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ilium-ilia · 24 days ago

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ichor tongue; salted wounds

simon ghost riley x fem!reader | warlord x servant | masterlist

Chapter Three: pig

tw: dub-con, mentioned threats of non-con, mentioned/implied bestiality

To the victor belongs the spoils, but Ghost has no use for mere trinkets.

A man of his status requires something of sustenance—meat and blood, something warm and fresh to dig his fingers into, and he finds that in you. Tender offals spewing from a gored deer, viscera tainting his skin no matter how long he scrubs at it. A warrior is not complete without proof of his vitality; without the conquered to trail behind him as a reminder of the pecking order.

That’s what this feels like—your ripped, sodden chiton clinging to your body as you stumble behind him through the halls while he struts as if the palace layout has been burned into the back of his hand since he was born; as if he’s lived here his entire life. A birthright finally passed down to him. Servants gawk carefully from the corner of their eyes, ensuring that they do not test your new lord too vigorously with their gaze. You hold your bosom tighter, water squelching from the fabric and dripping down your stomach.

No—the pecking order is still the same. You’re still at the bottom. Fresh food. A toy for your new warlord.

After all, who wouldn’t be curious about the freak without a tongue?

Still, it is nice to pretend that you are something else for a split moment when Ghost brings you to the room that was once Shepherds throne, now turned into temporary storage. A small band of soldiers sort through various items, all seemingly taken from the palace itself. They garner swords, daggers, bronze shields and thin armor. Pottery, artwork, banners. Sandals, himations, shredded chitons and silk. Two men banter in the corner over a gold bracelet, while a larger group picks at the tip of a sword, degrading its creator for how dull it is.

If you pay close enough attention, you can almost still smell the blood that was spilt here yesterday—it almost stains the stone floor beneath the chair.

Eyes begin to wander when you’re brought to the center of the room. You’re still dripping, chiton running cold against your skin as Ghost begins to rummage through a pile of textiles. Prismatic linen against his skin, he intermittently chooses an item and holds it up to your body, eyeing the size of the cloth against your figure before either tossing it back into the depths or slinging it over his shoulder.

Eventually, there are five different garments shoved into your arms. Beautiful floor length peploses of saffron and rust, a chiton of delicate hyacinth, and two himations, beautiful shawls of seafoam green. You stare in awe at the delicate embroidery that laces the ends of the fabric. Geometric squares, delicate flowers of daisy and anemone, and sharp angles that remind you of the brightest stars in the night sky.

Gifts. That’s what Ghost says they are. He tells you to dress yourself how you please, and then dismisses you with the order to do whatever you wish for the day.

He leaves you with his soldiers, citing work that must be done within the city, alone and standing in the midst of their mess, stunned. Having no way to voice your concern, you simply do what you do best—follow your leader, your emperor; your new lord.

You spend your day the only way you can think of; down in your cove. It is a task climbing down there with your new peplos, but the moment you donned the cloth you knew you could never take it off. It is soft against your skin. Soaked to the brim with expensive dye and decorated with a craftsmanship you’ve never seen in your old, plain chitons. The pale sand is warm against your bare feet, and you spend many hours combing through the shoreline, tickling seashells as they pop up to kiss the soles of your feet.

When the sun heats you too much, you strip yourself free of all clothing before dipping beneath the waves. Kelp wraps around your ankles like loving chains meant to keep you in the only place you ever felt at home, and you float on your back and stare at the azure sky as the tide wills your body where it pleases. Then, when dusk begins to paint the sky with mulberry, you slink out of the water, bones having turned into liquid, and you lay on the rocks next to the starfish caught in tide pools until you are warm enough to drag yourself back to the palace.

Still, you are a creature of habit.

Come morning, you are in Ghost’s chambers again, now with a new peplos and your hands ready to serve. His body lays motionless in his bed, and you find yourself stealing glances as you go about your work. Crooked nose, almost parted lips, bare chest rising and falling with his breaths. He groans when the sound of sloshing water echoes from the basin and you see his body pulse beneath his animal hides as he turns on his side, dark eyes stricken with pink.

“No. None of that,” he dismisses. Pausing, you place your pitcher down before turning to fully face him. His face is heavy with lassitude. It pulls at his gaze and it trembles in his arms as he motions for you to walk toward him. “C’mere, little mouse.”

Obeying, you approach his bed, yet you are still surprised when his fingers wrap around your wrist and drag you downwards. As if falling into the hells, you collapse against the mattress and turn to liquid when he begins to maneuver you how he wishes. Bent on your side, head on his chest, arm wrapped around the back of your head as he lies flat on his back, breath huffing from his lungs.

“I was up half the night settling quarrels with your people,” he grumbles. “It’s only fair that one of their own aids me in sleep. At least you squawk less than them.”

The rattling in your chest rivals that of a family of horses trampling through open plains with unforgiving hooves. You think Ghost might feel it as he pulls you closer, body sinking into the linens, exhaling a soft chuckle before his dark eyes flutter shut and you’re left as a prisoner in his grasp.

Curious hands wander over your body just before his snoring overtakes him. Thick fingers paw at your waist, the dip in your hips, the soft pudge of your stomach. Just before his slumber devours him, he mutters something about how you are softer than silk—softer than anything else he’s ever touched before.

Ghost’s heartbeat sounds like war. It’s the pulsing of drums promising impending doom. It’s the throbbing in your mouth after your tongue was stolen from you, leaving behind nothing but rot and ichor. It’s the beating of your mother’s fists inside of the brazen bull, fruitlessly attempting to escape her sealed fate. Still, it sounds like solace, because war is the only comfort you have ever known.

Eventually, it lulls you to sleep; stuffs your skull full of cotton until your thoughts are just as fuzzy as your body. Dreams come sweetly like honey, but the smell makes you gag as your mother drizzles it on bread and holds it for you to eat. You always speak in your dreams. Though, it is rare that anyone ever understands you despite it. When you tell her you cannot stand the texture of honey in your mouth anymore, she only smiles and pushes it to your lips.

Grip like tongs on your tongue. Knife meant for flaying. Blood spilling like juice.

Forever scorned—a little girl so desperate to sing.

You wake to Ghost’s fingers in your mouth. Gentle, hardly invasive; he doesn’t even push them past your teeth, just keeps them behind your lips to feel the way you instinctively suckle on it. He knows you’re awake when your actions cease.

“I am a soldier, little mouse,” he says, pads of his index and middle fingers rubbing against your front teeth. “I can’t stand politicking.” Groaning, his body twists, elbow digging into the bed to prop himself up, torso curling over yours, hips rolling over your thigh. He is naked, and you feel the bite of his warmth through your peplos. “But I keep tellin’ myself it’s worth it, if it’s for you. My little treasure. All for me, yeah?”

When he pulls his fingers from your mouth, he drags them down along your chin, dipping to your throat, and then lower. A thin trail of saliva is left in his wake until it runs dry, and the rough calluses of his fingers trace between your breasts unheeded.

“Dunno why I find myself so infatuated with you,” Ghost admits, though he speaks more as if he’s talking to himself than to you. “Maybe it’s because we’re not too different. You’re the only one in this fuckin’ city who understands me, yeah?”

His words mean nothing to you, and still you nod. Your eyes are locked onto his lips and how they dance as he talks.

“My name is Simon.” It’s a blunt reveal. Something that leaves your mind spinning. Ghost is a name fit for him—something you would not be surprised to hear that his mother herself named him—but his true title softens your aching heart. Simon smirks as he leans forward, nose knocking against yours. “I trust you enough not to tell anyone.”

Then, he seals this revelation with a kiss.

Simon’s lips are heavy against yours, chin rubbing against your own just as his thumb brushes your cheek. Never before have you had anyone embrace you in such a way, and you’re not sure how to react. So you lay there motionless as your ribs attempt to keep your fluttering heart at bay.

It only worsens when his tongue slips into your mouth. It’s an action that brings along the very stars themselves with it, sizzling and sparkling to life what you once thought was long dead. Your mouth opens wider, cheeks hollowing out in order to bring more of him in, throat bobbing in anticipation, but he halts your endeavor with a chuckle as his mouth breaks free from yours with a quiet smack.

“Greedy girl.”

After that, you cannot leave Simon alone. Not now that you know his name. Not now that you’ve gotten a taste for his tongue.

He enjoys it. At least, you think he does. He never allows you to trail far behind him when he’s running an errand somewhere within the city, always keeping a hand on your back. When he sits with his men, he ensures you’re next to him, if not damn near in his lap, arm snaking around your waist, hands quietly toying with you when the war talk riles him up too much.

It’s gotten to the point that people now regard you with some sort of authority as if you are brimming with power and wealth. But don’t you look the part with your purple peplos and hand tugging on the arm of the vicious dog who now leads your city? Soldiers greet you with salutes and bows, and even the servants have begun to follow suit. Heads lowering. Knees bending.

Still—there are others who know you as you are.

A worm, groveling in dirt.

That life finds you again when you wander into the kitchen, having been sent away by Simon to fetch something to eat when he was too concerned about your growling stomach to focus during his meeting. Before you lies a medley of breads, fruits and vegetables, oils and salts—nearly anything your mind can imagine. The aroma is nearly enough to trick your mind into believing you’re tasting it for yourself. Garlic, onion, chives, sun dried tomatoes.

