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utterlyotterlyx · 4 months

Text

The Girl Who Cheated Death

Azriel x Fem!Reader

Summary - There was no one in any universe who would dare to approach you without fear, that is until you meet a certain Shadowsinger. Once stone cold and vicious in your own right, you soon come to realise that perhaps all it takes is a pretty male with hazel eyes to set you free.

Warnings - kinda dark reader, stone cold, lots of sass, swearing, drinking, mentions of physical abuse, mentions of trauma, some subtle sexual tension, everyone being afraid of the reader because she's giving death vibes x

Word Count - 8.9k

Physical descriptions are present in this fic.

Based on this ask! Thank you @cleverzonkwombatsludge for the request 🫶🏻

"Can I offer some criticism?"

"If it's constructive..."

"You're an idiot," the unwinding braid at your side loosened more with each twist of your fingers, and to your right, through the reflection of the recently polished vanity mirror stood Amren, your closest friend that you had gained when you had first moved to the Night Court one hundred years ago.

It had been no accident that you and Amren had met, in fact, she had been the one to seek you out after a rather intriguing show you had directed at Rita's. Amren watched man after man almost break their necks to look at you, the most beautiful resident of the Night Court, and in all of Prythian. Hair that reminded Amren of a black widow swayed behind you in perfectly loose curls, it was sinfully dark and shone in the faelight, shimmering so brilliantly that Amren had thought that threads of silken web were weaved between each glossy black strand.

Amren also remembered the dress you had worn, it was short and tight, the fabric hugged every curve of your body and kissed the thighs that were connected to those incredible taut calves. If looks could kill then the Night Court would certainly fall to its knees.

It wasn't what you looked like that caught Amren's attention, however. It was the way that every single person in that room shrunk away from your stare, a stone iced glare that was void of any life, all that lay in them was ire and boredom, which quite perfectly summed up what you felt about life in general.

The firedrake sought you out, coming by the gallery you had opened in the city which held an array of carefully collected artworks and mysteriously rare antiques, just to get a glimpse of you, to see the one who had been the first to pique her eye in centuries. Amren had not been disappointed by you. There was something about the way you carried yourself that attracted her to your aura, the perfect posture and slightly hooded eyelids that encased walnut orbs that glimmered gold in the sun. That wasn't all, no, it was also the way you spoke, so sultry and dark, but there was a certain elegance your words. A siren luring souls to the darkest depths of the ocean floor.

Rhys had once suggested that you'd never truly age considering you never smiled. That had earned him a rare small quirk of your lip, and he considered it to be his greatest achievement of his life to date.

It had made sense that the Night Court had been the place where you had chosen to settle, it had moulded very well with you, to the point where Day had become an infantile dream that was floating away in your subconscious. Forgotten.

Despite being a collector of sorts, Amren had soon found out just how far your talented talons stretched, you were incredibly well versed in old dialects, ancient symbols and traditions, a talent that Rhys had soon asked Amren to take advantage of since he was too afraid of you to ask you for aid himself.

Seemed as though the terrifying High Lord of the Night Court was actually scared of something.

"How exactly am I an idiot?" Amren enquired with darkened orbs that kept on glancing downward to the scars that littered the bare spine from the licks of Illyrian whips. They were slightly raised and pallid in comparison to the rest of your healthy glowing hue.

Untethering the last of your braid, you ran your nails over your scalp and pulled slightly, shivering at the relief that surged through you as your hair fell unbound down your spine. All the taut tension in your body quickly evaporated. Silently, you turned on your seat to face your friend, "You're asking me to revamp my evil lair to make it more welcoming for your odd little family," you said incredulously and unblinking, "You're an idiot."

Amren wasn't exactly asking you to make your own home more appeasing to the Inner Circle, she simply meant the private office that Rhys had bestowed to you for whenever he needed your help with something, and it had become a place that you frequented often. It was located in the library of the House of Wind so that your nimble fingers had access to all of the books and ancient texts they needed.

The only settling thing about that office was the view of the golden valley of Velaris, of the snow-capped mountains that loomed to the north. Everything else filled any resident with dread. Tall well-loved candles were scattered about the space, cloths stained with millennia old text hung from the ceilings, tomes lay splayed open on the desk and centre table, each depicting some form of terror. To you, your work was fascinating, studying the origins of evil and all of its forms, to others it was petrifying.

It wasn't odd to find the firedrake confined in your apartment, whether you be with her or not, glass of red in hand and reading some sort of research text. Amren often didn't even glace up at you when you entered your own home, all she noticed was your shadow gliding across the room, drowning out the golden candlelight.

"Rhys would spend more time with you if you did. He's actually really insightful, he could help you with your study."

"Why would I want to spend time with him?"

A poor attempt from Amren to try and push you into a monotone civilian life yet again.

"Fine," Amren rolled her coiling silver eyes and tutted, "Are you ready? Rhys doesn't like to be kept waiting."

Irritation was rife in her voice, you clasped a dainty blood diamond around your neck and allowed your shoulders to drop, "I don't particularly care for your High Lord's time." Rhys was not your High Lord and he knew it, he knew that you couldn't be ruled over and would never answer to anyone but yourself. A queen of her own kingdom. But one he very much wanted to keep on his side.

"Y/N," Amren bit, and you too tugged back the smirk that was quaking in the corners of your mouth.

Meeting her fiery gaze in the mirror, you rolled your head to the side in one swooped graceful motion, "I'm teasing, Amren." Rising from the bench before the vanity, you felt the silken hem of your dress brush against your feet. It was a simple garment, black buttoned up fabric, a deep v-neckline that showed the beginnings of your cleavage, short and soft floating sleeves that cuffed above your elbows.

Smirking with approval, Amren moved to the front door of your ornately beautiful apartment, a personal haven of yours that was vastly different to the office at the House of Wind. Brunette carpets thick enough to sleep upon covered the space, the walls were a shade of milked coffee, warm and inviting, and the ceilings were a soft cream and coved with intricate carvings. A large fire bundled into the far wall at the centre of a wall of windows, before it was a onyx seating area of plush deep seated sofas and armchairs.

It was charming. One of the best views of Velaris was from your living room window.

Leaving your home with the click of the lock, you followed after Amren, falling into place beside her as you walked up the winding paths to the House of Wind. The feeling of people's eyes trailing you had become something you'd become rather accustomed to, they were astounded by your beauty, amazed by how someone could look so breath-taking yet so horrifying.

The House of Wind was as it always was, incredibly luxurious in its own right and shivering at your entrance. It wasn't like the house didn't like you, it just struggled to adjust to your energy, it was starkly different to the usual joy it mostly held.

The echoing voices halted when you rounded the corner, your scent of jasmine and sandalwood soaring through the air, infecting their oxygen. Violet eyes appeared before you within a couple of moments, always wary, always laced with the tiniest bit of fear, "Thank you for meeting with us."

