#what a beautiful man. i want to see him in a fit of despair | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

maeby-cursed · 6 months

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KISS ME, TRY TO FIX IT…

𓂃 COULD YOU JUST TRY TO LISTEN ?

a/n: starting a new series of songfics ! this one is very obviously inspired by sad, beautiful, tragic, so you can see where this might be going. enjoy the results of my brainrot ♡ (also, i’ve never written for gojo before, please have mercy)

✧ synopsis: you’ve been waiting for satoru gojo for ten years, but there’s no trace of the man you fell in love with when you were sixteen years old. it’s time to let go, but he might not want to.

✧ pairings: satoru gojo x fem!reader

✧ wc: 2k

✧ rating: angst. so much of it, angst to drown in. might get suggestive at some points.

✧ cw: mentions of drinking, of the great jjk tragedy of 2006 and its aftermath, implied cheating, gojo may be ooc, toxic relationship ??

An ice-cold wind blows through the window as you wait.

It’s not even December yet but it’s already snowing.

Soft snowflakes the size of stars, far away in their firmament, enter your living room. When they land on the sofa, they dissolve, leaving in their wake thousands of specks of water that look disturbingly like tears.

It doesn't matter. You don't think he's going to notice anyway.

It's been ten long years of waiting. Ten long years of fighting, of fixing what's broken and denying that it's ever been broken.

It's over. Let winter freeze everything in its path.

When Satoru walks in through the door, you hesitate for a moment. A moment of madness when you see his hair, as white as the snowfall that has invaded your home. Just a moment when you see him in his burgundy turtleneck sweater, his tight-fitting coat. One single moment when you recognize the cold in his pink cheeks.

But it's all over when you meet his crystalline eyes. The fault is theirs.

"Is the window broken again?" he asks, dropping his keys on the entryway’s table.

The window has been broken since September.

You nod and he grunts, running a hand over his face.

"I'll call someone tomorrow, although you could have said something," he says. This is your fault. Of course.

You keep your eyes fixed on the snow. From the living room you can see the sidewalk across the street, covered in a blanket of white that sparkles under the street lamps. It's so painfully beautiful it makes you nostalgic.

You and Satoru moved into this house three years ago, when he got his teaching position, and you can't quite get over the fact that it's time to say goodbye.

You've spent three years of solstices here. You've seen the sidewalks covered with dead leaves, with thousands of little flowers that broke the pavement in their wake. But it’s never snowed.

It’s not fair, not one bit.

Satoru says no more. He goes to your room and undresses; he replaces his street clothes with a black outfit that seems very appropriate for the occasion. Since you’ve known him, he always takes off his glasses when he crosses the hall of your building, but for once, you wish he'd put them back on.

When he returns, his hair is dripping over his forehead. You hadn't even noticed that he was taking a shower.

But he hasn't noticed that your bedside table is empty, either; that your slippers are missing, that there's a seeping coldness in the hearth of your house, and it's not coming from the window.

"What's for dinner?" he asks, plopping down on the couch with his cell phone in his hand.

You get up.

9:26 p.m., November 8. This is where it ends.

"I don't know. I'm going out to dinner," you say.

He doesn’t even bother to look up.

"Hmm, where are you going? Are you bringing something back or should I order myself a pizza?"

It's painful to watch as nothing seems to touch him. He’s infinite — always infinite.

"I'm going to a work friend's house."

"The one with the lovely curly hair and those pretty hazel eyes?"

Christ.

"No. I'm moving in with Rhea. Dark-eyed, blonde, leggy."

"Hmm, how nice."

A moment passes where he just keeps staring at the screen, and you despair.

"Satoru."

"What's up, baby?"

"I'm moving."

At last – at last – he looks up. In his eyes you see nothing; two blue marbles that have sworn you two to an unjust fate.

"You're moving out? Why?"

Where to begin? Because you have been loving a man destined to save everything and everyone for a decade, because you have been trying to fill a void that is not your size for eight years, because the windows are broken and the bed is cold and Satoru arrives several nights smelling of anisette and the perfume of another, because you don't want to live looking at the Strongest, the possessor of the Six Eyes. Because you thought that in some hidden corner Satoru Gojo was still there, and he isn’t.

"Because it's killing me to live like this.” You settle for that as your explanation and try to keep your stare unwavering.

"Like this how?" he questions, suddenly irritated. "In a luxurious house?" He gestures around him with the cell phone in his hand. "Comfortably, with your dream job? Knowing you'll never have to worry about money?"

"No, Satoru. Like this, without you loving me."

That chills him to the bone.

"Of course I love you."

"Do you? Do you want me for anything other than to warm your bed and your cock? Do you want me here, as your partner? Do you need me for anything at all?"

You don’t gesticulate, you barely move from your spot in the middle of the room. Everything in this fucking place is white and uncannily clean; the sofas, the coffee table, the walls, even the snow; but you and Satoru. He’s in all black, you’re in all red. It’s almost dreamlike, and you struggle to stay grounded.

The only thing you could remove from this house that would grab his attention would be you.

"Yesterday you weren't complaining about any of this, what the fuck is the matter with you today?"

And you can't stand it anymore. The winter current lifts your hair, soaks the back of your neck and disguises your tears.

"THE MATTER IS THAT I'VE BEEN WAITING FOR TEN YEARS. WAITING FOR YOU. WAITING FOR THE MAN I MET AT SIXTEEN TO COME BACK, SLEEPING WITH A MAN OF ABSENT GAZE WHO STAGGERS INTO MY BED WHEN HE'S TIRED OF BEING IN EVERYONE ELSE'S. I DON'T WANT TO BE YOUR DOG, SATORU. I DON'T WANT YOU TO COME HOME AND FEEL OBLIGATED TO GIVE ME A WALK, A PETTING."

The words come spilling out of you without remedy, every wound bursting open through the stitches. He just looks at you.

"You think I don't love you?"

It hurts to hear him say it, it fucking hurts. You were prepared for the yelling and the coldness, even for a quick vulnerable stare. But never for his trembling voice and soft frown.

You inhale deeply.

"I don't think your love is of any use to me any longer."

Satoru stands up at that.

He's tall, tall and beautiful like Michelangelo's David. All your life, you've been feeling like you had no right to touch him. His infinity assured you that was the case.

He takes a step in your direction and whispers:

"Then what should I do now?"

Your eyes, fixed on the ground, rise to meet his. There's something in the void and you're not sure if it's just your reflection.

"What?" you mutter.

"How do I fix it? What do you need that I can't give you? Do you want me to quit work, for us to leave, for me to come home and kiss your temple, to cook for you, to listen to you, to cherish you in bed?” A heartbeat. “I will."

There’s something about the desperation in his tone, you aren’t sure of what to say next.

Satoru knows how to lie, but you don't know how to tell the difference.

"I don't want anything, Satoru. I'm tired," you whisper back, eyes full of water. "I want it to end. I want you to let it end."

He shakes his head, frowning, and through the mist of your tears you recognize that he is crying too.

"There has to be something. Anything. Something I can do, I can do it all."

It's partly true. He's Satoru Gojo; all-powerful, all-knowing. Eternal and young and beautiful and tragic as a poem.

You are just another person. You cried when Suguru left, when Haibara died, when Kento gave up the Jujutsu world and when Ieri locked herself in her office. You clung to Satoru, who resembled an empty seashell more than a person.

You remember those nights back in 2007. You remember blindfolding him so he wouldn't activate infinity by accident, by reflex, out of overstimulation. You remember cutting his hair when he couldn’t and looking for him in his old antics. You remember taking care of Megumi – always reluctant – and Tsumiki – who you felt was too mature for her age. You remember the burden of being eighteen and having lost a world.

And, above all else, you remember Satoru under the rain. Under the pressure of the world you had lost, the one that he was trying to put back together. There was a month where he seemed catatonic; no smiles, drinking anisette as if it were his one source of life. A thirty-day period followed by the rebirth of a person who looked like the one that stood before, but who seemed cold and alien to you.

"Don't you love me, my darling?" he seeks for you, reaching out a hand to brush against your cheek.

Of course you love him. You love him even like this, like you have loved each and every one of his versions.

"I adore you, Satoru. But I can't stay; you can't fix it."

"Of course I can," he reaches out to you, holding your face between his fingers, "Of course I can."

His lips connect with yours — one last attempt, you don't know by whom.

Snow fills the room and it's cold, but you drink from his mouth, from his everlasting warmth; everything in him lasts forever.

Between kisses, you show him everything you have been for years. Ten years of kisses, of hands looking for hands and flesh searching for flesh.

He moves backwards, keeping you between his hands and guiding you towards the hallway and from the hallway to your shared bed.

This is where it ends.

"Satoru..." you whisper.

"I'm here. I'm here, beautiful, my favorite girl. Talk to me."

A sob escapes you as he utters those words. My favorite girl. That’s what he used to call you. Talk to me, he used to plead, that year at sixteen, when everything was about to start.

Isn't it beautiful that it ends the exact same way?

"Satoru, I'm leaving," you press a farewell kiss to his jaw.

"No, you're not leaving," he murmurs, smiling against your mouth, searching for your lips.

You back away and look at him one more time. And you smile, because there's nothing left.

"I'm already gone. Just let go of me, please."

"But..." he starts, his smile hesitant, "But I'm going to fix it."

You take one of his hands between yours and kiss it as it presses against your cheek, before lowering it to your lap.

"Satoru..." You pronounce each syllable of his name carefully and he stifles a cry. "I'm not going to go any further. I've already made the move and Rhea's expecting me at her house in an hour. I love you, I’ll love you until I run out of kisses, but it does me no good to love you. It is of no use to me, this love. I wanted to tell you. I wanted you one last time. Wasn’t it my turn to be the selfish one for once?"

He watches you, and his mouth shuts close. You've never seen Satoru lose.

No, that's not true. There was a time, one time, where you saw him lose everything.

His eyes fill up with you one second and empty the next.

This is his second time.

He lifts his chin with an arrogance that no longer means anything and lets go of your hands.

"Go then, if you want. I'm not going to do anything to stop you,” he drags the words with feign disinterest. “I can't do anything."

That's the last gift he can give you. An honesty unbecoming of him, a truth that will never belong to Satoru Gojo ever again.

From god to human in three kisses and a goodbye.

"Thank you," you say to him. Then you get up, heading for the living room, where your coat and your escape door await you.

He stays in the bedroom – with himself as he always is – after you leave.

And he hides you where he always hides the things he breaks, in the back of his eyes, where no one can reach to see anything.

(reblogs are appreciated !!)

#🎐 𓂃 mae’s typing !#jjk imagines #jjk angst #jjk x reader #jjk x you #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jujutsu kaisen x you #satoru x reader #satoru x you #gojo x reader #gojo x you #gojo satoru x reader #gojo satoru x you #gojo satoru angst #gojo angst #satoru gojo x reader #satoru gojo x you

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thecarnivorousmuffinmeta · 3 months

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If a version of Midnight Sun existed for each following instalment of the Twilight series (New Moon, Eclipse, Breaking Dawn), what do you think they’d be called/what would you call them and what (new) scenes would be in them?

Anon, you speak my greatest dream. I want this in my life. If no one else does, then I am the sole person who does. If there is not one person who wants this, it means that I have died.

I need this.

But for now, I can only imagine (and no doubt fail miserably to what it would be in actuality).

New Moon

The thing is that Meyer would also want to call this New Moon for the reason that she called it New Moon for Bella: this is a book about hopelessness. Edward leaves, Bella's soulmate, she literally cannot survive without him and this book is her discovering "oh, yeah, I literally cannot survive without him" (and making friends with Jacob but let's be real Meyer was never that into that).

It's a book where the moon, the light, is gone.

For Edward, we have the same narrative, he tries to leave Bella for her own good, fails, has a miserable time, and comes crawling back only to find that he's made everything worse.

But because Edward is more dramatic, and to thematically work with Midnight Sun (named thus as Bella is the unexpected sunlight in what should be the darkest of Edward's nights) we have Polar Night which is the phenomenon opposite of Midnight Sun where instead of the sun never setting at all we have the night never ending.

As for what would be in it. My friend, my beautiful friend, everything would be in it.

We'd get the scene where Edward bullies his family into leaving, many of them having reservations, and then steals all Bella's photographs and tries and fails to steal the stereo out of her car. We'd get scenes of Edward fantasizing about Bella marrying and holding hands with MiKe NEWtoN and it being entirely too much for him. We get all of the birthday party, period, which from Edward's point of view would no doubt be insane.

We have Edward so fucking depressed that he feels he's bringing the family down and chooses to leave on the vague pretext of catching Victoria. Then he doesn't catch Victoria and loses her in Mexico but is so depressed he just keeps going south until he hits Brazil.

Where he stays, and per what he says to Bella (which is undoubtedly not the entire truth) he was fucking miserable and did nothing for months. Did he have a Hallucination Bella who told him not to eat human food because it'd make him sick? Did he write a rock opera about Bella Swan only to realize it didn't live up to real life and burn it in a fit of despair and anger? What about the family calling to check in? We know that happened, Rosalie could reach Edward and he answered, so did they just call and quietly try to ask if Edward's coming back home or not? You know? Anytime? Edward?

And then of course his pleading for death with the Volturi, being told no, planning his elaborate massacre-suicide before settling on good old suicide without any murder and Bella being alive and that whole debacle from his point of view including "OH NO OTHER MAN MOVED IN" when he realizes Jacob's... kind of... a thing...

Everything would be new in part because we see so little of Edward and given the insanity in Midnight Sun that was never in Twilight I can't even guess to what Edward got up to for months in Rio.

It could be fucking anything.

Eclipse

Or "Edward did a bad thing and is now very nervous" the novel. As for what it's call, this is less clear as we have to go with the sun/moon themes here, and Eclipse is already taken. If we're allowed weather related events maybe "Eye of the Hurricane" as there's a storm out there and this book is about Edward barely holding his shit together. This is his nightmare scenario in every way.

Bella has a new love interest, a friend she believes is platonic who is very interested in her, and worse, Edward actually does admire and is hands down in Edward's opinion the better man for her to be with. Bella's changed when he was gone and is now an adrenaline junky, what else about her has changed? How much did he miss? She's involved in werewolves who all hate Edward, for good reason, and want her to leave him, for good reason. Edward has discovered that he actually can't leave Bella, Alice was right, even though he wants to be that strong desperately. Bella got the family to agree to turn her and they'll do it, Edward's barely gotten her to agree to be turned by him instead, but she's hemming and hawing about marrying and committing to him and she wants him to bang him (which will likely lead to her death)

Edward is straight up not having a good time, bro.

So, we'd get Edward's insane plans to keep Bella and Jacob apart, his meeting Bella in the road after her looking like he'd love nothing more than to pull The Terminator where he chases her car down. We get Edward's increasing nervousness that Bella "wants to be with him forever" but "doesn't want to marry him" (which for Edward, understandably as he doesn't have Bella's background, is something that just doesn't compute). And there's Jacob, kissing Bella, warming her up at night, thinking very dirty things when Edward's sitting right there internally screaming.

And of course, offscreen things with the family, likely venting about the Denali who are leaving them to die because they won't let them kill the children Native Americans, wondering if they're all going to die in this fight, even more of the tent scene with Jacob (which I'm sure, somehow, I'm sure, got very homoerotic in there). Probably sobbing to Alice "I fucked up" and then hating Rosalie BECAUSE THIS IS ALL HER FAULT HISS HISS.

And of course, what we know he sees from Bree and perhaps the discussion with the family that Bella never got to be privy to.

And I imagine a lot of fantasies of Bella pregnant with Jacob's beautiful babies.

Breaking Dawn

I'm going to bow out for this one too, Meyer would want to name it that. Maybe we get "Hailey's Comet" or something, in that Edward has related Bella to a comet streaking across the bleak sky of his life and this is him learning to accept to be happy and perhaps good things are allowed to happen to him.

But anyways.

I mean.

We get Breaking Dawn.

We get Edward gearing himself up for sex and asking the family how to bang a woman. We know he did this. Canonically he confesses to Bella, in the weirdest manner possible, that he asked his entire family how to do it (and it made it clear that Carlisle didn't really approve and was pretty :/ and "don't do it" about all of it). We get the family probably watching Alice like hawks because they're waiting for her to tell them if Bella lived or died through intercourse. We get Edward interrogating the maid in Portuguese and god knows what they even said to one another but it had to be wild.

We get Edward planning Bella's abortion, the betrayal by Rosalie yet again, and then more planning of her forced abortion with Jacob and his opinion on Jacob turning from "respected rival" into "my only friend".

Then we get Edward's complete flip on Renesmee which must have been... I don't even know. But he'd be thinking she's the spawn of Satan before that (in the most Edward manner possible) and then that she's Jesus after that (in the most Edward manner possible).

Then of course there's "my son, Jacob" and honestly probably fantasizing about an adult Renesmee pregnant with Jacob's beautiful babies. Let's be real here. and just...

Look.

I can't predict this.

What we saw of Breaking Dawn was already insane and this would only be more so because it's Edward. There's so much we don't see as Bella pays 0 attention to the other vampires and to the family at large and Edward would just...

I have no idea.

It would just be madness.

TL;DR

I need this.

#twilight #twilight meta #twilight headcanon #twilight renaissance #edward cullen #anti edward cullen #meta #headcanon #opinion

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lex-the-flex · 4 months

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Astarion Showing His Scars

A/N: It's about time I wrote something sweet for my favorite vampire! I'm playing through BG3 and can't wait to romance this man.