Your stomach growls, but the want is not here. The joy is bland. The action is a chore. It worsens when you spot a small jar of honey.

Pale orange refracts the streams of sun slicing through the windows, and you stare at the liquid with contempt. When your tongue was ripped from your mouth, it was the only thing you could eat for weeks. You’d slather it on the tip of your fingers, then smear it along the open wound within you, rubbing it along the tender skin and pray that the antimicrobial effects would save you from infection. Each time you remember the way it coats the roof of your mouth, or how it sticks to your fingers, you shiver.

Still, you fill your plate with kinder memories. Grapes, bread, butter—anything soft. Anything your traitorous throat can swallow. Then, your mind wanders to Simon, and you grab extras. Apples, cured meat, cheese. You’re nearly weighed down by the cluster in your hands. This is the most greedy you’ve ever felt, yet no one gives you a second look; not in your attire, not with your newfound status.

No one except Caenis—the one who remembers you from before.

The one who remembers you for what you are.

Hands occupied, you nearly clash into her when you exit the kitchen. She stands tall and proud as ever, delicate fingers holding a fat pitcher of water against the side of her hip. For a moment, fear clouds her eyes. You suppose that’s what most of the servants feel these days—something you ought to feel, too, in your newly conquered city. Then, her eyes wander, golden like the metals from the earth tracing your body, reading the embroidery on your peplos, naming the color of the woolen fabric in her head. Then, fear melts into rage, and her lips press into a tight line as she glares at you.

“Look at you. You’re enjoying all this, aren’t you?” she asks facetiously, each syllable dripping with ire. “Oh, of course you can’t answer me. Kissing the new lord’s feet still hasn’t grown your tongue back for you, I see.”

Though your legs yearn to flee, you do what you always have done. Turning to stone like the statues in the garden, you stand there and take her berating the same way as you have always done.

“Everyone’s noticed. You pleaded your innocence so much that day your wretched parents were snuffed out, but look at you now, bedding with The Ghost and following him like some well trained bitch.” There is movement behind her. Quiet, and swift like a diving eagle—it’s Simon; you’ve learned to recognize him anywhere. Curiosity pulls at his face when he rounds the corner in the corridor and spots you. You’ve taken too long. Fingers curling into your plate, you attempt to step around Caenis to meet your lord, but she only chuckles and slaps it out of your hand, sending your food clattering to the ground. “You might think it’s fun to pretend that you’re anything other than filth, but we all see you for what you really are.”

Her throat catches on the last word she speaks as Simon’s foot swipes at the back of her knees, sending her pitcher shattering on the ground as she follows behind it. Caenis’s lambasting is silenced with a squeal as he runs his fingers through her hair, pulling her head back as the fresh well water wets both her chiton and your feet. It swirls with the bread on the floor, softening it until it’s soggy—a true waste of mush.

“I am sick of this city’s kvetching,” Simon sighs. Caenis sends her hands backward, fingers pulling at his grip in her hair to get him to relent, but she freezes the moment she realizes who has a hold of her. Her face blanches. “Your tongue is wasted on you.”

With his free hand, Simon retrieves a small knife sheathed in the side of his chiton and proudly displays it in the pale glow of the sun. Caenis whimpers as he twirls it, toying with her, and it’s nearly enough to get you to feel sorry for her.

“Perhaps I should relieve you of it,” he muses before looking up at you. “What do you say, little mouse? I think her tongue would be of greater service in your mouth than it is in her own.”

For a split moment, you entertain the idea. This notion that you may yet have a tongue to sing with. Something to stitch yourself up with so that you may be whole again.

Then, you remember a time when a soldier cornered you outside of Shepherd’s chambers. Truly, he was handsome. The quintessence of strength and beauty, he sneered at you for a solid five minutes speaking of your wretched hideousness, how no one would ever want a woman as ugly as you, that he had thought of raping you just for his own pleasure but decided to get that relief out of a pig instead.

Some time later, you caught Caenis with that soldier outside of the bath house. She was kneeling before him as he pulled his chiton up over his stomach, taking his cock into her mouth. Though you are not sure how true his claims were, all you could think about is how he must taste like pig.

You do not want a swine flavored tongue.

When you shake your head, Simon smirks before stowing his blade. “The only reason your blood is not on the floor is because of her,” he mutters to Caenis. Then, he releases her with a heavy shove, forcing her hands to brace against the wet floor as she sobs. “Remember that the next time you open your mouth.”

Wide eyed, you stare down at her as you watch her shoulders shudder and head bow as if silently begging for your forgiveness. It’s a sight you never thought you’d see in a woman like Caenis, always so prim. So proper. So above you.

Simon then reaches out his hand, taking yours into his own, before leading you away from the mess at your feet. His warmth and rage are palpable as it bleeds into you, but still, you cannot help but smile as Caenis’s pules echo off the corridor walls behind you.

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dollyswishingwell · 1 month ago

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ᯓ★ˎˊ˗ I’ll think for you

𝒲𝒾𝓈𝒽 𝑔𝓇𝒶𝓃𝓉𝑒𝒹 𝒻𝑜𝓇 ˙⋆✮ Rafayel, Zayne, Xavier, Sylus, Caleb

𝒢𝑒𝓃𝓇𝑒/𝒲𝒶𝓇𝓃𝒾𝓃𝑔 ˙⋆✮ yandere, manipulation, dependency, power imbalance, forced domesticity, isolation, a tiny bit infantilisation, this is me getting yall slowly used to dark content

> ࣪𖤐.ᐟ They shaped you to be exactly how they want

𝙍𝙖𝙛𝙖𝙮𝙚𝙡 °‧🫧⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

You used to be so independent. So opinionated, so decisive. A skilled hunter of the Deep Space Hunter Association, Graduated top of the academy. And now?

You’re a delicate little thing wrapped in lace and pearls, sitting in Rafayel’s lap at a velvet booth in the most exclusive restaurant in the city. His hand strokes slow circles on your bare thigh, keeping you calm as your wide, pretty eyes flit nervously over the menu.

Not because you can’t read it. But because, “Raffy,” you whisper softly, pressing your cheek to his shoulder, “…I can’t pick..”

He beams. Oh, you sweet, helpless thing. “Mm, my baby wants the saffron lobster risotto,” he murmurs against your temple, curling a lock of your hair around his finger. “You always get pouty when the rice is undercooked anywhere else, remember?” He tucks the menu away without you even touching it. “And we’ll share the strawberry mille-feuille after. No cherries. I’ll kill them if they bring cherries again.”

You nod obediently, letting him order for you, your fingers fidgeting with his sleeve like a lost child. You don’t even notice the way the waiter looks at you with pity. Or is it fear?

Rafayel doesn’t mind. He lives for this. For your dependency. For the way you look to him like he’s your entire world, because he is.

You don’t shop anymore unless he’s there to tell you what’s pretty.

You don’t eat unless he feeds you the first bite.

You won’t even open the curtains without asking him if it’s okay today.

And when you’re home, swaddled in your frilly little outfits, toddling after him barefoot in your designer slippers, asking “Raffy, can I put ribbons in my hair today or are we staying in?”, he nearly collapses from how cute you are.

You can’t function without him anymore. And he made sure of that. Sure, It took a while to get you to this state but he managed.

Rafayel hums softly as he spoons the first bite into your mouth. “That’s it, sweet girl. Good, isn’t it?” His smile deepens when you nod happily, your lips still parted a little for another bite. “See? You don’t need to worry about anything. Just let Raffy take care of it all.”

His voice is so soft, so gentle. But beneath it is that familiar edge of obsession.

If you ever did try to choose something without him now,

If you ever said, “I think I want—” instead of “Raf, What should i—?”

he’d smile at you just the same.

But the look in his eyes would turn terrifyingly cold.

Because you’re his. Utterly, helplessly his.

And he won’t let you survive without him.

𝙕𝙖𝙮𝙣𝙚 ⋆꙳•❅‧*₊⋆☃︎ ‧*❆ ₊⋆

Your life is so easy now. No stress, no pressure. Just floating through luxury in silk nightgowns and diamonds, curled up in Zayne’s lap in the garden pavilion or lounging in the marble tub he has drawn for you daily at 7pm sharp. He handles everything. He decides everything.

You don’t need to worry your pretty little head about anything anymore.

And he made sure of that.

⸻

You’re out for dinner with him, very rarely, only when he says it’s safe enough, and you’re clinging to his arm, face half-hidden in his shoulder as the waiter approaches.

“Have you two decided?”

You blink at the menu like it’s written in another language. You didn’t even read it. You looked at Zayne the moment you sat down, your hand resting lightly on his thigh under the table, eyes wide and waiting.

He glances down at you briefly, one of his hands sliding protectively behind your back. “She’ll have the roast duck. Glazed, no herbs on the skin. And the red wine reduction on the side, she doesn’t like it poured over.”

He doesn’t ask you. He knows.

You give a little hum and lean into him, relaxing instantly. “Thank you, Zaynie…” you whisper against his collarbone.

