care of her. 〛

〚 Wordcount - 1690 〛

〘 Check Out My Masterlist! 〙

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Going to the same university as your girlfriend, that was great but having the privilege of being dormmates? That was even better. Unfortunately (or fortunately, depending on how you want to see it) being in such close quarters meant when something was wrong, there was no hiding it.

But for the last day or so, you hadn’t seen your girlfriend at all. She’d stayed the night out at her friends and when you asked to meet up for breakfast Nat had claimed she wasn’t hungry and would make it up to you. Strange. But still, you allowed her the space she wanted. The day felt strange not having Nat by your side. Usually, the redhead wouldn’t leave you alone during the day, but you brushed it off. You both shared a class later in the afternoon anyway, you just made a mental note to speak to her about it then.

The rest of your day wasn’t that exciting, just your normal every-day lectures. Eventually though the time of your shared one crept closer and you headed off in the direction of the designated hall, scoring two seats somewhere near the back. Slowly people began to fill the hall, taking their seats and you patiently waited for Nat, feeling your heart flutter a little as you caught site of her distictive red hair enter the hall.

“Hi baby,” You smiled widely as you saw Natasha making her way to the seat you’d reserved for her, but as she got closer you couldn’t help but feel like something was off. You went to hug her which she accepted but she quickly pulled out of your hold rather after only a few seconds. Okay. Something was definitely off.

“What’s up my love?” You murmured quietly as the both of you sat back down, “I feel like I haven’t seen you for ages, is everything okay?”

“Nothing, I’m fine,” she replied, trying to brush it off, but she couldn’t hide the congestion in her voice, and you quirked your eyebrow at her as she began searching in her bag for her notebook. Why was she congested?

You watched as Natasha dug through her bag, her shoulders hunching over slightly as she tried to get comfy in her seat – your lecture was a long one. You couldn’t help but notice how she was trying to discreetly sniffle and rub at her nose; she really wasn’t doing a very good job at hiding it though and could feel your worry increase when you heard her muffle a soft sneeze into her elbow followed by a rough cough. It sounded like it hurt her throat. Was that why she’d been avoiding you?

You blessed her quietly, "Are you sure you're okay, Natty?” Your voice laced with concern as you searched around in your bag for some tissues before finding a packet and sliding them over to her.

"Thanks.” She mumbled as she took a few, “I’m fine though, really. Just a little tired, that's all," She replied, her voice suspiciously scratchy.

You knew that she was lying. It was obvious. Upon closer inspection, you could see the red tinged edges of her nose and the light pink haze sitting on her cheeks. The ball finally dropped when she sneezed twice again. Nat hardly sneezed on a normal day, so this was definitely a sign something was off. You went to question her again but stopped, you knew how she could be so stubborn when it came to admitting that she was sick. So, with some reluctance, you decided to drop the subject for now, not wanting to push her too hard. She’d already felt anxious about it, she wouldn’t have slept at Wanda’s otherwise and you didn’t want her to feel any worst.

"Alright, if you say so. But if you need anything, just let me know, okay?" you said, giving her another reassuring smile.

Natasha smiled weakly back at you, clearly grateful for your concern. The two of you settled into the lecture, but you couldn't help but keep an eye on her, noticing every sniffle and cough that she tried to hide.

As the lecture went on, Natasha's sniffles became more frequent. Her breath hitched and you knew what came next. Yet after a few seconds there was nothing, you looked over to see her scrunching up her nose and fidgeting in her seat, trying to hold it in, but it was no use.

Her breath caught on an inhale and her head suddenly bopped forward as she let out a loud sneeze, her shoulders shook as she tried to stifle it, but it didn’t really work. You reached over and silently handed her another tissue, watching with worried eyes as she blew her nose.

“I can see you staring at me. You’re not discreet y’know?” She mumbled afterwards; her voice thick with congestion.

You chuckled softly, “Sorry, I can't help it. I just want to make sure you're okay.”

Natasha gave you a small smile, but it quickly faded as she sniffled again, her eyes starting to water. You could see the discomfort etched on her face, and you knew she was struggling to concentrate on the lecture. To your surprise, you felt her head come to rest against your shoulder as she leant against you, instinctively you brought your arm up to wrap around her.

With her this close, you could feel her body temperature rising as she snuggled closer to you, and you knew that she was feeling worse by the minute. You stole a quick glance at her face and saw that her eyes were closed, her breathing a little ragged, and her cheeks flushed with a fever. You knew she was sick, you just needed her to admit it.

But as you felt Natasha's body temperature rising, you knew that she needed to rest and take care of herself, and you weren’t willing to test how long she’d go without giving in. Instead, you gently nudged her shoulder and whispered, "Baby are you sure you're okay? You seem really warm to me."

Natasha let out a sigh and pulled away from you, rubbing her eyes tiredly. "It’s just a cold or something like that." She admitted before quickly turning away to catch a set of sneezes into her hands, groaning afterwards as she dosed herself in a generous blob of hand sanitiser.

You immediately feel a little guilty for not pressing her about it sooner. “Oh, sweetie,” you spoke softly, reaching out to brush a strand of hair away from her face. “Why didn’t you tell me? You should be resting then, not sat in a lecture.” You sighed as you reached over to cup her warm cheek in your hand, disregarding the ongoing lecture entirely.

“I didn’t want to miss classes,” Natasha replied stubbornly as she sniffled miserably into an abused-looking tissue before adding, “You shouldn’t come too close, you don’t wanna catch this.” Slightly regretting her decision to lean against you earlier but tough, she wanted warmth. God that hall felt freezing, even with the jumper she’d taken from the back of your chair and wrapped around herself.

“No love, me catching this isn’t important,” You shook your head, easing her concerns a little, “What’s important is that you take care of yourself and get better. I’ll take you home and make sure you have everything you need to feel comfortable and rest.” You placed a gentle kiss on her forehead, and she leaned into the touch with a small smile.

Natasha nodded, still looking a little hesitant. "Okay, but can we wait until the lecture's over? I don't want to cause a scene," she said quietly, and you nodded in agreement.

"Of course, we can wait. But if you start feeling worse, we're leaving. No arguments," you replied firmly, and she nodded, snuggling back into your side. You wrapped your arm around her once again, and the two of you settled back into the lecture, though your attention was now completely focused on Natasha.

As the lecture finally drew to a close, you helped Natasha gather her things and make her way out of the lecture hall. The cold air outside hit her like a ton of bricks, and she shivered, pulling the jumper around her tightly. You wrapped an arm around her waist, pulling her close to you as you made your way towards your car.

Once inside the car, you turned up the heat and handed her a blanket from the backseat, watching as she bundled up in it with a grateful smile. You started the car and made your way back to your apartment, where you immediately set about making her comfortable.

You led Natasha to the couch, fluffing up the pillows and pulling out a warm throw blanket. You made her a cup of hot tea with honey and lemon, knowing it would soothe her sore throat. You also retrieved some over-the-counter medicine and a thermometer, which she reluctantly took.

"You have a fever, love," you said gently, seeing the thermometer read 38.4, "Let's get you into some comfortable clothes, and you can rest for a bit."

She nodded, sniffling again, and you helped her change into some cosy pyjamas. You tucked her into the blanket, making sure she was warm enough. You sat down beside her, keeping a close eye on her.

"Do you need anything else baby?" you asked, stroking her hair gently.

Natasha shook her head, her eyes already drooping. "No, I'm good. Thank you for taking care of me."

You smiled, feeling a warm feeling in your chest at her words. "Always, love. Rest up and let me know if you need anything."

As Natasha drifted off to sleep, you couldn't help but feel grateful for the opportunity to take care of her. It was moments like these that made you realise how much you loved her and how important she was to you. You made a mental note to take care of her more often, even when she wasn't sick, because you knew that's what love was all about – taking care of each other, no matter what.

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#natasha romanoff x reader #natasha romanoff x you #natasha romanoff x y/n #natasha romanoff x fem!reader #natasha romanoff fanfic #sickfic #comfort #marvel #mcu #marvel sickfic #natasha romanoff sickfic #natasha romanoff comfort

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neverinadream · 1 year

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Y O U ' R E S O F U C K I N G S P E C I A L - T H E T E A S E R

Pairing: Christian Pulisic x Fem!Reader

Song Inspo: Creep - Radiohead

Warnings: THIS IS JUST A TEASER, frat boy!christian, college au, this was inspired by my favourite scene from skam italia

Notes: I'M FINALLY WRITING IT! even though i know i have plenty of other stuff i should be writing first...oops. ANYWAY....this was partly inspired by skam italia. thoughts? opinions? do we like it so far? please tell me!!!

"Do you know what this is?"

"It's appears to be a guitar," Christian answers, taking a seat at his desk, which was surprisingly tidy. You had half expected it to be a mess or something he would've called an 'organised mess.'

"No, this, my friend, is a weapon," you correct him, resting the guitar comfortably on your lap. You strum the strings, letting the harsh sound ring out. "This is your weapon," you explain, curling your hand around the fret, "this is how you've acquired a string of many broken hearts, isn't it?" He chuckles, shaking his head. "First, you act like a jerk with girls. Then you bring them up to your room. You sing them a song, and they'll say, 'oh, Christian! You're such a sensitive boy!'"

He holds both hands up in the air. "You've got me all figured out," he laughs, nodding his head, "I can play for you, if you'd like?"

"You could," you shrug your shoulders, "but I don't think I'm your usual type."

You pluck your fingers at the strings and, before you know it, your right hand is switching between plucking and strumming the strings as your left hand remained on the fret, switching between a sequence of chords. You hadn't touched a guitar in a couple of years, but together, they created a rusty but soft melody. "When you were here before, couldn't look you in the eye," you sang quietly to yourself, closing your eyes and allowing yourself to be transported into your own little world, "you're just like an angel; your skin makes me cry..."

Christian leans forward, the chair squeaking as he moves to rest his elbows on his knees, and he tilts his head to the side, watching you play his guitar. A soft, partial smile twitches on the corners of his lips. This was unexpected. You had surprised him.

"...you float like a feather in a beautiful world," when you open your eyes, goosebumps tingle your entire body as you find Christian staring at you, "I wish I was special; you're so fucking special." You stop singing and remove the guitar from your lap, moving to lie it down on his bed. "Sorry," you apologise, mumbling under your breath.

"Don't be," Christian shakes his head, "that was incredible." His compliment makes your stomach flutter with butterflies. "I didn't know you could play, let alone sing too?" His smile widens. "So much for me being the one who is meant to serenade you."

You shake your head, "not really, it's sort of the only song I can successfully play. My dad tried to get me to play the guitar when I was a kid..." Your voice trails off at the end, stopping yourself before you have a chance to ramble. That was the last thing you wanted to do, ramble on about a person you barely knew to a person you also didn't know. Looking back and forth between him and the floor, you give him an unconvincing smile. "Has my roommate texted you back yet?"

Christian pulls his phone out of his pocket. "No," he shakes his head. Standing to his feet, he moves his guitar and sits next to you. "You can check for yourself if you don't believe me," he says, offering his phone, but you shake your head.

