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wri0thesley · 5 months

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my heart a frozen thing (I of III)- capitano x reader

the tsaritsa's handmaidens are enviable indeed; perfect, chaste, and honoured beyond measure. a well-oiled machine. but you do not quite fit in. lucky, then, that the tsaritsa herself has intervened, to find you a position that befits who you once were - to arrange your marriage to one of her most trusted lieutenants.

cw: arranged marriage, mentions of death/freezing to death, corpses, weird religious themes, bullying. reader is referred to as a 'handmaiden', wears a gown, but no pronouns are used. wc: 5.4k. sfw.

a/n: capitano and his little handmaiden are a little thing i've wanted to explore for a while; i don't usually do series, but i have a very clear idea of where this is going and i hope i can get it there! in my head this ought to run to three parts, but here is the first! i had a lot of fun just making up background for this honestly fbgnkjgbfn.

The halls of Zapolyarny Palace have never felt so cold.

They are halls that you have walked a thousand times, at the behest of your Goddess; chambers that you have traversed for as long as you can remember. You learnt yourself here - so much so that the person you once were, the family you once had . . . that has faded to nothing. You have been a ward of the Tsaritsa since you were six years old, and you would not have had it any other way.

After all - are you not one step down from divinity? Do you not follow in her wake, untouchable and lovely? Do you not provide her with anything she could need? You see the Fatui members who walk these halls, the Harbingers - their hands are stained with blood up to the elbows, their figures stooped from war, their faces twisted with their troubles. They have clawed their way up the ranks -

And you? You have done no such thing. Something about you had called out to the Tsaritsa and she had welcomed you to her bosom and you had accepted, allowing yourself to be draped in furs and glittering crystals, to stand proud and haughty, to kneel for her and ensure her skirts are never dirtied, her every whim is met . . .

Until today, you suppose.

Her lips had felt like ice when she had kissed you on your forehead, and you had known then that you would walk from her chambers freezing cold and stripped of everything you held dear. You have always known that your fellow handmaidens did not like you; that they had envied you the Tsaritsa’s favour, that they have whispered that you are unworthy. Such things are easy to ignore when you know that you are cherished, though - and you had ignored them. You had ignored how they had ripped holes in your stockings and sent you on wild goose chases and errands, how they whispered behind your back when you fell into formation looking harried and rushed and imperfect because you had not been able to find your hairbrush in the morning.

But the handmaidens of the Tsaritsa are supposed to be a unit. You are all supposed to see one another as siblings; to think of nothing more than Her, and how you may serve Her. It is this that the Tsaritsa had said to you in your private meeting, as you had shivered and burned with the cold ice of humiliation.

“I love you,” she had said, with her voice as lovely as shattering crystals, as she had pressed that traitorous kiss onto your forehead. “Do not worry, little one. I shall ensure that you will not be thrown to the wolves.”

And then she had told you exactly how she was ensuring that, and you had had no choice but to stand before her, trembling, chin jutting proudly up - and pretend that you agreed with her decision.

There is nobody in the dormitory when you go to pack what little things you have; you are glad of that, at least, so that those who have brought you down to this station in life cannot gloat at you. You do not have many things of your own; of course, the handmaidens are given fine clothes, but they are more uniform than ordinary wardrobe. You pack your hairbrush, a book, a few other creature comforts - but you are supposed to be a homogenous unit, after all, and to make yourself too individual would simply not do.

One of the Tsaritsa’s servants is waiting outside of the door for you when you emerge. You shiver in the cool air, but try to keep a thread of your calm; give her a trembling smile. She looks at you with curiosity in her gaze, but she does not pry; that is not the way of things here. You soon lose track of where she is taking you.

In Zapolyarny Palace, there are paths that you walk every day; to the chapel, to the Tsaritsa’s chambers, to the hallowed halls and meeting rooms and anywhere else a handmaiden may be needed. But you do not wander freely beyond that. You know there are offices and spare bedrooms and studies and libraries galore - it is a most magnificent work of architecture - but you are not at liberty to explore them. So you soon lose your bearing as the servant brings you through hallways you’ve never seen, past doors you never knew existed. You feel your heart begin to beat too fast in your chest, anxiety crawling up your throat.

You do not know what is to happen to you now.

You know in theory what the Tsaritsa expects to happen, and you ought to believe her - find her infallible, as your Goddess and Archon surely is - but you have learnt, today, that nothing is infallible. You do not think any handmaiden in the history of Her Majesty’s service has ever been let go like you - and, too, you know none of them have suffered the humiliation of being--

You can barely even think the words. You think of the first Harbinger again, the one directly beneath the Director; the looming presence, the always-worn mask, the whispers that follow in his wake . . . you cannot imagine yourself on his arm. Cannot imagine yourself in his bed. Cannot imagine yourself standing beside him at an altar, promising him eternity--

“We’re here.” The servant’s voice is timid; even though she must surely know that you are disgraced, there is still - in your bearing and in the fine white furs and silks you wear - the reminder of what you were before disgrace came knocking at your door, and she has been taught that the Tsaritsa’s handmaidens are pure and perfect and precious. How you wish you felt that way.

“Thank you,” you say to her, swallowing to try and clear the dryness in your throat, trying to summon a smile. She bobs an awkward curtsey and inclines her head before she scurries away down the corridor, no doubt to whisper to someone about the scandal that is unfolding within the palace’s halls.

You look at the door to your new life. It is carved with swirling snowflakes; a solid impenetrable wooden shield from the rest of the palace. You do not know if it will stay your door, but you have nowhere else to go now. You cannot go running back to the dormitory of the handmaidens; surely, by now, they will all have been told exactly how you have been disgraced--

Your gloved fingers fasten about the doorknob as you force your traitorous heart to beat evenly. You must take things as they come; there is no point getting too frightened just yet. Some of the Harbingers do indeed keep quarters in the Palace - Pantalone, you know, has a wing set aside for his use. And Pulcinella, too, needing to be near the beating heart of Snezhnaya, has rooms here.

It is in the nature of a handmaiden, you remind yourself, to be calm. To keep their wits about them. It is proper of you to maintain an even voice and a pretty face, to be ready to be called to your service at a moment’s notice; and though you are not, really, a handmaiden any more . . . your entire life has been governed by these rules, and such things do not desert one so easily. So you keep your head held high as you step into the room, your chin jutting out, your eyes wide, your face proud--

And you do not let the tears fall, like your life is collapsing into the sea around you and leaving you adrift with no safe harbour (your beautifully designed ice sculpture of an existence), until the door is closed and nobody but you and the sharp coldness of the mirror mounted on the wall opposite is there to see it.

ii.

You are expecting to be brought before him, as would befit a man of his status - a status that now far outranks your own. You are expecting Fatui grunts or serving maids to come and fetch you from the neatly appointed little room of the Palace, to drag you before the Harbinger you are to become reliant upon, and to have every part of you scrutinised. Perhaps he will find you wanting, you think bitterly; perhaps he does not want to be a part of this mockery any more than you do. Perhaps he will snarl beneath the mask and despite the Tsaritsa’s attempts to save your life, will have you banished to some cold unfeeling corner of the Palace where you will freeze to death and nobody will find your corpse.

(It would hardly be the first time such a thing has occurred in Snezhnaya).

You are not expecting that the first of the Fatui Harbinger, he of the war glories, second only in the chain of command to the Director himself, would lower himself to come to you.

But come to you he does.

The room that you have been given is lovely if impersonal; a bedspread patterned with sprigs of blue flowers, an ornate mirror, a wardrobe and a shelf of knick-knacks. You, as a handmaiden, have never had cause to tend to the guest rooms - that is for those whose service is less important, whose place in the world is less holy - but you do at least know enough to know that is what this is. And you suppose, too, that is what you are now too.

No longer somebody who truly belongs in the Palace; no longer one of a flock of beautiful befurred doves, cooing and twittering over who will be granted the honour of smoothing Her Majesty’s dress, of combing her hair. Simply a guest - a person waiting to see what the next step in their life will be. Perhaps Zapolyarny Palace will be a pitstop; perhaps your new betrothed will have somewhere else to put you like an ornamental doll.

Perhaps he will take you to his camps, his fields of war, install you in his tent until you have forgotten the luxury of silks and glass and the blood he sheds stains your white furs red. Your nails dig crescent moons into your palms at the thought of it; of all of the ways your life could spiral into decay and dirt when it has only ever been pristine and beautiful before.

You are sitting on the bed when the knock comes, when the door is opened before you can even call out. You see the faintest outline of some Fatui soldier, before his bulk is silhouetted in the doorway and your breath is robbed from your chest.

Seeing him pass by you in hallways, or at the table when you have been called to the Tsaritsa’s side, does not do the man justice. He seems to tower over you; his presence in the room makes it seem like a dollhouse more than anything functional. Your eyes flitter, afraid to rest upon him too much lest you see something terrifying staring back at you.

You cannot describe it, but your entire body seems to go into a freeze response; you sit there, exactly like the ornament you are so afraid of becoming, your gloved hands neatly balled into fists upon the luxurious fabric of your handmaiden’s gown, your eyes wide with surprise and fear.

You expect him to stride in; to take what he has been given, self-assured as only a member of Her Majesty’s most esteemed lieutenant can truly be. Thoughts flash through your head; of him throwing you upon the prettily patterned bedsheets and having his way with you, of him grabbing you roughly and letting his hands explore the merchandise he has been granted.

Certainly, the visual of him makes those seem the most likely course of action. The massive stature, the shadows that his shoulders throw across the room. The impassive iron mask; the armour that he dons, whether he is on official business or not. Your shoulders draw up against your ears, preparing for something, though you know not what. You catch a glimpse of eyes, bluer than the hottest fire--

And then Il Capitano sinks to one knee in front of you and reaches for your trembling, gloved hand. Your breath catches in your throat as he draws it closer to himself - but then, he presses his mask against the fabric in an echo of a kiss, and from beneath the helmet he wears comes a voice like an echo in an iron chamber.

“Little handmaiden,” he says - and then, “I regret not coming sooner.”

“I--” Your tongue will not work around the syllables. It trembles in your mouth; only your willpower alone stops your teeth clacking together like some awful grisly musical instrument. “My Lord Harbinger, I . . .”

“Do not worry,” he says, his voice still a strange echo - you cannot imagine getting used to it, cannot imagine it whispering words of love into the shell of your ear. You can imagine it, though, booming across a battlefield, and the thought makes your heart seize in your chest. “I have no intention to hurt you. I am . . . most honoured by the privilege that has been entrusted to me.”

You realise with a start that you are the privilege; that this is punishment for you, but it does not seem so to him. The thought gives you pause.

Even the word . . . ‘privilege’. He does not call you a reward; does not act as though he has been given you as some Archon-won right, to do with as he pleases. For the first time, you let yourself wonder if perhaps your fate is not to be as cruel as you had feared.

“Thank you,” you say to him, your voice a thready little mouse-whisper of noise. Capitano does not move from his place before you, kneeling upon the parquet flooring of the room - his hand does not let go of yours for a moment, as if he cannot quite believe that you are real flesh and blood there before him. You cannot properly see his eyes behind the helmet - only that bluefire suggestion, the glow of something behind the ornate visor - but in your time as a handmaiden of the Tsaritsa, you have grown used to the sensation of being looked at, and that is certainly what he is doing.

“I intend to do this properly.” He tells you, with the door still open, with the Fatui soldiers who had accompanied him still stationed outside of the door listening to every word that he says. “I intend to make you mine in the eyes of the Tsaritsa and everyone else who matters.”

You think once more of the altar; you think of your uniform of pure white furs, traded for something lacier and gauzier, something more of a wedding gown than a ritual dress. You think of being chained to this man for all eternity--

And though he has been kind to you in these few brief moments, though your Archon had said she wished to see no harm come to you . . . once more, you think of Capitano’s reputation. Of the war fields and the bloodshed, of his victories and his spoils, of the way you have heard he throws himself into conflict like it is the only thing that keeps his blood pumping through his veins.

But you cannot say a thing.

“Tomorrow,” he tells you, and he says the word like a sacred thing - a prayer on his breath. “Tomorrow, I will marry you, and I will take you home.”

He does not leave his words in a question; there is no space for you to reply. You swallow your protestations as he stands back up and bows his head like a gentleman, though you know he is stained with blood in a way you had never expected to be yourself.

(You think of his hand on yours; imagine bloody fingerprints where he had clung to you. Marked. Soiled. No longer pristine and pure; no longer one of the Tsaritsa’s favourites. You stand upon the precipice of becoming something else, and it terrifies you).

“Tomorrow,” you echo, but the door has already closed behind him.

iii.

You cannot sleep.

The bed is fine; finer, perhaps, than the one in your dormitory that you have slept on for decades. The blankets and coverlets, with their pretty patterns, are warm (warmer than you are used to; the handmaidens are kept close to Her Majesty, and coldness permeates the air wherever she dwells. You had not realised just how cold you were used to being until you had slipped into this bed in a guest-room of the place you thought of as your home).

But your mind will not quieten.

You cannot stop thinking of Capitano, and all that his future entails; cannot stop the whisper of his voice, constrained as it is by his helm, when he says the word ‘home’. What is a home for you, now? At this moment in time, ousted from Her Majesty’s Service and not yet yoked to the first-ranked Harbinger, you are a creature that has nowhere to lay down their roots.

If you slipped out of this room, and out into the cold Snezhnayan winter . . . you would be another nameless person, another corpse frozen to a block of ice. You have not been out amongst the general populace in some time - that is not a duty that befits one of the handmaidens - but what memories you do have, before six, remind you that you would hardly be the first. Indeed, finding some poor soul frozen into the next life is an occurrence that happens to all citizens of Snezhnaya, eventually.

A memory rises unbidden to the forefront of your mind; another child, who looks like you but older, concentration writ clear on their face as they try and unbend fingers from a poor man rimmed with frost with lips of pale blue. An older woman, shouting - a sickening snap--

You squeeze your eyes shut and force the memory away. There is nothing, you remind yourself, before the Tsaritsa’s tender care. If there ever was, it has gone the way of snowstorms and blizzards; there is no use remembering. It has been so long that all of the figures in your memories, too, are perhaps no better than markers in the frozen ground.

If you cannot sleep, you tell yourself forcefully, you are not going to allow yourself to be haunted by nightmares of your own making. You will lie here, in this lovely little room. You will let yourself think of the warmth that seeps into your bones; you will let yourself remember it.

One final night; the first night you can truly remember where you are free.

And as for what tomorrow holds - as for the thought of standing beside Capitano, as to the thought of his home - be it tent or wing of rooms or little shack or anything in between - you will not think on them. You will think of how, if you wished, you could toss and turn and no other handmaidens in the dormitory will hiss anger at you beneath their breath. How you could sing in this room, like a pretty bird, and nobody would shout for you to shut up as they throw their pillows at you.How there will be no ringing bell in the morning, no sidelong glances from your fellows who do not think you deserve to play the role you are given.

There is blissful silence; the luxury of having a bedroom to yourself, of being an individual when you have for so long been an entity made up of so many.

You do fall into sleep, eventually.

You dream of being a beautiful white horse, your hooves leaving distinct prints in the snow, blending alone into the barren landscape of your homeland.

When you awake, there is a dress hanging on the wardrobe opposite the bed.

You do not question it; how they found time for your measurements, who made it, whether it is Capitano’s design. Your training does not fail you; things happen, and you must accept them. The easy freedom of last night is gone, and the weight of what you are to become settles like a mantle around your shoulders.

It is still service, you tell yourself, as you bathe in the little basin in the adjoining room. The soaps and potions that are lined neatly up on shelves are scented like something fresh and clean and floral; the kind of flower that makes you think of rolling hills and ticklish breezes. The handmaidens used toiletries scented with spearmint and frostflower, as the Tsaritsa had chosen - you wonder if these bottles here are the choice of your betrothed, or merely coincidence.

You perform your ablutions and ignore the fact that you are preparing yourself for something you do not fully understand. If you stop to think too hard upon what it is you are primping and preening for, you do not know if you will be able to keep the thread of your calm - as it is, your hands are shaking when you step into the gown left for you.

It is undoubtedly a wedding gown.

It is not cut in the Snezhnayan fashion; there is no trimming of pale blue diamonds, of furs or feathers or warmth. This is the gown of a beloved maiden in a tower; something to be worn whilst dreaming of gardens, all pretty eyelet lace and delicate embroidery. Wearing it, after being so used to the garb of one of Her Majesty’s attendants, feels almost like being naked.

There is nothing for your hair; you leave it unbound. There is no other ornamentation; you suppose, when you think about it, your glimpses of Capitano have never suggested him to be a man of excess. If it were one of the others you were to wed - Pantalone, perhaps - you have no doubt you would be draped in jewels.

If it were Pantalone that you were to be wed to, you think, he would not have been satisfied with a mere ceremony, rushed through the next day. You know from gossip he is a man who thinks he deserves better than the world has given him, that he would never take less than excess. A brief gladness that it is not the Regrator that your Archon has given you to flashes across your mind--

And then you remember Capitano, the size of him, the mystery of what lays behind his mask, and you swallow the lump in your throat.

There is a serving maid at the door, holding a bunch of flowers in her hand - they are delicate things, white petalled and lovely, scattered with pink roses. You breathe in the scent to calm yourself and recognise them as the same scent that lingers on your skin and in your hair - and the serving maid gives you a small, nervous smile.

“They’re Cecilias,” she tells you. “from Mondstadt. The Captain asked for them specifically.”

She says his name in the same way so many of the citizens of Zapolyarny Palace do; with respect, and reverence. There is none of the fear that edges those who whisper of other Harbingers in her voice - you have heard horror in the tones of those who speak of Dottore, the Doctor . . . But Capitano seems to command awe and respect. You want it to be comforting - but you cannot help but wonder if it is merely that those who know his true nature are quieted by his sword.

“Thank you,” you say, for you cannot make your voice shape any other words. Your tongue has grown leaden in your mouth, the moisture gone from it completely, and you know the thing that has sapped your ability to speak is fear. She gives you another smile, and looks at you in your gown.

“You’re beautiful,” she says to you, as if to reassure; perhaps misunderstanding your terror of your bridegroom as the normal nerves of someone about to tie their life to someone else’s in matrimony. The whispers of your dismissal have had time to grow their own stories, after all; few things move faster than gossip in a place like this. “Come. We shouldn’t keep them waiting.”

You’re helpless to do anything but let her lead you. The hem of your gown trails on the floor behind you, but the Palace is spotless; it does not gather dust or dirt. You pass through the halls like a ghost, and you wonder if that is how you look.

As a handmaiden, you had moved with purpose, with the assurance that you were Somebody. As the betrothed of a Harbinger, you move like somebody sentenced to execution, your heart pounding in your throat. The halls seem silent around you. You wonder, if given the chance to do it all again, how you would stop all of this so you would not find yourself in this position, walking to what could very well be your own doom.

“Here,” the serving maid whispers, stopping by a door. You look at it with dumb terror in your heart, but you keep your face an impassive mask as you have been taught to do. You know where you are; you know this chapel to be the Tsaritsa’s most sacred place. You have been given access only a handful of times; the handmaidens who serve your Archon here are far more senior than you. In time, you had hoped you would become one of her most trusted, one who could sit with her in prayer in this private sanctuary--

You suppose that is a dream that will never come to fruition now.

You give her a smile - a trembling thing, but you have been taught how to behave - and as she opens the chapel door for you, you square your soldiers and summon all of the courage you have (what little there is; courage is not a thing that is encouraged amongst the handmaidens, amongst those who must move and act as one), and you place one foot in front of the other as you begin your walk down the aisle.

You tell yourself you will not look at the pews - hewn of glass, the more to resemble the Tsaritsa’s beloved ice - but as you begin a walk that feels as though it lasts forever, you cannot help it. The chapel is still a sanctuary; it is almost empty, in fact, but for a few faces sitting at the very front.

The Tsaritsa herself presides, and you immediately lower your eyes to the ground. You have seen her before, of course - have tended to her when called - but it would not be proper of you to stare. She is still your Archon. Your fingers tremble where they are wrapped around your bouquet.

Capitano stands, as patient and as still as a massive statue, at the altar. He is dressed still in his armour; the only concession he has made to the idea of a wedding is a buttonhole tucked into his chest, of matching roses and Cecilias to your own. You can see that burning bluefire from across the room, and as you walk closer and closer to it you are hit by the urge to laugh at the thought that perhaps you are simply walking into hellfire.

And a few other familiar faces fill the first row; that is Pierro, you know. The Director. He sits ramrod straight, the second-largest man in the room, his cloak serving to highlight the severe lines of his face. There is The Knave, too - in her beautifully-cut suit. There is the smallest smile playing on her lips, as she looks from you to Capitano and back again.

Not all of the Harbingers have come to see this spectacle - you are silently glad of the absence of the Doctor - but there are enough there that you feel sweat prickle down your spine, gathering in the small of your back. You force yourself to swallow and to breathe. This chapel’s aisle has never felt so long before.

But even though it feels as though the aisle will never end, end it does - too soon, too quickly, and you are at the end of your last walk as somebody free and unmarried. You are standing beside Capitano, ready to pledge yourself to him as your Archon has demanded you do.

You wonder if he is smiling beneath the helmet. Your own face, you’re sure, must have the look of a deer staring down a bow and arrow; wide, frightened, terribly aware suddenly of its own mortality. But there is nothing a doe can do when she is a hunter’s quarry, and there is nothing you can do now either.

So you say the words, after they issue forth from the Tsaritsa’s lovely voice and she commands you to repeat them. You listen to Capitano make the same oaths, his voice still a strange echo. You do not hear them, not really - but it does not matter, because they are binding in the eyes of your Archon and it is your Archon who has witnessed them being said.

Your hand is shaking when Capitano takes it to slide the ring upon it. It is plain, too; a silver band, etched all over with some decorative scrollwork and words in a language you do not understand.

You have never seen a marriage. The handmaidens do not do such things - they are chaste, and pure, and when they are done with the service of the Tsaritsa they remain so even when cast back to the powdery snow. But you have read books, and you know that a marriage usually ends with a kiss; a sealing of the pact that two people who love one another have made.

You steel yourself, then, to see below Capitano’s mask. You try not to dwell on possibility; the idea of him being monstrous or disfigured or perhaps even just perfectly ordinary. You try to prepare yourself for the feel of another’s lips upon yours.

But the Tsaritsa never decrees that it is time for Capitano to kiss his spoils.

Indeed, Capitano takes your hand - his own like a massive claw, yours delicate and tender in his grip - and leads you back down the aisle. He does not look at you as he does it; but you have the strangest sensation that he is . . . uncomfortable, with the way that everyone is looking at him. That such pomp and circumstance is perhaps not something he would generally choose.

In fact, when the door closes behind you - when you and he are briefly, briefly, briefly along in the corridor . . . something in him seems to unknot. He lets forth a rattling breath, his shoulders sagging just a touch, that would perhaps be invisible to any other eyes but the eyes of a frightened, lonely little mortwal who has been torn from what they thought was their purpose in life and thrown to the whims of somebody that may yet be a monster.

“Little handmaiden,” he rumbles, from somewhere low in his chest, and you wonder if it is indeed relief that makes his tone seem almost comforting. “The formalities are done with. You are mine, and I am yours.”

He tilts his helmet, and that bluefire burning behind the visor finds your own eyes; almost imperceptibly, perhaps because he sees the terror in your gaze, he seems to soften at the edges.

Hesitantly, he reaches out a gloved hand; just as hesitantly, he cups your face, the metal cool against the softness of your cheeks. He turns your face towards him, with a grip that you expect to be rough and possessive but is as gentle as the first layer of snow upon a shooting leaf.

“Let’s go home,” he says.

Home brings to mind your dormitory; the identical rows of beds, the identically dressed handmaidens, the comfort of routine. Home whispers in the back of your mind of something cooking in the oven, of a rowdy family gathered around a battered old table, of three children older than you and three children younger than you.

You cannot return to either of those places.

So all you can do, then, is smile for the man who could be captor or lover or liberator, but is now, inarguably, your husband.

And let him lead you home.

#genshin impact posting #writing #capitano x reader

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fastboatsmojito · 2 months

Text

GUESS - Chef Luca x reader one-shot - 18+

| AN; non-physically descript reader, no pronouns used but fem aligned. Based almost solely on “Guess” by Charli xcx, it’ll make sense later, I promise. This is essentially my first anything ever so I’m still trying to figure out my writing style 🙏🏼 enjoy. <3

| Wc: 4.2k

| CWs: Smut BTC, SLOW smut like so much teasing I’m SORRY, fingering, cunnilingus, eventual pnv, Good amount of Sub Luca oops <33 No use of y/n, lingerie??? No condom mention SORRY, Blindfolds, Luca almost crying - in a good way ! The L word, Mention of hand restraint, Kissing, Pet name usage probably; baby, bunny (for Luca), love, sweet boy (also for Luca), etc. Some religious metaphors sorry

“Can we try something?”

Your nerves apparent through your wavering voice and ambiguity.

He’s guiding your eyes back to his with the slow strokes of his thumb sitting on your cheek. Looking down at you with the same adoring eyes he always does.

“What’d you have in mind, love?”

You’ve been distracted all day, work beginning and ending in a distant fog. Usually you had no problem indulging in the fast-paced environment, focusing solely on your work and the insistent voice of whoever was running expo for the day.

Today couldn’t have been more different. The work in front of you being drowned out by mental pictures of the man waiting for you at home.

Your mind was full of him. His words. His hands. It was all his fault.

—-

You had woken up that morning to the boyfriend you were still getting used to sleeping next to everyday. It was new but comfortable. You didn’t feel the need to change practically anything about your nightly routine once he moved in.

Luca isn’t a judgmental guy, It’s one of your most adored attributes of his. Which just so happened to include your ‘pajamas’ a term you used rather loosely, draped in a baggy t-shirt and whatever plain comfy underwear called your name that night.

He loved every second of it, and so did you.

You were rushing to get ready as Luca was quietly helping you. His internal clock denying him the pleasure of staying in bed once you were awake. He was grabbing some socks to lay out while you were brushing your teeth, when the question arose.