The evening grew incredibly boring as it seemed there was nothing to do. There was no big fight to take part in, no heroic quest to seek out, the day was just calm. So your crew decided that the best thing to pass the time would be to officially clean the campsite and discard any items that were cluttering the storage chests including taking inventory of Cazador’s Palace. After a long day of taking stock of food supplies, articles or clothing, weapons, and other items you may need, the sun began to set, filling the sky with its beautiful colors of pink and orange.

Ascending the Palace’s stone steps, both Shadowheart and Gale proposed that you all retreat to your respective rooms after finishing your hot meals and baths when the three of you noticed that Astarion was nowhere in sight. Wandering around the empty halls, the only sound to occupy the silent space was a series of frustrated grunts and sighs from your vampire lover. Opening the door to his grand room, an unexpected sight nearly makes your knees wobble: Astarion stands in the dim light of his room towards the balcony tracing his muscular back with his fingertips, trying to figure out what each of the scribbles mean.

“What the hell is this? Is it an ‘S,’ or perhaps an ‘E’?” He asks to himself.

After a moment of silence, Astarion notices you in his peripheral vision, and he turns around in shock.

“What are you doing?!” He frantically asks, startled by your presence.

“I- I’m just here to bring you dinner.” You mumble.

Placing down two goblets of blood wine, you cautiously fold your hands over your stomach, trying to ease the sudden wave of nausea.

“I’m sorry, Y/N. I just wasn’t expecting anyone to be in the Palace tonight.” Astarion replies.

Taking a long chug from the first glass, Astarion exhales at the liquid's delight before turning to you. Gently holding his shoulder, you try to turn Astarion around to see what he was tracing but you only get so far.

“What are these? How did–?” You begin, briefly touching the freshly-looking scars.

Suddenly, Astarion whips around, grabbing your wrist. Scrunching his brows in surprise, Astarion realizes what he’s done, and he lets go of your wrist.

“I’m sorry, darling. So sorry.” He says, pressing a loving kiss to your knuckles, silently apologizing.

“It’s alright, Astarion. You didn’t mean it.” You reply.

After a quick pause, the warmth of your hands slowly calms Astarion down. Giving him room to breathe, you quietly step back not wanting to invade his personal bubble.

“I’ve been trying to trace the scars for some time now. Unfortunately I haven’t had the best luck, Y/N. Even in death, Cazador continues to haunt me.” Astarion admits, leaning over the desk chair.

Collapsing against the wooden desk, Astarion crumbles into a fit of despair, questioning whether he’d ever translate the damn scars. Walking over to his side, you hesitantly glide your fingertips on the back of Astarion’s neck, fighting your own forming wave of tears.

“Come here.” You offer.

Opening your arms to the man before you, he sinks down to his knees and hugs your waist. Sobbing into your pair of trousers, all you can do is run your fingers through Astarion’s white curls hoping to cheer him up.

“I’ve never shown my scars to anyone, Y/N. You’re the first to see them in over two centuries and hopefully you won’t be the last. I trust you with all of my heart and soul. I hope that this didn’t come as a shock to you, darling.” Astarion explains.

“What, of course not, Star. Well, it did, but regardless of the scars as well as your old master; they made you who you are. Even if you are a gorgeous vampire who’s afraid of the sun.” You tease, pulling Astarion to stand up.

“Now you’re just being naughty.” He replies with a smile.

Wiping away his tears, Astarion leans his forehead on yours, and softly hums. Pulling you in closer to his body, Astarion presses his lips against yours, knowing that he is truly loved by you.

taglist ~

@dreamliners

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@xplore-the-unknwn

@writing-fanics

#astarion #astarion x reader #astarion x you #astarion x y/n #astarion fanfic #astarion romance #astarion fic #bg3 astarion #astarion baldur's gate 3 #astarion fluff #astarion headcanons #astarion hc #astarion angst #astarion my beloved #baulder’s gate 3 #bg3 #neil newbon

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ourserendipity · 22 days

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samsara of shattered dreams: past

(aventurine x gn!reader x dr. ratio) just some heads up, this happened before the whole penacony arc in the story. No Beta read 😎😎 (That's all I think lol. Anyways I'll be leaving for a while cuz I'll be busy and shiz 🥲🥲. hope y'all enjoyy✿) Part 1/3

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Memories. Like glass, they glisten the beauty reflected by the light giving its vivid colors, and yet they are oh so frail; like the fleeting flow of life, sudden yet steady at the same time.

✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧

Looking back, you wouldn't have thought that you would see yourself in this situation; not that you already foresaw your fate in the first place. Still, there's the feeling of regret lingering at the back of your mind; one that is not directed towards you but rather to the things that you've done. If only, if only you had the power to change the course of fate maybe this wouldn't have been necessary, if only one could stop the other's heart breaking perhaps goodbyes weren't needed to be said. But alas, destiny has its own ways and so now you are trapped, here in a samsara of endless possibilities, all from the past up to the future; all that is only but a dream yet to spur along with the branches of life.

You dance, you circle around the twinkling stars swimming along azure waters that reflect the night sky, following the roots of time ever so slowly growing, a future waiting to be born, its memories captured in the garden of recollection. Spin after spin, countless lightcones spawn in the vicinity of your eyes; an attempt to draw you unto them, delving into the memories of both the future and past once more. They all glimmer in your eyes, symbolizing its high importance to those who gaze at it, but truth be told, you didn't want to look at them anymore, not when you know you'll only hurt yourself in the process. Even then, you caress them over your palms ever so gently, cherishing the moments silently; actions do speak louder than words after all.

And now you wonder, will everything be alright? Now that the stars have finally collided, and so shall your encounter with death had arrived.

"Y/n... Y/N..."

"Aventurine-"

"They're... they're gone. They really are not here anymore, huh?" He whispers, tightly holding your cold, desolate body.

Despair was imminent in the thick air that engulfs the room as he desperately tries to hold back himself from tearing on the spot. He'd hate for the two of you to see him cry and be vulnerable; after all, didn't he tell you that he doesn't bet on the losing end?

And yet here he is: lo and behold, the winner of it all, stripping him of his own tears, his own freedom to be frail and weak, all just to keep himself at bay, and yet failing so miserably.

"......."

Only silence was heard across the room, rather, it was the only answer the genius could give him. Though not fitting his character, he believes that even he could not give the response the man wanted; needed even.

"There's no time left to mourn what's already gone, we should make haste." It was the only thing he could reply. He knew he had to give him an answer somehow, else the man's insanity would escalate even further.

".....leave.."

"what?"

"leave me alone, I... I'll follow you after a while, just please let me be," he pleads achingly, as if he is almost breaking into the point of oblivion.

Utter brokenness was the only thing he heard upon Aventurine's response. And that alone already tells him that

You wished it wouldn't have been sooner, that you could stay just a little bit longer. And so you fought, no, you ran, you ran along with them in the dark in hopes of outrunning time but to no avail. In the end, you still had to go, regret trailing alongside your eyes brimming with tears.

"Hey no fair! that's my share Aventurine!"

"Not when you say please~"

"Such prudence... Will you two stop the act already?"

"Ooh so scary, Mr. Alabaster head~" you tease, obviously trying to mock him and his antics.

"Indeed. I wonder, where is that handsome bust of yours? You don't seem to wear it as much anymore~" Aventurine coos, whilst holding the bag of candies on his right hand, with you struggling on the other hand, trying to reach the said bag from him.

He scoffs upon hearing the blonde's remarks, though what he was saying is true. If he were to be honest, he doesn't see the two of you as an idiot, but he wouldn't openly admit it to both of you, not with his pride and ego of course. Sighing, he knocks the blonde's head lightly, making the guy dramatically wince in pain.

"ow, that hurts y'know?" he cries all the while you were there, stifling a laughter trying not to laugh at his obvious acting.

It was just a simple day for the three of you in the IPC and yet at that moment, everything felt light; it felt as if the three of you were simply living in your own world, rightfully so. It felt so comforting, like a dream you wish that will never end. But then...

All those years of endless banter, the fondness of even the simplest of times; both good and bad, and them, the two of which you truly had loved with all of your heart, the stars you thought you would never reach; but you did, ever so effortlessly. To think that fate had allowed for the three of you to meet is a miracle from the aeons themselves. And despite their clashing personalities, the pointless arguments they dare not speak of, the past one does not wish to return to, you made it work somehow, like fixing the broken pieces of a broken glass only to be shattered again, all because of that stupid, cruel thing called fate. But somehow, you found yourself here in the samsara, reborn from the memories that you hold, now with a new purpose; to collect and to preserve new memories once more, in hopes of retaining what's for the future to hold on to when the time comes. And now that you have regained life in a different form, perhaps you could go back to the real world, to raise a bud anew, in that beautifully miserable place. And perhaps you could meet them again, not letting go of any opportunity given to you, to build a new bridge, to finally reconnect the three of you once more, all for a better future.

"May the cosmos guide you to the path of the unknown, my beloved stars. "

to be continued......

xx/xx/xxxx

xx:xx

From: ■■■■■■■

To: ■■■■■■■■■■, ■■■■■■■■■■

✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧

To Aventurine

"To my dearest gambler, blessed upon the gaze of Gaiathra. I simply bestow to you my full adoration and longing. The unknown may hold us captive in our own, but we shall be the winners who'll decide the results; and it seems like it in your side, to which I could only pray for its continuous flow. I am truly humbled by your guts and wits, my dear. But despite it all, I could feel the lingering despair each time you gamble your life away. So to you I offer this humble gift; a gift of life and new comings. Never forget, you are Kakavasha, born from the bright yellow star, blessed by abundant luck and fortune. May you walk upon this newly lit path of destiny, along with him and what's left of us. "

To Ratio

"To my favorite scholar, truly a genius amongst geniuses. I could only stare in awe upon all of the achievements you have gotten. I may not be as potent as your vast amounts of knowledge nor do I reach the same standards as you do, but please be reminded that there are things that even the smartest revolutionists simply could not have a grasp of. And even if it seems that one's passing is but a swift gust of wind in your eyes, I could tell: the moment my drifting eyes meet yours, those eyes of yours are telling otherwise. So please, be a little bit nicer to them next time. You may never know; that in the future, he will be in your saving grace, hoping that you'll spare him the sympathy that he truly needs. "

✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧

#hsr aventurine #aventurine honkai star rail #aventurine x reader #aventurine x you #hsr #hsr x reader #honkai star rail #hsr dr ratio #dr ratio x reader #aventurine x reader x dr. ratio #dr ratio x reader x aventurine

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dross-the-fish · 10 months

Text

Note: I got my tablet working briefly and was able to finish the lines before it crapped out again. Testing out a potential comic format to go with the drabbles. Don't know if it's going to be a regular thing but I thought I'd see how everyone feels about it. Adam’s Naming

The Creature sat in a chair that was uncomfortably small for him, his knees bent so that they nearly folded into his stomach. He watched anxiously as Watson pulled out his grooming kit and a pair of scissors.

“That mess of hair has to go, I’m amazed you don’t have lice,” the Doctor wrinkled his mustache as he methodically laid out his tools and began to separate the strands of black hair, first with his fingers to break apart the larger tangles without pulling then with a wide toothed comb.

The Creature, unaccustomed to being touched so casually, fought the urge to squirm away, “Parasites seem to find my blood unappetizing, I’ve never had to suffer their infestations on my person. A small mercy, I suppose,” he said.

“Be that as it may, I should hope that now that you are among people, you’ll be diligent with your hygiene,” Watson replied, grimacing as he picked up his scissors and snipped away the first oily lock, watching it pool on the ground in a snaky curl.

“I never anticipated that I would be among people. It is a foreign thing to be concerned with my appearance outside of hiding it from sight.”

“Have you really never had a friend?” Watson asked.

“No, never. The closest thing I had was a mere moment, I spoke once with an old blind man and he treated me kindly before his family drove me away,” the Creature fell silent, drawing up the memory of DeLacy’s smile and the gentle reassurance he’d given him.

“Do not despair. To be friendless is indeed to be unfortunate, but the hearts of men, when unprejudiced by any obvious self-interest, are full of brotherly love and charity”

It had been a lie, of course, but in the fleeting instance he had believed it, it had been so very beautiful to hear. Despite himself, the Creature had been unable to completely give up on wishing it could be true.

“What the old man gave me was no more than a crumb, but it was every sliver of hope I ever carried in my life and even now, after 100 years, I hold it in my breast and let it nourish me for want of richer food,” he confided quietly.

The scissors paused and Watson rested his hand on the Creature’s head, “Well, we’ll have to do better than that, won’t we? Seems to me a man ought to live off of more than crumbs. Let’s start by giving you a proper name, shall we?” he suggested kindly.

The Creature froze, his vision blurred and he could feel himself begin to tremble. This was not real, it couldn’t be real, no one who looked upon him and knew what he had done could offer him true kindness, much less give him a name. Victor had made him, had labored for months to bring him into existence and couldn’t bring himself to give him that! It was impossible! He refused to believe this doctor, a stranger to him, could give him that so easily. It was mockery, or a trick. It had to be. With a roar he shot out of the chair, sending it toppling, and turned to face Watson, incensed further when the old man didn’t flinch.

“Call me demon! Call me monster, or devil, or abomination! You know well that I have worn them all and each title has been fitting,” he hissed, lowering his head so that he was an inch from Watson’s face and the doctor would have no choice but to truly look at him. At his ravaged cheeks and the chunk of skin missing from the end of his nose. His torn, black lips distorted into a hideous snarl as he attempted to goad the doctor into screaming or attacking. I’ll kill you, he thought, show me you’re just like everyone else and I’ll kill you…

“Stop that this instant!” Watson snapped firmly as he righted the toppled chair, “Such carrying on, really. If you’re a monster or a devil now it’s because you choose to be. I’ll not entertain such utter nonsense. Now, you have a choice, you can sit in this chair, let me cut your hair and we’ll pick out a name for you or you can leave. I don’t care where you go but I have no patience for tantrums. If you want to stay with us you had better get a lid on that temper this very minute!” he tapped the back of the chair expectantly, never once breaking the Frankenstein monster’s gaze.

The Creature deflated, caught off guard and chastened like a child scolded by a stern parent. He sank back into the chair and folded his hands in his lap, the very picture of contrition. Watson softened and resumed his cutting.

“As I recall,” he said as he settled into a rhythm, the quiet snip of the scissors soothing his nerves, “You said to Victor that you ought to have been his Adam. Adam is a fine name; a good, strong, name and I think it suits you. How would like to be called Adam?”

Silence. A shuddering gasp, then in a small trembling voice, “I would like that very much…”

Watson leaned forward and gave Adam’s cheek a pat, not flinching at the exposed muscle under the ridge of his cheekbone but moved to pity by the wetness trickling down it, "Whatever you were, whatever you've done, put it behind you now. This is your new start, your second chance. Don't squander it, Adam."

#Frankenstein #Adam Frankenstein #John Waston #sherlock holmes #My writing #Crossover Au

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kerryweaverlesbian · 6 months

Text

How do you go from Wanting to Having? I think this transition would be hard on my man Castiel.

I was going to do a cute little nice Cas Returns fic - so convinced, was I, that this would be teeny tiny that I only wrote it out here in a tumblr draft and not on my notes app! Anyway I have no idea how long this is and it is...uh...there's elements of cuteness I'd say, but it's more significantly emotional comfort of mostly Cas, ft selective mutism Dean. (Implied offscreen alcoholism.)

Cas is spat back out at 2am on a Tuesday, staggering hard onto the cold dungeon floor. It's pitch black in there, but with Cas’s angelhood restored (though still patchy) he can see well enough to find the stairs. When he tries the door, it's locked from the outside. As dungeons tend to be.

On pushing it open regardless, he finds that a cabinet had been pushed in front of it too. He's certain a human would have a hard time with it, but he shifts it aside with ease. He maneuvers it softly, aware of the time. Angels are always aware of the time. He felt the 40 years of battle through Hell for Dean's soul, he'd known the year-and-change of fight-and-flight through Purgatory, he'd counted every precious second of Jack's beloved company. The only place time didn't exist was the Empty. Or it didn't, until Cas broke it further.

He hopes, briefly, that those he woke up for aid had made it out as smoothly as him. Meg had, as ever, proved invaluable, and it had been a (tempered) joy to find Anna again. He sends silent thanks to Billie, for Their part in his return; They had been as angry as the role of Death allows that They'd been forced into Chuck's narrative once again, furious enough to value sabotaging his ending over Their objections to letting people back. Castiel had sworn that this would be the last time and Billie had said "Yes. It will." though he's sure they both know it's unlikely to be.

It's been 3 weeks and 5 days since he'd sacrificed himself to save Dean. It's strange; he'd thought since making the deal that if he was stolen away at his moment of happiness, he would fall into despair himself. To be ripped away at the time he found what he so deeply wanted, that would surely have broken him, and left him ready to be subsumed. Instead it had galvanised him. The Empty had made a fatal error; it had forgotten that stored within happiness there is always, always hope. Hope is intrinsic to happiness.

He follows that hope to the cracked open door of Jack's room: he's in there, sleeping, curled around his pillow affectionately. Castiel knows there's a knife under his pillow, but he still sleeps with his back to the door. Cas lets him be. He isn't quite ready to explain his absence in a way that would be kind to his son. He has someone else to talk to first.

Cas stops outside of Dean's bedroom. Light shines out from the cracks around the door, but he can tell through reaching out through the ether that Dean is sleeping. With a touch to the handle the door opens silently, and Cas closes it behind him, equally quiet. Every light in the room is on.

There are significantly more lights than there had been when Cas had last seen it. A cluster of floorlamps clutter the footspace, and every flat surface bares as many of the Men-of-Letters flat-roofed table lamps as it can fit. Even some of Dean's guns had been excised in favor of wiring to attach extra overheads that hang somewhat precariously above Dean's supine body.