"Well," your eyes sliced across the room, absorbing every face and feature and feeling somewhat intrigued by a face you had never seen before. Tall and tan, shadows swirling at his shoulders, large wings that he had mindfully tucked behind his back, and shiny black hair that fell over his forehead. Rhys stood before you waiting for you to speak, your eyes found his and you hummed, tapping your finger against your clothed thigh, "Anything for the firedrake."

A chortled scoff flew from Cassian and Rhys stepped aside slightly to expose you to the general who soon choked on the air, "Something funny, Cass?" Rhys asked with a smirk, he motioned for you to find a seat and make yourself comfortable.

A deep rooted velvet armchair called to you and you moved to it, paying little attention to the hazel eyes fixated upon you. "No, not at all," Cassian sent you a tight-lipped smile which made Nesta grin, enjoying his discomfort nearly as much as you.

Flames danced in your eyes, the fire burning brightly in the fireplace that welcomed your gaze as though it was a mirror. Turning your head, you folded your hands over your thighs, feeling the exposed skin that lay there from the seamless slit in the fabric.

"How about you skip whatever small talk you were going to offer and get to the point, Rhysand?"

Widened pupils possessed Nesta's gaze, she leaned back into her seat and smirked, a wickedly feline feature, and spoke, "I like you."

No words left your lips, you held her gaze and felt your darkness bubble at her determination to withstand your stare, but she soon stood down; though, she continued to watch you, noting your posture and the way you held yourself. Nesta was in awe.

And she wasn't the only one.

"Straight to the point as always, y/n."

"Am I supposed to be anything but?" Rhys sighed, a headache already forming at his temples from your dry sassing. Perhaps he needed some of that powder that Elain had gifted to Azriel last solstice.

The High Lord pinched the bridge of his nose and slid his hand to rest on Feyre's knee, a sweet gesture, "We need your help with some particular text that none of us can translate. If anyone is going to be able to decipher it then it would be you."

"What text?"

Boredom coiled in your gut, "It's the story of Koschei, we believe that there may be a key hidden within the text that could help us to defeat him." The coil loosened and your eyebrow twitched, and a dark spot to your left caught that millisecond-long expression, sliding back to its master and humming in his ear.

Koschei was a death-god, a personification of evil. To have your hands on such a text would more than aid your research. It would make you infamous in the underworld of Prythian.

"Is it in my office?" Rhys straightened and nodded stiffly; rising to your feet, you brushed down the pleats of your skirt, "I'll take a look."

Before you could move from the room, a gentle clearing of a throat sounded from behind you, beckoning and hesitant. Slowly, you turned around, noticing how Rhys was now standing, "I would like Azriel to help you with this. I believe that your collective talents will be able to decipher the message faster."

Of course. The illustrious Shadowsinger that you had never had the displeasure of meeting. Azriel, Spymaster of the Night Court.

"Studies have shown that I didn't ask for your opinion, High Lord," if anyone else had used the mocking tone toward his title they would have been misted on the spot. But not you, never you. Rhys was too afraid that Hell would rise from your ashes and devour the continent if he even tried it.

A cool kiss slithered around your ankle, and when you peered down you found a shadow curling there, caressing your skin and shivering in delight. Your eyes followed the tendril back to its owner who was clearly mentally scrambling to pull his shadow back to the others. Hazel collided with molten gold and you found yourself yearning for the shadow to return.

"I have to insist," his voice wavered and it didn't go unnoticed by you.

Amren sucked in a breath, shrinking further into her spot wedged between Mor and Elain, knowing that she told had told Rhys multiple times to never order you to do anything.

"What do you fear, Rhysand?"

"I think that you'll find that the word fear is not in my vocabulary," he doubled down and you couldn't blame him, he was an alpha protecting his territory.

Ticking your head to the side, your eyes dragged up his body, and you smirked, a real one that made his blood chill, "Perhaps. But it's in your eyes," not giving him a chance to respond, you turned to Azriel, finding him looking up at you with an almost bewitched possession in his eyes, "Stay out of my way."

Not another word was spoken as you stalked from the room, the only sound being the footsteps of Azriel who had speedily followed after you. Neither of you spoke on the descent down to the library, even that vast space of aged excellence watched you enter; you almost floated across the room, a grace in your steps that Azriel had never seen before, and it had him needing to know more.

How Azriel had never met you astounded him, he would certainly remember a face like yours. It was one that held the power to haunt his dreams.

As promised, the texts had been left on your desk, and you moved to them instantly, tracing your fingers down the bound leather spine and examining the golden embossment, picking apart the symbols in your mind. Rounding the large oaken desk, you pulled the text with you, opening the cover and not even flinching when it thudded against the desktop.

Thick waves fell over your shoulder and you mindlessly tucked them back from where they had originated, not caring about the effect it had on the Shadowsinger who noted how your fingers grazed against your collarbone on its return to the ancient pages before your insightful eye.

"I've never been in here before," a weak attempt to strike up conversation with you. Azriel had heard much about you from Cassian and Rhys, of how awful terrifying you were, how you intimidated every single person that crossed your path and seemingly enjoyed the terror of it.

Azriel understood it, there was something about you that was unnerving, that he could understand why people were uncomfortable in your presence, but he only found himself in wonderment of it.

Without looking up, you turned the page gently and muttered, "Why would you? It's my office."

Displeasure was prominent on your tongue, the taste of it swelled in the muscle but you didn't allow it to be vile, you pulled the bile back and silently choked on it.

Azriel drank in the room, the begging to be lit candles and the large arched windows, the aged tapestries of history that were clearly too valuable to display in your gallery, "The creation of the cauldron," the words pulled you from the text and your gaze narrowed in on the Shadowsinger rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet with his hands folded neatly at his back.

"How do you know that?"

The Shadowsinger circled to face you and took a tentative step to the edge of the desk, "I've seen a couple of the same markings in a cave. This is the original?"

"Yes," there were many deplorable things you had taken part in to secure your collection as the most impressive in the entire universe, some things you weren't proud of, others, you were very much so.

"How did you get it?" Azriel admired the piece, a depiction of Prythian's creation that no one would ever guess was as important as it was, all because they couldn't read the first language of the fae.

Sitting back in your seat, you placed your magniscope on the surface, an ornate tool used by curators and researchers alike to read between the lines of existence, and watched him, "There are some things in this world that would make even your blood burn, Shadowsinger."

The way you said his name had a shudder flickering down his spine, your tone was sultry and low, like you knew of his darkness and had decided that it was a star in comparison to whatever lived within you.

A golden glow shrouded the room from the setting sun kissing the mountain peak, it washed over you, its light glittering your skin with shimmer, turning your eyes into burnished gold. The blood diamond around your neck cascaded speckles of its hue across the ceiling, and your chest rise an fell with even, calm breaths.

