#and how cut off this woman must be in order to not know any of these customs

[yandereunsolved]

🐉 Yandere Aemond Targaryen w/ platonic yandere Alicent Hightower (part 2—requested) 🐉

↝ (part 1) ᝰ.ᐟ

You had left to do your daily duties after he pulled you aside and confessed his true intentions. You seemed so frightened of him in that moment. You simply asked to be excused and continue your work. Aemond would say it broke his heart, but it did not. It only strengthened his will and resolve to make you his. 

He would have to face his mother and ensure your hand in marriage to him. Aemond once said that he would have gladly married Halaena; only now does he see the foolishness in those words. Hopefully, his mother will see the foolishness as well. His heart yearns for no other, and he will slay as many as needed if denied you.

His hand nearly slipped from the knob of her chambers. His heart had nearly halted to a stop. He cannot say he has ever felt a fear quite like this, not even when he was disfigured. His hand absent-mindedly touched his eye patch. A lovelorn grimace appeared on his pale face. He opened the door with another new sense of vigor. 

His single step within his mother's chambers commanded great respect, like that of the dragons the Targaryens pridefully ride. The maids looked up in panic at his intrusion. They were fixing the queen's auburn strands and her emerald gown. Even at the cost of a possible scolding or death at the hands of the queen, they quickly left her chambers without so much of an indication of Queen Alicent allowing them.

"Mother," the words hung on his tongue loosely, his expression blank but betraying a hint of anxiety. "I have an urgent matter I wish to speak to you about."

"Yes." Alicent answered quickly, with a wistful warmth evident in her tone.

"Yes?"

"The maid," jealously and vitriolic animosity clear in her curt wording.

The queen stood up and glared at her son. Her steps were quick, and her single action fierce. It took him a moment to register the stinging ache on the edge of his face. His mother had just struck him, as she often did to Aegon. 

"Idiot boy. You want to marry that maid, correct? You have gone about it all the wrong way." 

His ability to speak left him, and with it was a pit of shame that only grew with the impact of the hit.

"Aemond, speak. Use your words if you want them so badly."

"I—how did you know?" He manages to croak out. He tries to maintain his crumbling visage of indifference.

"They are special. They may have been born among the common, but they are destined for nobility." Alicent hissed. She had to refrain from slapping him again because of such an asinine inquiry.

"That does not answer—"

She cut him off. "Hush, son. I am the queen. I am entitled to know everything that goes on within these walls. I know you have fancied the maid for a long time. You have gone about it all wrong. Still, I will give you their hand under one circumstance. You must woo them and treat them with the care they deserve. If I see you raise your voice or your hand to them, even in a moment of rage, I will make sure they are taken from you."

Aemond's head spins with her agreement, his thoughts scattered around his mind like the bones of Vhagar's victims. He had to clutch onto the side of the wall. His one violet eye narrowed at his mother. He somewhat feared the silly little woman, but he had to regain his ground. Through dawn and dusk, he is a man that has come of age. Asking for your hand through his mother was nothing more than a formality.

"They are mine, regardless. I do not intend them any harm; abuse would be the antithesis of my love for them."

Alicent seemed to stare into his soul and see the truth. Her shoulders relaxed, and she returned to her proper, queenly persona.

"Good boy. Listen to my words, and they shall be yours. I will not hesitate to order your brother to strike you down if you disobey."

"You have made that abundantly clear." He has to restrain himself from rolling his eye. His sapphire one nearly rolled in his socket.

"I will keep an eye on them, which means they will end up visiting my chambers once a week. I am sure I can get them more smitten with you." Alicent chuckles, but it is more like a court member's snarky laugh than that of a proud mother. "That confession of yours, just when the sun rose, was absolutely disastrous." 

"Mhm." His lips tightly pursed.

"Is that all you have to say?"

"We are on the same side. There is no need to fruitlessly argue. I am far more clever when it comes to my words anyway."

The queen was already tired from her earlier meetings. Her son had already agreed to her wishes. There was no more need to chastise his prideful words. Such is the way of men.

"You two will make a perfect coupling." She brings her hands up and cradles his face. Her left hand nurses the red mark that she left. The traces of her previous rancor are gone. "I love you, my son."

"As do I."

Aemond nursed his mental and physical wounds that night. He caressed his body and imagined it was your own hands that replaced his. Tears, both delighted and sorrowful, escaped him as the hour of the ghosts approached. His impatience and sexual frustration were at their peak. He needed you to belong to him. He needs you now. He can no longer appease his internal beast with mere glances at your tantalizing skin and fleeting touches.

Queen Alicent convinced you to marry Aemond that night. She invited you to a private dinner and spoke to you with saccharine-coated phrases. You fancied him; you were simply skittish due to the fact he revealed his obsessive tendencies. She assured you that his proclamations were hyperbolic; he was simply ecstatic and impulsive, losing the true meaning of his pure and healthy love.

She's much smarter than Aemond in that aspect. You will never know how deep her motherly love runs for you. You are like the child she always wished she had bore. You did not drink your nights away or fuck whores; you were not the runt of the litter fighting tooth and nail to be considered strong. You were grounded; you may lose yourself in your mind sometimes, but you still had a grasp on reality. 

You are perfection, quintessential to the both of them.

[cntloup]

You wake up in an unfamiliar room angst, kidnapping, thoughts of miscarriage, mention of torture, blood

Simon bumps into you, a troubled woman whose boyfriend kicked her out after he found out she's pregnant

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9

You wake up to the buzzing of a semi-broken light and a thick damp oily smell filling the rusty old room. 

You wince as you slowly move your neck, gradually gaining consciousness, feeling your ears ringing and a sharp stabbing pain in your head. 

You struggle to open your eyes, even in the dim light of the small room, your vision slightly blurry from what seems to be sweat, tears and blood from a hard blow to your head. 

You groan in pain and slightly jolt in your seat as you notice you’re tied up in an unfamiliar room.

Vague disturbing images prance around your mind as your eyes land on the various tools on a small table beside you and you shake your head to get rid of them but to no avail.

Then they slowly come together like the pieces of a puzzle and you remember. You remember all of it. The agonizing torture. And several blows to your belly. Oh god! 

You dip your head to check your swollen belly, only to see the pool of blood beneath you.

You feel a surge of panic rising from deep within you and start to feel light-headed, from the loss of blood, or the thought of losing your child, you honestly don't know.

And you don't know how many days have passed. Are they even looking for you? Will he save you?

There are whispers outside the room, some foreign language, Russian probably by the sound of it and you can barely make out any words, but there's one word you fully understand... 'Ghost'.

At the base, there's a thick tension in the atmosphere. After Simon found the blood and no sign of you in the house, they started working on finding the possible kidnappers.

Simon is pacing the halls as they try to track down your captors and he's absolutely livid at whoever dared lift a finger on you, anxiety bubbling up inside him, gnawing at him to the point of being utterly unbearable.

You lower your head and shut your eyes again, acting as if you’re still unconscious after you hear footsteps approaching and the clicking of keys. 

They put a sack over your head and carry you to the car and drive to an unknown secluded area so a doctor can see you as you struggle to keep yourself from sobbing and thrashing around to free yourself.

Simon makes his way to Price's office with heavy footsteps and slams his fist on his desk, snarling furiously "We both know who it is. If you don't order the raid now, I swear-" "We must act fast. Laswell called with the location of the warehouse they're headed to." Price cuts him off.

They place you on a bed while your eyes are covered and you don’t notice much else as a wet rag covers your nose and mouth.

There's only the faint sound of gunshots in the distance and muffled shouts and punches. And you can sense the ground quaking by what seems like the pounding of footsteps and you feel the rag being removed followed by a loud thud and a pair of strong arms lifting you as you drift unconscious.

[shhhsecretsideblog]

Denial

Co-written with the gorgeously talented @gravid-transluna Thanks so much for picking up this RP starter, so happy we’re collaborating and writing fics. I’m having a blast! 💜 [fpreg, 7.7k words, birth denial, clothing birth, public birth]

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Alex had a million and one things to do in the office before she went on maternity leave. The day was disappearing fast and she’d barely sat down; with back to back meetings, numerous phone calls, it was non-stop. It seemed her body wasn’t too keen on being pushed so hard this late in her pregnancy, if the constant braxton hicks were anything to go by, but she powered through assuring herself that she’d be resting soon. Just get through today.

The Exec waddles into the lift, heading to a meeting room a few floors below. The doors were just about to close before a young employee jumped in lightly after her. They stood in relative silence facing the exit, until the sudden screech of metal clanged all around them. The floor shook, jolting suddenly, and the lift was brought to an abrupt halt.

Alex’s curled hair swung around her face as she glanced at the tiny screen which usually displayed the floor level - it was now flashing a warning error image. “Eugh, is the lift broken?” Alex gruffed, annoyed.

“Looks like it.” The anxious looking subordinate replied, clearly worried and apprehensive at the thought of being trapped in here. “H-Have you got your phone with you?”

“Damn. No, it’s on my desk. You?” Alex asks, frustrated her pregnancy brain had struck again, making her forget something as fundamental as her phone. Seeing the other woman’s expression Alex quickly realised neither of them had a phone.

Thankfully the lights stayed on, but the metal box quickly started feeling too small. Another cramp rolls across Alex’s large, full-term, belly and she can’t help but grimace.

“Oof…mmmnghh….” A moan slipped out under her breath, she rubbed the side of her twinging bump as the other hand automatically reached to the wall of the elevator for stability. “Hooohooo… not now…” Alex whispered.

The other woman looked at her nervously.

Colleen had two fears: contained spaces and her boss, Alex. Unfortunately for her, she was trapped in with both of them today. Alex’s pregnant belly straining the buttons of her work blouse did nothing to diminish her fearsome personality; if anything motherhood had only made her more intimidating, still a commanding presence in a roomful of men even with a swollen, overdue baby belly hanging off her frame.

Worse, her boss seemed a little more than uncomfortable in this situation. She’d seen her bite receptionists’ heads off her a wrong coffee order, but still, seeing Alex wince and rub her belly, which seemed to have dropped even lower this week, she felt compelled to hesitantly ask, “Ma’am, is everything alright? I’m sure they’ll realize we’re in here eventually.”

Alex gave Colleen a quizzical look, but on seeing where her colleague's gaze was, she realised she was rubbing the right side of her large pregnant stomach. She stopped, letting her arm fall limp at her side.

“I’m fine,” Alex replied curtly. “I just don’t have time for this today.” She sighed and looked around the cramped space, what she was looking for she didn’t know, but there must be someway to get someone’s attention and get them out of there.

She knew she was cutting it fine; both by how late she was going on maternity leave but also with how much she was trying to cram in to her last day. Her feet were aching in her 3inch heels having been on her feet for most of the day, in meetings and presentations and walking around the office trying to make sure everyone in her team was well equipped to continue things during her absence. She was heading down to the third floor for her next meeting with the team leaders, that was if the lift hadn’t so inconveniently broken down.

“So you don’t have your phone on you or any method of communication at all?” Alex griped, asking her mousy employee yet again. Hoping the woman would miraculously have a way of contacting the security team or something.

The baby in her womb seemed just as uncomfortable as Alex in this small space, shifting and kicking harshly against her taught and stretched skin. His head was sitting so low in her pelvis it felt like her hips were being pulled apart. She’d be happy when this pregnancy was over, she was done playing host, she wanted her body back. Though she continued to dress in her staple pencil skirt, blouse and heels, pregnancy be damned.

Alex began to pace around the room, finding herself needing to move, shifting the aching from her hips. Another braxton hicks decided to add to her problems, she huffed under her breath and faced away from the doors into the corner, blowing out a silent exhale through the twisting pain.

Colleen could tell by the way that Alex’s gaze flicked over her that she probably only recognized her face by sight and not by name. She seemed impatient, which wasn’t unusual for such a busy, ambitious, work-minded woman, but there was something else in her impatience, an almost shifting restlessness that seemed to match the restless movements in her packed womb. The fabric of her blouse was almost see-through, stretched so thinly around her massive swell, and Colleen could observe visible ripples against the tight skin of her belly. She winced. Colleen wasn’t at an age where she had seriously considered children, but her respect for her boss had grown immensely, seeing her waddle around the office in her pencil skirt and blouse, seemingly as efficacious as ever.

Alex’s restlessness became even more pronounced when she turned away from Colleen, as though hiding her big belly and whatever was going on inside it.

“I don’t have my phone,” Colleen said helplessly, hoping it wouldn’t result in a chewing out. “I left it in my handbag on my chair.”

Alex let out a disgruntled sigh, half from annoyance at her staff’s serious lack of organisation - who goes anywhere without their phone anyway? - but also from the way in which this false contraction was starting to bite.

The practice pains had been a consistent thorn in her side all day and it was really starting to get on her nerves. She’d successfully managed to grin and bear it through this morning's presentation to the board but by lunchtime they were starting to take her breath away. Still, Alex carried on. There was just too much to do and not enough time. It was why she was working right up to her due date, not that she told the company that. They’d have forced her out weeks ago if they knew she’d technically passed her due day on Tuesday.

When the pains passed, Alex spun around and walked determinedly towards Colleen who appeared to brace herself for something. She always got a warped joy when they did that. Leaning past her employee, Alex began pressing buttons on the lift and found the emergency call button. “Let’s try this shall we.” Alex smirked at the hesitant Colleen. Unfortunately the emergency button did absolutely nothing at all.

“Umm,” Colleen scratched awkwardly at her neck, trying to disguise her growing panic. She didn’t like the idea of being trapped, but more so she knew as things continued to go wrong her boss’s mood would continue to sour, and didn’t want to remotely be in her vicinity when it did.

She tried not to look at the immense belly taking up most of her field of vision, though it was hard not to glance at it, especially when making eye contact with Alex was such a terrifying experience.

“We could shout for help?” Colleen suggested. “Maybe someone will hear us from whichever floor we’re on.”

“Eugh… if you want to shout then go ahead.” Alex dismissed, and continued back to her pacing around the small space.

They stayed in awkward silence, the only sounds were the clack-clack of Alex’s heels on the metal floor as she did loops around her section of the lift. She had one hand on her back, knuckles pushing into the base of her spine as it ached and spasmed. She’d managed to breathe her way through a few more of the annoying cramps but they were soon joined by a serious increase in pressure.

One particularly forceful twinge made her gasp and stop her pacing, one hand flying to the wall to lean against as the tightening got stronger and stronger and stronger. She couldn’t stop the low hum she made in her throat as the cramp continued its assault.

Colleen didn’t dare to open her mouth to shout, knowing she’d probably receive a dirty look and a complaint about a headache for her troubles. Instead she watched as her boss paced, again noting her restlessness and the hand bracing her curved, strained back as well as the hand constantly circling and resting on the broad shelf of her belly, as though to soothe the baby inside. This time, though, she noticed Alex’s walk, the way she waddled as though encumbered not only by the weight of her huge bump, but a pressure of sorts between her legs.

She more than suspected Braxton Hicks at this point, but her worst suspicions were confirmed when her boss finally leaned against the wall as though unable to support her own weight or trying to escape a deep pressure from her womb. She hummed, lowing as though she’d momentarily forgotten Colleen was there, absorbed with sensations from her pregnant body.

“Ma’am, are you okay?!” She stepped closer, hands spread like she didn’t know what to do with them. “You’re having a contraction, right. Oh god. Oh, this is so bad.”

Alex waved a hand away at the approaching colleague, keeping her at arm's length. “Don’t be ridiculous. Hoooo…. It’s nothing, it’s just a c-cramp that’s all… mnghhh…”

Her hand drifted lower and brushed along the underside of her stomach needing to try and find some way to ease the ache that was gnawing through her belly. She could feel her knees start to wobble and she breathed steadily, her weight supported by the wall, until it passed.

“See, it’s gone now. I’m fine.” Alex stated confidentially, her work facade firmly replaced. “Someone better get us out of here soon, I’m gonna bloody fire that security officer.” Alex muttered aloud.

She wanted to resume her pacing, her hips needed the constant movement, but her feet were far beyond protesting the high heels - they were downright screaming at her. Too exhausted to keep up every one of her professional fronts, Alex resigned herself to the comfort of bare feet and uncharacteristically kicked off her shoes.

Colleen nodded furiously at Alex’s dismissal of the pains. “Right! Of course, just a cramp. I shouldn’t have assumed anything.”

The young employee didn’t know much about pregnancy and birth, but she’d seen enough media about it to know that Alex closely resembled that of a woman in labor: the characteristically low, dropped belly, the consistent cramps, the restlessness. But…. that’d be impossible, right? There was no way she’d had the misfortune to be trapped in a lift with her boss of all people, and especially not an Alex in labor. That was not an encounter Colleen particularly wanted to be around.

She reassured herself. Even if those cramps coursing through Alex’s obviously overdue belly were labor pains, labor could take days, right? They couldn’t be stuck in here for more than thirty minutes, someone would absolutely notice Alex’s absence if not Colleen’s. She was too important to the company. Then, Colleen could get back to her emails and Alex could be sped off to the hospital or wherever she preferred to drop that kid.

These hopes wavered when Alex kicked off her shoes, pacing in her stockings. Colleen’s eyes widened. This was a ridiculously unprofessional move for Alex, she knew that for sure.

Without her black patent heels Alex shifted anxiously on flat swollen feet around the confined space, gradually feeling the temperature rise and the air thicken. There was no circulation in the small box, no air conditioning or fresh air coming through any gaps or vents. She could feel sweat start to dampen the back of her neck, her curled hair sticking to the tacky skin. She ran her fingers through her hair, arms stretching up and belly sticking out, picking up the ringlets from the back of her head and lifting them off her neck allowing some air to cool her overheated skin.

The Exec huffed an exhausted sigh. “How long do you reckon we’ve been in here?” Alex asked breathlessly to her subordinate.

She had given up on pacing and resorted to standing at the back of the lift and next to the metal railing that ran across the width of the back wall. Her hips swayed side to side, she breathed slow and deep, and occasionally would place a subtle hand on the railing for support.

The persistent braxton hicks were grating, chipping away at her resolve. It was probably just the confinement and heat, being stuck inside this metal box, but it felt like the intensity of the cramps were getting worse. She caught herself moaning under her breath when they struck, she tried to swallow the noise but it was never quick enough to remain totally silent. She wasn’t in the mood to field questions or concern from Colleen so she had to get those moans under control. Unfortunately for Alex, when the next contraction appeared it came on so suddenly she didn’t have time to prepare. The pain lanced across her stomach and Alex doubled over gasping, hands flying out and gripping the railing tight, an unusual groan rumbled from her throat.

Having watched her superior endure what were undeniably contractions at this point, Colleen’s concern had only multiplied. If she hadn’t been certain when Alex kicked off her heels (swollen, aching feet weren’t exactly uncommon in pregnancy, right?) or when sweat began to bead on her forehead in contrast to her usual inclement coolness (well, it is hot in here with no air conditioner, and she must be dying carrying around all that belly in such cramped quarters), there was not a doubt in Colleen’s mind when Alex clutched at the railing and moaned, low in her throat. It sounded so unlike Alex’s clipped, sharp tone. Almost animalistic, like something natural, a sudden instinct to vocalise as her belly contracted.

“Er—ma’am?” Colleen kept her distance, eyeing Alex’s heaving swell. “Are the, um, cramps getting stronger? They seem—well, they seem like they’re closer together too. Almost like—”

She didn’t dare say the word. Alex, she knew, didn’t like contradictions to what she said.

Instead she answered her boss’s previous question. “It’s probably been, oh I don’t know, maybe an hour or so?”

At the other woman’s panicked questions Alex managed to grit through her teeth a dismissive “… I’m fine!… mnghhh!” Alex tried to straighten up, to preserve appearances, and found she couldn’t - not while her muscles were still seizing. Instead another groan slipped from her mouth before she could clamp it shut.

“I-I think- they might be more than just cramps…” Alex panted as the worse seemed to fade away. “I think these m-might be… hoooo practice labour pains.” The Exec admitted hesitantly to her employee, removing one hand from the railing to circle around the heavy weight of her hanging bump.

She had a reputation to maintain, appearances to uphold, and Alex didn’t want to show any kind of weakness to anyone with an employee ID card. But as the waves continued she was forced to admit to her one companion she was indeed suffering from Braxton Hicks contractions. But that was fine, Colleen was only one person and after today she would be going on maternity leave and wouldn’t have to see anyone for months.

But this baby better quit practising for the main event soon. The false pains were aggressive and forceful, the weight of the baby’s head pressing so hard against her pelvis it felt like it was about to drop out any second. She hoped by the time they were rescued the baby and her body would have settled down. She wasn’t sure how much more she could take.

“They better get us out of here soon…” Alex breathed heavily and quietly. Then realising her company added “I’ve got a meeting at 4pm with the CEO.”

Colleen tried to keep her face neutral, even as her boss doubled over groaning, her belly tight around her middle. Alex’s thighs were wide in her pencil skirt and Colleen could tell by their restless shifting and the slight bending of Alex’s knees that she was feeling the urge to spread them even more, not quite a squat yet but unable to stand with any poise anymore. Inwardly, though, her thoughts were racing. Braxton Hicks weren’t powerful like this, were they? After all, if they had forced a woman like Alex into a panting dishevelled mess, they must be pretty strong.

‘Should I tell her it sounds like she’s having contractions?’ Colleen deliberated. By the minute, she could tell Alex was progressing into her labour. Even as she struggled to maintain her image her body was getting her ready for birth, and Colleen knew that even her boss’s willpower wouldn’t halt such a natural, primal process. Then again, if Alex wanted to be in denial, it wouldn’t make much of a difference. They still had to wait in this lift until rescuers showed up—Colleen might as well not lose her job on top of it.

Instead, she nodded again. “Yes, ma’am. Of course, practise pains. I’m sure they’ll subside before long. They’re supposed to be quite irregular.”

“Exactly… hoooo… I just need to ride them out. It’s fine. Hoooo…” Alex’s usually assertive voice sounded somewhat unsure. She didn’t like it.

Both hands returning to the railing, facing the wall, Alex found her weight shifting from hip to hip. Her stance was wide - when did that happen?- and her blouse was damp with sweat. The boss was grateful there was not a mirror in this lift, dreading to think what she looked like.

The false pains didn’t seem to be fading anymore, staying at a constant ache in her womb with agonising peaks shooting across her back and down her thighs. She prided herself on her ability to handle any challenge, but for the first time in her life she doubted her willpower to make it through. If this was practice labour she did not want to experience the real thing. Perhaps she should organise a c-section when she gets out of here.

The pressure in her pelvis was getting almost unbearable, and combined with the false contractions that continued to strike, she felt herself losing control of her autonomy. Her body was shifting and moving of its own accord and ghastly noises were coming from her mouth. Her hips were on fire, a weight pressing and splitting them apart. She bent over gripping the railing, flat back and hips shifting backwards. Her legs tried to stand further apart but were stopped by the tight fitting pencil skirt around her thighs. The groan that left her mouth was unrecognisable, like she was possessed. As the pressure built and built, she could feel an urgency sinking lower and lower. Before she knew it the sounds from her mouth had deepened, her heavy breathing ending with an animalistic grunt.

Colleen continued to observe as Alex made noises that she couldn’t even reconcile with the aloof, in-control Alex that she knew. Wide-eyed, she couldn’t stop staring as the laboring woman paced the tiny space. Her grunts, the way she hissed through her teeth, with every sound she appeared closer and closer to giving birth. Her waddle was pronounced, almost bowlegged as though there was a deep weight between her legs, forcing them apart and pulling her closer to a grounded position. ‘Holy shit,’ Colleen thought. ‘She’s about to drop her baby!’ She didn’t know a thing about midwifery or delivering a child. Much less delivering for a mother who refused to even admit she was in labor.

Colleen tried to track Alex’s contractions in her mind as they ramped up in both frequency and intensity, but found it hard without a watch or a way to tell time. Eventually she gave up, reassuring herself that the next stage of labor wasn’t yet upon them, and that unless Alex broke her waters the baby would remain inside her womb until they could call some paramedics. Still, she didn’t like the fact that Alex appeared to be losing her calm, composed self. Drenched in sweat, grunting and groaning through contractions, her body was obviously telling her it was time, and Colleen wondered if she’d even let her help if it came down to her pushing her kid out into her pantyhose or exposing her heavily pregnant self to a random colleague.

Alex’s grip on the railing tightened as she felt her legs start to tremble. Pressing her forehead against the cool metal wall, she released a shaky exhale. She couldn’t think… hell she could barely stand. Every part of her entire being was consumed and overwhelmed by the pressure and pain between her legs.

In some buried corner of her mind an instinct was telling her to get lower to the ground, to remove her skirt and tights, to open up her legs and hips. Alex fought against the idea, she’d already lost enough dignity trapped in this lift with some entry-level employee, she was not going to make it any worse. But when the next contraction struck, any fighting spirit she had seemed to evaporate.

“Ohhhh god!!!! Mnnnghhhh!” She groaned, long and deep, rocking herself forwards and backwards and clinging on to the only thing keeping her on two legs. “The pressure….. hoooooo…. There’s so much -mngh!- pressure!!! Mnngghhhhh!!!”

Her body sank back deep into her hips, knees dipping slightly in her tight pencil skirt and belly hanging to the ground, her backside swaying in the centre of the confined space. She could feel her muscles squeezing with the force of contraction, trying to do something. The baby dropped even lower and smashed through her cervix. She felt so full, the mass in her pelvis so heavy, and her body screamed at her to bear down.

“No…..” Alex cried aloud against nature's call. “No… don’t…” but her instincts took over and suddenly the mother-to-be was pushing.

