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eva-cybele · 1 year

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the wages of mercy

A knock resonated against the heavy oak door of his office, and Aymeric looked up from the seemingly endless reports of Dravanian movement, stifling a sigh at being interrupted. “Yes?”

“The Warrior of Light requests an audience, Lord Commander.”

The lack of shouting and attempted knocking down of his door was enough to tell Aymeric which woman he was dealing with today, and he tilted his head in curiosity. Kaede Kazarishi had so far treated him with a careful respect, maintaining a polite but professional distance. That she should seek him out was… unusual, to say the least.

He called out an assent and settled back in his seat, even more surprised to see only Kaede walk through his door. He wasn’t sure he had ever seen her without at least the Leveilleur boy for company. His curiosity grew, but something about the way that she walked into his office, slow and deliberate, made the feeling turn to dread, and his palm itched for Naegling. The feeling only intensified as he registered the lack of sword at her hip, and that the shield on her back had been replaced with a claymore.

There had been whispers, of a foreign woman with horns and scales, wielding the dark arts – but Aymeric had assumed that if it was either of them, it was Marzanna. Never, in all of his years of life, would he have thought that the honorable Kaede Kazarishi, free paladin and hero of the realm, was a Fury-damned dark knight.

When she reached the far side of his desk, she stopped, and lifted cobalt blue eyes to his – eyes that contained none of the calm courtesy he was used to receiving from her. Instead, they were filled with cold fury.

“To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit, my lady?” The formality rolled off of his tongue without thought, despite her lack of title. Something told him that he needed to step carefully here, lest the ice crack beneath his feet.

Crossing her arms, her stare bored a hole in him as she spoke, wasting no time on idle plesantries. “I heard a troubling story at the Forgotten Knight today.”

All manner of responses ran through his head at once, but he discarded them all as either too light-hearted, or too dismissive. Instead, he merely inclined his head and waited for her to continue.

“Does the name Orl mean anything to you?”

Whatever he had been expecting, it had not been that, but perhaps he should have. Aymeric suppressed a grimace, and nodded. “It does. As both the surname of a man wanted by the Holy See, and the name of a clan of refugee xaela that once briefly settled in the western highlands.”

“And what happened to them?” The question sounded bland and flat on the surface, emotionless – but he could sense that she was anything but.

“I had not yet earned my knighthood, and thus I have no firsthand account, but I know what I have read in reports. I sense the tale they tell differs somewhat from the one that you have been privy to.” When she did not respond, patiently waiting for the answer to her question, he soldiered on. “According to the official reports, the Convictors in the western highlands were attacked by black scaled men, assumed to be some new variety of dravanian heretic. And so the Temple Knights were dispatched to end the threat. Only after did we learn that they were not heretics, but refugees from another land.”

The Warrior of Light’s jaw clenched, and then relaxed, as if she was forcing all her anger inwards, away from the surface. “And the truth?”

The truth. It was always so godsdamned difficult to navigate when the Church was involved, and Aymeric let out a long exhale through his nose. “The truth… is that the Convictors were the aggressors, and what followed when the Temple Knights arrived was less a battle, and more of a slaughter. The Lord Commander at the time maintained that he did not know that there were women and children among them when he dispatched his men, but the truth of that I do not know. The order came from the Archbishop directly, and he could not refuse.”

The raen took a step forward, firelight glinting off of the golden scales on her cheek as she planted gloved hands on his desk and leaned in. “And what, exactly, happened to these knights once the Church learned of this error? That they had wrongfully massacred a group of families who sought only to flee the empire?” Her control was fracturing, splintering into shards, and venom slipped into her tone as she demanded justice for a people that, while not hers directly, no longer had a voice to demand it for themselves.

Aymeric willed himself to calm, even as alarm bells blared in his mind at being the object of the rage that had felled gods.

“Most of them are dead. One by one, over the years, they have disappeared. The Holy See covered up what happened to the Orl tribe, save for the quiet dissemination of information about the existence of the au ra, and their difference from Dravanians. But someone knew who particpated, and chose to take matters into their own hands. Alas, all my attempts to apprehend their murderer have met with failure, I’m afraid.” He held her gaze steadily, willing her to understand what he could not put into words. Walls had ears, even in his office. Especially in his office, at times.

Kaede’s eyes narrowed, staring at him in consideration. “…Do you go to the Forgotten Knight often, Lord Commander?”

The change in topic seemed sudden, but Aymeric caught her meaning immediately. A small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth as he spoke, “No. Not as much as I did in my youth. But I assure you, very little goes on within its walls that I do not know of.”

It wasn’t as if Sidurgu Orl was inconspicuous, after all. The Forgotten Knight held a certain amount of independence in the city, but even with Gibrillont’s protection, he would have been caught long ago, had any other man been Lord Commander.

The justice of the dark knights was brutal, but oftentimes necessary. As badly as Aymeric wanted to excise the corruption from the heart of the Holy See, his efforts were slow, constantly hampered on all sides by protocol and tradition. It would be worth it in the end – lasting change could not be forced from without, but must come from within. With that, however, came an inability to act against individual evils, while he attempted to address the greater one.

So he turned a blind eye as Sidurgu cut down the kind of men who could murder a child without remorse.

Kaede’s face had – not softened, exactly, but certainly grown more considering as she mulled over his answer. Some of the barely leashed intensity had dissipated, and when she drew herself back upright, he almost thought that perhaps there was a glint of respect in her expression that had not been present before. “Well. I thank you for your time, Lord Commander, and for the humoring of my… curiosity.”

He nodded as some of the tension in his shoulders finally unwound, his battle instincts no longer screaming at him that he was in imminent danger. Not that he thought she would have murdered him outright, had he not answered her question to her satisfaction. But the Champion of Eorzea, even disgraced, was not a woman he wanted to make an enemy of. Quite the opposite, in fact.

Rising from his seat, he walked around to the front of his desk, stopping a respectful distance from his guest, but close enough that she might still hear him as he lowered his voice. “Kaede. We are allies, are we not? I hope that I have earned some small measure of your trust, just as you have gained mine.”

She dipped her head in a nod of acknowledgement. “We are, and you have.”

The admission, he sensed, was not one that was easily given.

Leather-covered fingertips idly ghosted over the wood grain of his desk as she turned to leave, and then paused, turning back. “Oh. A temple knight tried to kill me today, on charges of heresy. I spared him.”

Aymeric blinked in surprise, which quickly turned to anger. His knights were loyal to him, but half of the men under his command were not his knights at all – they belonged to the Archbishop, and to their own zealotry and xenophobia.

Constantly he was fighting a war on multiple fronts: the dragons, the clergy, the nobility, the knighthood. Daggers on every side, and no indication on which might be the next to strike.

Leashing his frustration, Aymeric folded his arms. “I will see that it’s dealt with.”

A smirk, born of black humor, pulled up the corner of Kaede’s mouth, and she shook her head. “Oh, I don’t think he’ll trouble me again, ser.”

The meaning of her phrasing sunk in – that she had personally taken mercy on the man, not that he yet lived. It was cold. Efficient. A dark knight’s response.

A part of him was almost jealous.

Instead, he shook his head, and continued on like there was no double meaning to her words. “No one has any right to accuse you without a formal trial. I will ensure that the knighthood is reminded of that.” And considering her performance in the trial held for Tataru Taru and Alphinaud Leveilleur, she should have no fear of that, either.

Her mouth softened into a small actual smile, perhaps the first he’d ever seen from her. “Thank you, Aymeric.”

The smile paired with his name from her lips, with no titles attached, spread a strange warmth through his chest as he watched her leave.

#ffxiv writing #wolmeric #aymeric de borel #warrior of light #daughters of dusk and dawn #sons of ice and fury #look I have an au ra DRK there's some shit they needed to DISCUSS #the orl tribe is so glossed over and it bums me out #so I'll fill in the gaps myself I guess!#eva writes #ffxiv fanfiction

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arrowpunk · 11 months

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If I had a nickel for every time someone was weirdly possessive over my OCs and continued to use them even after we lost contact and got upset with me when I politely asked them to please stop. I would have 3 nickels. Which isn't a lot. But it's annoying as hell that it's happened even once.

#ramblings of an arrow #I shouldn't have to divulge my trauma for ppl to respect my boundaries as a creator #why does this keep happening to meeeeee #this is why I only ship OCs with my wife now #it's weird and gross and disturbing and upsetting that u still wanna have our OCs in a romantic/sexual relationship!#like dude literally why #if you don't like me why would u wanna keep parts of me in your life?#i am an incredibly small creator this is in no way equivalent or even close to fanfiction #simply..... 2 ppl being like this in the span of 2 days........ is not fun #block me i don't care just stop using my creations #i don't care if you aren't gonna publish anything with them #I still don't want you touching them #it's literally sooooooo easy to just make your own characters to fill the gap!#you don't need to steal mine!#it would be valid for me to ask EVEN IF I DIDN'T HAVE MASSIVE TRAUMA SURROUNDING IT FROM THE FIRST PERSON YEARS AGO #Like?? if I?? no longer hang out with someone I used to rp/talk OCs with? I make sure to take out anything that's theirs #from literally everything I have #it seems like it should be common courtesy to me???#it's? rude? not to?#why would I hang on to a ship playlist or a pinterest board or writing? that is using ppl's shit that isn't mine #and I have no right to continue to use

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tieflingsfingers · 11 days

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was trying to add short little chapters in between my currently written chapters to hash out character dynamics and histories more, and I actually just added 9 more to my roster.

i'll never get to act 2 lmao

#bg3 #bg3 fanfic #bg3 fic #bg3 fanfiction #i did need to fill in some gaps though lol i couldnt get everyones vibes too well

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tophsazulas · 1 year

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Here’s my modern day fic

#that 90s show #my fanfiction #oc: reggie hyde #oc: mia forman #there are a lot of gaps needed to be filled #but I wanted to start this at least

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joonipertree · 7 months

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Sugar Daddy Boxer! Bakugo Katsuki x college student gn!reader

Tags: Age gap! Bakugo is 27, reader is 22. fluff, protective bakugo, attentive bakugo, he's a boxer because I said so <3

Bro i finished this with my wrist bandaged up. The things I'd do for my anime men.

Pt 2. Pt 3

Feel free to send in requests/prompts for this AU!

"Babydoll."

....

"Babydoll."

You finally hummed, unwrapping the woollen scarf that pillowed your face. It did an amazing job to keep you warm in the cold abyss of the early morning winter but was useless in your boyfriend's heated sports car.

You let yourself unfurl, letting the warmth melt you.

"Did you sleep properly?"

"Yeah." you said with a yawn, ready to turn your brain off again.

"I'm gonna ask you how many hours and you're telling me the truth."

You made eye contact with Katsuki, who still hadn't left the front of your building mind you, and reached out for your morning kisses.

"First, answer then kisses."

You whined and squirmed before huffing into stillness when you realised he was too mean to give into you.

"Six hours."

Katsuki's already furrowed eyebrows furrowed even more but he leaned forward to kiss your puckered lips. They were warm and firm and tasted like strawberry chapstick. And the hint of your cologne wafted through you, making you sigh into him.

Katsuki tugged your lower lip into his mouth, suckling on it before letting go and kissing the corner of your lips.

"We agreed on eight, baby."

"I was doing my homework, silly."

"Was this before or after your fanfiction reading time?"

You grinned, pawing at his chest as you leaned in for another chaste kiss.

"Look at you learning, old man. It was before."

Katsuki rolled his eyes, squeezing your thigh with his rough hand before finally deciding to start the car.

"Where do you wanna get breakfast from? You're not getting a coffee, by the way."

"Excuse m---"

"Nuh uh, little one." Katsuki looked at you with an eyebrow raise. "You didn't sleep as much as you should've and it already makes you jittery."

You crossed your arms and huffed, burying yourself deeper into the leather. And you knew that you'd just say something stupid and get yourself in even more trouble, so your mouth stayed shut. Katsuki didn't bother asking again, already knowing that there was a chocolate croissant and Acai bowl that had you hooked.

He made his way into the store quickly, your body not ready to get out to the fanged monster that the winter brought. And it meant you got the wonderful opportunity to see people actively stare at your boyfriend.

It didn't matter when he didn't even bother making eye contact, hands deep in his pockets and resting bitch face on. Two boys came up to him in an excited manner that wasn't fit for early morning. And while Bakugo scowled harder, he still had the courtesy to give them his autograph. You knew that if they weren't highschool students, he'd tell them to fuck off. Bakugo never became aggressive with kids.

Once the order was handed to him, he slipped the tip into the jar at the counter. And since the man never carried change, the barista's face had twisted into shell shock. But Bakugo didn't even acknowledge it and left the premises, making his way back to you.

You were handed the croissant and Acai bowl, nose filling with pleasant scents that warmed you even further into the seat. Katsuki took a sip of his black coffee before handing you your own cup.

"It's very much decaf but I know you like your caramel macchiato."

You squealed at the gesture, not surprised that he was soft for you, and leaned in to give a big wet smooch to his cheek. His smile was evident, even when he tried to keep it hidden.

"I need to stop spoiling you."

He never did.

By the time you'd finished your drink and croissant, your uni had come into view. And as always, some people eyed the Chevrolet Corvette that your boyfriend drove. black exterior glittering in the morning sun.

After a couple affectionate kisses littered across Bakugo's face and a very long kiss on the lips, you got out of your car in your sweats and puffer jacket.

Your friends were waiting by the entrance, having come at the same time, they greeted you while eyeing the car. They knew it belonged to your boyfriend but they never knew what your boyfriend even did to be sports car rich.

"Hello, my children," You muttered out, blinking slowly as you put your scarf over your nose.

"Hey, dude. How did your--" One of your friends began to talk to you while you all walked to class. But after a good fifteen steps, you heard someone call your name.

"Oi." The gruff voice filled your ears.

The three of you turned around and your friends had been left bamboozled.

Because lo and behold, Bakugo Katsuki had graced them with his presence.

The man just held up a green canvas bag, his finger being the only thing to hold the straps. You gasped and ran to grab it, making sure to check the contents as if afraid that you forgot to put your precious artwork before you left your apartment.

"Thank you thank you thank you, 'suki." You muttered, getting on your tippy toes to kiss his nose and mouth. You had to put your hand on rock hard muscle to stabilise yourself and the pressure didn't effect him one bit. He just cupped your face and deepened the kiss before placing one on your forehead.

"Stop being a dumbfuck and sleep on time. And show me what you made when I pick you up."

Bakugo started going back to his car, not caring for the stares your friends were throwing at him. They were chill, so he's heard. Katsuki was too anti social to get first hand experience.

"My guy."

When you turned, your guy friend had grabbed you by the shoulder and shook you vigorously.

"Your rich fucking boyfriend is a WBA fighter. Dude!"

"Yeah!! He's super cool right?"

"He's a fucking god but that's besides the point." Your friend looked more and more erratic.