F O O T B A L L E R T A G L I S T

@shanoontje @maseandkepa @theblxefox @blueathens @ofxinnocence @1-800-benji-chilwell @mrschilly @geek-and-proud @in-my-body-bag @laurasstufff1 @mountchilly @spicysainz @greykitkepa @thoseboysinblue @breakablehcaven

#christian pulisic #christian pulisic imagine #christian pulisic imagines #christian pulisic au #christian pulisic one shot #christian pulisic fluff #christian pulisic x reader

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caffeinated-chaos-bean · 2 months

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A little pic I did for a scene in my personal Vento Aureo au.

In this scene, Giorno has finished Diavolo off. Mista and Trish have run back to the Coliseum. Before joining them, Giorno returns to his parents who are attempting to hide within the shade. Dio has attempted to prevent Giorno from receiving grave injuried from Diavolo, breaking his vow to not interfere with his son's journey with the use of The World. He stopped time and used his stand to pull Giorno away from their enemy, ensuring that Giorno was given extra time to pierce himself with the Arrow. In doing so, it exposed The World to the sun's rays and ultimately resulting in himself taking damage that could have killed him. With the help of Addie and her stand, Deep Sea, she intervened and stopped him before he could suffer enough damage to turn him to dust.

I can imagine the singing Dio cover of "Stand Proud" to be playing softly in the background.

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EoH Giorno Giovanna (c) elina002 EoH Dio Brando Special F (c) Reol1999 EoH Adelaide Kingston (c) Bean-san (this model is for personal use only) ASB Roman Streets Stage (c) nilli10

T_ASBShader (c) 下っ腹P SvSSAO (c) Otamon o_LikeHDR (c) Otamon o_Bleach-bypass (c) Otamon CheapLens (c) Sovoro

“Bucciarati–!!” Giorno shouted, staring up to the sky. “Your body… at the Coliseum, it–!”

“I’ve been resurrected… when I met you at Naples, and when I betrayed the gang… I’ve been slowly dying off… my heart has been resurrected all because of you.”

“He did it…” Mista weakly stammered. He lay in Giorno’s arms, bleeding from the wound that Diavolo had inflicted on his body. “Really, that…. That was close… but now Trish has been saved… and my body… Hurry up and heal me…!!”

“R-Right!!” Giorno snapped back to reality, using his Gold Experience to use the surrounding rubble and bullet shells to close up the gunman’s wounds. “W-We have to get to the arrow, Mista!!”

“...Let him…. Don’t let him get away…!” Trish mumbled weakly. “I can feel him… planning to run… if he retreats, then we lose…!”

Diavolo turned around, staring at his daughter’s frail form on the ground. “Tch!!” He couldn’t run away now. If he ran now, he’d lose his dignity. If he wanted to remain as the king of the world, he had to continue fighting back.

“Eh?!” Mista coughed. “H-He’s not… running!! He’s coming back this way!!”

“Giorno Giovanna….!!!” Diavolo shouted, reaching towards the teen and clocking his fist against the side of his head. “You immature brat… you are not worthy at all!!!”

Dio stood in the shadows. He couldn’t step out. To step out of hiding meant turning to dust. He clenched his teeth, his fangs cutting into his lower lip. “Tch…!!”

“I don’t know where he’s been thrown to, but Polnareff said before… the arrow will choose those it deems worthy!! You’ve been rejected by the arrow, Giorno Giovanna!!!” Diavolo summoned his stand once more, its fists glowing as they aimed straight for the boy’s face.

“THE WORLD!!! STOP THE FLOW OF TIME!!”

“W-What is–!!?”

Suddenly, everything went still. The water no longer ebbed and flowed in the canals. The wind no longer blew, yet the trees still looked as if they were caught in a heavy, frozen breeze.

“11 seconds…”

Diavlo couldn’t move. As hard as he may try, the effort to do so was futile. His consciousness was still flowing, however. Was this the act of another messing with time? His eyes darted towards the shadows, the sound of a shoe tapping against stone catching his attention.

“You…” Dio hissed. “You dare to eradicate the Son of Dio from the world…?” At his feet stood the frozen turtle, Polnareff. The key was still in its slot of the shell, and within the shadows Adelaide stepped out of the secret room once more.

“D-Dio!!” Adelaide gasped. “W-What’s going on?! Y-You vowed not to use The World during this!!”

The vampire didn’t turn his gaze to the woman, his fists clenched. “My apologies. Circumstances have changed.”

Addie turned to the view before her. Her son, an arrow partially embedded into his chest, and the enemy mere seconds away from punching him in the center of his skull. “D-Dio!! We… How are we going to–!!? Giorno is–!!!”

“...I know.” Dio stated firmly. “I have an idea… but I can’t be sure that it will actually work.”

“What do you mean!?”

“9 seconds…” Dio counted. “I have 9 more seconds. I’m going to send The World out to grab Giorno… but I need you.”

“D-Dio are you insane?!” Addie protested. “Your stand is a manifestation of your soul!! Sending The World out there is going to expose him to direct sunlight, you know that!!”

“I do.” Dio hissed. “It's the only chance we have, my love…”

“But..!!” Addie couldn’t respond. Their son needed help, but she didn’t want to lose her lord either. “W-What do you need me to do?”

“Deep Sea.” Dio stated. “Engulf me with her energy while I send The World out. Whatever you did back in Egypt… do it again. There’s a 50/50 chance it will work… and if I can do this to save our son… to save Giorno… it's a chance I have to take.”

Unbeknownst to the vampire, Polnareff was still able to hear what was going on despite being unable to move. “To save… his son? So Jotaro was correct, he did spawn an heir… and that heir is who I’ve been helping in an attempt to defeat Diavolo. Giorno Giovanna… the son of the man who killed Avdol… who crippled Kakyoin and Iggy…”

“B-But…” Addie protested. “I don’t even know how I did that!! I was so scared that I don’t even know what I did!!”

“...And are you not scared now…”

Addie tensed. Sure, she was terrified. She was terrified that she was about to witness her son get drastically injured but just as terrified to lose the love of her life.

“Just do it…” Dio said, his voice sounding firm but somewhat defeated. “...We only have 5 seconds left.”

Addie swallowed the lump in her throat as she summoned Deep Sea. The watery form wrapped itself around Dio, arms around his neck and tail twisting and curling around his lower half.

“The World.” Dio stated, staring firmly at the sight of his son before him. “Drag Giorno back here.”

“Mudaa…” The World protested. He knew the risk this posed to his user.

“That’s an order.” Dio hissed. “With the remaining seconds we have, drag Giorno over here!!!”

The World nodded, turning to the scene before them. Hesitantly, he floated over to the boy and wrapped his arms under the boy’s.

“NNgh…!!!” Dio flinched, his balance wavering. Pain. Sering pain. His entire body burned. He hadn’t felt pain like this since his battle with Jotaro all those years ago.

“D-Dio!!” Addie cried, stepping closer. Her gaze quickly darted to The World, who was steaming in the sun’s rays.

The World began dragging Giorno’s frozen back back towards the shadows, though he was clearly struggling. The sun was a massive hindrance, and Adelaide knew it. She watched as the stand struggled to perform its task, the steam growing more prominent.

“D-Dio, you–” Addie stammered. “Y-You’re not going to have time to–”

“T-Then…h-help…!!” Dio stammered through gritted teeth. His right arm was bracing himself against the side of the building that provided their shade. “D-Don’t…worry… a-about me…!!! G-Get… G-Giorno…!!”

Addie’s eyes widened. She’d never seen Dio this way in years, not since they first arrived in Italy and he’d met their son for the first time. She’d never expected to see that side of him ever again. “D-Dio… I can’t just–”

“...Yes you can…”

That voice… Addie looked behind her, her eyes widening at the sight before her. She hardly could believe what she was seeing. “J– … J-Jojo…?”

Before her, an old face came closer. Jonathan Joestar… surrounded in a golden, heavenly light. “...You can do this, Adelaide...”

“B-But..!!” Addie stammered. “I-If I let go… If Deep Sea stops…!!”

“...All will be fine…” Jonathan said calmly, now standing mere feet from the blonde. “Your son is a special one… born between my body and Dio’s genes… he is fated for great things and will not fall here. You must step in…”

“A-And what of Dio!?”

“...As I told him all those years ago, this isn’t over…” the Joestar said with a smile. “Because of you and Giorno, you have aided Dio in correcting his path. If he truly did not think this was right, he wouldn’t be risking his existence. He would not have sent The World out into the sunlight so recklessly if there was any other way.”

“...B-But…!!”

“...I can assist… to a degree.” Jonathan stated. “It will be alright. Get your son, Adelaide. He is fated for far too much to fall here.”

Addie felt the tears in her eyes as she looked at the spirit before her. Fear… she hadn’t felt fear like this since she thought Dio for dead at the bottom of the sea. She hesitantly turned back to look at Giorno and The World. They were closer, but nowhere near the shade. The World was smoking now, cracks forming along its body from the sun’s rays.

“..D-Deep…S-Sea…” Addie mumbled weakly, her lips trembling. “...U-Unravel…”

“Shinkaaaaiiii….?”

“I-I said… u-unravel…” Addie weakly repeated, blinking the tears from her eyes. “H-Help him… g-get Giorno over here…”

“Shinkai…” The water stand did as instructed, leaving Dio’s side and floating towards the teen before them. “Shojoooo……” Deep Sea wrapped herself around The World, her watery hair foaming as she began imbuing him with her own energy.

Addie looked towards Dio once more. His eyes were shut tight, teeth clenched in pain. As soon as Deep Dea released her hold on the vampire, he’d fallen to his knees from the pain. Addie kelt beside him, placing a hand at his back. She didn’t know what else to do.

“He may not be able to reverse his wrongdoings…” Jonathan stated, now beside both blondes. “But you have aided him in returning to a straight and narrow path. While he will never admit to it, Dio has finally been shown the side of the world that I so desperately tried to get him to see. Because of you and the son you bore with him, you finally got him to open his eyes to it.”

“...Jojo…” Addie whispered. “...Can he hear you…?”

“No.” Jonathan stated. “I’m reaching out to you strictly… but even if I had reached you both, he wouldn’t be able to hear. The pain he endures is far too great to allow his senses to work properly.”

“...You told him… that things weren’t done…” Addie repeated. “...What do you mean by that…? If he isn’t meant to know, I won’t say a word… I beg of you, Jojo… what are we in store for?”

Jonathan remained silent for a moment. “...I am not permitted to inform you of your future. But what I can say is this; Giorno is key to preventing an old ally from bringing Dio’s ultimate plan to fruition. I’m sure you remember his goal to achieve Heaven?”

Addie’s eyes widened as she turned to the spectral man. “T-The Heaven Plan!? B-But he’s given that mess up!!”

“Indeed.” Jonathan stated. “But his old ally has not forgotten. In due time, you will cross paths with a few old faces… and fight together as one. That is all I can say.”

“GRKK– AAK!!”

Addie snapped back to her lover, panic in her eyes. “D-Dio!!”

“Shinnnnkkkaaaaaii….!” Deep Sea strained, tightening her grip and rushing further.

“2 seconds.” Jonathan stated, sending a chill down Adelaide’s spine. “I cannot reach out to your spiritual manifestations. You are in the clear. Have your stand instruct The World to return.”

“D-Deep Sea!!” Addie shouted, cradling Dio in her arms. “M-Make The World return to him..!!”