You leaned your head out of the bathroom door, toothpaste-filled mouth garbling your words. “Sorry?”

“When’d you get this?” Repeated a curious Luca, gleaming at you while gently holding up a forgotten lacy red bra that had been stored at the back of your drawer.

You’d worn it maybe twice, ever. Once trying it on and the other just for yourself, a confidence boosting self-care ritual that had been pushed out of your schedule by work. You couldn’t decide whether to be embarrassed or amused.

“I don’t-“

“Baby, your words.”

Christ. You spat the toothpaste from your mouth before speaking again.

“I don’t remember exactly, it’s been a while.”

He put it back softly, as if it’d shatter if he was too quick. Then walked towards you, leaning in the bathroom doorway.

“I didn’t know you owned something so-“

You finished brushing your teeth and interrupted him.

“Slutty?” You giggled, moving past him to get changed.

“Delicate.”

Delicate? He was driving you insane at six in the morning and he’s barely done anything.

The image of his strong, tattooed hands holding something he’d described himself as ‘delicate’ replaying on a loop in your mind. He moved to sit on the bed next to you as your shoes went on.

“You never asked.”

He laughed softly and took your hand in his as you stood up.

“If you’re nice, maybe I’ll put it on for you tonight.” You smiled and put your arms around his neck.

“Aren’t I always?” He replied, pulling you in to place a soft kiss on your temple.

You caught a glimpse of the clock behind him at that and gave him a quick goodbye kiss before rushing out the door.

———

Once you finally reentered your apartment it was well past 11. Fortunately, it was a Friday night so you weren’t worried about having to wake up early the next morning.

You walked in and almost immediately headed to the shower, just after greeting your peacefully lounging boyfriend. You set up a few things and grabbed one of Luca’s hoodies to throw on after and hopped in.

You came back out to him in the kitchen, heating up what he’d made earlier and put up for you. He sat quietly with you while you ate and waited until you were done to ask about your day.

“‘Was fine, Just been a little distracted.” You replied, slinking down more into your seat while you watched him take your plate to the sink.

“Distracted? By anything in particular?”

He always looked annoyingly sweet with soap on his hands. You got up and leaned against the counter in front of him.

“Just you.”

He dried his hands and placed them on your shoulders, lightly massaging away the tension you held. He leaned down to place a light kiss right under your ear.

“You mind telling me what you were really thinking about, my love, or shall I guess?”

You could melt into him. He always had this effect on you, drawing the desperation out of you like oil in water.

“Can we try something?”

Your nerves apparent through your wavering voice and ambiguity.

He’s guiding your eyes back to his with the slow strokes of his thumb sitting on your cheek. Looking down at you with the same adoring eyes he always does.

“What’d you have in mind, love?”

“I’ve just been thinking a lot about this morning and.. I have a few different colored sets like that-“

His warm hands were slowly moving to the hem of the hoodie you adorned, distracting you just as the thought of them alone had done all day.

He stopped, smirking at how easily you leaned into his touch. “Go on.”

“and- well I was just thinking that maybe I could try them on and let you guess the color.” You said, eyes focusing on the broad shoulders you rested your hands on instead of his own.

“Guess the color? Won’t I be-“ You giggled and shook your head, interrupting him.

“That’s the fun part- I want to blindfold you. If you’re into it, anyway.” You said, finally looking up to meet his eyes. A blend of surprise and curiosity painted on his face.

He moved his hands back to your face, holding your head so he could look at you.

“Jesus darling, I’d let you do anything if you keep looking at me like that.”

You grinned at him, “‘s that a yes?”

He moved closer to you, leaning his forehead against your own. So close you were almost kissing. Almost.

“Yes.”

You barely stopped yourself from jumping him, closing the gap to kiss him, raising bumps on your skin as his hands moved to your jaw to kiss you deeper.

You pulled away to take one of his hands and guide him to your bedroom. You lightly pushed him onto the bed and went to the closet to grab one of his ties.

You walked back to the bed, “Get comfortable, you might be here a while.” You punctuated with a kiss to his nose.

“Oh yeah? You tying my hands up too?”

You climbed up to straddle his waist, tie-yielding hands sitting on his chest.

“‘m not that mean.” You paused and thought about it for a second. “Only if I have to.”

His hands are on your hips, waiting for some direction. Your hands are occupied right above the hem of his shirt.

“Can I take this off?”

He’s nodding his head and you’re lifting up for just a moment to pull it over his head and toss it just next to the laundry basket. Close enough.

You didn’t realize you were staring and not saying anything until he spoke again.

“Liking the view, gorgeous?”

You laughed softly at him and rolled your eyes.

You dragged your hands up and down his chest and shoulders, leaning down to leave light kisses everywhere they went. Slowly drawing dreamy sighs and deep breaths out of him.

You stopped when his grip on your waist was getting tighter, you didn’t plan on teasing him forever but you couldn’t help it. He’s always so patient for you.

You could look at him like this forever. He opened his eyes when he noticed you stopped touching him.

You cupped his face in one hand while the other rested on his waist and leaned down to whisper in his ear.

“You look so pretty under me like this, sweet boy.”

He groaned and you could tell by the light red brushed over his cheeks and the rather obvious erection under you that he was losing patience quickly.

He said your name like he was asking for something.

“Please, please.”

The hottest man you’d ever seen was under you begging.

You lightly scratched the hair behind his ear and gave him a teasing pout.

“What ‘s it baby, what do you want?”

“You. Please, love, just- just do something or let me touch you.”

Every ounce of admiration and lust in your body prevalent in your eyes and the barely-there movements of your hips against his own.

You grinned down at him and grabbed the tie you left sitting beside him.

“Ready for me to put this on you then?”

He eagerly nodded and you gave him a few kisses before lifting him up a bit and tying it over his eyes. You grabbed one of his hands and gave it a kiss before speaking again.

“Okay baby, I’m gonna explain the rules and change and then we’ll get started. If you want me to stop and take the blindfold off, just let me know. You got it?”

He smiled and nodded his head.

“I need to hear you say it, bunny.”

He stuttered a little at the nickname.

“I- I got it.”

Your hands were lightly tracing over his chest.

“Good. I’m going to put on one of three sets; black, red, or blue. And then I’ll come back over and you can feel the different materials and try to guess which color it is. If you get it wrong, I’ll go change again. When you get it right I’ll take the blindfold off. Sound good?”

“And if I take too long?”

You bit your lip and hummed while you thought for a moment.

“Then I’ll tie your hands up and you’ll have to guess with your tongue.”

His grip on your waist tightened once again.

“‘s that all alright with you?”

“Sounds perfect, love.”

You grinned down at him even though he couldn’t see it. You couldn’t be happier to be with someone so open and communicative.

“I’ll be right back.”

You gave the top of his head a quick kiss before getting up to change, grabbing one of the sets you set aside before your shower.

You decided to go with the blue set. The low lighting making specs of glitter dancing over your figure shimmer. If only Luca could see you now.

You walked back to him, tracing over his arm so you didn’t alarm him before climbing back into his lap.

“Can I touch you now?”

“Go ahead, baby. So sweet.”

You guided his hands to your hips. He took his time, light strokes feeling the soft material that hugged your body like it was made just for you.

He could cry. You smelled so good and it was even stronger now that one of his other senses was out of the way. Not to mention how soft your skin felt. He had to keep reminding himself to focus on trying to guess while getting caught up in the cathedral that was your body.

He moved his hands up over your chest, focusing on rubbing your nipples through the fabric. Then back down again, thumbs right at the hem of your already soaked, blue panties.

You let out a soft sigh at that and let his hands move for just a bit longer before you guided them back to your own, interlocking your fingers.

“Time to guess, Luc’.”

He whined like he was the one being tormented.

“Already? But you sound so pretty.”

You giggled at his praise.

“If you want to keep touching me I need you to guess.”

“Okay okay, I think it’s.. black?”

You smile down at him again, empathy found not in your words but your tone.

“Nope!” You gave him a kiss, letting his tongue slip over yours for just a second before pulling away.

“Changing again. Be right back.”

He hummed and you went to grab the second set, going with the silky black set this time. It was soft but thin, you can’t remember ever having worn it.

The glimpse you caught of yourself in the mirror told you to wear it more often.

You walked up to him, tracing one hand over his toned muscles as you climbed up.

He didn’t bother asking this time, too caught up in the warmth above him. He started at your shoulders, tracing down the silky straps and over your chest. He can’t remember a time he was ever so hard and needy for anyone.

His light, slow, focused movements driving you insane while your noises were doing the same to him.

You got caught up in all of it, the way his hands were moving back to grab your ass, how needy he looked, how you were sure he could feel the wet spot you were leaving right on his lap, all of it. You moved one of your hands up his chest over his neck, thumb lightly grazing over his Adam’s apple.

He was grabbing your hips and leaning up to place kisses on your neck when you stopped him.

“Alright, handsy, time to guess.”

He smirked. He could hear your heartbeat from here, quick pulses from his paused touch. He knew you were losing patience right with him.

“I think this one’s.. blue?”

You groaned. There was only one color left now, thank god. If he didn’t get this one you didn’t know if you’d make it.

“Wrong again, bunny.”

You left him with no kiss this time, trying to keep some semblance of self-control.

You grabbed the last and final set; lacy and red. Your personal favorite and the one that started the fire that’d been burning inside of you all day. The memory of his fingers draped over the soft lace replaying in your mind once again.

You walked back up to him, kissing up his stomach and chest before settling down.

“Okay baby, last set.”

He wasted no time, strong hands moving all over you. He was smirking as he felt the lace, he knew what this was. He didn’t want to stop just yet though, one hand moving up to your waist while the other was moving closer and closer to the wet spot he was teasing out of you.

You were letting out the sweetest sounds he’d ever heard, his fingers dancing just above your clothed clit when you stopped him.

“Luca, baby, I need you to get it right this time,” You leaned down to whisper right in his ear, “guess.”

He was grinning at your eagerness, composure you were keeping earlier now nowhere to be found.

“Red.”

God. You threaded a hand through his hair and brought him up to kiss you, tongues dancing together messily while your hands urgently moved to take the blindfold off of him.

He cupped your face with both of his hands, taking you away from him so he could finally look at you.

“Fuck me, you look beautiful.” His eyes were moving up and down your body and back to your warming face.

You were the one begging now. “Please, Luca, just touch me.”

He kisses you again, pushing a few strands of hair out of your face. “Whatever you want, gorgeous.”

He was moving his kisses down, kissing over your face, right under your ear, your neck, to your collarbones. One hand leaving your head to trail down to your waist, thumb stroking over the fabric on your hip bone.

You were a mess. Slowly grinding over his thigh, after thinking about this practically all day you could cum just like this.

You were leaving open-mouthed kisses over his neck and shoulders when his hand finally moved where you needed it, leaving soft circles on your clothed clit, tracing his fingers up and down over the wet spot.

You were letting out soft moans now, so close to getting what you need.

You moved your hands lower, grasping at his aching dick through his sweats. Fingers tracing at the waistband,

“Can I take these off?”

“Of course.”

You got up for just a second so he could pull them down and off, throwing them to join his earlier discarded shirt.

You sat back over him, gasping as you felt him through his boxers, only thin layers of fabric separating you.

He knew what you wanted and he needed it just as bad, but after only being able to touch you for so long he wanted to taste you more than anything.

He stopped your movements, grabbing your hips and moving you to lay down on the bed so he could be on top of you.

Mouth open, chest quickly rising up and down with your rushed breaths, he couldn’t believe the sight in front of him.

“My god, you’re perfect.”

“Will you please stop staring at me and do something.”

“I’ll take care of you darling, don’t worry.”

He muttered between kisses, hands cupping your breasts, one of your hands moving back to undo the clasps for him, red lace falling away from you to be discarded next.

“Never get tired of seeing you like this.”

He said, mouth moving down to leave little marks that you’d be seeing in the morning all over your chest. Licking down and over your nipples, large, warm hands following right behind each of his movements.

He kissed down your stomach, stopping every now and then wherever he felt he should leave a mark.

He got to the waistband of your lacy red underwear, hands moving back to grab handfuls of your ass while he kissed over your hips and thighs, smirking into your skin when your breathing got heavier as he got closer to where you wanted him.

He kissed once more on your inner thigh before spreading your legs so he was on his knees between them, one of yours on each side of him. His hands moved back to your waistband, thumbs dipping down into the sides.

He pulled you closer to him and left light kisses over your clothed core, groaning at how wet you are.

“This all for me, baby?” He asked, kissing you again, letting his nose catch over your clit.

You whined at his slow pace.

“Guess.”

He let his tongue peek out for a moment to tease a few moans out of you. Then, he pulled your drenched underwear off of you, another piece added to the pile.

He figured you’d both had enough teasing for tonight, quickly laying down and putting your legs over his shoulders to devour you.

He was moaning into you, tongue lapping at you. One of his hands moving up your thigh to draw slow circles on your clit while the other was guiding your hips to grind further into him.

You couldn’t care less about the sounds you were making but you were sure they were there from the muffled praise between your legs.

“Sound so pretty, love. I got you, just keep making those sweet noises for me.”

God was he good with his mouth. One of your hands was holding his while the other was in his hair, lightly pulling when you wanted a moan out of the man ravishing you.

He moved his tongue up to kiss and lick at your clit while his fingers moved to collect the wetness seeping out of you. You moaned out when he suddenly sunk one of his fingers inside of you, curling it upward, slowly moving it in and out as your eyes closed. You let out a deep sigh you’d been holding since this morning as he worked you up to a second one.

“Shit, Luca- so good, so good for me, bunny. Just like that.”

He was moaning into you and grinding his hips into the bed to try and relieve himself. He could definitely cum like this. Just hearing you praise him like that drove him crazy. He’d pray to you if you asked him to.

His thick fingers were speeding up their strokes, tongue lightly sucking your clit into his mouth, making you gasp. The loud sounds of the slick that was dripping onto the bed warming your face.

“Luca, I’m so close baby, don’t stop.”

He let go of your hand to pull you further into him, your warm thighs surrounding his head.

“Cum for me. Please, make a mess all over my fingers.”

You could barely hear him, so focused on how he felt but the vibrations from his pleading into you along with his warm tongue and the fingers repeatedly hitting that spot inside of you was enough to send you over the edge.

“That’s it, darling, I’ve got you. So perfect for me.”

“The most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”

“Sweetest pussy in the world.”

He worked you through it, slowing down his fingers and taking them out once you were grabbing his wrist, leaving you with a quick soft kiss to your clit before moving back up to his knees.

You let out a breath and opened your eyes to him on his knees in front of you, staring at his drenched fingers. He was just as much a mess as you were if not more, boxers barely containing his hard length, flushed cheeks, still wet nose and mouth.

You couldn’t believe you got to see him like this. Big, strong man being used like a toy and he loved it, begged for it.

You blinked yourself out of your head as he put the fingers that just drew an all-day lingering orgasm out of you and into his mouth.

Jesus Christ.

“Fuck, Luca, come here.”

He sucked his fingers clean and moved towards you, you pulled him in for a kiss as you palmed him through his boxers. He was moaning into your mouth, pleading again

“Please, I need you.”

You kept kissing him, mouths sloppily moving together as you pulled his boxers down, the final piece to the pile. He was trying to kiss you back and failing, breathing and moaning into your mouth instead.

“You want me, bunny?”

“God. Please, please, need it.”

You moved your face into his neck, leaving soft kisses and nibbles there as you finally guided him to your entrance. Grinding against him for a moment to get him nice and lubricated for you.

You moaned into his neck, pushing his head further into your own as you slowly sank down on him. He was big, but you were so worked up from all the teasing and your first orgasm that it was easier to take him.

One of his hands was rubbing at your waist, waiting you for to get comfortable before he started moving while the other was cupping your face, bringing you back to press your foreheads against each other.

Tears were threatening to spill from his eyes, too needy to notice, but you did. You waited to move, moving a hand to his face.

“Are you okay, baby, do you want to stop?”

He shook his head quickly and blinked them away,

“No, no I’m okay I just- I love you. ”

You stroked his cheeks with your hands and kissed his nose, then his forehead, and his nose again. He was always so sweet like this, you felt like your heart could burst.

“I love you too.” Another kiss. “So much.”

He leaned down to rest his forehead on your shoulder, slowly starting to move his hips. When you moved your hips with his he started to speed up, whispering praises and promises into your skin, saying your name like a prayer only you could hear.

He knew he’d finish quick after that, moving the hand not supporting himself down to rub soft circles on your still-aching clit.

“Come on baby, cum for me one more time. I’m so close, I want to feel you cum around my dick this time. You got it.”

He whimpered as you clenched down around him, whispering repeated praises into his ear.

“So good for me, so good. Want you to cum for me, bunny.”

“Such a sweet boy.”

He pulled out to cum on your stomach, your warm hand and praises urging him.

He leaned over to the nightstand for some tissues to wipe you off before he laid down on top of you, his face on your chest while you played with his hair.

You gave him a moment, sitting in content silence together before tending to anything else.

“You okay, baby?” You asked, a finger softly tracing over the freckles adorning his nose.

“Im perfect, love.” He kissed your side before moving up to smother your face in them.

He gave one last kiss to your head before getting up to grab a warm towel to clean you off and some glasses of water.

After you were cleaned up and hydrated you grabbed one of Lucas shirts and got up to go to the bathroom. Assessing the marks you’d be seeing for a few days in the mirror as Luca was starting your shower.

“Jesus, look at you.” He said, walking up behind you and placing a kiss on your shoulder.

“All you, baby.”

“Baby? What happened to bunny?” He said, softly laughing and making sure the water temp was just right.

You giggled at that.

“You really like that, don’t you?”

He walked back over to you, moving your hair out of the way to kiss at the marks he left on your neck.

“Guess.” He muttered into your skin, picking you up to get in the shower.

#luca the bear #the bear #chef luca #chef luca x reader #the bear x reader #will poulter #brat summer #hot chef summer ??#the Bear fans pls be my friends #GUESS if this made me insane or not #sweet man with hand tats save me #chef luca smut #calling a huge man bunny #the religious metaphors just happened idk #sub luca !!!!#bunny bunny bunny #GUESS GUESS GUESS #smut #🌑 one-shots

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strawberrystepmom · 5 months

Text

pairing: Suguru Geto x F!Reader

word count: 9.7k

contents: Canon compliant up to the events of JJK0, cult leader!Suguru, naive reader, slight age difference between reader and Geto (5 years), reader can see curses/has cursed energy but it is kept intentionally vague

cw: dark content | emotional manipulation, dubious consent, voyeurism, oral sex (m!receiving), spit, violence, descriptions of anxiety, mentions of religion and religious imagery, mind fuck-y

notes: so this is a remaster/full repost of unkindness that was on my old blog! i only got up to like the third segment in that post so i figured why not do it all at once. thank you for reading if you do and i hope that you enjoy my little story! ♡ | crossposted to ao3

When you were eight years old, sitting in your mother’s lap as she combed through your wet hair, you remember telling her about a recurring dream you had been having for weeks. You were nervous to tell her, your little hands balled into fists as they rested against your nightgown clad thighs.

“A raven,” you recount to her as she nods and gently uses the bristles of the comb to detangle a knot. “Bigger than any bird I’ve ever seen is in this dream every night, flying around over my head.” Your mother sighs and reassuringly pats your head. You hear the spritz of a spray bottle from behind you, a synthetic green apple scent filling your nostrils.

Telling her filled your stomach with anxiety, an issue you didn’t know you had at the time. You figured the world was just scary back then. You wish you could go back and tell yourself how right you were. About how scary the world is, anyway. To tell yourself about how everything will eventually end up likely wouldn’t change the outcome but at least you could say a few things.

“The raven comes to the ground eventually. He doesn’t fly over your head forever, instead he glides by your side.”

“The visions you’ve seen are real, you aren’t crazy.”

The most unbelievable thing of all?

“You end up in love and you end up losing yourself along the way.”

Back then though, you only had your mom and her words to illuminate the darkness you felt lurked around every corner.

“Have you ever heard of omens?”

Shaking your head, you turn to look at your mom who is tapping the edge of the comb against the heel of her hand. She’s chewing the inside of her cheek and you can tell she’s deciding what to say next to comfort you. Your mom has never been good at this kind of thing, a woman who never envisioned she would have a child with so much angst and fear.

“Sometimes we receive signs that something is going to happen in our lives even if we don’t understand them,” she starts. You hear her mouth open, as if she wants to add something additional, but you hear it snap shut as if she thought better of it. You nod once, signaling your understanding and she gets back to work at the stubborn tangle at the base of your skull without another word shared between the two of you.

You hate that this is the most vivid memory from your childhood.

You hate that you still have the dream.

You wake with a gasp, looking around and blinking as warm morning light filters through the window. Feeling around the bed, you wonder if Suguru is already up and moving for the day as your hands touch the duvet where he should be. It’s cold, as if nobody was there in the first place. Knowing that may have been the case anyway, you sigh and rub your hands over your face.

“Suguru?”

His name leaves your lips in a tentative manner and you look around the room to make sure he isn’t looking at the early morning sun or standing there watching you sleep. No matter how much of your life you spend with him, you’ll never get used to the feeling of those black diamond eyes following you everywhere you go. But finally, you are seen.

Four years spent with him and no one sees you like he does.

You were 18 years old, a few months from graduating high school, when Suguru approached you. The sight of a stranger raised your hackles, scared of the world at large at that point in your life, and you were concerned trouble was coming for you. All of the omens in your dreams would finally come true at the hands of this beautiful man, rising to his full height which is nearly towering over you. His hair was shorter then than it is now, just past his shoulders and tied in a neat half bun off of his face.

He looked like less of a god now than he did then but you knew it. The omnipresent feeling of him sticks in your bones. It’s the confidence that makes you stand with your back straight, that guides you through the worst of the days where he’s nowhere to be found.

Unable to find him, you shuffle back to the futon and lay down amongst blankets that smell like him. You’ve never been able to place the scent but you know it’s his. Wrapping yourself in the duvet, you let your mind wander back to all of those years ago.

“I know this seems sudden but I wanted to ask you about your gift.”

Mention of your gift, not that you’d ever call it that, makes you freeze. He notices your expression, wide eyed and haunted, and he fights the urge to smile at you. Just as he and everyone else suspected, you have no idea what you’re capable of. It would be a failing worthy of death to let Gojo find you first. Suguru couldn’t risk the bird dog finding his canary and dropping her off, bloodied and broken, on the doorstep of the Sorcerer community.

He wouldn’t allow it.

“M..my gift?” You repeat with uncertainty and he nods, bun bobbing against the back of his head as he does so. The situation is withering, a handsome stranger asking you about a secret you’ve kept hidden for your whole life while the sun beats down and makes you sweat. You wonder if you’re about to be killed.

“You are an exceptional young woman, do you know that?”

The background noise of the world fades out, the sound of the spring birds chirping disappearing as you blink once, twice, and you notice those dark eyes fixated on you. You blanch and avert your eyes. Were you even allowed to look at him? Dressed in such nice clothing with such a regal demeanor? Shaking your head, you play off the awkwardness with a humorless chuckle.

“You must be looking for someone else, sir.” Bowing your head as a sign of respect, you turn to walk away. “I’m sorry for wasting your time.”

Before you can turn on your heel to walk away, you feel a large palm rest on your shoulder. You take note of the weight of it, the feel against your bones, and you wonder why this is happening to you? You are so afraid but you can’t run, you don’t have the guts for it. What do you do now?

Nothing. You do nothing, just as you’ve done your entire life. You let this strange man grab you, hold you, speak to you. Humiliation rises like bile in your throat and you turn to face him, astounded again by his beauty. The sunlight catches his dark eyelashes, warmth emanating from him. How can you walk away? You won’t walk away.

“I don’t want this to be more strange than it already is,” he starts, voice deep and dreamy. You could get lost in the baritone and the way it wraps around you but you choose instead to focus on his words to try and understand what he wants from you. “But I know you have something nobody else has. Abilities.”

He’s correct but you wonder how he could possibly know about your struggles. You have kept them to yourself for years even to the detriment of your own well being. Your mother and father both assume you’re deranged and there are times where you’ve wholeheartedly agreed with them since you began seeing the things that haunt you at every turn when you were 5.

“How do you know about that?”

The man shakes his head and holds his free hand ahead of him. “Why don’t you walk with me and we can talk some more?”

How can you say no with his hand on your shoulder? Turning on your heel to face him, you keep quiet and wait for further instructions. Your naturally submissive tendencies are serving you well in this situation and Geto doesn't hide his smug smile. You are perfect and he knew it.

As the two of you begin to pick up pace walking side by side, you anxiously keep your eyes glued to the ground. Being able to visualize each of your steps is keeping you calm and if you look down, there's less of a chance you'll see whatever is out there to scare you.

"Look at me."

He doesn't ask, he commands, and you listen. For the first time, you notice something perching on his shoulder. It's formless for the most part and less terrifying than what you usually see attached to others as they pass by you but you're intrigued nonetheless.

"Do you know about that....thing?" Pointing to his shoulder, he nods at you and you breathe a sigh of relief. "You see them also?"

A chuckle is his response and you ponder what it means while you wait for him to clear up your confusion. "I don't just see them, I control them."

The figure disappears quickly and you gasp, searching around your own feet and your shoulders to make sure he didn't order it in your direction to harm you.

"How?"

Despite your trepidation, Suguru can see the way that your eyes sparkle at the thought of someone being like you. He knows how it felt for him, too.

"I can show you and so can my friends." He watches your nose scrunch in confusion at his words and he laughs, amused. The sound is musical and uplifting and you feel yourself lightening up for the first time maybe in your entire life. Knowing you aren't alone has shifted your perspective more than you realized it would.

"There are more of you?"

"A couple dozen, yeah."

Nodding, you think for a moment. What if he can actually help you? What if these people are actually like you? What if you can find a place that suits you for the first time in 18 whole years?

"How can you help me?"

The man turns to you, knowing smirk in place across his mouth. “I can show you better than I can tell you.”

You hate her.

