#Steeping Leaves..⏐⏐Musing | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

surielstea · 8 months ago

Text

Shun the Light

Requested by @dee-writes-smut

Pairing: Helion x Fem!Reader

Summary: Helion has been attempting to get reader into his bed for years now, what happens when she finally gives in?

A. Note: I think this is the longest fic I’ve ever posted so apologies for the wild word count, but also most of this is smut so you’re very welcome ;)

9.6k words.

Sitting in a large, worn leather chair positioned in a secluded corner of the library, I was half-hidden by towering shelves of books. The room was steeped in quiet, interrupted only by the occasional creak of the shelves under their heavy load or the soft turning of a page. The smell of old parchment mingled with the lingering scent of rich mahogany and leather—a sanctuary of knowledge and peace. And yet, even here, there was no escaping the High Lord.

"You've been avoiding me." Helion's voice cut through the tranquil silence with a casual grace, as he rounded one of the shelves that had been sheltering me. His amber eyes gleamed mischievously as he approached, a book tucked under his muscular arm. I highly doubted it was for actual reading.

"And you've been following me," I replied dryly, eyes fixed on my book. The words on the page blurred slightly, my pulse quickening from the mere presence of him.

"This is my personal library," he countered smoothly, leaning against the shelf, his broad frame casting a shadow over me. His proximity was a cage, yet the alcove still felt oddly cozy. "I'd say you're the one hoping to run into me." He gestured at the books surrounding us, a small portion of his vast collection, his smile all too knowing. "Besides, I happen to like reading."

The soft, golden light from a nearby lamp warmed the deep brown of his skin, making him look almost otherworldly as if carved from the light itself. I forced myself to stay calm, sinking deeper into the chair as I replied, "What book is that, then?" My chin jerked toward the novel he held so proudly, though I leaned back, attempting to appear indifferent.

With one of his signature smirks, Helion pulled the book from under his arm, holding it out like a grand reveal. "The Art of Seduction," he mused, his voice dripping with confidence.

"Subtle," I muttered, tossing him a glare before trying to lose myself in my own book again. The pages held nothing for me, not while Helion loomed over me with that look in his eyes. That ever-present challenge.

Unsurprisingly, he didn't leave. "Thought I could brush up on my skills, seeing as you seem so indifferent to my irresistible charm," he chimed, far too pleased with himself as he slid into the chair directly in front of mine, uninvited.

I narrowed my eyes, fighting back the heat rising in my cheeks. "Really? Out of every seat in this library, you choose that one?"

He shrugged, his casual air too relaxed for someone invading my space. "Well, you've stolen my usual one, so I must make do with lesser options." His lips twitched, eyes gleaming with amusement as he cracked open the book he clearly had no intention of reading, propping his feet up on the low table between us.

I stared, incredulous. "They're the same chair."

Helion gave a slow, almost imperceptible nod, his eyes flashing with humor. "True, but that one smells like me."

I froze for a moment, my fingers going still against the soft leather of the armrest. The faint, intoxicating scent of sandalwood and bergamot swirled around me, and I cursed inwardly. It was familiar, inescapable, and frustratingly warm, like the High Lord himself. My gaze flicked up to his, and for the first time, he seemed genuinely absorbed in his book, a small line forming between his brows as if the words were the most fascinating thing in the world.

I had to stifle a laugh at the sight. I wasn't sure he'd ever actually read a single page of his vast collection, yet there he was, looking like a scholar lost in study.

We fell into a comfortable silence—Helion reading, or pretending to read, and me half-heartedly flipping through my book, both of us mirroring each other, our feet propped up on the table in an unspoken truce. The moment felt oddly peaceful, and for a brief second, I allowed myself to enjoy it.

But, of course, it didn't last.

Only a few moments later, Helion shut his book with a soft thud, and I felt his foot nudge mine from across the table. I resisted the urge to respond, cursing his long limbs and moving my legs out of his reach, but he persisted—sending a glare of sunlight directly into my line of sight, making it nearly impossible to read.

"Would you stop that?" I snapped, lowering my book and glaring at him from beneath my brows. He only grinned, looking far too pleased with himself.

"What book is that?" he asked as if the answer mattered.

I sighed. "Some random one I found on the shelves." It wasn't exactly a lie, but it wasn't the truth, either.

"Sunshine," he drawled, his voice like velvet as he leaned forward slightly, "I've read every book in this library. That one, I'm not familiar with."

I ignored him, focusing back on my book, though I wasn't reading a single word. The heat from his gaze felt palpable, like sunlight warming my skin.

"What is it?" he pressed again, his voice dripping with faux curiosity. His fingers twitched, and I braced myself as yet another glare of sunlight angled right into my eyes.

"I'm not telling," I muttered, holding up my forearm to shield my face from the assault.

Helion chuckled softly. "I'm commanding you to tell me, as High Lord," he said, the playful light still dancing at his fingertips.

"Why do you care so much?" I grumbled, slamming my book shut with an exaggerated huff.

He leaned back, eyes never leaving mine. "I wish to know what could possibly be more interesting than me." His smirk widened as if the very thought was inconceivable.

I said nothing, my silence was the only answer I was willing to give.

"How about a bet?" he suggested, the gleam in his eyes unmistakable. "If I can make you smile in the next five minutes, you have to tell me what you're reading."

I narrowed my eyes at him. "And if you lose?"

Helion's smirk softened into something more sincere. "I'll leave you alone for the rest of the night."

A tempting offer. I considered it for a moment, imagining a night of uninterrupted reading, free from his constant prattling.

"Deal. Five minutes," I said, returning to my book.

For a while, Helion was silent, the ticking clock in my mind counting down the seconds. But knowing him, he probably believed he didn't need the full-time—that one well-timed sentence would be enough.

"You look adorable with your nose stuffed in a book," he murmured, breaking the silence. His voice was softer now, more intimate, like a confession shared in the quiet of a night.

I rolled my eyes. "That's usually what people do in a library."

Helion's smile widened. "And yet, I find myself much more interested in studying you."

"Why don't you leave me alone and go read your book? Maybe you'll learn how to actually charm me," I shot back, trying to ignore the way his words made my pulse race.

"I could recite poetry and still fall short," he sighed dramatically as if I truly had him beat.

Despite myself, a smile tugged at my lips at the absurdity of it all.

"There it is," he marveled, his voice a soft victory.

My fleeting smile turned into a scowl. "That doesn't count. I was smiling at the thought of you leaving me alone."

Helion laughed. "A smile is a smile." He extended his hand, eyes glinting. "So, show me the book."

I look down to the page I was on—to the very erotic scene playing out that I hadn't even realized was happening, too busy pretending to read when he was talking to me to even realize.

"I—no," I murmur, slamming my book shut.

"We had a deal, so unless you want to have permanent bargain tattoos with me, I suggest you hand it over." He quipped and I frowned at the idea of something so permanent on my body being associated with him.

"Fine," I grumble, holding the book out to him with a string of grumbled curses. He takes the book, his fingers brushing over mine—the touch shooting rays of warmth up my arm. I shake it off and settle back into my chair which smelt so strongly of him.

Helion crosses his ankle over his knee, reclining back in his chair with the casual confidence that seems permanently etched into his being. His long, golden fingers lazily flip over my book, turning it to read the back. I watch as his brow arches and the corner of his mouth tugs upward.

"Reading about me, are we?" His voice breaks the silence, low and teasing, pulling my attention from my own thoughts. His gaze flickers up to mine, gleaming with amusement.

My head tilts in confusion, a frown forming. "It's not about you. How self-centered can you possibly get?" I scoff, reaching for the book with a frustrated hand, but he pulls it just out of reach with an effortless motion.

"A king falling for his emissary?" he continues, ignoring my protest. His fingers tap against the page in emphasis. "Sounds familiar, no?"

His eyes, molten gold in the dim library light, lock with mine, a teasing smile dancing on his lips. My pulse quickens, not from the question itself, but from the look on his face—the playful way he studies me like I'm a puzzle to be solved.

"My book, Helion," I demand, extending my arm towards him, though it feels like a futile gesture. He watches me closely, a cat toying with its prey.

"In a moment." He waves off my request with a casual flick of his hand, settling deeper into the oversized chair that barely manages to hold his broad frame. He opens the book, his eyes landing right on the page marked by my ribbon. My heart stutters in my chest. No, no, no. He's going to read that part. I freeze, eyes wide as I watch his expression for any sign of disgust or, worse, judgment.

But there's nothing. His lips curl into a slow smile, amusement dancing in his gaze. "This is far better than I could have ever imagined," he purrs, a wicked light entering his eyes as he lets the book fall closed and tosses it onto the table between us, entirely unbothered.

"I'm doing a book club with the Valkyries. It wasn't my first choice," I mumble quickly, snatching the book back from the table. My fingers are trembling slightly, and I hope he doesn't notice. The truth is, I was mortified.

Helion, of course, doesn't seem fazed by my embarrassment. "No need to defend yourself. Although," he leans back with a leisurely stretch, his muscles rippling beneath his tunic, "I have an entire shelf of erotica in the back that's much better written. And doesn't use words like 'velvet-wrapped steel.'"

Heat floods my cheeks, a fierce blush creeping up my neck. "Shouldn't you be doing High Lord stuff?" I grumble, trying to deflect, my mortification reaching new heights. "Not pestering me?"

"My court is asleep." He shrugs as if the affairs of his court are a mere inconvenience. "Nothing happens in the Day Court after the sun goes down." He huffs like it's a travesty, though there's a gleam in his eye suggesting he prefers it that way. "Well, nothing for the public eye anyway," he adds with a sultry grin, his eyes darkening, his voice dripping with innuendo.

I roll my eyes, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a reaction. "You still have land to rule. People to govern. They don't disappear just because they're asleep." I remind him, though I can't help but let my gaze flicker to the strong line of his jaw, the way his dimples deepen when he smiles.

"Delegation, my dear," he responds, his tone infuriatingly smug. "The key to any successful leader."

"If only you could delegate your need for constant attention," I shoot back, offering a sweet smile that hides my annoyance.

His shoulders slump in an exaggerated show of disappointment, his hand dramatically pressed to his chest. "Well, that just wouldn't work. There's only one person I want attention from."

The weight of his words hangs in the air, the meaning unmistakable. My heart skips a beat, my pulse fluttering in my throat as I force myself to remain calm. I can feel his gaze roaming over me like he's waiting for me to react. My eyes flick over his form, all lean muscle and rich, sun-kissed skin that practically glows in the warm library light. Everything about him radiates confidence—dangerous, seductive confidence.

"And I'm sure she's flattered," I say dryly, snapping my gaze away from his broad chest. "Too bad she's not here to distract you." I shift in my seat, trying to appear unbothered by the way his eyes are lingering on me, though I feel the heat rising in my cheeks.

Helion tilts his head, watching me with that same predatory amusement, as though he's enjoying a game only he knows the rules to. His forearms rest on his spread thighs, and gods, those thighs. I can't help but glance, at his muscles thick and defined. His deep chuckle pulls my attention back to his face.

"Oh, she's here," he muses, his voice dropping lower, rougher. "She just needs to stop pretending I'm not the most interesting thing in this library."

I open my mouth to respond, to shoot back some biting retort, but I'm momentarily speechless, my heart beating a little too fast. Instead, I huff and bury my nose in the book, determined to ignore him. It's unprofessional. He's the High Lord. And I'm his emissary. Even entertaining the idea of his flirting is toeing a dangerous line. Besides, I know Helion's reputation. I'm not interested in being just another conquest, no matter how much he seems to enjoy teasing me.

But gods, he makes it difficult.

"Stop glaring at that book." His voice breaks into my thoughts again, his tone laced with amusement. "Either you're about to throw it into a fire, or you're thinking about something else entirely."

I glance up at him, eyes narrowing. "I'm thinking about how much quieter it would be in here without you."

"This is a library, you know?" I add, flipping a page in a show of indifference.

"Yes, but this library is only open to the public during the daytime. Except for those permitted access." He reclines even further, his fingers interlacing behind his head as he watches me, that maddening grin still plastered on his face.

"And if someone with clearance is in here with you, disrupting their quiet?" I tilt my head at him, matching his smug expression.

He mirrors the movement. "Everyone with clearance is already here. Not even the librarians can come in after hours."

I blink, my mind catching up with his words. And then it hits me. "I'm the only one with permission, aren't I?" My voice comes out soft, the realization settling in.

"Took you long enough," he grins, his eyes twinkling in the candlelight.

"And how many women did this trick work on?" I grumble, my suspicion growing, even as my pulse quickens under his gaze.

"Just you," he says, and for once, the cocky smile falters into something more sincere.

I snort in disbelief. "It hasn't worked yet," I retort, though my voice sounds weaker than I'd like.

"Yet?" He arches a brow, his gaze flickering over me, daring me to challenge him.

My lips press into a thin line, and I bury myself back in my book, hiding behind the pages. "Go away, Helion." My voice comes out more of a plea than an order, and I curse myself for how breathless it sounds.

"I don't want you to miss me." His tone is snarky, yet something told me he genuinely believed what he was saying. I force myself not to look at him, to not fall for whatever game he's playing.

"Nonsense," I murmur, my cheeks burning. "I'd be too busy enjoying the peace."

Helion sighs dramatically, though there's a glimmer of laughter in his voice. "I'm not sure you're capable of quiet when I'm around. You always have something to say."

He's right, of course, and that's what infuriates me the most. No matter how much I want to ignore him, I can't. There's something about him that pulls the words right out of me.

"It's called defending myself from your constant attempts at flirting," I snap, though I don't dare look up, knowing he's probably biting back another smile.

"And here I was thinking we were bonding." His voice drops, laced with a dark, rich amusement. I glance up just in time to see him run a hand down his thigh, slow and deliberate, as though daring me to watch.

"This is what you call bonding?" I shift uncomfortably in my seat, the tension in the air almost unbearable. "I call it you trying—and failing—to charm me."

"Oh please," he laughs softly, his smile widening. "You've been charmed by me since the day we met. Don't think I haven't noticed the looks you've been sneaking all night."

His words land like a punch to the gut, and I flush, my cheeks heating in embarrassment. I can't tell if I'm mortified because he caught me or because I was staring at all.

"You think too highly of yourself," I mutter, sinking deeper into the chair as if it could swallow me whole. I refuse to give him the satisfaction of seeing how flustered I am.

Helion only leans closer, his voice softening, turning almost serious. "You're the only one who thinks too lowly of me."

The sudden shift in his tone catches me off guard, and for the first time tonight, I meet his gaze fully. There's no teasing, no playful glint. Just him, watching me with an intensity that steals the air from my lungs.

I truly tried to focus on what I was reading, but his lingering gaze on me was going to drive me wild. Somehow that stare spoke louder than any words he could've said. He was offering me the silence I wanted, while simultaneously pushing me to insanity. Surely I couldn't get mad at him for simply observing? Yet here I was, nearly fuming at the way he tracked each of my movements.

Eventually, I grow sick of his ogling, so I snap my book closed and turn to him with narrowed eyes. Stop looking at me like that," I order, pushing myself up from the chair that had all but swallowed me. It's identical to the one Helion has turned into his makeshift throne, yet somehow, he manages to own his space with ease.

"Like what?" He rises with me, and I have to crane my neck just to maintain eye contact. Even that, the way I have to look up at him, feels like some small concession.

I stare at him, his features softened by the glow of the candlelight. His usual smirk is nowhere to be seen, and his golden eyes hold no trace of the lust or amusement I've come to expect from him. Instead, they're filled with something even more dangerous—reverence. He looks at me like I'm more than just a passing amusement, more than just a fleeting fancy. Like I'm something precious.

"Like I'm more than just a game to you," I shake my head, tearing my gaze away. The weight of his stare is too much. I toss the book in my hands onto the coffee table with more force than necessary and stride past him, desperate to escape the suffocating tension of our little alcove. I don't trust myself to stay there, not with him looking at me like that.

"You think this is a game?" His voice follows me as I make my way through the dim, quiet library. It's empty, save for the two of us, but somehow, his presence alone fills every corner.

"Isn't it?" I shoot back, unwilling to turn and face him. The memory of his gaze burns too fresh in my mind. "Your reputation for women precedes you, Helion." The words slip out harsher than I intended. It's a low blow, bringing up his past like this, but I need him to understand why I can't—why I shouldn't.

I expect him to brush it off, but instead, he's beside me in a flash, walking in step as though he belongs at my side. "You think I would chase after a female for three years just for sex?" His voice is surprisingly calm, but there's a thread of frustration woven into it. "I've been rejected before, and I always respect it."

I stop in my tracks, staring up at him with creased brows. "Then what makes me so different?" I ask, my voice barely above a whisper. It's a question I've been avoiding for months, maybe longer. Because deep down, I'm afraid of the answer. I'm afraid of what it might mean—for both of us.

Helion doesn't hesitate. "Because you feel it too." He steps closer, his movements slow, deliberate. The air between us crackles with unspoken tension, and yet I don't move. "This thing between us, you delight in it just as much as I do."

He takes another step forward, closing the distance, and my back hits the bookshelf behind me. Trapped, my breath hitches, but I refuse to show any sign of retreat.

"I'm not going to be another girl you charm for a night and forget by morning," I whisper, my voice barely holding steady. It's a quiet confession, more to myself than to him.

Helion's hand comes up to cup my jaw, his thumb brushing over my cheek with an unbearable tenderness. "I wouldn't forget you," he murmurs, shaking his head as if the very idea is absurd.

The proximity is overwhelming now. His warmth radiates off him, pulling me in, and my resolve—what little remains—begins to crumble. My body betrays me, my hands itching to touch him, to feel the strength in the muscles I've tried not to think about for so long.

"Helion,” I murmur, his name a warning, or maybe a plea. I don't even know anymore.

His gaze drops to my lips, his thumb never stopping its gentle, maddening caress. "Tell me, what keeps you from me?" he asks softly, his breath mingling with mine.

My throat tightens, and I remind myself of all the reasons this is a terrible idea. "I would hate myself if I became another one of your conquests." The words come out softer than I intend, laced with the fear I've been trying so hard to suppress.

But Helion doesn't back away. He doesn't laugh or brush it off. Instead, he leans in closer, his voice low and rough. "You're not. And even if you were—with the amount of time I've had to think about you, it'd take months to cross everything I want to do to you off the list." His lips ghost over mine, the barest hint of a touch that sets my skin ablaze.

"Helion," I repeat, the name a broken caution.

"Tell me to stop, I will." He promises, his voice raw with need. He inches closer, only a hairsbreadth away. "Tell me." He whispers, lips ghosting over mine.

I didn't have it in myself to tell him to stop, to even push him away. I wanted this, needed this. I surged upwards and closed the distance between us.

For three years he had been taunting me, teasing me with pretty words and suggestive smiles, and now I was finally giving him what he wanted—and what I have secretly been wanting far longer than he suspects, and it was everything I could've hoped for.

My back pressed harder into the shelf behind me as his chest met mine, while his hands, warm and firm wrapped around my hips, drawing me closer until there was no space between us. My body betrayed my mind, my thoughts warning me to stop, to end this before it was too late, but my hands were running down his muscles chest I've been craving to feel for years, my fingers curling into the fabric of his tunic and pulling him into me, deepening our kiss.

Every touch sent sparks skittering across my skin, and for a moment I allowed myself to drown in him, in the heat of him, his scent, the way he kissed me like he might never get the chance again.

His hands traveled from my hips, beneath my shirt to grip my waist—and the feel of his calloused hands on my bare skin was enough to send me reeling. The kiss grew more frantic, more desperate. His skilled tongue explored every possible inch of my mouth, and I allowed it, reveling in the way he so eagerly tasted me.

When I finally pulled away, breaking our kiss, our breaths coming in ragged gasps I stared up into his dilated pupils, the playful spark I was used to seeing there replaced by something deeper, something that sent both a jolt of fear and excitement through me. He was staring down at me like I was the only thing in the room—hel, like I was the only thing that mattered.

He leans closer, placing an all-too-gentle kiss on the expanse just below my ear. "Helion," I echoed, my fists still clenching his shirt.

"Yeah?" He uttered, his breath hot against my skin as he slowly trailed his lips down my jaw.

"We shouldn't, we can't," I sigh breathlessly, my hand weaving into his hair, tilting my head, allowing him to deepen his kiss.

"Who said?" He murmurs into my skin.

"It isn't professional," I say between breaths, my pulse rapidly fluttering, his tongue flicking over it playfully.

"Do you want to stop?" He asked, pulling away to look me in the eyes and the loss of his contact made something inside me ache.

"I—no, gods no," I profess, my hands wrapping around the back of his neck.

"Then I don't care if it's professional, let me give you what you need," He whispered, his lips brushing mine. "Alright?"

I don't reply, and instead crash his lips onto mine once more, the rest of my defenses crumbling at the action. The kiss was hungrier this time, more demanding. I gave in fully as his tongue found its way into my mouth yet again, my chest arching into his as his hands slipped down to cup the back of my thighs, tapping me twice as a silent command to jump. I did exactly as he wished, wrapping my legs around his torso as he supported me, his touch traveled higher to cradle me by the curve of my ass. He smiled into the kiss, even in the heat of the moment his cocky grin manages to make an appearance.

He pushes off the shelf, blindly guiding us through the shelves and to the center of the empty library, where tables fill the area. He placed me down on the edge of the center table, his hands leaving my backside in favor of exploring new, untouched areas. Heat races through my veins as his hands trailed to the hem of my skirt, slipping beneath it without hesitation, his thumb grazing against the seam of my panties.

"Wait," I pant against his lips and his hand freezes. "Not here," I murmured, pecking his lips softly.

"It's just us in here, remember?" He reassured me when I pulled away, kissing my forehead. "Just us." His lips brush against my skin as he repeats the words and I can feel my resolve slipping. There was no more room for doubt, no more room for fear. All that existed was an overwhelming need to have him, to feel him in every way possible, to lose myself entirely in him until I didn't know where he ended and where I began.

"Just us," I echo, nodding slowly.

"We can stop," He said, despite how clearly he wanted this and was desperate for this.

"No, Helion don't stop," I connect our lips once more, allowing my legs to fall open farther, inviting him.

He forced himself to pull away, to restrain himself from me for just a moment longer. "You're okay with this, then?" He rasped, eyes pure gold.

"Yes," I answered. "Gods, yes." I pulled him into me, his hips meeting mine. His grin turned almost wolfish, primal as he tore through my skirt like it was nothing, discarding the fabric. He pulled me to the very edge of the table, his hands rubbing higher up my thighs, tracing the seam of my panties. I gasped as he pressed two fingers onto my clothed folds, just the right amount of pressure, not enough to get any real gratification from—but gods it still felt good. He smirks against my lips as he feels the damp spot forming on the cloth and I flush in embarrassment.

"I haven't even touched you," He noted aloud, deepening my blush. "Tell me, baby, were you this wet when I was simply talking to you?" He utters between kisses and I fight the urge to sneer at him.

"Do you ever shut up?" I ask, my question genuine. He responds with a searing kiss, which did in fact quiet him.

He couldn't control himself any longer, not with my hands roaming his back, my lips on his. He tore through my undergarments in a similar fashion to my skirt, tossing the wet fabric somewhere unimportant to me. He pulled back from our kiss, and I tugged at his bottom lip to stop him from leaving but he ignored my silent complaint, only to peer down at the apex of my thighs.

He grunted at the sight, his forehead meeting mine as he swiped two fingers through my embarrassingly wet core, his fingers coming back dripping. I throbbed for more, letting out a quiet moan as his thumb came down onto my clit, my head tilted back in ecstasy as he began circling it, his skillful touch setting my skin on fire as his middle finger traced my dripping entrance. I bucked slightly, leaning on my hands behind me as I lifted my hips for more friction.

He chuckled breathlessly, the sound humiliating, while simultaneously making me crave him so much more.

He didn't make me wait long before his own restraint snapped, letting go of that leash he had been gripping so tightly and pushing two of his fingers inside of me.

I moaned at the stretch, louder this time, relishing in the way his calloused fingers scraped against my walls, fitting me around him so perfectly.

He grunted at the sound of my moans, his pace unrelenting as his fingers thrust into me repeatedly, deep and slow. The pressure building inside me had my legs trembling as I spread them wider for him, silently begging for more.

"That's it," he rasped into my open mouth, his voice hoarse with desire. "Doing so well for me." His words were like kindling to the fire already raging in my core, my entire body aching for release. I could barely find the breath to respond, only able to whimper his name.

I bit my lip as he curled his fingers inside me, hitting that sweet spot that had me seeing stars. My eyes squeezed shut, my chest rising and falling with ragged breaths as I tried to hold on, trying not to fall apart too soon, but he didn't seem to like that idea.

His other hand moved up my body, pulling the fabric of my shirt open to expose my breasts. He skillfully unclasped my bra, disposing of it just as he did with the rest of my clothes, leaving me entirely bare. He wasted no time in leaning down and capturing one of my peaked nipples between his teeth. The added sensation had my whole body jerking forward, my fingers tangling in his hair as I gasped.

"Yeah? You like that?" he muttered against my skin, the vibration of his voice sending shivers down my spine. I nodded frantically, unable to form words, as his fingers pumped into me with precision, his thumb pressing down on my clit, moving in tight circles that had me trembling on the edge of oblivion.

I was so close, so damn close, but I didn't want it to end just yet. I tugged on his hair, trying to pull him away from my breast, but he didn't budge. If anything, he seemed encouraged by the way my body was reacting to him, his fingers moving faster, his tongue flicking over my nipple with maddening strokes.

"Gods," I moaned, my head tilting back towards the vaulted ceiling, towards the sky and everything beyond, praying for relief, for that sweet, euphoric high. "Helion—m'close," I confess through a whimper, feeling my body reach its ascent.

"You going to beg for it?" He purred, pulling away from my breast, peering up at me.

"What?" I utter, too lost in my pleasure to even wrap my head around the thought.

"Beg for it." He repeats. "Beg for me to let you come." He reiterates, his voice low, sultry. My arousal increases, I must've been dripping into his hand.

"I'm not—fuck," I hiss as he curves his fingers into that sensitive spot, but not enough pressure to push me over the edge, he was toying with me. "Not g'na beg," I murmur, my body betraying me by trembling under his touch.

"No? Still not ready to admit how needy you are for me?" He tutted, seeming almost disappointed. The tone was degrading in itself, enough to send me reeling—but then his fingers were pulling out of me and he had no intention of thrusting them back in.

I gasped, my resolve shattering as I bucked my hips up desperately. "No—no please," I give in, my body aching for him to fill me again. "Helion, please—"

I stare through low-lidded eyes as a smile slowly spreads across his sensuous lips. "Please what? Tell me what you want."

"Wanna come, please I've needed this for so long," My breath hitched, it was hard to dig the words I've kept buried so deep back up, to confess them not only to him but to myself as well. "I've needed you, for so long."

He leans closer, pecking my lips softly, in such a tender way it made me forget about everything else, about what the court might think, about my fear of being just another game to him. It was only us, connected in every way possible.

"There she is," He pulled back from my lips. "That wasn't so hard, now was it?" He teased between kisses.

"Helion, please, can I?" I whine, the sound so pitiful I barely recognize it as my own.

"Go ahead love, come on my hand." He rasped, and just like that, the world shattered around me. My orgasm tore through me like a storm, my body shaking as wave after wave of pleasure crashed over me. I cried out his name, my hands gripping his shoulders, nails digging into the corded muscle there as he coaxed me through every second of it, his fingers never stopping, pushing me higher, deeper into bliss.

When I finally came down, my body limp and trembling, he pulled his fingers from me, his eyes dark with lust as he brought them to his lips. He licked them clean, tasting me with a low, satisfied groan that sent another pulse of heat through me.

"You taste better than I imagined," he murmured, his voice low and dangerous, making me shiver despite the warmth still radiating from my core.

But before I could catch my breath, he was already pulling off his clothes, his eyes locked on mine with a hunger that made my heart race all over again.

"You didn't think I was done with you, did you?" he asked, his grin returning as he tugged his pants down, his hardened cock springing free. My eyes widened at the sight, and for a second I debated if he'd even fit.

"Now," he whispered, guiding me off the table so I could plant my feet solidly on the ground. His voice sent a thrill down my spine as he said, "Be a good girl and bend over the table f'me, yeah?"

I slowly turned my back to him, my legs shaky from the intense pleasure still coursing through me, his hands never left my body. They trailed down my sides, strong and possessive, igniting embers of anticipation in their wake. His touch alone had me quivering, but the look in his eyes—dark, feral—made my pulse quicken.

I bent over the table as instructed, the cool wood pressing against my flushed skin. The vulnerable position made my blood heat, but excitement flared deep inside me, mixing with the lingering ache of desire. His breath was hot against my ear as he leaned over me, his lips brushing the sensitive skin of my neck.

"That's it, baby," he purred, his fingers trailing teasingly down my spine before settling on my hips, pinning them in place. "So eager to please."

I could hear the sound of his breath hitching, and feel the tension in the air as he lined himself up behind me, his tip nudging at my entrance. I bit my lip, expectancy tightening my body.

He pushed forward slowly, torturously so, letting me feel every inch as he stretched me. A low, guttural groan escaped his lips, and my own whimper joined it, the sensation overwhelming, leaving no room for thought, only the feeling of him filling me completely.

"Fuck," he muttered under his breath, hands gripping my hips tighter. "So, so tight." His voice sent a wave of need through me, the table was too long for me to find any leverage, I was left stranded between the polished wood and his broad chest, unable to steady myself.

With an impatient, sharp snap of his hips, he pushed into me deeper, granting a gasp from my lips. The suddenness of it sent a shudder through me, pleasure curling through my body in response. He leaned over me again, his mouth grazing my ear. "You feel so good," he rasped, his voice a mixture of lust and satisfaction as he began to move, each thrust deep and slow, drawing out every bit of sensation until I was trembling beneath him.

I couldn't help the moans that slipped past my lips as he built a rhythm, each movement of his hips driving me higher, closer to the edge once again. My back bowed, pressing into his chest and deepening the angle of him, the sensation eliciting a noiseless scream from me.

His hands tightened on my hips, fingers digging into my skin as he pulled me back to meet each of his thrusts. Every movement was deliberate, slow but devastatingly deep, as though he wanted me to feel every inch of him, to memorize the way he stretched me, and filled me so completely. The pressure was maddening, making my body tremble beneath him, a delicious torment that left me teetering on the edge but not quite enough to tip over.

His pace quickened, the drag of him inside me was almost too much to bear, and yet not enough all at once. His hands were gripping me so tightly I was sure there would be bruises by morning, but the thought only made me hotter, the idea of his marks on me driving me wild.