Forgetting the reason why he stood before you, Azriel allowed himself a moment to examine you, the beautifully loose hair that swam down that perfectly curved spine, the eyes and cheekbones, the full lips and the indents of your collarbone. You were by far the most incredible thing he had ever seen.

The stolen moment wasn't one that escaped your eye, a gentle heat pooled at your cheeks and you had no option but to look away, clearing your throat and pouring your attention back into the text in front of you.

Coiling the magniscope in your fingers, you hovered it over the written symbols on the page, moving it in line with every line and swirl you could see. It was a heavy object, and you hadn't been surprised when Amren had mistook the glass orb as a bookend.

"What do you know of Koschei?" Azriel found a place in the seat opposite you, his shadows danced from his shoulders and began to inch toward you, and he made no move or command to stop them.

"There are many legends," you began, craning your neck to peer at the top of the adjacent page, "Attacking his physical body won't harm him, he has split his soul into parts and placed them in other living creatures or sentient objects. Destroy the objects and you have a better chance of ending him."

Azriel angled himself forward, propping his elbows on his knees, "How do you know that?"

Again, without looking up, you spoke, "When you spend a lot of time in the Underworld of this continent you pick up a few things. You also learn how to decipher the truth from the lies."

Another gentle turn of the page.

The taupe scribing possessed the faintest words written in a pale gold ink, so miniscule that any other magniscope wouldn't be able to see it. Though yours wasn't just any ordinary magniscope, it was forged with the stardust of a fallen star, a star that used to burn the brightest in the northern skies.

"You know of the Underworld?"

For a moment, your gaze flickered upward, golden pools peering through your long thick lashes, "Very well."

It wasn't surprising that you had dabbled in the darkest reality of the continent, your knowledge was not cheap, and it wasn't knowledge that you could gain from books alone. Azriel wondered how many souls you had stripped from the earth on your quest for knowledge, perhaps it would cause his count to pale in comparison.

"I could only imagine what someone would do for this level of knowledge," his voice lingered, questioning, requiring to know every corner of the mind locked within the female in front of him.

"Are you trying to compare body counts, Spymaster? If so, I assume I would be disappointed with your lacklustre attempts."

Then you were back on the text, scribbling words down in the notepad to your left without even glancing to it, focused to the point where no letter strayed from the lines. But you still felt his eyes on you, waiting, scouring your face and trying to figure out why exactly he had never crossed paths with you before considering your occupation.

"Don't you have some doe-eyed damsel to go and rescue?"

Even with the fleeting few minutes spent with the Inner Circle, you saw how Elain Archeron looked at him, all love-sick and hopeful. Elain was a perfectly mundane being, content with all things bright and pretty. It was sickening.

Biting back the urge to roll his eyes at the thought, Azriel shuffled into his seat, seemingly getting more comfortable, "No."

"Shame," you mused, impressing Azriel with how you scribed, analysed and spoke all at the same time. A very powerful mind was dwelling within you, and it had his attention.

Azriel was finding your dry words quite amusing, though he was spending his time sat before you in silence, sketching every inch of your face and body to his memory.

A soft tug pulled at your brows, and if Azriel wasn't fixated upon you then he surely would have missed it. He let a minute pass, a minute where the pace of your analysation quickened alongside the rate of your writing. Again, your hair fell over your shoulder, clearly bothering you but you couldn't move it, not when you were so entranced, and it took all of his will to not do it for you.

Questioning you on your findings, your eyes held a certain twinkle to them as you explained your theory. That Koschei had in fact fractured his soul and implanted the pieces of it within other living creatures and objects, and that to hunt those objects down was the only way to be able to banish him from the world.

"Run and tell your master," you told him after you were done explaining how to find the first host of Koschei's soul, "I'm sure he will be thrilled with your input."

Which was very little, Azriel hadn't done anything other than invade your space and make himself far too comfortable, but he didn't argue, he simply stood from his seat and bowed, taking your hand in his marred digits and raising it to his lips, brushing them against your knuckles and thanking you before leaving you to your silence.

The ghost of his touch lingered on you skin, as did the licks at your calves from the shadows he hadn't cared to reign in upon his exit.

It was then that a small yet foreign warmth pooled in your chest, you rubbed the spot gingerly and sighed, returning to reality and shaking your head back to sense. Finding peace in the confined corners of your mind.

The next instance where you found yourself in Azriel's presence had been one warm afternoon in the library.

Velaris had been scorched by the sun, the summer breezes swept across the city, and you had decided to wear a simple grey dress that afternoon, it was lightweight enough to flow in the gentle caress of the wind but still managed to keep to your usual elegant yet sharp style.

Since that insisted couple of hours in your office a couple of weeks ago, you were ashamed to admit just how much your thoughts drifted to the Shadowsinger you had seen lurking in the corners of your consciousness. The darkness was lingering in the farthest reaches, as if it didn't wish to be discovered by you but couldn't steer itself away.

The ladder beneath your feet creaked as you reached across the shelf, tongue stuck out of the side of your mouth as you strained slightly, your fingers barely brushing against the spine of the book you needed. A familiar cool presence washed over you, trailing up your skirt and arms and extending from your fingers to remove the book from the shelf and place it in your awaiting grasp.

Peering back to the ground, you saw Azriel stood at the foot of the ladder with his hands resting at his sides; balling the skirt up in your fingers, you used the railing the lower yourself back to the earth and paused in front of Azriel who had a brow quirked in curiosity, "Thank you."

"You're welcome," his voice matched your own but he found himself faltering when you went to walk by him. His voice called out to you, "I just wanted to let you know that we found the first host."

You paused your steps and turned, "And?"

"It's destroyed," and clearly the gravity of it weighed on him, he had to have known that Koschei wasn't exactly going to make the objects easy to destroy, but it still didn't mean that it wasn't traumatising.

Understanding what he meant, at the life he had just taken to protect to continent, you took a step toward him, an olive branch of sorts, "Are you alright?"

Itching with confusion, Azriel nodded slowly, "I didn't think you cared."

You shrugged, nonchalant, and scuffed the heel of your sandal against the floor with your gentle kick, "I don't."

Azriel hummed, a serene grin tugging at the corners of his lips, "I think that you do," Azriel took a step forward and noticed how your back straightened and shoulders rolled back.

The book became plastered to your chest, "Whatever you think is of little concern to me."

Two weeks had passed, two weeks of not only searching for the first host of Koschei thanks to your wildly impressive knowledge, but two weeks of Azriel doing all he could to gain your attention. It had been difficult to see you at Rita's, swaying to the music without a care in the world beside Amren, and not be able to touch the skin that seemed as smooth as honey.

His shadows had been following you, reporting back to him of how you spent your days cooped up in your apartment reading or in your office analysing another ancient text. They reported no men, nothing untoward or damning, they simply whispering to him how pretty you were. They had been bewitched by you, utterly obsessed with everything that you were, and he couldn't blame them.