The waiter leaves. Zayne stays silent for a moment, sipping his drink, then gently shifts your chair a little closer to his. Always keeping you within arm’s reach. Always watching you.

“You didn’t even glance at the menu,” he murmurs, tone unreadable.

You blink up at him like a kitten caught doing something wrong, but you can’t tell if he’s displeased.

Zayne watches the way you shrink slightly, how your lips pout just faintly. His hand reaches under the table and settles possessively on your thigh.

“…Good,” he says after a long pause, his voice soft and deep. “You shouldn’t be thinking about things like that anymore.” He brushes a stray strand of hair behind your ear, lips ghosting across your cheek. “You’re not built for decision-making. Let me handle it.”

And you do. Always.

You wake up when he tells you.

You eat what he places on your plate.

You wear what he’s laid out on the bed each morning, with the jewelry box open for you like a princess.

When you feel anxious, you bury your face in his chest and ask softly, “Zay, what should I do…?” — and he holds you like you’re breakable, whispering, “Just follow me. That’s all you ever have to do.”

He’s spent years making sure you rely on him so fully you wouldn’t last a day without him. And the way you smile when he decides everything for you? Like being cared for is the only thing you’ve ever known?

Zayne would never admit it aloud, but he lives for that look.

You’re not just his housewife. You’re his porcelain doll, the soft and helpless girl he locked away from the world just to protect and control.

And he loves you like that.

𝙓𝙖𝙫𝙞𝙚𝙧 ⋆⭒˚.⋆🪐 ⋆⭒˚.⋆

It’s subtle, with Xavier.

So soft you don’t even realize how deeply you’ve sunk into him, how utterly dependent you’ve become.

You don’t remember when it started. When your “What do you think, baby?” turned into “I don’t know unless you tell me.” When your curiosity, your opinions, your sense of direction, all slowly dissolved into him.

Now, you’re just his. A sweet, soft-spoken housewife who waits by the window for him, dressed in his favorite pale colors, your hair styled just the way he likes, your entire world revolving around when he comes home.

You don’t even know what you like anymore unless Xavier whispers it in your ear.

⸻

You’re out with him, rare, but he allows it. Only in quiet, secure places. Tonight, you’re seated across from him in a secluded booth at a lantern-lit garden café in the upper rings of Skyhaven.

There’s a pretty dessert menu in front of you. You tilt your head at it like it’s written in another language.

“Xavi,” you murmur softly, tugging at his sleeve with both hands, “…what do i want?”

He smiles at that. Not in mockery. Not in amusement. In devotion.

“You want something warm,” he murmurs gently, sliding the menu away and taking your hand, long fingers threading through yours. “Something gentle. Not too sweet.”

He strokes his thumb along your wrist as he places the order. You lean forward, pressing your cheek against his hand as if to say thank you for thinking for me, again.

You always look to him before making any move. You won’t even stand up without asking, “should I follow now?”

He picks your dresses.

He braids your hair in the morning.

He brushes your teeth for you when you’re sleepy.

And when you’re nervous about anything, even something as small as picking the scent of the room diffuser, your first instinct is to turn to him and whisper, “What would make you happy…?”

And he always gives you an answer. Always, so quietly. Like it’s the most natural thing in the world to guide you.

Because you’re his pretty housewife. His soft little wife who doesn’t need to think. He’s the one who bears the burden of decision. You just have to smile, stay close, and let yourself be loved.

“You’re happiest when you let me think for you,” he whispers against your temple one evening, as he tucks you into the massive bed in your penthouse. “Don’t worry, sweetheart… I’ll never let the world confuse you again.”

𝙎𝙮𝙡𝙪𝙨 ✮ ⋆ ˚｡𓅨⋆｡°✩

You don’t make decisions.

You don’t even pretend to anymore.

You flinch when someone asks you, “Paper or digital receipt?”

You hesitate in boutiques, waiting for Sylus to tilt his head before stepping toward the display.

Even at home, you sit quietly beside him, legs tucked under you, waiting for him to decide what you’ll eat, wear, watch, or do.

Not because he forbade you.

But because he’s so perfectly, ruthlessly conditioned you not to.

⸻

Tonight, you’re seated beside him at a private luxury tasting hosted by an ally syndicate. Glittering cityscape behind you, violins playing faintly. You look divine in the dress he chose. The one with the daring back and delicate sleeves that makes you look more like a prize than a wife.

A waiter steps forward. “And for the lady?”

You blink, clearly startled. You hadn’t been paying attention, just tracing lazy shapes on Sylus’ thigh, face resting against his shoulder.

Sylus doesn’t even let you speak.

He lifts his wine glass without looking at the man. “She’ll have the truffle risotto. No onions. She won’t touch it if she smells even one.”

The waiter hesitates, eyes flicking between the two of you. Sylus gives him a single glance, cold, razor-sharp. That’s all it takes. The man practically bows and disappears.

You blink up at Sylus. “I didn’t even realize I don’t like onions…”

He smiles, so smug, so fond, so terrifyingly pleased. “You don’t. You used to pretend you did. For appearances.”

You didn’t even remember that.

But Sylus did. He remembers everything. He’s constructed your new life down to the minute. You don’t have to know anything. He’s already decided what you should.

And it’s so easy to let go.

⸻

You once stood against him as a force. A powerful figure with opinions, ambitions, sharp edges. Took him a while to break you down but now you’re a perfect little thing in designer heels and soft perfume, standing half a step behind him and gripping his sleeve like a doll.

And he loves it.

“You used to challenge me,” he’ll murmur while brushing your hair, voice velvet-slick. “Now you ask me which hand to wear your rings on. How far we’ve come, my little bride.”

You’d never survive without him. Not because you couldn’t try.

But because he made sure you wouldn’t want to.

Why would you?

When Sylus gives you everything you could ever want, except freedom?

𝘾𝙖𝙡𝙚𝙗 ⋆｡ ‧˚ʚ🍎ɞ˚‧｡ ⋆

You’ve been his since you were four years old.

Even then, Caleb was the one who brushed your hair, tied your shoes, and chose which dress you wore on school days. Even when he was just six, he took responsibility for you in a way that was unnatural. Fierce. Obsessive.

So now, as his wife, you don’t lift a finger without him.

You don’t have to.

Because Caleb has spent every waking moment of his life making sure you wouldn’t know how.

⸻

You’re seated beside him in the Skyhaven Officer’s Club, plush and extravagant, your legs swinging beneath the table, perfectly dressed in the soft pearl chiffon gown he picked out for you. His gloved hand rests on your lower back, keeping you steady and close.

The menu sits untouched in front of you.

“Baby,” he says lowly, voice calm, “read it.”

You blink at him, lashes fluttering. “I don’t know what I want,” you murmur shyly, fingers twisting in your lap.

“No.” His purple eyes cut to you sharply. “You don’t make decisions. I do.” He places a single gloved hand over the menu, slowly sliding it toward himself. “But I want to see if you even remember how.”

You go quiet. Embarrassed. Eyes wide, lips slightly parted.

He stares at you for a moment longer before softening, sighing under his breath. “That’s what I thought,” he murmurs, low and satisfied.

He orders for you. Cuts your food into bites for you. Swaps your glass of water when he sees the condensation has made it too cold. When the waiter brings a side dish that has even a hint of spice, he narrows his eyes and says, “My wife doesn’t eat that. Fix it.”

And you, so sweet, so dependent, you look up at him after every bite like you want praise for just chewing. It makes his chest tighten. He lives for this.

You ask him what to wear.

You ask if it’s okay to sit on the balcony.

You even ask if you’re allowed to use the pink lipstick he bought you.

He trains you into this kind of helplessness. Not through cruelty, but through constant, overwhelming control. Quiet discipline. Every time you make a decision on your own? He gently corrects you.

“Pips, that’s not your job,” he’ll say, brushing your hair behind your ear. “Your only responsibility is to look pretty and wait for me.”

And you do. You really do.

He’s raised you into this. His good girl. His housewife. His soft little thing that wouldn’t know how to breathe without him reminding you.

And that’s exactly how he wants it.

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murmurmurl · 10 months ago

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girl who was trained to be a murder weapon but now has to work a 9 to 5

#(saffron)#this is basically what happens #shes not happy about it #murl murmurs #murls ocs #its so funny to me #youre told to kill a guy #find out hes your brother that you thought was dead and ur sister #and now you have to work at a shitty restaurant with him and his weird furry of a friend #the owner of the restaurant probably posioned someone at least a couple times

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waynes-multiverse · 3 months ago

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Florida!!!

Summary: One fishy monster hunt, one sweaty afternoon at the beach, and one innocent popsicle – Florida is fucking hell for Dean.

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Reader

Warnings: +18 language and smut in the form of dirty fantasies, severe pining, one idiot in love, humor, Florida, one popsicle, unresolved ending & feelings

Word Count: 2.8k

A/N: My entry for @chevroletdean's 500 Follower Celebration! Congrats again, lovely, and thank you so much for hosting this challenge and creating this awesome moodboard!! I was immediately inspired (and have wanted to write something set in Florida for an eternity). This was perfect and so much fun! 💛🧡🩵

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Florida can eat his ass.

