#comparison with other works and get torn down

[nemumiruku]

I've always known Artorias and Ornstein were massive, but I never knew they were THAT big. Not until I saw the size comparison between them and Ciaran. Gawd lord :))

Also, finally got this one off my list, yay!

wc: 14.5k

tw: non-con, dub-con, coercion, tentacles, ooc, yandere themes, spanking, humiliation, breeding, belly-bulge, size difference, emotional manipulation, vaginal sex, deadly grammars,...

To the very east of Anor Londo, he had arrived at a small village. A night like any other, Ornstein and his knights were sent on. His memory was as clear as day.

It was before dawn, when the sky was still gray with smoke and the flames were dying down to embers. The dragon was easy to hunt. It was still there, rooting through what was left, and perhaps too careless in its hunger for flesh and blood. Because it didn’t even see him approach until it was too late.

Ornstein made quick work, barely breaking a sweat gutting the dragon over and over. That was the point of this march. No spectacle nor drawn-out fight was needed for these vile creatures, but a spear thrust through the eye with a touch of flashing lightning in the dark before it fell in a shuddering heap that smothered the last of the fires.

He stood over the carcass for a moment. The air was thick with the stink of scorched timbers as well as flesh. It never bothered him much, for it was just another part of the job he had to fulfill. As long as he was alive, no dragons should be able to fly the skies.

After the dragon fell, the man moved through what remained of the village. The air was heavy with the stench of death. The sagging, warped, and blackened roofs made him duck his head each time he stepped inside the small cottage.

Even though they told him to look for survivors, it was just a formality anyway, one he followed because he was ordered to. His Lord didn’t expect his knights to save anyone. He expected them to kill dragons.

Still, he pushed open the wreck of a door with his boot, only to be met by a wild, uncivilized thing that lunged at him with the speed of light. Its filthy fingers clutching a dull blade, trying with all its meager strength to cut his throat.

Ornstein tilted his head slightly, a hint of amusement in his eyes as it kept trying while clinging onto him, the worn kitchen knife glancing harmlessly off his gold-plated armor with every frantic stab.

He then grabbed it by the collar of its torn shirt and hauled it up, bringing it close to inspect the defiance behind all that thrashing.

Turned out it wasn’t an animal after all. just a little girl with a face smeared with ash and tears, glaring at him with hatred in her eyes.

“Cunning little one, art thou? I barely heard thee crawling above,” he said evenly.

Teeth clenched, you could only glare up at him, absolutely hating how that snarling lion helm looked so much like the monster that burnt your home down.

“My lord, is all well?” one of the knights asked as they entered, having finished their search through the ruined village.

“Aye, all is well,” Ornstein replied simply. He kept you dangling by your collar, turning slightly to show you to them.

“Take this wretch back to Anor Londo. I shall speak with Lord Gwyn on her fate,” he commanded in a calm voice, as though you weighed nothing more than a stray pup he’d found in the mud.

And so, that was how your new life began in Anor Londo—the shining city of the Gods, where the marble floors gleamed and the sun seemed fixed in the sky.

It looked beautiful from afar, but you learned quickly there was nothing kind about it.

You were just a human, dragged in from the wreckage of a village no one would bother naming. The knights didn’t speak to you unless it was to give orders. The clerics averted their eyes as you passed, as though your very presence reminded them of everything they chose to ignore. Servants whispered about you in the halls, calling you the little rat or the dragon’s orphan when they first washed you from the charcoal.

You didn’t get special treatment. The caretakers fed you well enough to keep you standing, and gave you clothes warm enough to keep you comfy. Aside from that, you also got your own tiny room, though it wasn't anything fancy, just a bed and a chair. The only positive thing was, no one beat you for no reason, but no one comforted you either.

The only thing given freely by them was intensive training. Every morning before the sun rose, they pulled you from your narrow bed and sent you out onto the cold stone courtyard while your breath was still misting in the gray light.

Training was relentless, just as it was exacting with hours spent drilling footwork until your legs ached and practicing with daggers until your fingers were numb from gripping. On top of that, you were taught to move like a shadow, to place every step with care so no one would hear you coming when you slit their throat.

It only made sense. They expected nothing less if you were meant to follow in Ciaran’s footsteps.

Aside from intensive body and tools traning, mixing poisons was also treated like an art. You remembered making mistakes and having to start over countless times, no matter how long it took. The instructors were kind of harsh, though. They didn’t offer any praises to encourage you, only several coldings here and there when you did wrong. Yet, they were at least patient.

Though you must have admitted, their words were extremely harsh whenever they opened their mouth. It wasn’t cruelty for its own sake. You told yourself it was their own way of shaping you into something useful for the system, an assassin who wouldn’t hesitate, who could set emotions aside and do what needed to be done without backing away.

Soon enough, with lord Gwyn’s favor granting you real missions, you had the chance to prove yourself. You showed your worth with every completed task, until even the others had to admit you belonged among the Lord’s Blades—an elite circle of assassins who served Gwyn’s will without question.

From then on, life began to change. You were fed well, given better clothes, and granted your own small quarters in the castle. And you had more friends, too. Those were the signs you were no longer just a useless addition.

Much to everyone's surprise, you weren’t the inexperienced new blood anymore. You’d become an instructor at a surprisingly young age, trusted to train the next generation. People showed you respect when you passed, and some even looked up to you, watching carefully for every lesson you had to offer, eager to learn what you knew.

Nevertheless, you wouldn’t have made it that far without Ciaran’s guidance. As one of Gwyn’s Four Knights, she trained you more thoroughly than anyone else could have. Her lessons were sharp and efficient, leaving no room for weakness or doubt, perfect for someone like you.

It was through her that you first crossed paths with Artorias.

Unlike Ornstein’s strict and formal manner, his presence was warm in a way you hadn’t expected. The first time he spoke to you, he knelt slightly to meet your eyes, asking your name, where you were from, and if you’d eaten. You remember trying to hide behind Ciaran’s legs, peeking out nervously at his towering frame, surprised that someone so imposing could sound so gentle and heart-warming.

He became a constant presence in your life. You were never sure if it was simply in his nature to look after a lost human child, or if he was just curious to see how you would handle the unforgiving demands of assassin training.

Calling it "care" might have been generous. But he was there often enough to tell your handlers to ease up when they got too rough. Always stepping in calmly when you ended up on the ground with something broken, only to make sure they didn't push you past the point of getting back up.

You remembered crying on the days he wasn’t there, when the training turned harsh and left you bruised and hurting. Then later on, you would find yourself looking for him without even thinking, hoping to catch that soothing cobalt-blue. It was tragic how you were quite drawn to the quiet comfort he offered.

Because Artorias tended to more than just the wounds on your outsides. He had been the only one to listen to you when no one else would, letting you speak about things you’d never told anyone—not even Ornstein or Ciaran.

You told him about your old home, the hard life you’d left behind, and how, despite everything, you would have given anything to have it back. A lonely human girl yapping about her horrible past, yet he never interrupted or judged you. He just took everything in, with a quiet understanding that felt rare in a place ruled by beings who seemed too distant to care. Then, after you had sobered yourself to sleep, you would wake up with your head on his lap instead.

He’d bring you small gifts when he returned from missions, simple human food you actually liked, or little things that reminded you of your old home. The man paid attention to what made you smile, even if you tried to hide it. And when there was news or truths he knew would cut too deep for someone like yourself, he kept them from you.

He also had a puppy named Sif, with big, curious eyes and oversized paws that tripped over themselves. Whenever you cried telling Artorias about how your peers had treated you, Sif would nuzzle close and lick the tears from your face, tail thumping against the floor, determined to cheer you up in the only way she knew how.

It was almost fatherly, the way Artorias treated you. Some whispered he had a soft spot for the human girl among the Blades, while others insisted it was simply his nature—kind to anyone, whether they were gods or humans, friend or foe. No one really knew which was true, least of all you.

Perhaps the only one who truly knew was Ornstein. He was Artorias’s closest friend and comrade, after all.

Now, Ornstein was a special case for you, too, if only because of how closely he worked with Smough—the executioner you’d despised from the moment you arrived in Anor Londo.

Smough was everything you feared in a man: cruel for the fun of it, smiling at screams and shrieks. You’d seen enough to know he enjoyed his work too much. Just watching Ornstein stand beside him, calling him “partner” had always made your skin crawl from a thousand miles away. Plus, Smough had a boogeyman laugh, and it was terrifying for it almost made you piss yourself as a kid.

You would never ever dare to be in the same room as Smough if Ornstein weren’t there. His presence was the only thing that made it bearable, the only assurance that the executioner wouldn’t take things too far just because he felt like it.

If Artorias was like a gentle father figure, then Ornstein was the strict older brother who never let you relax. Training with the other assassins was already demanding, but he insisted you train with him too.

It wasn’t exactly required, yet he claimed it was good for you to learn from his strength, insisting that once you were old enough, you would come back and thank him. And once he decided that, there was no escaping it. He made sure you never missed a single session, no matter how tired you were.

Orstein the Dragonslayer was known for his pride and his strict, disciplined manner. But with you, that sharp edge often softened into something more playful, full of quiet teasing.

Every time you insisted he treat you seriously, reminding him you weren’t that scrawny child he’d once lifted by the collar while chuckling at your fury, he’d just wave it off. He loved to bring it up, though, saying you were “adorable” back then, pouting at him with such murder in your eyes the moment you first laid eyes on him.

Despite all the teasing and that tough, almost brotherly discipline, you knew deep down he was always the one in your corner. When the vassals whispered about your mediocre human blood, hinting you didn’t belong and urging Gwyn to send you away, it was Ornstein who spoke up.

His words were so firm, they left no room for argument, calling out the potential in you to lord Gwyn that you were worth keeping. And once he made that clear, no one dared to challenge it.

One thing you appreciated about him was that he didn’t treat you the way Artorias did. Where Artorias would fuss when you got hurt, suggesting your instructors give you days off to recover, Ornstein barely acknowledged it.

Ornstein would pick you up before pushing you to keep going like you always did. But you weren’t stupid. You knew he paid attention in his own way. The man always seemed to find out exactly who was pushing you too far. You figured that was why one particularly cruel instructor suddenly stopped showing up one day.

They were caring in their own ways. With them, you found something like belonging. It wasn’t perfect, but it felt like a family in its own, strange way—except for Smough, who was more like the deranged uncle everyone avoided.

You lived among them, trained with them, and learned to appreciate every single moment duty didn't call you. Trying to carry out someone else’s will with a dagger in your soft, delicate hand.

It was going perfectly fine, in its own rough way, as you felt safe around them enough to crawl out from your hermit shell.

Until you were old enough that everything started to change. Suddenly, you weren’t just the scrappy kid they’d taken in. You were someone they all looked at differently.

You’d grown taller, though still dwarfed by the gods and beings around you. Your body had also matured, blooming into a beautiful woman with smooth curves and a flush of youth in your cheeks. At the age where men and women started to look at you with either want or jealousy.

Maybe the final blow was that mission. When Ciaran was away, they had to send you in her place to eliminate a high-profile target, a traitorous noble who needed quiet killing.

You carried it out, but it almost cost you your life, too. When the help came, they had found you half-conscious, bleeding out as you tried dragging yourself through the dark streets with your dagger still wet. So heavily wounded, they had to carry you back to Anor Londo.

Both Artorias and Ornstein came to see you while you were laid up in the infirmary, bandaged from head to toe. Even through the haze of pain and half-sleep, you could sense the tension between them. You didn't think you had ever seen them get this worked up.

Their voices were low at first, but you remembered the way it rose...sharp, angry, guilty. You couldn’t make out every word because you were too dazed from your wounds. But the sound of armored boots shifting and harsh tones cutting through the quiet room stuck with you. You remembered their shapes, looming and rigid, refusing to back down even at your bedside.

Then came the changes.

Artorias grew more distant with each passing day. It wasn’t obvious at first, just small things you usually let go of. The way he would fall quiet around you, his gaze dropping when you tried to catch it. And how he started finding reasons to be elsewhere during your training, offering fewer corrections, fewer words at all.

It almost felt like he was trying to avoid you entirely, blaming it on the missions, as if keeping his distance was the only way he could deal with something he didn’t want to admit, even to himself.

You missed his company, though you wouldn’t have said it out loud. Instead, you told yourself it was probably because of Ciaran. There had always been rumors about the two of them. And honestly, it wasn’t hard to believe, not with the way she watched over him, or the quiet looks they sometimes shared when they thought no one was paying attention.

It was easier to think he was pulling away for her sake than to consider any other reason. You were no longer a kid but a proper woman now, after all. So any type of interaction with him must have put your mentor in a weird spot and made things awkward in some sense.

Meanwhile, Ornstein was easier to figure out. You spent far more time with him now than you ever had before. As a child, you’d always tried to slip away from his training sessions just to run off to find Artorias instead.

But now it was quite the opposite. Nearly every mission you took, he was there too—if not officially assigned, then somehow showing up anyway. He always brushed it off as a coincidence, but you weren’t so easily convinced.

Every time you asked if he’d been spying on you, or if he’d sent one of his knights to follow you, because there was no other way he could know every detail of your missions. He’d just give you that calm, unreadable look. Sometimes he’d act like it didn’t matter at all, other times he’d play dumb and change the subject, leaving you fuming but with no real answer.

Even the friendships and connections you’d worked so hard to build started to fall apart, one by one. People you trusted began avoiding you, their sudden distance leaving you confused and uneasy.

It all came to a head the day one knight, someone you’d been close with for years, resigned without warning. He found you before he left, eyes troubled, and asked quietly if he’d done something to offend you, if that was why both Artorias and Ornstein had sought him out. You didn’t know what to say. You didn’t even know how to answer, let alone talk to them.

And after that, the rumors started. Ugly whispers about you sharing both their beds to earn all that “special treatment.” It wasn’t hard for people to believe, not when both of them had always been kinder to you than to anyone else. They spoke well of you to Lord Gwyn himself, made sure you had the finest weapons and tools for your missions, and no one missed how carefully they watched over you.

To them, it all looked like proof. To you, it felt like something you couldn’t defend without sounding like a liar.

What you didn’t know was everything they did behind your back. About Artorias going straight to Lord Gwyn to have you taken out of Ciaran’s care and put under his instead, making sure the missions you received were short, simple, almost insultingly easy compared to what you were used to.

Meanwhile, Ornstein quietly made it his job to scare off anyone who got too close, using little more than a glare and his reputation to keep them away. He even followed you himself sometimes, convinced he was the only one who could keep you safe, even if it meant you never realized how often you were being watched.

They only grew stranger with time. Neither of them stayed too close, but they never let you get too far away either. It was like they were always circling, watching, waiting for something to snap. You tried to ignore it, tried to tell yourself it was nothing, but the doubt kept gnawing at you.

That doubt became certainty the day you overheard them on the training field.

You hadn’t meant to listen, truly. You were just passing by, steps slowing when you heard your name in the quiet. They didn’t notice you at first, too caught up in whatever argument had been brewing for who knows how long.

"Stop coddling her, Artorias. She is no child." Ornstein’s voice was sharp as his hands were already folded. And based on your own experience with him, whenever he did that, he meant business.

"And you? Do not pretend you have not been trailing her on every mission." Artorias narrowed his eyes. You noticed his grip becoming firmer on the sword's handle. What were they even talking about?

Ornstein fell silent for a moment, head tilting slightly with a hint of wry amusement, for he wasn't able to provide an answer. That's why Artorias's voice cut through the stillness.

"Admit it. You have feelings for the girl."

"So you would let me have her then?" Ornstein’s tone turned mocking, a rare edge you didn’t often hear from him.

He probably struck a nerve because Artorias’s reply was cold, unwavering. "I do not see so."

It took you a moment to really understand what was happening. You didn’t stay to hear the rest. Instead, you slipped away before their words could dig any deeper into your thoughts.

After that, you buried yourself in missions—anything to keep yourself busy. Easy, hard, it didn’t matter. You took them all, even when it meant going against Artorias’s wishes. It was the only way you knew to avoid them both. You were confused and overwhelmed. You didn’t know how to handle any of it because they had been family to you. Especially knowing you didn’t have just one, but two gods chasing after you.

Much to your surprise, neither of them took it well. When they realized you’d been avoiding them, they started seeking you out at every opportunity. Whether it was to simply be near you or to hold onto you in some quiet, desperate way, you couldn’t tell anymore. Sometimes you wondered if you were imagining it.

You used to think you’d never understand why. But you did now. Because they’d said it themselves.

You remembered the moment clearly. In some dark corner of the castle, the two of them cornered you, their imposing forms blocking you from any easy escape. Their voices were calm but also demanding as they pressed you with question after question about why you’d been gone so much lately.

And if they had done anything to offend you. That was the part that caught you off guard...the way they actually asked. Their manners were nicer then, but no less intense. It was almost frightening, the weight of their presence in those godly armors, the way their eyes locked onto you like your answer was the only thing that mattered in the world.

You mumbled some poor excuse just to slip away, all the while feeling the tension in the air, the way both of them seemed to be holding themselves back from simply grabbing you and keeping you there. When you finally made it back to your room, you didn’t take any chances. You locked the door, bolted the windows, and checked it all twice, heart still racing at the thought of their eyes on you.

The real nightmares began when Gwyn’s firstborn betrayed him to stand with the dragons, and the Abyss began swallowing Oolacile whole. In response, Gwyn had to send Artorias to confront the spreading darkness, while Ornstein was tasked with hunting down his own mentor, his brother-in-arms.

Everyone else was tangled in politics and strategy, too busy to care about anything else. You were sent on mission after mission as well, which you counted as a blessing. Because they kept you busy, and more importantly, kept them both away from you for a while. You needed that break, even if you wouldn’t admit it out loud.

But that break didn’t last.

They gave you command of a small team for a special mission, one meant to root out a single traitor who’d fled Anor Londo with secrets too dangerous to be left alive. It was supposed to be simple, clean, and precise, until it wasn't.

You hadn’t expected betrayal within your own ranks. But one of them turned on you, and suddenly it wasn’t one traitor you were facing, but many. You watched your comrades fall one by one, heard their screams echo in the dark. By the time it was over, you were soaked in blood, some theirs, some yours, and shaking so hard you could barely hold your dagger.

Regardless of the fleeting feelings, you finished the mission. You had tracked the traitor to their home and did what you were sent to do. Your blade was cold when it ended their life.

It was only when you turned to leave, your hand on the door, that you heard a thin, shaking cry.

You froze.

Slowly, you turned back and saw them. A child, no older than you’d been when Ornstein found you, crouched in the corner, tears cutting tracks through the dirt on their face. Clutching at the fallen body that you had left cooling on the floor.

Your fingers felt numb around the dagger. You couldn’t move, couldn’t even think anymore. You just watched as their sobs filled the small room, the sound tearing something inside you wide open.

When you returned to Anor Londo, you barely felt like yourself anymore. You spent most of your spare time shut away in your room, locking the door, shutting out everything beyond those walls. It all felt unreal, like something you couldn’t quite believe had happened.

Your missions had never been like that before. The people you were sent after didn’t have families waiting in the next room. They were just targets. Names on paper. Faces to forget once the job was done.

But this time there had been a child. A life you hadn’t meant to ruin. And no matter how hard you tried, you couldn’t shake the sound of their crying or the way they clung to the body you’d left behind.

It turned into weeks. Then months. You had tried burying yourself in work, taking any mission they would give you, hoping the blood and routine would drown out the guilt clawing at your insides. But it never went away.

You couldn’t eat properly. Sleep came in restless snatches with nightmares waking you in a cold sweat. There was no deny that the guilt sat heavy in your chest, a terrible weight you couldn’t shake.

Dreadfully, it started to show. You were slower in training, careless on missions. Mistakes you never used to make piled up, and for the first time in a long while, you felt weak. Breakable even. Like the life you’d built around blades and shadows was finally cracking apart.

You needed comfort, needed something to hold onto before you lost yourself completely. So you turned to the few you trusted. Ciaran listened, quiet and steady, offering gentle words that tried to soothe the raw edges. Gough laid a heavy hand on your tiny shoulder, voice deep with that calm wisdom only he seemed to carry, telling you that no warrior leaves every battle unscarred.

They did their best. But it wasn’t enough. Their words couldn’t reach the hollow ache that had settled in your chest, the heavy despair that refused to lift no matter how you tried to reason with it. All you could ever do was nodded, and thanked them. Yet nothing really eased the weight pressing down on your heart.

You were so deep in your own hopelessness that you didn’t even notice the day Artorias finally returned. Prior to that, rumours had whispered about his disappearance, stating he had long been swallowed whole by the Abyss in Oolacile. Just another hero claimed by the darkness.

You barely looked up when the knights dragged him through the gates. One of his arms was limp as his armor was scorched and cracked, that inky corruption clinging to him like a living thing.

They carried him to the infirmary with grim determination, doing their best to avoid the seeping blackness that writhed across his form. The people’s voices were hushed, tense with fear and pity, yet remained with supreme respect for their lord.

But you didn’t see much of it. You stayed in your room. The curtains were drawn tight, and the world outside felt just as black and suffocating as the thoughts you couldn’t seem to outrun.

It took you a few days before you finally gathered the will to visit Artorias, the famed Abysswalker. Even with all that had passed between you, you couldn’t ignore what he’d been through. His obsessiveness might have made you uneasy, but you couldn’t deny the truth of who he was. A kind man at heart, one who had never failed his people.

And you weren't in the wrong when the others adored him like they always had. You heard them speak in secret tones about the hero who’d braved the Abyss to save Oolacile and its princess from destruction. Thus, you felt a flicker of guilt twist in your chest for ever doubting his intentions.

When you finally stepped into the room, you found Artorias already awake. He sat propped against the infirmary bed’s headboard, motionless except for the slow rise and fall of his chest.

His hood was drawn low, casting his face in dense shadow. Even in the dim light, you could see how changed he was. The edges of his armor were blackened and cracked, dark tendrils of something foul still curling along the seams like smoke that refused to clear.

His eyes were hard to catch beneath the hood, but you could tell he wasn’t really looking at anything in the room. It felt like he was locked somewhere else entirely, lost in some deep, silent struggle you couldn’t reach no matter how hard you tried.

You wondered if he had fully healed when looking at his limp arm. The very arm that he was best at when holding his sword.

When he finally seemed to notice you standing there, he turned his head slowly and managed a small, tired smile.

"Good evening, (Name)."

Your eyes shifted away from his hollow gaze, landing instead on the small bundle of flowers resting in a chipped vase beside his bed. You wondered if Ciaran had left them there for him.

You forced yourself to meet his eyes again, giving him a polite nod. "Lord Artorias."

"No need to be so formal." His voice was quieter now, but firmer than before, as he gestured to the chair beside him. "Sit with me,"

You hesitated, yet obeyed by lowering yourself onto the chair. He watched you for a moment before speaking again, eyes shadowed beneath the hood.

"I heard from Ciaran. She told me what happened."

The words caught you off guard, tightening something in your chest. You tried to straighten your posture, forcing the guilt back down where it belonged. And here you were, wondering why Artorias never failed to know everything about you.

"My Lord, I apologize. I-"

Artorias’s gaze softened at your apology. He cut you off before you could even finish. “It’s alright. What happened was unavoidable. You did what you could.”

You swallowed hard, the words landing heavier than you expected. The aftermath had been haunting you for days, taking every ounce of sanity from you the more you kept on.

Trying to push the guilt aside, you shifted in your seat and told him everything that had happened while he was gone, while trying to hold back tears.

He seemed quite happy to finally catch up. Until you cracked a question out of curiosity.

"What about your expedition to Oolacile? How was it?"

At that, something in him seemed to tighten. His eyes suddenly dropped. “Ah...”

"…" You frowned, hesitating whether or not to pry any further due to the atmosphere changing in the room.

His hands flexed against the blanket. Then he finally found the strength to speak, spilling out his heart like how you did to him before.

"The Abyss. It was far more terrifying than the rumours themselves." His breath hitched, the words tumbling out like something he’d been holding back too long.

His shoulders trembled slightly, armor creaking as he struggled to hold himself together. The truth was only unfolded when he finally took a breather.

"They praised my name...but it was all a lie. It was not I who saved the Oolacile, or the princess. I was merely a coward who ran away.”

To see Artorias like this, crumbling under the weight of his own words, it wasn’t like him at all. He had always been so noble, so unshakable...that watching him struggle to keep himself together made something twist painfully in your chest.

Your body moved before you could even think.

Halfway through his confession, you reached out and pulled him in, arms wrapping around the cold metal of his armor. Holding tight as if you could keep him from falling apart any further.

Unlike the gods, whose emotions were nearly nonexistent, you were human. Your flesh could be torn, your bones could break, and you felt for the man before you.

Artorias didn’t hesitate. The moment your arms wrapped around his larger form, he returned it by leaning in closer. It was almost desperate how his armored arms locked around you, holding you so tightly it was difficult to breathe.

You could feel the tremor in his grip. It wasn’t just from exhaustion or pain, but something deeper. His head rested against your shoulder, raspy breath warm against your ear. He held you like he’d been starved for this simple contact.

"Don’t leave," he said with almost desperation.

You shifted, uneasy at how hard his fingers pressed into your back, like he was afraid you might slip away if he didn’t hold tight enough.

Then he drew in a slow breath against your neck, one that you could barely catch. “I’ve wanted you close like this for so long,”

When you tried to ease back, his hold only tightened further. You could feel his fingers tighten under the gauntlets, as if trying to physically restrain himself from pulling you even closer. His breath was warm, uneven, ghosting against your skin.

For a moment, you realized you weren’t comforting him anymore. He was claiming you.

You found yourself making it a small routine to visit him, slipping into the infirmary when your duties allowed, just to sit by his side. It felt like the least you could do for all the times he’d comforted you when you were younger.

Whenever you were there, he seemed to relax. The tension in his shoulders eased, the harsh set of his jaw softened. The darkness that clung to him, the Abyss twisting in the edges of his gaze, seemed to settle for a while.

With anyone else, he was cold and distant, sometimes even frightening with that coiling corruption beneath his skin. But with you, it was different. He spoke softer, and looked at you like you were something grounding him to what little humanity he had left.

Then Ornstein’s return came a few days later. His armors were heavily dented when you saw him walk through the gates, still looking every bit the Dragonslayer. Even from a distance, you could tell something was wrong, the way he seemed so calm and eerie.

He didn’t speak to anyone unless forced to, and when he did, his voice was somehow colder than usual. For some reason, whatever kinds of expression he wore behind that lion helm felt darker than anything you’d seen on Artorias.

You didn’t need anyone to tell you he had failed in his mission. He hadn’t brought Gwyn’s firstborn back. And what had happened out there in the darkest places of the world had followed him home, heavy on his shoulders and festering behind his tired eyes.

Unlike Artorias, he didn’t wait for you to come to him. He showed up at your door one night without warning, armor traded for a sleeping tunic, and the lion helm was nowhere in sight. It was the first time in so long you’d seen his face instead of that regal headwear.

He looked so...dead. Like something essential had been carved out of him, leaving nothing but a shell. His eyes were flat and dim, as if his purpose had been stolen and he was on the edge of going hollow right there in your doorway.

You waited a long moment before finally opening the door to him after a while of peeking. The scent of alcohol immediately caught your nose, sharp and heavy. His expression back then was so out of touch, clouded with something you couldn’t quite explain. You cautiously asked him what had happened. He didn’t answer but stared at you for a long moment, chest rising and falling like he was trying to keep himself in check.

Then he suddenly closed the distance in one step, grabbing you with hands that felt almost rough. His dry mouth crashed onto yours in a kiss that was all but gentle. Tongue and teeth, raw and claiming, like he’d been holding himself back for far too long and couldn’t anymore, pouring whatever sadness he had onto you just because you were his joy and pride.

It felt wrong the moment your lips met. Because you’d always seen him as an older brother, someone who pushed you past your limits but watched over you all the same. The admiration was too much to be twisted into something else.

But there was nothing brotherly in the way he kissed you, though. His grip tightened around your waist as he kissed you feverishly, strong enough to lift you off the floor without even meaning to. The height difference was making you float ridiculously in the air. Yet his mouth was diligent, all bruising insistence, as if he wanted to devour every ounce of love from you.

You could feel the desperation in it, the way his fingers dug in, holding you like he’d never let go.

You didn’t think you wanted to see either of them after that night. The memory of Ornstein’s mouth on yours, the way he’d held you off the ground like you weighed nothing...it haunted you, made your skin crawl every time you thought about it.

So you threw yourself back into your old habits, trying to reclaim the routine of an assassin, anything to feel in control again. But it didn’t last long, for grand words had come down from Lord Gwyn himself.

You were finished. Released from the Lord’s Blades.

Hells, they didn’t even try to soften it. Like a bucket of cold water to your face, they stated you were “no longer fit” for the role as they stripped you of your rank and duty.

What made your blood run cold was what came next. Gwyn’s decree wasn’t just dismissal; it was also meant to convey ownership. You were handed over entirely to Artorias and Ornstein. Like you were nothing more than something to be given away, something to be claimed.