Though Dean sleeps, a deep frown mars his brow. He's on his side too, facing the centre of the bed, though his arms cradle a bottle of scotch - opened and hours since spilled on the bedspread. To see him again in such bright light is a privilege. He finds, as he does every time that he has been reuinted with Dean, that he is indeed just as beautiful and vulnerable as he had remembered. Sometimes, near the beginning, he had made himself almost convinced that his feeling was exaggerated, his devotion practical and their connection shallow. Every time he found himself in the same room as Dean, he found himself proven wrong.

Privilege though it might be to see him like this, Castiel also wants to see his frown alliviated. Without regret, he turns his hand in the air, dimming every light to a soft glow. He spreads his hand on the mattress and wills away the wet spot that's crawled under Dean's face. Balancing one knee on the mattress Cas maneuvers the bottle out of Dean's hands, gentle and smooth, then stretches back to put it on the floor since the lights crowd the bedside.

Turning his gaze back to Dean, he finds his efforts were for naught. Without the bottle, Dean's hand has balled into a tight fist, squeezing so strongly that it shakes, and his frown has, if anything, deepened. He must be having a nightmare, though its the quietest Cas has ever seen him in one. Typically he thrashes, shouts, fights against fear even in his sleep. Now he's so still with it he seems almost dead, rigor mortised in his own bed.

Castiel remembers a time, less than a decade ago, when he would watch Dean's nightmares run their course. It wasn't impassivity that stayed his hand, but inertia. It had been an as yet uncured habit to stay out of the affairs of the Earthly, to restrict himself to speech-when-spoken-to. In short; he didn't know he could. Now, he has no such reluctance.

He curls his hand over Dean's left shoulder, a mimic of his print on his right, and slides a tender calmness into him, which finally relaxes Dean's posture. His brow smooths over, his jaw goes slack, and his breathing deepens. He's beautiful.

Then he snaps awake. A hand clamps hard over Cas’s wrist, holding him firmly and frightened eyes catch his in the dimness.

"Cas?" Dean's voice is hushed and croaked, as if he'd been sleeping for a long time.

A gentle irony strikes Cas, that Dean was resting while he was fighting his way home. It makes him smile, and that seems answer enough to Dean. He's grabbed fiercely and pulled into a thick hug, one that would render him breathless if he were a human. He holds Dean right back, deliberately softer. It feels important to be careful with him right now.

"I'm here, Dean. I'm sorry that I-"

Dean shoves Cas back and claps a hand over his mouth. Cas is caught in his serious, troubled gaze, and it takes a moment to interpret the slow shake of Dean's head.

Cas nods, and Dean draws his hand back. "I understand. I won't apologise."

Contrary, Dean huffs and rolls his eyes, as if to say, when do you ever? He doesn't speak. It's more than a little worrying. Not one to go unheard, though, Dean takes one of Cas’s hands in his and laces their fingers together, giving Cas a defiant expression. Cas’s heart catches.

"You don't have to," he makes himself say, "It's alright, Dean. What I said doesn't have to change anything between us. I love you, and that's..."

He was going to say, that's all you need to know, but Dean had rolled his eyes again and pressed a kiss to the back of Cas’s hand. At Cas's trailing off, he smirks, which slides away quickly into indecision. Dean tilts their joined hands back and forth together for a while, clearly thinking something through, and Cas lets him, trying not to squeeze too hard from his mounting, perilous hope. His hope in the Empty had been merely to live. To exist in a world where Dean knew the truth; that he is both lovable and loved. Now he is hurtling towards - something else.

It's funny (in the human, unfunny sense): he'd spent so long tamping down his possible happiness in fear of the Empty that now that it can be accessed freely, the idea of great happiness is a little frightening. What does a world look like where he gets what he wants? It's unimaginable.

He tries to untangle their fingers, at that thought, but Dean holds him fast, both with his grip and with a raised, unimpressed, eyebrow. It seems his attempt at absconding has made Dean's mind up. He reaches past Cas and opens the top drawer of his bedside cabinet, and drops a notebook into Cas’s lap.

The notebook is spiral bound and cheap-looking, its cover merely denoting the word 'Notebook' and its A5 size. The plastic of the cover is rough under Cas’s thumb. It's a far cry from Dean's leather bound hunting journals.

Correctly interpreting Cas’s tactile investigation as cowardliness, Dean impatiently flips it open with one hand to a random page.

You can have it.

That's what it says, all the way across the double page spread. Written over and over again in ball point pen, uncaring for or deliberately defeat of the evenly spaced blue lines meant to corral the written word.

You can have it, and variations thereupon: You can have it, damn it; could have fucking taken me, asshole; what do you think is supposed to make me happy now, you arrogant, stupid son of a bitch?

The me of the last is underlined so harshly that the paper is ripped. This outpouring is repeated on every page but the first, which instead says only, Come back. Those two words have been traced over enough that the message is engraved over the next three pages.

"Dean, I..." Cas begins, then has to stop, overwhelmed.

The magnitude of Dean sharing this work of grief is not lost on him. Perpetually making themselves vulnerable; is that not the story of their relationship? He follows the lines of Come back with his finger until Dean taps his chin up. He's leaned in close, the ends of his hair tickling Castiel's forehead.

He opens his mouth, but this time only manages a click in his throat that Cas thinks is supposed to be the start of his name.

"I understand," Cas says again, because he does. He brings a faintly trembling hand to the back of Dean's neck to keep him from pulling away - and, more, to keep himself from doing the same. "Dean, I never anticipated this. This is frightening to me. My heart is-"

Cas presses Dean's hand, still linked with his, to his chest, showing him the dizzying speed of its beating. Then he laughs, faintly, at having dropped another sentence:

"I think I left all my words in the dungeon."

Dean answers with a swift smile, his gaze radiating pure affection. He brings their hands to his own chest, where his heart beats just as fast. Dean kisses him, then, on his left eyebrow, then the cheek when Cas looks back at him.

"Dean," Cas says, half-warning, half-encouragement when Dean ducks around to kiss the ridge of his ear, and then "Dean..." in a half-moan when his teeth catch his throat.

Undeterred, Dean kisses whatever point of Cas’s face that strikes his fancy, rendering Cas a trembling mess before their lips even connect (which they do only when Cas holds Dean still and kisses him himself. The noise Dean makes is almost a laugh, and Cas will remember it for the rest of his life).

It's only a few minutes, though, before Cas has to stop. He's progressed from trembling to shaking, and the pleasant tingling across his limbs had turned sharply into pins-and-needles.

"I'm sorry," Cas says on an inhale, pulling away from Dean, and clarifies quickly, "I don't think I'm ready for this. It makes me too happy. I'm afraid. I can't lose you again."

Dean is tender with him, brushing Cas’s cheek soothingly with his thumb. His mouth and jaw work, and this time he gets out a "Ss", and then a "Shh".

He keeps on shushing as he wraps Cas back up in a hug, tight enough that all the rattling parts of Cas feel like they're slowly compressed back into his body. Dean breathes deeply and deliberately, and Cas copies him, noticing for the first time the room's stale-sweat-stink, and the familiar scent of second-hand gasoline in Dean's hair. It takes time, but eventually Cas is able to clutch at Dean too, which earns him an extra squeeze around his ribs.

"I love you," Cas says, and it feels too loud for the room, so he whispers it instead, "I love you, Dean."

Dean buries his face into Cas’s shoulder, in what could be charitably imagined as a nod. Neither of them says another word for the whole night.

They're both terrified of what they want to give - terrified of happiness. But in that awful, devestating, harrowing joy is the glimmer of what is going to get them through it: always, always hope.

#destiel #deancas #I'm so fucking tired it's almost 3am i have class later #i needed these words written down though #nov 5th #5.18 #The Truth #is the ending line corny? eh whatever had to end somehow #cawis creates #selectively mute Dean Winchester #angst with a happy ending #fix it fic #spn fix it

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beautification-tales · 3 months

Text

The Bet

The sun was setting over the horizon as Sasha walked down the beach, her bare feet sinking into the soft, warm sand. She couldn't help but feel a sense of dread in the pit of her stomach. Today was the day she was going on a date with Chad. She hated Chad and his macho ways, and she couldn't understand why he wanted to date her in the first place. He was the star quarterback of the football team, and he could have any girl he wanted. But for some reason, he'd set his sights on her.

Sasha remembered making the dare with Chad at a party last month. They were both drunk, and she'd thought it was just a stupid joke. Chad had disrespected her volleyball career every chance he could. “You’re not a winner like me Sasha. You should quit volleyball and let a man like me take care of you.” Chad sneered as Sasha could feel her blood boil.

In a fit of rage, she challenged him to a bet. If her team won the next three games, he would dress as a cheerleader to a volleyball game. But if they lost...she'd have to go on a date with Chad. It was when she sobered up that she realized what a grave mistake she had made.

Against all odds, her team won the next two games. Sasha couldn't believe it when they pulled through. She should have focused on the final game to ensure their victory but she couldn’t help but brag to Chad. “You had to see us win in person huh Chad? I hope you got your cheerleader skirt ready.” She laughed as Chad actually looked a bit nervous.

“It’s crazy how I will dress more girly than you ever have if you win.” Chad responded. Chad was always complaining that Sasha’s tall frame was always covered in sweats when not competing. Sasha frowned in disgust. “Still don’t know how to shut up? How about we make the pot sweeter? Sasha’s overconfidence and desire to put Chad in his place had reached its apex. She was going to silence him and have some fun.

“If my team wins the last game. You can only say how awesome a player I am whenever you see me for a month.” Sasha grinned, sticking her hand out for a handshake.

Chad grabbed her hand with a diabolical look in his eye. “Deal but if you lose. You have to wear an outfit of my choice for our date.” Sasha felt her skin crawl but knew there was no backing out now. She nodded as they shook hands and went their separate ways.

The last game was a close one, with Sasha's team making some costly mistakes. In the end, they lost, sealing Sasha's fate. She felt a mixture of anger and despair as she walked over to Chad after the game. He smirked at her, clearly enjoying this moment. “I’ll see you at the beach at 7 on Saturday.”

Chad’s car pulled up as she stood in the sand watching the sun set. Chad got out and ran over to her. “Beautiful sunset! I think it’s time to make you look just as beautiful! The dress and shoes are in the car. I’ll take a walk and give you a bit of privacy.”

Sasha huffed and turned to the car. She couldn't believe Chad had the nerve to make her wear a dress and heels. She'd never worn anything like this before. She grabbed the red dress, feeling the soft, flowing fabric in her hands. It was shorter than she would have liked, revealing her toned legs and showing off her athletic build. She sighed and then reached for the white heels. They were sky-high, and she wobbled as she stood on them for the first time. She hoped she wouldn't break her ankle.

Chad returned, looking her up and down. He smirked. "Not bad, Sasha. You actually look pretty good in that." She could tell he was enjoying this way too much. "So, what did you have in mind for our date?" she asked sarcastically.

He smiled, still eyeing her up and down. “I’m taking you to a fancy restaurant to impress you of course! Also we have to show off how we match.” Sasha didn’t even notice it before but the pants and sports jacket Chad was wearing matched her heels as his red shirt matched her dress. Sasha shook her head as she got into the car.

“Could you be more obsessed with Miami Vice?” Sasha asked Chad. Chad quickly turned his head and looked her in the eye. “See? That’s why I lo… like talking to you. You’re the first person to notice.”

Sasha noticed how Chad almost said love and she wanted to gag but the compliment made her feel warm as she closed her legs tightly together. The restaurant was not far as it was near the water and had an amazing view of the Moon.

Chad led Sasha by the hand to their reserved table. She felt as if the people were looking at her and Chad. “Why are people looking at us Chad? Did you put a sign on my back or something?” He laughed hard as he shook the table.

“No, they are checking you out because you look amazing. You just need to show a bit of skin and you are the center of attention.” He winked. Sasha adjusted her skirt feeling self conscious but also the same warm sensation returned.

The food was incredible, but Sasha found herself lost in conversation with Chad. She found everything about Chad was charming. The warm feeling persisted throughout her body as she felt her nipples harden. Sasha squeezed her legs together tightly as the warmth became like a fire in between her legs. Sasha licked her lips as she stared at Chad as he talked about his NFL dreams.

She couldn't believe how attracted she was to him. It was like everything about him was just... intoxicating. She couldn't tear her eyes away from him, and she couldn't stop thinking about how his hands felt when they'd shaken hands after the game. She forced herself to focus on the conversation, but her mind kept drifting back to the way he'd looked at her when he'd said she was pretty.

As the night went on, the moon rose higher in the sky, casting a soft, silver glow over the ocean. Chad paid the check and they walked to the car. Chad opened the door for her as she smiled at him.

"Chad, I had a wonderful time tonight. I really thought I would hate it but it was fun," she said, feeling the words pour out of her before she could stop them. He smiled back at her, his eyes sparkling in the moonlight.

The waves crashing against the shore were the only noises filling the air. Sasha felt a strange sense of urgency welling up inside her, like she needed to do something, anything, to relieve this building pressure that seemed to be coming from between her legs. She couldn't take her eyes off of Chad's crotch, wondering if he was as aroused as she was.

As if reading her mind, Chad leaned in close, his warm breath tickling her earlobe. "Is something wrong, Sasha?" he whispered huskily. "You've been staring at me all night." She shook her head, feeling a blush creep up her neck. "No, I... I just..." Before she could finish, he pressed his lips against hers, his tongue darting out to stroke her tongue.

The kiss deepened, and Sasha felt herself melt into him. His hand found its way to her waist, pulling her closer still. With a groan, he leaned her back against the car, his free hand sliding up her thigh, teasing at the hem of her dress. She gasped as his fingers brushed against her bare skin, and arched into his touch.

Their lips parted, and Chad's breath came hot and fast against her neck. "God, you're so beautiful," he whispered, his voice thick with desire. He reached down, undoing his pants, and before Sasha could even register what was happening, his cock was in her hand. She stared at it, fascinated, as her fingers closed around it, feeling its heat and hardness. She took a deep breath, and then slowly began to stroke him, marveling at the way his length and girth filled her hand.

As she stroked, Chad leaned forward, his lips finding her nipple through her dress. He teased it with his tongue, sucking gently as she continued to stroke him. The sensations were overwhelming, and she could feel herself growing wetter by the second. Her heart raced as she considered taking things further. With a shaky breath, she pushed Chad's pants and boxers down to his knees, freeing his cock completely.

She looked up at him, her eyes meeting his in the moonlight, and took a deep breath. Slowly, hesitantly, she leaned forward, her lips brushing against the tip of his cock. The feel of his hot, hard length against her lips sent a shiver through her body, and she could feel her own arousal building even more. Taking another deep breath, she engulfed him, her lips stretching around him as she sucked.

“Oh fuck yes! I’ve dreamed of this night. Finally you’re mine Sasha. You belong to me”

Sasha’s brow curled in confusion as she couldn’t stop sucking.

“See? You can’t even stop now. I bet my cock tastes like candy to you.”

Sasha looked him in the eye as he brushed her hair from her face. She stopped for a moment trying to defy him. She couldn’t resist any longer and began to Bob up and down on his member once more.

“Ungh I fucking love you… I knew these magic heels would do their job. You know…. Unnnh….

I thought I’d never have the chance to use them on you but when you upped the ante…. Fuck!…. I said fuck it.”

Sasha realized it all made sense. All the feelings she had were magically induced upon her. She knew she should be upset but the feelings of pleasure were too strong.

She continued to suck on Chad's cock, feeling her mouth stretch around him as she took more of him deeper into her throat. She moaned around him, her breath hot against his skin. His hands tangled in her hair, urging her to go faster, harder.

“Good girl” Chad groaned as Sasha’s eyes rolled back in orgasmic bliss. Sasha finally felt the willpower to stop sucking as her lips left his cock with a loud pop.

“Please fuck me daddy.” Sasha moaned her eyes wide like a puppy.

Chad smiled down at her as he pulled her up to her feet, his cock still in her hand. He guided her back against the car, positioning his hardness at her entrance. With a rough thrust, he pushed inside her, groaning as he felt her tightness surround him. Her nails dug into his shoulders as he began to move, thrusting in and out of her in a steady rhythm.

Their bodies slapped together, the sounds of their flesh colliding filling the silence of the night. Chad's breath came in ragged gasps as he looked down at her, his eyes dark with desire. "God, you feel so good," he murmured, his voice hoarse. "You know you love this. How everyone saw how sexy you are. Fuck you make my cock so hard.”

Sasha arched her back, pressing herself against him as he continued to thrust. The sensation of being filled by him was overwhelming, but in the best possible way. She wrapped her legs around his waist, her nails digging into his shoulders as she urged him on. "More, daddy," she whispered, her voice shaking with need. "I want all of you."

He groaned, his thrusts becoming rougher as he obeyed her demand. His hips slammed into hers, driving his cock deeper inside her with each stroke. She could feel the wetness between them, their bodies moving together in perfect synchronicity. Their breath mingled in the air, hot and heavy, as they lost themselves in the heat of the moment.

As Chad's pace increased, Sasha threw her head back, arching her back further, meeting his thrusts with her own. The sensation of being so completely filled by him was overwhelming, but in the best possible way. Her nails dug into his shoulders, leaving marks as she held on tight, her legs wrapped around his waist.

"That's it, baby," he growled, his breath hot against her ear. "Let daddy have what he wants." His hips slammed into hers again and again, his cock hitting her sweet spot with each thrust. The car rocked beneath them, their bodies slapping together in a rhythm that was as primal as it was erotic.

Sasha felt her climax building, her inner muscles clenching around Chad's cock. Her nails dug into his shoulders, urging him deeper, harder. "Chad...," she moaned, her voice strained. "I'm... I'm... going to..."