"Yeah and that god is giving you a death glare. Better get your hands off them, bro. You've seen the amount of blood his opponents lose." Your other friend interjected, already pulling him off of you. He looked pale.

You turned and saw Katsuki stand like a statue, hands in his pockets and eyes hardened. His teeth were gritted which worried you since he already had a bad jaw. Students were swerving away like two rivers, his body like a jagged mountain in the middle.

Your double thumbs up and wide grin was the only thing that broke him out of his stance, shoulders relaxing and jaw releasing from its hold. Katsuki scanned the two men for a few more seconds before he turned and left with a wave of his hand.

"Fuck, I don't think I'll be able to breathe properly all day."

You turned with a skip in your step, happy to have seen your boyfriend for a few extra seconds in the morning.

"He's like a doberman. Such a cutie pie."

"I feel like that's an accurate description considering he would bite our heads off but only let you pet him."

"I see no cuteness in that man."

#bakugou x reader #bakugou katsuki #bakugo katuski #katsuki x reader #katsuki bakugo x reader #bnha fanfiction #bnha bakugou #bnha x reader #bnha bakugo katsuki #katsuki bakugou

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tears-of-boredom · 2 years

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God I've been reading The Hierophant on ao3 and I just saw a clip of them on youtube. Words cannot express how weird it felt. I haven't watched anything with them in it for like a year, I just remembered what they looked and sounded like very well. So, because I've been imagining them so much in my mind, my reflex thought when seeing the clip was "oh these guys again". Which felt so wrong, because I have not actually seen their faces for a while. It should not feel like I've been binging their show for the whole of last week, because I haven't. They just were way too familiar to me.

#the thing is like the fic is good.. the problem arises when i remember that it technically is rpf..#even the writer said that the characters are so ooc. that they're basically ocs that happen to have the same names as them..#but im not sure i really agree on that. which is kinda funny.. im not sure if im just filling the gaps but theyre pretty well in-character.#and even if they were ooc. they will always have the guys' faces.. my brain does not forget the face of a character that well developed..#fanfiction #i guess.. i dont think its complaining but feels like i need to add one of the tags..#also im purposefully not mentioning the fandom because i dont want to fully admit that i have read rpf..#i am mentioning the fic cause honestly go read it.. it makes me want to get my tarot card fixation back..#also i think i stopped because they started kissing way too comfortably #but thats so late that you can just pretend its ok #i get it when it happens after you almost died. yeah sure.. but i just didnt see shit apart from horniness before they said i love you..#to be fair almost every single love story moves way too fast for me to take it seriously..#omg did i ebolve this into complaining...no. tags dont count like that..

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lxkeee · 4 months

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I'M IN THE WIND, YOU'RE IN THE WATER

PART TWO

-Angel! Lucifer Morningstar x Mermaid! Reader

Fandom: Hazbin Hotel

Genre: Fanfiction/Romance with slight angst

Synopsis: what if there are other supernatural beings that existed alongside angels?

Notes: If only I wasn't lazy in making my titles have ombre colors I would've had pretty colorful titles rn>:(

PART ONE | PART THREE

It has been a few days since the two immortal beings of different kinds met, Lucifer and [y/n]'s friendship bloomed. Occasionally spending time by the island and getting to know each other better, at the very same shore where [y/n] had dragged Lucifer to save him from drowning. Sometimes the two liked exploring the area around the island, Lucifer flies gracefully against the wind while [y/n] swam beautifully in the water, just like now.

Large and majestic white wings spread out behind his back, flapping to keep himself in the air. The golden rays of the sun caressing his skin, his blue eyes squinting against its harsh rays, a grin plastered on his face as he performed tricks in the air—twirling and diving, truly astonishing to watch as [y/n] admired him as she swam underneath the cold dark waters, the cold waters of the sea hugging her form, her large majestic tail swaying against the strong currents and allowed her to keep up with him. The water runs against her scales, caressing her skin.

Raising her arm up, allowing it to break past the surface of the water. The water currents hitting her arm as she reaches up to the angel flying above her.

Lucifer's eyes gleam, a grin forming on his face as he looks down on the water, his form reflected on the clear and crystal blue waters, he could see his friend's majestic form underneath, swimming to catch up to him.

Without hesitation, he reaches towards her—extending his arm and allowing his warm hand to intertwine with her cold ones. His soft hands against her round ones, their hands a perfect fit like it was made for the other to fill the gaps. His light blond locks fluttered against the wind, it was neat and tidy but now it's messy from the strong winds. [Y/n] laughs underneath the water as she sees how messy his hair is but despite the mess, he still looks beautiful to her. Blue eyes focus in front of him, his tongue sticking out in the process, a small smile on his face. Majestic, absolutely divine. Her eyes dilated as she admired him.

Reluctantly, she slowly removed her hand away from his—this caused the angel to pout slightly, he genuinely enjoyed holding her hand. With a soft sigh and a small smile on his face, he opts to let his hand run against the current, feeling the coldness of the ocean against his skin. Thoroughly enjoying the sensation of her home against his hand.

Lucifer smiled softly, eyes half-lidded and dilated as he looked at her majestic form swimming underneath the crystal like waters. Her hair swayed against the currents of the water but still looked so silky and soft.

No words needed to exchange between them, this is enough.

Eventually, things have to end. The two returned to the shore. Lucifer helping her, of course. They didn't notice how much time had passed, finally realizing how much time they spent just flying and swimming around and having fun. They sat beside each other, gazing at the horizon and admiring the setting sun. Pink, orange, red, yellows, and blues painted the skies, stars beginning to be visible, birds flying over the clouds and towards the horizon.

The sounds of the waves and the sounds of the birds chirping fills their ears.

They remained quiet, sitting side by side. Her hands support her body as she planted them on the sandy grounds of the shore, his hands on the hand is placed on top of his knees. Lucifer tilted his head to look at her, admiring how the sunset is reflected through her eyes, the rays highlighting her eyelashes. Beautiful, he thought to himself, unaware how much his eyes dilated the moment he gazed at her.

His eyes lowered to see their hands just so close to each other.

Without thinking, he moved his hand and placed it on top of hers.

[Y/n] flinches slightly from surprise, Lucifer's eyes widened at the reaction, thinking that the physical contact was unwanted. He hesitantly and slowly moved his hand away from hers.

"Don't." She says softly, tilting her head to face him. He loved how her eyes sparkled when she looked at him. [Y/n] smiled softly and decided to remove her away from the sand, wiping the excess sand away from her skin and gently intertwining her hand with his.

Silence, aside from the loud beating of their hearts that only they could hear.

Of course, the other didn't know how much and how hard it was beating against their ribcage.

They shyly gaze away from each other's eyes, pink dusting their cheeks. The two of course, not knowing why their hearts are acting like this or why they feel so incredibly shy.

With courage, [y/n] leans her head against his shoulder. He flinches slightly but eventually calms down. Leaning his head on top hers in return. He could feel his suit getting soak a bit but he doesn't mind, not one bit. Extending his wings, he wrapped it over her shoulder, keeping her warm against the cold ocean winds. [Y/n] smiled softly, snuggling more against his side for warmth.

He's so unbelievably warm, in a comforting way.

“Thank you...” She whispers softly as she snuggled against his side, staring up at him through her eyelashes. He loved the way her eyes looked through her eyelashes, he could see his reflection on them, he could see the stars and galaxies in those [e/c] orbs of hers. A smile found its way to his face.

“It's nothing much, I don't want you getting a cold now.” he says with a small chuckle, the two resumed to staring at the horizon. [Y/n] chuckles softly beside him.

“Me? Getting a cold? I doubt it.” she says playfully and he rolls his eyes teasingly.

“Whatever you say.” he says with a small chuckle. Silence falls on them once more.

Absolute peace, they could get used to this. They wished that time would remain still.

TAGLIST:

@kaurochika @akemika75 @kouyoumarryme @local-mr-frog @myluckymoon @nirvana5874 @adaizel @xx-all-purpose-nerd-xx @thedarkkitten @selvyyr @froggybich @brithedemonspawn @kottenox @totallymitya @many-fandoms-lover @dou-dou @mezzyb0nb0n @n1chxyaaenthusiast @cherry-4200 @koirb @galaxyj3lly @crystalplays28 @luleck @scootinonyourmom @rory-cakes @mixplara @crescent-z @bitchyzombienacho @kalisha2004 @altervex @nehy019 @napbatata @kouyoumarryme @sxgacxbe @kooidoom @yukichan67 @apple-pop @akiralovespenguins @storydays @kaurochika @amphiroxx

#lxkeee updates #hazbin hotel #lucifer morningstar x reader #lxkeee hazbin hotel masterlist #lucifer hazbin hotel #lucifer #lucifer morningstar #lucifer magne #hazbin hotel x reader

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steviesbicrisis · 1 year

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💫 Steve Harrington's House 💫

So, after this post, I couldn't let go of this house. I decided to rebuild it in The Sims and then I had so much info I felt the need to share it. Other than commenting on some crazy aspects of this mansion, I think it can give some input/ideas for possible scenarios in fanfiction! (for one, I'd like to know what Eddie thinks about half of the features of this house lmao). My process was: canon information > actual house information > gaps I filled the best I could Disclaimer: keep on describing Steve's house however you want to!! I'm sharing this in case you wanna be as close to the actual house as possible!

Listings: Zillow | Trulia | Homemetry

Credits: Sticky notes by rawpixel.com | Washi tapes by rawpixel.com | background paper by starline all on Freepik

#I stand by what I said last time #Stevie you deserved a better house to be abbandoned in #can you believe they have 3 guest bedrooms?#and LOFTS??#5 car spaces???#3 fireplaces???#WHY #literally all the characters could live comfortably in here at the same time #also I can't stop thinking about Steddie making dumb excuses to sleep in the same bed since CLEARLY Steve has space #or the potential snuggles in front of the fireplace #also the unfinished basement would've been perfect for hiding Eddie wth???#stranger things houses #steve harrington #steve harrington house #stranger things #steddie #steve harrington's house layout #the harrington's house layout

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simp4konig · 10 months

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König mistakenly shoots you on the battlefield

König x Gender-neutral Reader

Word count: ~4500

*SLOW burn but when my writing finally has that spark this fic catches FIRE and FAST so be prepared!! 🔥🔥

*⚠️Angst Angst! ANGST!⚠️

*THABK YOU SO SO SO MUCH TO AZZY MY NO.1 FAN FOR THIS AMAZING IDEA!!!! 🥰🥰🥰I LOVE *YOU* VERY MUCH!! 🥹🫶🫶💞💞💞💞 💞💞💞💞💞THANK UVFOR ALWAUS LIKING MYNPOSTS AND BEING SO KIND TO ME YOU MAKE EBERY HOIR SPENT WRITING WORTH IT AS I AM ALWAYS EAGER FOR YOUR MESSAGES😭😭💓💓💓💓💓💓I AM *YOUR* NO.1 APPRECIATOR IN ALL RHE GALAXIES🌌🚀✨🌠QNDVWISH U ALL THE BEST ALWAYS!!!!!!🫂🫂💗💗 THIS ENTJRE POST IS DEDICATED TO YOU !!! 🥹(,,havinf said that, i hope u arent TOO taken aback bu tje level of angst here 💀💀REALLT went overboard and I completely apologize 💔)

TWs: König is in love with you. König's sanity slowly deteriorates as the fanfiction progresses. Mentions of attempted suicide, graphic depictions of gore, potentially triggering depictions of depression. König has suicidal thoughts after shooting you. König experiences intense trauma after shooting you and has survivor's guilt.

*Reader's callsign is "King". Implied age gap. One-sided pining from König... but the ending is purposefully kept ambigous (as you, the reader, can interpret the final interaction however you like)! Can be read as a standalone if you have never read any of my works before. <3

*To clarify to those that have already read my works before, this is *NOT* a direct continuation to 1.my fluffy 2.series! This is a separate imagine, but DOES take place in the same KönigxKing microchosm. Whether the following events take place in an alternate timeline or happen at some point in the future/past is for you to decide. Idk man i just write the fics I don't do the world buidling 🗿I write sotires without thingign about the greater picture u honestly think my one shots will tie to a greater plot?☹️No 💔

...

Right from the beginning, König had a gut feeling that this mission was going to go wrong.

It was a deep sense of foreboding in the pit of his stomach, making him feel queasy on the helicopter ride as the both of you with an additional three others were scheduled for contact in a few minutes' time.

You were just a recruit, and this mission was far too intense for someone with next to no experience in an active warzone for it to be their first. He knew the dangers of missions like this, knew how things could go horribly wrong in an instant.

It wasn't that he doubted your ability. Not at all. From the corner of the room he would silently supervise as you sparred another person, monitoring your movements incase your opponent had the upperhand and you needed guidance.

However, he had never needed to intervene, as he was impressed with your quick reactions and your controlled steps as you'd move on the balls of your feet, arms held up in front of your face. Ambition was in your eyes, your face scrunched up in concentration as you calculated your next move.

You'd defend yourself up until the moment you'd pounce and in a blink of an eye be on top of your opponent, your entire weight pressed on their theirs on the ground. Whether it was another woman, another man, or even a person with bigger bulk you were clearly disadvantaged by, you'd never give up, and took on any challenge with an impressionable passion of a young recruit.

Once they'd be the one to tap out, you'd immediately push yourself off them and offer them a hand, asking them "Are you alright?" in a concerned tone as you were pulling them up. "Sorry for getting aggressive there, sir/miss! I hope I didn't hurt you!"

To which they'd respond with boisterous laughter and a strong clap on your back, you doubled over as they were congratulating you for knocking them off their two feet and telling you to keep up the good work. König couldn't wipe the triumphant smile from his face, filled with pride at your personal victory.

Once you'd be the one to tap out, you'd part ways honourably, never disrespecting the person that came out on top. If anything, your loss only added fuel to the fire burning in your eyes, driven to work harder. He still admired you, and would be the one to pull you up as he dusted you off, telling you that you did a great job regardless.

"Thank you, sir!" You'd reply bashfully, face red from effort and embarassment. "Though, I'm sure I made a fool of myself with how I was flailing my arms just then..."

"Nein. Not at all," he'd say, eyes glinting with something that you couldn't quite recognize. "You did very well."

Target practice displayed your accurate aim, wool seeping out from the heads of dummies and the targets regularly replaced as the wood would cling in pieces, the center blasted into smithereens by repeated bullseyes from you.

Always lingering nearby to assist, you would gratefully accept König's help and allow him to demonstrate how to operate another gun with an appreciative smile on your face, your genuine eagerness to learn making König's chest tighten. You seemingly never knew the effect you had on him.

You were a naturally skilled soldier, he had observed, and he knew that you'd make an incredible addition to the team, he couldn't deny that.

Yet, he couldn't shake off this feeling as something more grave.

All personel debriefed and the plan disclosed a week prior, the superior went over the plan once more back at base. A large blueprint spilling over the table with weak spots and areas to beware were annotated, his forefinger pointing at different areas of interest. Sketches, photographs, and jottings were displayed from a projector for all to see as you listened closely.