“Muda.” The World protested.

“Shojou…” Deep Sea glared at the golden stand. With one quick movement, the watery stand wrapped her tail around his ankle and hurled him back to his user. “Shinkai.”

Dio gasped for air, feeling his stand return to his body. The sunlight no longer touched him, but his body was still in immense pain. “H-How…c-could you…–!!”

Smack.

“Shut up.” Addie’s voice was harsh. “Not one word.” She watched as Deep Sea pulled Giorno just to the edge of the shade as time began to flow once more.

“Nhg–!” Giorno groaned, hitting the pavement. “W-What.. Just–?” He looked to find his mother holding her husband in her arms. His father… burns were present on his skin.

“H-How did…?!” Diavolo hissed. “I see… so he also can manipulate time, is that it? No matter… his power is still inferior to my King Crimson. Giorno Giovanna!! This is the end for you!!” Diavolo went to land another blow, only to see the arrow become one with the boy’s stand… it crawled into the stand’s skin. “What is it that I’m seeing right now? I’ve already broken his head. Shouldn’t I see his brain bits flying everywhere? But that’s not what’s coming out of his head… What is this? And why has the arrow entered his arm!?”

Mista and Trish gasped as they witnessed Gold Experience shatter before their eyes.

“H-He…” Mista stammered.

“Giorno wasn’t rejected by the arrow after all!!” Trish exclaimed. “The arrow hadn’t deemed him unworthy!! And not only that… the arrow is now forever imprinted within Giorno!! The Boss won’t be able to go after it anymore!!!”

“I… is what I’m seeing real? Did I make a mistake somewhere?” Diavolo panicked. “I should be seeing Giorno’s corpse right now… No!! This can’t be real!!”

“It’s Requiem!!” Mista shouted. “It’s Giorno’s Requiem!! Gold Experience Requiem!!”

“Gold Experience has fully absorbed the arrow’s power!!” Mista shouted.

Dio weakly, painfully, lifted his head to look forward. Before him, he could see his son floating midair. His stand’s appearance changed… evolved.

Giorno stared down at Diavolo, his resolve forever solid. He flicked a piece of floating rubble right through the man’s hand, turning it into a scorpion on the way out. “The only thing that survives in this world… is reality… This is an action caused by reality.”

“His vampiric blood is also awakening.” Jonathan stated. “He may have vampiric blood, but he has far more Joestar blood running within him. This is why he’s able to survive the sun. He will put an end to this, now. I will be taking my leave.”

“...Wait…” Addie whispered. “...One last thing…”

“Yes, ma’am?” Jonathan inquired.

“...I have to know…” Addie begged softly. “...Are you… always around…?”

Jonathan gave a soft smile. “I am. When you wrapped around Dio, preventing him from being obliterated by Jotaro’s attack… it is true, that I was finally released and allowed into Heaven. But I have my own will, still, and thus can come and go when I please. I take pride in ensuring Dio can continue down this brighter path… I always check on him. More so than the other Joestars. He is still considered my brother.” With that, the Joestar spirit disappeared.

“What’s going on now?!” Mista cried out. “What’s going to happen? Will Requiem exchange our spirits again?”

“I don’t know…” Trish stated. “No one knows… probably not even Giorno… But it seems that Requiem is now fully controlled by Giorno. It’s entirely docile!!”

“Don’t get all high and mighty…” Diavolo hissed. “Don’t think you know everything!! Giorno Giovanna, I won’t give you any chances… Prepare to mourn your own death!! King Crimson!!” Diavolo cackled, time having been affected. In this space of erased time, he could see Giorno’s movements and dodge the bullets that Mista had fired his way. “I can entirely predict what he is planning to do! How can you pieces of trash think you can defeat me! Reality is in my hands!! In a few seconds, even if time returns to normal, Gold Experience’s attack has been completely nullified by me!! You won’t be able to see me or King Crimson anymore! I won! Fate ultimately still chooses me to rule the world!! I’m faster than you!! With my predictions, I punched right through your heart!! It ends now!!”

To his horror, however, things didn't go as he foretold. Time began to rewind. The bullets Mista fired returned in reverse, forcing Diavolo to dodge them once more. “I-Impossible!! What…!! Is time beginning to progress normally again?! Is this Requiem’s doing?! NO!! Fate is still choosing me, Diavolo!! Take this, Giorno Giovanna!!!” King Crimson went to land another blow, only for it to suddenly be stopped outright.

“This.. Requiem… Everything you see is real…” Giorno hissed. “Your ability does indeed allow you to see the future… but… you are not able to execute what will actually happen! Whoever stands before me, no matter what ability he has… will not be able to take action. Because this is Gold Experience Requiem!”

“Not even my wielder, Giorno Giovanna, truly knows the lengths of this ability.” GER itself stated.

Before he knew it, Diavlo felt pain rush throughout his body. Gold Experience Requiem rapidly, almost at the speed of light, hurled punch after punch at Diavolo. “You… have nowhere… else to go… and… you will never be able to grasp reality!”

“W-We did it!!” Mista’s voice resounded. “The arrow’s power evolved your Gold Experience!! Even though I wasn’t able to see what happened… but the Boss’s King Crimson is no match for you!! We’ve finally won!!”

“Wait… wait a minute!!” Trish interrupted. “Did his body float up to the surface?! Where’s the corpse!?”

“Is it floating on the surface?” Mista wondered. “W-Where is it!? Hurry up and help us find it!! Giorno!! Where did the Boss go?!”

“Come on!! Giorno!!” Trish shouted. “We have to find him!! He still could be alive!! We have to make sure that he’s dead!!

“No…” Giorno muttered. “We don’t have to… Everything is over.”

“B-But he could still be alive…” Mista pointed out.

“Even though I’m not too sure of Requiem’s ability either…” Giorno began. “I firmly believe he has nowhere to go anymore… especially not reality… not even the reality of death. Never-ending is an ending! This is Gold Experience Requiem!”

“H-Hey!! Come on!!” Mista shouted. “We have to get back to the Coliseum!! Buccarati’s spirit should be back but his body is still injured!!”

“R-Right!” Trish agreed. “Hurry up, Giorno!! Back to the coliseum!! We gotta cure Bucciarati before we go home!!”

Giorno watched as both of them took off running, passing his father and mother by as they headed back towards the location of Bucciarati’s body. “Ah… let’s go… I’m coming…”

“Giorno… This is good… Don’t worry. That’s all… Giorno.”

The blonde turned to look behind himself and saw a faded apparition before him. “B-Bucci–”

“Because of everyone, we’ve finally obtained total victory… now everything is over… After all, before fate, we are just sleeping slaves… and now we’ve been released from it… We have won.”

Giorno watched the figure fade away, like a mist evaporating in the sun. His attention was diverted when he heard his mother’s faint voice. “...Mama…?”

“D-Dio!!” Addie was saying. “H-He did it..!! He really did it…!!”

The teen walked over and stood over his parents who had both been crouched on the ground. “Why are you out here like this… its sun up.”

“Keh…” Dio coughed, his body still wracked with pain. “Idiot boy…”

Addie looked up to her son, her face wet from her tears. “G-Giorno..!!”

Giorno’s brow furrowed, grasping the situation. “Padre?”

“...Heh…” Dio scoffed. “It’ll take… more than this… to end my existence, it seems…”

Addie wiped away her tears. “G-Giorno… you have no idea what he risked…”

“Stop…” Dio weakly murmured. “...His abilities… have surpassed my own… there’s no need to boast…”

Giorno raised a brow in confusion, kneeling beside his father. “Padre. What happened?”

“Heh…” Dio weakly chuckled, licking the blood from the corner of his lips. “...You really do look a lot like me with your hair like that…”

Giorno reached the back of his head, only now realizing his braid was undone and his golden tresses were free. “...When did–”

“I didn’t.” Dio said, taking a shaky breath. “Your evolving abilities caused it this time… Giorno…”

Giorno ignored him, attempting to redo his hair once again.

“...Giorno.” Dio stated, weakly grabbing the boy’s wrist. Moving was excruciating.

Giorno remained silent as he looked at his father.

“...I’m proud of you…” Dio weakly muttered. “You did well to surpass me…”

“P-Padre…!”

“He’s in a lot of pain…” Addie stated. “He sustained horrid burns from sending his stand out to pull you from Diavolo’s reach.”

“What?!”

“I told you… to shut up…” Dio protested.

“He’s going to be laid up for quite a while.” Addie stated.

Giorno went to summon Gold Experience, but his father put up a hand in protest. “No, son… I deserve this. I have done far too many unsavory deeds in my lifetime… I deserve to feel pain at least once. Do not heal me. …I’ll heal over time.”

“I’m… going to get him into the turtle.” Addie hesitantly stated. “Otherwise, neither he or myself will be able to return home until nightfall. We can at least hide within Coco Jumbo until we get there.” Addie carefully lifted Dio’s hand and placed it towards the key, the both of them being sucked into the secret room within.

Giorno looked to the wall that his father had been leaning against, only now noticing the deep claw marks in the stone. “...Padre…”

“I must admit…” Polnareff’s voice resounded. “...I never thought I would see the day where Dio would risk his own life for someone else.”

“P-Polnareff?” Giorno stammered. “But… Everything is back to normal. Everyone’s souls are back to normal.”

“Yes, that’s true…” Polnareff stated. “But my body is still dead. But it appears as though my soul is capable of living within this turtle’s secret room.” The soul of the Frenchman was sticking out of the red jewel embedded into the golden key.

“...Polnareff…” Giorno began. “How do you know my father…”

Polnareff looked at the boy, a look of pity clear as day. “Giorno… You do not need to be burdened with your father’s past. I will admit, what he has put me through alongside my friends will never allow me to trust him… but he clearly cares for you, which is something that I never would have expected from him. He was willing to turn to dust to ensure you were the victor against Diavolo. I will never trust him, but he at least has my respect for that action.”

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phoebefucking-bridgers · 2 years

Text

i wanna feel you from the inside

SUMMARY - your friend, natasha, convinces you to come along to her concert. you never expected to catch the eye of her guitarist.

WORD COUNT - 1.7k

WARNINGS - 18+, rockstar!carol, str*p (c giving, r receiving), short sm*t at the end, sm*king/c*garettes, alcohol, brief mentions of dr*g consumption

A/N - i have no excuses i absolutely love this au…i want her to smash her guitar on my head… // posting this again since tumblr is so fucking annoying I swear

spooky season masterlist🕸️

Natasha had really dressed you the part for her show. She had dragged you to her studio room minutes before her practice, rummaging through the large wardrobe to pull out a promising looking, black slip dress with detailed lacing. She held it out with a grin.

Natasha had left only mere minutes ago, promising you that she would be on the stage in just a minute. It sure had felt longer than a single minute to you. You had never met her band before. And too be honest, you weren’t completely sure you wanted too.

She was, sure, different to you, and that’s a simple way to put it. Natasha liked to smoke, sometimes. Weed if she was in the mood. You had never even thought of the mere idea of using one in your entire life. You were sure Natasha’s band would be the same, maybe even worse.

Not that you meant it in a horrible way, of course- it’s just that Natasha was so intimidating the first time you met her, maybe even for a month ok so. And with her band, you knew the intimidation would be on a whole nother level. She told you there was nothing to be worried about, though you weren’t sure you believed it.