“Ma’am!” Colleen cried, startled by such a stark display of utter abandonment from her boss. Her waters hadn’t yet broken. She couldn’t be pushing, could she?! Yet Alex was squat-standing and clutching the railing, the backs of her thighs trembling with an immense groaning effort. It sounded more forceful than just enduring the pains in her belly. It sounded as though Alex was actively doing something, putting in a hard, straining effort. Working with her body without a thought in her mind except birthing her baby. Between her spread thighs, Colleen could see the underside of her stomach, hanging low, uterus clenching her belly into a hard, tight ball. The way she bent her knees periodically, grunting uncontrollably each time… it was as though she was trying to force something low and heavy through her bottom. Everything about Alex seemed heavy, gravid.

She groaned again, and Colleen gasped, “Ma’am, are you pushing?! You can’t push, not yet!”

Tentatively, she placed her palm against Alex’s swaying lower back, curving with the weight of her belly. She began to rub and massage the tense muscles, not knowing what else she could do to help. The way Alex seemed consumed with birthing, Colleen didn’t think she even noticed her.

“Unnhhh- I’m not pushing! I’m not- ohhhhhhh- I’m not in labour damn it!!!” Alex’s staccato breaths carried her continued denial of what was happening to her body.

She gasped, breath holding in her lungs, and her body pushed again without instruction. Alex ignored the faint relief that was gained with the push, the satisfaction of the productive contraction, the moving of the baby as it neared its exit. But then the urgency faded, the contraction eventually dimmed, and Alex could think again. She had control again.

It was then she noticed the hands that were rubbing her lower back. Startled Alex abruptly stood upright and glared at the presumptuous woman beside her. “What on earth are you doing?” Alex sniped, waving an arm and shooing her away.

The nervous employee recoiled back and Alex shifted around the space again, both hands holding the large belly about to burst out the sweat-dampened blouse. “I am not in labour.” Alex repeated firmly, forcing the confidence as if willing it to be true. “I am not having this baby, and I don’t need your help.”

Colleen barely managed not to gape. Here Alex was, belly gleaming with sweat under her soaked blouse, contractions ramming her incessantly, curly hair damp and mussed in the heat of the lift. Her cheeks were splotchy and red with exertion and her chest was heaving, from the release of the contraction or from the force of her obvious pushing, Colleen couldn’t tell. All she did know was that her boss was actively bearing down, that much was clear. She would have thought anyone else was joking, but she didn’t think Alex had a sense of humor. She had to be in denial, Colleen concluded. To squat down and push like an animal like that, then brush off help like it was nothing—if nothing else, Alex certainly had willpower.

Of course, modesty and willpower goes out the window when you have a baby coming out of you, and from the noises and pushing grunts Alex had been making, it couldn’t be long now.

“I-I’m sorry,” Colleen stuttered. “Those…. practice cramps seemed so intense. You seemed like—well, like you were—“

Under Alex’s exhausted glare, Colleen faltered and trailed off.

“Uhh, I told you… I am not in labour- hoooo- I am fine!” Alex swallowed a moan before it slipped out her mouth. “When are they gonna bloody get us -mnnnnh!- outta here!” Standing by the lift doors Alex stared at the vertical line where the two sides of the sliding panels met, glaring at it willing them to open.

The weight of the baby’s head had started to press against her opening, Alex’s legs forced even wider apart with the sensitivity. Buried under layers of denial and facade, the unconscious sense of urgency had been joined by desperation and it was making its way to the surface.

Her fingers pulled at her blouse, freeing the thin satin from her skirt and letting it drape down from the significant curve of her belly. The pressure between her legs was beginning to return, Alex could feel it coming. Her arms lifted, hands palming the lift doors, and before she knew it she was banging on the metal to try and get the attention of someone outside this tin can.

The banging didn’t last long before Alex was stopped by the sheer force of the next contraction. Her fingers slowly slid down the lift door as her body crumpled in half over her tight, rock-solid belly. Double over she braced herself against the lift door, thighs widening and knees buckling in a semi-squat, and her body bore down with everything it had. Whether she wanted to or not every muscle was tense and squeezing, pushing the large round shape down down and out of her body. A rumbled grunt echoed from her lungs as she strained and pushed and contracted, and the heaviness between her legs started to burn.

Colleen was hyperventilating, barely able to register her own thoughts over the din of Alex’s furious pushing, grunts and groans erupting from her throat without pause or respite. The baby had to be coming soon, with how forcefully and urgently Alex was bearing down. Colleen’s mind swirled. As Alex pushed she took up the mantle of alerting any outsider to their situation, cupping her hands to her mouth and shouting over Alex’s uncontained moans.

“Help! Help us! We’re trapped in the lift and there’s a pregnant woman in here! She needs help, FAST!”

Alex’s voice rose to a deep bellow, trembling as though she was fighting an exhaustive battle against the baby inside her, bending her knees and opening her hips as wide as they could go in an attempt to drive it down and out. As her voice took on a higher, strained quality, Colleen began to suspect that something astonishing was taking place under her pencil skirt, that with all the pushing she’d been doing, the baby couldn’t possibly be very far from its only way out of her.

“Alex,” Colleen cried desperately. “What should I do?! I don’t know what to do!”

“You- mngh- don’t need to do anything cos mngh- I am not having this baby!” Alex grunted out, palms flat on the metal door, legs bent and wide beneath her skirt. “I am not in labour- hooo- I am not in labour…”

The exec panted the mantra over and over, fighting against her body’s urges to bear down. This baby was not being born in an elevator. She just had to breathe through the pains and she would be in the comfort and safety of a hospital soon, having a c-section damnit. That is what would be happening, not whatever the hell this woman was panicking about. Alex was in control, she always was in control, and the birth of her baby would be no different. She pushed herself off the doors and tried to move, to breathe through it, but the second she turned around her body doubled over and she gripped the railing to keep herself on two legs.

And then the burning got worse - the weight pressing lower, stretching apart her lips. The instinctual need to bear down was no longer a strong suggestion but a screaming demand. Alex was barely aware of her body’s actions anymore, she just wanted it all to stop. All she could do was gasp for air in between the bursts while her body forced the baby lower and lower - the head spreading her most intimate part around its giant surface. I will not have my baby here I will not have my baby here she chanted with every uncontrollable push.

Her thighs pulled the skirt as wide as it would go trying to make room, her whole body weight thrown forward as she leant over gripping the railing, arms locked and knees bent. But her hips weren’t wide enough, her body was too restricted by clothes, yet Alex was frozen to the spot as she grunted and roared with every wave. Soon the growling noise from deep in her throat turned into a pained whimper when the baby’s head pushed right through and fully crowned into her thong and stockings.

Colleen watched in horror as fluid suddenly spurted from between Alex’s thighs, soaking the floor of the elevator, filling the contained space with a musky, almost fertile scent. Alex shivered, lifting onto her toes as she gripped the railing. She looked as though her entire body was being pulled downward with the force of her descending baby. Her stockings were drenched—Colleen could scarcely believe the amount of fluid Alex’s body had let out, and it was still dripping and leaking from inside her skirt. She felt nauseous looking at the spreading puddle beneath Alex’s feet, and thought to herself, no doubt about it, there’s her waters. The release didn’t diminish Alex’s groaning efforts, though; if anything, the sudden breaking seemed to only renew her utter need to birth, nothing impeding or delaying its progress any more.

Except, of course—

Colleen gasped. “Ma’am—Alex—your skirt!”

Alex’s thighs trembled and quivered, spread so far that Colleen could see the hem of her skirt cutting into the flesh of her legs. She was trying to instinctively widen them, Colleen realized. She needed more space, even with them spread so far already, and Colleen could barely imagine the sheer size of the baby coming out of her boss. Then she didn’t have to imagine. As she watched, Alex’s skirt began to tent out slightly, tight against her backside as she doubled over, back flat. Whenever Alex grunted loudly, bending her legs and clutching the railing, the bulge in her skirt grew. That’s the head, Colleen thought, her own head spinning. My god, it’s enormous. It was a miracle they hadn’t been found yet from the noises Alex was making, letting loose guttural groans and roars that echoed in the enclosed space. Her entire face was twisted with effort, teeth clenched and eyes squeezed shut. All her strength was going into giving birth to her massive baby, but still, it didn’t seem to be enough, not with her skirt keeping her legs too narrow, her hips too closed. Alex’s skirt lifted and tented more and more, until it seemed to reach a peak. Alex’s voice slipped into a whimper and Colleen blinked, never having thought she’d hear Alex make such a vulnerable, sensitive sound. Then, Alex dropped into another hard push. The tent in the fabric stayed put.

“Your skirt,” Colleen said again, and hurriedly bent to pinch Alex’s skirt up. “Your skirt’s—“

From this angle she could finally see the crown, and drew in a breath. Her boss’s most intimate region was stretched and distended beyond recognition, lips taut around the huge head making its way out of her from behind her thong. The narrow strip of black fabric just contained the head’s huge circumference, cupping it tightly, barely allowing any more space for it to progress. Without room, Alex was stuck with a full crown between her legs, unable to push it out into her stockings.

With her boss barely able to speak anymore, Colleen made an executive decision. “I’m sorry, but we have to get this skirt off. Your baby’s coming, Alex. I can see the head! It’s coming out of you, and you need to let it, okay?! Come on, please listen to me.”

“No….unghhhh!” Alex mewled “I’m not having this baby… not here- ohhhhhhhh!”

The Exec had completely lost all semblance of control; doubled over, hanging onto the railing, legs wide and dipped as much as they could go. Alex couldn’t move. She hissed through her teeth, panting as her labia stretched thin, the baby sitting between her folds. But the baby couldn’t come now! It just can’t. She was at work for fucks sake! And worse, she was trapped in the lift. Real labour takes hours, days, there was no way she was pushing a baby out right now…

Her body argued against her thoughts as everything tightened and contracted once more. Gasping for air Alex tried to fight the muscles bearing down against the ridiculously large mass in her vagina, but panting through the pain didn’t do anything to stop the automatic pushing. Primal and animalistic noises left her mouth as her body pushed, her deep lowing reverberated off the walls.

Grunting at the end of each push, Alex tensed and strained, the instinct desperate to expel the child from her womb. But it wasn’t moving, slipping only the tiniest millimetre into her underwear. Heart racing Alex felt panicked - fighting hard against this birth and yet simultaneously trapped as the baby was stuck, held in by her tight stockings.

“Oh god!!!! Get it out- get it OUT!!!” She cried.

It was all too much; the burning, the fullness, the weight, the pressure. Alex collapsed under it all. She let go of the railing, legs shaking, and she clawed at the hem of her skirt trying to pull it higher, to give her hips more room. It was so tight, and her legs were so wide, her nails scraped across the surface of her stocking covered thighs as she gripped and pulled the black fabric of her skirt up towards her hips. But another wave crested and with it she was consumed by the need to bear down once more. Abandoning her skirt she held fast to the metal railing, her knees buckling trying to pull her down into a squat, but the pencil skirt creaked as the fabric stretched to its limits and she could only dip down slightly and push the baby against the strained clothing.

“I-it’s stuck!” Colleen stuttered. “The head is—” she raised her voice, tried to get through to Alex, but could barely even hear her own words over the almost-inhuman noises escaping from Alex’s throat as she fought desperately against the elastic of her thong, caught between the need to birth and the unyielding fabric of her stockings and the black fabric containing the massive head tightly in her vagina, shoving forward with powerful muscles as it wedged back inside her with just as much force.

She couldn’t open her legs any wider, Colleen saw. They shook violently as she threw back her head and let loose another deafening moan. From Alex’s furious face it was obvious that Colleen didn’t even register as a presence anymore, that the only thing in the world that Alex was thinking about in this moment was the head lodged between her tensed, opened lips.

Only when Alex started screaming that she needed it OUT, right now, was Colleen galvanised into action. She lowered from her crouch until she was kneeling between Alex’s legs. For a brief second, Colleen was in awe of the sight before her; the woman she’d known as a fearsome presence, a powerful executive, had been reduced to a groaning, sobbing mess, birthing into her skirt. Yet, this was her transformation into motherhood, and there was something powerful in that too.

“Alex,” Colleen said. “Alex, you have to stop pushing. I need to get your skirt down.”

She doubted Alex even heard her, but nonetheless she grappled with the clasp of Alex’s pencil skirt. The waistband was held taut by Alex’s widened legs as she tried to allow the baby to pass through, and Colleen was unable to undo the clasp.

“Shi-it,” she licked her teeth and then grabbed both ends of the waistband, pulling hard. The clasp tore off, and immediately the skirt loosened and sagged around Alex’s hips.

“Oohhhhhh… get-it-off-GET-IT-OFF!!” Alex yelled, feeling the tightness of the skirt loosen around her middle.

She had to push, she had to get this baby out now - location and present company be damned - the torturous stretching and excruciating pain had to stop. And Alex knew there was only way in which it would.

Her employee, whateverhernameis, was pulling the skirt over her widened hips and Alex squirmed and shifted with the fullness and desperation to bear down. When the skirt hit the floor Alex immediately stepped out of it and dropped down fully into a deep squat, roaring with the effort of another push. The woman was behind her, she thinks, but she barely notices… Alex’s arms stretch upwards, hands still gripping the railing, her body hanging off the support and almost swinging in her squat.

Her underwear and stockings were still covering her lower body but the freedom of being able to fully open her legs meant the baby could move further out. Alex pulled in a deep breath and bore down with everything she had. Silent in her efforts as all her focus went inward.

Part of her wanted to feel, to know how much of the baby was born and how much there was left to go, but she daren’t release her vice-like grip for fear of collapsing and losing her pushing position. She gasped, her throat scratched and raw, and clamped her teeth together and growled another push. The baby was coming, she could feel it slipping out and this time it wasn’t retreating. Harder and harder she leant into the push and finally the head popped out into her stockings. Alex sobbed with relief and collapsed back into her member of staff.

Colleen cried out in surprise as Alex fell back into her arms, leaning her entire body weight into them as though she had used up all of her strength, drained from pushing the huge head through her overstressed opening, and beneath her more fluid flooded the floor of the lift from the sudden release. Colleen gingerly caught her by the armpits, and Alex’s knees jackknifed apart, jutting upward as she lowered her bottom and hips beneath her, the head dangling between the apex of her thighs. She moaned, breathless, closing her eyes. Tear trails marked their way down her cheeks. Damp and shivering, with a baby hanging out of her, Alex was totally vulnerable to Colleen, hardly seeming to even notice her exposure or dependence on her.

Colleen couldn’t help but smile down at her superior as she swayed and panted in her arms. An hour ago, Colleen might have received a harsh glance for even brushing her fingers as she handed her a coffee. Now, she was holding her up while she prepared to push her baby into the world.

“Go on,” Colleen urged. “Feel the head. It’s out now. You’re almost there.”

“What? Hoooo… it-it’s out… the head?” Alex could barely catch her breath to form words, her full breasts heaving up and down on her belly as she gasped for air.

Somehow the mother-to-be was still upright in her squat but no longer holding the rail, somewhere in her mind she knew the other woman was quite literally holding her up to birth but Alex couldn’t bring herself to pay it any mind. Her only focus was her child emerging between her legs. With a trembling hand she placed a hand downwards and felt, through the sheer stockings, her baby’s head.

“Oh my god… hoooo… I’m having the baby…”

Through all the denial Alex’s brain struggled to compute what was happening. She had fought against it so fiercely, so vehemently, and yet very clearly beneath her fingertips was a baby’s head.

“My-my tights… I’m still wearing my tights?! Oh no… the baby…the tights are over his head… have to get them off!” Alex shifted awkwardly, unsteady in her movements but seemingly desperate to free her emerging child from the confines of her stockings.

“Hoooo…. Ohhhh no….” Alex suddenly whimpered. “Ohhhhhhh I n-need to p-push again…. No… need-tights-off…Don’t push… mnnghhhh…”

“Hold on,” Colleen muttered, working out the logistics of removing Alex’s stockings with her squatting and crowning a baby into them. She heard Alex’s hushed voice, articulating her primal urge to bear down once again.

“Just a moment,” Colleen said, crouching lower while supporting Alex’s labouring body, wrapping her thumbs around Alex’s waistline.

She was close enough to smell the subtle aroma of Alex’s deodorant and the natural odors of birth on her, and see the sweat beaded on her neck. She saw every one of Alex’s muscles tense, her tendons standing clear. Alex moaned, already in the forceful grips of another contraction. Her moan tightened and deepened, and Colleen had listened through enough of her contractions to know that she’d begun to push against her will.

“Alex! No pushing, just hold on a few more seconds,” Colleen said, frantically tugging the stockings down her waist and glutes. Unfortunately, Alex didn’t seem to have any more seconds in her.

“Ohhhh GOD,” she bellowed. “Oh, I’m PUSHINGGGG!” She bore down relentlessly, and Colleen saw the head give a surge against the tight fabric.

Colleen cursed again. Between the baby being squeezed into the stretching fabric and Alex’s parted thighs and widespread knees, there was no way Colleen could even slide the stockings past her crotch. Which meant she couldn’t access Alex’s underwear either. The tent grew and shoved down toward the floor impossibly as Alex sank into her push.

Hopefully, she won’t be too mad about this, Colleen thought, then she seized fistfuls of fabric and tore, ripping a seam large enough for the head. Then she looped her finger around the thong and quickly pulled it to the side.

‘Okay! Okay, I think it’s free!” Colleen announced.

“Ohhhh fuck!!!! It’s coming outtt!!!” Alex cried, gasping a desperate breath in between her body’s involuntary pushing and she felt the burning ring return.

A deep and gravelled roar rattled her throat as the shoulders stretched her sore and sensitive lips. Her baby… it was coming out… in the elevator at work! She couldn’t quite believe what was happening. Gripping her knees she fully leant into the contraction, using every bit of it as her hips sank towards the floor and her muscles pushed.

Suddenly she yelped and jolted in Colleen’s arms as one shoulder slipped free and Alex quickly and instinctively let go of her knees to put both hands between her spread thighs. The baby’s head and neck were in her uncertain hands and she grunted, low and long, desperately calling on every ounce of strength she had left to get the infant out.

With a roar-turned-wail Alex cried out as the baby slipped from her body and shot into her waiting hands.

Up. She had to bring him up, had to hold him. In a fraction of a heartbeat Alex had pulled the baby from between her legs and held the slippery newborn against her chest.

“Y-you’re h-here… oh baby… you’re here…” Alex sobbed, wiping the blood and fluids from his face. It was scrunched and red, eyes not yet open, his body curled up tight. Then his fists pushed against her breast, legs kicking and discovering new sensations, and the little bundle let out a high-pitch cry as he opened his eyes.

Colleen let Alex slip from her arms to the elevator floor, cupping her baby gently in her arms and murmuring softly. She rocked slightly, and even in the enclosed space it seemed to Colleen as though Alex was in her own world, far away from anyone or anything else. She backed away, allowing Alex her moment to meet the child she’d worked so hard to carry and birth. She didn’t think she’d be able to see Alex as she had before, the untouchable executive. Instead, she’d witnessed Alex’s most intimate, vulnerable moment, even helped her through it. She smiled to herself and Alex cooed, her face close to the baby at her breast.

The quiet peace of the lift was disrupted by a banging on the metal ceiling.

“Hey—! Is someone in here? And, is that a baby crying?!”

Colleen met eyes with Alex, and laughed weakly. “I don’t suppose this qualifies for a promotion, does it?”

[crguang]

wasted with longing, part 3

Knowing Kafka is a rollercoaster of emotions you can’t escape from no matter how much you beg to touch the ground.

friends with benefits, some domestic bliss before the storm, 6.5k words

part one part two

A/N: no smut warning woah…. actual development woahhh… cant believe i wrote this much without throwing in some sex i think i might like this criminal :/

“So… Can I come in?”

Kafka’s self-assured tone sounds lazy, indifferent to the predicament she finds herself in, and her lips are fixed in that practiced smile like she’s genuinely happy to see you despite bleeding through her shirt on your doorstep. You stare at her disheveled state, a hundred questions dancing on your tongue and unable to voice any of them. Instead, you open the front door wider and urgently usher her into your apartment with a hand wrapped around her uninjured bicep. Kafka makes a sound of surprise, though it fails to convey any. She lets herself be moved and quietly walks further inside your place. 

“What happened?” The door shuts behind you, but you’re already leading her down the hallway towards your small bathroom. “Where do you even come from?!”

Your words quaver more than you would like as you flip the switch and motion for her to sit on the toilet seat. You can feel her eyes on you while you messily rummage through the cupboards beneath the sink, pushing old medicine bottles aside and cleaning products out of the way. The weight in your stomach grows heavier the longer you search for your first-aid kit, shutting the wooden cupboards and throwing open the one behind the mirror desperately. Apart from prescribed and over the counter medication, you find nothing that would be of help at this moment.

“Where is it?… Fuck, where is it?!” You lay your palms flat on the counter, head dropping low to think. 

“Calm down,” Kafka says calmly, a slightly amused lilt in her voice, “I’m not going to die.”

You ignore her horrible attempt at reassuring you and try to recall when was the last time you used the bandages in the kit. You cut yourself cooking some weeks ago but you remember going to the bathroom to fish them out… It has to be around here somewhere. You bite your bottom lip anxiously, your pulse in your ears like an oppressive presence, and force yourself to take in a breath so you don’t succumb to your panic. If it’s not in this room, it must be laying in your storage closet. You spare the other woman a glance to find her already looking at you, obediently silent. She doesn’t seem to be in any pain but you know it’s a facade, you’re only taken aback by how easy it is for her to pretend that nothing is amiss. You straighten up, run a hand over your face to clear your head and order her not to move before walking out to find the aforementioned closet.

You make an even bigger mess of your storage closet as you search for the med kit, lifting boxes you don’t recognize and throwing plastic bags full of random trinkets out in the hallway. Your heart is in your throat, you can feel your eyes sting with the familiar weight of unshed tears, but you can’t stop looking. The thought of Kafka bleeding out before anything is done appears in your distressed mind and worsens your anxiety despite the probability of it happening being low. If this wound turns out to be something you can’t stabilize on your own, you’ll call the emergency services. You push aside a basket filled with yarn, letting  out a shuddering breath at the sight of a clear case with a red cross on it. You waste no time grabbing it and heading for the bathroom, not bothering to close the closet door. When you walk back in, Kafka has managed to take off her bloody shirt and is facing the mirror over the sink, a hand still applying firm pressure on her shoulder. She turns your way to acknowledge you and takes a peek at the box in your hands. 

“What are you doing? Sit down,” you swallow the lump in your throat so you don’t sound as strained. 

Putting the kit on the counter and lifting the lid, you take out a few non-stick bandages. From your peripheral vision, you see Kafka complying with your shaky command and suppressing a chuckle. She hasn’t said much so far, which is uncharacteristic of her quick witted nature. You pick up a clean face towel from one of the shelves in the corner and rinse it with warm water. You step in front of her and gesture to the wound.

“Let me clean it.”

Once again, Kafka doesn’t protest. Her guarded gaze is on you, following every twitch of your brows and inaudible intake of breath, almost sizing you up as you lean in close to treat her wound. Her small smile is frozen on her face, and you can’t tell what it’s meant to convey anymore. She carefully takes her hand off her shoulder. The small puncture wound leaves a bloody trail down her skin, but even you can tell that it’s no longer bleeding profusely; the worries filling your head shrink and finally allow you to think more rationally. You bring the wet towel to her skin. You’re more meticulous with your hands than you thought you could be, softly washing away the specks of dried blood on her shoulder and around the injury. At this distance you see faint bluish veins that you had no reason to notice before, they slither down her neck and fade away above her collarbone. You wipe the deep red from her usually flawless skin, brushing over it with a mindfulness opposite from the lustful touches you’re accustomed to; your sole intention is to soothe her pain instead of taking pleasure from her. You are suddenly aware of her proximity in this unfamiliar context. She sits close without the headiness of sex, quiet and alert, and you can feel the warmth of her body from where you stand, your head is bowed and one of her thighs rests between yours. 

Kafka looks up at you through her lashes but you have no way of understanding the light behind her eyes. You think perhaps all of her strength goes to withstand the pain she’s in. You still feel your beating heart against your ribcage, its erratic pace gently growing steady, while her chest rises and falls easily. Your breaths fill the silence around you. As the cloth delicately clears away the blood, you sneak a glance at her and your eyes meet. Your hand falters on her skin. Her rosy-lilac irises speak of tenderness that does not fit her, like a deceiving front to conceal her emotional distance. You see them but there is nothing beyond them, nothing that she allows you to glimpse at. Even so, you’re privy to a side of her you don’t yet know. There’s still traces of blood on her cheek she meant to wipe off before seeing you, and without thinking, you lift the towel higher to clean it off with a few smooth strokes. Kafka blinks once and you do the same rapidly, sharply turning away from her piercing stare to finish dressing her wound. In the stillness of your home, new truths are unknowingly written. 

To stop the bleeding and prevent infections, you take out square non-adhesive bandages and peel one of them off. She’ll have to see an actual doctor for treatment, but you realize that the situation is not as bad as you initially thought. The sight of her bloody shirt and glove terrified you at first glance; you slowly realize that all of it must not have been hers. Unease settles in your stomach a second time. What could she possibly be implicated in to show up at your door with an injury like this?

“Why’d you come here?” You ask softly now that the worst has passed, eyes focused on carefully applying the bandage to her skin. “Why didn’t you go to the hospital for this?” 

“Wasn’t serious enough,” Kafka replies nonchalantly. She gazes at your furrowing brows and incredulous expression like she’s been doing since you opened the door. She doesn’t answer the first question.

“Serious enough? Your shirt is dyed red. How’d you even get this?”

“It’s just a gunshot wound. A little Band-Aid should fix me right up.”

“What the fuck?!”

In your loud disbelief your fingers press into the small hole in her shoulder and Kafka winces, clenching her jaw tightly. You quickly withdraw your hand. The bandage is halfway peeling off from her skin and she brings a gloved hand up to properly apply it herself. 