Dean’s decided this at least seventeen times today. He has known this little fact since the first time he set foot here at nineteen, chasing a ghoul through backyards full of pink lawn flamingos and chainlink fences.

And Dean doesn’t mean the good kind of eating ass, either. Nope, he means the swamp-ass, sunburned, get-mauled-by-an-alligator kind.

Because no matter how pretty the scenery looks – sugar-powder beaches and sea-glass tides, slats of the boardwalk bleached bone-white under a honeyed sky – the whole damn state feels cursed.

It’s humid enough to drown standing still, and the sand sticks to everything, including parts of him he’s not ready to confront.

And between the humidity thicker than chowder and the scent of fried seafood and moldy flip-flops lingering like a bad decision, every drone-sized mosquito here is carrying at least three diseases and a vendetta. The crime rate also looks like a Mad Libs page: “Florida Man assaults alligator while wearing tutu and high on bath salts.”

It’s too hot, too wet, and too damn weird and crazy. Every breath here tastes like sweat, regret, and a hint of swamp water.

Florida’s not even a real fucking state. Can’t be.

Dean’s convinced it’s a bad trip someone had in the ‘70s that somehow got voted into the union. The sun feels less like it’s shining and more like it’s attacking. Everyone’s either a retiree, a guy named Skip with a neck tattoo of a flaming dice, or some batshit meth-head who thinks they saw Bigfoot behind the Waffle House.

Dean hates it with every fiber of his being. Florida is Satan’s back porch.

And now, thanks to a string of weird drownings at a no-name beach town outside Destin, Dean is trapped in the sweaty armpit of the country, baking alive in jeans, while trying very hard not to stare at you.

Which is impossible.

Because you’re right next to him in a little turquoise lounge chair and a skimpy bikini the color of wild citrus – or tangerine, maybe. You hum a little tune – that stupid Weezer song that only plays on the radio during summer. You kick your feet lazily in the sun, flashing him a smile so bright he’s pretty sure it could get him legally blinded.

The bikini strings are tied in neat bows at your hips, a popsicle melting bright mango-orange between your fingers, and you’re working the thing over like it owes you goddamn money with the most sinful mouth he’s ever had the misfortune of knowing.

All tanned legs and unapologetic sunshine. A vision of temptation under the molten saffron sun.

Dean sweats. Internally and externally. Better than that: He is cooked. Absolutely fried. Every casual motion of yours is branding itself into his frontal lobe forever.

Your tongue flickers out again – pink and wet and glistening – smoothing a drip from the rounded tip, completely oblivious to the fact that you’re currently starring in every X-rated daydream Dean’s ever had.

His vision whites out at the edges.

You hum absently, flipping through the manila folder in your lap. Your voice floats over, sweet as saltwater taffy. “So,” you say, casual and sunny, “are we thinking mer-creature, or like, a shapeshifter with a thing for boats and aquatic cosplay? Or what if it’s a water demon? Like a kelpie, but more murdery?”

Dean makes a strangled sound that’s supposed to be a word but comes out more like a dog’s dying whimper.

You blink at him. Tilt your head. Wait.

Dean clears his throat. “Yeah. Mer-thing. Whatever.”

“Or,” you muse aloud, tongue darting out again to lap at a drip, “maybe it’s like–… like a water wraith? Something that sucks the breath outta your lungs?”

You pop the popsicle out of your mouth with an obscene little smack. Dean’s mouth works soundlessly. Because all he can imagine is you on your knees, tongue slick against him, big eyes wide and innocent while you–

Focus, he barks at himself. For the love of fucking God, focus, Winchester.

Dean swallows hard, dragging his eyes off your mouth and back down to the battered folder in your lap.

This isn’t normal. He’s doomed. Maybe even cursed.

Yeah, that’s gotta be it. He’s probably been hit with a lust spell. Florida is full of weird shit, right? That would explain why he’s three seconds away from dropping to his knees and offering to be your loyal, desperate, sunburnt servant.

But then again, this isn’t entirely new either.

You’ve been driving him nuts for goddamn years. Laughing too loud at his dumb jokes. Sitting too close in motel beds when you both casually watch movies. Calling him Winchester in that honeyed voice that makes him feel like he’s being dared to fuck up and kiss you.

And still, he’s always been good. Good at pretending. Good at stuffing all that want somewhere deep under rib and bone and battered leather jackets.

But this? This is fucking torture. This is some bikini-clad Greek tragedy, starring one dumbass in boots on a beach who can’t stop fantasizing about licking saltwater off your thighs.

He should be thinking about the case. About that water-witch or whatever the fuck they are hunting this time. He should be thinking about hex bags and salt rounds, not about how your bikini bottoms ride up just a little when you stretch your arms over your head–

Stop it!

You lean forward to show him something on a photocopied page and tap a newspaper clipping about the latest victim – some unlucky fisherman who swore he saw a “golden-scaled woman” before getting dragged into the shallows.

But the little bow at your hip shifts, skin glinting like bronzed sugar under the clear sky. Dean makes a small, wounded noise in his throat, and his brain immediately supplies another vivid fantasy:

You perched in his lap, that bow coming untied with a lazy pull of his fingers, your thighs slick and hot against him, the ocean thundering in the tropical background while you ride him so slow it borders on a religious experience.

He blinks against the burning sun, feels himself slipping again, heat and blood rushing downward. The image hits him so hard he has to adjust himself in his jeans, subtle as a heart attack.

His dick twitches miserably.

He slouches lower, trying to think of anything not filthy – taxes, Sam’s hair care routine, the time Bobby caught him naked in the kitchen with a meatball sub – but it’s useless.

“Dean? You even listening?” you ask, laughing, poking his leg with your sandy toes.

Dean grunts something noncommittal that might be English, jaw clenched so tight he’s surprised his teeth don’t shatter. He tries to answer. Really, he does. But the words get bottlenecked behind the visual of you dragging your tongue slowly up the side of the melting treat.

You bite your lip, thoughtful, tapping the end of the popsicle stick against your mouth. “Maybe it’s something worse,” you continue. “Like a siren who doesn’t seduce you to death, just… I dunno. Sucks you off and leaves you floating.”

Dean’s soul physically leaves his body.

You tilt your head, grinning wickedly. “You want me to suck you off too, Dean?”

Time freezes. The ocean quiets. The gulls still midair. Dean’s pulse slams loud and dizzy in his ears. His world narrows to you, your suntanned legs, the glint of sea-salt crystals on your skin, your bright and glistening mango lips.

Jesus fucking Christ.

You just–

Did you–

He stares at you, mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water. “Huh? What?” he croaks, voice pitched embarrassingly high.

You blink at him, then repeat – slowly, sweetly, “I said: Should we check if it sucks the breath outta people like a leech?”

“Uh, yeah,” he croaks. “Suckin’. Life. Outta dudes. Totally.”

You stare at him a second longer, suspicious, before shrugging and going back to the file.

Dean exhales, trying to will his hard-on into submission through sheer force of shame. You’re systematically dismantling his ability to think in complete sentences. His entire brain is on fire.

His internal organs shut down one by one. He drops his head back against the lounge chair, squeezing his green eyes shut. He is too old, too tired, and too desperately in love with you for this shit.

The sun beats down, hot and merciless, painting everything in shades of clementine and burning copper. Apricot umbrellas dot the beach like slices of candy. The ocean blinks lazy and endless, a rolling quilt of bottle-green and blue-fire sapphire. Seagulls wheel overhead, shrieking insults.

Dean’s mind drifts again.

He imagines dragging you down into the frothy surf, your hands curling into his hair, your giggles swallowed by the sea.

He imagines you mouthing at his jeans, impatient and greedy, while the sun sets behind you in a tangle of electric clementine and bruised lapis skies.

He imagines you kneeling between his legs, licking a stripe up the underside of his cock like you’re taste-testing it, humming around him, sweet and filthy and happy about it.

He imagines you under the boardwalk, hips rocking against his like the waves, bikini strings snapping loose with frantic fingers.

He imagines you bent over the hood of the Impala, bikini tangled around your ankles, hands bracing against the hot metal while he rails you like a man possessed.

He imagines your thighs caging his head, that same lazy, teasing look on your face, and him savoring your taste of sugar and salt and heat, while the whole crazy, humid, goddamn state of Florida spins off its axis.

“You’re quiet,” you chirp, tossing a sideways glance at him. “Florida getting to you?”

Dean clears his throat, gruff. “Yeah. Somethin’ like that, sweetheart.”

You raise your sunglasses, peeking at him over the frames. “You know, Winchester, you’re the only guy on this beach dressed like he’s about to sell used beach towels out of the back of a van."

Dean frowns, looking down at himself: worn boots, jeans, his favorite faded black tee with a sun-bleached flannel thrown over it. Practical. Battle-tested. Entirely inappropriate for beachside Florida.

“First of all,” he says, lifting a finger, “this is classic Americana ruggedness. Chicks dig it.”

You lean your head back and laugh, all bright and cruel. “You’re sweating through your ‘Americana ruggedness.’”