Just as you had a sudden urge to leave, the lights started up again, the loud booming of the bands drummer coming into play. You remembered her mentioning the drummer once before in a casual conversation, a drummer who’s supposedly a close friend of hers. Wanda, was it? You didn’t remember- and un-shockingly, you didn’t want to remember.

She had never mentioned her guitarist, though. The guitarist who was staying low, shrugging up the sleeves of her leather jacket as she pulled out a scratched golden lighter, taking a cigarette from her jean pocket, and lightly it up promptly. She held it in her mouth for a few good long seconds, before releasing it and holding it within her fingers, blowing out the steam.

Her eyes latched onto yours and you couldn’t look away. Well, that was until your best friend starting singing, snapping you out of your gaze. You could see a small smirk form on her face. The small smirk the guitarist sent you almost made your stomach churn. You couldn’t be attracted to her. There was no way you could be attracted to her. Her, with the smudged black eyeliner that looked like it could’ve been done by a small toddler. Especially not her lips that were smothered in a cherry scented chapstick.

When she tucked her blonde messy hair behind her ear, you caught sight will all the silver piercings littered across her ear. You couldn’t be attracted to her, right? Right. You decided it was best to just forget about her, all in all. After all, you did come for Natasha, not to admire her band mate. Gosh, you hated how you sounded right now.

Brushing down the ends of yours, well Natasha’s dress, you tried to focus on smoothing out the creases and paying attention to Natasha’s singing. And surprisingly, it worked. Well for the most part. The next time you saw the guitarist was after the show had finished.

The crowd was slowly but surely finishing their drinks, parting with friends and family before going their own ways. The bar was almost empty now. The only audible voices that could be heard now where either from the band, or close friends of theirs. You seemed quiet, swishing your drink around in its glass as you waited for Natasha to be ready to leave on a ripped leather barstool.

Carol thought you looked quite out of place in an environment like this.

She found herself sauntering over to you before her brain could even deny it, a cigarette in hand as she took the last blow before burning it out next to a ashtray near you. The sound made your eyes wander over, to be met with hers. Again. She smoothly slid onto the stool next to yours, resting one elbow on the bar table as she swirled in the chair to face you. She smirked. She stared at you for a few long seconds, grinning widely, before turning forward and calling a bartender over.

The bartender seemed to already know her order off by heart, as he rolled his eyes before sliding a glass of whiskey to her. She winked. Interesting.

She watched the way you eyed her drink with a chuckle before pulling her full attention back to you.

“You don’t like whiskey?” She questioned with a raised brow, but she didn’t seem judgy- she seemed, curious?

“No..i’ve never..”

“You’ve never had whiskey?” Her questions were answered when you shook your head. “That’s cute..” “Are you willing to try?” She leaned both of her arms on the table, resting her face between her palms as she quite literally stared you down with a small smile.

You nodded again, and she took that as her sign to raise her glass to your lips, hand firmly wrapped around the glass. She paused before tilting it.

“Just a small sip. It’s quite strong.” She winked. And boy was she right. She pulled the glass back immediately after you had shown the displeasure in your face and chuckled. “I told you it was strong.”

You coughed, hands going to fiddle with the half full glass of orange juice in front of you. “God, how do you drink that?” She shrugged and took another sip without flinching.

“I have a high tolerance, I guess.” She smirked to herself, turning around to see Natasha grinning at her. She waved before turning back to you. Once she had decided that the bar air had gotten to hot for her liking, she shrugged her signature leather jacket off and layer it over her lap. Her biceps were put on display through her tight, ratty band t-shirt. She was definitely one or the eyes. Her muscles were defined as she flexed them against the table, smirking as she could your eyes on her.

“You enjoyed the show?” She grinned when she realised your focus was still on her muscles - she wasn’t sure if her ego could expand any more, but you were really doing it for her.

“Huh-oh! Yeah, yeah. It was good. You were good.”She raised her eyebrows. “

Just good?” She almost felt bad with the way your face immediately flushed up in embarrassment as you quickly went to correct yourself, stuttering until Carol promptly cut you off. “I’m kidding. Thank you.”

Her voice was sultry and smooth, and the smirk she gave did you no justice- she definitely knew because your face still felt as flushed as it did just seconds before, but maybe it was even hotter. She run her hands loosely through her hair, like she was trying to part it but almost even made it messier- and that god-damn smirk she sent you while doing it make your stomach churn and flip and overcome with butterflies all in one, if that was even possible.

She stood her hand out for you to shake, in which she eagerly agreed, placing your soft palm in her calloused ones, littered with light scars along her fingertips from her guitar wounds. She tightened her hand around yours, gently pulling it to her mouth and placing a warm, wet kiss against your smooth hand. She pulled back teasingly, but never letting go of your hand.

“Carol Danvers.” She introduced herself. Gosh, you had been so into the moment, so into her that you didn’t even think twice and realise that you didn’t actually know her name.

“Y/n.” She grinned.

“I say, y/n, how about we go back to my place? You up for that?” You glanced behind her hesitantly to see Natasha, giving you an all noticeable thumbs up by the blind eye, a huge grin resting on her lips.

You looked back at Carol with hopeful eyes and a small smile. “Sure.”

***

“Oh, fuck, Carol!”

You weren’t entirely sure how you found yourself wrapped up in her sheets, the blonde woman above pounding into you recklessly, your moans spurring her on. She pushed your face further into the pillows, muffling your moans. Her hips sped up rapidly, her free hand smacking your bare sensitive ass roughly, earning a squeal from you.

“Good girl. Good fuckin’ girl, eh?” Her voice was raspy, and you were shocked at her deep it had gotten so quick. Short, low grunts let the blondes mouth with her most particularly hard thrusts, the ones that let out your deepest, darkest moans you had ever heard from yourself. If you weren’t so focused on getting your brains fucked out, you probably would’ve been embarrassed.

Carol didn’t leave you any room for embarrassment though. She was relentless with the thrusts of her faux dick, pounding into you like her life depended on it.

Maybe it did. You were sure yours did.

All your thoughts were mushed up into one, but there was one that was much more overpowering. Carol. They way she was fucking into you was so extremely delicious, how she perfectly timed all her thrusts to make you see stars. It was like she had been waiting for this moment all her life.

You can’t remember how many times she made you cum that night- but all you knew, was that it was certainly a lot. Not that you were complaining, though.

You woke up with a stretch and a yawn, your muscles aching deliciously, but that wasn’t the first thing you noticed. The bed felt cold, empty, and when you reached your hand out under the covers, she was no where to be seen. You sat up with a prominent frown, glancing around the room for any signs of the blonde, or notes, or even anything to show that she cared.

A scrunched up note on her bedside table caught your eye. You unfolded it carefully.

Gone out for band practice, be back 1 at latest. Call me if u need anything

Her writing was scribbled and messy, next to it was her number and a scrawny smiley face. You smiled to yourself, holding the note close before checking the time. You still had some time to kill.

#carol danvers x reader #carol danvers #carol danvers imagine #kinktober 2022

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lyneysbrother · 5 months

Note

kaeluc

b , d , e , f , j , k , l , m , p , q , r , u , v , y

Kaeya x Diluc NSFW ALPHABET ‧₊˚ミ☆ cws: cuntboy Diluc, wincest Kaeluc au, dubcon

B = Body part ( their favorite body part of theirs and also their partner’s ) ☆ Diluc adores the thought of Kaeya's back. He considers this interest of his perverted and shameful, if only he knew how Kaeya stared at his lips. Kaeya thinks his favourite part of himself is definitely his hair. There's a little red strand in his ponytail, it reminds him of his one and only beloved. Diluc likes his hands, Kaeya says they were made for him. D = Dirty secret ( pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs ) ☆ Theyre eachothers, surely Crepus would be angry. E = Experience ( how experienced are they? do they know what they’re doing ? ) ☆ Diluc doesn't know much, Kaeya does. Kaeya is a pleasant tutor to the shy redhead. It's a brothers duty after all. F = Favorite position ( this goes without saying ) ☆ Diluc doesn't want to face Kaeya. He likes to put his head in the pillows and make up his own fantasy of what's happening to him. Kaeya is the exact opposite, he loves seeing his brothers face as he touches the places he was never meant to see. J = Jack off ( masturbation headcanon ) ☆ Kaeya doesn't like to often, he doesn't like to waste his cum on his hands. There's a perfectly good pussy and a perfectly good mouth it could find a home in instead! Diluc is much different, he prefers touching himself, he likes to have control of how rough or gentle he is, Kaeya always leaves him bruised . K = Kink ( one or more of their kinks ) ☆ Kaeya likes to creampie, it's his way of marking his brother. He gets off on the thought that if Diluc were to cheat on him like he always threatens to, he would get all humilated having to explain who'd already spilled. Dilucs isn't much of a surprise. Anyone who looks at how smitten he gets knows he loves how his brother treats him even if he pleads that it's wrong.

L = Location ( favorite places to do the do ) ☆ Diluc prefers to be at home and in bed, he's a traditionalist for sure. Nothing too crazy. He never wants to be caught legitimately, it would ruin him. Kaeya is similar, but not quite. He likes their childhood home, but occasionally he'll grope Diluc in the bar .

M = Motivation ( what turns them on , gets them going ) ☆ Diluc has a hard time coping with Kaeya when he's drunk, he feels an overwhelming guilt for being needy when he sees him slur his words. Kaeya's is simply Diluc calling him " brother." P = Pace ( are they fast and rough ? slow and sensual ? etc . ) ☆ Kaeya is mean and unforgiving with Diluc's poor body, overstimulation and multiple rounds are not only a want but a requirement. Diluc doesn't have a choice.

Q = Quickie ( their opinions on quickies , how often , etc . ) ☆ Every night once Diluc gets off work, sometimes it doesn't even make it home. It's a promise Diluc regrets making, he was so young, how could he know?

R = Risk ( are they game to experiment ? do they take risks ? etc . ) ☆ Kaeya? Always. Diluc? Not at all.

U = Unfair ( how much they like to tease ) ☆ Diluc doesn't dare to bite the hand that feeds, but for Kaeya; when you are the hand, you can bite as much as you want.

V = Volume ( how loud they are , what sounds they make , etc . ) ☆ Diluc " moans like a girl. " in Kaeya's humiliating words, Kaeya usually shuts up to listen, but he likes to talk. Whispering the most awful things in Diluc's ears.

Y = Yearning ( how high is their sex drive ? ) ☆ Like a dog, Kaeya has trained Diluc to respond to certain things, one of those things being his " off work " bell once his shift is over, Kaeya never rejects his pouting face.

#kaeluc #kaeluc smut #smut #genshin impact #genshin smut #comship #proship

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getlostsquidward · 2 years

Note

YO CONGRATS ON THE 500 FOLLOWERS!!! honestly u deserve it so much, your fics are just aaaaaaaaaaaa

[meme i wanted to send u with this]

for prompt request: dark milf agatha, 43, reader giving her head on the family couch while everybody else is asleep (so a lot of trying to hold back) + some cuddling at the end if that's ok

A/N: ok i'm not sure if the number here is from the fluff prompt or.. but it fits so i guess that's what you meant? lmao xddd anw thank u!! also how could i say no to cuddling with agatha

request a drabble! prompt list

Hush

Agatha Harkness x Fem!Reader

[Taste Of A Poison Paradise AU] - Series Overview

Warnings: 18+, oral & fingering r giving

You weren't sure if you opened your eyes or if they were still closed as total darkness met you. You blinked, trying to catch a glimpse of the shadows in your room. Reaching for your phone, you checked the time.