König's jaws were grinding against each other in agitation, having doubts about you being deployed on this mission.

Despite this operation being portayed as an in and out extraction, König knew better. He knew what the stakes were. Intuition urged him to warn you, to confide in you about his doubts and even considered crossing your name off the list and assigning you elsewhere last minute without anyone knowing.

But the thought that he could be controlling you — a young, innocent recruit — and even considered doing something so foul didn't sit right with him.

You were your own person, and he couldn't be your shadow, couldn't act as a human shield against all that was cruel and gruesome in life. You had chosen this job, and therefore must have had at least some idea of what your responsibilities would entail, some knowledge of what soldiers go through in pursuit of glory.

Instead of being so pertubed, he should keep it together, he thought, should maintain a stoic façade. He was your superior — your colonel, for God's sake — he was someone you aspired to be, someone that should be an inspiration, a role model, someone that could have your back and be a reliable body to fall back on.

Not someone that couldn't keep it together when you around.

Especially when he shouldn't have been having feelings for you.

You, a young person vulnerable and easily influenced by people older than you, by the likes of him.

It wasn't right. He wasn't right for what he was feeling, for what he had been thinking. It wasn't right for his feelings to cloud his judgement, wasn't right that abusing his power had even crossed his mind, let alone been tempted to act upon it.

Your voice pulled him from his thoughts. "König? Are you alright, sir?"

Turning his head to face you, he nodded with false certainty, containing his worry in an attempt to appear confident for you.

"Ja, King, it's okay. Just thinking, that's all."

You quirked a brow, not convinced. "Hey."

Placing a firm hand on his shoulder, a serious expression was on your face, which caught König off guard and made his eyes widen. "If you're thinking that I'm going to get myself killed then you've got another thing coming, because I will NOT get shot by the enemy."

His back slumped over a little, averting his gaze for a moment. "Nein, sie haben recht."

"Ich sollte nicht zulassen, dass meine Gefühle mein Urteilsvermögen trüben." König mumbled something else under his breath in German, then quickly shook his head and laughed, looking into your eyes again.

Tension in his body was eased a little. "No, you're right."

A little. Because he wasn't going to dismiss the thoughts gnawing at the back of his head as mere paranoia.

You perked up. "Good, glad we've got that cleared up, sir! I want you to know that I won't disappoint!"

His heart skipped a beat at your smile, so eager to please and make him proud, that he shuffled uncomfortably, trying to get the butterflies in his stomach to calm down. Now wasn't the time.

Idly fidgeting with his combat knife as the helicopter blades hummed above, he went back to thinking over all the possibilities and different ways this mission could go awry:

...What if these were the wrong coordinates, or the helicopter would be attacked the minute they landed? The thought of an ambush wasn't an irrational one — it had happened before, he reminded himself — so he had brought a few more weapon crates than necessary for safekeeping.

...What if the helicopter's signal was intercepted and everyone including the pilot were destined for a fatal crash? Counting the number of parachutes and noting the fire exit, he could rest a little easier if an emergency like that was to arise, yet it still did little to soothe his nerves.

...What if you really did get shot? In case that happened, he had alerted some operators beforehand to serve as re-enforcements, one of those on board including a skilled army medic, under the guise of needing more manpower in case things went south. After all, this extraction could not have go wrong. It shouldn't have gone wrong.

But... what if you died? König wouldn't know how to deal with the feelings associated with your death, knowing that he had loved you from afar yet never acted on it. At least he'd be able to keep his shameful secret a secret, and you'd pass away never knowing what he truly saw you as, truly thought of you.

He had little time to figure out what was causing the trepidation to stiffen his muscles as the helicopter suddenly swerved and lowered, landing kilometres away from the designated building yet on unstable ground nonetheless. Any moment soldiers could attack it if they had known the group's location, so the blades kept spinning and the engine kept running for an immediate getaway.

König assumed authority. "Everyone remember the plan?"

Four heads nodded in sync.

"Gut. Then you all know what to do. I will enter from the side with my Lieutenant—" he said, gesturing with his head at a masked operator beside you, "—while you three—" referring to you and two others you were only vaguely aquainted with, "—storm from the back. Ja?"

König's eyes stalled on you for a moment longer than necessary. You were going to be alright, he told himself. He'd keep you in his field of vision and could provide you with cover once you regrouped when you'd really need it.

"A quick extraction," he reminded, eyes stern yet heart disbelieving. "Simply go in, get the data, and go out."

A final nod of the head from König as he and his associate separated from your group. You headed towards the back of the building, fully alert, aiming behind corner incase there had been someone waiting to assassinate you.

Doors creaking as one of the men pushed, the three of you filtered in noiselessly, attempting to be as discreet as possible and wincing when the door slammed not so quietly. Guns cocked and silencers attached, you advanced in a line, blending in to the shadows.

As you walked, there were no signs of life, and the storehouse seemed abandoned. No machinery was being operate. No voices could be heard.

All was still and quiet.

Eerily quiet.

Feeling the hairs on your arms and neck stand on end, you shuddered. You made eye contact with one of the men in front of you who had more expertise, and he looked on edge, eyebrows creased in focus under his balaclava. None of this felt right.

Suddenly, something small rolled over towards you all. Blinking once, twice, you let out a panicked scream and dived for cover.

"Grenade!"

All hell broke loose.

Bullets ricocheted over your head, guns blasting from so many directions you couldn't pinpoint their source.

Slowly recovering from your momentary shock, you gripped your rifle tight and started shooting back, hidden behind a load of wooden crates. When you saw your hooded colonel crouching in a corner, you relaxed. With an encouraging nod from him, that was all you needed to go change positions, and you lunged forward. All was going smoothly at that point.

So engrossed in eliminating the threats in front of him, however, König only came to the realisation that you weren't there when he didn't see your figure in his peripheral vision.

Panic consumed his senses and circulated through his veins. All at once, he was frantically scanning the immediate area, searching for any trace of you.

You were thrashing and kicking as you were being pulled by rough hands, your fingers reaching for your holster through gritted teeth, yet it was just out of grasp. You were thrown harshly against the wall, and the enemy towered over you, feeling high from his power trip and excited to exert authority he had never had up to now.

Just as a knife made its way to your throat, your hand finally found your side arm and shot a bullet between his eyes, body falling on top of you like a sack of potatoes.

You convulsed involuntarily, hyperventilating under his weight and the sudden situation. Noting your surroundings, your heart sank.

You were in no man's land, full view of soldiers shooting at your team. The extraction point was just in sight, exactly how and where it was illustrated on the blueprint.

So far, no one had noticed you, too preoccupied aiming down their sights to see you shuffling under a corpse. You could enter those headquarters right now, could be proclaimed a hero of this story, and make your colonel proud and finish before schedule.

The risk was too big. You were bound to get shot.

Yet, against all better judgement, you dashed for the entrance, taking advantage of the element of surprise as three men turned towards you with wide eyes, not expecting to see you enter. Two were haphazardly shoving papers into a half-open folder thrown on the table.

Three shots fired before they could scramble for a gun, you rushed towards the desk. Scanning the material, your eyes widened in shock. This was it.

Now, your only choice was to crawl back into the line of fire. Soldiers still kept shooting with their backs turned, endless ammunition right at their disposal.

You were totally helpless on your own. Just one pair of wandering eyes from the enemy and just one shot in the back of the head would be all that would take to end your life at that moment and make all of your efforts go to waste.

Although an atheist, you mouthed a silent prayer, before taking a deep breath, and sprinted.

Seeing sudden movement headed towards him, König acted on instinct, and pulled the trigger on you.

His heart stopped.

Time slowed as your body fell in slow motion, more bullets piercing through your gear.

Realising his mistake immediately, he almost vomited his own stomach out at seeing you fall lifelessly on the ground, eyes wide and body dropping on impact.

"Scheisse, cover me, verdammt!" He yelled over his shoulder, all rational thought ceasing.

Breathing rapid and strained, he rushed towards you, gently wrapping his arms around your body — growing weaker by the minute — and headed straight for the first sign of cover he could see. Behind unstable and temporary refuge that could be blown to pieces, König was at a loss at what to do.

He had expected everything, evaluated every possible scenario, every possible outcome, even prepared a lifeline for you on the off-chance that you'd be injured in action.

Yet he hadn't anticipated that he would be the one to shoot you. Never.

Shaking violently, König could barely get any words out. "—S-schatz, please please please—"

Hesistant hands hovered over your wounds, conflicted, as blood was staining your uniform, wrenching König's heart. His mind kept repeating you did this. You did this. You did this.

You needed urgent aid, and you needed it right now, yet he didn't deserve to touch you, his hands clenched into fists as he didn't want to break you further, treating you like fragile glass that could shatter into pieces under his touch if he so held you.

He was the one that did this to you. You, the young recruit he was so hopelessly infatuated with, a person who he had cherished and loved from afar, the person who made him feel good things for the first time ever in his life.

He did this to you.

He was the monster in your closet, the threat that König had desperately attempted protect you from all this time, the threat that you were told to eliminate on this mission. The enemy.

The enemy that had mistakenly shot you.

"Es tut mir so leid, I'm so sorry—" König's mind couldn't function properly, speaking in broken mix of English and German. He couldn't gather his thoughts, couldn't think.

"—I'm so so so sorry. Please don't die, bitte vergib mir, forgive me, forgive me, schatz. Forgive me. Ich liebe dich, schatz, do you hear me? I love you."

Bullets whizzed past you both relentlessly, both of you still caught in crossfire. König's lips were moving yet you couldn't hear what he was saying to you, couldn't feel anything as you slowly lost consciousness, slowly closed your eyes.

A calloused hand tapped your face in desperation, your vision blurred.

"—Nein, nein, King! Stay awake! I'm calling for the re-enforcements now! Please, don't die on me— I'm so sorry..."

Shaky yelling through the walkie-talkie, voice cracking. "This is your colonel, König! We're retreating right now! One of ours is wounded! Send the re-enforcements right now to this location! I repeat, we are retreating! I am calling this mission off!"

"What? Are you crazy, König?!" A break in character from the commander, before immediately assuming professionalism once more. "Proceed with the mission! You are on the verge of breaking their defenses! You will enter their headquarters and be able to—"

"Nein. That was an order, commander," he hissed through gritted teeth, nearly crushing the device in his death-grip. "We are retreating. I am calling this mission off."

A pause. Then: "Copy that, colonel. We are sending your re-enforcements to cover you as you exit. Your helicopter is waiting. Hold out for thirty seconds longer."

Sighing with relief, he suddenly thought his heart stopped beating when he saw you laying there motionlessly, eyes closed. Desperately tapping at your cheek did nothing to awaken you. He prayed that you'd survive, willing time to go faster.

At last, loud whirring from above gave him the only comfort. Not waiting a second longer, König picked up your limp body and dashed outside, the helicopter lifting off as the rest of the crew threw themselves inside.

Opening your vest to inspect your wounds, he saw a blood-soakes folder secured tightly to your chest.

It was the data. You risked your life for the mission. You risked everything to accomplish the task and he had shot you anyways.

"—This is your colonel, König. We have the data. Mission accomplished, I repeat, mission accomplished. King has the data."

The radio crackled with an indistinguishable response, yet König heard nothing, blood rushing to his head and ringing persisting. Medics wasted no time to wheel you into an operating room, tearing your limp body away from his arms. He avoided the celebrations and cheers for their colonel, leaving everyone dumbfounded at his reaction. Shouldn't have he been proud? The mission was a success!

Yet the mission wasn't a success, and if anything, he felt shame. No one knew why their colonel holed himself up in his room aside from himself.

The news of you in critical condition in the hospital broke König.

As much as he wanted to see you, to check on your health and be the one to see your first signs of recovery, he couldn't. He couldn't bear to witness the colour drained from your face as you laid unmoving on the bed, the slow beeping from the heart rate monitor machine the only indication that you were alive.

He just couldn't. Not when he caused this. Not when he fucked up this much.

Using the gym as a coping mechanism for a while, he trained harder and more often than ever before, only wishing to make the pain go away. When he wasn't at the gym all throughout the day or at odd hours of the night, he'd toss and turn in his bed, having nightmares about your body bleeding out below him as the shot relentlessly echoed in his head. Or worse, he'd imagine himself shooting you again, only this time he'd find the barrel of his gun was aimed at your forehead execution-style, your unassuming face suddenly exploding into bloody pieces and what was left of your bewildered expression still remained even after he had pulled the trigger.

At those, König would spring upright, screaming "No!" in anguish.

He'd be panting heavily, bedsheets drenched in his own sweat and feeling like he was suffocating with each rise and fall of his chest. When the situation sunk in, he'd clench his fists so tightly his knuckles went white, shaken to his very core. On those nights, König wanted nothing more than to hurt himself, to compensate for the injury he inflicted upon you and how he had completely disgraced you.

At one point, when he had finally had enough, in his blind craze snatched the pistol laying by his bed, flicked the safety off and aimed it at the same place he had shot you, just to break down in despair when no bullet came out, the clip hidden in his bedside drawer.

Hand tightly squeezing his heart through his soaked t-shirt, he was repulsed by the fact that he was completely healthy and could walk freely while you lay injured and dying.

Under his watch, you had been injured. Under him, your body had crumpled. And it was his fault.

In emotional turmoil, he soon lost all ability to function. He couldn't eat, couldn't sleep, and could hardly find the motivation to get out of bed most of the time, convinced that he had killed you, convinced that he was a monster. Responsibilities were kept on hold, the next best person taking his place. No one questioned the new arrangement, despite the shared confusion from everyone on base.

He couldn't take this. He couldn't take this any longer. He would have rather died, sacrificed himself in any way possible if it meant that you could live another day, as you could make a greater impact on the world than he ever could. Could be a better person than he ever could.

It was his fault. He shot you. He had shot you. He had shot the recruit that he had hopelessly fallen in love with, yet only he himself was to blame for it for his lack of control, for his inability to be unaffected by his feelings.

One day, a knock on his door pulled him out from his trance.

Prior to the interruption, König was staring at the cement wall, his eyes unfocused, completely still and barely breathing. He wasn't himself.

Immediately straightening his legs and nearly tearing a tendon from how fast he got up despite having been so inactive for the last few days, he stomped quickly towards the door, his face glum yet eyes glinting with the merest hint of hope.

Hand reaching for the handle, he had readied himself, expecting bad news coming from a surgeon wearing a medical mask and a blue uniform, a solemn expression as they devasted him with your passing.

All but the latter was true.

"Colonel König, sir. The patient is awake. You may now visit them if you so wish."

Blinking a couple of times, König thought he had heard incorrectly.

"...P...Pardon?"

Repeated were the words that König was shocked to hear.

"King is awake, sir. Their condition is a stable one. Our team thought to notify you first since you were on the mission with them."

Gasping, König could barely breathe. He felt like he was drowning, drowning despite his head breaking out from the water. "What... I... where?"