The sound of skin meeting skin filled the air, each slap punctuated by our ragged breaths. My nails dug into the table's edge, desperate for something to anchor myself to, but every time I thought I could catch my breath, he would change the angle just slightly, hitting that spot deep inside me that sent white-hot pleasure shooting through my veins.

"You sound so perfect moaning my name," He murmured beside my ear. "So fucking perfect for me." His words sent a shiver down my spine, a molten heat spreading through my core. My body was caught in the rhythm he set, each thrust rocking me against the wood of the table, it creaked beneath us, but it was his ragged breaths and the low, guttural sounds he made that had my heart racing, my need climbing higher and higher.

He shifted his grip, one hand moving from my hip to slide up my spine, tracing a line of fire until it fisted into my hair, pulling my head back just enough for his lips to make contact with the most sensitive spot on my neck, sucking on the area hard. "I want to hear you," he demanded, voice low and rough against my throat. "I want to hear you fall apart for me."

I moaned loudly in response, the sound raw, desperate, as his hand tugged harder, pulling my back into a deeper arch. My entire body was taut, every nerve lit up under his command. His other hand slid around to my front, fingers finding the aching bundle of nerves between my legs, circling it with relentless precision.

The duel stimulation nearly broke me. My body jerked beneath him, every muscle tightening as I fought to hold back, but it was a losing battle. The pressure was building again, faster this time, harder, threatening to unravel me completely.

"That's it," he murmured, his fingers speeding up in sync with his thrusts. "I can feel you, baby. You're close, aren't you? So close to coming all over my cock."

I was. I was so desperate, I could hardly think, my mind a haze of nothing but him—his voice, his hands, his cock twitching inside me. My breaths came out in shallow gasps, each one forced from me by the sensation of his fingers working me toward the brink.

"Come for me," he commanded, his voice like gravel, rough and impatient. "Let go."

I shattered around him. My body tensed as the orgasm ripped through me, pleasure crashing down in waves so intense it left me trembling and breathless. I cried out, the sound broken and uninhibited, my walls clenching tightly around him as I came harder than I thought possible.

He groaned in response, feeling my pulse around him, his hips stuttering as he chased his own release. His thrusts grew erratic, rougher, until finally, with a deep, guttural moan, he followed me over the edge, spilling into me with a few last powerful thrusts that left us both gasping for breath.

For a moment, we stayed like that, bodies entwined, both of us panting and spent. His hands, once gripping me with unrelenting force, now softened, running soothingly over my hips and sides. He pressed a soft kiss to the back of my neck, and I shivered, still coming down from the high, my legs weak and trembling.

Ever so slowly he pulled out of me, his warm hands guiding me upright. I trembled, my arms shaking as I used them to hold myself up. I leaned against the table as I turned around to face him, my cheeks flushed with exertion, my entire body heated with stimulation.

"Feeling alright?" He asks, his voice so gentle in contrast to his earlier roughness. I nod slowly, gripping the edge of the table behind me for support.

He tucks a strand of hair behind my ear, nearly lovingly, then cups my cheek. I allow myself to lean into the touch, turning my head to place a soft kiss on his palm.

Something in his eyes changed then, something deeper than lust or need, and before I could stop myself I was wrapping my arms around the nape of his neck and slotting my mouth over his yet again.

My legs trembled as he kissed me, savored me so thoroughly like he'd never get sick of the taste. He noticed my unsteady stance and hoisted me back up onto the table, guiding me to lay down, sprawled for him.

The table creaked when he leaned on it and I grabbed his wrist, halting him. "The table won't hold both of us," I say breathlessly, especially not if he was going to push into me as rough as he was earlier.

"Then we'll move to the floor when it snaps." He smirks, crawling over me despite my warning, and I can't help but allow a feeling of excitement and arousal to flicker through me at the promise of his words.

He hovers over me, his hands beside my head as he hardens again, at just the sight of me, the thought of me bare beneath him, legs spread for his entrance. His sultry smirk widens as his tip brushes against my core. "Helion," I whimper, his name on my lips a prayer on its own. "Need you," I beg, my words no longer my own as eagerness for pleasure consumed me.

His gaze darkened, the hunger in his eyes sending a shiver down my spine. He lowered his mouth to my neck, his lips grazing my skin in a teasingly slow path. "Say it again," he murmured, voice hoarse with need, the warmth of his breath making my pulse race beneath him.

I swallowed, my hands gripping his biceps as my chest rose and fell in shallow, desperate breaths. "Please," I whispered, tilting my head to give him better access, my body trembling with anticipation. "Please, Helion. I need you."

A groan escaped his throat, primal and possessive. He didn't make me wait any longer. With one swift, powerful thrust, he pushed into me, the sound of my gasp mingling with his low growl as he filled me completely. The table creaked louder beneath us, and I could feel its instability, but I couldn't bring myself to care.

Helion moved with a steady, deep rhythm at first, his hips rolling as he gripped my waist with one hand, the other bracing himself beside my head. "You're perfect like this," he murmured, his breath hot against my ear. "Desperate and moaning my name."

I could only whine in response, the delicious friction building inside me, pushing me closer to the edge with every thrust. He quickened his pace, the intensity rising, and I arched into him, wrapping my legs around his hips, desperate for more of him, all of him. The tension coiled tighter within me, the sound of our bodies colliding and the ragged breaths filling the room.

"Helion," My voice was barely a whisper, swallowed by the pleasure that rippled through me. His name left my lips again in a breathy plea, barely heard below the splintering of the table, and with another powerful thrust, one leg of the table snapped. He gathered me in his arms before we could go crashing, High Lord strength holding me upright, all while still nestled inside of me.

I was too focused on how good he was making me feel to think about the change of positions, too focused on how he was lifting me up and down on his cock, the quick pace making me release a string of needs.

He dropped to his knees, kneeling down and placing me on the carpeted floor, just as he promised.

He didn't relent in his thrusting despite the altering of position, he fucked me right through it, overwhelmed me with intense pleasure so I barely noticed it as well.

"So perfect, like you were made for me," he breathed, his voice thick with lust as he thrust deeper, each stroke igniting another wave of pleasure that threatened to drown me. I could feel every muscle in my body tensing, arching to meet him, lost in the rhythm he set.

I whimpered, wrapping my arms around his shoulders, pulling him closer as if I could merge our bodies even more completely. "Helion, please," I begged, the words spilling from my lips unbidden. "Don't stop. I'm so close."

His response was a low growl, and he quickened his pace, driving deeper, harder, as he captured my mouth in a heated kiss. His tongue tangled with mine, his lips moving against mine as if he were trying to devour me whole. I could feel the way he was losing himself too, the need in his movements matching the frantic beating of my heart.

The carpet shifted beneath us— and I realized we no longer lay against the floor, but a soft mattress. Somewhere during our heated kiss he had winnowed us into what I assume was his bedroom, the sounds of our bodies slapping together echoing off the walls. Helion's hands gripped my hips, guiding me as he thrust up into me, his movements unrelenting. Each thrust built until I was teetering on the edge of release.

"Just a little more," he encouraged, his breath hot against my ear. "I can feel you tightening around me. Let go, love." The endearment sent a thrill through me, urging me closer to the precipice.

"Helion!" I gasped, feeling the coil within me tighten to its breaking point. I surrendered completely, my body instinctively arching and clenching around him as I felt the wave crash over me. My orgasm hit with blinding force, washing over me in intense ripples of pleasure as I cried out, my body trembling in response.

He followed me over the edge, his own release spilling forth as he growled my name, the sound mingling with the rush of my own pleasure. Helion thrust a few more times, riding out both our climaxes, our bodies perfectly attuned to one another.

He finally pulled out of me, flipping down onto the mattress beside me. I rested my head against his shoulder, his hand slipped into mine, our fingers intertwining, feeling blissfully content, the world around us fading into the background as I savored the afterglow.

After a few moments, I giggled softly, breaking the comfortable silence. "I can't believe we broke a table."

He chucked breathlessly, the warm sound making a feeling bloom in my chest. "It never stood a chance," He replied.

"Literally," I added, eliciting another quiet laugh from him.

I turned onto my side, wrapping an arm around his bare torso, furrowing into his warmth.

I lay still, the warmth of his body fading as he pulled away, leaving me feeling exposed and vulnerable. My heart raced with a mix of confusion and irritation as I watched him slip into his pants. "I thought I wasn't another conquest?" I muttered, my voice laced with hurt as I searched his eyes for the truth.

Helion paused, his expression shifting to one of genuine confusion. "You're not," he said, the sincerity in his tone softening the edges of my anger. But then I narrowed my eyes, my glare unwavering.

"Then where are you going?" I pressed, the question heavy on my heart.

A playful smile tugged at his lips, clearly amused by my reaction. "Would you have a little faith in me? I'm getting a cloth to clean you up," he reassured, turning toward the basin beside the window. I watched him wet a cloth, wringing it out with careful precision before making his way back to the bed.

My glare faltered, replaced by a rush of embarrassment as he returned to my side, settling beside me, I could feel the warmth radiating from his body, and my breath hitched slightly at the intimacy of the moment. Helion gently dragged the damp cloth between my legs, his movements deliberate and tender, and I couldn't help but squirm under his touch.

"Helion," I murmured, feeling a rush of warmth flood my cheeks as he meticulously cleaned me. The sensation was both intimate and oddly soothing, and I found it hard to maintain my earlier annoyance. His focus was unwavering, his eyes intent on his task, and I couldn't help but appreciate how he handled me with such care.

"Relax," he said softly, glancing up at me as he continued his work. "I promise I'm not going anywhere." His gaze held mine, and I could see the genuine warmth and affection there, a stark contrast to the teasing persona he often wore.

I took a deep breath, the tension in my body slowly dissipating as I let his calm wash over me. "Okay," I finally replied, my voice barely above a whisper. I settled back against the pillows, allowing myself to enjoy this unexpected moment of intimacy. Helion finished cleaning me, his touch lingering just a bit longer than necessary, sending shivers of pleasure through me.

"There," he said, a satisfied smile gracing his lips as he tossed the cloth aside. "All clean."

I watch him discard the cloth in the laundry bin with casual grace as if he didn't just alter my entire perception of him. He moved into bed beside me, the mattress dipping with his weight. "You okay, love?" He murmured, tucking me into his carved chest. Again, with that nickname that sent a flutter through me, an endearing sensation I couldn't quite put into words.

I swallowed thickly, nodding as I sunk into his warmth, the kind comparable to the rays of the sun. "Mhm, just tired," I uttered.

"Rest, I'll be here in the morning," He murmured, his hand running down the length of my arm, tracing delicate patterns on my skin. I felt every gentle stroke like a whisper, a promise that anchored me to this newfound connection.

As I settled deeper into his embrace, the world outside faded away, and the quiet rhythm of his heartbeat became the lullaby that lulled me into sleep, a well-earned and deep one, his warmth cradling me into a blissful slumber.

I awoke at first light, my eyes fluttering open to the uncovered windows—the day court being worshippers of the sun, curtains were unheard of here, which made for a rough morning. But something about this morning, with the sun kissing my skin the way Helion had last night, it wasn't so bad.

I flip over, my back to the sun and my front to, perhaps something warmer.

He was awake, already staring at me with a slight smile on his lips. "Good morning," He whispered, his voice deepened by sleep.

"I suppose this is when I take my leave?" I murmur, but don't make any movement to leave. I didn't want to, I wanted to bathe in his sunlight for a little while longer.

He reaches over, his large hand spanning my waist and pulling me closer, encasing me into his broad shoulders and carved chest. "No, my dear, you're not going anywhere." He reassures, looking down at me with a darkened gaze, our foreheads pressed together and his nose brushing mine.

"What have I gotten myself into?" I feign annoyance, rolling my eyes.

He lets out a breathless laugh, leaning down into my neck and pressing his lips into the collection of marks he had left only last night. "You've no idea." He mumbled and I groaned playfully, grumbling a curse.

"Still pretending like you haven't completely fallen for me?" He prodded, the tip of his nose running up my neck.

"I didn't say that," I murmur, running a hand through his hair.

"So you have, fallen for me?" He teased, pulling away from my throat to peer up at me.

"Helion," I whine, my bottom lip protruding as I meet his gaze. "I can't stay here all day, now can I?"

"Who says you can't? The Day Court has no rules against me lounging in bed with beautiful women," He purred. "I've made sure of it." He added with a wink and I rolled my eyes.

"That doesn't sound like a very productive court," I remark, a smile pulling at my lips as I feel our usual banter slide back into place.

He hummed in thought, adjusting out position so his hips were between my legs, his arms wrapped around my waist, and his head on my chest. "Depends on what you consider productive." He mumbled into the cleavage of my breasts.

I scoffed, pulling at his hair and guiding him away from my chest. "You're insatiable," I grumble.

"You love it." He says with an all too confident wink.

"Maybe." I sigh, gripping his shoulder and flipping us over. "But what would your court say if they found out you were bedding your emissary?" I frown at the thought alone.

"I'm their High Lord, they can't say anything unless they wanted their tongues taken—" He suggests, while helping me into a more comfortable position, my head beside his on the pillow, our legs intertwined, my chest pressed against his. "Though I doubt any of them would say a word about you." He reassures, his hand coming to my jaw. "That is unless you wanted them to talk? If so I'd be happy to tell them the events of last night." He smirks and my cheeks glow red, heated beneath his touch.

"Modesty is one of your many virtues I see," I murmur, attempting to ignore my fluttering heartbeat.

"Of course." He gives me a look as if it was a well-known fact. "I'm the very picture of restraint and humility." He quips and I giggle, the sound making his breathing stall for a moment.

His gaze flickers down to mine, his brows slightly creased in conflict. "Stay." He whispered, leaning closer and pecking a kiss on my forehead. "Just a little longer." He added, his lips brushing about my skin.

I sighed, any lingering resolve melting away under his touch. "Just a little longer," I agreed, closing the distance between us as his lips met mine, slow and unhurried, as if the rest of the world could wait.

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blindmagdalena · 1 year ago

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Guilty Pleasures ( chapter four )

18+ 5.2k homelander x plus size f!reader. office romance, stalking, voyeurism, office sex, cunnilingus, cream pie, breast play, flight sex, lite overstim, riding. nebulously takes place post s1. part 4/4. AO3 link. | Chapter Directory

Homelander takes what's his, and you get what's yours.

welcome to the final chapter! thanks so much for reading. i really enjoyed the dynamic between these two, and i hope you do, too. 🖤

Homelander doesn’t hold it against you that you take him up on his suggestion to be absent the following day. He leaves a little peace offering in your office to say as much: a mug for your collection that reads simply, You’ve Been Mugged. He adjusts it seven times on your desk before he finally leaves it alone, surveying your office a while before letting himself out.

The thugs he lasered down in the alley don’t garner much attention, but it’s enough to warrant a statement on the truth of what happened. With them dead, the truth becomes whatever he makes of it, and his truth is that two vagabonds were assaulting a cherished Vought employee before he put a stop to it.

It’s precisely the kind of hero story the public loves.

“I acted on instinct,” he tells the newscaster. He relives the moment as he tells it, recalls only to himself how fierce you had been. How determined you were that if you were going to die, you would die fighting. “They were going to hurt her. I like to believe any good citizen in my position would have done the same.”

Madelyn taught him that conviction without contrition would always read as arrogance, so he speaks firmly but with a furrow to his brow, and he closes his eyes when he inclines his head to accept praise. No matter how dead she is, her voice remains an echo in his mind: follow the script, and you’ll be fine.

They use his words to segue into a discussion of gun control, and Homelander’s mind drifts somewhere distant, hearing without listening to the petty squabbles of humans crying about their little toys and laws. He supposes this is how God feels when humans pray to Him over every minor inconvenience. Bored and painfully above it.

While it’s easy enough to keep himself distracted during business hours, Homelander’s life comes to an abrupt halt alongside the end of the working day. Like the equipment that broadcasts him, there’s little use for him once the cast and crew goes home. All around him the employees commiserate at the end of their work day and pass around invitations to the bar.

He receives none.

Not that he would accept them if he did.

Seeking both council and companionship, Homelander finds himself in Noir’s apartment, seated in the chair Noir keeps for him. It’s the only one the hero owns, what with his interior design being deeply steeped in westernized ninja nonsense. The place is half dojo, half living quarters.

He laments his situation to Noir, explaining his patience in courting you, the lengths he’s gone to endear himself to you on a personal level, and the bitter sting of your rejection.

“See her,” Noir writes in his sketchpad, sitting on the floor on the other side of the low table. “If glad to see her, good. If not–”

Homelander snorts at the series of knife sketches that follow. He has no doubt Noir would put an end to anyone for any reason Homelander gave. Simplicity has allowed Noir an unwavering loyalty to Vought, and as an extension, Homelander himself. Luckily for you, he has no interest in that happening. “I don’t know what I’d do without you, Noir,” he muses, clapping his hands on his thighs before he stands up. “You’re right. I’ll go see her. Thanks, buddy.”

Noir offers two thumbs up. A true uproar of approval.

Under the cover of darkness, Homelander returns to your house, the flight path a familiar one now. He lands silently on your roof this time, cocking his head. He’s not confident he’ll be able to resist your siren pull if he approaches now. He folds his hands behind his back and peers through each layer between him and your bedroom, stopping when he can see you.

You’re nestled deep in the splay of your blankets, lips parted around shallow breaths. He bites his own bottom lip, remembering how badly he’d wanted to feel them. Taste them. He’s certain now that if he allowed himself to be close enough, he would. Denial, for as much as it stung in that moment, has only made him hungrier for you. Fuck, the way he’s craved you from the moment you first brushed him aside.

He watches you shift in your sleep and his eyes narrow, honing in on a familiar flash. His stomach flips–it’s his cape, the fabric pinned between your blanket and your body. You really are sleeping with it, the star spangled blue fabric tucked up under your chin. Do you smell him on it? Homelander groans softly. Like your underwear in his bedside drawer, you sleep with a trophy of your own.

“Fuck,” he says, aching. His heart, his mind, his cock–all of it at once a cacophony of vicious yearning and impatience. The urge to peel the roof like a sardine can and carve his way straight to you nearly knocks the wind out of him, has him preemptively reaching for the shingled surface.

Only the lingering wound to his ego gives him pause. He’s been bitten once, leaving him shy to instigate, but this revelation feels like progress. You’re aching for him as much as he is for you. He’s sure of that now. It’s time that he made you feel that ache. Feel his absence. Then you’ll realize the foolishness of your coy game.

Clenching his jaw defiantly, Homelander lifts up into the sky.

He’ll be benevolent when you come to your senses.

The next day, Homelander keeps himself scarce, preoccupied. Ashley is perkier than usual, thrilled–if not suspicious–with his easy participation in whatever inane business she brings to him. It helps distract him from the endless feeling of waiting that he’s enduring.

He sticks stubbornly to his schedule, fantasizing about the torment his avoidance has surely wrought. He’s tempted a time or two to break, but each time he remembers the mortified Oh! you uttered before he kissed you, he refocuses himself.

You’ll come.

Not before lunch, but that is the perfect opportunity for it. He makes himself more available then, tapping his fingers against the armrest of his chair.

No sign of you.

He gives you the benefit of the doubt. A meal to embolden you.

Then you’ll come.

He waits.

Lunch long since over.

He waits.

The day is winding down.

He’s fucking tired of waiting.

Where the hell are you? He’s given you the entirety of the day to seek him out, ample opportunity to come thank him for his gift, to address the aching thing ruminating between you. You’d be a fucking liar to say you don’t feel it, too. By midday, he’s seething with impatience and hurt. There’s no chance he’s going to let you stand him up.

It’s precisely the wrong time for Ashley to rear her head back up. “Okay! That’s that, now regarding the amnesty for–”

“Ashley!” He snaps, a harsh and throaty sound. “Would you shut the fuck up?”

She stops in her tracks, staring wide-eyed. Of course it was too good to be true.

Homelander all but leaps to his feet, pushing out of his chair so hard that it flips backwards and into the wall in a heavy clatter. She clutches her vPad to her chest and quickly back steps out of his way, watching in frightened bewilderment as he storms from the room, making a beeline towards your office.

He doesn’t bother knocking this time. Still, his restraint is undeniable when he pushes your door open. He barely catches himself from pushing the damn thing clean off the hinges.

Your head snaps up from your computer, eyes wide. He hears your heart jump and he savors the alarm that shoots through you. Payback for the awful misery you forced him to endure in the hours since he last saw you. Still, the sight of you disarms him. For all his seething anger, there is something small in him that retreats it when your eyes are on him.

There’s a heaviness to your gaze that his strength can do nothing to alleviate. No incredible feat of his can wrench away what it is he wants from you. What he needs. It’s something you have to give him willingly, and that alone is enough to temper his rage. The familiar fear that you won’t.

He marches to the front of your desk and levels an accusatory finger on you.

“You like me,” he hisses, bending to brace his opposite hand on your desk.

You blink owlishly, lips parted. That clearly wasn’t what you expected him to say. He’s not sure it’s what he meant to say. “Homelander–”

“No,” he says, voice pitched low, a warning. “No, no. No games, no workarounds. You like me. You do. And I like you. So,” he abandons his point to make a vague encompassing gesture, but he doesn’t know what to say next. He didn’t think this far ahead. All day he had practiced the calm benevolence he would show when you approached him, chastised and yearning. He has nothing to back up this frenzied play for.

You stand. Homelander rises to his full height with you, jutting his chin out. He watches you with all the wariness of a wounded predator as you circle around your desk, your hand gliding along the wood like you would flank a horse so as not to spook it.

He can’t determine the intent behind your gaze. He angles his body towards you, facing you head on. You look like yourself again, in your element and free from the fawn fear of the alley. He can’t entirely decide which way he prefers you. When you were in his arms, he was your hero. In your office, his position feels more precarious.

The silence stretches on for hours–or seconds, it’s impossible to say–before he can no longer stand it. Sucking in a breath, he–

You kiss him.

Homelander goes shock still, hyper aware of your lips pressed feather light to his, your breasts against his chest, your hand on his forearm. He doesn’t know when he closed his eyes, but he senses when you begin to pull away.

In a flash he cups your face in his hands and pulls you in deep, inhaling sharply, like he’s only just remembered how to breathe. He kisses you, kisses you, kisses you as if he can trap you in the cycle of it. You don’t resist, you don’t tense. Instead, you sigh an angel’s breath against his lips. Only then does he break to look at you.

“I don’t understand,” he says, bewildered, flushed.

“I do like you,” you say, eyes glassy.

His brows pinch. “But… That night–”

“Wasn’t right,” you interrupt. “I wanted to kiss you, but not like that. Not then. Not because you saved me, not because I was in shock, not because of…” you rock your head side to side. “Whatever other bullshit… You let me down that night.”

“Let you down?” Homelander echoes, taken aback. “By saving your life?” He asks, his temper a perpetual simmer ready to flare. He’s immediately tempered by your hands taking his wrists, squeezing. You hold his gaze and your expression is gentle, but there is a firmness in your stare that he finds intoxicating. Not an ounce of fear, even when his anger emerges.

Good. You shouldn’t be afraid of him. He saved you.

“I was shaken. Badly. My date was an entitled asshole, those men, they tried to…” You shake your head, holding his hands to your face. “I didn’t need you to be a man. I needed you to be a hero. I wasn’t ready.”

A light in Homelander’s eyes flicks on. You just weren’t ready. He’d been right after all. He fixates on that, choosing to forgive you for that, at least.

“Well, why didn’t… You could have said something,” he says, feeling like a deflated hot air balloon, all slack expansion and heat with no purpose.

“I would have,” you say, your cheeks soft and round in his hands, lips slightly puckered from his hold on your face. “But you ran away.”

“What? I–” He laughs incredulously. “I did not run away.”

“Flew away,” you say, pushing in to kiss him again. He screws his eyes shut. Fuck, fuck. Oh fuck. He’s been dreaming of this, aching for it. To feel you against him, wanting him as much as he wants you. “Pretty fast, too. Looked like you shot straight up to the moon,” you say, breath hot and sweet on his lips.

“I…” He swallows, hands slipping down to either side of your neck, thumbs tilting your chin up. “I’m sorry. I wanted you,” he says, trailing his parted lips along your jaw, kissing and breathing you in the way he’s craved to. He can feel your skin growing hot against his lips, hear the uptick of your pulse as your heart begins to race.

“Do you still want me?” You ask, voice lower now. It sends a delicious hot pang all the way through him.

“You have no fucking idea,” he murmurs, nipping at the lobe of your ear, desperate to test the give of you under his teeth, the feel of your soft and yielding flesh branded into his memory the moment his lips touched your skin.

A knock snaps his attention away from you, but it isn’t at the door. He looks down and sees that it’s you knocking on your desk. “So take me,” you say, voice laced with heat. His lips split into a wicked grin. He snatches the edge of your heavy wooden desk and effortlessly tips it backwards until everything slides off of it, clattering to the floor. He lifts you up, relishing your delighted little yelp, and places you down on the cleared surface like a doll, stepping in between your legs.

He kisses you again. Let me in, demands the press of his tongue. You yield to him, but it’s far from a surrender. Your tongue meets his eagerly, tasting him as much as he does you. Tasting you. That’s what he wants. He wants to map every inch of you with his tongue.

Homelander slips his hand between your legs, pushing your skirt up out of the way. He presses his fingers to the heat between your thighs, rubbing through the thin fabric of your panties. You sigh that same seraphic sound against his lips, slipping your hands up into his hair, already taking a handful of it to tug gently.

He breaks the kiss and takes his fingers from you after the barest tease of pleasure. The impatient sound you make goes straight to his cock, as does your flustered expression. He brings his fingers to his lips and drags his tongue over the leather of them, sliding them past his lips to give a quick suck. It’s not enough, too slight a hint of you. He needs more. You watch him with rapt attention, giving his hair a demanding little tug.

“You can pull as hard as you like,” he tells you with a smile, tilting his head against the grasp you have on his hair. “Tells me I’m doing a good job.”

“I’ll tell you when you’re doing a good job,” you rasp, giving his hair a sharp pull and then a downward push. That sends a shiver down his spine.

Fuck yes.

Homelander sinks down onto his knees, lifting each of your legs up over his shoulders. You give a little gasp when he yanks your ass to the edge of the desk, giddy with the way he manhandles you. He swallows, mouth dry, thirsty for the wet, heady smell of your pussy. He maneuvers his head under your skirt until he’s close enough to drag his tongue up the soft cotton of your panties. Your breath hitches and your grip in his hair tightens while you egg him on with sharp little rolls of your hips.

He closes his eyes, giving a rumbling moan for the taste of you, even through the fabric. He laps until the fabric is soaked, clinging to your skin, and he can feel your clit swollen and stiff on his tongue through your panties. He closes his mouth over it, sucking you through your underwear while you writhe above him, keeping yourself quiet.

That won’t do.

He wants to hear you.

He wants the whole fucking Tower to hear you.

Hooking the crotch of your panties with his finger, it only takes one sharp little tug to tear them, exposing you to him.

“Homelander,” you moan. The sound of it lances a spear of heat through him, leaves his cock throbbing needily in the rigid confines of his cup. He groans into you, rocking his hips against the empty air. The only proper answer is to dive in, to close his lips around your clit and finally suck the rich nectar of your cunt without the filter of fabric between you. You taste even better than you smell, like salt and sex and sweet ripe fruit. It overwhelms his senses immediately, his eyelids flickering.

The more he laps at you, the silkier your pussy becomes. Between circling your clit, he drives his tongue deep into you, drinking you down noisily and messily, a parched man gulping from an oasis. Your thick thighs are tight on either side of his head, your pulse pounding in his ears. He moans low and wicked for the taste and feel of you.

Your grip on his hair tightens sporadically, sharp little tugs that match the staccato cadence of your breaths. “F-fuck, your tongue feels-feels fucking unreal,” you moan, grinding down against it. The strength of it, the slight thrum of restrained power that courses through him, and the sheer relentlessness of his stamina is driving you wild against his mouth. “Fingers, use your fingers,” you tell him. He loves the rawness of your voice, the authority and desperation in your demand.

Removing one of his gloves, he moves his bare hand to the sweltering wetness of you, teasing his finger just below where his tongue is rubbing your clit. His index finger slips easily into the slick mess, and he savors the quiver of your velvet walls around it. He lets you ride his finger, stays all but still while you greedily bounce your hips, both hands fisted in his hair. You use him for your pleasure, and it makes him delirious with want.

Homelander's gaze flickers up. He peers through the layer of your skirt to catch a look at you, to watch you while you cannot watch him. You’re losing track of yourself, lips parted, eyes glazed with pleasure, shivering with each flick of his tongue and dive of his finger. Euphoria looks good on you.

Christ, he has been patient. He would chastise himself for waiting so long to touch you, to taste you, to feel you, but he can’t bring himself to. The wait gifted him with this exquisite hunger, and he proved something important; you both yearn for the other. You crave him. He can see it in your hazy eyes, taste it in the spill of your sweet cunt.

You belong to him. He needs only to take you.

One finger becomes two, and then three. Your heels dig into his shoulders and fuck yourself down on them, moaning recklessly now, not caring who hears you. It’s music to his ears.

“Fuck, Homelander, I-I’m coming, I’m-don’t stop, don’t stop,” you beg prettily. You don’t need to, but he enjoys the song anyway. He laps at your clit in quick upward pulls of his tongue, lips creating a seal around it. His brows furrow tightly, his own neglected arousal pounding through his body like a wardrum, but he doesn’t touch himself, too focused on you.

Your whole body locks up tight when you come, breath caught in your lungs, your clit fluttering delicately. He presses his tongue to it, savoring the taste of your euphoria, how it floods your system and changes the flavor of you. Your pleasure grows his hunger into something monstrous, something demanding, but there is satiation at least in bringing you this, in showing you all the things he will be for you.

You’ll never want for anyone–or anything– else ever again.

Homelander doesn’t stop. You begged him not to. He finger-fucks you through the aftershocks, lapping up every drop of your pleasure, stroking you inside and out while your cunt squeezes his fingers. He doesn’t stop until he feels you pushing him away, your sweet songbird moans sounding more like whimpers, oversensitized. He withdraws his fingers, giving one last noisy slurp before emerging from beneath your skirt. His face is shiny and wet with your slick, his pupils blown black. He's panting, looking every bit like a beast lifting its bloodied head from the belly of its kill.

Crawling up your body, still predator hungry, he rests his knee on the desk between your legs. He cups either side of your face, fingertips digging possessively into the back of your neck. He meets your eyes, pinning you with the intensity of his gaze, wordlessly drilling into your mind that this moment, this feeling, this tingling warmth in your body is him.

I did this to you, his expression reads. You’re on my lips, he says by pressing them to yours, kissing your own taste into your mouth, his body throbbing, desperate for an ounce of that same relief. You’re mine.