2:45 A.M.

You decided to make warm milk for yourself, carefully getting off the bed to not wake your husband up. The house was dim but the blaring light and the low volume of the TV downstairs caught your attention.

"Why are you still up?" Your voice was still groggy from sleep. Agatha flinched, surprised by your sudden appearance.

"I can't sleep."

You hummed mindlessly before you went to the kitchen to drink some water. You watch Agatha as she lazily switches channels to find anything that can make her drowsy.

Agatha watches you as you saunter around the couch and finally take a seat by her side. "Why are you up?"

"Don't know. Woke up for no reason," you shrugged.

There was a moment of silence, the two of you basking in the tranquility of the room.

Until, of course, you got horny. There was no explanation as to why the mere presence of this woman turns you on.

(This is exactly what you were worried about.)

You looked at her in the corner of your eye, and when you confirmed that her attention was still on the tv (although you could see she was disinterested), you asked. "Hey, do you wanna sleep?"

She furrowed her brows in question, but you didn't give her the chance to speak as you quickly maneuvered to kneel in front of her, pushing her thighs apart.

The sight of you kneeling before her, willing to offer her release was exquisite.

"Took you long enough, baby. Now help mommy out and put your mouth to good use."

You would laugh at her if your tongue wasn't busy collecting her arousal from her entrance. You locked your gaze on the woman above, her head leaning and back arching against the couch every time you'd wrap your lips around her clit.

Her moans were getting louder every minute, and as much as you love it, you both have to keep it down. "Agatha, you're being too loud," you groaned against her cunt, the vibrations from your voice adding electricity to her core.

She didn't answer, but her moans were reduced to breathy ones as she bit the back of her hand to suppress most of it.

"You're doing a great job, honey. Keep going."

And keep going you did, until you felt her thighs closing in your head, shaking as you flicked your tongue on her clit and your fingers curled inside her.

Agatha knotted her hand in your hair as she brought your head impossibly closer to grind on your face, shuddering in sensitivity as she came down from her high.

A victorious smile crept up your lips as you watched her yawn. "What are you so smug about?" she asked.

"Hmm. Nothing."

You slowly moved up to straddle her lap, arms looping around her neck as you leaned in to kiss her. You made out lazily on the couch, the tv still playing in the background. She pulled away to yawn, and she chuckled as you did the same.

Agatha gave you one last (deep) kiss before gently steering both your bodies to lie on the couch, arms and legs tangled together.

–

tags: @ilovehotactresses @midnight-lestrange @apricxtt @pianogirl2121 @thenazwife @poetsdeadxo @inluvwithfictionalwomen @p-nymph @imthenatynat

#agatha harkness #agatha harkness x reader #agatha harkness x you #agatha harkness smut #milf!agatha #mother in law!agatha #mcu x reader #marvel x reader #marvel imagine #kathryn hahn x reader #taste of a poison paradise series

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cherrifire · 1 year

Photo

[Treebark week] Day 4 - Water

I’m using this event as an excuse to share with everyone my 3rd Life/Magnus Archive AU

Flat colour version

#treebark #renchantyn #treebarkweek #adventreebark #adventreebark2022 #the southland archives #the magnus archives au #the au is meant to be /p but could be /r if you wanted #cherri.draws

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siriusfan13 · 1 year

Text

WIP Ask Game! Make sure you tell which WIP you want the answer for! Choose as many letters as you’d like!

A-What is one OC that you’ve written that you know you’ll never be able to tell everything about?

B-What is one scene that didn’t make the Final Cut (and at this point likely won’t)

C-What motivated you to write this story in the first place?

D-How many chapters will your story be (or, if you don’t know… how many do you predict it will be)?

E-Are you planning a prequel/ sequel?

F-Could you please write a short side-story about a different character’s POV of a scene in your WIP (choose your character or let me choose)?

G-Could you please write a short side-story referencing something mentioned in passing in your WIP (choose your incident or let me choose)?

H-Could you please write a short side-story using an OC from your fic again (choose OC or let me choose)?

I-What is a line or short snippet from an upcoming chapter of your WIP?

J-What is the hardest part about writing this WIP?

K-What do you do to inspire you to write this particular WIP?

L-It hasn’t been updated in forever! When are you planning on updating! (No rush if you can’t, though!)

M-Is this WIP dead, on hiatus, or just really hard right now to write?

N-What are three fics that you would recommend to someone who likes your WIP (your own or by other authors)?

O-Do you use betas? If so, who are these amazing people?

P-Do you like talking about your WIP in asks, and if so, do you mind if I ask you more things in the future?

Q-Is your fic meant to be AU or as close to canon as possible?

R-Could I please have permission to borrow an OC from your WIP? (I will share the fic with you when it’s done.)

S-Could I please write a fic for a different POV for a scene in your WIP? (I will share the fic with you when it’s done.)

T-Could I please write a spinoff of your WIP? (I will share the fic with you when it’s done.)

U-Has anyone ever referenced your WIP or written a spinoff of your fic before in their writing or art? If so, which scene/ characters?

V-Could YOU draw a character or scene from your WIP and share? If you aren’t an artist, that’s okay!

W-Could I please draw a fan art from your WIP? (I will share it with you when it’s done.)

X-What was the most surprising thing to happen while writing your WIP?

Y-What is a line, scene, or repeated idea you are really proud of in your WIP?

Z-When you write stories like this WIP, do you plan the plot and then set things up so the characters naturally follow, or do you set up the characters and let them completely drive the plot? Or do you do some combo?

AA-What is a funny out-of-context line/ short scene from your WIP?

#asks #ask game #wip game #wip ask game #writing #just for fun

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sweetfirebird · 2 years

Text

Birthday story! Pomegranate

Last year, for my birthday stories, I was sort of loosely doing ‘arranged marriage’ tropes for the Familiar Spirits books. (Which is funny, since they are all basically arranged marriages stories anyway.) But I ran out of time to do a fun AU for Ezra and Emery. (Chester, typically, made things a bigger deal than they needed to be, so let’s blame him.) idk why my brain then went here, I mean, the world does not need another Hades/Persephone AU and also they are not an arranged marriage anyway unless you call the kidnapping plan an arrangement but whatever, we are skipping all that anyway.

Before anyone starts: I know Hades is not the God of Death but the God of the Dead and that is different and not what Ezra is but sshhh. Also there is a lot of stuff about the story (and others about these deities) that I am just sweeping under a rug and/or fudging so shhhh. Also this is unedited, so don’t @ me about it.

Content warnings: hmm technically, Emery cannot leave a place but he is also not exactly a prisoner. I mean, P/H stories are Beauty and the Beast stories which are about girls making do in arranged or whatever marriages, but honestly this is not that grim. Truly. Emery is just being Emery here. Um. Ezra needs to eat more. They both want to bone. Idk.

Emery (and Ezra and all characters from Familiar Spirits) belong to R. Cooper etc etc

Nothing More Certain, but the God of the Dead version.

Emery stared out over the vast necropolis that stood just inside the gates. The marble gateposts rose to the sky, or what would have been, could have been, the sky. This world was beneath the earth yet outside of it, designed to be endless, although most of those who entered probably did not think of the walls around and above them. At least, not when so fresh from their crossing.

The gates were open, always open, to allow the souls of the dead to pass through, for all the good it did Emery now. He couldn’t step outside them. That was the way of this world, the way of the King of the Dead, even if the one standing before the king was alive and immortal. What entered this realm stayed in this realm, unless granted permission from the greatest of them.

The necropolis was, he suspected, meant to offer comfort in some way. The Remembered who entered the gates might like to think of the offerings made to them, the monuments left with their remains. But none had bodies to be placed here, and if any of the shades lingered over the stones and statues and urns that stretched to some distant point, Emery could not see them.

Emery also thought that not even the paint on the pottery and the bright colors of the statues could equal the pleasures of the world the shades had just left behind. The dirt around the stone was bare. Looking at it made his chest feel hollow and his hands itch with the need to touch it.

Or maybe that the warmth in his palm from the touch of the king. Emery would not have expected him to feel so, but should have. Never, in the many times Emery had glimpsed the king, had the king ever seemed cold. Distant and distracted, slight and thin as though he did not know plenty or ease, but with a gaze that caught and held.

No, he had never seemed cold. Emery had never found him so.

But he was cruel to have done this.

“The rules should be different if someone was tricked into being here.” Emery glared at the rich soil of the underworld that did not have even the wriggle of an earthworm through it.

“You were invited,” the king returned, surprising warmth in his voice as well.

That brought Emery’s head up, some of the garlic flowers, dandelion greens, and cherry blossoms in his hair falling to the ground at the sharp motion.

He glanced down to the elegant, fragile shape of the king’s hand, fingers still half-curled as they had been when Emery had taken hold of them, as they had been when Emery had…

A hand extended through the earth did not count as an invitation.

But if it did, “You didn’t say to where.” Emery met the king’s eyes at last, dark brown and hungry.

The king gestured toward the realm beyond them without taking his gaze from Emery. “The garden needs tending.”

“What garden?” Emery put as much scorn in his voice as he was capable of, which, since he was his mother’s son, was a lot.

The king frowned in worry, but curled his hand as though he wished it still held Emery’s. “Yours,” he explained softly, the softness surprising too, “if you’d claim it.”

Emery did not allow the tremor carry all the way down his spine, although he could do nothing for the flutter of his heart; hearts were not his realm.

He wanted to pretend he was surprised by the offer, or to demand to know if it meant what his hot blood said it did. But that he was not going to do. He was not free, here. No offers would be heard.

His spine was an oak. “I have gardens of my own to return to.”

The king’s hand opened. “I cannot let go. I’m sorry.”

“Are you?” Emery dragged his gaze away, focusing on the bare soil around them, and then, when that called to him nearly as strongly as the king himself, looked to the lifeless stone instead.

He did not hear whatever answer might have been given. He turned his back on the king and his gates, and walked until even a god would tire.

He stalked the lengths of the realm at first, knowing he would walk forever if he chose, but turning away from the depths of Tartarus and the stark fields that heroes apparently thought of as beautiful. The walls, when they chose to be there and when he chose to see them, were the shadowed, packed rock of the inside of mountains, glimmering with silver and gold and gems that did not matter to the dead. The sky that was there to be seen if he truly looked was not truly the sky. Or, it was, but Emery and the others here could not experience it as a living body might. It was like viewing the sun through a fine mesh net. Emery could feel the warmth of it, but only just, and doubted the dead could.

He had an idea the sun was there, as the stars and moon would be there, for those shades who suddenly remembered their old lives and wanted a taste of it, or maybe to help new arrivals adjust to endless time by giving them a familiar sight.

But sight was all it was. They could not feel, so it did not rain. There were never clouds, night or day. Only the moon changed, as the moon must.

