#she barks in baritone

[thechekhov]

this one goes out to everyone who has an M sized dog with an L sized bark.

[gaysindistress]

Things Simon Riley says

Masterlist

Nothing.

This man is silent all of the time.

It’s unsettling.

You almost think he’s mute because of how eerily silent he is literally all of the time.

(You had also thought he was deaf so you attempted to sign really badly and John lost his shit laughing. “He can hear just fine love. He’s just an arsehole.”)

John is your personal translator for the first few months and can somehow read Simon’s expressions while you slowly figure it out.

Which leads to the first time he does speak around you.

Simon, his voice hoarse and low from no use, greeting you for the first time as he walks into John’s house, “good ta see ya.”

Simon shaking his head and chuckling at your wide and startled eyes.

Simon slowly saying more and more to you, sometimes it’s a simple, “how are ya today?” and other times it’s your name in that baritone gruff voice that heats up your face.

Simon grumbling at Johnny when he attempts to sit beside you at dinner one night, “no, move.”

Simon glaring at him and uttering the simple two words again.

Simon quietly saying, “food’s good,” to you as you all finish your meal and you nearly choke on your food thanking him.

Simon correctly the guys when they refer to you as ‘John’s neighbor’, “she’s got a name. Use it.”

Simon barking out, “10 more laps for that shit” when they’re all doing PT and Johnny pops off about how he might ask out “John’s cute little neighbor.”

Simon sending you a text one day that reads “dinner tonight? I’ll cook.”

Simon making causal conversation as he methodically prepares ramen for you two, the hulking man taking up your entire kitchen, “How long ‘ave ya lived here?”

Simon blocking you entering the kitchen when you try to clean up with a stern , “no sit down and eat. I cooked so I’ll clean up.”

Simon keeping your weekly dinners up for months until he has to go on a mission and before he leaves the last time, he places a kiss on the corner of your lips while whispering “I’ll be back. 6 months tops. Take pictures of everything you make and we’ll make together when I get back.”

[bullet-prooflove]

Little John: John Carter x Reader (ER)

Tagging: @kmc1989

Summary: You try to keep John's mind off the task at hand.

Empathy is John’s superpower, you see it in the way he is with Mary Cartwright. How he sits with her, sings with her. The two of them together, it’s harmony, a balance of baritone and perfect pitch.

“You sung acapella in college didn’t you?” You remark later on when he’s laying back on a gurney, his arm flung over his eyes and a flush creeping across his cheeks because he’s naked waist down in front of you for the first time.

“You can tell that from looking at my dick?” He mumbles, his teeth grinding together as he feels the swab around the area he really does not want a swab. 

“I could tell from the fact you knew all the lyrics to Glenn Miller.” You inform him, mentally counting each twist so his attention stays firmly fixed on your words. “I do approve of Ella Fitzgerald though.”

“It’s a pity she stopped preforming last year otherwise I could have got you tickets-” He hisses through his teeth as you withdraw the swab before placing it inside the sterilised tube to go up to the lab.

“All done now.” You say kindly, turning your back so he can redress. “I’m guessing the burning sensation was courtesy of Liz.”

“Yeah.” He says quietly, fabric rustling as he pushes himself off the gurney. “I should of known better but no one wants to date a third year med student with no life.”

“Tell me about it.” You respond, writing his details on the tube with the ballpoint pen you keep in your top pocket at all times. “I would have thought they’d come running at you though, you’re handsome, rich, you even look good in those ridiculous suspenders of yours.”

He barks out a laugh as he tugs them up over his shoulders, using his palm to smooth them over his chest.

“I think they make me look distinguished.” He tells you as you turn around to face him with a sample bottle in your hand. He takes it from you, tucking it into his pocket for when he needs to use the bathroom.

“They make me wanna do this.” You say, hooking your finger underneath one and twanging it. “Which I’m entitled to after spending the past few minutes making my acquaintance with Little John down there.”

“I really do appreciate that.” He tells you, his cheeks reddening once more. “I just took one look at the swab…”

He huffs out a long breath as he shakes his head.

“I get it, it’s different when it’s on yourself.” You tell him before you take something out of your lab coat, handing it to him. He looks down at his palm, frowning at the foil wrappers.

Condoms, about half a dozen of them.

“For next time.” You say, shrugging your shoulders. “Until Liz gets herself sorted.”

“Oh trust me.” He says slipping them into his pocket as he thinks about Liz, the smile she gave him when she followed Doctor Barlow into that examination room. “There won’t be a next time.”

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Like My Work? - Why Not Buy Me A Coffee

[lxzy-bxby]

"That's my Dad!"

...Or your & Sylus' daughter doing Hear Me Out Cake challenge with her bestie. | Taglist

ALL IDEA CREDITS TO ORIGINAL AUTHOR https://vt.tiktok.com/ZShMFCA3h/ @emberr.rgnvndyr & divider by one&only @.saradika-graphics

Scarlett—your & Sylus' daughter

Remi—Scarlett's bestfriend

Kai—Caleb's son

Qin—Sylus' canon last name (yours & Scarlett's, too)

Astra—God

~ ♡ ~

"Okay. So, my Hear Me Out is... Kai." Scarlett giggles mischievously, pulling out her classmate's printed photo glued to a chopstick.

"That's not even a Hear Me Out, Scar! He's like our age," Remi snorts, shaking her head. "But wait... Isn't he like the son of your Ma's bestfriend, that dude who Mr. Qin hates? 'Cause he used to hit on your Mom all the time..."

Scarlett gasps. "Oh Astra, don't even mention him! That's uncle Caleb. Let's just hope Dad didn't hear that. He absolutely haaates hearing about him for some reason, I dunno. Anyway... Kai's kinda... well, hot. Don't tell Dad! And Mom! Fuck, just forget I even said that... Fuck, I said "fuck" twice! Now thrice!"

Remi just laughs, throwing her head. "Damn, girl, you're so cooked."

Scarlett huffs, stubbornly tilting her chin up. Just like her mother—that's what Sylus would say—that if he'd be able to see her. But he had a strict rule about having no cameras in Scarlett's room, no matter how worried he was about her. Her space, privacy and trust meant way more for him; for you, as well.

"Whatever. I'm literally a freshman now, duh! And I ain't scared of him, like at all! Dad's all bark and no bite. I mean, he randomly goes 'you got your mother's nose' throughout the day. Does that sound scary to you? 'Cuz to me, it's all just grossy mush." Your daughter smirks, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.

"Your Dad's so romantic." Remi all but sighs, all dreamy-gazed and chin on her palm.

Scarlett wrinkles her nose. "Puh-lease. He's just sappy. Plus, he's only like that with Ma. Like I've never, never ever ever, seen him looking at another woman."

That makes her friend sigh even deeper, "He's perfect," With that said, she clears her throat: and Scarlett, the clever girl she is, already starts to suspect something, but before she can even open her smart mouth, Remi changes the subject. "Let's just get back to our TikTok."

"Right." Scarlett nods, pressing the record button once again. "Okay, your turn."

Remi chews on her bottom lip, and before Scarlett eyebrows can fly up any higher, she pulls her Hear Me Out.

Sylus' cut-out photograph from last month's magazine interview.

"...That's my Dad!" Scarlett shouts, cackling.

Remi grows as red as a tomato, hiding her face in her palms. "I mean, he is a DILF..."

"Sweet Astra, Rem! You're so fucking disgusting! Ew, Remi! Like... ew!" Scarlett guffaws, pretending to gag and then wiping tears that prickled from corners of her eyes. "But nah. Sorry, bestie, but you have no chance against Mom."

Both teenagers shudder as they hear three gentle knocks to the door, and Scarlett hurries to pause the video.

"Little sweetie? May I come in?" Sylus' soft baritone rings out, muffled behind the solid oak door.

"Yeah, Daddy!" Scarlett yells out, still giggling to the crease of her elbow.

Door opens soundlessly, and Sylus' tall figure looms out. With a tray in his big hands, he looks comically domestic, given his imposing stature. Scarlett peeks to the trail—an indecent amount of Baskin Robbins and a variety of other snacks that just scream "my father makes a bag so big, you can't even imagine in your wildest dreams".

"Dad! I told you I'm on a no-glucose diet!" Scarlett rolls her eyes.

"I know, little sweetie. Your batch has no glucose. Just sucrose and lactose." Sylus replies calmly, smiling at her like he just got told he won in a lottery. In fact, he did—when you announced your pregnancy.

Scarlett sighs as if there's a weight of the whole world on her shoulders. "Fiiine."

"If you don't want ice cream, I can go grab something else from the kitchen. Would you like fresh grapes?" Sylus asks, a smile never leaving his face.

"Dad! Don't you see I'm in the middle of something here?" Scarlett frowns, gesturing wildly both to Remi and her iPhone.

"...Ah, right. Right. Sorry, little love. I'm leaving now," Sylus places the tray on the floor, and then finally catches a glimpse of the cake two girls were decorating, "Ah, so that's why you needed delivery asap? Well, that cake has zero glucose, I suppose?" Sylus teases, poking her cheek—ah, sorry, jawline.

Scarlett huffs one more time, crossing arms on her chest. "It's for... TikTok. You won't understand, Dad!"

"Okay, okay," He raises his arms in mock surrender, "But please, don't call me 'Dad', that hurts to hear." Sylus looks genuinely saddened at that.

Scarlett softens. "Sorry, Daddy. Just... leave, deal?"

Sylus nods overly seriously, but before he can turn to leave...

"Oh? What kind of cake is that, involving my photo?" He smirks, nodding towards their little masterpiece.

While Scarlett grows red, Remi goes pale, “Ah, Mr. Qin, it’s just… It’s nothing, really, we… I, uh… Well…” She stutters.

Sylus shakes his head, grinning. “Don’t bother, Remi. I’ve been there the whole time. Heard the whole thing, actually. Just couldn’t dare to interrupt.”

“Dad!!!” Scarlett yells out in embarrassment.

“That was an accideeent. I just wanted to bring you something to chew on,” Sylus chants intoning before his body shakes with low laughter. “You, young ladies, never fail to amaze me.”

While Scarlett is mildly ashamed, Remi wishes earth could swallow her whole. That’s exactly when Sylus’ attention switches to her.

“No choice but to break your heart, little miss. I am married. Happily married. And yes, my wife can fight. She’s a Hunter, actually. A good one, at that. The best. The best Hunter, wife and mother anyone could wish for. I would apologize, but I am not sorry at all. I am quite satisfied with where I am in life,” Sylus grins, straightening up, then nods towards the tray. “Enjoy.”

He clicks the door behind him gently, turning to see your sneering frame. “She’s just a kid. You didn’t have to go that hard on her.”

Sylus smirks, his large palms cupping your waist. “Need everyone in the world to know that I’m yours. No exceptions.”

You chuckle, and he catches the sound with his lips.

“While we’re at it…” Sylus’ breath suddenly scorches your earlobe. “Want to make sure you know how much I missed you while I was away last week.”

Then he picks you up with just one arm, making a beeline to the master bedroom.

At the end of the day, he is yours. Yours only.

~ ♡ ~

[andy-15-07]

Hiiiii hru?? I hope you're doing well! I saw that requests were open (if not, sorry, just ignore this) I would love to read something where Javier Peña saves the reader (for example from Pablo who kidnapped her) something with a lot of angst😭

Thank you in advance🥹🫂

Caught in the Crossfire

Pairing: Javier Peña x Reader

Word Count: 1336 | requests are open

Pedro Pascal Masterlist

The humid air hung heavy in the dilapidated warehouse, thick with the stench of sweat, blood, and the acrid bite of gunpowder. Your wrists throbbed, raw and stinging where the coarse rope bit into your skin, the knots tightened with a brutality that mirrored the situation. Pablo Escobar's voice, a chilling baritone laced with venomous amusement, cut through the tense silence.

"You think she's bait enough to lure Peña here?" he sneered, his eyes, cold and calculating, sweeping over you like a predator assessing its prey. "That American DEA agent, he'll come running. Like a dog to a bone."

You swallowed hard, the metallic taste of fear coating your tongue. Your heart hammered against your ribs, a frantic drumbeat echoing the chaos around you. But you refused to let him see your fear. To give him the satisfaction of knowing he had broken you. You met his gaze with a defiant stare, your eyes blazing with a silent fury.

A low rumble, distant at first, began to shake the ground. The sound of an approaching engine. Tension crackled through the room, the air thick with anticipation. Pablo's men shifted, their hands instinctively tightening around their rifles, fingers twitching on the triggers. You held your breath, every nerve in your body screaming.

Then, a deafening crash. The sound of splintering wood, the shattering of glass, and the eruption of panicked shouts. Gunfire erupted, a cacophony of violence that tore through the silence. Bullets whizzed past, the air thick with the metallic tang of cordite.

Through the smoke and the chaos, a figure emerged from the swirling dust. Javier Peña. His face, grim and determined, was etched with lines of exhaustion and worry. Dust clung to his dark hair, his eyes, the color of molten steel, narrowed in a fierce glare.

A wave of relief, so intense it almost buckled your knees, washed over you. But it was quickly followed by a fresh surge of terror. You were caught in the crossfire, a pawn in their deadly game.

"Peña," Pablo drawled, a cruel smile playing on his lips. "You finally arrived. And for what? A woman? A mere distraction?" He scoffed, his voice dripping with contempt. "She's not worth dying for."

"She's worth more than you'll ever understand," Javier spat, his voice low and dangerous, each word a venomous barb.

Before Pablo could retort, a shot rang out. A man, standing closest to Pablo, crumpled to the ground, a crimson stain blooming on his shirt. The room erupted in renewed chaos. Bullets flew, ricocheting off the walls, turning the warehouse into a maelstrom of violence. Javier moved with a deadly grace, a ghost in the smoke, his gun a blur of motion, each shot finding its mark.

"Get down!" Javier barked, his voice sharp, his eyes searching for you in the chaos.

You didn't hesitate, dropping to the floor, your body instinctively seeking the safety of the shadows. Javier crouched beside you, his breath ragged, his hands moving with a practiced efficiency as he worked to free you from the ropes.

"Javi," you gasped, your voice trembling, your throat tight with emotion.

"I've got you," he said, his voice softer now, a hint of tenderness in his eyes that belied the grim determination etched on his face. "I'm getting you out of here."

But the reprieve was short-lived. Pablo's voice, enraged, cut through the din.

"You think you can take her from me?!" he roared, his voice a guttural growl.

Javier's grip on your arm tightened, pulling you closer, his body shielding you from the onslaught of bullets. You could feel the tension radiating off him, the weight of every decision, every life lost, etched into the lines of his face.

"You're finished, Pablo," Javier said, his voice a low growl, a calm fury simmering beneath the surface. "This ends here."

And it did. The next few moments were a blur of motion—a flash of movement, the deafening crack of gunfire, the desperate scramble for cover. Then, silence. An eerie, unsettling silence broken only by the heavy breaths of the survivors.

When the dust settled, Javier turned to you, his expression softening, the lines of his face etched with relief and concern. He gently cupped your face in his hands, his touch tentative, almost reverent.

"Are you hurt?" he asked, his voice rough with worry, his eyes searching yours for any sign of injury.

"No," you whispered, tears streaming down your face, blurring your vision. "I thought... I thought I'd never see you again."

He pulled you into his arms, his embrace a haven of warmth and safety. You clung to him, burying your face in his chest, inhaling the scent of his cologne, the faint tang of cigarette smoke, a comforting anchor in the aftermath of the chaos.

"You'll always see me again," he murmured, his lips brushing against your temple. "I'll never stop coming for you."

And in that moment, surrounded by the wreckage of Pablo's empire, the ghosts of fallen comrades, and the lingering scent of blood and gunpowder, you believed him.

He gently pulled you to your feet, his arms strong and steady as he supported your trembling frame. Dust motes danced in the shafts of light piercing through the smoke-filled air, illuminating the grim scene around them. Javier's gaze swept over you, searching for any sign of injury.

"Are you alright?" he asked, his voice rough with worry, his eyes filled with a love that bordered on desperation.

You shook your head, unable to speak, tears finally spilling down your cheeks. The fear, the adrenaline, the sheer terror of the past few hours crashing over you in a tidal wave. Javier pulled you close, his arms a comforting cage, holding you against his chest.

"It's over," he whispered, his voice a soothing balm against your fear. "You're safe now."

He led you out of the warehouse, his hand clasped tightly in yours, his eyes constantly scanning the surroundings, alert for any remaining threats. The fresh air, though thick with the metallic tang of blood and gunpowder, was a welcome relief.

You found a relatively safe spot, a deserted alleyway hidden from view. Javier gently guided you to sit against a crumbling wall, his gaze searching your face with intense scrutiny.

"Let me see," he said softly, his voice laced with concern. He gently lifted your hair, examining your scalp for any wounds. "Any pain?"

You shook your head, your voice a mere whisper. "Just... scared."

He pulled you closer, his arms a protective shield against the horrors you had witnessed. "I know," he murmured, his voice a low rumble in your ear. "I know."

He gently traced the outline of your face, his thumb brushing away a tear that escaped your eye. "You're safe now," he repeated, his voice firm and unwavering. "I won't let anything happen to you."

You looked into his eyes, the depths of which mirrored the turmoil within you. But in the midst of the chaos, in the face of death, you saw something else—a love so fierce, so unwavering, it ignited a spark of hope within you.

"I love you," you whispered, your voice barely audible.

He smiled, a weary but genuine smile that reached his eyes. "And I love you more than words can say," he replied, his voice thick with emotion. "More than anything."

He held your gaze for a long moment, the unspoken words hanging heavy in the air. Then, he leaned down and kissed you, a gentle, lingering kiss that spoke volumes. It was a kiss born of fear and relief, of love and gratitude, a testament to your resilience in the face of unimaginable danger.

As you sat there, holding each other, the echoes of the gunfire fading into the distance, you knew that this experience had changed you forever. But it had also reaffirmed your love, making it stronger, more profound than ever before. You had faced death together, and in doing so, you had found a love that could withstand anything.

[muiitoloko]

Master of the House, Slave to Her

Summary: Karl controls everything—except you. And as the servants avert their eyes, he finally admits there is no power greater than wanting what he can’t tame.

Pairing: Karl Hoffmeister × Fem! Reader

Warnings: Smut

Author's Notes: I want to thank everyone for their patience with this story and for all the love it’s received, even though, to be honest, I don’t fully understand why it’s gotten so much attention since I don’t see it as one of my best works 😅 But putting that aside, I just wanted to let you all know that I’ll try to pick up the pace from here, though I can’t promise a quick update (sorry about that)

First, Second, Third, Fourth, Fifth, Sixth, Seventh, Eighth, Ninth, and Tenth part here.