To his amazement, your eyes mirror his own savage hunger. You kiss him hard, shamelessly licking into his mouth, huffing shallow breaths from your nose. “Lie down,” you tell him, voice as sweet and coarse as raw sugar. “I’m going to ride you.”

Homelander doesn’t need to be told twice. Exhilarated, he rolls over, flipping you with him and steadying you above him in a fluid motion. The desk isn’t as long as he is tall, but it doesn’t matter. He’s already half suspended in the air with his own excitement, helping you with overly eager hands that fumble alongside yours with his belt, which falls to the ground with a distinct thud. He gives a little jump at the voracity you rip his zipper down with, grinning.

Together, you shuck his pants down to his thighs. You grip him through his red briefs, a fractured moan falling from his lips.

“Cute underwear,” you coo. His cheeks flush to almost the same shade. You flatten your palm over his cock and he bites back a whimper, teeth sinking into his tongue. You give a light squeeze, fingers curling around his cock through the fabric, and he lets out a rough breath. “You feel close,” you tell him, stroking him in a loose fist, your hand warm, the fabric soft.

He nods fervently, the friction and your voice already teetering him towards the edge. He makes a sound of both anguish and relief when you release him, his eyes snapping up to meet yours. You tug his underwear down, his cock bouncing free, engorged and dripping precome.

“Don’t move,” you tell him, bracing one hand on his chest and sliding forward, your other hand moving between your bodies to steady his cock against the rapturously hot press of your soaked cunt. His hands fly to your hips, fingertips biting into the softness of your body. You allow him that, focused entirely on the act of taking him into you. The fat head of his cock it slips inside, evoking a sweet little gasp from you, and Homelander fights not to slam in the rest of the way.

Both of your hands fall to his chest, your eyes meeting his. He holds your gaze, mouth twitching around silent sharp breaths. He watches you sink slowly down the length of him, engulfing him in such sublime rapture it’s a wonder he doesn’t come right then and there for the feel of you alone. His grip on your hips flexes and he gives a sharp little thrust up, forgetting himself to the divine feel of your pussy.

“I said don’t move,” you remind him breathlessly. God, you’re beautiful like this. The fluorescent light behind your head haloes you, giving you the look of a debauched angel he plucked from the heavens to have and keep as his own. He expects you to move, to bounce yourself on his cock like you did his mouth and his fingers. He wants to watch your tits bounce, see your face clearly when you come on his cock, but the only part of you that moves is your hand.

His gaze drops and quickly darkens, watching intently as you stroke your clit. The initial contact alone makes you jerk, makes your pussy spasm and squeeze him so good he almost chokes on it. Your only response is to sigh, tipping your head back and spreading your legs a little wider, taking him deeper. He wants so badly to fuck you, to slam you down and rail you until your desk cracks in half.

“Mmmm, fuck,” you moan, rubbing yourself in circles, the lewd noise of it loud and irresistible to his ears. “Fuck, fuck–ah, god,” you start to pant, head falling forward, brows tightly pinched. You’re so sensitive after the assault of his mouth, the flavor of you still fresh on his tongue. The faster your fingers move, the closer he feels you get, the clench around his cock steadily tightening. He wants to thrash, but you keep him pinned in place with your look of expectation and pleasure. You’re getting off on him as much as you are your own fingers, on the swell and throb of his cock inside you, on the sheer power you hold over a god.

You’re loud when you come, nails clawing into the chest of his suit. Homelander’s eyes roll back, lips parted on a soundless cry of his own. The spasming heat of your release is too much and he loses himself to it, eyes flaring up with crimson light as he comes with you, every shudder of your climax stroking and milking him of his own, flooding you with his own wet mess.

His restraint breaks with the dam and he sits up abruptly, startling a noise from you, which he swallows with a hard kiss, cupping the back of your head. He holds you still and he fucks you, lifting from the desk entirely so that he alone supports your weight, driving you deeper onto his cock. Your legs tighten on either side of him, shaking.

Out of his mind with pleasure, he tears your blouse open with his teeth, diving in close to lick, suck and bite at your chest. He buries his face between your breasts, holding you tightly as he fucks you both through your respective orgasms, the slap of flesh against flesh echoing obscenely in your office.

Hitching your legs properly around his waist, he bounces you on his cock until the pleasure borders on pain and a secondary shock rolls through him like another orgasm, stealing his breath. Only then does he finally slow, mouthing languidly at your chest until he sucks your nipple into his mouth. He moans against you, grinding to an eventual halt. You comb your fingers through his hair and goosebumps erupt across his body, which shivers in the euphoric aftermath.

He loses track of how long he stays suspended like that, lost to the overwhelm of sensation. Your legs go slack while his angles slightly upward, his face pressed to your chest, your head resting atop his. He nuzzles at you, bleary eyed and slack with pleasure. He kisses a trail up to your clavicle, your throat, your jaw, smiling in the loose, easy way that only a good fuck can never make him.

“Wow,” he says after a while, voice thoroughly frayed.

You giggle, groggily lifting your head. He adjusts until you can relax against his chest, fold your forearms across it and settling your chin atop them, admiring him. He touches your face with his ungloved hand, stroking your cheek with his thumb, then the curve of your bottom lip. His smile widens when you kiss the pad of his thumb.

“Wow indeed,” you say, swinging your legs lightly. “Can’t say I’ve ever been fucked mid-air.”

“One of the many benefits of dating me,” he purrs, caressing your cheek with his knuckles. He kisses you again, drifting slowly back down, unhurried.

Your brows lift lazily. “Who says we’re dating?” You ask, but your smile keeps his hackles from rising.

“Me,” he says, eyes crinkled at the corners. He lands gently on the desk, helping you to it. “You and I are officially going steady.”

You give a thoughtful hum, carefully untangling your limbs from his. You slide off of the desk while he puts himself back together, your knees trembling faintly. “Fairly sure asking someone out requires a question mark. You know. The asking part. You didn’t even buy me dinner.” You attempt to button up your shirt, but it’s obviously a lost cause.

He exhales a quiet laugh, pulling you back into his arms. “Well, I certainly ate.”

“God,” you laugh, rolling your eyes, but they don’t stray from him for long. There’s a sparkle to your gaze that he wants to capture in his palm and never set loose.

“Will you go out with me?” He asks, lips brushing yours.

“Mmmmmmmm….” You hum once more, drawing it out, feigning a great deliberation. “There’s something you should know first.”

He quirks a brow. “What’s that?”

“My guilty pleasure,” you say, nose bumping his.

Intrigued, he inclines his head to prompt you to continue. Can’t be worse than mine.

“Superheroes,” you say conspiratorially. “Can’t get enough of them. Loved them my whole life. Especially this one in particular…”

He breaks into a frayed, charmed laugh. “Let me guess, name starts with an H?”

You suck in a breath through your teeth, lips curved downward in a mock grimace, and nod subtly. “ Total fangirl. Embarrassing, right?”

Homelander shakes his head. “I wouldn’t know. I’ve never felt guilty about pleasure. Where’s the harm in it?”

The harm inflicted on those thugs couldn’t count. They had it coming.

“Harm to my pride, my ego, my reputation,” you list, tapping his suit to punctuate each one. “I made a pretty big fuss about not liking you. I had myself convinced that my Homelander only existed in my fantasies, and you were just the guy who plays him.”

My Homelander. The words stir an unexpectedly sentimental surge of emotion that wells up from somewhere deep in his chest. He clears his throat lightly. “What’s the verdict now?”

You sweep him with an appraising gaze. “Still deliberating.”

He clicks his tongue, nodding. “I don’t suppose I could arrange a meeting with the jury?”

“They’re available for dinner tomorrow,” you say, the tilt of your lips sly.

“It’s a date,” he murmurs, brushing the tip of his nose against yours. You kiss him, pressing your smile to his. He doubts he’ll ever tire of the softness of your lips, or the easy way you melt against him. He wraps his arms around you, content to let this moment pass only because he knows there will be more to come. He’s determined to make every one of them better than the last.

All of the pleasure, none of the guilt.

#homelander x reader #homelander x you #homelander fanfiction #my writing #x reader #yandere x reader

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womanofwords · 2 months ago

Text

Frozen Heart (Part 18)

TW: forced infantilisation and yandere behaviour.

Bruce became even more smothering after Dr Tripp talked to him. "I had no idea what was happening to you, little one," he cooed, carrying you into the house. "But don't you worry, Daddy is taking care of everything."

"What? But no! Only Alfred can do this stuff for me! I want Alfred!" you wailed.

Bruce continued as if you weren't even saying anything. "This is going to be a steep learning curve, but we'll get through it. Dr Tripp said that this age regression stuff helps little ones like you. Well, we can do that. We'll do anything for you."

Bruce renovated your room scarily fast. Your room had a mural of a magical forest wrapped around the walls, and your clothes were a lot more cutesy than before. It was part nursery, part kindergarten classroom. Exactly what you needed to be raised in a loving home.

"You are so adorable, Y/N," Barbara gasped, brushing your hair. "Would you like accessories? Bows? Ribbons? Hair clips? You're getting whatever you want!"

"Don't overwhelm them, Barb!" Stephanie insisted. "Oh, our little Y/N will look so cute with anything!"

So adorable! Cass signed. She pointed at the chart of finger signs. Y/N, can you sign your name? What about our names?

The door slammed open. "Hand over Y/N or I'm gonna scream!" Dick yelled. "Jason, get away from me, you - UGH!"

Jason shoved Dick away from your room, leaving him sprawled on the floor. "Keep away from the door. I'm going to be taking care of them. You're way too much of a crybaby and you'll set them off," Jason grunted.

"I am the blood sibling and all of you will part for me!" Damian demanded, standing on Dick to do so.

"Honestly, you should be getting age regression therapy with them." Tim jerked a thumb over at Damian's direction. "Y/N needs the therapy and you need manners."

Damian's jaw dropped. "You can't make me do that. It's only a requirement for Y/N!"

"It could do you some good," Duke mused. "Hey, Damian, want a stuffed polar bear? It'll go well with Y/N's panda."

The boy assassin rolled his eyes. "I'm an Al Ghul and a Wayne. I do not require such insipid tokens of sentimentality."

You rolled your eyes. "Could I have a lollipop, please?"

Five hands shoved lollipops at you, waiting for you to take one. "What are you doing?" Barbara asked. "This is the sugar-free one that won't hurt their teeth."

"Well, this is the one that'll actually taste good," Tim said, brandishing a lollipop that was huge and hypnotised you with swirls. "Did you raid a dentist's office for those, Babs?"

"Come on, Y/N, get the lollipop! It's your favourite flavour!" Dick sniffled, literally still on the floor. He was tearing up already.

"They're not going to want your offerings when you act like that," Jason said. "Hey, Y/N, how about you and I go somewhere and read a book? Y/N, I'll let you read whatever you want, I promise."

"BABA! JASON'S STEALING Y/N!" Damian screamed. He latched onto you like a shipwreck survivor clings onto driftwood.

"All of you, stop!" Bruce wrestled you out of Jason's arms. "You're frightening Y/N! There, there, Y/N, Daddy's here and we're going to be doing some word association. After your tutor come by for your lessons, of course."

"Tutor?" That word snapped you out of this weird childish haze. "I thought you'd be sending me back to school."

"Absolutely not. My little Y/N is not going back to the place that broke them," Bruce said. "You're staying with us, where it's safe, and where nobody and nothing will hurt you. Nothing can hurt you here."

You pointed at Damian. "I would like some distance from my brother," you said. "He set Titus onto me and I now have a fear of dogs."

That was Dick's cue to be your hero. He dusted himself off, picked Damian up, and threw him out of your room, literally. "Done!" he said, pretending not to notice the thump of his body against a wall that everyone definitely heard afterward.

"Master Dick, why did I see Damian hit the wall with great force?" Alfred asked.

"Y/N's comfort," Dick said. He snuggled as close to you as he could while you were still in Bruce's arms. Bruce put some distance between you and Dick.

"Dick, you are also going to be keeping some distance from Y/N. After your midnight actions concerning Cassandra and Damian in their room, you could do with some distance," Bruce said.

Dick's mouth opened and closed as if he were a fish. "Cassandra started it!" he eventually spluttered.

"I know. She's staying away from Y/N, too. Along with Damian for waking Y/N up in such a traumatising manner."

"Seriously? Ugh, you are so mean! We'll bond soon, Y/N!" Dick sobbed, as you were taken to your tutor.

Once tutoring was over, Bruce had his own lessons to teach you. "Read my lips, sweetheart. Daddy . . . loves . . . his . . . baby." He spoke to you in a baby voice, his own rendition of Miss Rachel. "Daddy. Papa. Baba. Father. Plain old Dad. Just not Bruce."

"I'm not a baby. I'm doing advanced stuff. I'm going to graduate and go to college," you said.

Bruce sighed. "Not letting you out of our sight, kiddo. Those nasty people might get revenge. So we're going to make sure that you're OK by keeping our little jewel under tight supervision."

"No, you can't!" You tried to struggle away from your father. "I want to leave and get away from here! Damian will kill me before anybody or anything else does!"

"I will make sure Damian doesn't hurt you," Bruce promised. "Nothing will ever hurt you again."

Bruce took you downstairs and painstakingly fed you your meal. It was one of your favourites, but you couldn't enjoy it. "You are going to have everything you ever want," Bruce promised, as your siblings cooed at you. "And everything will be perfect for you, at long last."

You felt all the fight leave your body. You would never get to leave the family you'd grown to hate, or the mansion you wanted to escape from. You'd even heard Bruce talk to Alfred about custody papers so you could 'have more time with your new childhood'. Daddy's baby forever.

Bruce took you into your room when 8 PM hit, claiming you would be cranky if you had to stay up for longer. Your siblings clawed at him, following him and you up the stairs to your room. Bruce placed you down into your bed, which smelled faintly of herbs. "Why does my bed smell weird?" you asked.

Bruce smirked. "A little trick Daddy learned from his time with those Tibetan monks. Helps you sleep very fast. Daddy is going to have you out like a light, little one. You're going to be so happy, darling."

"You did . . . that?"

"Of course. Daddy needs to put his baby to sleep himself. And to think I let Alfred have you to himself." He chuckled at his own prior negligence. "Well, I'm parenting my baby from now on. Relax, little one, close your eyes. You are safe, you are loved, and Daddy is here."

That wasn't good. You were going to leave. You needed to go. But your body wasn't loyal to you. It shut down on command from your father, your eyelids shutting while your mind strained to leave. You fell into sleep without a sound, and Bruce kept watch.

"You are never leaving my sight," he whispered. "Never."

First

Taglist: @tinybrie, @bunniotomia, @kittzu, @justwannabecat, @exactlynumberonekryptonite, @vanessa-boo, @jscrawls, @sirenetheblogger, @lovebug-apple, @realifezompire.

#creative writing #my writing #writing inspiration #writers #writing #writeblr #writers on tumblr #writerscommunity #yandere #platonic yandere #yandere batfam #batfam #batfamily x neglected reader #yandere batfam x reader

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aspenmissing · 4 months ago

Note

I love your blogs and all the stories you write. Can you please do one with the Arcane characters and the reader feels nauseous. You don’t have to make it graphic just a little nauseous but mostly comforting for the reader. Thank you I love your works 🫶🫶

ᴜɴᴅᴇʀ ᴛʜᴇ ᴡᴇᴀᴛʜᴇʀ

ᴊᴀʏᴄᴇ | ᴠɪᴋᴛᴏʀ | ᴊᴀʏᴠɪᴋ | ᴠᴀɴᴅᴇʀ | ꜱɪʟᴄᴏ | ᴊɪɴx || ꜰʟᴜꜰꜰ/ᴄᴏᴍꜰᴏʀᴛ || 4891 ᴡᴏʀᴅꜱ || ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ: ꜰᴇᴇʟɪɴɢꜱ ᴏꜰ ɴᴀᴜꜱᴇᴀ/ꜱɪᴄᴋ

ʀᴇQᴜᴇꜱᴛ ᴀɴꜱᴡᴇʀ: ʜᴇʟʟᴏ ᴅᴀʀʟɪɴɢ!! ᴛʜᴀɴᴋ ʏᴏᴜ ꜰᴏʀ ᴛᴀᴋɪɴɢ ᴛʜᴇ ᴛɪᴍᴇ ᴛᴏ ʀᴇᴀᴅ ᴍʏ ꜱᴛᴏʀɪᴇꜱ!!! ɪ ᴀᴘᴘʀᴇᴄɪᴀᴛᴇ ɪᴛ ꜱᴏ ꜱᴏ ꜱᴏᴏᴏᴏ ᴍᴜᴄʜ! ᴀɴᴅ ɪ ᴅᴏ ʜᴏᴘᴇ ʏᴏᴜ ᴇɴᴊᴏʏ ᴛʜɪꜱ ᴏɴᴇ! <3 <3

JAYCE

The moment you step into the apartment, you barely make it two steps before a wave of nausea crashes over you. The scent of something warm and savoury from the kitchen—normally inviting—turns your stomach, and you instinctively raise a hand to cover your mouth. Your knees feel weak, and a soft groan escapes your lips as you stagger toward the couch.

Jayce notices immediately. His heavy footsteps cross the floor in an instant, and before you can sink down onto the cushions, his strong hands are already on your shoulders, steadying you.

"Whoa—hey, are you okay?" His voice is thick with concern, eyes searching your face for any signs of distress.

You shake your head, exhaling a shaky breath. "I don't know… I just feel awful. My stomach is in knots."

His brows knit together in worry, his grip firm yet gentle. Without hesitation, he kneels in front of you, his large hands rubbing soothing circles over your arms. The warmth of his touch is grounding, his presence a steady force against the discomfort twisting in your gut.

"Did you eat something bad? Or is it stress?" he asks, his voice softer now, more careful.

"I don’t know," you murmur, closing your eyes. "I just feel gross."

Jayce exhales softly, then shifts to sit beside you, wrapping a strong arm around your shoulders and pulling you into his side. His scent—comforting and familiar, a mix of warm metal and something subtly sweet—helps ease some of the tension in your body. He presses a soft kiss to the top of your head, his lips lingering for a moment longer than usual.

"Okay, let’s just take it easy," he murmurs. "You need water?"

You nod weakly, and he’s up in an instant. The absence of his warmth makes you shiver slightly, but he returns quickly, pressing a cool glass into your hands. His fingers brush over yours as he watches you sip, his eyes flickering with quiet concern. His other hand starts rubbing slow, reassuring motions over your back, up and down, up and down, easing some of the tension from your muscles.

After a moment, he speaks again. “Do you want me to grab you some medicine?” he offers. “Or tea? I can make some ginger tea. I think Viktor mentioned once that it helps with nausea.”

Despite how awful you feel, you huff a tired laugh at the mention of Viktor, picturing him absentmindedly rattling off some scientific explanation about ginger’s properties while Jayce pretended to listen. “That actually sounds… nice.”

Jayce grins, relieved to see even a hint of your usual self. “Alright. One ginger tea, coming right up.” He presses another gentle kiss to your forehead before standing and heading toward the kitchen.

You let yourself sink into the couch, curling into the spot he left behind, still warm from his body. The sounds of him bustling around the kitchen fill the space—the clinking of cups, the rustling of tea leaves, the quiet muttering under his breath as he debates how long to steep it.

"Tea can’t be that hard to make, right?" he muses to himself, and you can’t help but smile softly.

A few minutes later, he returns, holding a steaming mug in his hands. “Okay, don’t judge me if it’s terrible,” he warns, sitting beside you again and handing it over carefully.

You take a cautious sip. The warmth spreads through you instantly, and while it doesn’t completely quell the nausea, it’s soothing in a way you hadn’t realized you needed.

Jayce watches you expectantly. “Well?”

“It’s… actually pretty good,” you admit, cracking a small smile.

His chest puffs out slightly with pride. “Told you I could do it.”

You roll your eyes but lean into him, resting your head against his shoulder. He immediately adjusts, wrapping an arm around you again, his fingers absentmindedly running through your hair in slow, gentle strokes.

"Just rest, sweetheart," he murmurs, his voice low and soothing. "I’ll stay right here with you."

And he does.

Even as the minutes stretch on, even as your body remains exhausted, he stays. His presence is a comforting weight beside you, his warmth wrapping around you like a safety net. You don’t need to say anything—Jayce just knows.

And somehow, even with the nausea still lingering, you feel a little bit better.

VIKTOR

The world swayed beneath your feet, the dimly lit lab blurring around the edges. You gripped the edge of Viktor’s desk, knuckles pale as your stomach lurched again. The nausea had been creeping up all day, but you’d ignored it, determined to push through. Now, however, your body had other plans.

“Ah, there you are.” Viktor’s voice, warm and tinged with curiosity, drifted through the haze of your discomfort. The tap of his cane against the stone floor grew louder as he approached, his presence both reassuring and grounding.

You tried to straighten up, but the motion sent another wave of sickness crashing over you. A soft groan slipped past your lips before you could stop it.

Viktor’s brows furrowed in concern. “Miláček?” (Darling)

You waved a hand, attempting to brush him off. “I’m fine,” you mumbled, though the wobble in your stance betrayed you.

He was at your side in an instant, his cane set aside as he reached for you. His fingers ghosted over your arm before settling at your waist, steadying you. “I am inclined to disagree.” His amber eyes searched yours, sharp as ever, though laced with unmistakable worry. “You are pale.”

“I just—” You swallowed hard. “Feel a little sick.”

His expression softened, a quiet understanding passing over his face. He knew you well enough to recognize when you were downplaying something. Without another word, he guided you to the nearest chair, his touch gentle but firm.

“Sit,” he said, nudging you down before lowering himself onto the armrest beside you. “And before you argue, let me take care of you for once, hm?”

You sighed, too tired to resist. Viktor chuckled, pleased with your compliance. His hand brushed over your forehead, his touch light as he checked for fever. “No fever,” he murmured, more to himself than to you. “Have you eaten today?”

You hesitated. “…Not really.”

His sigh was exasperated but fond. “Ah, so we have our culprit.” He tapped his cane against the floor. “Wait here.”

He moved with careful urgency, fetching a glass of water and some crackers from his desk drawer—likely something he kept for his own long nights at the lab. He pressed them into your hands before kneeling beside your chair, balancing himself with his cane.

“Small bites,” he instructed, watching you as if ensuring you’d actually follow through. His fingers traced absentminded patterns against your knee, a silent comfort.

As you nibbled at the crackers, the nausea eased slightly. Viktor smiled, satisfied. “Better?”

You gave him a small nod, feeling warmth bloom in your chest—not just from the food but from the tenderness in his care. “Yeah.”

His hand found yours, squeezing lightly. “Good,” he said, his voice soft, reassuring. “Now, let us make a deal: no more neglecting your health, yes?”

You huffed a quiet laugh, leaning into his touch. “I’ll try.”

He smirked, eyes twinkling. “That is all I ask.”

You let your head rest against his shoulder, closing your eyes for a moment. The steady rhythm of his breathing and the faint scent of parchment and ink that clung to him were soothing, a stark contrast to the earlier unease in your stomach.

“You work too hard,” Viktor murmured, his voice a gentle tease, though you could hear the genuine concern behind it. “You are always making sure everyone else is taken care of, and yet…” He trailed off, shaking his head. “You forget about yourself.”

You sighed. “I don’t mean to.”

“I know.” His fingers curled around yours, warm and sure. “That is why I will remind you.”

The weight of his words settled over you, a quiet promise woven into each syllable. It was in moments like these that you understood just how much Viktor cared—not just in grand gestures but in the quiet, persistent ways he ensured you were safe, comfortable, and cared for.

A comfortable silence settled between you both, the occasional sound of bubbling flasks and rustling papers filling the lab. Viktor’s thumb traced slow circles over your skin, a quiet reassurance that he was here, that he wasn’t going anywhere.

“Do you want to rest?” he asked after a while, his voice barely above a whisper.

You nodded, exhaustion settling in now that the worst of the nausea had passed. Viktor shifted slightly, his hand adjusting to support you better. “Then rest, moje láska I will be here.” (My Love)

And with him beside you, the world no longer felt like it was spinning quite so fast.

You weren’t sure how long you sat like that, but time seemed irrelevant. Viktor’s hand remained in yours, his warmth grounding you, his presence unwavering. After a few minutes, he shifted, adjusting the chair beside you before carefully wrapping an arm around your shoulders. His embrace was hesitant at first, as if unsure whether you’d protest, but when you leaned into him, he relaxed.

“Better?” he murmured, his breath warm against your temple.

You hummed softly, closing your eyes. “Much.”

“Good,” he whispered, his fingers tracing soft circles against your arm. “Then rest, láska. I will not leave your side.” (Love)

He began to hum under his breath, a quiet, almost meditative melody that lulled you further into a sense of calm. You could feel the faint vibrations of his voice against you, steady and soothing. A scientist, an innovator, and yet in this moment, he was simply Viktor—your Viktor—offering comfort in the only way he knew how.

The lab, once cold and sterile, felt warmer now, wrapped in the quiet intimacy of his care. And as you drifted between wakefulness and sleep, one thought settled in your heart:

With Viktor, you were safe. You were home.

JAYVIK

The night air was still, the soft glow of Piltover’s skyline seeping through the curtains. The hum of the city was distant, muffled by the thick walls of the apartment Viktor, Jayce, and you shared. Normally, this was a source of comfort—a lullaby of sorts. But tonight, the only thing keeping you awake wasn’t the city’s murmur.

It was the unease in your stomach.

You had tried to sleep, curling between your two lovers, soaking in their warmth, but the nausea had other plans. It started as a queasy discomfort, then worsened until you couldn’t ignore it anymore. You’d slipped out of bed quietly, the cool floor biting against your bare feet as you padded towards the bathroom.

Now, you sat on the cool tiles, knees drawn to your chest, watching the toilet like a hawk in case the worst happened. The nausea lingered, cruel but indecisive, never quite pushing you over the edge but refusing to let up.

You sighed, rubbing at your forehead, before a familiar voice—groggy but filled with concern—broke the silence.

"Láska" It was Viktor. The familiar rhythm of his cane tapping against the floor followed soon after. He moved carefully, likely trying not to wake Jayce as he made his way toward you. A moment later, he appeared in the bathroom doorway, hair a mess, amber eyes heavy with sleep yet sharp with worry.

You forced a weak smile. "Sorry, Vik. Didn’t mean to wake you."

His lips quirked in an affectionate, tired smirk. "You may be quiet, miláček, but the absence of you is loud."

Despite how unsteady he could be in the middle of the night, Viktor moved to kneel beside you. His cane was abandoned against the doorframe as he settled down, his movements slow and deliberate. A hand found your knee, squeezing gently.

"How bad is it?"

You sighed, tilting your head against the wall. "Not sure. Just… nauseous. Couldn't sleep."

Viktor hummed in sympathy, brushing stray strands of hair away from your face before resting the back of his hand against your forehead. "You do not feel feverish." He shifted, reaching to rub small, soothing circles against your back. "You should have woken me."

"Didn’t want to disturb you," you murmured, leaning into his touch.

"You are never a disturbance," he chided gently.

Before you could respond, another voice cut in, thick with sleep but still unmistakably Jayce’s.

"Vik, if you’re gone, I know exactly where you are," he groaned. There was the sound of rustling sheets, followed by heavy footfalls, and soon, Jayce appeared in the doorway, rubbing at his eyes. "Knew it."

You gave him a sheepish look, and he sighed, running a hand through his messy hair before stepping forward and crouching beside you. His warm, calloused hand came to rest on your cheek, tilting your face toward him. "Why didn’t you wake us?"

You let out a weak chuckle. "Apparently, I need to be better at sneaking around."

Jayce scoffed. "Forget sneaking. You’re not doing this alone."

Viktor nodded in agreement. "Clearly, we must make a rule: if you feel unwell, you wake us immediately."

Jayce grunted his approval before shifting so he could slide an arm around you, pulling you gently into his chest. "Seriously, sweetheart. You don’t have to do this alone."

You sighed, letting yourself be enveloped by his warmth while Viktor continued rubbing your back in slow, methodical motions. It was grounding, the way their presence surrounded you, tethering you to the moment rather than the nausea.

For a while, the three of you simply sat there—Jayce murmuring soothing words, Viktor’s gentle hands working against your back, the occasional feather-light touch against your hair or cheek.

Eventually, the nausea didn’t feel quite as overwhelming, though exhaustion weighed on you.

Jayce was the first to notice your drooping eyelids. "Come on," he murmured, pressing a kiss to your temple. "Let's go back to bed. You can rest, and if you need to run back here, we’ll be right next to you."

Viktor helped Jayce pull you to your feet, his cane clicking against the floor as he steadied himself. Jayce effortlessly scooped you into his arms, earning a sleepy laugh from you as he carried you back to bed.

The moment you were tucked between them again, their warmth chased away the discomfort lingering in your body. Viktor’s hand found yours beneath the blankets, giving it a small squeeze. Jayce pressed another soft kiss to your forehead before letting out a satisfied hum.

"Sleep, darling. We’ve got you."

You exhaled softly, finally allowing your eyes to close.

Between Viktor’s steady breathing and Jayce’s protective hold, the nausea may not have disappeared entirely—but the comfort of their presence made it easier to endure.

And in their arms, you finally drifted off.

VANDER

The Hound of the Underground always had a way of making you feel safe. Even now, curled up on his worn couch, battling a wave of nausea, Vander’s presence alone was enough to ease the discomfort pressing in on you.

Your head rested against the armrest, eyes half-lidded as the lively chatter of the kids filled the Last Drop. Powder was sitting on the floor, doodling on a scrap piece of paper, her tongue sticking out in concentration. Vi, ever the protective sister, hovered behind her, arms crossed. Claggor and Mylo bickered over a deck of cards, the latter gesturing wildly as if he’d just been robbed of his last coin.

“Feelin’ any better, love?” Vander’s voice was soft but heavy with concern. He had settled beside you, his broad hand smoothing over your back in slow, comforting circles.

You exhaled a slow breath and shook your head. “Not really… Just dizzy.”

He hummed in thought before pressing the back of his rough hand against your forehead. “No fever. Just the nausea, then?”

“Mm-hmm.”

Powder looked up from her drawings. “Are you sick, Y/N?”

Before you could answer, Mylo scoffed. “She’s probably just tired of hearing your whining, Powder.”

“Shut up, Mylo!” Vi shot back immediately, giving him a hard shove.

“Oi,” Vander warned, his voice firm yet patient. “No fightin’ in my bar.”

Vi grumbled but didn’t argue further, though she still shot Mylo a glare.

Claggor, ever the peacekeeper, leaned over to peer at you. “Maybe you should eat something?”

You gave him a small smile. “I don’t think I could keep anything down.”

Vander’s hand left your back, and you barely had a second to miss his warmth before he stood up and moved toward the bar. “Wait here,” he said, though there was no real need—where else were you going to go?