Dean scowls, dripping like a busted fire hydrant. “I told you. I’m not gonna wear fucking board shorts like all the other frat boy idiots here.”

You laugh again, the sound bright as bells, and Dean’s heart trips hard enough to hurt.

“You’re gonna die of heatstroke,” you tease. “Right here. Buried in Florida sand. Some old lady’s gonna find your corpse and knit you a ‘Bless Your Heart’ sweater.”

He snorts a chuckle. “I’ll haunt this beach just to piss you off.”

“Promise?” you ask, giving him a cheeky wink.

Dean is about five minutes away from lighting himself on fire. And honestly? Florida would probably consider it normal Tuesday behavior.

Your gaze drifts out to the ocean beyond your feet and sandy calves with a blissful little sigh. “It’s kinda pretty, though, isn’t it?”

Dean looks at you – skin kissed by flame-petals and sunset sugar, hair blowing soft in the briny breeze, popsicle stick clutched between your fingers like a crime scene weapon.

Yeah. Pretty.

Pretty much the goddamn end of him.

“Victim said he saw orange,” you murmur thoughtfully. “Bright, like-… like a koi? A clownfish?”

Dean is about to make a dumb Finding Nemo joke when you lick a bead of melted popsicle off your wrist, slow and absentminded.

And all Dean wants is to dig a hole right here in the sugar-white sand and bury himself alive in this cursed, gator-infested sandpit.

“Dean?”

He snaps back to reality so hard he gets whiplash. “What?” he wheezes.

You arch an eyebrow. “I said, should we check the tide charts? Maybe the creature only comes out during low tide.”

Dean coughs into his fist, face hotter than the sun overhead. “Uh, sure. Tide charts. Definitely. Research.”

But all he can think about is those legs locked around his waist, sand clinging to your thighs as he fucks you into the waves. You moaning into his neck, salty and sweet, fingers yanking at his shirt like you can’t stand to have him dressed another second.

You nibble at the edge of the popsicle, teeth scraping the melting mango sheen, and Dean watches helplessly as a single sticky bead runs down your wrist.

He fantasizes about leaning over, licking it off your skin, trailing his mouth up your arm to your shoulder, your throat, your mouth. He imagines you gasping against him, laughing breathless.

He fantasizes about hauling you out of that chair and onto his lap, mouth on yours, sticky hands sliding under the knot of your bikini top, tugging until you’re bared for him and only him, sunshine turning your skin to gold, and–

Greatly frustrated, Dean runs a hand down his freckled face. Why the fuck can’t he bring himself to stop? You’re unraveling him atom by atom.

But then, the fucking frozen treat drips again, and you lean forward to catch it with your mouth, lips wrapping tight around the end. Dean watches you hollow your cheeks slightly when you suck, head tilted thoughtfully like you’re considering footnotes and not absolutely wrecking his entire being. You pull the melting syrup back again with a soft, wet pop.

At this point, he wants to fucking throw himself into the ocean and let the sharks tear him apart like Hellhounds. He’s pretty sure his soul leaves his body, too.

He grips the arms of his chair so hard they creak in protest, knuckles turning white as he’s trying to tether himself to reality and not his fantasies.

Florida is hell.

You are hell.

And he’s a good man being punished for crimes he hasn’t even committed yet.

Dean shifts in his chair, crossing one leg over the other like that’ll hide the state of emergency going on in his jeans. He’s surprised no one here has asked any questions yet or called fucking 911.

Meanwhile, the world keeps spinning. The ocean rolls in lazy, glassy sheets of turquoise and teal. The sun licks liquid gold down your shoulders. The salt air curls the loose strands of your hair into a halo. And Dean – miserable, desperate, wildly in love – watches you polish off the last inch of your popsicle, tongue flicking the stick clean.

“Earth to Dean,” you sing-song, waving a hand in front of his face and kicking sand lightly at his boots.

Dean jerks back into consciousness. “Yeah?”

“Should we check out the marina witnesses after this?” you ask, tossing your popsicle stick into the trash bucket next to your chair.

Before he can say something catastrophic (like “Marry me right now” or “Please put your mouth on me, I'm begging”), Sam comes jogging up the beach, waving his phone like a savior in flannel.

“Got a lead! Marina worker said he saw something with gills and claws dragging people under.”

Dean launches out of his chair like his ass is on fire. A man escaping execution.

“Awesome. Let’s roll!” he barks, voice too loud and way too eager.

You tuck your notes into your beach bag and sling it over your shoulder, grinning wide and bright as the sunset. The same grin that ruined him long before the bikini did.

You hop up beside him, laughing, brushing sand off your thighs with maddening slow sweeps, and Dean bites back a groan so hard it nearly gives him a hernia.

“You sure you’re okay, Winchester?” you ask, teasing. “You looked like you were about to pass out there for a second.”

“I’m great,” Dean lies, voice strangled, letting the sun melt him into roadkill. “Peachy.”

“You sure? Seriously, you’re a walking heatstroke PSA,” you quip, hip-bumping him lightly as you fall into step beside him.

Dean coughs. “'M fine, sweetheart. Just… dehydration. And Florida. And mermaid murder.”

As you brush past him, the smell of your sunscreen and coconut shampoo punch him square in the gut. Dean follows, trying very, very hard not to watch the way your hips sway like you own the whole damn coastline.

He thinks about how easy it would be to slip his arm around your waist, how natural it would feel to lean in, to kiss you like he’s wanted to for years. Instead, he shoves his hands deep into his jeans pockets and marches grimly through the sand, already planning a quick, ice-cold shower and about eight beers after this job’s done.

Yeah, Florida is one hell of a drug, but you’re the one that fucked him up.

Okay, I may have had way too much fun with torturing Dean here. Forgive me, guys 😂☀️🏝️

Hope you enjoyed this one! 🩵

Tag List Pt. 1:

@alwaystiredandconfused @xlynnbbyx @lyarr24 @deans-spinster-witch @blackcherrywhiskey

@deansbbyx @foxyjwls007 @ladysparkles78 @roseblue373 @zepskies

@agalliasi @yvonneeeee @hobby27 @iamsapphine @globetrotter28

@lori19 @lacilou @feyresqueen @suckitands33 @onlyangel-444

@syrma-sensei @perpetualabsurdity @yoobusgoobus @jessjad @dayhsdreaming

@hunter-or-the-hunted @k-slla @just-levyy @mrsjenniferwinchester @illicithallways

@muhahaha303 @ultimatecin73 @nancymcl @leigh70 @brightlilith

@nesnejwritings @samslvrgirl @xx-spooky-little-vampire-xx @fromcaintodean @barewithme02

@impala67rollingthroughtown @star-yawnznn @spnaquakindgdom @thej2report @americanvenom13

@lamentationsofalonelypotato @supernotnatural2005 @stoneyggirl2 @kr804573 @m0e0v0v

#chevroletdean's 500 #writing challenge #florida!!!#dean winchester #dean winchester x reader #dean winchester x you #dean winchester x female reader #dean winchester smut #dean winchester fanfiction #dean winchester fic #dean winchester fanfic #dean winchester reader insert #supernatural #supernatural fanfiction #spn #jensen ackles #jensen fucking ackles #jackles

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aleksatia · 4 months ago

Text

🎨Blind date with your ex-husband. You never expected it to be… Rafayel.

Inspiration hit me going 100mph down the highway, and I took an unscheduled gas station stop just to write this down. My husband almost divorced me again thinking I’d lost my mind — so in a way, this series is dedicated to him. And to second chances. I know they exist. I’ve lived one. 🥀

An unplanned new series. Five ex-husbands. Same setup, different reactions.

❄️ Zayne | 🏍 Sylus | ✨Xavier | 🍎 Caleb

CW/TW: Divorce / Post-divorce emotional trauma, Toxic romantic cycles, Verbal conflict / emotional manipulation, High emotional volatility, Crying / vulnerability, Jealousy, Theatrical intensity, Implied sexual content (consensual, emotionally charged), References to artistic obsession, Codependency themes.

Pairing: Rafayel x ex-wife!you Genre: Operatic angst, sensory overload, intimacy tangled in art and argument. Enemies to lovers to something mythic and broken. Summary: Rafayel was always too much — too vivid, too loud, too in love with the idea of being in love. Now, in a room made of silk and memory, you’re forced to confront the passion that nearly devoured you both. What begins with masks ends in scorched truths, spilled wine, and a kiss that remembers every wound it ever caused. Word Count: 3.6K

The room was a mirage made of silk.

Blue and amber fabrics swayed gently overhead, catching the glow of hanging lanterns that burned like slow, ancient stars. Patterns scattered across the floor like constellations, stitched from shadow and gold. The air pulsed with warmth, scented with saffron, cardamom, rosewater, and smoke — something too heady to be real.

A low table stood in the center, set for two. Carved brass, aged like a secret. Cushions instead of chairs. A bowl of candied figs. Crystal glasses half-filled with something rich and ambered, already beading condensation in the heat.

The music played softly, something stringed and spiraling, full of bends and minor keys. It didn’t fill the space — it wrapped it. Like a whisper over skin.