He could feel it too, her body tensing, her muscles gripping him tightly. With a final, powerful thrust, he drove himself as deep inside her as he could go, his hips meeting her ass as he released his seed. Her walls milked his cock, her orgasm washing over them both in a wave of pleasure.

Their bodies trembled together, their chests heaving as they tried to catch their breath. The night air was cool against their sweaty skin, but they were too lost in the afterglow of their passion to care. Sasha rested her head on Chad's shoulder, her legs still wrapped around his waist, feeling his cock twitch inside her as it began to soften.

“I… I think I love wearing heels.” Sasha said

#transformation #beautification #f2f transformation #bimboification #slutification #mind corruption #mind control #mind conditioning #aphrodisiac #love spells #stepfordization #stiletto shoes

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theteasetwrites · 1 year

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Merciless Beauty

Chapter 9: Heal the Injury

❧ Pairing: Knight Daryl Dixon x Princess Reader ❧ Era: Medieval fantasy AU ❧ Pronouns: she/her ❧ Warnings: angst, violence, blood, gore, injury, some scenes may be triggering for those who are sensitive to sexual assault/abuse, so tread carefully! ❧ Word Count: 6.9k

❧ Before You Read...

❧ Glossary

❧ In this Chapter: In Alexandria, the man who calls himself Jesus offers his help in an effort to defeat Negan and the Saviors. Meanwhile, at the Sanctuary, you appease Negan's desires in the hopes of killing him when he is most vulnerable, but when an attempt backfires, you learn the true meaning of despair.

❧ A/N: Another rough chapter. Well, the bad stuff is bookended by some good stuff. But yeah, definitely pay attention to the warnings again for this chapter. Sorry, but I have to make Negan terrible ok? And again, Negan is ramped up to be worse than he is in the show (but tbh he is still ruthless in the show so he is really not even that much worse). I don't want to spoil it tho, so I will just stop talking. Enjoy!

In the once pristine great hall, where now the floor was littered with the bodies of dead walkers that had yet to be cleared, King Ezekiel sat upon his throne, his leg anxiously shaking as he and what was left of his court awaited for the guards to bring in the guest.

Jesus, he called himself. The irony was not lost on Daryl, who began to wonder if perhaps this man who called himself Jesus was the real messiah, whose arrival on Earth was foretold in the Book of Revelation. At this point, such an arrival would be welcomed with open arms. If Jesus had truly come back, bringing with him Heaven’s army to fight the forces of evil that plagued this land, including the man who took his princess from him, then Daryl would not send him away.

But, alas, there was no sound of trumpets, no seven seals, no parting of the clouds to allow His descension upon the Earth. This Jesus had to have been a mortal man, and if there was anything Daryl knew of mortal men, it was that they were not to be trusted. Especially not at a time like this.

When the man was brought in, hands tied behind his back as he was led forth through the great hall by two armed guards on either side of him, it was not immediately obvious that the man wasn’t the son of God.

After all, he looked the part: long hair of umber hue that touched a little past his shoulders, and a stately beard to match. Standing not far from the king’s throne, Daryl took note that the man was well kept, with vestments made from the finest imported threads, colored with rich dyes. He was half-armored, wearing a fitted gambeson with plate pauldrons strapped to his shoulders, under which was draped a long cloak of vibrant tyrian purple.

What was most striking about him, though, were his eyes―deep-set, intense pools of azure that seemed to oscillate between stern and friendly, though always calm, cool, and collected. In fact, he did not seem rattled by the guards’ rough handling at all, nor by the way one of the guards forced him to kneel before the king. The man simply held the king’s gaze, his lips curling ever so slightly into an earnest smile.

He began to speak, his voice not fearful nor threatening. “Your majesty, it’s an honor to―”

“You will speak only when you are spoken to,” replied the king, his voice much harsher than Daryl had heard it before, except when he spoke to Negan. “State your business, Jesus.”

The man straightened his back and cleared his throat. “Well, seeing as your situation is dire, I will cut to the chase. I’ve brought my people here because you are in need of our help.”

The king narrowed his eyes. “And what help do you have to offer?”

“Fighters, for a start,” replied the man. “Capable fighters. Over a hundred of them. Combined with your forces, enough to stand a chance against a common enemy―the Saviors.”

This intrigued the court, Sir Daryl notwithstanding.

He exchanged a curious look with Richard, who seemed skeptical, but equally interested in whatever else the man called Jesus had to say.

“Go on,” said the king.

Jesus’ smile upturned just a little more, as though he was hoping the king would say those exact two words.

“I am the ruler of a small principality called the Hilltop. It is likely that you have never heard of it, as we are located far from your kingdom. We, too, were ravaged by Negan and the Saviors. They took everything from us, including countless lives. That was over a year ago now, and we’ve grown since, building up our arsenal and training our people for battle. The Saviors neglected to kill all of us, and we’ve been hiding in the shadows ever since, living as nomads, and waiting for the opportunity to attack.”

A chattering emerged in the hall, members of court whispering amongst themselves before the king stomped his foot with several thuds that echoed through the high ceilings. “Silence!” he ordered. Turning back to Jesus, he spoke again, still suspicious of the man’s intentions “And why have you decided to come to our aid now, the precise point at which my kingdom is severely weakened?”

Jesus’ gaze dropped for a moment, as melancholy overtook his once confident features. “I am truly sorry, your majesty, but we set out a fortnight ago, traveling in caravans once we had heard word that the Saviors were beginning their assault on your kingdom. It was only when we arrived this morning that we realized that we were too late… But we are here now, ready to fight for you, for all those whose lives have been torn apart by Negan and his cronies.”

It all seemed too good to be true. Could this be a trap, some cruel joke of Negan’s own sick and twisted fabrication? Then again, why would he bother with such a chore, when he had already gotten what he wanted? And Jesus seemed earnest, albeit a little naive with his unyielding sense of hope. Perhaps taking a chance on him, though, was the only option. At least, it was the only immediate hope Daryl had of getting you back.

But he knew the king might not be swayed as easily.

“Even if, by some miracle, we had a chance of defeating Negan’s army, we do not even know where the Sanctuary is.”

And then, a full smile split Jesus’ face. “Well, your majesty, I happen to know precisely where the Sanctuary is.” The court broke out into hushed murmurs again, while the king leaned forward in his seat, intrigued.

“How?”

“When the Saviors came, I was taken prisoner, held in the dungeon and tortured for hours on end until I pledged allegiance to Negan. I never gave in—I escaped. I know that castle inside out.”

Without the composure to keep himself silent, Sir Daryl stepped forward, making himself known to the foreign prince who knelt before the king. From the corner of Ezekiel’s eye, he watched the knight stand tall, beginning to speak directly to Jesus. Despite his confusion, Ezekiel did not silence him.

“The princess was taken by Negan last night,” said the knight. “She is imprisoned somewhere in the Sanctuary against her will. If we make an assault on the Sanctuary, with your people, would you help us find her?”

Jesus looked wide-eyed between the knight and the king. “Of course,” he said. “I can lead you through the Sanctuary to find her.”

The king, however, was a little more skeptical. Perhaps Daryl’s desperation to get you back was clouding his judgment, but he was about ready to get on his horse and go with this strange man and his people to find you right now. Ezekiel was a little more experienced in dealing with foreign dignitaries and their negotiations.

“And why should I trust you?” he said. “There must be something you want in return from Alexandria.”

“Well, in return for our services, the Hilltop simply asks for future alliances with Alexandria. And, if you’re amenable to it, we’d be willing to offer our help with repairing your kingdom in exchange for citizenship. The Hilltop has an abundance of grain, livestock, steel, all of which we would bring to Alexandria… And, to be frank, your kingdom has no other choice but to trust us. Your chances of getting your daughter back are low, unless you accept our help.”

He was right, the king knew that.

As he stood from his throne, he gestured to the man who knelt before him. “Arise, Prince Jesus of the Hilltop,” he commanded, his voice strong and echoing through the great hall.

Jesus stood to his feet, meeting the king’s eyes as he walked towards him, dignified and head held high. When Ezekiel placed his hand on the prince’s shoulder, the court knew that the king had accepted the Hilltop’s aid.

Without another moment’s hesitation, Sir Daryl stepped forward again, his impatience growing with every second that you were gone. Perhaps he was lacking chivalry, or even making it too evidently clear that he loved you, but in his desperation, he did not care one bit.

“What the hell are we waitin’ for?” he said. “Let’s do this.”

You’d been counting down the days like a prisoner—the world’s most pampered prisoner. Seven days, when the clock struck midnight. Seven days trapped in the Sanctuary.

Negan hadn’t come to see you in that time, with only servants bringing you meticulously arranged dishes on silver platters, with the finest cutlery money could buy. Somewhat infuriatingly, you had recognized the steak knife you’d been given, that intricate detailing on the handle that had been carved by hand with the crest of Alexandria.

You’d wondered if it had been a coincidence, but you knew better: it was a subtle way of taunting you, reminding you that your kingdom had been ravaged by the Saviors, just as you would soon be ravaged by Negan.

That is, whenever he would be reminded of your existence.

Tonight, it seemed he finally considered you worthy of his presence again, after you’d struck him in self-defense the night you arrived. Either he had brushed off the incident, or his lust overshadowed his bitterness. In any case, you’d been summoned to his chambers, but not before lifting your feather pillow to reveal that steak knife, the one you’d been so bold to keep to yourself before the last servant could take your platter away.

It was freshly sharpened, too. Last night, you’d tested its ability to cut through meat, and sure enough, it cut like butter. Negan’s flesh couldn’t be much different.

But you’d have to get close to him, to obey him, to submit to him. It would be difficult, trying to act as though you’d come around to the idea of being Negan’s wife. Even the thought of it threatened to cause a bout of nausea, but it couldn’t be much worse than having to live the rest of your life in devotion to him. An hour or two of flattering him, entertaining him, perhaps even accepting his advances… God, it sickened you, but it would be the simplest way to catch him off guard just long enough to strike.

Daryl had helped you practice against walkers at times, but never living men, never men who could just as easily hurt you back if you made the wrong move at the wrong time. You could always run away from walkers, not men.

Still, your hatred for Negan fueled you. With every step you took towards his quarters, guards on either side of you escorting you the way there, you thought of every horrible thing he had done, and all the horrible things you hadn’t known he had done. Killing was never something you had thought you would ever do. You’d been taught that no mortal could ever take the life of another man—that such a thing was God’s decision and God’s alone.

If you knew God, though, if you knew what God stood for, you knew that God would not punish you for ridding the world of a man like Negan. If He did, then perhaps God was not as just as you’d been told to believe.

The fact that a man like this was still breathing, while Daryl was not, was proof enough that there was no divine justice in this world, and that sometimes, a mortal would have to take matters into their own hands.

When the guards led you into Negan’s chamber, you were greeted by the man, whose back was turned towards you as he poured himself a goblet of wine. The door was hurriedly shut behind you, with the low-pitched click of the turn of a lock quickly following.

The man’s eyes gazed over his shoulder, taking stock of your appearance—as it was the middle of the night, and you’d been practically woken from sleep, you were clad in only a semi-translucent white chemise that reached your ankles, over which you’d draped a scarlet colored housecoat to protect your modesty, and to conceal the knife you’d hidden in its inner pocket.

“Did my summons disturb your sleep, princess?” He turned, revealing not one, but two goblets of wine, one in each hand as he sauntered forward, towards you.

“No.” In fact, it didn’t. You hadn’t been able to get to sleep before midnight since you’d been captured.

“Good.” With an outstretched hand, he offered you a goblet. “Wine?”

Wine disgusted you… You took it. “Thank you.”

With only a moment’s hesitation, you raised the goblet to your lips and took a small sip, then a much bigger one as you tilted the goblet upwards and gulped down the rest of the red liquid. You would need it, though you swallowed it with a grimace.

“You just keep surprising me, princess.”

“I was… quite thirsty.”

“There’s plenty more where that came from, if you’d like.”

Your head was already beginning to swim. “No, no… Thank you. May I sit?”

The man raised an eyebrow, then turned to gesture towards the bed—canopied and shrouded in dozens of ornately decorated pillows.

“Be my guest.”

He seemed both surprised and amused by your ease, watching you with a widening grin as you crossed over to the edge of the bed to sit. As he took another sip of his wine, he sat himself beside you, sending a shiver down your spine that you hoped would be concealed by your attempt at calmness.

As he sat, you took note of his appearance. He wore no armor, of course. In fact, he seemed to be only clothed in a robe not unlike yours. It would be easy to penetrate his skin, when the opportunity would present itself.

The more he leaned closer, his eyes unabashedly trailing over your chest, which began to heave noticeably underneath your chemise, you felt fear rise up within you. How could you not be afraid? He looked at you as though you were prey.

“Milady,” he began, the word from him like millions of little daggers penetrating your eardrums. Only one man deserved to call you that, to refer to you as his. “I want to apologize for my crass behavior. You see, it’s just… You’re so beautiful, and to think of anyone having you before me…”

Despite your disgust, you played into it, attempting to be the submissive maiden he wanted you to be.

“No one has had me, sir.” To say that caused you immense heartache, knowing that you had denied the love you shared with Daryl, but in order to gain Negan’s trust, just for the moment, you’d do anything. Almost anything. “I should be the one apologizing for my lack of decorum… I—I just…”

Negan swallowed the rest of his wine, letting the empty goblet dangle in his hands and fall to the floor with a quiet thud. As he leaned closer, you watched his hand settle on your thigh, long fingers curling into your flesh. The heavy pet of his touch all but silenced you. When he leaned so close that you could feel the sting of his heavy, wine-scented breath on your cheek.

“You don’t have to explain.” He squeezed your thigh, as his other hand touched your lower back, moving in circles just above your bottom. It was a filthy, lecherous touch, one that made you nauseous and dizzy with disgust. “Do you like when I touch you like this?”

His lips were so close now, the wiry hairs of his freshly trimmed beard scratching the soft flesh of your cheek. Leaning ever closer, he did not kiss you, but dragged his wanton lips over your skin, as if to taunt you.

“Yes.” You weren’t sure how many more lies you could tell without being deemed a sinner.

While his hand inched up your thigh, his lips pursed to kiss the side of your face, the feeling of which made you shut your eyes tight, until a few tears began to fall.

You felt vile, impure, desecrated. Though you were no longer a virgin in the carnal sense, you had not felt this growing defilement rising in you, polluting your mind, body, and soul. Not when Daryl looked at you. Not when he touched you. Not when he made love to you.

With him, it felt like a fresh spring daisy blossoming for the first time. Now, it felt like you were wilted, decaying, rotten. It only fueled your anger, your back straightening and your lips tightening as you tried to ignore his touches, his mouth contaminating your once pure skin as he licked your neck, his hand squeezing desperately at your mound from over top of your nightgown.

“Please,” you whispered, somewhere between a plea and an aggravated groan.

“My princess.” You squeezed another few tears as you winced at the phrase, which had so potently reminded you of your true love, whose princess you truly were. Not Negan’s. “I knew you wanted me. I could see it, the way you look at me, all innocent and scared, like a little wide-eyed fawn… Even now you tremble.”

Indeed, your tenseness had given way to jitters, your heart shivering as if it was encased in a thick block of ice. That’s what he felt like to you, too—his touch icy and bitter, with his bony chest digging into your shoulder and his slimy fingers violating you with more and more desperation as he fondled you. He was more like a skeleton than a man of flesh and blood, and you were in his grasp. Not for long, you assured yourself. A moment would present itself, and you would end him. For your kingdom. For Daryl. For you.

He grasped at your chin, forcing you to face him as he smiled at you, his eyes focused on your agape lips that trembled with each nervous breath.

“You’re mine,” he said. “Say you’re mine.”

Never!

But you could not say that, not now. Not when you were so close to getting his guard down just enough to turn on him. With the words struggling to form, their weight being tugged out of you like tattered rags tied together and shoved down your throat, you appeased him.

“I am yours.”

Your tear-soaked voice faltered as you spoke, but the man did not seem to notice, drunk with his own arrogance at the sound of those words on your lips. A part of you wondered if he even cared whether or not you told the truth—you wondered if he just wanted the illusion of being wanted.

Apart from his panting breaths, a silence hung between you for a moment, with an air of anticipation drawing out those several seconds into what felt like a century. You knew what he was about to do, and though you could not stop crying, much to his lack of care, you prepared yourself, straightening your back to face the assault of his lips.

They were cold, just like everything else about him, but your lips warmed them, much to his satisfaction, and to your sorrow. They fit uncomfortably, but perhaps that was because you knew your lips weren’t meant for him. In fact, you were certain no human lips were meant to suit a mouth like his. He was so vile to you that you were sure he did not deserve the pleasure of love. But there was no love in his kiss to begin with, only lust. A dark, demanding lust.

His hand clenched around a chunk of your hair, nails scratching your scalp as you whimpered into his mouth, your lips being manipulated by his as he mangled you with his kiss. But you did not fight back, not yet. You only let him control you, his body leaning into yours to get you laying flat on the bed behind you. Underneath you, you could feel the handle of your knife digging into your side. It made your eyes shoot open, though he did not see. He was occupied with your mouth, violating its sanctity with his wiggling tongue.

If he were any heavier, you might not have been able to loosen your arm out from under him, but you managed to free yourself, only to place your hands on his back, with the hopes of encouraging him despite your stiffness.

But the longer he kissed you, fondled you, licked you, you began to slowly remove one hand, using it to dig into the pocket of your robe, where the sharp blade of the knife had nearly torn a hole.

As you clenched your fingers around the handle of the knife, the man on top of you mumbled that same sickening phrase against your open mouth. “You’re mine.”