"Ground floor, room twelve. They're on medication as of this moment yet are fully awake."

König nearly fell to his knees. You were alive!

You were alive! He hadn't killed you! He thanked the Gods, and could barely keep composed, barely able to stop himself from dashing to the center of base and yelling into the sky in pure joy.

"I— thank you... so much."

Running faster than he had ever ran in his whole life, he was at your door in minutes.

Yet, as his fingers reached for the door knob, he suddenly stopped in his tracks, hand poised mid-air.

What if you didn't want to see him after the whole ordeal?

What if you resented him, and would spit in his face the moment he walked in?

What if you hated him, and wanted nothing to do with him ever again?

Hesistantly knocking twice, he nearly had a heart attack when your voice broke through the door:

"Come in," you called simply; your voice was hoarse, but it was clearly still you.

Taking a deep breath, König pushed the door open.

There you were. He was having heart palpitations at seeing you awake and looking at him.

The light coming through the open curtains made your skin glow despite how pale you were, eyes sparkling and crinkling in happiness despite the dark circles and heavy bags under your eyes, hair splayed out behind on your pillow, resembling a halo, despite how greasy it was.

He had missed you. So much.

Then his heart sunk as he reminded himself that he was the reason for why you were here, why you were in in this state to begin with.

Seeing König, You shot him a daring smirk despite how numb your face felt. "Hey, König, sir. Did you visit me at all? I'm sure you missed me."

Waiting in anticipation, you kept looking at him excitedly. At the lack of response and his refusal to meet your gaze, it faded completely. "—Wh—what? You—"

"Not— not even once? Not—"

Tears were welling up in your eyes. "—you didn't come see me even one time?"

Maybe you shouldn't have gotten your hopes up. Maybe you should have thought that König would not have time to spare in his busy schedule.

Yet you couldn't not get your hopes up when as soon as you woke, your first thought was of König. Although the grim reality hit you hard like a bucket of cold water dumped over your head, you still wished to see him.

And yet, he hadn't wished to see you at all. He had avoided you like the plague.

"Scheisse—"

König started pacing the room, head hung low as he weighed the pros and cons. Indecision.

"—Do you really... do you really want to know why I didn't visit you, King?"

You nodded meekly, lip quivering.

He finally made up his mind.

If you rejected him, at least he'd rest easier knowing that you'd live, and continue to be happy for you from afar. He'd still support you, still be your colonel, still love you even when you found someone else.

"I... I put you in this position, King... It was all my fault," he begun, his voice barely above a whisper.

Tone softed as he finally stopped, as still as a statue, a metre away. From this angle, you saw how bloodshot his eyes were, how they sagged in sadness, how dark circles had formed from lack of sleep. His pale blue eyes were dull, glued to the ground.

"Not only did I lose sight of you on the battlefield, I also shot you. Shot my own—" Pausing, not knowing how to refer to you.

He carried on. "I couldn't live with myself. I still can't live with myself. I'm walking, uninjured, as you are laying in bed, recovering from an injury that I am the reason for. From bullet wounds that were the result of me."

Voice hitching slightly, he tried to keep his breathing under control. But he couldn't.

"How could the monster that shot you enter your room and dare to look at you? How could I watch you cling to life, while I walk freely despite causing you this— this agony? What right do I have looking at you after putting you here?"

You allowed the tears to spill down your cheeks.

He stopped, eyelids drooping, finally meeting your eyes.

"I have feelings for you, King, I—" Trembling "—I do. But... I shouldn't be feeling this way. You have your whole life ahead of you and I—"

"—I've... aged... I'm not the same man I was before. I've witnessed things far too disturbing to ever share with you. I... I know that you should be with someone better and I—"

Although still in a daze and sedated by the drugs, your thought process was still clear enough where you could be sure about this.

Reaching with a tentative hand for König's larger and rougher one, you squeezed it weakly, looking up at him with a heartfelt expression.

König smiled for the first time in ages.

Through that gesture alone, König knew that you forgave him.

He allowed his breathing to stabilise, wanting nothing more than to start over with you.

...

Note: MY FAT FUCIIJF FINGERS SLIPPED AND I POSTED THIS EARLIER THANI WAS SUPPOSED TO OJ MY GOD I AM AN IDIOT 🤡🤡

Edit next day: how tmdid this fet 100+ notes im sobbing 😭😭. thabk you everyone for readijg this angst fest!!!!!!! ❤️❤️❤️

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narcissarina · 4 months

Text

Darkened Desires

Prologue and Chapter 1: The sun

Pairings: Mafia!Scaramouche × Barista!Reader

Word count: 1,006

Tw: praise kink, degradation, kidnapping, tourture, dub/non-con, forced breeding, dismembering, gore, deaths, age-gap, corruption, use of force, trauma, use of drugs, stalking, mentions of human trafficking on the near chapters, slowburn.

Warning: This fanfiction may contain kidnapping, torture, dub/non-con, forced breeding, dismembering, age-gap, corruption, vigilante Scaramouche, use of force, trauma, use of drugs, stalking, and more. This fiction will continue to grow darker as chapters goes by.

Your mental health matters.

CHAPTER 2:

THE MOON

I should’ve just killed this fucker earlier, but here I am interrogating him in a public place and inside this fucking café. I knew I shouldn’t have taken and agree on this meet-up. Maybe this is my karma after killing another fucker earlier too or that I’m just too kind to this person.

“So,” I spoke, my tone threatening and so is my aura, I could spread a lot of negative energy right now as my mood is bad as shit. “What happened to the person I told you to give me information about?” I finally asked, wicked grin across my face, trying my best to seem… friendly. Even though I want to reach out to him across the table and slam his head until he bleeds to death. But no, we don’t want that kind of attention out in this open, right?

All he could do was stammer and fidget, fuck. I don’t have time for this.

“You shitheads deal with him.” I told to my bodyguards and they started muttering deadly threats, telling him that I, the boss, don’t have time to deal his bullshit.

I lean my head back and feel the soft cushion of the seat, I saw a glimpse of someone in the corner of my eye. Someone caught my attention.

It was the barista, the way she smiles at the two customers—probably a mother and her daughter. As if in her eyes she saw a glimpse of reflection of herself and her own mother. I clicked my tongue and shakes my head as I continue watching her.

She was gentle, her smile like a ray of sunlight.

I could only bite my bottom lip, snap my fingers and whispered to one of my men, “give me her personal background.” I spoke in a demanding and authorizing tone, “will do, sir.” One of my men nodded.

So fucking pretty, would be much more prettier if she became one of my priced belongings.

He shuts up, that’s it.

I’m going to kill this bitch after we’re out of here and when we do I’m gonna—

“Excuse me?” a voice filled my raging thoughts and pulled my full attention to her. What the fuck, she’s much prettier up close.

Oh.

Oh, shit, shit, shit! Did we get caught?!

Before I could open my mouth, she starts asking us questions and how me and my men were here for quite a long time and hasn’t ordered anything… yet. Then asking us to leave, pfft, that’s cute. Trying to put on a brave face and act when I could clearly see that she’s intimidated by us too, I could hear her stammer her words and almost eat her words up too. So fucking cute.

But before messing around, I got to deal with this situation first then him. I relax my eyes and looked at her, “so we just need to order and you’ll leave us alone?” I asked, fuck, I didn’t mean to sound so cold and flat. But I need her away from us, away from danger.

I click my tongue with irritation and rest my elbow on the table and my chin resting on my palm, “whatever, get me some dark coffee.” I hiss, and focus my attention to my men and the man in the middle, I place a smile and told them they could order. It’s on me all right.

After she wrote down all of our orders, my eyes were on the man and he’s sweating, trembling with fear and fidgeting. She noticed.

“I’m sorry sir but are these gentle folks seems to bother you nor are they intimidating you?”

I frowned, she gave her attention to him and not me? Well, I hope he comes back alive and well tomorrow.

“You know,” I start, shifting her attention to me as she turn her head and straight her posture, the notebook in hand. “Don’t you think it’s better to get our order done?” I asked with a smile, trying to soften my tone but she still seems intimidated by me. That sucks.

Well, it doesn’t matter does it? In the end, I will claim her no matter what. She’ll be mine, she doesn’t need to know it yet.

I could only laugh a little, grinning to myself on how cute she walks away. She was a little stiff and her legs look like it’s gonna give out, I hope I made her excited—even for just one bit…

Minutes later, our order came. My little sunshine here is too kind to delivery it to us, to our table and left—still as stiff as a board when she walks away from our table.

It'd be fun to break her, to have her submit.

Every now and then I would steal a glance while speaking to the man who “broke” my trust and my contract with him, oh well. I’ll just kill him after I eye-fuck the most beautiful barista I laid my eyes upon.

“Time is up and it’s time we leave.” I stood up, belly full and muscles and bones stretched and cracked. I point to one of my men, tell him to come closer and whispered, “Don’t let him out of our sight, bring him with us and you know what to do.”

I smiled and lend out a hand, “Well then, Mr. Parfez let me offer you a ride home.” I emphasize the word home so much that he knew he’s in trouble, two of my men went behind him and escorted him first as I walked up to the counter up front—took my wallet out and gave a 100$ tip.

She was so confused and I fucking love seeing her scared of me. I’m fucking addicted.

I turn and walked out, and took one last glance at her. Thinking to myself that I can have her all to myself and for it to work is that I need her to warm up bit by bit.

She doesn’t have a choice.

Link:

Chapter 3: THE MOON

#genshin impact #scaramouche x you #scaramouche fanfic #scaramouche x reader #scara x reader #scaramouche #scaramouche x y/n #scaramouche smut #Darkened Desires Series #genshin smut #sorry if the story is short TT #I'm trying out if chapter by chapter are suited to me lol #will be writing chapter 3!#Mafia!Scaramouche #Mafia!Scara

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a-court-of-fics-and-errors · 17 days

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Keep Moving Forwards, Part 13

Azriel x Reader Fic

Summary: After finally deciding to leave your abusive and manipulative mate for good, you find unexpected companionship with Azriel, the Shadowsinger of the Night Court. As you navigate the aftermath of your traumatic relationship, you struggle to understand where the mating bond went wrong and contemplate your path forward, vowing never to return to the past.

Find other parts here: Master List

To follow this fic, follow tag "Keep Moving Forwards Fic" or comment to be tagged in future parts.

Content Warning: This story contains depictions of extreme emotional manipulation and abuse, detailed descriptions of direct physical abuse, and scenes of men hunting women with implied sexual assault. Please read at your own risk.

Word Count: 1.8k

Author's Note: This is a multi-part series. Unlike my previous works, this fanfiction delves deeper than just fluff, exploring complex emotional landscapes. As I navigate this new writing journey, I kindly ask for gentle feedback. The topics addressed are profoundly impactful, touching many lives with diverse experiences. Please be gentle with yourselves and others. Healing is a journey, and everyone processes it differently. Be kind to yourself. Take what resonates, and leave what doesn’t.

Please continue reading, being aware of the above content warnings, ensuring you are in a healthy headspace. Give yourself time to process and be gentle with yourself.

When the sun rose and light peeked through the gaps in the curtains, you allowed yourself to rise from bed, savoring the feel of the blankets beneath your fingers as you took deep, steadying breaths. Finally, you pulled yourself up and opened the armoire to find clothes Feyre had given you throughout your stay. At the bottom of the closet, you discovered a rucksack filled with clothing for all climates, fresh skeins of water, and various dried fruits and ready-to-make meals. You dug through the bag, wondering who could have left it for you. Nesta, perhaps? You shook your head, smiling lightly as you dressed, pulling out a cable-knit sweater and layering it over a turtleneck. You opted for green cargo pants and a knit blue wool jacket, then pulled on a pair of hiking boots. You tied your hair into a braid, securing the end with the ribbon Anthea had given you, allowing your fingers to linger over the frayed ends as you looked at yourself in the mirror.

You slung the rucksack over your shoulder and walked into the hallway, knowing you would need to find someone to bring you to the ground or face the many stairs that would have you walking until nightfall. As you made your way down the hall, you heard indistinct chatter behind a closed door in the common room.

“You’re sure?” a deep male voice asked.

“Absolutely,” Rhysand responded.

“How is that possible?” the deep voice asked.

“When my father was High Lord, diplomatic affairs were very different. There weren’t strict border enforcements, and he and my father were quite close.”

A scoff from the deeper-voiced male.

“So you think it’s possible that he’s her father?” Azriel’s voice interjected.

You paused. They were talking about you.

“I would recognize that voice anywhere,” Rhysand responded.

“She was a child. Who knows what she accurately remembers,” the deep voice replied.

“Where else would she know his voice?” Rhysand countered.

There was a pause as you pressed your ear closer to the door.

“So what do we do?” Azriel asked finally. “Do we tell her?”

“What good would that do?” the deeper voice asked.

“For her safety, we can’t tell her anything,” Rhysand responded.

“So we just sit with this information?” Azriel asked, irritation lacing his voice.

Rhysand shot back, “What would you prefer, Azriel? That we tell her and risk not knowing what will happen afterward?”

“What do you think she would do?” Azriel asked.

“I don’t know,” Rhysand replied.

Azriel’s voice grew louder, “She has no other family. Is it not wrong of us to keep this from her? What if she wants to go to him?”

The deep voice responded, “You want her to go live with them? That messed up family?”

“I don’t think that’s for us to decide,” Azriel shot back.

“You know how they treat their females,” the deep voice responded.

Azriel said nothing.

The deep voice then continued, “Rhys, what do you want us to do?”

“I want you to keep this quiet for now. For all we know, he’s still looking for her.”

Azriel, hesitantly but with a touch of frustration, asked, “What about her mate?”

Your heart caught in your throat.

A pause from all of them. “That is not our concern,” Rhysand responded.

Azriel’s voice grew louder. “She’s running from him, Rhys! We can’t just do nothing. Who knows what he might do to her?”

Rhysand, his voice calm and collected, said, “Az, she doesn’t want to tell us anything about him. We can’t do anything unless she asks for help.”

Azriel, almost yelling, responded, “She’s terrified to say anything!”

The deep voice tried to calm him, “Az-”

“No!” Azriel stopped him. “Rhys, he’s in her head all the time. She screams his name every night. She’s been running from him. Who knows what he’s been doing to her?”

Rhysand replied, “Azriel, we cannot overstep boundaries. I’ve already entered her mind without her consent. If we do anything without her permission, we are causing more harm than good.”

“So we let her go? Let her keep running from him?”

Rhysand paused. “It is her choice what to do with her life.”

“She doesn’t want this!” Azriel yelled again.

“How can you be so sure what she wants?” Rhysand responded.

Your mind raced. Why did it matter who this male in your dream was? Why would they care? Your heart nearly stopped as you considered them knowing your mate existed, suddenly fearing they might call him to come and get you. You started thinking through a story to stop them, but then you heard the sound of a chair scraping against the floor and footsteps approaching. You stepped back, pressing your rucksack against the wall. The door flew open, and Azriel stood before you, his face hot with anger that faded slightly when he saw you.