You sat with your hands folded in your lap, heart steady, but only just. Something about the room felt dangerous. Not overtly. But the kind of danger that came wrapped in silk and compliments. The kind you didn’t notice until it was inside you, changing your breath.

Then the curtain stirred.

A figure stepped through the veil — tall, lithe, draped in pale fabrics that shimmered like wet paint. A mask covered the upper half of his face: smooth silver, delicate scrollwork, slightly fox-shaped. His hair was dark — maybe lavender? — but the lighting played tricks, casting halos where none should exist.

He moved with a liquid elegance that set your nerves on edge. Not performance. Presence.

And something in your chest twitched.

He sat across from you without hesitation, folding into the cushions like the air had made room for him. One ringed hand toyed with the stem of his glass. He hadn’t looked at you fully yet, but even the curve of his jaw behind the mask felt… familiar in a way you didn’t want to name.

You watched him watching the room.

The shape of his throat. The line of his wrists. The quiet, performative grace of someone used to being looked at — and loving it.

Your stomach turned, slowly.

Then he looked at you. Just briefly.

And smiled.

The candlelight caught in his eyes — unnaturally pale, a hue caught somewhere between rose and seafoam. Impossible. Stunning.

Your pulse skipped. Once. Hard.

No.

No, no, no—

Too dark. Too hazy. Too many fragrances in the air. That’s all this was. A trick of the senses. A trick of memory.

And then—

He spoke.

“Let me guess,” he said, voice smooth as velvet over glass, warm and slow and theatrical. “You’re the one they warned me about.”

Your throat tightened.

No name. No gesture. But your skin recoiled like it had just touched flame.

You made yourself breathe. Spoke without thinking. “Depends. What was the warning?”

He tilted his head slightly, like he’d heard something inside your voice that he didn’t expect.

“That I’d end the evening ruined.”

Your fingers curled in your lap.

That voice. You hadn’t heard it in almost a year. But your bones remembered.

Still — you didn’t move. You didn’t give him the satisfaction of recognition.

He poured the drink anyway. Fluid, slow, luxurious. Passed the glass across the table with the same fingers that once traced poems into your shoulder blades at dawn.

No. Don’t go there.

“Drink,” he said, watching you now. “It makes the disappointment more beautiful.”

The room shifted with the sound of his voice, like the silk overhead had caught its breath. One of the lanterns flickered. The scent of rose and something darker curled tighter around your ankles.

You didn’t touch your glass.

“Disappointment implies expectation,” you said. “You always did mistake fantasy for reality.”

He smiled — sharp and amused, like you’d stepped into a trap he’d laid years ago. “Still fluent in cruelty, I see. Good. I was afraid domesticity might’ve tamed you.”

You reached for the glass then, just to keep your hand busy. “And I see you’re still confusing cleverness with depth.”

The flicker in his eyes was almost too fast to catch.

You took a sip. The drink was sharp, floral, and laced with something decadent.

He was watching you. Not politely. Not appreciatively. Like a man trying to decide whether to paint you or burn the memory of you from his mind entirely.

“I should’ve known it was you,” you said finally, setting the glass down with a deliberate clink. “All this silk and smoke? Feels like the opening act of one of your breakdowns.”

He smirked. “Then you should’ve checked under the cushions for a script.” A beat. “Though if anyone here’s performing,” he added, “it’s not me this time.”

That got a laugh out of you. Low, involuntary. Dangerous.

“God,” you said. “You’re exhausting.”

He lifted his glass again, gaze steady over the rim.

“And yet someone out there thought we’d make a charming pair.”

A pause.

“Statistically improbable,” he added. “But then again, so were we.”

The silk walls shifted faintly in the breeze of the central fan, as if the whole room leaned in.

You tilted your head. “They said this was a blind date. I didn’t realize they meant blind in the Biblical sense.”

“Ah.” He leaned back. “There’s the sermon I missed. Tell me, do you rehearse those in the mirror, or do they just fall out of you naturally?”

“You want natural?” you asked, voice cool. “Then take off the mask.”

He didn’t move. So you did it first.

The mask slid away with a soft hiss of fabric. You held his gaze, daring him to flinch, to breathe, to blink.

He didn’t.

Instead, after a beat, he reached up and peeled his own mask off — slow, like undressing a wound.

And there he was.

Exactly as you’d known he’d be. Beautiful in that way that always made you want to hurt something. Or kiss him just to feel how much it would cost.

His expression flickered when he saw your face.

“I thought you’d look different,” he said.

“I thought you’d grow up.”

That wiped the smirk right off his mouth.

For half a second, he looked like the boy who’d once painted your collarbone in gold leaf just because he could.

Then it was gone.

“You know,” he said, gaze dropping to your mouth, “for someone who always wanted peace, you start fights like it’s foreplay.”

You leaned forward slightly. “And for someone who always wanted to be adored, you sure made yourself easy to leave.”

Rafayel’s smile didn’t falter. But it sharpened — fractionally. Like the curve of a blade when it catches the light.

“Maybe,” he said softly, “I didn’t want you to stay.”

The words landed like silk draped over broken glass.

You blinked once. Then twice. Then let out a low breath of laughter — measured, dangerous, devastating.

“Oh, darling,” you said, tilting your head, “you always were such a convincing actor. Shame the role of coward never quite won you any standing ovations.”

He chuckled. “Coward?” he echoed, voice rich with amusement. “From you, that’s practically a love letter.”

You leaned back slightly, the candlelight catching the glint in your eyes.

“No, love letters require vulnerability. You wouldn’t recognize one if it was monogrammed and hand-delivered on rose petals.”

He lifted his glass in a mock-toast, eyes never leaving yours. “To you. The only woman who ever left a man mid-soliloquy and still expected an encore.”

You clinked your own glass to his with a smile that could’ve slit a throat. “To you. The man who wrote odes to my shadow but never once looked me in the eye long enough to know my shape.”

He laughed. You hated how beautiful the sound still was.

There was a pause, charged and theatrical, like the air had leaned forward on cue.

“And yet,” he said, swirling the drink in his glass, “you sat across from me. Masked. Unapologetically luminous. Like a challenge waiting to happen.”

“I was aiming for quiet mystery,” you replied, raising your glass. “But I suppose provocation always did look better on me.”

He leaned forward, close enough now for the scent of rose to cling between you.

“Then let’s drink,” he said, “to what we ruined so beautifully.”

You raised your glass. He raised his. Both smiles intact.

“To mistakes,” you said.

“To masterpieces,” he replied, then added, with a flick of his lashes, “—that deserved better muses.”

And that was it. Your hand moved before you thought.

You didn’t throw the wine.

You grabbed the wrong glass — the other one — and without hesitation, flung the contents at him.

It was tea. Very hot tea.

There was a stunned half-second as the amber liquid splashed across the front of his perfect, pale shirt — followed by a sharp inhale through his teeth.

He hissed softly, setting the glass down with a slow, deliberate clink. Then — without hesitation — he pulled the shirt over his head.

The fabric stuck to him slightly, steam curling off his chest like the room itself was reacting. His skin caught the lantern-light like marble dusted in firelight — golden, sharp-lined, impossible.

You stared.

Unfortunately.

He ran a hand through his damp hair, exhaling. “Always dramatic, aren’t you?”

“You deserved it,” you snapped. “And more.”

“More?” He stepped closer. “You always did like escalation. Tell me — should I throw a fig at your face? Or set something expensive on fire?”

You crossed your arms, not trusting your breath. “You’d enjoy that too much.”

“Because it’s the only language you speak!” he shot back. “Break it. Burn it. Drown it. But for God’s sake, don’t sit still and talk like a human being.”

You laughed, bitter and breathless. “That’s rich. Coming from you.”

He gestured wildly. “I begged you to stay! I begged you with everything but the word!”

“That was the problem,” you said, eyes burning now. “You gave me poetry when I needed something real. Something steady. Not ten thousand metaphors and a gallery of regrets.”

His jaw clenched.

“And now,” you said, voice cracking just enough to give it teeth, “you say I wasn’t enough of a muse. Well—”

You stood suddenly, movement sharp, breath shaking as your body tried to hold the rest in.

“—maybe you should’ve picked a prettier tragedy.”

You turned away, shoulders tight and trembling.

He froze.

Your back was to him now, and thank God, because your throat was tight, and your hands were shaking and that single line — that stupid, perfect insult about your worth — cut deeper than it should have.

You felt it first. His presence.

Then the heat of him, close, pressing in without touching.

And then — his arms wrapped around you from behind. One quick, quiet motion. Not forceful. Desperate.

He pulled you against him, bare skin warm and still faintly damp from the tea.

His nose buried in your hair. His breath unsteady.

“I didn’t mean it,” he whispered.

Your breath caught.

“I didn’t mean it,” he repeated.“God, I didn’t— You know I say things when I’m scared. And you looked like you were about to walk away all over again.”

You didn’t answer.

So he tightened his hold.

“I’m sorry,” he said, softer now. “I’m sorry I made you think you weren’t everything. I’m sorry I hurt you to feel less hurt myself. I’m sorry I used my mouth to ruin what it was made to worship.”

You closed your eyes.

His voice cracked on the last word.