The kids went back to their usual antics, their presence filling the room with an energy that was both chaotic and comforting. You let out a soft sigh, closing your eyes for just a moment.

When Vander returned, he carried a mug in one hand, the other resting on your shoulder as he knelt beside you. ��Drink this, sweetheart.”

You opened your eyes and took the cup from him. The scent of ginger and honey wafted up, warm and soothing. You took a tentative sip, the heat spreading down your throat, easing some of the discomfort in your stomach.

Vander watched you closely, his eyes gentle. “That’s it. Slow sips.”

From the corner of your eye, you saw Vi and Powder exchange a glance before sneaking closer. Powder leaned in, her small hands resting on the couch. “Are you gonna die?” she whispered, eyes wide.

Vi groaned. “She’s not gonna die, Powder.”

You chuckled, despite yourself. “I’m not going anywhere, don’t worry.”

Vander let out a deep, rumbling chuckle and ruffled Powder’s hair, pulling her into his side. “Not on my watch.”

Satisfied, the girl beamed before darting back to her drawings. Vi lingered a moment longer, giving you an assessing look before nodding, as if deciding you were tough enough to handle it.

Mylo leaned back in his chair, arms behind his head. “If she was dying, though, what do you think she’d leave us?”

Vi rolled her eyes so hard you could practically hear it. “Seriously?”

“Hey, I’m just sayin’—maybe she’s got some cool stuff.” Mylo smirked before looking over at you. “No offense.”

You gave him an amused look. “None taken, but I think Vander might take offense to you trying to rob his sick girl blind.”

“Damn right I would,” Vander said, giving Mylo a pointed look as he stretched an arm behind you, letting you lean against him fully.

Mylo quickly raised his hands in surrender. “It was just a joke.”

Claggor chuckled, shuffling the deck of cards again. “That’s what you said last time when you ‘borrowed’ Vi’s gloves.”

Vi smirked at that, folding her arms. “Yeah, and we all remember how that ended.”

Mylo shifted uncomfortably, mumbling under his breath. “It was one time…”

Vander shook his head, his beard brushing against your temple as he pulled you closer. “I swear, between the lot of you, I’m gonna have gray hair before long.”

You smiled softly, taking another sip of tea. The warmth in your belly no longer came just from the tea but from him—the way he held you, steady as a rock, always there. You closed your eyes, allowing yourself to rest against him, listening to the familiar sounds of the kids bickering and laughing.

Vander’s hand found yours, his calloused fingers brushing over your knuckles in slow, lazy strokes. “Better?” he murmured.

You nodded against his chest, the scent of smoke and ale mixed with something undeniably him filling your senses. “Much better.”

His lips quirked up in a lopsided grin. “Good. Now, let’s see if we can keep these hooligans from tearin’ the place down before dinner.”

You laughed softly, letting the warmth of home and love settle around you like a comforting embrace.

SILCO

The world swayed beneath your feet, a sickly heat crawling up your spine. It came in waves—your vision dimming at the edges, your limbs suddenly too heavy, too weak to hold you upright. A sharp ringing filled your ears, muffling the sounds of the room around you.

You barely had time to process it before the floor tilted dangerously beneath you.

Strong arms caught you before you could hit the ground. The scent of cigars and faint cologne wrapped around you like a familiar embrace, grounding you in its sharp yet strangely comforting presence. The cold bite of leather met your cheek as you slumped forward, struggling to draw in a steady breath.

"Steady now, darling."

Silco’s voice was low, edged with worry despite the effortless control he always exuded. One gloved hand supported your back while the other cradled your cheek, thumb ghosting over your clammy skin. His mismatched eyes, always so calculating, now scanned your face with barely concealed concern.

Your head lolled against his chest, the warmth of his body easing the tremors that wracked your own. You exhaled shakily, trying to ground yourself. "I feel... awful."

Silco clicked his tongue, adjusting his grip to keep you steady. "You should have told me sooner," he murmured, his words chiding but gentle.

You tried to respond, but the nausea tightening in your gut made speaking too much effort. Your lashes fluttered, your body swaying slightly even in his arms.

Silco, ever perceptive, sighed through his nose and didn't push for an answer. Instead, he shifted, lifting you with ease. His grip was firm yet careful, his touch reverent in a way most never had the privilege of witnessing. You felt the shift of his coat as he carried you across the room, every step precise and deliberate.

He lowered you onto the worn velvet couch in his office, his fingers brushing damp strands of hair from your face as he studied you. The sharpness of his usual demeanour softened just for you, though his lips remained pressed in a thin line.

"You’re burning up," he murmured, more to himself than to you. His fingers ghosted along your jaw, down the side of your throat, testing for warmth.

You attempted to sit up, but his hand was on your shoulder in an instant, pressing you back against the cushions with a pointed look. "Stay here."

"Silco—"

"I’ll be back," he interrupted smoothly, already standing. "And you will not move until I say so."

His tone left no room for argument, so you let your head sink into the cushion as exhaustion settled deep in your bones. The room felt too warm, yet the cold sweat on your skin sent a shiver up your spine. Even in your dazed state, you felt the absence of him beside you like an ache.

Minutes passed in a blur. You weren’t sure if you’d dozed off or simply lost yourself in the fevered haze, but your awareness sharpened when the couch dipped beside you. A cool cloth pressed against your forehead, the sensation startling but welcome.

You sighed at the relief, your eyelids fluttering open to see Silco kneeling beside you. His expression was unreadable, but the weight of his gaze lingered on every detail of your face as if memorizing each fragile breath you took.

His gloved hand lingered against your temple, tracing idle circles over your skin. "Drink," he murmured, offering you a glass of water. His voice, though quiet, held an unmistakable firmness.

You obeyed, taking a small sip. The nausea still churned in your stomach, but the coolness of the cloth and the way his fingers traced gentle circles over your wrist grounded you.

Silco remained quiet as you drank, his gaze flicking over you like a physician assessing a patient. His brows furrowed slightly before he finally spoke.

"You work yourself too hard," he muttered, almost to himself. "And for what? To collapse in my arms?"

A weak chuckle slipped past your lips, your fingers curling slightly around his sleeve. "At least it’s a good place to land."

Silco exhaled through his nose, the corner of his mouth twitching in something resembling amusement. His free hand came up to cup your cheek, his thumb brushing lightly over your skin. The calloused pad of his thumb smoothed over your cheekbone in a slow, absent-minded motion.

"You’re insufferable," he murmured, but there was no bite to his words—only a strange, almost reluctant fondness.

His thumb trailed lower, tracing over the line of your jaw, his touch feather-light. The way his fingers lingered against your skin felt like an unspoken vow, a reassurance that he would not leave your side.

He leaned back slightly but didn’t move far, his hand finding its place over yours where it rested against the couch. The weight of it, solid and sure, tethered you. A silent promise.

"You’ll rest," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. It was not a request.

Still, his touch betrayed something softer, something he wouldn’t dare voice aloud. The firm press of his hand against yours, the way his thumb continued tracing slow circles—it all spoke louder than words ever could.

The room was quiet save for the steady rhythm of his breathing beside you. The nausea, though still present, slowly ebbed away, replaced by the warmth of his presence.

Your fingers curled around his, your grip weak but steady. His mismatched eyes flicked down to where your hands intertwined, his jaw tightening for the briefest of moments before his thumb gave one last reassuring stroke against your knuckles.

"Rest, my love," he murmured.

And for the first time in hours, you felt safe.

JINX

Jinx was never great at the whole "comforting" thing. She’d much rather blow something up or cause a little chaos to take her mind off things. But when Y/N doubled over on the couch, groaning and clutching their stomach, she knew explosions weren’t the answer this time.

"Whoa there, what's wrong? You dying? ‘Cause if you are, that’d be kinda uncool." Jinx crouched beside Y/N, peering into their face with wide, electric-blue eyes.

Y/N groaned again, pressing a hand to their forehead. "I feel like crap. My stomach is killing me."

Jinx tilted her head. "Huh. So no explosions, then?" She paused before grinning. "Unless it’s coming from you, which—kinda gross, but kinda metal."

"Jinx," Y/N groaned, leaning back against the worn-out cushions.

"Alright, alright, I get it, you're miserable," she said, flopping onto the couch next to them. She poked their cheek lightly. "You eaten anything weird? Maybe Silco’s cooking? Oh wait, that’s right, Silco doesn’t cook."

Y/N exhaled through their nose, eyes half-lidded. "I don’t know. Just feels like my stomach is at war with itself."

Jinx frowned, watching them with rare seriousness. After a moment, she jumped up, disappearing into the other room. A loud clatter of bottles, papers, and who-knows-what-else echoed through the hideout before she returned, holding a slightly dented cup and a bottle of water.

"Here, drink. And if you throw up, aim away from me, yeah?"

Y/N took the water gratefully, sipping it slowly. "Thanks, Jinx."

"Pfft, don’t thank me yet. I mean, I’m pretty sure that’s water and not something explosive, but who knows?" She winked, kicking her feet up on the table. "Just rest, ‘kay? I’ll make sure no one bothers you. Anyone tries? Boom! Problem solved."

Y/N chuckled weakly, shaking their head. "Only you, Jinx."

She grinned, stretching her arms over her head. "Damn right." And for once, she kept her chaos contained, staying right beside Y/N, keeping the world just a little quieter while they rested.

After a few moments of silence, Jinx absentmindedly started twirling a strand of her blue hair around her finger. "You know, when I used to feel bad, Vi would always try to make me eat something. Said it helps. Want me to grab you something? I think I got some old candy bars around here... Or, uh, a questionable sandwich I stole from Sevika’s stash."

Y/N shook their head. "Maybe later. Just need to lie down for now."

"Gotcha." Jinx leaned back, drumming her fingers against her knee before suddenly hopping up again. "Wait, I got an idea! Stay there." She darted off before Y/N could even attempt to stop her, returning with a handful of blankets and what looked like a very mismatched assortment of pillows.

She threw a blanket over Y/N dramatically, grinning. "Boom! Instant comfort! You’re officially a burrito now."

Y/N let out a tired chuckle, adjusting the blanket slightly. "A burrito?"

"Yep! A sick, kinda grumpy, but still my favourite burrito," Jinx confirmed, plopping back down next to them. "And burritos don’t move, so you better stay put and rest up, ‘kay?"

Y/N hummed, feeling just a little bit better. "Okay, okay. Thanks, Jinx."

Jinx waved a hand dismissively but stayed close, occasionally glancing over at them as if making sure they were still breathing. "Yeah, yeah. Just don’t die on me, got it? I need my partner-in-crime. Who else is gonna keep me entertained?"

She didn't get a response that time, just the slow, steady rise and fall of Y/N’s chest as they drifted into much-needed rest. Jinx smirked softly to herself, resting her chin on her hand. "Yeah, that’s what I thought. Sweet dreams, burrito."

#Arcane #arcane fandom #arcane fluff #reader insert #jinx x platonic!reader #jayce x reader #jayce x you #jayce talis x reader #jayce x y/n #viktor x y/n #viktor x reader #jayce x reader x viktor #viktor x you #vander x reader #silco x reader #jayvik x reader

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rosierin · 3 months ago

Text

yer doin' just fine │ atsumu miya

synopsis; at 2am, the world feels slower, quieter. thoughts spill easier, doubts settle deeper. (y/n) wonders if she’s falling behind—if making coffee is all she’ll ever do, if she’s enough. atsumu thinks she is. and he’s never been one to mince his words.

a/n; (y/n) is a barista bc this is so self indulgent loool

this fic is part of the off-season quartet™ series! for more, click here :)

It was late. The kind of late where the world outside felt like it had drifted off to sleep. The usual hum of the city had long since quieted, leaving only the faint whirl of distant cars and the occasional murmur of wind against the windows.

Inside, the apartment was warm, steeped in dim, golden light, the glow from the kitchen casting soft, sleepy shadows along the living room walls next door. The fridge hummed quietly in the corner, filling the silence with its steady drone, and every now and then, the faint crinkle of a snack wrapper broke the stillness.

Atsumu sat on the kitchen counter, legs swinging slightly, the ceramic of his mug warm against his palms. Steam curled lazily from his hot chocolate, dissolving into the air like a slow exhale. Across from him, (y/n) perched on the opposite counter, mirroring his posture, her fingers idly toying with a marshmallow as she dipped it into her drink and watched it slowly melt.

There was something about this hour, the kind where the world felt drowsy, slow. Where conversations felt heavier, words unspooling without the weight of daylight to hold them back.

“Ever think about how weird it is that we just… exist?” (Y/n) asked suddenly, staring into her mug like it held the answers to all her musings.

Atsumu squinted at her over the rim of his drink. “Are ya startin’ an existential crisis right now?”

She snorted. “No. Just thinking.”

He hummed, taking a slow sip. “Weird thoughts always hit at night, huh?”

She nodded, lazily kicking her feet. “Mhm. Night makes you feel all… deep n’ stuff. That just me?”

Atsumu huffed a quiet laugh. “Damn, didn’t know ya had a poetic side.”

(Y/n) rolled her eyes and tossed a mini marshmallow at him. He caught it—in his mouth, because of course he did—chewing smugly before shooting her a wink.

“Okay, philosopher,” he said, shifting slightly. “Whatcha thinkin’ about, right now?”

She sighed, resting her chin in her palm. “Just… how crazy it is that we grow up, y’know? One day you’re a kid, playing outside and doing—” she gestured vaguely, searching for the words. Atsumu arched a brow, amused. “Kid things, I guess. And then boom—you're an adult. Paying bills. Applying for jobs—”

“Having an existential crisis in your kitchen at two in the morning,” Atsumu finished.

(Y/n) pointed at him, nodding once. “Exactly.”

An unhurried pause settled between them, the kind that only existed between people who had known each other for years.

Then, Atsumu spoke again, his voice still bright despite the late hour. “Ya ever get scared?”

She looked up, blinking. “Scared of what?”

His fingers traced absently over his mug. “Dunno. Life? The future? Makin’ the wrong choices?”

She stared at him for a moment, surprised by the honesty in his voice. Atsumu had never been the one to entertain these kind of chats. These conversations were more of a 'Suna thing.'

“Yeah,” she admitted. “All the time.”

Atsumu nodded like he’d expected that answer.

She took another sip of her hot chocolate before adding, “But I think that’s normal. We’re all just figuring it out as we go, right?”

Atsumu hummed, rubbing a hand over his face. “Guess so. Still wish life came with a guidebook, though.”

(Y/n) smirked. “You wouldn’t read it.”

Atsumu leaned back on his hands, staring up at the dim kitchen light with a chuckle. “Touché.”

She grinned, squishing a marshmallow between her fingers before tossing it into her mouth. “Everyone knows Atsumu Miya doesn’t read books.”

“You callin’ me dumb?”

“If the shoe fits.”

Atsumu tossed a stray marshmallow at her head. She dodged it with a laugh, stretching her legs out to nudge his knee with her foot.

He nudged her back.

A beat of silence. Just the quiet hum of the fridge, the faint clink of ceramic mugs.

Then, she sighed, watching the steam curl from her drink. “Y’know, I don’t think you’d need that guidebook anyway.”

Atsumu stilled slightly, the beginning of a smile tugging at his lips.

Then—softly, teasing but warm—he murmured, “Yeah?”

She nodded. “Yeah. You’re working really hard on your career; you’re getting recognized, you’re gradually becoming more popular… ” Her eyes lingered on the dregs of her hot chocolate as she swirled it absentmindedly. “I’d say you’re doing really good on your own.”

When she glanced at him, she found Atsumu watching her with a wobbly sort of smile, his honey eyes warm in a way she rarely saw, brimming with affection. He looked like he was about to scoop her into a hug, but held back at the last second.

“Aww, (y/n). Where’d this come from? Yer makin’ me all emotional over 'ere,” he teased, but there was a sincerity to his voice that softened the words.

(Y/n) returned the smile, then shrugged. “I’m just saying. You’ve already got your life pretty much figured out.”

She didn’t mean for the words to sound bitter. She really didn’t. But as soon as they left her mouth, she realized they did.

A small part of her almost envied him. Not because he didn’t deserve his success—he did. It wasn’t like his life had just fallen into place. He’d worked his ass off to get where he was. The endless hours of training, the sacrifices, the sheer grit he put into his craft.

He earned it.

And yet, that selfish part of her still whispered: What about me?

She wasn’t unhappy, but she wasn’t going anywhere either. Atsumu had volleyball, Osamu had his restaurant, Suna also had his steady rise in the professional league. Meanwhile, she was just… making coffees.

Floating.

Existing.

Lost.

She was too caught up in her own thoughts to notice the small frown forming on Atsumu’s face. He hopped off the counter, padding over to her without a sound.

Then, gently, he tapped under her chin, coaxing her to look at him.

“Hey,” he murmured, voice quieter than before. “Ya say that like yer not doin’ just fine yerself.”

Something twisted in her stomach at the way he said it—earnest, direct, like he meant it. She let out a vague hum, her gaze flickering anywhere but his face.

“What’s on yer mind, sweetheart?”

She hesitated, then shrugged listlessly. “Guess I just feel a bit lost sometimes. Like I’m not doing enough, or I’m not doing the right thing. I mean, when I look at you, your brother, Suna—you’re all doing so well. Like, actually getting somewhere in life. Meanwhile, I’m here, just sort of… making coffees and… well, that’s it, really. It’s not exactly a career.”

Atsumu tilted his head, brows pulling together. “S’wrong with that? Nothin’ wrong with bein’ a barista.”

(Y/n) let out a small, humorless chuckle, fingers tightening slightly around her mug. “Because it’s just coffee. It’s not a big girl job, or whatever people call it…”

Atsumu frowned. “Yer bein’ too hard on yerself. Just ‘cause yer job ain't some grand career yet don’t mean yer stuck or failin’.”

She exhaled, shaking her head. “Yeah, but it’s just frustrating, ‘cause…” She let out a loud sigh, raking a stressed hand through her hair. “Yeah, it’s a job, and yeah, I like it, but it’s not—” She hesitated, struggling to put it into words. “It’s not… something big like what you, Osamu, or Suna have. It’s not a career, like I said. Just doesn’t feel like I’m doing enough.”

Atsumu studied her for a long moment. Then, in that simple, matter-of-fact way of his, he said,

“But ya don’t just make coffee. Yer also really good at makin’ people feel appreciated. Yer good at listenin’—really listenin’. And ya make a damn good cup of coffee on the side, too.”

He shrugged, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “If ya ask me, sounds like yer already doin’ plenty of things that matter.”

(Y/n) blinked, caught off guard. She wasn’t sure what she had been expecting him to say, but it wasn’t that.

Her lips parted slightly, like she wanted to believe him, but the self-doubt clung to her, stubborn. “I just… I don’t know. I feel like I should be doing more. Like there’s gotta be more to life than this, and I—” She let out a slow, tired breath, rubbing a hand over her face. “I don’t know.”

Atsumu studied her quietly. Then, instead of teasing or brushing her off like he normally might, he said,

“Yer actin’ like ya gotta have everythin’ figured out right now. News flash—most people don’t.”

(Y/n) let out another short laugh, but it wasn’t amused. “You do.”

Atsumu’s lips twitched—not quite a smirk, but close. “Ya think just ‘cause I play volleyball for a livin’, I don’t freak out about where I’m goin’?” He let out a quiet scoff, shaking his head. “I still wake up wonderin’ if I’m doin’ enough. If I’m gonna be good enough to keep this up for years.”

(Y/n) lifted her gaze to meet his. He wasn’t looking at her—just staring into his mug, jaw tight, fingers curled loosely around the ceramic.

It took her a second to process his words. “Wait… you?”

Atsumu glanced up then, and there was something different in his expression. Open. Honest.

“Yeah,” he said simply. “Me.”

(Y/n) had never thought about it before. Atsumu Miya, with all his confidence and bravado, doubting himself. The idea of it felt… almost foreign.

“I always figured you were just so sure of yourself,” she admitted.

He let out a small, dry laugh. “Nah. I just act like it.” He tilted his head slightly, considering. “Guess it’s easier that way.”

(Y/n) frowned. “That’s kinda depressing.”

Atsumu smirked then, some of his usual self returning. “Hey, ain’t that depressin’. I get to do what I love, right?”

She exhaled a quiet chuckle, shaking her head. “Yeah… guess so.”

A beat of silence.

Then, Atsumu nudged her knee with his, voice perkier now.

“Point is, just ‘cause ya don’t have some big plan yet, don’t mean yer lost. Yer workin’ hard. Yer doin’ somethin’ ya care about. Yer loved. And that’s more than enough, alright?”

(Y/n) swallowed. For the first time that night, she felt something loosen in her chest—just a little.

“…Alright.”

Atsumu grinned. “Good. Now, ya wanna bake cookies at three a.m. or what?”

He ruffled her hair to lighten the mood, laughing as (y/n) half-heartedly swatted his hands away.

“God, you’re so random.”

“Nah, I just know sugar makes ya feel better.” He shot her a smirk over his shoulder. “C’mon, chef. Let’s get bakin’.”

(Y/n) rolled her eyes, but as she hopped off the counter to follow him, she realized she felt just a little lighter than before.

214 notes · View notes

buttercandy16 · 6 months ago

Text

Corrupted Vows

PAIRING(s): Nun!Agatha Harkness x Novice!Reader

SUMMARY: Sister Agatha, a revered nun with hidden desires, becomes obsessed with corrupting the pure-hearted novice under her care.

WARNING(s): Religious themes, manipulation, power imbalance, corruption, morally ambiguous behavior, and dark themes.

A/N: Sinful...

The abbey was cloaked in silence, its heavy stones steeped in centuries of prayer. The air was cool and faintly scented with wax and incense, a comforting cradle for your thoughts as you knelt in the chapel, whispering soft, fervent prayers to the Divine. It was your sanctuary—your refuge—until Sister Agatha arrived.

Her presence was undeniable, a velvet shadow slipping between the stained-glass windows and casting its allure over the sanctity of the room. There was something magnetic about her, something in the way her eyes lingered too long or her voice curled sweetly, like forbidden fruit on the tongue.

"You work tirelessly for your faith," she said, her voice low and tender. It startled you. You hadn’t heard her enter, but here she was, her face serene under her veil.

You looked up at her, blinking like a doe caught in lantern light. "I... It is my duty," you murmured, averting your eyes. Her gaze always felt too heavy, too piercing, as if she could read every stray thought that strayed from the righteous path.

Agatha smiled, stepping closer. Her robe whispered against the floor, brushing the silence aside. She reached out to tilt your chin upward with a gloved finger, forcing you to meet her eyes. "Duty," she repeated softly, as if tasting the word. "Such a heavy burden for someone so young, so delicate."

You flinched slightly under her touch but didn’t pull away. You told yourself it was respect, but deep down, the fluttering in your stomach betrayed an unease you didn’t understand.

"I was praying," you said quickly, retreating to the safety of your well-rehearsed habits. "For strength and for wisdom."

"Strength," Agatha mused. "Wisdom." Her fingers slid from your chin, lingering against your cheek, too intimate to be innocent. "Those are noble requests, my dear. But are you sure that’s what you truly need?"

Your eyes darted downward. "I... don’t understand."

She knelt beside you on the pew, her presence warm and overwhelming. "Do you think the Divine asks us to deny the very desires They instilled within us?" Her voice was velvet, an insidious comfort.

You froze, your mind reeling. "Sister... we are taught to resist temptation. To walk in the light."

Agatha chuckled, a low, melodious sound that felt sinful in itself. "Temptation is not the enemy, child. It's a lesson. To feel it, to embrace it, is to truly understand your faith. How can you resist what you do not know?"

Her hand brushed against yours, her fingers curling softly around it. Your breath hitched at the contact, a pang of guilt piercing through your chest even as you remained motionless.

"Sister Agatha..." you whispered, unsure of whether you were protesting or pleading.

"Shh," she soothed, stroking the back of your hand. "You work so hard, always giving, always sacrificing. But what have you been given? What warmth, what love, have you received for your devotion? Tell me."

You felt tears sting your eyes. It wasn’t something you’d allowed yourself to dwell on, but her words cut too close to a hidden wound. "The love of God is all I need."

"Is it?" she murmured, her lips close to your ear. "Then why do you look so lost, so lonely? Faith is powerful, yes. But it is not enough to fill a heart meant for more."

You shuddered, her breath warm against your skin, her grip firm now, anchoring you. "I’m not lonely," you insisted, but your voice cracked under the weight of the lie.

Her lips brushed the shell of your ear, not quite a kiss, but enough to leave you trembling. "Let me show you what it means to be truly loved, to be truly seen. The Divine isn’t just in the light, my dear. The shadow holds Its secrets, too."

For a moment, you were caught in her thrall, her words weaving a web of doubts and dangerous possibilities. But when she pulled back, her smile was soft, her eyes tender. "Think on my offer, little one. I’ll wait for your answer."

As she stood and left the chapel, her departure was like a storm receding, leaving you adrift in its wake. The air was colder without her, and the familiar silence of the abbey felt suffocating.

You clasped your hands tightly, bowing your head once more, but the words of your prayer faltered, her voice and touch lingering too deeply.

Somewhere in the depths of your soul, a seed of doubt had been planted. And Agatha, with all her charm and shadowed intentions, would be patient.

You lingered in the chapel longer than you should have that night, trying to exorcise the memory of her voice, the whisper of her touch. But even as you murmured prayers to drown her out, her presence clung to you like incense smoke—heavy, invasive, intoxicating.

When you finally left, the halls of the abbey were silent, save for the soft patter of your footsteps. You paused outside your cell, hesitating before entering. It felt too small, too quiet. The walls pressed in, as if they were accusing you. But of what? You had done nothing.

You thought sleep would bring respite, but it didn’t. Dreams came instead, vivid and strange: Agatha’s voice echoing, her hands on yours, guiding, possessing. The darkness around her swallowed everything, and you couldn’t stop walking toward her.

When you woke, sweat clung to your skin, your heart racing like you’d been running. The morning bells tolled, and you hurried to begin your duties, your shame a constant specter at your side.

But she found you again—of course, she did. She always found you.

This time, it was in the garden. The sun had dipped below the horizon, the twilight air cool against your skin. You were trimming roses in silence when her shadow fell over you.

"Good evening, little lamb."

You stiffened at the sound of her voice but didn’t turn to face her. "Sister Agatha," you said, trying to keep your tone even, though your hands trembled on the shears.

"You’ve been avoiding me."

It wasn’t a question. She stepped closer, her hands clasped in front of her, the picture of serene authority. "Do I frighten you?"

"No," you lied, swallowing hard.

Her fingers trailed over a rosebush as she watched you with that predatory gaze. "Good. Because I see something in you, something… untapped."

"Sister, please," you said, voice shaky as you turned to face her. "I don’t understand why you keep… saying these things."

"Don’t you?" Her voice was silk, sliding under your skin. She moved closer, invading your space, the scent of her—warm and faintly spiced—intoxicating. "You’re a bright little spark trapped in stone, and I cannot stand to see you dim yourself. Your God does not demand you be less than you are. Why should they?"

Her words struck a chord, unearthing a bitterness you didn’t even know you’d buried. You flinched, and she saw it—she always saw too much.

"I’m fine as I am," you said weakly, trying to step back, but she caught your wrist, her grip firm.

"No," she said, her voice darker now, carrying an undercurrent of steel. "You’re not."

The gentle tenderness in her face twisted into something sharper, a mask cracking to reveal the dangerous power beneath. "You’re wasting your light here, giving yourself to something that cannot love you the way you deserve. Why do you punish yourself for wanting more? Why do you fear me when I am offering you freedom?"

"Because it’s wrong," you whispered, though the words felt hollow even as you spoke them.

She tilted her head, her grip on your wrist tightening just enough to send a shiver of unease through you. "Is it wrong to want what you’ve been denied? To step out of the shadows of guilt and into the arms of someone who sees you—truly sees you?"

Your breath hitched as she stepped closer still, her other hand rising to cup your cheek. The look in her eyes pinned you in place, a storm threatening to engulf you. "You know it already," she whispered. "Deep down, you’ve always known. All you need is someone to take your hand and lead you to the truth."

Her lips brushed against your forehead, light and reverent like a prayer. You shuddered, frozen under her touch. "I can give you everything you’ve ever denied yourself," she murmured, her voice heavy with promise—and threat.

Her hands fell away suddenly, leaving you cold and bereft. She stepped back, her expression softening, though her eyes remained predatory. "The choice is yours," she said, turning to leave. "But I’ll make it simple. Tonight, after Compline, come to the east tower." She paused, her smile slow and wicked. "Or don’t. We’ll see if your devotion is as pure as you think."

You stood there trembling as she disappeared into the shadows, the roses around you whispering in the wind. For the first time since you’d taken your vows, you didn’t feel safe within the abbey walls. Worse still, you weren’t sure if you wanted to.

You couldn’t focus during Compline. Your lips formed the words of the prayers, but your heart wasn’t in them. Every moment dragged, the solemnity of the abbey’s rituals weighing on you like chains.

And through it all, the thought of her lingered. The east tower.

Your mind swirled with doubt, fear, and something darker—something you refused to name. Every warning from your teachings echoed in your ears, but they felt distant, drowned out by the sound of her voice, the memory of her touch.

When the prayers ended, and the sisters began retiring to their cells, you hesitated. Your legs felt like they belonged to someone else as they carried you through the dim corridors, each step a betrayal of everything you’d vowed to uphold.

The east tower loomed ahead, its staircase spiraling up into darkness. You paused at the base, your breath coming in shallow gasps. This was your moment to turn back, to prove you were stronger than whatever spell she’d cast over you.

But something deeper pushed you onward.

The climb was silent save for the soft shuffle of your shoes on the stone steps. The air grew colder the higher you went, the shadows darker. When you reached the top, you hesitated again, your hand hovering over the heavy wooden door.

Before you could knock, the door creaked open on its own. She was waiting for you.

The room was dimly lit, a single candle casting flickering shadows across the walls. Sister Agatha stood by the window, her back to you, the moonlight outlining her figure. She didn’t turn as she spoke.

"I wondered if you’d come." Her voice was calm, almost pleased.

You stepped inside, your throat dry. "Why did you ask me to come here?"

She turned then, her expression unreadable, her sharp eyes cutting through the low light. "Because I couldn’t bear to see you suffocating any longer," she said simply, stepping closer. "You’re meant for more than this, little lamb. And I mean to show you."

Your back hit the door as you instinctively stepped away from her. "This isn’t right. It—it’s not what God wants."

She laughed softly, a sound that felt cruel in its mockery. "And who told you that? The priests? The abbess? Have you ever asked God what they want, or do you simply recite the rules you’ve been given like a good, obedient servant?"

Her words cut deep, stirring something rebellious and bitter in your heart. Still, you shook your head, clinging to the shreds of your convictions. "No. I—I have faith."