“Y/N-” he stammered, “Hi, good morning.”

“Good morning,” you responded, taking a step forward slightly.

Azriel looked over his shoulder back into the room and then turned back to you, shifting slightly as he looked you up and down. “What—where are you going?” he asked, his face turning more concerned.

You looked down at your clothes and then back at his face. “I’m heading out. I was wondering if someone could take me down.”

Azriel’s fingers flexed around the door as he seemed to fidget more. “You’re leaving?” he stammered.

“I think it’s just time for me to move on,” you said, shifting slightly in your boots.

As you finished, Rhysand appeared in the doorway behind Azriel, who took a slight step out of his way. “You don’t have to go,” Rhysand noted. “You can stay as long as you like.”

You looked at Rhysand, smiling politely. “You’ve been so generous, but I’m just feeling an itch to move on.”

Azriel started to speak, but Rhysand cut him off. “Of course,” he said. “It’s been our pleasure to have you.”

You looked to Azriel, whose face hardened at Rhysand’s words, but he didn’t speak. From behind Rhysand, another male with Illyrian wings, a much larger frame, and shoulder-length black hair appeared.

“You’re leaving? But I just got here!” his voice boomed.

“You must be Cassian,” you said, smiling at the bright face with a beaming smile back at you.

“So you’ve heard of me? These guys don’t just spend all their time talking about themselves?” Cassian pushed between the two males, coming to stand in front of you, his hand outstretched.

You reached to him, shaking it lightly, his calloused grip hard. “Well, mostly Nesta.”

Cassian smirked. “So you’ve only heard the bad things.”

You chuckled, readjusting the pack on your back. “Just that she missed you.”

“Not that I’m the biggest pain in her ass and that she wishes I’d fly into the side of a mountain?” Cassian smirked back.

“No, nothing like that,” you replied, “just a little.”

Cassian chuckled slightly. “Well, it brings me too much joy to terrorize her day to stop now.”

Rhysand broke back in, “I can take you down. I have to get back home anyway.”

You nodded slightly, noticing how Azriel’s face tightened to the point where you thought his skin might snap.

Cassian gave you a kind smile. “It’s been nice to meet you, even if you’re so rudely leaving.”

You rolled your eyes. “Not my fault you’ve been avoiding me.”

Cassian turned, walking down the hall towards Nesta’s room. “Someone has to work around here,” he threw his hands up and continued through the doors at the end of the hall, calling over his shoulder, “Good luck out there, kid!”

Azriel’s fingers loosened and gripped the doorframe again. Rhysand reached out his hand to yours. “Shall we?”

You looked between Azriel and Rhys before taking a few steps forward and wrapping your arms around Azriel’s neck. “Thank you,” you whispered to him.

Azriel seemed stunned momentarily before he wrapped his own arms around you, resting his chin on your head, one arm coming around your shoulders, pressing his fingers into your shoulder, the other coming around your waist.

“Of course,” he whispered back.

You took in his scent, mist and cedar, breathing him in deeply as you clenched your eyes shut. You couldn’t figure out why, but you felt a deepening sadness when you pulled away. Azriel seemed reluctant to let go. You pushed onto your tiptoes, pressing a kiss onto Azriel’s cheek. He closed his eyes, taking a deep breath.

“Take care, Azriel,” you said to him.

“You do the same,” he responded, opening his eyes, and letting one hand take your own. He rubbed his scarred thumb over the back of your hand as you stepped back, taking Rhysand’s hand in yours.

When you let go of Azriel’s grip, the world spun in black and gray, and you felt a single tear slip down your cheek.

When you landed, you found yourself standing in the middle of a busy cobblestone street near the large gates to the entrance of Velaris. Fighting off the nausea, you leaned forward, and Rhysand placed a comforting hand on your back.

“Does that ever get less disorienting?” you panted.

“I’ve been doing it for about 400 years. I don’t think I’m the right person to ask,” he laughed.

You took a few more gasping breaths, trying to steady yourself. As you did, the familiar scents of your childhood city filled your senses—the sweet smell of baking bread and the yeasty delight wafting from the baker's square. You stood upright, peering around at the gray stone buildings with the banners of the Night Court flying high above their spires. Your heart felt suddenly full as you envisioned yourself walking through the streets with your mother, seeing the world from so much closer to the ground. You tried not to let your mouth fall open in awe.

Rhysand gave you a light smile. “You recognize this?”

“I spent a few years here in my early childhood.”

“It’s a pretty magical place to grow up,” Rhysand remarked, looking around.

You nodded slightly.

Rhysand’s gaze landed on you. “You don’t have to leave, you know? You can stay here. We can find you a place to live.”

You shook your head, smiling politely while looking at your feet. “It’s alright. Somewhere else is calling me. I just need to find it.”

Rhysand nodded. “I understand. Sometimes we have to carve our own paths.”

You nodded again.

“If anything happens, or you need anything, you will always have a home here,” Rhysand assured you.

You tried to push down the tears and the lump forming in your throat as you smiled at him. He gestured to the gates. “This is the closest I can get you to the exit without putting you outside.”

“It’s perfect,” you replied.

“You have everything you need?” he asked.

“More than enough,” you responded.

Rhysand nodded lightly, reaching out his hand to shake yours, but instead, you took a step forward and wrapped him in a hug. He hugged you back. “Thank you,” you said.

“Of course,” he responded as you pulled back, turning and walking toward the shining steel gates.

“Be safe,” Rhysand called.

“I will,” you called back, before stepping outside the gates of Velaris and into the wilderness, immediately feeling a hole forming in your stomach as you walked farther and farther from that wondrous, shining place.

To my readers, much love. Be prepared for what's to come, we're getting serious out here. @thatacotargirl @mcuamerica @lilah-asteria @florabelll @fightmedraco @marvelbros-oneshots @mariahoedt @quinzzelx @romantasyreader28 @minnieoo @mysteriouslydeafeningwerewolf @annabethgranger123 @krowiathemythologynerd @scatteredstardustt @romantacyreader28 @caroline-books @slytherintaco @sevikas-whore @sidthedollface2 @405rry @sleepylunarwolf @acourtofbatboydreams @quiettuba @julesofvolterra

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countrydionysia · 7 months

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2023 Rural Dionysia Announcement

Io! The time of the year has come again for the Rural Dionysia!

How to participate

The Rural Dionysia is meant to be a smaller competition than its urban counterpart, as such, we have selected only 3 categories:

Freestyle poetry

Modern hymns

“Complete the fragment”

Freestyle poetry

Your poem can be about any chosen topic (myth, personal experience etc.) in any written format. It doesn't have to be religious in nature.

Modern hymn

An hymn must sing the praises of a deity of your choice. Unlike the "freestyle poetry", your work must be of religious nature to fit in this category.

Complete the Fragment

Each year, we choose a fragment from an Ancient Greek poet to work with. The challenge is that the initial fragment must be included somewhere in your piece in its original order. This means you can fill the gaps however you want, but you can’t switch the order of the words in your piece or remove words from the original fragment.

Here is the fragment selected for this 2023 edition: Paen 16 by Pindar (52q Oxyrhynchus papyrus; late 2nd century AD; trans. William H. Race; Loeb 56)

……………… ] Lord Apollo, .…] for I pray ….] with willing (mind?) to give ….] power suffices and you were judged to be ….] most gentle to mortals.

Here is the Greek text for reference. Note that because the word "mind" is unsure in this translation, it will be acceptable to keep or modify this word.

If in doubt for any of these categories, remember that you can check submissions from the previous years to get an idea of how others have done before.

Submitting your piece

Please submit your piece through submissions on this blog. All entries must be tagged for the category they are being submitted to. but you can only choose 1 category per piece and each person may only submit 1 entry per category each year.

Entries must also be tagged for potentially triggering content and squicks. If your entry needs a trigger warning, kindly add them at the end of your submission and we will take care of adding them in. Check the rules below for further information about submissions.

Calendar of the event

Nov. 10: Official announcement and opening of submissions. Dec. 10: Final submission day. Dec. 11: Vote opening. Dec. 18: Vote closing. Dec. 19-20: Announcement of the winners!

No worries though! We will be posting reminders about each step when the time comes.

General rules

Roleplay and fanfic are not acceptable submissions. This is a religious festival, please respect our faith and do not submit an entry if you are roleplaying or writing fanfiction.

Unlike with the City Dionysia, entries do not necessarily have to be about specific deities or Hellenic polytheism except for the “Modern Hymn” category, which has to be dedicated to one or many gods of your choice.

There are no meter restrictions. This is up to the writer.

All stories, myths, and poems must be entered using the submissions button.

All entries must be tagged for the category they are being submitted to. Entries must also be tagged for potentially triggering content and squicks.

An entry may only be submitted to a single category.

Each person may only submit one entry per category each year.

Winners for each category will be decided by popular vote.

Admins of this blog cannot participate, for obvious reasons. As for now, this includes @thegrapeandthefig @verdantlyviolet

Questions about the rules? Check the blog for past answers, your answer might be in there. And if it's not, simply submit an ask. We'll answer in the best delays possible.

#dionysusdeity #hellenismos #hellenic paganism #hellenic polytheism #hellenic gods #country dionysia #hellenic festivals #hellenic pagan #hellenic worship #hellenic revivalism #hellenic reconstructionism

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precious-little-scoundrel · 1 month

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MotA Fanfiction: John Brady and first person/reader/insert no use of y/n.

18+: John Brady had me at “like you told me” five seconds before “son of a bitch that’s France” and now we’ve got seven kids and a mortgage. The following could be a very existential diary page about the first few months of that marriage.

But basically, John Brady makes me rabid: here have some purple prose smut about it mixed into an essay on happiness

My mother readied me for many things but not for this. I dig through the archives of her heavy advice, her off handed comments, her jubilant prognostications, all I keep so dutifully in my mind, and I search for some hint from her that she knew it could be like this. But I find nothing, it is all too weak or strong or wordy.

Did it not come in words?

Were her misty eyes when she settled the veil over my face the true meaning of it? Had I mistaken her emotion as a presentment of missing me when it was instead tremulous excitement for what was in store? Had she known when she wrapped me in white and insisted it fit me lovingly to my proportions that it was not tidiness and appreciation for good seams but instead, that holy knowledge of what more awaited me? That a wedding dress in its fit reflects what happens when the groom removes it?

She knew I had myself a good man. Did she suspect how well he’d fit me?

And I thought it was merely cloth, I had been too busy even for my own wedding. I was too busy loving him, the idea of him, of him being mine. Perhaps if we had met in peacetime, if he had courted me between his hours at the office and my semesters I would have looked forward to my wedding, planned each detail and worried over all manner of things that brides are said to care about.

But we had not; I’d no sooner loved him than he’d gone, and no sooner had death returned him on loan than I married him. I loved him and everyone else but me seemed to know what that meant as he kissed frosting from my wrist.

I had thought I’d known at the registry office, signing in ink my name, scrawling a practiced B that ended with a flourished Y.

Mrs. Brady.

I’d thought I’d known then. I had given the benign judge a saucy smile of the fully enlightened. I had no idea. To ask me if I was happy that day would have been a good joke, to ask me if I could be happier when we waved out a window chalked with news of our nuptials: it would have been more than half insulting.

I was happy. I thought I knew. And that night, what little doubt I had about the gaps in my theory, he filled. Love in its rawest form, breaking me apart, making a place for himself, I clung to his shoulders; this part my mother had told me of. She told me it got better; I can’t speak to that. He was pushing and petting and I endured until surrender turned to fascination and again to arousal by his rhythm, the concrete sense of his need, the clarity of his release. And still I was urging my sweet boy to take and take; it did not get better, it got sublime. I could not fault my mother for her faulty preparations, even though I think she knew -for her own sake I hope she knew. There are no words for it when two bodies become one, minds meld and he finds his way eased by your blood till he’s in so deep you think he’s probed at your heart. I don’t hear of people speaking about that part, and mother didn’t tell me, but I think they know.

I am quite forgiving of her that night, I thought I knew then, I assumed what she left unsaid, it was merely out for lack of vocabulary. Lying beside him, having tasted heaven, I am generous. She tried. I know.

He had put a pillow under my hips before he opened me, it tilted me kindly for his invasion and I wonder who told him of that. His innate desire to please had long ago led me to find he was good at kissing, and that he liked to kiss me everywhere. He was as delighted by the back of my knees as he was by my throat, and he forgot all reason when he tasted between my thighs, only his firm and unyielding hands on my hips gave a mottled clue he kept at such kissing for his own satisfaction as much as mine.

I know that I am happy then, on my wedding night, and next morning I am happier still. I might try at being cross with my own self, for sabotaging my arrival at absolute knowledge except that I cannot help but be giddy for it; he loves to kiss me, my boy, and he has a warm blush on his face in the sunlight, this first morning I’ve woken up beside him, and his hands are already busy with me. Mine grow busy with him and I know this is how we will spend our days, kissing with him inside me, and I am happy.

No one who encounters me in the coming weeks can doubt it. My parents whisper amongst themselves, his too, church members and fellow servicemen. My Johnny is not settled with a job and so we lodge at various places in the next two months, and soon each of our hosts knows it, too. It cannot be stifled beneath his quieting palm when he breaks me apart, thin walls and no place to call our own except the harbor of my body, that’s his home and he goes into it. Often and more vigorously each time until I associate happiness with the most alarming strength of exertion from the lithe length of him rolling against mine, noses to toes; I draw blood from his hand.

Even my boy is beginning to see: he makes me happy. He has the most melancholy eyes, my boy, I recalled them as being calm and observant before he went away. But he has observed too much though he never says so, and out of his army greens there is not a speck of baby blue left in them, they’re cold gray and the only time I see them sparkle are when I’ve made him laugh so hard a tear rolls down his creased cheeks. I am impatient with his happiness, I know it and I know I’m wrong for it, but I miss the sky blue of them and the way I didn’t used to have to guess at what roils beneath them.

If he can’t feel happiness as thoroughly as me, he at least presents with quiet confidence as he finds a peacetime footing, there is a job offer in Maryland and we take our first road-trip. He is full of plans and maps and well drawn schedules and I am full of 55 mph breezes up the nose, feet in his lap and face hung out the window merrily, there are endless rows of pines and the feel of bark against my back at the rest pavilion. More, more, more, I demand of him and he gives it, it’s happiness turned hungry, greedy, close to vicious. Happiness that needs topping off.

We fight that night before his interview. A silly thing, inconsequential, hotel room adding to the displaced feeling I have begun to feel after our adventure calmed into adult necessity. He is preoccupied with being excellent and I am preoccupied with happiness. Chiefly if I make him happy or not; this is the first night he has not been so undivided in his passion and I allow it to vex me. I am young and I am happy and I guard it jealously, thinking that holding it -gripping him- tight fistedly desperate about it, will keep it all the closer.