Never in your life has such a bitter feeling gathered in the pit of your stomach. Your face flames every time Manami walks by, you can feel it and you know she can see it. Tonight, you are more glad than ever to be on kitchen duty even if it means having to listen to her cackle from the other side of the wall.

“Geto-sama!”

She sing-songs across the tatami with a giggle as Suguru traipses by en-route to have dinner with the group, seating himself at the head of the table as everyone else files in around it. You fight the urge to roll your eyes from where you’re standing next to Mimiko and Nanako, pouring hojicha into tea cups.

“Geto-sama,” you mock under your breath and Nanako giggles, dishing rice into bowls at your side. The two of you giggle together, a secret shared, as she begins to bring the dishes to the table for service. Sorting your tea cups, you count how many more servings you need as you look around the doorframe to see who is waiting.

Your relationship with Geto’s most trusted inner circle has expanded greatly since you first arrived months ago.

They knew better than to be outwardly distrustful of you. Aside from the twins, every one of them had set out to find Suguru and his group on their own. He found you. He brought you. He touted your abilities long before you arrived.

“She’s the perfect blank slate,” he gushed over dinner one night as the other members of the group listened enraptured. “We got to her just in time, too. My source says that Gojo was planning on paying her a visit.”

Your arrival was underwhelming. Greeted at the end of the footpath that leads to the front door by Miguel, Larue, Mimiko, and Nanako while Manami glowered from the porch with folded arms, you weren’t immediately made to feel welcome by anyone except for Suguru who continued to guide you along the property with your arm looped in his. She was scoping you out, taking an assessment. She believed you to be no threat. She believed wrong.

Tinkering with the last cup on the counter, you take one look into the dining room again and the realization that your usual spot is full makes you chuckle humorlessly. Not that you’re surprised, Manami has done all but piss all over Geto to mark her territory but the sight makes a bitter, sour feeling turn in your guts just the same. Your nose scrunches as if you’ve smelled something bad and you don’t immediately hear when someone else enters the kitchen to pick up the tea cups you are still filling.

“About ready?”

The voice you recognize as belonging to Mimiko calms you and you respond with a nod, wrapping your hand around the warmest cup as you take a breath and plaster a smile on. This one goes to the man himself and you feel eyes upon you as you offer it to him with a bow. His hand lingers on top of yours for a moment and you’re glad your face is pointed toward the ground, your flustered look hidden as long as you don’t make eye contact.

“We’re just waiting on you,” he chides lightly, always a stickler for timeliness. You lift your head to his view enough to offer an apologetic half smile. He pats the side of your face with his tea-warmed hand and your smile grows. Your eyes meet his rich, umber colored pair and you feel at peace. “Manami will be out of your spot by the time you get back.”

A small “oooooooh” breaks out around the table but the tension is quickly killed with a sharp look from Suguru. Everyone quietly begins shuffling their utensils and you don’t stick around to watch Manami’s rejection, scurrying back to the kitchen to gather your own rice and tea.

“I want to share a few moments after dinner, if you’d all like to stick around.”

Suguru’s words inspire nods and happy, affirmative hums and you catch the tail end of them as you settle next to him at the table. Your opposition glares icily from the other end of the table, the same look she kept plastered on her face the day you arrived, and you meet her eyes long enough to offer a sweet smile before bowing your head in thanks for the meal you were about to share.

“I’d especially like for you to stay,” he looks across the table at Manami who nods once before turning back to her plate. Her lips are pursed and her eyebrows are knit together in irritation but smugness glimmers in her eyes. “You too,” he says and you turn your head to see him glancing down at you. Fondness crinkles the corners of his eyes slightly and you shrink into yourself with a nod and a shy smile. “Of course.”

The rest of dinner goes as you’ve come to expect. The twins giggle and joke with every other member of the group and you all sit beneath the watchful eyes of your leader who sips at his own tea with a barely visible over the edge of his cup smirk but you can see it from where you sit. You can see the corners of his mouth upturned just enough it makes your heart flutter in your chest.

He looks down at you and thinks about how vulnerable you look. How little you hide, your emotions and yourself alike. Were you like this before he met you or is this his influence? He takes credit. He knows the way you flash fake nice shit eating grins in Manami’s direction is for his sake. His sweet little bird isn’t afraid to fight and he hoped that would be the case.

“Since we’re all here, I wanted to discuss a few things,” Geto clears his throat and sets his cup on the table in front of him. He basks as he feels every eye in the room turn toward him but none make him feel more intoxicated than yours. When he casts you a glance, you smile shyly. He wonders if you’ll do that forever, look at him as if he’s a savior on a big white horse. He hopes so.

“I want to make some changes in what we’ll all be doing around here,” his voice rings proud and clearly and you fight the urge to prop your head up with your hand girlishly to get a better look at him. A few people shift in their seated positions but you don’t glance around to find out who, gaze fixed upon the person you want to witness the most.

“Manami, your duties are changing.” Replacing the sound of shifting clothing is small gasping and murmuring. Manami has been Geto’s assistant for close to two years, a coveted spot amongst anyone in the group. “You will still be my personal assistant but only for off compound events and daytime hours.”

Grateful for your own refusal to look at the rest of the table, you can tune out the uncomfortable chatting. “I know this may be surprising but we have many things ahead of us we need to prepare for,” he starts and the noise quiets. “Manami is one of the brightest among us and she will excel no matter what she’s doing.”

Hearing him praise someone else makes your back stiffen, the urge to pick at the seam of your t-shirt making your fingers twist in the fabric idly. You’re grateful your grip is beneath the table, hidden from view. No one will suspect how you feel as long as you’re careful but you gasp as you feel two large, soft hands untangle your fingers from your shirt and squeeze them between their palms. Looking up you’re greeted by the handsome, vulpine smile of Geto and you feel another gentle squeeze of your hands.

You take a deep breath and ground yourself, focusing on his words as he opens his mouth.

“You will be my new on-premises and evenings assistant.” Despite your shock and the look on your face that shows it clear as day, you nod. “I would love to,” you clarify and he squeezes your hands once more as he rises and drops your clammy fingers back into your lap.

Standing at his full height, Geto smiles as he looks over the faces of everyone sitting around him. Even Manami is working to hide her pout, looking toward the ground but keeping a smile plastered on her face. You sit with your legs tucked beneath you, a shred of hope illuminating parts of you that you once saw as dark and empty.

You get to spend most of your day with Geto, most of your evenings too. Perhaps in that time he will finally have the opportunity to tell you about your gift. In 6 months you’ve learned as much as you knew the day you arrived but that may be soon to change. Giddiness makes you smile slightly, your face beaming as you keep it looking up.

Suguru extends his hand in your direction and your smile grows wider. Gingerly placing your palm in his, he helps you rise as he places his hands on either side of your face. You strain your neck glancing up at him, you’re only chest level or so to his massive form and you can feel him using his grip on your cheeks to lower your head. Once you’re gazing at the floor his lips graze your forehead and you gasp, fire erupting through your limbs.

“I’m going to teach you so much,” he coos as he uses his grip to turn your face back toward him. His eyes drink in the sight of you - the tip of your nose, the shape of your lips, and he smirks so quickly you swear you only imagined it. His thumbs graze your cheeks before he drops his grip and looks over your head at everyone else. That tall, dark shadow rests directly over you, though.

“You’re all dismissed, thank you for a lovely evening.”

Everyone stands and you stay facing Geto until all of the footsteps have filed out, waiting for his permission to leave next. You flinch slightly when his hands grip your face again, a natural reflex to the surprise of his touch, and he gazes at you silently for so long you stop keeping time. It could have been seconds, it could have been days - you will never know but you will accept it nevertheless.

“Come see me tomorrow morning,” he whispers and you nod. You can see his eyes flit from your eyes to your mouth and you wonder what he’s thinking. He dips his head slightly and you can feel his lips brush gently against yours, a kiss almost too small to be qualified as one. You shiver, his thumbs digging into the plump flesh of your cheeks.

“Yes sir.”

“Say that again,” he mutters against your lips. The vibrations of his words are directly on your skin and the heat that erupted in your limbs before has become a full blown fire, your face hot and your palms sticking together. “Yes sir.”

He presses another kiss to your forehead and releases his grip, straightening his back out as he walks toward the door and offers you a bow of his head. “Get some rest.”

You make certain he’s gone before you touch your fingers to your lips, your eyes fluttering shut as you commit the feel of his soft mouth on yours to memory. You won’t be sleeping tonight.

“Geto-sama?”

The sound of your meek voice alerts Suguru to your presence and he looks up from his usual place by the open sliding door between his room and the porch attached to it, a light breeze blowing his hair off of his shoulder. He looks ethereal and resembles a hero from a book you obsessively read as a child. Rescuing a sweet young woman from a life marred by sadness, the hero hauls her off to a place where she can be happy.

The irony isn’t lost on you.

“I’m so sorry to interrupt,” you start, clasping your hands together in front of you and he rises to standing, elegance exuding from him even in the most mundane of situations. He approaches you and gently rubs the back of your head and you fight the urge to lean into the touch. No amount of him feels like enough.

“You didn’t interrupt anything,” he responds with a serene smile, one you’ve noticed is just for you. He doesn’t smile at anyone else like that, not even Manami, and smugness rises in you for a split second before he speaks again. “What can I do for you?”

Clearing your throat, you look toward the ground and keep your hands linked. Geto recognizes the posture, something you do frequently when you want to speak, and he waits with his own hands joined inside of the sleeves of his yukata robes. He loves how naturally you submit to him, how you won’t even meet his eyes.

“Why am I here?”

If he’s surprised by your question, he doesn’t show it, but he does take a few strides to your side to place a comforting arm around your shoulder. Against your better judgment, you lean against him. Sides pressed together, you’re surprised when you feel the most minuscule squeeze of reassurance. Your heart threatens to burst as he leads you to where he was sitting and invites you to sit across from him, the two of you looking out at the sun setting on the horizon.

“Before I answer,” he adjusts his sitting position and turns to face you. The golden hour warmth hits his face and you swear, not for the first time, you are glancing at a deity. Something, someone, greater than yourself. You shouldn’t be this close to him and you start to spiral but his voice brings you out of your own mind and into reality, your gaze shifting from the ground to him. “Will you tell me why you’re asking?”

Twisting your fingers together and sitting your hands in your lap, you sigh.

You’re uncertain of how much time has passed since you left your old life behind to join him and while you do finally feel at peace with yourself, the natural pull you feel toward the man who brought you here in the first place hasn’t dissipated in the way you expected it to. It feels like an unfulfilled hunger, a need more than a simple want at this point, but how can you begin to tell him that?

“I’m afraid that if I tell you, you’ll see me differently.”

Your words finally get a rise from Suguru and he quirks one of his dark brows. The crack in his cool headed exterior makes you giddy - is that because of you? You’re dumbfounded when his posture changes and he scoots closer to you, your knees nearly touching his. Should you pick yours up and press them against your chest? To quell your own anxiety, you decide to follow his lead. You will only move if he does.

“Nothing you say will change my opinion of you.” He reaches out and touches your knuckles with the tips of his fingers and you feel heat rise through every inch of your body. The touch makes you feel emotional and you break the intense eye contact between the two of you to stare at the ground, hoping it will hide the tears that are threatening to spill down your lash line. “I brought you here.”

Nodding, you lift your still joined fists together and wipe your eyes and down your cheek with the back of one of your hands. Although you are still looking down, you can see Geto moving from your periphery and you wonder what he’s going to do next.

Concerned your display is upsetting him, you sit still and try to regulate your breathing to keep from sobbing but errant tears still flow. You feel Suguru’s finger before you realize what’s happening and you flinch slightly beneath his touch as he wipes the wet tracks off of your skin. He wipes his finger along the fabric of your yukata robe before wrapping both of your fists in one of his much larger hands.

“Please be honest with me.”

Thinking back to what prompted this need for confirmation of what you mean to him, you dig your nails into your palm until you’re certain marks will be left. Manami, someone who spends almost as much time around Geto as you do, comes into your mind and you gnaw on your lower lip as you think about the jealousy churning in your gut. Why does she get to be there to help him make decisions? Why does she get to watch while he’s in meetings? Why did you see her leaving his room last week, hours before dawn?

Knowing it should be you is the emboldening thought you need to open your mouth.

“Do I mean anything to you?”

Feeling him squeeze your fists, the palm of his hand warm and comforting, you release the breath you’ve been holding. For better or worse, you’re about to find out and although your mind is racing, willing yourself to be calm comes easy in his presence. As if you needed further confirmation of everything he has done for you at a moment when you’re demanding something you feel unreasonable for wanting.

“You mean everything to me, you’re our future.”

His confirmation makes you weep. Tears flow freely, dripping down your cheeks and they hit the knuckle of Suguru’s thumb. You should feel guilty, you think, for putting him in a position to have to answer to you but cannot bring yourself to do it. You shouldn’t have had to wait more than a year to know but forgiveness is easy when it comes to him. If anyone should be sorry it’s you for questioning him in the first place and so you begin to ask for forgiveness.

“I’m so sorry for asking, Geto-sama.”

You feel him pulling you into his lap, his strong hands wrapping around your hips and the blood rushes into your face. Perching with uncertainty, your bottom rests against his thigh and it feels natural. All of the yearning couldn’t have prepared you for this feeling and you sigh as he brings one of his large hands to cup the back of your neck, his voice so close to your ear it makes goosebumps erupt across your skin.

“Call me Suguru from now on,” he whispers, a secret for your ears only. You feel his lips press against the space where your jaw and neck meet, another secret for the two of you to keep. Everyone on the compound would view you differently if they knew this was happening but you don’t care. You can’t care, not when he’s running his palms up your waist and unfastening your robe.

The opened door with a view of the outside doesn’t concern you as Suguru’s deft fingers work at the knot keeping you decent, the same breeze that rustles his hair that has always reminded you of feathers blowing across your bare chest as the robe is worked down around your waist. Your nipple stiffens and Geto reaches to pinch it between his thumb and index finger, making you yelp.

“How long have you wanted this, my little bird?” He wonders aloud and you almost feel as if he isn’t speaking to you at all, he merely wants you to listen and to witness. “Since you met me?”

He knows the truth just as he knows the way you’re looking at him. Eyes lidded, cheeks puffed out, lips wet with your own spit. You’re never going to leave his side.

“Tell me the truth,” he pinches your nipple once more and you arch your back, lip jutting out at the roughness of the feeling. Nobody has ever touched you like this before and the feeling is electric. Despite the fuzziness in your brain, the heady arousal clouding your every thought, you wet your lips with your tongue and speak.

“So long, Suguru.”

He smirks knowingly and lowers his head to suck your breast into his mouth, his warm tongue lapping at your skin. It’s nothing short of heaven, you think. This is how it always should have been. His hands travel from the dip of your waist to your hips, pulling the fabric of your robe further down to expose more of you to his hungry eyes. You reach out toward his face, your fingers tentatively brushing against his lower lip and he releases your nipple from his mouth.

“Can I touch you too?”

Another whisper, another secret. A predatory gleam shines in Suguru’s eyes and you wiggle against his lap, keeping your fingertips pressed against his mouth. He puckers and kisses them gently, reaching to grab your wrist. He places your hand against the bulge beneath his robes, covering your delicate fingers with his own.

“You can,” he uses his grip on your hand to press the heel against his hard cock and he hisses through his teeth. You admire the way his throat looks when his head is tipped back in pleasure, his Adam's apple bobbing. How is everything he does so effortlessly beautiful, you wonder. Your attention is recaptured by his voice. “But first, how long?”

Your wide eyed, parted lip expression only serves as further fuel for the blood pumping between his legs. You look so innocent, the same as you did when he felt the first of your defenses crumble, the day he approached you to come with him. It strikes him as funny that both times, your vulnerability is because he has put his hands on you. Nervously, you shift in his lap and he presses you closer to his body to keep you from going any further.

“Since the first day,” you admit, to him and yourself for the first time. He smirks, molding your hand around his bulge and you squeeze. Another hiss from him is all you want, the noise motivating you to offer yourself further. Using your free hand, you slip out of your robe the rest of the way and for the first time, you're bare to his eyes.

"Look at you." Your face heats and you feel your posture collapse in on itself, shoulders slumping after being so seen. "Show me how well you listen."

His command drips with condescension but you’re too awed to notice. When you nod, he gently nudges you off of his lap and you tuck your legs beneath you. Watching as he rises, you stay seated and admire the way those same lithe fingers that were just caressing your overheated skin work at the knot in his own robes.

Those dark eyes glance down at where you kneel on the ground and he gently smooths his hand over the top of your head and slides it into place along your cheek to cup your face. Using his grip to force you to look at him, you do and appear dazed. Transfixed, perhaps, would be better.

“I’ve always known,” Geto unfastens the knot in his robe fully and you gasp at the sight of his nude form backlit by dusk right outside the door. He’s tall and broad and you can’t look away. “That you would realize.”

Pumping his hand along his impressive length, you bite your tongue to keep from eagerly interrupting him. You want to touch him so badly, you have to sit on your hands like a child to keep from approaching sooner than you should. Before you can think any further about his words, he walks a few steps and the sticky head of his cock nearly brushes your soft, swollen mouth.

“I knew it was you from the moment we met.”

He hangs his head just low enough that you feel the words are truly meant just for you and you shiver. As you wait for further instruction, he squeezes your cheek and jaw in the palm of his hand. Your eyes don’t leave him once.

Suguru has always prided himself on his ability to break people down - to their core, their most base selves in every sense of the word. Usually there’s a moment where he can see in their eyes that they have been broken, cloudy and glossy. Yours have looked like that since he met you.

“This is what devotion gets you.” His words make you shiver as he uses his free hand to point the head of his cock at your lips, rubbing the sticky tip along your pouty mouth. Sitting still as stone and waiting for his directions, he gently pulls your face toward his pelvis and his tip pops into your mouth. A long, low moan leaves him and you squirm at the sound. “Just relax for me, okay?”

Suguru releases his grip on your cheek and moves to palm the back of your head, fingers finding an easy and natural grasp on your skull. You take a deep breath and look up at him with watery eyes and he chuckles, shaking his head. “You’re perfect,” he breathes toward the ceiling and you tense slightly as he uses his grip to move more of his cock between your lips. “Stay relaxed, baby. It’s okay.”

Your head bobs slightly and he groans again and you wonder what it will take to get him to make that noise again, the deep guttural moan sending shockwaves to your clit. You want to rut against something, to feel the pressure release in your stomach and between your legs, but Geto is your first priority.

Experimentally, you dip your face toward the dark hair at the base of his thick cock and you gag a bit as more of his length slips down your throat. The grip on the back of your head tightens and he gasps. Lifting your eyes in his direction for just a moment, you whine at the sight of him with his head thrown back in pleasure. Open mouthed, eyes shut tightly, every muscle in his neck bulging - you love it. If you were a more artistic person, you’d find a way to capture this forever but for now you commit the vision to memory and allow him to thrust his hips so that the remaining length of him dips fully between your lips. The tip of your nose brushes his pubic hair and you moan and gag around his length, tears slipping out of the corners of your eyes. Using the thumb of his free hand, Suguru brushes your tears away and it makes you sob and gag.

“Oh, don’t give up on me now,” he comforts from above, brows furrowed as his hips jerk and your nose continually bumps against his pelvis. Finding a rhythm, he listens to the noises coming from between your lips with every stroke and he feels himself getting closer. His balls tense and his cock twitches and he isn’t willing to prolong the wait any longer than it has already been.

“Open up, keep your tongue out, just like that,” he instructs as he releases his cock from between your lips with a sticky and wet pop, jerking his hand along his spit covered shaft right above your lips and chin and nose. “Stay just like ahhh-,” his words are cut short with a pleasured shout as he shoots translucent ropes of cum across your spit soaked face. A splash lands across your tongue and you note the salty taste - something you’ll associate with just Suguru for as long as you live.

Wrist pumping until he feels fully emptied, he takes a deep breath and covers himself halfway. His lean torso is visible and you feel your cunt throb at the sight and part of you wonders if he’s going to do the same for you - if he’ll kneel between your legs and worship your pussy like he hasn’t had a meal in days.

“Miguel, Manami, you can come in now.”

The deep voice filling your ears makes you scramble to cover yourself with your arms, your breasts and back bare to the open sliding door. The pair make their entrance and you keep your face pointed toward the ground, tears spilling hot down your cheeks. Suguru pats the back of your head as he walks back toward the tatami and sits, patting the spot next to him for you.

“Had some other business to take care of, please forgive my rudeness.”

You stay frozen in place but you can feel the eyes of your compatriots on your sticky face, remnants of Geto clinging to your cheeks.

Days spent on the compound are simultaneously mind-numbingly boring and some of the busiest you’ve ever had.

Each morning, you rise with the sun and watch her from the window that is on the wall opposite where you lie. Most of the time you are on your side, arms wrapped around yourself, in your bed or Suguru’s depending on the events of the evening prior. He most often has you visit him in his quarters and you appreciate the near luxurious gift of privacy on those evenings. It’s far less private in your own room, thin walls separating yourself and whoever is in the room next to yours, although everyone seems to know exactly what Geto uses you for and has since your arrival.

He honors you by allowing you to love him, you remind yourself while the dark thoughts swirling in you churn. They’ll be chased away by the sun and by his presence when he returns to his room where you lay. His side of the futon is empty, already made up as if he were never there, so you allow your mind to wander. If he’s feeling generous, maybe today he will have lunch with you or even better, he’ll finally allow you to begin training your cursed energy into something more than a never-ending sinking feeling in your guts.

He promised you a very long time ago he would help you learn about your own abilities. It seems ungrateful to still long for usefulness considering you know exactly what your role is, yet you can’t help but wish to find this key to understand yourself that seems to always be out of reach.

Tracking the time fell away from you long ago, not long after the first time you were intimate with the man you so dutifully serve. Autumn gave way to winter which faded into a difficult to remember spring followed by the once again balmy days of summer. Again and again and again. Cicadas ring out across the secluded surroundings of the compound morning to night. You blink as they instruct you to rise, singing a tune even more rehearsed than the mechanical beeps of the alarms you used to set on your phone. How long has it been since you’ve had a phone?

Does it matter?

Months or years may have passed but you find that you don’t care all that much. Time passes the same without being able to watch it, a voice that sounds a lot like Geto’s reminds you in the back of your head. You are here forever as part of your purpose to serve his goals and time is just a construct.

When’s the last time you felt like yourself?

Last night, when his satisfaction was the only thing you had to be concerned about, you chide yourself silently. You sound ungrateful to your own ears even if you don’t speak, these endlessly appearing questions becoming more aggravating with each second that passes, and you are annoyed and angry when you rise from Suguru’s bed, re-knotting the tie of your yukata. The shoji is open and he stands just outside of it wearing a cotton robe of his own, sunlight silhouetting him.

He’s a God, you remind yourself, though it doesn’t kill the bitter taste in your mouth the way it usually does. Shuffling toward the door, you take a deep breath and call out his name from inside, his face turning toward you. This makes the bitter taste turn into something sweet you wish to taste again, a soft smile replacing your uncertain frown.

“Good morning,” he calls toward you, sweeping his hand out in front of you to indicate where he’d like you to be. You dutifully follow the wordless instructions and arrive at his side with a smile, squinting in the early morning light.

“Good morning, Suguru. How did you sleep?” Smiling down at you, he gently takes your hand. “As well as I always do when you’re in my bed.”

The compliment and his touch make you feel girlish, heat rising in your face. To be a God’s beloved concubine is an honor, one you rarely take for granted even in your weakest moments. He has given you purpose, motivation, and an understanding you would not have found in a world with people who are unlike you.

Yet that same pit in your stomach lingers. He can tell, narrowing his eyes when he glances at you again though you avert your gaze.

“What’s on your mind?”

A tight smile slips across your face, measured and careful; similar to the one you always give Manami when she’s swearing her devotion to him at dinner or after the congregation. You want to tell him the truth, to open up and make him understand your need to be useful, but the words stick inside of you.

“Nothing, I just didn’t sleep very well.”

It isn’t exactly a lie but he knows that it isn’t the entire truth and his blood runs cold wondering what you’re hiding. You are usually so placid around him, glassy eyes and subdued smiles with averted eyes, but he can feel the anxiety flaring from your body. Are you unhappy? Is the spell he has held over you weakening? Does he need to scare you into reminding you of where your place is, the way he has with so many others?

Tutting gently, he wraps his arm around your shoulder and pulls you to his side.

“Speak freely, I value everything you have to say.”

Lulled into a false sense of security, you look at him out of the corner of your eye.

“May I train with you today?”

Suguru laughs, lifting his hand and gently brushing his thumb against your chin. He’s always touching you when it’s just the two of you, hands rubbing your forearms or fingers pressed against your face. He’s a sculptor and what are you if not simply the clay he’s molding beneath his touch, smoothing out edges and reshaping you from the bottom up into something you aren’t sure you recognize anymore which is how he has always intended things to be. His perfect blank slate, he said so many years ago. There isn’t a time where you haven’t proven it to be true even if you need a reminder.

“Why?”

The tone of his voice makes you feel foolish for asking and your sidelong glance turns to the ground beneath you. Subservience is a practice and one you tend to be good at, evidence provided in the form of your refusal to make eye contact even when he begins speaking again.

“I’ll protect you from anything that could hurt you. You know that, right?” He furrows his brow, one of his hands wrapped around your forearm while the other remains on your chin. “You are safe here. Nothing here can or would hurt you, not while you’re in my care. Isn’t that enough for you? You demand training so you can, what? Fight?” Chuckling and finishing with a haughty sigh, he shakes his head. “You don’t have a fight in you, little girl. You never have.”

Defenses faltering, you laugh to yourself and up at him, sensitive eyes once again squinting when faced with the grace of the higher being in front of you. Of course he’s keeping you from having to enter battles you aren’t equipped for, isn’t that what he has been doing this entire time? Protecting you from those shadows that have lurked over your shoulder and kept you from sleeping since you were a child, comforting you, blessing you.

Your rudderlessness isn’t Suguru’s fault, it’s simply your own for assuming you know more than he does.

Nobody knows you like he does. They never will.

“Please forgive me, Geto-sama.”