When he said it, it was more possessive, almost victorious, as if he’d won you. It was not a matter of being yours because you wanted to be his, but because he had decided you were. Being under him now, physically oppressed by the weight of his body, represented how powerless you had been made to feel most of your life. Only in recent times had you felt free, and that was because of Daryl. He made you feel free, not only because he freed you, but because he loved you. His love had freed you.

And now, he was dead because of the devil that had you in his snare, his filthy mouth soaking yours with his rancid spit. You hated him, and as you raised the knife higher, you did not fear the consequences of your actions. You did not even fear death. Death would only bring you closer to your love, whose desperate cries of pain echoed in your weary mind. Tears flooded over your cheeks now, whimpers lost in the cavernous void that was his mouth.

Daryl… His name repeated in your head, your internal voice crying out, pleading. You felt sick to your stomach, nausea threatening to overtake you. Though he was dead, and what you did now was only to get Negan as close to you as possible, distracted just long enough to make your strike, you felt you had betrayed him, he whose loyalty was stronger than you believed you could ever be.

All you wanted was for it all to end, and you could end it now. Squeezing that knife, you thought only of him, of your sorry excuse for a knight. How you cried, your sobs mistaken by Negan to be moans of pleasure from his kiss, but the truth remained—your heart was broken. I am so sorry, my love.

“Say it,” he said between his vulgar kisses. “Say you’re mine. Say you belong to me.”

His now serpentine voice stung your ears, reawakening you to the moment at hand, to the knife your fingers clinged to as you raised it higher, Negan unaware.

You aimed the blade downwards, its sharp, shining point just several inches from his back, just about where you knew his heart would be, if he had one in that bony body of his.

“I—I belong…”

With your eyes squeezed shut, you held the blade with a shaky hand as you thought of him again, those sparkling blue eyes. That sinuous, often messy hair of caramel brown. That voice, raspy yet soft, tickling your ears in the most pleasant way. Those hands, big and strong and always so very warm. And that smile… That was your favorite part of him. It was rare to see it in all its glory, but you counted yourself lucky to have beheld its presence, to have felt it against your cheek as he kissed you.

And oh, you hadn’t been able to kiss him enough. How you wished for more time, for more long nights wrapped up in the embrace of his muscle-bound arms as you shared in whispers until your voices faded into each other. You could never forget him, not ever. Above all else, you could never forget who you really belonged to, and how you belonged to him because you wanted to be his.

“I belong to…”

Finally freeing your mouth, Negan trailed his lips to your collarbone, beginning to suck on your skin in an attempt to mark you there, though you did not feel it, instead focusing on the image of your knight, with that crooked boyish smile.

Still, holding the knife, you opened your mouth to speak, with one name on your breathy voice: “Daryl.”

With a jolt, Negan pulled away, furrowing his brows as he looked down at you, with only the dim candlelit glow to illuminate his confusion. “What?”

Your eyes wide, you panicked, bringing down the knife in a frantic motion, but Negan was faster, lifting himself up and grasping hard at your wrist, where your trembling hand held the knife.

You could see its silvery glimmer reflecting in Negan’s wide eyes, his breath quickening and his chest heaving as the veins in his forehead and neck swelled. He tugged the knife from your hand, while you only could lay there frozen, still in disbelief of what had happened. You had gotten so close to freedom, to vengeance, and now, you were sure you’d be killed before you could ever get another chance at killing him.

“Princess,” he said, his voice somewhere between sick amusement and utter, total rage. “Either you’re a lot kinkier than you look, or you just tried to fuckin’ kill me.”

The knife fell to the floor with a clatter, followed by a silence, during which you sat up, breathing heavy, teary breaths. “I—I’m—”

The back of his hand cut you off, the weight of his smack sending you stumbling off the bed and onto all fours. You had half a mind to crawl towards the fallen knife in front of you, but he kicked it across the room just as you began to reach for it.

“You really are a dirty little bitch.”

In your shame, you could only hang your head, weeping. Never in your life had you felt so humiliated, so devoid of whatever poise and honor and dignity you’d ever had. As if to hide your sobbing face, you curled your head into your hands, but Negan would not let you have even that last shred of self-respect you had left. You felt his foot underneath your stomach, kicking upwards to forcibly flip you over onto your back, your spine hitting the hard timber with a painful thud.

Two long, spidery legs stretched out on either side of you as he towered directly over you, looking down at you now almost with pity, but mostly with a snarling fury.

As you choked back on the lump in your throat, you lifted your chin in one last attempt to appear like the dignified princess you were supposed to be, but the words you spoke through forcibly tight lips betrayed you: “Just kill me.”

In his cruelty, he only laughed, that arrogant chuckle that usually made your skin crawl, but now you couldn’t feel anything, not even the pain from his strike, which would surely manifest itself in a bruise.

“Killing you, princess, would be a waste. Besides, I don’t kill beautiful women.”

I am so flattered.

But you only repeated those words, this time throwing your head back as you screamed, your voice breaking into a pleading cry. “Just kill me!”

With a tilt of his head, he studied your face—your swelling, reddened eyes and your lashes decorated with little globules of tears, like the dewdrops on gossamer in a cool spring morning. He was right—you were pretty when you cried. It was a sight too beautiful to rid the world of. Well, to rid himself of. Everything he did, he did for himself, after all.

“No… I’ve got a better idea. Guards!” The door burst open to startle you just before two Saviors marched in, their eyes not on you, but Negan, who stepped over you as he spoke. “Since my bride is so very ungrateful of the luxuries and splendors I have granted her here, I believe the only solution is to show her just how much more… inhospitable we can be.”

You watched him gesture to the guards, not even caring enough to look your way. He was angry, but too angry to yell. It was that eerie, quiet anger. The kind that was so much worse than the belligerent type.

All you could feel as your body went numb from the sheer overstimulation of emotion was the grip of the two guards, one on either side of you, pulling you up by your arms, though you did not protest much—you did not have the strength within you. You were broken, defeated. The conflagration of rage had washed away with the deluge of your tears, leaving behind only a sea of sorrow and despair.

“Take her to the dungeon,” he said. “If she cannot learn to show gratitude, and to love and please her husband, we shall teach her.”

Now feeling barren, with no tears left to cry, you were all but dragged through the corridors, barely able to carry yourself on your weakened legs. They took you further down, until you reached the dungeon, the cold, damp stone under your bare feet causing you to cringe in disgust.

Through a corridor shrouded in the darkness of night, lit only by the flames of the torches upon the stone walls, you were taken to a row of cells, all of which were unoccupied, except for half-decayed remains scattered around, some hanging in iron cages, others strewn about indiscriminately.

You had your eyes stuck on one particularly fresh looking corpse as you walked, its flesh almost resembling candle wax that was melting off the bone. Flies swarmed the place, and you grimaced at the maggots that gushed out from the corpse’s eye socket as they toppled over each other in a small avalanche.

In your distraction, you did not see the severed foot that you tripped over, eliciting a chuckle from the Saviors who led you down the dank, gory chamber.

The horrible creak of the rusty old bars opening had stirred you from your thoughts, along with the sudden thrust as the other guard pushed you forward, your knees hitting the cold hard ground with a searing pain.

If you had any strength in you left, you might’ve risen to your feet, lunging yourself towards the bars of the cell as the guards locked the padlock around the chain to beg them to let you go, but even if you could leave, where would you go?

Your home was destroyed, and even if you could get back there, you had no idea how to find your way back. Your father could be miles away by now, and the only other hope you had once had was in Daryl.

Daryl, who was gone.

You had nothing, nowhere, no one.

Yet, in the cold, dark, dank dungeon you found yourself in, surrounded by the mutilated, decaying corpses of those who had been tortured by the Saviors, there was one living truth you could cling to: you were safe from Negan, for now.

From this distance, it was difficult to make out the exact layout of the castle, but Jesus seemed sure—this was the Sanctuary, and tomorrow, Alexandria and the Hilltop would lay waste to Negan and his Saviors. Well, that was the hope, anyway.

It was several acres away, far enough for the guards in the battlements not to see the camp that had been set up for the night, but close enough for the knight to study the shape of the castle, its towers with tall, conical roofs and flags bearing Negan’s crest billowing in the cool night air. A full moon lit up the otherwise dreary tableau, along with the few flickers of firelight between the crenelations in the castle’s curtain.

Though the night was quiet, with only a cool, gentle breeze softly whistling through the trees, Daryl’s mind was full of disquiet, as it had been since you were taken a week ago. The army of three hundred or so soldiers from Alexandria and the Hilltop had been traveling for three days, the other four days spent preparing for battle. Still, he could not wait, not even allowing himself sleep but only for a few hours each night.

Even when he did sleep, it was uneasy, with the lingering dread of what evils you might be exposed to keeping him on edge. It was as though his mind was punishing his body, depriving it of sleep as discipline for losing you. At every waking moment, he was thinking of ways he could’ve kept you from being taken, of things he could’ve done to prevent the inevitable. He knew, though, that ultimately, there was no stopping Negan, and that, sooner or later, he would’ve found you.

But the only hope he had was in knowing that you were alive, that Negan could not kill you. After all, you were his prize, his symbol of victory over Alexandria. Though he shuddered to think of all the ways he could hurt you, at least that one hope was still keeping him going.

Now, the knight stood alone, far away from the glow of the campfires the other soldiers had built. Though the others seemed content to chat amongst themselves quietly, some even sharing in a few laughs, all Daryl could do was think of you.

I will find you, my love. his own voice echoed in his head. I will bring you home. I promise.

But his thoughts were soon interrupted by a voice he recognized, though he could not believe was speaking to him.

“Tis dangerous to be so far from the camp, good sir.”

There were few moments he had shared alone with the king, and though Ezekiel was a genial, kindhearted king, there was an air of prestige about him that made the knight nervous. Perhaps it was the very fact that he was royalty, or, more likely, the constant worry that he might suspect Daryl’s true feelings for the man’s daughter. For all he knew, the king could have known of your trysts all along.

“But it is nice, the quiet,” added the king, followed by a deep breath as he took in the fresh, clean air of the woods. “Savor it, for tomorrow, there will be no quiet.”

Daryl turned to the side to meet the king’s noble gaze. He looked weary, but hopeful, with that spark of faith in his eye.

“No Savior left alive,” said Daryl, repeating the phrase the king had spoken earlier during the arrangement of the plan. “If what Jesus said is true, though, there are women and children there. Elderly, too.”

“Then they are to be spared.”

“Only men big enough to carry a sword,” agreed the knight. “That’s always been the rule in battle.”

“And Negan. We must kill Negan.”

Indeed, Daryl had been meaning to ask: who would get the pleasure of sending the bastard to Hell?

“How do you want to do it?” asked the knight. “We could capture him, take him back to Alexandria for a public execution, or we could kill him on sight. What say you?”

The king only held Daryl’s gaze. “I want it over with tomorrow,” he said. “I do not care who gets the kill, and I do not care how. I do not care if he suffers or if it is a quick death, I just want to see that vermin’s head on a spike, on display before the ruins of the Sanctuary. I want him to pay for his transgressions with his life, and I want Satan to torture him in Hell. More than that, I just want my child back.”

“That is my top priority, I assure you. I will—” He stopped himself, realizing that he was speaking too much from his own perspective, but in his mind, you were solely his responsibility, and his alone. He was quick to catch himself. “We will find her.”

But Ezekiel seemed to catch on, at least a little.

The king had known more than you or Daryl thought he’d known, but it was only as far as the friendship that had blossomed between you. As for the excursions, and your true feelings, he knew none of that, as it had been so carefully concealed from his knowledge. Still, he knew that Daryl cared for you, and it was not becoming increasingly obvious the more he devoted himself to getting you back.

“You care a great deal for her, yes?”

I love her.

“Yes, your majesty.”

Ezekiel smiled, and in his smile was that same warmth and kindness that graced your face. “She cares for you, too. In fact, at the tournament, she was worried sick about you. She begged me to all but stop the joust, lest you get hurt.”

Daryl’s cheeks heated against the cool of the late night breeze as he lowered his head, hoping to hide the obvious blush. Despite being so flattered by the idea, he cleared his throat in an attempt to seem nonchalant. Inside, though, he was so very giddy at the thought of his sweet princess, whom he had tried so hard to impress that day. But that happy memory gave way to seriousness again.

“She is… good-hearted.”

“Indeed, and she cares for her people. All of them—the young and the old, the prosperous and the destitute, the healthy and the ailing. The strong and the weak. She has always been selfless. I know one day, she will be a great queen.”

The knight could only nod in agreement, while his heart ached for you, to know you were all right. The more your father praised you, the more he became desperate to get you back home, and the more he felt as though it was his responsibility, and his alone.

“She will.”

Ezekiel’s hand weighed heavily on Daryl’s shoulder now, as he stepped aside to face him more directly. Though his lips were pulled into a kind smile, his eyes portrayed an earnestness that caught the knight’s attention.

“I must ask something of you, Sir Daryl.”

As if by instinct, Daryl straightened his back in an attempt to be the picture of knighthood he knew he should always display. “Anything, your majesty.”

“When we get to the Sanctuary tomorrow, I want you to be in charge of finding the princess.”

It was both a shock and a relief. Though he was already planning on separating from the battle to find you as soon as he could, to know the king had made an explicit request was a reassurance and an honor. Besides, he certainly was not going to let Jesus, the only person who knew how to navigate the inside of the keep, go looking for you alone. Though he was almost certain that the prince was sincere in his loyalty, he could not risk a blindspot.

“I know you care for her more than anyone else here besides me,” the king continued, “and you’re her bodyguard. It only makes sense for you to be in charge of her safety… And I trust you more than Jesus.”

That went without saying.

“My king,” began the knight, keeping his gaze level with that of Ezekiel’s, “I will gladly find your daughter.”

“Good man,” replied the king with a pat on the knight’s shoulder. He began to make his way back towards the camp as he spoke again: “It would do you good to retire soon. We have a big day ahead of us.”

Indeed, Daryl knew of the challenges laid out before him, of the blood that would be shed tomorrow, of both Saviors and his own. He knew battle well, though he had not seen one against fellow living men in quite some time. It never got any easier, but this battle was different. He could feel it.

To take someone’s life indiscriminately, without consideration for the pain and suffering that one would inflict, was always difficult to grasp. Now, though, Daryl was not simply fighting a king’s war. He was not fighting for the supremacy of a religion or for claim over territory. This was personal.

Tomorrow, he would have no remorse, no compassion, no sorrow. He would not mourn the deaths of countless Saviors who were just as evil as Negan. Oh, and Negan…

That man would not escape Daryl’s wrath this time. In fact, he’d face the worst of it. It was not just the fact that he had taken you from him, but that he had taken your home, pillaged it until the place was left to ruin. Beyond all else, he had frightened you, hurt you.

A knight’s most chivalrous duty was to protect the honor of his lady, no matter how gruesome the act of doing so may be. He had an obligation to kill that man, to make him pay for the suffering he had caused you, his lady to whom he devoted his mind, body, and soul.

Though the king did not care who got the final death blow, Daryl knew one thing above all else to be true: he was going to kill that man. After all, he had told the man to his face that he would be the one to kill him, and a knight never breaks a promise.

Thanks for reading! Likes, reblogs, and/or comments are always appreciated!

Series Masterlist Next Part ➳

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lynettethemadscientist · 2 months

Note

So. . . what is Fallout 4 about in your opinion?

(Asking this not angrily, but as someone who's genuinely curious about your thoughts on the game. I played it too and I love it. Nick Valentine my beloved!)

Thank you for asking!!

Fallout 4’s story is primarily about two things, both concerning how we cope with Suffering and Despair.

When you begin the game, you and your spouse are finally reunited after a long military deployment and you have a brand new baby (no more than a few months old). You’re on the cusp of a beautiful future together. All your dreams are finally coming true.

And then it’s all taken from you. In the worst possible way. Your spouse is executed in front of you. Your child is taken by people with unknown but undoubtedly horrific intentions. And when you wake up for the second time you have no idea how long he’s been in their possession.

When you find the last remnant of your past life (Codsworth), he informs you that everything you know and love has not just been destroyed, but is long forgotten.

You only have one thing left; one reason to keep going, so you pursue your only lead.

And there you find Preston Garvey. He tells you about people and places that mean nothing to you. And he burdens you with the responsibility of saving these people.

It feels almost cruel. The world has brutally taken everything from you and still it sees fit to task you with saving it.

You only say yes because your moral compass insists. You can’t just leave people to die. Not when you can do something about it.

But if you do ask Preston about his recent tragedy he’ll tell you:

“I had to put on a brave face as long as there were still people counting on me. That's the only reason I kept going.”

You don’t know it yet, but this foreshadows your future in the Commonwealth.

As you search for your son in a poisoned, decaying land full of giant monsters, you quickly realize there are two kinds of people: those who want to kill you, and those begging you to rescue them from certain death. Everywhere you turn there is desperation. And you grow more weary and more worried each time you steer away from your search to save a family pleading for your help.

And then you find Kellogg. However you feel about killing him, the answers you need are locked in his head, so you leap in. As you walk through his memories, to your dismay you find that his family was brutally taken from him in much the same way yours was. And that he chose to become the very same monster that created him.

And here we find the first thesis of the story: suffering is inevitable, and it will change you, but you are the one who decides whether your strife changes you into a better or worse person.

However the Sole Survivor chooses to respond (or not respond) to this is up to your character, but the message is clear.

For the purpose of truly realizing the second thesis, let’s say this moment was a wake-up call for your Sole. You grit your teeth and silently swear an oath to yourself that no matter what happens, you won’t end up like Kellogg. You won’t let your loss turn you into something evil.