You step back from her frame, lips parted in incredulity. “You got shot?”

Kafka uses her free hand to peel off the second bandage and apply it over the first one, not looking at you as she does so. “Relax, the bullet didn’t go all the way in and I already took it out. It’s a minor scrape now.”

“You got shot?”

“Ugh, not so loud… I’ve had a long day.”

“You need to see a doctor. Are you insane?”

She raises her head towards you. “I don’t need a doctor, just a place to stay until tomorrow.”

You swallow thickly, lifting a hand to your hairline and pacing back and forth in the enclosed space. You can’t believe what she’s saying. No normal person just gets shot on a random Thursday and acts so nonchalant about it— having seen the proof of it, your mind is reeling with questions you’re not sure you want the answers to. Kafka has always had an air of mystery around her and the kind of confidence that makes you think that she’s invincible. Looking at her now, sitting in your bathroom after you tended to her wound and seemingly unbothered by the favor she’s asking of you, your chest constricts with a foreboding feeling you can’t name. Your gaze drops to her discarded shirt on the floor. You want to ask her what she’s done, whose blood is on her clothes, but your throat tightens as if begging you to keep your mouth shut. Kafka watches the emotions play out on your face and speaks up again.

“You stayed home.”

It takes a few seconds to meet her eyes, your reply agitated, “What?”

“Last time we talked, I told you not to go to work today. Despite your lack of trust in me, you stayed home. Why?”

She seems to be genuinely wondering why, but you don’t have an answer to give her. You don’t know. There was something about the seriousness with which she suggested you call out of work that made you uneasy come this morning, all traces of her usual aloofness were gone, even if she meant for her delivery to be casual so as to not rouse any suspicions. It was a split decision, you picked up your phone and called in sick before fully understanding the implications of your actions. You trusted your gut, not her. 

“Something came up,” you lie instead and confront her, “You knew something was going to happen today— or planned to come by, that’s why you wanted me here, right? You know I get off work at 7 and I wouldn't have been home.”

Kafka gives nothing away but you know she doesn’t believe your white lie. If she feels anything about this show of distrust, she keeps her cards close to her chest. She shrugs with her uninjured shoulder.

“Maybe I just missed you.”

There it is, that flirty, teasing expression you’re used to seeing on her face. She’s deflecting and is for once doing a terrible job at it. She won’t tell you the truth, you know that much. Irritation burns the walls of your throat. In a way, you’re both lying to each other so you shouldn’t expect something you yourself are not ready to give her; then again, she’s the one who showed up at your door with a swelling injury and she has the guts to ask you to stay overnight while blatantly ignoring your attempts at finding out the circumstances of her situation. You don’t react to her taunt, you only cross your arms and stare at her, unamused. Your heartbeat has picked up several paces and you’re uncomfortable with the awareness of it drumming inside you. Kafka sighs in faux-exasperation. 

“It’s only for tonight. I’ll be gone in the morning.” When you don’t reply, she hesitantly adds, “Please.”

You’re torn, her stubbornness will keep her from seeking a medical expert and you have no idea what she did to get it in the first place. Either way, she’s putting herself in danger, and if you let her stay for a while at least you can make sure she doesn’t worsen her condition before her wound stops bleeding completely… You run a hand over your face. Might as well make dinner for two. 

Kafka’s in the shower and you’re chopping the vegetables you bought earlier this afternoon, your mind a few miles away as you move efficiently around the kitchen. You told her that if she was going to sleep over, she should change into more comfortable clothes. Weirdly, she didn’t make any lewd comments and simply accepted the oversized shirt and plaid pyjama pants you gave her before walking out of the bathroom.. She must have a lot on her mind too, you suppose. Maybe she’ll be more inclined to share a little later. The pasta is currently boiling so you get started on the sauce, letting it simmer on the stove while you take care of the veggies you’ll be steaming to eat as a side. The running water quickly becomes background noise while you busy yourself, a sound you’re not very used to hearing when you’re not the one showering, but the pitter-patter relaxes you a touch. You’re no longer on the edge of an anxiety attack, though worry still resides in the depths of your heart considering the situation you find yourself in. You try to focus on the dinner you’re cooking instead of the bloodstained memory of Kafka’s clothes. They’re in the washing machine now, but you remember how soaked they were vividly, crimson and haunting. You instantly thought the worst, and when suddenly confronted with the prospect of losing her, you panicked. Anyone would have reacted the same in the face of a bleeding person, you tell yourself, but you can’t deny that the thought deeply unnerves you. 

You don’t register the sound of the water being turned off. You stir the rosé sauce and lower the heat under the vegetables, then incorporate the pasta into the creamy goodness. The smell of freshly cooked pasta fills your nose and reminds you of how little you ate today. You take out two plates from a cabinet and pour a generous serving in each one, adding a little more vegetables for yourself. You’re gently laying them on the kitchen island in the middle of the room when Kafka walks in with her hair still damp from the shower. Her face is bare, her long locks loose past her shoulders, and she’s wearing the clothes you lent her. The shirt hangs around her thighs over the cotton pants, big enough to be cozy on her. She looks… mundane, more refreshed than an hour ago. In such plain attire, she doesn’t seem as enigmatic or intimidating, but rather like your average citizen. It’s a harsh contrast to the way she presents herself and the cocky, in control woman you usually see. She strides into the kitchen and leans on the island to glimpse at the food you made. You don’t realize that you’re staring until she looks at you and raises an eyebrow, a small confident smile on her lips.

“See something you like?”

You avert your gaze and turn around to take out the parmesan from the fridge. Your skin warms up from the embarrassment of getting caught, but you manage to hide your flustered expression from her sight. Your stomach buzzes with a feeling you attribute to bashfulness. This is yet another side of Kafka you’re discovering, she’s never stayed until morning light before. You’ve long exceeded the limits of what you’re familiar with tonight, the feeling is the same as the night you undressed her for the time; excitement and nervousness swirled in your belly, each caress revealing inches of unexplored skin to your eager touch. You face her again and find that in this moment, you feel no disquiet. 

“Is that for me?” Kafka sits on the stool across from you and points to one of the plates. 

You grate some parmesan on top of the pasta before pushing the portion towards her. She stares at it for a few seconds then lifts her questioning eyes to yours. She seems to hesitate for the time it takes you to pull out a fork from a drawer and give it to her, but she eventually thanks you quietly. She means it for more than dinner. You nod once in acknowledgement. 

You take a seat on the stool next to her and glance at the way she turns the fork over in her hand, looking at the food in search of answers instead of eating it. For a couple minutes there’s only the sound of metal on ceramic as you eat while Kafka is lost in thought, absentmindedly picking at her vegetables. After swallowing another bite, you decide that you’re sick of the awkward silence. 

“You don’t eat pasta?”

Kafka blinks. In an instant, her cryptic smile stretches her lips and she stabs some pasta onto her fork, sticking it into her mouth. Her face lights up after the first chew. “Mmm. Never had a home cooked meal that actually tastes like food.”

“Really?”

“I’m not much of a cook.”

“Somehow, that doesn’t surprise me.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” She purses her lips, silverware hovering in the air, though she’s not offended. 

“I just can’t picture you wearing an apron.”

“That’s because you usually picture me wearing nothing.”

You make a face but don’t refute her point, to which Kafka’s smile widens an inch. You stuff food into your mouth to give you time to think of a reply. She watches you with an amused look, leaning her chin in her hand.

“Not even a little protest…”

“Oh, shut up,” you shot back indignantly, “should’ve dropped the bottle of hot sauce on your plate…”

Kafka’s deep chuckle compels you to look at your dinner instead of her. “Makes no difference to me. My pain tolerance is pretty high, it might make the flavors pop out a bit more.”

You’re reminded of how easily she kept her composure earlier, as if getting shot at is a regular occurrence for her. Flashes of her bleeding shoulder come back to your mind and you quiet down a bit, poking a broccoli with the tip of your fork. Kafka immediately senses the shift in your mood. She pauses, watches you toy with the vegetable for a short moment, then twirls her own fork in her hand.

“Don’t worry,” she reads your mind effortlessly, “a scrape like that will heal in no time and will barely leave a scar. Besides, you won’t care much for it the next time I’m undressing in front of you.”

You roll your eyes at the innuendo but it successfully brings you out of your thoughts for the time being. You lightly shake your head.

“Is sex the only thing on your mind?”

“Not the only thing…” she drawls, but the way her gaze drops to your chest and leisurely trails up to stare into your eyes, the beginnings of a smirk on her lips, suggests otherwise. She rhythmically taps the island’s surface with a finger. 

“...Just eat your food.”

Kafka laughs softly and complies. You’re thankful for her restraint to make a dirty joke. As you both eat, the atmosphere around you shifts into a comfortable space you don’t feel the need to fill with mundanities. Still, you end up telling her about yourself after some prompting, about your friends, how it felt to move away from your parents and get your own place— even the doubts about your career and how you don’t think it’s something you want to do anymore. Kafka watches you all the while, her cheek in her palm, and comments on certain things but mostly keeps quiet. You don’t realize how much you’ve confided because she’s surprisingly an excellent listener and you get a little high from her undivided attention. Your almost empty plates lie forgotten on the kitchen island. You turn on the stool to face her fully at some point, your knees brushing her thigh, and the casual, innocent contact makes your heart race. Her presence is just as exciting outside of the context of a hookup, your pulse creates a melody for this moment. Unbeknown to you, you've already made up your mind; she looks prettier under the kitchen lights at night. 

“You should quit,” Kafka repeats the advice she told you days ago, following the movement of your head as it tips backwards in exasperation. “You can make money doing anything, you might as well enjoy what you do.”

“It’s not that simple,” you argue, “my life is stable as is. I don’t even know what I want— it would be so irresponsible to drop everything just because I’m not fully satisfied with how things are now.”

“Then find out what you want and execute it.”

You sigh loudly, leaning on the island to rest your forehead on your arm. She makes it sound easy but quitting your research job in an engineering department might damage the fragments of relationship you have with your parents. You only see them a couple times a year, sometimes for a week during the summer, but they make sure to let you know how proud they are that the money they invested in you is paying off. You know they can’t control you anymore and yet, the guilt of them struggling to put you through school is ingrained in your gray matter. Despite the heavy weight they constantly put on your shoulders, you truly do want to please them. You moved to another corner of the world and can still hear your mother’s disapproving voice in your ears. 

“I wish I knew if whatever I end up doing is the right choice,” you mutter, laying your chin on your forearm and staring straight ahead. “It’d be nice to know how this all ends.”

Kafka doesn’t respond immediately. She ponders for a while, fingers drumming on the stainless steel. 

“Mmm. There’s more joy to be found in the unknown, I think,” she says after a pause. “More excitement.”

“More anxiety too.”

“They often come together, don’t they? Both make you feel alive, having one without the other might breed a certain… emptiness.”

You furrow your brows. “You’ve clearly never felt anxious.”

Kafka only smiles softly. “In any case, you can’t live your life fulfilling other people’s wishes. I’ve never found selfishness to be ugly.”

Once the plates and pans are washed half an hour later, you stop by the bedroom to pick up a blanket and a pillow for Kafka to sleep with. You walk back into the living room, items under your arms, to see her sitting cross-legged on the couch, TV remote in hand. The screen is bright in the dim light and illuminates the room around it, painting moving shadows on the walls. You put the pillow down on the armrest with the folded blanket over it. Kafka is scrolling through your streaming applications and stops to acknowledge you. 

“Want to watch something?” She asks. “I don’t remember the last time I sat down for a full movie.”

The invitation is so ordinary that you hesitate for a few seconds. Watching a movie after cooking her dinner…? A corner of your mind is screaming that this sounds like a casual date but you quickly shake that thought away for its absurdity. She needed a place to stay for the night, that’s all. Once again, she’s more using you than anything else, you’re a safe place to come to because you have trouble refusing her. You prove your own theory right by accepting her offer and closing the hallway and kitchen lights before taking a seat next to her, putting a reasonable distance between you. You fold your legs on the couch and lay a forearm on the armrest as Kafka continues to scroll through the different apps. She lets out comments like “sounds boring” and “ugh” after skipping certain movies. She’s mostly talking under her breath, eyes fixed on the TV screen. The blue light applies a similar hue to her skin tone and adds vitality to her irises, they appear more vivid and alert. The sharp shadows in her hair are even darker against such a vibrant source of light and the sight of her brings to mind a beautifully composed photograph. You take a mental picture of her like this, in sleepwear with her hair free of the ponytail she puts it in every day, staring intently at the screen like a kid who’s been allowed to stay up past her bedtime. 

“What about a horror movie?” You propose, taking your eyes off her frame to look at the TV.

“No. They’re never scary. This one looks less mediocre than the others.”

You read the synopsis of a psychological thriller together. The movie doesn’t particularly speak to you but you tell her it seems nice anyway. You’re not surprised to learn that she enjoys mind games. Kafka adjusts her position on the couch so that she’s mimicking your own and presses play, leaning an elbow on the armrest to rest her cheek on top of her fist. You try to focus on the movie, the pacing is too slow to catch your tired mind’s attention for more than ten minutes at a time, and an hour passes with you sneaking glimpses at the woman next to you from your peripheral vision. She’s not close enough that you can feel her warmth like you could in the bathroom earlier, but the air around you feels the same; a sort of domestic intimacy that has no place between the two of you because you can’t imagine meaning that much to someone like her. You can’t snuff it out, no matter how many times you tell yourself to look at the scene in front of you. Since she’s waltzed into your kitchen hours ago, you can’t help noticing habits that give you the false impression that you know her. Her fingers twitch when she’s lost in thought, they typically drum on whatever surface she can get her hands on or subtly move in the air like she’s conducting a symphony. She eats her vegetables last. She doesn’t shy away from eye contact when you speak. These little things don’t make up a person, and yet, for someone who doesn’t reveal much of herself, they’re quirks that few get to see. 

Kafka is watching the movie with an unimpressed expression, which has you suppressing a smile. Occasionally, she comments on whatever is happening—mostly complaints about the direction the movie is going or how much better it would be if the human responses were more realistic. You simply nod along, already somewhat dozing off near the climax of the story. The aftermath of your anxious evening is catching up with you and you’re in a comfortable enough position at the moment, it doesn’t take long for fatigue to descend on your body. Your eyelids can’t bear their own weight and you rest your eyes for a couple of minutes, leaning your head on the armrest. You don’t witness how the movie ends. You’re falling asleep on the couch, the TV acting like background noise, and you forget that this is where Kafka is supposed to sleep. You don’t register soft fabric being laid over you, only catch sweet notes of vanilla belonging to the soap you use in the shower.

A sore ache in your neck pulls you out of a dream whose contents now elude you. Your brows twist indignantly, a muted groan vibrates along your throat, and you drowsily turn over on the couch to face the back cushions. You hear the bathroom door open and close, which eventually reminds you that you’re not alone in the house. Your eyes slowly blink open at the thought, momentarily blinded by the living room’s semi-darkness. It takes a minute to regain your bearings, you turn over a second time and notice soft threads of morning light seeping through the cracks of the closed blinds. It must be a new day already, though not very early based on how gloomy it still is outside. You have the reflex to check your phone for the time and realize that you don’t remember its last location. The cozy blanket falls to your lap when you sit up to look around the room. You’re rubbing the sleep out of your eyes as you recall the events of last night; Himeko calling, opening the door to a disheveled Kafka, rushing her to the bathroom for basic treatment… In between two of those, you must have discarded your phone somewhere here out of panic and didn’t touch it once afterwards, too preoccupied by the dizzying sensation of finally seeing past Kafka’s usual demeanor. Pulling the blanket off of you, you quickly scan the coffee table and check the couch cushions in case you threw the device on it yesterday and it fell through the cracks. Your fingertips touch the silicone of your phone case deep between the cracks of back pillows. You only struggle to pull it out for a few seconds, sighing in relief when you have it back in your hands, Tapping open the screen, you learn that it is currently a little past 5 in the morning and curse under your breath at the reminder of work in a couple of hours after spending the night on your couch. You scroll down the notification screen to see if you got any last night.

You’re confused at the amount of text messages you didn’t receive due to your phone being on silent. You blink rapidly at the dozens of concerned texts wondering how you are coming from your friends and some coworkers you get along with. You got a message from Himeko right after you hung up on her, but it’s just three question marks in succession so you make a mental note to call her back this evening. Opening the multiple texts a coworker sent you, you don’t comprehend them immediately. Your thumb hovers over the screen as you read the words “Stellaron Hunters” and “infiltrated”, and in a moment of denial, you exit the conversation to open another from a friend repeatedly asking if you’re safe. They sent an article attached to the first message; it’s a publication dating from around 6 PM last night posted by an IPC affiliated news company popular in the city. You don’t feel the instant your chest stutters at its contents. Unblinking, you stare at the urgent sentences reporting an incursion in the building you’ve worked in for years by a group of people you’ve only vaguely heard of from gossip around the office. The Stellaron Hunters, interstellar criminals notorious for their worth in credits, had the means to break into the mechanical engineering research lab of the Intelligentsia Guild with the goal of stealing hardware for a machine you remember personally working on about 8 months ago. You were part of the team of researchers assigned to this project to make sure it was a viable one before it could be produced. Once the green light is given, it gets sent to the lab and is out of your hands. You recall doing extensive research for it in a small time frame because it was a priority for your supervisors to start working on it as soon as possible. Now, the key component was the target of a larceny. 

As you read, the world outside of the screen and the muffling in your ears disappears. Your digit quivers over the words “multiple casualties”. Most of them are security guards who attempted to stop the thieves in action, but some of the engineers you once met in person have also been stated as losses. Your eyes sting from being kept open for longer than a minute, you can’t hear the trembling breaths clumsily tripping past your lips either. The death toll is 19 human lives— all for a piece of hardware. Your collar seemingly constricts your throat, choking you silent. You are trapped by sudden guilt, it teasingly snakes around your guts and squeezes them tight like tentacles around an easy prey. What-ifs rush at you as if mocking your cowardice; what if you hadn't worked on this project and hadn’t allowed it to see the day, what if you switched careers like you’ve been wanting to for a long time… You don’t look at your hands but your mind supplies the image of them dipped in blood regardless. The white page of the article burns your retinas, yet you scroll further down to read the end of it. The IPC has taken matters into their own hands and sent out forces to apprehend the culprits while they still hide in the city, which does nothing to alleviate your distress because the Stellaron Hunters wouldn’t have earned a reputation if they were so easily caught. You dread the idea of facing your coworkers again after such a tragic event, even more so the simple thought of walking back into that building knowing what transpired there. You finally squeeze your eyes shut with a shaky exhale, trying not to picture red stained floors and mechanical equipment. When you open them again, the attached pictures at the end of the publication freezes the blood in your veins.

This is your first time associating faces to the group of criminals who are only ever mentioned by their faction name. The phone screen turns dark from inactivity but the wanted poster is seared into the walls of your occipital lobe, creating a reality-perfect image of the woman’s enigmatic smile and unmistakable rosy irises. Your reflection stares back at you, expressing consternation, and in the same instant, the bathroom door opens again. Heeled footsteps make their way down the hallway like a foreboding rhythm, clacking across the wooden tiles on a mission to reach the front door. The weight on your chest grows heavier once they’re close, and they eventually come to a stop behind the couch you’re sitting on. Your fingers tremble at the sound of her voice near your ears. 

“You’re awake.”

It hits you, then. What happened last night, how Kafka received that gunshot wound, her advice from earlier this week—- it was a warning rolled in a layer of passivity, a peculiar request she couldn’t tell you the extent of without revealing her hand. If you had gone to work yesterday, one of the casualties could have been you. Her and the Stellaron Hunters must have been planning this for a while, perhaps weeks or months. You feel as though you’ve fallen in the ocean from a great height in the middle of the night, an icy wave of hurt clogs your ears and has you succumbing under the tumultuous waters. 

Kafka tilts her head to the side and makes a teasing remark about you not being fully up and about, rounding the couch to wave a gloved hand in front of your face. Your head mechanically turns to look up at her. She’s dressed in the clothes she wore yesterday that she put in the dryer as you were washing the dishes. Her hair is in its everyday loose ponytail, aside from the sunglasses over her head and down to her asymmetrical boots, she’s ready to go. Her coat is on, leading you to believe that she planned to slip away while you were still asleep. Kafka observes the brewing emotions on your face and the heavy rise of your chest, then takes a quick glance at the phone still in your hands. Her relaxed smile drops an inch. You stare at each other for a moment and she doesn’t say another word during that time, reading you through the purse of your lips and the contempt in your eyes. After a minute of quiet, she lazily crosses her arms under her breasts. 

“You don’t seem scared,” she says without breaking eye contact, like she’s close to figuring you out but is missing an important variable.

You don’t dwell on the fact that you are indeed not afraid of her or what she’s capable of, mainly wounded by the amount of stuff she’s kept from you. If you knew who she was back in that store, you would have never let her approach you no matter how intriguing she looked. It’s as you think this that you realize something else; her efforts in pursuing you coincide with the time you had just finished working on that major project and you can’t help thinking that all of it might have been premeditated. Your stomach churns. 

You manage to find your voice, swallowing once to wet your dry throat. “Were you never going to tell me?” Your sentence comes out weaker than it should have, bordering on pathetic affront.

“No.”

Her honesty gives you whiplash. For all she’s lied about and omitted, she chooses to be honest when it hurts the most. 

“It was always going to play out like this,” she continues, “some things are inevitable and all possibilities are already written. This way is less gruesome than the others, don’t you think?”

“What does that mean?”

Kafka smiles with her eyes closed but instead of a comfortable familiarity, it raises the hair on your arms. 

“Well, I’m happy to know that you heeded my advice. I even looked for you and got hurt in the process. Quite chivalrous of me, isn’t it?”

Her lighthearted comment sounds like it’s meant to assuage the maelstrom of feelings mounting inside of you. It is so ridiculous, so devoid of genuine meaning, that it only stokes the burning embers under your skin. You struggle to contain your outrage, the sight of her pleased smile and indifferent posture has your fingers curl into a fist.

“Aw, don’t make that face,” Kafka uncrosses her arms and pulls at the ends of one glove so it fits snuggly on her hand, “this is the best possible outcome. I made sure of it.”

“Out.” You’re surprised the word made it out of your clenched jaw, and by its frigidity. She looks you over and even after everything, you notice the slight dip of her lips. You repeat yourself. “Get out.”

“Still upset?”

“Leave, or I will tell the authorities where you are.”

In a flash, a light glimmers in Kafka’s eyes and her features twist with amusement. “Really? You’d be accused of complicity.”

You know that. Your anger is impulsive and a darker part of you wishes to cause her turmoil like the one she’s putting you through. Kafka watches you closely. Her attention doesn’t fluster you anymore. She finds whatever answer she’s seeking in the determined stare you’re giving her. 

“Gutsy…” Her muttered reply is more directed at herself but betrays her attraction. Her eyelids drop as she glances at your lips, then she meets your gaze with a fake sigh. “Oh, fine. I’ll see you later, then.”

“No—”

Kafka lifts a hand up to wave at you cheekily and is outside the door before you can tell her that you don’t want to see her again.

[mochiepie]

Sukuna's Temptation

I have changed some part of the story according to my preference, as it is based on my perspective. It's just a fiction and i ain't following the arcs/actions/happenings of the manga.

Part-2

Characters involved :- Ryomen sukuna/reader🦋

( reader seduces sukuna, uses of abusive words, small amount of sex#al actions, Smut would be in the part 2 )

Heian era period

Sorcerers were fighting The king of curses "sukuna" all by themselves. Sukuna has attacked

The village again due to the rebellion of the village people against him.

Backstory :-

Few sorcerers entered this infamous Rich village only to know that, this village was living under the terror of sukuna and they are forced to send sacrifices to sukuna as he is their "king". The village was rich and prosperous only because sukuna favoured them. And that's why the villagers weren't ready to rebel against sukuna. The sorcerers couldn't accept that women were getting sacrificed every month just for the village to stay alive. The sorcerers managed to give hopes to the villagers somehow and assured them that they would defeat sukuna and give them back their freedom. But in order to defeat Sukuna they must bring sukuna here out of his hideout. Nobody knew where he lived, so to do it so, the ritual of sacrifices must be stopped, that would cause sukuna to notice it. And then.. sukuna would come to check it.

This was the plan of the sorcerers. Little they knew about the power difference between them and the "King of curses".

Present time -

Sorcerers were dying one by one. Sukuna was walking on their body as if they were some sacks of rice. Half of the population in the village vanished within 2 seconds. Rest of remaining ones were bowing and begging "him" to stop, to show mercy on them. The leftover sorcerers even started to begg, they lost their pride, the greed to live was now controlling their minds, as they knew.. it was death who was standing infront of them. The death was dressed as the king of curses.

Sukuna :- you, filthy ungrateful creatures sought to rebel against me? ( Disbelief)

Villagers:- i-i-t wasn't us my lord.. th-this sorcerers were fueling us.. they-They blackmai- us ( incoherent cries and begging)

Sukuna looked over to the dead bodies of the sorcerers. A slight feeling of pride entering his body as he took a good look of this sight.

Sukuna:- 70 sorcerers.. hah. 70 sorcerers came to fight me and.. died within 5 mins. ( Smirks)

Villagers:- we- we shall follow your command my lord. Please forgive our sin. You shall take anything from us, but just let us live my lord. We will never ever think of committing such a sin again my lord. If any of us even thinks of doing such sin, we shall cut their head and send it to you my lord.

Sukuna:- oh my! You seem to be great at giving assurance hah? ( Looks at them with an amused look) I see. Fine.. i shall forgive you all~ bu-

Sukuna's sentence was cutt off in between by the sudden entry of the woman, who lunged at sukuna hitting him with a powerful cursed energy infused kick on his back. The villagers were shocked, their eyes almost gauging out of their sockets. They couldn't believe a human.. moreover a woman having the guts to attack him.