You call him Suguru in pleasure and Geto-sama in exaltation, raising it to the heavens that put him on the earth. Moving to fall to your knees before him in apology for making him believe his protection isn’t enough, he stops you with a firm hand on your shoulder. His thumb digs into your collarbone, somewhere between painfully and pleasurably, and you remain standing on wobbly feet with a dumbfounded expression.

“I already have. For everything.”

There is so much you’ve done since you’ve arrived, so much to be forgiven for. Questioning him, doubting your place with him, doubting others, speaking with a jealous tongue and thinking poisonous thoughts. You accept his grace with a smile, tears rimming your eyes. You have always been told that forgiveness grants freedom, the wind at your back and the sun on your face. You feel it on this day, gazing up at a man who has saved you time and time again despite your own folly.

Nodding and sniffling, you shut your eyes to stop yourself from open mouthed sobbing in thanks. You don’t deserve this and never have.

“I’m going to tell you something I’ve told nobody else, okay?”

The assertion that he still trusts you despite your disrespect makes you emotional again, eyes opening and tears falling while you nod.

“I love you.”

I love your devotion to me, he means, though you’ll never read between the lines to consider that the truth is that you are just a pawn to a man you’ve dedicated your existence to pleasing. Your body, your words, even the way you enter a room have all been carefully trained to suit him. You’ve been broken by his hands and he is always in a hurry to remake you, fashioning you into something once again useful.

“That’s why you’re here, little bird. To be safe and loved, not to fight or grow jealous or be angry with me. Are you angry with me?” You shake your head quickly, leaning into his touch with furrowed brows. He drops his hand from your chin and wraps his arm around your waist. “Never, Suguru.”

“Then don’t ask about training again, understood? Trust me to take care of you.”

And trust you do, nodding and finally letting that open mouth sob escape. He does a bit more tutting and his large hands paw at your body, yanking at the knot keeping your robe closed, roughly cupping your breast when the fabric falls open. Tears drip down your cheeks and onto the back of his hand, just how he likes it, and his tongue pokes out from between his teeth as he glances down at you.

“Do you trust me?”

This isn’t even close to the first time that he has asked but he needs to know just how many pieces he has smashed you into. He flexes his hand, squeezing your breast, further punctuating the point he’s trying to make - every little bit of you is his to have, to control, to make, to break, to feel.

“More than anything, Suguru, I swear.” Your legs ache to once again fold and bring you to your knees, the way you best know how to prove your regret, but you remain standing, lower lip quivering. “I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry.”

Your apology is a mantra you repeat as his hand dips lower beneath your robe, grazing the soft skin of your stomach and hip. Roughly wrapping a hand around said hip, he pulls you against his body, cold glance locked on your puffy, wet eyes. Despite himself, he smirks down at you, head tilted to the side. His hair is a black curtain that falls over both of you, soft strands resting against your bare torso and arm.

“Do you love me?”

You do not have to think about your answer though it shakes when it leaves your mouth, your lungs begging you to gulp down enough air to replace what you’ve let escape through sobs.

“I love you so much.” You shake your head and sob again. “Please, please believe me”

You feel like a half-formed thing, ready to be made over however he sees fit.

“I believe you, no need to cry,” he assures you, grip on your hip tightening. You breathe through your open mouth and he takes the opportunity to bring his thumb to your face once again, pulling your jaw down and widening your mouth. You know what’s coming next, heat stirring from deep within you despite your sorrow, before he even commands it.

Your tongue lolls out of your mouth and he spits down onto the muscle.You roll it back into your mouth in an instant, grateful for the opportunity to have even the tiniest piece of him in you, his eyes following your throat as you swallow. Communion, consumption of him to purify yourself from the inside out. The ultimate apology until he can use your cunt to fulfill himself later, although he wants to take you now, right here, inviting everyone out to see the work of a master craftsman.

Sobs gradually give way to less powerful sniffles, you squint up at him with your skin exposed and his touch and his hair and his scent and wonder what you were even wishing would happen in the first place. That he’d train you to do what, exactly? This is what you were meant to do.

“Do you feel better?”

You nod and he smiles down at you, the same measured smirk he always wears. He leans down and kisses your forehead, pulling up the sleeve of your robe to give you some semblance of modesty but leaving it open as he ushers you back inside, sliding the shoji shut behind him. Suguru crowds you into the room, leading his nearly lost lamb toward the futon while untying his own robe.

“Now, apologize like you mean it.”

Now, you fall to your knees, grateful he’s allowed you to show how sorry you are in the shadows of his room instead of by the light of the sun.

“War is on the horizon.”

Sitting with your legs tucked beneath you at Suguru’s side on the elevated platform at the front of the room, you keep your eyes downcast while he addresses his congregation. This is your role, it has been for a very long time now, and you’ve learned to ignore curious onlookers or newcomers who will never be able to fathom such fanatical love.

You love him so much you silence yourself. You sit by his side, so quiet you may as well be nothing but air. You have never learned how to defend yourself or even delved into the curses that used to weigh you down; freedom from these responsibilities came in the form of surrendering yourself fully to him. Body, mind, soul, all tied to his whims. You are a puppet on a string and he is free to move you in whichever way he chooses.

Just the way you like it.

“I’ve officially made the declaration to Satoru Gojo himself.”

For the first time in years, you look up when you are meant to look down, the anxious murmuring of the crowd making the hair on the back of your neck stand up. You know what happens when the congregation disagrees or questions their leader and he rises with a flourish, petting the back of your head gently before stepping off of the platform.

“Do I sense disagreement?”

Looking every bit the apex predator that he is, you dare keep your gaze trained on his back rather than the floor. His head swivels from one prostrate form to another, seeking out anyone who dares disagree with his plans. Foreheads touch the ground below them, the ultimate show of devotion, yet one head remains raised and Suguru chuckles as he approaches the newcomer.

You don’t know their name, you realize. You stopped bothering to learn the newcomer’s names given how little interaction you have with them. They’re nothing but faces to be forgotten about after they have spoken out of turn and met their end at the hands of the man standing with his chin held high.

“Is there something you’d like to say?”

Whatever boldness was previously etched into the face of the man kneeling before Suguru has very clearly disappeared but tension flares through the room regardless. You know that whatever choice he makes, however he chooses to deal with this foolish man, is exactly what he deserves. To spit in the face of God is bold and everyone has to learn their place eventually.

You certainly have.

“N-no, no. Please forgive me, Geto-sama.”

Suguru clicks his tongue, turning to face the rest of his family with his arms spread wide, face turned toward the ceiling. Your eyes are to be trained on the ground but you drink in the sight of him standing amongst the mortals who have always believed they know better than he does.

“What do you think I should do to the non-believer today?”

The question is rhetorical. At least, the silent room treats it that way, no one rushing to answer. Everyone knows to only speak when spoken to, even the inner circle who welcomed you years ago keep their foreheads pressed to the ground. He quietly pads through the crowd again, headed back toward you, and your eyes meet the ground swiftly to avoid being punished for looking at him out of turn.

“Look at me.”

Yours are the only pair of eyes he ever truly cares to have on him. Following the command, you glance up at him, remaining with your knees tucked beneath you and your hands folded in your lap. The way he looks down at you is as tender as he will ever get, even his softness is cold and harsh, but he speaks loudly enough that even the room behind him can hear that he values your opinion above the rest of them.

“What do you think I should do with him?”

Smiling back at him, your glassy eyes meet his and you say exactly what you know he wants to hear.

“Kill him, Suguru.”

Smirking, he reaches down to pinch your chin between his index finger and thumb like he always does when you are performing as expected. It isn’t a performance anymore, if it ever was, it’s simply the way you feel when it comes to those who oppose him. He wags your head back and forth before dropping the touch completely, turning around and leaving you facing his back.

Your eyes dart toward the ground once more. You were not instructed to look at him.

Geto walks through the rows of people once more, reaching to touch the backs of each of their heads while he passes, finally stopping in front of his target. His hands rest in the opposite sleeve of each of them and he bends at the waist, offering the same smile he gives to all of his victims.

“Well, unfortunately, your fate has been chosen. You may as well speak now while you still have the chance.”

A curse materializes, brought to this realm by the man in front of you, and you keep your eyes trained on the ground while screams and the sound of the rending of flesh fill the congregation room.

You’ll only look up once you’re instructed, as always.

#geto x reader #geto suguru x reader #suguru geto x reader #kendall writes

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slytherinboysappreciation · 6 months

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Adoration - T. R. x fem!Reader

A/N: this has been sitting in my drafts for a while so I figured I’d post it. It’s unedited and my first time writing a sex scene so please be nice 💛 No use of Y/N. Reader is Dumbledore’s daughter. Tom is in his seventh year for this fic

Infatuation, the second part, is here

CW: Angst, so much angst; religious trauma, I guess?; Dumbledore bashing; mentions of devils; mentions of past physical abuse; trauma related to masturbation; crying, nausea, shame, and self-hatred related to masturbation; hurt/comfort kinda; praise kink; uhhh I think that’s it. Please let me know if I missed anything!!!

Does contain mature content so NO MINORS PLEASE!!! Just keep scrolling!!

999 words

Tom hated Dumbledore. The professor reminded him too much of the priests at the orphanage. The ones who smile and pretend to be your friend, but are never there when you truly need it.

Tom hated Dumbledore. The way he so obviously played favorites while blatantly denying doing so. Slughorn was an annoying professor, but at least he admitted to his favorites.

Tom hated Dumbledore. The way the man looked as if he knew something Tom didn’t. It got under his skin; made him itch with discomfort.

But no matter how much Tom hated Dumbledore, he hated his daughter more.

You’d been his first true connection to the wizarding world. You’d been there that first day, when Dumbledore had come to visit Tom in the orphanage.

You’d stood quiet and docile as Dumbledore told Tom about his magic. Tom had listened, of course. But it wasn’t until he was alone with you later that he truly believed.

You’d sat on the edge of his rickety bed, while your father had gone to discuss things with the orphanage nuns.

“They call me a freak,” Tom had said quietly. “They say I’m possessed by the devil.”

You’d looked at him. You, with your lovely wide eyes and sweet trusting smile. “What’s a devil?” You’d asked, so earnestly. “Your magic is special. See? I can do it too.”

You’d held out your hand, concentrating. A small flower had bloomed in your palm, sprouting from nowhere. And Tom had finally believed.

Believed you and your stupid smile. Your darling sweet manner. Your soft-spoken words.

All the things he despised about you now.

Despised… and adored.

Tom could not get you out of his head. You haunted him. Hounded him. It was maddening.

Every morning you’d smile so sweetly at him. You’d laugh or say something silly and inconsequential. And it would stick in Tom’s head all day long.

He couldn’t stand it!

You were nothing compared to him. He was Tom Riddle, the newly discovered Heir of Slytherin! The future ruler of the wizarding world! Voldemort!

You were the daughter of a half-witted buffoon who’d abandoned Tom as soon as he’d gotten to Hogwarts.

And yet, he could not get you out of his head.

Like now.

He’d been in the library, trying to study peacefully when you’d approached him with that smile of yours. You’d needed his help getting a book down.

Of course he helped; he could never truly end up saying no to your smile. Just another fact he hated.

But he’d stood too close to you while getting down the book, and he’d accidentally brushed up against you.

And now he was in his room, angrily trying to will the erection you’d unknowingly given him away.

It doesn’t work. Not after five minutes, not after ten. The memory of your blush and sweet smile was too much.

Tom can’t stand this. He has a meeting with one of his teachers in an hour!

So there’s only one thing to do.

Tom settles back into his bed, exhaling heavily. This has rarely been a pleasurable experience for him. The nuns at Wool’s were strict in their devotion to chastity. Even with the boys.

Tom’s been beaten more times than he can count after being caught trying to get some relief. So he avoids it until absolutely necessary.

And now he’s having to do it, all because of your horrendous smile.

Tom unbuckles his pants, glancing at the door to double check it’s locked. It is.

Tom takes his time pulling out his cock. Rushing feels too much like being back at the orphanage.

He grimaces at the sight. Too many bad memories are associated with what he’s about to do.

With a deep breath, Tom closes his eyes and clears his mind and wraps a hand around his cock.

The self-loathing hits after the first few moments. It’s strong enough that he falters, wanting to vomit.

But the need for release is stronger than his hatred. He continues on, swallowing down his nausea.

Every moment is like torture. His mind conjuring hateful words about himself, while his body aches with pleasure.

He starts to cry; silent tears pooling in his eyes. It’s too much. The hatred. The disgust and shame.

Just as he’s about to let go and give up, a new thought enters his mind. A smile…

His frenzied mind attaches itself to the thought like a rabid dog. Before he can even comprehend the switch, Tom’s breath is taken away.

There you are, in his mind. Sitting at the edge of his bed, smiling.

He stills immediately, but your smile isn’t mocking. It’s… peaceful.

“Silly boy,” you murmur, in his mind. “What are you so worked up about?”

Tom swallows, shaking. “You,” he whispers.

You laugh, soft and teasing. The sound makes Tom ache.

In his mind, you reach out, fingers feather soft. You grasp his cock, that ever-infuriating smile on your face.

“Silly boy,” you coo. “It’s as easy as this.”

As your imaginary hand glides along his cock, his own hand does the same. Tom whimpers. It feels incredible.

He starts to speed up, panting as your imagined self murmurs encouragements to him.

“That’s it,” you whisper to him. “That’s my good boy.”

“Your good boy,” he repeats, breathless.

You laugh again, your voice so achingly soft. And Tom cums so hard his ears ring.

He hunches over, gasping for breath. You’re gone now. His thoughts flit around aimlessly. What had just happened?

He lies back, gazing up at the ceiling in shock. He’d just— You’d— You.

He’s made a mess of his pants and bedsheets. But this time, the shame and self-hatred are overshadowed by a sudden rush of annoyance.

Of course it would be you. You, with your smile and laughter. You, who he cannot rid from his brain as much as he tries.

You.

He cleans himself up, too busy plotting how he can get his revenge to feel ashamed at the mess.

#tom riddle #tom riddle x reader #tom riddle x you #tom riddle smut #reader is from an unspecified hogwarts house #please don’t be mean to me over this #divider by cafekitsune

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ash3d-darling · 5 months

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“ANYWAY THE WIND BLOWS...”—

PLATONIC!VENTI / NEUVILLETTE x CHILD!ANEMO SOVEREIGN READER.

GN READER

cw: Brief religious mentions(church, prayer),Brief drinking mentions, slight Fontaine spoilers(?), possibly OOC in some parts. •••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

•Let’s begin properly, with the Anemo man himself: Venti.

•How they met was really in hindsight, not a surprise.

•I can see Sov!reader hearing one of his hymns, and trying to find him.

•Meanwhile Venti gets increasingly confused/worried about the new immense anemo energy that is not his.

•Venti seeking them out and standing there awkwardly with sovereign looking at him silently.

•Eventually he asks why they’re in the woods, where their parents are, and why they have anemo but no vision.

Venti clears his throat,“hello there child! If you don’t mind, Why are you in the forest..? And-” he looks at them carefully, searching for something. “Do you happen to have a vision?” He asks, charming voice getting strained near the end.

“a what?” Those two words were the thing that made him realize.

•With the new knowledge of what exactly anemo sovereign!reader is, he decides after zero thinking to “adopt” them!

•This of course means, “teach them to use anemo & play the lyre” but still!

•I can imagine training with Venti going.. well? If you’ve ever seen that part in ATLA where Katara first tries training waterbending to Aang(the scroll episode), it was pretty much that.

•I can see visiting the church, and praying to Barbatos, which may or may not have made Venti a little smug. Once he remembered who he was💀

•l imagine him not drinking while reader is around, for dignities sake.

•Eventually, Venti does worry how Sov! Reader would react about what happened to the previous dragon sovereigns, but he won’t need to worry for that until long ahead.

•In the end, the two of them end up having a father/older brother & child/younger sibling relationship.

•Now, Neuvillette is certainly happy reader has resurrected, but how did they meet?

•The two met when Venti had decided to take them Fontaine for “a little outing”. Where, they inevitably ran into each other.

•I can imagine that Venti knows dragon-sovereign!reader can fend for themselves, and obviously they’re quite strong, +Fontaine has a record of being reasonably safe, so he left them alone for 5 minutes. Little did he know.. •The Melusines simply had wanted to talk with reader, being interested in their “aura” of sorts, when Neuvillette had come to see them.

•unlike Venti, he knew almost immediately.

As always, Neuvillette had come to see the Melusines. It was practically a daily routine for him, always predictable. But, one thing he would never expect would soon appear.

“[__]? I’ve—…” The man paused when his eyes landed on the child, an unmistakable presence. Eyes widened, he stepped forward; “Greetings, young one. Who exactly may you be?” He asked, vying for more information— had the previous sovereign truly been reborn?

When they responded, Neuvillette knew he was correct.

•I imagine he would care for a.d.s!reader just as much as the Melusines, even more so if reader got along well with them.

•I can see Reader visiting Fontaine every few weeks, listening to his times and interests. •On that topic, I think that If A.d.s!reader ever listens to him talk endlessly about water or law, or even asked/took interest In them, he would be overjoyed!

•if reader ever wonders, Neuvillette would gladly show them his power, and perhaps help them with their own. •slightly jealous of Venti, as reader eventually goes back, but ultimately understanding. •Like Venti and anemo dragon-sovereign!reader, I see Neuvillette and readers relationship as: caring father-figure & slightly weird mystery child.

#genshin impact #genshin imagines #genshin x reader #genshin x gender neutral reader #platonic!genshin #Genshin x child reader #Genshin Neuvillette #genshin venti #genshin headcanons #Venti genshin

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dragonskulls · 8 months

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in the Vast Moor, the ruling system is fairly similar to other quivers; there's a leader –the Accipiter– and their second in command –the Noctua– but with the exception of having a third rank, the Corvus:

the Corvus has a practical role that borders on the religious. Wyvern training is incredibly important for moor runners, as such, it's obvious that someone who oversees that aspect would have a respected position of power. The Corvus is an influential advisor, playing a big role in the selection of future leaders, and is the one tasked to supervise all wyvern rearing in the quiver, being extremely knowledgeable on these creatures. Burials were another task traditionally assigned to them, but it wasn't until recently that they were allowed to do that again.

The reason for this previously mentioned prohibition is attributed to one dragon only: Shrikeshred

(cw for cannibalism mention lol) Shrikeshred is a controversial figure. Regarded as the Vast Moor's most talented Corvus in history –something clearly seen in her masterpiece book "Way of the shrike" which showcases her incredible wyvern handling abilities and techniques, some of which are still used today– that unfortunately took a turn for the worst. A famous cannibal, not much is known about what made her go off the deep end, though it is believed tensions with the Accipiter in her era and the lean times of winter season may have had something to do with it. After disappearing into thin air one day, her shadow is still cast over the foggy moors. How could anyone forget what she had done? There wasn't a Corvus for a long time, which proved detrimental to wyvern management in the quiver's territory. Some say she's still out there, waiting for the right moment to come back. The wyverns pictured here were Shrikeshred's favorites, all of them species considered untameable, especially the Death spitter, a dreaded wyvern that can spit boiling acid. So far she has been the first and only dragon to be able to train these species.

been wanting to post this for a while but i had to finish all the refs first 😭 if you're wondering why the style changes it's bc they were done months apart aheem. ANYHOW! im excited to do more pieces and comics revealing what actually happened with Shrikeshred, as well as other characters involved with that whole mess. Also here's some tiny bits of more info on her toyhouse

+ some silly posts

#wof #wings of fire #ashwing #art #my ocs #dragons #oc: shrikeshred #oc: deimos #oc: wolfsbane #oc: phobos #im so obsessed with her my horrible woman #she started with eating dead people and then she began actually hunting them which is why the funeral ban LOL #also a littledesign note she is BUILT compared to your average scrawny ass moor runner. like bigger and considerably more muscular #also i had to resume the corvus info from the doc theres a few details i missed but they aren't as important for now

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stoutguts · 2 months

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headcanon rambling/my personal hc for Johnny's backstory bc I think it'd be interesting also I like the idea of Ghoap where the both of them had a shitty childhood bc of an abusive parent and the both of of them hv trauma/I love angst 💕

CW: drug add\ction, s*lf-h*rm/s*icide, parental/child abvse

Soap was born into a big family in the Scottish countryside, being the youngest with 6 older sisters. His father was a deadbeat, and walked out on him at a young age, being effectively raised by his mom and big sisters. Having strong female influences on his life benefited him greatly in the long run, he grew up to be a very well-adjusted, kind, and respectful man (particularly towards women, as he is a staunch feminist (you go Johnny).

However, on the other hand the only true parental figure in his life, his mother, was a horrible person. She was mentally and emotionally abusive, as well as unstable. She would even get physical with her children at times, including Soap. Johnny was also raised Roman Catholic, though today he considers himself agnostic or a flat out atheist. His mother was incredibly homophobic and transphobic and would use religion to justify her bigotry towards him, leading Soap to hating himself and struggling with self-harm and suicidal ideation for years. Particularly, by cutting himself (he has s/h scars all over his thighs, arms, and shoulders). Has attempted at least 10+ times in the past. Not to mention, he did a lot of hard drugs during his middle and high school years to cope with his mother's abuse. (Particularly coke and heroin). He's come incredibly close to ODing on a few occasions. An addict and a total mess, until his sisters intervened and forced him against his will into rehab.

After 2 or so years he was clean and eligible for the military.

He still relapses from time to time (whether it's self-harm or drugs), and when he does its bad. He even still regularly smokes weed to this day, though it's not nearly as bad as some other substances. It's a wonder he hasn't been discharged, probably because he's too much of an asset.

Ghost is the one to bring him out of his slumps now. Not minding one bit, as all Simon cares about is Johnny's safety and well-being.

Needless to say, he could never see religion in the same light after that. He’s even quite apprehensive and wary of people whom are religious and religion in general.

He and his mother were never close and soon would never get along with each other, as he’s proud and not the type to even tolerate shit from anyone. It was an almost daily occurrence that he and his mom would fight, particularly when he finally reached his pre-teen/teen years, sometimes evolving into full-blown screaming matches.

Being the protective type of person that he is, most of the time he’d get into fights because of his sisters coming to him about how mom had hit them or made them cry (despite the fact he feels nothing but pure hatred for his mum, he has a very deep bond/connection to each and everyone of his sisters and loves them all dearly).

That was what pissed him off more than anything.

His mom could do whatever she wanted with him, frankly he stopped caring and her cutting words no longer held any weight or meaning to him at some point, and being hit was soon the equivalent to getting bit by a mosquito, he became numb. He didn't know when he stopped feeling, but he did. (He of course wasn't entirely immune, she'd eventually break him). But he was determined to stay strong for his siblings.

Bringing harm upon his sisters? No way in hell that was ever gonna fly, and he didn't care if she was his mother or not.

Johnny naturally grew to resent his mother, and to this day he still calls her a “witch” or a "cunt" instead of his mum. Eventually he’d had enough and couldn’t take his mother’s abuse any longer, (she is half of the reason he went into the military as soon as he possibly could, besides it being a lifelong and childhood dream of his).

He kept in touch with his sisters (and still does), of course, calls them everyday or whenever he gets the chance to let them know he’s alive and well and to see how their doing. Visits when he can or when he’s off duty. Though he completely cut ties with his mother after joining the military,—a couple of his sisters would keep him posted on what was going on with her.

Later on, his mother went to go on to be diagnosed with terminal cancer, and passed shortly thereafter.

He attended the funeral up in Scotland, but mainly for his sisters’ sakes. He actually ended up staying in Scotland for a while after that to provide support for his sisters, (emotional or otherwise), and to try to ease the grieving process. Even though she wasn’t the greatest mom or person in general, it was still a tough loss. Though Soap still didn’t regret cutting her out of his life,—it was fucked up but he was glad that she died in a way, and even visited her grave just once after the funeral, by himself, just so he could spit on it. Maybe even say some things he never was able to say to her, half as retribution and half to just get it off his chest.

Ghost is the only one who knows of Johnny's past and his abusive mother, and is incredibly understanding and gentle about it (as naturally it's a particularly touchy subject). On all official stuff regarding his background, the most it ever details is where he was born or that he was raised Roman Catholic. Not to mention, although Soap is a yapper and almost never shuts up, he’s a very private person and just simply doesn’t like others knowing his business (with the exception of Ghost of course).

Even though Johnny didn’t let his mother’s death bother him regarding the funeral and his prolonged visit to Scotland, when he got back he broke down completely.

He stayed strong for his sisters as he felt like he had to and just as he's always done, but the facade came crashing down once he was in Simon's arms again.

He hated his mum, she didn't really deserve his tears, yet she was still his mum. That fact still reigned true even after everything.

And Ghost was there by his side the whole time. Hell, if anyone knows what it's like to lose a family member, it's Simon "Ghost" Riley. Whether they be toxic or not. Simon's heart positively ached for Soap, and they couldn't help but get all misty eyed at Johnny's pure, unbridled grief.

Ghost had never felt so sorry for anyone in his life, and Soap was eternally grateful for Simon's patience, empathy, and it consoling him to the best of their ability. 💖

DADDY ISSUES GHOST AND MOMMY ISSUES SOAP MY BELOVED(S)

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passionateseadruid · 3 months

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Snake king’s bride 7

Holiday Havoc part 1 of 2

CW: Swearing, religious topics, Violence, one mention of dub-con and more

Summary:

This chapter was brought to you by spite and Lucifer’s slutty waist and sluttier child bearing hips. Man needs to close his FUCKING LEGS!

Notes:

HEY REALLY QUICK IMPORTAINT NOTE: So in this chapter there's gonna be a lot of references to religion and a surprise and ONE mention of Dubcon at the end. If you are uncomfortable feel free to skip this chapter. If you want to skip the chapter but you want to see the surprise I’ll leave a note at the end. Also sorry this took so long to get out, I was having a hard time getting inspiration for this and then my computer broke. And on top of that a good 30 minutes of work was Deleted! Fuck ao3

It's been a few weeks since you've met Fizzarolli. He hasn't Been able to find anything but you're hopeful because you'll actually get to see him again at the end of the week for the kings annual holiday party. To top it all off you haven't bought a single present for anyone (plus you're not even sure who it's appropriate to buy presents for).