Turning on the balls of your feet again, you entered your office, leaving the door open in silent permission that Azriel basked in as he followed you inside, "I'm trying to talk to you, y/n."

A soft hum vibrated against your lips. Placing the book once glued to your chest on the centre table of the room, you faced Azriel once more. The office was cold, as was every chamber built below the main infrastructure of the house, and Azriel wondered how you could be so at home within it.

It was entrancing how a room so dark and full of evil texts and passages could make you look so ethereal. The glossed black hair he had often dreamt of running his fingers through was tied back in a loose thick braid, whisps of hair fell from the vines of it and settled over your eyes. Ornate jewellery twinkled in the pale sunlight, swirls of gold encased your fingers and wrists, and a coiled necklace that resembled a scaled serpent glided around the base of your neck.

"What would you like me to say? I did tell you how to find the first host so that you could destroy it. I don't require updates, Azriel," the movement of your tongue as you said his name for the first time had his resolve withering.

"Well, I suppose we'll have to warm ourselves by the glow of your I told you so."

Then, as though the sun was blessing the earth after eons of slumber, your lips widened into a grin, one big enough to expose your perfectly white teeth and Azriel felt the dark storm clouds in his soul splinter. A golden threat soared through him, reaching out to you and entwining itself with the thread bristling at your centre.

Sculpted fingers drifted over that spot in your chest that had become increasingly hard to ignore and you inhaled sharply. Azriel's pupils had dilated, they were wide and frenzied, and his hand was outstretched to you.

The smile on your face dropped.

"You're my mate," Azriel nodded at the words you had managed to utter, the same ones that had become lodged in his throat.

Heat prickled at his skin, nerves seeped into his bones. You were so unreadable, and Azriel was scrambling his thoughts to clear so that he may be able to figure out how you felt about it. About being fated to be his.

Azriel had learnt from Amren how unaffectionate you were, how much you hated anyone touching you. It was because of the Illyrian camps you had visited in your younger years where they had thought you a witch, and had punished you for it in a barbaric way; the evidence still lingered on your skin in long angry streaks, and Amren had admitted that night is what spurred on your need to understand the roots of evil.

It was understandable, to spend a lifetime studying the one thing that had ever truly hurt you. For what reason, Azriel didn't know, but he liked to think that it was to cause evil to cower in your presence.

Silence shrouded the room like a disease, infecting and poisoning everything in its path, and Azriel way becoming increasingly worried about how your smile had dropped. Was he truly that repulsive to you? He could only ever dream to be mated with someone like you, someone who welcomed death like an old friend and would entertain it in an eons long waltz, someone who was poised and elegant but so brilliantly lethal that it made even him shudder.

Taking an unsettling step toward you, Azriel loosened a breath when he saw that you hadn't retreated, his eyes were trained on you as he took another step, and then another, until his shadow danced with you own, "I'm your mate."

Rhys and Cassian would be mortified of the news, Azriel was sure that Rhys found you terrifying in the same way that Cassian found Bryaxis. No of that mattered though. Not to him. Not when he now belonged to a female as striking and dangerous as the blood in his veins.

A faint blush crept up your cheeks at the proximity, the tendrils connected to his essence peered over his shoulders seemingly apprehensively thrilled that it was you stood before them, "Yes, you are."

Azriel's gaze drifted down to your lips and left dragged back upward to your eyes, "Can I touch you?"

A part of you froze at the desperate question. You hadn't let anyone touch you in years, you couldn't remember the last time you laid with a male or female, you couldn't remember what a simple even felt like. Amren had never even tried to get too close to you let alone anyone else.

In the first vulnerable emotion you had ever let anyone see, you sheepishly nodded, eyes boring into his own and he didn't break his stare as his fingers twitched toward you, ghosting along your skin and melting at the heat they found there. Mindlessly, you shifted when his palm lingered a whisker away from the slope of your neck and his eyes became stitched with concern but softened when you had won the fight against your fear to stand still once more.

Azriel's hand lowered, resting against your skin that was softer than his imagination could ever fathom. His thumb drifted down the column of your throat and you swallowed, hard.

"You don't have to accept this or me," he told you, his voice tantalisingly cooing to you in a hush above a whisper, "But gods, y/n. I really hope that you do."

Azriel saw through you then, through that façade you wore like a medal. And he found what saw to be quite heart-breaking. Stood before him was a woman, one that possessed a brilliant mind and equally captivating beauty, but beneath it all was the girl who was brutalised so badly that she vowed to never allow another person close again.

"You're my mate," you spoke with a certain conviction that hadn't graced your words the last time, Azriel watched your lashes flutter, and he felt his soul singing when those eyes found him again, "I'm not letting you go."

Gracefully, your fingers curled around his wrist, your index finger sleeping just over the faint beat of his pulse, just where his marred flesh faded to memory, "You accept it?"

"I- yes, I do."

Jasmine and sandalwood drowned his lungs, and he would have died happy just to be able to say that he knew what your shampoo smelt like. Papaya and coconuts. He gingerly ran his fingers through your hair, noting how much you loved the feeling of it as you shivered in his arms. Azriel pressed a dainty but tender kiss to your brow, and it had you realising that maybe you were allowed to give yourself this one thing that the younger version of you had always dreamt of.

Azriel hadn't tried to push you further, he knew that the moment of allowing someone to touch you, to hold you, was far more momentous than finding your mate.

Instead he asked you a simple question, it was more of an offering than anything. To spend time together away from the prying eyes of his family, so that you may become comfortable with one another before allowing anyone else into it. You had agreed. Eagerly.

So the next few weeks drifted by, afternoon walks along the Sidra, morning breakfast drop-offs at your office, after hours visits to the gallery where you would tell him of your adventures and how on some occasions you barely survived. Azriel was in complete awe of you, he sat beside you on your love seat completely captivated by you, his fingers tracing small circles into your thighs and his shadows curling through your hair. And that smile, gods, that smile could make even the most poised male lose all sense. It was bright and gleaming, and your skin glowed with the happiness of it.

Then you had decided to break the news to the Inner Circle, and as you stood before those doors oozing with grandeur, you felt nerves pinch at your skin, "Are you ready?" Azriel's fingers were tangled with yours and he bowed his head to place his lips on your bare shoulder.

"Yes." Azriel gave your hand a gentle tug, willing you to move from your spot located just behind him.

The aura of the house had shifted, now, it was inquisitive, glancing to the mirrors and then back to your hands to see if what it was seeing was real. Laughter echoed at the end of the hall, your scent had usually silenced them by now, but not this time. Now that your scent was mixed with Azriel’s it seemed much less threatening. Pity.