The fury had burned hot in your chest, mixing with something cynical and hurtful. You’d given everything to this place. Your skill, your youth, your soul, your everything. And in the end, they treated you like property to be owned. It was more than enough to make you feel sick to the stomach.

People had always whispered that a human had no place among the gods. Maybe they were right.

And for a second, you decided to prove them right in the only way you could. You did them all a favor.

You went back to your room and started packing your things. Your hands were shaking from anger as you grabbed what little you owned, stuffing clothes and weapons into your own satchel. Every movement felt so heavy, like the betrayal was pressing down on your shoulders. Making you feel like you were dying from the inside.

You didn’t want to see the grand halls or those towering marble statues ever again. You didn’t want to hear another order barked at you, or see the pity in anyone’s eyes the moment you walk away from everything.

Because you were ready to leave it all behind. To leave this gilded cage once and for all. Because if this was how they saw you, something to be tossed away and handed over like spoils, then there was nothing left here for you.

Then the next thing you knew, everything went black. You didn’t even remember falling or tripping. There was only a single moment of the suffocating darkness when it swallowed you whole.

When you finally came to, your head was pounding and your vision was blurry. You blinked hard, trying to make sense of the room around you. It was unfamiliar...too clean, too richly furnished. Velvet curtains decorated barricaded windows, there was a thick rug underfoot, and a heavy oak door with a lock so sturdy nothing could break.

This place looked nothing like your messy little room in Anor Londo.

Panic began to hit when you tried to move and heard the clinking of metal. When you looked down, your breath was stuck in your throat. One of your ankles was shackled to the bedpost with a thick iron chain.

No. No, this couldn’t be real. This had to be some twisted joke.

Your heart hammered as you clawed at the shackle, fingers slipping every so often due to the unfamiliarity. Then you noticed what you were wearing in the mirror next to the bed.

A lacy nightgown, soft and delicate, nothing you’d ever owned. Someone had undressed you. Then put you in this. The thought made your skin crawl even more.

You forced your shaking hands to work, scrabbling at the lock, testing the links, tugging until the metal bit into your ankle. Anything to get free. Your breathing turned harsher and rougher in the silence of the room as you realized there was no easy escape.

Out of sheer frustration and blind panic, you didn’t even think straight. You lunged for the door, wanting to slam your shoulder against it in a desperate attempt to break it open.

But the chain snapped taut with a harsh metallic clank, jerking you back so hard you lost your balance. You fell hard, scraping your poor elbows on the rug with your face planted on the ground.

You lay there for a moment, gasping, eyes fixed on the doorknob that was just out of reach. Your ankle throbbed where the shackle bit in, a cruel reminder you weren’t getting anywhere.

Then came the hot sting of tears gathering in your eyes, making the fury and terror even more ugly in your chest. This couldn’t be happening. But the cold weight of the chain against your skin told you it was all too real.

You scrambled back upright and fumbled for the small pick you always kept hidden. With shaking hands, you jammed it at the shackle’s side, searching for any catch, any lock to work at. But there was nothing. No keyhole or seam but solid iron clamped around your ankle.

Your heart sank as you realized that it wasn’t even locked. It was forged shut. As if someone smithed this onto you while you were unconscious. The pick fell from your fingers as you stared at the unmoving metal. You felt sick at the thought of them working over you while you were limp and unaware, binding you like some animal.

A sudden click echoed in the quiet room, and your head snapped up instinctively, making you go still on the velvety rug.

The litte doorknob began to turn slowly, in perfect time with the frantic pounding of your heart. The metal then creaked as it twisted, and you could only watch in terror at the cobalt-blue that was slowly peeking from behind the frame.

“Good evening, my dear. You are awake at last.” Artorias’s voice was calm, almost gentle, as he stepped through the door. He didn’t even take his eyes off you while he shut it behind him with a quiet click, then turned the key in the lock with care.

The softness in his tone sent a cold shiver down your spine. You hated it.

“W-what is the meaning of this?!” Never had you ever dared raising your voice at him. But you guess it didn’t matter anymore.

Artorias didn’t even flinch. He didn’t even bother answering your question. Instead, he simply lifted the small sack in his hand, the sound of wrapped food rustling as he shook it lightly.

“You must be hungry yeah? You have been asleep all day, after all.”

His tone was maddeningly calm, patronizing even, as if you were a child throwing a tantrum instead of someone chained to a bed. The worst part was he didn’t even try to hide it, like he was waiting for you to stop fussing and behave.

The man crouched down in front of you with unsettling ease, as though the chain on your ankle didn’t exist. He opened the sack with his usable arm and carefully took out a piece of crispy bread with a small container of hot stew, setting them on the floor just within your reach.

Then he settled there, elbow resting on his knee, chin propped in his palm, watching you with that infuriating tilt of amusement as your stomach betrayed you with a loud rumble.

You glared at him, the heat of your anger mixing with something far more bitter.

Because you recognized that meal immediately. Your favorite childhood dish. The very one he used to sneak you when the standard rations for training made you gag.

You never thought he would stoop this low, using old comforts against you like you were still that scared little girl clinging to him for safety. You could feel your jaw tighten, and the anger simmering in your chest. If he thought he could buy your obedience with warm food and old memories, he was wrong.

Without breaking eye contact, you lifted your hand and slapped the bowl away, sending the hot stew splattering across the polished floor in a messy arc. The rich, familiar smell filled the room as it soaked into the rug.

Your glare was unflinching, even if guilt twisted in your gut at the waste. You just wanted to see something from him other than that stupid void where his face was. Anything to prove you could still get under his skin so you could talk some sense into that thick head of his.

There was a moment of numbing silence.

“Hm. I do not recall you ever behaving quite so badly,” Then Artorias remarked, his voice hauntingly calm, an indication that the spilled meal on the floor meant nothing at all to him. He didn’t even blink, either, only watching you with unsettling patience.

Your fingers dug into the rug so hard your nails bent painfully. Every muscle in your arms became tense. “Stop with this stupid play and release me right now!”

He had yet to answer, as if waiting for you to tire yourself out.

“Artorias!”

Your voice cracked as you shouted, rage and fear spilling out all at once. Yet it couldn’t get a reaction out of him, like your words were wind against stone, a cup of water to raging forest fire.

“Naughty girl. You should learn never to raise your voice at your lord.” The man sounded so collected after a while, but there was nothing kind in it anymore.

He rose to his full height, towering over you so completely that craning your neck to meet his gaze actually hurt.

Your stomach twisted as he stepped forward. Before you could even think of backing away, his hand already clamped around your arm.

“Wait—!”

Artorias dragged you across the floor, the chain rattling harshly with every movement until you hit the edge of the bed.

“And I shall teach you that.”

You barely had time to gasp before he hauled you onto his lap like you weighed nothing at all. The chain clinked and tugged at your ankle with every struggle, but it didn’t slow him in the slightest.

“Stop! What are you doing? Stop—stop!” Your voice cracked in horror when you felt him lift the delicate fabric of the lacy gown, cold air hitting your exposed skin.

Then the slap came. It landed hard and fast, the sharp crack ringing out so loud it felt like it split the silence in two, making your ears ring. The excruciating pain flared instantly across your skin, sinking deep enough to drag a startled yelp from your throat.

Tears stung your eyes as you tried to twist away, but his grip only tightened, refusing to let you go.

“It hurts! You're hurting me—” Your voice cracked as you clawed at his limp arm, nails scraping uselessly against the cold metal of his gauntlet. In return, he only pressed you harder against his lap, locking you in place as another harsh smack landed, and then another, then another.

Each strike burned hot across skin that had never been touched this way before, the sensitive flesh stinging and throbbing in brutal waves.

You'd had your bones broken and flesh torn before, but nothing felt like this. Like every humiliating, punishing impact was designed not just to hurt but to brand you. To remind you exactly who held you there and why you couldn’t do a thing to stop it.

He only stopped once he decided you’d had enough. When your voice broke pitifully, and your sobs turned frantic. The beautiful eyes that had once looked at him with admiration, were now wet and shining with humiliation.

Artorias’s breath came heavy as he finally let his hand fall still. He watched you for a moment, the rise and fall of your shoulders, the way you refused to look at him.

His gloved hand moved then, slower, gentler. He rubbed the reddened skin where he’d struck you over and over, feeling a tinge of guilt coiling around his chest.

But then his eyes flicked downward, catching the shift of your hips, the subtle tremble in your thighs...and the unmistakable glistening wetness between them. Not only were you a naughty girl, but a lying one as well.

“Ah,” he murmured. “So that is it. Look at you. Did you enjoy this? Being reminded where you belong?” The corner of his mouth must have twitched as something dark flickered in his tone.

“No…” You whimpered as you fought to steady yourself.

But your breath hitched in betrayal when one of his thick fingers pressed firmly between your folds, spreading you open.

“No?” he repeated softly, mocking the quaver in your voice. His head tilted as if studying you from a new angle, and you stopped breathing when that gloved hand settled fully between your thighs.

“Then what is this?” He pressed in harder. That single finger slid along your slit, dragging slowly from your entrance up to the sensitive nub, spreading the wetness over your skin. The noise was so shameless, you actually whimpered, biting your lip hard enough to hurt.

“Listen,” he ordered. He moved the finger again, even slower this time, letting you hear every squelch that filled the silent room. Your whole body jerked in his lap at the humiliation.

“Does that sound like ‘no’ to you?”

You struggled under his painful grip, your throat worked as you tried to answer, but all you managed was a sob. He clicked his tongue and stroked again, thumb joining in now to part you further, exposing every glistening fold to his scrutiny.

“You’re soaked,” he whispered, leaning close enough you could feel his breath against your ear. “Absolutely drenched from getting spanked like a disobedient child. Do not lie to me.”

Artorias resumed stroking, fingers gliding over your slick folds to tease your clit, coaxing fresh wetness with every friction. In response, you thrashed helplessly on his lap, but your frail human strength was nothing against his unyielding, godlike grip.

"How about we put this place of yours to good use."

He shoved you down onto the bed, pinning your wrists tight despite your frantic struggles and shrill screams. In seconds, black tendrils of abyssal darkness slithered around them, coiling and tightening until they bound you like cuffs.

"Hey, stop it—"

Your words got cut off in a gasp when his face dipped between your thighs. You couldn’t see him clearly beneath the shadow of that cobalt-blue, but the hot breath ghosting over your aching core made you cower.

He held your legs wide apart with such strength, the armored weight of his arms pinning you so firmly you could barely twitch. From the roiling darkness beneath his hood, the slimy tendril uncoiled fully, glistening black and wet as it snaked down between your thighs.

You sucked in a desperate breath, eyes wide with terror and humiliation as it slithered over your folds. The first contact was cold and slick, making you jolt and cry out, your cunt reflexively clenching around nothing yet.

“Easy,” he rumbled with dark amusement. His grip only tightened, keeping you spread open and vulnerable while the tendril stroked you endearingly, dragging hot trails across your sensitive flesh.

It prodded at your entrance and your clit in turn, rubbing circles that left you soaked and twitching. Every squelching noise it made filled the room, drowning out your high-pitched whimpers.

Then it pressed in, punching a sob out of you when it forced its way inside, the cold slickness stretching you open, making your walls clench. He let out a guttural sound of pleasure at the sight, head dipping lower.

Much to your horror, from the hooded void, more blackness pooled out, tendrils wrapping around your thighs to hold you even more still..

He didn’t give you time to adjust either. The main tendril inside you began to pump, slow first, while another smaller one emerged to flick and lash at your swollen clit. Your back arched hard off the bed as you shrieked, breathing heavily when that second tendril wrapped around your nub and squeezed, pulsing with a rhythm that sent brutal sparks through your belly.

Your slick drooled down onto the bedding below, strings of it glistening in the evening light as he kept working you with those abyssal limbs.

“Listen to yourself,” he growled, voice muffled from where he watched between your legs. “So damn wet for me.”

For a moment, he let out a deep moan of his own as if savoring your taste through the tendril. It pulsed in response inside you, grinding mercilessly against that sweet spot until you were thrashing in his hold, babbling nonsense and sobbing for mercy.

"Ah...stop. Stop this, please..." you cried out. Yet, your hip wouldn't stop thrashing for more.

The tendril on your clit tightened, vibrating just slightly, making you spasm around the one buried in you. Artorias watched it all with amusement, holding you down so you couldn’t squirm away.

He blamed the Abyss for making him this obsessed.

The abuse your clit was getting soon became too much when he hauled your hips clean off the bed, folding you nearly in half without a hint of care for your frantic cries. The chain on your ankle swung wildly, clanging against his armored shoulder with every desperate kick, but he ignored it completely.

If anything, it only seemed to excite him more.

Your eyes watered from the burn in your stretched muscles as he forced you open even wider, leaving you shamefully exposed to the writhing tendrils. They lashed and rubbed with merciless precision, one flickering your swollen clit to squeeze and pulse until you screamed, while another kept thrusting deep inside you, the lewd noises sounding impossibly loud.

Every time you struggled, he let out a hungry laugh, the shadows under his hood churning with feverish delight. The more you resisted, the more brutal the tentacles became—fucking you harder, tighter, wringing out every single reaction from you.

Your orgasm slammed into you before you even realized it was coming, ripping a raw, strangled scream from your throat. Your body convulsed hard in his grip, back arching until it hurt.

Artorias actually flinched in surprise when your tight little hole spasmed and squirted a sudden gush of glistening fluid all over the probing tendril and his armored torso, splattering wetly as if your body itself was trying to reject the overwhelming pleasure he forced on it.

For a moment, he was stunned at the mess you'd made. Then a delighted laugh rumbled from his heaving chest. The slick tendrils finally slid free from your drenched cunt with an obscene squelch, leaving your hole twitching and gaping slightly from the relentless abuse.

You barely had time to come back from the high when the door behind Artorias creaked open. Heavy, thudding footsteps echoed through the room, so familiar they made your blood run cold.

Ornstein stepped inside without a word, golden armor catching the glow as he surveyed the scene. He set his spear casually in the corner, its bottom scraping the floor. Then the lionhead turned slowly toward you, taking in the scene while you were completely sprawled out and shaking in another man's grip.

“I was out there fighting for my life with the dragons,” he drawled, folding his arms over his broad chest. “And you two were having fun without me? That hurts.”

You didn’t miss the mocking tilt of his head, the false wounded tone. He was lying, obviously so. If anything, you knew the dragons had been the ones fighting for their lives just to keep him at bay.

"You are back early, Ornstein," Artorias remarked. His attitude was deceptively calm as he shifted just enough to let his comrade approach, though his hand stayed clamped possessively around your waist, fingers digging in.

"Lord Gwyn let me off early this time," Ornstein replied with a lazy smirk in his tone. "Plus, I missed the girl."

The bed creaked under his weight as he sat down beside you, the thick golden armor now gone, leaving only the layered cloth and lean muscle beneath. He stretched an arm across the mattress behind you, eyes roaming over your spent, trembling form with open hunger.

"Ornstein, if you were wise, you would let me walk out of that door." You ground the words out through clenched teeth, still pulling frantically at the writhing darkness binding your arms together above your head.

Your defiance drew a moment of silence from Ornstein. His visor tilted slightly, studying you in that eerie, predator's stillness before he finally reached out, gloved fingers brushing your tear-streaked, sweat-dampened cheek.

"You are as amusing as ever," he murmured, voice dropping to a condescending softness. "Why would you wish to run away now, when we are both here for you?"

Until he leaned in closer. "You should know the moment you walk out of this place, you will make all of Anor Londo your enemy. Would you want that?"

Then it twisted into something worse, just enough to make your blood run cold. "For us to hunt you down and kill everyone you love?"

"What? W-what are you blabbing about?!" You spat, voice shaking with anger and terror.

"Now, now. There’s no need to be so agitated," Ornstein cooed, sounding downright soothing in his condescension. "Be a good girl and let us make love to you, okay?"

Right when the words left his lips, he pushed them your dry, cracked ones, trying to coax them open. You turned your head frantically, trying to escape the kiss, disgust churning in your gut at the thought of him daring to threaten you one moment and feign tenderness the next.

But Artorias wouldn’t allow it. He held you down ruthlessly, one massive hand splayed over your stomach to keep you pinned while the other flipped the delicate lacy gown up, bunching it around your waist. His hooded face dipped low, shamelessly basking in the sight of your supple breasts spilling free, his breath hitching with raw hunger at the sight of your vulnerable, exposed flesh.

Ornstein’s tongue pushed insistently into your mouth, tasting you deeply, drinking in every muffled whimper you couldn’t hold back. His kiss was wet and greedy, forcing you to gasp and shudder beneath him.

At the same time, Artorias lowered his head to your chest, lips sealing around one of your perky nipples. He sucked carelessly, tongue flicking and lapping at the sensitive bud as if he expected milk to pour out for him before grazing it lightly with his teeth, making your back arch helplessly despite your muffled cries into Ornstein’s devouring mouth.

From below, you felt a hand slide possessively over your inner thigh, fingers pressing into the soft, abused heat that had been left pulsing and raw from Artorias’s earlier torment. The contact was firm, almost casual in its cruelty, dragging your folds apart to expose you fully.

You let out a muffled cry against Ornstein’s mouth when two thick fingers pushed in without warning. The obscene squelch filled the room once more as he spread you open around them, forcing your walls to stretch and squeeze around the rude intrusion.

He didn’t pause to let you adjust. Instead, he fucked you with those fingers immediately, pumping in and out with a steady rhythm that made your hips twitch with each thrust. The chain on your ankle rattled uselessly. You tried to squirm away, but Ornstein’s arm kept you pinned in place, his mouth still locked over yours, swallowing your every broken noise.

The soft tongue explored your mouth desperately, hot and heavy, coiling around yours and forcing it to dance with him. You whimpered, trying to turn your head away. Yet his grip on your jaw was iron, making every protest die in breathless gasps while his fingers curled inside you, seeking out that sensitive spot.

When your walls fluttered helplessly around him, betraying you with gushes that made each pump wetter, noisier, he moaned approvingly into your mouth.

Above you, Artorias was just as sedulous. His hood shadowed his face but couldn’t hide the deep, scary sounds he made as he worshipped your chest. His mouth latched onto one nipple, sucking hard enough to make you cry out, tongue swirling over the swollen bud until it ached and tingled.

He shifted to the other breast, licking wet stripes over your skin before sealing his lips around the peak. You felt his teeth graze it back and forth again. He became creative when his gauntleted hand came up to squeeze and knead your breasts roughly, toying with them like they were stress-relieving tools.

“Look at you,” Ornstein finally murmured against your lips, voice hoarse with lust as he pulled back just enough to speak, thumb brushing your spit-slick lower lip. His fingers never stopped moving inside you, pressing ruthlessly at that sweet spot until your legs shook. “Making such a mess on my hand. You are so, so wet it’s dripping.”

He twisted his fingers with a wet squelch, making your hips buck despite yourself, while Artorias’s tongue lashed at your nipple, warm breath heating your skin.

“Stop…please…” You sobbed from the humiliation and overstimulation.

But they only chuckled at the adorable plea.

"Artorias has a thing for helpless, begging girls, you know?" Ornstein drawled with a smirk. His fingers suddenly sped up, thrusting faster, thumb slipping down to grind circles over your clit until your entire body shook in their grip.

"Only when it’s her," Artorias growled in response as he dipped lower. Mouth pressed to your chest, teeth sinking in to leave stinging bite marks all over your tender skin.

They worked you over and over, hungry in their assault of kisses, roaming hands, and shameless teasing touches. Every wet lick, every squeeze, every thrust of fingers made you squirm and sob so bad, your heat coiling in your belly until you were right on the edge of cumming again.

But just as you were about to burst, they stopped.

Your breath came in broken sobs as you were left dazed and aching, core throbbing with cruel, unsatisfied need. Frustration twisted in your gut. Your head rang with static noise, making you wish desperately that this was all some sick nightmare you’d wake from.

Too bad it wasn’t.

You barely realized what was happening when Artorias shifted behind you, his massive arm sliding under your limp, trembling form. He hoisted you up easily, as if you weighed nothing at all, settling you in his lap with your back pressed firmly against his chest.

Your eyes flew open in panic when you felt Ornstein move in closer, his hands gripping your thighs to hold you wide open. The cold, heavy weight of his cock rested against your slick, abused entrance as he lined himself up, his golden eyes burning with predatory hunger at the sight of your hole twitching and dripping for him.

“W-wait—!” you babbled, thrashing weakly in Artorias’s iron grip, but all it did was make Ornstein’s smirk widen as he pushed the swollen head of his cock insistently against your yielding folds.

He moaned out loud as your prepped little cunt clamped down on him with a near-death grip the moment he forced his thick length inside. After so many years spent yearning for you, his lovely, stubborn apprentice, finally having you like this, spread open and trembling, felt like a gift sent from above.

"Refrain yourself from breaking her," Artorias said from behind you, his arms like iron bands around your legs to hold you steady even as you thrashed.

"Don't think I can guarantee that," the dragonslayer shot back with a savage grin.

Then he laughed lustfully in his chest, chivalrous eyes locked on the sight of you stretched tight around him, before he thrust in again, harder this time, pounding into you without mercy as your pitiful cries filled the room.

Your head lolled back onto Artorias’s shoulder with every pound. Hazy eyes glazed with tears, every breath coming out of you either as a whimper or a scream. And Artorias hadn't looked away—not for a second. He held you open for Ornstein.

Massive, clawed hands gripped your thighs so hard to keep you from sliding forward, you’d feel the bruises for days. He forced your legs wide apart, spreading you indecently so Ornstein could drive in as deep as he wanted, your stretched pussy swallowing every inch of him despite your body’s resistance.

Artorias’s hood shadowed his face, but his breathing was harsh. Beneath the dark folds, his eyes burned with naked hunger, sp locked on the sight of your hole clenching around his comrade’s cock. Not to mention, he could feel the heat of your slick dripping onto his armored thighs, and the way you spasmed every time Ornstein’s length dragged along your walls.

He was painfully hard himself.

You could feel it, the thick ridge pressing insistently into the small of your back every time you writhed. But he didn’t move to take you, not yet because of the promise he made with Ornstein.

“Good girl,” he growled in your ear. “Take all of him.”

Ornstein let out a laugh, head thrown back slightly as he felt you squeeze tighter with every savage thrust.

“She’s so fucking tight,” he panted, licking his lips as he watched your breasts bounce from the force of his thrusts. “Listen to her, Artorias. She’s crying for it.”

Artorias’s arm tightened across your waist, pulling you back hard against his chest as he forced your legs even wider in response.

“Don’t break her too soon,” he warned again, but his voice shook with lust and betrayal at the sight of you being fucked to the brim.

You squeezed your eyes shut, but curiosity and horror made you peek down at where your body was joined with Ornstein’s. You were so slick that your cunt swallowed his thick cock without protest. It only terrified you more.

There was no hint of the brotherly love you once remembered. That was long gone, replaced by some twisted perversion and obsession. If only you knew, you would have left this wretched place before they could even make it back.

"Fuck, think I'm close," Ornstein grunted. He slammed into you harder, making the entire bed shake with each brutal thrust. His eyes then flicked up to Artorias’s larger frame, a mocking grin twisting his lips. "You think I should do it inside? Give her a child and have you be the uncle, yeah?"

Your eyes went wide in horror. A sob tore from your throat as you started thrashing wildly in Artorias’s iron grip, chains rattling madly against the bed.

"N—no, you can’t!!" you screamed, voice cracking with terror.

But Artorias didn’t budge. His arms were unmovable bands of steel around your waist and thighs, forcing you open even wider for his friend. His dark, hooded head turned slightly, watching with gleaming eyes as your body was pounded without mercy.

"If you are so confident in your seed," His tone was low and mocking despite the lust that thickened every word, "then be my guest."

The mental image of you swollen with child made his cock twitch so hard he wished he could pounce you right now.

Ever since you were a kid, just a tamed little wild thing. Trouble always found you, or maybe you went looking for it. Always so damn hard-headed, forever talking back but never knowing when to shut up. Always so eager to square up with him, too, even though you never stood a chance.

Maybe having another little version of you didn’t sound so bad.

He could see the appeal in it, actually. The thought of you waddling around carrying his child, of helping you raise it, of scolding a stubborn little brat with your same spark and fire, made something fierce and almost possessively tender burn in his chest.

Yeah. He could get used to that.

Without warning, Ornstein’s grip on your waist tightened like a vice, fingers digging deep enough to leave bruises as he hauled you flush against him in one savage motion. The swollen head of his thick cock rammed hard into your cervix, sending a sharp, dizzying shock up your spine that made your vision blur and your toes curl helplessly.

You choked on a scream, eyes rolling back, whilst he groaned loudly with satisfaction. In a matter of seconds, you felt the hot, thick spurts of his cum flooding deep inside you, coating your walls and painting your womb white. The wet heat spread through you in humiliating pulses, leaking around the seal of your stretched cunt as he stayed buried to the hilt, making sure not a drop could escape.

It took Ornstein a moment to catch his breath, his chest heaving with each inhale. Sweat glistened on his forehead, matting fiery red strands of hair to his skin; the usually tidy mane was now wild and tangled.

He let out a satisfied chuckle as he finally pulled out, a wet squelch marking his exit. Sharp eyes instantly locked on the mess he’d made—thick, pearly ropes of his cum spilling freely from your abused, gaping cunt, trailing in lewd strings onto the sheets below.

“With that much,” he drawled lazily, completely mesmerized, “I wouldn’t even be surprised if you were with child by tomorrow.”

He laughed again with the same cruel amusement gleaming in his eyes.

"Shut up, you—you—" you stammered, trying to think of some insult as you weakly kicked out at him.

Ornstein just caught your ankle effortlessly, smirking. He pressed a teasing, mocking kiss to the inside of it, the gesture making you shudder in disgust.

"Complain to me later," he murmured with a lazy drawl. "Because I doubt Artorias can wait any longer."

With that, he shifted to the side, finally giving the other man room.

Artorias wasted no time. He leaned in close, the shadow under his hood pressing to your tear-streaked cheek, like he was kissing you. But all you could feel was the cold, suffocating Abyss that clung to him, seeping into your skin and making you shiver.

Then he moved back with predatory calm, letting you fall limply onto the bed. In a blink, the black tendrils binding your wrists vanished into nothingness, freeing you just in time for you to throw your hands over your chest in reflex.

You tried to push yourself up with terror pounding in your veins, but froze when you saw him loosen the front of his dark trousers.

It sprang free with a heavy, lewd slap against his own stomach, massive, pale, and veined so thickly it looked monstrous. Far thicker and longer than Ornstein’s had been. Your eyes went impossibly wide, throat closing up.

There was no way you could take the head alone, let alone the entire thing.

Artorias watched you stare with shaking horror. One of his massive hand wrapped lazily around the impossible length, stroking it.

“Impressive, right?” Ornstein drawled lazily, now lying on his side next to you, head propped on his palm.

His eyes gleamed with open amusement as he watched your face twist in panic. Meanwhile, his free hand roamed over your chest, fingers squeezing and kneading your bite-marked, sensitive breasts, rolling your sore nipples between rough fingertips until you squirmed helplessly.

“No way…I-I can’t take it, he’ll tear me up,” you choked out in fear as you gripped the sheets so hard your knuckles turned white. Sweat dripped from your temples, your whole body trembling.

“No need to worry,” Artorias said from above. “Soon enough you’ll take pleasure in it.”

You sobbed once in horror as he shifted closer, heavy weight pressing the mattress down on either side of your quivering hips. He angled his thick, monstrous cock with one massive, armored hand, lining the veiny length up perfectly with your entrance.

You could feel the hot, heavy head nudging insistently against your drenched folds, the threat of it sinking in making you writhe and squirm in mindless panic.

His grip on your waist was so strong you couldn’t move an inch even if you wanted to. You could only thrash weakly, crying out when you felt the swollen head of his cock press hard against your slit, trying to spread you around something impossibly thick.

Artorias let out a growl the moment he pushed forward, the wide head catching on your stretched entrance but refusing to slide in.

“Too tight,” he snarled with frustration before withdrawing an inch only to shove forward again, grinding the head against you in delicate thrusts that forced your folds apart. Yet still couldn’t bury him even halfway.

You screamed, tears streaming, fingers clawing at the sheets. Your legs kicked weakly.

“Stop. Ah—too big! It won’t fit!”

Beside you, Ornstein let out a dark laugh, watching you squirm with gleaming eyes. He reached over, strong fingers wrapping around one of your thighs to hold it wide and steady. His other hand went between your legs, fingers parting your slippery folds even further, spreading you for Artorias.

“I’ve got you, little assassin,” Ornstein crooned, still using that childish nickname he gave you in the past.

Artorias groaned. He pressed in harder, feeling the resistance given by cruel, grinding inches.

You nearly died when he finally bottomed out inside you, the fat head of his cock slamming into the very deepest part of your core. Your breath hitched on a silent scream as you felt your belly distend slightly with the sheer size of him, the obscene bulge tracing his length beneath your skin.

Your cunt clamped down violently around him, the slick, trembling walls spasming in panicked reflex. It was too much—too big—forcing you open in ways you never thought possible.

Artorias shuddered at the sensation, fingers digging bruises into your hips as he held you locked in place. His breath grew laboured and unsteady. The hood shadowed his face, yet unable to hide the way he trembled with need.