They were looked after, the common souls who had neither greatly offended nor greatly pleased the gods. But there was no beauty for them as they waited.

A garden would be a good gift to them; humans always did love green things.

But that might have been asked of Emery when he had stood on real soil in the sun’s full light, so he walked on. He found a house, a beautiful, if small for such a king, house, and passed through it, ignoring the full table, the rooms with a soft bed and the large pool of clear bathing water prepared for him. He passed the entrance to a throne room, and felt, for a moment, as if thousands of souls pressed around him, waiting for their turn to beat their breasts or plead their cases or inquire after those left behind.

He did not go in.

He walked, and when he was finally weary enough that Sleep pulled him down, he curled up in the soil of the necropolis, his back to one of the stones.

He woke to ryegrass and wheat sprouting beneath him for a mattress and sprigs of soft parsley for a pillow. He considered this for a long time, then finally answered some of the hunger in his heart and plucked a twig heavy with cherries from his crown. He dug it a bed with his fingers and packed the dirt back around it to keep it warm and help it grow.

No one in this place would taste its fruit, yet Emery regarded it with satisfaction. The tree would look well behind the statue of the young girl where he had placed it. Its petals would line the paths no one would walk, but those at the gates would see them and know peace.

This could be a place of beauty, he thought, hands curling. I could make it so.

But he kept the words locked in his mouth, just as he turned away from the tempting, sweet cherries of his own creation.

“What are you doing?”

The question seemed to come from just behind Emery’s shoulder, but when Emery turned, the King of the Dead watched him from some distance away. His crown, whitewood and jet, like bone and shadow, circled his brow. He wore gold meanders at his ears. His cloak fell open to one side, revealing a long tunic of black cloth that stole the light, and slender feet untouched by the dirt around them.

Emery felt himself staring and turned away. “Entertaining myself. Isn’t this why you brought me here?”

“You brought yourself here,” the king reminded him. His voice had not lost its softness and yet now, Emery imagined it as it would carry through a throne room filled with thousands at a time. Even the King of the Gods did not command such an audience.

Emery snorted. “Keep telling yourself that.” But he paused, frowning, because his mocking question had not been turned aside. But if Emery had only been wanted for a garden, or for a garden and bit of sport in a garden, there would have been simpler ways to go about it.

He looked back, only for a moment. The king watched him with eyes that Emery could not meet for long.

Emery had thrown off his cloak for ease of motion and had lost it some time ago. His light tunic was short, his feet bare. Blue and white pea blossoms fell from behind the shell of his ears to the back of his neck, tickling his skin before they fell to the ground. He felt as if the king had watched each petal fall and envied it for knowing Emery’s skin, and then as if the thought of the king’s hands on him had set him afire.

He stayed on his knees and turned to the soil between his fingers. He was rough. “You wanted a garden.”

“The humans are not being punished. Well,” there was a hint of humor in how the king paused, “some aren’t. Most are not. Shouldn’t they know some comforts? They cannot fill all their senses anymore but I would give them this, if I could. There is nothing unnatural about this place,” the king lowered his voice, and Emery imagined a graceful hand outstretched, pleading, inviting, “but I can’t grow things.”

“And you can’t let go.” Emery tossed his head, spilling nettle seeds into the furrows before him. He tenderly swept soil over them then held himself still. “These are mine. Not yours.”

It was not his realm. Emery spoke the words anyway, then sat up before turning his head.

This time, he did not let the fierce hunger in the king’s gaze distract him. “They are mine and you will not touch them.”

The king’s eyebrows flew up. A smile nearly took his mouth. His gaze remained the same, even when he bowed his head. “I will not touch them.”

A binding promise, given freely. Not enough, yet Emery’s heart fluttered again. Somewhere, not in this realm, a rose bloomed with a perfume that nothing else on earth would ever match.

Emery could not move.

The king could, a step closer. “Is there anything else I can offer you, Mistress?”

He did not speak as though a place between Emery’s thighs was assured, but his desire was plain.

Emery dug his fingertips into the soil and let it pull the heat from him. “That is not an epithet for me,” he said at last, “and this is all I need.”

He did not know when the king left.

A lie. He knew exactly when the heavy gaze was gone because the resulting warmth in his limbs disappeared.

Emery did not stop his work, but when he sat back to rest, blossoms stuck to the sweat on his chest, then trickled down to his lap.

He picked one up and nearly put it to his lips before he recalled himself.

It went into the ground, so rows of peas could curl lovingly around a row of urns.

Emery spent weeks in just that spot, the smallest corner of an endless kingdom. He grew grass and then alyssum. Tall, yellow strap flowers. Wild ginger and violets. Cowslip and spotted lilies. He plunged his fingers into the earth as he had to first come to this realm and instead of a warm hand, found cool water. He dug a channel that filled as he wished it. He knew not where the water came from and did not ask. It was to quench the thirst of the plants, not his own.

He kept the paths around the stones and statuary clear, but sang to encourage his plants to grow everywhere else they pleased, up to the shaded sun or creeping outward to caress the lonely marble figures. He called to the bees and discovered shades of them as well, as he needed. That was not within his power but he didn’t offer any thanks to the king who had granted the favor.

Dead nettle grew where the king stood to watch him work. Emery buried the imprint of each sandal with ferns and hellebore, then cabbage and parsnips, taking spiteful pleasure in the sight of food being grown where the King of the Dead had stood.

He moved until the exhaustion finally sank into his bones and even he longed to rest again.

“You are not actually one of the dead.”

Emery did not doubt the king’s concern, which was infuriating, because he should. Yet the quiet remark, offered gently, spoke of worry.

Emery’s mother used much the same tone when Emery had focused too long on a task, a comparison that would please neither monarch, he was sure.

Emery, sour berries at his brow, scowled. “I am more than aware of that.”

The king, as a great king, did not apologize, but did seem to tread lighter as he went on. “You’ve worked very hard. You ought to rest. Clean up. Eat.”

Emery stiffened. “I’m fine.”

Water trickled in countless streams around him, some visible, some deep in the ground. It was the only sound until the king released a shuddery breath.

“All right,” he agreed, drawing Emery’s gaze to him. “But if you wish to clean yourself, to rest in a bed, you know you may, and where.”

Without his crown, the king was still a king, dark hair gleaming without light, bracelets of deep red wood along his arms.

“Such honors for a gardener.” The words tripped from Emery, meant to be mocking, but his breathlessness betrayed him. “And yet not a word for what I have done so far.”

“It’s beautiful,” the king praised him immediately. “You know it is. You please them.”

“I do?” Emery glanced around despite himself. He knew he did. His work always brought joy to humans. Yet, “I can’t see them.”

He was chided, fond and warm. “You wouldn’t, Life.”

“Don’t.” Emery closed his mouth with a snap, leaving the order there before it could soften. “That is not an epithet for me either.”

“As you say.” It did not have the sound of real agreement.

Emery did not need to be placated. He raised his head and reached up as he did, taking a bunch of berries and nearly offering them to the king. But they were bitter, not good for much more than color and food for birds. And, of course, here there were no birds.

Still, the berries might have been the only thing to cross the king’s lips in some time. He was thin. Emery was used to plenty, it was true, hardy muscles and a soft belly from work and wine and bread without end, but the king was still slight. His table had held more than enough food, but he obviously did not eat it.

“And when do you rest, Wealthy One? When you should be resting, you are here.” Emery did not bite his tongue after making the foolish statement, but it was a near thing.

The king’s eyes lit even brighter. “I didn’t know you noticed my visits. You are usually very intent upon your work, as you were when I first saw you.”

“Ah,” Emery nodded tightly, wanting to crush the berries in his hand. “And that decided you? That? Often, I saw you though we never spoke. And you saw me intent upon my work and thought you would force me to—”

“Emery,” said the king, soft, but to be heard over endless fields, “Rough One, Angry One. I did not make you dig so far into the earth. You reached down. You reached for me, Flower-bringer.”

Emery threw the berries at him. They hit the bottom edge of the king’s cloak and fell harmlessly to the ground.

“And my flowers up there?” Emery shouted, voice hoarse at the idea of them withered and rotting without him. “The rest of my gardens?”

The king dared to look surprised. “I did not think of them.”

“What did you think of?”

Emery meant it to be full of scorn, and it was, for a moment, before his breathing quickened and the king’s gaze met his again. The king was so hungry, vastly, endlessly, and Emery was meant to give. He wanted to, would have in moments if the king had reached for him anywhere else. Emery was strong hands and a full mouth, a furrow made for ploughing.

He did not blame the king for desires that Emery shared. Maybe it was those desires that wouldn’t let his anger fade. “You considered that, but not this part of me?”

For the span of a breath, the king was proud in his crown again, his neck wrapped in beaten gold, his hair gleaming with it. Then not even the simple bracelets remained. He showed Emery his open hands. “I cannot change what I am. I wanted…”

“You wanted, and now I am here,” Emery interrupted, breathing hard.

The king’s lips parted. “Yes,” he finally said, instead of the argument Emery half-expected him to attempt. “I will try to make it up to you.”

Emery stared in confusion at the face of a king without rival, though this king might pretend otherwise. “What possibly could?” he finally asked, with what felt like a dove trapped behind his ribs. “I could grow gardens here for eternity and I still would need the sun. I would still miss my mother, and birdsong as the birds sip from my flowers, and the sight of vines uncurling beneath the true silver light of the moon.”

“Oh,” said the king who could command anyone, and then vanished, the bunch of sour berries and the marks in the grass the only signs he had ever been there.

Emery did not rest, out of spite, though his movements slowed. He was conscious now of an audience, or at least of the slight murmur of movement or voices that came from the gate and carried down the paths through the necropolis that led to the rest of the realm.

Thinking of them and their comfort, he added trees. Hackberry and laurel. Maples in bold reds. Something new, with flowers that dripped from its dark branches like the palest cream. Yellow shrubs of witch-hazel. Grass sprouted wherever he stepped except for the paths around the stones.

His hands made another trickling stream, ice-cold as it washed dirt from his skin but not from beneath his fingernails. The sight of the water left his throat parched and burning. Emery turned his back on it. Now clean, or as clean as he could be, he laid down to sleep where he would not hear the babbling of the brook.

He woke to asphodel around him and a blanket over him, a blanket of cloth so fine he could not feel the weave between his fingers. It could be the work of only one, and it had been draped over Emery despite the dirt that covered him.

He did not mean to walk toward the house once he had risen, but the blanket must be returned. Returning it punished no one but himself, but Emery was nothing if not stubborn.

He made his way over hills and fields full of those he could not see, leaving more asphodel behind him, and cypresses along any ridges where he felt they were needed, until he reached the house of black granite. He ought to call it a palace, though it was nowhere near as grand as some palaces found atop mountains or beneath the seas. It was a palace built for one.

One who did not have visitors, although Emery found his rooms as he had left them, the bed with all its pillows and blankets waiting for him, the marble pool clear and fresh, the air heated by fragrant steam.

He plucked at his stained tunic and felt the itch of soil even in his hair, and when servants he could not see parted a curtain as if to direct him to the bathing pool, he was not surprised. He plunged into the water, then warmed himself amid the steam while he rubbed oils scented with narcissus into his skin, and finally dressed in the clothes laid out for him. When he finished, it was evening, or as close to evening as it ever could be here.