Turning the corner, you became startled by the smash of a glass, shards of it glided along the floor and fell at your feet. Looking up, you found Mor frozen in place, wide eyes and bewildered. The rest of the room craned to attention, collectively moving their eyes from Mor, to you, and then to Azriel, and then to your entwined fingers.

It took a minute, but you could have sworn you heard the bell ding in Cassian’s empty brain, “Oh shit,” he rose to his feet, wings flaring slightly as a wide grin gripped his mouth.

Rhys appeared before you both, gaze lowered in surprise, clearly trying to picture a timeline in his mind. The High Lord looked to his Spymaster, “Are you-“

“Mates?” Azriel finished incredulously, knowing that your moulded scents had already infected the room, and turned his head to you, orbs gleaming and adoration speckled on his cheeks, “Yes.”

Elain Archeron had sank into her seat, doing her best to not pay attention to you in particular whilst her stomach churned with the scent seeping into her bones. Subconsciously, you moved closer to Azriel, a slightly territorial action that made him smirk.

It had been a brief conversation that you had suffered through, the one where Azriel had made it very clear that the situation with Elain was brutally one-sided. Azriel had only sought to be nice to her, to help her to adjust to her new body and life because she was Feyre's sister and Feyre was his High Lady, and she had taken his kindness for something much more than what it truly was.

Leading you to the velvet armchair that you would usually slither into, Azriel sat and motioned for you, turning you in his hands so that his touch never left your thighs, and pulled you to his lap. A bashful smile formed on your face and you could feel the eyes of the room on you, equally as confused as shocked.

"Since when?" Nesta had asked after sipping from the goblet of red wine between her fingers, the liquid staining her plump pale lips, and she used her thumb to wipe a singular droplet before it ran down her chin. Her eyes held an emotion you couldn't quite make out, Azriel had admitted that Nesta was just as unreadable as you at times, but the way his digits dug into your flesh told you that what the eldest sister was feeling was an assortment of jealousy. Not toward you, toward him.

"The bond snapped just over a month ago," Nesta hummed and burrowed herself into the cushions, pouting slightly, like she was an infant who had her favourite toy taken from her grasp. "We wanted to explore it before we properly accepted it or told anyone."

That made Elain's doe-like stare move from the floor to your mate who was sat with you on his thighs rubbing small circles into your shoulders, "So you haven't accepted it?"

Your jaw clenched at the question, the question that was perfumed with the last splatters of hope, "If you're asking if we've fucked yet, Elain, then no, we haven't. Does that answer your question?"

Azriel's fingers moved to play with the ends of your hair, knowing that the sensation of slight tugging over your scalp relaxed you infinitely, "I only ask because I know how physical Azriel can be. Surely you've heard the stories?" Elain feigned innocence, Feyre sighed from her seat and glanced to you apologetically, silently begging you to not tear her sister apart.

In fact, you had heard the stories. Trying to ignore the gossip of the city was difficult considering how used you were to eavesdropping into certain conversations in the underworld. So, unfortunately, you had heard about Azriel's many lovers, and you'd be silly to not feel insecure of it, but you wouldn't let her see that. Ever.

Craning your neck to the side, you smiled, your iced gaze slicing into her and making Elain shrink under the weight of it, "With all due respect, which is none," you leaned to the side, accepting the goblet of wine that the house had presented to you in premature thanks for the forthcoming words you were about to utter, "Your existence gives me a headache, so please go and find somewhere else to be."

Rhys' eyes widened but he suppressed the smirk forming on his face, hiding his lips behind his fist and closing his eyes. Not even Feyre or Nesta spoke up over it, they clearly knew better than to challenge you. Cassian however didn't really care if Elain saw his joy at your words, he had been growing more tired each passing day of her pining affection toward his brother, and now he understood why Azriel had withdrawn further from the female over the last few weeks.

It was because of the unique female before their very eyes.

The middle sister went to open her mouth, to retort something that wouldn't even irk you, but Amren shushed her, halted the words in her throat and willed her to die with them, "Don't even try it," Amren served you more than her own court, finding a kindred spirit within you, and she would shame herself if she let Elain speak to you as if you were nothing.

Elain would never understand someone like you. She wasn't worthy of it anyway.

No one had ever tried to understand Amren, not really, they thought her too complicated to be worth it. As long as they brought her pretty jewels and respected her then there was little else to worry of in their eyes. But you, you had understood her instantly and had found a particular solace with her, like you were peering through a mirror and she was your reflection.

Sipping the potent liquid in your goblet, you bowed your head to her, quietly thanking your friend for halting the small spat before it escalated and ruined the evening entirely. Tonight was not about Elain and her fragile feelings, it was about showing the Inner Circle who now owned your heart.

So, the middle sister vacated the room feigning a migraine, and the aura instantly lifted. A soft smile formed on your lips when your eyes landed on your mate, your entire face relaxed; entwining your fingers with his, you blushed when he pressed his lips to your knuckles and dragged your index finger down his cheek.

The Inner Circle watched on, knowing that they had never seen Azriel so taken by anything. They feasted on the sight of his shadows purring through your hair, on your colliding smiles, and how your gentle words to one another were contained in an ornate bubble around your bodies.

As the evening continued, you found yourself quite enjoying their company, you sat bundled into Azriel's embrace, finding comfort in the arms that were wrapped around you whilst Cassian spewed war stories, bragging at his prowess.

"Not to brag," you began with a smirk, "But at least eight men have described me as 'terrifying', and two of them are in this room. Choke on that ego, Cassian."

Nesta's grin turned feline and excitement bubbled in the pit of her stomach. What she wouldn't give to spar with you, to have your legs wound around her and that tense gaze splitting her in half. From the whisperings of Prythian, it was very clear that you had done some rather diabolical things in order to obtain certain artifacts that had been locked away in your most prized and personal collection. So prized that its location was unknown. She could only imagine what trinkets you possessed, and the things you had witnessed.

"What about Azriel?!"

The Shadowsinger shrugged, his hand resting on your thigh and squeezing the flesh there, "I've only ever been entranced by my mate, Cassian," Azriel drawled, sipping the amber liquid swirling in his rocks glass like molten bronze, "It's you and Rhys who are afraid of her."

"If it's any consolation, I don't blame you."

Cassian frowned, turning to Nesta and asking, "Are you scared of her?"

"No," she answered a little too quickly, so quickly that you had quirked your brow at the sound, "I find y/n to be quite exciting."

"Exciting?" Cassian moved to Feyre and asked the same question, his manhood decaying when she too said that you didn't scare her, "Mor?"

The blonde who could not rival your beauty had always watched you from afar, and had always enjoyed how you made males squirm. Mor rose her glass to the stars and stated, "Bring every man you meet to their motherfucking knees, y/n."

"Amen to that," Amren tipped her glass in response, downing the rest of the thick red sap and finally feeling at home in the presence of her family thanks to you, and she eternally thanked the male sat beside you for being able to breathe some light into the storm cloud that was your mind.