“I am doing this for us.” his tone cuts me, I have admired it slashing others but it has never been directed at me before. He is wiser than I am and a self proclaimed cynic. I think he is fighting me in my happy quest, but, “For us, I’m doing this for us.”

His fingers dig into my cheeks and it is assurance enough. I have to agree that even heaven must have some maintenance work intruding on the celestial revels from time to time.

By the time I stand on the bed and cinch his tie the next morning before his interview, I have never been more in love. I am happy, yes, but there is admiration for him there too, but I struggle with finding a place for it.

Love, it seems, multiplies and I remain fixated with happiness in its tidiest form. Like the moment we cut the cake. I ask him that night if he has ever felt that, felt it simple and tidy.

“I feel a million things about you.” he swears instead; his tone suggests it is the most devout compliment.

I pray for wisdom next Sunday. I can feel that there is more to happiness than I know and it unsettles me. Our fight has long been made up but those million things that Johnny thinks and knows of me haunt the little life I try to construct, they haunt it as badly as whatever plagues his dreams at night.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” he begs a hundred times to me night after thrashing night; he suggests the sofa, I won’t hear of it. The bruises his flailing limbs land on mine are no darker than those he makes in calculated romance. His dreams respond to the feeling of my hands on his belly, he wakes easily with it, I have something to wake for and it is not perfect or quiet or even gentle always, but I am in love and when he allows me, I feel powerful and needed, hands on his belly, a thin tickle of hair beneath my palm. “You’re an Angel.” he swears to me, lips warm and plush against mine, I am so in love.

My cycle stops soon after the interview trip. I wait until I am sure to tell him one night, we are sprawled across our bed gasping back breath and I tell him, simple and direct as he prefers. I had wanted him one last time before he thought of me as a madonna. It had not been so different, I had been preoccupied with the child but I had also found my peak, and he had grasped greedily at my breasts, my nipples knotting beneath his fingers and only a lingering soreness in them to remind me of my secret. With his seed dripping from me, redundant and warm, I tell him.

“A baby?” My husband’s eyes glow, he cups my face like I am holy, his lips thank me with kisses to my nose and eyelids, “We’re havin’ a baby?”

He is all preparedness now. Striding with purpose and when he kisses me he is kissing the mother of his child; he gets the job in Maryland. We tell my parents of our happy news before we go, it surprises no one and yet there are celebrations as if we waited a decade. My Johnny is pleased and his smile is fixed, but I remember him when I told him, the glow about him, the naked press of him to me, his kisses on my belly. These are things I wish I could tell my mother -these are things that make me happier. Even more than the child itself.

On the way back to Maryland, our car trip is sedate, I eat ginger candies to quell the nausea and Johnny contemplates an unspoken thing. When I contemplate at all I think of driving down here over a month ago and the feeling of bark behind me and his hips snapping into me. I wonder if our child was made in the pines -how very different a few weeks makes a trip. He has foregone smoking his pipe indoors out of consideration for my queasy stomach.

“There’s somebody out here I should see.” He answers me at the gas pump, knowing I can tell he is preoccupied.

One of his crew lives off this exit, it’s why he’s filling up when the tank is half full. Johnny says he should go see him, and where he goes I will too.

Waist gunner Timmons is missing both legs. Together he and Johnny speak of bonds and education, his new job and the likelihood of drought, tidbits about the other boys' peacetime business failures, they laugh without malice. They laugh at themselves too. When taking our leave Johnny tells him our news. It makes me blush and I don’t know why, I was proud of our making the child. I should be proud of our finished product. I see him slip a hefty dollared bill in the coat pocket of the garden cover by the door as we leave.

Johnny stops our car at the end of the long gravel drive and while it confuses me, I know he is in a turmoil. His fists suddenly slam against the steering wheel and his face goes red beneath it’s feckless.

“Baby?” I question him but then he is weeping, forehead pressed to his knuckles on the steering wheel, aggravating buzz of a fly against the windshield unheeded.

It’s ugly and hiccuping and half panicked, he can’t seem to stop though the angry set of his shoulders tells me he wishes to, and after helpless fluttering beside him, I undo my waist belt and slide over to his side, arm thrown over his shoulders, forcefully prying him from the wheel. He lays in my arms and weeps for what feels like hours, letting me hold him and swear to him and soothe him. I’ve never known him like this, he speaks of Whys and Who’s and What’s He Got Going For Him to Deserve So Much Good Luck.

I am his good luck, his lips tell me as they press to my belly, he has fully sagged into my lap in his misery. I am his good luck, me and the baby and the job in Maryland and it is the first time I’ve ever thought of happiness as guilt.

The first days in Maryland, I cannot say that he is happier but he looks at me more openly, the guarded set of his eyes is gone and something sheepish but trusting shimmers there instead. Still steel gray but I notice the flutter of lashes around them and the dusting of pink cheeks more often. We never speak about Timmon’s driveway but I come to realize with a jolt: he’s softer for having let me see one of his million parts. I know him better now and it shows in his loosened shoulders and his shy smiles, the almost joyous eagerness he has to begin life here.

We close on an offer on a house, brick with a little porch, a small front drive and boxy lawn but in back there is a tall whitewashed fence going round and garden beds that are empty and waiting. It’s a prize and we are both delighted and he swoops me up, light as a feather, and brings me over the threshold.

“You’ve been waiting to do that!” I realize, he didn’t do it on our wedding night at the hotel or any of our other lodgings.

“We’ve got ourselves a home.” he grins back and there is such relief in his face I wonder at how much concern he was harboring before.

I begin to watch my man the way he watches me, I think less and less of whether he is happy and more and more if he feels safe. It’s why I’ve made no move to couple since he has not, not since I told him of the baby. We have been traveling, then moving in our boxes and he has been feeling whatever it was he felt in Timmons driveway. Some modicum of selflessness takes up residence in my childish heart, allowing him to hold me and not demanding proof of happiness from him. He cradles my belly every night as we spoon and I can feel his lips quirking in smiles as he gently hums to our child.

I watch my husband like he first watched me, from the bandstand, boyish cheeks blown full and nimble fingers flying over brass keys, I knew I wanted him then before he did. I went after him fast and furious, unlike myself in the way I tenaciously kept our first halting conversations going, shocking myself with the way I fanned my skirts around his lap and let him play beneath them -he was better at that than talking and I obliged him ravenously. Told him he looked handsome in his uniform and he told me he’d like to marry me. He came back to me as promised, four years late, yet the happiness that his first glittery eyed glance sparked in me is something I crave now as if I have not dabbled in far more heady pursuits with him thus far. His child grows in my belly but I miss his blush when I first stared at him past his bunker behind his music stand.

He watched me first, I wanted him worse. His eyes were blue then.

I admit my petulance to my mother after a week at the new house. Not that I am so wanton as to be bereft after a ten day abstinence, but that I cannot seem to settle some gnawing resentment that has begun. Again, not over the coupling. I am not sure what it’s over. I love him more than ever, and yet, that first blush of blazing white happiness of our first few days has given way to a nurturing watchfulness, an almost heartbreaking sympathy, a self effacing desire for his joy that robs me of my own. I ask her for a remedy.

She tells me I loved the idea of him before, and now I love him. And love is not made of happiness alone. She tells me to talk to him. “If you don’t know what it is,” she says, “he may. He knows you.”

He loves a thousand million parts of me, he had said. And then I had scoffed, feeling so sure I was comprised of only one: happiness.

Amongst the other basic necessities of settling in, we do our best to scope out the town, having arrived on a Thursday we attended mass soon in the only Catholic Church to be found in the small place, we find the town’s rec hall more promising, I keep my eyes peeled for a music store. There is one in Millersville, I find it when I go to inspect a couch that caught my eye in the Hutzlers catalog.

I do not know if he needs reeds. He hasn’t played since he got back, he may have a stack of extras in some box. But the sentimentality fills me strongly, the memory of missing him and waiting for him and having no ability to reach him over there except by sending the packages. And each of his letters with their little sheepish addendum: please send more reeds.

I got up from dinner that night to give them to him. He had asked about my day and as if I had some horrid secret to cover I had choked on my descriptions of the couch until I had broken down and admitted there was more. I place the item beside his plate and he puts down his fork while I stand in suspense.

An innocuous plastic wrapped package of saxophone reeds was probably not what my Johnny was expecting but he lets out a cut off little laugh about it.

“Did you even need more?” I am weirdly in knots over it, fingers nervously bunching at my dress and he leaves off opening the package to slip his own into mine to prevent the tick.

“I did.” he murmurs warmly, pressing a kiss to my forearm that dangles beside him, “Thank you.”

“Is that why you’re not playing?”

He looks surprised. “I -just busy, I suppose?” he questions himself.

“I miss it.” vocalized at last, I realize just how much.

“Do you?” his lips curve in a smile against my arm and move across to my belly, the hot gusts of his affection damping my dress. “Well, if my sweetheart misses it…” his lips have moved so low along my dress I feel an ache where I am missing other things.

He cleans his instrument that night while sat at the table while I do the dishes, our clearing of it a joint endeavor. He fusses over the need to grease it and other things too technical to be questioned but I understand, it won’t be played tonight. But it’s good to see him at the familiar task, his affection and seriousness for his work both manifesting across his face.

The next day he goes with me to Hutzlers, his opinion on household furnishings having been impeccable thus far and far more decisive than my own. He humors my myriad of hypotheticals regarding comfort and staining and color schemes, hands shoved easily in his pockets and a gentle smile on his face, I know by look alone he is categorizing each of my expert arguments into tidy little categories that he will present to me again in fifteen minutes time when a decision must be made.

In the end we purchase a pale blue couch with roses imprinted tone on tone into the fabric. It was decided upon only after he had hauled me down to the cushions to see if it were a plausibly good place to kiss. I now wonder if we have gotten a blue couch instead of a peach one simply due to the fact it was further from the window and he felt free to dip me down over the arm for a brief half minute.

Either way, it is set in stone that our new couch will be blue and on the way to the cash register, he immovably halts at a counter displaying the most heart wrenchingly cute baby items.

“We have to get somethin’.” he sounds almost exasperated at the previous weeks’ oversight.

We leave with ten different things, not having agreed upon what gender our child will be and I am unable to argue that booties are always a sensible option for either sex, I also want to strangle the woman behind the counter whose over eager desire to help robs me of the unguarded delight Johnny was showing over the little things before she came up.

He is opening my car door and teasing me for being so mercurial when he himself turns mildly glum before a hard determination sets his jaw.

“What?” I question, half wondering if he sees some old acquaintance or is having some awful recollection. I can’t imagine what amongst this urban place and departmental hedonism could inspire it but, stranger associations have done so.

“It’s midway through September.” he mutters, keen eyes fixed at the store’s grand facade, hand still heavy on the window before closing my door.

“Yep.” I am at a loss.

“But the seasons are milder down here.” he is presenting a case of his own for something and all I can do is agree, Maryland is more temperate than New York.

“Your mother even gave me a book about the different zones.”

“Yeah.” he is pleased with my perceived understanding, face lighting up, “So it’ll stay warmer down here.”

“For longer.”

“Yeah.”

“Johnny? What?”

He seems to realize I’ve not understood what he keeps looking at so intensely across the parking lot. “I want to buy bushes and flowers but it’s September.” he admits.

An extravagance this late in the season, and my man is not extravagant. “They’re very pretty.” I settle for acknowledging, knowing this is something he must decide but he looks so torn I would do anything to smooth that creased brow.

“It would make the place more, I dunno,” he stares down at his hand on the still adjar car door and shrugs, “…homey?”

“Some things are perennial.” a little blossom of hope tinges my own voice, my mind had gotten away with me -if he is this invested while yet undecided, I cannot imagine what diligence he might display at husbandry were he to act on it. And there’s nothing I have grown to love more in all my watching than him at some diligence.

We don’t get them. But in the car on the ride back there is discussion that the place is only a fifteen minute drive. Which pertains to the delivery of our couch, and we must hurry back to have the front door opened and I wanted to sweep where it will be once more. The delivery boys thump the blue thing on our floorboards carefully and its large presence is exactly what Johnny was saying we needed -Hominess. Emphatic. Settled. Ours.

No sooner have they left with his kind tips in their pockets than he is pulling me down on it, a hungry imitation of his actions at the store with hands more risky and insistent. I have been missing him so badly I come apart easily from his finger’s ministrations between my legs, sidetracked in trying to pull off my panties and garter belt. When he sees me go, he takes mercy and lets up, a gentle swiping through his prized currency of sticky pleasure and I watch him bring those long fingers to his lips, sucking them clean.

“You taste different.” he admits with heavy lidded eyes, “Since…” he doesn’t finish his explanation of the change in my belly, the slight swollen pooch that is our child.

“Bad?” I ask with feminine panic at the very notion.

He is settled on his belly between my thighs, blue couch a plush landing beneath us both, “N’bad.” is emphatically mumbled against me and my legs kick out the buzz of his voice. By his vocal and insistent enjoyment of it, I cannot help but be assured. Not bad. I keen up at our ceiling as he wrings one and then two and then -he won’t stop and I am needy for it, enjoying the familiar span of his hand dominating my belly, only this time it is cupping my swollen womb. I settle in relief that the proof of my maternity beneath his palm does not deter him, or at least, distract. He hums into his messy work and noses at me where I am all lightning and pulsing need, his hips jerking down into our plush new addition each time I pull at his dark locks.

Different, he says of my taste, and wedges his face in deeper, his hips beginning to move with the movements of his face against my parts and I swear to him that he is good, that he is perfect, that I’ve missed him, that he is beautiful and that he should have gotten those flowers.

His corresponding laugh makes me gush onto his tongue and his humor turns into a moan that only prolonges my delicious agony. He pushes my legs wider so forcefully I think he would like to take them off entirely if he could, his face smothered in my heat.

“You have a job now.” I present a case of my own to him, about the flowers as I try to get on top of the feeling, it is too much and he is unrelenting and I try to grasp onto something that is not his rocking body and clever lips, “A very good job and a car and -and we have this house, a-nd a-a a very nice couch -aaah God!”

His grip on my hips is deathly as I list his accomplishments until he seems to seize and then sag, tongue grown listless at last as his lips part and a shuddering groan fans over my tacky thigh.

“And we deserve flowers.” I whisper hoarsely, petting the dark strands from out of his eyes.

He’s spent himself in his writhing, I can tell by the molten expression on his face when his eyes finally drag up to meet mine over the small swell of my stomach, and set off by our new couch, they are the sparkliest of baby blues.

I have never been more startled. Or pleased. I had forgotten to watch for it, and so it had returned of its own skittish volition. I cling to that glimmer of blue until his smile grows wider and his eyes flutter shut in exhaustion.

Happiness.

At the end that night, bathed and fed and having inspected our new assortment of infant wear and argued once more over the likely gender, he brings his instrument out of its case with the package of reeds in hand. He has been offered a part time job at the high school, teaching music. It would be a hobby, he protests against his own interest in it, it would take away from time with me and Little One.