“Gods,” he hissed, voice breaking with dark delight. “You’re too tight…it’s—fuck…it’s perfect.”

He didn’t want to move yet, simply savoring the crushing, molten grip of your cunt around him. The way it pulsed and squeezed like it was trying to force him back out, even as it held him in a vice, was undeniably deadly that...

“I might never want to leave you.”

All hells broke loose the second Artorias began to move. His hips snapped forward with brutal force, dragging that impossibly thick cock almost all the way out before slamming back in, making your entire body jolt against the mattress.

The pain was immediate, tearing a raw scream from your throat as your walls fought to accommodate the brutal intrusion. But with every thrust, the searing burn slowly blurred into something else…hot, tingling pleasure that crawled up your spine, making your legs tremble and your toes curl.

It was humiliating. Psychotic even...how you were falling apart under his charm.

You went from shrieking in pain to letting out these breathless moans you didn’t even recognize as your own. Your mouth fell open, eyes already rolling back with drools slipping from the corner of your lips as Artorias forced your traitorous body to submit.

He didn’t slow down. If anything, he thrust harder, grinding so deep you could feel the head of his cock battering the very entrance to your womb, making your belly bulge slightly with each stroke.

Beside you, Ornstein lay propped on his elbow, watching with predatory glee. His sharp eyes tracked every twitch of your face.

When he saw your drool glistening on your chin, he let out a chuckle.

“Look at you,” he drawled, fingers idly playing with the bruises and bite marks on your tits. “Already drooling for him. Didn’t know you could get so desperate for cock.”

Your sobs mixed with keening moans as Artorias’s thrusts only grew faster. The room was soon filled with wet, rhythmic slaps and your own pitiful sounds of unwilling pleasure.

“A-Artorias!” Before you knew it, you were already cumming. Your back arched violently against him, every muscle locking tight while your cunt clamped down in spasming pulses around his thick cock.

He let out a breathless laugh, sounding more like himself.

“Goodness,” Artorias groaned, the sensation of your walls milking him nearly buckling his control. He had to brace himself, arms trembling as he fought to keep from spilling inside you right then and there. Every pulse of your tight heat was sending bolts of unbearable pleasure through him.

Despite the savage need in his eyes, he was generous enough to slow down, pulling his cock out with a wet slide that left you gasping and twitching on the sheets.

He let you ride out your own orgasm. With tears streaming down flushed red cheeks, you shook with the aftershocks, your chest heaving for breath, clinging onto Ornstein's hand when it took yours in.

Then Artorias moved, looming over you in the dim light. With unsettling ease, he lay back and hauled your limp, quivering body on top of him, settling you astride his broad torso like you weighed nothing at all.

Your arms trembled uselessly at your sides, unable to hold yourself up as he lined himself up again. This time, slick with your own wetness and the copious remnants of Ornstein’s cum leaking out of you, he sank back in with disgusting ease.

From this angle, his size was even more apparent so holding you like this was like having an oversized doll in his lap, completely at his mercy.

Without waiting a second longer, Artorias’s massive hands clamped around your hips, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise as he yanked you downward at the exact moment he thrust up from below.

“Ah—ah!!”

Your shriek split the air as his cock slammed impossibly deep, the new angle forcing him even further inside you. The fat, veined length speared into that devastatingly sensitive spot deep in your core, the one that made you see stars and scream every single time he hit it.

Your voice cracked on a desperate wail with tears streaming down your cheeks. Even Artorias couldn’t keep quiet, for he groaned and moaned, sounding more like the animal he was becoming.

“Fuck yes,” he growled ferally as he bottomed out once more, grinding that swollen tip against your sweet spot again just to hear you scream so sweetly. “So fucking tight…so good.”

He kept that savage rhythm the same, hauling your hips down every time he thrust up, using your limp body like his personal toy, making sure you felt every last inch of him splitting you open.

When the days were harsh with doubts dangling in his clouded head, you were the answer he had been longing for.

He loved you so much it hurt. The consuming obsession that had festered for years in him, loving you, knowing deep down you would never feel the same way. The Abyss might have ruined him, but it had also given him the courage to take you like this.

Every muffled scream, every pleading sob that fell from your lips would forever be with him in ways he’d never admit. As he forced your hips down onto his rod over and over, feeling you clamp so tight and hot around him, his mind was heavy with the weight of that truth.

Because he remembered.

He remembered every time you’d run to him crying, pleading for that everlasting comfort. Every time he had sat there, ever the stoic knight he was, offering you his shoulder while your tears soaked through his heart. It had taken everything he had to hold back then, to be the good man you needed instead of the selfish monster he felt himself becoming.

But he was done faking it. He was done being just the shade you found comfort in on a hot summer day.

He wanted to be something else to you entirely—a lover, a mate, the only one who could hold you like this, make you feel this way. Even if it meant forcing himself on you.

You were the final flicker of light holding him back from tumbling completely into the madness the Abyss had brought about. He would never let you go, even if it meant death.

As his thrusts grew more desperate, the hand from his non-limp arm snaked up your trembling body to find your neck. His fingers wrapped tight around your throat, squeezing firmly until your breath hitched in a strangled gasp, eyes flying wide with panic.

The pressure was like a stimulant, making your walls clamp down even tighter around his thick cock, eager to milk him with every involuntary spasm.

It felt so damn good that for one brief, perfect moment. That Artorias actually believed your cunt was driving the Abyss right out of him. Every squeeze, every flutter of your adorable, helpless cunt, felt like it’s chasing away the corruption in his bones.

He let out a roar as he came with one brutal, final thrust that drove you down onto him to the hilt, grinding so deep you saw stars. Hot, thick spurts of his cum flooded your puffy pussy, warmth spreading as he filled you up, claiming every last inch of space inside you.

Yet, Artorias kept moving. Hips jerking in messy, unsteady thrusts, he fucked you through the gut-wrenching high. To the point his cock throbbed and pulsed inside you, still unloading more with every spasm, refusing to pull out.

It was like you were some succubus conjured to drain him dry—your body sucking the very life out of him, taking every ounce of his strength, his sanity, his love. He groaned in your ear one last time, voice breaking with a helpless desperation when he gave you all he had left, thrusting sloppily until his limbs trembled and gave up.

You unconsciously clung to his massive frame, fingers digging weakly into the hard lines of his armor when he crashed down, barely holding himself up with one arm.

He had given your womb a second, merciless chance to get bred full of him. And you loathed how your body betrayed you completely when his seeds flood your garden. Because the pleasure he brought was too much, searing your nerves until you couldn’t even tell what was happening anymore.

Maybe you came. Maybe you pissed yourself.

You weren’t so sure. Your body convulsed and shook, leaking slick and seed and everything else onto his thighs, soaking the sheets beneath you.

The only thing grounding you in that dizzy, drowning haze was Ornstein’s slow, surprisingly gentle kisses pressed to your temples. His lips were warm and patient, brushing over your sweaty, salty skin as if to remind you to come back to them.

The redhead clicked his tongue, shaking his head with feigned annoyance when he saw how heavy your eyelids had grown, fluttering weakly before finally closing. You looked so small like that, limp and boneless in Artorias’s bruising hold.

Artorias let out a low, uneven exhale as he finally lifted himself off you, the creak of the bed groaning beneath his weight. His hands then moved with uncharacteristic care, adjusting your slack form so you wouldn’t suffocate under him, though the worry flickering behind his abyss-tainted eyes was unmistakable. He looked down at you, taking in every detail. From your tear-streaked cheeks to your swollen, well-fucked cunt, which was leaking with their mixed release.

And in that moment of quiet, your body finally gave up its fight.

Your breathing slowed prominently with relaxed shoulders. Foggy head lolled back against the pillow seconds after, you drifted off without another sound, slipping into a deep, healing slumber.

Ornstein watched you with a small, knowing smirk, thumb brushing idly across the bruises on your thigh.

“Soft little thing,” he muttered, voice softer than he’d admit.

“Think she’ll want the north wing for a nursery?”

Artorias didn’t answer. He was watching your face with quiet hunger, as if memorizing it for every nightmare the Abyss would give him.

“I like the east wing better. It is more secluded there.” He finally spoke, pulling out just enough to let his seeds spill freely.

“No one would have to know about her whereabouts.”

Ornstein then huffed in defeat, watching over your sleeping form before admitting the corruption out loud. “The Abyss sure did change you, huh?”

[psuejo]

❥ ceo!nanami’s camgirl gone corporate!

prequel.

you got him good, he’ll admit. hiding your face, occasionally wearing wigs on stream like you’ve dyed your hair, not often bringing up your personal life unless it’s silly, menial anecdotes.

kento would’ve never known it was his pretty little secretary fucking herself on live twice a week and not some random girl who looked similar, had he not ran his annual background check and found your email linked to that porn account.

a rookie mistake, truly.

“dirty girl,” he grunts, one thick hand pressing right into the small of your back, keeping your squirming form bent over his desk. “having a side job like that...”

your already-short skirt is rucked up and over your ass, the fabric of your pantyhose and black panties torn to shreds as kento bullies his cock into you.

and, god, you’re just as soft and warm and tight as he imagined, walls clamping down on him and sucking him in like a black hole. no matter how many times you’ve fucked yourself on your fingers or dildos, it’s nothing in comparison to the feeling of your boss stuffing you full.

just big and girthy — a monster of a cock on a man that you’d thought was average. it stretches you out, forces your insides to mold to the perfect shape of him and leaves you keening, nails biting into the wood of the desk.

“do i not pay enough?” kento delivers a swat to your tender cheek, and you jolt, another glob of slick gushing around his length. “is the work i give you too demanding? are you thinking about quitting?”

as if he’d ever let you do that.

you frantically shake your head, a moan crumbling in your throat with a particularly hard thrust. “n-no, ungh!”

he frowns, tilting his head to the side, and those thin wire glasses slip down the high bridge of his nose. “so what—” smack! “could’ve possibly provoked you—” smack! “to fuck yourself on camera for others to see, hm?” smack!

a sob claws its way free, and every harsh spank against your ass sends a delicious tingle to your messy cunt, one that has your eyes sliding all the way back in your skull.

how can your boss, someone so reserved and cordial, be so... cruel?

but, fuck, if it doesn’t get you soaking wet, and kento knows that too, can hear every lewd, wailing squelch of your pussy. sounds even better in person, he thinks.

“mmngh, i— i’m sorry!” an apology you both know is halfhearted. “pleaseee, sir!”

... sir?

oh, that makes his cock throb, and you can feel every pulse like it’s in time with his heartbeat. that honorific has always sounded so sweet coming from you normally, but now? with your voice hoarse and breathy and whiny?

it’s fucking heaven.

(but he doesn’t miss how you avoided the question.)

kento ups his pace to something brutal, a relentless in-out, in-out, in-out that snatches the air from your lungs and the sense from your mind.

“y-you’ve been fucking with me,” he snarls, low and mean. “acting like some simple corporate girl by day just to slut yourself out online at night. comin’ in here with short skirts that barely pass the dress code a-and low-cut blouses. hah— if i didn’t know any better, darling, i’d say you wanted me to... to find out.”

maybe you did. maybe you knew who anonworkaholic was all along, maybe you used that specific email to make your account on purpose, maybe you came just a little harder during streams because you knew kento was watching, was fisting that heavy cock and cumming right along with you.

so what?

it worked, right?

your lack of a proper response (moans and pants don’t count, after all) tells kento everything he needs to know, along with the helpful noises from your weak hole.

“o-oh, i know she did,” kento coos, and it takes you far too long to realize he’s not talking to you. “know she wanted me to see her on camera, rubbing that needy clit—” his hand slips between the two of you and does just that, swirling quick, decimating circles, “— and whining like she was, mm, in heat.”

your orgasm sneaks up on you, blinding and beautiful, every nerve in your body on fire. your sloppy pussy spasms around his girth, a broken mewl of his name leaving your open, drooling mouth as you drench his desk and whatever paperwork that’s been pushed to the floor.

“f-fuck, nanami!”

his pupils are blown, pitch-black practically engulfing all of that typical soft brown as he watches your body tremble. you sound so pretty, look so pretty, are so pretty.

it’s a miracle kento pulls out in time to spurt thick ropes of cum all over your back with a long groan, lashes fluttering while his balls empty themselves. this is the hardest he’s cum in a while, but it’s like they say: nothing compares to the real thing.

everything in his office is a mess — documents ruined, desk slick and marked by your nails, chair knocked onto the ground, paperweight shattered. yet he grabs some tissues and cleans you up, wiping his seed from your skin and smoothing your skirt back down before he leans into your ear.

“invite me on your stream next time, mm? won’t tell a soul.”

after all, that’s both of your dirty secrets now.

[l1tw1ck]

okay hear me out, monster male reader ambushing Mydei and Phainon and taking turn fucking each one while the other is tied up watching.

you have been heard

The Cub and the Puppy

Bottom!Mydei + Bottom!FTM Phainon x Top!Male Reader

☆ Word Count: 2,656 ☆

AFAB Language Used

tag: @abrielletargaryen

CW: Non-Con, Womb Fucking, Oral Sex, Humiliation, Fingering, Cum Swallowing, Bondage-ish, Monster Fucking, Size Difference, Nipple Play, Sexual Overstimulation, Squirting, Orgasm Denial, Anal + Vaginal Sex, Double Penetration, Pussy Slapping, Creampie, Corruption

“You’ll pay for this.” Mydei growls. His clothes have been torn apart and he's been forced onto his knees. You laugh in his face, further wounding his ego.

He knows how ridiculous he sounds, still trying to fight you despite the situation he's in. If you could win against the two of them and get them into a weakened state like this, there's no hope. You barely even grazed them. They have a couple injuries but you easily broke down their strength with your mysterious power. If they didn't try to fight you, you could've weakened them without hurting them at all. You're in pristine condition while Mydei feels hungover and dizzy.

Phainon, meanwhile, fell unconscious after one of your attacks. He's naked and strung up in the air like a spider’s prey.

“At least…let him go.” Mydei coughs up blood. Its shimmery golden color stands out in your greyscale cave.

“If you want me to do that, you need to prove that you're good enough to fill in for him.”

Mydei’s eyes widen as your cock slaps him in the face, you're not even standing all that close to him. How is he supposed to take this? He's never even had sex before and you want him to have that monster in his mouth? In his ass?

“Come on, hero, show me how you suck cock.”

He takes a deep breath. As long as Phainon can escape. As long as he doesn't have to go through this, he can do it. Mydei closes his eyes and slowly engulfs your length. He prays he can be good enough to protect Phainon. His mouth hurts but he continues to envelop you. If he can barely go past a couple inches, how much worse is it going to be when it enters his ass?

“You're so small.”

He's sure the last time anyone said something like that to him was when he was a baby. He's always been larger than his peers, but in comparison to you, small is definitely the correct word.

“You're less like a lion and more like a little cub without claws.” You're thoroughly enjoying his struggle. “Use your tongue, kitty.”

Mydei, trying his best to please you, separates his mouth from your cock and drags his tongue along it. He moves back to the tip and makes short head bobs while his tongue swirls around it. He even uses his hand to stroke the rest of your girth. He looks up at you for approval.

“You're getting better but at this rate...” You shake your head and pull him off of you. “Let me show you how it feels to be sucked off properly.” You grab him by his waist and bring his crotch to your face, then his cock into your mouth. Mydei squirms around in your hold. He hates that it feels so good…he's already lost his dignity but he's not sure he can take another hit.

“Let– let me try again~” He subconsciously thrusts upwards. “Stop– stop-!” He's gonna come.

You remove his length from your mouth. “You wanna suck my cock that bad?” You drag your tongue up his shaft while maintaining eye contact.

Mydei isn't sure if giving you an answer is better or worse than having an orgasm.

“Answer me.” Your claws dig into his skin.

“I…wanna suck…your…your cock..” His whole body is burning hot.

“Good kitty.” You drop him onto the ground like a broken toy, reinforcing the reality of his situation. He gasps in pain. One of the rocks almost hit his weak spot. He weakly moves his body away from it. You smile at his pathetic body language. “We can work on your blowjob skills later. Sit down and spread your legs.”

He reluctantly and very shakily follows your command. He turns his head to the small approaching tentacle-like entity. He's seen a few of them in previous battles with you, some of them are keeping Phainon tied up. They can change their forms according to your will and from what he knows, there's no limit to the amount you can create. He's seen them as swords and hands but this time, this little tentacle is just that. It doesn't look threatening. He assumes it won't hurt him, at least not in this state.

Although, it's not like that really matters. It'd be more like a droplet of water in an overflowing pool of pain.

He watches silently as it heads towards his ass. It secretes a cold fluid over his rim, acting as lube.

“Finger yourself.” You command.

Mydei’s face turns bright red. This is so humiliating for him. He collects the lube and prods two of his fingers against his hole. “I…” He struggles to penetrate himself. He's trying to get it over with as fast as possible so he hasn't really thought it through. Trying to put two in at once is too much for a first-timer.

“You’ve never fingered yourself before? Have you ever even had sex at all?”

Mydei shakes his head shamefully.

“No wonder you're so bad at blowjobs.” You laugh. “Maybe I should see if Phainon can do a better job.”

“Please.” He has to abandon his pride. “Teach me.”

“How humble.”

Phainon's eyes flicker open to the scenery before him while his vision slowly becomes less blurry. He takes a deep breath and analyzes his current position. His hearing returns to him late as finally processes the sound of groans and borderline erotic noises. He looks down, Mydei and you are…

Mydei huffs, his hands pressed firmly on the ground and his head hanging low. "Bh- bastard-" He grits his teeth as a tentacle slithers around his cock and jerks him off while using its aphrodisiac lubricant to do so smoothly. His ass is slowly getting worked open by your two very large fingers. You use your unoccupied hand to spank him in retaliation to his insult.

Upon seeing this, Phainon finally understands the situation the two of them are in. He's going to be next. He attempts to call out to Mydei but only manages to let out a hoarse noise. Mydei lifts his head. His eyes are droopy.

Phainon shudders as he suddenly feels the strange tentacles around his body moving, as if they're acknowledging that he's awake. His legs are forced to spread.

“You—! You said you’d leave him alone!” Mydei gets interrupted by you spanking him again.

“You're such a naive little cub. I’d never turn down the chance to play around with the illustrious deliverer.” You grab his hair and force him to look at the man above him. “Watch.”

One of the tentacles extends to Phainon’s t-dick and touches it teasingly while secreting the translucent substance. He throws his head back as his body becomes more sensitive. Tears quickly form in his eyes in response to its sadistic teasing.

"Fuck!" Mydei cries out, ropes of cum spurting out of him as the tip of your massive cock suddenly penetrates him. Phainon briefly turns his attention to him. Mydei's cheeks burn red with humiliation. How is he supposed to look Phainon in the eye after this? He extends his hand in an attempt to crawl away but you stop him with your firm hands.

“Don't get cold feet now, kitty.” You dig your nails into his skin.

“My- Mydei~” Phainon breathes out. “I won't give in!”

Mydei’s back arches as your cock sinks deeper into his cunt and as blood spills from his skin. Drool dribbles down from his mouth as the aphrodisiac’s effect gets stronger. He can't handle this. He's literally gone through hell and back but he can't handle this.

Phainon squirms around, trying desperately not to lose himself. “It- it's okay, Mydei, I’ll get us out—” He gasps at the sudden cold slap to his cunt, courtesy of one of the thicker tentacles. It's around the size of your cock. He holds his breath in anticipation then it forcefully leaves his mouth as another, harsher slap hits him. It keeps going. Again and again.

Just as he's about to come, it stops. Phainon clenches his fists. He focuses back on Mydei. His cunt is throbbing as he sees you drilling into him. You're ‘fully’ inside him and yet there's still plenty of inches that can't fully experience Mydei’s warmth. The sight triggers a previously unknown kink. He likes it big. His body is tingling with need, desire, and envy.

He subconsciously thrusts his hips, begging for stimulation and release. He can't stop the rapid change in his brain. He doesn't even realize that he's losing himself. His mind is weaker than he thought.

After waiting and jealously watching Mydei, the tentacle eventually returns to continue slapping his pussy.

“You're disgusting!” Mydei is trying to close his eyes for Phainon’s sake but your constant spanks and the way you're firmly gripping his hair is making it impossible.

“Cuh- come- I wanna come~” Phainon mutters.

“Deliverer! Don't give– mmh~!” His words are interrupted by a thick tentacle, separate from the one focused on Phainon, forcefully entering his mouth.

“Me–” He wriggles around. “Fuck me too~!” Phainon moans as the other thick tentacle returns to him from behind, it slides in between his thighs and gives his pussy a place to sit. His hip thrusts become more aggressive. “Yes! Oh gods, yes!” He rubs his pussy all over it. You're glad you ignored Mydei’s begging, you’d be missing out on this amazing scene otherwise.

Mydei shivers at the sound. We lost, he thinks, another spurt of cum leaving his dick. He looks completely and utterly blissed out as you fuck him. It feels good and he knows it. You're breaking him.

Phainon squirts on the tentacle with a dumb smile on his face and grins wider as it begins to penetrate his ass. Mydei continues to observe willingly this time. He feels another wave of arousal washing over him as he watches the blue haired male's ass stretch itself for the tentacle and as his wet ‘empty’ pussy throbs with the greedy desire to be filled too.

It slowly but surely slides deeper inside him and a sudden burst of the aphrodisiac liquid fills Phainon’s ass and both of Mydei’s holes at the same time, causing him to realize the liquid from your tentacles and the seed from your cock are one in the same. Their bodies shake aggressively as they reach the height of their orgasms and their brains turn to mush. Phainon’s squirt reaches Mydei’s face and hair. He doesn't seem to hate it.

The tentacle in Mydei’s mouth pulls away and allows him to properly swallow its spend. His hair is messy and his face is dripping with sweat. Phainon shivers, thinking about how good you must be fucking Mydei to get him in this state and praying you fuck him like that too.

You flip Mydei onto his back while one of the smaller tentacles returns to stimulate Phainon’s t-dick. Mydei grins as you roughly grip his waist and thrust inside him. He even cranes his head so you can shower his neck with kisses and bites. Just like his mind, his body is getting corrupted by you.

He tried so hard to remain strong, but here he is. Happily letting his body be used by the monster who defeated him and allowing you to use the body of the very man he tried to protect. The last conscious part of him hopes Aglaea isn't watching and that none of the other heirs find him like this.

Spurts of cum erupt from his cock as your teeth gently clamp down on his nipple. His body jitters and jolts as you play with his chest. Phainon’s raging jealousy is only slightly satiated by one of the tentacles turning into a tongue and licking his cunt, turning it into an even sloppier and wetter mess.

“More~” Phainon’s eyelids flutter. “Please!”

Phainon whines when the tentacle leaves his ass. He watches you pull out of Mydei and starts to smile once he realizes he’s next. You bring Phainon over to you and have him lay on top of Mydei, his sopping wet pussy stimulating the Kremnoan’s cock. Mydei happily allows the tentacles to approach him, turning his head and opening his mouth wide while two thick tentacles enter his mouth and ass respectively. Phainon rubs himself aggressively against the other man’s sex, quickly growing more impatient and jealous.

Phainon’s vision blurs as he witnesses Mydei’s mouth getting filled with your fluid. He’s so turned on he can barely see straight. “Fuck me~! Come in me too~!” He begs.

You chuckle at his desperation and pick him up. You sit down on a smooth rock and place him on your lap, mere inches from your cock. “Work for it just like he did.”

Surprisingly, Phainon decides to suck you off first. He drags his tongue up and down your shaft to taste it before wrapping his lips around it. He recognizes his limits and doesn't try to go too deep, he sucks the inches he's able to and strokes the rest with his hand.

“Good boy.” You grin.

Phainon blushes and starts to move more aggressively. Whenever he can, he looks at you for validation.

“You want me to come in your mouth, puppy?”

Phainon briefly parts from your dick, making sure to continue jerking you off. He nods rapidly then begins to suckle on your cockhead while keeping eye contact with you. You grab his hair and push him further down. An erotic expression grows on his face as you pump your seed into his mouth. He swallows almost every drop despite the massive amount you’re releasing. Once he's done, he licks up all the excess.

He grabs your shoulders and adjusts himself to hover over your length. The fact that you're still hard is making him dizzy. His pussy makes contact with your cock and tries its best to make room for it. His eyes roll to the back of his head. “Fuck.” He gasps.

You allow him to take his time in favor of watching his stomach slowly bulge as he sinks further down. “You're so big~” He starts drooling. It feels so good to finally have you inside him. He bites down on his lip and reaches for his t-cock. “Can- can I touch myself?” He asks breathlessly.

How can he be so perfect? “Of course.” You have your tentacles aim for his nipples. Phainon’s body reacts extremely positively to all the stimulation. His back arches as he squirts.

“So good—” He jolts in surprise at the feeling of your dick against his cervix. He looks down, noticing the significant amount of uncharted territory between him and your length. You're not fully inside. “Deeper..” He mumbles, frowning.

You grab his waist and raise him up before brutally slamming him downwards. Phainon shrieks with pleasure as you enter his womb, allowing him to fully embrace your size. Mydei is too cock drunk to react to the noise, he’s on the edge of passing out.

Phainon grins widely and starts to bounce, somehow mustering enough energy to do so. He quickens his thrusts and makes a steady rhythm. “Yes, yes, yes–” He breathes out. He's so full. “Come…come inside~” He begs with a whiny voice.

You’ve deprived it from him for far too long. He's been a good boy, he deserves it.

You take over for Phainon and roughly drag him up and down your cock until you come. He lets out a breathy moan as you fill his womb. His eyelids start to droop.

Before he knows it, he's fast asleep.

Neither of them will be able to go back to their lives after this. You’ve ruined them.

Maybe the other Chrysos Heirs can figure something out without them.

[xcaffeineandcuddlesx]

ominis, self-assured but wary of relationships no matter the extent of his admiration.

he’s internally battling himself on the daily, torn between his lover’s sweet nothings of reassurance and the detrimental ideals and feelings of inadequacy his family tried to instill in his youth.

he doesn’t care about blood status, in fact, he would prefer someone that isn’t a pureblood just to stick it to his family.

he wants nothing more than to be committed entirely to each other, wishing he only had a last name he was proud to give to you, a name he would be proud to prolong with a family of his own.

he holds so dearly your attention and endearment, but keeps distance for the first few months of your relationship, wanting it not to ruin him if you decided a gaunt wasn’t worth entertaining.

he’s getting better with learning how valued he is, but cannot help the nagging thoughts of insecurity. he understands how different it must be to adjust both a romantic and casual life to accommodate a lover with one less sense. you think him foolish to believe you ever cared.

ominis can’t say he struggles with blindness, only that he wishes for your sake he had sight.

to take you to your favorite museums and experience them to the fullest, to watch the sunset with you - he hears it’s beautiful but would say it almost certainly pales in comparison to you if anyone mentioned them, to see the love that fills your eyes when you look at him.

oh, the things he would give to see your smile instead of settling to hear it in your voice.

neither of you require grand gestures to feel appreciated, so your love is made apparent through actions, though not lacking in words.

his heart melts when you started replacing your typical paints with textured ones. he was infatuated, running his fingers over your detailed works and following the stoke patterns so often it began to wear.

he would commission matching jewelry, imprints of your fingerprints onto a pendant. he loves the tactile reminder that you’ve entrusted him with a piece of your identity, and his with you.

should you want a pomegranate, he would be ever eager to peel one, uncaring of how long the task would be. he would let his admiration show for you with the stains of garnet on the pads of his fingers and beneath his nails. he doesn’t know of it, of course, but you find comfort in the fact that he carries his passion for you on his own skin; such a form of intimacy.

not without practice, he learned several styles of braids so that he had a place in your daily routine, beaming when you tell him he would make a wonderful father to a little girl.

his clothing in need of mending? it began as a one time thing, he found you practicing fonts with your threads and asked you to embroider your name so he could feel it. now, every time you fix a piece for him, he soothes himself on his worst days, caressing his fingers along the inside of his button down’s cuff where your name resides.

he would memorize the notes of your favorite songs, practicing endlessly in private to be able to fill your shared space with piano instrumentals.

in a modern world, you would surprise him with a personally made audiobook of his favorite novel. he listens to it as though it contained the secrets of the universe.

you two would roam the isles of a craft store, searching for the best textures to make matching dual-sided, no-sew throw blankets from. he revels in the peace of mind knowing that when it’s not your arms around him, he can still sleep with your warm embrace.

never letting you run cold, even if he had to hide his reddened fingertips in his pockets, his coat would be more yours than his at this point.

he would always replenish your favorite perfume once you ran low, secretly buying a second vial to use on his pillows and bedding when you’re away.

he would let you stand on his toes while you danced if you didn’t know how, any excuse to keep you held close.

ominis is such a kind lover, endlessly devoted.

[modernquackfare]

Hello, how are you? If you're taking requests could you please write this one. Its been cooking in my brain since christmas.

Its a bit funny, angsty with lots of misunderstanding. So basically, Ghost has a civilian wife he never told the taskforce because he's overprotective. Now they are in deployment and simon is downright a pain in the ass with a permanent chub in his paints.