But none of that is what you were concerned with right now. No, right now you have to convince the short blond idiot in front of you not to wear a green tree print tux embroidered top to bottom in tinsel, lights, and other decorations.

"First of all, you are NOT coming with me to my parents dinner-"

"Of course I am! I have to introduce myself to my new in-laws." He cuts you off playfully sticking out his forked tongue.

"I figured you'd overstep again." You sighed. "If that's the case then secondly you cannot wear that to this dinner. All of my brothers are gonna be there, plus Lilian is gonna be there. I want to make a good impression so that you don't kill them."

"Okay fine. What do you want me to wear?" He sighed. Under his happy exterior he was fairly nervous.

You went into his closet and looked through his clothes. "We also need to set up some ground rules. My entire family is veryreligious and while I'm no Mother Teresa I still don't want them to worry about me."

"Teresa was such a goodie two shoes. I observed her when she was alive and she was even more virtuous than anyone else makes her out to be." He sighed and looked toward the ground for a moment. "She... reminds me of someone I knew back in heaven. Or she did, but the angel I knew... changed"

"Really? You don't talk about your past much."

"...You said you had ground rules for me." Lucifer avoided your eyes as he changed the subject.

"Firstly, don't tell them anything about you being the devil; or about heaven or hell; oh or about our situation. Secondly, don't mention Charlie; I don't want them freaking out about you being billions of years older than me, or about the fact that you have a daughter whose old enough to be my sister."

"She's actually old enough to be your great grandma."

"And you don't find any problem with this relationship."

"Darling look I know that we're an... ahem... unusual couple but I can't go on without you. I'll do anything to have you." He cups your chin and forces a kiss.

"Rule three, you are not allowed to be overly sexual. I have four brothers and three of them have kids so no groping me and no talking about how you wanna diddle my holes in my sleep."

"That's disgusting, I wouldn't do that to you." He defended against your accusation.

"Okay we should probably go over each of my family members and their jobs. I hope we'll have enough time to go over this and get them presents."

"Don't worry! We'll just give each of them $10,000."

"Hells currency isn't going to be valuable on earth.

"I know. But for all your protests towards my affection you sure seem to forget who I am. I'm the Devil darling. I have pretty much every politician in my pocket. Here check this out!" He pulled you away from the clothes and into a side room off of his bedroom. Never a good thing to have. He shows you a room that's mostly filled with carnival games. "Here I'll spin this wheel, you take a dart and throw it at them. Whoever it lands on I'll go have a little chat with."

"How about you do that and I'll go pick out something for you to wear." This was just too weird. "If you're absolutely serious we'll need 14 grand."

////////////////////////////////////////

About an hour later you two were sitting in the kitchen going over your family members. He wore the red sweater with a big duck plastered on the front and black pants you'd picked out. It was annoying having him matching your red sweater and floor length black skirt but nothing could be done about it considering the only other option was letting him dress like an idiot.

"Okay so my Mom’s name is Janice, she likes crafts. Dad's name is Dalton and he and my oldest brother Austin like to weld and woodwork. Austin is divorced and has only one girl, her name is Monika. Don't worry she's probably not gonna want to talk to anyone let alone you. My next oldest brother is Peter who's married to Margaret and they has twin boys named Christopher and Evan. Everyone calls Christopher CC though, since he likes that the best. The twins and their dad like rollercoasters and the batfam. Dallas is the brother I'm closest with and he is the epitome of middle child, very class clown type. He has two kids a boy names James and a girl named Missy. He lost his wife last year so don't don't bring it up okay? And finally my spoiled brother Michael. He's the youngest son, my mom's pride and joy. The golden boy, her favorite. Him and his Fiancée got married this summer in July. She despises me so whatever you do bite your tongue and be as nice as you can to her okay? The last thing I need is for Maggie to start crying."

"Golden boy Michael hits a bit to close to home for me." Lucifer looked away from you. Just anywhere away from your figure.

'Oh like that isn't your fault.' You thought, thankful that he couldn't read your mind. "Got all that?"

"Yep." He motions to a notepad that he wrote it all down on. "Quick question. What's the "BatFam"?"

"Bat family. Like Batman and all his robins. Here I should have a picture on my old phone of them last year trick or treating. Peter was Batman, Margaret was cat woman, Evan was Nightwing AKA Dick Grayson, and CC was the fifth robin, Damien Wayne."

"What about your old roommate?"

"Lilian moved in with her uncle when we were 14. He worked a lot to provide for her so she was left alone most holidays. I invited her over one year and she basically became part of the family. Are you ready to go? The fudge I made yesterday has probably settled by now."

"Yeah, let's go." He held out his hand. You took the fudge in your hands instead. He frowned and opened the portal. You both stepped through and found yourselves at your parents house. Lucifer knocked on the door and

"Auntie!" James shouted from behind the CC who'd opened the door.

"Hi auntie!" CC smiled as the two boys hugged you.

"Hi boys! Let me get inside and put the fudge down." You smiled warmly, not noticing the short man behind you seething. Yes Lucifer knew how childish it was to be jealous of two young boys, and your nephews at that, but he couldn't help it. You smiled so warmly at them and you gave them the attention he so desperately craved.

You two walked in with the boys in toe.

"How's my favorite baby sister?" Dallas asked as you set the fudge down on the counter and he picked you up to twirl you from behind. "Better not be doing the Devil’s Tango with that deviant." He teased quietly so only you heard him.

You giggled. "I'm doing fine."

"You better be! Do you know how worried we were when Lilian told us you ran away with your fiancé! None of us even knew you were engaged! Why didn't you tell us?" Austin pulled you out of Dallas's hold and squeezed your shoulders protectively.

"Her and I had a bit of a spur of the moment engagement. I mean if it feels right and they’re the one, why not tie the knot." Lucifer put his arm around your waist. "Hi, call me Lucy. Lucy Magne." He held out his other hand for either of your brothers to take. Austin takes his hand and his eyes widens when he feels the Devils cold black hand.

"Sorry. It's a skin condition. Very rare. Not hereditary."

"Uh huh." Austin looked suspiciously at him.

"Bestie!" Lilian runs up to you.

"Lilian hi! I- oof!” You were cut off by her hug.

"Why didn't you tell me you got a sugar daddy?" She whispered.

"A what?!" You blushed.

"Come on I'm not dumb. A man shows up in a clean white suit and asks about all the things you like. He says he wants to provide for you. It's so obvious it's painful."

"Well it's not as simple as that." You tried to explain but you were pulled away by your parents.

"Sweetheart! Where have you been? So much has happened in these past four months." Your mom hugged you. "I'm sorry mom. Things just happened and my life got kinda hectic."

"You're not pregnant are you?" She asked.

"What? No."

"Then why did you drop out of college? You practically fell off the face of the earth. You're only 19, you should live your life. You don't need to grow up so quickly. We already have 5 grandchildren, you don't need to rush into marriage and family life. You should enjoy being young."

"I know mom." 'But I don't really have a choice.' "Him and I aren't rushing in to anything like that though. He's just… passionate about me and kinda… clingy."

"Come on Janice. We raised our girl right. She knows not to run around with degenerates." Your father came up to you both and squeezed your mother’s shoulder reassuringly. "Hi pumpkin." He turned to you.

"Hi dad." You two hugged each other. He led you over to the dining table and sat you down next to Lucifer who was arm wrestling with Monika.

"Why you going easy on me, old man? Just cause I'm a girl?"

"Haha… hah…" He chuckled awkwardly. "Who is she Goliath? I wasn't going easy on her." He whispered to you.

You looked at Monika. "Suplex him next." You smiled towards her as Lucifer's face fell. "It's nice to see you off your phone for once Monika."

"I guess I'm in a holiday mood since it's nearly Christmas." Everyone eventually came over to the table to eat.

////////////////////////////////////////

After about an hour of talking with your siblings you heard crying coming from the playroom your parents built decades ago.

"Is anyone hurt? Did the bookshelf fall down on someone? Did the curtain rod smack someone on the head?"

"Your freaky Fiancé made Missy cry." Evan pointed at you accusingly as James held the tot in his arms.

"What did you do?" You asked Furiously.

"Nothing." He held his arms up defensively. "It was just some light teasing."

"He said the goat man was gonna eat me!" Missy sniffled.

"What goat man?" You rubbed her cheeks, whipping her tears away.

"Krampus." James answered.

"I didn’t say he was gonna eat her. I said Krampus beats naughty children who don't share with their siblings." Lucifer explained.

"I didn't even want the stuffed moose that badly. I swear I didn’t Auntie."

You shushed James and turned to the Devil. "What is wrong with you?! Why would you think that’s okay to say to CHILDREN?!"

"Honey I-"

You ran your hand through your hair. "You know what? I want you out. I’ll see you tomorrow but right now I need to be alone."

"What…?" His eyes widened.

"Leave. You've caused enough commotion for my family. My brother Austin thinks you're a creep. My mom, Dallas, and Lilian all think you're a deviant. And now you're traumatizing my niece and Nephews."

He left out the back door and you explained the situation to your parents afterwards.

////////////////////////////////////////

"Okay seriously this guy’s bad news sis." Michael persuaded as you two sat on the couch. It's been almost an hour and things are starting to die down. You and your youngest older brother sat in the kitchen talking by the island. "Look I know we've never been super close but you're my favorite sister and I worry about you. Without you, I'd be the one they shirk responsibility of watching the kids onto."

You rolled your eyes. 'Of course.' "So what do you suggest I do now?"

"Dump him. It's not like you need to get married. I mean, come on. You? A wife? HA! No, you're not the marriage type."

"I suppose. The only problem is that I can't get this stupid ring off." You look away. He goes to the cabinet and pulls out some vinegar. He grabs your hand and pours a bit on your ring but it won't come off. He pulled and pulled but it still wouldn't come off.

"WHAT DO YOU THINK YOU'RE DOING TO MY BRIDE?!" A distorted voice came from the Fireplace in the living room. Out stepped Lucifer back in his white suit with his top hat. His red horns popped out of his head, fire sprouting between them. Just like at the ball; only this time he sprouted a tail. He grabbed you and pulled you toward the fireplace.

"NO! LET ME GO!" You thrashed in his hold. In a Last ditch Effort you grabbed the crucifix hanging on the wall and said, "Matthew 10:14 Begone Satan!"

"Ow! First of all it only works if you say the whole thing. Secondly IM NOT HIM!!" He slapped the cross out of your hand and slapped you to the floor. "AND FINALLY YOU REMEMBER WHAT I SAID WOULD HAPPEN IF YOU EVER BROUGHT UP THAT BOOK AGAIN. HOW ABOUT I KILL YOUR FAMILY INSTEAD SO YOU LEARN NOT TO FUCK WITH ME- Ah!" You two were cut off by a shot ringing out throughout the house and your dad holding a smoking shotgun in the doorway. "FUCK YOU! THAT’S GONNA BRUISE LIKE A BITCH TOMORROW!!"

"NO NO NO, PLEASE PLEASE. I'll do anything you want but please don't hurt my family." You clung to his striped vest as hot, fat tears ran down your face.

His cheeks flushed at the sight of you sobbing, begging on the ground. He bit his lip as he fantasized about all the things he could do to you here and now.

"Stop! His skin is turning red! You're making him angrier!" Michael called.

"Shut up you horse-shit eater! Ah!" He cried as your mom rushed in and sprayed him with holy water. A few places on him started to blister like a burn. A few on his right horn and arm and one on the shell of his ear.

"PLEASE! ILL DO ANYTHING!" You begged, wrapping your arms around his small waist.

"I'll spare them if you vow to never contact them again. And I get to do whatever I want to you tonight."

"Deal!"

"NO!" Several members of your family shout. He envelopes your hand as a fiery illusion overtakes both of your hands and he pulls you into the fireplace.

Notes:

Yep, your dad has a shotgun now! Yay?j

59 notes · View notes

zozo-01 · 5 months

Text

"maybe god does love you enough to save you. maybe they were god all along."

This fic is part of the 'Hot Boi Summer Springback' Event ran by the Skyside Discord and organized by the lovely @angelicaether!! Thank you Aether and everyone else for participating in the event and you can read all of their fics on this master list here!!

For this I heard one line from Sam about how he wanted Darlin' ever since he's met them, and of course I had to fucking run with it!! Mix in a little religious trauma and boom!! Fic has been made. :) Thank you to @lovelylonerliterature for being my beta reader and @autisticempathydaemon, @cashandprizes and @horrorscoupes for being my IRL Sam Collinses, hehehe. (Also Lo, the other religious trauma fic is coming. >:3)

CW: Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Religious Guilt, sam was raised southern baptist and it shows, darlin isn't catholic but they were also raised religiously, Self-Hatred, sam hates himself for being a vampire , Mentioned Alexis (Redacted ASMR), Mentioned Quinn (Redacted ASMR), only by names and action, Blood Mention, Blood Drinking, Disordered Eating, he is a vampire after all and he hates it, Mentioned Character Death, Referenced Character Death, Mentions of Minor Injuries, darlin is involved so of course there are injuries, sam is going through an existential crisis while darlin is just there teehee

click here for the ao3 link!!!

There were two types of blood to Samuel Collins. The ones he could barely tolerate and the ones he downright detested. It took a while for some of the former to graduate into the latter, but he doubted that he would ever be the kind of vampire that would savour the taste of blood. It was fuel, barely even food to him.

He chugged another blood bag, following it with a sip of his bourbon. The alcohol burned down the tangy aftertaste, making it slightly easier to digest it. For the first time in a decade, he found himself in an intense hunger, almost as bad as his bloodlust. He couldn't figure out what it was. He didn't feel extra stress, nor was he exerting his magic all that much. Whatever the case was, the result was him downing more blood than he did during his newborn years.

He sighed, staring at the empty bag and cup in his hands. He would wonder what he did to deserve all of this, but he's known the answer since he was younger and brighter. Throwing the bag into the trash, he poured himself a full glass of his bourbon and flopped onto his couch. Sam took a swing, hoping to get rid of the residual blood clinging to his throat.

He hated himself for the fact that he needed blood to survive, he was a healer for God's sake. Yet he hated himself for hating himself in the first place, stuck in a vicious cycle that would never end. There was nothing wrong with drinking blood, it's the same principle of humans eating meat. Sometimes, the lion has to eat the gazelle in order to survive. The circle of life. But Sam couldn't help but feel disgusted, filth finding its way from heart and tainting his body.

Guilt ate him alive, his old prejudices coming back to haunt him. He's met wonderful vampires, both before and after his turning. And he would never think of Vincent as a monster. But he couldn't help the little thoughts in his head that the fact that he was a vampire was wrong. He was just a monster, a feeder and a leech. (It's funny how his father's voice haunted him to this day.)

Sam never understood the difference between drinking the supposed blood of Christ and this, one was deemed holy and the other made him a heathen. If he drank blood from a holy source, then would his sins be washed away? Was there a chance that if he swallowed his pride and walked to the altar with a chalice in hand, would God, the Forgiving, forgive him?

The vampire forsaken God long after he was forsaken. It didn't stop Sam from making small prayers when times got rough, despite the fact that He wouldn't hear him. Some habits die hard, he knows that all too well.

He wondered how long it would take for him to make peace with his new lease on life. There was no chance of trying to go vegan, he'd exhausted every avenue of research in that direction. Meaning this was it. There was nothing more he could do to save his damned soul. He loathes Alexis a little more each day he goes without the sun kissing his skin like it used to.

Daddy always said that he was a dirty sinner at heart, his soul was stained from birth. It made sense that his physical body would match his sinning core. Alexis was just God's punishment for the monster that he was. Maybe if he spent more time on his hands and knees, he would have escaped his fate.

(That didn't explain them though. There was no way that He would send them his way. If Alexis was his punishment, then they were his salvation. Yet the only reason he could conceive as to why they came into his life was to punish him harder, teach him a lesson he's spent his life internalizing. He'd only pray that they won't get caught up in his hellish flames.)

It took two cups of bourbon and a whole lot of water for Sam to finally stop gagging at the blood. Funny how when he was younger, he would lick his bloody lips as a showing of strength and pride. He felt powerful when he consumed his blood. Now look at him, disdain was all that was left of the broken man sitting on the couch.

Time travel was the only answer to his problem, going back to the past to tell his younger self that Alexis wasn't worth it. The fun and wild thrill she gave wasn't worth the utter agony that would come his way. At the very least, he would tell himself to make it clearer to her that he didn't feel the same. But he didn't, and he got exactly what he deserved.

There's no use living in the past, he told himself out loud. What's done is done and all he could do was make do with the hand life has dealt him. Staring out the window, the millions of stars stared back at him with judgment. Fuck them, who gave them the right to cast their holy gaze to him. Not when they stood high up on their throne in heaven. They had no idea how hard it was to stay pure down on Earth. Lucky bastards must be thrilled to watch him suffer for their entertainment.

(Doesn't that sound familiar? I'm talking about you.)

His residual anger was enough to burn the forest surrounding his forced home, but he had to get it under control. There was time to rage and lament to the world, but tonight wasn't it, not when they would be coming by shortly.

The partnership he had with Darlin' was tentative, despite him already saving their sorry ass. Both of them were still trying to feel the other out, ready to pounce if the other showed signs of traitorous actions. Beyond that, he could tell that Darlin' was a good person with their heart in the right place. A bit of a bleeding heart, something he didn't expect at all, but it was a welcome surprise. If they met in different circumstances, then things may have been different.

If they had been born earlier, or him later, then they may have caught each other on the D.A.M.N. Campus. He'd stare at them, hopelessly enamoured with the shifter that stood maybe a few feet away. How could he not, they were absolutely beautiful. Prettier than the songbirds that would fly by or the sun's light that formed a halo on their head. His buddies would laugh at him, dying that the Samuel Collins, fuckboy extraordinaire, fell in love. But hell must have frozen over, for he was a fool just for them.

He would saunter towards them, his flirty tone immediately dismantled by their smile. Yet his awkwardness would endear them for some reason and they would let him court them, something no one thought he was capable of.

He would lead them back to his house, laying them on his bed and showing them how much he loved them-

Sam's mouth dried up and his fangs started to ache at the thought of their body under him. Goddamn it, he needed another damn blood bag. Trudging back to the kitchen, he drained another bag, not bothering with a cup as he drank straight from the bourbon bottle to wash down the taste.

This was getting ridiculous. Absolutely, fucking stupid. He couldn't turn into a fucking newborn every time he thought about them. He shouldn't even be thinking about them like that. It was wrong, and indecent, and robbed them of autonomy. He felt like an abomination for even daring to fantasize about them. He was nothing but a sinner and he couldn't taint their light.

That didn't stop his fangs from elongating at the thought of their blood anyway. He couldn't help it. They were just so damn bright and wonderful, he had no choice but to forget his own immoral heart. When bathing in the rays around Darlin', there was nothing to focus on but them. Their enchanting laugh and crude jokes burrowed their way deep into Sam's heart, and they wouldn't be leaving any time soon.

And their blood, don't even get him started. Unfortunately for his lust and hunger (he doesn't want to call it love right now), he's had the chance to smell their blood quite often. From large gaping wounds that he would heal to that stupid blood-soaked jacket that Darlin' refused to let go, he's sure he knows their scent as well as the priest knows his congregation. Something about how shifters have more magic in their blood compared to other empowered people, but he knew that wasn't the reason.

It was just because it was Darlin' and that they were incredible and wonderful. It was no secret that they were a vampire magnet, catching all of their attention whenever the two went out. His own blood would curl and rage would flow through his veins, jealousy taking reign of his wicked heart. But he couldn't blame any of them. Most vampires look for salvation in the people they bite, hoping the magic in their blood will be enough to save them.

But they had more potent blood, even more than the average shifter. It had to have been a blessing for them, their magic so powerful and their blood being a reflection of that. He could tell from the moment they bled all over their couch, and it made every vampire obsessed with having the taste of their blood. Their blood smelled like the blizzards they faced and he wondered if it tasted as cold as they smelled. Or maybe their blood was as warm as their sunshine self.

Clearly, he wasn't any better than the vampires who'd grab them and bare their fangs to force their blood into their mouths. He was utterly disgusting.

Sam watched the clock on top of the fireplace. (He stared at the judging eyes looking back at him.) They should be here sometime soon, knowing they'd arrive five minutes early because they're just so damn respectful of his time. It would be easier to hate, or at the very least control his fondness for them if they were a little terrible. They were an asshole and a little shit, but awful? Never in a million years.

He had to find a way to curb his craving for them, out of respect for them and to remind himself that he didn't deserve good things. How he got addicted to a drug before he took it was beyond him. But they were absolutely magical so he wouldn't put it past the realm of possibility.

Exactly when he expected, he heard their motorcycle park itself in front of the porch. The roaring engine woke the butterflies in his stomach, having to stop himself from zipping around the house in excitement.

A few relaxing breaths later, Sam deemed himself ready to face Darlin'. His bloodlust was in control and his heart calmed down from the earthquake it was. He stood in front of the door, waiting for Darlin' to finally knock on the door and bless him with their parents.

An eternity later, soft knocks filled the air and his cheeks started to hurt with a smile. Of course, he gave a couple of seconds before he opened the door, not wanting to look desperate for opening the door immediately.

Eyes meeting theirs, Sam lost his breath for a few minutes. The stars he cursed earlier shone brightly in their eyes, galaxies swirling into a beautiful kaleidoscope of divine essences. His heart picked up again, giving up on controlling it and instead hoping that Darlin' can't hear the pounding in his chest.

(Momentary silence filled his brain when tranced by their gaze. He doesn't know how the fuck they did it. The voices that filled his head, of the father he abandoned and the women who condemned him, all went quiet with their smile. Only their sweet voice and unintentional sweeter words remained in his brain. Rosaries were nothing but decorative garbage to him, but they were able to silence the demons in his head. Who needs a cross when their protection was all a man needs?)

A hand waving in front of his face tore him from his thoughts. "Hello? Earth to the Cowboy? Anyone home?" they joked with him, but there was that twinge of concern in their voice. Too caring for his wicked heart.

"Yeah, everythin's good here, darlin'," he reassured, nodding while moving to the side to let the wolf in. He had to hold his breath when they walked by him, their sweet scent entering his nose and driving himself. Had he been a weaker man, he would have pinned them right where they stood, but he'd had enough experience beating himself for his desires.

Sam went into the kitchen to get some water for them, knowing that it's probably been a while since they drank a cup of water. The way they chugged down the water was all the indication he needed.

With water in their body, Darlin' got to the root of why they were there. Quinn had been sending some of his lackeys after them, to stalk and intimidate them to go back to him. So far, their efforts hadn't amounted to anything, just some poor bastards who were promised a bump in pay if they were able to bring them to him. But recently, Quinn had been sending stronger mercenaries their way. Nothing they couldn't handle, but the escalation was definitely concerning, for who knew what his next steps would be.

If his mother was here, she would have told Sam to send Darlin' off with a rosary and prayer. That would be enough to keep evil spirits away, himself included. Unfortunately for him, they would balk at the idea of having something to protect them, which was the only thing that was stopping him from becoming their bodyguard.

He had more selfish intentions though, the rotten thing he was. If he spends more time with Darlin', then he can silence the voices permanently. Their heavenly light could cast out the darkness entrenched in his heart.

Once they were finished venting about this recent development, they slumped in their seat, exhausted from their constant vigilance. Truly, they didn't deserve any hardships in life. They were too good to deserve anything like this. Blessed with a kind heart and strong resolve, why would it dare be wasted on a desolate place such as this?

God loves you, but not enough to save you.

"I didn't know you were religious," their questioning tone brought him out of his thoughts. He found it silly that they would ask a question like that until he saw what they were looking at.

It was an old crucifix on top of his fireplace, golden in colour and with various coloured gems. On it were the eyes that have been judging him since he left Mont Blanc. It had been a gift from his mother before he ran away, her way of blessing him on his journey. But it served more as a reminder of how far he's fallen from the golden boy he was all those years back.

The eyes of Jesus bore into his soul, asking him what was the point of him dying for his sins if he still turned out to be a heathen.

Hand waving in front of his face, he remembered that Darlin' was in the room with him. The heat from the crucifix's eyes died down, maybe wondering if they would deal their final blow to him.

"Yeah- um, my momma gave it to me 'fore I left home," he started to explain, finding any way to skirt this conversation and meaningfully answer their question. "She was a Southern Baptist at heart, thought a cross could save a life." He smirked at that sentiment, clearly it didn't do anything to save him. He didn't give himself any chances.

Their gaze was transfixed on the crucifix to the point where they didn't even look back to face him. Maybe it was a similar likeness that was calling out to each other? Who could know with that one.

"It's beautiful," their hazed voice filled the room. He looked back at the crucifix, not finding anything notable about it. It was just a wooden thing with a dead man on it. Nothing holy to worship, just a sign of empty promises made toward forgiveness.

If anything, the wolf in front of them was more worthy of worship and prayer, because he knew that any pact made with them would be worth it. Why pray to the dead when the living is so much better?

A genuine curiosity about their interest made him ask the question, "you religious growin' up too?" They never gave off the vibe of being God-fearing, but some people hide it better than others. Or learn how to not shove it down peoples' throats.

"I was, not Catholic though," they answered while finally turning back to face him. "Wasn't Southern Baptist either," they added with a chuckle. His wolf was filled with interesting little factoids. He couldn't imagine his Darlin' on their knees praying, but they always had a hopeful outlook that it was hard not to think they didn't believe in the divine. He hummed in acknowledgement, going back and sitting silently next to them.

"If you don't mind me asking…" their voice trailed in hesitation, a tell-tale sign that they were looking for permission to continue speaking. He nodded, giving them the OK to finish their question. Their eyes went back to the crucifix with a questioning look in their eye. "Why keep it around if you're not super religious?"

Sam understood it was a valid question to ask, even if he had a complicated answer to it. Was he supposed to tell Darlin' that he kept the cross around as his failure? That if he shut up and lived the life of pain that his parents laid out for him, then he wouldn't have ended up as the monster he was now. He hated himself and there was no one better than God to keep judging him.