Sukuna was taken back.. he made sure he killed all sorcerers right? Then how come 1 survive, and how did he not feel his presence? He got up from the ground asap to turn around and see... A woman?

His eyes were... Wide open as if stucked.

" not just a woman, this one was.. intriguing" he smirked at his thought

Sukuna:- my my, the audacity you had little mortal. Tell me, you really think you can fight against me?

( looking at her body up & down )

Y/n:- bow down and leave before I cut you into pieces and feed you to the hyenas you insignificant creature!

Sukuna:- ( amused) oh my my... Look at the little mouse. Ain't your words much bigger then your whole body? Speaking alot more then your capacity hah? ( Grins) well then.. I shall slit that mouth of yours right now to.. remind you how to talk with someone superior (smirks)

Sukuna lunges towards y/n, he was all ready to slash her. Y/n dodged easily and stood behind him, she wrapped her legs and used one of his four arms to stabilise herself. She grabbed his neck and started to place little kitten licks on his neck. Sukuna froze at the moment he felt the wetness of her tongue. His body giving up. He felt the touch of plenty of women.. but.. this woman.. was intriguing him, luring him, and moreover even rebelling against him to fighting him.. and now? Now seducing him in the middle of the fight? Thoughts occupied his mind. He was lost into the pleasure of feeling her tongue. He groaned in satisfaction. His hands finding her to pull her infront of him. Y/n still didn't leave licking his neck, she still kept on sucking and licking his jawline, to neck, to his collarbone. He was just groaning. The villagers were in shock to see such a lewd scene. They began to talk and whisper amongst themselves which brought sukuna back to reality. He pushed y/n off his embrace, causing her fly over quite far.

Sukuna:- think you can use your body to lure me? You stink, fukin whore. Not even my lowest level of curses would want your loose stinky pussy ( furious yet disappointed that the pleasure was taken from him )

Y/n:- is that so? ( Smirks) then why were you groaning my little babyy ? ( Taunts)

Sukuna was taken a back. His pride was hurt. His ego was trembling. Sukuna lunged towards her again aiming at her mouth to slash. She dodged again but this time.. she landed a hard kick on his head. Sukuna's fighting technique was deteriorating due to his mind filling with lust and desparation for this unknown woman and at the same time his pride and ego being hurt.

Sukuna was about to stand up but y/n sat on his back.

( like this lmao 🤣)

Backstory of Y/n :-

she was a sorcerer but her curse energy wasn't high, so due to being weak she used her body to seduce and lure so that she would get some time to find the weak spots of her enemies and hit on it on the right time. For her survival she had chosen this path, she was a resident of this village and she was against the process of sacrifices. To end this terror of sukuna, she finally managed her guts and will power to fight him she knows that she can't defeat him. But she is buying some time as her fellow sorcerers will arrive anytime soon in the village to help her. That's why, she is trying her best to seduce him and keep him intrigued on her. )

Y/n began her seduction tricks on him. She scratched on sukuna's kimono resulting his kimono to shred into few pieces. She began to lick on his ear.. " don't you want me.. my king?"

End of this chapter. Next chapter coming soon.

[syoddeye]

the lift

gaz x f!reader | 1.4k words cw: alcohol a/n: received a powerlifter x kyle prompt from an anon. i don't normally take requests, but i've been itching to write something sweet for him. influenced by a recent thing i wrote up about gaz flubbing a flirt. i'm a normie/casual weightlifter. apologies to actual powerlifters. 🏋️

“Fuck me running.”

“Sounds difficult.”

“Get a load of her.”

“Pick your jaw off the floor, and stop staring, lech.”

“You’d be no better if you just looked.”

Gaz rolls his eyes at Soap’s stupefied expression, watching him miss his mouth with his pint glass. Foam spills over onto his shirt, causing the Scot to jerk in his seat and stare at his own appendage in offense.

View must be good for Soap to make himself more of a fool than usual. Kyle adjusts his cap, turns his head to the side in a feigned stretch, and immediately clocks the distraction in question.

A woman in a backless top sits alone at the bar with something fruity in hand. No bra band in sight, no tan lines either. That’s not what glues his eyes to her, though. It’s the rippling muscle the cut of fabric shows off, defined and apparent as she lifts her glass to drink. It continues south, too, her thick thighs spilling over the narrow stool. She looks like she’d give Ghost a run for his money. Like she’d rip him in half like a phone book.

He needs to talk to her.

Kyle turns back to Soap, dabbing at himself with a fistful of napkins. He downs the rest of his beer and then stands.

“I’ll get us fresh drinks.”

Before the lout can breathe a word, he beelines to the bar. Only. When he gets there, it occurs to him he doesn’t know what to say. Any other pretty face, he’d toss out one of his corny but winning lines. Send over a drink. With her, her muscles more impressive up close and wholly focused on a women’s football match, he’s tongue-tied. And that doesn’t happen often. Must be the moon’s position or something.

He bides his time, staring through the screen like he’s watching, thinking of what to say. Avoids the bartender’s curious gaze.

Then, an elbow knocks his arm very gently.

“Fishlock’s a beast, right?”

Kyle’s head swivels, eyebrows to his hairline. The target of his ill-planned op glances between him and the television.

“Yeah,” he sputters out a second too late. “She’s…feisty.” He could break his glass over his head. Feisty? What was he, eighty years old?

To his delight, she laughs, and a rush of heat flares in his stomach at the sound.

“Understatement of the century.”

He chuckles in disbelief at his luck. She gives him another smile. Fuck, he is done for. 

“You want to join me? Had a friend cancel, and I hate watching alone.”

“I’d love to,” he says, dropping into the empty stool probably too quickly. Their knees touch, but she doesn’t pull away. He fixes his eyes on the screen after placing an order. He watches the Welsh battle the Ukrainians, absorbing as many names and numbers as possible. His phone burns a hole in his pocket, and he can’t help but wonder how soon he can excuse himself to the toilet to read ten articles on women’s football for a refresher.

When she chimes in with a comment or a jeer, he does his best to reciprocate. Using talents he’s cultivated for infiltration and interrogation to string along a conversation in which he has no business participating.

It goes swimmingly until—

“There y’are, thought I’d have to find a bloodhound.”

Soap.

Kyle shifts in his seat, leveling a stare he hopes both contain whatever bullshit Soap’s preparing to spew—heaps, judging by his awful smirk—and communicates an unsubtle do not fuck this up for me. 

“Who’s this?”

Kyle opens his mouth, apparently in preparation to insert his own foot. He hasn’t gotten around to the name bit yet. Too busy learning about women’s football in real time. He looks sidelong at his would-be companion, another soft smile coming to his rescue.

She introduces herself, and he tries not to tack on a silent Garrick at the end of it, just to feel how it sounds. Christ, beyond done for.

“Pleasure to meet you.” She says.

“Oh, the pleasure is all mine, I’m sure. Name’s John, and this is–”

“Kyle. Like he said. Pleasure’s mine.” He offers a hand without hesitation, grinning when she takes it. Nearly groans at the calluses on her palms and fingers. Didn’t know he was into that. He smirks inwardly. Hm. Learning several new things today, Gaz.

“Are you…also here to watch the match?” She asks, gaze flitting between them.

He stares hard at Soap again and witnesses the devil himself whispering into the Scot’s ear. It’s truly an act of divine intervention when the other man shakes his head.

“‘Fraid not. I’ve got to run along, but Garrick’s all yours tonight.” He winks unctuously, waggling a brow to really sell it. “If you don’t mind watchin’ him.”

She smirks and pats his knee. “I’m sure I can handle him.”

Soap looks downright rakish. “Oh, I bet you can. See you in the morn, Kyle.”

He’s torn in two: she’s touched his leg and Soap’s cheek about tomorrow. The idiot lives a door down. They’re both on for PT at 0500. Dickhead.

“He’s friendly.” She muses as they return to the match.

“Too friendly. Like a failed police dog.” He mutters.

“Hmm. Does that make him a bad soldier?”

It takes effort not to choke. Their career, generally speaking, isn’t a secret, only their activities. Still. “Smart guess.”

“Despite his creative haircut, you’re both decently cut and we’re, what, twenty minutes from a base? Plus,” she shrugs. “His tattoo. Giveaway. I would’ve said ‘reenactor wannabe’, but your reaction confirms it.”

Kyle’s tongue swipes behind his teeth. She gets better by the minute. “Yeah? And, uh, what do you do for work?” Something physical, he bets silently. Something that necessitates her kind of build or creates it. 

“I’m a tailor.”

Or…not at all.

He can’t stop himself from blurting out. “So the muscles are—“ He abruptly stops, fingers gripping his drink tightly. Sweet Freddie Mercury. Forget smashing a glass over his scalp, he’ll vault through the front door headfirst.

“Powerlifting,” she proudly shares, setting her cocktail down to flex. Her muscles jump beneath her skin, straining into a mesmerizing landscape of strength and power. “My main hobby. If I could make money off it, believe me, I would,” she swings her frame forward and twists, showing off her traps. “But I learned how to sew and alter clothes when I, uh, outgrew conventional sizes.” Disdain paints the word. “Everything I’m wearing I customized to fit me, and me specifically.”

“Genius.” he says simply, mind half-blank when she turns forward again, flexing her biceps and forearms toward her lap. So she’s good with her hands.

A fist uncurls, and a finger crooks up. His face lifts to a smug smile.

“Impressed?”

“Thoroughly.” He swallows.

Her eyes drag over him, slowly and methodically. Picking him apart like a piece of meat. He suppresses a shudder. Yet another thing he didn’t know he liked. 

“How much do you weigh?”

A simple enough question. One he’s asked every so often, especially in medical, in between formal physicals. Coming from her, however, it’s an invitation.

And it is.

Straight into her arms.

Half the pub’s watching when she hoists him parallel to the ground, overhead, and squats. For a brief moment, arms crossed over his chest and back rigid, he swears he hears The Time of My Life. When she returns him to solid ground, to the cheers and toasts from the small crowd, he might as well still be in the air. Heavenbound. Preparing to meet Peter.

Eventually, the atmosphere calms, and he finds himself thigh-to-thigh with his strongwoman. They watch the remainder of the match, chatting—mostly about sports and work, but a bit about the little things—he’s not too thick when she offhandedly mentions knowing the neighborhood well. That her place is a few streets over.

He needs to be back on base before sunrise. He tells her as much outside the bar after the Welsh suffer defeat in penalties. He can relate to the feeling, knowing Soap’s gonna give him hell and Price will ream him out if he’s hungover. 

“Kyle, you’re cute, but we’re not at the sleepover stage yet,” she teases, picking invisible dust off his shirt. “I can give you a lift when you’re ready to leave.”

Strong. Witty. Confident. Can absolutely rip him in half. There is nothing he doesn’t like about her. So, so fucked. 

He grins stupidly when she beckons with a finger, beginning to walk toward her place.

“Premium?” He jokes, following. “I don’t settle for anything less than top-tier car service.”

“Not that kind of lift,” She answers, looking over a sculpted shoulder. “Fireman or princess?”

Kyle almost stumbles.

“Yes.”

[cenorii]

Reasons

Hi, today let's discuss some interesting and short topics related to Chris and Wesker. Their relationship and a bit of biology.

Strange attitude towards Chris

We know that Chris has been diligently strengthening his body since the events of Code Veronica, in order to have something to counter Wesker. But he's still human, so no matter how much he tries to increase his physical strength, he can't stand up to Wesker if he's serious about killing him, it's logically useless. Of course, he wasn't the only reason for Chris's increased body mass, an additional motivation was the moment in Code Veronica when he didn't have the strength to kick down the door to save Claire.

Against Wesker any strength is useless (except for Alexia), just think of the final battle in the Lost in Nightmares DLC. No amount of physical strength and training helped Chris even scratch his opponent, let alone any attempt to fight back. The difference between the two is unrealistically huge, which raises the logical question... why is Chris still alive?

What's his attitude towards Chris anyway? Judging from their dialog in re1r, Wesker respects Chris's talents and has his hopes set on him, proud that he came out from under his captain's wing. It's the reason he didn't shoot Chris, wanting to show his best man his best creation (he also showed Jill Tyrant, but from the prism of their situation it looks more like bragging than a meeting of his two best creations). In Code Veronica they met again, and despite Wesker's open hatred for his former subordinate, he chose to demonstrate his power in front of him rather than kill Chris.

What emotions does a person feel when he wants to brag to someone he respects, but at the same time hates? I think Wesker has more respect for Chris than hate. He also wants to show him that he is now "better than he knew before" by trying to impress Chris a second time. He doesn't want to kill him because he's cocky and knows for a fact that the average person won't stop him.

The next encounter takes place in the Lost in Nightmares DLC, where Wesker is angry about information that offended his pride and crossed out everything he thought about himself. This time, when attacking Chris, he's driven by nothing but rage, so he doesn't think much about who's in front of him. Because of this, he might be contemplating breaking with his past, including Chris, so he's actually going to kill him. But he is interrupted, time passes and his emotions cool down, thanks to which the next time he meets Chris in re5 Wesker again doesn't plan to kill him. Chris is now his past, which he has accepted.

Instead of finishing what he planned and cutting off everything that reminds him of his fake past, Wesker decides to embrace the truth, including saving Jill's life and using her in his plans. He must have thought about Chris a lot and talked about him a lot, which you can tell from Excella, who said with disdain: "Chris Redfield" and Wesker at that moment turned away and smiled so that she could not see. He is either amused btw Excella reacts to Chris, or he is really secretly happy to show him his creation again but doesn't want to show his joy to Excella, whereupon he switches back to a serious tone of voice, provoking the woman to leave the room.

Their encounters in re5 don't look like a normal battle, because Wesker is able to kill both of his opponents (Sheva and Chris) completely unhindered just like he killed Spencer's guards in the mansion from the Lost in Nightmares DLC. But he doesn't because Chris has now found a new value to him. Redfield is an element of his past and an element of his present, integrating his personal growth processes and showing up at significant moments in his life. Therefore, as long as Wesker is confident that he will show Chris Uroboros, he will not seriously harm him. Only when his confidence crumbled did he become adamant about getting rid of the interfering element that now not only ruins his plans, but ruins his dreams, opposes his ideals, and negates what Wesker believes in. Chris is now not an accepted and valued past, but a judgmental eye looking straight into Wesker's soul. Someone who is the complete opposite of him. And since Wesker still respects Chris, because he only shows strength to those who are worthy (artbook quote), his opinion is valuable. But what if Chris's opinion differs from his and it can't be changed? The only thing left to do is to beat those views out of him.

Chris is a very important person to Wesker, despite the feelings of hatred he displays, which may also be the result of Wesker being confused about how long he let Chris live. That said, he is utterly helpless to kill this fragile man. He's too rare, valuable, special, the only one. And that brings out the tangled emotions in him. The fact that Chris is alive is absolutely no credit to Chris himself.

Height difference

When Wesker caused himself to overdose with Uroboros, his body increased in size due to the excess cellular material in his body. He is now about 230 cm. I'm sure the process is reversible, and when the virus in his body stabilizes from the overdose by properly fusing with his body, Wesker will return to his previous size. But what's funny is the very fact that because his body cells are unusual and able to regenerate, Wesker is able to react to the overdose with similar side effects. But if the effects were irreversible? That's interesting to think about.

Lack of a hand

If you follow the animations of Wesker's right hand on the volcano closely, you will notice that it moves as one continuous tentacle without bones. While the left one seems more static, and you can also see the arm model through the tentacles on the left arm. I examined its model and found out that the left hand does indeed have a full hand, even fingers, but the right hand is less fortunate - it's missing. In its place are tentacle bones. I realize this was done for ease of animation, but let's imagine for a second that the missing arm is an irreversible side effect, and now Wesker's arm will never come back. The tentacles will retract inside his body, but the arm will be missing and never regenerate. Oldsker without his right arm? Interesting.

[moongreenlight]

Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley who despite his better judgement lets Soap talk him into picking up a girl for the night.

Mdni. Nsfw below cut.

Apparently Soap knows a guy who knows a guy in the area they’re deployed. They’d been staying at some shithole inn in France for weeks. Driving into the city to stake out some mark day in and day out. Tedious, mind-numbing work. Sitting at cafes and on patios at pubs people watching. Looking for anyone that may or may not match the vague description that had been provided by some mole on the other side.

Simon could sit still and shut up. Johnny was a separate issue. He could dial in for a few hours at a time, but then he’d start to slip. Bored and antsy, he’d try and strike up conversation. Inevitably returning to what must have been his favorite topic, or the one thing plaguing his mind the most. He’s horny. Fucking hell, is he horny.

Bitching and whining about not being able to get any play here because he doesn’t speak a lick of French and even when he tries it comes out so muddied that nobody takes him seriously. And that the inn they’re set up at is years away from town. Paints him out to be a serial killer.

Simon would grind his teeth and endure yet another one-sided talk about how bored Johnny had been getting of his hand. Even the left one wasn’t doing the trick anymore. He’d resorted to calling in some favors he was apparently owed to get the help of some girls in his evenings off.

“Jesus. Lookit the legs on her.”

Johnny had almost fallen out of his chair swiveling his entire body to watch some girl in a short skirt and a long trench coat stride past their spot outside of a cafe.

“Mhm.”

Simon was in a better spot to watch her pass. Eyeing her frame from over the rim of his steaming mug of tea. Fucking dreadful day. Drizzling rain. Bordering on sleet because of how miserable the weather was. Cloudy with a breeze that felt bitterly cold even through his coat. Shit tea, too. He couldn’t help but allow his mind to wander.

Not like they’d made any progress. Not like they could make any progress being staked out on a side street with no traffic whatsoever. The girl had been the only person other than their server that they’d seen come by in the last half hour. And sure, she had good legs. Better than their server’s at least. Some cranky older woman who’d ignored his attempts to order in French and looked mugged off that she had to deal with them at all, especially sat outside in this weather.

“Hell’s bells. Almost forgot you had a brain in there somewhere.”

Johnny, of course, couldn’t resist making a dig.

“Don’t get carried away.”

Simon grunted.

“Naw. C’mon, L.T. You like girls? They’ve got girls.”

Should have predicted that he was going to run wild with this.

“M’warnin’ you.”

“Loads of girls. Fuckin’ customizable. Send you a preference sheet and everything. Real professional operation.”

Johnny snickered into his paper coffee cup. Given to him along with a nasty look when he’d fidgeted with the ceramic mug he’d first had a bit too much and sent it smashing into the pavement.

Simon wasn’t one to be jerked around cock-first like Johnny, but Jesus. He was wearing thin. Maybe the isolation was getting to him. Maybe a seed had been planted somewhere deep in his mind from Johnny’s moaning. Not to mention, it was impossible to get it up watching French cable porn on a twin bed. He was backed-up and pissed off with the work. And with no end in sight, it could push a man to do strange things.

He shifted his hips forward in his seat, taking a long drink of his tea as he scanned the empty street for the umteenth time.

“Haven’t used up all your favors?”

You would have thought he’d just backhanded Johnny the way his eyes bugged out of his head.

“Gie’s a break.”

“Jus’ a question.”

Simon shrugged, sighing like he was already regretting asking. He was.

“Don’t work me up over nothin’, L.T.”

Johnny grinned, waggling his brows and leaning his forearms onto the table. Now completely distracted from the task at hand.

“Johnny.”

“Sure I could work somethin’ out. Only ‘cause I’m feelin’ generous. Ken yer a’right owing me a favor?”

Simon snorted.

“Sure I can manage.”

Johnny’s eyes were glinting something awful. More lively than he’d been in days. Practically laying over the table and kicking his feet. Thrilled to finally have the means to something Simon wanted.

“We’ll see about that’.”

Conversation moved on. Dragged back to the mission with instruction to change location. They spent a full ten hours out in the rain and the cold and the grey for absolutely no payout. Again. Still at square goddamn one. It was arguably worse than combat. Least on a real mission he’d get some release.

Johnny had stepped away in the early evening to make a call. Just before they were tapped out by Price and Gaz. Likely cashing in his favors owed, because he came back with a smug smile and two pints. Saying something about how Simon needed to quit taking himself so seriously. All work and no play or some stupid shit to that tune. Made a comment in passing on their drive back to the inn about how he should get his quarters decent by nine.

Honestly, Simon wasn’t expecting much. It was a bit of a ridiculous concept to him to begin with. He’d regretted saying anything straight after the words had left his mouth. He wasn’t sure he’d even be able to entertain some two-bit whore, even if she just served to curb his boredom. He never sought out things like this. Never felt the need. He wasn’t like Johnny or Gaz where he had to sneak off during missions for a wank or a quick fuck when time allowed. Not like Price where he’d seek a willing nurse or secretary to grope or bend over his desk on a day off. Sure, he’d take the opportunity if it arose, but he was always more focused on the job while he was at work rather than chasing his next high.

And he couldn’t remember the last time he’d taken anyone home. Fucked into his hand as much was necessary to keep everything operational. Knew when it was time when he started lashing out on a hairpin trigger. Got lazy on missions. Lost one too many sparring matches during training because he couldn’t focus.

So when nine came and went, he just found himself agitated that he’d requested the woman at the front desk change the sheets on his bed again so late. Ducking out to the balcony for a cigarette when she came in and slipping her a few euros on her way out despite the way her lip curled distastefully. Fucking frogs.

He was sat on the armchair in the corner of his room. Halfway paying attention to whatever channel was on the TV across from him and nursing a tumbler of shit whiskey he’d picked up from the shops their first night in. Swapped his mission clothes for a black tee shirt and a pair of grey sweatpants. Tugging his balaclava over his face out of pure habit. Strictly instructed not to wear it out for the sake of keeping a low profile. Though he wasn’t sure how much good that did. He stood out from the crowd with his scars and crooked nose and tattoos without the covering. Whatever. Wardrobe wasn’t his job for a reason he supposed.

The sharp knock on his door grated heavily on his last nerve. Eliciting a low growl, but no movement to answer. It was half ten at this point. He wasn’t expecting anyone. Probably just another group of teenagers lost on their way to a friend’s room.

Another knock, and this time it didn’t stop. A muffled giggle through the door.

“Jesus Christ.”

He grumbled, shoving up and striding over to the door. Jerking the door open and using his hulking frame to cover the small opening he allowed.

Johnny’s fist nearly collided with Simon’s jaw. Distracted by the two girls stood behind him in the hall, giggling at him and batting their lashes. He was grinning like a goddamned devil. Chest puffed-out, shoulders rolled back. Entirely too comfortable.

Simon cocked a brow, giving the group a scornful once-over.

“Aye, L.T.! I come bearing gifts.”

Simon’s brow shot up further, eyes flicking from his friend to each of the girls behind him. Johnny immediately caught on to his confusion and barked a laugh, slinging his arm around the shoulder of the girl on the left. She sunk comfortably into position, leaning into him and giggling like it had been rehearsed.

She was pretty. Both of the girls were. The one tucked under Johnny’s arm had long auburn hair tumbling over her shoulders. Bright green eyes. Great smile. Perfectly groomed. Both of them covered conservatively by long coats to protect from the rain that had gradually started to come down harder and colder through the day. Hard to tell they were hooking by looking at them.

They seemed more familiar with Johnny than what Simon could assume was normal. It made his stomach turn if he thought too much into it, so he didn’t. Instead he side stepped, allowing the second girl barely enough room to slip through the door, and jerked his head for her to move.

“S’pose I know better than to expect a thank you.”

Johnny grinned, entirely unbothered by Simon’s glare that was boring through his skull. Arm already wandering down the auburn haired girl’s back at an alarming speed.

“Not as dim as you look, Sargent.”

Simon sighed, snapping the door shut.

“You’re late.”

He said flatly before he’d even finished locking the door. Turning to face the girl who’d already made herself comfortable on the edge of his bed. Leaned back on her hands, flashing him a dazzling smile.

“Throwing off your schedule, am I?”

You said, voice dripping with honeyed sarcasm. This made Simon recoil slightly. He’d been expecting some trashy, mildly-disgusting woman to come stumbling through the door when Johnny had mentioned he was cashing in favors. Not you. Not by a long shot. You looked, for lack of a better word, spoiled. Expensive. Perfectly styled, glossy hair. A tasteful amount of makeup. Not so much that it marred your features, but enough to make you nearly unapproachably attractive. And relatively covered-up. Expensive looking fur-trimmed coat falling just above your ankle.

Noticeable lack of a French accent. And you weren’t cowering in his presence, which suggested that you’d dealt with worse than him. A thought that sent something strange down his spine. Jealousy maybe? Anger? Sympathy? He wasn’t in the mood to dig further into that.

He crossed the room, lowering himself back into the armchair he’d been stationed in before his night was interrupted.

“You’re an hour and a half late.”

His tone was clipped. His eyes cold and hard. Fixed directly on you in an almost invasive kind of eye-contact. He jerked up his balaclava to his nose to take a deep drink from his glass. Studying you from over the rim. Killing the contents and setting it back on the side table with a soft thud.

You pursed your lips for a fraction of a second, standing from the corner of the bed and pacing across the small room to stand in front of him. Threatening to encroach on his personal space. Smiling tightly in a way that seemed to come with a practiced nonchalance. That same feeling settled in the center of his stomach.

“You’re right. I’m sorry. I got caught up.”

Your soft, sweet tone did nothing to tame his irritation.

“They couldn’t even send a professional?”

He shot back tersely, folding his arms over his chest. You cocked your head slightly to the side. A fraction of genuine humor peeking through your smile.

“Plenty professional.”

You shrugged, letting the comment roll off of you. Water off a duck’s back. It irritated Simon to no end and he couldn’t pinpoint why. Trying to settle his mind by watching the way your perfectly manicured fingers began to work on slowly undoing the buttons of your coat with careful attention.