He walked throughout empty rooms, brilliantly lit against darkness yet empty all the same, until he reached the hall meant for a feast, with the table prepared for a banquet. A spring banquet that carried into summer, bright with berries and apples, vivid greens and crisp radishes, figs and oranges and pomegranates, naked walnuts and honeyed almonds, pitchers of water and wine, and breads so thick with grain that Emery nearly thought his mother was near.

He swallowed to wet his throat and put a hand to his chest, over his trembling heart and his burning hunger. Then he returned across all the fields to the start of his garden.

But when he tired of the roughness of dirt on his skin again, after days and nights of a distant moon and a shaded sun, he crossed the fields of the Remembered to clean himself and soften his skin with his favorite perfume. And perhaps he was also simply tired, for he fell asleep on the bed before he could dress.

The rooms, his rooms, the only such rooms in the palace, were richly furnished, the bed comfortable, the house calm and peaceful. Emery stayed to his bed until clematis crept along the walls.

When he left and returned the next night, no one had pulled down the vines and the flowers had started to bloom.

“You rest but you do not eat.” The king spoke with no warning, although Emery had felt his presence in the grove of birch and holly since his arrival hours ago. Hours spent watching Emery work and Emery allowing it without objection.

“And you do neither,” Emery heard himself answer, as if this was the only argument he had held inside as they breathed so near to each other. “There is no sign of you in your house of black granite. No place for you to…” Emery stilled. “Did you give me your bed?”

“It is the least I could do.”

Emery could not respond to that or think of how he had been sleeping on the king’s mattress, among his blankets, Emery’s warm and scented skin leaving them fragrant, his flowers brightening the room, his vines curling around the bed itself.

The least indeed, Emery thought without bitterness. Such a wealthy and powerful king could have made Emery his own house.

He immediately shuddered away from the idea of another dark, bare palace, empty of any presence but his own.

“And staying away even when I am not here?” Emery demanded in a gruff voice. “That food looks untouched whenever I see it.”

“I have much to do,” responded the king, and Emery did not think he lied. Yet the king was here, from sunset to sunrise, sometimes, saying nothing, as if the sight of Emery was feast enough.

Emery kept that behind his teeth but could not stop the rest. “Better that the food not be there, then, if you’re not going to touch it.” Emery could not cook, had no interest in a hearth. But it was in his nature to provide, to spill over with plenty, and to see his bounty on that table and know it was not received? It itched. It burned. And his hunger was so great already.

He clenched his fists. “What will the world do, if the King of the Dead joins his subjects because he will not rest or eat?”

He wouldn’t. Emery knew that. The king might waste away to nothing but a voice as Emery might if he continued on as he was, but he would not die.

“It is the world that concerns me,” the king replied, soft and mournful. “But I know not how to fix it. I cannot… I might have to leave, for a while. I am sorry.”

Emery turned at last to look at him, the great, small figure curled up at the base of a young birch, his shoulders hidden by a heavy, dark mantle. “Is something wrong?”

The king looked at him, saddened and hungry, then turned his head to break their shared gaze. He inhaled deeply. “I have work to do. I should go.”

Emery tore a handful of carrots from the ground that had not been there moments before. He held them out, dizzy when the king rose to his feet and slowly approached him to take them.

His voice had a rasp. “Eat.”

Their hands did not touch as the king accepted the bundle. “They are like jewels, even covered in soil. I thank you.”

Emery wished he could look away or smooth his voice. “You cannot let go, and I cannot not grow things, nor leave you to starve.”

“No.” The king spoke like one grieving. “No, I suppose you can’t.”

“So,” Emery found it difficult to swallow, his throat drier than ever, “eat them. And rest. I will sleep out here tonight. Or… or you could order me from your bed.”

At last, the tired, mournful air left the king. His gaze returned to Emery, blazing hot as Tartarus itself. “You know I won’t do that.”

Emery did know that. And that what the King of the Dead wanted could have been had under real sunlight. Or at least asked after.

He would have acquiesced to any such request from the slight, sorrowful king and the hunger in his eyes. Emery was meant to satisfy, and he had flowers in his fingertips for any that might fade beneath each graceful, dark hand.

“You could build me a home here, then, separate from yours,” Emery suggested, then did not move, not even to draw in air.

The reply, when it came, was soft. “If you ask me to, I will.”

Emery sent his gaze away, staring at the first hints of red among his holly trees.

He considered many answers. “I would have liked a choice.”

“You took my hand.” The king would say that, reminding Emery of the warmth in his palm he could no longer feel. “Why didn’t you pull me up?”

Emery shuddered. The King of the Dead could not live in a bower of roses and blue sky any more than Emery could live forever with black rock above him. But the simple truth was as the king had said; Emery had not drawn him up. He had not thought he could. Emery was no king. “You are more powerful than I.”

“Am I, Mistress?” Oh, that voice could be coaxing and sweet. “Every god but you would think this soil barren.”

Emery’s name could be spoken. He had no need to pretend otherwise, and none feared him, that he knew of. “Will you not call me by my real name?”

“Will you not call me by mine?” responded the king, or, just his voice, the rest of him vanished from sight. “More than any other immortal, you have no reason to fear me.”

When Emery did not speak, he heard, “I thank you again,” on a faraway breeze. Then he was alone.

Emery spent the night under stars that were farther away than ever. He allowed the trees to grow, their lush canopies forming something like a ceiling to block out each twinkling light.

The king did not join him the next day. Emery wondered if he had ventured from his kingdom as he had hinted he might. Then he wondered when he would return. He chided himself for it, but that did not stop his thoughts from dwelling on what could possibly trouble the one that even the King of the Gods might someday answer to.

After what might have been midday, he noticed a breeze among the branches of his trees that he had not before. He followed it back to the start of his garden, to overflowing flowers and cold stones and pink blossoms scattered over the earth. He went to the gates themselves, wide open but guarded, where the breeze was a shivering cold gust and leaves from Emery’s trees stirred against the ground like the sound of soft tears.

Emery frowned at that, then traveled back across the fields to the house, again empty, the great table untouched. He took oranges and pears and a wedge of a split pomegranate, and left asphodels behind him on his furious journey to the throne room of the king.

The steps to the hall were wide and carved of gleaming stone. There, even Emery’s flowers would not grow and his steps had no sound. He walked alone, but felt, for the first time in his realm, life around him, or the shadows of it, some wailing with misery and some not, some nearly trembling with anxiety he could feel, though for what, he didn’t know. Only great crimes were punished here and only great deeds mattered. Most were left to wait for the arrival of their loved ones in peace, or what peace might be had in the fields and halls of the dead.

The shades of the once-living parted around him, and far away, then very close, the king caught his breath on the sound of one of Emery’s names.

His throne rose up from the ground itself and pulled down from the ceiling above, made of stone such a deep, sinking black that was barely visible against the hall behind him. There was no sky in this hall, not even the pretend version of one. The throne room was the dark of deep earth, sparkling with veins of gold and silver and red lights that might have been jewels, as red as the seeds in Emery’s hand.

Next to that throne was another, a throne of earth, bare of color.

Emery turned his face from the empty throne to approach the first.

The king’s gaze lit on the fruit Emery held forth for him, and hope emanated from him like the waves of heat near a fire before he looked to Emery’s face. Then he sighed. “You have come to chastise me.”

Emery scowled. “Something is wrong, and you do not eat or rest.”

“I can’t.” The king gestured, almost kindly, to the rest of the room.

Emery turned to glance over the vast space. “I cannot see them,” he admitted again. “Though I can… I can feel them, or what they once were.” He didn’t ask, but the question was in his voice. “I couldn’t before.”

The king either had no answer, or had an answer Emery did not understand. “There are so many of them. Too many, lately.”

Emery glanced over the hall again. “Another war?” Always, there was war. Humans loved War so. Emery did not. It undid his work.

The king shook his head. “I have not been outside my gates for some time. But they suffered before they came to me.”

Emery scowled. “I will grow more flowers,” he decided out loud. “For them. To help.” He looked down and remembered the fruit he still held out. “And you should eat if you’re to deal with that.”

“As should you,” the king answered, fond enough to make Emery shiver. But he extended a hand and Emery put the orange and the section of pomegranate in it. He left the pear on the ground at the king’s feet when it seemed as if the king would not accept more.

“Do I have to make sure you rest as well?” Emery demanded, and thought a tremor went through the king’s body.

But his answer was calm for all that his gaze wasn’t. “I have my duty.”

And no one to share it.

It stayed unspoken, though Emery darted a look to the other throne. His words were slow, not false, but they might have been with how strange and stilted his voice became. “It wouldn’t suit me. I only help things grow.”

“Lord of Shoots and Sprouts and Green Things.” The king called him. “Essential to the Queen of Harvest and Plenty. But also, I think, essential to the King of the Dead.”

Emery could not look at him for that, but that his bowed head said enough. “You know I can’t stay here. I can’t live away from the light, not for long.”

“I do.” The king mourned again. “Yet I cannot let go.” He turned his palm up on his knee, where Emery could see. His other hand was full of ripe, tempting fruit. “What enters my kingdom is mine. This even the others cannot change.”

Emery raised his head to give the king a puzzled frown. “But I brought life here.”

The king answered his frown a small one of his own. “That you did. Of a sort. In your way.” He smiled, though it was not merry. “And it will fade when you leave, if you do. I cannot maintain that. Not even my power equals yours, to bring blooms to this place. You do know that, don’t you?”

“Then it will take someone stronger than even you to bring me out of this place?” Emery reasoned slowly. “Who would that be?”

“Did I not just say?” The king waved toward the empty seat beside him. “Do you think I put that throne there? It built itself with every pass of your hands into my earth.”

Emery stared with stinging eyes at the throne and then at the slender hand gesturing to it. He could not speak.

The king slowly withdrew his hand, then shifted to turn away, facing the crowd of restless souls. “More have come,” he announced in an echoing, distant voice. “I need to see to them.”

Emery shook himself, sending white and red poppies to his feet. He focused back on the king. “You will eat?” It was all he could think to say, and that too quietly.

He felt almost like one of the Remembered when the king nodded without looking away. He slipped from the throne room through a labyrinth of confused grief, as if the room was choked with souls.

There were more when Emery came out into the fields. He felt their sobs and laughs both, as if the shades were full of sorrow to find some of their loved ones here, but happy as well to be reunited. He left them lobelia and ground flowers, primroses like opals, and wandered among the stones in his first garden until he began to see stars above him.

Emery ordered the bathing room to be warmed and ready and the table filled, and waited on the bare earth outside the house where there ought to have been peonies and yarrow and olive trees. When no one came, he bent down to push his palm against the dirt, and when he rose, the King of the Dead stood before him holding a white poppy that fell to the ground when their eyes met.

“A bath awaits you,” Emery told him with furious dignity. “As does your dinner.”

The king raised his head. “And you?”

“I have bathed.” Emery wanted that to be his complete answer, but more fell from his mouth. “I will sit with you, as you eat.”

The king did not look away. He let silence carry through the house, then inclined his head. “As you say, dear Mistress.”

He left Emery to tremble with longing as he passed him to enter the house he had ceded to Emery and his vines.