Soap or Gaz thinks he's like that due to being sexually frustrated and enlist a not so new recruit who have been with them for like six months, to get rid of simon's problem and it doesn't hurt that the recruit has a crush on Ghost.

The last day of deployment and they make the operation seduce ghost on when its so happens to be bring your family to base day and the taskforce finds out about wife!reader.

Could you please write this, i know its a bit long and complicated. Thank you❤️❤️

A/N: This was an awesome idea to write and think about! Thank you for the request :) i kinda did a little bit of head hopping here, sorry, and i hope it doesnt take away from the enjoyment of reading TT

Ghost x Fem!Reader - Secret Wife

CW: Sexual references MDNI

This really isn't Ghost's scene anymore. A dim and dusty dive bar, considered upscale in comparison to The Foxhole back on base. Every surface slick with polished wood, torn cushions under his thighs, and the smell of a deep laugh lingering in every corner. At the very least, they serve drink that isn't watery beer or tequila that tastes like paint.

It's not the bar itself, per se, that he's lost his taste for—but rather the hand that shakes his shoulder away from his glass, leading to an arm that leads to the Scottish pain in his ass.

"Her over there," Soap nudges, blithely unaware of his own pointing finger. "Thas' gotta be yer type, aye? C'mon, throw us a bone here, or we’ll need to start huntin' for the perfect lad for you instead."

"Don't start, Johnny," Ghost grunts, his unoccupied hand dusting the air in dismissal.

Gaz leans in, warm gaze turned to the very woman sitting at the bar just feet away. None of them can quite recall her name, but hers is a bit of a familiar face. A smile in the hall, or accidental eye contact in the briefing room. One of a hundred others, Ghost bitterly notes, adjusting the fit of his trousers under the table.

Is it too much to hope for a quiet night out, with nothing but a bourbon to nurse and a silent curse at Ghost's own decision to persist in this line of work? It's been on his mind lately, that decision of his. He could have settled, found himself some kind of security gig or the deed to a run down warehouse he can turn into a gym. Found himself his very own Rocky Balboa to lead to victory—or something.

"If you won't do it, I will," Gaz quips, pushing himself out of the booth and striding on over to Miss Solitude at the bar. The woman turns, gaze flicking from Gaz, to their table, and then back to Gaz.

Soap shakes his head. "Right in there, like a bloody rat up a drainpipe. You’ve gotta be quicker than that, LT. No need to be shy, you just buy her a bevvy and get to talkin'."

"Was never a chance to begin with."

"Like hell there wasn't."

The conversation is finalized with a scoff and flicking hand, as if Ghost meant to shoo away a buzzing fly. Might as well be.

***

If it wasn't the long showers, it was how distracted he was behaving lately. If not that, then it definitely came down to the absolute wallop Ghost landed on Soap a week or more later during their hand-to-hand combat training. Something has the lieutenant in the trenches of his own mind—and if only to preserve the unbruised quality of his own skin, Soap recruits Gaz in his efforts to get Ghost laid.

Gaz snickers behind his hand when Soap first suggests the idea. "You sure that's the problem here? It's not like—"

"Just think about it, Gaz," Soap insists, gesturing as if presenting to a row of investors. "He's never spent a night anywhere but in his own bloody room. Like he's some kind of old man who needs to be in bed before nine. I mean, look at him."

The two turn to watch Ghost in his spot by the wall, gazing into a gooey custard bun he's torn in half. He squeezes it, shoves one half back into its wrapper, and stuffs it into his pocket.

Gaz whistles softly. "It's like watching a big cat pace in a cage."

"Aye, I know. And I have a plan to fix it." Soap then gestures across the firing range, to a certain figure clutching a pistol in two hands. Liora, her name is? Something like that.

Raising an eyebrow, Gaz tilts his head. "What, with her? Girl from the bar? She was nice when I talked with her, but she's already got her eyes on someone else already. Not sure who, but she's practically taken, mate."

"Never say never," Soap winks nonetheless, gesturing lightly as Liora lays down her gun. He then shrugs suggestively, beginning his trek towards her. "Lt's a silver tuna, being all masked up and sour as he is. Given the chance, well—"

"I'm sure," Gaz sighs, tinged with light amusement. "Go on, then. Go ask her."

***

As it turns out, Soap and Gaz have half their job done for them. Liora, as quiet as she is, and largely suspicious about her two superiors' intentions, eventually reveals that her affinity for this mystery man does, in fact, lead back to Ghost. Akin to a schoolgirl, she's got a crush. A fierce one.

In between missions, while Ghost is tapping away at a laptop and twitching in his seat, Gaz nudges Liora into delivering him some coffee. If not that, Soap pushes her into volunteering during training to spar with him. All the while, she tries to hold his gaze a little longer, let her hand linger just a little more. This time in particular, Soap and Gaz giggle across the room like children with a toy car, watching as Liora gathers up her courage to tell Ghost a joke.

"Soap said you liked jokes," she shrugs. "So...why did the soldier bring a ladder to the training ground?"

"Mmh, why?" Ghost mumbles, half attentive to her words.

Liora cluelessly sits beside him, half a giggle in her voice. "To join the high ranks." It coaxes an amused huff out of him—and nothing more.

***

How could Ghost find anything funny these days? The tension is up to his ears, racing through every vein. And his wife, God, his poor wife back home has no idea what's in store for her once this damned deployment is over. You sent him a lovely little video from the shower this morning to try to ease the pain of being away for so long. A sweet gesture in intention, but all it's done is exacerbate the ache in his loins and tongue for a familiar feel and taste, to hold you in his arms and sink steadily into you or press you to the wall as he takes what he needs from your soft, pliable body.

Ghost grunts. Damn his mind. He's the very farthest thing from a professional when it comes to you. Liora—or so the others call that girl—is gone by the time he's come to his senses, replaced by Soap, who pounds a closed fist against his back in greeting. "Hopeless, brother. You're hopeless."

"Piss off, Johnny."

"You keep squirmin' like your gear's riding up," He sighs, hands on his hips. "Still cannae wrap ma head 'round why you won't just give her a shot."

Ghost glares up at him, attention diverted from his work. "You been puttin' her up to this?"

"She's nae faking, Ghost. C'mon. Give the poor lass a chance. C'mon, ma pride's hingin' on this, mate." Soap grabs hold of his shoulder and shakes it around, moving him like a damn joystick. "Go on, you wee bawbag, at least give her the time o' day."

"14:32, you muppet."

Soap leaves it at that with a laugh, swaggering off elsewhere as Ghost counts down the hours until he can retreat to the privacy of his room and fist his cock to your little videos until it hurts.

***

The end of his deployment. Never a sweeter day there's been—aside from your wedding, perhaps. Ghost is shedding layers in his room, yanking off his fatigues in exchange for civvies, just as the creaking sound of his unlocked bedroom door sounds out. You're here. Normally, Ghost saves you any kind of journey and just heads home alone—but the impatience is getting to his fevered brain. Besides, you could do with a little break from the house.

He turns to face you. "Oh, I've been on the brink of murdering—"

Ghost's words come to an abrupt halt at the sight of Liora, rather than you, standing in the doorway of his room. This is a dangerous situation for her, invading on a superior's privacy without a clear go-head. Not to mention rude in it of itself. He drops his shirt, suddenly aware of his own half-dress. No one but his wife sees him like this, tattooed sleeve bared, boots off and nothing but a face mask to hide his identity.

He doesn't speak, thinking his cold stare would do the job for him, as it tends to, but clueless Liora steps forward in a rush of misplaced confidence. "Just wanted to say goodbye," she whispers, her hand reaching out to stroke his arm. It makes his skin tingle in all the worst ways. "Guess I'll have to find a new sparring partner for now, sir. Hope they can take hits as well as you."

Does she not see it, he wonders. How he dodges her touch and exhales a sigh of indifference. Poor girl. She's got a lot to learn.

His indifference, nonetheless, does not deter her. Liora trails her hand up his shoulders, far too intimate for a girl who is little more than an acquaintance. But curse his speed, failing him at the most crucial of times—the door opens again, and of course, you walk in as Ghost has a hand on Liora's wrist. Unclear to you whether he meant to push it away or pull it closer. Ghost releases his grip and mutters a sharp, "leave us," to the girl, before facing his beloved wife.

There you stand, as pretty as the day he met you, gaze flitting from a mortified Liora—now leaving the room—to your husband. Ghost stalks closer, brown eyes softening at the sight of you. "Was waiting for you, love."

"You needed company to wait for me?" You ask, arms crossing before your chest. That sting of instinctual fear and possessiveness, the tight curling ache in your gut that clenches at the thought of being deceived and abandoned by the once you love most—you can't ignore it. Logic attempts to unfurl its spindly talons, telling you that it would make no sense for Ghost to have called some girl into his room just as his wife makes her way up to see him. But what was she doing in his room? Pawing at him, as if it were her place to do so?

Ghost's gaze falls fondly upon you, warm and uncharacteristically tired. "Didn't ask for her to come in. She helped herself."

"Really?" you huff, treading forward to stop before him. "Didn't look like it, Si."

"Doesn't have to," He grunts back. "You trust me."

It's true. You know the kind of man he is, and it isn't a cheating fool that takes what he has for granted. God knows he wouldn't risk losing more after everything he's already lost. Especially not you, the light of his shadowy life. Your arms fall to your sides, and you sigh. "She must have had real guts, then. Coming into your room, trying to...what was it she wanted, anyway?" Feeling the tension siphon from the room, Ghost returns to packing, laying haphazardly folded shirts into his last duffel and grunting a noncommittal sound. "Fuck if I know. 'M pretty sure it's Soap and Gaz's doing, though. They've been insisting on me giving her a chance. Poor tossers got another thing comin'." You laugh as you take a seat beside his bag, glancing around the room. Impersonal decor, as always. Ghost has always been a private person, even within the confines of privacy. Hell, his closest friends don't even know you exist. It used to make you suspicious, being his secret girlfriend back in the day. Now, though, the secrecy is natural, comforting even.

"I don't suppose you'd be up to ending that streak, would you?" You suggest, leaning over his bag.

Ghost can only sigh, the deepest gust of breath he's ever held. May God smite him where he stands if he ever says no to you.

***

Gaz, mouth agape, glances over at the Scot beside him. "A wife?"

Ghost, inevitably, agreed to let the two of them meet you. That makes three other people out of the entire base that knows of your existence—the third being Price. You wave, albeit a little shyly, and smile in greeting the numpties that Ghost has spoken so much about. Good guys, if a bit foolish. "That's me."

"Creepin' Jesus," Soap grimaces, in all of his discomfort and mild embarrassment, "Didnae ken you had a wife, Lt. Couldnae have told me that before I started nudging that other poor lass into trying to get a ride outta you?"

Flicking his head up in satisfaction, Ghost chuckles. "Teach you a lesson, you children. I think you owe my missus an apology." "Ach, sorry ma'am," Gaz concedes, while Soap follows with a similarly apologetic smile.

"You've got a bonnie one, Lt. Save some for the rest of us, eh?" "Not happening. What the hell made you think that was a good idea?"

Soap glances over at him, eyebrows raised. "What, setting you up? You needed a ride, man, you were fair uptight and tense all the time. Almost put a window in my face wi' that fist o' yours."

It evokes another breathy laugh from you, drawing your husband's loving gaze before it trails back to Soap and Gaz. "Right. But that's my business, isn't it?"

"Thanks for trying to help him out anyway," You cut in, nodding your head politely to their happy smirks. "I'm sure he needed it, even if he does do his best not to show it."

Your words earn you a stern gaze—but nothing you couldn't handle. Let Ghost direct that energy into something else. Something fun that you have a few ideas for.

Soap and Gaz bid their goodbyes to Ghost before walking off, audibly muttering, "how the hell did that sour old bastard get such a sweet wife?" Or something along those lines. Regardless, you turn your attention to your dear, suffering husband with a tricky smirk. "So. You've been having some difficulties lately? Anything I could help with? If you're not expected to be somewhere else within the next hour or so, that is."

It coaxes a deep chuckle out of your husband, who's already sliding his hand 'round your waist down to the curve of your ass, gently squeezing. Nobody's around to see, anyhow. Ghost whispers into your reddening ear. "I think we'll be needing more than an hour, sweet thing."

Request Archive

[that-one-p00k1e]

───〃★ the way I love you ೃ⁀➷˚ ♡ ⋆｡˚

Their love language w/you ft. Hajime Umemiya, Hayato Suo, Ren Kaji, & Haruka Sakura | Demon Slayer ver.

c/w: 🎀OOC🎀, fluff, gn!reader (I think), use of "my lady" in Suo's, established!relationship in Umemiya's

GRADUATING 2DAY RAAAHHH🗣️🗣️🔥🔥🔥🦅🦅🦅

—Haruka Sakura being the easily flustered tsundere he is, words and physical touch aren't really in his dictionary of how to express his feelings. He isn't good at being forward verbally in the environment of love, nor is he able to initiate close proximity gestures.

Without realizing, one of his particular ways of showing his care was through acts of service. Helping each other around town has become a normalcy. Thus, he wouldn't stand out when doing you a favor purely out of his own will; he prefers to be discreet to avoid getting called out, not wanting to be viewed as soft and lose his dignity.

He'd claim that he couldn't give any less of concern for anyone. Yet, he couldn't help but feel an uncomfortable tug at his heart when you mentioned forgetting to bring an umbrella during the rainy weather. He contemplated whether to do something about it or not, torn between his pride and feelings.

Just as you were about to step foot outside, you felt a hand on your shoulder that brought you to a halt.

“The hell do you think you're doin’? Trying to get a cold?”

You weren't given enough time to let out a reply before a folded umbrella was held up to your face.

“You could've asked to borrow one, y'know. I have a spare, so save the fuss and just take it.”

With that, you thanked him and gave a smile of gratitude before taking your leave with the lent umbrella. Little did you know, that boy did not own a spare…

—Hajime Umemiya is so pure he's guaranteed to shower you with every. possible. way. imaginable to express his love. But physical touch would be one of the most prominent.

No matter the occasion, no matter the time, you somehow will always get pulled into an embrace one way or another. He loved the feeling of cradling your petite figure between his strong arms; it made him feel like he was shielding you from any harm. His hugs were warm, comforting, and provided a sense of safety. He'd wrap his arms around your waist from behind and spoon you in, he'd rub his hand up and down your back as you cry into his chest, he'll run up to you and let you jump into his arms, spinning you around as he lifted you off the ground.

He loves the feeling of your hands against his; your soft skin contrasting with his calloused palms. The comparison between the size of your hands and his was somewhat cute to him, making him want to protect you even more as if you were the most precious yet fragile treasure in this world.

“Next time you come in here looking all beat-up, I'm kicking you out and locking you outside,” you scolded him as you tended to his injured hands, irritation yet concern etched on your facial features.

Ume let out a chuckle at your threat, gazing at your grumpy yet worried facial expression which he thought endearing.

“Aww… You really have the heart to be so cruel to your beloved and caring boyfriend??” he whined as he looked at you with an exaggerated pouty face.

“So-called ‘caring’ but doesn't even seem to care about how worried his girlfriend gets when he comes over looking like a used dog toy.” He felt a twinge of guilt at your words, feeling bad for making you so worked up over his condition.

Gently, he held your wrist and brought your hand up to his face, softly placing tender kisses on your knuckles.

“I'm sorry for worrying you, sweetheart…” His deep, gentle voice conveyed such words so smoothly, like a soothing melody strumming its way through your ears and into your heart. You couldn't help but loosen the wrinkles that tugged your eyebrows, letting out a sigh as the tension slowly left your nody. You knew it was his duty to protect the town and all, but the amount of fight he gets into this week devastated you.

“Just… try to avoid doing it alone, please? I know you're strong, but it hurts me seeing you go up against many by yourself.”

“I'll try… Promise.” With that, he leaned over to plant a reassuring kiss on your forehead.

—Hayato Suo enjoys being discreet and mysterious. He finds amusement in seeing your confused face when you receive any form of gift anonymously. At first, he'll start out completely unknown; he wants to satisfy his curiosity on how you'd react for the first time. Once he saw the confused yet happy look on your face, it made him want to perform the act of gift giving even further.

The type of gift would often be small flower bouquets. Occasionally, a little pack of candy would be stuck to it alongside a little note. Written inside those little notes; through either riddles, poems, or song lyrics, he started giving subtle hints on who the sender was. Day by day, he watched patiently as you took your time to connect the pieces.

Until one day.

You were at Pothos, helping out Kotoha as the first-year gang hung out. While wiping the front counter, you overheard Nirei sharing his opinion on how cool Suo was that he understood flower language. You internally agreed. Suo was a man of many quirks, and you've secretly admired him for that. He understood trivial things that most people wouldn't; poems, flowers, riddles– Holy shit.

Your body froze up the moment realization kicked in, heartbeat accelerating as you tried to quickly form everything in your mind. The elegant handwriting, the heart touching poems, the beautifully arranged varieties of flowers. Could it be–

“Suo.”

The crowd suddenly went quiet at the abrupt mention of one of the personel. You decided to take things somewhere a little more private.

“Please be honest with me,” you demanded as the both of you stood in front of the café.

“Are you the one who has been placing random flower bouquets in front of my doorstep? And before you come at me, there is no one else I know that understands flower language, poems, or-”

“Ah, so you've finally noticed,” the brunette chimed innocently with a sweet smile.

You blinked. “W-What?”

“Yes, I'm the perpetrator behind all those floral gifts you find every day. Are you uncomfortable with it? I can stop if you'd like–”

“NO! I-... I appreciate it. It's just… why? What for? Did you get a dare or something?”

Ever so subtly, his eyes softened at your words. “Why, it is simply because I like you.”

The moment the confession escaped his lips, it felt like your whole world was shaken. You were excited, happy, yet unsure. Unsure if he meant it or not. After all, you knew the kind of person he was.

“... Please don't joke about this.”

He understands what you mean, and he doesn't blame you for that. “My lady… I may be one to bluff, but involving one's feelings is where I draw the line,” he spoke with a tone oh-so gentle, wanting to convey the sincerity his words bore.

“Then… what are you trying to get out of doing all of this?”

“Your heart.”

Blood rushed into your cheeks like a marathon. Your heartbeat acceleration exceeded a speed limit you didn't know you had. With a deep breath, you gathered all ability left to respond.

“... You already did.”

Not even a second passed, and the young man felt a pair of arms embracing him tightly; a sigh leaving his lips as he looked down at the fair maiden in adoration and fondness.

Little did they know about the little audience they had through the glass window of the café.

—Ren Kaji has an aloof demeanor that he tends to keep to himself and distance his existence from the world. He's not one to listen nor speak, preferring to focus on the music blasting through his headphones. Though he enjoys being in rowdy places, he doesn't get loud and excited himself. All in all, quality time would be his best aspect in the language of love.

He'll accompany you on your walks, either when he bumps into you during patrol or when you're going home from school. He'd claim that walking you home was a part of his ‘duty’ and that you just happened to appear as an excuse. Along the journey, he'd listen to you talk your heart out while humming occasionally to let you know he was listening. Even if his headphones were on, he'd lower the volume to be able to hear your voice.

Never had he admitted how he felt comfortable with your presence, and maybe he never will. Words and touches weren't in his field of knowledge, making him seem to be difficult to approach. But little did you know that deep down, he held a spot for you as one of the exceptions – which he was clearly oblivious to.

“... Kaji… Kaji.” He rolled the sucker in his mouth and pulled down his headphones as he felt a poke on his cheek.

“Go on ahead without me. I'm gonna head someplace to eat.”

“I'll come with.”

“But you have patrol.”

“And I also have Enomoto and Kusumi. End of discussion.”

With a defeated sigh, you decided to eat at Pothos; the safest place to eat and thankfully the closest to your place. You offered to treat Kaji for dinner – not wanting to be the only one eating – but the young man declined and said he wasn't hungry. You didn't care; still getting him something as a way to thank him for his willingness to accompany this whole time.

“What? I said I wasn't hungry,” he claimed in defense while pulling his head away once he saw you bring a spoonful of omelette rice to his mouth.

“Just shut up and eat. I'm not living with the guilt for having you go through all this trouble for me.” You pulled out his sucker and replaced it with the awaiting spoon, not giving him time to argue back. He swallowed and looked away before muttering lowly.

“I'm not doing it for you.”

“Whatever you say…”

He begrudgingly let you feed him the whole food, chewing quietly and kept himself distracted on his phone. Unbeknownst to you and him, tints of pink adorned his cheeks.

Little did y'all know, Tamon's second year's vice captains had a good view, but decided to save themselves a scolding.

[sleepless-dreams]

ON THIN ICE

summary: when issues threaten to steal the joy from your nephew, you have to choose; cover from your past or push past it and help him out

word count: 2k

₊⊹CHAPTER 3⊹₊

It isn't hard to slip into a routine. I pick up Owen from school on Mondays and Thursdays. We stop by his house to drop off his schoolbag, grab a quick bite and then we’re off to the East Ice Arena. I watch him and his coach move on the ice. When it becomes too much, I scroll on my phone and I make it my personal mission to avoid crossing paths with Hank at all costs.

By the time the calendar in my flat’s entrance hall shows October, some Owen’s gear stays permanently in the back of my car.

Today is one of the practice days. I’m sitting on the bleachers, watching the boys play a mock match. Owen’s team is losing, by a lot. As much as it hurts me to admit it, it’s largely because of the skill gap between Owen and the rest of the boys. Most of his teammates have been playing since they were young, but Owen picked up hockey just last year.

I watch the puck slide across the ice, Owen's skating after it with all the speed he can muster. It’s not enough. The opposite team's player gets to it first. My stomach tightens and I look away, scrolling aimlessly on my phone. Anything to keep my eyes off the rink. Off the sharp turns, the gliding movements, the endless comparisons clawing their way to the front of my mind. I push them away with a random article about some internet drama.

My mind goes back to what Hank told me when I first came here. Even if I don’t agree with his view, I fear he might be right. When the time comes to choose the lineup, I’m not sure Owen is going to make it. The thought makes my chest feel tight. Not just because I want him to succeed, but because I know the sting of being told you’re not good enough. And worse, the sting of believing it.

I can only hope there’s still time for him to improve before he starts getting bothered by the differences between himself and his teammates.

My worries come true sooner than I hoped they would. I was waiting for Owen in my car today, I went to run some errands during his practice. The moment he sits down in the backseat, I know something is wrong.

A quick glance into the rear-view mirror confirms my suspicions. His bottom lip is turned out into a pout, eyebrows knitted together and his eyes are glossy with tears he stubbornly refuses to let fall. The sight of him upset is enough to make my heart ache.

"What's the matter, buddy?" I ask him gently, continuing to watch him through the mirror.

He attempts to play it off, turning his head towards the window and acting like he didn't hear me.

"What happened, Owen?" I try again, addressing him directly to get his attention. It works, because he turns his head to meet my eyes through the reflection. A first tear makes its way down his cheek, soon followed by a second and then a third...

I furrow my eyebrows, ready to ask again, when he beats me to it.

"I'm done with hockey." He declares, his voice torn halfway between anger and sadness.

He catches me completely off guard. "What, why?" I splutter, turning sharply in my seat to face him.

"I'm dragging everyone down! I'm messing up the games.." He sniffles.

"Did the others tell you that?" I ask him quietly.

"Yeah, and they're right... I don't know how to play real hockey." He replies between quiet sobs.

In one swift movement I open the car door and slide out of the driver's seat. Coming up to Owen's door, I open it. I crouch down by the car to be at his eye level.

"That's not true, honey. You're doing well." And I mean every word I say. He's behind others, sure, but they had years to get to where they are right now. Owen isn't on the ice even a full year. He's still learning and he is getting better. But I guess that falls flat when he's in a team with boys who have been doing this for most of their lives.

"I'm not! I can't do what they do and I slow them down! When we play matches my team always loses and it's my fault!" The boy shouts back at me, his sentences coming out bunched together, swept up in his emotions.

I reach out my hand, carefully laying it over his own that are balled up into fists in his lap. I give them a soft squeeze to hopefully ground him a little. I hate to see him like this, it hurts.

"You will get better. You already made such progress." I try to reassure him.

"It's not enough! I'm not good enough..." His voice gradually loses its strength, the last part coming out as almost a whisper. "Maybe it's for the better if I quit. I would spend the season on the bench anyway." he adds quietly.

I breathe out, deep, trying to ground myself as I think. I've been where he is and I wish someone was there to tell me what I'm going to tell him.

"Do you enjoy playing?" I ask, completely changing the current course of the conversation.

Owen gives me a confused look, his body trembling slightly as he hiccups. He stays quiet, thinking about his answer before tipping his head into a small nod.

"Good." I murmur softly, swiping my thumb over the back of his hand in a soothing motion. "It would be a waste to quit if you enjoy doing it," I add softly.

"We could ask the coach for additional practices," I suggest after a small pause to think.

He immediately shakes his head at that.

"Why is that?" I ask him, curious as to why he would decline that.

"It would be expensive," he protests, his voice tinged with guilt. "We don’t have money to spare on extra training."

I bite back a frustrated huff. Kids his age shouldn't be worrying about what he and his family can or can not afford. It's true that my brother is cutting back at cost with a second child on the way, but Owen shouldn't be aware of such changes. He's far too young for all of this.

I sigh, biting into my lip again.

"How about this..." I start, my voice careful. "You can come skating with me." I offer, pushing down the unease bubbling in my stomach. "I know I'm not a hockey player, but I can show you some things. Maybe it's worth a try," I explain, my smile small but sincere, a weak attempt to ease the tension.

He peers up at me, bringing his hand up to swipe at his face.

"Think about it," I say softly. "No pressure. Let me know when you're ready."

I know it's not the same as time with a hockey coach, but I’m no stranger to the ice. The fundamentals are the same. While I can’t help with his stick handling or puck skills, I can work with him on his balance and footwork, maybe even boost his self-confidence.

I reach out, pulling him into a tight hug. He hesitates, but after a moment, his arms circle my neck, holding on as if I might slip away. I hold him for a while, firm enough to offer reassurance, but loose enough for him to pull away when he needs to.

When he pulls away, I smile softly, ruffling his hair before getting back behind the steering wheel.

"And Owen?" I call as I slam the car door shut after myself. "Don’t let anyone take the joy from what you love. Trust me, it’s a mistake you don’t want to make." I tell him, looking back at him through the mirror. He doesn't visibly react, but I can see him process what I told him.

We sit in silence for a while as I drive, the soft hum of the engine filling the space between us. I turn the blinker on, signalling I'm going to the right on the next intersection. A divergence from the usual route we take to get home.

When I catch Owen tilting his head in curiosity, I give him a grin– something easy, something that feels like a break from the heavy air.

"How about a slushie?" I ask, hoping to pull him out of whatever thoughts were swirling in his mind. The sparkle in his eyes is a welcome sign that it worked.

On the drive back from the gas station where we stopped for the sweet treat, I ask a question that’s been worming its way through my brain since our conversation. "Who told you you weren’t doing good enough?"

The slurping pauses as he hears the question. He hesitates for a moment before answering.

"Ivan and his friends. But really, everyone gets angry or annoyed when I mess up," he says, shrugging as if it’s normal. I feel a surge of anger at the thought of him dismissing this so casually.

Ivan... Was that Hank’s son? It doesn’t surprise me that he’s the ringleader. With a father like his, it makes sense that Ivan sees winning as the only purpose and anyone who makes it harder as a threat. You can’t deny a kid’s upbringing, and it’s not surprising that Ivan has adopted his father’s views and behavior patterns. And while I’m angry about how Ivan pits the team against Owen for still learning, I also pity the kid. He’s being set up to not only be a loner and an asshole like his father, but also to face athletic letdown. And those are rough... I would know.

I let the subject drop after that.

By the time I drop Owen off at his parents’ house, the only remnants of his tears are his slightly puffy eyes and runny nose. It’s a relief.

I don’t stay for long, only walking Owen inside and exchanging a few words with his parents. The whole time I can feel the weight of my thoughts pressing down on me, still too loud, too overwhelming. I’ve got a lot to think about, a lot to process. The idea of getting back into the rink keeps circling my mind, pulling at me. At first, just watching the practices was hard enough, but the thought of skating again, getting back on the ice myself, it terrifies me.

I know I didn’t have to offer Owen my help. I didn’t have to get involved, but I want to. I want him to feel better about himself, to feel more confident in his skill. He finds joy in playing, and that’s something worth protecting. And if I can be part of that, even if it means pushing through my own fear, I’ll do it.

The drive home feels long. I feel disconnected, as if I’m running on autopilot, my mind far from the present moment.

When I get inside, I head straight to my room, shutting the door behind me with a thump. The air is too thick with thoughts, too heavy to breathe in. I find myself standing in front of my open wardrobe, staring at the white box that’s always been there, hidden under the clothes.

I can feel my heart pounding in my chest, the rapid beat in my ears, my hands trembling as I reach for the box. I sit down on the bed and set the box on my knees. My hands shake when I lift the top off. I can’t tear my eyes away from the skates inside, as if they’re mocking me. A tight knot forms in my stomach. I exhale sharply through my nose, trying to calm my racing thoughts.