"Well…" he stalled, trying to find a suitable answer. "I keep it as a reminder of where I came from," he started, only to scoff. "And where I don't want to go back to." He'd rather go through his accident again than go back to that hellscape. "'Sides, it's nothin' but a piece of wood. Ain't nothin' magical to it."

There was a contemplative look on their face, finding a way to choose their next words without touching on any sensitive subjects. Their narrowed eyes could burn a hole in the floor they were staring at and he could only wonder about the thoughts firing off in their head. (Really, he wondered if they ever thought of him with this level of intensity.)

"Do you believe in God?" they asked with a quiet tone. Now that was a question that he didn't expect from them.

"I just told ya I was raised religious," he snarked, "I don't know what you're tryin' to say."

They rolled their eyes, flicking his arm in protest of the teasing. "You're such an asshole, leech," they laughed it off and Sam was sure that was the sound of the seven trumpets. What a beautiful way to die.

They went quiet again, their eyebrows furrowed in curiosity. "You don't have to be religious to believe in God, ya know."

"Oh yeah? What 'bout you Darlin'? Do you believe in God?" he asked in retaliation, interested in what their answer would be. Part of him hoped that they didn't, that he was right in putting his faith in what he could see.

"I do," they said bluntly. It wasn't the answer he was hoping for, but he kept quiet to let them keep talking. "I was raised with the whole 'what's written with you is meant for you'. Basically, what God wants to happen will happen." They rest their head on Sam's shoulder and his arm instinctively wrapped around them. "I know most people don't like that idea, 'cuz it robs them of autonomy. But I don't know, I've always found it comforting. No matter how much bad shit happens to me, it won't be more than I can bear."

"And if it is too much for you to handle?" he questioned gently.

"Then God would write some comfort for me," they giggled. "I know it's stupid, but it's the little things that get me through the day." They yawned and made themselves comfortable on his shoulder. Sam could feel his heart pounding. "You still haven't answered my question."

He took one last look at Darlin', with their pretty face trying to fight off the exhaustion that caught up to them. He couldn't stop staring at their eyes. Sweet and forgiving, they were the eyes he wished would look at them whenever he went to church. They were what God's gaze was supposed to be, free from the hate and judgement he suffered from the congregation. Maybe if they were guiding him from the start, then none of this would have happened. They wouldn't allow any bad things to happen to him.

(Then again, if he was never turned then he wouldn't have met Darlin'. Or at least they would meet in a drastically different context. He wouldn't have the chance to fall in love with them. So maybe Darlin' was right that there was a light at the end of the tunnel for everyone. He just can't believe that he deserved that respite.)

Contemplation be damned, there was no point in thinking about the question when he already knew the answer. "Yeah, suppose I still believe in God, just found it on my own terms." They didn't need to know that they were the only God that he believed in. His mind already started building the shrines in their honour, wondering if they would ever be enough to share his love for them.

It was much easier than saying the words 'I love you'. He may never have the courage (or the right) to say those words.

"I'm glad… that you could tell me…" their voice teemed with yawns and sleep. He chuckled, of course Darlin' would push back on precious sleep in order to listen to his response. That simple action did more for him than any divine being he was forced to worship.

Gently as he could, knowing that Darlin' was a light sleeper, he picked them up and brought them to his spare bedroom. As much as he so wanted to bring them to his bed, that was a big step that neither of them were ready for. Hell, they haven't even hinted that it was something they would be interested in, and his heart wouldn't survive precious Darlin' sleeping in his bed. But it was ok, he would wait an eternity to be with them.

Sam watched them as they slept, eyeing the little details that they hid in their waking moments. Like how their eyebrows were so expressive, or the way their lip scar would stretch with their smile.

This was so very wrong. Watching them sleep, observing them so carefully, he was being a fucking creep for this. But he couldn't help but not look away. Darlin' was so reserved in their waking moments, and he wanted to see them at their most vulnerable. Even if he was tainting them with his corruption, leave him be! He deserves to be a remorseless, selfish thing once in a while. They were so endearing in their sleeping state, and he promised to always protect them in all of their glory. From their sweet eyes and beautiful body and split lip-

There was blood dripping from their face.

His mouth watered before the intoxicating scent hit his nose. Sam froze where he stood, torn between the want to lick the blood of his face and the need to leave. His heart versus his conscience. He had fed only an hour ago and of course, their blood was enough to make him starve again. His shaky hands wiped the blood from their face and then quickly cleaned it off with a napkin in his pocket, not even giving himself the chance to taste it.

He ran out of the room, locking the door behind him to keep them safe from him. His chest heaved with panic, heart racing a marathon. It wasn't fair that Darlin's blood had this much of an effect on them, but it wasn't their fault either. This was Sam's problem to deal with, and he'd be damned if he made his Darlin' feel guilty over something they had no control over.

Calming himself to a reasonable point, he made his way back to the kitchen. Sam opened up the damn fridge to grab another damn blood bag and a bottle of bourbon, sliding onto the floor and chugging it all over again. If only he was normal, then he would just slip into bed and cuddle his wolf, and not run out at the sight of something as simple as blood.

At this point, he's sure that Darlin' would never want him. They've told him little bits and pieces about their relationship with Quinn, and how absolutely vile he was to them. From biting them without their consent to pressuring them into taking care of him, it's no wonder that they would be a little hesitant to jump into another relationship with a vampire. He had his own gripes with Alexis. But Sam was coming to the awful realisation that he was more like Quinn than he thought.

Shame and disgust filled his throat once again. It wasn't fair that Darlin' was stuck with monster after monster, they deserved so much better than him. Yet he couldn't help the jealous bile that filled his mouth at the thought of Darlin' with another person. What an awful predicament.

He gazed back at the crucifix with judging eyes. Only they weren't as harsh this time. Still judging as ever, but this time there was a hint of… was it encouragement? That wasn't the right term, but it was as if they were nudging him on a certain path. If he was truly willing to repent and walk the path of salvation, then somehow Darlin' would be a part of that journey.

He let out a wistful laugh, finding it impossible that Darlin' would ever want to waste their time 'fixing' him. But there was a corner of his heart, one where a sliver of light made its presence known.

Maybe God does love you enough to save you. Maybe they were God all along.

#redacted asmr #redacted audio #redacted fanfic #redacted sam #redacted darlin #IM GOING BACK TO MY ROOTS #TO MY FAVE COUPLE!!!!#hot boi summer springback #zo writes tingz #this is zo speaking

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bambisspeckles · 29 days

Text

A Cigarette, A Guiding Light, My Guardian Angel

Simon 'Ghost' Riley x Reader

*pics for aesthetic purposes only!

CW: simon is kinda gross (its my fav simon im sorry), depictions of a mildly unhealthy relationship but everyones happy, reader is going through it, simon also has his own issues but nothing is specifically mentioned, very light religious themes (literally one paragraph), simon is also a little mean but like teasing mean, mild editing, lmk if i missed anything!!

WC: 3.6k (oops!)

Summary: Simon finds a stray, only it's not an animal: It's you.

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It's winter again.

The cold, biting air nips at your skin as you wander the streets streets of Manchester, your mind in a constant daze. You've been wandering for awhile now, traveling on trains, staying in hostels, shelters, and sketchy hotels, with no place to call home, the one you once had a place you vowed never to return to. It's scary, lonely, the world feels so big when you wander with only the clothes on your back and a few things to your name.

You get desperate, especially during times like this. It's so cold out and your winter coat is wearing, seams splitting apart, and new holes appearing on the fabric everyday. You've tried shelters but most are full, not that you'd be able to afford to stay long anyhow, and hostels in Manchester cost too much per night. You're exhausted, your feet blistering, and your shitty winter boots are rubbing against the back of your ankle. You feel much like the sky above, dark, gray, cloudy.

Sometimes you consider knocking on peoples doors, begging for shelter and a hot meal but the fantasy ends as quickly as it begins, there's no point in begging for something people won't give you. You don't entirely blame these hypothetical strangers though, the world is crazy and hard, most of them are probably barely holding on themselves, how could you expect them to take care of you, even if only for a night. Not to mention it's dangerous for them, what if you're crazy? You're not but they don't know that. You don't know if they're crazy either.

That might be a chance you're willing to take though.

The sun is beginning to set and the air is growing frostier by the minute, you know shops will close soon so you'll only be able to camp out in them for so long. You wonder if it's even worth it, going into a nice warm cafe only to be kicked to the bitter cold is almost worst than just staying it, the warm and cozy atmosphere taunting you with what you can't have. It's cruel, begging on the street, the looks of pity from strangers, it all feels like one humiliation game, like god is taking pleasure in watching you lie down like a kicked dog.

Some nights you beg him to take you out, others you beg him to provide you hope, a guiding light, a guardian angel, anything that might give you hope to keep trudging on. It is said in times of struggle people either turn to god, or walk away from him.

You think you're somewhere in between.

Something snaps you out of your thoughts, a shadowy figure walking down a dark alleyway you were passing by. You know better than to follow monsters into the dark, and maybe if you were still the girl you once knew, you'd shrug it off and continue down the sidewalk, just like anyone else would. Only you're not like anyone else now. You're detached from society, the dirt on the bottom of people's shoes, you're not even sure you're seen as human anymore.

You can call but no one will answer.

It's normal for your, how have people put it? Your kind, to reside in alleyways, dark hallways the rest of the world wouldn't dare to touch. It's where the dirty go, the sick go, the broken go. You think you fit that bill well now, and since you do, you ignore the way your gut screams at you to turn around, and run back to the light. You've learned there is no hope in the light, so perhaps you'll find it in the dark. You walk further into the alley, the darkness making it feel like a never-ending tunnel. Everything you expect to be there is there, used needles and empty bottles, bodies slumped over, you're not quite sure if they're dead or alive.

Dirty. Broken. Sick.

Everything is there, everything except what you're looking for. You not even sure what it is, all you know is that you haven't found it yet. Perhaps it's not a thing you're looking for, maybe it's a person. Darkness envelopes you like a cold, uncomforting blanket, it feels like tendrils of murkiness are wrapping around your body, pulling you further into your own misery. You're not really sure how long you walked, it was likely only a few minutes but with the state of your mind it felt like hours. You can tell you've finally reached the end when you can squint and see a brick wall in front of you.

God, what did you expect. It was a whole load of nothing, of course it was. The cold was probably getting to you and you can't imagine you're in the best mental state at the moment, of course you're not! You just walked down a dark alleyway, I mean no one willingly does that unless they're mentally unwell and-

"You shouldn' follow strange men into dark alleyways girl." A deep, gravelly voice pulls you out of your thoughts. You take a quick moment to collect yourself, your voice practically a squeak as you talk.

"W- what makes you think I was following you." The man laughs at that and you finally turn to look in his direction, the orange glow of a cigarette butt guiding your gaze towards him.

'Wha' else would you be following? Or are you tryin' to tell me you walked down an alleyway jus' cause." There's a cocky, almost teasing lilt in his voice. It makes you scowl, not that he can see.

"I don't know why I came down here." You reply honestly and there's a helplessness that unwillingly seeps through your voice. You're afraid it reveals too much.

You hear the man huff at your words before he speaks again.

"Go home. S' not safe for such a little' bird like you to be out here all alone." You faintly feel the thick smoke from his cigarette as he blows out, tendrils of ash caressing your skin

"I don't have one, not anymore." You're not sure why you tell him this. He doesn't care, he can't save you.

Perhaps, foolishly, you hope he will.

"Bit dramatic are you?" The man takes another drag of his cigarette and you huff at is words.

"I'm not being dramatic, it's true. I don't have a home, I thought it'd be obvious with my unsightly appearance." He chuckles at that.

"Can't see you well in the dark… Perhaps we should step into the light, hm?" You hear the man shift in place for a moment, the sound of ruffling clothes filling your ears.

"There's not much to see in the light either." There's a beat of silence before the man speaks once more, his shadowy figure leaning closer to you.

"Come home with me bird." It's more of a demand than a question.

"I'm not some whore for hire." The bite in your voice causes him to grunt rather harshly, flecks of orange ember falling onto your skin.

"M' not tryin' to fuck you. Said' you got no where to go, m' offerin' you a place to stay. Take it or leave it bird." He blows out one final puff of smoke before the orange glow of the cigarette butt slowly dissipates into the night, the odd comfort of the dull light dissipating with it.

You clench your jaw for a moment, the sound of your grinding teeth filling the tense silence. Perhaps if you were still the person of your past, you'd say no, but if you were the person of your past you wouldn't be here at all. You're no longer integrated into society, no longer part of a community, you have nothing and no one yet the world keeps spinning, how foolish you were to think you mattered at all. Who are you to think you're above anyone else? Everyone just wants the same as you, a warm bed and a hot meal.

There are many paths to the same place after all.

With a long, breathy sigh, you nod into the darkness and though you doubt the man can see it, he somehow knows you've said yes.

"Smart thing you are." He coos at you so softly and it makes your stomach twist, though the underlying purr of his words makes your heart thrum just a bit.

Not that you'd say that out loud. \ You don't feel very smart at the moment, but who knows, maybe the monster in the dark can offer you more than an angel in the light.

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Simon knows better than to pick up strays, especially one as clueless as her, they're more trouble than it's worth; Dirty, sick, broken. He already has to continuously pick up the pieces of his past, millions of little shards that he has to take the time to glue back together, over and over again, he doesn't want to do that for anything else. He's always been firm in it too. Johnny constantly pokes fun at him, telling him his heart is colder than he originally thought, that perhaps he'd find a bit of joy in a disheveled little thing.

Johnny probably meant a cat though.

Instead, Simon's got himself his very own bird. He had no intention of caging you, truly he didn't, he was content to send you on your way, send you out of his life. But when the moonlight hit your features just right, a vulnerable glow in your eye visible, and the helplessness in your voice seeped out, he couldn't help himself. Simon never acts based off his wants, off his selfishness, but perhaps just once, he could have a pet of his own.

So that's what he does. He takes you, and you don't put up much of a fight. Willingly following him out of the dark alley and back into society, bright street lights causing him to squint his eyes. He asks your name and you tell him so sweetly. You're scared and unsure, he wants to tell you not to worry, that he's a bad man but he'd never hurt a helpless thing like you. Eyes all wide and glassy, furrowed brows, and pouty lips. He wonders how such a soft bird like you ended up shunned from the world. You don't look like a junkie, and you told him yourself your no whore for hire, when he looks at you all he sees is a helpless kitten, separated from all her purebred friends, and tossed outside for tomcats like him.

You fidget anxiously when he ushers you towards his car, his calloused hand moving onto your lower back to guide you softly, causing you to stiffen up for a moment. He chuckles meanly at that. Your fretting continues in the car and Simon's not sure what more he can do to calm you down, after all, he's never dealt with a stray before.

He resolves to leave you be, eventually you'll realize that his home is yours, that you're safe now, that he'll take care of you. You'll let yourself be pampered by him and he'll have a trophy to show off to the world, a pretty little thing perched on his arm like a good little bird.

Simon doesn't like strays, but he sure does like you.

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The man tells you his name his Simon and he doesn't tell you much more, you don't bother asking anything else, maybe you should. He takes you to his home, it's empty and lifeless, you think it speaks on the kind of man he is, you're not sure if it should scare you. You linger in the entryway unsure of what to do, it feels strange to be in a home, strange in a way you never thought it could. You feel out of place, uncomfortable, there's something inside you screaming, telling you to run away. Unfortunately, you don't want to play the cards you've been dealt and now you're forced to draw. Perhaps it's a mistake, if it is you're not sure you care.

"You jus' goin' to stand there bird?" Simon's voice startles you, pulling you out of your dazed state.

"Sorry…" You're quiet, a bit shy even, and you're not sure how to feel about the smirk that grows on Simon's face at your discomfort.

"Nothin' to apologize for," He says gruffly. "Come inside." So you do. Shuffling your feet against the wooden floorboards as you make your way over to him.

He guides you into the kitchen, a rough hand on your lower back as he silently urges you to take a sit in a small dining chair. You don't move for a moment so he drags the chair out for you, it's wooden legs screeching against the floor. He stares at you as you settle and you can't quite tell what he's looking for. You're in such a vulnerable state, emotionally rubbed raw, and physically you're sure you're much weaker than before. It's scary, and with his gaze your palms begin to sweat.

You wonder if this is what being prey feels like? Bottom of the food chain; the weakest link.

Simon feels much like a predator, stalking you, watching you. At any moment he could decide to rip you open, take whatever he wants from you, leaving your carcass behind as evidence of what he's done. He watches you for a few moments longer before his gravely voice breaks through the stillness.

"You must be hungry bird, why don' we get you somethin' to eat?" You nod at him timidly and he grunts back before turning around to rummage in his fridge.

"Don' have much to eat right now…" His voice trails off for a moment before it picks up again. "Can order take out, unless you're starvin' right this second." You shake your head at him, a pathetic 'no' escaping your lips. He tilts his head a bit and you realize 'no' may have been to vauge.

"I can wait." Your voice suddenly finds you again but it's still nothing more than a whisper.

He hums at you before picking up his phone and dialing a number. He places an order of what sounds like Chinese food and then hangs up the phone, the clacking of the screen against the tiled countertops causing you to cringe a bit.

"S' the only place open this late," He explains suddenly. "Would've asked you wha' you want but nothin' else is open." You shrug your shoulders and he chuckles at you.

"Timid thing you are, you know that bird?" You don't respond but he doesn't expect you to. Instead, he opens the fridge again, pulling out a half empty of beer before turning on his heels and walking over to his couch.

You watch as he sinks down into the cushions, the fabric stained and worn down, sipping on his beer while watching whatever happened to be on TV. You stay sat in his dining chair, eyes trained on his hulking figure sat on the couch, your body fidgeting in the uncomfortable piece of furniture. You want to speak but the words feel heavy on your tongue, to be honest you're not even sure what you'd say.

"You think loud." His gruff voice cuts through your dazed state and you jump in your seat.

"Sorry…" It's all you can think to say, you're not even sure what you're sorry for. You think maybe you're sorry for letting someone see you like this, weak and pathetic, sorry for letting him see you so timid and scared, not because you feel pity for him.

But because you pity yourself.

"Come on," He pats the small space next to him on the couch. "Doubt' you've had any good entertainment for a while… I know I haven't." The way he speaks sends a shive down your spine, the look in his eye nothing short of predatory. That's when it really clicks in your head that this man, Simon, isn't a good man. He didn't take you in because kindness blooms from his heart, he took you in because you're his prey, his pet.

You stare at him for a moment before shuffling over to the couch and plopping down into the stiff cushions. He makes a pleased sound at your obedience and it both fills you with butterflies and maggots, you feel disgusted at yourself for enjoying the scrap of praise he provides. You barely even know this man but every instinct in you is telling you to please him, to let him do what he wants to you, and in turn you get taken care of.

Or maybe, you'll only ensnare yourself more.

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Simon isn't sure how he's meant to take care of a stray like you. You're skittish, you jump at his voice and tense at his touch, it makes him grind his teeth together, struggling to resist the urge to sink his teeth into your soft skin until you submit. He doesn't want to scare, for once in his life he wants something soft to call his own, but the first step to caging a bird and clipping it's wings is getting it to trust you and he's truly lost on how to do that.

Logically, he know it will take time, but this is one of the rare moments he's not sure he has the strength in him to be patient. He knows he has to be, you're scared and playing the game of survival, pushing you too fast will only frighten you but it's hard for him to stray from his ways. Seldom can you teach an old dog new tricks.

Perhaps he needs help, someone who knows what scared little strays need to feel loved and safe. Simon has already bought you food, he really thought a clueless kitten like you would be cuddled up to him by now. He understands though, and one day you will too. He decides to ask Johnny, something he'd normally avoid doing but he's got a knack for taming strays.

Afterall he tamed Simon.

Once you've been bathed and fed he sent you off to sleep, ushering you into his tiny bedroom, gray bedsheets still tucked under the mattress. He thought it was cute that you felt guilty for taking the bed, and he had to assure you many times that it was alright and he'd be fine, though your pouty lip was quite the (unintentional) invitation to share the bed. When he was sure you were tucked in for the night he slipped out onto his balcony to call Johnny.

"Johnny." Simon could hear his own voice crackle through Johnny's side of the line.

"Lt! Callin me so late at night aye? M' I your booty call sir?" He could hear Soap chuckle on the other end of the line and he let out an exasperated sigh at that.

"Need your help Johnny." He can hear the Scotsman shift around a bit and he stifles a snort at the image of Johnny sitting up right in his chair over this.

"Aye, of course Ghost." Simon huffs out through his nose, his eyes fluttering shut for a moment.

"How d'ya take care of a stray?"

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Things have gotten better with Simon. He's still grumpy and stoic, and truthfully he treats you more like a pet than a person, but (not so) secretly you think you like it. At first you were worried he'd take advantage of your vulnerability but he never really did, you always did what he said and that kept Simon satisfied. On the rare occasion you messed something up or didn't do what he asked of you, he make a point not to yell at you, instead he'd squeeze you tight and lowly tell you to 'quit your cryin'.'

You would both make a point to ignore the shivers it sent down your spine.

Perhaps your unorthodox relationship with Simon wasn't the healthiest, you were entirely dependent on him and you both liked it that way. Simon made sure you knew you had freedom, he gave you many opportunities to take advantage of it but you never did and you think that was his plan all along. You were already broken, all he had to do was build you back up, shape you exactly the way he wanted, and then you'd never run.

Not that you think you'd want to either way.

He wasn't mean, or cruel, just a bit twisted and lonely. He never hurt you, or treated you unfairly, you were his bird, and he made sure you knew that.

As the months transpired you find that you've grown grossly infatuated with him. He took you in, nursed you back to health, gave you all the attention and love that you needed to blossom and now you're completely his. Simon had his issues, you had yours, but somehow they mesh together in a way that creates a peace rather than chaos. It was a mundane, domestic life that both of you were content with.

Perhaps if you were still the old you, you'd hate him more than anything, but you now understand broken people more intimately than anyone would ever want to, and somehow it's been the greatest gift life has handed to you. When Simon holds you close, squeezes you tight, and tells you how much you're his, you find it hard to do anything besides melt into him, to feel anything besides adoration.

You were two broken people that somehow made a whole, and you were lucky you did. It could've been so much worse, things could have been so much harder, but he saved you, and though he'd never say it out loud, you saved him too.

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AHHH! I'm so freaking sorry for my absence, 12th grade is the year of dealing with many things so I've been super busy with it all! I wrote bits and pieces of this during my free time so it might not be entirely cohesive but I pray its good enough! Love and miss you all dearly <3 take care of yourself MWAH!!

as always likes and reblogs are appreciated <3

#bambidelivers #bambisscrolls #call of duty #cod #cod mw2 #ghost cod #ghost x reader #simon riley x reader #requests open

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seakicker · 2 years

Note

hello i have returned w priest childe food

as ofc the reader is a naive nun, they had no idea what to do with this growing situation between their legs. in fact, reader believes that this was some sort of force was trying to tempt them away from their duties. considering how well they trust childe as he was the one who took them in, they go to him for help. little would they know, reader would end up bent over the podium, taking his massive cock over and over and over again while reciting a prayer of salvation that he deemed necessary for this ritual

yes yes yes, this indeed... it's easy to feed you lies when it comes to sex and intimacy when he's starting with a total blank slate. he doesn't have to go through the process of reversing or overriding what you already know when you don't know anything... he very well could convince you that children are made when two people who love each other hold hands lmfao

cw: afab + gn reader, reader is a nun and childe is the head priest. religious themes/talk, emotional manipulation, reader is Desperate for approval, dubious consent (reader consents but because of the idea of "i need to do this" rather than active sexual desire), abuse of power/authority, no foreplay/childe pushes into you when you're kinda dry

also crossposted to ao3 if you prefer to read content there.

It is not within a nun’s line of duty to indulge.

Your tiny little monastery bedroom is noticeably devoid of any furniture or decorations beyond your bed, desk, dresser, and bedside book compiling all of the church’s values and teachings in their service to the Tsaritsa. You get by with only what you must; you don’t waste your money on frivolous, unnecessary items to enhance your appearance or show off any sort of social standing. You sustain yourself with simple, basic foods like potato soup and bread; any food item more fanciful would be better either gifted to the homeless or to the Tsaritsa Herself as an offering.

If you have the money to throw at purchases of expensive clothing, fine dining, or fancy interior decorations, then you have the money to donate to the church or otherwise put to better use than downright wasting it on yourself.

Just as it is not their duty to indulge in the more tangible pleasures of mankind, a nun needn’t concern themselves with relationships outside of that of the one between them and the Tsaritsa. Needless to say, romantic and sexual relationships are explicitly forbidden— such depraved encounters only serve as distractions from your one true duty: your service to the Tsaritsa.

Save for the Archon Herself, no figure has been more vital to the development and enhancement of your faith in the Tsaritsa and Her kindness, loyalty to the Greater Cathedral of Snezhnaya as a gesture of gratitude for all the kindness it has blessed you with, and insistence on always being the best representation of Her you can be than the monastery’s head priest Tartaglia.

It’s hard to remember anything of note from your life prior to joining the Church— Tartaglia took you in about two years ago out of the goodness of his own heart as a member of the clergy; he mentioned that he is but a vessel for the Tsaritsa’s divine kindness and that it is his duty as a direct representative of her to pay that kindness forward. Turning his back on a destitute, helpless being, someone created in the Tsaritsa’s own image at that— you’re just as much a creation of Her as he is—like yourself at the time would have gone against everything the Church stands for.

A whispered promise to deliver you from the vices and horrors of man and into the warm, loving embrace of the Tsaritsa was all it took for you to accept Tartaglia’s invitation to the Church. You would have accepted any offer of food and shelter at that time— whether or not it was simply luck or divine fate that it was Tartaglia who found you, cold and ill and alone, is beyond your comprehension. As far as you’re concerned, it’s both— who alive could show you more kindness than Tartaglia has throughout the past two years?