Emery waited in the garden that was not, and then, when he thought there had been time enough, he went into the feasting hall to sit with the king.

Wine was poured, even for Emery who would not drink. The table was laden with offerings, although not as much as before, unless Emery was mistaken. But he saw dried figs with honey, and soups of herbs and lentils, a few handfuls of almonds. Parsnips and carrots. Goat cheese in cabbage leaves, dried seaweed, and some apples next to all the fruits from before.

It was not enough for a god’s table but the king barely touched food and Emery reached for none of it.

“You must have more,” he finally said, wishing he were angrier or more distant. Anything but worried and fond and ravenous.

The king could eat everything on the table and it would not sate the need in him that Emery saw when their eyes met. Emery could have done the same. But still, like a fool, he reached for an orange and used his fingernail to carve into the skin to peel it and tear away a slice, which he held out with the juice sticky on his wrist.

He didn’t know what his skin felt like to draw the low sound from the king that it did, but he shivered openly at the press of the king’s hand around his, and stared hungrily when the piece of orange was taken between the king’s teeth, and when the king licked his lips afterward.

Emery reached for more of the orange without taking his eyes away, but found the split pomegranate. He dug his fingertips into the flesh to find tart, plump arils, which burst and stained his fingers. He put his red-purple hand full of seeds to the king’s mouth and offered them until they were gone and his fingertips were tasted in their place.

Emery stumbled forward, the long table and its feast pushed aside, vanished entirely while the King of the Dead licked juice from his wrist and the inside of his arm. His lips should have been cold, but like so much else about him, they were warm. They opened beneath Emery’s kisses, and then strong arms drew him down to sit in the king’s lap as though Emery were the one who was slight and small and soft.

“I can’t stay,” Emery whispered hoarsely between embraces, his tunic gone, his mouth brushing the king’s as Emery sought another kiss, “but I am here now.”

The king gave him the kiss he asked for, tart and sweet, and let Emery pull him to the floor among the spilled food as though their bedroom were not mere steps away.

Honeysuckle supplanted the clematis. Emery woke to its heady scent, his arms around a slender, sleeping figure. Happy, Emery put his head back down onto the pillow.

He woke the second time at the sound of voices.

When he traveled down the hallway green with the start of climbing hydrangea and out of the house into the stand of thick olive trees by the door, the king stood alone, although Emery caught a glimpse of winged feet and heard the distant rush of wind.

Until that moment, he had forgotten that one other among them had the ability to come and go from this place, though that was only for reasons of great importance.

“What is it?”

At the question, the king looked to him, his cloak like shadow itself, his crown swallowing light as he turned away again.

“I have learned the reason why my halls are unusually full, and that a decision has been made.” He paused, his gaze on the stand of trees. “Your mother misses you. She will not permit—no, I don’t think that is it at all. I think she cannot do her work without you, because your absence has left her heart bare and empty, like the earth here before you touched it. That, I understand. They are dying while I keep you here. They will all die, every single human, because she can’t go on without you. And that cannot be. This is my realm, but the others will all stand against me if I do not agree to what they have decided.”

The king raised his head, then faced Emery. “I cannot let go, but they can take. And they are right to do so, because you cannot stay here. I am to fight my nature, and for that, I will. If you go to the gates, husband, you will find her waiting for you, along with another to escort you out.”

Emery could almost feel the heat of the sun again as he thought of his mother. He would hold her tight and dig his toes into rich, damp soil and plant roses that needed full light. He would taste roasted apples and dine on figs and guzzle wine underneath the moon.

And the silver light would make him think of the great hall and the throne meant for him, and the roses would remind him that none would ever grow here no matter how much he wished it. The gardens here, only just begun, would fade and fail and wither. The shades would mourn without beauty.

And the king would avoid the bed chamber that held no flowers, and his table would remain empty, and Emery would be little more than a shade to him.

Not even that. The king could see and hear his subjects.

Emery did not know how long he had stood there, breathing hard, but when he didn’t speak, the king finally looked away.

“You could visit me above?” Emery offered quietly, but knew it was wrong. That was the way of a lover, not a husband. And the King of the Dead’s work was never done. When was he to find the time?

But the king smiled. “You do care for me?” He did not wait for a response, as though he didn’t know by now that the hunger in his eyes always stole Emery’s breath. He took so little, as if he truly did not understand what he did to Emery’s heart. “I will keep that if I can’t keep you. But,” his smile fell away, “I cannot watch you go or I will fight. So I will leave you here, Rough One.”

Emery stared hard at the ground and ignored the name. “Will you keep them alive for me? At least the honeysuckle?”

He imagined the king extending one hand, fingers curled warm and tight around Emery’s. But he did not think the king moved. “It is not in my nature to grant life. I can try. But I don’t think I’ll have the will.”

Emery looked up. “What if…” But he had no options. There was nothing on his tongue. He had not even had water for far too long.

And anyway, it didn’t matter. The king had gone.

Emery walked over fields without looking at his trees, or the grass, or the flowers meant to remind the dead they were remembered. He could not. Nor he could he linger in his garden to say goodbye to nettles and cabbages, cowslip and a carpet of ferns.

He went to the gates and saw his mother.

She stood, short and curving, near the dog that made not a sound as it watched her, its tongues lolling happily when she glanced its way. Wheat and poppies rested at her temples like the laurels some humans wore. Her tunic was brown and gold.

Emery saw no sign of rage or of crushing grief about her, or if there had been, it had vanished at her first glimpse of him.

“Should I kill him?” she asked when Emery was near enough, calling it out for countless shades and the boatman to hear.

“You can’t kill him,” Emery called back, voice rough.

“I can make him suffer,” his mother returned smoothly. “If you wish it.”

Just past the start of the necropolis, Emery stopped, though he didn’t dare look back. He wasn’t certain what he wanted to see more if he did, the king there, or the king gone.

“He does suffer,” he told his mother quietly, “though I wish he didn’t.”

His mother raised elegant eyebrows. “He didn’t offer disrespect?”

“He offered a throne,” Emery revealed, and frowned while his mother reacted to that with confusion and then pride. The King of the Dead had offered his hand, but Emery had made that throne for himself. He stared blankly at the trees of the necropolis, already seeming to droop as if they knew Emery was leaving them forever. He had made those grow where nothing should have. He had called water to ground that should have stayed barren. He had brought flowers to the bed of Hades himself. “I…” Emery hesitated. “I am… Shoots and Sprouts and Green Things.”

“As I am Plenty, and the Harvest.” His mother stared at him lovingly, if impatiently.

Emery imagined her charging to the very mountaintop and promising, threatening, to destroy them all if Emery were not returned to her. And she had done it, or started to. Taken life, as the King of the Dead himself did not do. She and Emery were meant to give, but she had taken. So could Emery.

A fearful lord, his husband might say, fondly, warmly, between kisses that tasted of pomegranate. A king not to be spoken of by name.

Mistress, the king had said instead. Flower-bringer. Rough One. Angry One. Bringer-of-Fruit. Like-Honey, but that one only in bed. Because Emery must be kept happy. Because Emery was the more powerful.

For Emery, the king would fight his very nature and let him go.

Emery swallowed, and found the lingering taste of love to be tart as well as sweet.

Then he went still. He met his mother’s eyes.

“I can’t leave,” Emery pronounced slowly. “I know the taste of food from his table.”

His mother’s lips parted in shock, but then worried anger replaced it. “But you can’t stay here! You need the air and true light! Not this!”

“I know.” Emery raised his hands to try to calm her.

It didn’t work.

“And I have only just gotten you back!” she yelled, even though Emery had not yet crossed through the gates. She lowered her head and showed Emery the mother’s fury that would have saved him. “I will have his head if he tricked you. I will leave no human in peace if I have to let you waste away here! Forget that rule! Forget his throne if it will lead to your destruction. Come away with me now!”

“I can’t.” He needed her to understand.

His mother gave him a good, long study, then crossed her arms. “You choose now to be stubborn?”

“These are not my rules,” he reminded her.

She narrowed her eyes. “No, we know whose they are.”

“And we know one other besides the King of the Dead himself can enter and leave these gates as he pleases,” Emery added. “So the rules can be changed, can’t they?”

His mother stared at him, expression stunned before her sharp focus returned. “You would ask for that?”

“I would stay beside him.” Emery let the words out and then sighed. “And I would stay with you, so you can know I am safe and the world can go on. And because I love you too.”

She smiled and frowned and smiled again. “That would be your choice?”

“To feel the ground warm with summer and to have the stars bright enough to read by. To watch our beans grow in the furrows, and to smell lavender and marigolds and lemon verbena under the heat of midday.” Emery gave her a smile in return. “And to sit here in the shade of the afterlife and feel his gaze on me.”

“It would take someone very powerful to grant that… to even ask it,” said his mother softly.

“I think so too,” volunteered the leaning, languid figure nearby with a flowering vine curling up his bare leg and dipping down behind the wings on his gold sandals. His pursed, pouting lips curved into a smile. “Your petition has been heard,” he announced grandly, “as has yours.” He nodded to Emery’s mother, then to Emery, and he grew serious. “This is the life you choose? Half of one, half of the other?”

Emery held out a hand as his husband might have done. “If it is that or to have neither.”

“Heard, but not granted?” Emery’s mother interrupted, questioning the both of them at once. “I want my son alive, and I would prefer, happy. Must I demonstrate my power again?”

She had the right idea. “And must I demonstrate mine?” Emery added, then considered before going on. “And, I think, should my husband’s as well?”

“Husband,” his mother remarked, disapproving but not of what Emery might have expected. “Without even a proper wedding.”

“The three of you standing together?” The Messenger gave them a worried look, but it was brief. The smile full of mischief was back in an instant. “Give me a moment.” He was gone and then there again after Emery blinked. “Such an agreement would require the acceptance of terms from all parties, and one is not here.”

Emery’s heart fluttered, and he thought of the rose he had created for it, and who it might have pleased to argue his case so strongly though he could not hear her.

He raised his voice. “I will answer for him.”

“Emery,” his mother chided him, “you don’t even know the terms.”

They both turned together to stare down the Messenger.

The Messenger quailed a little.

Angry One, Emery remembered, and thought it right that the Messenger should be wary.

When he returned to the fields, through the necropolis, over ridges and down slopes too gentle to be called valleys, he had no destination in mind until he found it.

The King of the Dead sat crosslegged under a tree that Emery was certain had been a birch the day before and not a large, drooping willow.

The king looked up when he heard Emery’s approach, and his eyes lit with hunger even as he murmured, “I said I could not watch you leave, beloved, for I know you won’t come back.”

“About that…” Suddenly nervous, Emery fell down—knelt down—in front of him, dropping poppies and pea blossoms recklessly onto the black cloth over the king’s lap. He wished for months to go by so that he might return here with his arms full of roses. He wished for time to stand still so he would never have to leave. He wished that at least the king would finally understand what Emery felt for him. But all he could do now was reach out, but then he was warm again when a slender hand took his and held it tightly and kissed it with lips still stained red-purple. It was that and the familiar warmth which allowed him to smile as he raised his head. Then he gave the king a choice. “…I have a suggestion.”

The End

#nothing more certain #r. cooper #familiar spirits #greek gods #au #to match the others but also match the little wolf eros au i guess

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