Also read on Ao3

Karl woke up a few minutes later, the scent of hay thick in the warm stable air. He blinked slowly, bleary-eyed, stretching one heavy arm toward the empty space where your warm body had been. His mustache twitched as he yawned, still half-dreaming, until he caught sight of you.

You stood a few feet away, grinning wickedly, holding all his clothes—and the blanket—in your arms.

Karl frowned, still groggy. His hooked nose wrinkled slightly as he tried to piece it together. "Was machst du da?" ("What are you doing?") he muttered sleepily, his deep baritone thick with confusion.

Before he could so much as move, you turned on your heel and bolted out of the stable, laughing.

For a heartbeat, Karl just sat there, naked as the day he was born, staring dumbly after you. Then realization struck him like a slap across the face.

"You—!" he sputtered, sitting up violently, his hands flying down to cover himself. "Verdammt noch mal—!" ("Damn it all—!")

He scrambled to his feet, one large hand pressed firmly against his crotch, the other waving wildly in the air as he stumbled after you. "Komm zurück! Gib mir meine verdammten Kleider zurück!" ("Come back! Give me my damn clothes back!")

You ran like the devil was at your heels, tearing across the gardens, the morning dew soaking your bare feet. Karl barreled after you, grunting and cursing, his pale, slightly jiggly ass flashing obscenely in the sunlight.

The back doors of the house loomed ahead, and you didn't even hesitate—you burst through them, laughter ringing down the kitchen halls.

Inside, the scene that followed would live forever in Hoffmeister household legend. Anna dropped the stack of plates she was carrying, her mouth forming a perfect "O." Gustav froze mid-chop, the knife clattering to the cutting board as he stared, wide-eyed. Liselotte let out a high-pitched, horrified shriek, slapping both hands over her reddening face.

And Hans, poor Hans, with the reflexes of a trained soldier, immediately lunged to cover Anna’s eyes. "GOTT IM HIMMEL!" ("GOD IN HEAVEN!") he barked, mortified.

A split second later, Karl thundered through the doorway, one hand still valiantly shielding his modesty, the other flailing as he chased you, his gray hair wild, his cheeks flushed a deep red.

"Stop her!" he roared at the stunned servants. "Sie stiehlt meine Würde!" ("She’s stealing my dignity!")

But no one moved. No one even breathed.

All they could do was gape as their dignified master—their serious, stoic, towering Herr Hoffmeister—chased his laughing wife through the kitchen in nothing but his bare skin and a face redder than a boiled lobster.

"Schatz!" Karl shouted desperately, slipping slightly on the tiled floor as he skidded after you. "Gib sie zurück! Um Himmels willen, ich bin nackt!" ("Give it back! For heaven’s sake, I’m naked!")

You only laughed harder, clutching the bundle of clothes tighter to your chest, your bare feet slapping against the stone as you darted around the kitchen island.

Karl groaned, swearing under his breath in a tangle of English and German, before charging after you again, his pale ass jiggling with every heavy step.

He caught you at last, his large hands seizing your waist as you shrieked with laughter, trying and failing to twist away. With a grunt of effort, he spun you around and pressed you firmly against the edge of the kitchen counter, the polished wood cool against your back. His broad chest heaved with exertion, gray hair disheveled, damp strands sticking to his flushed forehead.

He didn’t even glance at the horrified servants, didn’t give them a single look. His hazel eyes were locked entirely on you—on your glowing, smiling cheeks, your sparkling eyes, the wild joy that danced across your features. God, he thought as he caught his breath, he wouldn’t trade this sight for anything. Not for all the business deals in the world. Not for all the quiet, orderly years he’d lived before you.

"Out," Karl barked over his shoulder, voice gruff but calm, never breaking eye contact with you. "Out. All of you. Now."

His tone brooked no argument.

Hans, mortified beyond belief, sprang into action. His face a deep crimson, he herded Anna, Gustav, and Liselotte out of the kitchen like a shepherd chasing wayward sheep.

Hans paused just long enough at the doorway to flick the lock firmly into place, sealing you and Karl inside. You caught a glimpse of his face before he turned away—resigned, scarlet with embarrassment, but ever loyal.

And then it was just the two of you.

Karl’s hand slid slowly from your waist down to the curve of your thigh, lifting your leg with effortless strength and hitching it high around his hip. His other hand slipped beneath the loose folds of your dress, dragging the fabric higher and higher, his touch hot and possessive against your bare skin.

"You thought you could tease me," Karl growled, his hooked nose brushing against your cheek, his baritone voice low and thick with promise. "Run circles around me like some mischievous girl…"

You dropped the bundle of clothes you were still clutching to your chest, the fabric falling with a soft thump onto the tiled floor. Karl’s hand continued to wander, his palm rough and hot against the sensitive skin of your thigh, but you caught it—fingers wrapping firmly around his wrist, halting his progress.

His hazel eyes darkened, the heavy arch of his brows knitting together in a mixture of frustration and restraint. You could feel the tremor in his muscles, the tension coiled tight just beneath his skin. He could have overpowered you easily. But he didn’t. He stood there, holding his breath, waiting.

"You deserved it," you said softly, your voice still breathless with laughter, but steady with something deeper. "After everything you did to my family... making you run naked through the house was only fair."

Karl exhaled sharply through his nose, the sound full of long-suffering patience, as if he had been expecting no less from you. His mustache twitched slightly, and his hooked nose flared with the force of the sigh. He bowed his head, letting his forehead rest heavily against yours for a long moment, the heat of his breath fanning across your lips.

"You are insufferable," he muttered, his baritone voice a low rumble thick with both exasperation and reluctant admiration. "An impossible, vengeful little sprite."

You smiled sweetly, not loosening your grip on his wrist. "And you are a tyrant who thought he could bulldoze his way into my life without consequences."

He gave a soft grunt, the corners of his mouth twitching despite himself. "Ja," he said, his voice wry. "It seems I underestimated the depths of your cruelty."

You tilted your head up slightly, your eyes glinting with wicked amusement. "Consider it... minor compensation, Herr Hoffmeister."

Karl huffed another heavy breath through his nose, and you could see the battle play out behind his hazel eyes. He wanted you—God, he wanted you—but he also understood something crucial in that moment: you would never let him forget. No matter how deeply he touched you, no matter how many nights you spent tangled in his arms, the past would always linger between you like a ghost.

He reached up with his free hand, tucking a damp strand of hair behind your ear with surprising gentleness. "You will make my life a living hell, won’t you?" he murmured, almost fondly.

You released his wrist slowly, letting your fingers trail down his arm in a light, teasing caress. "Only when you deserve it."

Karl chuckled low in his chest, the sound vibrating against you, and shook his head with a kind of resigned affection. "Then I suppose I should prepare myself for a lifetime of penance."

Without warning, he scooped you into his arms, lifting you easily despite his slight softness. You yelped, your legs wrapping instinctively around his waist as he carried you across the kitchen, ignoring the scattered clothes at your feet.

"Where are you taking me?" you demanded, laughing breathlessly as he deposited you unceremoniously onto the sturdy kitchen table.

Karl loomed over you, braced his hands on either side of you, caging you in. "Upstairs," he said simply, his hazel eyes gleaming with dangerous promise. "Where I can properly punish you for your mischief."

Your heart thudded wildly in your chest, heat blooming between your thighs at the dark, rough edge to his voice.

"And after that," Karl added, lowering his face until his hooked nose brushed yours, his baritone dropping to a low growl, "I will make you beg me to forgive you."

You arched an eyebrow, the smirk tugging at your lips unstoppable. "Is that a threat, Herr Hoffmeister?"

He smiled—a slow, wicked thing—and kissed you, hard and deep, stealing the very breath from your lungs before he pulled back just enough to whisper against your mouth.

"No, liebling," he murmured. "That is a promise."

And you had no doubt he intended to keep it.

The bathroom was filled with a low mist, the mirrors fogged over from the heat of the water pouring steadily down. Karl stood under the shower alone, his broad, slightly soft frame bathed in the steady cascade, gray hair slicked back, mustache dripping. He tilted his hooked nose up slightly into the spray, letting the water beat against his face, washing away the scent of hay, sweat, and your skin — though no amount of scrubbing could truly erase the memory of you from him.

He exhaled deeply, his baritone voice a soft rumble lost beneath the patter of water. He had decided not to summon Hans to help him prepare this time. He didn’t want his eyes, his bustling hands, the suffocating reminder of routine. Not after the morning he’d had with you. No, tonight, he needed a moment to himself. A moment to think.

But thinking of anything except you proved almost impossible. He pictured you lying in bed now, curled against the pillows, the duvet tangled loosely around your bare legs, your body worn out from his relentless attentions. His chest tightened with something raw, something protective and possessive. You had looked so sweet, so utterly unguarded as you slept, your fingers still curled in the linen as if reaching for him even in dreams.

Karl turned the water hotter, trying to focus his mind elsewhere. His thoughts drifted to Johann and Elisabeth, still lingering in the city far longer than he had expected. Johann’s absence he could tolerate — the boy was capable enough, managing the accounts and some of the estate affairs when needed — but Elisabeth’s delay unsettled him in ways he didn’t want to admit. She was impulsive, ruled too much by emotion, gentle, fragile, and Karl was afraid something might happen to her; after all, she only had her brother and Karl, and no husband to protect her.

And there was the factory.

Karl braced one hand against the tile, bowing his head under the steaming spray. He had neglected the business for too long — papers piling up, contracts unsigned, workers needing guidance. His assistant, competent though he was, could not shoulder the burden forever. Karl knew he would have to return soon, oversee the new expansion himself, secure the future he had built with his own hands. That was the world he had dominated for decades — logic, order, control.

And yet the very thought of returning to it now made something in him recoil.

Because if he threw himself back into work, if he spent long days in meetings and late nights at the office, he knew what would happen. He would leave you alone. He would distance himself just as progress was finally being made. After so many false starts, so many carefully laid plans, he was finally close — close to breaking down the walls you built so fiercely around your heart.

Karl closed his eyes, letting the water cascade over his face. He thought bitterly of the years before you — of the courtships that had failed, the women who had balked at his stern demeanor, his relentless dedication to his work. They had called him cold, unreachable, a man married to his ambition. And perhaps they had been right. Karl had made peace with the idea of living alone, with spending his rare free nights in brothels, paying for the warmth and pleasure he would never find at home.

But then you had appeared. And for the first time, Karl had wanted more. Not a transaction. Not a fleeting pleasure. He wanted you — your fire, your defiance, your maddening stubbornness, the way you laughed like no one was watching, the way you argued with him without fear. He wanted your heart, your loyalty, your love. And he had nearly destroyed everything trying to claim it the wrong way.

He couldn't afford to lose you now. Karl raked a hand through his wet hair, his hazel eyes opening slowly, gaze darkening with determination. If he went back to work now, if he slipped back into old habits, he would undo everything he had fought for. And God help him, he would not allow that. Not when he finally had you within reach.

He would find a way to balance both. He had to. For you.

Turning off the water, Karl stepped out of the shower, grabbing a thick towel and roughly drying himself. He caught his reflection in the misty mirror — the streaks of silver at his temples, the firm set of his jaw, the hooked nose that had often made him look harsher than he intended. He studied himself for a long moment, the mist swirling around him.

This man — the one staring back at him — had built empires, crushed rivals, commanded respect with nothing more than a glance.

But he had never fought a battle like this. And for once, he wasn’t sure if he was winning — or if he had already surrendered the moment he laid eyes on you.

Karl opened the door that connected the bathroom to the bedroom, a low creak of wood and brass hinges breaking the soft quiet of the late afternoon. The scent of soap and warm steam still clung to him, his gray hair damp and swept back neatly, the towel slung over his shoulder now discarded in favor of getting dressed. His hazel eyes scanned the room instinctively—and then softened.

There you were. Curled in the middle of the bed, the sheets tangled around your body like you’d fought them in your sleep. Mouse, the little puppy, was curled at the foot of the bed on one of Karl’s velvet pillows, blinking up at him with a mix of curiosity and sleepy loyalty.

You stirred at the sound of the door, blinking blearily, your hair a magnificent disaster—wild, flattened on one side, sticking up on the other like a crown of tousled rebellion. You sat up slowly, the sheet pulled tightly to your chest with one hand, your other rubbing at your eyes like a child waking from a nap. You looked around, confused at first, then your gaze landed on Karl.

He stood near the dresser, already pulling on a crisp white shirt, still unbuttoned down the chest, suspenders hanging loosely as he reached for his trousers. When he glanced up and saw your half-lidded gaze, the beginnings of a smirk tugged at the corners of his mouth.

"Mein Gott," he said dryly, his baritone amused. "You look like you've been in a duel. With a goose."

You squinted at him, blinking again, then slowly reached for the nearest pillow.

Karl’s eyes widened just slightly. “You wouldn’t,” he warned, brows lifting.

You lobbed the pillow across the room.

He dodged it with surprising agility for a man of his size, the pillow sailing past him and landing with a soft thump on the chaise near the window.

Karl chuckled, not bothering to hide it now, and walked over to the dresser with deliberate calm, pulling up his trousers and hooking the suspenders over his shoulders. “That’s no way to treat the man who plans to feed you shortly.”

You flopped back into the pillows, grumbling into the sheet. “You insulted my hair.”

Karl adjusted the cuffs of his sleeves, then leaned down to retrieve the discarded pillow with exaggerated ceremony. “I described it with startling accuracy.”

“Described it like a farm animal,” you muttered.

He came around to your side of the bed, leaned down, and pressed a soft kiss to your forehead. “A very beautiful, vengeful farm animal.”

You snorted despite yourself, and Karl gave a satisfied nod.

“Come,” he said, straightening and buttoning his shirt. “It’s nearly tea time. Liselotte will bring something light—probably those little butter cakes you like. And if you dress quickly, I’ll pretend I didn’t see Mouse licking your ankle in his sleep.”

You glanced down. The puppy was indeed stretched against your foot, sighing softly in his dreams.

You sighed too—resigned, a little amused, and far too comfortable. “Give me five minutes.”

Karl nodded, already moving toward the door. “I’ll tell Hans to hold the tea until you come downstairs. And I’ll warn the staff to avert their eyes.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Why?”

He paused in the doorway, gave you one last smirk over his shoulder.

“Because your hair still looks like war.”

Then he disappeared into the hall before you could throw the second pillow.

The fire crackled softly in the hearth, casting flickering shadows across the living room's high, wood-paneled walls. The scent of tea and old paper mingled in the air—comforting, quiet, settled. Karl sat in his favorite armchair, one thick leg crossed over the other, gray hair still damp from his earlier bath. His hooked nose was buried behind a folded newspaper, though the way the paper shifted every now and then, angled just slightly in your direction, betrayed where his real attention lay.

You were curled on the settee, feet tucked beneath you, cradling a delicate porcelain cup of tea in one hand and a leather-bound book in the other. Your eyes flicked across the page, but your mind was elsewhere. You didn’t have to glance up to feel the weight of his stare, thick and persistent, cutting through the page like heat.

“Stop that,” you said flatly, turning another page without looking at him.

A beat of silence.

“Stop what?” Karl asked, his baritone voice far too innocent.

“You know exactly what,” you muttered. “Staring. Breathing at me through the newspaper. Whatever you’re doing over there, stop it.”

Across the room, Hans and Liselotte stood pressed against the wall like quiet ornaments, trained to be invisible unless summoned—but you knew they heard every word. Hans’s posture didn’t shift, but Liselotte’s lip twitched the tiniest bit.

Karl lowered the paper just enough to peek over the top. His hazel eyes gleamed with restrained amusement. “Am I not allowed to look at my own wife?”

“There’s a difference between looking and staring, Hoffmeister,” you replied, still not lifting your gaze from the book. “You, unfortunately, haven’t learned it.”

Karl hummed, folding the newspaper in half and setting it on the side table. “And what, pray tell, am I doing now?” he asked, his voice thicker now, amused but warm with affection.

You glanced up, narrowing your eyes.

He was staring again. Openly this time. His elbows rested on the arms of the chair, fingers steepled beneath his chin, eyes fixed on you like a man inspecting a priceless work of art—or a riddle he had no hope of solving.

You tilted your head. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“I’m admiring the beauty of my wife,” Karl replied without hesitation, his expression completely sincere. “If that’s a crime, I will gladly suffer the punishment.”

You rolled your eyes and turned your head toward Liselotte. “Liselotte, go upstairs and fetch that massive dictionary Johann gave me. The one with the gold trim.”

Liselotte blinked. “The one that weighs—?”

“Yes,” you interrupted crisply. “I plan to throw it at Herr Hoffmeister’s thick head.”

She bowed, expression neutral but eyes dancing with mirth. “Of course, madam.” And she swept from the room with only the faintest bounce in her step.

As soon as she vanished, Karl moved.

You barely had time to register the shift—the scrape of his chair legs against the rug, the sound of his boots crossing the floor—before he was on you.

“Karl!” you shrieked, twisting on the settee as he grabbed your waist and hauled you backwards with a grunt of satisfaction.

You tried to shove at his chest, your book slipping to the floor with a dull thump. “You are impossible—get off!”

But Karl only laughed, low and gravelly, and covered your mouth with his own. The kiss was hot, slow, relentless—meant to disarm you completely. And it nearly did.

Your hands pushed at him, but only weakly now. His weight pressed you down into the cushions, his broad frame warm and solid above you. His mustache scratched your upper lip as he kissed you again, and again, until you were breathless and sputtering.

“You brute,” you gasped when you managed to break free for a second.

Karl smirked, his nose brushing yours. “I warned you,” he murmured, voice low and wicked, “that I planned to admire you. I’m simply making good on it.”

“And I warned you,” you hissed, panting, “that I’d hurl a book at your head!”

He chuckled, burying his face in the crook of your neck. “Then let it be known: I die happy.”

You squirmed beneath him, trying to reclaim some semblance of composure, but Karl was relentless. He nuzzled into your skin, placing kisses along your collarbone, muttering in German between each one. Words you refused to admit you liked hearing.

The kisses deepened—hungry, hot, no longer content with mere play. Karl’s hand, broad and warm, slipped beneath your skirts with a deliberate slowness that made you gasp softly into his mouth. You arched your back instinctively, the book long forgotten as his fingers traced the sensitive inside of your thigh, teasing, coaxing, claiming.