"Do you?" she challenged, now only inches away from you. Her hand lifted, brushing against your cheek again, her touch electric. "If you had true faith, why are you here? Why are you trembling?"

You didn’t have an answer.

Her other hand slid to your waist, holding you firmly but not cruelly. "The truth, my sweet little lamb, is that you’re afraid. Not of me, not even of sin, but of the freedom I can give you. Because freedom is terrifying, isn’t it?"

Her grip tightened slightly, her lips so close to your ear you could feel the heat of her breath. "You could leave right now," she whispered. "I wouldn’t stop you. But we both know you won’t, don’t we?"

Your breath hitched, tears springing to your eyes as you fought against the war raging in your chest. She pulled back just enough to meet your gaze, her face softening as she saw the conflict within you.

"I don’t want to break you, my lamb," she murmured, her voice strangely tender now. "I want to save you. From this place. From this life. From yourself."

Her lips hovered over yours, an unspoken question hanging in the air between you. She didn’t move, didn’t take the choice from you.

It was yours to make.

You closed your eyes, your head swimming, every nerve in your body screaming for you to decide—to turn away or to fall.

You stood at the edge of a precipice, the storm of emotions inside you threatening to consume you. Every teaching, every prayer you’d clung to in your short life wavered, fragile as the flame of the candle flickering behind Agatha.

You opened your eyes, and her face was still there, so close, her gaze unyielding. She was waiting—patient, confident—but her eyes betrayed something else: hunger. She wanted you to choose her, to step willingly into the darkness she offered.

Your lips parted, trembling as your breath mingled with hers. And in that moment, you let go.

You leaned forward, barely aware of the decision, and your lips brushed hers, soft and tentative. Agatha let out a soft hum of satisfaction, her hands tightening on your waist as she deepened the kiss. It was overwhelming—her warmth, her touch, her control—and for a moment, the world around you dissolved.

When she pulled back, her eyes burned with triumph, her smile wicked. "There, now," she murmured, her voice dripping with honeyed sin. "That wasn’t so difficult, was it?"

You staggered slightly as she released you, the weight of what you’d done crashing over you. Your fingers went to your lips, trembling, as the shame seeped in.

"I—I shouldn’t have—" you stammered, taking a step back, but Agatha caught your wrist and pulled you to her with a strength that belied her graceful demeanor.

"Hush," she whispered, her fingers threading through your hair as she tilted your head back to force you to meet her gaze. "No more lies, little one. Not to me, and not to yourself. You came here because you wanted this. You needed it."

"I… I don’t…" The words faltered, your resolve crumbling under the weight of her conviction.

Agatha’s hand moved to your throat, her touch firm but gentle, her thumb brushing along your pulse point. "Don’t fight it," she murmured, her tone soothing. "You’ve been caged your whole life, chained by rules and guilt that were never yours to carry. I’m not asking you to abandon your faith. I’m offering you something truer—something deeper."

Her lips found yours again, this time demanding, devouring. You tried to resist the pull of her darkness, but every part of you betrayed you, leaning into her, clinging to her. You hated the way her touch made you feel alive in a way that prayer never had, hated the fire it ignited deep in your chest.

When she finally broke the kiss, her hands still cradling your face, her expression was softer, though no less commanding. "You belong to me now," she said simply, her voice like the closing of a door. "Body, soul, everything. Say it."

You shook your head weakly, tears spilling down your cheeks. "I can’t…"

Her thumb brushed away your tears, her gaze unfaltering. "You already have, my lamb. You just haven’t admitted it yet." She leaned close, her voice lowering to a whisper. "Say it, and I’ll show you a world beyond the walls of this prison. Refuse, and you’ll stay trapped, forever haunted by the taste of freedom you denied yourself."

Her words wrapped around your mind like chains, pulling you deeper into her orbit. You were drowning, and she was the only hand reaching to pull you out—but into what?

The words left your lips before you fully realized you’d spoken them, trembling and quiet: "I… I belong to you."

Agatha smiled, her eyes gleaming with victory. She pressed a kiss to your forehead, reverent in its tenderness. "Good girl," she purred. "Now, the real work begins."

Her hand slid to yours, her fingers entwining with your own, and she led you toward the window, the cool night air washing over you as she opened it. The moon hung low in the sky, full and luminous, casting everything in shades of silver and shadow.

"This world," she said, her voice soft yet commanding, "is far darker than they’ve prepared you for. But don’t fear it. It is only in the darkness that we find the truest light."

You stared out into the night, your heart pounding as her words sank in. You couldn’t go back now. Even if you wanted to, the part of you that craved her, that had always longed for something more, was awake.

Agatha stepped behind you, her arms wrapping around your waist as she rested her chin on your shoulder. "It will hurt," she said quietly, her voice almost tender. "Transformation always does. But I’ll be there for every moment, shaping you, remaking you. Until the only chains left are the ones you choose."

And as the wind swept through the open window, carrying the scent of freedom and danger, you closed your eyes and let yourself fall.

The following nights became a blur of shadows and secrecy, a rhythm you couldn’t break, even if you had wanted to. Agatha’s hold on you tightened with every encounter, her presence an intoxicating blend of tenderness and cruelty that left you more disoriented with each passing day.

She began isolating you in subtle ways—requesting your assistance during communal prayers, leading you to walk with her when the others gathered, always ensuring your focus remained solely on her. At first, you told yourself it was coincidence, but deep down, you knew better.

One night, she summoned you again to the east tower, her presence colder now, sharper. You hesitated at the threshold, the memories of her touch pulling you forward even as your instincts screamed to turn back.

The candlelight illuminated her silhouette, and for the first time, the shadows in the room seemed alive, flickering and dancing unnaturally. Her voice was soft when she spoke, but there was no warmth in it. "You came," she said. It wasn’t a question.

"You… asked for me," you murmured, your voice weak and brittle as you stepped inside.

"I did," she said, turning to face you. Her gaze pierced through you, her expression unreadable but heavy with something sinister. "And you came because you belong to me, don’t you?"

Your mouth opened to reply, but the words caught in your throat.

Agatha stepped closer, the air around her charged with something oppressive. "Say it," she commanded, her voice low and firm.

"I belong to you," you whispered, your voice barely audible, and yet it echoed in the silence of the tower.

Her smile was slow, almost predatory. She reached for you, her fingers brushing over your cheek. The touch felt colder tonight, no longer tender but claiming. "Good girl. You’re learning."

She turned abruptly, moving toward a small table in the corner of the room. You hadn’t noticed it before—though how could you have missed it? On it lay a single black book, its cover worn and marked with strange symbols, and a slender dagger glinting faintly in the candlelight.

"You’ve prayed to the Divine all your life," she said, her back to you as she traced a finger over the book’s spine. "And yet, here you are—willingly giving yourself to something far darker. Do you know why?"

You swallowed hard, unable to answer.

She turned, her eyes burning with something unholy. "Because your prayers were never enough. Because no matter how pure you tried to be, there was always that voice in your head, wasn’t there? The one that whispered of things you could never name. Desires you buried. Pleasures you denied."

You shook your head, your breath shallow. "I—no, I’ve always been faithful."

"Faithful," she said mockingly, her voice cutting like glass. "And yet, you’re here. Kneeling before me as if I’m your god. Isn't that what you’ve always wanted? Not salvation, but surrender."

Her words wrapped around you like chains, binding you tighter as she stepped closer, the book now in her hands. "I told you before, my lamb, that transformation would hurt." She set the book down, her eyes never leaving yours. "Tonight, we begin."

You took a step back, dread pooling in your stomach. "What do you mean?"

Agatha smiled, a dark, cruel thing. "This innocence you cling to—it’s a lie. And I will burn it away until there’s nothing left of the girl you were. Only then will you be truly mine."

Her fingers wrapped around your wrist, her grip ironclad as she dragged you to the table. The dagger glinted ominously as she pressed it into your trembling hands.

"Cut away the veil," she whispered, her voice a velvet command. "Offer a piece of yourself, not to the Divine, but to me. Show me your devotion, your true faith."

You shook your head, tears streaming down your face as you tried to pull away, but her grip was unrelenting. "I—I can’t—"

"Yes, you can," she hissed, her gaze unyielding. "Because I own you. And you will prove it."

The blade trembled in your hand, the weight of her gaze suffocating you. Your mind screamed to resist, but your body obeyed her command, as if your will no longer belonged to you.

You pressed the edge against your palm, the sharp pain bringing a gasp to your lips as a thin line of blood welled up. Agatha’s smile widened, triumphant.

"Good girl," she purred, taking your hand in hers and holding it over the book. The blood dripped onto the ancient text, the crimson stark against the dark leather.

You collapsed to your knees.

You knelt there, trembling, clutching the blade in your hands as the tension in the room suffocated you. The glint of metal against your bloodied palms seemed more symbolic than dangerous—a mark of your crumbling will, etched into flesh by your own choices.

Agatha’s presence loomed above you, her hand resting on your shoulder in a gesture that was almost comforting, though it carried no warmth. Her grip tightened slightly, possessive, reminding you that there was no escape, even if you wanted to flee.

"There’s no power in that blade," she said softly, her voice carrying the same chill as the cold stone beneath your knees. "The only power here is mine. And the only reason it matters is because I have chosen to give it to you."

You looked up at her, your tear-streaked face illuminated by the pale candlelight. There was no trace of kindness left in her expression. Her features were serene but unnervingly controlled, as though her emotions were held behind a wall, deliberate and impenetrable.

"What… what do you want from me?" you whispered.

Her hand slid from your shoulder to your chin, tilting your face so your gaze met hers. Her smile was faint, and the silence stretched uncomfortably before she finally spoke.

"I want everything."

The words settled heavily between you, an undeniable truth wrapped in her commanding tone.

"You cling to these walls, these prayers, as if they’ll save you from what you truly desire. But deep down, you know they won’t. No one here will." She leaned closer, her eyes fixed on yours, her voice low and intimate. "I am the only one who sees you for what you really are, and you can’t bear to look away. Admit it."

"I don’t understand," you stammered, though you did. You understood perfectly, but admitting it would mean giving her the power she claimed—and more terrifyingly, that she already wielded.

Agatha chuckled softly, a sound devoid of humor. "Oh, but you do. You came here tonight, not out of fear or obligation, but because you wanted to." Her fingers trailed lightly down your cheek, a touch that sent shivers of confusion and guilt through you.

"I came because—"

"—because you couldn’t stop thinking about me," she interrupted smoothly. Her confidence was unnerving, like a hunter closing in on its prey. "Every word, every touch, every breath I take has haunted you, hasn’t it? And now, here you are, begging me for something you don’t even have the courage to name."

Your throat tightened, the air in the room too thick to breathe. "This isn’t right," you said, the words barely audible, more for yourself than for her.

She smirked. "Isn’t it? Who defines what’s right? The same voices that told you to suppress your desires, to live in quiet servitude while they hold the power over your life? Or is it me—the only one who truly knows you?"

Her grip on your chin firmed, and her voice dropped, colder, sharper. "Don’t play the innocent with me. I see you, really see you, and you disgust yourself because I am everything you can’t admit to wanting."

The truth of her words struck like a slap, and you flinched.

Agatha released your face and straightened, towering above you as she studied your trembling form. "Stand," she commanded, her tone brooking no argument.

You hesitated, but the force of her gaze compelled you. Your legs wavered as you stood, and she stepped closer, her body almost brushing yours.

"You are not leaving this room until you admit the truth," she said, her tone deceptively calm. "And it isn’t the blade that will cut away the lies—it’s me."

She circled you slowly, her eyes never leaving you as you stood frozen in place. Every step she took amplified the weight in your chest, the humiliation of her scrutiny unraveling you piece by piece.

"I could break you," she said, her voice a cruel whisper in your ear. "I could shatter every illusion you have of yourself and leave you as nothing but a hollow vessel for me to fill. But that’s not what I want."

Her hands rested on your shoulders now, firm but strangely gentle. "What I want," she continued, her lips brushing the shell of your ear, "is for you to choose me, willingly. Because deep down, we both know you already have."

The words hit you like a knife to the chest. She was right. Every action, every choice you’d made up to this moment had been in her favor. You hadn’t fought; you hadn’t resisted.

And she knew it.

"I… I don’t know who I am anymore," you choked out, tears spilling freely now, and you hated the way her touch steadied you, grounding you in the chaos she’d created.

Her lips curved into a smile against your skin, predatory and satisfied. "That’s the first true thing you’ve said all night," she murmured.

Her hands slid from your shoulders to your arms, holding you firmly as she stepped in front of you again. "But you will, little lamb," she promised, her tone softening into something almost tender. "Because I will tell you who you are."

And for the first time, you felt the chains wrap around you—not of her making, but of your own submission.

Her hands never left your arms as she held you firmly in place, her piercing gaze locking you in place as surely as iron shackles. The dim candlelight flickered in the space between you, shadows licking at the edges of the room as if they too were captivated by her presence.

"You've fought so hard to hold onto this idea of innocence," she murmured, her voice as soft as a prayer, yet laced with wickedness. "But innocence is nothing more than ignorance dressed in virtue. And you, my sweet lamb… you crave knowledge. Don’t you?"

"I don’t—" you began, but her fingers moved, brushing down your arms, and the words faltered in your throat. The touch was slow, deliberate—a map being drawn along your skin, one line at a time.

"Shh," she interrupted, her voice almost soothing. "No lies, little one. Not now, not after you've already given me so much."

Her hands found your waist, fingers pressing lightly against the fabric of your habit. She tugged you closer with such ease, you wondered if you had moved yourself. Her breath was warm against your cheek as she leaned in, her lips hovering near your ear.

"Tell me," she whispered, her voice low and intoxicating, "what does it feel like to surrender?"

You shook your head, though it was more a reflex than defiance. "I haven’t—"

"Oh, but you have," she said, her tone firm now, almost chiding. "Every time you step into this room, every moment you stand here shaking under my gaze… every time you look at me like that."

"Like what?" you asked, though you hated the desperate note that crept into your voice.

"Like you’re mine," she answered easily. Her hands slid upward, brushing over your ribs, her fingertips grazing the edges of your vulnerability with surgical precision. "And you are, aren't you?"

"I don’t know," you managed, the tears welling up again as your mind swam with confusion and guilt—and something else, something that simmered low in your stomach and climbed higher every time she touched you.

"Let me make it simple for you," she said, her tone gentler now, like a teacher coaxing a student toward understanding. One hand moved to your chin, tilting your face up so you couldn’t avoid her eyes. "Obedience. Faith. Devotion. That’s what they’ve told you your life is meant for, isn’t it?"

You nodded shakily, unsure why you were even answering.

"Good." Her thumb brushed over your lips, a fleeting touch that left you breathless. "Then let this be your new faith. Me. Let this be your devotion: giving yourself entirely to what you feel, without shame. Let me show you the freedom they would deny you."

Her other hand traced the line of your back, her nails grazing your skin through the thin layers of cloth. The sensation was subtle but electric, sending a shiver down your spine that you couldn’t suppress.

"I don’t want to hurt you," she continued, though her voice carried a weight that made you wonder if that was entirely true. "But if that’s what it takes to strip you bare—of your innocence, your guilt, your denial—then I will."

Her lips brushed yours, featherlight but deliberate, and you froze. The kiss lingered there, her proximity overwhelming, her breath mingling with yours until it felt like there was no air left for either of you.

"You don’t have to fight anymore," she whispered against your lips. "Just say the word, and I’ll give you what you’ve been too afraid to ask for."

And yet, she didn’t move closer. She didn’t take that final step, leaving you in the suffocating limbo she’d created. The decision, cruelly and mercifully, was yours.

Her eyes bore into yours, expectant, unyielding. "Say it, lamb," she commanded softly, her hands now resting just above your hips, firm yet still offering the illusion of gentleness.

"I…" You hesitated, the war raging inside you as tears blurred your vision. Everything about this moment felt like a plunge into something you could never return from—a fall orchestrated solely by her hands.

"Say it," she urged again, her voice growing darker, less patient. Her grip tightened slightly, her fingers digging into your flesh just enough to remind you that she held all the control here.

You closed your eyes, trembling as your lips formed the words you hadn’t realized you’d been waiting to say. "I’m yours."

And as the room fell silent, save for the sound of your uneven breathing, Agatha smiled.

"My sweet lamb," she murmured, her voice dripping with satisfaction. "Now… we begin."

Her lips claimed yours then, not tender or patient, but consuming, pulling you deeper into her grasp as her hands explored every vulnerability she could find. Her touch was both a reward and a punishment, each movement calculated to dismantle what little resistance you had left.

Agatha Harkness was nothing if not thorough.

Agatha’s lips moved with calculated precision, coaxing you deeper into the moment as her hands roamed your body—not rushed, not hurried, but deliberate, every touch a claim that made your skin burn under the weight of her possession.

Her kiss was all-consuming, and in it, you felt the dissolution of everything you thought you knew about yourself. It wasn’t love. It wasn’t affection. It was domination veiled in intimacy, her way of branding you in a way no eyes could see but that you would feel forever.

Her hands slid up your sides, her touch searing through the thin fabric of your habit. She gripped your shoulders with gentle force, breaking the kiss to study your face, her eyes dark and unrelenting.

"Look at me," she commanded, her voice like velvet laced with steel.

You tried to avert your gaze, overwhelmed by the intensity of her stare, but she tilted your chin up, forcing your eyes to meet hers.

"No hiding now, little lamb," she said, her tone soft but laced with warning. "I want you to feel every part of this. Every piece of the girl you were falling away until there’s nothing left but my creation."

Her words sliced through the silence, leaving you vulnerable and exposed. She wasn’t asking for your consent; she’d already claimed it in every moment leading to this. The tension in the room was unbearable, the candlelight throwing long shadows that seemed to stretch toward you like witnesses to your undoing.

Her fingers traced along the neckline of your habit, her touch maddeningly slow as if savoring your trembling beneath her hands. "This," she murmured, brushing the fabric lightly, "is a shroud. A shield you think protects you from the world—and yourself. But all it does is hide who you really are."

She began to undo it, each motion deliberate, giving you ample time to stop her—not that she believed for a second that you would. And you didn’t. You stood frozen, paralyzed by equal parts shame and desire as the heavy fabric slipped from your shoulders, pooling at your feet like an offering.

Agatha stepped back, her eyes dragging over you with an expression that made your stomach twist into knots. It wasn’t hunger in her gaze; it was victory, as if stripping you of your barriers was the real prize she sought.

"Look at you," she whispered, her voice low and almost reverent. "Do you feel it yet? The freedom? The weightlessness of leaving behind the person you were forced to be?"

You wrapped your arms around yourself instinctively, your shame warring with the part of you that longed to be seen by her—truly seen.

"None of that," she said sharply, stepping forward and prying your arms away. "You are mine now, body and soul. You will not hide from me."

Her hands found your waist again, pulling you closer until there was no space left between you. Her lips brushed against your ear as she whispered, "This is where you belong. With me. No prayer, no god, no doctrine will ever make you feel this alive."

Your heart hammered in your chest, your breathing uneven as her words sank deep into your mind like hooks. You wanted to argue, to plead for some semblance of salvation, but there was none left—not in this room, not in her grasp.

"I’ll ask you one last time," Agatha said, her voice softening slightly as she pulled back to look into your eyes. "Will you give yourself to me completely? Without hesitation, without shame?"

You swallowed hard, the enormity of her question pressing down on you. She wasn’t asking for a fleeting moment of vulnerability. She wanted everything—every part of you, stripped bare and given over willingly.

Your lips parted, the words hanging on the edge of your breath.

"I will," you whispered, the final crack in the dam holding you together.

Agatha’s smile was dark and all-encompassing, her hands tightening their hold on you. She leaned in, her lips hovering over yours as she murmured, "Good girl."

And then, she took you fully—not gently, not kindly, but with the same measured cruelty that defined her every action. She unraveled you piece by piece, her touch leaving marks on your skin and mind that no prayer could ever erase.

This was her victory, and you knew it. You were hers, entirely and irrevocably.

The room was cloaked in an oppressive stillness. The air felt heavier now, the flickering candlelight casting warped shadows on the stone walls. You sat on the cold floor, your limbs heavy and your mind a hollow, swirling abyss. Agatha remained poised beside you, her presence as dominating as ever, though her silence held a suffocating weight.

"You’re trembling," she murmured, her tone deceptively soft as she reached out, brushing a strand of hair from your sweat-slicked brow. Her fingertips lingered just a moment too long, a constant reminder that nothing about this closeness was accidental.

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. Words had abandoned you, slipping from your grasp as thoroughly as your innocence had.

Agatha exhaled slowly, her fingers tipping your chin upward, forcing your eyes to meet hers once more. Her expression was unreadable, her gaze piercing. She searched your face as if savoring the wreckage she’d left behind.

"I expected more fight," she said casually, though the faint curl of a smirk betrayed her satisfaction. "But no… you gave me everything. So easily, so completely."

You swallowed hard, but your voice refused to rise. The fire you once thought would guide you had been extinguished, replaced by something raw and consuming. Shame twisted in your stomach, mingling with the dark thrill that you hated to admit still simmered beneath your skin.

"How does it feel, little lamb?" Agatha asked, her voice a mockery of concern. "Knowing there’s no part of you I don’t own now? No thought, no desire, no boundary that belongs to anyone but me?"

Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes, but you blinked them away, refusing to give her that final triumph. And yet, the words spilled from your lips before you could stop them.

"I feel… nothing," you whispered hoarsely.

Her smile deepened, a mix of condescension and triumph as she cupped your face in both hands, forcing you to hold her gaze. "Oh, but you will," she purred, her tone laced with an unsettling intimacy. "What you feel now is fear. Emptiness. But that’s what I want. I’ve stripped you down to the core, burned away all those useless pieces of you until there’s nothing left but… potential."

Her hands dropped, and she stood, her towering form casting a long shadow over you as you remained kneeling at her feet. "And now," she continued, her voice taking on a sharper edge, "we begin the process of rebuilding. Of shaping you into exactly what I need. What I want."

She turned, walking leisurely toward the small table in the corner. Your habit lay crumpled nearby, and she picked it up with a slight sneer, letting it dangle from her fingers as though it was a discarded shell.

"This no longer suits you," she remarked, her voice cutting through the silence like a blade. She dropped the fabric back to the floor and gestured toward the remnants of your previous self. "These trappings of piety, of humility—they’re meaningless now, don’t you think?"

You stared at the crumpled garment, your mind struggling to reconcile the life it represented with the one Agatha had forced you into.

When you didn’t answer, she stepped closer, her shoes clicking softly against the stone. Her fingers trailed over your shoulder, down your arm, sending shivers through your exhausted frame. "Speak," she demanded, her voice suddenly sharp enough to make you flinch. "Do not make me ask again."

"They are meaningless," you said quietly, the words like lead on your tongue.

Her smirk returned, and she crouched before you, her face inches from yours. "Good girl," she murmured, brushing her thumb over your cheek. "I knew you’d come to understand. But remember this—what you are now is not a failure. It’s freedom. Every choice from now on is mine to make for you, but it will feel like it’s yours. Do you understand?"

You nodded hesitantly, and her smirk turned into a full, wolfish grin. "Wonderful."

She stood again, but her hand lingered, tangling in your hair for a moment too long. Her grip tightened slightly, enough to send a spike of fear through your chest before she released you.

"You’ve pleased me tonight," Agatha said, turning to face the door, her silhouette regal and unyielding. "But know this—pleasure is earned. And obedience is only the beginning."

She turned back toward you, her gaze pinning you where you knelt. "Clean yourself up," she said, her tone now cold and commanding. "And tomorrow, you will come to me for your next lesson."

With that, she swept from the room, the sound of the heavy wooden door closing behind her echoing in the suffocating silence.

You remained on the floor, trembling in the dim light, the imprint of her words—and her touch—burned into your skin and soul. For the first time in your life, you felt unmoored, untethered to anything but her.

And as you reached for your discarded garments, you realized with a sickening clarity that you no longer wanted to resist.

_-_-_

Please don't forget to vote, reblog, and comment 💜

#agatha harkness x reader #dark fanfiction #agatha all along #agatha harkness #agatha harkness fanfic #agathario #kathryn hahn #marvel #rio vidal #aubrey plaza #dark!agatha harkness

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saphronethaleph · 2 months ago

Text

My, My, My, Elijah

Bilbo opened the door, and broke into a broad grin.

“Gandalf!” he said. “Oh, how wonderful it is to see you! It’s been years!”

“So it has,” Gandalf agreed. “Many more than I would like, but less than I could fear. Bilbo, it is good to see you so well.”

“Come in, come in,” Bilbo requested, stepping back. “I’ll be sure to get you something… what would you like?”

“Just tea, thank you,” Gandalf requested.

“Of course, of course,” Bilbo agreed. “And something to eat? There’s a rather fine loaf on the go, or I have some smoked bacon-”

“Just tea, thank you,” Gandalf reiterated, with a smile.

Bilbo nodded. “Yes, well then – that will be just fine. Capital, in fact. I do apologize, Gandalf, but it’s so rare that we meet and it seems a shame to have nothing more than tea to celebrate.”

Gandalf smiled.

“You are a thoughtful man, Bilbo Baggins,” he said. “Despite your… Tookish ways, of course.”

Bilbo chuckled.

“You don’t think I’d have come along with you on such an adventure as that without a little in the way of Tookishness, do you?” he pointed out, sitting down in an armchair in the front room, and Gandalf folded himself into the much bigger, overstuffed armchair on the other side of the room.

“I suppose not,” Gandalf mused, looking around, and frowned slightly. “I realize it has been a while, Bilbo, but… something seems different about your house.”

“Yes!” Bilbo agreed. “There’s someone else living here now, you know. I have an heir.”

“An heir,” Gandalf repeated, interested. “And how might such a thing have come about? What lady of Hobbiton caught the eye of Bilbo Baggins, I wonder?”

He smiled, amused. “And was it that I was not invited to the wedding?”

“Oh, no fear, no fear,” Bilbo replied, hastily. “No, he’s not my son in body, though certainly he is my heir legally… you see, I adopted him, four years ago now. The orphaned son of relatives from east of here, Brandy Hall way – it was that or end up leaving Bag End to the Sackville-Bagginses, and that was something I could not tolerate.”

“I suppose such would be a consideration,” Gandalf nodded, contemplatively. “You are getting on in years, old friend.”

Though Bilbo didn’t look it, it had to be said. Ninety-four years old, and it was as if he hadn’t aged a day since they had gone on the quest to the Lonely Mountain over four decades before. Years lay more lightly on the Halflings than on Men, but even so, that was a little ridiculous.

“Uncle Bilbo?” a slightly hesitant and muffled voice said. “I’ve brought the tea.”

“Excellent – thank you,” Bilbo said. “With the large teacup?”

“Yes, Uncle,” the same young voice agreed, and Gandalf leaned out of his chair to see the young Hobbit who Bilbo had taken as his heir.

Which was… not exactly what he saw.

Instead, there was what Gandalf could only, unmistakeably, describe as a dragon coming in through the door, purple-scaled and orange-bellied… balancing on three legs, holding a tea tray in one paw and his mouth, wings out slightly for balance. He reached the table and rose smoothly to his hind legs, using his other foreleg for support, and deposited it neatly on the table.

“It’s just lightly brewed, right now, Mr. Gandalf,” the dragon added, helpfully. “I don’t know quite how you take it, so you’ll need to leave it another few minutes to steep if you want it strong.”

“I see,” Gandalf said, with a nod. “Thank you… alas, I’m afraid I don’t have your name.”

“Spyro, sir,” the dragon introduced himself. “Spyro Baggins, at your service.”

He bowed slightly.

“Gandalf, at yours,” Gandalf replied. “Though… I’m terribly sorry, Spyro, but would it be possible to get a little milk for the tea? I’m afraid I sometimes take mine with milk.”

“Could you, Spyro?” Bilbo asked. “I do apologize, I should have mentioned.”

“It’s no trouble at all,” Spyro replied, and was back out of the room in moments – heading, Gandalf was sure, to the cold room.

“Well, now,” Gandalf said, smiling, and turned his attention to Bilbo. “The orphaned son of relatives from east of here?”

“Yes,” Bilbo concurred, nodding. “My second cousin and his wife. Alas, they drowned in a boating accident… I assume, at least, for he was found on the riverbank. So I took him in.”

“I see,” Gandalf mused. “And I’m sure that if I asked anyone in Hobbiton, they’d tell me the same thing.”

“Of course,” Bilbo confirmed. “I do pay attention to what they say about me, you know – and about my young nephew. If you’ll believe it, they say he’s been quite good for me. Old Mr. Gamgee told me once that Tolman Cotton declared – in the way of someone who wishes that declaring to be heard quite far and wide – that he knew the lad was more purple than some others, but had a good head on his shoulders, and that he was doing a good job of keeping me from my more fanciful notions. Which is entirely too unkind to me, I’d say, but generous to Spyro, so I find it hard to complain.”

Gandalf nodded, slowly.

“How curious,” he said. “How very curious.”

Then he turned, at the sound of paws on the floor, and took the milk from Spyro.

“Thank you, young Master Baggins,” he said, and Spyro looked quite pleased at both the thanks and the title. “I think your coming to Hobbiton will do Bilbo a great deal of good, and others besides.”

“I say!” Bilbo protested, with a laugh. “Have a care, Gandalf – you’re not telling me that even you, who recruited me for that adventure, find my Tookishness tiresome?”

“I find your hiding behind it amusing,” Gandalf replied.

Privately, he had to wonder whether Bilbo’s second cousin and his wife had actually existed – though, whether they had or not, it made little difference to the situation.

And, right now, that situation was that there was a youngster, anxious to please and feeling nervous around a tall outsider… and there was tea to be poured.

So Gandalf decided to solve both at once, as best he could.

“Would you like me to pour you some as well?” he asked Spyro, already pouring some of the steeped tea into the large teacup himself, judging the strength, then added a little milk. “Or do your tastes run elsewhere.”

“I’d prefer mine without milk, Mr. Gandalf,” Spyro requested. “Are you really a wizard?”

“Indeed I am, though you’ll find that wizardry is less about flashy spells than many think about it,” Gandalf said, pouring some more tea for Spyro and finishing off with a third cup for Bilbo – just the way he remembered his old friend liked it. “It’s far more about how things are, and recognizing the difference between that and how things seem…”

Several decades later, and hundreds of miles away, the Council of Elrond stared at the simple golden ring on the table between them.

“The Ring is the very essence of Sauron,” Elrond of Rivendell stated. “It would corrupt, and ultimately destroy, whoever tried to use it.”

“I would not throw off such a weapon if it came into our keeping,” Boromir of Gondor replied.