In addition to his otherworldly kindness, Tartaglia has shown you no shortage of patience since he took you in and insisted to personally teach you in the gospel of the Tsaritsa and personally train you in all the duties of a good, faithful nun. His affectionate nickname of “little lamb” has stuck with you ever since he first called you a lost one: a wayward, helpless, lost little lamb in dire need of the Tsaritsa’s— and his— guiding hand. He dressed you in the warm, soft dress and robes customary of all nuns, a massive upgrade from the tattered, worn clothes he found you in. When he had asked you if they fit your body comfortably, you didn’t tell him that they felt a little tight around your bust or your hips— beggars can’t be choosers, and all of his teachings of gratitude and thankfulness would go to waste were you to have the audacity to complain about a brand-new, clean, fresh outfit, wouldn’t they? Who on Tsaritsa’s green planet would even dream of complaining about anything when they previously had nothing?

You know better. Even if you didn’t know better before, you certainly do now— Tartaglia’s gentle guidance has taught you at least that much.

“Little lamb,” Tartaglia calls, resting a hand over yours as you go to flip a page in the Scripture book you’re holding. A chronicle of the Tsaritsa’s historical feats and accomplishments in addition to her dream for all of Snezhnaya, rather all of Teyvat, serves as the basis for the Church’s teachings, and Tartaglia personally ensures that you don’t fall behind on your readings by meeting with you every Monday evening. The desolate silence of the Cathedral after hours serves as the location for these studies— it allows you to immerse yourself in the grandiosity and significance of the Cathedral while you read.

He clears his throat and repeats himself. “Little lamb, stay focused.”

You smile sheepishly like a child caught sneaking a treat. “I’m sorry,” you offer, glancing over at Tartaglia’s gloved hand resting on your bare one.

He hums. “Something on your mind?”

Ah. He’s always been able to see right through you— whereas someone else may have just concluded that you were growing bored of reading after having done so for three hours straight, Tartaglia deduces that your mind is elsewhere. He deduces not that you’re bored of the Tsartisa’s divine accomplishments because you’re a good, dutiful, dignified nun who would never, ever tire of hearing of Her feats. He can confidently assert that you’re everything a nun representing the Tsaritsa should be because he personally taught you everything you know.

Your cheeks grow hot with embarrassment. Allowing your mind to wander when you should be focusing on Her teachings is mortifying enough, but being caught daydreaming by Tartaglia is leagues more humiliating. “It’s nothing, I promise. Surely nothing more deserving of my attention than our studies.”

Tartaglia hums again as if he’s in thought then moves to close your book, resting his hand on the front cover. “Well, if it’s important enough to distract you from our readings, then it has to be worth hearing out, right?”

You didn’t think of it that way. Finally forcing yourself to make eye contact with him, you take a deep breath to steady yourself and begin speaking. “It’s embarrassing, really,” you force a shaky laugh in an attempt to lighten the mood… or maybe it’s to distract you from the fact that the useless, wasteful wandering of your mind just caused Tartaglia to end your lessons early.

“It’s just that I…” Your voice grows quieter and quieter the more you attempt to speak.

Tartaglia leans in closer, giving your hand a reassuring squeeze. “You can say it, little lamb.”

“It’s humiliating, truly,” you finally continue. “But recently I… I’ve been having thoughts in need of purging, sir. M-More frequently than usual— they’ve only grown in frequency and intensity since our last cleansing.”

Thoughts in need of purging or, in other words, sexual thoughts that you’ve been taught to never, ever indulge because nuns do not indulge in lust. At first, the thoughts were infrequent enough to the point where you could effortlessly ignore them— even just the slightest distraction buried these thoughts completely. You could opt to sweep the Cathedral or tidy up your quarters and the thoughts would be gone just like that.

The timeline gets fuzzier the more you attempt to recall it, but you guess that those thoughts first appeared about three months or so following when Tartaglia first took you in. You didn’t actually confess them until about six months into your mentorship under him, and he was quick to offer you a method to truly purge— not just suppress— your mind and heart of these lustful thoughts.

However, those thoughts have yet to be truly purged. You must be broken— the thoughts have only increased exponentially following each and every cleansing session; whenever you and Tartaglia finish, your thoughts only grow more intense than before and you find yourself caught between the shame of confessing your moral degradation and the guilt of living silently with your thoughts. The idea of confessing that despite all Tartaglia’s patience and kindness with you and the cleansing rituals, your thoughts have only grown lewder and darker and nastier… how would that make you look? How could you ever look him in the eye and tell him that you fear you’re getting worse despite all his attempts to help you get better?

Despite your internal conflict, you always, always confessed— you’ve probably had about seven of your private cleansing sessions with Tartaglia now. He taught you to never keep sins a secret, whether you actually acted on them or not.

He doesn’t say anything for a moment— the minute of silence feels like thirty years and you begin to brace yourself for the firm scolding you deserve rather than the warm understanding he continues to undeservingly spoil you with. You wouldn’t be upset if he were to reprimand you or punish you for your incessant sinning— it’s what you deserve more than you deserve even an ounce of his kindness.

That scolding never comes, however, and once those metaphorical thirty years have passed, he clears his throat, removes his hand from yours, and leans back in his seat. “I understand, little lamb. I’m glad you’re being honest about it.”

“Hey, look at me,” he coaxes. You didn’t even really notice that your gaze fell down to your lap rather than looking up at him until this request; surely it would have been more polite and sincere of you to look him in the eye while confessing the depths of your sins.

“I’m sorry,” you rasp, hesitantly (and finally) looking him in the eye per his request. “I’m so sorry, sir. You’ve been doing so much to help me curb these thoughts and they still… I still…”

He shushes you with a soft shh, taking your hand in his once more and smoothing his thumb over the back of your hand. “Sweetheart, it’s my job to help you and guide you. You know that. If I were the type to give up on you for failing once or twice or even a hundred times, what kind of mentor would I be? Little lamb, our cleansing sessions are important to me because I can see that you’re improving.”

His kindness knows no bounds. Whereas he could have chosen to curse you or damn you for your incessant lustful thoughts, he instead expressed patience and understanding.

Because Tartaglia is a kind, patient, and understanding man.

“I guess that means another session is in order, huh, little lamb?” Tartaglia prompts you, a smile pulling at the corner of his lips. “We’ll continue our readings tomorrow once you’re… less distracted.”

You laugh hesitantly, having been reminded of the utter humiliation of interrupting your weekly readings before you finished them by being too busy having lustful thoughts instead. You slowly rise to your feet and make your way over to the center podium where Tartaglia conducts all of his sermons— your cleansing rituals always take place right here because it’s, in his words, the holiest place in the entire monastery.

You’re mortified. Humiliated. Here you are, a stupid wench of a nun who can’t seem to learn how to properly behave despite all of Tartaglia’s attempts at helping you. How long will you continue to test his patience, reverse his efforts, and take advantage of his kindness? When will you ever, ever learn?

The sound of Tartaglia’s chair sliding against the cool marble floor alerts you that he’s ready to begin as well. He makes his way over to you and stands just behind you, a strong hand settling reassuringly on your hip through the thin cotton of your floor-length standard dress.

He chuckles in a manner you’ve never heard from him before. There’s an unsettling sort of darkness in the way he laughs, his right hand gripping your hip and the left seizing hold of your chin to turn your head slightly towards him. Were you in the position to even dream of questioning him, you would probably find yourself unnerved by the sound— but you are in no position to doubt the man who’s shown you nothing but kindness since the day he met you. When you’re a lowly, sinful, wasteful little nun, you don’t have the right to doubt a man leagues more powerful, wiser, and well-versed in the Tsaritsa’s teachings than you are.

These are not the depraved cackles of a man outside of the Church’s influence staking claim on a pliant, unwitting toy. Tartaglia would never steer you wrong, he would never do anything outside of your best interests as an aspiring member of the Church, he would never hurt you.

Because Tartaglia is a kind, patient, and understanding man.

He caresses your chin and hums a hymn you recognize from his sermons. “I must admit,” he whispers, gazing at you with an expression you couldn’t begin to decipher— it’s some mix of rueful bitterness, anticipation, and sadism. “I’ve been guiding you for two years now, and to see progress this slow… it does make me wonder if you’ll ever learn,” Tartaglia breathes against your lips, grinning salaciously in a way wholly unbefitting of a priest. “It’d be wrong of me to deem one of the Tsaritsa’s subjects a lost cause, but…”

Chuckling again, he releases your chin from his grip and traces a thumb up the swell of your cheek. Is he checking for tears? “But you?” He finally continues. “I’m starting to wonder if you’re even able to be redeemed. If it’s gotten to the point where you can’t even focus on your usual readings… maybe you’re just not cut out for this sort of thing, huh?”

Practically immediately following the last syllable that leaves Tartaglia’s mouth, a pained gasp escapes you and your eyes go wide with a sort of frantic horror. “No! Please, no, I’ll do— I’ll do anything!” Tears threaten to spill from your eyes as you beg him, plead him, implore him to help you— you really, truly would do anything to remain in the Tsaritsa’s— no, in his— good graces.

He says nothing when you drop to your knees before him in a desperate display of submission, clumsily knocking one of your feet against the base of the podium. A tear falls from your eye and you don’t stop your body from throwing itself at his feet, clinging to the sweeping skirts of his robes like a lifeline. “Please, sir,” you wail pathetically, sobbing and sobbing and sobbing as if your filthy, self-victimizing tears will wash away the grime of your sins.

While not undeserved even in the slightest nor totally unexpected, his sudden cruelty has you feeling more terrified than anything you’ve ever experienced in your life. Has he finally run out of patience? Has the dutiful, kind, intelligent Tartaglia who took you in when you didn’t have even a single mora to your name grown fed up with your stagnating progress? Have you gone backwards despite all the sessions you’ve gone through with him? Is he beginning to view his decision to take you in as a mistake? Is he going to brand your salvation a fruitless endeavor, forsake you, and throw you back out onto the streets of which he first plucked you from?

No. You won’t let that happen. He’s given you so much and you won’t let all of his time and efforts go to waste— you will improve. You will not simply indulge in his kindness while keeping it from changing your heart; you will take his teachings and allow yourself to be born anew as the spitting image of a follow of the Tsartisa.

“Please forgive me,” you wail weakly, throat already feeling hoarse. With your mind gone and your desperation controlling your body’s autopilot feature, you bury your face in the fabric of his robe and continue to cry and cry and cry.

Unbeknownst to you, Tartaglia smiles.

“I forgive you,” he notes simply. “But you’re not trying to earn my forgiveness, are you? You’ll need to work for Her forgiveness if you’d like to really show me what a sweet, dutiful nun you can be.

I forgive you, he said. You suck in a shaky breath and do your best to quiet your body-wracking sobs into tiny, pitiful hiccups and coughs instead. Tartaglia looks down at you with all the empathy of a stranger passing a wounded animal on the street and you buckle against him, your arms wrapping around his legs.

“Let’s not waste any more time, alright?” Tartaglia says with a grin, prompting you to bashfully apologize again and clumsily rise to your feet. He doesn’t need to ask you to bend yourself over the podium because you know the process plenty well by now— the cleansing ritual involves partaking in behavior nuns are typically required to swear off, so if that fact alone doesn’t inform you of the desperation of the whole situation, nothing will. If Tartaglia deems it fit to break your vow of celibacy— and you would never even dream of questioning the logic behind this— in order to purge you of your sins, then you’ll accept no matter what.

He hums in approval at your obedience. You catch on quickly… it’s a shame that you don’t truly internalize his teachings and learn quickly.

“It’s okay, little lamb,” he reassures you, gently clutching your dress and lifting the fabric slowly until he’s exposed your ass to the cool Cathedral air. “You’ll do well tonight— just as you always do, right?”

You will. You’ll do so well tonight. You’ll behave and perform better than you ever have because you need to— it’s one thing to mess up your first time and a whole different thing to mess up your eighth time. You won’t let Tartaglia’s guidance go to waste, you won’t allow yourself to go to waste so long as he sees potential in you, and you won’t give up as long as Tartaglia continues to view you worthy of molding, changing, and shaping into the ideal nun.

It’ll be okay.

Slowly working your white panties down your thighs, Tartaglia gently parts your legs wider by knocking his foot against your ankles, all but kicking you open to give him some room to work with. You don’t feel as wet this time as you have in past sessions… does that mean your body’s ridding itself of all your sin and lust? He taught you that wetness is a sign of your body’s cravings, and if you’re no longer growing wet… that’s a good thing, right? The thought alone fills you with hope that you are not, in fact, a lost cause.

The initial push of Tartaglia’s cock into your entrance hurts. You don’t deduce that it’s because you’re not all that wet this time— no, you decide that it’s because your sins are finally leaving your body and because nothing worth having ever comes easily. The pain is a sign that the ritual’s working as far as you’re concerned… and you breathe a shaky sigh of relief amidst your whimpers of pain as he continues to push inch after inch of himself into you.

“Thank you,” you wheeze as your body attempts to relax around him. “Thank you for taking pity on me and… guiding me.” Just as you bent over his podium without being asked, you clasp your hands together in prayer before Tartaglia can ask you to— if you want to show him how obedient and receptive to his teachings you can be, it’s now or never.

It hurts, but you don’t complain. Why would you ever complain when he’s trying to help you? Why would you complain when this is surely your body’s way of notifying you that your sins are leaving it?

“There you go,” Tartaglia grunts, cursing under his breath because you’re so fucking tight— he’ll have to remind himself that you’re not really one he can skip foreplay with, especially not when you’re this much of a wreck. “I knew you could do it, little lamb. I’ve always believed in you, you know. I’ve always thought that you’re special.”

You barely have the mental capacity or rationality to compare these praises to his prior comments about you potentially being a lost cause.

Your body adapts quickly enough— the stress of the somewhat dry entrance causes your body to quickly overcompensate, producing enough juices as possible in a limited timeframe in order to allow Tartaglia a relatively comfortable slide in and out of your pussy. He figures that nerves are to blame (or thank, in his case?) for your sudden insane tightness, your pussy squeezing up so tight he can barely manage to pull out. Oh sweet Tsaritsa, he thinks with a sleazy grin. This sort of nun is the best there is.

“Your prayers, little lamb,” Tartaglia reminds you, grinning when you gasp out another apology for being so pitifully forgetful. It’s a prayer he himself wrote just for this occasion; just for you— that should prove the depths of his love and concern for you enough, right?

Nodding your head in understanding, you bow your head down to hang between your arms. “My Royal Highness, the divine Tsaritsa,” you begin quietly, crying out for Tartaglia when he blesses you with a thrust so deep you feel it all the way in your belly. “I plead for Your forgiveness. Forgive my transgressions and pardon my sins. Though I—”

A moan of Tartaglia’s name falls from your lips and cuts your prayer short. Your priest seizes hold of your hips and all but jackhammers into you from behind, slaps resounding throughout the empty Cathedral as you pitifully attempt to complete your prayer amidst the sinful, sinful pleasure Tartaglia’s drowning you in.

“Though I,” you repeat yourself, starting the sentence from the top. “Though I may be imperfect, and though I may act in ways unbefitting of a pupil of Yours, I beg for Your forgiveness.”

Another hard thrust has you faltering, and you fight off your instinct to unclasp your hands from their prayer position and grab at the podium for stability. Tartaglia’s hands grip your hips harder and harder to the point where you swear you can feel his fingernails through the fabric of his gloves.

“I vow to always act in a way befitting of Your image.” You squeeze your hands together so hard they begin to shake, your breath coming to you only in staccato gasps and strained whimpers. “Amen.”

As you finish your prayer, Tartaglia hums in approval from behind you and rubs his hand over your ass in a soothing gesture. “There you go,” he praises. “You did such a wonderful job. I told you that you grow better and better the more sessions we have… perhaps we should make these part of our weekly routine rather than sticking to a case-by-case basis, hm?”

Whatever it takes to reach salvation and prove yourself to him. He’s such a busy, busy man and him taking time out of his schedule to read Scripture with you is already more than you deserve, and here he is, offering to cleanse you of your sins weekly and keep you at your absolute purest.

Would it be sacrilegious to claim that Tartaglia’s kindness surpasses that of even the Tsaritsa Herself?

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desolatespring · 1 year

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head empty, just thinking about trying to play a rigged drinking game with yan chrollo so he’ll get drunk and you can escape but it backfires completely

Mont la Salle

Ooh I love this idea! I’ve only written one other yandere work before so bear with me on this one 😭

CW: blood/light gore, mentions of alcohol, implied kidnapping, religious imagery, implied female reader, and Chrollo being Chrollo

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You sit on the steps leading up to the altar, the torn carpet doing nothing to shield you from the cold and rotting wood beneath.

“I offered you a seat next to me.” Chrollo remarks when he sees you shiver once again. Leering over your shoulder you see him sprawled on the priests celebrant chair behind you. His legs extended outwards before him. He seems almost pleasantly surprised when you stand up and walk towards him, his posture straightening in response.

“I’ll make a deal with you.” Short, sweet, and to the point was the best way you’ve found to communicate with Chrollo. The less you said the less he had to pick apart and dissect. “If you can make yourself useful and pick a lock for me, I will sit with you.”

Chrollo tilts his head in thought, most likely trying to figure out if unlocking anything will offer you a means of escape. When he finds no way of it aiding you he stands up. “Lead the way.”

He follows you to the church’s ambry; two full bottles of garnet tinted sacramental wine sat collecting dust behind the locked door. Chrollo shakes his head with a curt laugh. “You bribe me so you can steal altar wine. Have I corrupted you, dear?”

You cross your arms over your chest and purse your lips. “Are you opening it or not?” Another tactic you’ve found useful when asking for something of Chrollo is to be blunt. He’s less likely to tease you when you’ve been forthcoming, and you suspect, he’s intrigued by your boldness. Not many people are willing to try and push their limits with him.

Chrollo presses his hand lightly against your temple as he plucks a bobby-pin from your hair. He straightens the pin and makes quick work of picking the lock. Once opened he grabs a bottle of wine and brings it back to the altar. His eyes skirt across the label and he seems satisfied with his findings. He fishes a small blade from his pocket, the sharpened piece of silver pops the cork out with ease.

Chrollo places his right hand on the small of your back and ushers you towards his chair. Sitting down with the now opened, aged bottle of wine in hand, Chrollo deftly pulls you onto his lap. Clearly taking full advantage of your agreed upon seating arrangement. You’re unable to hide your grimace when the hand on your back snakes around and finds its home on your waist.

“I hope you like pomegranate and plum, my love.” The wine sounds almost as sickeningly sweet as the pet name. As the bottle reaches Chrollo’s lips you can’t help but piece together some noteworthy information.

There’s enough wine here to get him at least a little buzzed no matter how high his tolerance is, there’s no other troupe members around, and you aren’t currently confined with any restraints. If you’re going to make a break for it this may be your only chance.

You’re so deep in thought it takes you a moment to notice him passing you the bottle. You look up and see the deep cherry red it’s staining his lips. If any other personality were attached to the man before you, you might’ve been tempted to lick it off. The porcelain skin, grey pouty eyes, and shaggy black hair were enough to pull you in when you’d first met.

Now you’re stuck forcing a smile before taking a few small sips. Only drink enough to feel confident in your plan.

As the first bottle slowly empties, the vast majority of it going to Chrollo, you feel his fingertips creep along the fishnets under your shorts, gently tugging and slipping under them when he pleases. He always gets so handsy after a few drinks. You will yourself not to push his hand away, as it’ll only reveal how little you’ve had to drink if you start resisting him now.

When the second bottle is opened you take a few more sips, slightly bigger this time. Being so close to him you realize you underestimated how much you’d need to drink to build any semblance of courage.

When Chrollo’s eyelids droop the slightest amount and the touches on your thigh become less coordinated, now fueled with more hunger than passion, you excuse yourself to the restroom. You’re painfully aware he’ll only allow himself to get so inebriated in front of you, never wanting to lose his self control. This is the closest to an opportunity you’ll ever receive.

You climb from off his lap, and begin heading for the narrow staircase that leads to the bathroom, making sure to give your most convincing stumble along the way. Once the door to the stairwell shuts behind you, you drop the act and move quickly to the bathroom while still keeping your footfalls and breathing as soft as possible.

Now inside you shut the door. Clicking both the dead bolt and knob lock into place. You immediately head for the window which is just above eye level. To your relief the glass has already been shattered presumably due to the weather or past vandals, leaving only the screen intact. Picking up the largest shard of glass you can find, you hastily cut a hole in the screen before grabbing onto the windowsill and hoisting yourself up.

The sharp glass stings as it cuts into your palms but you ignore the pain to the best of your ability, knowing you only have so much time to act. Your arms shake as you pull yourself up and through the window. Cool mossy pavement offers your burning hands enough relief for you to pull the rest of your body through, careful not to cut yourself any further.

Once you’ve crawled out you stand up on the concrete, pausing just long enough to retrieve the glass shard from earlier and give the briefest look around to ensure Chrollo isn’t already outside and waiting for you. Feeling as if the coast is clear you begin running at a full sprint towards the woods, thinking it’ll hide you the best. You occasionally stumble over your own two feet as they refuse to move as fast as you’d like.

As you break through the tree line the first tendrils of hope begin to seep into you. There’s no way he can see you with the branches shrouding your figure.

Your right leg comes forward to jump over a fallen log and your hope vanishes just as quickly as it came. You gasp as your back hits the hard forest floor, leaves doing nothing to cushion your blow. By the time your lungs are ready to take in air again Chrollo’s already hoisting you off the ground and tossing you over his shoulder.

The speed at which everything unfolded leaves your neck stiff and your head reeling. It isn’t until you go to stab at him with the glass you realize you dropped it in your fall. With the last bit of fight you have left in you, you punch and thrash in Chrollo’s grasp, clawing at anything you fingers come in contact with.

Chrollo remains silent as he carries you effortlessly back towards the church despite all your frantic thrashing. By the time he gets you inside the cuts on your palms have reopened and your finger nails are chipped and bleeding from the strength you were using to scratch at him.

Chrollo less than gracefully pulls you off of his shoulder, gripping both your wrists in one of his hands, the other opening the door to the confessional booth before shutting himself in it with you. He places you on the bench, effectively holding you in place before leaning closer to you. “Now why don’t you start by telling me exactly what you had planned? And don’t forget to ask for my forgiveness.”

#chrollo x reader #yandere chrollo #chrollo imagine #chrollo hcs #chrollo

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clericsong · 3 months

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sunday and robin headcanons 🕊

cw: mentions of religious grooming, manipulation, and abuse

1. sunday felt immense guilt as he wavered from believing in the harmony into believing in the order for being a "traitor" and so he would pray penance everyday, not because he wanted to be forgiven (he felt beyond it), but because he felt immense anxiety over being punished for his "sin" specifically through something bad happening to robin. the day he missed his prayers, robin got shot.

looking back now, perhaps his plan failing had also been part of his punishment. but he also worries that ena may see it fit to punish him as well due to his failure. so he prays even harder now out of his fear for robin's safety.

2. because sunday was the more sensitive child but still always sidelined his needs for robin, robin developed her strong sense of will and self out of firming up her resolve in order to be a grounding presence for sunday, and also out of feeling pressured to be the "perfect idol and sister" worthy of her brother's sacrifice and love for her

3. sunday suffers from chronic pain on his hands similar to the presentation of stigmata.

4. gopher wood was the type of parent figure who made sunday's mistakes into opportunities to sermon him about morality and sin; he never punished sunday directly but would manipulate sunday this way through emphasizing his sinfulness and feeding his guilt so that sunday would end up seeking punishment or atonement himself. he also constantly praised robin over sunday to put pressure on her to pursue greater career heights that would isolate sunday from her while establishing to sunday his lack of worth in comparison to her to worsen his self-sacrificial tendencies.

5. robin mentions that she couldn't hear their mother's song during the disaster that took her life but sunday could. unbeknownst to robin, it's the song he used to sing to her as a lullaby. when she was shot, he made sure to sing it to her again while she was recovering.

6. robin is the one who kills the bugs for them because sunday can't even look at them.

7. sunday hates not being without gloves and especially avoids touching people he isn't close to without them. robin is one of the few people he doesn't feel anxious touching without gloves.

8. robin has an official celebrity fragrance that she was invited to assist in the formulation of. she specially requested that the fragrance have tea notes meant to resemble the tea sunday is fond of; she felt a signature fragrance designed for her could not be complete without a symbol of his part in her life.

9. robin has extremely broad music tastes and listens to everything, but she typically composes songs meant to fit her image as an idol.

10. sunday says harsh words when angry while robin gives a cold shoulder when angry.

11. robin is very used to compliments and even flirtatious remarks due to her career and thus doesn't fluster easily. she's also become good at sensing who's being genuine and who's just trying to pander. sunday on the other hand is unexpectedly bashful in the face of forward interest and doesn't quite know how to respond to flirting.

12. the reason robin has such strong a strong belief in human kindness started from witnessing how kind and selfless sunday always was growing up together

#honkai star rail #hsr sunday #hsr robin #sunday hsr #robin hsr #headcanon #mine

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thelamb1429 · 5 months

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Jeff the Killer x Prophet! Reader

Just to explain this little bit, i based this off of a story i have. Basically you, dear reader, receive visions, but must be unconscious to see them. Meaning that at random, you’ll fall unconscious while you see the vision, and well, when you wake up varies, and it’s a total mystery.

Sorry this is so short btw!! I didn’t have time to read over it either, but i’ll prolly rewrite it later when i get the time :D!!

Enjoy!! ^_< -★

Story info

Sfw

Gender Neutral reader

CW: fainting, faint religious hints (the whole prophet thing), mentions of death

I DO TAKE REQUESTS, ANY TYPE, JUST KEEP IN MIND I REFUSE TO WRITE CONTENT WITH BEN OR ANY OTHER CHARACTER WHO DIED A MINOR/CANNOT AGE. I’LL GET TO THE REQUESTS AS SOON AS I CAN BUT I HAVE A VERY BUSY SCHEDULE. DONT BE SHY!! <3!

·:*¨༺ ♱✮♱ ༻¨*:·

Since you met him, he’d grown accustomed to the nights when you’d stay wide awake, rocking back and forth to fruitlessly soothe the anxious waves drowning your lungs, causing your mind to grow fuzzy and your heart to beat quicker than lightning.