Across the room, Hans stood as still as a statue, posture impeccable, eyes focused somewhere in the middle distance above the fireplace. But the moment Karl’s hand disappeared entirely beneath the fabric, and your soft moan broke the quiet like a ripple across still water, Hans exhaled—a silent, resigned breath—and moved.

Without a word, he bent down and scooped Mouse from the carpet. The little dog gave a sleepy grunt, eyes fluttering open before curling once more into Hans’s arm with a satisfied snort. Hans turned stiffly, his cheeks tinged with crimson, and walked to the heavy doors of the sitting room.

He paused only to glance once, discreetly, over his shoulder—just long enough to see Karl sink to his knees between your spread legs on the settee, his hands lifting your skirts higher, higher still, baritone voice murmuring something too low to catch. Your head tilted back, one hand already threading into his graying hair.

Hans closed the doors with a gentle but firm click. Then he turned, spine ramrod straight, and posted himself directly in front of the entrance like a palace guard. Mouse, now deposited on the floor, gave a curious sniff before settling once again near his feet.

A few moments later, Liselotte arrived, clutching the massive dictionary in both arms, its gold trim glinting in the hallway light. “I brought the book, Madam said—”

“You won’t need it,” Hans said briskly, blocking her path.

Liselotte blinked. “But she said—”

Hans cleared his throat, eyes not meeting hers. “Plans have changed. Best return that to the library. Quietly.”

Still confused, she shifted the weight of the book, but the sound that drifted from behind the closed door stopped her cold.

A soft, high-pitched moan—yours.

Followed, almost instantly, by a low, gruff grunt—Karl.

Liselotte’s eyes widened like saucers. Her mouth opened, then closed. Then opened again.

“Oh,” she whispered, finally understanding.

Hans gave a single nod and gently turned her by the shoulder. “Library. Now.”

“Yes, Herr Hans.”

She scampered off without another word, cheeks scarlet. Left alone again, Hans adjusted his waistcoat and folded his hands behind his back. He stared straight ahead. Motionless. Expressionless.

Another moan filtered through the door.

He did not flinch. Mouse snored at his feet.

Inside, Karl was on his knees, lips buried between your thighs as your skirts bunched around your hips. The warmth of his breath against your soaked center made your whole body tense. His mustache scraped your sensitive skin, and you whimpered, both hands tangled in his thick gray hair.

His hazel eyes flicked up to meet yours as his tongue swept a long, deliberate stroke from your entrance to your clit.

“Mein Gott,” he murmured against you, his voice dark silk. “This cunt... always so wet for me.”

You choked on a gasp, one heel pressing into the edge of the settee as he latched onto your clit and sucked, slow and firm. Your hips jerked forward, but his hands held you steady, palms splayed against your thighs like anchors.

“Karl—” you gasped, arching, trembling.

He grunted in approval and doubled his efforts, his tongue circling, flicking, teasing your swollen bud. You could barely breathe, could barely think. Every sensation was him—his tongue, his mouth, the low sounds of satisfaction he made between your legs like he was devouring the sweetest meal he’d ever known.

You pulled at his hair—helpless, panting—your thighs beginning to shake.

“Look at me,” he growled, voice muffled by your slick flesh.

You tried. Eyes fluttering open, meeting his hazel stare—dark, molten, utterly focused.

“You’re going to come on my tongue,” he said, voice low and commanding. “And then I’m going to fuck you right here on this settee, with Hans standing ten feet away pretending not to hear a goddamn thing.”

You cried out, your orgasm cresting sharp and fast. Your hips bucked against his face, your fingers gripping his hair as you shattered on his tongue, moaning his name like a prayer, like a curse, like a promise.

Karl groaned against your cunt as he tasted you, riding every wave, not letting you go until your entire body trembled with the aftershocks.

When he finally pulled back, your juices shining on his mustache, his lips swollen, his expression absolutely wrecked—he looked like a man who had just drunk from the fountain of life and wanted another sip.

He leaned forward, resting his forearms on your trembling thighs, and pressed a single kiss to your inner knee.

Then, low and possessive: “I’m not finished with you yet, liebling. Not by a long shot.”

Karl had just unhooked his suspenders, letting them fall with a soft snap against his trousers, when he began to climb atop you again—intent, slow, deliberate. His hazel eyes were fixed on yours with a predator’s focus, the baritone growl of his breath already deepening as he hovered over you. His body was warm and heavy and ready.

But then—faintly, unmistakably—the familiar chug and rattle of his Ford Model T drifted in from the gravel drive outside.

You blinked. Your breath hitched.

Karl clearly hadn’t noticed.

“Karl—” you began, but he dipped down and kissed your neck instead.

You squirmed beneath him, trying to get the words out. “Karl, your car—Johann took it to town, remember? They’re back. I heard it.”

Karl gave a low grunt against your collarbone. “Let them come.”

“They are coming,” you hissed, trying not to moan as his hand gripped your thigh again. “They’ll come in here!”

“This is our house,” Karl muttered, not stopping. “They are adults. They can handle closed doors.”

You pushed at his chest weakly. “Karl, seriously—”

But your protest was cut off by his mouth crashing into yours again, firm and silencing, his tongue sweeping across yours in a kiss designed to melt all logic. You whimpered against him, resisting and yielding all at once, your fingers curling into his soft white shirt.

Meanwhile, the front door burst open downstairs.

“Mein Gott, this city is too loud!” Elisabeth called, laughing as she stepped inside, shopping bags clinking and rustling in her arms. “They tried to sell me a sewing machine and a fountain pen in the same breath—Johann, help me with these!”

Johann groaned behind her, tugging off his coat with a scowl. “You bought enough to open a shop, Elisabeth.”

“I did no such thing.”

“You did,” he said flatly. “And now I need a drink.”

As Elisabeth squealed with delight and darted up the stairs with her bags—no doubt heading straight for the master bedroom to surprise Karl—Johann trudged toward the living room, muttering about whiskey and quiet.

He paused in front of the closed doors.

Hans stood there, as if carved from stone, planted firmly like a sentinel.

Johann raised an eyebrow. “Hans.”

“Herr Johann,” Hans replied stiffly, clearly uncomfortable.

Johann glanced at the door, then tilted his head. A beat of silence. Then came the unmistakable, rhythmic thump of flesh meeting flesh.

Johann blinked. Then smirked.

“In the living room?” he muttered, half amused, half scandalized. “Seriously, cousin?”

From inside the room came a harsh bark in German: “GEH WEG, JOHANN!” (“GO AWAY, JOHANN!”)

Johann laughed outright, backing up with both hands raised. “Alright, alright, no need to yell. I hope you're not using the sofa!”

A beat.

Then Karl’s voice roared again, muffled but ferocious: “BLEIB EINE STUNDE WEG!” (“STAY AWAY FOR AN HOUR!”)

Johann chuckled, turning back toward the dining room. “Hour it is,” he muttered to himself. “I’ll be in the cellar. Drinking. And pretending I didn’t hear any of this.”

Hans exhaled in relief.

Inside the living room, Karl didn’t even pause. He growled low in his throat, kissed you again, and murmured against your lips, “Let the whole house hear, liebling. Let them all know you’re mine.”

You could only gasp in response as he finally pressed into you once more—firm, full, unstoppable—making good on every promise his mouth had whispered that morning.

And somewhere upstairs, Elisabeth stood frozen at the bedroom door, shopping bags forgotten, her heart sinking as the sound of your cries drifted faintly up the staircase.

She dropped the bags one by one, her expression unreadable.

She clenched her fists.

It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fair.

Elisabeth had waited years. Watched from the shadows, from the edges of his world. She had studied every line of his face, every flicker of emotion in those warm hazel eyes. She knew the exact sound of his baritone when he laughed, the way his mustache twitched when he was amused, the exact arch of his hooked nose when he was irritated or intrigued.

And now it was you he looked at that way.

She would not let you win. Not forever.

Maybe not even another night.

She turned on her heel and strode to the bedroom she’d been occupying—the one Karl had given her when she first came to stay, when he’d placed a hand on her back and smiled with that quiet tenderness that had always undone her. That tenderness was hers, long before you ever appeared.

Inside, she dumped the bags onto the bed, her hands trembling slightly. She ripped open the paper wrappings, casting them aside with reckless urgency. Dress after dress spilled out in a cascade of silk and satin—colors she knew Karl liked: deep burgundy, forest green, a muted gold that caught the light like fire. Bold, adult, sensual. Nothing like the soft pastels she used to wear when he still saw her as a child.

Elisabeth paused before the mirror, holding one of the dresses against her chest.

It was a deep emerald, the neckline scandalously low, the back open to the curve of her spine. She knew he liked that color. You had worn it days ago, and Karl had followed you with his eyes the entire evening like a starved man.

She pressed the fabric tighter to her chest, tilting her head, watching herself in the mirror. Slowly, she let her eyes drift shut.

In her mind, it was Karl’s hands slipping the dress over her shoulders. His arms wrapping around her waist from behind. His hooked nose brushing her neck, his mustache tickling her bare skin. His baritone voice, thick and reverent, whispering in her ear: “Schönes Mädchen… meine Elisabeth…”

Her breath hitched. She imagined his lips against her shoulder. His voice low with need, telling her she’d grown so beautiful. That he’d been blind not to see her before. That he wanted her. That he chose her.

She opened her eyes, chest heaving. It didn’t matter if she had to look like you. If she had to wear your perfumes—yes, she had bought those too. If she had to learn the tilt of your voice, the sway of your hips, the way you bit your lip when you were being coy. She could do it. She would do it.

Karl would see her. Truly see her.

And one day, it would be her he would kiss on that settee in the living room. Her he would lift onto the table. Her name he would growl in the heat of passion as the whole house listened in stunned silence.

Tonight.

She ran her hands over her body, still holding the dress to her skin. Closed her eyes again. Imagined him behind her.

She didn’t notice the way her expression darkened slightly in the mirror. Or the strange gleam in her eyes.

All she saw was Karl, and the woman she would become to have him.

[svearehnn]

black violets and baby's breath pt. 2 | modern!azriel x bridesmaid!reader

summary: the tension between you and azriel heats up at feyre and rhys' wedding reception.

warning: smut babes, there's smut. and bad words. read at your own risk lmao

part one

You nursed your drink in the corner of the room, cheeks flushed from the red wine in your glass. Your eyes were trained on the male across the room, a soft smile adorning his lips as he listened to Cassian’s exuberant story. He had changed into a black button-up, sleeves rolled just above his elbows, displaying the tattoos that climbed up his arms like swirls of black smoke.

“Ask him to dance.” The familiar voice beside you scared you shitless, pulling your eyes from Azriel before you could see him eye you up and down in your little black dress. Feyre had a cheeky smile on her painted lips, eyes bright with joy. Your heart slowed, the shock subsiding as you rolled your eyes at your best friend.

“I’ve never seen him on a dance floor before. I doubt he would want to dance with me.” You muttered, eyes downcast as you fiddled with the hem of your dress. Feyre punched your arm, eliciting a yelp from you. “What was that for?”

“Stop being so depressing! It’s my wedding and I want the two of you to dance and fall in love and make cute little babies–” you covered her mouth, muffling her words as she continued to speak.

“Fey,” you whined, cheeks heating and this time it wasn’t from the wine. She giggled, her tangent well and done, so you removed your hand. Rather than her gorgeous smile, a smirk now troubled her lips, mischievous and scheming.

“Well, it looks like you might not even have to ask.” You whipped around, eyes wide and immediately locking with Azriel’s. His lips were mere inches from yours, breaths intermingling, the scent of night-chilled cedar invading your senses.

“Hey.” His voice rumbled gently, weakening your knees with its baritone seduction.

“Hi,” you replied, unable to hear yourself over the chatter of the other guests. Azriel’s hazel eyes were soft as they took you in, lingering on your lips for a second too long before flickering back up to your eyes.

“A little birdie told me you were waiting for a dance.” You swiveled, ready to snap at the brunette caught red-handed, but she was nowhere to be found. Azriel’s fingers skimmed your wrist, bringing your attention back to him.

“It wasn’t Feyre if that’s what you’re thinking.” He chuckled, umber eyes flittering to Mor for just a second before he turned back to you. You flipped the blonde the bird without a second thought. She responded with a wink and a laugh as she was whisked away by her own dance partner.

“So,” Azriel started, clearing his throat, “may I have this dance, Little Star?” His hand was outstretched between you, a silent offering. With a deep breathe and a nod you set down your glass and took his hand in yours, heart beating the same as it did when you and Feyre went bungee jumping that one time.

“Lead the way.” His fingers intertwined through yours as soon as your skin touched his, warm and inviting, sparks flying and escalating the tension that surrounded the two of you. He escorted you to the dance floor, his hands finding their way to your waist whilst yours locked around his neck. The soft song lulled your head against his chest, bodies swaying slowly to the tender piano escaping the speakers. His lips ghosted your ear, cool breaths sending shivers down your exposed spine.

“I know I said this earlier,” Azriel whispered, grazing the shell of your ear with his plump, pink lips. “But you look absolutely phenomenal tonight.” You skipped a step, stumbling into him, red accentuating the tips of your ears. He chuckled, holding you against him as if you would vanish if he let go.

“You’re already falling for me, huh?” You shook your head, more so an action of embarrassment rather than an answer to his question.

“Shut up, Az.” You grumbled, pinching his chest. He barked out a laugh, untangling your bodies so he could twirl you, eyes raking up and down your figure, admiring every single detail he saw. He brought you back into him, one hand on your hip and the other on the small of your back. Az drew you closer, a growl escaping his throat before he relaxed. He shut his eyes as he leaned his forehead against yours, exhaling through his nose, swallowing thickly.

“You have no idea what you do to me, Little Star.” Before you could respond and throw two years of friendship down the drain, the sound of ringing glass gathered your attention.

“Gather round, everyone.” Cassian’s boisterous voice filled the room, garnering all attention. “For I have a story to tell. A treacherous tale of love, betrayal…”

“There was no betrayal, Cassian.” Rhys’ bored intonation boomed throughout the room, causing a few chuckles to sound.

“Okay, okay. Anyways.” You giggled, glancing up at Azriel only to find his sparkling eyes already on you. His arm, now wrapped around your waist, squeezed you closer to his side, fingers tracing patterns into the cotton fabric of your dress.

The two of you stayed like that as you listened to Cassian’s best man speech, only separating when Azriel went to fetch the two of you drinks.

You listened endearingly as he slurred about the love and adoration that tied your best friend and her soulmate together. Inconspicuously, you dabbed the tears from your eyes, a smile adorning your lips. 

Cassian’s speech eventually ended and was followed by two body shots that ramped up the party rather swiftly. The near-empty floor of slow dancers became a clustered pile of sweaty people, writhing against each other to the beat of the bass. Your head was buzzing from the alcohol and the music and the feel of Azriel against your back. His hands slid up and down your hips whilst yours reached over your head to play with the brunet curls on the back of his neck. His lips ghosted over your ear, voice a mere figment in your mind.

“Why don’t we step out. Get some fresh air.” You nodded, head swimming. Azriel took hold of your hand and led you through the crowd easily before pushing through a familiar pair of french doors. The garden looked ethereal at night. Even in the middle of Velaris, the stars shined as brilliantly as they would in the country. You could hear the gentle rush of the Sidra, the lull of the wind as it brushed against you, bringing with it a slight chill. Azriel wrapped his arm around you, rubbing his hand up and down your arm in an attempt to offer you warmth.

“It’s beautiful,” you whispered, in awe of the night that you saw every time you stepped outside. Yet, somehow, it seemed even more magical tonight than it had ever been before.

“What is?” Azriel queried, words filled with the air in his lungs.

“Everything.” You responded, finally tearing your eyes away from the sky to meet his, only to realize that he was staring at you as if you were the stars of the night incarnated.

“You want to know what I think?” He was closer than you remembered–so close that you could see the honeyed-highlights in his dark hair, the freckles on his cheeks, and the saliva on his lips. You responded with a hum, irises twinkling, lips twitching up in a light smile. 

“I think you’re the most beautiful piece of art I’ve set my eyes on tonight.” A blush coated your cheeks, invisible in the darkness of the night. You involuntarily leaned in, lips just barely grazing his own.

“You think so?” The words fell from your tongue in a soft murmur, and you could feel the hitch in his breath as you spoke. Instead of responding, Azriel placed a hand on the back of your neck and placed his lips against yours, meeting you in a slow and sensual pace that made your knees weak and your heart race. He commanded the kiss, holding you to him, pressing your body against his underneath the moonlight. All that could be heard was the sounds of your breathy sighs and the muffled bass that reverberated through the ground. 

“Gods, I have dreamed of this for a lifetime,” Azriel groaned as he pulled away from you, eyes swirling as they stared into yours, tongue flicking out to wet his lips before he dove back in for another taste.

It was all teeth clashing and tongues fighting for dominance. He pushed you back to one of the chairs, pulling you onto his lap without separating his lips from yours. You rolled your hips eliciting a growl from deep within his throat. Your hands tangled in his hair whilst his roamed your body, sliding up and down your sides, inching up your thighs and disappearing under your skirt. His lips left yours, instead choosing to trail down your neck, leaving rosy marks all over the plush skin amidst your mewls of pleasure.

He tongued the shell of your ear and blew cold air against it, the sensation sending a shiver down your spine as his fingers inched closer to your clothed core. You could feel his rock hard cock twitching beneath you, begging to be let out of its constraints. Your hips moved involuntarily, rubbing against his length, desperate for its touch. Azriel sighed and finally brushed his fingers against your sweet spot, halting your movements instantly. 

“You’re soaked,” he groaned as he slipped your panties aside and swiped a finger through your folds. Your eyes fluttered shut as you leaned your head against his shoulder, lips caressing the spot between his shoulder and neck.

“I need you, Az,” you sighed. He obliged, pushing one digit inside of you as his thumb worked your clit. A gasp fell from your lips, hips bucking as his middle finger joined his index inside of you. “Fuck.” His supple mouth was against yours once more, tongues dancing, his giving a show of protection and authority as he continued to work you closer and closer to an orgasm.

You pulled away from him, gasping for breath, sparks flying behind your eyes as your core buzzed and your stomach flipped. A loud whine was muffled by Azriel’s hand as he covered your mouth. 

“Shh, don’t want anybody to hear us now.” He chided, speeding up his movements as you squirmed on his lap. Your hands now clutched at his shirt, knuckles bone white, eyes lidded and hazy. A smirk graced Azriel’s lips at your dazed expression and rosy cheeks. “Are you going to cum for me, Little Star?” 