“I never wanted anyone better,” he whispered. “I only ever wanted more time with you.”

You turned in his arms with a suddenness that surprised even you.

You meant to push him away. You meant to say don’t, to reclaim your anger before it crumbled. But your hands — traitors — only reached his chest and stayed there, limp. Useless. Pressed against his bare skin like they belonged.

He covered them with his own.

Not roughly. Not to keep you there. But to hold the contact steady — as if you might dissolve if he let go.

The heat of him burned through your palms. Steady. Alive. Too much.

You wanted to scream. You wanted to fold into him and scream into his collarbone.

Instead, you whispered, “How did we get here?”

His breath hitched.

“I loved you,” you said. “You loved me. And somehow we became this—” your voice broke, “—this shipwreck of a marriage. What happened to us, Raf?”

He didn’t answer right away.

So you filled the silence with everything your mouth had been holding for too long.

“It used to be magic,” you said, eyes wet now, but you wouldn’t let them fall. “God, we were light. We were gold. You made me feel like I was flying. And then one day, it was like we couldn’t breathe unless we were screaming.”

He said your name. Just once.

Low. Like an apology wrapped in prayer.

You kept going.

“Why did it turn into a stage? When did our home become a theater and our life some broken play where we both forgot our lines? I didn’t want to be a performance, Raf. I wanted to be real.”

He slid one hand up your back, slow, careful. As if you might break from anything more sudden.

“I know,” he murmured. “I know.”

“I didn’t recognize us anymore,” you said, the words trembling. “All we did was throw paint. Emotions. Blame. Color, color, color, until we drowned in it. Until we forgot what normal even meant.”

He leaned his forehead to yours, his breath catching against your cheek. And when he spoke, his voice had changed. Quieter. Lower. Without the velvet and dramatics. Just him.

“I was scared,” he said.

You blinked.

“I was scared,” he repeated. “That if things slowed down — if we got too quiet, too normal — you’d leave. That you’d realize I wasn’t enough without the chaos. Without the fire.”

You stared at him. Your hands still pressed to his chest. You could feel the way his heartbeat stumbled.

“So I gave you fire,” he said. “I gave you storms. I made our life… louder, because silence felt like death.”

“And I left anyway,” you said.

“Because I set the house on fire and expected you to dance in it.”

You closed your eyes. His words were knives. But so was your silence.

“There was jealousy,” you murmured. “And guilt. And all your little accusations when I was too tired to match your flame.”

He swallowed hard.

“You were angry when I fell asleep during your gallery story,” you added. “But I’d just come home from a mission. I’d spent five hours knee-deep in wanderers and blood and—” you exhaled, “—I needed sleep, Raf. Not a performance.”

He didn’t interrupt.

“I needed rest,” you said. “And all I got was another curtain call.”

He looked ruined. Not fragile. Not shattered. Just exhausted from pretending not to be.

“I was so afraid of losing you,” he said. “So I smothered you with everything I thought would make you stay.”

You looked at him — really looked — and something inside you cracked down the center.

And still, part of you whispered: It might not be enough.

Rafayel tensed — just a little. The shift of a shoulder, the pause in his fingers at your back.

“Did you come here,” he asked, voice low and almost too careful, “because you’re ready to move on?”

You smiled, slow and sly. Not to tease, but to veil the flicker of something softer.

“Maybe my life’s been too normal lately. Too gray.” You leaned the smallest bit closer, letting your cheek rest against his bare chest. “I needed a little danger again. And you?”

His heart responded beneath your skin.

He chuckled, brushing his knuckles lightly down your spine. “I could say I was looking for an exotic muse to paint. Something with cheekbones sharp enough to draw blood and an aura of doomed seduction.”

You huffed a laugh against his skin. “That would’ve been a very you thing to say.”

“But the truth,” he murmured, “is boring. Thomas set me up. Said he registered, got sick, and that some poor woman would be stuck alone unless I stepped in. He was very dramatic about it.”

You tilted your head back to look at him, eyes narrowing. “Tara pulled the same trick on me.”

“Ah.” His lips quirked. “Coordinated sabotage. Typical.”

A moment passed, heavy in the hush. You hadn’t meant to relax like this, but here you were — cheek to his chest, listening to the rhythm of a heart that had once been your home. And still was, apparently. Because everything inside you had gone soft, slow, steady.

It felt like something had clicked back into place. Like a missing tile in a mosaic suddenly slotted home and made the whole thing whole again.

Your voice, when it came, was quieter. Uncertain. Honest.

“Raf… why did you sign the divorce papers?”

He didn’t answer at first. His fingers moved gently through your hair, brushing behind your ear. When he finally spoke, his voice had dropped into something rawer.

“Because I respect your decisions. Even when I didn’t agree with them.”

You looked up, eyes burning.

“I wanted you to be happy,” he continued. “Even if it meant watching you bloom from the sidelines. Watching you learn how to smile again without me in the frame.” He swallowed. “Are you happy?”

You hesitated. But the answer was already rising, uninvited.

“No,” you said. “The world turned grayscale. It’s like I’m walking through some awful dystopia with clean counters and dry eyes. Everything works. Nothing shines.”

He exhaled, long and low. His arms tightened around you, fingers threading into your hair, grounding you in scent and heat and skin.

“Cutie,” he murmured, voice close, mouth brushing your temple, “just say the word. I’ll paint the colors back in.”

“I’m afraid,” you admitted. “Still. Afraid to go blind from too much kaleidoscope.”

“I won’t lie,” he whispered. “I can’t promise restraint. I might always be a little too loud. A little too much. But I can give you something else now. Balance. Space. Stability. Peace, if you’ll have it.”

You searched his eyes.

He added, “Only if you’re ready. If you want to let me back in.”

“I never really closed the door,” you said. “Just stood behind it. Waiting.”

And that broke whatever spell held you still.

He kissed you.

Not hurried, not frantic — just whole. His mouth claimed yours like it had a right to, but still asked permission with every slow pull of lips, every breath passed between you.

You pressed into him, fingers curling at the base of his neck. His hand splayed across your lower back, warm and deliberate, guiding without demand.

He leaned into the cushions with you, dragging you down into silk and shadow, his mouth never leaving yours.

The taste of saffron and heat and memory filled you.

He kissed you the way people wrote arias — rising, falling, trembling with feeling too big for language. His tongue brushed yours gently at first, then deeper, hungrier, as if your mouth were the only place he could breathe.

You moaned softly against him, and he swallowed the sound, pulling you closer. Your legs tangled. His hand slipped beneath the hem of your dress, fingers grazing your thigh with aching reverence.

You moved like tide against him — hungry and fluid.

The lanterns swayed above. The cushions sighed beneath you. One of the glasses tipped over with a soft thud, spilling rose-colored wine that neither of you noticed.

His lips trailed down your jaw, to your throat, where he lingered, breathing you in like incense.

“You still taste like paradise,” he whispered.

And when he looked up again, your hair tangled in his fingers, your body flushed and pliant against his — you knew.

There was nothing gray left between you.

Only color. Only fire. Only Rafayel.

Your body answered his touch like it had been waiting a lifetime. Hot, eager, instinctive. Every stroke of his fingers sent sparks down your spine. Every kiss — soft or sharp — undid you a little more.

The silk beneath you could’ve caught fire from the heat you were building between each other.

His hands roamed without hesitation, without apology — palming, stroking, gripping — sometimes tender, sometimes greedy. Your back arched into him, chasing the sensations, chasing the memory of what it felt like to simply be wanted like this. Loved like this. By him.

His mouth found your throat. Then lower. His tongue trailed over skin like it was sacred. When his lips closed around your nipple, firm and aching, you whimpered — low and breathless — and pulled him closer, nails raking his back.

He groaned into your skin, and you swore your entire body melted into flame.

You didn’t want to stop. You didn’t want him to stop.

But then—

A soft, mechanical chime broke through the haze. Gentle. Too real.

The signal. The end of the hour.

You froze. So did he. Still hovering over you, still half-undressed, still hard and pulsing between your thighs.

You looked up at him, breathless.

He was watching you like the world might end if you looked away first.

“Do you regret it?” he asked, voice roughened by want.

You shook your head, smiling softly despite the ache in your chest. “No. Do you?”

His mouth quirked — cocky, fond, feral.

“Do you even have to ask?” he murmured, then rocked his hips forward just enough for you to feel the full weight of him, hard and ready. “Does that feel like regret to you?”

Your breath caught.

“I could steal you for the rest of the night,” he whispered, voice low and wicked, like a shared sin.

You grinned up at him, hand sliding into his hair. “You could steal me for the rest of my life.”

He growled — quiet and deep in his chest.

“We’ll see what you say tomorrow morning,” he muttered, brushing his lips along your jaw, “when you can’t walk straight or remember how to say no.”

You bit his bottom lip, teasing.

“Do you even know what moderation is?”

His eyes darkened with something hungry, reverent, unstoppable.

“Only in everything except how much I love you.”

And this time — when he kissed you — it wasn’t a performance. It wasn’t memory. It was home.

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himasgod · 3 months ago

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Hi!

How are you? I hope you're okay. Well, this is the first time I've asked you for something, so I hope I'm doing the right thing… Anyways.