“The Ring is a weapon, but not to be turned against its master,” Gandalf warned. “It is more in the nature of an army, or a skilled armsman, or a traitor in a castle – though none of those capture its true nature. It is a fragment of Sauron, and even if you could use it against him and achieve a seeming of success – it would all come to ill, in the end.”

“It’s part of Sauron,” Spyro voiced. “So it is how things are that it will not oppose Sauron, even if it seems that it does. Any attempt to use it will come to a bad end, unless it is for Sauron’s aims.”

“That is a fine way of saying it,” Gandalf said.

“So it must be destroyed, then,” the dwarf Gimli declared. “If it cannot be turned to good ends, then it must be put to an end for the good of all.”

“Alas, but it can only be destroyed in the fires of Mount Doom,” Elrond said, as Spyro tilted his head slightly and moved across in front of Sam and Merry. “That is where it was created. Otherwise it would-”

Elrond was interrupted by a sudden blaze of intense blue light, as Spyro exhaled something that was to dragon-fire as the most mighty dragon-fire was to a match. All the Elves present, and Gandalf, flinched back in shock, then Elrond shook his head and blinked twice before looking at his table.

Which wasn’t there any more… and nor was the One Ring.

“I was thinking,” Spyro explained. “About why it is that it can’t be destroyed… it’s because it has to be destroyed in the world that is unseen, not the world that is seen. And I’m quite sure that my bright fire can do that.”

Gandalf raised an eyebrow.

“I did wonder why only six of the Nine Black Riders reached the Ford of Brunien,” he said, nodding slightly.

“I fear I should have asked more questions about the fighting before I arrived,” Aragorn admitted.

Elrond was looking at his hand.

“...ah,” he said. “Vilya appears to be losing strength, slowly but steadily… it would seem that it worked.”

“Nobody told me it had to be destroyed, before,” Spyro added. “I’m sorry about your table, Mr. Elrond, but I did want to hurry.”

“Well, that was easy,” Legolas of Mirkwood observed. “Should we continue with the meeting?”

#lord of the rings #bilbo baggins #gandalf #the legend of spyro #spyro draggins #spyro the dragon #hobbits

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orcasoul · 5 months ago

Text

The Lesser of Two Evils

Chapter Summary: You finally arrive in Rome and it's more than you could have ever imagined...

Chapter Warnings: Fluff, enemies(ish) to lovers, slow burn.

Word Count: 5,266

Chapter 5 New beginnings

The next morning you had passed through Reschen Pass and began making your way south to Rome. Only two more days and your life will change forever. The thought both thrills and scares you. Despite your heated words last night, you still preferred to ride beside Marcus, only feeling safe by his side. Thankfully the three men from last night were riding at the very back of the group, so you didn't even have to look at them. "Not long now," Marcus said softly, almost like a peace offering. When you looked at him, you saw the softness of his voice reflecting in his eyes. You realise this is his way of extending the olive branch, and for some reason it instantly made you feel lighter, more at ease.

You smile, a genuine and appreciative one in return to his gesture. "I'm sure your people will be overjoyed to see their General returned to them alive and well." "They will be," Marcus acknowledged, "and they will also know it's all because of you." "Oh, that's not necessary," you spluttered, the thought of drawing attention to yourself making you feel jittery. You'd much rather just blend into the background. "Too late," Marcus shrugged, the phantom of a smirk in the corner of his mouth. "A carrier pigeon has been sent, informing the Emperors and the Senate of when they can expect our arrival and of your bravery and desire to start anew in Rome. Your name will be on everyone's lips by the time we arrive."

You're not sure how you feel about that. Would it work in your favour and make the adjustment in Rome a little easier? The idea of being under everyone's scrutiny makes you nervous, but at least the Roman people won't view you as yours did. "I think you pay me too much mind. I'm nothing special," you say, hoping to the god's that Marcus is exaggerating. "I'm an outsider, insignificant. Now one will concern themselves with the likes of me." At least that's what you hope. Marcus hums in agreement but the look he's giving you suggests otherwise. The day continues with you and Marcus making civil and lighthearted conversation, neither of you mentioning the night before. Back at the Castrum you'd both had very little time to talk in the days. Even though he was injured and recovering, he's still the General and carried out his duties of overseeing all.

This journey has given you both nothing but time and even though neither of you spoke much at the start of it, you've become more comfortable talking to him. He must be feeling more at ease with you too, because today you've managed to draw out a few laughs from him; deep genuine rumbles that bring a warmth to your core and a smile to your face. He should definitely laugh more, you muse, especially when it lightens his face and softens his usual stoic facade. You find yourself hoping to see more of it over the next couple of days. By the end of the day, your party had completed the route through the valleys of the Alps; a spectacle of nature you'll never forget with its pure white, snow capped jagged peaks giving way to vibrant greenery and large pockets of trees further down the steep vallleys, and crystal lakes so dazzlingly blue and clear that they hold the world around them on their surfaces.

A part of you regrets leaving the magnificence of it all behind, certain you'll never see such natural artistry again. The Next day is spent travelling farther south, the air becoming warmer as you continue. The landscape of Italia (Italy) is so alien to you. Over the hours, rolling hills become gentle slopes of lush green fields, some with strange, long formations that stretch for miles. After asking Marcus what they are he'd told you they are vineyards, where rows and rows of grapes are grown to be pressed into wine. The further south you go the greenery becomes patchy, with dried, yellowing grass and rocky, sunbaked ground. The temperature has increased significantly with a constant humidity hanging heavily in the air. The sun has never been so unforgiving. Of course, in Germania the summers were hot but this is something else, and it's only early spring.

Even the trees looked odd to you. Tall, thin trees called Cypress trees - according to Marcus - seemed to grow in abundance along with thick, gnarley looking trees that produced green and purple fruits called Olives and the most unusual kind called Strawberry trees. Marcus had picked some of the round, prickly looking red fruit for you to try, the mix of sweet and sour flavours and it's soft grainy texture pleasantly surprising you. Every now and then you'd pass farmhouses and nearby villages on your way, the buildings' whitewashed walls glinting in the sun. From what you could see of the buildings, they're entirely unlike any you've ever seen before. Marcus watched as you took in your new surroundings with childlike awe. He's wasn't sure what lit up your face more; the sunlight - which he'd now noticed gave your dark brown, braided hair a glossy shine - or the wonderment of discovering so many new things.

He found indulging your questions and your growing enthusiasm quite endearing, even if some of the men muttered annoyances under their breath. As long as you dont hear them, he'll let it side for the sake of harmony, even if it vexes him. Returning his focus to you, Marcus smiled, "If you're impressed now, wait until we reach Rome." "What do you mean?" you asked, unable to suppress your intrigued smile. "You'll see..." he chuckled, turning to look over his horse's head. Maybe it's because the journey is almost over and the reassurance of safety that comes with it, but you've not seen Marcus look so at ease. There appeared to be a lightness to him now that wasn't there before (or he just hid it well) and you found yourself enjoying this version of him. It's like looking at a different person.

And it's only now that you realise just how striking he appears from the side as your eyes slowly trace the curve of his prominent nose and line of his jaw (which is still noticable, even through his slightly longer scruff). You were unaware your eyes had been lingering until Marcus looked your way, breaking you out of the little trance you'd slipped into. You quickly turn your focus back to your horse, cheeks heating with a pink blush. What you didn't notice was the barely there smirk, hiding in the corner of his mouth at your obvious bashfulness.

By the early evening you had arrived at Tuscia (Tuscany) and kept going until sunset. This will be the last stop for your group. Everyone seemed to be in high spirits tonight, the men chatting amongst themselves, some expressing their eagerness to see their loved ones during the weeks' rest they'll get before making the journey back to Germania (Germany). Some of them even spoke to you this time - like you're an actual human being and not lower than the dirt they walk on. It felt strange to be viewed in such a way, and even though you still felt uncomfortable amongst them, you made every effort to tamp down your anxiety and engage in the conversations. As the night stretched on, the conversations inevitably wound down, until everyone - except the watchmen - was asleep; well, everyone except you. Your mind is awash with anticipation, for tomorrow you'll arrive in Rome and begin the next chapter of your life.

Even though Marcus had already told you so much about the city and what to expect in terms of societal expectations, customs, traditions and laws, you still feel as though you're going in blind and unprepared. That uncertainty leaves you with a knot in your stomach but at the same time there's also a tinge of excitement about the possibilities that await you. For the first time ever, you'll be in control of your own destiny. Maybe you could find employment (if you remember the word correctly) and never have to scrape your way through life again. The concept of employment is a strange one to you. Back in the village everyone pitched in and contributed to the community in some way. There was no such thing as working for currency. The idea of being able to look after yourself just seems too good to be true. The more you dwelt on it all, the more restless you became.

Laying on your back, you gaze up at the twinkling heavens, searching for the constellations you know well, while the fire crackles comfortingly and soft snores echo around you. The night sky always provided comfort for you when you were anxious or lonely and you sigh gently as you feel yourself begin to relax under it's glittering canopy. "Can't sleep?" Marcus' low whisper catches you off guard. "Just a bit nervous for tomorrow," you reply after a moment, turning onto your side to face him. Marcus nods. "Many things will change for you tomorrow," he surmised, "but you won't be alone. I'll make sure you get the best start possible." You mimic Marcus' posture by propping up on your elbow, resting the back of your head in your hand, regarding him with a deep gratitude you can never truly express. "Thank you, Marcus..." you smile, looking deeply into his eyes in the hope that your own eyes can convey how much you appreciate him, "for everything. You've done so much for me." Marcus smiles, shaking his head in dismissal, "It's no more than you've done for me."

You nod, keeping eye contact and for the first time you don't feel uncomfortable; in fact, the smile Marcus is giving you stirs a little flutter in your stomach. "You know... maybe I was wrong about Romans," you begin, "you're not... all bad people." Marcus chuckles, softly. "I think that's the nicest thing you've ever said to me." Despite your efforts to keep your amusement at bay, your mouth betrays you, breaking out into a slightly bashful smirk. "Yeah, well don't let it get to your head, General. Your helmet won't fit." "Noted," Marcus laughs, quietly, drawing one from you in return. Nearby, a sleeping soldier stirs, catching both of your attention and you stifle your laughter behind your hand to not wake him. "We should try and get some sleep," Marcus whispers, even more quietly now. "We've got a big day tomorrow." With amusement still on your face you bid marcus a goodnight and he in return, both of you settling down for the night.

Just after dawn broke, your group prepared for the last leg of your journey. It almost felt like this day would never come, yet here you are, only a few hours from Rome. The closer you get, the more farms you pass, some small and humble looking and others with large houses - or villas as you'd come to learn - a clear sign of wealth. When you were only an hours' ride away, Marcus sent several of his men ahead to inform the Emperors and the Senate of your imminent arrival. A little while later, the horizon began to shimmer in the bright sunlight, a mixture of white and grey becoming larger as you drew closer. Soon the colours became shapes and your breath caught in your chest and eyes widened as it became clear you were looking at buildings. Buildings so large and numerous, they seemed to never end. Marcus, hearing the small gasp escaping you, turned to observe the look of amazement on your face. His mouth quirked up on one side as you looked at him in disbelief. "There she is..." he said, with pride in his voice. "Welcome to Rome."

*****

Have you entered another reality, another realm?! Maybe you've hit your head or had gotten injured on the journey and slipped into a fever dream because this can't be real; it's impossible! No man is capable of such creations. Everywhere you look, there are imposing buildings of various shapes and sizes, some brilliant white, some grey and beige with orange rooftops and gigantic columns that stretch the length of the facade, holding up triangular structures. Many of these constructions host an array of colourful and symmetrical patterns and shapes carved into the stonework and smooth material too polished and grand to have occurred naturally. Large archways with golden coated depictions of beings with wings, carved floral images and even painted scenes of possible important events or stories tower over you as you ride, entranced, through the bustling streets; even the ground is paved with large neutral slabs.

Large sculptures of people and animals stand proud, surrounded by water inside what you can only describe as a huge stone basin (fountains, Marcus had informed you). People - too numerous to count - give you curious eyes as your group passes by and you try your best to ignore them while absorbing everything around you. You're at a complete loss for words. You had expected improved living conditions in Rome, but nothing could have prepared you for such... outrageous extravagance. But of all the buildings to amaze you, none did quite as much as the soaring, circular construction that seemed to dominate it's surroundings, with it's continuous arches, piled on top of each other three stories high, another level of solid wall above and rows and rows of wooden beams at the very top.

Marcus watched you face flit through a dozen emotions at once as you took in the sights; shock, awe, excitement, happiness, disbelief, eagerness, he could write an epic poem to describe your reaction right now. "What is that?" you gasped, seemingly unable to tear your gaze away from what has captured you. "That's the Coliseum, used for Gladitorial games." "It's magnificent!" you gush, craning your neck back to look up as you ride alongside it. "I never knew such things could exist." Marcus' mouth ticked upwards. He enjoyed observing you as much as you did your new home. He chuckled to himself as he likened you to an owl; eyes round as saucers and head swiveling in all directions. "What are those?" you point to odd open sided boxes, lined with thin veils and people laying inside, being hoisted by other people. They appear to be quite popular.

Marcus looked to where you are pointing. "They're called Litters. Some wealthy people travel around the city in them." That is the most ridiculous and lazy thing you've ever seen. These people have legs, don't they! Despite your initial judgment, you decide it's best not to voice your opinion. The last thing you want is to cause offence. As if Marcus could read your mind - or maybe it was the expression on your face - he leaned closer and with a snicker, he whispered. "I know, they seem rather fatuous." "Yeah," you couldn't help but laugh in return. "So... where exactly are we going?" you ask after a moment. "The Forum of Augustus. The Emperors and the Senate are awaiting our arrival there at the Temple of Mars." "Our...?" you whip your head back to Marcus, voice a little shaky. Hopefully it'll be put down to being jostled on the horse and not nerves.

"That's right. They'll want to meet you." Subconciously, you grip the reins of the horse tighter, as if you could transfer the rising tension from your body into the leather straps. "Surely not, I'm nobody," you try to reason. The idea of meeting such important people has your stomach churning. "It'll be okay," Marcus smiled, reassuringly. "All you have to do is bow, address the Emperors as Your Majesty when they speak to you, and under no circumstances do you ever turn your back to them." "Why? you ask, perplexed. " Are they dangerous? Can I not trust them?" Marcus chuckled, softly. "You misunderstand my meaning." Actually, yes they are dangerous and you can't trust them, his inner voice whispered. "It's a sign of disrespect to show them your back."

"Oh..." you nod, thoughtfully. "It seems I have a lot to learn." "Lucky for you I'm a patient teacher," Marcus smiled, a hint of a tease in his tone. "I think you've got your work cut out for you," you warn in jest. As you, Marcus and your entourage press on you begin to hear Marcus' name being murmured amongst nearby people and before you know it, crowds have gathered, all chanting "Acacius! Acacius" over and over. Strange how they're all calling him by his second name. Is that how people address one another in Rome? Waves and cheers now fill the streets as all attention is on the General. It amazes you how he seems completely unperturbed by the growing hysteria, waving back at the exuberant masses. So many people love him; first, at the Castrum, now this.

At this moment in time he has become a god amongst men, sitting tall and proud upon his horse, red cape trailing behind him, splayed out over the steed's back. The sun hits his salt and pepper curls just right, and his skin seems to glow golden in the warm rays. He has never looked so handsome. All at once your lower stomach floods with warmth and a feeling you haven't had in years. You shift in your saddle, trying to take the pressure away from the ache between your legs. What the hell is wrong with you?! Shame has now replaced the sensation and you refuse to give... whatever that was any more attention. You put it down to being caught up in the moment. Everyone around is in awe of Marcus, so it's impossible to not get swept up in the atmosphere and admire him too. Yep, that's what it is.

Upon arriving at the Forum of Augustus, you're taken aback, yet again. The city's numerous wonders are never ending! The entire courtyard gleams shockingly white in the afternoon sun, reminding you of deep blankets of pristine snow back in Germania. On either side of you, rows of colourful columns line sheltered walkways with patterned floors, the gaps between each column sporting various bronze and marble statues. In the centre of the courtyard stands an impressive bronze sculpture of a man driving a four horse chariot and at the very end of the area stands, what you assume, the Temple of Mars. A grandiose building if ever you've seen one. More expertly crafted columns adorn the front, statues of more winged people in flowing robes perch on both corners of the roof and in the triangular section beneath them, are more carvings of people in various poses. Fires burn in braziers on both sides of the stairway and the smell of oils and incense waft on the light breeze.

A large group of men, dressed in fine white togas wait at the top of the steps. In front of them, stand two young men - one dressed in vibrant red and gold attire and a cloak wrapped around his body from shoulder to hip, and the other in dark blue and gold with a floor length cloak. Both men wear crowns of golden laurels that glint in the sunshine. Just before reaching the steps, Marcus raised his fist; an order for everyone to stop. Turning his horse to face his men, he begins, "Brothers, I cannot express the depth of my gratitude for your loyalty and dedication. It has been a long and tiring journey and I'm sure you are eager to rest. For those of you who can, return to your families, for everyone else: return to the barracks. Eat and rest before your journey back to Germania. May the gods go with you." Marcus crossed his arm over his chest and bowed his head. Every man mimicked his gesture all wishing farewell to their General.

Some of them even nodded to you before turning their horses about and riding out of the Forum. You can't help but imagine the joyful reunions some of these men will have with their families. It brings warmth to your heart. Marcus dismounted his horse and walked over to you. "Come." He held his hands out to you. Carefully, you lean towards him, steadying yourself with your hands on his shoulders, while his hands hold you firmly around the hips. He picked you down off the horse as if you weighed nothing and you hope he didn't just notice the small blush coating your cheeks at the intimacy of his hold. "Thank you," you mumble unable to look him in the eye. You don't know what has gotten into you; first the 'incident' while he was greeting the crowd, and now just because he helped you dismount. It's just the heat and fatigue, you tell yourself.

"Follow me," Marcus said. You swear you just saw his lip tick up on one side, briefly. You trail a couple of steps behind as he ascends the steps, his cape billowing in the breeze. All the while, you purposely fixate on the motions of his cape; anything to try and not acknowledge the dozens of eyes baring down on you. "Remember what I told you," Marcus whispers over his shoulder. "Bow, don't speak unless you are spoken too, address them as Your Majesty and don't show your back to them." "Understood," you gulp, your nerves beginning to fray. The closer you get, the faster your heart thumps and the sweatier your palms become. You're so distracted by your consternation that you don't even realise you're at the top of the steps until you almost walk straight into Marcus' back, only managing to stop an inch away from him. That would have been embarrassing.

"General Acacius, your arrival has been much anticipated. Rome welcomes you. I trust your journey was uneventful?" the tallest of the two men says. Marcus bowed his head and crossed his arm over his chest. "Your Majesties, it is a relief to be back. It was a tiring journey." "And a dangerous too," the shorter one interjected. "It's a miracle you've returned in one piece." "Yes, the gods have been good to us," Marcus stated. It's strange, the way he's conversing with them, like he's just tolerating two obnoxious children. "And this must be your valiant saviour," the tall man says, looking over Marcus' shoulder, his tone dripping in condescension. Marcus takes a step to the left and you get your first up close view of the two most powerful men in the world.

They're the oddest looking men you've ever seen. The honey colour of their hair looks artificial and their unnatural pasty complexions contrast with the rest of their skin. Their arms and hands are laden with gold and colourful gems, it's a wonder they can hold themselves upright. But the thing that took you the most by surprise was the peculiar, furry creature, decked out in clothing atop the shorter Emperors' shoulder. "Emperor Geta, Emperor Caracalla," Marcus motioned to each man in turn, "This is Alia, of the Gutones." Marcus now turns to look at you, his voice returning to the softness you've become accustomed to with him. "She's the reason I'm standing here today." You're frozen, tongue clued to the roof of your mouth, all lessons of etiquette and propriety Marcus had given you forgotten.

When Marcus clears his throat, you come back to yourself and quickly bow your head. Geta eyes you with both distaste and mild amusement. "Rumours of your dramatic rescue have swept the city. Rome is indebted to you. Tell us, how can we repay such bravery?" You lift your head but don't dare look Geta in the eye. "Y - Your Majesties..." you stutter, "I wish to become a citizen of Rome, if you please?" Geta chuckles, while Caracalla turns his head to feed the creature on his shoulder. "You see brother," Geta grins, broadly, "eventually, everyone succumbs to Rome." His tone took on an edge of darkness as he stared you down. Caracalla looks your way, offering you a smile that makes your skin prickle. You can't help but feel there is more hiding behind it. You've dealt with bullies your whole life, so you recognise the signs and right now he's clearly amused by your discomfort.

"It's the least we can do for our Generals' saviour," he answers his brother. "Thank you... Your Majesties." You bow again, resisting the need to fiddle with the hem of your clothing. Being under their gaze makes your hairs stand on end. Everything about these two screams 'danger', and you'd be a fool to ignore it. Even when they offer you polite words, they come with malice woven within. Maybe Marcus can sense it too, because now he seems keen to end this interaction. "If I may Your Majesties," he began, "I'd like to offer my praise to Mars and then we wish to leave. We're both very tired." Geta's attention shifted to Marcus, his eyes narrowing slightly before relaxing once more. "Of course, Acacius. We shan't keep you any longer." Both brothers stood aside to let you pass. Marcus bowed and you did the same.

"Shall we...?" Marcus placed his hand at the small of your back, ushering you past the Emperors, stopping briefly when the crowd of Senators greeted him with quick pleasentries. Marcus took it all in his stride, formally returning the greetings before stepping into the temple. Your steps slowed as you followed him into The Temple of Mars, the sheer enormity and grandeur of the place leaving you breathless. High decorated ceilings echo the chants of priests, faint whisps of burning incense swirl in the air and thick marble pillars with golden carved Acanthus hold up a balcony that spans the entire room. Small braziers hang low from the ceilings, giving a warm glow to the hall below while high up, small rectangular windows light up the balcony. The floor is so smooth, you can see your reflection in the many beautiful patterns. At the very end of the room, nestled under a large archway and flanked by two large braziers, is a huge, golden statue of a bearded man in armour, holding a spear. So this is Mars.

Marcus stops before you, gently holding onto your elbow. "Wait here, I won't be long," he whispers before approaching the statue and bending - somewhat awkwardly - on one knee. While Marcus is pre-occupied you watch the comings and goings of worshippers and their strange customs and rituals. With the chanting voices and the overwhelming scents surrounding you, the whole atmosphere feels reverent and otherworldly. You wonder just how many Roman gods there are. A few minutes later, Marcus appears at our side. "Let's go." His hand settles at the bottom of your back again and something flutters in your tummy. For reasons unknown, you're really beginning to like his hand there. It instantly calms your nerves, makes you feel protected, safe, maybe even... cared for.

The subdued light of the temple left you unprepared for the sudden brightness outside, and you have to shield your eyes to the blinding rays reflecting off the white floor. The people who'd gathered earlier, lingered in The Forum of Augustus, eager to see their General once more. Marcus helps you mount your horse before climbing atop his own. As you leave The Forum, people, both noble and low born, regard Marcus with respect and admiration while giving you a very different reception; some look at you with confusion, along with whispers and unashamed pointing, other's with a disgusted curl of their lip, as if your very appearance is offensive. Well, maybe it is to these people; after all, your are still wearing the clothes of your tribe.

As you pass more people, you take note of the appearance of the women. The multiple layers of their attire look complicated and unnecessary, but if you want to fit in you'll have to adopt their style, no matter how frivolous it looks to you. "Where are we going?" you ask Marcus as he leads you through the city. "Home," he answers, simply. The notion of home hits you like a sharp twist in the chest. You don't even know what that means to you anymore. The 'home' you'd left ceased to be your home the night your parents died. And after losing Farro, the place became hell for you. But that's in the past and for the first time, you have the opportunity to better yourself and make a new home, so a brief stay at Marcus' villa will give you the time to figure out your next step.

Marcus leads you just outside the city to a very affluent area dotted with large villas on spacious grounds. "We're here. This is it," Marcus announced as you approached the largest villa in the area atop a gentle slope. Lines of Cypress trees line both sides of the pathway that leads to a walled archway, manned by two guards. Entering the courtyard, your jaw hangs low as you soak in the size and splendour of Marcus' home. Four sections of bright white buildings and warm orange roofs all join together to make one huge square residence. A variety of brightly coloured flowers and creeper plants hang on the walls and from multiple balconies on the upper floors. A large three tired fountain with carved fish that pour water from their mouths into basins of increasing size sits the centre of the courtyard. Heavens, the Romans really love fountains!

The shuttered windows and the doorways are bordered with more carvings of Acanthus and scroll-like patterns. At the main entrance a line of nine people - five women and four men - wait with their heads inclined and hands clasped in front of them. As you and Marcus bring the horses to a stop in front of them, a short middle aged man with a receding hairline steps forward, bowing his head, respectfully, a heartfelt smile on his lips. "Welcome home, Dominus. Praise the gods for your safe return." Marcus dismounts, handing the reins to a younger man who'd stepped forward to receive the horses. "It's good to be back, Silas," Marcus greeted him warmly. "I trust everything has been kept in order during my absence." "Perfectly, Sir," Silas replies. Marcus turned to you, extending his arms, once again to help you down. The young man takes the horses' reins and leads them away. The man in front of you gives you an appraising look, before dipping his head, slightly.

"This is Alia," Marcus introduced you. "She is my honoured guest and is to be treated as such. Alia, this is Silas. He is the head of my household." "Welcome, My Lady," Silas greeted you. You give him a shy smile, unsure of what to say. Thankfully, Marcus continues, "Cassia, Flavia..." Two young women (probably in their mid to late twenties) step forward. "Please show Alia to her room and help her settle in." "Yes, Dominus," one of the girls - the blonde one - answered. "Please follow us, My Lady." You nervously look to Marcus, feeling a little on edge about leaving him, after all, he's the only person you know in this whole country. Clearly seeing your hesitancy, Marcus places a hand on your shoulder, his touch feather light. It's okay," he soothed. "Go on and rest. I'll see you in a little while for dinner." "Okay," you give Marcus a tight lipped smile and follow the girls into the villa.

Series Masterlist Ch 1 Ch 2 Ch 3 Ch 4 Ch 6 Ch7 Ch8 - coming soon

@bbyanarchist @myownwholewildworldwhole @imherefordeanandbones @picketniffler @h0w-1-wanna-l1v3 @chrissy-forfucksakes-wakeup @meetmeatyourworst @yorksgirl @joeldjarin @echo-ethe @whirlwindrider29 @abbyanarchist @suzyface @missadangel @evyiione

#pedro pascal #pedro pascal fanfiction #pedro pascal fandom #marcus acacius fanfiction #marcus acacius x you #marcus acacius smut #general marcus acacius #marcus acacius x female reader #marcus acacius fluff #marcus acacius angst #gladiator 2 movie #gladiator ll #pedro pascal character fanfiction #marcus acacius x ofc

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yestrday · 11 months ago

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I just, househusband Zhongli crumbs, I beg, everything you write is just gold ❤️❤️❤️

househusband zhongli is everything to me :((( i wanna go home and see him in an apron with his fancy liyue cuisine all ready for me uhuhuhu....

you might like: yandere! genshin malewives + zhongli

🐲 yandere! malewife zhongli

his biggest red flag is spending big amounts of money behind your back and not even realizing what he's done wrong unless you jam it into that thick skull of his. he'll be explaining to you why buying that noctiluous jade is a worthwhile endeavor till you hit him with the 'and????!!! what do we even need a noctiluous jade for!' and he opens his mouth and closes it when he finally thinks.

when he sees you overworking yourself, he gently closes the laptop and guides you towards the bed. it hurts his heart to see you so tired. look at your eyebags! just terrible. he tucks you into bed and makes you wait as he brings over the pot of tea he's been boiling for over an hour now.

a lot of the neighborhood grannies fawn over him like they're back to being little schoolgirls. sometimes when you come home early from work you'll see zhongli sat on the porch giving a history lecture with that buttery voice of his while the grannies are crowded around him with shy smiles, giggling behind their fans.

gets really moody when he smells someone's perfume on you. he tries his best to not let his jealousy steep into his interactions with you, but you can tell something's up when his normally gentle voice is suddenly clipped and curt with you.

has a black belt in karen. he's stated multiple times that he's more than willing to... approach your boss to have a civil one-on-one chat with him about your working conditions. these musings of his happen every time he sees you stumbling into the house, just barely delirious.

doesn't pay others much attention. whenever the two of you are on dates, his attention is on you and you only. he'll acknowledge their presence when needed be, but everything else slips by him when you're just too endearing not to look away from.

you don't trust him on groceries, not when you think that he might come home with high-end brands instead of sticking to the budget. the two of you often go grocery shopping together, and you have to drag him to the normal supermarket and not the all-organic alternative sitting right beside it.

is strangely eager when it comes to giving gifts to your nephews and nieces, should you have any. christmas and birthdays are the only times you'll give in to zhongli's overspending because he always hits you with the 'those children only deserve the very best...!' so you feel guilty. you can see how gentle his eyes are whenever he holds one of the little ones in his arms or how he quietly anticipates their happy little smiles whenever they unbox your gifts.

after that, he always muses about wanting to have a family of his own... while giving you one of those looks. mmm1. those family reunions always leave you sore the day after. not because of the reunion itself, but rather, what they've brought on after.

#yester.au — househusband 💍#yandere genshin impact #genshin impact #yandere x reader #genshin impact x reader #yandere genshin impact x reader #yandere zhongli #yester.shorts

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riboism · 5 months ago

Text

haunted ═╬ act IV: the cat

♱ content tags: centuries old vampire! seonghwa x fem reader, vampire au, gothic romance, gothic horror, story takes place circa early 1900s, reincarnation, smut, angst, forbidden love, slowburn, lots of yearning, no happy ending, blood, satanism, animal cruelty, nosferatu/bram stroker’s dracula/edward scissorhands vibes

♱ a/n: sorry for being late with an update (depression sucks lol). I’ll try to be more consistent with the remaining parts. as always, reblogs and comments are highly appreciated.

♱ wordcount: 2.7k

↳ series masterlist

The rest of the morning felt off, as if your reality had begun to blur at the edges. Every time you wandered through the estate’s dimly lit hallways, the creak of the old wooden floors sent a strange sense of familiarity crawling up your spine. It was maddening, like the walls were whispering to you in a language you almost understood, their voices just out of reach.

You couldn't take it anymore. The strangeness of the Count, the mysteriousness of the estate, and the dreams—God, the dreams—had become too much to ignore. There had to be answers somewhere. Without another thought, you grabbed your winter coat and strode down to town, determined to find them.

By the time you reached the bank, you were breathless from the steep steps leading up to its grand entrance. Steadying yourself, you approached the front desk, where the same bank teller from before sat, her glasses perched low on her nose as she sorted through a stack of papers.