You nodded and hummed around his fingers as that coil within your belly pulled taut and finally snapped. The bliss was harmonious, filling your whole body with unprecedented adoration for the man in front of you. It seemed as if the stars were falling around you, swallowing you whole–you were shaking in his lap, lips clamped around his fingers as you tried to keep quiet. His eyes never left yours as he pumped his digits inside of you, working you through your orgasm and enjoying every second of your ecstasy as if it were his own. 

“That’s my baby,” he slurred, drunk on you, pulling away as you started wriggling and pushing at his chest from the overstimulation. You were panting, eyes shut, hair mussed and dress wrinkled. When your lids opened and you caught sight of him, Azriel had his fingers in his mouth, sucking up every drop of your release, savoring the taste on his tongue.

A giggle slipped from your lips and his eyes twinkled right before you dragged him into one last kiss. When you parted, Azriel began to smooth down your hair, pushing the strands behind your ears with his rugged hands.

“We should probably get back,” he muttered, yet he made no move to get up. You smirked and rolled your hips, his cock still stiff beneath you. When you leaned in, lips against his ear, you felt the shiver that ran through him.

“I don’t think anybody would miss us if we took some more time to ourselves.” You purred, eyelashes tickling your cheeks as they fluttered. You leaned back, taking note of the growing smile that you revered.

“Hmm, I think you might be onto something, Little Star.” He mused. With that he swung you up into his arms, a squeal leaving your lips as he took you somewhere a bit more private than in the ethereal garden under the stars.

[berberriescorner]

"Balancing Acts"

Characters: Rio x Black!Reader.

Summary: Rio takes an important phone call while dealing with Beth and her minions.

Warnings: Profanity, Mentions of violence, Mild sexual innuendos, slight referencing to intimacy, implied threats, and Rio’s nonchalant view of violence.

Word Count: 1,200+.

Silence filled the room as tension wafted through a pristine kitchen. Rio posted up against the spotless island. Nerves had a funny way of forcing oneself to stress clean. His eyes bounced to the others occupying the space.

“Y’all ain't got shit to say?”

Beth and Ruby’s shoulders jumped as Annie started to stammer, “L-look I totally understand that we have an arrangement-.”

“Oh, you understand, yeah? If that were the case. I’d have my bread and we wouldn’t have this pointless conversation.”

“We—just need a little more time. There have been a few mishaps-.”

“I ain't come here for excuses. Figure the shit out. You got forty-eight hours. Get to it,” Rio barked.

His phone chirped and the three women gawked at how quickly he could turn the anger off. They watched as he answered the call.

“What's up darlin’? Yeah? Hold up, let me switch to video. Put little mamas on the phone.”

Rio's fingers moved quickly across his screen. The tiny, bashful voice flowed through the speaker on his phone making the usually emotionless man smile brightly. It quickly shifted to a frown once the little voice started to sniffle.

Your voice cooed from behind your daughter. You brushed her hair behind her ear, holding her tight, and kissing her head. You rocked her side to side, “Go ahead, baby, tell your Daddy what happened at school today.”

“Who made my baby girl cry?”

“D-daddy he said I was chubby,” she responded, lip quivering.

Rio’s eyes connected with yours. You frowned, “Some little a—boy said her cheeks were chubby and pinched them hard. She told him to stop. He followed that up with a hair pull, cackling his funky breath in her face. Miss Mamas cocked back and punched him in the face. The teacher only caught that part. She tried to explain, but the little b—terror lied. To keep things fair they both had to sit out at recess today.”

“Is that right? Look at me, my baby. You know you're beautiful, right?”

Your daughter sniffled, wiping away the remnants of her tears, and nodded.

“Y-yes, sir.”

“Then that's the only thing that matters. Okay? Daddy thinks you're beautiful. Would I lie to my baby girl?”

“No, sir,” she replied, as a small smile spread across her face.

“Fu—forget what that teacher said. You did the right thing. They say violence isn't the answer, but you should always defend yourself. You got me, little mamas?”

Your daughter giggled. Leaning closer to the screen she stage-whispered, “I made his nose bleed. His little ugly self deserved it.”

“That's my girl.”

“Unh-uh! Don't hype her up. She'll be swinging on everybody from this point forward,” you teased. “You’re trying to turn every member in this household into a TTGK.”

You and Rio had formed the acronym for when he wanted to discuss business without the little ones understanding. He chuckled at your use of ‘Trained To Go Killa.’

“I'm just trying to keep the love of my life and my babies ready.”

“I know, Papa. Stay ready-.”

“So you don't have to get ready,” your baby girl said, finishing your sentence.

“See? Just grown,” you teased, giving your daughter a little tickle. “Mommy needs to talk to Daddy. Go tell your sisters and brothers to get washed up for dinner,” you instructed, kissing her soft round cheek.

The minute she darted away, your eyes connected with your husbands. You bit your lip as his eyes roamed over the sight of you.

“Aren't you working?”

“Somethin’ like that,” he glanced at the three women looking gobsmacked. Rio cut his eyes at them, shaking his head, he continued, “I always got time for wifey and my babies though.”

“I need you to stop eyeing me like you’re about to take me down,” you squeaked.

“Oh, I plan to. When I get home,” he responded, baritone smooth as silk.

“Aht, aht! Chill. I have children to feed. I don't need to have impure thoughts at the dinner table.”

“Wouldn’t be the first, nor the last time that’s happened, mama.”

“Anyway! I tried to explain that situation to her.”

“What? That the little jerk needed his ass beat?”

“No, Rio! You act like you weren't doing the same thing at that age. His square-headed behind was flirting with her.”

“Nah, mama. I was smooth with it. You didn’t know? I’ve always had emotional intelligence. Even back then. Flirting or not, mans still needed some sense knocked into him. Do I know him? Who’s his pops? Might need to have a little chat with him.”

“First of all. Why am I not surprised you had the girlies in a frenzy, even back then? You were probably bringing them little fast-ass girls flowers and all,” you joked, playfully rolling your eyes. “You will not be going to talk to that boy’s father. You can’t threaten everybody, Papa.”

“Who said I was going to make threats? I just wanna talk.”

“Yeah, right. Keep lying in my face. Leave that family alone, Rio. If it happens again, then, by all means, do what you need to do. Hell, I might even have a chat with his mama, but let’s just wait and see. Okay, Papa?”

“You lucky I love your ass,” Rio grunted.

Marcus and your eldest daughter walked into the kitchen with rapid-fire questions.

“Your rude ass children are hungry. Let me go feed these beautiful heathens.”

“I ain’t forgot about taking you down. Be ready for me when I get home, yeah?”

Your two eldest children started to make gagging noises, reminding you that children were present. They pleaded with you not to have another baby. Jokingly, of course.

“Y’all always blocking on your pops. Chill on me. That’s my wife and I’ma love on her.”

Rio took a minute to say hello to the rest of his children. With an ‘I love you’ and promises of ‘cuddles’ later that night, Rio ended the call. He locked the device, sliding it back into his jacket pocket.

His eyes cut back to the three stooges (a name Mick had given them). The three women stared at Rio befuddled.

“Back to my money-.”

“How on earth do you do that,” Ruby questioned in amazement.

“Do what,” Rio responded curtly.

“You were seconds away from busting a cap in our behinds. In a snap of a finger, your entire mood changed. You slid right into daddy mode,” Ruby said, still in awe.

“Damn, your daddy game is on point,” Annie praised, following it with a yelp. Ruby had mugged the back of her head.

“You’re so calm and gentle with your family. It’s just-,” Beth started.

“Oh, I get it,” he responded, nodding a few times. “The thugged-out, tatted-up gangster is supposed to be the run-of-the-mill deadbeat baby daddy, right? We’ll also spin the block on me poppin’ a cap so to speak, because I still don’t see a duffle bag anywhere in sight.”

“That’s not what I meant at all,” Beth stammered, face red.

Rio cut his eyes to the shaky redhead. “Doubtful, but fuck all that. Yes, I take care of mine. I’ll give every last one of them the world if they ask for it. Now slide your asses out of my personal life, and go get my fucking money.”

Rio’s patience was dwindling by the second. He was ready to get to the money and get home to his wife. His tongue traced his lips at the thought of her.

These bitches need to stop wasting my time. I’m tryin’ to kiss my babies goodnight and put mama to sleep.

How did you lovelies like the latest update of Dad!Rio and his family of...I believe it's still six at the moment😆😂🥰? Comments and reblogs are appreciated my loves💖.

lovelies💜:

@astoldbychae @percosim @darqchilddaydreamz @thirtysomethinganduncensored @ravennaortiz

@amorestevens @abcdestinyyyy @jannavaire @novaniskye

@nobodygetsza @bisexuallyattractivebitch @1andonlytashae

@rio-reid-whoreee @lovedlover @sunshine-flower @realhotgurlshit

@thebumbqueen @blowmymbackout @tashawar @captainwithoutmakingitlove @kinkiicoils @theegoddessofmelanin

@beachyserasims @tbmotw @wroteitbutneverwatchedit @speckldsimblr

[the-bifrost-blogger]

Of Chaos and Quiet Moments

Title: Doctor's Orders

Pairing: Loki x Reader

Timeline: Shortly after Loki's sentencing.

Thor’s voice echoed through the house, rattling the walls as if the thunder itself had descended into Jane Foster’s modest living room. He paced back and forth, his towering frame casting long shadows against the evening light filtering in through the windows.

“Loki, enough is enough!” Thor bellowed, his deep baritone carrying both frustration and exasperation.

Loki, reclining lazily on the couch, appeared completely unfazed. His legs were crossed, one ankle resting on his knee, and a polished green apple hovered between his fingers, suspended midair by a faint flicker of golden magic. He spun it absentmindedly, his emerald gaze focused more on the fruit than on his brother’s righteous fury.

“I fail to see what the issue is,” Loki drawled, his voice dripping with mock innocence.

Jane, seated at the dining table with her laptop open but clearly forgotten, threw her hands in the air. “The issue, Loki, is that you’re impossible to work with! Do you have any idea how many people I had to call after the soup kitchen fiasco?”

Loki’s lips curved into a mischievous smirk. “I’ve told you before, mortal, it was a mere grease fire. Hardly my fault that their equipment wasn’t up to standard.”

“Grease fire?” Thor barked, stopping mid-step to glare at his brother. “You turned the entire kitchen into an inferno! They’re still cleaning soot off the ceiling!”

Jane rubbed her temples, muttering under her breath, “And replacing half their pans...”

“And then there’s the dog park,” Thor continued, his tone growing darker. “What in the Nine Realms possessed you to bring an elephant to a dog park?”

Loki’s grin widened. “Admit it, brother. It was rather amusing.”

Thor’s nostrils flared as he stepped closer, looming over Loki like an impending storm. “Amusing? Amusing? The poor beast trampled half the park benches and terrified every dog in sight!”

Loki shrugged, utterly unrepentant. “It was a lesson in adaptability for those pampered Midgardian pets. You should thank me.”

“Thank you?” Jane cut in, her voice rising in pitch as she stood up and approached the two brothers. “Loki, the city’s animal control had to tranquilize the elephant in broad daylight. Do you know how much paperwork that caused? And let’s not even talk about the chihuahua incident—”

Thor groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “And those are just the minor incidents. What about the library debacle?”

“Ah,” Loki interjected, finally looking up from his apple with a gleam of pride. “That was a masterpiece. A simple enchantment, and poof! The books sorted themselves. It’s not my fault the mortals couldn’t handle the reorganization.”

“You made the books levitate, Loki!” Jane exclaimed, throwing up her hands. “One woman fainted, and another filed a police report because she thought the library was haunted!”

Thor pinched the bridge of his nose, visibly trying to compose himself. When he spoke again, his voice was quieter but no less firm. “Loki, this is serious. Your community service is not just a punishment—it’s a chance to make amends. But every organization we’ve sent you to has refused to take you back. If you don’t fulfill these hours, Father will have no choice but to intervene.”

At the mention of Odin, Loki’s expression flickered. For the briefest moment, his smirk faltered, replaced by a shadow of something heavier. But it was gone just as quickly, and he resumed his air of indifference.

“Very well,” Loki said with a sigh, tossing the apple into the air and catching it deftly. “Where, pray tell, do you intend to send me next? A preschool? A landfill? Perhaps I should clean your mortal sewers.”

Jane exchanged a glance with Thor, then crossed her arms. “Actually, I have a friend who’s willing to give you a chance. She works at Starlight General Hospital.”

“Hospital?” Loki repeated, his voice laced with disdain. “You expect me to play nursemaid to the sick and injured?”

Jane’s lips curled into a sly smile. “Not just any patients. Children.”

Loki’s eyes widened, and for the first time in the conversation, he looked genuinely horrified.

The sleek black car pulled up to the entrance of Starlight General Hospital, its polished surface gleaming under the mid-morning sun. Thor, seated in the driver’s seat with a grin as wide as the Bifrost bridge, turned to his begrudging passenger.

“Come on, brother,” Thor said cheerfully, slapping Loki on the shoulder with a force that jolted the smaller man forward. “It’s time for you to face your destiny.”

Loki, seated in the passenger seat with his arms crossed and a scowl etched across his face, stared out at the cheerful hospital façade. A brightly colored sign over the glass doors read “Pediatric Wing: Where Healing Meets Happiness!” and was adorned with cartoon drawings of smiling animals. The sight alone made Loki recoil.

“I refuse,” he said flatly, his emerald gaze narrowing. “Surely there is a more suitable punishment. Perhaps scrubbing the streets of New York or restoring those blasted park benches you’re so fond of mentioning.”

Thor leaned back in his seat, savoring Loki’s discomfort. “You’ve run out of options, brother. Every organization has refused to take you back. This hospital is your last chance. Unless, of course, you’d like to explain your failure to Father.”

At the mention of Odin, Loki’s jaw tightened. He turned to glare at Thor, his expression dark and venomous. “You will pay for this indignity,” he growled, stepping out of the car with the grace of a man marching to his own execution.

Thor followed, his booming laughter echoing across the parking lot. “Come now, brother! This will be good for you. And besides, how much trouble could you possibly cause in a hospital?”

Loki’s lips curved into a smirk as he walked ahead, his cape billowing dramatically behind him. “You underestimate me, Thor. That’s always been your weakness.”

Inside, the hospital lobby was a flurry of activity. Nurses wheeled patients past the reception desk, doctors hurried through the halls with clipboards, and the faint beeping of monitors mingled with the chatter of visitors.

Loki wrinkled his nose, already unimpressed by the sterile environment. His sharp eyes scanned the room until they landed on a figure dressed in bright pink scrubs that offended his aesthetic sensibilities.

The woman turned, revealing a clipboard tucked under one arm and a coffee cup in the other. Her scrubs were covered in cartoon kittens, and her name tag read: Dr. (Y/N) (L/N), Head of Pediatric Surgery.

She spotted Thor and broke into a warm smile. “Thor! You made it!”

Thor stepped forward, enveloping her in a bear hug that lifted her off the ground. She laughed, playfully swatting his arm when he set her down. “Easy, Thunder God. Some of us aren’t indestructible.”

Thor chuckled. “Dr. (L/N), this is my brother, Loki.”

Loki stepped forward, his posture stiff and his expression unreadable. “Charmed, I’m sure,” he said coolly, though his tone suggested anything but.

Dr. (L/N) raised an eyebrow, giving him a once-over. “So, you’re the infamous Loki. of Asgard”

“Infamous?” Loki repeated, feigning offense. “Surely you’ve heard of my glorious exploits. They’ve been somewhat exaggerated, I assure you.”

She smiled sweetly, though there was a spark of steel in her gaze. “Well, Mr. Infamous, let’s lay down some ground rules. No mischief. No tricks. And absolutely no causing trouble for my kids.”

“Your...kids?” Loki echoed, his brows furrowing.

Dr. (L/N) gestured toward a set of double doors painted with whimsical animals. “The pediatric ward. Those kids are my world. If you disrupt their peace, you’ll have me to answer to.”

Thor let out a low whistle. “Careful, brother. You’re in the presence of a true warrior.”

Loki’s smirk returned, but there was a flicker of something else in his expression—curiosity, perhaps. “I shall endeavor to restrain myself,” he said smoothly, though the glint in his eye suggested otherwise.

Dr. (L/N) led them through the hospital, giving Loki a brisk tour of the facility. She pointed out the nurses’ station, the playroom filled with toys and games, and the cafeteria where he could find snacks if he behaved.

“And this,” she said, stopping outside a brightly decorated room, “is where you’ll start.”

Loki raised an eyebrow, peering inside. The room was filled with posters of superheroes, stacks of comic books, and a collection of plush animals. In the center of the room was a hospital bed, occupied by a boy of about eleven.

The boy looked up as they entered, his face lighting up with excitement. “Is that Thor?” he asked, his voice high-pitched with awe.

Thor chuckled, stepping forward to ruffle the boy’s hair. “Indeed, young one. And I’ve brought someone else for you to meet.”

The boy’s eyes shifted to Loki, widening. “Who’s that?”

Loki stepped closer, his gaze flicking between the boy and Dr. (L/N). “I am Loki,” he said, his voice smooth and commanding. “God of Mischief.”

The boy’s jaw dropped. “No way! Are you a superhero too?”

Loki scoffed, but Dr. (L/N) interrupted before he could reply. “Loki’s here to help you out, Dylan. He’s going to make sure you have everything you need today.”

Dylan beamed. “Really? That’s so cool!”

Loki turned to Dr. (L/N), his expression a mix of irritation and disbelief. “You expect me to play servant to a mortal child?”

She crossed her arms, meeting his gaze with unwavering determination. “That’s exactly what I expect. Consider it your first lesson in humility.”

Thor clapped Loki on the back. “Good luck, brother. Try not to disappoint the lad.”

And with that, Thor strode out, leaving Loki alone with Dylan and the formidable Dr. (L/N).

Loki stared at Dylan, his sharp features betraying no emotion, though a storm of irritation brewed beneath the surface. He could scarcely believe the indignity of being assigned to "assist" a mortal child, no less one so infuriatingly cheerful.

The boy, oblivious to Loki’s disdain, grinned ear to ear. “So, what kind of powers do you have? Can you fly? Can you shoot lasers out of your eyes?”

Loki blinked, caught off guard by the boy’s enthusiastic questions. “I am not some circus performer,” he said with a dismissive wave of his hand. “I wield magic far beyond your comprehension.”

Dr. (L/N), standing just behind him, cleared her throat loudly. “Loki,” she said, her tone sharp enough to cut through steel, “remember what we talked about—kindness and patience.”