But it’s hard to fight the despair creeping into your heart now that you know your son is already 10 years old. He’s been raised by the Institute. An organization that has thus far only seen fit to inflict harm on the Commonwealth for unknown reasons. You try to push the implications of this out of your mind as you now search for access to the organization that has haunted this land for over a century.

The burden of helping settlers only grows heavier as the seemingly insurmountable task of getting into the Institute looms over you.

And when you finally get inside, not even your most harrowing nightmares could have predicted what you find.

Your son is an old man. A callous and calculating old man. He bears features resembling that of you and your spouse, but the more he talks the more he seems like a cruel mockery of your once happy family.

Searching the Institute for answers only plunges the knife deeper. Every terminal, every overheard conversation only confirms the worst; that the squalor and desperation of the Commonwealth, the constant fear and instability, is all the intentional result of the Institute’s machinations. Your own son is the one who has been making life a living hell for all the people you've met and befriended on your way to rescuing him.

Devastating doesn’t even begin to cover it.

The one thing you had left, the one reason you endured for so long has not just been irrevocably taken from you, but has been twisted into something monstrously evil.

When you reach the surface again, you realize you have nothing left. Maybe you consider walking into the water and letting the rads take you. Or maybe putting the barrel of a gun in your mouth.

You wonder why you even survived this long. Why couldn’t you have just died in that cryopod? Or been another casualty of the wasteland? Why are you even still here?

But before you can finish the job you remember why. As much as you might want to, you can’t die yet. There are too many people depending on you now. And you’re the only one who can stop your son.

And here we find the second thesis of the story: having a purpose beyond oneself is the only way to endure impossible levels of suffering. Without a purpose, one succumbs to despair.

What was once a moral obligation has become your only reason to keep going. What was once a burden is now your lifeline.

And with that I think perhaps I should stop haha ^^; I’ve already waxed on for a lot longer than I intended and I feel bad that I made you wait so long for a response. I’ll keep going if anyone wants to hear the rest but I think I’ve about covered the core themes of the story and I fear I’ve already been too tedious about it

#i swear I tried to be as brief as possible #but immersion is essential to understanding the story #Fallout 4 #fo4

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hlizr50 · 1 year

Text

Welcome back to the ACOTAR Writing Circle, organized by the incredible @azrielshadowssing!

For part two I was tasked with continuing the Feysand fic the story starts when it was hot and it was summer and by @damedechance (read part 1 on tumblr or on AO3) and boy did she know what she was setting me up for. Anyone who knows me knows that I'm that slow burn kind of girl, but we are in full banter and smut territory already for part two!

That being said, this fic is now officially NSFW!

You can check out the master list for this writing circle here and see what everyone is writing! Part 3 will be posted in two weeks!

One week.

Seven days.

One hundred sixty eight hours.

Ten thousand eighty minutes.

As Feyre lay sprawled on the tile clad in nothing but a bralette and panties, she contemplated trying to math out just how many seconds she’d been sharing this apartment with Rhys.

“No,” she chided herself, cursing to the empty, heavy, oppressive summer air. “Rhysand.”

She gave up on figuring out how many seconds had been in that week. Math wasn’t her strong suit, anyway.

It had become increasingly difficult to hide behind her crumbling wall of practiced distaste for the beautiful man. Which was why she’d been avoiding him for nearly three years. Feyre had come to know what lay behind that infuriating arrogance and smooth calculation once before.

At least, she thought she had. And then she’d slept with him, like an idiot.

About a month after she’d returned from her beach vacation with Mor, where she’d met the tall, dark, unfairly attractive man and had finally succumbed to the urge to jump his bones, Feyre had been giddy at the prospect of attending his company’s autumn banquet. She’d tried to keep her enthusiasm in check; she and Rhys – Rhysand – hadn’t exchanged more than adoring smiles and casual kisses before they left the beach house in separate cars, keeping their dalliance a secret. But it had been the best sex she’d ever had, and she saw those incredible luminous violet eyes in her dreams more often than she cared to admit.

When he strolled through the ballroom wearing an impeccably tailored suit and a bowtie, her mouth had gone dry as a desert. He’d looked like a movie star, with all the confidence that he so rightfully possessed, and the tall, striking redhead with her perfectly manicured fingers tucked into the crook of his arm was a fitting, beautiful, disgustingly perfect pairing.

Even now, as she did her best to cool herself on Mor’s living room floor, her cheeks heated with embarrassment. She was glad she could blame it on the sweltering summer and the broken AC. She had been a fool; one of those silly girls she’d always felt sorry for in college, panting after a pretty boy who had made no promises and had gotten what they wanted. When Rhys had come to greet her and Mor, she’d thought perhaps there had been a flicker of surprise, perhaps regret. But she knew the latter had just been the crushed hopes of a plain girl who had little to offer a man such as that.

Especially in comparison to Amarantha.

Her hair was silken waterfalls of wine. Her skin, pale and smooth and pristine. Feyre hated the way her ruby red, pillowy lips seemed to tick up, as if she knew the thoughts and despair that was racing through Feyre’s mind. Her dark eyes seemed so deep and empty and soulless, and Feyre found herself delighted that the woman had at least one singular imperfection.

Since then, the young artist’s walls had been solid as steel and black as onyx, constructed from avoidance and distraction. Tamlin had started as a rebound, but he had taken care of her in all the ways she had dreamed a man would when she was toiling to make ends meet for her family, working full-time as she struggled to finish high school. While her father wasted away under the blanket of his despair and his perceived shortcomings.

Tamlin should have been everything she wanted – everything she could have ever dreamed. His family was wealthy, and he was an up-and-coming attorney at his family’s prestigious law firm. Feyre had wanted for nothing when she had been with him, at least as far as worldly possessions went. And the sex was good… not like the night she’d had at the beach with Rhys. But she could live with that.

Things had started to go sideways when Mor had reached out to her about a job; she’d wanted to revamp her entire office and thought custom art pieces in the lobby, hallways, and conference rooms would be a nice way to keep the environment exciting and positive. Feyre had been so excited to tell Tamlin – her fiance of a few months – about the amazing opportunity.

But he’d only frowned and asked if she thought that was a good idea. After all, she had to start planning a wedding, and he had a lot going on at the firm. He’d need her support, when he was available to receive it within the constraints of his increasingly busy schedule.

And not that she’d needed his permission, but she had assured him that she could make it work. She could negotiate a reasonable timeline with Mor that would ensure that she wasn’t frantically working late into the night, and she could do most of that work from home. So she would always be there, in the apartment they shared, when he returned at the end of the day.

Things had only gotten worse from there. It was as if that first pursuit of her own dreams threatened him. He became increasingly controlling, demanding to know what she was doing at all hours of the day and night. If she didn’t answer his texts immediately, though she was often covered in paint, he would call incessantly and send line after line of cruel, pointed words to the tune of the happy chime of her phone. Tamlin knew exactly where to strike, too. He took care of her. She wanted for nothing. Didn’t she remember where she’d come from? How hard it had been to slave away to keep herself and her family housed and fed? Didn’t she understand that he just wanted her to live in comfort and be happy and not have to do that again?

She’d endured it all, had adjusted so many parts of her life, because he had a point. And she believed that somewhere, deep down, he did care. He thought that love meant shielding and protecting and preventing, meant providing ease and comfort. Feyre could understand that – she sometimes wondered why she didn’t feel like that was what she needed – but to her, love was encouragement and a safe place to land, in case the risks you took didn’t pan out. She’d thought she was making it work.

Until he started coming home later, but without the expectation of dinner being ready for him. Until she noticed a sickly floral perfume wafting from his hamper of button-down shirts. Until the red smudges on the collars were too numerous to ignore.

All of the names he’d called her. All of the insinuations, the anger, the yelling and the deadly silence. Feyre had endured it all, had changed so much about herself and her life and her dreams to try to make it work. Because Tamlin was right, in his way: he took care of her and she should be grateful for that.

But when the towering blonde had just huffed a disbelieving laugh and shook his head and all but blamed Feyre and her “silly little art projects” for his infidelity, she’d thrown the colossal diamond engagement ring in his face.

And now she was here. On the smooth tile floor of Mor’s apartment, willing any modicum of chill from the stone into her body. Because the air conditioning was still broken after a week.

“Well this is unexpected.”

And just like that, she was frozen. Dread prickled her flesh, the goosebumps rising over her entire body. Squeezing her eyes shut, she took a deep breath. If she freaked out, he would only respond with that infuriating grin. She couldn’t let Rhysand know that he could get under her tingling skin so easily. So Feyre relaxed, willing her limbs to stay spread wide even though all she wanted to do was cover herself, and sighed.

“I’m not sure why. We’re on the top floor, in the middle of the summer, with no functioning AC. We’re basically next to the sun. Clothes aren’t practical.”

“Indeed.”

With the rustle of fabric that seemed to roar in her ears, Feyre knew she’d made a mistake. Her eyes flew open just in time to find Rhys pulling open the front of his charcoal button-down, revealing a chiseled landscape of abs and pecs and ink. Heat flooded her, and not because of the summer air, as she took him in. His body sure hadn’t gotten any less delectable. Damn him.

“What are you doing?” she asked before she could stop herself. God, she was an idiot.

“You said so, yourself,” he crooned in response, draping his shirt over the back of one of the barstools. “Clothes aren’t practical.” He practically sauntered toward her as her lungs struggled against his attention. The quirk of his lips was so damned sexy that she hated him for it, and she tried to cling to that disdain, even as her insides twisted with a want she hadn’t allowed herself to feel in years.

Instead of pouncing on her, Rhys allowed himself to fall into the armchair to her left. Feyre couldn’t tell if she was relieved or disappointed. As if he could sense her inner conflict he smirked down at her, violet eyes twinkling like jewels bathing in firelight.

“Ask me why I didn’t take off my pants.”

Feyre rolled her eyes and then willed them shut, trying to calm her racing heart and roaring blood. But her newfound roommate wasn’t content to let her be.

“I didn’t take them off, Feyre darling, because then I’d be completely naked. And I’d hate for you to feel like you’d have to remove those lovely underthings to even the playing field.”

She groaned, doing her best to ignore that he’d just informed her that only a few steps and a thin layer of fabric separated him from her. “Why are you so annoying?”

“You mean undeniably charming? It’s a curse, truly.”

“Yes, you are a curse,” she grumbled back, rubbing her hands over her face. “I think you’ve decided to stay here just to make me miserable.”

“As entertaining as that sounds, I told you that there are some major plumbing updates happening in my house. I scheduled it like this because I knew I’d be able to stay here,” he explained.

How convenient for him. On the contrary, it had been a total accident that she’d found herself single and homeless the day Mor had left.

“What?”

Her heart stopped and her eyes burst open, her gaze immediately snaring on his. Rhysand’s jaw had gone slack and disbelief painted the features that were usually so carefully controlled.

She’d said it aloud. Oh, God, how was that possible?

Feyre scrambled to her feet, desperate to make a run for it, but Rhys met her chest-to-chest in the space between his chair and the couch. And she couldn’t take her eyes off of that broad expanse of tan skin and swirling tattoos, lifting and falling with the breaths that she could feel skating over her disheveled hair. It was fine that she was staring at his bare chest, because that meant she wasn’t looking at his face or into his eyes.

She cursed the world when she felt gentle fingers curl under her chin and lift, forcing her hand. The stare she met was not arrogant or mischievous, nor was it clouded with pity. No, Rhysand’s incredible starlit eyes were dark with intensity. Stormy with something she dared not try to identify.

“Single?” His voice stuttered, as if he could hardly breathe. Feyre gave a half-hearted shrug and jerked away from his hand.

“Tamlin was cheating on me.” Might as well not beat around the bush, though she didn’t feel the need to explain that she’d stuck around for the lies and the name-calling and the snide remarks about her body and her appearance and her work and… everything. Feyre bravely snuck a look back at Rhys, who was still just regarding her intently.

“And homeless?” God, why was he so intent on her laying herself bare at his feet? Didn’t he know how beaten down and humiliated she was already? Her shoulders sagged as she sighed again, her feistiness and annoyance replaced with exhaustion.

“Well, Tamlin’s name is on the lease, so…”

She didn’t have the strength to say anything more. Not to this perfect specimen of a man who could have anything he ever wanted at any time. A man who hadn’t wanted her. All of her bravado had faded away, and she realized that she was practically naked before him, both physically and emotionally. Taking a step back, Feyre folded her arms over her chest.

“I’m going to go get dressed,” she whispered, turning to flee.

She’d only made it two steps when a heavy hand fell on her shoulder. She spun, ready to ask Rhys what the hell he wanted now.

And then his lips were on hers.

Rhysand was kissing her. And she couldn’t think. Couldn’t breathe. The hand that had been so forceful, had spun her around, now cupped her nape with such tenderness as his lips and his tongue set her aflame.

No matter how loudly and forcefully her mind screamed that letting this happen was not a good idea, Feyre couldn’t bring herself to care. Not with the warmth of his palm leaving a trail of goosebumps down her back. Not with the way his heaving, muscled chest rose and fell beneath her hands. Not with the way he was kissing her, as if she were his salvation.

Rhys moaned against her mouth as he lifted her thighs, sweeping her .up against him and his obvious need without breaking the contact between them. Feyre was too enraptured to even squeak in surprise. And then they were moving, even as their tongues danced and their fingers squeezed. She had the fleeting sensation of a bead of sweat crawling down her spine, but it was quickly replaced by the sudden free fall of Rhys tipping them over onto a bed. The heat of his skin radiated into her, boiling her blood as need roared through her veins and pooled in her core. She was caged beneath him, and in the back of her mind the last crumbling vestiges of her self-preservation were calling out to her, rambling through a list of reasons that this was a mistake that was going to end up with her crushed beneath the weight of this man’s saccharine smile again. But all of that fell away as his open-mouthed kisses started moving up her jaw and then followed the path of her heartbeat down her neck.

“You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to do this.”

Fuck, she was a goner, for sure.

And so her hands found the ridges of his obliques and trailed over the rippling muscles of his abs and up over his chest. As his mouth moved lower, she wrapped her arms over his broad shoulders and sighed, awash in the sensation of his soft lips on her burning flesh. His journey continued into the hollow between her breasts, still covered by flimsy lace.

“Can we take this off, Feyre, darling?” His question vibrated through her breastbone and sent shivers to the tips of her toes.

Feyre couldn’t recall ever having ripped off an undergarment with such urgency.

And when she was bare beneath him, his eyes had turned dark and stormy and desperate. “Fuck, you’re even more gorgeous than I remembered.” The way he whispered the words was nearly reverent, and they washed over her like a spring morning mist, chasing away the sweltering summer and leaving her skin prickling with anticipation. Rhys lowered his dark head and tongued at one of her nipples, his large palm sliding over her other breast. Feyre arched up into his sensual touch with a stuttered gasp and slid her fingers into his thick, midnight hair. It was so soft, so at odds with his hard body and his wicked mouth.

He sucked her nipple between his teeth and gave her a nip, and she yelped, surprised and delighted at how the short, sharp sting made her inner muscles clench. Soon the infuriating man shifted his attention, laving his tongue and lips over the other nipple whilst gently pinching and pulling at the one that was now standing at attention.

After another playful bite, the wetness of his mouth moved away from her chest, and Feyre felt bereft from the loss. But that trail of fire, ignited by his lips and teeth, moved down her stomach. Lower and lower and lower. Until she felt his fingers curl under the band of her panties. Blinking her eyes open, she lifted her head and gazed up at him, his unspoken question blazing in his starlit eyes.

“What are you waiting for?” she breathed. Rhysand’s lips tilted into a devastating, devilish lopsided grin as he chuckled.

“Nothing at all,” he crooned in response. Then he slowly peeled the veritable scrap of fabric down over her legs, his gaze keeping her pinned and breathless. Feyre could feel the color bloom upon her cheeks the further down he got, until she was fully naked on the bed and he had lifted himself up onto his knees to take her in.

She couldn’t help but notice the way his slacks were tented in front, the considerable bulge only making her blush more. But she grinned lazily. Satisfied.

Tamlin had been critical of her body, though most of the time not pointedly. But he did love control, and that included watching her like a fucking hawk when they ate meals together. His comments about needing a wife who stays trim – who could easily shop at all the high-end stores that only sold sizes 2-4-6 – had eroded her self-esteem somewhat.

But the way that Rhys was looking at her now made her feel like the sexiest woman on the face of the planet.

“Oh, Feyre, darling. You look absolutely delectable,” he murmured softly, his tilted grin widening into a wicked smile. Rubbing his palms together, he made a show of licking his lips. Feyre would have rolled her eyes if she hadn’t been paralyzed by the implication of his words. “I think I’d like a taste.”

Rhys moved with surprising speed, and she barely had enough time to suck in a breath before he pounced on her, quickly hooking his arms under her thighs and diving in to feast upon her.

“Oh, my God!” Feyre gasped, her hands fisting desperately in the sheets. Rhys let out a feral growl that vibrated against her clit and sent her eyes rolling.

His mouth was unrelenting, his attention ferocious. Rhys ran the flat of his tongue over her sex and flicked the tip of it over the tiny bud that was swollen and needy and sensitive. He took his time to pleasure her in every way, plunging his tongue into her and fucking her with it, then pulling out and sucking her clit into his mouth and swirling his tongue around it. Feyre’s hurried breaths and gasps had grown into moans and cries and curses, her hands desperately searching for something to hold onto, to keep her grounded. Her fingers would sink into Rhys’s hair, then she would flail and clutch at the sheets, then she would lift her arms and grip the pillow above her head. But nothing could stop the torturous pleasure as her body wound tighter and tighter, this infuriatingly skilled man bringing her closer and closer to the edge.