He snorted, tugging his balaclava back down over his jaw.

“That your thing, then?”

You gestured to his face covering. Shrugging off your coat to reveal a fucking scrap of a dress. Much more in-line with what he’d imagined a hooker to wear. A tiny, black, strapless thing that hugged your curves like it had been sewn directly onto you. Black lace garter pulled high on your thigh. Knee-height black boots that must have made you four inches taller than you were.

He cocked a brow, tapping a finger on the arm of his chair.

“Somethin’ like that.”

You cracked a true smile at that. Folding your coat neatly in your arms before setting it on the beat-up dresser to his right. Returning attentively to your spot in front of him.

He stiffened. Already perfect posture becoming rigid to the point of snapping. Keeping his hands firmly planted on either arm of the chair. Narrowing his eyes as he looked over your face in much closer detail.

“It’s late.”

Was all he managed. Voice rough as ever.

“And?”

You tilted your head like a confused dog.

“And you were an hour and a half late. It’s late.”

He shot back dryly. Nails digging into the chair.

“Let me make it up to you.“

You sank to your knees just between his legs surprisingly gracefully given how tight your dress was. Falling delicately onto the disgusting carpet. Faded and torn and fraying. Scratching at your bare knees. Didn’t even pull a face. Conditioned to understand that this was normal. Trained to grin and bear it. Another stone added to the weight anchoring him to his seat.

It was horribly cliche. Such a painfully tacky line, but he wasn’t one to look a gift horse in the mouth; so he shifted his hips forward and allowed your slender fingers to dance up his thighs and dip under the waistband of his sweatpants. Aided you in tugging them down to his ankles. Grit his teeth together when you began palming him through his underwear. Trying not to catch your eyes that were fixed up on him. Trying to push the nagging voice in the back of his mind away. Reminding him of just how dirty this was. Made him feel fucking pathetic. Calling in the aid of a hooker like he couldn’t bed a girl himself.

And the worst part. The part that brought up the most self-loathing; was how fucking fast the blood was racing to his cock under your touch. How much he truly enjoyed seeing you knelt down and blinking up at him with a look that could have been confused for adoration. Maybe you were a professional.

He sucked in a sharp breath through his nose when you finally sprung his aching cock free from his boxers. Forcing his head back to avoid your gaze. Pressing it hard against the wall to the point of giving himself a headache. Scarring the soft wood of the chair’s arms with his nails when you licked a hot stripe from his base to the tip.

All of his guilt and knotted up emotions seemed to dissolve themselves at least partially when you wrapped your lips around him. He’d almost forgotten just how warm a mouth was. Infinitely better than his hand. Jesus, was it.

He kept his hands to himself. Not needing to guide you like he had so many others. Tried to let himself relax under the feeling of your hand gripping his base and your mouth working his tip. And he nearly did get swept away when you removed your hand and tried to force his stiff cock to the back of your throat. Allowing you to work at choking and gagging around him for longer than was probably polite. But again, he just found himself irritated. Edging himself out of pure goddamn accident because no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t force himself from his mind.

He couldn’t understand why you were such a sticking point to him. He’d had one night stands before. Hell, that’s all he’d had. Never cared much about the quality or condition or history of the girls he slept with. Maybe he had a savior complex he was too stubborn to admit to. Maybe his mind had been so warped and addled over the years that he formed some kind of baseless connection with you for God knew what reason. He just couldn’t fucking stop thinking about you.

He would have liked to. Would have liked to screw his eyes shut and focus on how good you felt wrapped around him. Mouth hot and wet. Wanted to focus on the ecstasy of your throat struggling to fit him. Listen to your soft, choked whines. Let himself pretend you were no different to the others he’d bedded before, but it was fruitless. He made a low sound, a growl that lodged itself somewhere in his chest, before taking your jaw in his hand and pulling you off of him. Cock still throbbing like it had its own heartbeat.

“You need to go.”

He made the mistake of glancing down. Saw the way your perfect makeup had begun smearing around your eyes and down your cheeks just barely. Big eyes rimmed with tears. Nose running, chin and lips glistening. Slick from your own spit. It nearly pushed him over the edge, but he knew inevitably he was prolonging his own torture.

“What?”

Your voice was hoarse because of how much strain your throat had been under. Softer than it had been. Less confident. You looked almost hurt. Wiping your mouth on the back of your hand and sniffing softly. Jaw held fixed in his hand.

“You need to go.”

He repeated, firmer this time. Sucking his teeth. Trying to ignore the way your gentle panting cooled the shining trails of spit running down his shaft and sent a chill up his spine.

Your face twisted in confusion, mouth falling open. Leaning back on your haunches to look him over like he’d suddenly grown another head.

“Is it not good?”

He groaned softly, finally letting go of your head. Not realizing just how much effort it had taken for him to pull you off until he saw the small red marks decorating the delicate skin of your jaw.

“S’fine.”

“Fine?”

You looked properly offended. A little confused. Like this had never happened before- and it probably hadn’t. Of course he’d be the one to stain your perfect record. Of course he’d be the one to warp your pretty face like that. Drove him up the fucking wall.

He fought the urge to roll his eyes. Now he was backed-up, pissed off, and you wouldn’t leave as easily as he would’ve liked. If he was lucky, he’d still have half a hard-on by the time he got you out the door. Maybe coax out a less than satisfying orgasm that would at least put him to sleep.

“Gave myself lockjaw for fine?”

You spoke again, those same nimble fingers now gently massaging the hinge of your jaw. He tried to avoid looking at the way your dress bunched around your hips and revealed your panties. Black lace that matched the garter on your thigh.

“It’s late.”

He huffed a sigh. Leaning down to fumble in his sweatpants pocket for a cigarette and a lighter. Needing anything else to focus on. It brought him nearly nose to nose with you. Not realizing until he flicked his eyes up. And you didn’t recoil. Sat there half glaring at him, the tip of your nose almost brushing his through the balaclava. You were pretty even this close. Probably more so.

“You’ve said.”

You shot back cooly, brows knit together.

“Have I?”

He pulled back up, hooking his mask up over his nose once more and sticking the cigarette between his teeth.

“Few times.”

You looked wholly unamused. He flicked his lighter open. Lighting the tip and taking a deep drag.

“Meant it a few times.”

He shrugged, speaking through his exhale. Turning his chin up and away from you so the curling smoke didn’t wash over you.

You snorted, pushing up to your feet, putting your hands on your hips and giving him a once-over.

“You’re seriously asking me to leave?”

His teeth sunk into the butt of the cigarette just a fraction too hard. He felt the crunch of the filter bending under the force.

“S’not you, it’s me.”

He offered. A wisp of a dry smile tugging momentarily at the corner of his lips. This earned another smile from you. He caught it even through the way you chewed the inside of your cheek.

“You married?”

His eyes narrowed slightly. He almost choked on the cloud of smoke he’d been drawing in.

“No.”

His voice was harsh. Like a string pulled taught to the point of snapping.

“So what is it? You don’t like me?”

You shifted your weight a bit, but he could tell it wasn’t because you were uncomfortable. You still held yourself confidently. Shoulders rolled back, posture straight but not stiff.

“Bloody hell.”

He groaned, rubbing his brow.

“Is that it, then?”

You prodded further.

“No.”

You seemed thoroughly dissatisfied with his answers. But he didn’t know what else he could say. You seemed fine. Pretty girl. Got him closer to an orgasm than he’d come in weeks. He just couldn’t get over the fact that you were hired out to do this. Made him feel too dirty. That and he’d already looked too far into the situation. You seemed like you’d been doing this longer than anyone should have to. Strangely enough he felt some obligation to protect you. Wanted to pull you away from whatever situation that had pushed you to this.

“So what’s the hang up?”

You huffed a sigh.

“Don’t usually do this.”

He grunted out, resigning to the fact that he’d have to drink himself to sleep at this point. Leaning down to jerk his sweatpants back up his legs.

“Could’ve fooled me.”

You snarked back. He snorted a humorless chuckle from around the cigarette.

“Nothin’ against you.”

“Yeah, alright.”

You shook your head, a small smile curving your mouth. A mix of confusion and amusement. Like you couldn’t believe that this was really happening.

“I’m not in the business of I.O.U’s.”

You said, looking over your shoulder while you walked over to grab your coat from the dresser.

“S’at so?”

He ashed his cigarette into his empty glass. Trying not to snort when you flashed him a sour look.

“You’re sure? I’m supposed to be here all night.”

You were already fastening the buttons on your coat. Glancing past him to the window on the back wall of the small room. The curtains were drawn, but through the backlight of the street lamps outside you could see rain streaking the glass.

“Mhm”

He hummed his answer. Silently grateful that you were finally moving toward leaving. Least he’d be able to get a few hours of shut eye before having to go back out tomorrow. Hopefully sleep off the guilt and the slightly sick feeling that’d settled itself over him.

You left a few minutes later. After making absolutely certain he was sure. Then it was ‘cheers’ and he was dead bolting the door. He got a fresh glass and downed the rest of the bottle of whiskey. Not enough to even get him tipsy, but enough to lull him into a dreamless sleep for the few hours he allowed himself.

He should have been expecting that Johnny would give him a fucking earful in the days following. You must’ve said something to the auburn haired girl and it got around. Wouldn’t shut up about it. Gave him shit like he was getting paid to do it. Couldn’t believe that he’d pass up an opportunity like that.

They got shipped back to base about a week later. Simon was thankful for the short break. Slowly working on forgetting the entire mission. The whole ordeal with you. Focused his efforts on training and filling out the endless towers of paperwork that’d gathered on the edge of his desk in his absence.

And then it was months later. And he’d made good progress on forgetting France. Mission was a bust. Wasted time and money and effort for no payout. Turns out their mark had been in Germany the entire time. Tipped off that they were on the lookout for him. Johnny slowly stopped his teasing. Only occasionally bringing it up when Simon dismissed the efforts of an overly eager private. Things went back to normal.

After getting intel on a new assignment, Price had urged the boys to get together at some pub by base for drinks on him. Chat about next steps and do some more of the team bonding he was so keen on. Simon grudgingly obliged. The bar was full of people seeing as it was a Friday, so he was content people-watching and grunting a few words when prompted. Decent way to kill a few hours.

He’d excused himself to go outside for a smoke, pushing through the crowd until he finally reached the side alley next to the pub. Taking a few long moments to work his way through a cigarette and let his head stop pounding from the noise of the inside. He wasn’t focused on anything in particular, at least not until he heard some shouting on the street.

He furrowed his brow slightly, pushing off the brick he’d been leaned against and sidling out to see what was going on. Not usually interested in the commotion, but moving out of some deep-rooted obligation to supervise a situation.

He saw a car with dark tinted windows rolling slowly down the road. The driver leaning half-out his window and shouting something over to a girl who was walking by herself down the sidewalk. Her back was to Simon, but he could tell by how stiff she was that this wasn’t a friendly exchange.

He groaned under his breath, taking a moment to debate on if he should get involved before flicking his cigarette to the ground and crushing it under his heel. Starting down the street toward the girl.

It didn’t take him long to close the distance between them. The girl was walking slowly, he could see the way her head was on a swivel, searching for an escape. The driver of the car was shouting something crass at her and she was making a point of not engaging.

“Alright?”

He called out through the dim street, rolling his shoulders back and tucking his hands into the pockets of his coat. Puffing out his chest slightly in case his sheer size alone wasn’t enough to impress.

The driver faltered slightly, the girl did not stop to look back.

“Yeah, mate. Cheers.”

The man called back, trying to sound casual. Simon grunted and nodded, staying as friendly as he could. Moving a little closer to the curb to shield the girl from view. Thankfully, this was all the interaction the driver seemed to need to get the hint. Pulling off without much more prompting.

The girl’s posture immediately relaxed. Shoulders dropped, slowing her gait to a stop.

“Thanks. I owe you-“

Her voice cut off like someone had pressed mute when she turned to face Simon. He was stunned. Fucking shocked to see your face. This had to be some cruel trick played on him by the universe.

You looked great. Better than you had in France- if that was even possible. Even with the way your face paled, he could tell. Your eyes were brighter. Shining at him like headlights. He would have been able to convince himself he was hallucinating if you hadn’t had that same look of recognition painted over your face.

“Thought you weren’t in the business of I.O.U’s.”

He broke the silence after a few long moments. Both of you stood rooted to the pavement mere yards apart. Your breathless laugh broke the tension like a stone dropped in the middle of a stilled lake.

“I wasn’t.”

He nodded sharply.

“And now?”

You smiled. Brighter than you had before.

“I could be persuaded.”

He scoffed.

“S’at so?”

[glitterbiss]

“Unwillingly Attached”- Anthony Bridgerton x SBF!Danbury Reader pt.1

a/n this is my first ever…”one shot?” Whatever it is. I’m kind of nervous to put this out there, but I realized that every time I get immersed in a character again, I need to release this creativity; my mind is full of scenarios and I never put them into play. So this is a start, and I hope I will continue to put more out. Hope you all enjoy and please leave feedback, I wanna improve my writing. 💙

Summary: It is the night of Lady Danbury’s niece’s 20th birthday. Overstimulated by all the dancing and clutter of people, she takes a breath of fresh air, only for it to be irritatingly suffocating by her constant aggravation

Word count: 2,521

Rating: 18+, MDNI

TW: afab reader, she/her pronouns, innuendo, black!reader, dirty talk, body worship, age gap

Also, I recommend playing Toxic by Midnite String Quartet and How Deep Is Your Love by Kiris Houston as you read cause it really adds to the tone, in my opinion.

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the Bridgerton characters nor do I claim to own them. I do not own any of the images used nor do I claim to own them.

“Happy birthday, Y/N,” Lord Bridgerton uttered, his voice carrying the weight of authority. “I understand you wish to have time to yourself, but you must remember, this ball is held in your honor. I ask that you head inside.” His words hung in the air, a command disguised as a polite request. He spoke to her as if he had the right to dictate her actions, a presumption that had become too familiar.

Anthony and Y/N have known each other for years. Seeing that she had been close friends with his sisters, the girls were inseparable. So, when they got in trouble with the eldest Bridgerton, she did as well. Now Y/N did not mind having her ears talked off by the man, but when he tells her what to do and give her orders…that always ruffle her feathers. She still respected him as the head of the house, taking his title into consideration; a few eye rolls at his orders never hurt. Anthony had always known of her doing so, or even sometimes catching her looking at him with a disgusted expression; he ignored them, finding it humorous. The man saw it adorable that she felt irritation from his orders. However, now, a woman grown, she won’t hold her tongue.

The woman let out a deep, frustrated sigh, shutting her eyes as irritation bubbled within her. She turned to face the man sternly, her patience with him wearing thin. Her full brown curls swirled in the gentle breeze, dragging across her back and catching the eye of the viscount. His gaze, as always, drawn to her captivating presence.

The sight of her, his eyes tracing the curls, captivated Lord Bridgerton as they delicately caressed her skin. There was a longing in his gaze, a wish that he could be the one to stay there, to trace the path of her hair as it brushed against her skin. He had often wondered how it’d feel if it were his skin that her hair graced across. He yearned to know the sensation of her curls against him, a desire he kept hidden beneath the veneer of his composed exterior.

“Why do you persist in dictating my every move, as if you possess any authority over my actions, Lord Bridgerton?” She spoke with a conviction that underscored her diminishing regard for the man’s title. The respect she had once held for him had eroded under the constant and unsolicited commands. He had granted her no peace or autonomy, so she no longer cared to show him any deference.

“Well, I-.” He attempted to interject, but she swiftly cut him off with a simple action. Her finger rose, effectively shushing him before he could utter another word. He responded with a sly chuckle, a testament to his amusement at her forceful assertion.

“You are not in a position to control me, Lord Bridgerton. You are not my father. You are not my husband. You will cease this presumptuous behavior.” She warned with a tone that brooked no argument. Her words hung in the air, a clear and unequivocal declaration of her independence.

With that, she turned her back to him, a symbolic farewell to his overbearing presence. She moved gracefully down the steps, her every step a proclamation of her newfound freedom. Her destination was the garden, a sanctuary where she could find solitude and peace, away from the stifling authority of Lord Bridgerton.

Finding himself intrigued by her newfound authority, the man trailed a few steps behind the young woman, his eyes drawn to the sway of her dress as it brushed against her ankles. His mind wandered, painting vivid images of his hand slipping beneath the cool blue silk of her dress, tracing a path upward along her leg. A groan escaped his lips at the thought, the sound more akin to a moan than an expression of frustration.

Lord Bridgerton found himself at a loss, unable to pinpoint exactly when his interest in the girl had intensified. Was it the fact that he had witnessed her transformation from a naive girl into a mature, full-bodied woman? Or was it the subtle defiance she displayed each time she rolled her eyes at his words, a clear indication of her growing impatience with him? There was something incredibly exciting about riling her up, and he found himself fantasizing about doing so at all times, even when he was preoccupied with his responsibilities as a viscount.

“Y/M/N,” the Viscount’s voice stern with authority, invoking her middle name as he always did. It was his unique way of commanding her attention, a tactic that he had adopted over the years. He used it as if it held some magical sway over her, as though uttering it would compel her to pay heed to his words. Or perhaps, he simply enjoyed the privilege of being the only person who could address her in this manner.

A few feet behind her, he stood his ground, his eyes locked onto her retreating figure. He expected her to halt at the sound of his voice, but she didn’t. A sigh of resignation escaped his lips as he watched her continue. He knew her all too well. With hurried steps, he caught up with her, his hand reaching out, gently grabbing her elbow. His fingers pressed into her skin, pulling her closer.

Suddenly, they were chest to chest, their faces inches apart. His warm breath mingled visibly with hers in the cold air. Confusion and determination mirrored in their eyes as they held each other’s gaze. His eyes slowly drifted down to her lips, curiosity tugging at his heartstrings. He wondered how they would feel against his own. His mind was a whirlpool of questions. ‘If I kiss her, would she kiss back?’ His gaze snapped back to her eyes, searching for answers.

“I do have the right,” he spoke slowly, his voice barely above a whisper. “I am a gentleman. I worry for your safety just as I worry for my sisters. You are my responsibility, just as they are.” His eyes found hers once again, his breath hitching as he let his hand run down her arm. The urge to lean in and press his lips upon hers was overpowering, but he resisted. Her eyes scanned his face, taking in his longing expression. Her heart pounded in her chest, and a sense of confusion swept over her. Why was she not pulling away? Why did this situation affect her so much? And why did she feel a sudden urge to kiss him?

“Anthony,” his name escaped her lips in a whisper before she could stop herself. His firm response, “Go. In. Side.” The man’s tongue laced with desperation, a warning to both her and himself. He desired to provoke her once more, yearning for her reaction. Yet, as much as he was fully aware of the dangerous path they were treading, he was also on the brink of losing his restraint.

And so, they stood there, in the tranquil garden, lost in each other’s presence, the world around them fading into insignificance. Desperation apparent in both of their gazes. ��You do not listen.” She responded, feverishly desiring for his reaction as she stood her ground.

Despite the fact that Y/N found the lord intolerable, a revolting presence in her life, she couldn’t help but be aware of his physical presence; his determined gaze, the teasing smirk that would often grace his lips, the warmth and strength that radiated from his hands each time they dared to touch her body. Even though to an outsider, their interactions might have seemed normal, both of them found their thoughts consumed by these moments as they lay awake before sleep.

“Why do I seem to provoke such anger within you?” He questioned, his voice barely above a whisper, as his fingers traced a path from her arm down to her waist, finding a comfortable resting place on her hips. Inside his mind, a battle waged. He desperately fought against his impulses, but his resolve was weakening. The proximity of her body, the sweet aroma of coca butter that clung to her skin, a scent that was rich, tantalizing, and utterly irresistible, was causing a hunger to stir within him. A hunger laced with lust. To make matters worse, the soft glow of the moonlight seemed to highlight every curve of her body, making her skin shimmer enticingly. ‘Am I being a fool?’ He silently questioned his own sanity.

His gentle caresses elicited a soft moan from her lips, a sound she detested because it was a clear indication that her body was willingly succumbing to his touch. The temptation was winning. It was even more frustrating for her to know that he felt the same. That he was just as affected by her as she was by him. She wasn’t the only one grappling with dangerous thoughts. Yet she chose to continue this game of tension. “You vex me, Anthony.” She admitted, her voice barely audible as her lips brushed against his. “To the point where my mood shifts dramatically the moment you step into the room. It’s infuriating.” Her words ended with a soft sigh. Her hand found its way to his chest. She tried to push him away, to create some distance between them, but felt an inexplicable urge to keep touching him.

His response to her words was a low groan, a sound that clearly indicated his satisfaction at knowing he could affect her so deeply. “You have become such a source of torment for me, Y/M/N. Why do you fill my mind with such vulgar thoughts?” His words were out before he could stop them, not that he cared much in the moment, carried away as he was by the intense emotions.

Her breath became slow and heavy, her eyes closing as she allowed her mind to conjure up various inappropriate scenarios, her head tilting back subconsciously to feel his breath against her neck. He drew in a sharp breath as he watched the moonlight play on her exposed neck. Her gold and diamond jewelry sparkled in the soft light, seeming to dare him to stake his claim. He leaned in, inhaling her scent deeply before pressing his lips gently against her throat, moving to the side of her neck, nipping at the skin.

Y/N’s hand held onto Anthony’s coat, her nails digging into the material as his warm tongue tasted her skin. Her thoughts were a whirlwind. ‘What if someone catches us?’ The risk only added to her excitement. His hand slowly moved up her sides to her chest, his thumb beneath her breast, holding her there as he nipped at her neck. “I think of you before I fall asleep,” he murmured into her ear. “I wonder if you’re a whiner, if you beg. Do you enjoy being told sinful things while being pleasured?” She stood there, intoxicated by his words, as she held onto his shoulder with one hand while the other played with his hair. “It keeps me up all night,” he admitted.

“Lord Bridgerton, we must stop this,” she warned, her voice shaky and not very convincing as she responded to his kisses, which had now moved from her neck down to her breast, just above her bodice. He seemed to ignore her words. No one would see them, bodies hidden behind the large fountain; he was far too entranced to give up on what had been a mere fantasy until now. “You are so invigorating,” he replied, scattering kisses up her jaw before claiming her lips with his own.

The instant their lips met in a fervent connection, a realization dawned upon them both; this encounter was going to become a complicated affair. Anthony, caught in the heat of the moment, wasted not a second. He wound his arms around her slender waist, pulling her lithe body into the solid strength of his own. The taste of her plump lips ignited his senses, sending him spiraling into a euphoric haze. She was his intoxicant, his addiction, and he was helplessly ensnared.

Y/N’s hand found a resting place on the warm expanse of his neck, her delicate fingers tracing patterns on his flushed skin as she kissed him with a hunger she didn't understand. She often found herself exasperated with the lord, especially his orders. Yet, as she delved deeper into the intoxicating kiss, she comprehended that perhaps this inexplicable frustration was born out of a hidden desire for him.

Their tongues intertwined in a passionate dance for supremacy, their breaths coming out in ragged gasps as the intensity of their kisses drained them of air. Yet, the lack of oxygen didn't deter them. Their mouths continued to hungrily devour each other, the sound of muffled grunts and moans filling the air, punctuated by the occasional silence. Anthony found himself leaning in for more, more of her sweet taste, more of her intoxicating scent. Meanwhile, Y/N held him in place by gripping his hair, the moon silently bearing witness to their fervor.

His hand slipped from her waist, the rough skin of his fingers gathering up the material of her dress. As he pulled and collected the fabric with his other hand, it bunched up around her thighs. His palm traced a path on her smooth skin, gentle and tender, causing her to shiver under his touch. Lifting her leg from the ground, he hooked it around his hip, calling out her name in a voice that was as breathless as it was low.

Engulfed in a cloud of lust, Y/N barely registered the sound of his voice, the deep, strong, but gentle timbre sending shivers down her spine. A sensation started to bubble up within her, threatening to consume her completely.

Suddenly, the echo of a sharp gasp pierced the silent night. “Oh!” Startled, they both broke away from their passionate tryst to confront the intruder. Standing there, eyes wide with shock, was Daphne. “I’m so sorry,” she stammered, spinning on her heels to make a hasty retreat back towards the ball. Anthony, anxious about his sister's unexpected arrival, hastily set Y/N's leg back on the ground and rushed after Daphne, eager to provide an explanation. His primary concern was to prevent any animosity from developing between Daphne and Y/N.

Left alone, Y/N was haunted by guilt, her mind swimming with the weight of having kissed her friend's brother. She hastily adjusted her dress, her hand instinctively flying to cover her still tingling lips. Panic set in as her eyes scanned the surroundings, the reality of her actions hitting her full force. She couldn't believe she had kissed him, and the question that echoed in her mind was, "What is wrong with me?" She pondered if she would ever be forgiven. Now that she had recognized her feelings for him, would she be able to let them go? She didn't want her friendship with the girls to end because of this.

Y/N decided then and there, from that moment on, she was going to stay as far away from Lord Bridgerton as possible.

[burnednotburied]

Chapter 1: A New Prophet

AO3 Link | Masterlist

Pairing: Abby Anderson x fem!reader

Fic Synopsis: Abby goes looking for Owen and ends up on the wrong end of your knife.

Tags/CWs: angst; slow burn; enemies to friends to lovers; animosity between WLF and Seraphites; blood/injury; cutting (not to self, but still); religious/cult-like ideas

Note: So the idea for this started as a prequel to my first fic (linked here), but ended up turning into something different. It basically follows the plot of Abby’s Seattle Day 1, diverging from canon where necessary and using dialogue from the game wherever possible.

This is a lot of build-up (important to the story and hopefully enjoyable to read), but I promise romance is on the horizon!