"Is Mr. Kang available?" you asked, still catching your breath.

She didn’t bother looking up. "Do you have an appointment?"

"Uh, no, but—"

"Mr. Kang is only available by appointment," she cut in flatly, flipping another page.

You clenched your fists, willing yourself to remain composed. "Please, it’s urgent. I don’t mind waiting."

This time, she lifted her gaze just enough to regard you with practiced indifference. "I’m sorry, but unless you have an appointment, I cannot help you."

Frustration simmered in your chest as you turned on your heel, ready to leave in defeat, until a familiar voice called out behind you.

"Miss Y/L/N!"

Relief flooded through you as you turned to see Mr. Kang hurrying toward you, his ever-present smile wide and warm. "I knew that was you! What brings you here?"

His friendliness was like a breath of fresh air. In a town like this, it felt good to have even the semblance of a friend. You smiled, grateful. "Good afternoon, Mr. Kang. Actually, I was hoping to talk to you about something."

"Of course," he said smoothly, placing a guiding hand on the small of your back as he led you toward his office. "Anything for a friend of a friend. I have a few minutes before my next meeting."

You cast a smug glance at the receptionist as you passed, satisfied with your small victory.

Once settled in Mr. Kang’s office, your eyes were immediately drawn to the painting you had delivered just days ago, now proudly displayed on the wall.

"Really livens up the place, doesn’t it?" he mused, following your gaze.

You nodded absently before shifting in your seat, sitting up straighter. "Actually, Mr. Kang, I came to ask about my employer."

Yeosang leaned forward slightly, his curiosity piqued. "Oh? Is this about his account? If so, I’m afraid I can’t discuss financial matters without his presence."

"No, no, it’s not that," you said quickly, hesitating as you tried to find the right words. Now that you were here, you realized you hadn’t exactly planned how to phrase your concerns without sounding ridiculous. "It’s more… personal. I suppose I’m just curious about his background. He’s very private, as you know, and since I’m living under the same roof as him, I just—well, I guess I’d like to be sure I’m not in any…"

"Danger?" Mr. Kang supplied, raising a brow.

The word felt too strong—maybe even rude—but you didn’t know how else to put it. After a beat, you gave a small nod.

He chuckled, shaking his head. "I understand your concern. I was worried the townspeople’s gossip might be getting to you. But I can assure you, Count Park is a good man."

Somehow, that wasn’t as reassuring as he probably intended.

"That said," he continued, "if you're looking for more information about him, I’m afraid I’ve already told you everything I know. Your best bet would be the town registry. They may have more records on his estate and lineage."

The town registry. The thought hadn’t occurred to you before, but now that he’d mentioned it, you couldn’t shake the feeling that something important could be waiting for you there.

After thanking Mr. Kang for his time, you set off toward the other side of town in search of the Town Clerk’s office. It was a bit of a trek for your tired feet, but your curiosity urged you forward. You weren’t even sure what you were expecting to find. Mr. Kang was right—Count Park was strange, yes, his habits somewhat odd, but he had never been unkind. He had done nothing to warrant this growing unease that had settled in your chest. And yet… something wasn’t right. You couldn’t shake the feeling, nor could you bring yourself to sleep another night in that castle without at least trying to uncover the truth.

The Town Clerk’s office was an old, run-down building. The doors barely held together, their hinges rusted and weak, and thick cobwebs clung to the corners of the entryway. The wooden floorboards groaned beneath your hesitant steps, kicking up the scent of dust and decay. The air was stale, tinged with something unpleasant. Behind the counter stood an older man, his posture slouched with the same disinterest you had received from the woman at the bank. He barely looked up as you approached.

"Hello," you greeted, keeping your voice low. "I’m here on behalf of… Count Park Seonghwa."

At the mention of his name, the man’s gaze snapped toward you.

"He’s my cousin," you lied, forcing a nervous chuckle. "He asked me to come down and request a copy of his records, as he’s thinking of moving soon. You see, he’s been quite sick and—"

The clerk didn’t seem to care for your fabricated sob story. Without a word, he turned around and pulled out a long, rickety drawer, his fingers skimming over aged documents. After a brief pause, he retrieved a worn file and handed it to you without so much as a glance.

"Thank you," you mumbled, taking the file gingerly. You wasted no time tucking it into your shopping bag. The sun was beginning to set, casting an eerie golden glow over the town, so you stepped back outside, eager to return to the castle before nightfall.

As you walked back up the path, something felt… off. The air had changed, thick with something heavy and foreboding. An unsettling silence blanketed the town, save for the distant murmurs of people gathered in small clusters. Their faces were drawn and grave, their voices tinged with fear and anger. As you drew closer, you noticed more dead cows strewn along the dirt roads, their bodies limp and lifeless, eyes wide open. The scent of rot and blood stung your nose.

People were no longer merely mourning their losses—they were furious.

"That bastard! First my sheep, now my cows—someone’s doing this on purpose!"

"You think I had anything to do with this? You’re out of your mind!"

"All of us are suffering! God has abandoned us! First the cattle, then who’s to say our crops next?"

"You heard the stories! It’s the devil’s work! I told you he was cursed!"

Their voices rose in hysteria, their rage spilling over into accusations hurled at one another. Some men had begun shoving, women whispering behind their hands, their eyes darting toward the looming silhouette of the Count’s estate in the distance.

A cold dread seeped into your bones. The shift in the air wasn’t just in your mind. Something was happening. The people were on edge, their patience worn thin. It didn’t take much to see where their anger was beginning to turn.

Your pulse quickened, panic setting in. You had to leave before anyone noticed you lingering. Pulling your coat tighter around you, you hurried up the path, your boots crunching against the gravel as you retreated toward the castle.

⸺

You busied yourself in the kitchen, hoping the rhythmic chopping of vegetables and the simmering pot on the stove would distract you from the unsettling events of the day. But your mind kept drifting—to the townspeople, their anger, the lifeless cattle, and most of all, the Count.

The sound of footsteps echoed through the hall. You turned, surprised to see him standing in the doorway, dressed immaculately as always, as if the night before had never happened. He looked almost… untouched, unaffected.

You studied him carefully, searching for any sign of weakness, any lingering trace of last night’s affliction. But there was none. His complexion was as perfect as ever, his posture poised, his expression neutral. If anything, he seemed even more put together than usual, as if whatever had weakened him had vanished without a trace.

"Good evening," he greeted, sounding well-rested, as if the last twenty-four hours had been nothing but a dream.

You hesitated before responding, gripping the wooden spoon in your hand a little tighter. "Good evening, Count." You swallowed, forcing your tone to remain casual. "How are you feeling?"

He tilted his head slightly, the faintest hint of amusement flickering in his dark eyes. "Why do you ask?"

You faltered. He was toying with you. "Well," you began carefully, "you were quite ill last night. I was worried."

"I was?" He stepped further into the kitchen, trailing his gloved fingers over the edge of the counter as he studied the meal you were preparing.

"You were coughing up blood," you pressed, watching his face closely. "You collapsed."

He leaned against the counter, as if trying to remember. "Ah yes…That must have been troubling for you."

Your lips parted in disbelief. What kind of response was that?

"It was more than troubling," you snapped, frustration seeping into your voice. "You nearly collapsed in my arms. I stayed with you the entire night, worried you wouldn't wake up."

His eyes softened, but not in the way you'd expected. It wasn’t gratitude, nor regret. It was something else—something knowing.

"And yet, here I am," he said smoothly. "Alive and well."

You narrowed your eyes. What was he doing? Why was he acting like this? Was he trying to play it off that nothing had happened last night, that somehow you were the delusional one? "That doesn't explain anything."

He sighed as if indulging a particularly stubborn child, then turned his gaze to the pot simmering on the stove. "What are you making?"

You scoffed, incredulous at the way he was so effortlessly dodging the conversation. "Clam chowder," you muttered, stirring the pot with a little more force than necessary.

"Smells lovely," he murmured, though his interest seemed distant. He looked at you then, his gaze lingering just a moment too long before he spoke again. "Thank you for your concern."

It was dismissive. A conversation-ender. And you hated it.

But more than anything, you hated how much he unsettled you. Because despite his feigned nonchalance, despite the way he refused to acknowledge what had happened… you knew he was hiding something. And you were going to find out what.

⸺

As soon as you finished your nightly duties, you retreated to your room, locking the door behind you. Your body was exhausted, but your mind refused to rest. The weight of the documents in your lap felt heavier than paper should, as if they carried a truth too burdensome to bear.

You lit a candle, its flickering light barely illuminating the delicate, crumbling pages. The handwriting was difficult to decipher, the ink faded and the style archaic. You squinted, running your fingers over the words, tracing the loops and sharp angles in an attempt to piece together a story lost to time.

And then you saw it.

Park Seonghwa.

Your breath hitched. It was his name—unmistakably his, written in elegant script. You frowned, flipping through the pages, your heart pounding faster with every word you managed to make out. It was a marriage certificate.

This Certifies that Count Park Seonghwa & Lady Alya Were United In Marriage on the Seventh Day of June in the Year 1836.

Your breath grew shallow. Eighty years ago. That was impossible. The Count was so young. He couldn’t have been married eighty years ago. He couldn’t have been alive eighty years ago, not looking the way he did now.

Your hands shook as you turned another page. There was no birth record for him, nothing to confirm when or where he had come into existence. It was as if he had simply appeared one day. You turned a few more pages, until you stumbled upon another document:

Deed of Land. Let all men know and understand that as of the Third of February in the year 1621, Count Park Seonghwa is the true and original land owner of this following parcel: Lot 1117. The Interior of this land belongs to, and is under the control of Count Park Seonghwa. In the event of his passing, all rights and ownership herein shall be bestowed upon his lawful spouse, the Countess Ha-Rin.

None of what you read made any sense. You wondered if the ink had faded with time or if your weary eyes were simply deceiving you. Yet, no matter how many times you reread the words, the documents remained clear, official, and indisputable. A deep unease settled in your chest as you traced the elegant, aged script with your fingertips.

Just then, a brittle newspaper clipping slipped from the stack, fluttering to the floor. You leaned down, picking it up with trembling hands. The paper was fragile beneath your touch, its edges yellowed with time. Squinting, you carefully deciphered the small, faded text, your breath hitching as the words sank in.

A cold shiver ran down your spine as you read the details. It was about the fire. The west wing of the estate had burned to the ground, the family suffering one casualty. Lady Alya was 68 when she died. But as you scoured the pages for more, for proof, for confirmation, there was none. No death certificate. No record of her remains. Nothing.

You swallowed thickly, your fingers clamming as you reached the last document in the stack. It was a photograph, old and wrinkled. You brought it closer to the candlelight, and your breath left you in a sharp gasp.

It was her.

The old woman from your dream. The same hauntingly familiar face. The soft curve of her lips, the gentle slope of her nose, the sorrow lingering in her eyes—eyes that mirrored your own.

Your hands grew clammy, and the paper slipped slightly from your grasp. How was this possible?

The air in your room felt suddenly thick and suffocating. The candle flickered violently as a sudden gust of wind rattled the windowpane. And then—

Thump.

It came from outside. A strange shuffling, wet and guttural.

You hesitated, Count Park’s words echoing in your mind, his warning to never go outside at night. But your curiosity, your fear, your need to understand, overpowered your reason.

Slowly, you reached for your coat, draping it over your shoulders before stepping toward the door. You moved carefully down the hall, the manor eerily silent, save for the howling wind beyond the walls.

You stepped outside the castle. The night was colder than usual, the wind sharp against your skin. The moon cast a dim glow over the grounds, stretching shadows across the frost-covered earth. Your breath came out in quiet puffs as you followed the sound, your feet crunching softly against the gravel.

Then you saw it, the origin of the sound.

It was a dark figure crouched over something in the grass, its shoulders rising and falling with each grotesque movement. There was a sickening squelch, a wet tearing noise that filled the air. You felt your stomach churn as you took another step closer, a sudden crunch of the autumn leaves giving away your presence.

The figure’s head snapped up.

Your heart stopped.

It was him.

The Count.

But he wasn’t the man you knew.

His lips were stained red, fresh blood dripping from his chin. His eyes, normally dark and heavy, were an inhuman shade of crimson, glowing like embers in the night. His fangs, long and glistening, protruded from his parted lips. And in his grasp, limp and lifeless, was the body of a cat, its black fur matted with blood.

A choked gasp left your throat.

Count Park froze, his expression undecipherable, though something flickered in his monstrous gaze—something almost like regret.

But it was too late.

Your vision blurred. Your head spun.

And then, the darkness took you.

taglist: @a1sh1teruu @filmnings @professormingisglasses @felixs-voice-makes-me-wanna @yunyunrin-reads @seonghwasstar @innocygnet @oreoqueen

for taglist request or removal, please send me an ask

#seonghwa fanfic #seonghwa scenarios #seonghwa smut #park seonghwa smut #ateez smut #seonghwa angst #ateez angst #park seonghwa fanfic #seonghwa x reader

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chaaistained · 6 months ago

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☕️ . careful ! you might burn yourself ≈≈

hi, i’m chaai !!

🗝️ you’ve now unlocked my ingredient list—what goes into this cup of chaai?

chaai has layers—the usual sweetness of sugar and honey can be formidable when melted into scalding hot water—such is the very girl who steeps the leaves of this blog.

with a cinnamon spiced tongue, she speaks, she whispers, she sings her dreams into reality.

for all the burns that this world gives her, there is but only one truth and it is imagination.

chaai finds solace in solitude, she finds comfort in creativity, she finds motivation in music and inspiration in intricate stories.

a writer, a poet, a singer, a dancer / a crier, a screamer, a laugher, a prancer.

a childlike whimsy will forever permeate the aroma of chaai. drenched in jasmine and sandalwood and frangipani intoxication, she will braid flowers into her hair and use the fallen petals to cast her spells.

the bursting flavours of ideas that she has bubbling inside will leave stains with every single klutzy stumble she makes as she tries to reach her point in a concise manner.

chaai is a welcoming drink, an open hand, palm outstretched to the sky, ready to be held by another (you only need to ask!).

brewed just right

what chaai likes

☕︎ chai (shock horror), talking about her dr’s i beg you, send an ask, journals, notebooks, ink stained fingertips, stories, poems, essays, analysis, romanticism in art, the sight of rain from a window, the strength in one’s imagination, the multiversal theory, when the world used to feel more vibrant and saturated, love letters, rnb and classic jazz, her beloved friends and mutuals

when you steep it too long, it bitters

what chaai dislikes / dni

☕︎ racism, homophobia, xenophobia, classism, colourism, sexism, not being a decent human being, unacceptability of other’s choices when it comes to their dr’s (if it’s not your dr, don’t police it—there is nuance in feats as ancient as reality shifting , things like aging up/down, race swapping, gender swapping - idgaf, do what you want and let me do what i want), general rudeness and self entitlement (be respectful or be blocked), anti-shifters because we really needed more attention whores in this world apparently . if i feel like it i WILL add to this list

tea bags come with tags

my most used tags :

#by chaaistained — anything that i created or wrote and would like to share with my name proudly declared in the tags <3

#chaai chats ≈ — random musings, muddles rambles, whatever sparks my interest, plagues my thoughts, something i want to speak on or ponder about, no rhyme, reason, or rhythm aside from the fact that i thought it and i needed to share it

#chaai recs ๑° — my recommendations, whether it is for scripting or manifesting, shifting advice, even post ideas or inspiration, anything i enjoy and i reckon others should see

+ and additional tag of #highly recs !! when i feel that spark of interest or inspiration burning bright from your post

#signs from the universe… — for the odd serendipitous piece of art or quote or poem, wtv of the sort, that i believe has a double meaning more inclined to shifters, also the tag for whenever i come across a post that personally feels like a sign for me

#chaai channels ; [insert dr-self]༄ — when i find a post that aligns with my dr-self, or when i make such a post

#chaai for : [insert s/o] ৻ꪆ — when i find a post that reminds me of any of my s/o’s, or . more accurately, when i’m raving and jumping around in my feels for them ..

#chaai’s moodboards .•° — my moodboards !! i’m proud of them :)

#chaai loves » [insert moot] ✿ — personal tag for my moots

#teacup anons !! — personal tag for anons

+ claimed anons : bodygaurd anon . 🍦 . 🦊 .

don’t swallow the tea leaves ! for they leave you a message 🍂

this is my first shifting/loa blog !! i was really inspired by @hrrtshape to finally move my ass and make one (you should definitely follow her !!).

if you see similarities in what i post it is because of this (i HAVE spoken to emma and have informed her that i’ll be ib-ing her and/or tagging her in my posts).

i look forward to making friends on this blog≈≈

and if you find my main . no you didn’t, got that?

chaai brews; tea assortments — dr archive

cuppa queries; order in — ask responses

chaai ponders; ring stained pages — on loa/shifting/manifestion/creativity

#by chaaistained #chaai chats ≈#chaai recs ๑°#highly recs !!#spilled chaai #signs from the universe…#reality shifting #desired reality #loassumption #loablr #shiftblr #law of assumption #law of attraction #manifestation #shifting blog #anti shifters dni #dividers from: strangergraphics #pngs from: cherishedpngs and seu-nghan

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atsadi-shenanigans · 2 days ago

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FSBE 42 - No Fucking Way

No fucking way this works.

On AO3.

You stand there. Dumb, deaf, defenseless. A baby rabbit staring up at a weapon of mass destruction you can barely perceive, let alone understand. All your thoughts is gone, blasted away like the clouds after the first, concussive wave of a mega-ton bomb explosion.

“Um.”

Purple sparks and whirls around Gale’s fingers. Astarion’s eyes is wild, teeth bared. You die if y’all stay. Astarion gets fucked if y’all leave.

You saw something in that whisper of an instant. Some instinct screamed at you, something about the words, something like a possibility.

“I ain’t trying to be rude,” you sputter. “But the contract. Something in your contract. Was that most of it?”

The beast don’t move. Don’t speak for a long moment and you ain’t never really smelled fear before? But you do now, all thin and sour and you think it might be you.

The lids lower a fraction of an inch over them hellfire eyes. Just enough to lull the internal screaming to a slightly more manageable level.

“Parchment can burn,” the thing says in the cough and growl of a tank engine. “Oral agreements aren’t worth the tongues they’re wraggled upon. A song lingers. Raphael made double-sure of that. I can’t forget the damned thing so long as my work’s not finished. Yet nothing living stalks these halls. I did as instructed.”

You wonder for a split second why McFuckface BitchDevil had such a hate boner for the Sharrans down here. Maybe ask Shadowheart about that later.

Then the thing’s eyes flare. “It rattles around in my head. The contract still stands.”

And there’s something in that. A note amidst the screaming of grapeshot tearing through an infantry line, of pilgrims standing outside a burning village of Narragansett, shooting anyone who tried to run from the flames.

Desperation.

Your ears catch on that, a cat pouncing on something small and scurrying.

“Enough prattle. The lyrics are clear—all who hear the song must die. Time to die.” It grins, the teeth for a moment ain’t tusks, but snapped bones streaked in blood and gore.

But there it was. That’s what you caught on.

“We didn’t hear it,” you say. It’s like your brain is hurtling down a too-steep sand dune, legs throwing out, unsure if each step will catch you but you’re going too fast (can’t stop) to really think about it. “The song is the contact. We didn’t hear the whole thing. Didn’t sign it.”

“You’d better be damned sure about this,” Astarion hisses. You ain’t even sure if it’s out loud or in the group chat.

The thing laughs; your vision blacks out a second, brain refusing to take any input. When you blink, it’s to find it still, well, not smiling—nothing like that can make an expression that isn’t the buzzing hum of a decaying field of slaughter. But it ain’t lifted the sword.

“Oh?” it says.

Wow hey, that thing amused? You’d rather chug bleach. Jump in front of a bus. Go hang yourself with your own bootlaces rather than witness anything like that ever again.

“We ain’t heard it,” you say again. Hope to god your legs don’t give out, cause that’ll be a dead fucking giveaway. “But you know who has? Them.”

The shapes above. Other demons or monsters, you ain’t got a good look. They ain’t said shit, ain’t made a sound but for the soft clatter and rasp of armor. But they’re up there. Watching. Waiting.

The thing looks up. Its head tilts all slow.

“This is our only chance,” Astarion says, voice quaking.

You reach blindly. Touch the back of his wrist. Hold it a second as the thing above considers. Push the manic churning in your head at his brainworm.

A chance. A possible path. Winnow down the opposition, at least.

“They’re your followers?” you say. Haven’t mentally tripped over your own feet just yet.

“Since my arrival,” the thing says, all slow. Thoughtful. “But they barely have a thought to share amongst themselves.”

It still stares. A mad man with his hand hovering over a bright, red button labeled “launch” in some bunker in Nebraska.

“But they do have ears,” it muses.

Then it gives an order. A horrible order. You keep your gaze on it, focus all you got to ignore the sounds above, which are hideously quiet. There’s carnage: wet thuds and muffled, involuntary grunts, metal catching on shit and the heavy drop of bodies. But not one scream. Not one word. Silent murder eventually drowned out by the chatter of your teeth.

Then it’s done, and a sticky hush falls over the changer, oozing over your head and into your ears like cold, rancid mud. The thing’s eyes close. Your upper lip is wet with sweat. Lae’zel is coiled tight as a rattlesnake right next to you.

Eyes open. Burning. Hateful. Fixed on you.

“It didn’t work,” the thing says.

It’s alone, now. If y’all attack it right now, in the next two seconds, y’all might, maybe have a snowball’s chance in hell.

“I still hear it,” the thing growls, the low reverberation humming between your ribs like you’re the skin on a plucked, goddamn banjo from hell.

But there’s still that desperation in the thing. That tiny tightness to its voice, like a lost kid at a fair. A bleating calf being led to the harvest shed. The congregation waiting for the lord’s mercy.

You got to be the hand of that mercy a time or two, before you fell to weakness and impurity (got older, developed—against all odds—a withered and sickly sense of self, a sapling all twisted to the side by scourging winds). A couple times, you did get to walk through the congregation with Mother’s approval, her momentary touch on your shoulder still burning like a fallen star. And you got to touch the shoulders of those who the lord saw fit to bless. Got to watch their face lift in rapture, when they grabbed your hand all weeping and thank you thank you.

You sink way deep down into yourself. Through water and down to the lake bottom. Wriggle your way deeper still, an insect in the muck, coating yourself in rot and burrowing into salvation.

“There’s only one more left who heard the whole thing,” you say.

You don’t say it. That’s not how this works. Blessings is sent by the lord to be felt by the blessed. Only the lord knows what he speaks to those he touched. Only the lord, and the blessed.

There’s a psychological term for it, you think. It’s mentally handing someone a shovel with the shared, group knowledge that there’s only one thing to do with a shovel. Let them come to that knowledge on their own (even though you practically spelled it out many times before, though they seen it done before). That way the idea is theirs, belongs to them (through the lord). You give them that ownership and watch as they drape and tighten them chains over themself all by themself.

“Me,” the thing says in the sound of the ground tearing open.

“Ain’t nobody else left?” you say. Hand it the lodestone to attach to them chains. Give it all the tools it needs to throw itself into the depths.

The air around you is so thick you can almost taste it. Your companions are a swarm of gnats buzzing around in your head and you can’t pay no attention to that. Mentally fling your hand around to scatter the hum.

The thing looks around. Surveys the bodies you’re real glad you can’t see up there. Returns its focus to you.

“If you’re wrong about this,” the thing says. “I’ll claw my way out of Avernus and eat you alive. It will take some time.”

You hope to fuck Raphael knows what he’s doing (which is making you hand him another lever of manipulation over y’all, that goddamn shitass motherfucker, he’s got to die).

“Fair enough.” Because what the fuck else are you supposed to say? You are the hand of the lord, his word made flesh for a single moment. Trust you. Believe in you and in the lord your god.

It lifts the blade.

“No fucking way,” Karlach murmurs.

Places the tip in the middle of its chest, just beneath an eye-less skull with no lower jaw.

“Holy shit,” Wyll says.

“Nicely played Raphael!” the thing bellows. “Bastard.”

It thrusts. You finally look away. Turn your whole head. But the sound still slips in your ears. The awful crunch and squelch. The involuntary gasp and the grunt the thing makes. The spatter of blood—a lot of it—hitting the floor and sizzling. And then a wet rattle. A stagger.

Astarion grabs you and hauls you back as something huge comes whooshing down out the dark. Hits the ground like a cow with a slit throat, a heavy, meaty smack-boom and you can’t stop the flinch.

When you open your eyes, that orange burning is gone dark. The horrible air around the thing scatters like a dissipating cloud of carrion flies. Leaving a big-ass slab of dead meat, still twitching. Horns and tusks and fucked up hooves.

Dead.

“I am glad you’re on our side, you know,” Shadowheart says with a weird smile.

Wyll nudges the thing’s shoulder with the toe of his boot. Thing still twitches now and then, little spasms like a horse shaking off pests, like the first time you caught a fish and clubbed it over the head and held it in your hand, feeling the fine, final tremors because it seemed fitting, somehow. Paying attention to its last moments, recognizing them for what they were and being grateful for it.

You know in old stories that Cherokee hunters would have to say the right thing after taking down an animal to make sure they didn’t get haunted. You don’t know what them right words is, and thanking this thing seems ridiculous. But habit is habit, and you mentally thank the fish you kill and make sure to savor the meat.

“Thank you,” you mouth but give no breath to.

And the shakes come.

Cause you did that, and that ain’t no fish. You did that with nothing but words. Sank back down into yourself and became that person again so goddamn fucking quick. So easy. Like you never left.

All known by the lord shall be remembered by him. The blood of the lamb forever knows your name.

Astarion still holds you, real light, though he’s staring at the dead thing. You step away, and he not-quite flinches back into himself.

“Sorry,” you say. “I, uh, I’ll be right outside.”

You manage not to run the fuck outta there.

***

Notes:

Got covid, got taken out, bon appetit. No update Saturday because I was pretty much on the floor the last week-ish. Mask up, y'all; this strain is no fucking joke.

#fsbe #these two shitheads #bg3 #astarion #astarion x tav #tavstarion #fanfic #holy shit #when you hit that nat 20 #and then have to hit it AGAIN so you don't vomit on your own shoes #constitution check

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kisskissbanggang · 8 months ago

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SLATED

[7.4k Words/30min. Read - Demon!Minho x Human!Reader - NSFW/Smut - First Time Rage, Playing With Fate, Getting Prolifically Dumped, Ouija Boards, Divine Intervention, Sorting Out Our Feelings, Violence and Threats of Violence, Death of a Side Character (Sort Of), Claws, Angels, Demons, Impulsive Sex, Surprising Use of Kim Seungmin]

[a/n: happy halloween! because two different users requested the same thing for my Trick or Freak event, here's a surprise full fic. 🧡]

[Masterlist | Feedback]

You were mad as hell.

A feeling that was, at its inception, so foreign to you and now was fully realized. The sensation had taken a few minutes to settle, not unlike gaining sea legs. It began so small–a fragile, imperceptible thing–before it whipped up into a frenzy. This was nature taking its course. You were a thunder cloud on the verge of cracking lightning.

The note had been sitting on the entry table; Seungmin didn't have the gall to leave it at your bedside. No. You had roused late in the morning, serene and loved. Seungmin couldn't give you the peace of leaving the scrawled note in the loft of the cabin, and instead left it on the table where he’d first put his keys a couple days previously.

I don’t expect you to understand, sweetheart, the note read, because I hardly understand it myself. All I know is I can't do this anymore. I hope you can forgive me.

You stood by the entry table at eleven in the morning, having previously been thoroughly adored just the night before, and currently buzzing with electric anger as you allowed yourself to enter this emotion you'd heretofore never let yourself fully experience… This was rage.

There was more written on the stupid piece of paper: he could arrange a ride for you after the party; he was going to that wretched party after all; he was sorry.

Maybe there was another woman, you mused. Maybe you were the other woman. Why else would he ditch you to go to the bullshit party when he’d sworn up and down that he wouldn’t dare? Maybe this was all an illusion. There was a chance that you had been too trusting, too hopeful. Truthfully, honestly, and begrudgingly, you knew that this was a clear possibility from the beginning. Seungmin first saw your art only a month ago. He placed you in your first gallery two weeks later. The godawful Halloween party tonight was supposed to help you meet a possible buyer, a local gallery owner, but Seungmin himself advised you that this wasn’t the right event to meet a potential patron. Unless that wasn’t really the reason.

You were still fuming. This was a helpless, raw feeling that you weren’t used to. You let the note fall to the floor, drifting like the fall leaves outside. The first order of business was to find your phone. Two days ago, you were cooing and poring over every inch of the cozy cabin as Seungmin serenely looked on, but now it was a suffocating prison cell. None of Seungmin’s belongings were left–he’d been able to fully clear out before you ever woke up, and took off in his stupid truck. That jerk, it was like he had never even been here, having vanished like some sort of phantom. Finally, you found your phone, having fallen off of the bedside table and into your open weekend bag on the floor. You took one look at the screen and hucked the piece of electronic garbage onto the bed. Just like you found two days ago, there was no cell service. Seungmin deserted you out here. Yes, Arcadia Shores was 15 minutes away–by car. That same trek by foot was easily an hour at least along the rural highway, up and down steep, forested inclines and navigating hairpin turns that vehicles took much too quickly. You were, for practicality’s sake, actually stuck out here.

This was miserable.

You forced yourself to get showered and dressed, still steaming with no release in sight. Following that, you packed up all your things and dumped your bag by the front door. It was one thing for Seungmin to abandon you out here with no practical way back into town, let alone back to your lonely little apartment, but it was another thing entirely for him to make you wait until after the fucking party for a goddamn ride. That was the part that was doing your head in.

You were almost a little put off by how angry you were. This sort of felt like you’d been holding back for a long, long time, but that also meant that being this mad was sort of cathartic, maybe a little comforting. It was how alien the sensation was that made it difficult to contend with. Sitting down with a huff on the rickety, old couch in the cabin, you were taken aback by the first moment of true silence you were confronted with since you found the note earlier that day. You were suddenly struck by a feeling of unease, of restlessness. There might have been a possibility of going for a little walk around the property, maybe down to the creek behind the cabin, but that felt particularly helpless with the thickening gray clouds looming outside.

Sure, there were things you could do. Your small journal was stowed in your weekend bag. You could write your feelings out, be the bigger, calmer person. A notepad sat on the counter in the tiny kitchen, likely the same notepad that Seungmin wrote to you on. Maybe you could write your own letter, maybe pretend to say everything you wished you could in that moment.

How humiliating, though, being forced to process this all on your own after being miserably humiliated by the first man you ever let yourself sleep with within the first day of meeting him.

He said he loved you within one week. He encouraged you to say it back. He’d had the nerve to sound nervous about how quick this was all moving, and you’d been foolish enough to think it was sweet.