"Mother above," Rhys grumbled, the women in his life uniting and itching to wreck havoc. The action of Rhys swiping his hand down his face, dragging the skin slightly toward in frustration, made a deep chuckle float from your lips, so serene that Nesta likened the sound to a siren call and found herself drawn to it. "Did I just make you laugh?" Rolling your eyes, you nodded at the High Lord who turned toward his mate, "This is the best day of my life," then back to you, "Does this mean that we're friends?"

Rhys waited expectantly, childlike orbs pleading to you with their innocence. You had no friends bar Amren and you were content with that. It meant that you only had one thing to lose. But as Azriel laid his hand on the small of your back, gaining your attention and giving you an expression of promise, the resolve of your solitude cracked, "Why not?"

The door to the River House flew open, a sudden shrill chill soaring through the air from the wild winds battering against the city, no doubt spurred on by your fury.

Many months had passed, and in that time you had truly blossomed, sure you still wore the mask of the devil on your features in public, but when you were with the Inner Circle, a group of people you now proudly belonged to, that mask drifted away like ash in the autumn breeze; and when Azriel was beside you, it felt as though warmth and happiness was all that you ever knew.

Much to Elain's upset, you and Azriel had officially accepted the bond and had locked yourselves away for four weeks to make the most out of every single moment together, and Rhys had been understanding enough of the bond between you both to not drag your mate away on another mission. The bond between you and Azriel was something that Rhys had never seen before, not even between him and Feyre.

"She tastes like every dark thought I've ever had."

The ceremony itself had been astonishing.

The women of the Inner Circle had spent the better part of two days dressing your apartment for the occasion and Feyre had made it quite clear that the upcoming ceremony was going to make theirs look ridiculous in comparison. Rhys was split between jealousy and awe when he saw it.

No one had ever stepped into the apartment beside Amren and Azriel, he had decided to move into the apartment after your return from the four-week sabbatical at the cabin, it was as though you were gifting them with the last part of you, allowing them to see what they could never fathom.

Faelights were strewn across the ceiling, curling around the arched windows that displayed the golden valley of the city in a way Rhys had never been able to appreciate before; tucked between the vines of the lights was fresh foliage, an array of green hue ferns caressing fully blossomed white roses and pale blue peonies. Sprigs of cedar and rosemary had been wove between the foliage and flowers alongside splinters of sandalwood, filling the room with the physical aspects of your scents.

Only the Inner Circle had been invited, and as you were dressing in your room with Amren, you could hear Nesta whining of her foolish jealousy of having to watch Azriel marry you. Amren had simply raised a brow and smirked at you through the mirror as she finished securing your veil to the back of your head.

There was no one you would want to share the moment with other than her.

Amren had blindfolded you, leading you through the home so that the gift wouldn't be ruined just so that you could get ready together, for the most important and deserving night of your life.

The dress that you had meticulously chosen was the most incredible garment Amren had ever seen, so much so that the first time you had tried it on in front of her, she had nearly cried at the beauty of it; and there you now stood, twisting in the mirror and running your hands down the hem of your veil and then your hips. The dress was made entirely of white lace that you had imported from the Day Court, an off-the-shoulder neckline and sleeves that kissed your wrists, it was elegant and graceful, and made the freckles of your trauma glow like shooting stars.

A gentle knock had sounded at the door and Rhys stepped in, taking one look at you and finding his breath catching in his throat. "You look amazing," he breathed, approaching you with his hands deep within his pockets.

The High Lord had been honoured when you had sheepishly asked him to walk you down the aisle; Rhys had found himself consumed with the need to protect you, after seeing your guard disappear, he saw who you truly were, a woman who just wanted to be loved and protected, and ready to allow other people to do it for her after spending so long doing it herself.

"Are you ready?" Inhaling deeply, you nodded and turned to him, noting the outstretched hand before you and feeling your usual anxiety bubbling in your gut. Rhys, realising that he shouldn't have done something so bold, went to retreat but halted when you took a small step toward him, reaching your fingers out to his palm and sliding them into his grasp.

Azriel was right, your skin was a smooth as honey.

A gentle smile of triumph later, you spoke, "I'm ready."

It was that moment that Rhys was begging you to remember as you barrelled through his house, no doubt heading straight for him in the confinements of his office.

He could feel your anger slam through the walls, your footsteps sounding up the staircase and stopping at the top of the hall, a pause to remember just how much you liked him before stalking down the hall and bursting into his office. Rhys cringed, knowing what was coming as you strode to his desk and slapped your palms flat against the wood.

"If you ever," you pointed your perfectly manicured finger in his face, "Send my mate back to me in that state again. I. Will. Destroy. You."

The snarl of your words sent a shiver coursing down his spine, and in that moment you were the y/n he had met one-hundred years ago. Cold. Distant. Almost demonic.

In his defence, he hadn't sent Azriel on an overly dangerous mission, it wasn't his fault that his Spymaster was ambushed in The Middle. Azriel's spilled blood was entirely his own fault in Rhys' eyes, "I didn't mean for him to get hurt, y/n."

The rushed footsteps of another sounded in the hall, and when Rhys looked past your deeply heaving form, he was relieved beyond compare when he saw a bruised Azriel approaching, "Angel, it wasn't his fault. I was distracted," his voice grew louder as he paced closer to the pair of you, appearing at your side and turning your head in his fingers to face him, "I was thinking about you and I didn't hear them coming."

Watching your shoulders drop, Rhys sighed and wiped away an invisible bead of sweat from his brow, sitting back down and continuing his viewing just as you tilted your head to the side and popped out your bottom lip.

"You were?" Azriel's eyes softened and he dipped his gaze to meet yours, "That's the most romantic thing you've ever done. You were attacked because you were thinking about me, you actually bled because you were thinking about me?"

Rhys could only watch on perplexed at your words, you threw yourself into Azriel's arms, muttering small apologies for brushing against the bruises littering his abdomen, "She's crazy."

The Shadowsinger could only huff, too entrapped by you to really reprimand him, "Yeah," his eyes opened lazily, brimming with exhaustion, "But she's my crazy."

Azriel's shadows curled over your shoulders and shuddered, crying to be as close to you as possible, like they were trying to entwine with your soul so that you one day may carry them with you wherever you walked. In whatever world.

A bond like yours was made to topple temples and shatter worlds, it was made to transcend time and space; and as you wrapped an arm around your mate and led him from the office, not without sending one more warning glare to the male you had come to love as a brother, Rhys knew that no matter where either of you went, there would be no place that you could travel to where the other would not follow.