“Rhys!” She could barely speak with the way her muscles were clenching and spasming. “Oh, fuck! I –” Her words pulled apart and mixed into an unintelligible scream as her orgasm surged through her. Rhysand’s tongue on her clit sent wave after wave of pleasure through her body, and he kept licking and sucking at her as she fell from the precipice. Feyre wasn’t sure that she could breathe or think as her sight and smell and touch and sound were overwhelmed by the ecstasy that his mouth was wringing from her.

Her eyes were watering when Rhys finally took mercy on her, her chest heaving with deep, panting breaths. Feyre watched with a bleary gaze as this sex god stepped off the bed and hurriedly removed his pants. When his length sprang free, hard and proud in front of him, she could only manage a fleeting thought that he hadn’t been bluffing before. She must have been staring, because his smug, smooth voice drew her out of her haze.

“Like what you see, Feyre, darling?”

She scowled. “It’s… fine,” she grumbled.

“It’s fine?” Rhys balked. He crawled back onto the mattress and then slowly, languidly prowled over her prone form. When they were face to face, his arms caging her at her shoulders, he lowered his head. His words seared the shell of her ear. “I’m fairly certain that you know that my cock is much more than fine.” He pressed a deceptively chaste kiss against her jaw, then another on her cheek. When his mouth met her lips, he plunged his tongue between them, igniting the passion and desire that was still simmering after her mindblowing climax only minutes before.

Rhys pulled back, breathing hard, and stared into her eyes. “I’m all too happy to remind you how much better than fine it is.” Stars danced in her vision as he thrust into her, seating himself to the hilt. She’d forgotten how big he was, how deliciously he filled her – enough to steal her breath. Her back arched as her lungs kicked back to life, just in time for Rhysand to lift his hips and then push them back against her, burying himself deep inside her again.

And then he unleashed himself upon her.

Feyre’s breathing hitched and her voice cracked as she yelled any number of colorful words and cried his name as he pounded into her, her arms hooking around his neck and clinging to him. Her feet hooked around his thighs, opening herself further to his punishing rhythm. Fuck, she’d missed this: this deep, sensual connection of bodies and pleasure. Tamlin had never been able to make her feel like this. Hell, he’d hardly had the desire to try.

Rhys captured her lips in a hard, searing kiss. He pulled out of her and she whimpered at the emptiness she felt. But it was only long enough for him to grab her legs and bend them back toward her chest, pinning her knees down on either side of her torso. When he plunged into her again her eyes rolled back into her head, the intensity of the sensation almost too much to withstand. Rhys fucked her in deep, long strokes, drawing a tormented wail from her lips at the base of every thrust.

“Fu – uck. You – you’re s-s-so deep,” Feyre stuttered around the impact of his body against hers. Rhys hissed a laugh between clenched teeth.

“And how does it feel, Feyre?” he growled. “Does it feel fine.” He punctuated the abhorrent word with another stroke.

“Oh, my God!” she gasped. “Oh, fuck, Rhys!”

“Tell me, Feyre. Tell me how it feels.”

Her vision was blurring as he pounded into her, the noises coming from her mouth things she didn’t even recognize. He was driving her mad, keeping her dangling perilously over the cliff’s edge. But the fall was just out of reach.

“Rhys! P-p-please!”

“Tell me how good it feels, Feyre, and I’ll give you the best orgasm of your life.” Somehow he still crooned the words, as if he were still in full control over his body and his mind. God, the power of his arrogance was truly mythical, but she couldn’t bring herself to care about anything other than claiming this climax.

“It – it feels – fuck!” She moaned again, desperate to get it out. “It feels… amazing. Rhys, please. Fuck, I’m so close.”

“Good girl,” he praised, and with the next surge of his hips he released one leg and circled his thumb around her clit.