No, you decided. Just because Seungmin forced you to deal with this on your own didn’t mean that you had to deal with it calmly, but no readily apparent reaction felt appropriate. The bookshelf across from you in the small living area was filled to the brim with all sorts of things–board games, atlases and almanacs, chapter books and miscellaneous compilations of classics… and something else.

Your eyes passed over it a few times before you truly noticed it, and once you did, you kept returning to it.

Wedged at the bottom of a dusty pile of old board games and puzzles, haphazardly stacked on top of the bookshelf was a ouija board.

You smirked when you properly let yourself notice it for the first time. In recollection, you’d never used a spirit board before, nor ever even had the chance to. These were always comically off limits. This was a toy that was supposedly evil, supposedly fraught with negative consequences.

This was something good kids didn’t do.

It was this singular thought, paired with your unprecedented anger that ultimately drew you nearer. Every nagging, fearful thought that ever stopped you from acting out replayed in your head while you got up from the couch. A floorboard squeaked concerningly underfoot as you crossed the modest living area, almost like the old floor could crack open and suck you under. Ignoring that, you pulled over a chair from the old kitchen table. The chair groaned when you climbed on top of it, wobbling in a way that made you hurry your actions. A book fell out of the shelf, practically flying off and onto the ground, and you peeked downwards to see what it had been. Hilariously, a Bible looked up at you, almost accusingly. The absurdity of this made you nearly laugh out loud. You settled on pulling the whole stack of games and puzzles on top of the ouija board down entirely, gingerly tip-toeing off your makeshift step stool before setting the whole heap on the floor beside the coffee table.

You’d never done this before, but it seemed easy enough. In the aged cardboard box, there was a handsome wooden board with letters and words painted on. A heavy planchette sat on top, just big enough to fit perfectly in your palm. You cleared off the coffee table and knelt in front of it, before you suddenly realized that you felt nervous. This was fitting, probably, considering this was apparently a day full of firsts for you.

In the center of the heart-shaped piece of wood in your hand was a small, round lens made of glass. The surface was covered in dust, an interesting discovery given that the item had been sitting in a box, unexposed to the surrounding air. You pulled your sleeve over your palm to clean it off and placed the planchette on the board. At this point, you wondered how this was supposed to start. Were you supposed to greet the supposed spirits by starting at the “hello” painted in the corner, or was that for the spirit to theoretically signal its arrival?

Not that any of this was real, obviously. This was simply to pass the time. Maybe you’d make yourself some tea and try journaling after this. Outside, the impending rain finally began to come down.

You ultimately decided to place the planchette on a blank space on the board. Your fingertips lightly laid on the pointer’s edge, like you’d seen in movies. This felt ridiculous, which led to an acceptable first question.

“So,” you stiffly began, “this is bullshit, right?”

You almost laughed, the inquiry was so dumb. It was hardly even a joke. You waited a mortifying 30 seconds, feeling incredibly self-conscious, when you decided this whole endeavor was stupid and it was time to put the game back where you found it.

However.

When you went to retrieve the flimsy, old box from where you laid it beside you on the floor, you did a double-take and the box fell from your hands.

The planchette wasn’t where you left it.

It was sitting on top of “yes.”

Well, you were a sucker for a good sense of humor. And if this was a delusion like you were certain it was, your friends were going to get a kick out of it when you told them about that time you got callously dumped and stranded and started talking to spirits.

“Am I going crazy?” you half-heartedly asked the board. Much to your amusement and horror, the planchette moved on its own, sliding across the board until it sat on top of the “no.” You sat up on your knees, more attentive now.

“Does Seungmin love me?” you asked. What a pathetic question. You stared at the board, waiting. The wooden pointer slid off the “no” but it also didn’t slide all the way to “yes.” The planchette stopped firmly in the middle. “Fair enough,” you replied under your breath. Still, this was nowhere near cathartic enough for you. There were some regrettable desires sitting in your gut.

“Does Seungmin feel sorry for what he did to me?” you staunchly asked.

“No,” the board answered. You wrinkled your nose and grimaced, like you were suckerpunched. How embarrassing. That rage inside you ran like a bolt up your spine.

“... How do I make Seungmin feel sorry?”

The planchette moved down to the letters below. “A-S-K-M-E.”

“Ask you? Ask you what?”

“T-O-H-E-L-P.”

You gazed down at the board. This was all suddenly feeling far more serious than you’d originally set out with the intention of.

But what could it hurt?

This was quickly becoming reckless.

You took a deep, shaky breath before you realized you were trembling. “How do I ask you?”

“N-A-M-E.”

“My name or your name?”

“M-I-N-E.”

Your ribs ached on your rapidly beating heart. “What is your name?”

“T-O-O-L-O-N-G.”

“Too long?” you sputtered. “Are you kidding me? This was your idea. What can I call you instead?”

The planchette wavered for a minute before ultimately drifting, through the painted letters on the board until it landed on one.

M? Just an initial? That seemed dumb, but it was what was being suggested. You took another steadying breath, but it wasn’t helping. There wasn’t a hint of confidence in your voice, instead betraying the full bundle of nerves in your throat. “Help me, M.”

The ensuing silence made you feel like an idiot.

None of this was real. This was all a surreal fever dream, and you were going to beat the snot out of Seungmin the next time you saw him because of it.

Or not, because you were a coward. The only reason he did this to you, surely, was because he knew you wouldn’t do anything about it. You felt sick, and that wasn’t even mentioning how you felt like your face was warm, like you were blushing.

Except then there was a knock at the door. You gawked across the room, unsure if it even happened at all, until another knock came. On shaky legs, you got up on your feet and opened the door, just a crack. On the other side, damp from the rain, was a man dripping on the porch. He was young, maybe your or Seungmin’s age, with umber waves, somewhat flattened by the growing storm. There was a surprising softness in his intense gaze, his brows furrowed to keep his dark eyes dry. He grinned apologetically, a gentle, handsome expression.

“I’m so sorry to intrude,” he pleasantly began, “but can I borrow your phone? My truck broke down out on the highway and my phone is dead.”

The highway? While you weren’t too far from the road, there was a fork that ultimately led down here to the cabin. Still, you folded. As usual.

“I’m also sorry,” you winced. “I only have my cell phone, and there’s no signal out here… but you can come in, if you need. You can charge your phone while you wait for the rain to stop. I can make us some tea if you want.”

“Thanks,” the man replied, his grin spreading into an appreciative smile. He crossed the threshold and came in, shucking off his wet work coat and exposing a casual henley underneath. “Sorry for barging in. I know I already said that, but I know it’s spooky letting in strangers, especially on Halloween.”

“It’s a good thing I don’t think I’m worth the trouble,” you reassured him. You strolled into the kitchen and filled the kettle. “What’s your name, by the way?”

“You can call me Minho,” the stranger answered absently, still taking in his surroundings. “Neat cabin. You just renting, or do you know the owners? Mind if I look around?”

“Uh,” you attempted to answer, but Minho was already out of sight, peeking upstairs in the loft. The small stove bringing the kettle up to temperature creaked and moaned, mirroring your unease. Minho trotted downstairs and continued his tour, checking out the bathroom and deck. He made a few rounds of each room before he ultimately returned to the kitchen.

He looked perturbed.

“Alright,” Minho grumbled, almost out of breath. “This is a set-up, right? You’re fucking with me?”

You starkly leaned back against the kitchen counter, your hand resting on the handle of a drawer you hoped contained the knives and other cooking utensils. “I… I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Minho reeled. “Sure!” he sarcastically retorted. “You don’t know what I’m talking about. I get ripped out of my realm and plopped into yours, and the summoner isn’t even here!”

“The summoner?” you asked. “But I…”

“Sure,” Minho repeated. “You’re the summoner. I get here and it reeks of angels. The handprints of the Powers that be are fucking everywhere. You’re either the summoner or you’re one of the risen, or you’re fucking with me. Or–and there’s a big possibility of this–there’s a combination of the three happening here.”

The expression on your face must’ve been what convinced him of your honesty. Minho almost went pale, his eyebrows softening into concerned confusion and his hands dropping to his sides. “Holy shit,” he realized, “you’re not just the summoner… you're slated.”

“I’m what?” you scoffed. Your hand was still clutched around the handle of the knife drawer. Minho stalked closer, and you thankfully reacted. You yanked the drawer open and were relieved that you guessed right, wrapping your hand around the handle of a large kitchen knife. However, this wasn’t swift enough for the stranger. Minho clutched your wrist, easily taking the knife from you.

“I’m right. You can’t see it, but I can.” With this, Minho held the knife by its tip, as if he could show you whatever he was looking at on the handle. “It’s not as prominent yet, but it will be once you pass or accept the bypass. Not all the handprints in this cabin belong to you, but enough of them sure as hell do.”

“I’m sorry,” you flustered, “but what the fuck are you saying?”

Minho raised an eyebrow at you. At this distance, you could smell him. He had a masculine scent, but somewhat sweet, maybe a little cloying. Your heart was beating fast again. “What I’m saying is I can’t help you, angel, nor would I want to. I’m surprised you even managed to get me here.”

With that, he leaned away, letting the knife drop onto the hardwood, piercing it and making you jump in reaction. You stumbled after him as he walked to the coat rack.

“So you won’t help me?! And this,” you babbled, “all of this, this means you’re a spirit? You’re the spirit I summoned?”

The man sighed impatiently. “Yes, angel, you summoned me. And, given the nature of our exchange, I assumed you would’ve deduced I’m a demon by now.”

A charged pause shut you up for a second. The young demon seemed amused.

“What? You’re staring.”

“I, uh,” you stumbled on your words, “I was expecting more, like…”

“Horns?” he sneered. “A cute, pointy tail?”

You cringed compulsively in response. He was right. You had been picturing a mischievous little imp, not a… Well, not a hot guy, if you were being frank with yourself.

“Look, angel–”

“Stop calling me that.”

“Why? It’s true. You’re slated, you’re already on the path.”

You crossed your arms stubbornly. “It feels like an omen or a curse or something.”

“It’s none of those things. It’s only–as of this moment–your destiny.”

“But if you can already see these handprints, if I actually smell like an angel–don’t think I didn’t catch that, I still have questions about that–does that mean I’m going to die soon?”

Minho sighed again, sounding more like a groan this time, and firmly put his coat back on the rack. “I don’t know, angel. I’m not your Arbiter or anything. You’re probably about to be offered a bypass to ascend, like I said a minute ago.”

Your head was swimming. “What does that even mean? I just skip the dying part and become a fucking angel? That sounds insane.”

“Insane or not, it’s true,” Minho shrugged. “Hence all the reasons that I’m not going to help you. Can I put my jacket on and leave now?”

“Wait wait wait!” you cried, rushing over and putting your hand on his arm. His eyebrows shot up, looking from his arm to you. He was weirdly warm, but you did your best to ignore it. “Wait,” you pleaded again, “don’t you have some contract to stay? I’ve never been this angry in my entire life. All I want to do is make Seungmin sorry. You told me how to ask for your help and I asked.”

Minho looked at your hand on his arm again and back at you, conflicted as he frowned and shifted his weight from foot to foot. “No way,” he decided. “Sorry, angel. This is too much. I can tell you've never done a bad thing before in your life. Stay on your path and ascend, okay?”

With that, Minho peeled your hand off of him and finally pulled his jacket back on before breezing out the door.

What a bizarre fifteen minutes that all was.

The worst part was now you were somehow even madder. You grabbed your own jacket and shoes before heading out the door yourself. Obviously, Minho was already nowhere to be seen, but that didn't matter anymore. If some dumb demon wouldn't even help you, you’d go after Seungmin yourself. You trekked all the way back up to the fork up the road and out to the highway. Once you were out there, you stuck out your thumb for a ride and just started walking.

Being left alone with your thoughts like this was dangerous. However, you didn’t let yourself stop long enough to come to your senses. It was almost exhilarating to not only be this angry for once in your life, but to be justified in doing so. Like, you weren’t just going to make Seungmin feel sorry for what he did to you, but you’d be right.

Even if you still didn’t know what you would do when you saw him.

You were twenty minutes into your march to Arcadia Shores when someone finally took mercy on you and gave you a lift, but it was already beginning to turn dark. A doddering old man, probably a local, looked sick over the fact that you were out on the side of the road. He asked what on Earth could possibly make you do such a thing in this rain, and on Halloween, no less. When you replied that it was because of a man, you were convinced he was on the verge of offering to help you regardless of whatever it was you were planning on doing. You told him to simply drop you off at Arcadia Lodge, the venue for the ridiculous party. He took this mission with stoic pride, and wished you luck when he dropped you off.

Sprawling in front of you was a gracefully aging seaside resort, a huge property with its own beach and hemmed in by the woods on either side. The Halloween party was set to take place in the lodge's grand hall at its center. You warily approached the hotel, guests milling about in various degrees of costume. It was easy to feel out of place, not just because you weren't dressed for the occasion, but because you weren't even really belonging to this crowd. Arcadia Shores was pleasant enough to visit, but being a local required a certain level of financial comfort that you weren't privy to. Even as this occasion seemed to be more attended by younger family members, none of these people felt like anyone you would meet organically. That was what you needed Seungmin for. In these throngs of people, the gallery owner you were supposed to be introduced to was supposedly among them, but you’d never know it since your stupid ex wasn’t here.

The party was in full swing as the sun continued to sink under the horizon. It felt like it was going to be impossible to find Seungmin in here, and for a sickening moment, you almost doubted yourself for coming all the way out here. Then again, it was that overwhelming sense of being right that kept you steadfast in your objective.

It was at that moment, as if it were a reward for remembering why you had to see this through, you caught sight of Seungmin. Your heart plummeted into the pit of your stomach. He was gorgeous as ever and–appropriately–dressed like a devil, looking more like what you'd originally guessed Minho would appear as. In the sea of partygoers, he stood out perfectly. You kept careful watch of him, hanging back and seeing if you could figure out whether or not he was here with anyone.

Or, at least, this was your plan until a hand clapped down on your shoulder. You spun, startled, to find Minho looking annoyed.

“What?” you asked pointedly, matching his energy.

“Look,” he sighed, “I'm surprised you made it out here, okay? You proved you could do it without me.”

“Too bad that's not my point,” you shrugged.

“What is your point?” he groaned.

You pointed across the grand hall to where Seungmin was socializing. “You already know, asshole! I want to make him feel sorry for what he did to me!”

Minho’s eyebrows raised curiously, and yours did, too. You’d never called anyone an asshole before. Minho was looking past you, however, and you almost wondered why until you turned to see for yourself. As it turned out, Seungmin finally noticed you were here, but when you turned back to shoo Minho away, the demon was already gone.

Asshole, you silently repeated. You turned back around, and this was when your confidence crumbled. Seungmin was also gone. You frantically scanned the room, and caught sight of him exiting out the back of the grand hall. Costumed partygoers grumbled at you as you shoved past, running after him. The setting sun was working against you, but thankfully the various lamps and lanterns around the resort grounds helped you keep track of Seungmin as you rushed along behind him. You followed him out, beyond the proper resort property, and out to the scenic path up the hill to Arcadia Lighthouse. If he knew you were in pursuit, he showed no sign of it, never looking back over his shoulder as you both followed the path along the bluffs over the crashing waves below.

Your thoughts were racing again. What would you say when you finally caught up to him? What would you do?

Seungmin stopped suddenly in his tracks, causing you to do the same. Your breath caught in your throat.

Your ex turned then, looking conflicted. “You weren’t supposed to come here!” he called out.

Words attempted to materialize in your mouth, and you choked on every one. Here was your moment, and you were fucking it up. You took a helpless step forward. All you could imagine was pushing that son of a bitch for what he did to you. Seungmin took a step back.

Right

over

the

bluff.

A gasp shot into your throat, ripped from your lungs as you sprinted over. You dropped to your knees and scrambled to look over the edge. Down below, Seungmin lay in a heap on the rocks.

The miasma of thoughts that had been falling in an endless avalanche through your head all day tripled, hitting a fever pitch that made you feel sick, before everything went silent. The words finally came.

“You asshole!” you screamed, so harshly that your eyes scrunched closed. “This was my moment, you jerk!”

Only the raucous waves replied, but soon, a tangible voice did as well.

“I’m sorry, but what the actual hell?”

The voice over your shoulder made you feel violently ill. You were going mad but, surely, this was all rational. Seungmin was down there, not up here and you were simply hallucinating. You opened your eyes, and you were immediately nauseous. Seungmin was not down on the rocks below the bluff.

With shaking eyes, you could hardly look over your shoulder. It had to be done, though. Your chin wavered as you looked behind you.

Seungmin.

“Are you kidding me?” he huffed, putting his hands on his hips. There wasn’t a scratch on him. Did you only imagine him falling?

“Seungmin…” you finally uttered. “What are you talking about?”

He threw his hands up condescendingly. “All of this just to be mad?! You’re not here to forgive me?!”

You pressed your hands into the dirt, damp from the sporadic rain, to get up to your feet. “I… Why the fuck would I forgive you?”

“Because you’ve forgiven everything else that’s ever happened to you!” he ranted. “This was such a sure fucking thing! And sure, there was some trepidation there at the end, but I was convinced you’d come to your senses when it looked like I fucking died of all things but no! I can’t believe I wasted all this time slating you.”

He growled the last part, and you almost didn’t hear it. You were too busy watching Seungmin materialize a goddamn sword, one almost as long as you were tall. The rain picked up again, making the gravel underfoot muddy and slick when you nervously backed up. When Seungmin impossibly held the imposing sword aloft, you saw it–the ghost of his halo–just a hint, but stunningly obvious once you understood it.

Minho was right. There were angel handprints all over the cabin.

They were Seungmin’s.

“Seungmin,” you nearly whimpered, “what happens when someone you slated doesn’t make the cut?”

The sword glinted despite there being no sun rays in sight. “I’ll give you one guess, sweetheart.”

You strayed from the path, instead running straight into the woods to try and lose him. Brambles and branches tried to catch you and trap you, and you tore past, your heaving breath blaring in your ears. Trees creaked and groaned behind you where Seungmin was following, until you tripped over a jagged rock lodged in the ridgid earth and landed in a clearing. A white light seemed to part the foliage behind you, and you scrambled back on your hands and kicking feet while you couldn’t help but stare in awe.

“I’m sorry it had to end this way,” Seungmin sighed, somehow clear as day.

“Me, too,” quipped a voice from behind you. You shot a crazed, unbelieving glance behind you.

“Minho?!” you exclaimed.

Sure enough, your reluctant demon stood behind you on the other side of the clearing. His coat was soaked through, and at the end of his sleeves, you could see his fingertips had extended into blackened claws. In his hand, in contrast to Seungmin’s sword, was a flail.

“What did I tell you,” he grumbled rhetorically, “you were slated. And not just by anyone, but by the Powers that be.”

“What the fuck does that mean?!” you asked both men, fully exasperated. Seungmin looked over your new companion, apparently taking this all in.

“It means you need to fucking move, angel,” Minho sighed.

“I agree, sweetheart,” Seungmin frowned, lifting the sword again.

You scrambled away through the sodden grass right as Minho charged forward, deflecting Seungmin’s attack with a swing of his flail. Watching the two was a sight, arguing even while sparring with such formidable weapons.

“You don’t have any stake in this, accursed!” Seungmin hissed, yanking his sword free of the chain of Minho’s flail.

“Sure I do!” Minho scoffed, “I was summoned, wasn’t I?”

“You’re a common whore,” seethed your ex, drawing the sword up over his head for another swing. “A slave to any master who calls you.”

“How is that any different than your enslavement, you little prick?” rebuked Minho, practically giggling. “Our Father who art in Heaven is going to be pissed at you for losing this one.”

Another gasp pierced you when Minho failed to fully block this next attack. He fumbled back, landing against the thick trunk of an ancient oak tree. Seungmin smirked, a truly wicked expression that made your stomach twist in knots, and swung the huge sword back to get more momentum for a killing blow…

Except Minho had other plans. From under his jacket, he produced–of all things–a revolver. It was still intimidating, hefty with a long muzzle, and Minho pressed the snout to his adversary’s chest. Seungmin hardly had a chance to react before you all heard the hammer click into place.

You held your breath. Only the rain had any commentary to provide for a moment.

“Have her,” Seungmin spat. “She’s flawed, anyway.”

“That’s fine,” Minho retorted with a shrug.

Seungmin’s glare narrowed, but instead of swinging for Minho, he turned his attention back to you. You feebly tried to retreat again, but not before a harrowing shot rang out through the deepening night amongst the trees. Your eyes snapped shut in terror, and remained so. This was far too much. Your head swam, until a warm hand gently grabbed your shoulder. When you opened your eyes, it was only you and Minho in the clearing. Even the rain had vanished. Seungmin was nowhere to be seen; rather, only golden specks of dust drifted in the air.

“What now?” Minho softly asked you.

Your gaze could hardly relax despite your eyes feeling exhausted. “The cabin,” you uttered. “I left all my stuff. Take me there.”

Minho soothed a hand across your shoulders, rubbing your back. Serenely, the forest by the ocean bluffs melted away and left you in the familiar setting of the cabin. Your tea from earlier sat cold on the kitchen counter. The demon didn’t appear to be in a rush. He simply eased down to sit on the couch, observing as you got your bearings. There were still smudged flecks of gold dust all over him.

Your feet didn’t feel attached to your ankles. It was as though you’d been walking for days, the way your whole body sagged under the weight of the evening. This was so much to take in. Seungmin never loved you, more than likely. Infatuated with you, yes, but his ulterior motives stung more than him trying to dispose of you so savagely. You felt foolish. Embarrassment tugged at your throat. You’d all but scribbled his name down in the margins of notebooks, surrounded by little hearts. It had been so fast. It had almost felt innocent, the way you fell so wholly, so quickly.

Maybe you fell for him because of the whole angel thing.

Maybe it wasn’t even your idea from the start.

The thought made your bones feel like they were made of ice.

You finally moved from your spot in the center of the cabin’s living room, back to the kitchen. The Bible from earlier that day nearly tripped you from where it still lay on the floor. You stared at it, realizing that something had tried to stop you from summoning Minho. It may not have been Seungmin, but maybe you really weren’t supposed to stray from your path. You frowned and continued towards your objective in the kitchen. The mug was neutral in your hands–not cold, but only room temperature. You tipped the contents into the sink and watched the wasted tea seep down the drain.

When the moment had arrived, back on the bluff, all you wanted to do was push Seungmin.

And he fell.

For a confusing second, you wondered if you would cry about any of this, before you realized you already were.

You hardly got a moment to let it sink in, though, because Minho was there. He looked almost impatient as he pulled you into a comforting embrace. You clutched onto his damp jacket.

“Were you supposed to let me die?” you asked into his chest.

“It doesn’t matter, angel,” he answered. “That prick was out of his mind.”

“He loved me,” you weakly insisted.

Minho stroked your hair. “Only conditionally. They all do.”

“What do I do now that I’m not slated anymore?”

“What were you doing before? Do whatever you want.”

You were both silent for a while, holding each other in the kitchen. A weighted pull kept you clinging to him, likely similar to how he continued petting your hair. He reluctantly stopped after a time. “I should go,” he murmured. When he pulled away from you, he seemed surprised to see you searching him with your eyes.

“Don’t,” you pleaded, shaking your head. “I’ll just summon you back.”

The way Minho kissed you in that moment made you blush, flooding you with heat. He cupped your face, his claws gently pressing into your skin while he held you to him. The progression of what came next was so graceful yet so charged. Minho kissed you, all the way up the stairs and into the loft, but he gasped when you pushed him away. He clutched the railing opposite the bed, chest rising and falling as he watched you. You warily opened his jacket, watching him for the most minute reactions as you peeled the article of clothing off of him. He had on a holster underneath, carrying the intimidating revolver from back in the clearing. A breath seemed to catch in Minho’s throat when you slipped the gun out and held it in your hands, inspecting it.

“Careful, angel,” he gently cautioned you..

“What would’ve happened differently if you decided to help me from the beginning?” you asked, before tossing the gun onto the old quilt covering the bed.

“Knowing you were slated?” Minho asked. His hands needily grasped your hips in wanting. “I would’ve demanded devotion. Non-negotiable.”

“Devotion?” you echoed, easily as you let him herd you onto the bed with another kiss. “Of your master?”

“Of me,” he huskily clarified. “As long as I’m out here, and you called me, you’re my master. I only want the same devotion I’m giving you.”

Minho’s groan more resembled a growl the first time you kissed his neck. “You’re devoted to me?” you implored.

“Seeing what you did with your slating, angel, I’m devoted to you in more ways than one.”

A hunger erupted in you that you’d never experienced before. It was like you’d never eaten a proper meal and were suddenly faced with a feast. Your faithful demon grunted when you tugged at his henley, pulling the shirt up over his head and dropping it off the side of the bed. He didn’t rush you, choosing instead to simply watch as you moved to match him, removing your jacket and shirt underneath.

“If I was slated,” you wondered aloud, “and I was going to be offered a bypass to ascend… Is there an equivalent in your realm?”

Minho’s gaze shook in a way that told you that you’d just unleashed a dangerous possibility. That same hunger you felt, he felt it, too, and it was liable to consume you both if you kept indulging it. “Careful, angel,” he repeated.

“Maybe I’m still slated,” you slyly grinned, pulling Minho on top of you in the bed you’d previously shared with Seungmin only the night before.

“You don’t know what you’re asking for,” Minho half-heartedly argued, all while you pulled at his belt, and your starving teeth and tongue coaxed moans from his throat. When you threaded your fingers into his hair, he keened, wincing despite his blissful expression. His hands hardly tried to pry yours off of him.

“I’m asking for your devotion,” you rebutted.

His hands stopped trying to halt your actions. “Well then,” he breathed, “that’s all you had to say.” Minho’s hands smoothed up your thighs and easily removed your jeans. The tips of his clawed digits ghosted over your bared skin.

“Would we still be doing this if you had helped me from the beginning?” you asked.

Minho took his time answering you, instead opting to get a taste of you between your legs. You were impressed to feel him retract his claws before his fingers caressed into your depths. The inhuman warmth that radiated off of him seeped into your core, making you dizzy. You weren’t the only one, either, apparent from how Minho practically came up for air to check on you.

“There was no chance I was ever going to help you, so no,” he admitted. “The second I felt the energy in here, the energy coming off of you? I wanted no part of it.”

“And now?” you probed him.

Minho seemingly stopped himself from answering right away. He paused, absently kissing the inside of your thigh while chewing on a thought. “If you’re asking for a bypass,” he said carefully, “I want to know why.”

Your heart quickened in your chest. “I never felt this free before. You were right earlier. I’d never done anything bad before in my life.”

“This isn’t just about being bad, angel,” Minho said, wrinkling his nose at you.

“I know that,” you argued. “But the only reason I’d never done a bad thing was that I was terrified of judgment. I didn’t want to disappoint anyone. I wanted to be perfect.”

Minho shook his head in disbelief. “You’re already perfect enough.”

“That’s why I want it,” you insisted. “I never felt at peace like this before. I want more, whatever that means in your realm.”

“I understand that,” Minho answered stoically. “But I can’t simply offer you a bypass. Your ex–Seungmin, he used as his name? He could do that because he’s a Power. Well, he was.”

“Are you going to be in trouble?” you worried.

“No, angel,” he reassured you. “Not when the Arbiters see how reckless he was being. He’ll be recalled and reincorporated. As for letting you join me like he was going to offer you… I might be able to do something similar.”

“So devoted,” you affectionately teased.

Minho pulled at your hip, sliding you underneath him as he crawled up between your legs and absorbing your quip in stride. “How can I not be? I said no to you because I refused to be the one who influenced your path. That being said, if you’re choosing this, I’d do anything I can to make you happy.”

“Why me?” you marveled. The quilt pulled and stretched under you as you clutched at it, the way Minho teased himself up against your wetness driving you mad with desire.

“The blessed one wanted you because of all the potential inside you. I can feel it, even right now. You’re potent. The Powers saw you as a divine being, but they only connected the dots between your spotless record and all that energy.”

“So you just want me to yourself?”

“Not at all,” Minho shook his head. “I watched you deny your slating and stray from the path to go your own way. You went after what you wanted despite me refusing to assist you. Angel, you pushed Seungmin without laying a hand on him. You just wanted it bad enough. There’s something powerful in you, sure, but I'm in awe of you. It’s rare to meet humans like you.”

You met Minho’s gaze and he held it, unrelenting as his effusive warmth rocked into you. His moans made you ache between your legs, the way his lovemaking was so methodical yet so raw making your head spin. The difference between him and Seungmin was stark, a thought you never predicted you’d have, but it was glaringly obvious. Whereas Seungmin lauded how reserved you were, how modest and shy you seemed to be, Minho actively encouraged each sigh, each cursing gasp that escaped you. You didn’t feel stifled into trying to be quiet and pretty as Minho ravaged you. Instead, the corporeal spirit on top of you shivered and shuddered as he explored you and experienced you, adoring and savoring the tryst as a whole.

“What’re you going to offer me, Minho?” you finally asked him, your voice almost hoarse from the impassioned overuse of it.

“Let me be with you, angel,” he pleaded, burying his lips in the crook of your neck as he angled his hips into your sweet spot. “I’ll show you everything that I can without taking you to my world, and when we’re ready… I’ll make that journey with you.”

“Do it,” you impulsively demanded. “What do you need from me?”

“Nothing,” Minho assured you. He jolted and groaned when you thrashed against him, his perfect member drilling into your core just right. “Nothing but you. Just let me have you, angel.”

“Take me,” you whimpered. “I’m gonna–oh, fuck, Minho, it’s too much, I can’t–”

“You can,” your lover urged you. “I got you, angel, just let it happen.”

You clutched wildly onto each other, Minho’s sharp fingertips raking into your waist where he held you as he brought you to your peak. The precipice approached quickly, almost violently, and wracked you to your bones. You never recalled practically feeling an orgasm in your neck before. Minho wasn’t far behind, seemingly biting down into your shoulder for support more than possessiveness when he arrived at his point of no return. He cried out, bucking into you as he spent himself deep inside you, that warmth almost feeling more like boiling in the feverish rush.

Minho eased down onto the bed as gently as he could without collapsing on you, trying to catch his breath. “Unbelievable,” he marveled.

“What’s that?”

“I’d always been warned that humans are too fragile to mate with,” he explained. “I’m beginning to think this was all part of some grand plan. Maybe this was meant to happen.”

“You mean I’m slated,” you giggled. Minho nodded in a daze. The quiet surrounding you felt ominous, but the air in the cabin was charged. You felt electric. “What now?” you asked.

Minho wrapped his arms around your waist and laid his head on your chest. “Whatever you want, angel,” he vowed. “You already have my devotion.”

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