“I could go, too.” I point out.

“You’d like that?” he is pleased, the lamp is too dim for me to discern if there is blue but his lashes flutter briskly and I kiss his cheek, it’s hot beneath my lips.

“I always love watching you play.”

Before he fits the reed to the mouthpiece he makes me close my lips around it, a red stain marking it after, much to his satisfaction.

“You’ll be teaching children!” I swat at him, utterly pleased despite my own remonstrance.

“And I am married.” he says as if it were a universal absolution for all things.

The clock strikes five fifteen the next evening and he is not back. I have a plentiful assortment of excuses to choose from to explain his variance from routine. Traffic, work, a waylaying colleague -he has only been at work a couple of weeks, it is absurd to expect a forever unchanging home time. By five forty I cannot pretend expectation of what may have occurred and so keep the meatloaf warm with its proper cozy and when there is a bustle at the front door, I sprint to it like he’s back home from the war again.

It’s well I opened the door myself, he was endeavoring to while juggling three large potted plants in his arms. There is dirt in his white collar and I let out a little whoop at his uncharacteristic impulsiveness, stepping aside to help him get them through to the back porch. It doesn’t even need discussing, the large sliding glass door gives a beautiful view of the backyard from the living room and it’s sheltering insures privacy and a deterrent from our children’s stray balls flying to the next lot. At least for a few years. And the plants will go in the empty beds at the perimeter.

It is a Friday, and we eat my tepid meatloaf in between his smooching apologies for having been tardy and garbled plans for where we will put each plant and how we will stagger them according to their eventual size. It was far more than the three pots he brought, the trunk and also the cab were full of fauna.

Our excitement next morning is idiotic, we manage to snicker at ourselves for being so domesticated that this inspires frenzy but the self awareness gets not further than that, I throw on my rattiest -and coolest- sundress and he his jeans and with only his white singlet, breakfast is inhaled while standing at the backdoor, last minute plotting being discussed between bites. And then we spend our entire Saturday at it.

Johnny digs the holes and carries the plants to their allotted places and only then allows me to gently labor in filling soil over the roots, we eat cold meatloaf and slug down ice tea under the afternoon heat, not even bothering to go inside. When I have no other job, I weed the beds in preparation, watching unreservedly the way his shoulders glisten in his hard work. I have caught him eying the neckline of my dress, the recent changes he has imposed on my body now ensuring it does not gap so much as bulge while I lean over and grasp the next offending dandelion. I know he is watching and he knows I am watching and we are happy at our work, tidy garden beds filling out and his tongue pressed to his top lip to catch a drop of sweat.

The sun is a glittering soft light through the western trees by the time we take stock.

“Nothin’ left to do but water them.” he has his arm over my shoulder, hand nearly brown with caked soil where it hangs against my smudged breast, his undershirt gone translucent from sweat, the oddest attraction to his underarm blooms in me as he huffs in satisfaction next to me. I press a kiss to the swell of his pec instead, he folds with a shocked giggle, he is ticklish.

“It’s very homey.” I pronounce, feeling indeed a bone deep satisfaction over our garden at our own house from our own hands. His elbow crooks further and he has my neck secure in the bend, golden hour light the prettiest thing in the world as he nuzzles our sweaty noses and slowly claims a kiss.

“Our kids are gonna get to play out here for years.” he seems to realize as he lays his head atop mine, his voice sounds so softly comforted I can feel my eyes smart with tears.

He can feel my nod beneath his chin. “And us.” I suggest.

“And us.” he agrees with a laugh, “I’m gonna mow.” He decides suddenly and he is giving me one more smooch before moving away, headed at a jog to the garage for his machine before the sun fully dips. Never one to leave a job slightly imperfect.

I water our new additions while he pushes the mower, strip after strip, along our back yard, closer and closer to complete perfection. I have little doubt that once he finishes this he may find yet another task and knowing we have done enough, I go inside as he finishes the last swaths and grab a tablecloth, an opened bottle of wine along with salami and a brick of cheese. I have these waiting for him on a cloth, laid upon his freshly shorn grass. He cuts the engine, I watch him as he heedlessly take off his soaked singlet and uses it to rub the grass from his eyes. He is beautiful, my boy, where tan skin blends to fair and a strong, lean back disappears into jeans. There are dimples on his back, right below that belt, I know them, I’ve traced them with my tongue.

“C’mon, we’ve done enough. Sit and look at how perfect it is.” I beckon and his face lights up at my little spread, sauntering over, undershirt still clasped in his hand.

“Im filthy.” he warns and runs his hand along his sweat sheened belly in a motion I find obscenely captivating.

I pat at the tablecloth, “So am I.” for my dress is soiled and I am sweaty and only my hands are really fit for food as I scrubbed them thoroughly.

He holds his own up to show their grimey palms yet sits himself beside me anyway, and I notice the callouses dotted along the pads of his hands. I want to kiss them, soil and all.

“Then I’ll feed you.” I reply to his unspoken question and bring a bite to his lips.

We toast each other with the wine, drinking from the bottle and we watch as dusk begins to throw her first veil over the golden light.

“I’m not nauseous anymore these days.” I report and he is sweetly relieved for me, I pull out the pipe I packed for him and hand it to him between salami rolls.

His eyebrow, mobile and ever so empathetic, asks if I am sure but I am, and I watch as the match recreates a golden glow on his face once more today as he lights up and I watch him with the most lazy feeling in the world as he watches our gardens go muted by dusk.

“We’ve really done it.” he observes, relief dripping in his voice, a long exhale tinges the air around me with sweet tobacco and I am reminded of courting, of chasing him down while trying to appear reserved. Of wanting him so badly I had little choice but to remain devoted. The smell of smoke in the street would stop me dead in my tracks, thinking of this young man an ocean away.

I think I know what he means but I need to be certain, and I find I am hungry to know everything, every bit of him. If his current happiness is placed in stark relief against some previous melancholy, I want to know that, too. “What have we done?” I ask teasingly, scooting nearer to him on the cloth and kissing at his shoulder. He smells of gasoline and grass and pipe smoke. And I taste salt when I lick my lips.

“We’ve got ourselves a home.” he grins so easily, my boy, and if it were earlier in the summer there might be fireflies out in the twilight. “And you’re not nauseous anymore.” he giggles.

I’ve wanted long enough these many weeks, when my lips trail from the meat of his shoulder to his beautiful neck, he cannot mistake my intentions.

“O-out here?” he stutters out, hissing at the end by my bite on his fragile throat, i place my hand on his jeans and palm at him. There is still nothing so thrilling to me than the feel of a man firming, the way he awakes to me and only me and at my least whim, even while his mouth is all stuttering questions and his eyes are startled shimmering pools. He is always surprised when I initiate, as if he can imagine his own desire being that needy but not my own, he is always surprised and I realize it may be the only one of the million parts he does not fully know of me: how badly I love him at all times. “N-now?” he is rocking denim clad hips into my palm and their fit has grown impossibly taut.

I have the zipper down, my hand meeting the sweat soaked crease of his thigh and wiry curls that are equally wet from his work, when I wrap my small fist around him, he is clammy and pulsing in my hand. It should be revolting, perhaps, with dirt and gasoline and sweat acting like a gritty lubricant, but nausea has been replaced by something else hungry and while he may have found comfort in having provided the necessary civilian checklist for our lives, I am a woman whose body he has forever altered with his child and I have never loved anything so much as watching him at work. I want to smell it, feel it, taste the gritty earth of the man who has renovated my very flesh.

“Yes, now,” I beg, giving him one last squeeze before I lay myself back, sundress riding up my thighs, “I want you to take me under our gardenia.”

He watches me raptly, boyish eyes fawn-like and batting lashes fluttering like moth wings in the dim light; he rises to his knees and stays there as I unbutton my soiled dress. There are twenty four buttons to the hem and I make theater of each until I am bare. More than he anticipated, for while at work I did enjoy the last bit of clement weather on all my parts.

He makes a pained noise of want at the sight, maybe he too loves the sheen of sweat that makes us both shimmer in the far off patio light, how it reflects off my swelling belly, breasts grown large enough my necklines are impossible to keep discreet. I stop him from tasting me with a foot to his clavicle, I love his mouth but I want to be taken. And he indulges me, shimmying between the parted scraps of my dress and laying himself against my body, denim rough and thrilling against my bare thighs, the slightest space between our bellies lest he crush me. I am hardly large enough for it to be a concern but I can see his fascination with it, his preoccupation, his hair hangs into his eyes as he stares down at where his desire parts my petals and I can feel the drag of him against me, sweat and unabashed want making a swamp of me.

I peak and thrash from the torture of his steady grind alone, and in a typical moment of firm implacability, I feel my husband press into me while I am yet writhing. He scoops the back of my knees into the crook of his elbows, leaning over me with mischief on his face as he folds me, “You started this.” he still has enough self possession to remind before he gives into the grip of my heat and begins to move in me, engaging work-sore muscles not yet fully fatigued.

If my novel new shape has created some preoccupation, if my symptoms and moods had once ruled me in earlier weeks, it is worth it now for the way my body goes alight beneath him, electric delight curling my toes and fuzzing my sternum at each thrust, I respond to him half possessed and he snickers like he knew of this before me. I swell until my sheath is so tight it makes us both keen from it, slippery to the point of cacophonous. I claw at his back and his shoulders don’t stand a chance at remaining unmarred as he stays unperturbed and sweetly vicious inside me, jamming himself deeper. When I begin to scream he lets down a leg and cups my neck, forcing my mouth against his own.

He tastes of wine. I hook my toe into the denim of his waistband and tug it further down, till I can fully see the pale swell of his backside and I think the motion tickles him as he giggles in his rhythm. I can register that the air has grown cool as the sun fully deserts us, leaving us to it with a final curtain call on the happiest day I’ve ever known.

The force of our endeavor has shoved me up the blanket until I am well and truly beneath the far branches of our gardenia. I tilt my head up and smell the blossoms’ heady scent, their leaves and white flowers blending into the canopy of nightly stars beginning to show. Johnny’s warm face is tucked, groaning, into my neck, our bodies so close as he begins to falter in his control that I cannot watch him. So I watch the blossoms above sway in my vision as his need rucks my body up and down beneath them for a few more desperate minutes. I turn my face and press a kiss to his temple, his hair damp with sweat and smelling so much of him I clench. I love you, so good, you’re so good to me, so deep, so deep, I love you- my mind is adrift and where he rocks inside me is all I know and I babble and beg and praise him for it.

His breath is a hot steam over my clavicle, dirty hands tenderly grasping at a swollen breasts, he bites at my lower lip to hush himself when the pleasure overtakes and I too go under one more time, legs drawing up again under the wracking delight and my modest man groans and pants the filthiest appreciations, for taking him, slippery beautiful thing, tightest little cunt, could spend all my days in you, milk me, that’s it milk me sweetheart, you like it when I make you?

What he babbles to me as he spurts is never something later to be answered, it is gibberish and rhetorical and yet I believe every word, treasure them when he rolls off and pants beside me, I will rehearse them in my mind when he is gone to work. I know this last set will have me ready down to my thighs long before five o’clock.

In the cold night air his hands are soothing the damage his forceful want has done, petting my trembling flank down like a horse after a race, it gives me zapping little after-quakes that make him hum into our kisses as his warm palm feels me twitch and clench and melt.

We should go inside soon -we both mumble it at the same time and barely have energy to laugh over it. We stay on the tablecloth, grass texturing our backs, his only movements are to roll me closer to him, pulling my gaping dress with me, and plucking a white starry blossom for behind my ear. After he has placed it he drops his head again, pillowed on my upper arm and I can feel his breath even out across my throat.

My mother did not tell me of this. I have asked others in the most discreet way I can summon, but they all just say they hope I’ll be happy, they’re sure I’ll be happy, he seems to make me happy, they themselves are happy.

It is likely only myself at fault, but now I think of happiness as a very desperate thing, tentative and elusive and ever watchful. I did not expect to find its most distilled essence in quiet things. There is nothing more to write as our happiness did indeed persist after we woke and rose and went to shower, chilly from our exposure, it went on after we had wrapped ourselves under the bedding and clutched at each other like twins. But what is there to relate of such happiness? It has no great drama, it is not so very vigilant unless it is to actively prevent sadness, and even that is welcome here when it must be passing by. Perhaps the poets, or the preachers, or my wise boy would tell me it’s joy I feel. Maybe that was what I was looking for all this time.

Maybe that is what feels so foreignly precious about lying on a blanket with his spend cooling between my legs, our shrubs like loyal sentinels dotting the fence line and my man gently snoring atop me after having created a life sworn to himself when he thought he might die. It is sobering to be integral to that dream, but it is also peaceful.

It is joy, I suppose. Or a sort of Garden Variety Happiness.

Here’s my widdle Brady Taglist, thanks to each of you for expressing such interest and always showing such love. This was a bit of a weird passion project and I’ve got no idea if it actually “worked” but it was the branching out my creative brain needed. So many of y’all are already nailing this Man so well, 🤨😏 I’ve been such a happy recipient of all yalls works. Scream at me. Lemme know. Xoxo

@luminouslywriting

@ktredshoes

@archival-hogwash

@gigisimsonmars

@steph-speaks

@ab4eva

@lilfreebee

@slowsweetlove

@xxanaduwrites

@blurredcolour

@venus-planetof-love

@pearlparty

@winniemaywebber

@sagesolsticewrites

@ginabaker1666

#masters of the air #mota #mota fanfic #mota imagine #mota spoilers #john brady x oc #john brady x reader #John Brady #John Brady imagine #mota smut #mota x reader #ladies who brady

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slushiepizza · 2 months

Text

Prêt à Manger

this fanfiction has suggestive themes. but not actual depictions of sexual interaction. still, i'd prefer it if minors don't interact.

Pairing : Doc/Hush

Tags : Meat Themes, Food as a form of love, hunger as a form of love, knifeplay (for the sake of teasing and not to the point of wounding), graphic depictions of eating, getting together, kissing, vaguely horny, unhinged doc, depictions of corpses

Word Count : 3,192

ao3

Notes : Thank you so much to @joshusten for accompanying me through writing this whole thing. This wouldn't have been finished without their help! This is a challenge for myself to describe the intersection of the feeling of being hungry for food, and being hungry for love and companionship/desiring over someone. Also to describe love interests appetizingly, while describing food titillatingly. I think Hush and Doc's dynamic is perfect for those themes- considering he isn't human and thus is unfamiliar with those sensations, and also that he canonically DID learn how to cook for Doc's sake.

To Hush, hunger used to be a foreign concept.

But ever since he took on his humanoid form- the fleshy disguise that was a mockery of what he was capable of- there’s a simmering under his skin, crawling and clawing for something. There’s a sort of hollowness that couldn’t be filled.

Hush manifested in an underground tunnel full of humans. There were signs above him with words like ‘to Union Station’, ‘Santa Monica’ and ‘Mind the gap’. He followed the crowd to a stationary vehicle, ethereal and glowing with artificial light. As soon as he stepped onto the platform, the metal doors closed. Inside, it was cramped and narrow.