Feyre screamed, but it was shredded and raw and broken. Broken like the rest of her shattered mind as everything unraveled and she was carried away in the unstoppable current of her orgasm. She felt Rhys, hard and thick inside her as he plunged in and out a few more times before unleashing with her name on his lips. He fell between her quivering legs, his cheek resting upon one of her breasts as they both came back to earth. In an instant the adrenaline disappeared and her muscles all seemed to fail. Her body went limp as her hand found the soft hair at Rhys’s nape. Her breathing grew deep and her eyelids grew heavy, and then she drifted to sleep.

~~~

When her blue eyes blinked open, Feyre was alone in the bed, and she couldn’t help the pang of disappointment that stabbed her in the gut. But as she blinked at the clock on the opposite nightstand, it read 8:03am, and she leapt from the tangle of sheets.

She was going to be late for work.

Her shower was quick, not allowing any time to ruminate over Rhysand’s departure without so much as a, “Thanks for a good time”. Perhaps, once again, it hadn’t been as meaningful to him as it was to her. It was exactly what her subconscious had tried to tell her the night before, but she was too desperate for him to listen.

Feyre’s sour mood lifted, however, when she finally made it into the kitchen and found a coffee mug – stamped with a scripty Hello, darling – on the counter next to a note:

You looked so peaceful that I didn’t want to wake you. Obviously, my FINE cock really tired you out last night.

If you need to stay home, I’ll be glad to inform my cousin that you were simply not ready for my sexual prowess. Just let me know.

I won’t be back until late tonight, but I wouldn’t mind finding you sprawled out on the floor again. Or maybe on the table? My own personal feast, perhaps?

~Rhys

God, he was going to be even more insufferable, now, wasn’t he?

Feyre shook her head, unable to stop herself from snickering, and made herself some coffee and packed her lunch. Then she carefully made her way down the many flights of stairs. If she fell down the steps, Rhys would give her endless grief about not being able to walk the day after they had sex. She was not willing to endure that.

She was breathing hard by the time she made it to the landing and walked out the door, and the summer sun was already beating down on her. Her car was just around the corner, though, and then she would have sweet, sweet AC once more.

“Feyre.” The voice stopped her in her tracks and stole the air from her already struggling lungs. All she wanted was for her feet to keep moving, but they were frozen in place. When she heard her name again, her body turned in spite of her better judgment. And there, not ten feet away from her, stood a tall, perfectly groomed man with a green sport coat and glossy blond hair. Feyre lifted her chin, determined not to let him see the anxiety that rattled in her bones.

“Tamlin.”

#acotar writing circle #acotarwritingcircle #feysand #feyre x rhys #rhys x feyre #feysand au #feyre archeron #rhysand #rhysand acotar #smut #banter #acotar fanfic #acotar #fanfiction #feysand fanfic #feysand fanfiction

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ashmp3 · 7 months

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What designers do you want to see jeonghan wear/etc?

when u start reading this u will understand the despair i felt when tumblr deleted my reply (just as i was finishing the margiela part) But we live… so okay i must warn you this is long and i made collages bc there was way too many pictures i wanted to show… One thing about me i don’t like to half ass things so i really hope you enjoy reading all this 🫶🏻 (this is one of my favorite questions i got asked EVER)

I wanted to start off with Jolo (Jeonghan solo) first just because i have that on my pinterest saved and Ready. You know i envision kind of fallen angel (1004) for one concept and venusian otherworldly beautiful man that it makes you uneasy for the other concept? Okay so first one some of the inspiration (versace ss02, mugler 84, givenchy (by mcqueen) haute couture 1997, mcqueen fw 06, blumarine ss24)

Second one i just think simone rocha all over… it would fit his whimsical looking ass…And this JPG look with the pearls AND the givenchy all white beauty just yes… Oh i adore.

Now let’s get into the Real Question. Need to make it clear that the fashion houses i mention are the ones i love (for myself aka it’s my taste aka the fits you see I ALSO WANT) so yes it’s biased a bit but i do always keep a tab on jeonghan so this is not something i just came up with… TRUST!

first of all i need to start with YSL (i just saw his ig story. Please) bc i BELIEVE that they will make him their muse. i just feel it in my intuitive soul and mind…. Anyway i already posted some looks i want to see him but it doesn’t hurt to get reminded. Sidenote i REALLY need to see him become part of snowflake community (i’m the president ofc) i just need to see him in a pretty šubara it is my right as his slavic woman…

peter do. I need him to hit up jeonghan… it’s possible like jeno walked for him can he please hop over to hybe i have a perfect person in mind…..

alexander mcqueen… that’s kinda a no brainer you know how much i love structured, sleek design of course i would love jeonghan in them too… Imagine his tiny waist in these just magnificent if you ask me…. And the little bunny bag. don’t even get me started on that i have ZERO words

now i know he is a very cozy man and likes his outfits to be baggy so much that you don’t even see his body. May i present him with some yohji yamamoto in my opinion he would rock everything AND would feel cozy and comfy like he does in his giant hoodies. Going with the cozy (bc i am afraid i will go over the picture limit) i have to (lump them together) and mention margiela - i am actually surprised i haven’t seen any svt man in tabis but there is still time 🫣 With that ofc comes early 00s hermes which is my favorite… (i didn’t post my f/w fits here bc i had other blog but i will this year and u will see what i’m talking about)

mugler… Let me not repeat myself the pictures can talk for themselves and in this case (bc again i got over the 10 pic limit) i gotta group him them with gucci (by tom ford it’s given) so we are talking maybe fw 96 with velvet suits or 1995 … Actually 1995 fits so well bc he is 95 baby okay okay SEE connections…. I need to be his stylist he would look so cunt.

i think schiaparelli would be good on him (manifesting. again if i could just have a word with his stylist.)

Had to delete anne demeulemeester paragraph i am sorry but this next collage was more important so it was a fight and anne lost. ANYWAY I would LOVE to see him in custom dilara findikoglu like imagine it says jeonghan dangling… similar to this i would love for him to have a todd oldham shirt with his name like nadja does here (a big cozy shirt bc he’s so difficult abt it…) This egonlab outfit i adore i had it saved i think it would suit him perfectly. and this haider ackermann leather wrap coat. and this vivianne westwood winter hat. and this 2123 shirts. And i think i should stop now before someone euthanizes me!

This got SO long i could talk about this for ages and i am sorry if this was all over the place i would make a powerpoint presentation if i had time. but i need to stop myself from exhibiting signs of mental illness on my dear blog. But i hope this was fun to read… I hope 🫶🏻

#I think i am insane #ask #grace 💎#mb

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hecalledme-jagi · 3 months

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hi! i'm so upset after picking up mystic messenger again so i wanted to ask if you could do a zen x MC hc, but they're both aware that they are in different dimensions and will never be together... but they see each other in their dreams!!

(Bruh I wrote this a yr ago and completely forgot about it. Sorry Anon ;;;)

Anon, you hurt me so T_T I love the angst, but why!? ＿|￣|○

I am a weak, weak, woman for Zen angst and now I must offer it to you and the rest of this fandom. I must break my heart for this man, AGAIN! For you, Anon, I will dive back into the depths of despair. On that note, I hope you enjoy, or feel sad(??).

Sorry for the delay, but fitting that I write Zen angst on my 6th MysMe Anniversary LOL

Zen and MC in Different Dimensions

- Zen could feel when you missed him. It’s a warm yet heartbreaking feeling that rests in his chest and stings in his eyes.

- You could feel Zen’s thoughts of you. They’re constant and lovely but left you melancholic and lonely.

- He knew when you were thinking of him or talking about him because suddenly everything appeared so much brighter.

- You knew when he longed for you because bright and unhindered smiles always seemed to paint your face.

- Sometimes he swore he could hear your voice and your beautiful laughter when he was going about his day.

- Sometimes his laughter was all you could hear and all you wanted to hear.

- Zen often wondered if you got the same feelings he did. Did your heart feel unbearably warm when he missed you? Did your world light up when he talked about you or thought of you? Did you hear his laughter and his voice throughout the day?

- The answer was yes, a thousand times over, with every ounce of love, joy, and sadness.

- And sadly, he would never know, but he knew one thing for sure, sharing dreams was something you both looked forward to.

- Knowing you could only reach each other in your dreams, made sleep the most treasured thing either of you could ask for.

- In those dreams, he could hold you and offer you the affections he couldn’t in the waking hours of the day. He’s created vast and beautiful worlds in those dreams, hoping each one would make your waking hours a little more bearable.

- He made sure that those dreams encouraged you to live in reality bc that’s where you truly belonged, but deep down he wished that sleep would never end and he could stay with you.

- On the hardest days, when his feelings of loneliness became more than he could take, when his insecurities raged and roared at him, when life got too difficult to bear; all he wanted was to sleep and be where you are.

- To feel your warmth and comfort, support and love.

- He wanted, so desperately, to bridge those distant dimensions for as long as possible, even if it became unhealthy.

- But what good would that do? He would only be dragging you down with him, and he could never do that to you.

- Furthermore, he knew, better than anyone else, that you would want him to continue living and perusing his dreams, the same way he wanted that for you.

- So, sleeping until you wake, would be enough.

- Holding you until morning came.

- Kissing you until daybreak.

- Sweet nothings until sunrise.

- Laughter until first light.

- Loving you, and you loving him, without limit or requisite.

- He would take his fill, searing ever inch of you into his memory. Filling his cup until it overflowed with you, hoping it would bleed into the day that followed. Hoping it would make up for the lack of you in his world.

- Hoping maybe one day that the yearning you shared would somehow turn the two dimensions into one, where he could finally have your scent cling to his clothes and melt into his skin. Where he could have you part of his life, morning, noon, and night. Where sleep wasn’t the only place he could find you. Where loving you beyond a screen and short lived dreams was no longer a wish, but rather something mixed with normalcy.

˚✧₊⁎𝒥𝑎𝑔𝑖𝑎⁎⁺˳✧༚

I do not own any characters, all ownership goes to Cheritz. Thanks for reading!

#mystic messenger #my writing #fiction #hyun ryu #zen mystic messenger #zen the knight #zen mm #zen x mc #mysme #mystic messenger angst #anon reply #anon response #anon request #zen angst #mystic messenger zen #zen x reader #zenny #lovely zen #cheritz

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boxofbonesfic · 2 years

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Title: Hoard [2]

Pairing: Smaug x Human OFC

Summary: Angharad means “well loved one”. Perhaps that is why she was chosen. It is cruel irony—for a dragon cannot love. It can only covet, desire, possess. He does not love her.

Warnings: Kidnapping, Despair, Angst, Manipulation, Suicidal Ideation, Eventual Smut, Slow Burn, Enemies to Lovers (no fluff), Character death, Shapeshifting, Loss of virginity

A/N: 👀 anyone still here? 😅 this is kind of different from my usual works, so i’m just hoping everyone enjoys it. divider by @racingairplanes.

He’d been watching her more lately. Angharad was a woman, nineteen just a few summers past, now. She was used to the feel of men’s eyes on her body.

He is not a man.

Perhaps that was why she’d become so keenly aware of when his gaze rested upon her. His uncanny ability to sense what she was feeling made her nerves stand on end, and this time was no different. She could feel him as soon as he’d entered, his imposing heat as much a herald as the thunder of his steps.

Smaug didn’t often come to the bathing chamber, but here he was, his scales glinting in the low light. Angharad could see the moon, just above him, framed perfectly in the parapet windows.

“What troubles you?” The sincerity in the serpent’s voice didn’t fool her.

Dragons lie.

He wanted to know, of course, but only insofar as a jeweler inspected his diamonds for unsightly flaws. It was darkly amusing—there would never be anyone for him to show her off to, and still he draped her in gifts and finery, silvery necklaces adorning her elegant neck and beautiful chains as thin as thread adorning her hips.

“What makes you think I am troubled, my lord?” Angharad’s voice didn’t tremble anymore when she addressed the dragon. He was her only companion, and she was long past feeling guilt for engaging him. He was only half right; Angharad wasn’t particularly upset by anything—in fact she’d felt disturbingly little as the days wore on—simply staring down into the bathing pool.

But she had been thinking.

She’d been wondering what it would feel like to drown, if might would hurt. Or perhaps it would simply feel like… nothing. Wondorered if the nothingness would be warm and welcoming, or coldly indifferent to her coming and going. But of one thing she could be perfectly sure—Sooner or later, she would be free. The morbid thought had lightened her, and before she could contemplate it further, her keeper had swept in.

Perhaps in a few years, she would revisit the thought, when things had grown truly unbearable. Besides, if she failed, he would probably consider that an even greater insult than any attempted escape. An attempt to take herself away from him so completely would be met with swift retribution. Angharad wouldn’t have been surprised if he destroyed Laketown in his rage. Smaug had developed an uncomfortable habit of making his massive head level with hers, his great snout inches from her face. He’d hunted recently, there was still a little dried gore on his face as he spoke to her.

“I know you, my beloved.” His eyes are hypnotic, swirls of green and gold filling her field of vision. Her breath caught. “You are mine .” She could almost feel the weight of the words against her skin as he spoke them, his lip curling. “Do not think to keep yourself from me.”

Even her death was denied by the king under the mountain.

—

Angharad was allowed to cook for herself, time she valued and craved—if only because the dragon couldn’t fit in the kitchen. It might have been comical, save for the glowing, golden eye that sometimes watched her from the hall if she took too long.

Time had no meaning anymore and Angharad had stopped counting; the only passage of time she noted was the rising and setting of the sun. Her mind wandered as she prepared her meals, her eyes staring unseeingly at the tasks her hands completed. She would dream.

She’d dreamt one night of the baker’s boy, a year or two older than her, his handsome face swimming before her unconscious eyes. He spoke kindly to her, promised to save her. Her knight.

I wonder if he would have married me.

Their parents had spoken of a betrothal—but that was like another life. Another person. Angharad didn’t know that girl anymore. They’d kissed once, and his mouth was soft and yielding beneath hers. The boy her subconscious had dreamed up caressed her face. Promising again and again that he would come for her. And then, his eyes had turned gold, his voice booming around her as he smirked, his jaw elongating as he became the dragon.

Even in your dreams, you are mine.

Angharad had woken with a start, sitting straight up. He’d stopped letting her sleep in one of the abandoned rooms near the treasure chamber, instead, forcing her to make a makeshift nest of her own, soft scarves, blankets and pillows, which he curled about each night, his eyes slitted and dark in slumber. Angharad had laid back down, her back to the dragon.

I could swear he blinked.

She’d settled back into her soft bedding, her thighs rubbing together. No. She couldn’t be. She wasn’t… But she was. Her thighs were embarrassingly wet. Angharad wondered if he could smell it.

If he would say anything.

She’d kept her thighs tightly shut until morning, going to bathe first thing. She’d gripped the edge of the bathing pool so hard her hands had bled. No one is coming. No one will ever come. I will die here.

“I see you have a love of books.” His deep voice broke Angharad out of her reverie, and she turned to look at him. “I have never asked if you could read Dwarfish, pet.”

“Some.” She replied. “Why do dragons love the sun?” There was no formality between them anymore, either.

“Because it is the source of all fire. And what is a dragon, but fire incarnate?” He spoke so poetically of his own existence, Angharad could almost forget what he really was. What does that make me?

They were standing on the ramparts, watching the sun sink into the lake. She could just make out the city. If she strained her imagination, she could almost see her family going about their daily activities. She glanced at the dragon, his scales gleaming like embers in the dying light. His eyesight was keener than an Eagle’s, and she wondered whether he could see them, the people. I don’t want to know.

“Come, beloved.” She was used to the pet name now. It was better than when he called her by her own. That, too, was precious to him, another treasure. “I wish you to read to me.”

“Can I pick the book this time, my lord?” She asked, following him back into the belly of the mountain, where the vast hoard waited for them. He always made sure to keep the throne room brightly lit, so that he could see every bit of the vast wealth he had acquired.

“If it pleases you, my pet, it pleases me.”

When Angharad settled on her bedding, the book she’d chosen from Erebor’s extensive library clutched in her hands, Smaug regarded her with interest.

“And what have you chosen for us this evening, pet?”

That was a game they played, the two of them, a play to see how long she could withhold information from him. How long until he turned those hypnotic eyes on her and made her tell him everything. There was magic in the dragon, she knew that now. It was more terrifying than the dark fire burning in his belly, the power he had.

“Guess.”

“I hope it isn’t poetry again.”

Angharad had only read him poetry once, only to discover he loved his own flowery words better than anyone else’s.

“No, my lord.” She shook her head, her riotous hair bouncing. He looked at her then, his eyes luminous.

“Tell me, then, pet.”

Angharad’s breath caught uncomfortably in her throat. “Myths.”

He chuckled, his warm breath caressing her naked flesh like a lover’s hands.

“Fairy stories for human brats.” He hated humans. It was an interesting paradox, his love of owning her, and his hatred of her kind. “Regardless, I gave you permission. Proceed.”

She read. It was a story about a knight, a princess, a kingdom in despair. The land was laid waste by a horrible beast, who took the princess for his own. Angharad only stopped when the story was done and the beast slain; and her own eyed her sleepily, his bright eyes dim.

“Is this your own tale, pet?” Smaug’s voice was low and smooth, like the honey she collected just outside the gate.

“No.”

“You do not wish for a handsome prince, my beloved?” She could hear the mockery in his tone, and for some reason, it embarrassed her. Angharad snapped the book shut, shoving it roughly under her pillow. “Come now, my treasure. There are no secrets between us.” She wasn’t sure how, but she could feel his bright eyes on her though she couldn’t see him. Their effect was the same, drawing the answer from the depths of her heart where she had hidden it.

“I am a woman, am I not, my lord?” Her voice came out uncomfortably loud. “I have needs even you cannot meet.” Suddenly, the warm scales of his snout were pressed against her bare back. Angharad let out a surprised breath, biting her lip so hard she bled.

“What needs would those be?” Smaug’s voice was all around her, in her ears and her head and her blood, all thrumming with his words. “What have you needed —” the word sounded dirty, almost lustful when he said it—“that I could not provide?” Angharad’s throat was dry, and her speech failed her. “I would give you everything.”

“You can’t.” She rasped, wanting nothing more than to wrench herself away from his touch, but she couldn’t. The consequences… She wanted to shout that he never gave anything— all he did was take —but she kept those words trapped in her throat—she dared not speak them.

“Do not presume to tell me what I can and cannot do.” He hissed, a claw gently scoring her back. With an ounce more pressure he could kill her, drive his spearlike talons through her back and out her ribcage. They were nearly the length of her full body, and cool, unlike the rest of him.

“Answer me, Angharad.”

“I need to be touched.”

“Ah,” Smaug’s voice was smug and taunting. “The touch of a man, is that it, my pet?” Angharad shuddered as the sharp appendage caressed the back of her neck underneath her hair. His tongue flicked out as he spoke, caressing her back. “No Man shall ever have you.” Smaug’s fangs traced the curve of her hip before he spoke again, his voice echoing through the treasure chamber. A sob tried to work it’s way out of Angharad’s tight chest, but she forced it down, swallowing it. Though her back was to him, she could still feel his pleasure. His. Always his.

Only his.

Hello friends! I no longer maintain a taglist, so please follow @box-of-bones-library for updates and new work, thank you!

Likes and comments are amazing, but reblogs are golden! Please consider sharing my work so that others can see it too!

#lotr #lotr fic #lotr fanfiction #the hobbit fanfiction #the hobbit fic #smaug the terrible #smaug fanfiction #smaug x ofc #smaug x reader #boxofbonesfic #hoard fic

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malachiexists13 · 1 year

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My first impression of the Ikemen Villains guys:

[Disclaimer: I know nothing about these characters asides from the descriptions shared around Tumblr. I probably won't play the game any time soon considering that its being first released in Japanese, so unless it later on gets released in English, I won't play. Also this post is partially a joke, don't take me too seriously.]

William Rex

He gives off a more "evil, avoid at all costs, worldwide disaster" vibe than Gilbert ever did. My first thought upon seeing him was, "omg- Vlad???" But then I read his description and thought, "ohhh. So Vlad, but evil. Like if Vlad and Motonari had a baby..."

Harrison Gray

First thought, "yo, Edgar, what are you doing here??" Like bro does look like Edgar, even his description screams Edgar to me. I've seen others compare him with Nokto, but I havent paid much attention to Nokto so maybe thats why I cant see it? Idk. But yeah, I guess since Ikerev is over, Edgar had to find a new profession :/

Liam Evans

Omg, look. Loki grew up, he's a big kid now!

Idk how to really react to this one? Like, ok, he's got the chesire cat curse or whatever, he looks a bit like Loki, ..and he's supposed to be sexy? I mean, I see the vibe they were going for. But if they try to shove that "drop-dead gorgeous" or "sexy ladies man" shit down our throats like they did with Yoshimoto and Shingen in Ikesen (could also probably find other examples in the other games..) then I might end up hating him.

ALSO HIS POSE AND SORTA HIS OUTFIT REMINDS ME OF YVES-

Elbert Greetia

Omg its Chevalier but if he was actually angsty. Or maybe it's just Lancelot.

Ok- so its mostly like the hair that screams both Lancelot and Chevalier to me. Its Lancelot's style but Chev's color. And the eyes could easily be a mix of both-

But he also kinda reminds me of Satan from Obey Me, with the whole "obsessively collects beautiful things and leaves them untidy in his room." That's literally Satan but with books, but Satan also likes beautiful things.

Alfons Slyvatica

Omg is that Sebastian Michaelis?? (Im sorry- Ive never even seen Black Butler, I'll go home now-)

Idk. Ive seen others compare him to like, Jean but evil. I look at him and see Sebastian Michaelis. Or maybe like, Kicho because of the hair. But then the line "With his consistent dishonesty, he teases you, but-" makes me think of, strangely, Mitsuhide?

Roger Barel

I've seen other compare him to Jin. I look at him and see Loid Forger. Which funny enough, his VA, Eguchi Takuya, also voices Loid Forger-

Its mostly the hair style, and the face, and the glasses- like if he was blonde, with blue (is it blue-? Or does Loid have green-?) eyes then he'd look even more like Loid. I cant really think of any ikemen series characters he reminds me of, at least not appearance. But with the part in his description that says "An egoist who seems rational and will go to any lengths for his own research." makes me think of Faust for some reason..

Jude Jazza

He doesnt immediately remind me of anyone. Ive seen comparisons to Clavis and Silvio, which kinda makes sense? I guess I could see it. The uhh "A twisted man, he has a promise he wants to fulfill and a sullen heart." at first made me think of Mitsuhide. But then I remembered the definition of sullen and that doesnt fit Mitsu. But I guess the having many enemies and being seen as a cold-blooded person who loves the despair and misfortune of others DOES fit Mitsuhide, at least on the surface. Idk. Im bad at analysis like this.

But also like- I share a birthday with this man. Like the exact same date, Dec. 13. So im gonna end up HATING him.

Ellis Twilight

His appearance doesnt really remind me of anyone right away. But his description of being somewhat disturbing yet kind and gentle to everyone, being strangely obsessed with other people's "Happiest Moments in Life" and the having a "love" that he wants to prove makes me think of Charles.

But like, the opposite. Because Charles wants someone to love him, while it seems like Ellis wants to prove his love to someone? So... Charles but emo.

Victor

So.. A lot of people speculate he's the one who put the curses on the others, because his own curse is scratched out. Like we cant read it. Some have compared him to Sariel, because he's like the guide in the game. But also uhh- sorta reminds me of Amon. Maybe its the long hair (probably is).

#ikemen series #cybird ikemen #ikemen villains #ikevil

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eyeless-jeff666 · 4 months

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In Another Life

Here you go anon! I decided to write this one before the Karaoke one because I felt like it lol. I changed a little bit bc it fit my vision better I hope you don't mind. After the Karaoke one I will also likely take a break from suggestions bc I think I have some ideas of my own that I'd like to do AND I am super busy with uni ^^" I love your ideas though and in case you are writing too I am curious :) Soulmates, angst with happy ending (kinda), death, rebirth

Tsunagu’s functioning lung burned with the effort of using his last strength to find Shinya. The battlefield was a mess, bodies everywhere, not all of them dead and he hoped more than anything that Shinya would be among the alive ones. Dust stung his eyes, causing them to tear up and making his vision blurry. He barely noticed the blood from his own wounds, ignored all of his own pain in his despair to find his boyfriend.

“Shinya please...!”

He called out as loudly as he could manage and almost would have missed the other man if it weren’t for the bright red color of his scarf. He stopped, dropping down on his knees to assess the situation:

Shinya’s upper body seemed intact, apart from a few scratches and minimal wounds, but his lower body was nothing but a thin string, left over from extensive use of his quirk. Tsunagu’s breath was heavy and labored and he was too exhausted to hold back tears.

“Shinya… Shinya…”

He could only mutter, relieved as the man opened his eyes; there was a soft smile on his face, one filled with so much sadness and… no, there was no fear. Shinya knew what would happen. Tsunagu knew it as well, knew both their destinies. Now that the panic settled down, he was more aware of his own wounds; and they were bad. Tsunagu had walked death’s tightrope before, many times, but he was beginning to be sick of refusing the urge to let himself fall. Especially now that he saw Shinya like this.

“Tsu… hi. Did we win?”

Peace and calm were still his first priority, even in a moment like this. The blonde couldn’t help but feel the deepest admiration for that. He nodded, stroking the other’s hair despite the thick layer of hairspray that held them in shape:

“We did, my treasure, we won. All For One is gone. Shigaraki is gone. You… you did so amazing, your sacrifice saved us..”

He muttered, sobbing more as the ninja-hero reached up to wipe the tears from his cheek; his eyes caring and loving yet tired. So tired:

“I’m glad. You did so well too, you are amazing.”

Shinya breathed and the blonde leaned down to press a gentle kiss on his forehead; the moment felt soft more than anything, like he was doing nothing more than comfort a sick child. Tsunagu propped Shinya’s head up slightly, holding him and feeling a weak arm drape around his waist soon after. He could feel his pulse slow gradually, but refused to die in silence:

“Shi… my beautiful little fiber. Do you remember our first date?”

He asked, even though just breathing was agony. He wanted to keep up the other’s smile, even if it seemed selfish; he didn’t want his love to die in fear or sadness, or loneliness. Didn’t want to see a frown on his face in their last moments. The noises around them made him fear that Shinya wouldn’t hear his quiet voice.

“Mhm by the park at night.”

The gray-haired man replied, and Tsunagu tried to ignore the blood running down Shiny’s chin; he was more hurt than he had assumed. But still, he forced a chuckle:

“You counted that as a date?”

“Of course... I counted all our hang-outs as a date.”

He replied and Tsunagu was taken slightly aback. His heart sank as realization sat in, not of his own death, but that his lover lay dying in his arms. Realization of how many things they would be missing out on, all the plans they had that would go down in the aftermath of a war they had won; at a price Tsunagu never wanted to pay. But such is life, he told himself, as his hands started to shake with the effort of even keeping his boyfriend up. He thought back at his life, all his achievements but most especially all the time he got to spend with the most wonderful boyfriend he could have ever asked for. Boyfriend. That word clung to his heart like a heavy stone, pulling it down and he asked something he regretted he hadn’t asked earlier:

“Shinya? If we got another shot… another chance to be together after death… would you marry me?”

It was clear that the younger one was surprised by the sudden question, but he forced out a loving chuckle as he nodded:

“I would in a heartbeat, Tsu. A million times.”

The raspiness of his voice broke the Jeans hero’s heart, somewhat more than the following words did:

“I’m feeling cold. I… I’m so tired Tsu.”

“It’s okay Shinya. You can rest, I’ll be right behind you.”

A few minutes later, all people still in a state for it went around looking for survivors. Kamui was the first to fall on the couple:

“Over here, I got Edgeshot and Best Jeanist! Hey, you two..”

The last words were softer as he went towards them, convinced that once more, death had tried and failed to get them into his grasp. When he got no response, he stopped for a moment before stepping closer again:

“Edge. Jeanist. We need to treat your wounds.”

He stared for a long moment at the way they were holding each other, Jeanist in an almost strange position; kneeling, barely fallen over as if even in death he wanted to upkeep his perfect appearance. He reached out to shake the taller of the two, in an attempt to wake him but was stopped.

Mt Lady’s soft hand on his shoulder felt more like an order to let the two rest than it felt like comfort; they weren’t breathing, and somehow it was clear to her that they were more than just unconscious. Kamui withdrew, in disbelief, but nodded. Instead of shaking Tsunagu, he put him down into a more comfortable seeming position; laying next to Shinya, as if they were merely cuddling during their sleep.

“You’re such a softie.”

Mt Lady said, the playful tone slipping into genuine adoration for her boyfriend’s soft heart. She took his hand, squeezing it tightly:

“They died a death any hero dreams of; while protecting people. And we won, they surely knew that. We had the honor to fight with them, there is nothing more we have the right to wish for.”

“I know. But it still hurts.”

She merely nodded in understanding; he was right, of course. It would hurt. For a long time, probably. But that didn’t mean that they wouldn’t take anything from it. This sort of death was the most heroic thing anyone could take upon themself in order to fulfill their role. Both of them had sacrificed themselves to save people and they had won. And they deserved to rest.

Shinya was a beautiful man. He had been ever since Tsunagu met him as a student when he’d worked at a café as a Barista. It was how he kept himself afloat during his apprenticeship to become a hairstylist, and it had been quite nice. They’d become very close, as Shinya became a regular customer, and a cheesy message on a cup reading “Date with me after my shift?” brought them together.

They couldn’t remember their past lives and only had a strange urge to not become heroes when they were younger. They always admired them, sure, but felt wrong thinking about becoming heores themselves. It seemed like stress and trouble.

Shinya’s beauty could break through even the darkest of days. His smile was kind and genuine and it shone even brighter on the day they got married; in gorgeous dresses Tsunagu had sewn himself, and it was the happiest day the two of them could have ever imagined.

Tsunagu owned his own hair salon now, with a reputation for loving to try around with crazy and special hairstyles. One would never expect that seeing his well-kempt and almost perfect appearance but making art with others’ hair made his eyes shine with a passion unlike anything else. Shinya had realized at some point that he didn’t have that kind of passion for anything and so he’d just become the blonde’s receptionist, always greeting customers with a bright smile and lighting the room with his presence. This way, he could also be close to Tsunagu, something many people thought would surely be annoying at some point, to always be around one’s spouse, but the two of them didn’t think so at all. It was something wonderful, and sometimes the child they had adopted would keep them company as well.

All in all; it was a life many people could only dream of, perfect and wonderful and their biggest worry was the bookkeeping they’d have to do on weekends. A tiny feeling in their hearts told them that this wasn’t their first time loving each other, and they made many theories about it, only to never reach a conclusion other than being soulmates.

What deepened this thought was when a young boy came in; 16 years old at most, with spiky cream-colored hair that Tsunagu couldn’t help but feel familiar with. He had quite the attitude, nagging about not wanting a haircut to Shinya who simply sat there with an awkward smile, shaking his hands with the words:

“I’m not forcing you!”

He asked the boy for his name nonetheless, in case he wanted to cancel the appointment or reschedule it, and a smirk curled up on the blonde’s face as he heard it:

“Tsunagu Bakugo.”

#best jeanist #edgeshot #mha #tsunagu hakamada #shinya kamihara #fanfiction #edgejeanist #bestshot #angst #happy ending

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