But even with all the dread that fills me, there’s a small part of me, barely noticeable, that stirs with a familiar, old exhilaration.

[satsuha]

i'm always really interested in how the characters call each other in japanese games, so i laid out a few differences between the japanese and english versions of some ace attorney games that particularly interest me. this isn't meant to be an exhaustive list but it did get really long 😭

i highlighted english nicknames/etc in blue while japanese nicknames/etc are orange just to make reading a little easier

AA1-2

while only playing the english version i liked that maya called phoenix nick, it's a nickname that makes sense and phoenix is annoying to say and write anyway (lol) but the reason maya gives for this nickname in english is that it's what larry uses for him, which pales in comparison to maya in the japanese version opting for how mia used to call him: naruhodo-kun.

to me, this is a LOT more meaningful and informative than the english nickname because it not only is evidence of how much maya heard about phoenix from mia using that nickname, it also gives us a glimpse of maya's personality and her relationship with phoenix. -kun is an honorific that's usually used for either male classmates or for teachers/superiors to use with their students/subordinates. maya falls into neither of these categories with phoenix, but it also lines up with how she acts like the boss of the office a lot of the time. SO LIKE... ultimately the nickname nick just does not hold up in terms of both maya's reasoning for using it, and phoenix's apprehension at her calling him that... which i just think is a shame!! in the same vein, this nickname is passed down to pearl, and again you see phoenix having a Reaction to it which makes sense considering it's funny that a kid is calling him naruhodo-kun...

i don't only want to talk about changes in english that i don't prefer, so i also want to mention that i'm very impressed that they managed to get phoenix and edgeworth referring to each other by their surnames in english to sound natural... because it's also exactly what they do in japanese except there, the idea of male friends using their surnames with each other is a very very normal thing. i AM torn on the fact that in japanese larry also refers to the two of them by their surnames, which means all 3 of them are on equal grounds in that respect. AT THE SAME TIME... english makes larry's "nick" and "edgey" work so well that i really can't say we missed out with this localization, but i do like the relationship between these 3 so i do like that the japanese is indicative of it too :)

AA4

i'm skipping ahead to aa4 because trucy's also a very interesting localization to me... the first time i played aa4 i felt like trucy wasn't sufficiently differentiated enough from maya's character which is like. debatable but those were my initial thoughts anyway. in japanese though she uses third-person pronouns (calling herself by her own name, minuki) which is VERY distinct from maya. there are a number of ways to interpret this choice but i like the one that indicates that it's part of her stage persona. aside from that though, she also has a very normal nickname for apollo (odoroki-san, with -san indicating general politeness) while polly is um well canonically the name of a parrot LOL

i do find it pretty interesting that the above exchange is the first instance trucy uses the polly nickname, because it's entirely different in the japanese version. phoenix says "if this onii-chan over here can't help you..." to which trucy responds by saying "how could you, onii-chan!" this exchange is hilarious to me because phoenix referring to apollo as an onii-chan is pretty normal? it's common to refer to any young man as that and in this case he's also referring to apollo from trucy's perspective. but trucy DIRECTLY calling apollo onii-chan (brother) is just so funny because HERE it's a lot closer to how an actual younger sister would refer to her older brother; there's a difference between saying "this onii-chan" and just "onii-chan". now i'm not saying this was direct foreshadowing because onii-chan is also used between close friends/acquaintances but like... the possibility is there.

AA5

now onto simon because i don't actually have a problem with the localization making him a british weeaboo i think that's really funny but i DO wish the nicknames he uses for the defense attorneys were more... appropriate? the honorific -dono that he uses in english does complement his samurai look but it's usually used in contexts where there's some respect involved, which is... not simon's intention in japanese. i'm admittedly not too familiar with the nicknames he uses in japanese; he uses "[kanji] no ji", while using a kanji from phoenix/apollo/athena's surnames. by searching it in japanese, i'm finding answers that it was medieval slang used by men usually in red light districts and such, and was used to refer to those with equal or lower status to oneself but never to those of higher status. this is kinda the opposite of what -dono is which is used for those of equal or higher status!!

i also find it pretty amusing that despite him using the first kanji in phoenix's name; 成 (turn into, grow), he uses the second kanji in both apollo and athena's names; 泥 (mud) and 月 (moon) respectively. i can only imagine that he did this because the first kanji in their names; 王 (king) and 希 (rare, hope) respectively, were too positive/complimentary for him? LOL

AA6

now i want to to talk about apollo in aa6 because NNGNRHGH i'm not normal about this one. because like, similarly to what i said up there about phoenix, edgeworth and larry's relationship, it's completely normal for close male friends to use their surnames with each other. phoenix, being apollo's boss, refers to him as odoroki-kun (mirroring how mia and maya call phoenix). trucy uses odoroki-san, indicating general politeness and athena uses odoroki-senpai, because he's her senior in their workplace. clay uses odoroki (no honorific), which is the same "level" as phoenix/edgeworth/larry's relationship.

a male character never being referred to as their first name is pretty normal, which is also the case in the aa games. franziska calls edgeworth by his first name reiji which is SUPPOSED to stand out because it's notably impolite/informal for someone who is younger than him, which suits the idea of her thinking of herself as the elder sibling. for additional reference, phoenix is only referred to by his first name by dahlia/iris; ryuu-chan ("feenie" equivalent) and desiree; ryuuichi-kun ("nicky boy" equivalent). so apollo is referred to exclusively by his surname, because there isn't anyone who's associated with him who would feasibly use his first name.

THAT IS. UNTIL we meet datz who is the first (!!) character to use apollo's first name in japanese. this moment doesn't stand out in english because i KNOOWWW datz uses the AJ nickname which is very cute but he doesn't actually use that nickname the first time he indicates that he knows apollo in case 6-3!! phoenix's momentary confusion here is also explained because while he obviously knows apollo's full name, he's never heard anyone refer to him with it!!!

so phoenix's thoughts in japanese here were originally "housuke... wait, that bracelet! that's odoroki-kun!"

dhurke and later nahyuta (during the last moments of the 6-5 trial) also refer to apollo with his first name, which is... really nice!!! they're family!!!! i mourn the fact that this distinction isn't visible in english because most characters just call him apollo but it's special in japanese... it's only dhurke, nahyuta and datz who use his first name.... i'm normal i promise

funnily enough i sort of have the opposite issue with nahyuta, who is generally referred to as prosecutor sahdmadhi in english but nayuta-kenji (prosecutor) in japanese. i'm assuming this is because his name is written with his given name first unlike japanese names, so they just used his given name instead of his surname...? unfortunately we don't have an example of any other foreign prosecutor as reference (i'm excluding van zieks here because they DO use his surname but it's also an entirely different time and place) but i prefer the english here since it also makes it stand out when apollo, dhurke and datz (with yuty hehe) use his first name with him.

but then again... rayfa also refers to him as prosecutor sahdmadhi in english, but just calls him nayuta in japanese. there aren't a lot of characters rayfa refers to by name but generally she's either overly polite (with ga'ran and inga) or overly impolite (with phoenix and apollo). it makes sense that the way she calls nahyuta is a little unique, since he's of lower status than her but not enough to get a rude nickname fdjhja... and then of course at the end of the game she tries to call him onii-(chan? san? sama? we just don't know) which nahyuta interprets as oni (demon) i think the localization here is really impressive actually. they somehow managed to seamlessly fit braid head into the mix of barbed head and horn head (both nicknames that refer to their hairstyles) while braid also begins with the same letters as brother... anyway i think i slightly prefer that rayfa (and ga'ran) call nahyuta by his first name rather than by his prosecutor title, it's indicative of their higher status because of the lack of an honorific but by the end of the game it fits in with the idea of them all being family...

TGAA1-2

you would think that because tgaa opted to leave japanese honorifics in the dialogue that there wouldn't be any differences in how the characters refer to each other but there are... first of all kazuma and ryunosuke are once again male friends who refer to each other by their surnames without an honorific in japanese, but the english has them use their first names with each other instead. i can understand this change because characters using only their surnames with each other feels oddly distant in english, and while it worked for phoenix and edgeworth's relationship it definitely doesn't suit kazuma and ryunosuke's.

additionally, the way susato calls ryunosuke was also changed from naruhodo-sama to naruhodo-san. this is... also an interesting change since it requires the player to have some basic knowledge of japanese honorifics but for some reason decided to change it anyway, despite the fact that susato also uses -sama with kazuma... one thing to note is that susato does use kazuma's first name instead of his surname like she does with ryunosuke, which helps indicate their closer relationship despite her still showing respect with the -sama honorific. in that sense naruhodo-san feels like an interesting middle ground because she's still using his surname but doesn't seem to view his position with her as equal to kazuma's? i assume that was the intent of the localization, similarly to how the way kazuma and ryunosuke call each other was changed to indicate closeness to the english-speaking player

--

anyway while i do prefer the original japanese version most of the time, my general view of original vs localization is like wow! two cakes! i might prefer one of those cakes more, but the english version usually provides enough that i like that both canons exist. because of this i can't agree with the idea that all localization is bad nor the side that believes the original doesn't matter because you're engaging only with the english side of the fandom. both are good and can reveal interesting things about the characters, story and setting!!

and thank you for reading if you got this far 🙇 i'm not an expert at japanese so i try to do my research and use multiple sources to get a better view of things, so please let me know if i got anything wrong! i also recommend checking out this post if you haven't seen it already since it's where i got some pointers on the trucy and simon segments

[gay-dorito-dust]

Are you taking requests for kraven? Maybe dating hcs where reader is lowkey insane?

Reader might come off a little more deranged/ morbidly curious rather than insane. But yeah enjoy whether this was.

You came across as a typical upstanding citizen of society, nothing out of the ordinary but not everything about you was ordinary when animals -whom are good judges of character- were adamant in avoiding you, running away as fast as they could if you were nearby and or show hostility towards you in hopes that you’d leave them alone.

You unsettled them as you were silent chaos waiting to break out, other people just get an unnerving feeling about you that they’re quick to dismiss when you show them a side that’ll make them less skeptical of your true nature. It was rather easy to fool others by putting on a charade that they can digest.

Sergei -upon first meeting- had a feeling that something was off about you as his eyes took you in, you looked normal but yet something within him told him to be weary of the fire within your eyes as you smiled at him.

Then again your meeting came at a time where one thing and one thing only was preoccupying his mind, so human interaction with anyone that could potentially get hurt by his father’s associates was far removed from his mind as he was quick to pick up where he had left off.

But it wouldn’t be long before you were too deeply involved with his plot against his father and you would have to remain close by the burly man for your own safety in fear that his fathers men would come back and finish the job that they should’ve beforehand.

However you seemed unfazed by all the violence and blood that came from Sergei’s lifestyle, almost coming across as numb when you saw how he’d tear through people as though they were nothing, your eyes would be wide slightly in morbid fascination at how effortlessly limbs were torn off and sent flying elsewhere.

Had it been anyone else would’ve ran away and seek for shelter for their own safety, get away from all the chaos and destruction happening before you. But you were a little different as you would only sit yourself down on a nearby surface and watch Sergei go to work in awe of how truly violent one man could be to cause so much bloodshed.

Sergei would naturally be a little pissed that you were so close to the violence, so close to getting hurt and looking about as unbothered as you were being told something that didn’t affect you directly. Like nothing truly disturbed you because you’ve already seen your fair share of chaos and carnage in comparison to a normal civilian.

It was eyebrow raising to say the least but your safety was his bigger concern as he held you by your shoulders and looked at you with wild eyes, expecting you to flinch but you didn’t, if anything you only smiled at the man as you hugged him tight; not caring for the blood that stained him as you knew simple but effective methods to get rid of such a stubborn substance.

‘You could’ve gotten hurt.’ He tell you.

‘No I wouldn’t.’ You replied so certainly, a little too calm for someone who’s seen people die before their eyes. ‘I have you.’ You added.

‘You act unfazed by such displays of violence,’ Sergei starts, ‘I wonder why, you don’t seem to have any background in anything that could have you withstanding the sight of a man with his entrails hanging out.’

You merely shrugged. ‘I might just have a strong stomach and the idea that you know so much about me and my background should off put me from you as being creepy, but I kind of admire a man who wants to learn all about his prey before pursing them in a hunt.’ You cackled as you messed with the fur lining of his coat.

Sergei removed your hand from his coat, holding them in his own as your fingers caressed the bruised and bloody knuckles tenderly. ‘Having a strong stomach is one thing love but your reaction alludes to a darker side of you that I have yet to see, almost as if the thrill of the hunt excites you along with the harm it causes others too.’ He adds in a low whisper as though he finally had you figured out, his eyes narrowed by his hold on you was still gentle and protective as though he was trying to protect you from your darkest version of yourself.

You pecked his lips innocently. ‘The hunt does thrill me, though only when I get to see you at what you claim as your worst and still feel nothing but love and affection for you my beloved Sergei.’ You tell him as you squeezed his hands, memorising their roughness and each individual callousness they had with the idea of worshiping a man of such raw power and strength. ‘You’ve always fascinated me, and you only continue to fascinate me even more.’

‘I’m not safe company.’ He tried to tells you.

‘I don’t care whether your safe company or not, they’re going to come after me regardless if you explained that I have no ties with you, and this-‘ you gesture to the dead bodies nearby. ‘Will only tell them that there is something between us. A connection that they can exploit to their advantage against you, so if anything I’m in safer company with you than without you.’ You replied.

Sergei knew you were right, the damage was already done and more people will only be after you and him because of it. However this doesn’t solve the itching feeling that he got from that darkness within your heart, that curious nature that you possessed that could borderline dangerous.

Who was he romantically involved with and why did it send his senses haywire into whether keep you safe from that inner darkness or keep himself away from that very same thing?

[felikatze]

Euphrasie and the End

A Deep Dive into the Head Housemaiden and her symbolic meaning

Introduction

Spoilers for the whole game, and also the prologue, by the way.

Hello everybody. You may know me from that other post about Euphrasie or maybe the ludonarrative essay or the QOL one. No matter the case, today I return to my favorite side character, Euphrasie, the Head Housemaiden.

This all starts with a central thesis you're likely to be familiar with.

Euphrasie represents the end. In the most literal sense, she is where every journey ends. She is the representation of Siffrin's fears. With every repetition, Siffrin grows to dread and fear the sight of her, more than they ever do facing down the King again.

And I want to look at that.

The Damsel

It's a tale as old as time. The big bad has kidnapped the lovely princess! Everyone, we must save her! And so, our epic tale begins, as Mario chases after Peach and Link vows to return and save Zelda -

That, quite obviously, is Euphrasie. Albeit not your traditional princess, she's still a female figure with great importance to our protagonist. (Our protagonist, quite obviously, being Mirabelle.)

Mirabelle's entire journey begins with her fleeing the House and embarking on an adventure with one goal - return home, and free everyone. ISAT invokes many many many stereotypical RPG tropes.

It uses those tropes by going, well, you know how the story goes, let's get right into the meat of it, yeah? Because ISAT is a story that only works on the precipice of an ending. It's the last dungeon! We're back in starter town, transformed by the big bad, and now we gotta take it back. (Like, do I have to invoke Ocarina of Time, or something? You know how it goes, you've seen this story before.)

Siffrin isn't afraid of the journey, the intro makes that blatantly clear all on its own. This entire journey is, quite literally, the happiest Siffrin can ever remember being.

He doesn't want it to end.

The story ends when you save the damsel. She will reward the heroes (usually with a kiss, but this time with a hug), thank them for their efforts, and then the credits roll. If we want to stay here and be pedantic, we can pull examples out of our hats all day for this trope as old as time.

Euphrasie is the end, not just within the context of the game's individual story, but for its type of story. Pretty woman, trapped by the bad guy, last person to be saved, emotional importance to the protagonist, dramatically awaits the rescue by her dashing protagonist after giving her the magic ocarina blessing to give Mirabelle her Special Protagonist Power that makes her super special and immune to the bad guy.

Euphrasie also gets the addition of being the wise mentor, combining tropes a bit, though I don't think it's uncommon for mentor figures to be the kidnappees either, even if the example I'm thinking of first is Eyvel from Thracia 776. (And you see once again, that I am incapable of thinking outside of Fire Emblem comparisons.)

So, simply from her role alone, we expect her to be the story's natural conclusion, but the setting helps that point, too. It's the rooftop of the final dungeon. Very obvious location, yeah?

The game's structure also builds anticipation into meeting her. Here and there, you hear about her from Mirabelle. And, right before facing the King, that's when Mirabelle talks about Euphrasie in-depth, how Euphie should've been the chosen one. We've got a lot of ideas about Euphrasie now, we're thinking about her as we go into the final boss.

And Siffrin dies. Duh.

We're so close to the end, and it's torn away from us. We need to get to it, get to her. Finally get past the King to meet her.

She's the conclusion. And in this moment, she is the goal, too.

Speaking of the King, though --

The True Final Boss

As Siffrin faces the King again and again, they grow less scared. More jaded. If you die to him thrice (or play START AGAIN), you get the option to say "Let's just get right to it", and skip his entire monologue.

After all, you've beaten him once. You can do it again. So who cares about him, yeah? Facing him only gets easier and easier as the game progresses. The King may be scary still in some story aspects, but in gameplay? Not a chance.

ACT 4 doesn't end with him. It ends with her.

As Siffrin faces Euphrasie again and again -

(No, no, no, she could've answered your questions, why?!?)

(Even though you asked for something different at the start of this conversation...)

(WHY IS SHE REPEATING THE EXACT SAME THING?!?)

Siffrin (yelling4): "JUST TALK TO ME!!!

Talking to her again makes her scarier, because Siffrin may have gotten past the King, but he's never gotten past her. For all intents and purposes, Euphrasie is the final boss of the story.

Again, ACT 4 - Siffrin's deepest moment of despair, confirmation of ultimate failure, is her.

Speaking of final bosses...

They both cut a rather striking silhouette, don't they?

Yes, yes, islander theory, white hair. That's an in-universe theory though, but the point is, it does make them look similar. They both have long cascading white hair, they're both extremely tall. They are both similar yet different in appearance.

Euphrasie is rounded where the King is jagged, namely. Soft where he is imposing. But those similarities still remain. Contrasting figures that only enhance the similarities all the more.

(I felt utterly insane for seeing this, but. Do you see it. DO YOU??) (Like. Outside of any theory stuff, her being the only person to have white hair beside King and Siffrin, long white hair to boot, has thematic signifcance as well, yes?)

[Side note: Yes, it is utterly irrelevant here that insertdisc5 said her hair is dyed, because it is STILL a striking resemblance of character design that can be interpreted with symbolic meaning, thank you~)

The trangles.

Though she may overshadow the King as the Endpoint past ACT 2 in ISAT, she does not in START AGAIN.

In START AGAIN, the ending beyond does not exist, for all intents and purposes. The endpoint was pulled forward. Whereas ISAT Siffrin's true dread sets in after beating the King, in SASASAP, it does so in the break room right before facing him.

Or, well, the resignation.

In In Stars and Time:

Siffrin (fake1): "Hi." Siffrin (fake1): "You can start breaking down now." Euphrasie (sorry1): Breaking down...? What do you...

In Start Again:

(You wonder how everyone will die this time.) (Will the King beat them with Craft until they are no more?) (Will he freeze them in time, unable to move or breathe for all eternity?) (How will YOU meet your end?) (In blood and stars maybe... In tears and time perhaps...)

The natural acceptance that, (you can look at the title of this again) this is the end. That there is no getting past this. They are both the last obstacle that can never be overcome, between the games.

Hell, just COMPARE SAP's true ending to like, the end of ACT 4.

Siffrin awakens in the meadow. Everything was in vain. Everything was useless.

Siffrin finally, after a thousand loops or even more, beat the King. This is supposed to be the end, but it's not. So, this proves once and for all that there is no escape. They're trapped here forever.

They built it up for so long in their head that all they have to do is beat the King, and then the suffering's over.

And in ACT 4... Siffrin builds it up for so long in their head... All they have to do is ask the Head Housemaiden about Wish Craft. That's it. That's the answer! After that, it's the end! It'll be over! He just needs to do this one thing...

Loop (away1): ...Is that so? But, didn't you already-- Siffrin (unhinged1): "It is so!" Siffrin (unhinged1): "I might be able to break the loop, somehow!" Loop (away1): ... Siffrin (unhinged1): "You know, it might just be that I need to make everyone's wish come true! And everything will be back to normal!" Siffrin (unhinged1): "If I talk to her, she'll know, she'll be able to tell me what to do..." Siffrin (unhinged4): "If I can just talk to her...!"

And is wrong, of course. They wake up in the meadow and despair. So, this proves once and for all that there is no escape. They're trapped here forever.

Siffrin: "Or, or does it mean-- It means--" Siffrin: "It means I'm stuck here for good, aren't I?" Siffrin: "Forever?" Loop: ... Loop: . . . (. . .) Siffrin: (No.) "You think I'm stuck here forever."

It's the exact same mindset with different characters representing the end point. The parallel becomes even more evident in that Siffrin's very last manic shot at victory is the exact thing that proved Loop's failure - supposing that the King is the true end point.

Yet it's also different, in what these two characters represent.

The King is very much a representation of the past. His fate in ACT 5 ultimately proves what it means to refuse to let go - being frozen in time is both a metaphor and very literal. He's stuck in the past, by choice. He could've lived and chosen to embrace Vaugarde and move on, but he didn't.

Y'know, he's a bad end Siffrin, metaphorically (albeit not literally. Narrative mirrors and all.) He's what Siffrin would end up like if they never learned their lesson. If they keep refusing to let go of the past... and embrace the future.

Euphrasie's Agency and lack thereof

To Siffrin, there is no future. They can't conceive of what happens after this journey. So, the character marking the endpoint of the journey, and the start of a new chapter in Siffrin's life, cannot see a future either.

It's... fascinating, to me. How Euphrasie is a vessel of Siffrin's insecurities by force. Siffrin's Wish has taken hold of her. It's using her as a stop, on purpose.

Odile (worried2): Because... Talking to you... Means our journey to save Vaugarde is really over, isn't it? Odile (gimme1): And for you, Siffrin, it also meant all of us going our separate ways, doesn't it? Isabeau (angry1): The very thing the loops were trying to stop...

(Points at my first point about Euphrasie being the Damsel, and thus the natural endpoint of any given RPG. Hey. Hey do you see how obvious this is yet.)

Euphrasie seems to have some sort of ability to feel Wish Craft, or the Universe, or Change, or whatever. She knows what her role in this play is, most of the time. "I can feel it! We both know this! It's all over when you talk to me!"

(IT'S ALL OVER WHEN YOU TALK TO HER.)

What she says mirrors what Siffrin thinks about her. This becomes most obvious only in retrospect, looking once again at the ACT 4 finale.

Euphrasie always says the same thing, because she is the end and the end can neither change nor ever arrive, but she can only say something new in one circumstance.

Siffrin (angry4): (You just wish she would ANSWER YOU!!!!!!) "Now that you know, now that I know, you can fix it!!!" Euphrasie (ending3): . . . Euphrasie (ending3): Fix it?

When Siffrin wishes for her to. Her capability to act in new ways is directly controlled by Siffrin's desire. Since the entire loops are caused by their subconscious desire to stay with everyone, she fulfills the role of keeping everyone together.

Thinking back on what she says...

"I know you thought your quest was over, but it can't be."

Your quest. Yes, quest is also used in a general story context, especially in fantasy, but Quest has long since become a well-established term in video games of all stripes. Sidequests, Main quest, hey, isn't it weird how ISAT refers to all its storylines as quests?

Friendquests being the obvious example. Fetch Quest, Companion Quest, Tutorial Quest, Really? He doesn't need your help with a quest?

But outside of that... I know I just know these terms because of my script wizard activities, but every storyline is a quest. Kingquest. Loopquest. Friendquest.

There's any number of words that could be chosen ("journey" probably being most prominent) and yet she says quest. By using a term inoxerably tied to video games by this point, she's saying "I know you thought the game was over, but it can't be."

And see how the game uses glitched imagery and static to represent everything breaking down, both at the end of every loop, and in ACT 5. This imagery is just confusing and means nothing to the characters, but is very obvious if you are Playing A Game.

The fuzzy static of an old TV, the bars of screen corruption, random symbols in text, the distorted music like a malfunctioning cassette tape…

If I may be so bold as to harken back to one of my own previous essays... The timeloop is the game.

It all ends when you talk to her. Everything ends when you talk to her. The goddamn game ends when you talk to her for the last time.

I got a bit of track here from the point, which is- her agency.

As we've established, she functions as Siffrin's own stop, on purpose. She can only act independently when Siffrin wishes her to.

And her not doing so is the beginning marker of everything breaking down in ACT 5, as well.

When Mirabelle interrupts her usual greeting speech, Euphrasie reacts differently immediately. She takes a look at Siffrin, diagnoses them with Craft overusage, and says they just need rest.

"But he'll be fine, now that the battle is over."

But, as usual, she can... sense what's happening.

"Every time I've tried to reach out and feel what's happening, I sense... Chaos..." "It feels like something is... Rotting..."

Mirabelle: "...?" Isabeau: "Rotting...?" Euphrasie: "I know you thought your quest was over, but it can't be! Something's broken, something's failing, rotting!"

She even skips back and forwards between all her different lines, everything Siffrin expects of her and has memorized by now, when we've seen that she was acting differently just a moment before.

It's Siffrin's wish kicking in again that marks the final straw once more, their clashing desire to stay in the loop against his desparate will to escape, resulting in Euphrasie being torn between who she actually is (acting new! moving forward!) against what Siffrin needs her to be.

(you're still stuck here) (but isn't it fine?) (eternity is within your grasp)

Mentioning eternity even harkens back both to the King ("I just want eternity.") AND the ACT 4 ending ("To know you'll be trapped for all eternity, Siffrin... I am so sorry!!!").

Again, like, Euphrasie's agency being torn from her, falling back into that old pattern, is what marks Siffrin realizing he's been wishing for eternity this entire time. It's written on the wall all over ACT 4.

Like, literally, textually, if you choose to pray to the intact Change God statue in ACT 4, Siffrin's prayer is "(You wish for eternity.)"

Because in the course of all these loops, Siffrin has been denying everyone's agency. Euphrasie is just the most prominent example. In ACT 5, by wishing for eternity, what Siffrin has (accidentally) forced onto Euphrasie all this time, he is trying to force onto everyone.

Whether or not Euphrasie is allowed to be a person is a direct marker of Siffrin's ability to escape the loop. It's only over when she's allowed to be free.

Euphrasie is the first person in the ending to mention going home.

"Finally, you'll all be able to go home!!!"

But in ACT 6, she doesn't. She doesn't mention going home at all. Instead, she tells everyone a new story. One Siffrin's never heard before.

Allowing Euphrasie to be free turns her back into the symbol of change that she's supposed to be. I'm repeating myself, but it truly is her change that is the definite, 100% sure marker that Siffrin is free, too. That the future is here.

Why are circles a symbol of change, anyway?

In me saying, Euphrasie symbolized stagnation, until Siffrin allows her to stand for the future again, it is irony. It is immense irony that the Head Housemaiden of Change Itself turns into a symbol of endings and stagnation through Siffrin's denial.

And, on the topic of irony, I ask you:

When the hell are circles a symbol of change???

You know. Circles. The things that famously represent cycles (wow, wonder if those words are related), repetition, infinity and eternity.

Isn't that weird. Isn't that ironic. The entire symbology of the House of Change is supposed to represent, well, Change, but just amounts to representing cycles (yknow, THE LOOPS. LITERAL TIME CYCLES.) through the recontextualization of Siffrin's experience with them.

Even the Change God doesn't oppose the time loops, instead being excited for how Siffrin changes as everything else stays the same.

The circle symbol is a witty act of irony from a design standpoint, and one I must only applaud, because why the hell didn't I see that sooner.

No, like, for real. If anybody knows some real life religion or culture where circles represent change and new beginnings instead of revolutions or the turn of seasons or the cycle of life and all that stuff. Please do tell me about it? I'm not omnipotent.

But generally, the irony of Euphrasie carries forward into the irony of the Change religion as in-universe these are symbols of change, but out of universe, to us, the players, they're symbols of repetition. Just like how to everybody else Euphie is a change, but to Siffrin she is stagnation. (Re: my other essay where I compare Siffrin to a video game player and the timeloops to a video game and I go on a whole metanarrative tangent.)

This plays into the metanarrative! Making meaning to the characters and to us incongruent! And it's cool as fuck, what can I say.

To cap off, let's compare what she says in every normal loop, and ACT 6, won't we?

Euphrasie (smiling4): Finally, you'll all be able to go home!!! Euphrasie (smiling3): If there's anything the House of Dormont can do to thank you... Please do not hesitate. Euphrasie (thankyou1): But for now... Bask in the feeling of a job well done!!!

And, in ACT 6….

Euphrasie (smiling2): I'm sure you must have a lot to talk about with everyone. Euphrasie (smiling1): But be sure to talk to me when you're all done! Euphrasie (smiling4): So I can happily bless you and your companions' new journey!!!