Loki glanced over his shoulder, his lips curling into a mock smile. “Ah, yes. Patience. My favorite virtue.”

Dylan giggled, clearly amused. “Can you show me some magic? Please? I promise I won’t tell anyone!”

The boy’s excitement was so genuine, so infectious, that even Loki found himself considering the request. With a dramatic sigh, he raised one hand, allowing a shimmering green orb to form in his palm. It flickered and danced like firelight, casting soft shadows across the room.

Dylan gasped, his eyes wide with wonder. “That’s amazing! Can you do more?”

Before Loki could respond, Dr. (L/N) stepped forward, placing a firm hand on his arm. “No tricks that could scare or hurt him,” she said, her voice low but commanding. “These kids have been through enough.”

Loki tilted his head, his expression unreadable. “I am perfectly capable of entertaining a child without traumatizing him,” he said, though his tone suggested he didn’t appreciate the insinuation.

Dr. (L/N) smiled sweetly, but her eyes were sharp. “Good. Then I’ll leave you to it.”

She turned to Dylan, her demeanor softening instantly. “If Loki gives you any trouble, just press the call button, okay?”

Dylan nodded eagerly. “Got it, Dr. (L/N). Thanks!”

As she left the room, Loki couldn’t help but watch her go. There was something about her—the way she carried herself, the way she looked at him without fear or reverence—that intrigued him. He shook his head, forcing the thought aside.

“Okay, Mr. Loki,” Dylan said, breaking the silence. “What else can you do?”

Loki raised an eyebrow at the boy’s audacity. “Do you presume to give me orders?”

Dylan shrugged, unfazed. “You’re supposed to help me, right? So, help me not be bored.”

Loki sighed, muttering something in Asgardian under his breath. With a flick of his wrist, he conjured a small illusion—a flock of shimmering golden birds that flitted around the room, their wings leaving trails of light.

Dylan clapped his hands, laughing in delight. “This is so cool! Can I keep one?”

“They’re not real, you foolish child,” Loki said, though there was no real malice in his tone. “They’re illusions, meant only to entertain.”

Dylan frowned for a moment, then brightened. “Can you make them do tricks?”

Loki hesitated, glancing at the boy’s eager face. With another sigh, he wove his magic, commanding the birds to form intricate patterns in the air—circles, spirals, even the shape of a dragon.

For the next several minutes, Dylan watched in awe, his laughter filling the room. Despite himself, Loki felt a flicker of satisfaction. Perhaps this task wasn’t entirely without merit.

Just as Loki began to relax, the door swung open, and Dr. (L/N) stepped back inside. She froze, her eyes narrowing as she took in the glowing birds.

“Loki,” she said slowly, “what are you doing?”

“Entertaining the boy,” Loki replied innocently, dispelling the illusion with a casual wave of his hand. “Is that not what you assigned me to do?”

Dr. (L/N) crossed her arms, clearly unimpressed. “No magic unless it’s absolutely necessary. Hospital policy.”

Loki smirked. “Ah, but you never specified that earlier. Shall I add ‘mind-reading’ to my impressive list of abilities?”

Dylan stifled a laugh, earning a glare from Dr. (L/N). She stepped closer to Loki, her voice dropping to a whisper. “This is a hospital, not a stage. If you can’t follow the rules, you’re free to leave. I’m sure Thor would love to hear about your inability to cooperate.”

The mention of Thor made Loki bristle, but he forced a smile. “Very well, Doctor. Your rules are my command.”

Dr. (L/N) arched an eyebrow, clearly unconvinced. “Good. Then maybe you can help Dylan with his reading assignment instead.”

“Reading assignment?” Loki repeated, his voice dripping with disdain.

Dylan held up a thin book titled Adventures in Space. “It’s my homework. I have to read a chapter and answer questions.”

Loki stared at the book as if it were a venomous snake. “Surely you jest.”

Dr. (L/N) smirked, clearly enjoying his discomfort. “Welcome to the real world, Loki. Have fun.”

With that, she left the room, leaving Loki alone with Dylan and the dreaded reading assignment.

Loki stared at the small book in Dylan’s hands as if it were an affront to his very existence. He pinched the bridge of his nose, muttering to himself. “Of all the indignities I have suffered, this must be the gravest.”

“It’s not that bad,” Dylan said, grinning. He opened the book and flipped to the marked chapter. “I mean, it’s about space. You like space, right?”

“Space is not a subject, child—it is an infinite expanse of wonder and chaos. Hardly something to be trivialized in...” Loki snatched the book from Dylan, examining the cartoonish illustrations. “This.”

Dylan giggled, clearly amused by Loki’s dramatics. “Come on, Mr. Loki. It’s only one chapter.”

Reluctantly, Loki sat down on the chair beside Dylan’s bed. He scanned the first page, his expression growing more incredulous with every sentence.

“In the vastness of space, Captain Zoom piloted his trusty rocket ship toward the glowing nebula…” Loki read aloud, his voice dripping with disdain. He lowered the book and gave Dylan a look of sheer disbelief. “This is the drivel they force upon you?”

Dylan shrugged. “It’s for school. I think it’s kinda fun.”

Loki rolled his eyes but continued reading, his voice taking on a sarcastic flair. “‘With his loyal robot companion Beep at his side, Captain Zoom prepared to rescue the alien queen from the clutches of the evil Star Lord.’” He paused, his lips curling into a smirk. “Star Lord? Truly, your Midgardian literature knows no bounds of absurdity.”

Dylan burst out laughing, clutching his stomach. “You’re funny, Mr. Loki!”

Loki arched a brow, a small smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “I do not strive to amuse, boy. This is merely my natural state.”

Once the reading was finished, Dylan picked up a pencil and opened his workbook. “Okay, now we have to answer the questions.”

“We?” Loki repeated, his tone filled with indignation.

Dylan grinned. “You’re helping me, remember? It’s part of your volunteer job.”

Loki sighed dramatically but leaned over to glance at the workbook. The first question read: What was Captain Zoom’s mission in this chapter?

“Rescuing the alien queen,” Dylan said, scribbling down the answer. He looked up at Loki. “See? Easy!”

Loki snorted. “Your educational system sets a disturbingly low bar.”

The second question read: Why did Captain Zoom trust his robot companion Beep?

Dylan tapped the pencil against his chin. “Um… because Beep was programmed to help him?”

Loki leaned back, folding his arms. “How unimaginative. A truly great ally is forged through bonds of loyalty, not mere programming.”

Dylan frowned, erasing his answer. “What should I put, then?”

“Write this,” Loki said, his voice authoritative. “Captain Zoom trusted Beep because true loyalty is demonstrated through unwavering actions, even in the face of great peril.”

Dylan dutifully wrote down the sentence, then looked up at Loki with wide eyes. “You’re really smart, Mr. Loki.”

“Yes, I am,” Loki said, his smirk widening.

As Loki finished helping Dylan with his homework, the door opened, and Dr. (L/N) stepped in. Her eyes immediately went to the workbook.

“Homework duty done already?” she teased, walking over to inspect their progress.

“It is an utter waste of time,” Loki said, rising to his full height. “This boy should be learning something of value, not reading tales of fictitious space captains.”

Dr. (L/N) tilted her head, clearly unimpressed. “And what would you suggest, Loki? Teaching him how to conjure snakes or make people disappear?”

Loki smirked, stepping closer. “I could teach him to see through illusions, to question the falsehoods presented to him. Surely that would be a more valuable skill.”

Dr. (L/N) crossed her arms, meeting his gaze without flinching. “Or maybe we should let him enjoy being a kid while he still can. These stories might not be your idea of profound, but they give him hope and joy—something he desperately needs right now.”

Her words struck a nerve, though Loki refused to show it. He glanced back at Dylan, who was watching them with a mixture of curiosity and amusement.

“I suppose,” Loki said slowly, “there is some merit in allowing the boy his distractions.”

Dr. (L/N) blinked, surprised by his concession. “Well, that’s... unexpected.”

Loki smirked. “Do not mistake my acquiescence for agreement, Doctor. I merely find arguing with you to be… tiresome.”

She laughed, shaking her head. “You’re impossible.”

Loki found himself loitering in the hospital’s staff break room, a space he had declared “unfit for anyone with even a modicum of taste.” It was a sterile room with plain white walls, mismatched chairs, and the faint aroma of burnt coffee.

Dr. (L/N) stood by the counter, pouring herself a cup from the offending coffee pot. She turned, her eyes catching Loki’s as he leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, his expression one of idle amusement.

“Lurking again, I see,” she said lightly, taking a sip of her coffee.

“Merely observing,” Loki corrected, his tone dripping with faux innocence. “You Midgardians are endlessly fascinating. Tell me, is that what you call coffee?”

She raised an eyebrow, unperturbed by his sarcasm. “It gets the job done.”

He stepped closer, his boots making an irritatingly soft sound on the linoleum floor. “Does it, though? Or do you simply endure it because you’ve convinced yourself it’s the best you can manage?”

She chuckled, shaking her head. “Do you ever stop?”

“Rarely,” he said, his voice low and smooth.

The way he looked at her then was different—less playful, more intense. Her pulse quickened as his piercing green eyes swept over her, taking in the tired lines of her face, the faint smudge of ink on her wrist where she’d made notes in haste earlier.

“And what about you, Doctor?” he asked, his voice softening, almost a purr. “Do you always settle for mediocrity?”

She didn’t step back, though he was close enough now that she could feel the faint warmth radiating from him. “I don’t settle for anything, Loki.”

“Bold claim,” he said, his smirk returning, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “But I wonder—are you always so controlled? So perfectly in command of every situation?”

Her jaw tightened, but she held his gaze. “Why don’t you tell me what this is really about? Or do you just enjoy hearing yourself talk?”

Loki let out a low chuckle, stepping even closer. He was invading her space now, and they both knew it.

“Perhaps I do,” he admitted, his voice a murmur. “But perhaps I also enjoy seeing you flustered, Doctor.”

“I’m not flustered,” she said, though the slight hitch in her voice betrayed her.

“Oh, but you are,” he said, leaning just slightly into her space. “Your heart is racing, your breathing has quickened. Shall I go on?”

Her lips parted, but no retort came. For a moment, she was acutely aware of how near he was, the faint scent of his cologne mingling with the burnt coffee aroma. She hated how much she noticed, how much she cared.

But then she smiled—a small, knowing smile that made Loki pause. “You know, for someone so clever, you’re remarkably predictable.”

That threw him off balance. “Predictable?”

“Yes,” she said, stepping around him to refill her coffee. “You think you’re mysterious, but really, you’re just lonely.”

The words hit like a dagger, and for a split second, his mask slipped.

“What would you know of it?” he asked, his tone sharper now.

She turned, meeting his gaze again. “More than you think.”

There was no malice in her voice, only quiet understanding. And that, somehow, made it worse.

For a moment, neither of them spoke. The air between them crackled with tension—part challenge, part something neither of them dared to name.

Finally, she broke the silence. “If you’re done trying to get under my skin, we have a patient waiting. Unless, of course, you’d rather sulk.”

He smirked, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Lead the way, Doctor. I wouldn’t dream of keeping your adoring public waiting.”

...

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[gothic-fiction-society]

Episode 1: "The Invisible Trail", Part 1

Episode content warnings: mention of superiority complex (in an antagonist) and self-experimentation

Reports had flooded the news for the past couple weeks. Londoners were coming home, inexplicably shaken and speaking of an "invisible figure". Some recounted being shoved on the ground, others heard a deep, malicious laugh coming from an unseen source. It was only a matter of time before the news reached the Society. And reach them it did.

Nellie Lovett had been sent to gather information, specifically at the Beating Heart Pub. It used to be her relocated pie shop, but she'd since sold it to a couple she knew well. The pub was alive with a nervous, frightened energy among most of the patrons, retelling their personal encounters with whatever was plaguing London. An old man's tools vanishing from his shed, only to be found in the most improbable places. A flower girl having her basket seemingly float, before it got chucked right at her. Amidst the combined scents of food, alcohol, and bark chips, Nellie kept her focus. Something was telling her these weren't merely drunken ramblings, or any sort of hysteria. The way these stories were told, the genuine fear she heard in the patrons' voices, it couldn't be imagined. Not with this many people. With a silent nod towards one of the pub owners, she slipped out into the night.

Her heeled boots gently clicked on the concrete, as she made her way home to the estate. It wasn't too far from the Beating Heart, thankfully, about ten minutes from each other on foot. Nellie couldn't help but notice just how... empty the streets were, which was odd at this hour. It wasn't even 10pm yet. The sight sent a small chill down her spine, as she instinctively clutched the maroon-colored shawl around her shoulders tighter than before.

As soon as Nellie was back in the estate, she was immediately greeted by both Jonathan Harker and Dr. Henry Jekyll. The two men had been intensely focused on the news, with Jonathan trying to make sense of it and Jekyll already having a prime suspect in mind.

"Nellie," Jekyll began, standing up from his seat in the living room, "did you find anything pointing us in the right direction?" His clear, baritone-ranged voice was mostly calm, but an underlying sense of apprehensive tension underscored his tone.

"I remember hearing some people had caught sight of the bugger. Or, well. What he was wearing," Nellie answered, gently nodding her head. "Something about a trenchcoat and glasses, but nothing else I could make out." As Nellie hung up her shawl on the coat rack near the door, Jekyll's memory started going. He put a gloved hand to his chin, his gaze intensifying as he racked his memory for anyone matching the description.

"Griffin." Jekyll's sudden answer was accompanied by a vocal shift, a hint of annoyance coming through now. Nellie and Jonathan exchanged strange looks, with the exact same question. Who the hell was "Griffin"? Jekyll, sensing their confusion, then called for a Society briefing.

Now that everyone had gathered in the drawing room, decorated by various portraits and elaborate furniture scattered around, Jonathan was the first to speak up.

"Dr. Jekyll, you mentioned the name 'Griffin'. Who is he?" Jonathan, sitting beside his love Mina, raised an eyebrow at the doctor. Van Helsing, the other head of the Society sitting across from the Harkers, froze for a moment. He knew the name.

"Claude Griffin was...," Jekyll sighed out, "he was an old colleague of mine in my university days. Brilliant man, don't get me wrong. But he was very much not of sound mind. Griffin had delusions of grandiosity, that he was superior. And when I graduated and he didn't, that set him off on the path he's followed to this day."

Jekyll's words made Victoria, who was now listening intently after being dragged away from her work, visibly flinch. It reminded her of how she let her own pride and ambition cloud her judgement in her own college days, back when she had initially made Ada and brought her to life. She had left those actions behind her, but it still stung.

"... and?" Nellie folded her arms, leaning forward where she was sitting. She wanted to know what happened after the graduation.

Jekyll nodded gently, continuing his explanation. "He made a concoction, one that, if it worked, would allow him to get away with anything he wanted." Jekyll winced at his own words, the memory of his own self-experimentation coming to mind. "And as you all know from the recent reports... it did."

[dr-demi-bee]

Day 7 ---------------------Read on AO3-------------------------

Pairing: Raphael x Tav Prompt: Against a Wall Uhhhh idk. Sneaking into the House of Hope, Bad idea, NSFW

----------------------------------------------------------------------

It had probably been a mistake for Tav to search the House of Hope alone. But sending Astarion ahead to search the archives while she searched Raphael’s quarters was the only way to ensure they’d get what they needed and only one of them could get caught. And Tav was betting (foolishly) that Raphael liked them too much, in his way, to do something harmful. Or she’s at least betting that they’re too valuable.

Or that’s what she had been thinking when she crept her way into the opulent room. It was terribly him - garish shades of red and gold, walnut and black, everything dripping with excess. Much like the glimpse she had seen when last the cambion teleported them all here in what she could only consider a thinly veiled threat. Thankfully his incubus is nowhere to be seen.

And while Tav, admittedly foolishly, sets to using her thieves tools to pick open a drawer in one of his garish desks she fails to notice the sound of him entering the room over the bubbling of his bathing pool.

“Well, well,” drawls the deep baritone from far too close, “A little mouse come scurrying into my home. Snooping, no less.”

Heart hammering in her throat, Tav whirls, straightening to her full height. But she feels suddenly indescribably small as she meets the gaze of the cambion towering over her, wings splayed and teeth bared in a menacing grin. She’s only seen him in his fully devilish form once before. And it was unsettling, but at least then there’d been some distance between them. Gods he’s huge. And those wings.

“Cat got your tongue, little mouse?” Raphael purrs, stepping ever closer.

She backs away from him, scrambling for something - anything- to say. It had been easy to assume she’d somehow be safe from harm because of the cambion’s favor. But as he presses ever closer, crowding her back towards the far wall, it’s hard to fathom why she had ever thought that at all. Raphael practically exudes malice through those fiery eyes and that sharp grin. Even with his hands tucked behind his back it still somehow feels like a threat.

“I’m not a fan of silence, little mouse. I’ve asked you a question,” he murmurs, his voice dropping lower as he lets some of his irritation show. “And I very much want you to explain how you came to be here. In my house. In my bedroom.”

Well, in for a penny...

She steels her expression, giving him a firm glower as she replies, “I’m looking for a contract.”

Raphael first quirks one brow high, touching a hand to his chin in thought, as if disbelieving. But then when she doesn’t elaborate any further the cambion tilts his head back and laughs. Laughs.

“Oh, little mouse,” he gives a soft sighing exhale before his gaze is back on her once more - more full of devious delight than before. His lips split wide in a sharp grin and he takes another step forward. “You think I’m so foolish as to keep contracts in my own bedroom?”

He looses another soft, barking chuckle as he prowls forward another step. Tav’s feet move in kind, automatically retreating. When her back connects with the wall and Raphael keeps moving closer, a cold pool of dread wells in her stomach.

“No, oh apple of my eye,” Raphael croons in that rich, low tone, “There is naught in this room to peak your interest. Naught but you. And I.”

Tav’s breath catches, and something in the way his gaze shifts - trailing over her face and to her collarbones - and his tone darkens has that ice in her stomach heating. Rapidly set to boiling in a way her frightful mind isn’t ready to consider.

Raphael’s hand is suddenly beside her head as he backs her fully against the wall. His wings splay out - gods how long are they - and the effect has her swallowed in a cocoon made entirely of him. Her back against the wall, and nothing in her vision but Raphael towering over her, his wings on all sides.

The cambion leans his head down to get closer to her, and he lifts his free hand to trail one thick, hot finger down the side of her jaw.

“You’re far too clever to have been so easily found and captured, my dearest little mouse,” he murmurs with a twist of his lips. “So I am left to wonder - just what you were intending when you crept your way into my boudoir.”