Also, the idea of deadnaming or misgendering Lev—even in the flashback part where they’re little kids and wouldn’t have known otherwise—physically pains me, so we’re going to pretend that reader has been calling Lev “L” as a nickname for forever.

Hope you enjoy! :)

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April 2038

Abby knew as much about the Scars as any of her fellow WLF members.

She knew that the group was founded by a woman who claimed to have a vision after the initial outbreak of Cordyceps brain infection in 2013, and then started spouting some bullshit about how it was all just a punishment for the sins of humanity. Said that the way to move forward was to go back to the basics. Live off the land. Reject technology and progress and pretty much all the good things in life.

She knew that they live on the island but they wouldn’t fucking stay on it, and that there was once a truce but they broke it, forcing the WLF into an endless war.

She knew that they fought hard and killed brutally, without hesitation or remorse.

She knew that, especially now that Joel was taken care of, killing Scars was pretty much her life’s purpose.

And she knew that the woman who started all of this became known as The Prophet. And that Isaac gave the order to have her killed ten years ago.

It was for that reason that Abby thought Isaac must have misspoken when he opened with:

“The Prophet is on the move.”

He was standing over the large map of Seattle in the center of the room, hands braced on the table, head down in thought.

She didn’t know what to make of that. Or how to respond. A quick glance over at Manny confirmed that she wasn’t the only one who was confused.

One of them had to ask. It seemed Isaac wasn’t going to fill in the gaps unprompted.

“The Prophet?” Manny questioned hesitantly. “Sir… respectfully… She’s been dead for years. Died before we even joined.”

“Don’t you think I know that? I’m the one who killed her.” Isaac was always calm and measured, almost always spoke quietly. But sometimes there was something beneath his words, just below the surface. Something seething and kind of terrifying, although Abby would never admit that out loud. This was one of those times.

“My unwilling informants downstairs,” he said, referring to the captive Scars being held and interrogated on the building’s lower levels, “tell me that they have a new Prophet. One their Elders have been quietly grooming for the role for the last decade, maybe even longer.”

“Okay so… What does that mean?” Abby asked, finding her voice. This was not the conversation she was expecting to have when she heard that Isaac wanted to talk to them. She had hoped to get some answers about what was going on with Owen.

“There’s a reason why they’ve been more resilient lately. Bolder. Even more bat-shit than normal.” He clenched his fists on the table. “This… Neo-Prophet,” Isaac almost laughed, the words coated in venom, “is about to fully step into her role. She is of age now. Or so I’ve been told.”

Abby stared at Isaac, still waiting for him to tell her what all of this meant. And what exactly he wanted her to do about it.

Manny jumped in. “What? So the Scars are… celebrating? You’re saying that’s why they’ve been ballsier? Killing more of us. Pushing further inland.”

Abby let out a short laugh. “If this is what it looks like when they’re happy, I don’t want to see what happens when they’re mad.”

Isaac remained stoic. “They have a renewed sense of purpose. When we killed their first Prophet, the Scars were enraged. They fought hard for vengeance. But people will only fight on behalf of a dead woman for so long. Passion for the cause wanes without something tangible to fight for. They need that higher authority to look to. They need someone to honor and defend. Their Elders were smart enough to know that their people need a unifying symbol. A living one.”

“Right, and you said that unifying symbol was on the move so…” Abby said. “Want us to hunt her down? See what they’ll do when we take away their new favorite toy?”

“No,” Isaac said quickly. “She’s not our target. We’ll get to her in due time.”

“Then wha—”

He cut her off. “The Prophet will be leaving the island soon, for the first time. In fact, it’s possible she’s already here. One of our captives tells me there will be some sort of initiation for her. I don’t know what that entails, but I’m sure it will involve attempting to kill some of ours. I’ll spend some more time with our friends downstairs and see if I can’t get any more information on that. We’ll try to prevent it if we can, but that’s not our main focus right now.” Abby opened her mouth to protest, only to be cut off once again. “With the Prophet away and many of their best soldiers traveling with her, the island will be more vulnerable than ever.”

Manny gestured to the map, reinserting himself into the conversation. “Sir, we’ve tried attacking their island and—”

“Not like this,” Isaac said. “Not with everyone. There’s a big storm a few days out. We’re going to use it to mask our approach. And you two are going to lead the first wave. Pick your squads. Start prepping.”

“And the Prophet?” Abby asked.

“One battle at a time, Abby.”

“Are we sure it would be a battle?” she pressed. “Isaac, she’s just one girl.”

“You would be foolish to underestimate this unknown enemy. Besides the likelihood that the best of the Scars will be at her side, I don’t doubt that she will be a very skilled fighter in her own right.” Abby huffed. Isaac continued, “And if she’s anything like her predecessor, the greatest threat is in her words. Not her actions. I watched some of my most loyal soldiers abandon our cause for theirs after just one conversation with the one who came before her.”

At this, Abby raised her eyebrows, ready to argue. A look from Manny shut her up.

“We’ve only got one shot at this… And this is bigger than any of us.” Isaac pushed off the table, walking over to Abby and placing a hand on her arm. “I need you, Abby.”

She shifted uncomfortably before relenting, giving a curt nod. “Yeah, I get it.”

“Good.” He pulled away, heading toward the door. “Look over the plans and go through your rosters.”

“I want Owen,” she said. Abby thought Isaac could at least give her that.

When he denied her permission to go look for Owen, Abby went anyway.

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

March 2030 (8 Years Earlier)

The day of your scarring had been the first time Haven saw the sun in weeks.

Your mother said it was a sign. But your mother thought everything was a sign.

She told you that, no matter what, you were not to cry. That you, her only child, would not disgrace her by shedding tears during your ceremony.

You were to be brave. And strong.

The Prophet herself had ordained the act of scarring for all of her followers. A symbol of the innate imperfection of mankind. And so her people would never forget their own failings, even in the midst of their unending efforts towards perfection.

No one was meant to question the Prophet’s teachings, or the Elders who had taken on the responsibility of interpreting those teachings and carrying out Her will since Her death two years prior.

You could feel your mother’s breath against the back of your head as she huffed and decided that she was once again unsatisfied with your hair, roughly taking it down and beginning again for the fourth time.

While she worked, you sat still on the wooden stool in front of her and stared at yourself in the mirror, trying to memorize your features as they were now.

This was the last time you would see the face you knew. Next time you looked in the mirror, you would be different. Would you feel different?

You tried to picture yourself scarred, with two thin lines running from each of your ears to the corners of your mouth. Your eyes stung, tears threatening to fall at the thought.

But there would be no crying today.

Instead, you let your eyes wander to your mother’s reflection, hovering just behind and above yours in the mirror. You examined her face. Of course, you had never seen her without her scars, but you’d always thought your mother was beautiful.

Maybe the change in your appearance would not be so drastic. Maybe it was vain to care.

You were not supposed to be vain.

Once your mother was satisfied with the look of the braided crown of your hair, she gently placed her hands on your shoulders, meeting you gaze in the mirror.

“We are imperfect beings,” she recited. You joined your voice with hers for the second part, “And thus we make ourselves imperfect in Her eyes.”

She smiled softly, squeezing your arms lightly. “Good girl. I’m proud of you. I know you will do wonderfully today.” You tried to return her smile. “Now. Get dressed. I laid your clothes out on the bed.”

She turned to leave you, pausing in the doorway. “Remember what I said, child. No tears today. Do you understand?”

You nodded quickly. Obediently.

She seemed pleased as she left the room.

You changed quickly, wondering if she had been able to tell that you’d spent the whole night before crying. You hadn’t gotten a minute of sleep.

The stool squeaked as you sat back down, not sure what to do with yourself while you waited. You met your own eyes in the mirror once more, this time immediately averting your gaze. You felt sick. And close to tears. And so very scared.

On the other side of the door, you could hear Yara and her mom greeting your mother. The eight-year-old asked if she could come inside to see you. After just a moment of hesitation, your mother allowed it, and you could hear the slight creak of the door as she came in.

Yara said your name quietly, standing just inside the door. You turned to look at her. She smiled, happy to see you, just as always.

“Happy birthday!” she whispered excitedly, closing the distance between you and wrapping her arms around you tightly. You squeezed her back, holding her close for longer than usual. Yara, never one to be the first to break a hug, lingered for as long as you wanted her there.

You were neighbors, and your mothers had grown up together and had always been close. And although Yara was four years younger than you, the two of you were close too. She and five-year-old baby L were your siblings, as far as you were concerned.

Yara was mature for her age, even more so than most of your other friends. You knew you could trust her, so with her you were honest.

“I’m really scared,” you said quietly into her hair, still not releasing her from the embrace.

“I know,” she whispered back, squeezing you even tighter. “You’re the bravest person ever though. I know you can do this.”

You finally let go, retreating back to your stool, but Yara stayed close by, rubbing your shoulder comfortingly with one hand.

“She will be with you through this, and for all the days of your life,” she said, earnest. “Our pain is Her pain, and Her pain is ours.”

You couldn’t help but make a mental note of the fact that the Prophet actually did not receive the same scars as all of her followers, so perhaps this one specific pain is one that was not, in fact, shared between to two of you.

But Yara’s comment was made with a level of sincerity that you couldn’t help but admire—and borderline envied—so you chose to keep your thoughts to yourself.

Her presence was always a comfort, so you allowed yourself to relish in it for a quiet minute before your mother reentered the room.

“It’s time to leave,” she said simply. Firmly.

Behind her, just outside the door, you could see Yara’s mom standing there, holding a quiet but curious little L’s hand. They would all be walking over with you to witness the ceremony.

You forced yourself to stand, brushed your hands down your thighs as if to clear some nonexistent dust and smooth the phantom wrinkles. For a moment, you considered taking one last look in the mirror, but ultimately deciding against it. It would feel strange to do so, now that everyone was watching you and waiting.

For the briefest moment, you thought about making a run for it. Stealing a boat or even attempting to make the swim to the mainland. You could survive on your own, or maybe even join the Wolves. You weren’t scarred yet. You could lie about where you came from, and they would probably take you in…

The hiss of your name from your mother’s mouth ripped you back into reality, along with a gentle nudge from Yara.

You took a deep breath and started walking.

Once the home of the Prophet herself, Sanctuary was one of your people’s primary places of worship, second only to Martyr’s Gate on the mainland. (You had never seen it – You’d never left the island – so Sanctuary was where you most often prayed.)

Scarring ceremonies were held there, always on a child’s twelfth birthday.

You had witnessed many friends receive their scars. It was customary to attend the ceremonies of those close to you. Family, friends.  

The process was always the same.

Elder Constance would lead all those gathered in a prayer, holding the ceremonial blade. You would recite a version of the Prophet’s Prayer. The blade would be blessed. Then Elder Duncan would make the incisions before welcoming you as an official member, a child of the Prophet.

It never took very long. Everyone had work to get back to, tasks to fulfill.

You would soon come to find that your ceremony would not be like any of those others.

The first indication of this was the sheer number of people who were gathered at Sanctuary. You had never seen this many people gathered in one place at one time, many of the faces you did not recognize.

As you approached the dais, the crowd silently parted for you, all eyes examining you carefully as if looking for something unseen. You couldn’t begin guess what it was.

You wanted to go home. You wanted to cry. To hold your mother’s hand. You wanted to not be here at all. Ever. For this to be a horrible nightmare.

Why were there so many people here?

Your eyes met Elder Constance’s. She was stiff and serious, as always, but there was a brightness in her eyes that you were not accustomed to seeing. A quick glance at Elder Duncan revealed a similar expression on his face.

The other five Elders also stood on the stage. Another thing that was unusual for a simple scarring ceremony.

Had you done something wrong? Were you in trouble?

You looked ahead, and your legs continued to carry you forward, despite your internal protestations.

When your feet were nearly touching the first step up, you stopped. And although your mind went blank, your body remembered what to do.

You bowed your head to each of the Elders, silently waiting to be greeted and invited onto the dais.

“Welcome, child, on this most joyous day!” Elder Constance’s voice boomed, carrying enough for everyone gathered to hear. “Come. Join us.”

You fought the urge to turn around and find your mother. You wanted to look at her face, to see if she knew what was happening.

But you knew that any moves you made in this moment other than exactly what was expected of you would be seen as hesitation, and therefore disgraceful. And you didn’t want your mother to be angry.

So you did as Elder Constance said, and you climbed the steps.

Your vision blurred. You tried to focus on your breathing.

“Two years ago, the ignoble Wolves took our beloved Prophet from us,” she began once you were standing center-stage. The reaction from the audience was instantaneous, full of outrage and despair. Elder Constance allowed this to continue for several moments before holding up her hand; and the noise stopped just a quickly as it began.

“But She is not dead! For the Prophet’s spirit cannot be killed by the evils of mankind.” The crowd hung on her every word as she continued, “She lives in all of us. In our actions and in our virtues. In Her teachings.”

“Here before you are all of your Elders, appointed to this honorable position by our Prophet, most wonderful and wise. She speaks to us, and it is our duty—our privilege—to share her words with you.”

“But today, She does not have words for us.” Elder Constance paused, the audience hushed, waiting for the reveal. “It is Her heavenly desire to give us a new source of hope. An advocate. A champion… A new Prophet.”

Elder Constance’s hands landed on your shoulders.

“Today, She has chosen Her successor.”

The crowd erupted in celebration.

You went completely numb and tuned them all out.

The Elders continued to speak, and the people continued to celebrate. All the while, your mind was reeling and your face was blank.

A new Prophet?

There can’t be a new Prophet.

What does that even mean?

There have never been any prophets except for THE Prophet.

And if there does need to be a new Prophet, why would it be you?

Why you?

Why you?

Why you?

It can’t be you.

If any of your questions were answered, you didn’t hear it above the ringing in your head.

Your attention was drawn to the blade that was now in Elder Constance’s hands, and you forced yourself to again begin to listen.

“…The Neo-Prophet will take on her full responsibilities when the time is right. But until then…” She continued on with familiar words, ones used in a typical scarring ceremony to bless the blade before it was used.

The knife was then passed down the line of Elders, each of them lifting it above their head and reciting the same words.

Your legs suddenly felt very weak.

Elder Duncan blessed the blade last and stepped forward, positioning himself just a couple feet away from you. You turned to him just as you knew you were supposed to.

This was the part in the ceremony when you would usually say a version of The Prophet’s Prayer. You weren’t sure if you were still meant to do that, given the circumstances, but you were operating solely on instincts now, so you began, “The world is not in balance, but I will do my part to right it.”

You weren’t speaking nearly as loud as the Elders had. You hoped you were loud enough. You hoped you were doing it right.

The pleased look on Elder Duncan’s face indicated that you had done well, but before you could go on with the next line, all of the Elders continued the prayer together:

“You will lead us through the storm May the current be calm May You guide us home.”

Their words had been slightly altered from the classic prayer, different than you would’ve said it if you had been given the chance. The strangest part was that they were speaking to you.

Almost like they were praying to you…

Elder Duncan took another step forward, gripping the knife.

You expected him to use his other hand to lift your face, to hold it at the best angle for the scarring. You’d seen him do the same to others many times before.

This was the part that you knew was coming. You had been at least attempting to prepare for it. You could handle it.

But you were thrown off once again when instead, he took your right wrist in his free hand and gently pressed your fingers down, making you form a fist. He then lifted your hand until it was by your ear, knuckles facing inward, arm bent at the elbow. His own hand gripped your elbow, holding your arm in place.

You were frozen, with no choice but to watch as the knife met the outside of your forearm and sank in. A slow, straight line was carved from the top of your wrist all the way to your elbow.

You didn’t look away. You didn’t cry. You did as you were told.

You wanted to go home.

“We are imperfect beings. And thus, we make ourselves imperfect in Your eyes.” Elder Duncan said, meeting your gaze. “It is for this reason that we proudly wear our scars on our faces.”

When his work was done, he released your right elbow and moved on to the left, lifting that arm into the same position. “But the Prophet, in Her kindness, bears the weight of our imperfections, carrying all of us in her arms. This is why You will wear your scars here.”

“Remember that You are part of us, but set apart.” The blade pierced the skin of your left forearm, and a twin incision was formed. “We look to You, Prophet. May She guide you. May She protect you.” With that, he took a step back, lowering the knife.

You slowly lowered your arms to your sides and turned back to face the enraptured crowd.

Finally, you found your mother among them.

And she was crying.

“My friends,” Elder Constance declared, gesticulating dramatically, “Your Prophet!”

The cheers were deafening.

As you scanned the masses, you felt the blood ooze down your arms and curl around your fingers, pooling on the ground by your feet.

You found Yara, who was somehow clapping and cheering more enthusiastically than anyone else. And then you saw L, held up on their mother’s hip, face concerned, eyes wide and wary.

At least someone was as skeptical as you were.

You wondered if you would get to go home now.

But Elder Constance placed her hands on your shoulders again, this time turning you and leading you in the opposite direction, into the Prophet’s grand house. Into Sanctuary.

There, servants’ gentle hands carefully cleaned your stinging wounds, took down and brushed out your hair, and helped you change into a new white dress.

You would never live in your mother’s house again.

And it would be eight years before anyone addressed you by your name.

[akutasoda]

hihi!! platonic blade with a chronically ill teen!reader?

before you're time

synopsis - when he meets a fellow hunter who has an unfortunate circumstance

includes - blade ft stellaron hunters

warnings - gn!teen!reader, reader has a unspecified chronic illness, slight angst, fluff, mentions of death, wc - 669

it didn't go unnoticed when a new stellaron hunter joined elio's script, mainly for two reasons: one, one or two of the current hunters often retrieved them and two, they weren't exactly a huge group. however, just because the new member wouldn't go unnoticed did it mean that they had to care about them. luckily, that really only applied to blade who couldn't care less who entered the script.

it was announced by kafka that she was collecting a new member on elio's behalf, the very same day she came back with you. the other hunters were alpt more welcoming compared to blade, although silver wolf and sam aren't the most excited people. kafka had told you straight that this 'elio' person saw you as a key role in fulfilling the script and you were needed among the stellaron hunters - but you disagreed heavily.

you tried explaining to the magenta haired woman that you simply would be no use to them and 'elio' must be wrong. 'miss i simply don't see how i would be of any use' you started but she quickly cut you off 'elio see's you as an important character, illness or not' you turned your head away slightly and let out a sigh 'i won't be of any use. how many people do you see jumping at the chance to offer me anything?' she responded quickly 'one. your illness doesn't matter to elio, he still knows you'll amount to something.'

maybe it was actually a reason to join the stellaron hunters, not every teenager would willingly join a group of criminals but maybe their leader had a point. your illness wasn't going away and you knew that, so maybe going along with the 'script' would mean your life could have some sort of worthwhile meaning and you wouldn't spend your days mulling over it. after all, having a chronic illness young often meant people didn't see you achieving much in your future.

blade knew that elio's script wouldn't care much for how old you were, so he didn't really think twice about you still being in your teens. he also knew that you would obviously play an important role in this script or else elio wouldn't have gone to the efforts of sending someone to recruit you but at the end of the day he wouldn't really care why you joined the stellaron hunters nor would he even give a moment of his time to think about it.

it meant nothing to him when he was assigned a mission with you and kafka gave him a strict warning to watch out for you - blade only assumed that it was to assure that someone as young as you didn't meet an early grave. however he did as he was told. the entire time he was on the mission with you he kept a close eye on you and he started thinking maybe this was kafka's way of subtly telling him something. blade noticed how you seemed off, not in a rude way but you didn't seem healthy.

when he returned from the mission with you he went straight to kafka for an explanation. that's when he learnt. to him it seemed quite cruel that elio's script required someone in your position but he already knew that life was unfair. in a way he could understand your situation, sure being mara struck wasn't a chronic illness but it did have no cure - it would eventually take full control of him and in that way he could see your own situation.

so maybe he'd look out for you more. maybe he'd take kafka's orders to make sure you're kept an eye on a bit more seriously. and maybe, just maybe he'd start looming over you ready to help you in any way he can - it's merely his duty to elio to ensure all the hunters can fufill their role and aren't taken before their time, don't think too much about it.

akutasoda's 1k event

[wandussyfantasy]

Request

Dom Wanda x reader, reader has a penis Wanda torturing reader and edging them and then Wanda can't even help herself anymore cause she's so hirny and need readers cum she just fucks them hard and fast

Edging

Summary: You've been working too much and ignoring your fiance. Wanda was not having it.

Word count: 2.1k

Warnings: smut, 18+ ONLY, MINORS DO NOT INTERACT DO NOT READ, Dom!Wanda, sub!reader, gender not specified but reader has a penis, teasing, creampie, edging, strap-on (Natasha receiving), mutual masterbation, oral, and dirty talk.

You’re sitting in your home office doing research for a case when Wanda knocks on the door. “You’ve been in here for hours,” she says when you barely look up from the screen.

“It’s a very important client,” you reply as you find a stopping point. You sit back in your office chair to look at your fiance. “Is there something-” your question is cut off when your eyes land on Wanda standing in the doorway wearing a black and red lingerie set. “Oh,” your eyes widen as you gulp. “I see,” your cock twitches at the glorious sight of your sexy woman as she wears a seductive smile.

“You’ve been in here for hours,” she repeats. “You need to take a break.”

“Yes, Mistress,” you say, falling under her trance. You motion to move from your seat but Wanda shakes her head making you remain seated. Wanda gracefully walks over to you and with a sultry voice asks you to open your legs as she pushes your chair back. They separate without hesitation. She reaches down and lightly runs her fingers on your bulge as the tailored suit pants outline your penis perfectly. Your mouth falls open as she rubs you while maintaining eye contact. You lean in to give her a kiss but she stops you when your lips are a breath away. “Not yet,” she whispers, “But stay right there.”

You want to kiss her so badly but you comply with what she wants. When she wore a lingerie set, she was in charge no matter what. “Please,” you beg as you roll your hips a little impatiently under her hand.

“Do you want to feel my hand, baby?” She asks as she squeezes your cock. “Yes,” you hiss. “Yes what?” She squeezes harder causing you to moan.

“Yes, Mistress,” you correct yourself. She pecks your lips, “Good,” she pulls the zipper down and her hand jumps back at the feel of your skin. Wanda clicks her teeth. “You’re such a slut for not wearing your boxers, baby. You knew I would come in here if you were gone long enough, didn’t you?”

“No, Mistress,” you shake your head slightly, knocking your nose against hers. “I-I didn’t have a clean pair,” you explain.

Wanda reaches in your open pants to pull on your balls. “Liar,” she hisses in your ear. You knew how to get what you wanted out of her even when she was the one in control. If you ignored her all day, she wanted attention and she will do what she must in order to get all of yours. If you lied to her, well, she gave you a creative punishment. “I’m going to have you begging me to cum,” she decides. You weren’t sure what she meant by that but when she finally frees your cock from the tight prison, you figure that it won’t be a bad punishment at all. It certainly wasn’t like when she put one of her remote controlled vibrators up your ass and left you to work. Every thirty minutes she put it at the highest intensity which made your productivity close to nothing.

While jerking you off, Wanda finally kisses you. Her lips were the most intoxicating part of her. She knew how to move your mouth with hers and when she pulled away, she always bit your bottom lip and dragged her teeth into the flesh until there wasn’t any left in her mouth. She does this now before she moves to her knees to put her full focus onto your thick penis. She had you hard as a rock and feeling weak. She knows you just as well as you know her. If not more.

She licks your penis from where it sticks out of your pants to the sensitive tip, licking the precum. Wanda swirls her tongue over the head a few times and when your hips thrust up to enter her mouth she pulls away to shake her head. You wanted to start begging right then and there to be in her mouth, but you couldn't. Not yet. So you try to slow your breathing and regain some control of yourself. “Good, love,” she praises and rewards you with her hand and her tongue.

You close your eyes and you focus on the feeling. Her soft hands with a tight grip as she twists and pulls. Her wet tongue works its magic as she lubes you up with her warm saliva. You want nothing more than to have her warm full lips wrapped around your dick as she sucks on you but you have to wait. Unfortunately, your eyes shoot open when your computer starts ringing. “Stop, stop,” you tell her as soon as you see that it's your boss. It had to have been an emergency if she was calling this late. You wait for Wanda to stop licking you so you can answer but she doesn't.

“Answer it and behave yourself,” she says as she crawls in the leg space under the desk, pulling you with her. You nod and take a couple breaths before answering.

“Hi Ms. Romanoff, how can I help you?” You struggle to keep your tone normal and not react to Wanda finally putting you into her mouth. As the video finally shows Natasha, your eyes nearly pop out of your head. She was dressed to sleep in a pink silk slip with a lace v-neck that allowed you to view half her breasts. She is rubbing her hard nipples through the soft fabric and you are drooling at the sight. “Um,” you clear your throat and Wanda responds by pulling you deeper into her mouth, “Ms. Romanoff, I believe you might have miss-dialed.”

“No, Y/n,” Natasha says. “Your fiance and I had a little meeting of our own the other day and she wanted us to watch it together. You have quite the woman, Y/n. I hope you're keeping her satisfied.” She then shares the screen and it's only then you realize her setting. She was in her bedroom, laying on her bed. The woman pulls out a vibrator from what you're assuming is her nightstand and you gulp as you hear the device hum to life. Wanda is bobbing her head on your cock as you watch the video start.

It's Wanda and your boss, naked on your bed. They are naked and kissing each other. You never thought you would be witnessing such a thing before. Wanda on the video touches Natasha’s breasts as the Wanda on your dick pushes you back so that she can crawl out of the tight space. She stands behind you as she watches her sex tape. “Touch yourself, baby. But don't cum,” you nod and begin to stroke yourself as you watch Wanda with her head between Natasha's legs. The woman on the video call moans from the memory of your fiance's tongue inside of her.