But he would never grow used to the way you would simply grow completely still at random intervals throughout the week, only for your eyes to roll back into your head while your body grew limp, slumping against whatever furniture you were using or even crashing to the floor.

The first time it happened? He laughed it off at first. You were a bit of a trickster, and often pulled some worrisome pranks on everyone, including him.

He was just so used to you playing around, that for a while he thought nothing of it. In fact, when it happened in front of him for the first time and you crashed down to the kitchen floor, he left you there, assuming you’d be bouncing back up within minutes and back to annoy the others.

Then minutes turned to hours

And hours turned to a full day

When he came back downstairs the next evening, only to find you lying against the cold floor, unconscious right where you fell the day prior, he became far more anxious. He lost so much already. Sure, he didn’t exactly love your company at all times, but you were probably one of the few people he felt he could be truly himself with, even with him being as unhinged and expressive as he was. He’d messed up the first time, he wasn’t going to let himself mess things up again.

Over his shoulder you went, and up to the infirmary you were carried. The way your body seemed frozen and ice cold gave him a nauseous feeling in the bottom of his throat, you weren’t supposed to be that cold— but you were laying on the cold, tiled floors of the manor for hours and hours on end.

Once you reached the infirmary he all but busted down the door, placing you on one of the exam tables while Ann and Jack fussed in the background before realizing it was useless and that you needed to be treated.

Jeff couldn’t explain it well, he tried but all he could inform them of was that you fell to the floor last night, that he thought you were joking since you always pull some questionable pranks on others residents, and that he simply went back upstairs to his room believed you’d be up and bothering someone else in a little bit.

He became impatient as the two doctors scanned you over for major injuries, but left you asleep on the table. This frustrated him further, nobody was giving him the answers he obviously deserved.

His eyes seemed to widen a little bit (you would think it wasn’t possible) to hear that this was a normal occurrence for you. That you simply got these visions out of nowhere, but that your body would be forced unconscious until you’d seen the entirety of the vision sent for you. A prophet of sorts. Hence why you were taken in as a proxy, you didn’t have as much physical strength as the others, but what you didn’t have, you made up for it by providing valuable insight into the future.

Jeff looked back to your unconscious figure and huffed slightly, feeling a little shaky.

He thought you died, if he were to be honest

Without another word, he left the infirmary and walked back down the hall to go back to his room.

He started to entertain the idea of having Smile look after you when nobody else was nearby.

Just because it’d be a pain if one of their most valuable assets died and nobody stopped it

He opened his door and closed it roughly, groaning and lying down on his bed, the old frame squeaking quite a bit.

Just because it’d be inconvenient to have to dig a grave and have a funeral.

He pulled the blankets over his eyes and attempted to get a bit of sleep

Just because he didn’t want to admit he’d be hurt if you weren’t around anymore.

·:*¨༺ ♱✮♱ ༻¨*:·

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wishcamper · 2 months

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Cassian Appreciation Week Day Six: Birthday

here's a late night submish for birthday day for @cassianappreciationweek inspired by a summer i spent in the Outer Banks and some hardcore 2017 nostalgia

You can read it here or on ao3!

Hands Down

In which Nesta avoids her life in New York, and accidentally helps Cassian avoid his birthday.

CW: brief mention of rape, addiction, and verbal abuse

The words are hushed, let's not get busted Just lay entwined here, undiscovered Safe in here from all the stupid questions "Hey, did you get some?" Man, that is so dumb Stay quiet, stay near, stay close, they can't hear So we can get some My hopes are so high that your kiss might kill me So won't you kill me, so I die happy? My heart is yours to fill or burst, to break or bury Or wear as jewelry, whichever you prefer. “Hands Down”, Dashboard Confessional

The warm blanket of the sun lay over her skin, cares drifting off with every gentle gust of the wind, gulls crying overhead instead of traffic, the smell of salt and sunscreen instead of smog.

The beach was beautiful, paradise, but mostly Nesta was just so fucking glad to be away from her life.

A Hot Girl Summer was exactly what she needed, according to her friends, at least to get the hell out of New York for the summer. There was no better way to reclaim herself than to join Emerie in her oceanside hometown, they said, to help her aging parents run the hotel they’d owned for decades on the Outer Banks. And on their days off to lounge on the sun-drenched beach drinking White Claws and talking shit and ranking the steamiest passages from their respective novels.

And, of course, checking out The Lifeguard.

They called him The Lifeguard because they didn’t know his name, but Emerie and Gwyn were too perceptive not to notice Nesta had been ogling him every chance she got. Forbidden catnip man , Gwyn sometimes called him, as he was everything Nesta denied she was attracted to even though she totally was: long hair, rough around the edges, covered in tattoos. Just admit you have a thing for men who look like they’ll ruin your life, Emerie said.

Nesta’s typical type skewed more straight-laced, finance guys and trust fund yuppies, or else the semi-starved academics who could quote Salinger but couldn’t find the clitoris. There was a comfort in knowing they’d turn out to be shitty, but it was all so fucking shallow, the idea of a couple instead of two people really into each other. In the end she got fed up, or they cheated, or some stupid argument made it clear that things were going nowhere.

It was never surprising, but the breakups always left her with a pit of self-doubt deep inside, that perhaps she was really the common denominator in all these relationships, that the treatment she got was earned.

And then there was Tomas. Her ex-fiance was different from the others, which she’d first thought was a good thing - understated, from a working-class family. Nothing electric about their dynamic, but steady, normal. He didn’t embarrass her at work events, didn’t flirt with her sisters. He would cat-sit occasionally for a friend, which she saw as a green flag. They dated for a few years without incident, and so when he proposed in front of Bethesda Fountain in Central Park, Nesta thought to herself, This is fine.

I can make this work. I can figure out how to be happy.

Over the next year the venue was booked, dress bought, her conservative mother finally gave up on a religious ceremony. Then three months before the wedding Nesta got a DM from a girl claiming she’d slept with Tomas after meeting him at the Biergarten at The Standard.

Nesta remembered that night vividly. Tomas had told her he wasn’t feeling well, and she’d assumed he didn’t answer her texts because he was sleeping, going so far as to send an Instacart delivery to his apartment with food and medicine.

The girl had receipts, and Nesta’s self-respect had no choice. When she’d gone to his apartment to break things off he verbally attacked her, spewing a laundry list of her worst fears. That if she’d put out more regularly, been more affectionate, a better fiance, he wouldn’t have needed to cheat on her. That what she saw as her autonomy was actually his inconvenience, and she was selfish for wanting it in the first place. Nesta remembered his face twisting with fury as if his skin was splitting open, revealing the monster who’d lived inside all along as she wondered if this was all her fault.

So she preferred to admire The Lifeguard from afar, afraid of what might emerge if she were to do something he didn’t like. Perhaps more afraid that something about her brought that side out in the men she dated, whatever flaw lay within.

They were giggling about Gwyn’s book now, a little tipsy from a few hours on the beach, the hum of a four wheeler passing by. Nesta felt the muscle between her neck and shoulder relax for the first time in months. She turned back to a juicy part in her own novel when a shadow blocked the sun, and she looked up to find The Lifeguard standing over her with a smirk on his stupid, handsome face.

“Oh it’s you! Nesta’s Life-” Gwyn said brightly, and Nesta suppressed the urge to kick her, though thankfully her friend caught herself. “-long dream is to, is for me to learn how to.. Surf? We saw you out with your friend the other day.””

Nesta would’ve covered her face in her hands if his eyes didn’t slide to her then, stealing all the breath from her fucking lungs. God, it had to be a crime to be that good-looking. Curly black hair thrown up in a bun, tattoos over his tanned chest and shoulders that would’ve looked douchey on anyone else, anyone who didn’t have the muscles for them to dip and swirl across. He had an annoyingly nice smile that made her want to be mean to him, though something about those mischievous hazel eyes made Nesta think he’d probably like it.

“That is very specific. I’d love to once you get rid of those,” he said, pointing to the cans buried in the sand beside them. “You know you can’t drink on the beach. I’m gonna have to ask you to pour those out.”

The Lifeguard smiled then, and she saw he had a dimple that made her want to chug her drink in front of him defiantly. His accent was like honey whisky. A giant red buoy was slung across his back, but he was so huge Nesta could only see the top poke over a tattooed shoulder, which annoyed her for some reason. Her voice came out harsher than she meant it to when she sat up on her elbow.

“Are you kidding? We’re not bothering anyone.”

“I know, but I really need to go bust those douchebags and they’ll give me shit if I leave y’all alone,” he said, crouching down right next to Nesta’s towel so he could whisper conspiratorially, indicating over his shoulder at a group of twenty or so frat guys who’d been at it for a while. “I’m telling you to pour it out. If it happens to fall into a cup on the way, like say the cups we have at the guard stand over there, then so be it.”

His breath smelled like cinnamon and Nesta felt her friends vibrating behind her from holding in their giggles, praying her face looked red from the sun and not her mortification.

“Fine. Thanks.”

“Thanks. And if you do ever want me to teach your.. friend how to surf, you know where to find me.” The Lifeguard had the audacity to wink at her then before standing and walking up the beach without so much as a backwards glance, Gwyn and Emerie dissolving into excited conversation the moment he was out of earshot.

“Nesta! Why didn’t you ask for his number?” Gwyn whacked Nesta on the arm, exasperated.

“Because he was reprimanding us, hardly sexy.”

“Mm, speak for yourself,” Emerie said, they all turned to watch him walk toward the rowdy group of guys, his red shorts hiding nothing.

Suddenly, The Lifeguard stilled, his body rigid and attention drawn to the shoreline. Nesta turned her head to where he was looking and saw nothing, but before she knew it a flash of red streaked by and he was racing toward the water, rescue buoy in hand, diving into the waves and paddling with strong arms toward where Nesta could now just make out a young boy’s head slipping under the water.

Activity exploded around them - the screeching of a whistle, another guard racing back to speak into a radio at the station, red light flashing atop it. People were standing and pointing, chatter sweeping down the beach and The Lifeguard had almost reached the boy who still wasn’t resurfacing, water spraying around him before he dove, the buoy a startling marker of where both were underwater now in the churning sea. Nesta felt dizzy and realized she was holding her breath, the seconds stretching into years in her mind until two heads broke the surface and all the air rushed out of her, mesmerized by the way he gently guided the child to the float and smiled .

Then he turned so his back was to the beach and began to kick toward the shore. She could see the boy nodding as if The Lifeguard were speaking to him, giving him instructions, before he tipped his head back and let himself be pulled. When they reached the surf another guard ran down to meet him, and Nesta realized an ambulance had arrived, two EMTs jumping out in preparation.

The next half hour was a whirlwind of flashing lights and higher-ups coming to file reports, gawkers and bottleneckers crowding the parking lot. Nesta saw The Lifeguard chewing out who she guessed was the kid’s father, a man so drunk he leaned against the guard station to stay upright, sunburnt with unfocused eyes.

At last the ambulance cleared the parking lot, no lights or sirens as the boy was awake and talking. Emerie said it was probably protocol to get evaluated for something called ‘dry drowning’.

“Yeah, it can kill you even hours after you get out of the water. Not worth the risk.”

The Lifeguard had come up behind them somehow and was watching the ambulance turn onto the main road. Gwyn beamed in that way she did where her face became the sun, grasping him on the forearm.

“That was really impressive. I’m so glad you were able to get to him.”

“All in the job,” he said vaguely, waving a bored hand. Nesta couldn’t help but notice it was shaking. “Let’s talk about nicer things. Are y’all working here for the summer or just visiting?”

“I grew up down in Kill Devil Hills,” Emerie said, shading her eyes to look up at him. “My parents run The Windhaven. Gwyn and Nesta are escaping New York for the summer with me.”

“You might know my friend Rhys’ family, the Nights.”

Emerie snorted. “You mean the Nights who own half of Corolla? Yeah, I know them.”

“I’m Cassian,” he said directly to Nesta then, a look in his eyes she didn’t recognize, and that feeling of wanting to be mean to him rose once more. “We’re having a party tonight if you want to come by.”

There was a shuffle in which Gwyn and Emerie somehow couldn’t find their phones, forcing Nesta to hand over hers for The Lifeguard - Cassian - to put his number in. He typed for an absurdly long time as he and Emerie continued to chat about people they both knew before handing the phone back to Nesta, turning to leave with a little salute.

“So we’re going right?” Gwyn said, bouncing up on her toes with a vigor usually reserved for karaoke night at The Brass Monkey.

“Oh absolutely,” said Emerie. “I have to see how disgustingly huge their house is.”

Nesta ignored their matching grins and looked at her phone to where this supposed mansion was, how much of a pain it would be to go. Cassian had sent a text to himself, an address for somewhere in the Four Seasons complex, and saved his number as ‘Nesta’s Lifeguard’.

It was followed by an emoji of waves and, absurdly, a bat.

—

Cassian couldn’t believe he was sitting across from the hottest woman he’d ever seen and it was his birthday and she was at his house and oh god there were so many ways this could go wrong.

Mor went all-out for his birthday as usual, flickering lights in the magnolias, Jell-O shots and jungle juice, her signature ‘Get Everyone Laid’ playlist pouding from the outdoor speakers of the giant Night estate. It still boggled his mind sometimes how wealthy she and her cousin were, despite living in proximity to it for nearly two decades.

Cassian wasn’t in the mood for celebrating though, his body still humming with adrenaline after the close call on his shift. He’d swallowed the more colorful insults he’d wanted to hurl at the kid’s father, recognizing it was his own shit coming up, the past becoming present as his therapist would say. His image of his own deadbeat dad was rotten at the best of times, though it always festered more strongly on his birthday.

There wasn’t any use in running from the facts: his father had raped his mother, she’d given birth to him while addicted to heroin, and then he’d been in the system long enough to leave a few scars before getting a long-term placement with the Nights. They’d tried over the years to make his birthday a happy time, but it never took. And so another sad kid hated his birthday, then turned into an adult who pretended it didn’t happen. Case fucking closed.

But Mor wanted a party, and so a party they were having. And Cassian couldn’t be too annoyed with her given it was the perfect opportunity to ask The Librarian to speak to him for more than five chilly seconds.

Nesta, a name as unique and lovely as she was. Not the name he’d imagined for her when he snuck glances from the chair, though he’d never pegged her as a Brittany or a Chelsea or any else so common. In his head he started calling her the Librarian, because every day he saw her she had a new book, and every day she’d leave having finished it. God, she was so, so far out of his league.

He’d nearly choked on his beer when she and her friends walked through the back gate, drawn by the sounds of the party in full swing. Azriel clapped a knowing hand on his shoulder and pushed him forward, encouraging, as if Cassian weren’t already spearing toward her to intercept her group before Mor or Rhys tried to hijack them. They both loved to compete over women, and though Mor had the better average Rhys was the winner for repeat customers. Cassian himself had the highest count the first few weeks of summer, but he’d dropped off the ranking altogether the first time The Librarian laid down in front of him on her powder blue towel.

Cassian showed them around to buy time, the cavernous house large enough to get lost in. Her redheaded friend was fascinated by the elevator, but he saw the way her sunset sound-colored eyes lingered on the secluded porch swing, wondered if she was picturing herself curled up there with a book.

From there the evening went surprisingly well, all told, his friends giving him a wide enough berth which they likely considered a birthday gift. Once Nesta shot a few glares at them when they tried to hover nearby, eavesdropping, and Rhys winked at him over her shoulder, crossing himself for prayer and mouthing Good luck .

But Nesta seemed to like talking to him for some reason, didn’t try to drift away or lose him like women did when they weren’t interested. He even managed to be funny despite usually losing all his wits when he really liked someone, which was a blessing as it allowed him to hear her tinkling laugh above the music. A lock of her hair brushed his shoulder when she tipped her head back and he was so fucking gone, so nervous about doing something to mess this up.

As the party wound down they ended up on a couple of sun loungers pushed together by the pool. Cassian was mystified that Nesta was still here, still talking to him about New York, tide patterns, his childhood cat Devlon. There was nothing she didn’t have an opinion about, and when her smooth leg brushed his, the coconut scent of her lotion begged him to run his tongue all the way up to where her freckle-dusted skin disappeared beneath her shorts.

Cassian excused himself before he lost his head, and once back in the kitchen for a refill Rhys and Mor cornered him, demanding to know why he wasn’t halfway inside The Librarian already.

“Y’all are creepy, you know that?”

Mor’s tongue was bright blue from the Jell-O shots when she stuck it out at him, Rhys’ waving a bored hand in front of his face. “You never wait this long. You must be head over heels.”

“He is,” Azriel mumbled as he shuffled in, noise-canceling headphones slung around his neck. “He turned down that girl we met at Avalon pier yesterday.”

Cassian said nothing, only stuffed his head farther into the fridge to reach the two non-shit beers he’d stashed in the back. He could smell Mor’s cherry chapstick when she leaned down beside him, her eyes narrowed in scrutiny when he turned.

“Oh my god, you like her!”

“We’re just talking, nothing is happening.”

They didn’t believe him, obviously, but were kind enough to only smirk after him as he went back outside to where he’d left Nesta lounging on a deck chair.

“Follow me,” he said furtively, adding when she looked confused, “My friends are being assholes, I don’t want to subject you to that.” They had a few minutes lead time before the vultures descended, and he didn’t want his nosy housemates fucking this up.

“Assholes about what?” She twirled a lock of gold-brown hair around her finger, silver nail polish flashing in the low lights surrounding the pool. “Oh, because you want to fuck me.”

She said it like it was a test he’d already failed, and Cassian was so caught off guard by the whole thing his response came out stammering, over-cautious.

“No, no, not at all.”

Her brow furrowed, confusion flickering across her face. “You don’t?”

Just then Mor’s laugh sparkled above them as she heaved the sliding door open and stepped onto the upper deck, followed by Rhys’ voice asking, “Where the hell did Cass go?”

“He better be getting his dick sucked so he’ll stop being so grumpy.”

“A hundred bucks says the closest she gets to his balls is a swift kick.”

Cassian was grateful for the darkness that hid his blush as they crept on silent steps to the end of the dock, past where the lights could pick out their silhouettes against the midnight bay. Back at the house they could see the others playing beer pong now on the deck, Nesta’s red-headed friend - Gwen? - bouncing up and down in victory after making a shot. He buried his surprise that Az had yet to go to bed despite his 7:00am shift start, and couldn’t help but wonder if a certain pair of long, slender legs had anything to do with it.

Smirking to himself, Cassian produced the beers from his hoodie and Nesta cracked one open.

“Done policing my drinking now, are you?”

“Just doing my job, Nes. You’re lucky I didn’t bust you for reading porn in public. There are children around, you know.”

She gave a defiant sniff and sipped her beer primly, the night wind whipping her hair about her heart-shaped face. “If women enjoying their sexuality intimidates you, just say so.”

He grinned, a thrill running through him at how self-possessed she was. Most women he dated were either under- or over-impressed by him, neither one earned, but he felt like Nesta was challenging him to rise to her level, to show up unapologetically as she was.

“You’re the only one who intimidates me, sweetheart, but I get the feeling you like it that way.”

She started shivering once the wind kicked up, and he offered her the hoodie too after a while, the gray fabric swallowing her, long sleeves pooling around her wrists. She looked so fucking cute he had to concentrate hard on what she was saying, though he couldn’t avoid the dopey grin that surely split his face in half watching her wave her arms about as she described their encounter with the rowdy group after he’d finished work. Apparently the guys had tried to pick up Nesta and her friends, albeit unsuccessfully.

“They thought it was going really well. It made me a bit sad for them, actually. Are your friends upset?”

The sharp turn in topic threw him, but Nesta just stared at him in that same increasing way, demanding truth in everything. Cassian swallowed, deciding to chance just that, to tell her what only three other people at that party knew.

“They’re fine, just pissed because I’m not letting them give me alcohol poisoning for my birthday.”

“Today is your birthday?”

“Yeah.”

“This is your birthday party, the party we’re currently at.” Nesta looked flabbergasted, one hand at her forehead, the other gripping his arm.

“Uh huh.”

She released his arm and quirked her head to the side then, eyes narrowing. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

“Because I don’t really feel like celebrating. My birth wasn’t exactly a happy occasion.”

Her expression fell into one of understanding, and Cassian felt the rest of the truth stick in his throat, too dense and painful to dredge up now. Nesta scooted a bit closer and allowed her thigh to rest against his, her skin warm in the night air.

“Is that little boy okay?” she asked quietly, and for a terrifying moment he thought she was asking about his fucking inner child before remembering the rescue earlier.

“Yeah, he’s fine. Well, he has a negligent fucking father, but physically he’s fine.”

Cassian was surprised when she leaned in and kissed him on the cheek. He dared to pick up her hand and hold it, and when she didn’t immediately pull away he stroked the back with a thumb, tracing the bones.

“Look, my friends - they can be pushy,” he sighed. “I just want to be clear that I don’t have any expectations of you. I’m having a really good time just doing this.”

“Thanks. I’d gathered as much, but it’s nice to hear out loud. I’ve sort of sworn off men for the moment, anyway.”

Her hair was rippling behind her in ribbons and she looked so beautiful amongst the elements like this, but there was a sadness, a grief about her he’d never noticed before. As her words registered Cassian flipped her hand over and traced the lines of her palm. There was that piercing authenticity again, and it made him feel bold even as he fully expected her to shove him off the dock into the sound.

“Look, I don’t want to be presumptuous but you did come to my party. And I can’t even say it was for the free booze, because that’s the only drink you’ve had all night. Your friends have let you be all night. So if you’ve sworn off men, then why are you here?”

She didn’t answer, looking away, but he felt the pulse of chemistry between them, sharp and aching. Whatever National Geographic pheromones her body was giving off sent him into caveman brain, but even more so he wanted to pull her closer, to press his lips to the soft skin of her neck.

“Why are you here, Nes?” he repeated, squeezing at her hand until she looked back at him.

“Because I wanted to see if I could do it. Talk to a guy and have it be normal, feel nice.” Her voice was shaking, palm turning slick with sweat. “And it has. Thanks.”

They sat in silence for a while after that, listening to the waves lapping against the dock, the quiet rippling of the sound until she launched back into the story of the bros from the beach and they were off once more.

As the moon sank lower he took his phone out and shined it close to the water, pointing out the spade-shaped flounder on the bottom, their creepy, crowded eyes making Nesta shudder and draw her feet up from where they’d been dangling over the edge. Too bright to go gigging , he told her, and a blue crab scuttled by under the light, tiny claws raised with bravado.

“They say nature has an aspiration to be crab-like. Apparently evolution has made and remade crabs around five to six times,” she replied, and his heart was about to explode for wanting to kiss her.

She was so sharp, so interesting it staggered him. Cassian knew he was right to have named her The Librarian, some freaky premonition, because she knew fucking everything about everything. He ran her through an exhaustive list of topics, her gestures getting more and more animated, smile flashing with the thrill of winning his game. Finally he discovered she knew nothing about constellations, and instead of gloating he pointed out Scorpius and Sagittarius, lining their arms up with her wrist in his grasp, drawing her pointed finger between dots in the sky.

The porch lights back at the house shut off before either thought to look at the time, and Cassian watched Nesta scroll through a few texts, finger twirling once more in her wind-tousled hair.

“Do you need a ride?” he asked, but she shook her head.

“My friends are already home, I was going to get a car.”

“Not many Ubers after 2:00. Let me take you home.”

They walked over to the ocean side and rode down the deserted beach on a pilfered four-wheeler from the guard stand. Moonlight casting everything in a silvery glow, gentle waves lapping at the shore. He told her over his shoulder about a time they’d tricked Rhys into eating a bowl of sea oats when they were younger, drawing forth once more that world-changing laugh.

As the houses grew closer together along the shore he felt her rest her head on his shoulder, and her breath tickled his neck as she yawned quietly. Everything felt very fast and very slow at the same time, some sort of delicious chaos that made him dizzy enough he had to grip the handlebars tighter to avoid tipping over. When they arrived at her house Cassian was punch-drunk and heated, so he was delighted when she accepted his offer to walk her to the door.

He hopped the fence to unlatch the gate from the inside, didn’t miss the way her eyes roved over his arms when he secured the lock at the top once she’d passed through. They stood there for a moment under the porch lights, moths fluttering, staring as if waiting for the other to say goodnight first so as to not be responsible for ending this.

“I’m trying to think of something rude to say to make you go away, but I’m drawing a blank. I like you,” Nesta said. “I don’t know what the hell I’m doing, but I do. Like you.”

Then Cassian felt he might like his birthday after all as she leaned upward and kissed him like she meant it.

A few magical moments later she pushed off from his chest and smiled, disappearing into the house, the cool rush of AC carrying the scent of coconut out into the night. He was smiling so hard his jaw might break as he vaulted back over the fence, hopped onto the four-wheeler and drove home as fast as he dared, wind screaming in his ears, though nothing could sweep away the feel of her lips on his, the soft curve of her waist under his hand. The way he felt like he already knew her, had known her forever, and this was just the beginning of something that would change his entire fucking life.

About a mile from the house, Cassian paused to look out over the ocean, the briny tang filling his nose and lungs. Seagrass whispered along the dunes, and he saw the eyes of a ghost crab light up when he pulled out his phone, scuttling toward a thatch of seaweed where it disappeared.

Az: hey i can’t cover your afternoon on saturday, i’m taking the redhead surfing Mor: SO BABY PULL ME CLOSER IN THE BACKSEAT OF YOUR ROVER honestly get a new gimmick, the four-wheeler thing is getting not cute but if it ain’t broke yknow Rhys: Happy Birthday, I hope the prickly one is giving you a nice present. Rhys: I might have already stalked her instagram Rhys: And I also might have sent her sister a dm Rhys: Have fun Cassie 😄

He was about to put the phone back in his pocket when another notification popped up, one that made him feel like his body, his soul, his whole world was made from moonlight.

Cassian’s Librarian 📖🦀: call me later Cassian’s Librarian 📖🦀: i mean it Cassian’s Librarian 📖🦀: i know where you live

#cassianweek2024 #day six: birthday #nessian #beach au #cassian being hot #nesta being herself

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