“What do you mean to say, Raphael?” Tav growls back.

His brow furrows with a mock distaste for a moment, before returning to that smug stoicism once more.

“I think you know precisely what I mean to say,” he murmurs. Raphael slides his foot forward to wedge between hers, then leans in further to notch his knee between her legs. A simple flex of his leg and he has her legs parting. Tav gasps a sharp inhale, startled by the way heat rockets through her.

Tav’s not particularly tall - but confronted with a Cambion well over a foot higher than her in armor - even excluding those fucking horns - well, she doesn’t exactly feel big. And it’s when Raphael rocks his foot forward and grinds his knee against her that she realizes just how much taller he is. She lets out a sound she immediately regrets - not only mortified, but now terrified at the gleam in his eyes.

“I thought as much,” Raphael purrs darkly. His hands move to grasp her sides and he holds her fast against the wall. “Whatever it is you came for, little mouse,” Raphael growls, continuing a torturous movement of his large knee against her, “I’m afraid you’ll be leaving here with something else entirely.”

“Fuck you-” Tav grits. She wants to argue, to fight back against his advances. But gods does her body ever agree with whatever he’s promising.

“Oh, perhaps you will,” the cambion returns with a dark laugh. He bites against her neck and she yelps. Then those hot hands spin her faster than she can fathom, nearly tripping over her own feet in the process. And just as quickly his forearm is flat against her shoulders, pressing her roughly against the wall.

“But first - you’re in my home, and in my room,” Raphael growls low in her ear. He presses his body flush against hers and she lets out a soft moan at the feel of his excitement hot on her back. “And I plan to take what is owed to me as your gracious host.”

@lanafofana @lastlight-inn @waterdeep-weavemoss

@crimson-and-lavender @feedthepheasants @spooky-lil-bee

[superheavybaraftms]

The Blip : Beasts of Fort Garrison 1 - The General’s Return

The desert sun beat down on the polished tarmac of Fort Garrison, casting mirage-like waves over the neat rows of military vehicles and regulation-trimmed hedges. A dry wind swept across the base, stirring the edges of the American flag that snapped proudly above the welcome station.

Emma Dwyer shaded her eyes with a hand, squinting at the wide expanse of olive-drab buildings and watchtowers. She wore a khaki sundress, soft sneakers, and a hopeful smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. The dry air tugged at her ponytail as she clutched her camera with both hands.

Her father, Colonel Richard Dwyer, stood tall in his dress uniform beside her, shoulders squared with pride as he led her through the base.

“This is where the future of the U.S. Army is shaped, sweetheart,” he said with a glint in his eyes. “And today, they get to meet my future—my girl, Emma. Top of her class. You should see the essay she wrote on international ethics. Blew my boots off.”

Emma blushed, brushing a lock of hair behind her ear.

I don’t belong here, she thought, half-listening. Not in this rigid, sunbaked world of barking orders and testosterone. But he looks so proud. It’s worth it for that.

A few soldiers passed, nodding respectfully at Richard. Emma noticed their sharp glances at her—polite, assessing. She held tighter to the camera, the strap digging into her palm.

Richard gestured toward a group of ranking officers near the operations center. “Gentlemen, this is my daughter, Emma Dwyer. Brilliant, driven, and more than I ever deserved.”

“Sir,” one of them said with a courteous nod. “She’s got your eyes.”

Emma opened her mouth to respond.

And then—

It happened.

The air didn’t shimmer. No thunder cracked. No light flashed. There was no warning.

One moment she was standing there, her sandals pressing into the warm pavement, the scent of fuel and heat in her nostrils—

—and the next, her body snapped.

It began at the core, a deep, bone-wracking pulse that sucked all the air from her lungs.

Her breath caught. Her throat expanded. Her skin flushed from within.

What’s—no, what’s happening to—

A tearing sensation spread through her spine as her vertebrae cracked audibly, spine extending with a wet stretch. Her height surged by the second—5'6", 5'11", 6'2", and still climbing.

Her delicate arms swelled, tearing the seams of her dress. Pale, soft skin flushed crimson as thick veins rose to the surface. Muscle erupted—shoulders ballooning, biceps curling up into cannonballs. Her chest compressed, the swell of her breasts flattening against a growing wall of pectorals, which soon pushed forward like armor-plated slabs.

Her fingers clenched—knuckles cracked and palms expanded into callused, meaty paws. Her nails darkened, stubby and rough. She groaned, voice deepening uncontrollably into a rich, gravel-coated baritone.

Oh my God what is—this can’t—

But the thought unraveled.

Her abdomen convulsed outward, not into a lean six-pack, but a solid, heavy gut, forged of thick muscle under a plush layer of fat. Her stomach surged outward like a keg, taut and heavy. The sundress disintegrated as her thighs expanded—each quad thick as a cannon, bursting through the cotton.

Her smooth legs became carpeted in dense, silver-gray hair. Her neck widened into a trunk, cords of muscle and veins visible even beneath the storm of hair sprouting down her back and chest.

The final, most humiliating and electric change came with a hot, flooding pressure between her legs. She staggered as her pelvis cracked and reshaped—softness receding, swallowed by throbbing girth. A heavy, swaying cock filled the space beneath her gut, obscene in size, forcing her stance wide. Her balls dropped like stones in a sack, dense and full.

No… Yes. What was I—who—? I’m…

A new mind surged up, obliterating what remained of Emma Dwyer.

He drew a long, ragged breath, flaring his nostrils at the scent of desert wind and man-sweat. The officers stood frozen in place, staring in awe, but with no confusion.

“General Darius Kade,” one of them said, standing straighter. “Didn’t expect to see you down here in person, sir.”

General Kade stretched his neck, bones cracking loudly. His massive frame rolled with strength. He scratched his thick, silver beard with fingers the size of sausages and gave a deep, satisfied grunt.

“Yeah,” he growled, his voice like gravel in a whiskey glass. “Missed the smell of gun oil and balls. Had to get my boots dirty again.”

Colonel Richard Dwyer stepped forward, face alight with a boyish admiration. “I’ve told these men stories about you for years, sir. Raised me right after my father passed. I wouldn’t be here without you.”

Kade’s piercing blue eyes locked with his.

“You always were a tight-laced brat,” he rumbled with affection, slapping the younger man’s shoulder hard enough to jostle his entire stance. “Now you’re a fine fuckin’ officer.”

Richard beamed. “You taught me everything I know.”

Kade’s lips curled in a knowing grin. “Not everything, son.”

The officers laughed—each with a quiet reverence. Kade’s name carried weight. Not just as a tactician. Not just as a battlefield leader. But as a legend—one whispered about in barracks showers and backroom briefings.

General Darius Kade was a brutal man. A silver fox, monstrous in stature and appetites. He had a history—unapologetically gay, famously so. His conquests weren’t secrets; they were tallied like kills, bragged about over cigars, etched in locker-room graffiti. His cock was the size of a forearm, his stamina the stuff of myth.

Yet no one questioned it.

No one wondered what happened to Emma.

No one even remembered she existed.

She was never born. Richard never had a daughter. The sundress, the smile, the hopeful eyes—they were all gone, like ash in the wind.

All that remained was him—Darius. Power made flesh. Hairy, hung, hardened. A general who’d seen war and made love with the same fire. He adjusted the bulge pressing lewdly against his military slacks and growled out a satisfied sigh.

“I’m gonna need a smoke and a hot mouth around my cock by nightfall,” he said casually. “This place hasn’t changed a fuckin’ bit.”

Richard laughed. “Some things never do.”

And far in the distance, another flag waved lazily in the breeze.

Reality had bent. Shifted. Forgotten.

The blip claimed another.

[muiitoloko]

Become the Echo

Summary: You called him Grandpa. Now it’s all he hears—over and over, through the hollow of an empty home.

Pairing: Frank Benson & Granddaughter! Reader

Warnings: Angst

Author's Notes: I wrote this based on the first chapter of my fanfic "Become a great Artist", which I unfortunately abandoned. This definitely doesn’t match the original story — it’s almost like an alternate universe version of it.

Also read on Ao3

Frank looked in the mirror, tilting his head slightly, eyes narrowing at his reflection. The shirt was navy blue—simple, comfortable, with buttons that didn’t quite sit as flat as they used to. His hand brushed down his belly, frowning a little at the way the fabric stretched just slightly over his middle.

He exhaled slowly through his nose and stepped out of the dressing room.

There you were, right where he left you—sitting cross-legged on the little upholstered bench outside, Mr. Lollipop cradled lovingly in your arms. The stuffed animal, a pink and white rabbit with one floppy ear and a permanently askew bowtie, looked as grungy as it did beloved. Frank still had no bloody idea why you'd named it Mr. Lollipop, but you'd looked him dead in the eye last Christmas, declared it with all the certainty of a royal decree, and that was that. Mr. Lollipop it was.

Frank stood before you, arms slightly out to the side, like a soldier awaiting inspection. “Well?” he asked, voice low and amused, baritone curling through the mall’s stale air. “What do we think? Too fat?”

You looked up at him, thoughtful for all of three seconds before your face split into a bright, unfiltered smile.

“Yes!”

Frank blinked. “...Yes?”

You nodded, beaming. “You look very fat today, Grandpa. Just like a cuddly bear.”

He barked a laugh, loud and genuine, one hand coming to ruffle your hair. “Well,” he muttered, still chuckling, “good thing I wasn’t hoping for slim panther.”

You held up Mr. Lollipop for consultation. “He agrees,” you said seriously. “He thinks blue makes your tummy look round and warm, like a cookie.”

Frank snorted and looked at himself again in the mirror across the store. “A cookie, huh? Well, if it passes the Mr. Lollipop test, I suppose it’s a done deal.”

He disappeared for a minute to change back into his original shirt, then returned, the navy one folded neatly under his arm. You followed him up to the register, hand wrapped tightly around his pinky, your legs swinging wildly with each step to keep up with his long strides. As the cashier rang up the shirt, you tugged on his arm.

“Grandpa?”

“Mmm?”

“So there was this doll,” you started, your voice picking up in volume and speed, “and she had a horse and a crown and she goes on adventures in the forest—but Daddy said man, and I told him dolls aren’t for just girls and then he said we should wait for my birthday, but I know he doesn’t want to buy it 'cause he says the plastic smells funny, and anyway it’s on TV all the time and I just wanted to know—”

Frank raised a hand, not unkindly. “Breathe, peanut.”

You inhaled dramatically, cheeks puffed.

He smirked, handing the cashier his card and glancing down at you. “You asked your dad?”

You nodded vigorously. “He said it costs too much and to pick something practical, and that I already have too many toys.”

Frank gave a small, dry sigh, taking the bag from the cashier. “Of course he did.”

Your dad, Eli, bless him, could pinch a penny until it screamed. You once asked for a coloring book and he brought home a stack of blank printer paper and said “make your own.” Frank didn’t mind his son’s frugality on most days—it made him responsible, disciplined, maybe even admirable. But when it came to his granddaughter?

Christ. What wasn’t expensive to Eli?

Frank scooped you up with practiced ease, settling you on his hip, your arms looping automatically around his neck. Mr. Lollipop dangled from your tiny fingers, flopping with every step as Frank carried you out of the store.

You rested your head on his shoulder, babbling again, something about how the doll’s crown sparkled and how her horse had hair you could braid, and Frank just let you talk, the sound of your voice wrapping around him like a well-worn blanket.

He held you close, rubbing a hand over your back, and thought—not for the first time—that if this was the version of life he got after everything else... he could live with it. The weekends were short. The years were flying.

But today?

Today, he was the big, fat cookie.

And you were his whole damn world.

Your stomach growled—loud and forlorn.

You and Frank both looked down at it, the moment caught mid-step just outside the mall doors. The sun had begun its slow descent, casting long shadows across the parking lot. Mr. Lollipop dangled lazily from your arm, as if even he were hungry.

Frank glanced at you, brow raised, mouth tugging into that crooked smirk of his. “Peanut,” he said softly, “I told you to eat that sandwich before we left.”

You blinked, sheepish, your small arms still wrapped around his neck as he carried you. “I wasn’t hungry then,” you murmured, avoiding his eyes.

Frank sighed, shifting your weight gently on his hip, the fabric of his shirt stretching as he adjusted. “And now your stomach’s singing show tunes,” he muttered, though his tone was more amused than annoyed. “You’ve got to eat, sweetheart.”

“I’m sorry,” you said, your voice small.

That softened him—immediately. He pressed a kiss to your temple, the bristle of his scruff brushing your skin. “It’s alright,” he murmured, voice warm and low in your ear. “We’ll fix it. How about we get something now, hmm? Burgers? Or do I have to find somewhere that sells royal forest doll-horse food?”

You giggled, your nose scrunching as you tilted your head. “Burgers.”

“Atta girl,” Frank chuckled, and began walking again, one hand on your back, the other carrying the shopping bag. His gait was slow, deliberate—partly because he was tired (his knees were not what they used to be), and partly because he didn’t want the day to end.

You were growing up too fast. Five years old, already reading above your grade, always asking impossible questions. Eli had been out of the house for years, chasing tenure and glory in equal measure. Frank’s wife had passed before you were even old enough to form memories of her—just photos and old lullabies that lingered in the corners of your mind. And now, in just three weeks, you’d be gone too.

California.

He hated the sound of it. Dry and distant and sun-bleached. A state that felt like an exile.

Eli had accepted the position with the same sharp ambition that had always driven him—head high, voice brisk, as though the decision were a minor detail in the larger masterpiece of his career. Frank hadn’t argued. Not with his son. Not anymore.

But he was going to miss you more than he could bear.

You stirred against him, and Frank glanced down, noticing the shift in your posture. Your cheek, which had been resting contentedly against his shoulder, now lifted. You were quiet. Uncharacteristically so.

“What's the matter?” he asked gently.

You didn’t answer right away.

Your little fingers twisted in the collar of his shirt, and then, softly, your voice dropped to a whisper—serious, unsure. “Grandpa… do you think Daddy doesn’t like me?”

Frank stopped walking.

The question hit him like a gut punch, short and sharp. He turned his head, trying to see your face, but you wouldn’t look at him. You were staring past his shoulder, eyes focused on some distant point in the lot.

“What?” Frank said, his baritone a notch quieter now. “Why would you say that?”

You shrugged, slow and hesitant. “He always seems… mad when I talk. Or when I make noise. Or when I ask stuff. He sighs a lot. And he doesn’t really hug me. Not like you do.”

Frank’s jaw tightened.

He didn’t answer right away—couldn’t. The silence stretched as he adjusted you in his arms again, holding you a little tighter now, as if to shield you from something he couldn’t name.

“That’s not your fault,” he said finally, his voice thick with restraint. “Your daddy… he’s not very good at showing things. Feelings. He doesn’t always know how to talk. Or listen.”

“Did I do something wrong?”

“No.” Frank stopped again, this time lowering himself onto a nearby bench, cradling you in his lap like you were still three years old and not a gangly-limbed child with too many thoughts. “You’re the best thing that ever happened to him. He just doesn’t know how to act like it.”

You were quiet.

Frank brushed your hair back, fingers gentle behind your ear. “You’re loud because you’re curious. That’s good. You ask questions because you’re smart. That’s good. And you laugh because you’re still a kid, and you’re supposed to laugh. That’s good, too.”

“But Daddy says I talk too much.”

“Your daddy talks too little,” Frank countered, his tone growing dry. “Trust me. He’s been like that since he was your age.”

You smiled a little at that, your eyes flicking to his. “Really?”

“Really,” Frank said, his hand still brushing your back. “He used to sulk for hours if his Lego tower broke. You get upset and build another one in thirty seconds flat.”

You giggled, the shadow beginning to lift.

Frank looked at you then—really looked. The little person perched on his lap, full of feelings and fears and funny phrases. You weren’t his child. But you were the closest thing to a second chance he was ever going to get. And come California, he wouldn’t have your voice in his ear anymore. No more Mr. Lollipop debates. No more mall benches. No more peanut grins.

So he held you tighter.

“I love you,” he said into your hair. “And no matter what happens—no matter how far away you go—you always have me. Always.”

You nodded, tucking your head beneath his chin. “I love you too, Grandpa.”

His throat clenched.

After a moment, you lifted your head again. “Can we get fries and a milkshake?”

Frank blinked, then let out a wheezing laugh. “You just said the magic words, peanut.”

And with that, he stood again, hugging you close, and walked toward the food court—his arms full of the only thing that had ever mattered more to him than being right, than being a soldier, or a husband, or even a father.

You.

Years later, Frank Benson had aged into a quieter man. Slower. More brittle in the bones and tired in the mornings. His hair, once neatly combed and steel-white, now fluffed unevenly over his ears. His back ached more often than not. He didn’t wear his uniform anymore—hadn’t in years—but he still carried himself with the dignity of a man who once commanded rooms and governments and airstrikes.

That morning, he shuffled out of bed just after sunrise, his old knees creaking in protest. He scratched the stubble on his chin and made his way to the kitchen, the morning chill still clinging to the tiles. He hadn't turned the heat on yet—it wasn’t that cold, and besides, he liked the way the cold made him feel awake.

As the kettle started to rumble, his phone buzzed on the counter. He turned his head slightly, brow furrowing when he saw your name on the screen.

California. It had to be close to three in the morning where you were.

He answered anyway, leaning the phone between his ear and shoulder while he poured the boiling water over his instant coffee. “You’re awake,” he rumbled, voice rough with sleep and gravel. “Or lost in time zones. What does my girl need from her grandpa this early, hmm?”

There was a breathy little laugh on the other end. “I just missed your voice.”

Frank smiled faintly, cradling the mug in both hands. “Well. That’s a rare compliment. You alright?”

He started walking slowly toward the living room, each step deliberate. He stopped just before the mantle, looking up at a large oil painting that hung above the hearth—a portrait of himself, stern and proud, his likeness captured in bold, affectionate strokes. You’d painted it years ago, when you were still in college, still sending him sketches of strangers you saw on the subway and café napkins scribbled with ink.

But now, on the line, he heard it: wind.

Lots of it.

He paused, squinting slightly. “Where are you, sweetheart? Sounds like you’re outside.”

There was a pause. A long one.

“I’m fine,” you said eventually, dodging the question. “How are you? Really.”

Frank blinked. That caught him off guard. You were usually the one who avoided sincerity like the plague, couching it in humor or sarcasm. But this was soft. Open.

And so, for once, he didn’t lie.