A Plain Ol' Euphrasie Character Analysis

Heyo, that finishes my essay on Euphrasie's symbolic meaning about narrative and shit! But...

It feels kind of mean, to write so much about what her agency and lack thereof represent, without actually talking about who she is. I didn't mention that a lot, see, because it's not important. Because that part's not important to Siffrin, because during the timeloops, Siffrin doesn't see her as a person.

So. Let's talk about her! Who is she? What is she like? What does she do?

Personality

The Good and the Funny

She's really funny. I mean it. Generally, she loves to joke around, and she has this ojou-sama style "Ohoho~" laugh that I find utterly delightful.

Siffrin (tired2): "But you might know something about--" Euphrasie (smiling4): Ohohoho! Euphrasie (smiling4): Sorry, I know nothing until you talk to your friends! Euphrasie (smiling3): And quite honestly, it is a little funny to see you get steamed about this, ohoho!

So many things in this bit. This is from when you try to talk to her before all the others in a regular loop. The reason she doesn't talk back first is of course because of the whole Agency thing (see above), but also, it's funny for her to take the piss.

Yet her wanting Siffrin to talk to everyone else first also shows that she's a very considerate person! This is The Saviours' Big Moment, and she is dying to talk to Mirabelle's new friends, but she doesn't want to take away from that. She's gonna give them her moment, and only butt in once all the hugs and tears and cheers have been had.

You can see this in ACT 5, too. She doesn't pass out or anything when Siffrin smacks her away, she just recognizes that her presence is upsetting to Siffrin, she doesn't know them or their problems, so she's gonna step back and let them figure it out themselves.

Euphrasie (smiling4): Ohohoho! Don't worry about me, everyone! Mirabelle (awawa1): H-Head Housemaiden! You're okay!!! Euphrasie (smiling3): I am! I was staying away for a little bit. Euphrasie (thankyou1): You all seemed like you needed to talk, so I was patiently waiting for you all to finish your conversation! Bonnie (serious1): That's very considerate of you. Isabeau (hahaha1): It IS very considerate of you!

She even during the hand holding scene is SO considerate that she doesn't speak up and include herself until Odile asks her to join in. Which might be a bit much, actually.

Odile (lol2): Fine. Let's hold hands, then. (Odile takes Bonnie's hand.) Odile (yeah1): Head Housemaiden? Euphrasie (thankyou1): Oh! Yes, of course!

That lil "Oh!" showing she's surprised to be adressed and included in this conversation.

Anyways, the previous exchange also gives us two OTHER delightful facts about her.

Euphrasie (smiling3): I haven't had this much fun since reading the last issue of "The Cursing of Château Castle"!!!

Meaning:

She's a bit of an adrenaline junkie, and considers getting slapped across the room "fun"

The coveted last issue of Cursing of Chateau Castle in the pottery room is hers.

Delightful woman. I love her.

She's also pretty frank! She talks a lot in snappy phrases and witticisms. She's kind and patient, for one, but really not afraid to mince words.

Euphrasie (smiling4): I thought we all knew that the Change God is a pretty lazy deity! Bonnie (wait1): Wow... Odile (urgh1): Isn't that a sacrilegious thing to say...?

Really makes me like her all the more that secondhand, she comes across as graceful, larger than life, almost, and then she simply doesn't care all that much about propriety and what someone of her station is actually supposed to be like. It really fits in with the Change Belief and the ethos of being true to yourself that she doesn't bend herself like that.

I'll also continue to be delighted that she described the King defeating her as knowing that "[she] was toast", just, she's just so casual.

Guilt and Responsibility

In more serious matters. The guilttttttt.

Yeah, she's casual, but she still obviously puts a lot of focus on her responsibility to the people of the House, of Dormont. We know that she was preparing for the King to arrive. She was studying Wish Craft, she was contemplating counter measures. She was making charts of who wished what to figure out whether this could stop him.

(...The Head Housemaiden...) (She's the one who wrote this. She knows about Wish Craft.) (She knew something was wrong, this whole time.) (She might know... How to...)

There's a degree of paranoia evident that we don't see in any of her time onscreen, but you can wonder what it says about a woman to have a deadly rock trap in front of her office.

AND she doesn't have her key out in the open, she has it taped to the underside of her desk drawer. Not an infallible hiding spot, but still hidden, and not just stored.

The other people in the House were all also revealed to be the ones locking doors in the party's path, hoping that it would stop the King.

Bonnie (sad1): . . .You know, I was wondering... Bonnie (sulk2): Like, the King clearly closed this door, and put the Tears in our way... Bonnie (sad1): But the... But the locked doors, weren't they... Mirabelle (sad2): ... Odile (dotdotdot2): Yes... We were wrong. Odile (dotdotdot1): They were most likely locked by residents of the House.

Speaking of people hoping to stop the King, she has a mountain of notes on him in her office as well.

(Some notes about the King.) (The Head Housemaiden must've been looking for more information about him...)

She hid her key, trapped her door, and before that, gathered information on the King and how to counter him. So, let me ask, do you think she improvised her blessing?

Mirabelle (excited1): She's also a great Crafter! She always creates wonderful items that makes everyone's lives easer! Mirabelle (awkward2): She taught me so much... Most of the Craft skills I know, I learned from her.

She's a skilled Crafter to boot, eh?

Looking at this, I don't really think so. Beneath that jolly front, she is a logical and pragmatic woman. Looking at her ability to specifically counter the King's Curse in context of how much we know she prepared for his arrival, I believe she prepped this blessing beforehand. Whether she actually finished it, I don't know, but she had to pick Mirabelle as a subject for it quickly and under duress.

Mirabelle wasn't the ideal choice. She was the logical choice.

Euphrasie (smiling3): Well, I only had the strength to bless one person, and I was already toast, and you were almost out of the House when the King attacked... Euphrasie (smiling3): So, really, you were the only logical choice!

There are some more emotional reasons for the pick, which I'll go into later when talking about Mira, but, still. She mentions this first, before going into Mirabelle's virtues as a person.

Plus, Claude (who will also get a section later), is the person closest to the King and Euphie. She's got the Secret Ingredient for the bomb on her, and had obviously been working on making a Craft Bomb beforehand, as discovered by the gizmo gadget in her room.

Combined, we can surmise that Euphie and Claude were both making different preparations to counter the King, with Euphie focusing on Craft both by studying Wish Craft and working on a Craft to nullify the King's Curse, whereas Claude just worked on a bomb to blow him the fuck up.

Euphrasie was, simply put, working to protect the people she cared for. It's her responsibility.

And she failed.

LET'S TALK ABOUT HER GUILT!!! WOOOO!!!!

When you talk to the people in Dormont during Loopquest, some of them mention the Head Housemaiden also asking them about their wishes, but none of them know why. This implies that Euphrasie was covert in her research, likely not sharing her information either because she was unsure of its verity, or to not cause undue panic. The only other person we see with less than impromptu countermeasures is, after all, literally just Euphrasie's girlfriend, who would be the number one person Euphie would confide in about this stuff.

Even then, though, there is no concrete evidence that she did confide in Claude, outside of Claude preparing the bomb, which is circumstantial at best. Really, did she not have any issues with Siffrin's treatment of her in ACT 5, or did she just swallow it down out of pragmatism?

Can we be sure that it's sincere, when she brushes off Siffrin's worry for her?

Siffrin (US_guilty2): "You said the things you always say when I come and talk to you." Siffrin (US_guilty2): "About how the world is rotting." Siffrin (US_sad1): "And you can't do anything to help." Euphrasie (sorry3): Hm... Euphrasie (smiling4): Interesting! I don't feel like saying it now, though! Euphrasie (smiling1): Or at all! The wind feels nice and fresh. Euphrasie (smiling4): It just feels like a beautiful day, doesn't it?

After all, in the loops themselves... She's the first to notice it, every time. She knows, deep within her bones, that something's wrong, and that it's her fault.

It's especially potent symbolically, that the phrase she never gets to finish is "I hope you can learn to forgive us."

Which is a phrase that received a slight change from its comic counterpart:

"I hope you can learn to forgive me."

Regardless of the me versus us, she, with the most intimate knowledge of Wish Craft right next to the King, directed the people of Vaugarde's wish, and knows that Siffrin ended up as the Wish's subject. She can't know that this is a side effect of Siffrin's wish being entangled with her own, but she does know her own wish is involved.

She starts crying. She's disraught. She breaks down.

Euphrasie (ending2): I can't fix it on my own, not before it all ends... If only I had noticed sooner!!! Euphrasie (ending1): I should've seen it, prevented it!!!

She says that she should have seen this and prevented it. It was her responsibility to do this, and she failed.

Euphrasie (ending2): It's my fault that you have to suffer like this.

Again, she was the only one who knew, the only one who could have ever possibly had any shot of defeating the King before things got too bad. But she fucked up, he stormed in before she could prepare properly, and she squarely lost whatever confrontation might've occured between her and the King.

Euphrasie: Something goes wrong, every time!!! Euphrasie: If you're here now, asking about Wish Craft, then something must be wrong, isn't it? This isn't the first time you've gotten this far, isn't it?!? Euphrasie: It shouldn't be like this... Why does time loop back, even though the King has been defeated?!? Euphrasie: The only answer I can find... Is it's because we did it wrong.

She's responsible, pragmatic to the point of paranoia, and it wasn't enough. Of course she feels guilt. A lot of it. After all, she believes that she personally has doomed someone to eternal stagnation. That she has caused all of Vaugarde to be trapped, and for one person to suffer for it. That she caused all of Siffrin's suffering.

It's so odd to me that she manages to immediately grasp that Siffrin is in a timeloop. It could be Siffrin's wish using her as a mouthpiece, it could be that weird innate connection to the Universe she seems to have, it could be her own immediate deduction on the logic of Wish Craft, or it could be a combination of all three.

But point is, she recognizes Siffrin's looping without having to ever be told about it. And I do not think that goes away, even in ACT 5 & 6. It's just not the time and place for her to speak on her own struggles right now, not when Siffrin is finally getting the help that she cannot provide. Not when she can recognize that she is the conductor of everything that just occured, which, again, nearly broke the entire work.

Euphrasie: If only... If only we had fought back against the King, instead! If only we didn't wish for such a thing! Euphrasie: If only I knew this would happen, if I had noticed it sooner, I would never have let people wish at all!!! Euphrasie: To know you'll be trapped for all eternity, Siffrin... I am so sorry!!! Euphrasie: It's our fault, all of Vaugarde, that you have to suffer like this!!!

She gathered her intel and made her bet. She just made the wrong one.

(Yet what she never seems to recognize is that this had to happen. That without the timeloops, yeah, the King wouldn't have been defeated! The country would have been frozen!)

(But that doesn't mean anything, does it. When she had to take away Change Itself from some innocent bystander.)

Relationships

Anyways in more cheerful news let's look at the two most important people to Euphrasie we know of.

Mirabelle

Mirabelle!! The Meeble!! Euphrasie is super important to Mirabelle, and Mirabelle, in turn, is super important to Euphrasie.

From the third snack break:

Mirabelle (sad2): The Head Housemaiden... She's such a wonderful person. Mirabelle (sad2): She helped me out so much! I couldn't do anything before I came to the House, I could barely sew my own clothes, and she helped me, she taught me... Mirabelle (sad2): I wouldn't be the person I am without her! Mirabelle (sad2): And when the King attacked...  She protected me. Mirabelle (sad2): Everyone... Everyone was being frozen in time around me... Mirabelle (sad4): And the Head Housemaiden made sure I could escape! Made sure I lived!!! Mirabelle (sad4): She gave me her blessing...!!!

Similarly to some of the other older Housemaidens, Euphrasie had a big part in raising Mirabelle (which does imply some things about Mirabelle's past, but that's not the point right now). We don't know the exact sequence of events for Mirabelle escaping (outside of Mirabelle happening to be closest to the door), but Mirabelle adds some action to Euphrasie during whatever happened, saying Euphrasie "protected her".

From Euphie's office:

Mirabelle (sad2): But the King was too strong, and attacked out of nowhere, and now... I don't know what happened to her. Mirabelle (sad2): When I fled the House... The King might've already... ...

They weren't in the same room, Mirabelle doesn't even know what exactly happened to her, but still says Euphie protected her, and obviously shows great esteem for her all around.

Mirabelle just loves Euphie so much, man!

Euphrasie (sorry3): And, Housemaiden Mirabelle... Euphrasie (smiling1): You have always been the most hardworking Housemaiden in the House. Always striving to learn new things. To better yourself. Euphrasie (smiling2): Always meeting challenges head on, even if you didn't think you'd succeed. Euphrasie (smiling3): You were the only logical choice, yes, but you were also the only RIGHT choice! Mirabelle (sad2): Head Housemaiden... Mirabelle (gentle1): No, Euphrasie... Thank you!!!

Mirabelle credits Euphrasie for the person she is today, but Euphrasie turns that back and gives credit to Mirabelle's own strengths. It's just, very cute. She might have taught Mirabelle her literal skills, but the determination and bravery were all Mirabelle's own.

This scene also demonstrates that the bond goes both ways. Euphie loves Mira right on back, and considers Mira to be "stinking cute!" which even the Change God Themself agrees with. She's so proud of Mira!

I also wanna point to the switch from Mira using Euphie's title, to then using Euphie's name after Euphie reaffirms how proud she is of Mira. Throughout the entire adventure, Mirabelle's unwitting deception (that she had been blessed by the Change God instead of by Euphie) had weighed down on her, and Mirabelle kept questioning why she was the one who had to go on this journey, when Euphrasie would have been so much better at it. Like she stole Euphie's spot.

I think that bled into the relationship, here, that she kept imagining Euphrasie being disappointed in her, so she uses the title to make some distance to that mental image. It shows off how distant and unreachable Euphrasie is.

(It's also just a good show of politeness from Mirabelle. Like, if I'm talking to my mother, I'll call her Mama, but if I am talking about her to someone else, I'll say "my mother", as demonstrated by the first part of this sentence.)

Lastly, really minor thing: apparently, Euphrasie is looking into dual Craft types! That's one of the random papers on her desk.

(It's an essay about the 3.5% of people who are dual Craft types users, like Mirabelle.)

That makes me think she started reading on it because of Mirabelle, which is cute.

Generally, the basis of their relationship is very much mentor-student, yet it goes much deeper than that with Euphrasie's big role in raising Mirabelle. TLDR: they love each other, your honor. Fambly.

Claude

Second on the agenda, Mirabelle's roommate, Claude!

Lookin at Claude. It's obvious they're romantically involved. The first hint is the letter on Euphie's desk, of course, but that could imply this is a recent situation, too.

(It's a lovely, cheesy, mushy love letter from someone named Claude.)

Except, well, no. The letter isn't sealed, otherwise Siffrin wouldn't be able to pick it up and skim it if they had to open it first. It was already open, meaning Euphrasie already read it.

And, in Act 6:

Claude: Okay! We'll come and say hi later, then. I'll need to go and plant a big kiss on Euphie, anyway.

Claude mentions how she has to give Euphie a big kiss, which you wouldn't exactly do with someone you only just confessed to. Meaning the relationship has been ongoing for a while now, and also implying that Claude still writes love letters to Euphie, or that Euphie kept Claude's initial confession on her desk, both options make them big saps, which is really cute.

Also also, Claude's the only one to call Euphie Euphie, an endearing nickname.

I also touched on before how Claude was the only one to also prepare for the King's attack by making the bomb, and...

Mirabelle (sad1): I... used to think she should've become a Defender, because she was always helping people, and trying out weird experiments to solve their problems... Mirabelle (sad2): And she would always, ALWAYS help the Head Housemaiden with hers. Mirabelle (sad2): Always trying new ways to organize her desk... To help her finish tasks... To make sure she'd get some free time... Mirabelle (sad2): She'd do it with a smug smile, saying it wasn't that big of a deal, that she'd do it for anyone, but... Mirabelle (sad2): If she knew that the Head Housemaiden was in danger... She would've ran anywhere, everywhere, so she could help her. Mirabelle (sad2): Not only because the Head Housemaiden would've solved anything, would've beaten the King if she could, but because... Mirabelle (sad3): Because... Mirabelle (sad3): . . . Mirabelle (sad3): If Claude is this far into the House, she must've... tried to stop the King herself, so he wouldn't get to the Head Housemaiden.

Mirabelle trails off on that last "because" concerning Claude's motivation to go rushing to Euphrasie, and I think, considering the love letters, we can guess what that was. It's quite evident from Mirabelle's words that the two are super close. "[t]hat she'd do it for anyone, but... If she knew the Head Housemaiden was in danger... She would've ran anywhere, everywhere, so she could help her."

Mirabelle's framing of it reveals that Claude wouldn't do those things for just anyone. That Euphrasie is special to her.

In both ISAT and SASASAP, Claude is the last frozen NPC you find, the closest to the King. Her bomb wasn't finished, but it's telling that Claude carries the Secret Ingredient on her person. Whatever it is, she probably nabbed it from her room and set out to help Euphrasie in her fight against the King any way she could.

I guess the summary here is more simple, but the devotion on display is amazing. Like, again, the bomb wasn't done, Claude had NO weapons to speak of, but came rushing in anyway, because Euphrasie was in danger. She loves her girlfriend so much!! They're mushy and silly and affectionate, and, if Claude is the one organizing Euphie's desk, did Claude keep her love letter on display just to show off? Again, it's. It's cute! It's a lot of environmental storytelling for an NPC!!

Wah. Clauphie are so cute. We don't see Euphrasie talk about Claude at all (because Euphrasie does have more uhhh pressing things to worry about), but just, from the letter on the desk, it's gotta be reciprocated.

There's just so much to speculate about how things went down when the King "attacked out of nowhere", because Euphrasie is at the top of the House. Even when the King is defeated and the House returns to normal, it's still the roof. So, did she draw him up there on purpose to give everyone else time to escape?

I personally think Euphrasie was probably frozen first, with Claude rushing in second. So she did hold him off as long as she could, and that sacrifice allowed Mirabelle to escape in the first place. Nothing would've been possible without her. Euphie feels so much guilt for what she's done, but Mirabelle and Siffrin would not have suceeded without her, okay. She's instrumental.

Which is less about Claude and more about Euphrasie's importance, but hey, this is my essay, and I can be as uncoordinated as I want.

The Job

Last thing I wanna touch on!! Just a fun lil thing.

What the hell is a Head Housemaiden anyway?

Mirabelle and Isabeau react scandalized at the notion of people sharing shrines, so it seems unlikely that the House functions anything like a church at all. Every Housemaiden has a personalized figure of the Change God that they pray to in private, as we see from Mirabelle talking about them, in addition to basically every room in the House having one, down to people making more in pottery class. So, it's suuuper unlikely that the Head Housemaiden has much of a religious function. Spreading the good word, maybe, but actually leading prayer? No way.

Odile (wonder1): We make shrines for our gods, and everyone shares the shrines. Isabeau (huhwah1): SHARING GODS............

She seems to have a much more logistical function, being more like. The manager of the House. This is a files thing, but the map for her room is actually called "admin". She also has a lot of quote unquote boring administrative papers on her desk that Siffrin doesn't care about. Makes one wonder how the position is selected, whether one is elected into the office, or it's just whoever wants to do the paperwork to keep the House running.

(It looks like boring administrative papers.) (It's a petition to serve more bread at lunch.)

Mirabelle (happy1): She manages the House and makes sure everyone is happy and fulfilled! She organizes a lot of events too!

Among things such as "what to serve at lunch" and "organizing events", she's more like the headmaster of a community college, especially considering how heavy the House just resembles a community center. Less of a religious institution, more just a place to host fun classes and a living space for all who need it.

It's hard to tell whether Euphie demands a lot of respect due to her person and office, or it's just Mirabelle specifically that respects her most, since most of what we know of the House and its people is filtered through Mirabelle's perspective.

Speculation!

It's headcanon time, babey.

Yup, after straying close to actual facts for so long, I wanna get speculative. You're probably already gonna know islander theory. (And if you don't, go read that. This is like, the third time I linked it.)

But I wanna like, talk about how that influences how I read Euphrasie a lot!! I didn't go in-depth with that aspect in the og theory post but you can swear to any god you believe in that I've thought so so much how this enhances other aspects of who she is and stands for and also SHOUTOUT TO OCEAN!!! WHO ALSO THINKS ABOUT THIS SO MUCH!!! And again in fact thought about all of this before I did and is also someone who talk about excessively about this. AND ALSO GOT TO PREVIEW A GOOD CHUNK OF THIS ESSAY and motivated me to finish this eheh.

Anways! I wanna circle back to some points here first!

That whole past vs future thing

You might recall how I compared Euphie and the King a lot, esp between their respective roles in ISAT and SASASAP being pretty identical. And I said the King represents the past, as he is literally frozen in time, choosing to remember what he has lost instead of living in the present, and Euphrasie represents the future, which can only arrive when she is permitted to be her own person!

So yeah, uh, how's that feel when you suppose that they're from the same country, and thus, suffered the same loss.

Reading Euphrasie with this HC in mind opens up a very neat second parallel to Siffrin. King is someone who can't let go of the country, and Siffrin is torn between not wanting to let go and knowing they have to. So to put them up against someone who has let go is just pretty nifty.

Euphrasie is content with her life and the culture she lives in, even being a pillar of the community! Whereas King is a 'bad end' counterpart, Euphie, in her Showing The Future Function, is the 'good end' counterpart for that, showing that someone in Siffrin's situation can overcome their grief and find new fulfillment.

The End

So! That's everything I got on Euphrasie! She represents The End, but just as you gotta break an egg to make an omelette, she represents new beginnings, too. Her agency and freedom are change itself.

Mirabelle (hm3): It's to remind us that before changing, we must stop and think about what will be irreparably destroyed. Mirabelle (hm1): But destruction is just a part of change, and we must accept it... Isabeau (brag1): Yeah! It'd be awful to keep yourself from becoming a person you feel comfortable with just because it would upset someone else. Odile (huh1): Huh... That's a harsher belief than I thought.

In conclusion, I love her. This has been 7.4k words. Good night!

[yandereunsolved]

Yandere Castiel taking care of his traumatized darling—my darling, oh, my darling. I'll keep you safe as the day is long.

cw(s): yandere themes, misuse of the term boundaries and overstepping them, non-descriptive gore and murder, mentions of anxiety/panic attacks, trauma, and self-harm

🪽 He has known about the scars left on your soul far longer than you have even known his name. They are sacred to him, a reminder of the protection you need. The protection he casts over you. His wings are not merely his, but yours. He would allow them to be torn to shreds for the rest of eternity if it meant keeping you safe.

Your soul, the thing of most import that is intangible to humans but seen as precious to all other creatures. It is always watched over by his eyes. Even in the most dire moments, he chooses you above all else. God, his brothers and sisters, even the Winchesters pale in comparison to you. You are his freedom. 

Freedom is a length of rope in his eyes. He will never allow you to hang yourself with it.

🪽 He tames his fervid nature in favor of an affable, benevolent one. The sin consuming him is washed away in your presence. In those moments, he is back to what he once was: a pure, untaintable guardian. A gentle presence just within your reach if you so choose to delight him with your touch.

Yandere Castiel may lack knowledge on the concept of boundaries, but they quickly learn about them through your reaction to them. He feels your soul flare in a protective manner. You sink away from him and shut down. That is the opposite reaction he wishes to get from you.

Dictionary... a dictionary...

He had to look through it to find the word.

( Boundaries • The border or limit so indicated. )

🪽 He has to learn to communicate with you about boundaries. That word, now that word is lost on him. Eons he has been an angel, and this type of communication has never been a priority. Boundaries has never been a word that existed up in heaven. You got an order, and you followed it. He never thought, even after rebelling, that he got to choose such things.

He seemingly moved from one master to another. He mindlessly followed his father's orders, then the Winchesters, then his own selfish desires. He never consciously chose; his hand was always forced.

At least he is able to communicate using his true voice. You are one of the few that aren't pushed to the brink of death by his voice.

He is more frightened of these conversations than you are. He always gives you the space to say what you need. He'll try to coax it out of you, but he is always able to read your mind if that doesn't work. He is aware that reading your mind without your consent is breaking one of your boundaries—but you don't know! And he is just trying to help you.

🪽 'Personal space' is the boundary he likes the least. It is of great import that he respects that boundary, but it just feels impossible! He wants to be near you all of the time, watch you, and guard you. When you want more space from him, it hurts. His wings droop, but he understands. He will stand on the other side of the room or leave if you really need him to. 

Humans need their space.

That is one of the first things they learned when interacting with them.

Their favorite boundaries of yours are any where they are able to help you with their angelic abilities. Whether that be helping to stimulate you properly through toning down sounds and sights or getting to mercilessly torture people who hurt you behind your back. It gives him a solitary purpose. He is able to help you on your healing journey.

He is a good angel. He's your good angel!

🪽 Castiel also comes to understand anxiety. It's that thing he feels everytime—no, just all the time, when something pertains to you.

He sees how it creeps into your mind and causes your soul to nearly deplete into embers. He has been the one who has had to hold you during panic attacks. He has had to calm you when something triggers you. Oh, the wrath he has had to hold back to whatever has hurt you in such a way. Castiel, your Cas, will always take care of you.

They soothe you through their grace and willingness to be with you.

One of his wings is always guiding you gingerly, as long as you have consented.

Your sins are all erased under his guise.

You are blameless in his eyes. A saint.

Do not fear people nor ancient entities.

For you are blessed by one.

🪽 He does not want any voices to mislead you from his safety. Please, do not harm yourself. He loves you far too much. Any scar of yours is kissed by his doting lips, as long as you consent, and is healed by his grace. They should not be shameful but signs of pride. You have survived things many others haven't. While angels on high mourn their loss, he praises your survival.

He keeps all of your safety items near when you are upset. He is easily able to conjure up anything you may need at a moments notice. He loves decorating you with pretty band-aids, stickers, and little doodles—as long as you allow it. Cas is incredibly good at distractions, even if he is a bit awkward with the more risqué ones.

Feel free to let your anger out on him. You cannot do any noticeable damage to him. Of course, if you somehow got ahold of an angel blade, they would have to disarm you. Other than that? Feel free to do anything.

Just don't turn that turmoil inward. They won't allow it.

🪽 They want you safe and healthy. Healing isn't linear, as they have learned. He loves you even more for it. In a way, you are able to heal them. They are no longer this internal, fractured being. They are a guardian once again. They are a lover. They are yours.

"Iubebit enim angelis suis de te custodire te omnibus modis vestris." Ille, si modo bonus est, patrem suum fecit.₁

1 | "For he will command his angels concerning you to guard you in all your ways." The one, if only good, point his father has made. |

[bettystonewell]

The fandom needs to know - does Dean like to be slapped in the face during sex by a girl wearing a Zorro mask? xx

Short answer:

But because I can, I’m gonna elaborate with a theory I came up with in the first five minutes of reading this, and turn it into a very rushed headcanon that will not be proof read or make much sense.

MASKS ARE HOT, BUT BEING SLAPPED BY SOMEONE WEARING ONE IS HOTTER: DON’T JUDGE HIM (or my head canon on how the whole Zorro mask thing came about) MDNI 18+

Pairing: Dean Winchester x a couple of random fem OC’s.

NOTE: You know I LOVE to swear, but I’m going to replace any naughty words I’d normally use because I think it will be funnier. Apologies in advance.

It was the summer of ‘69 1999, and our young Dean was off to the theatre, a girl under his arm, his hand rather close to her jubblies. As a man of twenty, he was still exploring his manly urges. There was just something about the smell of stale popcorn and sugary drinks that did it for most guys like him, you know? Or was it the normalcy?

Whatever.

His date was hot. Hotter than Rhonda Hurley or that chick from Titanic. No, not the old lady. Her younger self, Kate Winslet, who made out with Gilbert Grape’s brother at the end of the ship.

You see, Rhonda may have had the pink thong, which yes, did feel rather nice (he still had it hidden under his cassette tape collection that no-one would ever touch), but this girl had just blown him in the back seat of Baby. There was no comparison in the moment, and she was more than willing for him to return the favour in the theatre, because why not?

They settled in their seats, the back row of course, in the closest to midnight session as possible, perfect for its lack of other people. His hand still rested over her shoulder, slowly working on sliding her bra strap down so he’d get better access…when the opening credits started rolling.

This was supposed to be an extended make out session, but Dean was hooked from the moment he saw Zorro stride across the screen and swish his sword into the air, forming the fire-laced Z.

“Oh hell yes,” he muttered. The sounds of clicking hooves and soft ringing of bells had his inner child heading straight back to its love of cowboys. He hadn’t expected what had been presented to him as a romantic movie to actually be so cool.

Antanio Banderas

Anthony Hopkins

Catherine Zeta-Jones

The names flashed across the screen as the story of young Zorro played, and Dean all but forgot about the ample bossom just below his reach.

That is until his date started running her palm over his thigh midway through the film, and whispered in his ear, “I thought we were going to continue where we left off, babe?”

And Dean was torn. He wanted to watch the movie. The guy had a sword! But he also had the opportunity here to taste some kitty, and maybe get his own sword wet after the fact.

What was he to do?