Author’s Note

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kaiser1ns · 2 months

Text

#. RAPUNZEL, RAPUNZEL LET DOWN YOUR HAIR !

featuring 𝘄𝗶𝗻𝗱𝗯𝗿𝗲𝗮𝗸𝗲𝗿 𝘅 𝗳𝗲𝗺!𝗿𝗲𝗮𝗱𝗲𝗿 ıllı. umemiya hajime, takiishi chika, togame jo, kiryu mitsuki, tsubakino tasuku

fluff. your boyfriend has such beautiful hair that you want to style it every second of the day.

im such a sucker for chika i love him so much, starting the takiishi chika fluff agenda i do not care he is a cutie patootie !

UMEMIYA HAJIME

You were sprawled on the couch, eyes fixed on Umemiya. It was one of those rare moments when his hair wasn't slicked back it was all naturally let down, white bangs lightly brushing against his pretty blue eyes. He was sitting in the armchair, engrossed in a book, the glasses perched on his nose making him look so divine.

You couldn't help but feel mesmerized by the sight before you, wishing for him to stay with his hair down more. Absentmindedly, you twirled a curl of your hair around your finger, your thoughts slipping past the filter of your mind. "You are so beautiful," you murmured, your voice came out as a whisper.

For a moment, you felt a little silly, knowing how you must look—how dumb you might sound—entranced by the man in front of you. But then he looked up from his book, a soft hum escaping his lips. He had heard you perfectly well and was fully aware of your gaze. With a slow, deliberate motion, he closed the book and directed his full attention towards you.

"Aren't you the fairest of them all, princess?" he teased, a playful smile dancing on his lips. Your face heated up instantly, a blush creeping up your cheeks at the nickname. He had this ability to switch personalities in an instant, and it always left you flustered.

Gathering your courage, you stood up and walked over to him, your fingers gently brushing away some of the bangs that fell over his eyes. "Can I brush your hair again?" you asked, your voice soft and hopeful, even though you already knew the answer.

A small, knowing smile played on his lips as he tilted his head slightly, granting you better access. "Of course," he replied, his voice ever so soft and gentle. "I trust you to make me look my best."

You couldn't help but smile back, your heart swelling with affection. As you reached for the hairbrush, you gently combed through his silken strands, "Your hair is so soft," you murmured, almost to yourself, but you saw the corners of his mouth twitch in response.

Once you were satisfied, his hair fell naturally into place, framing his face in a way that highlighted his best features, but nothing could beat the way he was best at kissing your lips when you least expected it — take it as your reward.

TAKIISHI CHIKA

Sitting on the couch, you gently comb your fingers through Takiishi's long, vibrant red-yellow hair. He's seated on the floor between your thighs, completely focused on his phone as he lets you do whatever you want. His hair is soft, almost silky, and it flows smoothly between your fingers — you are jealous of him

"Baby, you have such beautiful and soft hair," you murmur softly, starting to section it off. Chika hums in response, a sound that makes sure everything is okay as a small smile tugs at the corners of your lips as you part his hair, creating two distinct styles. One side has a sleek tail, while the other has pigtails, hairpins, and rubber bands.

"My beautiful, pretty princess," you tease, leaning down to kiss his temple. If anyone else dared to call him that, they'd likely find themselves regretting it instantly. But for you, Takiishi Chika lets his guard down. He tilts his head to the side so you can work better, as he is still focused on his phone.

The door swings open, and Endo strolls in. He takes one look at Takiishi's mismatched hairstyle and bursts into laughing "What in the world happened to you, Takiishi?" he manages to say, catching his breath.

Chika's eyes snap up, and in a flash, he's on his feet, fist connecting with Endo's face before the other can react as he groans and clutches his nose, you quickly snap a photo of your angry yet adorably flustered boyfriend. "Delete it or you're next," the princess warns, sitting back down between your thighs, his shoulders tense.

You chuckle, knowing full well that you won't delete it. "Yes, sir," you reply, setting the photo as your lock screen instead.

Takiishi resumes his previous position, and you resume styling his hair, sparing a glance at Endo but you know he will be fine. "Do you want me to add bows? I have different colors."

He glances back at you with that nonchalant expression. "Know your limits." Smiling, you place another kiss on his temple, continuing to enjoy your little hairstyling session with your beautiful, fierce, and surprisingly compliant boyfriend.

TOGAME JO

You never imagined you’d find yourself here, wide awake in the middle of the night, a razor in your hand, and Togame sitting on the ground before you. His black hair, styled in a mullet with the longer ends usually tied in a braid — you were the one who meticulously braided it every day, loving the way your fingers moved through his hair, the way it felt when you hugged him, the way it helped you fall asleep as you gently played with it. But now, your heart ached at the thought of cutting it all off.

He wanted to cut his hair short, a decision he made after his fight with Sakura and reconciling with his past actions at Shishitoren. He wanted to let go of the past and start anew. You knew his reasons, respected them even, but it didn’t make it any easier.

“Jo, I can’t do it,” you said, your voice breaking as tears threatened to spill. Both of you were standing in front of the mirror, and you saw the softness in his eyes as he looked at your expression.

“Angel, it’s hair, not my hand that you have to cut,” he said gently, trying to reassure you. But for you, it wasn’t just hair.

“But... But how will I do hairstyles on you now? How will I fall asleep at night?” The tears you had been holding back began to roll down your cheeks, a waterfall of emotion you couldn’t contain. Togame chuckled softly, his voice filled with warmth and understanding. He stood up, removed the razor from your hand, and enveloped you in a comforting hug.

“I want to cut it. I don’t want to dwell on the past. I know you love it, but I promise you that even if you cut my hair, my love for you won’t stop growing, okay?”

How was he so good with words? You didn’t know, but perhaps that was why you were with him. He had a way of making everything seem alright.

“Can I style it for you one more time?” you asked between sobs.

“Of course you can, angel,” he replied, his voice tender. You took your time, savoring every moment as you braided his hair one last time. Each twist and turn of his hair through your fingers felt bittersweet. When you finally gained the courage, you cut his hair, the sound of the razor mingling with your quiet sniffles. And there he stood, beautiful and handsome, even with short hair.

“See, it wasn’t that bad, right?” Togame said with a gentle smile, his eyes full of love. You nodded, wiping away your tears, realizing that no matter how he looked, he would always be the man you loved. But how can he look that good with short hair, how does he pull off everything that he tries?

KIRYU MITSUKI

Kiryu sat patiently on the couch, his beautiful pink hair cascading down his shoulders like cotton candy. You couldn't help but feel thrilled at how soft and silky it felt between your fingers, perfect for trying out various hairstyles. So what were you waiting for? Instantly grabbing some hairpins and a brush, you started to comb his hair with excitement bubbling inside you.

Kiryu remained calm and composed, his expression never wavering even as you inserted the fiftieth hairpin — yes, he counted them, into his meticulously styled locks. You couldn't help but smile at his patience, thinking he looked like a princess, the cutest and the fairest of them all.

"Open your eyes, baby!" you said, your voice brimming with excitement.