“Why did you do this?” You ask in amazement. Wanda adds her hand to yours as she helps you slow down. You were stroking yourself too fast for her liking.

“She has been overworking you,” Wanda explains with a kiss behind your ear. “Someone had to put her in her place,” she bites your earlobe as the Wanda on the screen gets into position behind Natasha about to enter the woman with a strap-on. The dildo attached looked familiar and you turn to look at Wanda who is smiling proudly. When you started to travel more, you decided to make a special gift for your fiance. You got a kit and kept your penis hard inside of silicon until the mold was ready and made the woman you love a dildo of your own penis. “That’s right baby,” Wanda confirms, “We fucked her together.” You begin to fall apart and Wanda removes both your hand and hers from your pulsing cock. “Stop.”

She mutes the computer and spins your office chair so that you're staring at the wall of your achievements. This is what she meant when she said you would be begging to cum. Edging. She wasn't going to let you cum until she said so. You grunt in frustration from having been so close. Wanda watches the screen as she sees Natasha cumming so fast from her vibrator. The one on the video is still going strong as the position has changed and she is now riding her. Once your breathing has slowed down and your tight muscles have loosened a bit. She spins you back around as she turns the volume back on.

“Look at your boss, babe. She's not a bitch once you make her yours. I'm going to invite her to our bed again soon, I'll have her begging to be filled by you in no time. Maybe I'll even let you crack the whip on her. She won't be able to look at you again without soaking her panties,” Wanda says as Natasha in the video is screaming and squirting all over your bed and your fiance. “Thank you for being a good girl, Natasha,” Wanda praises the sated woman. “Have a good night,” she ends the call and brings the focus back to you.

Wanda climbs onto your lap and begins to rub her covered pussy over your aching erection. The red fabric is dark with her arousal. “I love you so fucking much,” is all you can say as she continues to roll her hips into you. As much as you want to touch her, you don't want to risk having this drawn out longer than she's already planning. So you keep your hands to the armrests on the chair. Your clothes are sticking to you as your body continues to heat up. You wanted to undress but she hasn't made any mention of getting you naked. She knows that you hate keeping your clothes on for too long during sex. She also knows how much you love to touch her.

Wanda doesn't feed into your desires the way she would have before you provoked her. She watches you suffer as you ruin the leather on the armrests with your grip and the way you dig your nails, breaking through the layers. “Did you like seeing me with another woman in our bed?” She asks as she grinds her hot dripping core into your sensitive penis that is hurting for a release. “I get horny at the thought of her begging for your cum, baby,” Wanda admits you let out a choked moan. “I can't wait to taste your cum with hers,” she moves her hands to her breasts and you bite your lip at how unfair it is. At this, she stops moving her hips and undoes your tie, “No, no, baby, don't hurt yourself.” She gives you the tie to bite down on. You want to touch her so bad. You want to feel her skin against yours. You want to be inside of her. You want to cum so so bad. She resumes her maneuvers and tries to remember where she left off. Once she does, she smirks. “And when we're done with her,” she struggles to talk as she is making herself hot and bothered as she admits her fantasies. “I want to find another person with a penis. And watch you get railed by them.”

Wanda moans as she imagines you with another penis inside of you and you're hurting trying to hold back from cumming all over the two of you. “I want to feel the both of you inside me at the- oh! At the same time,” she was getting close and she wasn't sure if she could draw out your torture any longer without torturing herself. “Oh god!” She groans out as she rocks harder into you. “Go!” Wanda commands and you're finally able to breathe as you rip her panties and thrust inside of her harshly. She gasps at how rough you are being with her. She has never seen this side of you before. She was thrilled to have uncovered this as you pound into her desperately. Your hands are frantically touching her to the point that you break her bra as well. Your lips latch onto her freshly exposed breasts, sloppily sucking on both. Then, as you're so close, you look up at Wanda for permission. She is empowered by the confirmation of the control she has over you. “Yes, cum inside of me, love,” she gives you the okay and kisses your lips as your thrusts get erratic.

“Thank you!” You shout as you finally release rope after rope of hot thick cum inside of Wanda. You moan loudly as Wanda reaches her orgasm, squeeze every last drop from you. Lazily, you plant light kisses on her body as you come down. “I’m so happy you're going to be my wife soon,” you say.

Wanda giggles breathlessly, “I love you too, my love.”

The End.

[eco-lite]

My favorite moments from David Mack's Control. Most of them are Garak, even though he's barely in this book...

[Text ID: “’I'm well aware that you're all fugitives of the highest order in the Federation. Nothing new for you, Doctor, or for your inamorata"—he let contempt drip off that last word—"though I have to imagine being the target of an interstellar dragnet must be something of a new experience for your friends.’” End ID]

Okay this is hilarious. David Mack establishes that Sarina Douglas (the genetically-engineered woman Julian helps in "Statistical Probabilities." Remember her?) and Julian have been in a relationship for a while, but he's also clearly a garashir shipper who loves to make Garak suffer. Jealous!Garak my beloved.

[Text ID: “Garak shot a wary look at his bodyguards, then he moved closer to Bashir. ‘Are you asking as a Starfleet officer? As a doctor? Or as a man in need of asylum?’ ‘I'm asking as your friend.... Help us, Elim.’ It might have been nothing more than Bashir's imagination, but he thought he saw the faintest hint of jealousy in Garak's eyes when the castellan glanced at Sarina. But then Garak looked back at Bashir and smiled. ‘Very well, Julian. For an old friend... anything is possible.’” End ID]

Poor Garak. This is truly painful. Especially since Julian recognizes his jealousy and doesn't ever address it.

[Text ID: “’Executions without judicial oversight? It's an obscenity masquerading as national security.’  ‘Yes. And it's also how the Obsidian Order kept total control over the Cardassian Union for nearly a century.’ That put an end to Bashir's perambulation. ‘Wait, no. I didn't mean to say—' ‘That any part of the Federation could ever have anything in common with the Obsidian Order? Or with the Tal Shiar? Oh, how I envy your naïveté, Doctor. To believe that any nation state could ever endure without having an appendage willing to stain itself in blood—what a luxury it must be to live in the arms of such delusion.’ He expected a tirade from Bashir. A red-faced defense of the Federation's principles, its integrity, its virtue. Instead the doctor reined in his dudgeon and approached Garak's desk. He set his knuckles on the polished wood and bowed his head while he drew a calming breath. ‘I can't deny there's rot in the core of Starfleet. In the heart of the Federation. I've seen it.’ He looked up at Garak, and his eyes had the hard, unyielding focus of a man ready to go to war. ‘I came to you because I need to know how to stop it. How to end it. How to destroy it.’ ‘Well, that's simple, Doctor. What worked for Cardassia will work for the Federation. To excise this cancer from your body politic, all you need to do is kill the body, burn it down to ash, then resurrect and rebuild it with wiser eyes and a sadder heart.’ Bashir's brow creased with scorn. ‘You mock me.’ ‘Not at all, Doctor. You saw what happened to this world at the end of the Dominion War—to all the planets of the Cardassian Union. The Dominion burned us to the ground. Slew all but a fraction of our population. Left us with nothing but cinders and cenotaphs. That is what it took to free Cardassia from the grip of the Obsidian Order. Are you ready to pay that price so the people of the Federation can bask in the purity of their liberty? Is it worth the blood of billions? Is it worth seeing your worlds on fire?’ ‘You make it sound as if there's no middle ground,’ Bashir protested. ‘No choice besides surrender or slaughter.’ Garak saw no reason to blunt the truth's cutting edge. ‘Why else would such programs exist, Doctor? What is the value of intelligence if it doesn't lead to action?’ This time Bashir rose to Garak's challenge. ‘What is the value of action if it betrays all that we stand for?’ His shoulders slumped as if they bore a terrible weight. ‘Garak, I didn't come here to be lectured, or to be told I'm too idealistic. I came here for advice.’ ‘Of what sort?’ ‘The kind that will help me stop Thirty-one. Permanently.’ Maybe the doctor was foolhardy. Perhaps his mission was doomed to fail. But there was no denying the man possessed the courage of his convictions. Garak tried to remember what that had felt like in his long-ago squandered youth—and then he realized, to his shame, that he had never known the sweet sting of such passions. ‘If you want to kill Section Thirty-one,’ he said, ‘you'll need to turn their greatest strength against them—transform it into their most dire weakness. They thrive on secrecy, on anonymity, just as the Obsidian Order once did. Take that away from them. Expose them and they'll be vulnerable—and that's when you strike the killing blow.’ He set his palms on the desktop and leaned forward to emphasize his final piece of counsel. ‘But make sure you leave nothing of your enemy intact. When your work is done, don't try to turn their assets to your advantage. Destroy them all, every last one—or else the monster will simply rise again.’” End ID]

Although the concept and plot of this book is really interesting, I was generally not impressed by the characterization in this book. But Garak is an exception. I love this passage because it's a brief return to Garak and Julian's cherished philosophical debates. And it so perfectly encapsulates Garak's world-view after all he's been through. He's under no delusions of how far a society will go to "protect itself." Or how hard it can be to dismantle a broken system. He's experienced both tragedies first-hand.

[Text ID: “’The codicil concerning Doctor Bashir indicated a ninety-four percent likelihood that he would seek the aid of his former lover and Deep Space Nine crewmate, Captain Ezri Dax. Instead, he ran to Castellan Elim Garak.’" End ID]

Ha. That's telling, isn't it...

[Text ID: “’Have you considered the possibility that you've chosen the wrong side?’ The question felt to Bashir like a vote of no confidence. He hoped he had heard Garak wrong. ‘What do you mean, the wrong side?’ ‘I merely mean to ask, Julian, if you've ever stopped to entertain the notion that perhaps Section Thirty-one serves a valid purpose?’ The question itself offended Bashir. ‘Don't be absurd, Garak. Thirty-one wields deadly power with absolutely no legal accountability or oversight. It commits countless crimes against Federation citizens and foreign peoples. It steals, defrauds, counterfeits, murders. It acts in the name of the Federation while betraying every principle for which we stand. Its continued existence is an insult to our entire civilization.’ Garak struck an imperious pose. ‘Really? An insult? What if that insult to your Federation is the only reason it still exists?’ He prowled forward, crossing Bashir's imaginary boundary of personal space. ‘Every nation-state in history has relied, at one time or another, on the services of such organizations for their very survival. Why should yours be any different?’” End ID]

Devil's advocate as always. But Garak has a point. Cardassia was only able to maintain it's strictly military society--the status quo--because of the Obsidian Order. Based on his own experience, it's reasonable to think that Section Thirty-one may be the only thing holding the Federation together. No matter how much its actions go against the holier-than-thou principles the Federation claims to uphold.

[Text ID: “’Beliefs are dangerous things, Julian. Once we invest in them, it can be hard to challenge them without invoking cognitive dissonance. But in this case, I suggest you try. Because if I'm correct, going to war with Section Thirty-one can only end badly for you. Either you will lose, and you and all your friends will suffer gruesome fates I'd rather not imagine; or you will win—and in so doing, end up inflicting more harm than good upon your beloved Federation.’" End ID]

Not Garak trying to predict the ending of the book. Somehow the real ending was a mix of both. And that "beliefs are dangerous things" line... Yeah.

[Text ID: (Referring to the décor of the Federation Headquarters in Paris, which is scientifically constructed to be soothing and discourage potential violent behavior) “Like the Federation's pervasive imperialism, the lobby's social controls were subtle and hideously effective.” End ID]

Damn, you said it, not me. I do love this book's determination to deconstruct every charitable feeling the reader might have about the Federation.

[Text ID: “Alone with Bashir, Garak looked at his friend. He circled in front of him. ‘Are you still with me, my dear doctor?’ He squatted in front of the hoverchair and tried in vain to make eye contact with his friend. ‘Are you blind to the sight of me? Deaf to the music of my voice?’ Bashir's silence and his wounded stare into an empty distance disturbed Garak in ways he feared to confront. This was not the man he remembered from Deep Space 9, or the confidant with whom he had trusted his private musings in the aftermath of the Dominion War. This man was detached from the world, in it but separated from it by a barrier as unbreachable as it was intangible. This was the shattered husk of a good man, the sorry remains of one who had refused to bend to the cruelties of the world and ended up broken instead.” End ID]

I didn't realize this book leads directly into Una McCormack's Enigma Tales (excellent book, go read it!) until this point. That knowledge makes this moment hurt more, I think.

[Text ID: “There was naught left for Garak to do now but keep his friend safe, in a clean and well-lit place, and give him whatever time he needed to heal himself—or at least to die in peace, with his last measure of privacy intact and jealously guarded by someone who loved him.” End ID]

Time to curl up in a ball and stare into the middle distance for a while...

[muffinsin]

Angst idea

can you do where the sisters get severely injured, (not sure how) like they can die if not healed. Their family tries to give them blood but they keep rejecting every blood they are offered. Their female s/o is desperate and crying and begging for them to drink the blood but they just won’t, so she gets an idea and talks about it with the family; she wants to offer her blood, the family are hesitated because they know how much the sisters love her, but they didn’t calculate how much blood was needed until they started draining the blood from their lover until her heart stops beating, the lover doesn’t pull away and doesn’t allow a anyone to pull away because she would sacrifice her life for the sisters. Or another possible thing would be that the sisters are in a coma and the lover asks Miranda to save them but in order to do that, Miranda needs the lovers life and she agrees without hesitation, the family knows of this arrangement and cannot stop it as the lover is stubborn and will not let anyone stop her. So the main request, if you can or want, how would the sisters react to finding out their lover sacrificed her life for them and their family didn’t (couldn’t) stop her from doing that, oh if you like to add the sisters had a fight with their lover before the incident, something about them thinking their lover doesn’t love them or something so now they feel guilty because their lovers’s love for them runs deep.

thanks

-rambunctious anon

Oooooh some angst again!👀 and omg this got SO long XD

Let’s go! :)

Masterlists

Bela

You know, immediately, something is wrong when you hear Bela’s scream

Not an annoyed, or an enraged one

No, it’s a loud, and desperate scream

A scream that reveals the pain she is in. A scream for help. A scream of agony

You don’t care about the two of you being at odds

That she’s asked you for space

She needs you. She’s in pain!

You run, faster than you thought you could, you blood pumping and heart beating fast

You try to find her, try to find where the screams are coming from

Not the main hall, not her room, not the gardens

The kitchens?

You’re so close

You run past the broken windows, your eyes widening at her state

Bela is badly hurt and must have fallen to the floor

Her hair is a mess from the physical fight she’s in, blood runs from multiple spots on her body

She’s screaming as her own sickle is brought down on her and the wind from the outside hits her harshly

There is a man kneeling above her. She seems unusually small and helpless, crying and screaming in pain, desperately trying to shield her face with her crystallising hands and arms

You don’t hesitate when you see the gun left on the ground, and fire prompt into his back, through his heart

Yet, it seems bela is also affected by this, being this close to the man. You didn’t think the bullet would go right through

She screams in pain, this time caused by you, as the man drops limply on her bruised, cut and shot body

She’s quite literally falling apart from the cold, even when you quickly close the window

You kneel fast and push the man away, instead hover over her yourself. She cries her leg breaks off, the flies unable to stay together any longer

She doesn’t dare meet your eyes, and you can’t help but remember what happened mere hours ago

How broken she sounded, stating you wouldn’t love her because you forgot about a date she had been looking forward to

Your heart aches at the mere memory. You know, Bela doesn’t get to have dates often

You know, she’s vulnerable as it comes to love and romance

And you how how bad you hurt her when she claimed you didn’t love her and demanded time and space for herself

Now, it’s nearly unbearable to see the woman you do love lie on the floor, a broken body and tears streaming down her cheeks as she screams in pain whenever another body part of hers falls

You don’t understand- why isn’t she healing?!

You closed the window!

No more injuries come to her!

Why won’t she recover?!

She’s coughing up blood, and you gasp in shock when her throat and face begins crystallising slowly

“Bela!”

She doesn’t quite seem to hear. She’s feeling hazy, and not quite there

You jump at the hand on your shoulder- Cassandra- tugging you away

“Bela! Bela!”, she too yells. You flinch when she attempts to grab her sister’s hand and it breaks off with a loud scream from the blonde

Immediately she pulls her hand back, shocked

Tears run down your face, and you feel your heart ache at your precious lover’s state

It’s not voiced, but you know, you’re not the only one worrying Bela isn’t going to make this

You watch as Cassandra, by far gentler this time and more careful than you have ever seen her move, slowly brings Bela’s body close to her own

You feel so utterly helpless as you watch her

Is there nothing you can do but watch her die right before your eyes?!

Then, it comes to you when Cassandra unclasps the necklace hugging her throat

Blood, of course!

She gently pulls her sister to her neck, and you wince as you see sharp teeth dig into Cassandra’s skin

The woman groans in pain, but doesn’t move away

For a moment, Bela seems to drink, albeit weakly

Your eyes widen when, only a few seconds after, the blonde jerks away, blood coughed up and spit out, body jerking

You watch the dark, inhuman blood run down Cassandra’s bare neck

Of course, cadou-infected blood, practically rotten blood, can’t be all that good…

Yours, on the other hand…

You love Bela. You want her to know this

You cup her face gently, more tears running down your cheeks at how fragile she feels

Like old porcelain that might break any second

Her eyes can’t find yours, she’s completely hazed and dizzy. Her eyes dart everywhere and dare close

“Bela…”, you whisper. She can’t meet your eyes, her eyes nearly close and her head bobs forwards

You feel sticky, salty tears on your cheeks as you take her from Cassandra and pull her closer

The brunette watches silently as you drag Bela to your neck instead

Immediately, she latches on, and you bite your lip to stifle your cries of pain

It hurts, by far more than normal

Bela has always held back. This time, she doesn’t seem to be able to

She’s crying against your neck, as though somewhat aware of what is happening but unable to stop it

Wet tears hit the top of her head

“Ssssh, it’s okay, Bela”, you whisper, your hand at the back of her head preventing her from pulling away

The more the takes, the stronger she gets

The stronger she gets, the weaker you feel

It’s bittersweet, you think. How your lover will recover, and yet you won’t be around to see it

You know, now it is you who won’t make it, not when she keeps and keeps drinking and only her remaining hand is starting to heal

You know; it’s going to take a lot more blood

You’re starting to feel light headed after a few minutes, and Cassandra at last seems to catch on and deem enough blood drained

“Bela. Bela!”, she calls, her hand grasping Bela’s trembling shoulder

You don’t allow her to pull her sister off, even as your vision is blurry and you feel life slowly slipping from you

Bela is trembling, and crying. Merely her chest and head has still got flies breaking off

“N-No, ke-eep going”, you whisper back

You don’t have the strength to say more

Cassandra’s eyes widen at this

“Are you crazy?! Make her let go!”, she screeches

You notice her attempt to claw at the wound at her neck, eager to feed Bela instead

You know, the blonde’s body will only reject Cassandra’s foul blood. You know, it will only weaken both sisters

With the last bit of strength you have remaining, you pull Bela closer again, and press a small kiss to the crown of her head

“I love you, pretty girl”

Two days after, Bela awakens again

She groans at the pain in her limbs, the dried blood sticking to her mouth

She makes a mental note to clean it off. She knows, you’ll likely only kiss her when she has a clean mouth

Upon lifting her head, she notices it’s tucked against you

She can’t help but smile and cuddle a little closer

She feels so hazy, so weak. Having you with her is beautiful and calming

She wonders- are you still angry at her words?

She knows, she shouldn’t have reacted the way she did

For a moment she frowns. What is she doing in the small storage room? Why are the two of you crouched on the floor?

Why does she feel bullets settled within her? She cringes at the feeling of her healing body pushing them out

A blanket is draped over her

Upon noticing her death grip on you, she lets go and gasps when both of you fall backwards, her on top of your body, her head tucked in your neck

“I’m sorry…for what I’ve said…”

Is this her voice? It sounds so rough, so small. Her throat burns as she talks

Bela winces at your silence

“I’m sorry…I shouldn’t have said you don’t love me..”

No answer comes from you

“Are you still angry?”, she asks. She doesn’t dare lift her head from you

Bela’s heart pounds in her ears

No answer comes from you, again. The silence has her on edge

“I’m sorry..”, she cries. “I know you love me”, she adds as tears roll down her cheeks

How can she fix this?

“I didn’t mean to say su….”- Bela’s words die on her tongue as she lifts her head

Golden eyes find your unblinking ones

She stares. It’s as though she’s frozen in time. In this moment

She calls your name, her voice cracking

Now she sees you, she notices the lack of your heartbeat

She shakes as she notices the blood smeared on your throat. The very same that matches the one smeared on her lips

Tears roll down her cheeks as she shakes. No words come from her

“Please wake up”

Upon hearing what happened from Cassandra, Bela turns hostile towards her

She no longer is the loving sister to her

How could she let this happen?!

How could she make Bela do this?!

She’s completely broken, hostile and sad, breaking down all day

Cassandra is advised to stay away. Any contact with her sister at all ends up with sharp nails dug into her skin and ugly words thrown at her

Often, Bela pulls Daniela to her side. She hissed angrily whenever her sister attempts to talk

She’s there to comfort her, to remind Bela there is a reason to keep living

Nothing more

Cassandra

Your eyes widen at the loud, angry scream that fills the hall

You immediately, automatically, tug on the doorknob. Yet, it’s locked tight

Cassandra has made sure you wouldn’t get out the moment an intruder was found in the castle

Another scream. You hear the pain in it. The anger

She’s hurt! You know it! Badly, or else Cassandra wouldn’t scream like this

Laughter, always. Never pained screams

You throw yourself against the door, over and over again

Eventually, it comes lose at last and breaks open

Immediately you make your way to the screams

You run fast, as fast as your legs carry you, down the hall and into the armoury, where you know you will find her

As you pass her room, you gasp upon finding the sickle still dropped on the floor, right where she threw it

“Why must you always be so difficult?! Just be normal for once!”- your own words from before ring in your ears

You remember it, the pained and angry expression in her face

You remember flinching when a tear ran down her cheek

Never have you seen her cry before this

You remember how she grabbed her gloves and put them on to cover the sharp, black painted nails

You remember her throwing her sickle and daggers to the floor. Ridding herself of them

“You want normal? Fine. And what’s left of me now?” She didn’t sound angry as she said it. Just- hurt. Betrayed

You have told her countless times you love how special she is

Just this once, fuelled by your anger after she killed a maid you had a good conversation with, you made the mistake of telling her to be normal

As though you’d want her to be normal

You remember how she angrily wiped the blood from her face…how she pulled the hood up to hide the cadou scar

How frustrated she grew that despite all this, she was not normal, and she couldn’t be

You eye the sickle as you take it from the floor. Another scream makes you flinch again

She isn’t bearing her weapon…

You grab the handle of the weapon tightly as you keep running

When you find her at the armoury, you feel as though frozen

Dressed in a thin, white dress, she’s trying to both- warm up and shield her face

You gasp as her legs break and she falls to the floor. She’s almost completely grey, her skin looking hard

When the intruding man’s blade hits her arm, she screams. It almost falls off, you notice

Quickly, you jump into the room

You aren’t sure how to wield a sickle, really, but shove the sharp end of it into the man’s neck

Immediately, you lay the price for it when you are elbowed in the face

Still, with another hard thrust into the man’s jugular, the falls to the floor

Immediately, you move to Cassandra

Frozen tears stick to her nearly frozen cheeks

You frown at the light dress she wears. It looks far too…normal

And it offers no warmth at all

“C-Cass…!”

She blinks slowly, her head bobbing forwards

You eye the large gap in the wall. There is no shutting out the cold, but you know you can’t move her

“Cassandra!”, you shriek when her arm, at last, breaks off

She doesn’t answer. As she attempts to talk, you notice with wide eyes how a large crack appears on her throat

“No! Nononono!”, you scream, and she winces at the sound of it

You know immediately what she needs. Blood. Blood you know she can’t get from anybody but you right now

Even as you hear her mother approach, you know it’s of no use. You know, their tainted blood will be of no use to her

Cassandra winces and cries as she is brought closer to you

“Le-eave!”, she croaks out

Immediately, your hand covers her throat when the crack raises all the way to her chin

“Don’t talk”, you urge

You feel how fast your heart beats as you raise one of the sharp daggers from the floor

She squirms, her hand weakly raising to stop you

You jump when Alcina enters the armoury, her eyes wide

Just like you, she seems to immediately think of what to do, and raises her own, sharp claw to her wrist

Silent tears stream down your face when she lifts her wrist to Cassandra’s grey face

You know, it’s going to be futile

The fact she wastes time like this angers you

You grab the dagger tightly as you press it against your throat. Your hands shake as you watch Alcina

For a mere moment, Cassandra seems to drink the dark, nearly black blood

You allow yourself to feel hope as you watch with wide, worried eyes and wet cheeks

Then, she spits. You hold her to you as she spits it all out, her weak body shaking and tears streaming down her face

You flinch when you bump against her hand and a large crack appears on it

You know, there is no other option left. In a way, you can’t help but think you’ve caused this

Had you not called her such a thing…maybe with her sickle, she could have prevented the hole in the wall

Maybe her thick dress could serve her better. Now her remaining arm is bare, as are her frozen over legs and thighs

You cry out loudly when the dagger cuts across your throat

When you bring Cassandra’s head to your neck, she struggles as much as her weak body allows it

You realise with a sting in your chest- she doesn’t want to drink your blood. She wants to be normal

“Please, you need to….”, you beg

Cassandra cries out brokenly when you smudge her face against your throat

Golden eyes dart to Alcina’s

“Mo-other, ma-ke them stop!”