How about a story where the only way to Yuu/reader's heart is through food, but not just any kind of food, but homemade food, not fast food, not restaurant food, just homemade food? Imagine the boys discovering, either through a casual conversation with the reader or through Grim, that the only way to your heart is through food, because, for you, food represents a form of love, one in which feelings and emotions come out transparently and sincerely.

This story could be for both dorms and overblot + kalim, just thinking about the food the boys will prepare makes me hungry.

I hope my request didn't bother you, and I apologize for any spelling errors. Have a nice day/afternoon/evening.

Bye!

OVERBLOTS + KALIM X READER

Where they find out that the way to your heart is through home-cooked food.

When he hears from Kalim—loudly—that the only way to your heart is through homemade food, Jamil nearly drops his spoon.

"What? Yuu likes homemade food? Like, emotionally likes it?? Like—falling in love likes it??"

He wants to scream. Because food is his thing. Cooking is his chore, his comfort, his language—but he’s never done it for love. Always for duty. Always because someone expected it.

Now, the idea that you’d cherish a meal he made with intention—just for you—makes his heart skip a beat and his stomach twist.

So he stays up late one night in the Scarabia kitchen, making a dish his father once made for his mother during festival season: stuffed vine leaves with lemon, turmeric rice, and sweet tahini-drizzled dates.

The moment he places it in front of you, he does not meet your eyes.

“This isn’t a big deal,” he mutters. “It’s just something I made. You can throw it out if it’s not your taste.”

But then you try it. And close your eyes. And smile.

“This tastes like someone missed me before I even left.”

Jamil stops.

You look up at him gently. “Did you make this with your heart?”

His voice is low. Raw. “…I don’t know how to make it any other way.”

Malleus doesn’t understand at first.

“You prefer homemade food… over grand feasts? Even over royal delicacies?”

You nod. “Because homemade food carries emotion. If someone makes something with love, you can feel it in the taste. It tells you you’re cared for.”

Malleus becomes quiet after that. Thoughtful.

That night, he visits Lilia.

“…May I ask you to teach me to cook something… simple?”

The next few nights are a saga. Things are burned. The Diasomnnia kitchen is almost destroyed. Sebek has a meltdown. But Malleus persists.

Eventually, he brings you a single, quiet offering: a small bowl of barley porridge sweetened with honey and fruits—a common fae breakfast.

“It was my mother’s favorite,” he says softly. “Lilia told me she usually made it, once, before she… before the end. I’ve never tasted it. Until now.”

You sip the warm spoonful, and your throat closes up with feeling.

“Malleus,” you whisper, voice trembling, “this… is beautiful.”

His gaze softens—more tender than you’ve ever seen it.

“If food is a way to your heart, then allow me to offer mine first. One dish at a time.”

“Oh! You like homemade food? THAT’S AMAZING!! I love making food for people!!”

Kalim’s the one who runs full speed toward your love language without hesitation. He doesn’t even blink. His whole soul lights up with the idea of cooking for you—not because it’s a strategy, but because it’s pure joy.

He shows up the next day with a whole spread: lamb biryani, stuffed flatbreads, saffron rice with raisins, and a homemade rosewater dessert. Everything’s hand-cooked with a little too much enthusiasm and not enough restraint (he may have set off the dorm smoke alarms three times).

He watches you dig in like it’s the best moment of his entire life.

“You actually like it?!”

“It’s… incredible,” you say between bites. “Wait, did you make all this yourself?”

“I had some help from Jamil, but I really tried to do the important parts!” He leans in, grinning. “I wanted you to know I care. With every bite.”

You're about to respond when he just blurts out: “I’d cook for you every day forever if you let me!”

You choke. Grim laughs. Kalim beams. Jamil sighs in the background.

He panics. Absolutely loses it when he hears from Grim that you only open up to people who feed you something homemade.

"They must be joking—homemade, here, in NRC? That’s entirely unsanitary without proper kitchen regulations! You can’t just cook anything—"

He gets flustered. Because what if you don’t like his food? What if it’s improper? What if it has a lot of sugar?

Lots of sugar...

But you mention once, offhandedly, that your favorite kind of food is when someone makes something they ate growing up. A comfort dish. Something from childhood. And that makes Riddle think of strawberry tarts. Before everything changed.

So he makes you one. Follows the old recipe not from his mother’s strict cookbook, but from memory.

When he hands it to you, it’s in a porcelain dish with little red ribbon tied around it.

He doesn’t look at you directly when you taste it. But your eyes light up, and your expression softens, and Riddle feels something in his chest crack wide open.

“You made this just for me?”

“…Yes. I thought… well, if it’s your love language, then it should be done right, shouldn’t it?”

And suddenly, he’s not as scared of breaking the rules as he used to be—at least, not if it means winning your heart.

Internal screaming.

He overhears it from Ortho, who cheerfully tells him, “Yuu says food is their love language! Homemade food especially! You should make them something!”

SYSTEM ERROR: PANIC MODE ACTIVATED

“ME?! Cook?! Are you trying to make me perish in fire and humiliation?!”

Idia spends three days researching recipes on deep cooking forums and “how to not burn your dorm down”.

He programs a tiny kitchen assistant bot. He tries and fails to make something edible five times.

But eventually… he remembers a meal he used to eat: miso-butter ramen with soft egg and nori strips. Something warm and soft and kind. So he makes it. Shaking the whole time. Heart racing.

He doesn’t give it to you in person. He leaves it outside your door in a sleek bento box with an embarrassed little note:

“⚠️ WARNING: Contains feelings. Eat at your own risk. Is this too much cringe?–Idia”

You eat it. It’s clumsy but perfect. And you text him one word after:

“Home. <3”

He doesn't respond for a full ten minutes because he’s lying on the floor having a full-blown meltdown—but it’s the good kind.

Later that night, you find a pixel heart flashing on your phone.

You say homemade food equals love, and Vil hears:

“If it’s made with thought, emotion, and care… that’s what matters to me most.”

At first, he’s horrified. Not because he disagrees—but because he's never allowed himself to cook anything imperfect. For Vil, food is calories, presentation, discipline. Feelings? That’s… far too vulnerable.

But then he sees you. The way your whole face lights up when Grim gives you a sloppy sandwich he threw together with help from Trey. The little smile you get when someone talks about their family recipe.

He starts thinking: Have I ever cooked for someone without a camera crew or an aesthetic in mind?

So he visits Epel’s family cookbook. He goes rustic. Unpolished. Just him. He tries to recreate something his father made for him when he was young and sick: potato soup with dill and cream.

When he brings it to you, it’s in a plain ceramic bowl. No garnish. No edible flowers.

He clears his throat. “It’s… not glamorous. But it’s mine.”

You take one spoonful and exhale like you’re home.

“Vil,” you murmur, eyes shining, “this tastes like someone wanted me to feel safe.”

He’s silent for a long time before saying softly, “That’s exactly why I made it.”

At first? He scoffs. "Tch. Food? That's easy." But when you clarify—not takeout, not dining hall food, definitely not something a servant made—his expression falters.

“Homemade food,” you say quietly one afternoon, helping Grim finish his bowl of stew. “You can tell when someone put care into something. It’s… honest.”

Leona doesn’t say much in response. But that night, he sits awake in the botanical garden, tail flicking. The next few days, he’s just gone. Vanished between classes. Ruggie says he’s been in the kitchen wing of the dorms. That’s weird. No one ever uses those.

Eventually, he shows up with something in a wrapped container. It smells like a dish from the Sunset Savanna— stew, if you're not mistaken.

Leona thrusts it toward you. “Here. Eat it. Or don’t. I don’t care.”

But he watches. He definitely cares. You taste it. It’s a little salty, a little smoky. The meat’s tender. The spices are strong but familiar. It’s clearly not professional quality—but it’s his. You glance at him, and for once, he doesn’t look smug. He looks nervous.

“It’s… perfect,” you say softly. “You made this?”

Leona shrugs, ears twitching. “Told ya. Easy.”

But the smile tugging at the corners of his lips gives him away.

Azul takes this personally. He prides himself on having everything—the Mostro Lounge, the service, the charm, the business sense. And yet, you don't fall for any of that?

“Oh no, no. They want homemade food? I can do that,” he mutters, spiraling into business-planning mode.

At first, he thinks he can buy it. Hire a good chef to cook in the Lounge’s back kitchen. But when he tests the idea with you, you immediately frown.

“…Did you make this?”

Azul’s face freezes.

“Homemade means from the heart, Azul.”

The next time he tries, he doesn’t tell you. But he spends hours in the kitchen, burning his fingers, cursing the oven, covered in flour. Jade walks in, offers to help. Azul glares. “This is something I need to do myself.”

Eventually, he presents you with a beautifully imperfect serving of seaweed soup and grilled rootfish—a Coral Sea traditional dish.

“It was something my grandmother used to make,” he says softly, hands trembling as you take a spoonful.

You blink, surprised. “It tastes like the ocean. But… comforting.”

Azul exhales, suddenly sheepish. “That’s exactly what she used to say.”

You smile, eyes warm. “Thank you. This means more than you know.”

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