He was a young buck, always thinking about what happened on that black casting couch he’d heard so much about, more than once a day. He couldn’t let the opportunity pass itself up. So, after more coaxing from her hand, which wasn’t all that much, reaching higher up his leg to get him interested, his own hand reciprocated.

Fingers trailed soft skin. They pushed the hem of a very short skirt up higher to tease the lace beneath, and the mound beneath that again, and to his surprise, it was very damp. He himself had raised to attention, straining against the seam of his pants.

To cut a long-short story shorter, Dean and his date got their rocks off whilst watching Zorro. She didn’t even need to touch him, because he learnt how hot a guy in a mask could be thanks to the way she coated his fingers and the seat below. And Dean? He was left with a rather big mess, that was made bigger when he accidentally spilt his remaining soda in his lap to cover up the special sauce that stained it.

So Beth, how the hell does being slapped come into it? you might be wondering.

Right… Well, um, that first bit took me longer than I thought, and I really should be getting to work… So let’s just say, to the poor sod who read through all of that (I’m not judging, I wrote the thing), it was all thanks to a case involving a costume shop, a display of masks, and Dean purchasing one that suspiciously looked like Zorro’s.

He remembered his time in the theatre all too well and knew it had the potential to be a mighty turn on. He just didn’t consider that it might’ve been one girl’s preference and not everyone else’s.

Turned out, for once, he was actually right.

It stayed in Baby for a good time after that with Rhonda Hurley’s thong that was moved from the box of cassettes after Sammy almost found it while bitching about Metallica and mullet rock. They both lived together in the crack between the back rest of the back seat, and the bench below it. Somewhere Sam would never find, unless he wanted to risk finding other things. I’ll leave that up to your imagination.

Cue a new hot date and Dean getting lucky again many years later. The car was rocking, and Dean was having a great time. Her thighs hoisted her up and down with the help of Dean’s grip on her hips, perfectly taking his sword all the way to her hilt. Hitting the little nub situated at the edge of her sheath.

This girl was bendy, and her hands little, and one slipped right through that crack when she leant over to trail hot kisses on his skin, finding both the mask and the underwear.

Did I mention she was an aspiring actress? Becuase she was. How convenient.

She sat up, threw that thong to the side, giddy with excitement of Dean still ploughing into her and put that mask on. It made her look hotter.

She continued to ride his saddle, one hand keeping the mask in place, the other flailing where it could to hold on as Dean picked up the pace.

She was wetter, his twig and berries throbbed, and when he gave a particularly sharp slap to her rear, in the moment, she gave him a playful one back, and it felt good. Too damn good.

“Do it again,” he said through an animalistic groan he’d be embarrassed to admit later, and she did, with a wicked smile that caressed her face until he begged her to do it harder.

She did. And while Dean didn’t make a mess in any jeans that evening, he did in fact blow harder than he was used to in his older age. It came thick and strong, curling his toes and pounding his heart, rapid in his chest.

That mask no longer sits in the crack between the seat. It has a special place in his duffle, goes with him whenever he leaves the bunker, and on the off chance he ever meets another aspiring actress or someone adjacent to the field, maybe a flight attendant or a yoga instructor, the mask slips into his jacket pocket, ready to be used again.

So yes, Dean definitely does have a Zorro mask/slapping thing going on in that head of his! I hope that answers your question?

PS. I wrote this in the shopping centre where I’m working today, and was interrupted by an old lady, wishing to tell me about the bible, twice… it’s like she knew or something.

The Bible lady saga continues HERE. The lovely @jollyhunter sent me an ask - what would happen if she showed up a third time, but so did Dean and Bobby-John from that season six episode - you know:

So if you’re game, go check that out

[sunsets-and-crows]

I Wanna Be Yours - Chapter 8

Pairing: Sylus X Reader

Words: 4.4K

- - -

Tasked with infiltrating the life of Sylus, the most wanted man in the N109 zone, you're torn between what is right and feels right, blurring the line between duty and desire. As danger escalates, you must decide whether to carry out your mission or succumb to the magnetic pull of the man you're meant to destroy. In this game of power and obsession, betrayal could cost you everything.

Content warnings ⚠️

Dark Themes, Yandere! Reader and Yandere! Sylus! Power play. Violence and Gore. Smut: mutual masturbation. Stalking/surveillance. Reader slowly losing her mind. Sylus being hot and a menace. OOC Sylus (probably) TRIGGER WARNING: stalking and dubious consent. Graphic deptictions of violence.

If you feel there’s any other warnings I need to add then please reach out and let me know!

The rhythmic clicking of keys filled the air, a steady, relentless cadence that you could not afford to let falter. The edges of the screen in front of you, holographic and pulsing with a cold light, blurred slightly at the edges as you processed the words faster than your mind could consciously register. Your hands flew over the keyboard, skimming through reports, signing off on routine assignments and clearing out the back-log of paperwork you had been tasked with with a speed that felt almost mechanical. 

It was easy - in comparison to sleuthing around in the N109 zone - monotonous, dull. The kind of work that would usually take an entire team the better part of a day, you finished in two hours. This wasn’t even a challenge for your level of focus. 

Your office was as cold and sterile as the rest of the Hunter’s Association, designed for efficiency rather than for comfort. A sleek curved desk sat in the centre, illuminated by the soft light of the systems interface. The tempered glass walls granted a reprieve from the stares at least, a sense of privacy, lined with frosted panels to dull the view of the ever-bustling headquarters outside. Even with your focussed mind, you could hear the faint buzz of activity beyond the door - hunters passing by, comms channels flickering to life, reports being exchanged. None of it interested you now. 

The only reprieve from the cold, artificial setting that had once been your daily comfort, was the window. A real one, overlooking a perfectly manicured courtyard with trees that stood defiant among the steel and glass. A rare piece of nature in an otherwise mechanical world. You hadn’t noticed it much before, but recently, you found it drawing your gaze more often than you liked to admit. 

The clock on the wall broke you from your extremely brief reprieve with a tick tick tick. You refused to look at the damned thing, already far too aware of every agonising second that crawled by. 

Seventeen days. Seventeen long, maddening days since you’d last seen him. Since you’d felt that pull, that raw need. Even the memories of him weren’t satisfying you like they had before. You’d almost forgotten the warmth of his skin as his hand brushed yours. The longing sat heavy in your chest, but again you shoved it down, channeling everything you had into the task at hand. 

The way you were driving yourself, your forced efficiency, had not gone unnoticed. Your fellow hunters - seasoned professionals, hardened trackers and fighters - cast sideways glances at you, their faces almost… afraid? It wasn’t unheard of to have reports and sign-offs completed ahead of schedule, but blazing through them like a machine? That was another matter entirely. 

“Has she always been so…fast?” you heard someone murmur near the break station. 

“No way! No one is that on it for no reason! She’s pissed about getting pulled.” another speculated.

“I would be too, that case was the kind that could make your career.”

They weren’t exactly wrong with their hypothesis. But they weren’t entirely right either. Not that you cared. You had too much else on your mind to let yourself be distracted by petty gossip. 

A shadow loomed at your office door. A hesitant tap tap tap followed by an unwelcome and concerned voice. 

“Hey!” Xavier’s usual calm tone carried a hint of concern. “You look…busy.” 

You flicked your gaze up for barely a second, just long enough to confirm, yes, of course you were busy. “Yep! Very busy. You know what the paperwork is like here,” you said with a noncommittal shrug, as if it hadn’t been the very reason you got kicked off your case. 

“Right,” he replied, almost hesitantly. “You need anything? Coffee? A break?” He checked the time on his watch and looked at you with hopeful eyes. “Lunch?”

You sighed, dragging out the breath. “Nope!” You bit off the final p, sharp and dismissive, watching as he flinched. You felt a twinge of guilt, but not enough to stop. And, as expected, it didn’t deter him.

“You’ve done so much work that the rest of us have barely anything to do. Come on, take a break. It’s hard to watch you like this.” His kindness used to sway you. The softness in his voice, the pleading look in his eye - in the past, it would’ve convinced you to pause. But not anymore.

“Xavier, I appreciate the concern but really I’m fine.” ‘Fine’ was definitely not the word to describe you but you needed to assuage him. “Unless it’s really important, please, I have a lot to get through.”

He nodded, sighed softly at your clear dismissal and turned to leave but he paused. “You know, that new hunter has had no luck with him. The elusive Sylus.” 

Your eyes flitted up to meet his, feigning surprise as you tilted your head. “Oh, really? But he’s such a seasoned hunter.” You let the words linger, just a touch too sweet. “I thought he had so many undercover operations in his file that this would be easy for him, right?”

His lips twitched, his smirk beginning to deepen. “You don’t seem surprised in the least.”

Your head righted itself and a small, self-satisfied smirk grew on your own lips. “Why would I be? I worked my fucking ass off for months and I barely got close enough to speak to him never mind the rest.” 

His expression darkened just a fraction, a subtle raise of his brow. “So you knew it would be a dead end?”

You sighed through your nose, realising you’d said too much. “I knew it wouldn’t be easy.”

He studied you like he was searching for something - cracks in your composure, some hidden tell beneath your indifference. If only he knew how much effort it took to keep your mind from straying exactly where you didn’t want it to go.

“Right,” Xavier said after a beat, pushing off your desk. “Just… don’t lose yourself in all this, yeah?”

You didn’t bother responding. As soon as he walked away, you resumed typing, your focus snapping back into place.

The brief moments you allowed yourself to pause always led your gaze to the window. Out there, beyond the cold sterility of the Association, the trees stood unwavering, branches weighed down with dark-feathered bodies. A small murder of crows you’d come to recognise, their sharp eyes scanning the world below. They were a rare constant in your routine, a tether to something beyond reports and directives, beyond the ceaseless hum of the headquarters around you.

One of them was watching you.

Perched among the branches, its sleek frame blending seamlessly with the others, a certain mechanical crow adjusted its focus. Mephisto’s tiny cameras whirred softly, his gaze fixed on you through the tempered glass. Silent. Unnoticed. The perfect spy.

You remained oblivious, exhaling sharply as you leaned back in your chair. Your work was done - cleared with ruthless efficiency, every report signed off, every task completed. And yet, the satisfaction was hollow. A poor substitute for what you were meant to do.

This wasn’t the pulse of the hunt. It wasn’t the intoxicating thrill of tailing someone untouchable, someone even the most hardened hunters hesitated to approach. It wasn’t him.

And for 17 days, you’d felt the absence like a phantom pain. 

A new file blinked onto your screen, ruining your perfect record of completed assignments. Your fingers hesitated over the interface, eyes drawn to the name stamped across it. The new hunter, assigned to the N109 zone. Your replacement.

A small satisfied grin curled onto your face, amusement. Thanks to Xavier, you already knew what the report was going to say before you opened it. But that didn't stop the thrill that ran through you when you read the contents. No progress. Your replacement had made no progress. None. He hadn’t been able to track Sylus, hadn’t been able to find even a whisper of him. He might as well have been hunting a ghost.

A small part of you was disappointed. Maybe even seeing his name on the report would have dulled the ever-present ache in your chest, quieted the screaming voice that whispered, find him. Take him. Make him yours. 

No progress was good progress. No progress meant you had time. No progress meant that he was still yours.

A slow, satisfied smirk pulled at your lips. No progress meant one could be as close to him as you.

You dismissed the report with a flick of your wrist, the blue light of the screen flickering as it vanished. The data didn’t matter. The damned association’s mission didn’t matter. All that mattered was getting through the next few hours, maintaining the illusion of compliance.

You plugged in your personal hard drive, and pulled up your notes. Tonight, you had a plan.

The auction.

There was a high stakes auction happening in the middle of the N109 zone and you were absolutely going to be there. Conveniently, your replacement would be off work tonight at his son’s cello recital of all things. The thought of anyone putting anything above Sylus grated on you slightly but it served you more than anything so you were grateful for his loyalty to his family. 

You didn’t know if Sylus would be there. But if he was, you wouldn’t waste the chance to see him. To be close. He had attended in the past though, and being that he was a creature of habit, you made an educated guess that he would attend again. 

You had your reasons, the tracker. You planned to slip into his car. The truth was simpler, more raw.

You just needed to see him.

To remind yourself that he was still yours. That no matter how much distance they tried to put between you, he was still within reach.

Mephisto’s camera eye flickered, capturing the image in sharp detail. The file transferred in an instant, delivered straight to the only person who mattered. His master would see. And, inevitably, he would act.

You were as bad as each other, and if the poor bird had the programming to do so, he would roll his eyes. Alas his orders were to keep them focused on you at all times, his master would have it no other way. 

You weren’t the only one who was suffering though. In the chaos of the N109, Sylus had slowly been unravelling as well. 

Seventeen days.

That was how long it had been since Sylus last saw you, since the last auction. Since the moment he finally allowed himself to indulge, to bask in your presence, to approach you.

The days since had been maddening to say the least. An endless loop of greyer mornings and darker nights. It was as though the light had been stolen from the N109 zone altogether. The days had been pointless, feeling nearly identical and repetitive. The same darkened rooms, the same figures moving in and out of his space, the same business, the same blood. His life had become a precise, mechanical thing, fine-tuned and predictable. 

You had been the anomaly. The spark in the dull machinery of his days, surprising him with your tenacity, your unwavering fixation on him.

And now, you’d been ripped away.

Not taken, not exactly, but it felt that way. He had half a mind to march into the Hunter’s Association and slaughter whoever was responsible for removing you from his case.

At least he could watch you.

Mephisto made sure of that.

He knew your routine now. Knew that you’d been working yourself ragged, clearing your desk to focus only on him. It pleased him in a way that was almost soothing. You were just as devoted as before at least. Forced separation hadn’t made you forget him. You hadn’t looked elsewhere. And for that, he was grateful. Because he didn’t want to consider what he would’ve done if you had. 

So he watched, just as you had watched him. It was only fair wasn’t it? After all the hours you had spent studying him, observing him, pulling him apart piece by piece like your own little art project. He didn’t mind. He would be whatever you wished him to be.

Still, it wasn’t quite enough to calm his restlessness. A few stolen glimpses through a mechanical crow’s eyes? Pathetic. 

He needed you in front of him, preferably bare, spread open and trembling, impaled on him and begging for more. But that would have to wait. His rapidly increasing desires would have to be squashed, for now. He was nothing if not patient.

Lately though, patience had become harder and harder to maintain. Moments of weakness crept in, his mind spiralling to thoughts of you, more often than they should and throwing him off his game. He had to pinch himself at times, drag his focus back to business, remind himself to just focus. 

Sylus adjusted his cufflinks, steady fingers betraying none of the turmoil beneath his skin. In the mirror’s dim reflection, he was composure itself. Refined, unreadable, his hunger coiled beneath the surface, wound tight like a spring.

The simplicity of his outfit was intentional. Black slacks, black shirt, black jacket. A shadow in a den of predators. But the fit? The fit was a weapon, meticulously chosen. Every stitch, every inch tailored to ensure your gaze would linger on your favourite parts of him. The broad lines of his shoulders, the sharp taper of his waist, the way the fabric strained just slightly over his arms when he moved.

His lips curved as he slid on the fourth of his rings, the silver and stones catching in the low light. You had given yourself away so easily last time. The way your gaze had caught on his fingers, flickering down to watch them move, not to mention your at home shrine dedicated to them.

You probably thought you’d been discreet. You hadn’t.

Sylus had never been one for rings before. But now? Now he wore them with purpose, he wore them for you. He liked the way they looked when he curled his fingers into a fist, liked the way they felt as they tapped against glass. Liked knowing they’d capture your attention. He’d even been brazen enough to buy a matching one for you.

You just didn’t know it yet.

He reached for the final piece, a sleek black mask covering the top half of his face.

And just like that,his mind was wandering again. Seventeen days ago.

The last auction.

The moment had been inevitable. The moment he entered the space and saw you there, bathed in golden light and looking absolutely exquisite in a simple uniform, he was done for. 

He would never admit to the nerves that twisted low in his gut as he approached you, walking slowly, methodically in an attempt to remain as calm as possible. Would never voice the irrational jealousy curling in his chest as he watched you polish the glass in your delicate, steady hands. He refused to acknowledge the sheer insanity of feeling envious of a glass, it was so beneath him. 

And when he finally stepped forward and made his way over to you, you noticed. Your eyes met his and in that second Sylus had the absurd urge to make you keep your eyes on him, to trap you in his orbit right then and there. 

You made him a drink.

A simple thing. A small thing. And yet, he had taken a slow sip, watching her the entire time. He praised you and your pupils dilated. Just like that he was fucking addicted, his heart racing with the desire to get that reaction from you again. 

His jaw clenched now, fingers flexing against his palm.

Yes. That was what he wanted again. What he craved. And tonight, he would have it.

This new hunter was clearly a fucking amateur, no matter what his record said about him. He didn’t have your understanding of his world, his movements- of Sylus. Granted part of that was due to Sylus’ own actions. The poor fucker couldn’t very well get to know Sylus after the way he’d been iced out of the N109 zone. But seriously? To miss such an important event like this, was more than sloppy work.

The auction hall had been beautifully decorated, even for Sylus’ standards, he was nearly impressed. It was a cathedral of decadence, gilded chandeliers spilling golden light over exquisitely dressed patrons. Art worth small fortunes lined the walls, and the hush of wealth draped over the room like a perfumed veil. It shimmered off crystal glasses and polished marble bathing everything in a soft honeyed glow. 

Whispers and false laughter rippled through the air, thick with masked intentions and velvet-coated threats, the lifeblood of these gatherings.

The masquerade theme was just another layer of excess, a pretense that any of them had secrets that could be peeled back. It was amusing, the idea that something as simple as a mask could hide who or what someone was. 

Sylus stood off to the side of it all. Watching and waiting for his prize, the reward for his patience. Patience that was dwindling by the second and kicking up a storm within the man. Nothing about the softness of the light or the comfort of anticipated danger could soften the razor’s edge of his rapidly souring mood.

His crimson eyes scanned the room, seeking out every corner, every shadow, anywhere that might be your hiding place. The bar, again? The balcony? The clusters of masked figures swathed in silk and tailored suits?

Nothing. You were nowhere to be seen.

He released a slow exhale, willing his irritation to stay beneath the surface. A quiet tightening of his jaw and the press of his tongue against the inside of his cheek. No one here was sharp enough to notice, but Luke and Kieran flanking him? Of course, they did. 

Luke tilted his head slightly, a hint of a smile visible beneath his own mask. “Boss looks like he’s about to commit a massacre.” 

Kieran snorted. “Someone should tell him that glaring at the crowd won't make a certain Miss Hunter appear. Maybe she’s not coming?”

The boys were clearly far too comfortable with playfully ribbing him like this. Perhaps the fact that everyone was masked as they usually were was enough to peak their confidence. Whatever it was, it grated on Sylus’ nerves. 

He turned his head slightly. The weight of his gaze was enough warning to have them standing a little straighter and their lips closing around whatever quip was going to come next. “Hush.”

They knew better than to push. Sylus was a dangerous man after all and he was particularly touchy around the subject of you. Still their quiet amusement resonated between them. 

He was irritated. Not with you of course, god he could never be angry with you. With himself. 

He’d wasted time, time that he have, on getting ready for this, for you. Everything, exactly to your taste, down to the way the open collar of his shirt exposed just enough skin to draw eyes, though none of them belonged to the one person he wanted looking at him.

And for what? To among the same people he saw at every one of these damned things, waiting for someone who should know better to test his patience? Mephisto had no clue the trouble he was going to be in if you didn’t show up.

His fingers curled into a fist against his knee before he forced them to relax.

You should be here.

Where the fuck were you?

A call of the auctioneer came loudly through the opulent hall, breaking through Sylus’ silent fuming. He exhaled sharply, and walked through the double doors to the auction room, sinking into his seat with a practiced ease, the deliberate weight of a man who regretted coming. 

The auction hall was just as opulent, gilded walls, more glittering chandeliers, more of that soft, golden glow that radiated warmth and wealth. All of it was giving Sylus a migraine, he couldn’t stand the sight of it. He pinched the bridge of his nose and rested his elbow on the arm of the chair, jaw tight. His fingers danced a steady beat, drumming once, twice, against the armrest before he forced himself to regain his composure, to still. 

You weren’t a tardy person, you should’ve been here by now. You weren’t coming.

The twins took their seats to the side of Sylus, making low conversation with each other. A hint of a smirk visible beneath their masks. Kieran cleared his throat and schooled his features, trying desperately to look less entertained than he was by his boss’ palpable irritation. His gaze flickered towards sylus. 

“Are you sure your date hasn’t stood you up?” Kieran mused. “That would be a shame since you dressed up so pretty for her. Did she know this was a date?”

Sylus shot him a glance, sharp enough to cut glass, which just made Kieran grin more. 

“It's not a date,” Sylus stated calmly. “And I didn’t dress up for anyone. Unlike other people, I always try to look my best, it’s better for… business.” That was a lie. 

He had dressed up.

And now, it was wasted.

The chair beneath him felt hard and stiff. Uncomfortable. The noise of the room was grating against his nerves, worsening his already terrible mood. He didn’t need to be here. He could leave. He should leave. The muscle in his jaw twitched. 

A particularly loud gaggle of women passed by, giggling shrilly about some heirloom or bag or something. Whatever it was, it was the last straw for Sylus. 

He turned to the twins. “We're leaving.” 

Both boys broke out into small grins, already mentally preparing for the way they would tease their boss on the way home. 

He sighed again and prepared to leave when-

Bang! 

The heavy double doors flew open and the noise in the room quietened instantly.

Sylus’ vision tunneled to the open double doors. 

There you were, a vision of pure indulgence. 

A goddess draped in swaithes of molten gold, wrapped in wealth that made people desperate. His breath caught in his throat, almost choking him. The soft waves of your hair shimmered under the low gilded lights. Every movement of yours was intentional, unhurried. Like you had all the time in the world to destroy him. 

And you were destroying him. Completely and utterly undoing the very fabric of his very being. 

Sylus swallowed, but his throat had gone dry.

You’d managed to throw him off, to surprise him in a way that no one else had managed to do and god was it delicious. He expected you to be incognito, to hide in the shadows as you always did. But this? This was completely unexpected. 

That dress. That fucking dress. It was like an extension of you, satin clinging to curves he wanted to trace and memorise with his hands, his mouth, anything you would let him. It pooled around your feet, whispering against the marble floor as you walked. The slit at your thigh flashing enough skin to make him grip the armrest of his chair hard enough to ache. To leave him breathless and yearning to reach out to you. But you didn’t even look his way. 

He should be furious.

Not only had you made him wait, smouldering in his own anticipation, but now you were gracing everyone except him with your attention. Allowing your eyes to linger on even Luke and Kieran by his side. Not once did you allow him the relief of meeting your eyes.

He couldn’t be mad though, not when he was finally seeing you after so long. You were an oasis after being in the desert, a breeze kissing his skin.

Fuck, he couldn’t stop looking at you.

So this was Seraphina. He’d known it was only a matter of time before he met this version of you, your second alias, woven from deception and luxury. And damn, had you outdone yourself. He would have to thank Axel for crafting the persona so well, for shaping an alias that fit you like it had always been yours. A background that set you apart. Made you untouchable.

Wealth clung to you, draped over your skin like it had always belonged there. Like he had always belonged there. Gold suited you. Power suited you. And Sylus would make it his mission to ensure you kept them both.

The curve of your neck as you lifted your chin, playing the socialite so well. The slight part of your lips as you took in the room, your gaze flitting across the crowd, assessing them, weighing them and deciding who was worth your attention. God he hoped it would be him. 

But it wasn’t. Not yet.

Heat blazed across his skin, settling low in his stomach. Dark and restless. Something curling its fingers into his ribcage, his heart squeezing. His pulse beat so frantically that he could feel it in his teeth. A slow, agonising thud, thud, thud, setting every nerve ending alight. 

Kieran exhaled sharply. “Wow.”

Luke let out a low chuckle. “Boss man looks wrecked.”

Sylus couldn’t even hear them.

Because you were walking right past him.

Close enough that the soft scent of your perfume curled around him, something intoxicating, designed to ruin, pulling him in closer and closer. He wanted to reach out, to touch your skin as you walked past and feel the way your pulse danced beneath your wrist. 

You didn’t falter in your step, your strides remaining composed and unhurried. And you never, not once, turned to meet his eyes. Fucking temptress. 

Instead, you descended gracefully into the front row, your back to him, your hands smoothing over the delicate folds of your gown. 

Sylus could do nothing else but return to his chair. Composing himself after nearly coming undone at the mere sight of you. He exhaled slowly, releasing the tightness from his jaw and muscles as he rolled his shoulders back and his neck side to side. He was on edge, chest rising and falling in a way that felt too obvious. You had come. You had made him wait. And now, you were making him suffer.

➽──────────────────────────────────❥

I know you all said you didn't want a cliffhanger but it had to be done right here! The good news is that I'm already working on chapter 9 so hopefully it shouldn't take a month for me to get that one to you! Thank you for waiting so patiently!

❥ Like, reblog, comment, message me, ask me something, literally anything - I live for your feedback on this  ❥

[clownyclaushoe]

art the clown x reader 🔞 | i taste blood and it's turned into an obsession series

part three | touched by angels though i fall out of grace

part one | part two | part four

reader finally gets fucked by art 😫 chapter title taken from i never told you what i do for a living by my chemical romance

this might be the final part, idk. it depends on if i get inspired to continue 👀

🖤❤🖤❤🖤❤🖤❤🖤❤🖤❤🖤

you looked back at art from your position leaning on the work bench to see him stroking his fully hard cock. even as his cum still lingered on your tastebuds, you couldn't believe any of this was happening, that it wasn't an elaborate wet dream.

the details of which making up your wildest fantasies since you met him. with all your imagining of what art's dick looked like up-close and hard, after glimpsing it flaccid and from afar, it had exceeded your expectations. it was surprisingly pretty, as long and thick as it was; the smooth shaft a dusty pink, his groin hairless just like the rest of him, his balls large and firm. the slick wetness of his tongue burying into your pussy, his large nose pressing repeatedly at your clit as his mouth fucked you. and his slender fingers that you fantasized getting fucked by hadn't disappointed you either. there were too many shifts at work that you had snuck away to the restroom to stuff your fingers in your pussy while imagining they were art's, though they'd reach deeper and stretch you wider than your own ever could. you had decided it was too risky, especially with the way it was difficult to keep from moaning art's name, the deafening wet sounds alone would've made it too obvious what you were doing.

art slaps your ass twice in quick succession, making you jolt against the table, bringing you back to the present. a begging whine escapes you, and he swipes his cock over your pussy, smearing precum over your folds, the slow drag excruciating.

"please. fuck me, art."

mercifully, he presses the head to your pussy, swiftly pushing inside you, grabbing your shoulder as he filled you completely, far more than many other cock, dildo, or vibrator ever has. in an instant you felt a shift to your entire being, as if you were torn apart and put back together again, feeling close to breaking down into tears under the immensity. a defining moment in your life, that you couldn't fathom ever existing.

it's so fucking perfect, like his cock was made for you, and your pussy meant to be stretched by its girth. as mindblowing as his fingers, tongue, and the toy he made you was, they paled in comparison to his big, fat clown cock.

he wastes no time, and begins pounding you, setting a brutal pace, made all the easier with how wet he's made you, your practically dripping, your essence coating your inner thighs. you wish you could see the sweet slide of him working in and out of you, his fat balls hitting your clit, so painfully swollen with cum you wanted to coat your spongy inner walls.

"ahhh, art, oh my fucking god." art gives another punishing smack to your ass, likely at the mention of 'god'. "again, please. need more."

he complies with your request, giving another two harsh smacks, his long fingers gripping your reddened ass. you hiss at the sweet assault to your senses that is getting fucked by art. you swear you could feel his cock swell even impossibly bigger inside you, as he hiked your leg up and held it firmly.

his hands move to grip your hips, digits digging into your skin, your body thrashing with the force he fucks into you. screams of art's name and obscenities tear from your throat, not caring if anyone could hear, though you know with as isolated as art's hideout is, it's unlikely.

you push back against him in time with his thrusts, determined to chase your orgasm, incapable of any other thoughts than to come all over his cock and milk him of every drop of cum.

"breed me with your demon-baby." you say deliriously, wishing you could see his reaction. though within moments you feel it, his hot load spilling inside you, sending you over the edge instantly, and you're coming with strained, rugged moans, squirting yet again - even more than the first two times - drenching your legs, forming puddles on the table and cement floor.

art leans on top of you, pulling your hair aside to bite your neck hard enough to draw blood, licking at the small wound. you hiss at the sensation, only adding to the pleasure thrumming through you.

your pussy clenched and throbbed around him, draining every ounce of cum. he pulled out of you, his hand resting at your lower back as you pressed your face against your arms, body trembling in the fiery afterglow. once you're a little less shaky you stand upright and face him.