You hold her throat a little tighter to prevent it from cracking and breaking in half

Alcina doesn’t budge

She too knows it’s the only way

“Drink”, you urge. No, force

Cassandra cries as her face is smudged against you, hard, and your blood runs in her mouth

Her remaining hand reaches up

You cry harder when her fingers break off and she whimpers the second they come in contact with you

You hold her tight against you for a few minutes, the woman helpless with no limbs remaining

You know, with your blood the flies will return and she will regain the lost limbs in time

You realise too, you won’t be there to see it

After a little while, she begins to drink on her own. More and more

Hard, painfully so

Your vision blurs soon enough. You can’t make out Alcina’s features anymore

You can’t even feel Cassandra against you anymore, nor the pain

Everything feels- numb

You feel life slipping from her as it is given to her

As tears run from your cheeks, you weakly grab a torn piece from her white dress

Your fingers dripping with blood, you drag them across the fabric

“You’re perfec”, is all you manage before your limbs are too heavy and your eyes slip shut

Cassandra’s eyes open with a start

Her vision is blurry. She notices, she is no longer in the armoury

She’s in her bed now, a thick blanket over her

Her left leg is already reattached to her. Her entire body throbs as she heals

Cassandra lifts her right hand cautiously, tears of pain streaming down her face as she inspects it

She screams your name, but no reply comes

Next to her are a pile of dead maidens, and a glass filled with blood

She shivers. Your scent is all around her. Yet- you are not

With fury in her eyes, she remembers what you did

Where are you? Why aren’t you here?!

She screams again. Why won’t you come to her?

Upon hearing her screams, she is swarmed with her two sisters

She snarls at them, demanding to know about you. She only receives sad, sorrowful glances in return

“Where?”, she croaks out

No answer comes to her. She cries, her head smudged against her older sister’s neck

Cassandra begs to see you, even as she can’t move

In return, she only receives a single piece of white, torn fabric. It reeks of you. She loves it

Cassandra cries as she holds it close to her each night until she can recover enough to seek out your grave

“I’m sorry”, she cries out, her nose buried in the fabric with the dried blood in it

Cassandra refuses to see her mother during the entirety of her recovery

The mother of three only knows of her daughter’s condition from her other daughters

She is not granted a single moment with her middle child, lest she is screamed at and demanded to leave

Lest she wants Cassandra to injure herself further by screaming and attempting to throw all within her reach

The moment she approaches her after her recovery, Cassandra swarms away

She refuses to see the woman for weeks

Cassandra screams in agony when Alcina corners her in the armoury one day

It no longer smells of your blood, yet it’s all that is on Cassandra’s mind

“It’s all your fault!”, she screams

She accuses, and her mother stays quiet. She knows, Cassandra needs someone else to blame

And she will take that role

“I hate you!”, she sneers at her mother, tears streaming down her cheeks as she clutches the torn fabric of the white dress against her chest

Perhaps, in time, she will heal. Perhaps not

Daniela

She’s fast to fall in love, this much is known

And it’s even easier for her to believe someone is in love with her

Quite often she is sure, one is in love with her within seconds of being in her presence

However, something less known: Daniela is very fast to believe she is no longer loved, too

All it takes is a small argument for her to believe she is no longer loved and treasured, but despised and feared

With you, it’s no different

You’re sitting on the bed, just where she left you

Your chest aches at the thought of the small argument stirred between the two of you

Really, it was nothing major. You’ve had a long day, and Daniela was being her usual, hyper and energetic self while you felt drained and tired

And while it normally excites you, it seems to have just angered you today. Riled you up

So when she came to you to cuddle, you denied her requests. Upon seeing puppy eyes and crocodile tears on her cheeks, you only grew angrier

You know now, you shouldn’t have let your anger out on your sensitive girlfriend

Daniela is so…naive

She hasn’t got the thick skin her sisters have, nor the maturity to understand certain emotions, having been shielded nearly all her life by her family

When you snapped at her and told her not to annoy you today, crocodile tears were replaced with real ones

You didn’t mean to use the word “annoy”. Daniela never really annoyed you like that. Not truly

She never meant to either, even when she acted spoiled and entitled, bratty or teasing

You were left on the bed when she immediately swarmed off

For a long time, hours, you’re in your own little world

That is, until Bela bursts into the room, attempting to find her younger sister. Instead, golden eyes land on you

Immediately you notice her state; the blood on her chest and the deep cut on her forehead, the light bruises on her body where you know, the cold must have hit her

“Where’s Daniela?!”, you demand to know. She has no answer for you

You debated before whether you should give Daniela space. This question is now overdue

You will not sit idle by while your lover might be in danger

You follow Bela on slightly shaky legs. You hear nothing, but run faster when she seems to have caught onto something

As you cross the courtyard- even Bela- you begin to hear it

The screams

Screams of pain

Screams for help

Screams for mercy

Bela is fast to rush through the door, and you follow suit

Your hands shake as you push open the door to Daniela’s section of the library and your eyes widen at the image in front of you

Daniela is cowering in the corner, blood running down her face. The window at the center of the ceiling is open

Beneath it, lies Daniela’s right arm, still clutching the sickle. Slowly, the insects of it die and lose formation

When a shot is fired into Daniela’s chest again, you run forwards.

You haven’t got a plan, really, but don’t need one either. Bela is fast to grab the intruder, her body slightly slower than normal due to the cold

Still, her sickle pushes inside of the man easily, and rips back out harshly

You pay them no mind, instead fall to your knees next to the auburn haired woman

She calls your name softly, and you cry as her soft lips harden and begin to crystallise

“I’ve got you, I promise!”, you croak out. You don’t dare wrap your arms around her. She looks so…fragile

Daniela cries helplessly as she attempts to reach you despite her frozen legs and crystallising remaining arm

You cup her cheek gently. You can practically see the life draining from her

This can’t be it, can it?

Your eyes widen as hers slip shut and her body nearly falls forwards

“Dani!”

For a mere moment, golden eyes open again. She’s whimpering softly as tears run down her cheeks

Judged by the large crack in her skin, you doubt she even can talk properly

You flinch when Bela is suddenly back at your side, her hand holding Daniela’s

You whimper as the woman’s ring finger breaks off

How can you stop this?!

Bela seems to have a solution. You’re a mess, as though unable to do anything but watch as life slips from Daniela

With her sharp teeth grazing her wrist, Bela hisses when dark blood flows from her

Daniela barely reacts when her sister’s hand is pressed to her lips and Bela pulls her to her chest

“Drink up, little one, please”. You wonder- is your voice as shaky as hers? Yet as you open your mouth, no words come out and you only choke on your tears

Your hands shake as Daniela drinks, and yet it does nothing at all. Flies keep dropping to the floor, blood keeps running from her wounds

“Dani. Daniela!”, you gasp when her eyes slip shut yet again and she no longer drinks from her sister

She’s pale, and sweat sticks to her forehead

She’s shivering even as the room adapts a normal temperature again

“Please, keep your eyes open, my love”, you beg. You doubt your words even reach her

You whimper as your hands wrap around her and you feel her cold skin

“Please. She needs me”, you whisper to the blonde next to you

She too seems to notice her blood does little to nothing to save her injured sister

“She would never forgive me…”, she argues, yet you see the defiance in her eyes

Bela is no fool and knows, this is the only way

She knows too, Daniela will hate her should anything happen to you. She loves you so painfully much…

Still, she obliges, and you groan in pain when you feel her sharp teeth injure your neck. Immediately, blood starts to flow and Daniela opens her eyes again

She cries as she is brought to your neck, her weak hand attempting to push against you

You cry with her when it breaks off and falls into Bela’s hands

“Dri-nk”, you urge, even as blood fills your mouth

It seems, Daniela can’t control herself in her state

You scream at her sharp teeth on your neck, digging in and biting

Still, through teary eyes, you see flies are no longer falling from her

After a minute or so, her legs begin to stop crystallising and even adapt a fresh colour again

You sway slightly. You’re starting to feel dizzy

“Daniela, that’s enough.”, Bela urges

You raise a weak arm to catch her wrist when she attempts to push Daniela off

“Nnjo, she neaads…dis…”, you slur out

Your hand raises weakly to Daniela’s hair, but you get no reaction from her as she feasts on you. In fact, you aren’t even sure whether she notices it

Your vision is blurry now, and you struggle with breathing

Bela attempts to tug her sister off for a moment, yet only a few seconds after her lips are pulled from your neck, she already writhes in pain and you notice her arm crystallise again

When she is pulled back against you, Bela does not interfere again, but merely watches with her knees tucked to her chest

You feel your life being drained by Daniela, yet make no effort to stop it. She…needs you

And you’re willing to give your life for hers

Daniela feels so…disoriented…when she awakens

She stares around the room, and smiles exhaustedly upon realising she is in one of your sweaters

Covered by thick blankets, she searches the room for you

Where are you? Why aren’t you with her? Is she still being too clingy?

Is she still annoying…?

Daniela calls out your name quietly, but no reply follows

Surely, though, you wouldn’t have given her your clothes if you are still angry…right?

She calls your name a little louder and winces at the pain in her throat. She feels so sore, even as she is already on the mend

When her door swings open, she grins eagerly. She misses you already! Where are you? Why aren’t you with her?

Daniela’s smile falters as Bela steps into the room instead. But…where are you?

Upon having her older sister press her hand to her forehead, she eagerly leans against her

Daniela smiles when a small kiss is pressed against the top of her head

“I’m happy to see you’re doing better, little fly. Mother will be up here shortly”, Bela sighs. She winces at the view of the sweater on her sister

She knows, she will need to tell Daniela

The auburn haired woman presses herself closer to her sister, all too happy to feel the small warmth she gets from her

She almost winces again when Daniela asks about you. Where you are. What happened

Daniela freezes when she receives her answer

No. Surely not.

She laughs at Bela’s face. “Where are they?”, she asks, giggling. No. No. Surely not. Bela must be joking. You aren’t taken from her. What a silly idea!

Daniela giggles even as tears stream down her face. No, no no no no. You aren’t taken from her!

She clutches the sweater tightly as she cries

No, no. No. Yes. No. No, it can’t be!

A week later, seven days without you by her side, Daniela seems to understand

When Bela goes to check up on her younger sister like she does every day, she is quite unprepared for the screaming festival she has started

She doesn’t cry. She doesn’t even shake as Daniela lets out her anger on her

Sharp nails dig into Bela’s pale skin as she holds her sobbing sister

“Why didn’t you stop it?!”

“It’s all your fault!”

“You caused this!”

“Why couldn’t you kill him faster?!”

“I hate you!”

“You’re the worst sister in the world!”

“You took them from me!”

Each word stings, yet she knows, Daniela doesn’t quite mean it. Not by the way she presses herself closer to her dear sister, by the way Daniela begs for comfort and understanding even as she causes blood to run down Bela’s fingertips

She realises. You’ve been taken from her. And it’s all her fault

[observeowl]

Unwanted Marriage | Chapter 10 - Mrs Romanoff

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You were stunned as you looked at the wedding invitation given to you by Sharon. "Y/N, am I mistaking the name of the groom?" Even Wanda wasn't sure if her eyes were playing tricks on her. Sharon was going to get married to Chase Adler.

"Y/N, don't think I will let you off so easily. Now Chase is going to back me, it's a matter of time when I will get rid of you!" Sharon was still unable to let go of her grudge on you even after almost getting injured. "Y/N did not force you to be with anyone. You are the one that gets yourself involved with Adler." Sharon was about to shout at her when you stepped up to protect her. "You have chosen your own road, nobody asked you to marry him."

"You are the one that pulled us together! The person on that day should have been you! You are really a bitch. You trick thousands of people. You and Chase are the perfect match!" You were no longer going to suffer in silence and gave her a resounding slap. "You bitch. You dare to slap me!"

"What happened? Sharon is looking for trouble with Y/N again?" // "I don't know, it seems that Y/N just hit Sharon." // "All the grudges she bears finally turned into a slap?" In an open office, there was hardly any privacy.

"Sharon Carter! Y/N Y/L/N! Into my office. Now!" Tony Stark came out of his office and ordered. "Millicent, you too."

"What happened just now? Why did you start a fight?" He asked to get to the bottom of it. "She hit me! I just gave her my wedding invitation, does she have to be that angry? I'm afraid that someone had a bad marriage, and is jealous that I'll get married."

"If she doesn't have a good marriage, then who does." Tony thought. "Y/N, you tell me, what happened?"

"Chief Editor, I can't tell you clearly what happened, so why don't I just show you? A fox like her deserved to be hit while walking down the street. I think, any woman would have hit her when they heard someone talk about them like that."

"What do you mean, am I wrong?" Sharon was still adamant on her ways to the end. "Sharon Carter! What happened at the dinner had a serious impact on the company. So I will let someone more suitable to come and take your position. From today onwards, you are no longer editor of Group 1."

"I am demoted? (I never realised this bitch has hooked up to Tony Stark. No wonder she can be this overbearing in the office!) Y/N! You better watch out!"

It was pretty much peaceful for the rest of the day except when Natasha texted you saying she'll be waiting for you outside the building after work. "Ah ha, from your look I can tell it's from the goddess himself." Wanda pushed her chair close to you and ambushed you from behind. You pushed her away and faced away, there was no way you were that obvious.

Once it was time to get off work, Wanda rushed you off saying she'll clear the rest for you. You thanked her before packing your bags and leaving. "Do we have plans today?" You asked as you entered the car. "Yes, I'll take you to meet Rick Mason, he has been wanting to see you."

"Rick Mason?"

"A family friend."

You realised anyone related to Natasha or gets to call Natasha a friend are all very rich people. When you entered the estate. To get to the front gate of this mysterious Rick Mason, you have to drive through a long stretch of road.

"You must be Y/N." He greeted you at the front door.

"That's right, I am Y/N, nice to meet you."

"Hi, you can call me Rick. Come on in. Today I have asked the cook to make some of Natasha's favourite dishes, but I don't know whether it is to your taste."

"It smells nice." You complimented. "Never know that you would be so homely."

"I also know how to cook." Natasha said when he heard you complimenting him. "Really?" You questioned. You can't really picture her standing in the kitchen cutting vegetables. "You don't believe it?"

"Nope."

The three of you began eating and talking and the topic eventually landed on Natasha's legs. "I heard that you have not been to the hospital for a long time for a check up? The doctor said there is still hope, you cannot be so wilful."

"Rick, it's all in the past."

"I know in your heart you will never let it go."

"I understand what you mean, but as long as I don't get some things cleaned up, my legs will not recover." You didn't join in on the conversation as you know it was not your place to do so.

You had a lovely time there but it reached the time where you needed to head home. Rick stopped you from entering the car. "Y/N, ever since she was young, Natasha always has her own ideas, so you try to talk to her."

"Alright, I understand." You were deep in thought as Clint drove the two of you back. "What are you thinking?"

"Nat, haven't you thought of getting your legs checked? Rick is right, there is a chance that you will recover."

"Now is not the right time." She didn't give any more explanation. "Is it because of your stepmother? Were your legs also because of them?"

"You don't have to worry about these things, I will handle it." She has to manage so many things. From your estimation, she took over the company for 10 years and fell into an accident a few years after that. You wondered how she got through it all those years. "You don't have to be sympathetic to me." She pulled you closer to rest your head on her shoulder. "I only hope to see admiration and love in your eyes."

===

"Sharon, this is so pretty." She was flaunting her diamond ring in the office and of course there were people who were jealous of her.

"That's nothing, I think she purposely said it in front of you."

"People love to talk, so whatever, we should let her talk if she wants to." As long as she was not actively doing something against you, you don't want to spend your energy on her. "Y/N, someone is looking for you." A colleague told you.

"I will go with you, I am very worried after what happened last time." Wanda was ready to leave her seat and go with you. "Okay."

"Excuse me, are you all looking for me?" You asked the group of guys. "Are you Y/n Y/L/N?" You nodded. "Please come with us." Wanda became suspicious of them when they didn't state their reason for being here. They showed you their police badge, but it wasn't like you could differentiate the real from the fake "We are the police, we need to clarify with you what happened during the dinner."

"Sorry, I wasn't involved in that incident. You have the wrong person."

"Yeah, the victim is just over there, why don't you ask her to assist with your investigation, we don't know anything."

"Please cooperate with our investigation." They started being forceful and grabbed your wrist. "What are you doing?!"

"Help!, we are being kidnapped!" Wanda shouted. "Give me back my phone!"

"Want to call your lawyer? You should wait till you are in the station first!" The two of you started hitting them in the head and their manhood. "You dare to assault the police! You dare to obstruct our work, you can't get away with it now!"

"Hit the police?" // "Are they really the police?" You and Wanda glanced at each other. If they truly are the police, you just got yourself in trouble...

"What is this?" The voice that you came to hate appeared again. "Kidnapping or assaulting the police?"

"She didn't do anything, don't you want me? Let's go then." You tried misdirecting them. "You actually assaulted the police. Policemen, you shouldn't let them off so easily." In the end, the two of you got escorted out the building by the police with a crowd behind you.

Y/N Y/L/N, you will suffer the same pain as I did! No, it's going to be a hundred times worse! I want to see who will save you in the police station this time!

Two of you were thrown into a room when you arrived at the station. "Wait! I need to inform my family! You have no reason to detain us!" You shouted through the door. "No reason? You both assaulted policemen. Is that not reason enough? Just stay here and shut up!"

"What are we supposed to do now?" Wanda asked. "Where is your phone?"

"They have taken it away saying that I cannot bring my phone." Wanda sadly revealed. "Just now when we came, I heard those people were making a call to Adler."

"Adler? Chase Adler?"

"If it's really him then what should we do?" Wanda asked. "Don't worry, it might not be such a coincidence. I mean if it is Adler, he is trying to get back at me but not you."

"Look at this, such deep sisterly love, so touching." A sarcastic clap sounded. "Of course it's me! Last time you escaped, but this time you are at my place. I want to see how you can escape." He makes his way closer to the both of you. "What do you want?"

"Aren't you clear what I want to do? Don't worry, I have prepared a lot of things today, you will like it."

"Adler! Do you know where this place is? Aren't you afraid that people will know about it?!" You shouted at him. "I told you, this is my place. My dad is the Chief of this police station, do you think they dare to leak anything out?"

"Ad-Adler, you, you calm yourself down, just let us go, okay?" He ignored Wanda's words and told his subordinates to hold her and separate the two of you. You screamed for them to let her go but Adler was very focused on you. "Y/N Y/L/N, if you beg me, I might be nice to you." He said in a sickly sweet voice. "Stop dreaming!" You spat on him and shouted.

"Bitch!" He wound his hands and gave you a slap before grabbing you by the throat and pushing you at the wall. "I think you prefer the hard way! The more you resist the more I like it. No hurry, later you will know what heaven is!"

"Adler, you will regret this!"

"I will be a happy ghost even if I get to die underneath the peony flower, but you can think of how you can make it happy so that I might be gentle to you!" He tightened his hands around his neck before dropping you to the floor.

Your pants rode down a little due to the movement and Adler was about to seize the opportunity when you pushed him away and adjusted your clothes. "You stupid whore, stop pretending to be chaste! You just wait there like a good girl and I'll guarantee that you'll feel like you're in heaven!"

"Bastard!" He wasn't fast enough to react as someone wrapped his arm around his neck and slammed him to the floor. "Who was that?! How dare you? Do you know who my father is..." He dragged on when he saw a cane in his peripheral.

"Dad? Why are you here?" He asked. "How dare you randomly arrest people here?!"

"Dad, don't you already know about this..."

"Shut up! How dare you say that!"

"Dad?"

You flinched when you felt someone touch you but her scent surrounded you made you look up. "Don't be afraid, it's me." It's as if her voice is opening a door and rescuing you from this never ending darkness. Tears cascaded down your face when you realised you were finally going to be safe with her.

"Ms- Ms Romanoff? Why are you here? This..."

"Ha, how can I miss a show that you prepared so well for? After all, you secretly took my wife here!" Her hands didn't leave you even when he was talking to Adler. "Wi-wife? Dad, I didn't know!"

"I am really sorry, Mrs Romanoff, my son is truly ignorant, this is just a misunderstanding... Sorry for troubling you... you can deal with this however you like." His son looked up at his Dad in shock, why was he not defending him? "This is all because... this is all Sharon Carter's fault! I really don't know anything!"

"Sharon Carter, Sharon Carter! You don't know anything even though you're married? Aren't you ashamed?!"

"What's wrong with our Adler Family?! What did we do wrong that we're afraid of Natasha Romanoff?! Is it because of her vicious tactics? No matter how vicious she is, she's just a disabled guy! What can she do to us?" He reached over to grab her legs and Clint was about to intervene when Natasha told him to stop. "Dad! Look at how she's lost her mobility! She can't even walk, why should we be scared of-?!"

Before he could finish his sentence, he felt a foot on his face, kicking him to the floor. Natasha folded her leg rest and pushed it aside before standing. Adler was visibly shaking when he saw Natasha standing in front of him. "Even if I am disabled, I won't let the Adler family off!" When she spoke in a calm tone, it made her even scarier.

"Na...tasha?" You looked at her. To see her standing was not something you imagined. At least not so soon. She walked closer to you and lifted you up bridal style. "Y/N, from now on no one will dare to hurt you. Because, I promise, even if the whole world is against me, for you, I will let the whole world know that Y/N Y/L/N no longer exist, only Y/N Romanoff. And that you are my woman, my wife, and she will be happy."

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@natsxwife @franfineashell @dvrkhcld @reginassweetheart @marvelogic @autorasexy

[theforesteldritch]

my ramblings on transness, intersex-ness, childhood and growing up

i'm four. somewhere around there. i tell my mom i hate my name. i want to change it to robin, i say. she tells me i can when i'm an adult. i tell her i want my name to be robin now, today. not later. i don't get to change my name. eventually i forget wanting to be robin, or drop it, or stop talking about it. either way, i don't ever get to be robin.

i'm five. i feel wrong. i feel out of place in my own skin, i think. i feel like a poor shadow of a girl. i decide i want to be a princess when i'm older. in my mind, to be a princess, i need to wear a dress every day, even when it snows and i have to stuff the skirt into my snowpants to play outside. princesses must feel like real girls. if i was a princess, i would stop feeling like a snake writhing around in my own skin, desperate to shed. i tell myself that. at recess, we play some running game. i don't remember which one. boys vs girls. i don't want to play anymore.

i'm six or seven. i still feel wrong. i've stopped trying to be a princess. i'm off in my own world a lot of the time. i use the classroom scissors to cut tiny holes in the sleeves of my long sleeve shirts or to clip off a tiny chunk of my hair. during carpet time, i try to touch the hair of the people in front of me without them noticing. my best friend tells me she's a tomboy. i say i want to be one too. she tells me im too girly.

i'm nine. i've sworn off dresses. i reject pink clothes and sequins. i'm wearing a hat that covers my hair and the school custodian calls me young man in the hallway. i don't know why i like that so much. i try to fit in with the boys. i play grounders with them every day after school. i don't know why, but they don't like me. they make fun of me. i still play grounders with them every day.

i'm twelve. the girls around me have started growing breasts and getting their periods. they start getting acne and thicker hair on their legs that they shave off. none of these things are happening to me. i ask my mom for a bra. i don't want to be the odd one out. i feel a mix of relief and shame when i get one. now, i can pretend i'm like them. now, i can try to hide the growing feeling gnawing inside me that something's wrong, that i'm a freak.

i'm thirteen. i still haven't gotten a period. my mom is convinced it'll come any day now. she got hers at eleven, i must be a late bloomer. she makes me bring pads to summer camp. they lie unused in my bags. she does this next year, too, and the next. i try to feel normal. i sneak and use my mom's razor to shave the baby hairs on my legs that still haven't darkened and grown thicker like anyone else. i want to feel normal.

i'm fourteen. the girls in the locker room stare at me with funny expressions on their faces when i say i haven't gotten a period after they badger that information out of me. i ask my parents for deodorant, like the other kids. they tell me no, i don't smell enough to need it. i steal my dad's old spice amber deodorant. it smells like how i want to be seen, i think. i read magnus chase. i see myself in alex, how his gender shifts and changes. for the first time, i have a word, maybe, to describe myself. i'm like her, i think. i'm genderfluid, maybe, like alex fierro. i test the waters and come out to some friends as genderfluid, and then a boy. but i find myself still feeling the same itch under my skin. i'm not just a man, or just a woman, maybe i'm both. i go back in the closet.

i'm fifteen. my doctor is starting to get concerned that i haven't gotten a period yet. he orders blood tests. they think the results are a mistake when they see the testosterone levels. i don't have the symptoms that should come with those levels. i should be going through a male puberty with those levels of t, but i'm not. they do them again. it comes back the same. i'm diagnosed with complete androgen insensitivity syndrome. i feel alone, and like a freak. my doctors want me to get a gonadectomy. i push away how i feel like a snake ready to shed my own skin for a moment. i can't search myself for my gender when i'm trying, i'm trying so hard to get through this. knowing that going on testosterone hrt wouldn't work on me, it would break me right now to admit to myself the truth i already know.

i'm sixteen. i'm sexually assaulted by my doctor while under anesthesia for a biopsy of my gonads. without any hint of remorse or even knowledge of what she did to me she tells my mom that my vagina is still very short, but not as short as she thought on an earlier examination. i will continue to see this doctor. i push her assault down. i push this down. i feel like a freak. i feel so alone. god, i feel alone.

i'm seventeen, i'm eighteen. i know now why i feel like a snake trying to shed a skin. i'm not just a woman, i'm not just a man. i'm both and something in between. but i'm too male to be a girl and too female to be a man. i'm not allowed to be either. i cry sometimes. over how unfair this feels. over how i'll never look in the mirror and see myself staring back. i don't know how i'll get through this. i have to get through this. i have to live for the kid who wanted to change his name to robin. the need to live for her weighs me down like atlas holding up the sky. i know that one day, my grip will slip and the sky will fall. but i'm trying desperately to make that day not today.