Someone’s elbow was digging into his side and someone pressed against his back. He found the fact interesting, as he discovered that most humans liked their personal space. But not here. Not inside the tunnel that currently moved in speeds that reminded him of Aria, the windows that lead to outside blurred what remained of the scenery into long lines of color.

Between the sea of people, Hush took in the surroundings as best he could with people breathing down his neck. A man was sitting on the far end of the cargo. He took out a bowl with a transparent lid. He opened it, revealing the insides of rice, meat, and vegetables. He spooned the food into his mouth and chewed with vigor. Beside him, a woman is holding a cup with a dark liquid, steam wafting off of it. She took a sip and winced. The next time she approached the drink, she slowly blew on it, disturbing the vapor. She let out a sigh as she swallowed. In the forgotten corner near the window- a couple was kissing and sucking on each other’s lips. One of them slid their hand down the other’s thigh. The action produced wet, smacking noises and the humans around them looked revolted, turning their backs away.

He sensed that they all felt a similar sort of feeling, a concoction of desire, relief, hunger, craving mixed into one. Hush didn’t find other humans interesting, but he noted that there was something to be made of the fact that there’s an animal-like primalness to the act of eating something. To him, Arcana is just a source of power floating in the vastness of Aria. He didn’t need to chew or swallow- it’s just absorbed into his form, imbuing him with energy. Hush recounted that Doc also took pleasure in the act, losing themselves in the morsel.

—

Doc pulled a chair and joined Hush at the kitchen table. “Oh, man. I’m starving,” they sighed as they took a burger out from its paper bag, the colorful logo of its origins crumpled beyond recognition. “Still not into food? Eating in general? We can share it if you want,” they gestured the bun towards his direction across the table.

“No, thank you. Arcana is more than enough sustenance.”

Although he still relied on Arcana as a source of energy, his body never seemed to be rid of the feeling of lacking something. It’s a phantom sort of sensation- like it knew how it’s supposed to act when unfed, but couldn’t seem to find the right functions to do it.

“Suit yourself, then.” They took a bite and hummed in pleasure. Their white, ivory colored teeth sank into the bread and patty. It was pliant under their grasp, their fingers marking it with dents. A crunch from the lettuce. “Wow. That really hit the spot.”

Doc wiped off their mouth with the back of their hand, yet their lips were still shiny, slick with oil, the meal marking an evidence of their appetite just. Hush watched unblinkingly as they chewed, barely swallowing before inhaling and going in for another bite. He noted that there’s something strangely intimate yet taboo about the way humans eat. Like it should be done behind closed doors, away from onlookers.

His human companion themself- had a particular affinity for food that was eaten directly with their hands. “Tastes better that way. Burrito, fries, sliced fruit. Sushi. It’s kind of nice to touch and feel it going into my mouth,” they said, muffled between bites.

There’s something sacred about the way Doc eats. They always do it with a reverent sort of enthusiasm. Completely indulging themself in it, not holding anything back. They cradled the burger as if with affection, with tenderness.

Hush felt oddly shameful, as he watched the food disappear past their lips into the cavern of their wet mouth. The act of watching them eat, almost voyeuristic in nature.

He imagined what it would be like to cook them a meal- the food that they metabolized being his own picking. He’d gather out the ingredients, meticulously cut and sear it.

He made up his mind to do so.

—

Hush found himself in front of a glass display of animal carcasses hanging from hooks. The flesh was plenty, hanging off the bone with white fat between the muscles. He couldn’t recognize what they used to be. The hook twisted the carcass slightly when a stray gust of wind moved it. On the rack, other rolls of meat filled with what looked like herbs sat. It was bound with twine rope, the layers of meat dimpled out provocatively.

“You!” the burly man beside the display acknowledged him, sharpening his knife with a clink, clink, clink. “Are ya’ buyin’ anything or are you just gonna stare?”

“Sorry.”

Doc told him that it was wise to apologize whenever someone is displeased with him. They said it could get him out of unsavory situations.

“What do people usually buy?” he asked, taking good care to make himself look as conventional as possible.

“Eh,” he mindlessly tapped the cutting board with his knife. The cuts of meat around him shook slightly. “Rib’s popular if ya’ got the money. Shank for broth. Maybe…flank? For steak.”

“The flank, then,” he said, looking him in the eyes as a sign of respect. He looked uncomfortable under his stare, and averted his gaze down to the board.

“Ya got it.” He groaned with effort as he took one of the hanging pieces and put it on the table. Hush noticed that there’s hints of extremities, like two protruding hind legs. The man’s knife scored the top membrane- a thin film with a pinkish hue- to reveal ruby-red fibrous muscle. He cut the muscle away and folded it into a neat roll. “She’s a beauty, this one.”

There’s a strange sort of tenderness the butcher had for the meat. The man was protective of them, like a father might for a daughter. He’d give Hush a glare whenever he stood too close to the chops, and cut the skin with a delicate hand when he himself was anything but.

“How do you usually cook it?”

–

The flank sizzled in a sea of butter and garlic, red slowly turning into brown. Hush flipped the meat and it made a loud sound.

Strangely, it reminded him of the demon in his companion’s apartment. The surge of rage and power that ran through his veins when he saw them threaten his companion. The explosion of connective tissue and viscera on the kitchen floor.

Both an act of devotion, he thought. His power tore through sinews and bone- and the knife in his hand sliced the flank clean, revealing the pink, rare, inside. Tempting in its dampness.

Doc opened the door with a clatter of their keys when Hush was setting the steak on the dining table. It looked accurate enough to the pictures he saw in the books he studied. A firm, supple steak in the middle of the plate. A fork and knife on its side. He even set the table with a tablecloth, candleholders and a bowl of apples in the center. Romantic wasn’t quite the word he looked for when he did all this, but it was quite accurate to how picturesque the spread was.

“I made you dinner,” he turned to them. “Oh, I was wondering why it smelled so strong,” they laughed as they put away their shoes. “Thanks, Hush. Appreciate the effort.”

They looked surprised when they saw that the kitchen was clean despite the smell- although he committed to making the meal by hand, he’d used the help of magic to wash the dishes. “You really know how to spoil me,” they teased. “What’s the occasion?”

“I like seeing you eat,” he confessed. “There’s something…appealing about it.”

They raised an eyebrow, and good-naturedly huffed as they walked over to the dining table. “Thanks. I guess. I’ll take that as a compliment. Hey, you even set the table and everything.”

“Yes. It’s to add to the experience. Humans eat with their eyes first, before their mouth.”

Doc sat themselves down in front of the plate and gave Hush a strange look when he kept standing. They pat the seat beside them.

“Aren’t you going to sit down?”

“Okay,” he obeyed and mirrored their sitting position. Hush watched as the human took the fork on the side of the plate and put a piece of steak in their mouth. “Mm. It’s really good,” they groaned. “Definitely not bad for a first try, Hush.”

Hush felt satisfaction when he saw them enjoying the meal, the warm light of the candle lighting the planes of their face that twisted into indulgence. “To be honest, it’s kind of odd to be eating just steak and nothing else. But y’know what. I think there’s an appeal to it.”

They cut another piece with the knife and pierced it with a fork before nudging it to Hush. “It’s your first time cooking anything, is it not? I think you should at least try what you made. Fruits of your labor and all.”

“Why didn’t you eat with your hands?” he asked. “You said that it makes things taste better.”

“Oh. Well I guess steak isn’t really a…hand food. In this scenario, anyway. Do you still wanna try this?”

“No,” Hush answered.

Doc hummed an assent and continued eating, Hush watching intently as they swirled the steak in butter before slowly closing their lips around it. He wondered if they did it on purpose.

“I’ve told you that there’s a lot of things I’d like to give you,” he broke the silence. “But, there’s something…I’d like you to give me.”

They set the utensils on the plate, resting it. Their expression was thoughtful, unreadable. “...What do you want me to do?”

“There’s a…feeling I get when I’m with you. Like I’m starving but there’s nothing that could fix that. It’s like…”

Hush reached out to hold Doc’s hand. They gently squeezed it back and traced the back of his palm with their thumb. He guided it to hover above his neck, before lightly pressing it against his skin. He let out a noise from the back of his throat as he moved it down his clavicle, to his sternum. Their hand was warm when he moved it down his stomach in a straight line.

He brought it up again, back to his neck and traced a horizontal line across the base of his throat. He felt Doc’s heart speed up, along with the tension in the atmosphere. He started another line at the bottom of his ribs, tracing across the fabric of his clothes.

“Like gutting a fish,” they muttered, entranced. “Or…butchering lamb.”

“Yes,” he approved. “Like meat. Like something alive.”

“I share a similar sentiment,” Doc uttered, half-lidded. In a quick gesture, they dropped themselves down to the table, pulling Hush down with them. The remaining plates clinked with the sudden movement. Hush noticed that they looked utterly pleased with themselves, as if laying between leftover steak and utensils like they were part of dinner was an indulgence he couldn’t understand.

“I have something to offer you. A form of thanks for dinner.”

Doc reached for Hush’s right hand and covered it with their own, not unlike how he held theirs earlier. Hush balanced on his other arm, caging them in with his body. They flashed him a rakish grin from below. Hush licked his dry lips, feeling like he was going to be swallowed whole, even when they couldn’t hurt him in a way that matters. He could feel their intense emotions: hunger, thrill, desire, frustration. Doc trailed both of their hands against their sternum, moving it past the collar of their shirt. It stopped on the right side of their neck, slightly below their jawline. They sighed into a pleasured smile, their eyes rolling back before meeting his gaze. “Do you feel it?” They whispered, wide-eyed and frenzied, firmly pressing his hand against their supple, pliant skin.

Hush could feel the thump of a pulse, loud and clear through his heightened senses. It was a delicious sort of sound, the rush of something and its channel opening, closing, and opening again. A rhythm. “There’s thumping. Like your heart in your chest. I don’t understand what you’ve offered me.”

“You will, in a bit,” they replied. “Your lack of pulse, the lack of breathing, the lack of body temperature- it suggests that there’s nothing to be revealed. As it should, if what you told me was right- a disguise, a vessel for you to put a fraction of your power in.”

“That’s true. In a way,” he said, noting that he could feel their breath on his face- contrasting his lack of. “This isn’t… me. But more of a form of me.”

Doc toyed with the ends of his hair that pooled on the side of their head, twirling it with their fingers. They laugh sardonically,” To a being like you, the human body is simple, inconsequential. But we have our secrets, too.”

“It’s not,” Hush rebutted. “Human bodies are irrelevant to my purpose. Not yours, somehow. I want to know more about yours.”

“Oh, you flatter me,” Doc slurred, their eyes ravenous. “Much like how you’re a container of instrumental force, the human body is also teeming with energy. Our veins are thrumming with life. Blood rushes to our extremities, pumping. Stomachs shrink and expand and absorb. This body…is the opposite of silence. It’s noise. Mechanical and biological in the way magic isn’t.”

Hush could feel the pulse in their skin get louder and louder, along with the sloshing of blood, its passage narrowing and widening. A drop of sweat dripped down his human companion’s face. They reached for the knife- still dirty from the steak earlier. Doc finally let go of Hush’s hand in favor of wiping it off with their shirt, revealing their abdomen.

“Hold this with me,” they pleaded.

Doc repeated their earlier position, his hand under theirs. They breathe heavily, their chest rising and falling. Doc guided the knife to the left of their chest. “Between the third and fourth rib- closest way you can reach the heart,” they muttered shakily, letting out a sound of pleasure from the back of their throat. They let the knife dig into their skin, not enough to pierce through, but enough to let the fabric of their shirt sink into its edge.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” Hush whispered. “Why do you want me to?”

“Why?” the word rolled in their mouth. “You had every chance to. I know you could do it, even without the knife. I’ve seen you destroy Reticuli in seconds. What made me different? Just because you’re interested in me?”

“If I’m in the way of your purpose- if I stood in the way of your mission, would you? You let me go after capturing me when we first met- is that not a defiance of your purpose?”

“I-” he faltered, eyes searching for meaning when there was none.

“Aw,” they cooed. “Am I so important that you’d forgo what you were made for?”

“Either way, I’m not asking you to,” they laughed warmly, their breath warm against Hush’s pulseless neck. “I’m giving you an option because I know you wouldn’t do it.”

“You knew? What’s the point of doing that, then?”

“I like you. And I trust you. I need to know that this isn’t a mistake,” Doc said lightly, as if they were used to being on the other end of a knife. Realization dawned on Hush- the fact that unlike himself, who did the things he did for the sake of his larger purpose- Doc seeks thrill, jumping headfirst into an opportunity to put their life in danger. It’s a strange form of taking control, being out of it and accepting that they couldn’t do anything but give in.

“I can feel the gears turning in your head, Hush.”

Doc tangled Hush’s hair in their fingers and tucked it behind his ear, lightly grazing his cheek with intention. “It’s cute.”

Hush felt the ever-so-familiar feeling, the clawing mix of hunger and desire coiling in his immaterial gut. He licked his lips. Doc shrugged at the lack of an answer,”Well, If you’re not interested. I’ve worked up quite an appetite.”

Doc supported their weight on one of their elbows and leaned forward. They reached back for an apple from the centerpiece bowl and started to peel it with nimble hands. They cut a piece and popped it into their mouth while keeping their gaze on him, as if daring Hush to do something.

For once, Hush felt himself break.

He took the apple from Doc’s hands and did something that would’ve been unthinkable before he met them.

Completely irrelevant to his purpose, completely self indulgent.

He took a large bite out of it, tasting the odd flavor. There’s a crunch, and he could feel his teeth sinking into the flesh. Cloying and sweet. Wet. The juice drips down his lips, down his chin, onto his clothes. He let it and watched Doc swallow, wordless. It’s succulent, ripe. Unmoored, he finished what he could, leaving only the core intact.

“Delicious,” Hush commented, looking down at Doc, sprawled and pinned like a butchered animal.

Hush sensed the want to gorge, a craving. He could no longer tell whether it was Doc’s or his. It’s hazy, like his being was covered in fog and he only relied on the sense of taste for sensation. Doc looked at him, hungry, ravenous. When their gazes met, they both understood, a phrase coming to both their minds. Good enough to eat, his thoughts repeated. It wasn’t a fight for dominance, but rather submission. The will to give in to be ravaged by the other.

He pressed his lips to theirs. It was Doc who deepened it, eating his face and mouth, draining him of what he has to offer. It was frantic, depraved, spit-slick and messy. He let out a noise. Hush noted that it was not unlike the pleasured sigh Doc did when they ate the burger.

On the dinner table, Hush felt himself consumed as he indulged in what he had deprived himself of. This was the closest Hush was to being human since his half-death.

The closest he was to being sated.

Satisfied.

Full.

#redacted audio #redacted asmr #redacted hush #redacted doc #slushiewrites

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