“I don’t think this heart’ll last much longer,” he said simply, settling down in his old armchair. “But I’ve made peace with it. I’ve seen a lot. Done a lot. Loved a little. I’m okay.”

He didn’t hear you respond.

“Sweetheart?”

Still, you were quiet.

And then, softly, “You’re the closest thing I’ve had to a father.”

Frank didn’t breathe for a moment. His eyes stayed fixed on the painting above the fireplace, your brushstrokes frozen in time. His chest tightened, but not from the usual ache. This was deeper. Older.

“I love you,” you added, your voice cracking slightly, but still carrying on. “Very much.”

Frank’s lips parted, but the words didn’t come fast enough.

“And Grandpa,” you continued, a touch lighter, “don’t watch the news for the next few days, alright?”

His brow furrowed. “Why the hell not?”

“It’s just… better if you don’t.” You laughed softly, but it wasn’t real. “Promise me, okay? Promise you won’t.”

Frank grunted, distracted. “Alright. Fine. I promise. Christ, what are you up to now?”

You didn’t answer.

“I have to call Dad now,” you said instead, your voice quieter again. “I just… I have to. After all, I’m about to be a great artist, right?”

The wind roared again in the background.

And Frank’s heart sank.

“Where are you?” he asked again, this time firmer, more serious. “Sweetheart. Where are you?”

But the line had already gone silent. Just a click. Just gone.

He sat there for a long time, staring into the flickering morning shadows that danced across your painting. His thumb hovered over the call log.

And then, slowly, he lowered the phone to his lap.

For the first time in years, his hands trembled.

He didn’t keep his promise. Of course not.

Watching the news was practically a universal law for old men. Especially military old men.

Frank Benson made it three days. Three long, restless mornings of staring at your painting above the hearth, of hearing your voice echo in the corners of his memory. Of playing that call on loop, over and over: Don’t watch the news. Promise me. And he had. But a promise is a fragile thing when the air feels too still, and the silence in a house starts sounding like grief.

It was a Sunday when he cracked. Early. The kettle had just begun to boil. He sat in his old chair, reached for the remote, and told himself it would just be background noise—just the weather. Nothing else.

And then the screen came alive.

He saw the bridge before they even said the name.

The footage rolled in loops—amateur cellphone recordings, some blurry, some too crisp, all of them showing you. Jumping. From the Golden Gate Bridge. From different angles, different voices crying out, different hands too far away to help. The world knew before he did. The world watched you die before he even knew you were gone.

And then the headline:

DAUGHTER OF NOBEL PRIZE WINNER, ELI MICHAELSON, MISSING AFTER SUICIDE JUMP—BODY UNRECOVERED

Frank’s heart seized in his chest. His coffee spilled across the carpet as he dropped the mug without noticing, his hand shaking violently as he reached for the phone. He didn’t even remember pressing the number, just that Eli’s voice eventually answered, sharp and tired.

“Hello?”

“You bastard,” Frank said, barely above a whisper. His breath came in short, broken gasps. “You absolute bastard.”

Eli paused. “...Frank?”

“Don’t call me that,” Frank snapped. “Don’t call me that like nothing happened. Like nothing is fucking wrong.”

“Frank—”

“You said nothing.” His voice cracked, trembling under the weight of disbelief. “She called me. She called me. Three days ago, said she missed me, said she loved me—and she jumped, Eli. Off a fucking bridge. And I saw it on the news. The news. Like every other goddamn stranger.”

Eli went silent for a moment.

Frank’s knuckles were white around the phone. “Why didn’t you call me?” he hissed. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

“I didn’t know what to say,” Eli finally replied, his voice thick, frayed at the edges in a way Frank had never heard. “I didn’t want to believe it—she was just...gone.”

“You’re a Nobel laureate, Eli. Words are your entire goddamn life,” Frank spat, voice rising. “And suddenly you didn’t have one for your daughter’s death? For my granddaughter? Christ, what happened to her? What happened to her? Why did she do this?!”

There was a beat. And then Eli said, quietly: “She was raped.”

Frank went completely still.

His vision blurred, black creeping at the edges.

“Frank?” Eli said again, voice more strained now. “Are you still there?”

Frank couldn’t answer.

All he saw was you. Running down a hallway toward him, arms flung open, calling him Grandpa like it was the most sacred name in the world. You, curled against him at five years old, whispering fears about your father’s coldness. You, asking him if you were too loud, too much, too wrong.

You called him. You needed him. He failed you.

There was static on the other end. Then: “Dad, please. Don’t do this. Don’t—don’t leave me alone in this. Not now.”

Frank couldn’t breathe.

He couldn’t hear Eli’s voice anymore. All he could see was your five-year-old self, running through the mall with Mr. Lollipop flopping behind you. The way you’d once wrapped your tiny arms around his leg, whispering, You’re my favorite person, Grandpa. The way you had called him.

You had called him.

Your voice had been soft. Distant. And now he understood why.

You had needed him.

And he had let you down.

“I’m sorry,” Eli was saying now, his voice thin and shaking. “Dad? Daddy, please. I’m sorry.”

Frank sank into the chair again, hand trembling as it dropped the phone to the floor, the screen still lit, Eli’s voice echoing faintly from the speaker.

But Frank didn’t answer.

He couldn’t.

He just stared at the painting above the fireplace—your painting of him, proud and upright, your brushstrokes bold and full of affection.

His eyes filled with tears.

“She called me,” he whispered aloud, voice breaking. “She called me.”

And still—he hadn’t come.

[punderdome]

The Fine Print: Chapter 12

Summary: Raphael and Tav have a long overdue confrontation.

Rating: 18+

[AO3]

Chapter 12: The Boudoir

Raphael’s eyes were wide and furious.

“Tavara,” he started, his voice lowering and becoming more furious with every passing second.  “What is this?” His voice was crisp and biting.

He thrust the stack of notes into Tav’s hand.  She recognized her own notes and handwriting in both Infernal and Common tongues.  Series of potential strategies, written carefully in black ink upon a dozen sheets of parchment.  Tav looked back up at him but said nothing.

“Answer me,” his voice was burning with white-hot rage that carried an undercurrent of emotions that she had never seen from Raphael before.  “Answer me!” he repeated with more vitriol.  Whatever mask of control he had worn was gone.

Tav found herself at a complete loss for words.  They were notes about her contract.  They were completely useless notes about her contract.  Her contract was permanent and unbreakable regardless of the fury or irritation that either of them would have with the other.  Raphael had convinced her to sign into an ancient pact that the Archdevils used with their partners.  Raphael could dispose of her as he chose, but all of the nine Hells of Baator could not end the bond that linked them together.

“They’re notes,” Tav answered lamely.  Raphael wouldn’t let her avoid his gaze.

“Notes?” Raphael demanded indignantly.  “Notes,” he repeated bitterly.  “Notes on potential strategies for you to try to terminate our contract.”

“Raphael, I-” Tav found the rest of the sentence impossible to say out loud.  The veins in his neck were popping out and every muscle was clenched.  Raphael’s tail was whipping back and forth in a complete lack of self control that Tav had never seen him exhibit before.

“You know,” Raphael challenged.  His normally smooth baritone was starting to break.  He took a few seconds before turning towards her again.  “You know what the other Hells want to do with you, and you still want to leave?”  Raphael was usually all confidence and swagger, but neither of those appearances graced him any longer.  

“Raphael,” Tav started to cry.  “I have never belonged to you,” her tears froze on her cheeks and everything around her was coated with a thin layer of frost.

“Of course you do,” Raphael cried back, his voice twisted and angry.  “You signed a paterfamilias pact with me,” he insisted quickly.  

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Tav screamed at him, icy tears streaming down her face and being caught on her scales.  She resisted the urge to throw his law books everywhere around his study.

“All I wanted was the fucking Orphic Hammer to help me get rid of a fucking mindflayer tadpole making a permanent residence in my skull,” Tav yelled, but her endurance for a screaming match was quickly halting.  “I never signed up for all of this,” Tav motioned at the horizon of Avernus and the looming shelves of Infernal law tomes.

“You signed our contract,” Raphael managed to start despite how much his jaw clenched as he paced.  “You agreed to us,” he protested, and the angrier he became the more his statement reeked with uncertainty.  Tav was storming randomly around the study, completely unable to form her emotions into anything resembling rationality.

“Tavara,” Raphael started after composing himself, trying to regain control of the situation.  “You willingly signed a paterfamilias contract to me with a witness-”

“Shove our contract up your uptight devil ass, Raphael,” Tav barked back at him.  “If you wanted a cunt so badly, you could have just purchased one from a brothel.”

Raphael’s face contorted into a sneer.  “Do not speak to your lord husband in such a manner,” he warned, tense and dangerous.

“I will speak to you however the fuck I want,” Tav spat back.  She stared directly into Raphael’s eyes.  He was shaking with rage that was barely contained.

“Tavara, cease this disrespectful behavior at once.”  Raphael’s order was clear and his gaze was firm and demanding.  Tav refused to yield.

“Or what?  What exactly are you going to do, Raphael?  Are you going to torture me?  No, that’s right, you can’t.”   Tav’s eyes met his and she was greedy with her anger.  The more she flailed, the less Raphael was able to control the situation.  “You’re going to deny me access to your bedroom again?  You do realize that you’ve never brought me pleasure once.”   She was beyond caring.  “No, I don’t think you’ve ever really cared about me or my pleasure or my happiness at all.  You are absolute shit in bed.  I would be happier going to bed with any number of phallic-shaped vegetables.”

Raphael was speechless.  The consummate bard was finally silenced.

“You don’t actually care about me, and you never have.   I’m sick of being an object for you.  I don’t exist for your pleasure, Raphael,” Tav shook her head, unable to label or articulate whatever emotions were spewing out of her at random.

Raphael was tense but still silent.  Still silent Raphael was worse than angry Raphael.

“You call me any number of sweet names, but you don’t care.  You don’t care about me.  Go fuck yourself Raphael.”   Tears were actively streaming down Tav’s face and freezing as soon as they hit her cheeks.  Every teardrop eventually led to a dull thud as they hit the floor below.  “Go fuck yourself and your fucking contracts.”  Tav’s screaming devolved into icy sobs.  

Raphael was tense and sneering and saying nothing.  His silence was unnerving.

“Follow me, my dear,” Raphael ordered.

“Fuck you,” Tav bit back.

Raphael turned quickly in anger and seemed to have grown in height by a meter, heat radiating off his body.  “Follow me, my dear,” he repeated bitterly, with palpable venom.

As they walked through the House of Hope, Tav realized she had crossed a real line.  Torture and punishment were typically relegated to the dungeons.  Where was Raphael leading her?

Raphael opened the door to the Boudoir.

“Haarlep,” Raphael ordered briskly and the incubus appeared with a flurry of embers.

“You called me, Master?” they asked carefully.

“Take her form,” Raphael ordered.  Tav felt a deep pit in her stomach.  Haarlep gave their master a clarifying glance.

“Her form?” They asked quickly.

“She belongs to me.”  Raphael asserted.  “Take her form.”

Haarlep grabbed Tav’s wrist, and she felt a low, warm glow seeping from her.  “I’m sorry, Little Wife,” Haarlep murmured quietly.

Raphael growled.  Haarlep continued, “every time I make love in your shape, you will know.”

Haarlep’s body began to shrink and contort.  Tav stared back at herself, dressed in Haarlep’s leather harness.  Haarlep’s fingers traced over her hips and breasts, starting to test their new shape.  Their fingers tapped over different silvery white patches of scales and gave a quick pinch on her ass, completely exposed in the leather thong.  A twisted smile appeared on their face, the same one Tav would admire anytime she applied red pigment to her lips.  

With a snap from Raphael’s hands, Tav was dumped back into the Archduchess’s chambers.  Everything had happened so quickly.  Parts of their fight had felt like a dream.

She pissed off her husband.  The incubus gained her form.  She was now eternally fucked.

Raphael wasn’t the type to forgive easily or forget the wrongs against him.  She screamed at him.  She betrayed his trust.  She used his Infernal assets against him.

Tav flopped on the bed in her chambers and buried her face deeply into her pillow.  Nausea and regret mounted.  She curled up tightly into a ball and cried herself to sleep.

****

Tav woke the next morning with a pounding headache and her sinuses plugged.  She touched her temples with cool fingertips to ease the ache.  Everything the afternoon prior felt like a blur.  She hadn’t eaten, and whatever sleep she had gotten had still left her restless.

Gods damned fucking Raphael.

There was a knock at her door.  Tav opened it, and several maids entered to get her dressed and fed and ready for her lessons.  She has massively overslept for her lessons.

Tav felt a rush of relief that maybe things weren’t so bad, given that Raphael had not taken her tutor away, but then again, maybe he wasn’t allowed to take him away by virtue of their amended eternal contract.

Tav sighed.  Atmos was going to be furious with her tardiness.

She walked into the archive to find the Infernal master calmly reading a novel from the Faerunian romance section.  He looked up at her and put the book down again.

“I trust you needed the sleep,” Atmos didn’t lecture her.  His voice was sincere.

“I had a difficult day yesterday,” was all Tav could manage to say.

“Hmm,” the Infernal master shrugged.

“You knew about the notes, didn’t you?” Tav asked him point blank.

A smile crept over the Infernal master’s face.  “I had known of your efforts for quite some time.  Your focus on the language of the clauses stipulated in paterfamilias was significantly stronger than that of any other type of contract.  You also put more time into learning nullification rather than enforcement or validity.  It was not hard beyond that to put both pieces of information together.”

“Did you tell Raphael?” Tav inquired weakly.

“No, he found out on his own through a dropped scroll and a series of bookmarks.  You had been in his study while he was away and read a certain message from Cania.  Yurgir told him about your destructive stunt and why his portrait was damaged.  I knew it wouldn’t be long before you had to speak to him about the state of your marriage.”

Atmos continued, as he clicked his claws on the desk.  “Raphael came to me and asked what I knew about what was going through your mind.  I reported that you had not spoken to me about it, which was truthful.  However, he did not ask if I suspected anything.  His arguments become careless when he is frustrated.”

Tav cocked an eyebrow at Atmos.  “Why did you protect me?”

“You’re a bright and motivated student, much more so than most of the Fiends that I have instructed.  That combined with your being a mortal means you are interesting to me.”

Atmos snapped and a tome appeared in front of him.  “We should get to work.  I’ll take it that you may wish to forgo note taking for a time?” the Infernal master grinned.  Tav nodded, her cheeks flushed with embarrassment.

*******

Tav hadn’t seen Raphael in a few days.  She attended her lessons, ate in the dining hall, and spent evenings reading in her room or chatting with Kilzare and Atmos in the archive.  Things were quiet and predictable.

The first time, Tav wasn’t sure what was happening.  She was reading by the window in her room and felt a deep flush that brought blood up to her skin.  Tav ran to the mirror, expecting to see welts from some sort of plague but only recognized flushed cheeks and blown pupils.

The realization of what was happening hit her like a wave.  Haarlep was using her form.

Tav felt the unmistakable sensation of Raphael thrusting inside her, as she had been the recipient of it many times before.  The sensation was duller and less specific, but she knew Raphael was fucking Haarlep instead of fucking her.

Tav rolled into her bed, laying flat on the mattress, waiting for it to be over.  It didn’t take long before the feeling of Raphael thrusting into her dissipated.  She rolled over onto her side and sighed.

The second time was deeper and harder.  Tav was minding her own business with one of her law tomes when she again felt her husband’s phantom cock fucking her.  He was punishing, and she could even feel dull cramps from him repeatedly hitting her cervix when he fucked Haarlep.

Tav climbed into her bed and held onto a pillow for dear life until Raphael came, and the brutal thrusts stopped.  She let out a deep breath.  Anytime she was in pain, Raphael would notice and slow himself.  He wasn’t here to notice now, and she felt every sensation anyways.

****

It had almost a tenday, and Tav still hadn’t seen or heard from Raphael, though she had felt him inside her almost every night.

Generally, freedom from him was … nice.

Tav would wake and go to attend her lessons.  She ate alone in the dining hall with a book and enjoyed pleasant small talk with the staff.  She would sit by the fireplace in the parlor with a cup of tea and a novel and enjoy herself.

She was sitting in the archive having lessons when she felt the familiar sensations of Haarlep’s meddling.  It was fingers this time.  Probably her own fingers, since they seemed to understand her body much better than Raphael ever had.

Atmos paused his lesson while Tav laid her head awkwardly on the wood of the desk and tried to pretend she didn’t exist and nothing was happening to her body.

That evening, she felt the familiar sensation of Raphael.  A position unknown to her.  In and out.  In and out.  In and out.

Tav groaned.

******

Raphael hadn’t tried to contact her in three tendays.  Haarlep had only jerked her off during lessons that one time, though Raphael had still been enjoying her form.  Tav generally felt relaxed and was enjoying time apart from Raphael with her lessons and her reading.  The staff stopped cooking and presenting giant feasts that featured mystery meats.  Everything they served her was obvious that it came from a non-humanoid creature.  Tav finished her meal and went to return to her room for more reading.

On her way back to her room, Tav ran into the incubus, and they were wearing her form and the familiar leather harness.  It had to be confusing to the staff and the debtors alike at the House of Hope that there were two of her running around, one wearing a leather thong and the other in the archive.

“Little Wife,” Haarlep greeted with her voice.  It was unnerving.  “It is so good to see you.  You haven’t come for a bath in the Boudoir for quite some time.”

“I hope you’re having fun with my husband in my body,” Tav stated blandly.

“You definitely taught him some tricks, my sneaky Little Wife.  He is so much more creative now.”  Haarlep pranced around the corridor, thrusting their, no Tav’s, hips around and shaking Tav’s ass seductively.

“What do you mean?”

“When it was just him and I, I would pleasure him from behind as the Archduke.  He was always so lazy and refused to engage.  When you came into the picture, he preferred the Archduchess and mostly preferred to be on top.”

Tav was hoping this conversation would be over soon, but she was well aware that Haarlep was going to tell her every sordid thing Raphael did with her body.

Haarlep grinned with her face.  “He’s so creative now.  He wants to try every position.  He wants my legs around his neck.   He bites me, he spanks me.   I don’t know what your mortal cunt did to him, but we no longer just lay together.  We fuck.”

Tav was also unsure of exactly how or why the incubus, who was presumably the most sexually experienced party in the House of Hope, would think this, given that Raphael primarily preferred missionary and occasionally would want to fuck her from behind.

Tav groaned at Haarlep. 

“I guess you are no longer the master’s favorite toy,” the incubus gloated.

Tav hated that she swallowed down jealousy that Raphael wanted Haarlep and not her.