"i love you, art."

art's gaze moved over your face, his nose nudging against yours in a little nod, seemingly that tenderness and vulnerability his small way of repeating it back to you. in the past times of introversion about your feelings for art, you'd wondered if he understood the concept of love, if he'd ever felt it, or any other positive emotions outside of his own warped glee from causing pain, fear, and death.

you'd wondered what it'd say about you, that you could love a monster, an angel of death. did it make you a bad person, possibly just as irredeemable as him. you'd always had a reputation as a good, sweet girl - albeit a little weird and quirky. maybe you weren't as good as everyone had thought, and there was an untapped darkness within your own heart to attract you to someone like art, and to attract someone like him to you. all the questions and what-ifs that fogged your mind - could your love save him? redeem him? did his mercy for you mean his heart could be changed? why were you so fixated on seeing that he changed, because then he'd no longer be art, the man turned demon that had - beyond all odds and reason - captured your heart. would there come a day when you too would be victim to the miles county clown? - all faded away as art's arms slipped around your waist, letting you fall into his embrace, resting your head against his chest, you found that you didn't care about the details.

hope you enjoyed! 🖤❤🖤❤🖤

© angeljeonjkk 2024

[azrielsdove]

Petals and Pain: Tamlin x Reader

Warnings: Angst, Suggestive, Longgggg

The halls were dark, quiet, and cold. A stark contrast to the last time you stepped foot in this manor. You crept through the ruins, remembering how the grand place had looked before. It had been fifty-odd years since you last came here, since you last saw your oldest friend.

Everything had changed since then.

You had left Prythian on what was supposed to be a month trip to the other territories. You were to go both as a diplomat and as a tourist. Tamlin had wanted to try to better the Court with what you learned there, a task you so willingly took. You had bid him farewell and set off, excited to see what the world had to offer.

You didn’t know it would be the last time you saw him.

He sent a letter the moment Amarantha showed her evil hand, bidding you stay put. Every instinct in you screamed to run home, but you knew you could be of more help if you stayed away. Perhaps you could seek out assistance from one of the territories.

Your heart ached for the Spring Court all those years. Your travels brought you beauty, sure, yet it all paled in comparison to your home. You longed for the manor, its large windows and warm sunshine. You wished to walk through the gardens, so full of magic and peace. Above it all you missed Tamlin. The two of you had met long ago, when you were both not more than babes. Your parents were high up in the Court, trusted advisors to the High Lord. Often you were brought along as their pride and joy, their perfect little pawn. Talks of a betrothal to you and one of the High Lords sons began as you grew, your parents vying for the eldest. They knew he had the most chance of being the next High Lord. The goal was to get you in the highest position of power possible.

Your friendship with Tamlin grew as you did. He was pushed to the side more often than not, the youngest brother with no hope of ever being High Lord. Your parents were unhappy that he was the one you chose to befriend, but they couldn’t keep you from seeing him. Not without potentially upsetting his father. No, that wouldn’t do for their plan.

Until the slaughter of the entire family occurred. Your parents were unlucky enough to have been there at the time of the attack, murdered alongside Tamlins. Too quickly the manor went from a busy, full, lively place to just the two of you. Tamlin begged you to stay after that, insisting that he didn’t want to be alone. You couldn’t deny that you felt the same and gladly moved into the manor. He appointed you emissary, setting you as the first member of his court. Not long after Lucien showed up and turned your duo into a rather happy trio. You and Lucien worked together to keep the Spring Court in good favor with the other Courts.

You wondered where Lucien was now. What exactly had happened here, besides what you got out of Tamlins last broken letter. You continued further into the manor, peering into each room as you passed. There was no sign of life anywhere. You weren’t even sure if Tamlin was still here. You stuck a hand in your pocket, finger running over the edge of the letter that brought you here.

Spring has fallen.

It is all my fault.

The threat has gone.

Short, and not nearly enough information. You had raced back to Prythian as quickly as you could, trying to imagine what had happened.

Though nothing prepared you for this.

“Tamlin?” You called out softly, unsure if danger lurked nearby. A chill flew through the air, sending shivers down your back. A noise from a few rooms down the hall startled you, eyes darting towards it. You moved hesitantly towards the door, noting the dim light showing from underneath it. Slowly you pushed it open, once again calling out his name. You looked into the room, heart sinking at the sight.

You had found Tamlin.

From where he sat you could see his hair was matted, covered in mud and leaves. His once smart attire was torn and dirtied, hanging loosely off his much too thin frame. You could see his skin was pale, scratches covering most of it. “Tam?” You asked, voice shaky. He turned slowly to you and your hand flew to cover your mouth. His eyes were dark, sunk deep into his head. He looked as close to death as you could get while still being alive. “Oh Tam.” You dropped to your knees in front of him, gently wrapping your hands around his. You stared deep into those haunted eyes, heart breaking. “Let me help you.”

He gave no response, just continued to stare at you in that dead sort of way. You began to doubt there was anything of your friend left. You quickly busied yourself with all the healing remedies you brought from your travels. You weren’t certain what sort of state Tamlin or the Spring Court would be in when you arrived, so you brought as many fit into your bags. A good thing too, for several of these were desperately needed. You gently poured a few different vials into his mouth, watching carefully to make sure they took. You wanted to heal his body and mind as much as you could, in hopes that he could explain what had all happened. You administered one final draught for the night before gently leading your friend to lay in front of the damp fireplace. “Sleep should kick in soon, will you lay here for me?” You asked, laying down the cloak you wore as a sort of sad attempt at a bed. Tamlin laid on it with no comment, the horrid blank stare still on his face. You waited until he was asleep to go scrounge around for some wood, leading to a rather pitiful fire in the great stone fireplace. At least it was better than nothing.

You settled down in the least damaged chair you could find, watching Tamlin. Your mind was racing with questions. You were completely lost on how your once witty and charming friend had been reduced to this husk of a male. And where was Lucien? You were struck with a chilling thought, one that you didn’t wish to dwell on. You shook your head, shooing it away. Lucien had to be alive, something just must have come up. There was a perfectly logical reason for why he wasn’t here, and why the Spring Court lay in ruin. You just had to wait for Tamlin to wake and you could get some answers.

***

It was days before the High Lords eyes opened once more. You spent your time forcing water and various medicinal mixtures down his throat, exploring what was left of the manor when you felt up to it. Your heart ached at seeing what was once your beautiful home in such disrepair. It shattered completely when you made your way to your old rooms and found that they were the only place untouched. Dusty, yes, but otherwise just the same as you had left them. You had quickly brought Tamlin to them after your discovery, setting him up in your grand four poster bed. A reminder of a life that feels so long ago now.

It was soon after that Tamlin came to. He still looked close to death, but there was a minuscule brightness to his eyes that hadn’t been there before. He murmured your name, a hand reaching out for yours. You grasped it tightly, tears pricking at the back of yours eyes. “Tam,” you whispered, “what happened?”

He gave a sad smile, shaking his head. “It was all my fault, truly. Everyone left. I let them all down. I allowed war to come to these lands, I allowed terrible things to happen.” He gave a short, sharp laugh. “All in the name of love. Love. What do I even know of it?”

You were confused, and a tad bit hurt at the mention of this so-called love. “Tell me from the beginning.”

And so he did.

He told you of what Amarantha had done, how she had tricked the Courts. How she vied for his hand and when he denied her she cursed all of Spring. He told you how she cut out Lucien’s eye, wincing as he did. He talked about the rules of his curse, how the only way out was to get a mortal to fall for him.

He spoke of Feyre, the love he had mentioned before. You could feel the pain in his voice as he did, as he explained how he tried to save her. “I was ready to sacrifice my entire court, just so she would be safe. A fool I was. A selfish, horrid fool.” He told you how they were all taken Under the Mountain, how Feyre came to try to save him. What she suffered in the months down there. How he didn’t know what to do, besides send Lucien to try to help her.

He talked about Rhysand, who you remembered all too well. He explained how the other High Lord assisted Feyre Under the Mountain, how Tamlin had thought it all a nasty trick. His voice broke as he recalled Amarantha killing her, but Rhysand and the other High Lords worked together to bring her back.

You had no words, shocked at the amount of respect they all had for this girl. Truly, you couldn’t help but be in awe of her yourself.

Tamlin continued, telling you how they were supposed to wed. How Rhysand had crashed the wedding, whisking Feyre away. He told you how Lucien and him thought Rhysand was nothing but evil, mind controlling Feyre to hate them. “Of course, she had every right to hate me. I didn’t know how to treat her after Under the Mountain. I allowed her suffering.” You squeezed his hand reassuringly, urging him to continue.

On he went, explaining that Rhysand and the Night Court were never truly evil, that there is a goodness there. He spoke of the war with Hybern, of what he had done to Feyres sisters. He told you how Feyre had turned the court against him, but it was his own actions that lead them to believe her.

He talked about Lucien, how he had fled with Feyre in the end. “I couldn’t even keep one of my oldest friends. I have done irreparable damage to everyone I cared about. It is good you were away, otherwise you would’ve been hurt too.” His gaze was faraway, eyes shining with untold pain.

You sat in silence for long moments, processing everything he had told you. Lucien had left him. That was no small fact, that what Tamlin had done was bad to have driven him away. Yet as look at the male in front of you, you struggle to see that he is truly evil.

“I believe your heart was in the right place, however your actions were a bit extreme,” you said slowly, careful with your words.

Tamlin laughed. “Just a bit?” You looked up at him, his eyes shining bright as he smiled at you. For just a moment you could see the old him in his face, the strong High Lord you once knew.

“Okay, perhaps a lot. I do not see why that should mean you must live like this now. It is not too late to make amends to your Court, and to Lucien. I am home now, Tam. Let me help rebuild our home.” And you, you thought, looking over his sickly state once more.

He nodded, agreeing. “Yes, yes. You always know what to do. For now, I will rest. I tire too easily these days.” His eyes were closed before he finished speaking, exhaustion taking over once more.

You sat in the quiet room for a while longer, still holding his hand. Your questions were answered, but in their place were a million more. For the first time you began to doubt if the Spring Court and its High Lord were truly fixable.

***

You spent the following days cleaning up what damage you could from the manor while Tamlin regained his strength. You took notice of how most of the destruction seemed caused by a rather large animal, piecing together what must have happened. What sort of a state had he been in to destroy his home in such a way? You had paused your questioning for now, focusing on his healing first. You did find where Lucien now resides and sent him a letter as quick as you could. You weren’t entirely sure what had all happened, but you hoped he would return once more. If not for Tamlin, then for you.

You were busy cleaning in the grand entry when a rather cold chuckle came from behind you. You turned quickly, holding your mop out like a weapon.

“Oh relax, it is only me,” a silky voice said, purple eyes glittering. You frowned.

“Rhysand.”

He placed his hand dramatically over his heart at your cool tone, feigning being stabbed. “Ouch. How long has it been since we last spoke, then? Welcome back to this side of the world. Noticed I didn’t see you in the war.”

You rolled your eyes, setting your mop down. “There could never be enough time in between our meetings. I wasn’t a part of the war, as I was unaware it was happening. The last I heard was the day Amarantha played her nasty trick, and I was told to remain away.”

“Lucky you. Away on your travels, galavanting around while the rest of us suffered.” Rhysand scowled at you, eyes narrowed. “You seem not any worse off for it.”

You crossed your arms tightly in front of you, anger flooding your body. “I did only as my High Lord commanded.”

Rhysand scoffed. “Some High Lord he is. Do you not see the state of your beloved Court? Do you truly believe an innocent male allowed ruin to befall your home like this?”

You took a step closer, ever defensive of your old friend and home. “What I have found is a hurting male, trapped all alone in a nightmare of his own creation. I have heard his regrets and his helplessness. I came back to find my home a dark shadow of itself, my High Lord, my friend, not more than a shell of who he was.” You looked Rhysand up and down. “I have found you, the male who won it all. You have your mate, Rhysand. You have your grand Court, your faithful family. I’ve heard you even have a perfect little son. And yet here you stand, coming to do what, may I ask? Taunt Tamlin? Kick him some more while he’s down?” Your fists clenched, anger tight in your chest. “I admit I do not know all that has transpired in my absence, but I know enough to say what you’re doing is wrong. I do not argue that he has hurt you, has hurt your mate, but to what end must he suffer? Will you not be happy until his heart has ceased beating? What more can he give you?”

Rhysand stood as still as death, eyes studying you carefully. When he spoke, his voice was quiet. “You show a devotion I do not often see. If you ever come to understand there’s nothing for you here, i’d be pleased to see you in Night Court black. As I said so many years ago, Tamlin will never give you what you want.” He was gone in a dramatic swirl of darkness, nothing but a grandiose show of power. You frowned deeper, ever unsettled by the High Lord. He had always been condescending to you, deciding that you were worth hating just for being close to Tamlin.

As I said so many years ago, Tamlin will never give you what you want. You scoffed as the words played again in your head, picking your mop back up. Rhysand had convinced himself long ago that you only stayed close to Tamlin in hopes of being his bride. You’d laughed in his face the first time he said this, completely taken aback by such an accusation. You can admit a part of you would not have been unhappy with such an arrangement, but you had your position in Court on your own. Rhysand never saw you as more than a lovesick puppy that followed Tamlins every move.

When you returned to Tamlin you mentioned the meeting rather briefly, not wishing to upset him any further.

“Rhysand was here?” He asked sharply, eyes scanning you as though for injury. “Did he hurt you? What did he want?”

You sighed, sitting on the edge of the bed and looking at him. “He did not do anything, Tam. I assume he came to make sure you were still miserable. He wasn’t very pleased to find me instead.” A teasing smile danced across your face, an attempt to lighten the situation.

It didn’t work. Tamlin frowned deeply, clearly upset that this happened. “He comes every now and again to remind me i’m worthless and alone. He laughed himself silly when he saw how sickly i’d become last time.”

You forced your anger down, not trusting yourself to speak. While you understood why Rhysand would be so full of hate for Tamlin, there has to be a limit before it becomes just pointless cruelty. You took a deep breath, looking intently at your friend. “Whatever he has said to you is irrelevant now. You are healing, as is this Court. That is all that matters. Do not dwell on the events of the past, not now.” You reached over and grabbed the warm tea you had made, filling his cup with it. “Now drink, and rest. I gather soon you’ll be up to a walk around the grounds.”

***

Tamlins healing came slowly, and not without challenge. The first day he got out onto the desolate gardens surrounding the manor he fell into a darkness deeper than before, pained at seeing what his home had become. The physical healing was only part of the battle, the healing of his mind was what truly ailed him. You had brought him back to bed, forcing him to eat and rest. Once you were certain he was down for the night you made your way back outside, sitting on the cracked grand steps leading up to the entry.

And you cried.

This task was more than you expected. Tamlin was in worse shape than you ever imagined, the Court was nothing more than a few dead plants. You had no idea where to go from here, how else to aid in his healing. Even when he was healed, how were you going to go about healing the Court? Bringing the fae home? You’d heard how it had fallen, the poison Feyre had spewed, the ways in which some of what she had said rang true. You knew how Tamlin put his faith in the wrong beings, how his focus on her lead to his destruction. This was beginning to feel like all too much on you, but you refused to give up on him.

Someone spoke your name softly.

You shot up from the steps, eyes narrowing as you took in your surroundings. Your heart stopped when you realized who was standing in front of you.

“L-Lucien?”

His name was enough to have him running up to you, wrapping you tight in his arms. You sunk into his embrace, tears taking over with a new force. You allowed yourself to let out all you had been holding back, safe in the arms of one of your closest friends. Lucien held you close, body shaking with his own emotion. The two of you stood that way until your eyes were dry. When you finally pulled back enough to look up into his face your heart ached. One hand came up to gently touch the scarring left by Amarantha, anger and pain in both of you. “I’m so sorry I left.”

Lucien shook his head vigorously. “None of that. I stood by Tamlin when he decided you should stay away. I do not regret that choice for a moment.” He pressed a gentle kiss to your forehead, giving you one last squeeze before letting you go. “How is he?”

You sighed deeply. “He’s bad. I am starting to lose hope.” You were ashamed to speak the words out loud.

Lucien reached out and grabbed ahold of your hand. “Take me to him?”

You nodded, leading him through the desolate manor. You heard his sharp intake of breath as he took in the destruction, even with your pitiful attempts at fixing it. You paused outside of your rooms, looking up to Lucien. “He has not told me all that transpired between you, however he has told me enough. I am sorry for the pain you have suffered at his hand. The male you are about to see is but a shell of the one you once knew. If it’s too much I do not expect you to stay.”

Lucien squeezed your hand reassuringly. “At the end of it all, Tamlin was one of my greatest friends. And you are worth more than any pain he has bestowed upon me. I do not wish to see either of you suffer anymore than you already have.”

You gave him a watery smile and pushed open the doors. You felt his hand go slack as he took in the sight of Tamlin tucked into your bed, how sickly he still looked. You stayed close to the doors as Lucien approached him, allowing him to process what he was seeing. “Oh, Tam,” he whispered, a hand running across his face. “What have we done?” He stood there for a while, looking over his old friend. You went to him when you noticed the gentle shake of his shoulders, tears falling slowly down his cheeks.

“Come,” you whispered, wrapping an arm around him. “He will not wake until well into the morning. I’ll make you something warm to drink and you can rest until then.” You led Lucien down to the kitchens, fixing him up a cup of tea. He sat in silence while you did, staring blankly at the wall.

“I should not have left him in my anger,” he finally spoke, looking up as you handed him the cup. “I was so hurt by how he had acted, but I was not innocent in all that happened. Even when I disagreed with his actions I still followed him, up until the end. I’ve allowed him to fall into this state.” You knelt down in front of him, wrapping your hands around his.

“You must not think like that. We all have our own guilts and pain, but we must come back together now. Everything has changed and yet so much is the same. I have missed you, Lucien. I have missed the both of you more than I can say.” You looked down at your hands around his, taking a deep breath. “We need to come up with a plan to help him, to save our Court. Otherwise it will remain dead for eternity.”

***

Weeks went by. Lucien stayed and helped you, the two of you fixing up your home. Tamlin had improved greatly in the physical sense, but his mind was still riddled in guilt. Your pain at seeing him struggle had slowly turned into anger. “What else can we do, Lucien? Do you expect me to sit and wait decades more for him to move on?” You seethed, pacing back and forth in front of the grand fireplace. The two of you spent most nights in the newly refurbished study, the favorite of the rooms you’ve redone. The estate had been mostly repaired to its former glory, aside from the missing staff and High Lord.

“You know how long it can take. You saw the state he was in. I know it is frustrating to continue waiting but what else do you propose we do?” Lucien was as exhausted as you were, but his own guilt at letting Tamlin fall this far kept him slightly more amicable. You paused your pacing, turning sharply to look at him.

“I’m going to tell him off. We have let him deal with everything in private as much as we can. He needs a wake up call, and so help me I will do it.” You made your way from the room before Lucien could stop you. You knew you should calm down before you get to Tamlin’s rooms, finished only days ago. Your hands were clenched tightly into fists at your sides as you stormed through the manor, trying to decide what to say. All you knew was that you were angry and tired of watching your dearest friend lose himself.

You reached his doors rather quickly, shoving them open without a second thought. They clattered against the walls, alerting Tamlin to your presence. He looked over at you curiously, eyes scanning over you. “Has something happened?” He asked, sitting up in his bed. You crossed your arms tight in front of you.

“Yes, as a matter of fact. Something has happened.” You watched his expression change slightly at the pure rage in your voice, as if he knew what you were going to say. “You. You, Tamlin. I am sick and tired of watching you wallow in self pity. I understand, you were hurt. You are ashamed of how you acted in your own rage. But how long must this go on? I am home, Tam. I am here, for you. Lucien and I have repaired this estate and you have done nothing but sit in this godforsaken bed and pout!” You couldn’t help the increased volume in your voice, all your hidden frustration bursting free from you. “I want you to get up. I want you to get out of this bed, put some damned clothes on, and come to work. Do you understand?” You stared him down, breathing slightly heavy.

Something strange flickered through his eyes, an emotion you had never seen in him. His voice was deathly cold when he responded. “Are you making demands of your High Lord?”

An exasperated sigh rolled off your lips. “At this point I’m more High Lord than you are.” You knew that was cruel, a direct attack to his already hurt pride. The rational part of your mind was screaming for you to calm down, to take a step back. But your anger was winning. “I came here to help you, Tamlin. Have I not done so? Have I not devoted my life to yours?”

His scoff cut you off. “No one forced you to do that,” he spat out, leaning back against his headboard. “You did not have to come back here. You shouldn’t have come back here.”

You rolled your eyes. “This is my home. You are my home! Don’t you get it, Tam? It has always been you!” The anger rushed out of your body at your confession, a sudden lightheadedness coming over you. “It was always you,” you whispered out, a hand coming to rest on your forehead. The strength left your body, your legs failing to hold you up. The floor was coming up fast, blessedly fast. You hoped you would hit it hard enough to forget this moment, your embarrassing confession.

Then you stopped. Strong arms wrapped around you, pulling you back up. One stayed tightly around your waist while the other cupped your chin, forcing you to look into the perfect green of Tamlin’s eyes. “Say it again,” he whispered, breath ghosting over your lips.

“It is you. You are my home,” you murmured, brain foggy at his proximity. In all the decades of loving him, you had never been caught in a moment like this.

Tamlin took a deep breath before moving a millimeter closer. “How long?” He asked, each syllable causing his lips to brush against yours.

“Since we were children. My father pushed for me to marry one of your brothers, but I never held any interest in them. My heart has always called out for you.” Your body was on fire, every slight brush of his lips against yours a lightning strike under your skin. “I waited. I waited for you to choose me at Calanmai.” You felt his nails dig slightly into your waist at that, a shuddering breath running through him. “I waited for you to seek a wife once you were more comfortable as High Lord. I waited and waited. Then you sent me away.”

The hand under your chin moved to hold your face, thumb running gently over your cheek. “I sent you away,” he began, voice heavy, “because it was getting too hard to focus with you around. With the constant need running through my veins.” His hand dropped to the back of your neck, squeezing ever so gently. “Every Calanmai my body sang for yours. It took insurmountable control to not drag you in that cave with me each year.” You couldn’t help the noise that came from you at that. Something in Tamlin snapped, his pupils blown wide before pressing his lips fully against yours.

The kiss was harsh, unleashing decades of pent up desire. You cried out when he bit your lip, canines sharp. The taste of your blood on his tongue was positively sinful, making you feel a way you never had before. His lips moved from yours, running down your neck before his teeth sunk in to your shoulder. You moaned his name loudly, throwing your head back in a silent plea for more. Tamlin growled, the arm around your waist moving to slide down between your thighs. His fingers teased the waistband of your pants, your skin burning in the wake of his touch. You had half a mind to grab his hand and force it where you needed him the most, when Lucien decided to make his presence known.

“I see we kissed and made up?” He cooed, a smirk on his face as he leaned against the doorframe. Tamlin turned sharply to him, elongated nails and teeth on full display.

“Leave. Now.”

***

One year later

The Spring Court was alive once more. In fact, it was more beautiful than it had ever been. The flowers bloomed bright and big, their pleasant perfume filling the lands. The grass was the richest shade of green, the trees sang in the wind, and the air ran fresh. It was a paradise. You were admiring the peonies in the garden when two arms wrapped around your waist, tucking you close. You leaned into Tamlin’s hold, a content sigh escaping you.

“How are the flowers today, my love?” He asked, pressing a kiss behind your ear.

“They are perfect,” you said with a smile, resting your hands over his. You looked down at the glittering emerald set in gold on your finger, a matching golden band circling his own. “How is my husband today?”

“Mmm,” he groaned, pressing more kisses down your neck. “Greatly improved now that I have you here. The other Courts are being rather obtuse about answering our letters.” You turned in his arms, resting your hands upon his chest.

“Do you wish for me to deal with them again? You know they rather like me,” you teased, playing with the fabric of his shirt. Your husband rolled his eyes, leaning down to kiss you sweetly.

“They do seem to prefer you, High Lady.” You smiled at the title, a name you were still getting used to. You caught his lips with yours once more, threading one hand up through his hair. He sighed into your mouth, pulling you tighter against him. You lead the kiss, allowing his mind to grow muddled under your touch. You tugged on some strands of his hair, relishing in the guttural sound he made before pulling away from him and out of his grasp.

“Come on, High Lord. Let’s go convince the other Courts that a Spring ball is an excellent idea, planned by their very favorite High Lady.”

***

Ahhhh I LOVE this one. I hope you all do too! This took me agessss to write, but I am ever so thankful for your patience with me. <3

Note: If you do not like Tamlin, that is fine, but do not come here to argue. Just scroll on <3

[dwntwn-strnlo]

HAND MAKING matt sturniolo

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 𝓈𝒾𝓃𝒸𝑒𝓇𝑒𝓁𝓎, dwntwn-strnlo.

↳ 𝐀/𝐍. im back :) . . . is this me trauma dumping? idk yeah probably

↳ 𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆. matthew sturniolo x harvard student!reader

↳ 𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘. to relax ones mind

↳ 𝐑𝐄𝐐𝐔𝐄𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐃? no!

↳ 𝐂𝐖! slight panic attack but not really, crying, failing school? happy ending, pet names ig idfk, profanity

"what are you doing?"

"im making your hands, darling!"

you felt like a crumbling mess. school has been pushing you to your brim, and you just left the building with the knowledge that you just failed two of your finals. you wanted to fall to the floor in front of your professors, and just cry. hoping that your desperate pleas for a stable future would be enough to let you retake the mind numbing tests over again.

how in the world could one study at the most prestigious university if they can't even ace a final? you worked your whole life for this school, practically threw away your childhood and lived with the gilmore mindset to get here. just to fail. just. to. fail.

stepping off the campus and reaching the city bus, it slowly started to set in. you felt nauseous. like you were being held upside down, feet in the air and your arms on the floor. but no. you were sitting in a bucket seat that matched some torn down 80's arcade floor. so, you held your bookbag close to you, closing your eyes. overcompensated with the feeling of dizziness and fatigue.

as much as you tried to tune it out, you couldn't get rid of the lingering smell of weed and coffee that permanently stained the crisp air that is of cambridge and boston.

---

nearing the inner city, you opened your eyes and picked up your phone. pressing it to your ear after hitting call.

the phone rang once before it was picked up on the other end and a gentle "hey," comes through. you could hear the smile in matt's voice; the one simple, sweet word rang in your brain. bouncing off the tissue walls before settling back to silence.

"im almost home," you mumbled. your voice was lower and raspy then you intended. the last thing you needed was for your boyfriend to grow worried. but that's exactly what you knew would happen.

you could hear him suck in a breath on the other end of the phone, "is something wrong? why are you coming home early, baby?"

"i uh- i finished my final early." your voice was still tiny in comparison to the chatter that danced over the bus.

he hums, not wanting to necessarily drop the conversation, but he knew that you would be more open about it face to face. and not on a public transport bus that has heard and spilled countless secrets.

"i'm almost home," you uttered. hanging up the phone call before matt could ask more questions.

you sat silent the rest of the ride, bouncing your leg until it grew numb.

---

walking in the door, tears brisked at your eyes. you could finally let your walls down now that you were in a safe environment. you called out your boyfriends name as you walked up the stairs. the sound of ruffling and a door opening echoes through the house.

"hey, baby," he gently smiled, his attempt to comfort you immediately works. just his presence makes you giddy, your heart starting to race.

you didn't want to load your troubles onto him, but you could no longer fight the stray tears that glide down your cheeks.

dropping your bag on the floor, you close your eyes. attempting to stop your tears from flowing, but it doesn't work.

it doesnt take long for you to be embraced by matt. his arms snaking around your waist as you held yourself against his chest. sobbing quietly into his grey cotton shirt. "i fucked it all up, matt..." you cried. holding onto him tighter then you thought possible.

matt soothingly rubs his hands up and down your back, pressing a soft kiss atop your head. "c'mon," he whispers softly, "come talk to me." he carefully pulls you over to the couch, and you open your eyes but sit down without glancing at his face.

"i failed my finals," you sobbed, squeezing your eyes tight. tears streamed down your face, you felt like a total mess.

"aww baby..." he cooed. the frown in his voice ultimately made you feel worse. he took your hands in his, gently rubbing his thumb across the back of your palms. "i'm sorry."

you couldn't help but stay silent. even if you tried you didn't think you could speak again.

matt started massaging at your hands, and you perked up. he played at each knuckle and each indent, each scar and each freckle.

"what are you doing..?" you whispered, looking up to meet his swirling eyes.

he smiled softly, "i'm making your hands darling!" he giggled, trying to cheer you up.

you felt like clay under his touch, like he was molding you perfectly to fit with him. he held your hand close to him as he soothingly caressed your skin.

you felt like his sculpture in the back of an art studio, the lights blinding as it's a late night and school ended hours ago. your artistic sculpture was due days previous, but matt wouldn't settle for anything else other than perfection. taking his time to make you a work of art.

you felt like sand at the beach, matt's hands as the water as they came with the tide, and gently washed at the tiny beaded rocks that were your knuckles and scars.

you felt like-

"are you alright?" he asked sweetly, bringing your knuckles up to his lips as he pressed a kiss onto your skin.

until he spoke you didn't even realize that your tears had dried, and you were more focused on his touch than anything. school pushed to the back of your head, becoming the least of your worries in this very moment.

you slowly nodded, a small smile peaking over to meet his.

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