“That’s because I’m not a toy,” Tav snapped back, walking firmly back to her room.  She sank onto her bed.

It wasn’t long before she felt the familiar sensations of Raphael fucking Haarlep.  Tav closed her eyes and waited for it to be over.

This experience had become commonplace.  Raphael would fuck the incubus, and Tav would feel it.  She had a system in place to deal with her husband’s lust.  She would lay back and lean into the sensations and finish herself off afterward if she was too worked up.  Some days the sensations were good, and some days they were bland.

This day the sensations didn’t stop, they kept going.  Tav twisted on her bed, feeling whatever it was that Raphael was doing to her body.  She clenched her thighs together.  Raphael’s cock did feel good as long as she was aroused.  She had enjoyed how he felt when they had sex in the flesh.

Gods.  She felt something else.  A bubble of pleasure was welling up in her abdomen.  What was Raphael doing to her?

She was approaching orgasm.   Tav spread her thighs wide even though Raphael wasn’t there.  She desperately wanted him to continue whatever the fuck he was doing to Haarlep.  She didn’t even know.  It just felt so good.

This was longer than Raphael usually lasted.  He would be finished soon, coming and making her finish herself.

He kept going.  Pleasure licked through her body, and Tav knew that she was about to come.  She tensed and then her legs quaked, as pleasure rippled waves through her body.  Gods that felt incredible.   He was continuing to thrust into her, but it wasn’t long before the thrusts became erratic and Raphael came inside Haarlep.

Tav rolled over onto her side, her own slick covering her thighs.  Raphael cared that Haarlep had an orgasm.  He never tried to give her one.  Her irritation and jealousy at the incubus became a pit within her.

Tav curled into a fetal position and started to cry.  She thought she was just an object of pleasure to Raphael, and clearly, she was right.

Tav cried herself to sleep.

[violettduchess]

Perhaps I could request Silvio x Leyla + Colours of Sunrise? >:)

A/N: Here you go @lorei-writes! Thank you for your support of Leyla from the beginning!

This fic is a continuation of the Leyla x Silvio part of these OC Kiss Headcanons (I'll repost their part below)

An entry for my and Lorei's Sunshine and Starlight CC

WC: 2.6k

From the Headcanons:

The overcast sky matches the expression on Silvio’s face. He watches as the last of the crates are loaded onto Siren’s Call. Leyla’s ship. The one getting ready to leave the royal Benitoite port. “That’s the last one, Captain.” First Mate Kai clamps a large, reassuring hand on Leyla’s shoulder and she nods at him. He inclines his head towards Silvio, a begrudging sign of respect, before heading onto the gangway. The silence between Silvio and Leyla hangs as heavy as the gray clouds above. “I don’t get why you gotta go. You know I could–” Leyla cuts him off with a sharp shake of her head, her gold hoop earrings swaying with the movement. “I won’t be a kept woman. You know that.” She sighs heavily, brushing aside several wayward strands of hair that the wind has plucked free of her dark braid. Silvio’s fingers ache at the sight. He curls his hands into fists, fighting the burning need to touch her. “Besides,” she continues, “It’s not that long. Just a few months.” Her words are hollow with forced optimism. Silvio looks down at his boots, jaw clenched. “Fuck.” His voice is ragged. “Captain!” Kai’s deep baritone calls from the ship. “The tide!” “I know!” she barks back, her own voice scraped raw with emotion. Trying to ignore the vice squeezing her heart, she turns to Silvio. He lifts his head and in his eyes she sees all the words his mouth can’t form, all the storm clouds churning in his heart. At the same time they stumble towards each other. The kiss is messy and desperate, tinted with anger and sharp with longing. It’s Leyla who pulls away first, afraid she won’t be able to take a step towards her ship if she holds him a moment longer. “Good-bye.” He doesn’t answer. He can’t. He only watches as distance shrinks her figure, taking her away from him, with her kiss still lingering on his aching lips.

Colors of Sunrise: Red

Silvio leans on the ship’s railing, closing his eyes, the ones that match the color of the sea he is sailing swiftly across. The wind whips at his pale hair, makes a musical tinkling of his gold jewelry. It’s too dangerous, they had said. The storms around Ammolite are swallowing ships left and right. But Silvio had scoured Benitoite from end to end until he found a captain whose fear could be bought by enough gold coins. And so despite the danger, he is making his way ever closer. Even now as the sun begins its slow descent, it feels as if the ship is flying across the ocean…and still it doesn’t feel fast enough.

He is not a patient man. His ringed fingers grip the wood hard enough that his knuckles blanche. His muscles are tensed, energy coiled within him like a champagne cork that may pop at any moment. He breathes in deeply, the smell of salt water powerful and comforting. Every second that passes is another step closer, every gust of wind into the billowing white sails above presses the ship forward on its journey. Closer to seeing her again. 

She may not appreciate his rash decision. Their last real conversation, before the heart wrenching good-bye at the royal docks, was held under a sky streaked with the first rays of dawn, on the balcony off his royal bedroom. Gripping the balcony much like he is now, she had told him that she would write him when she was finished with her business on the tropical island of Ammolite. When he had demanded to know how long it would take, she had dropped her gaze, a pained expression on her face. “I don’t know. Months, probably.”

Not wanting to hear another word, he had pulled her into his arms and silenced her with his mouth, dragged her willingly back to his bed and kept her there, desperate to fill every last possible minute with the sound of her voice, the feel of her skin.

And then she had gone, leaving him pacing the palace like a wild dog, frenzied with longing, mad with missing her. Weeks went by without word, and those weeks grew into agonizing months until one day, the answer hit him, plain as day.

She may be tied to a single place for a while. But he wasn’t.

He would make sure he wasn’t.

And that revelation has lead him to this moment in time, right now, to the railing of a ship known for its reckless crew, greedy captain and record-breaking speed, rushing across the turbulent sea to find her.

Leyla tries hard to concentrate as the guild leader drones on, his monotone voice lulling her brain into stagnancy and she finds herself desperately wanting to close her eyes and sleep. She shifts in the wooden chair, wondering how the others are still awake. Kai’s eyes are heavy-lidded and one of the shipwrights has literally slumped down in his chair, chin touching his chest. If only her ship hadn’t been so damaged. Siren’s Call had gotten them to Ammolite but just barely. A wild storm had raked its claws across her hull, sunk its teeth into her sails and damaged her so badly that weeks of repair were needed. And that particular storm had only heralded the beginning of the stormy season. Leyla had hoped to leave the tropical island before the season really began in earnest but it seems fate had had different plans. 

“And unless there is any other further business–” Thank fuck, he’s finally done.

Leyla leaps up from her seat. “Nope, that all sounded great. The guild is doing a fantastic job. Nothing more to discuss today. See ya.” She yanks Kai by his massive arm, jerking him awake and pulls him out of the meeting room, through the double doors of the government building and into the fading light of evening.

“My God, he loves the sound of his own voice.”

The main street market is slowly winding down. Vendors are closing their stands, bundling up their wares. In the distance, the local pub’s doors swing open as it welcomes its first visitors. 

Her First Mate glances at the sky as they sidestep a man carrying a large basket of oranges on his head.

“He blathers on but his guild is doing a good job with the ship.”

They pause as they reach the beginning of the docks. Siren’s Call has been repaired enough to be in the water. The shipwrights have left for the day but Leyla’s keen eye spots where they have finished their work on the hull and what is still left to do on the mizzen mast.

Kai nods his bald head towards The Gray Gull which sits cozily at the edge of the docks. “You comin’ for a pint?” 

Leyla sighs. “Not tonight.” Her voice sounds soft and blue, a sad wind trailing its fingers listlessly across the water. Kai places a large hand on her shoulder, comfortingly.

“We’ll be able to leave soon, Captain.” 

“I know. I just….” She shifts her weight from one booted foot to the other. “I just really want to get back to–” She stops herself, clearing her throat. “Back to business as usual.”

Kai smiles knowingly, dark brown eyes amused. “Is that what we’re callin’ him now? Business?”

She shoots him a Look, pale blue eyes narrowed ever so slightly. “Oh shut it, you big sea slug.”

His baritone laugh barrels out of him like the deep clang of a gong. “Aye Aye, Captain.” He pats her shoulder once more before taking his leave.

His absence makes her aware of the ache in her chest, the one that she has been fighting ever since she left Benitoite all those months ago. It's a dim throbbing that hammers its way into her dreams, filling them with Silvio. Nightly, she sees his blue eyes and silvery hair. His slow, arrogant grin and sharp cheekbones that flush shockingly fast. His long fingers, bedecked in gold, and surprisingly coarse palms. 

People rush past her as another ship in the distance comes into view, heading for the harbor. It's likely looking for permission to dock. The commotion of readying a spot for the ship is enough to pull her out of her gloom.

Again she glances at her ship at the western end of the dock. She’ll sleep in her cabin tonight. Maybe being surrounded by the things that comfort her will help keep the sharp sting of her longing at bay.

Colors of Sunrise: Orange 

Silvio leaves the captain gleefully clutching his bags of coin, more coin than he has ever seen at once, his long legs taking him down the gangplank and onto the docks. Her ship is there, at the far end. Just the sight of it sends his heart thundering. He notices several shipwrights, wrapping their tools up carefully, tying down their workstations for the night. So her ship was damaged…..

He frowns, noticing the still damaged mizzen mast. Is she ok?

Turning, he hurries as fast as he can without running, towards the small town center. The markets are slowly closing down as sunset’s prologue begins, a darkening sky, a cooler wind. He ducks past a man carrying an enormous empty basket on his head and catches the scent of oranges before heading straight for the local boarding house.

Inside, he finds a woman with dark curls wrapped up in a colorful orange turban behind the desk. She welcomes him with a warm smile, her observant eyes immediately noticing his rich clothing, his fine jewelry. 

"Welcome, traveler. May I offer you-"

“I ain’t lookin’ for a room. I’m lookin’ for a woman.”

The proprietor raises her thick browns. “This isn’t that kind of establishment, Sir. You need to head to the other end of town for that kind of pleasure.”

“No…no that’s not…” Leyla is so close, he can feel it in his blood, the way it’s rushing through him like untamed rapids. He just has to find her. “The captain. Of the ship at the end of the docks. A woman with black hair and eyes kinda like the sky."

She shakes her head. “No, Sir. She hasn’t been in tonight. You could try The Gray Gull. I believe she often takes a drink with her crew in the evening.”

The woman’s face breaks into a warm smile, fondness glowing in her round cheeks. “Captain Quinn?”

Just her name has him leaning forward, gripping the edge of the counter, nodding eagerly as his gold earring sways in the warm lamplight.  “Where can I find her? She here?”

Silvio reaches into his vest pocket and pulls out another small bag of coins, dropping it with a thud onto the counter.

“Thanks for the help.”

He leaves the boarding house and its wide-eyed proprietor behind, determination pushing him along the dusty street, towards the tavern.

The sun is stretching its artistic muscles, streaking the darkening sky with bold reds and glowing oranges. It paints the underside of the clouds pink and outlines them in shimmering apricot. The cool wind tugs on the strands of her black hair playfully, as if enjoying the fact that she has released it from the prison of her tight braid. The armor of her daily clothing, the stiff jacket and leather pants, has been replaced by the soft, white linen of her nightgown, the luxurious midnight blue velvet and silver of her robe. Absently she runs her fingers over the sleeve, remembering when Silvio presented it to her, nearly throwing it at her in his hurry to be done with the embarrassingly sweet gesture of giving her a present, for no reason other than she once commented how cold it could get in her cabin at night. The deep blue reminds her of the Benitoite sea in the earliest hours of the morning, mysterious and beautiful, dark and inviting. 

She misses him. Her fingers curl into the velvet and her eyes close. She misses him so much and it hurts. Now, alone on her wounded ship, underneath a sky exploding with color, she allows the feeling to wash over her, giving the beast full reign of her thoughts. It tramples across the tender plains of her heart, its bellowing echoing in her mind. Not a day has gone by that she hasn’t thought of him, hasn’t tried to remember the feel of his kiss, the smell of his cologne, the strength of his arms as they pull her close. She even misses his snark, the flustered fluttering of his eyelashes, the hollow sound of his bark that contains no bite, not for her.

A hard lump forms in the back of her throat, a burning tangle of her yearning and regret and desire. Almost angrily she knuckles at her eyes, wiping away tears that have yet to fall.

All this fuss….just because she hasn’t seen him in a few months. 

Inside her chains rattle as she readies herself to capture the beast of her longing and conquer it, to hide it away in the shadows of her heart as she usually does. There’s no use in allowing it to continue its rampage. 

What good are tears? They won’t bring Silvio here.

Sighing, she squares her shoulders and turns from the ship’s railing.

Colors of Sunrise: Yellow

The tavern doors are flung open with a bang. Silvio barges in, scanning the room, his heart clamoring with impatience. It’s smokey inside and lit only by greasy orange oil lamps. Could she be–

“She’s on the ship.” A deep voice from behind has the prince jerking away and spinning around like a marionette in the hands of a startled puppeteer. Immediately he recognizes Kai. The large man raises a heavy tankard of ale to his lips and jerks his head towards the doors. His gold hoop earring glints in the warm light. “Go on then, yer Highness. Get outta here.”

The fact that the First Mate isn’t the least surprised to see him doesn’t even register until much later.

Silvio nods once and hurries out of the tavern, practically running as he heads towards the docks. The heels of his boots thud with every frenzied step across the wooden boards, battling with the sound of the waves as he rushes towards Siren’s Call. 

He’s close enough now to see a figure standing at her railings and his breath catches in his lungs.

She turns, and in that moment, the thought of watching her turn away, of watching her leave him, yet again, sends panic through his veins, like lightning cleaving his heart in half with its merciless heat.

Her name is torn from his throat, lobbed in despair towards her even as his legs bring him closer. 

“LEYLA!”

She freezes at the sound of her name as it cuts through the air, striking her heart like a flaming arrow. 

Could it be….

“Leyla!!”

Again her name.

And she knows that voice.

Spinning back around she sees him rushing towards the ship, his blue cloak with its Dalmatian trim fluttering behind him like a wild phantom. 

In an instant she is flying towards the gangplank, bare feet barely touching the ground. Down the incline she soars, her heart hammering a riotous concert in her chest. 

She’s on the dock now, tearing towards him as he bolts towards her, two hurricanes in motion. 

And then they crash into one another, a tangle of arms and lips and grasping hands. 

He’s here, her heart sings, he’s really here. 

She pushes her fingers into the pale radiance of his hair, curls them into its soft strands. He holds her in arms, crushes her against him like a vice as he kisses her over and over and over and over, a drowning man finally given air. She meets him, stroke for stroke, gasping as she drinks her fill, as the cool taste of his mouth soothes the scorched earth of his absence. 

Above them the sky is golden, the sun’s final masterpiece before it sinks to its rest.

Colors of Sunrise: Pink

“The sun’s coming up.”

Her voice is rough, hoarse with the evidence of last night’s pleasures. Behind her, Silvio buries his face into the dark waves of her hair, tightening his embrace. He never wants to get up, never wants to leave the comfort of her bed, the cocoon of her ship’s cabin. He never ever wants to let her go. His only vocal reply is a grunt which somehow makes Leyla laugh.

She shifts, maneuvering herself around within the circle of his arms. His eyes are closed but she knows he is awake. Leaning forward, she presses a chaste kiss to his chin, a cool raindrop of a kiss in comparison to last night’s storm.

“C’mon, sea pup, let’s go look at the sunrise. I feel like stretching my legs a bit.”

The Prince of Benitoite scowls as she wiggles away from his embrace. He jerks his head to move his hair out of his face as he pushes himself up in the bed. He leans back on his palms, watching with a mix of admiration, lust and regret as she finds her discarded nightgown on the carpet and pulls it over her bare body.

“I thought I stretched ‘em enough last night.”

She laughs, loudly and brightly, no false modesty here. Tying her velvet robe tightly around her middle, she leans down, catching his chin in her fingers and kisses him hard, murmuring, “That you did and maybe, if you come along without anymore growling, you’ll get a chance to do it again.”

He needs no more encouragement.

Now, they stand together at the ship’s railing, arms wrapped around each other’s waists as they watch the sun’s yellow rays caress the morning sky into blushing prettily in soft pinks and corals. 

Leyla sighs, leaning into Silvio’s body, reveling in the feel of him.

“I know I said it before but I still can’t believe you’re here." She shakes her head, watching the undulation of the water. "Fucking hell, Silvio, it was such a damn risky thing to do.”

His hand at her waist clenches.

“I knew I’d make it. Besides, missing you was takin’ up all the room in my head. I had to come before it drove me nuts.”

She grins slowly. “I guess I missed you too.”

His eyes flash as he looks down at her. “Whaddya mean...you guess?!”

She shrugs nonchalantly, enjoying the way indignation and annoyance are waging war with his desire to keep holding her. “I mean...you know.... if I think about it….you may have crossed my mind. Like, once or twice.”

"Why you......" Without warning, he scoops her up into his arms. “You’re in so much trouble, sea witch.” He marches back in the direction of her cabin, her delighted laughter ringing through the air, a compliment to the bright colors of a tropical sunrise.

Tagging: @alexxavicry @queengiuliettafirstlady @bellerose-arcana @thewitchofbooks @aria-chikage

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[galadrieljones]

wip wednesday

tagged by @sandetigerrr. thank you!! <3

Here's a little excerpt from the next chapter of Riptide...

She followed him back to the interior of the Palace where they took a grand, crystalline elevator down about ten or twelve floors. She was suddenly terrified. She didn't realize they were so high up, and she didn't know a garden could grow anywhere but the ground floor, and yet, she kept forgetting that this was ancient magic. Who knew how it worked? It must have been bigger and more cosmic than she could ever have imagined. When they arrived, they stepped out into the cool, moist air of the outdoors, and immediately, she could hear the voices of the dock workers, and the cacophonous sounds of the waves and the boats as they slapped against the pier. She watched the muscled men in their striped sweaters, calling up the deckhands in their rich baritones, lanterns swinging from their hands in the dark, casting green veilfire pools of light across the water. She looked at Solas, who was watching intently. He had lit another smoke, and something about him had calmed, as if the end of the day, in this place, held a unique sanctuary for him. Nobody seemed to care who he was here. Nobody even said hello. Nobody demanded his time or asked him what to do or barked orders on what to say in front of who, when, where, why, how...

tags for @thevikingwoman @amburuthings @wrenbee @luzial @myreia @tadpole-apocalypse and anyone else who'd like to participate!! <3