Kiryu slowly opened his eyes, gazing into the mirror you held up to him. His eyes widened slightly as he took in his reflection, a small smile tugging at the corners of his lips. He looked utterly adorable, and you couldn't help but feel a surge of pride at your handiwork.

"Well," he said softly, "how do I look?"

"You look perfect. Absolutely perfect," you replied, grinning from ear to ear, as you gently cupped his face in your hands, always looking at him with those loving eyes, as he put his hands on top of yours. "You did a perfect job playing Fairy Godmother, too. I hope I won't change at midnight."

His smile grew, eyes crinkling at the edges as he leaned into your touch. "If you do, I'll just have to find you again and make sure you stay this way," you teased, knowing full well you won't let him take out the pins anytime soon. Cinderella's magic moment must have ended at midnight, but yours will stay forever.

TSUBAKINO TASUKU platonic + using he/him pronounce for my dearest wife @17020

The moment had finally arrived for your best friend with his signature long, straight black hair adorned with pinkish-red edges, were about to dye his hair at home without classified professionals. You stared at the hair dye kit like it was a ticking time bomb. "Are you sure about this, Tsubaki?" you asked, your voice trembling slightly. The idea of turning his entire head red by accident was a very real fear.

"Don’t worry, Y/N-chan! I’m sure it will be fine. I trust you!" Tsubakino chirped, his cheerfulness radiating like sunshine on a cloudy day, always so highly optimistic.

"And that's the problem," you muttered under your breath, glancing at him. He beamed back at you, completely unfazed by your evident nerves. You both sat down in your bathroom-turned-hair-salon, the scent of hair dye filling the air. Tsubakino handed you the brush and dye bottle, his smile never wavering. "Let's do this, Y/N-chan!"

You took a deep breath, steadying your shaking hands. "Okay, here goes nothing." Carefully, you began applying the dye to the edges of his hair. Tsubakino kept his eyes closed, humming a little tune, completely relaxed. Meanwhile, you were concentrating like a surgeon performing a delicate operation. At one point, you accidentally got a little dye on your own hand and panicked, almost dropping the brush.

Tsubakino laughed. "Hey, Y/N-chan, don't want you to turn into Pink Panther!"

"Ha-ha, very funny," you replied, rolling your eyes but unable to stop a smile from creeping onto your face. After what felt like an eternity, you stepped back to admire your work in the freshly opened hair salon. Tsubakino opened his eyes and looked in the mirror. His hair now had vibrant pinkish-red edges, and no part of his head was accidentally dyed.

He turned to you, his eyes sparkling with happiness. "See, I told you it would be fine! You did an amazing job, Y/N!"

You let out a sigh of relief, a wide grin spreading across your face. "Thanks, Tsubaki. But next time, maybe we should leave it to a professional?"

Tsubakino laughed, wrapping you in a tight hug. "No, it's way more fun this way. Besides, what could possibly go wrong?" Just then, you caught a glimpse of yourself in the mirror. Your eyes widened in horror as you saw a bright red streak in your own hair, right at the front.

"Um, Tsubaki," you said, trying to keep your voice calm, "I think we found out what could go wrong." He looked at you, puzzled, before his eyes followed your gaze to the mirror. He burst out laughing, clutching his sides. "Y/N-chan, you look like a punk rock star!"

You couldn’t help but join in the laughter. "Great. Just what I always wanted," you said sarcastically, but on the bright side you will match with your best friend.

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cherubfae · 1 month

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May I request cock warming with the final fantasy boys? Specifically cloud, Zack, and noctis please!!

"soft & warm" || {final fantasy x reader}

ft. Cloud, Zack, Sephiroth, Reno, Ignis, Gladio, Noctis, & Prompto

tags: smut, nsfw, gn!afab!reader (afab anatomy described), established relationships, comfort/gentle sex, descriptive injuries, injured!reader and injured!protective!boys, dirty talk, breeding kink, Reno is a yapper, slight dom!reader in some

a/n: some of these got really long oop!! Also I refuse to leave my BELOVED prompto out of anything so hi, hello, I've added him too! ☺️ Fun fact, I haven't played any FF games other than the og FF7 demo! I'm hoping that'll change soon and I've watched some playthroughs, know the lore decent enough, but I hope to continue writing FF content for you guys! It is one of my fave worlds that I wish to explore properly!

Cloud

Your bedroom would be the only place he would feel comfortable doing this in. Comforted by the scent of you, of your blankets and pillows, the small collection of stuffed animals. Your scent caresses his troubled mind, filling him with longing; for the home he found in you.

Pretty Mako eyes glitter in the dark, shining like the night sky, as you and Cloud are drenched in pale moonlight. His gaze solely focused on your never wavered, even when had shimmied out of your sleep shorts and underwear. The second you climb back onto the bed, he's reaching for you, pulling into his lap and sealing your mouth in a soft kiss. His cock already lined up against your silken folds.

"Thought I lost you today." Came Cloud's soft admittance. "Scared the hell outta me. Need to.. I need to feel that you're real. That you're here. Please." Your warm palms cup his cheek, pulling him out of his dark thoughts. Grounding him to reality. Eagerly, he leans into your touch, embracing you tightly.

"I'm here, Cloud. I'm safe. I love you." You remind, repeating the mantra the two of you came up with when he'd get a little too lost within himself. Cloud kisses you again, cupping your jaw gently. He quietly repeats those last three words to you, barely above a whisper.

A tiny whimper leaves both of you as you sink down onto Cloud. His arms wrap around you tightly, burying his face into the side of your neck. The panicked rose and fall of his chest slowly subsided as the minutes wore on. Gently shifting your position, Cloud lays the two of you down. Your leg tossed over his hip. His protective hold remains on your ass and across your back, his fingers lightly pressed into the skin of your shoulder blades. It's only after you fall asleep in his loving embrace that he allows himself a little cry. Spending the night holding you, unable to fall asleep until the first songbird begins its morning tune.

Zack

"Are you sure this is okay, baby?" Zack's pink cheeks are bright in the dark bedroom. Though, you can't see his expression, you can, however, feel the heat radiating from his cheeks. With his face hidden in the crook of your neck, you can feel how they burn against your tepid skin. Ever so grateful that your boyfriend runs hot like a furnace. At your nod, he carefully lifts up your bandaged thigh with one strong, warm hand.

His other arm, previously wrapped around your tummy and slightly pinned beneath your body, is able to reach down between your legs and rub slowly, gentle circles around your clit until the nub becomes erect. Pushing your wet underwear to the side, you shiver at the contract between his warm fingers and the leather that conceals the rest of his hand. Spreading your folds open, you let out a pleased moan as his weeping cock rubs at your hole.

"Oh, fuck, honey. Such a pretty noise." Zack's eyelashes flutter. Slowly pushing himself inside of you, mouth dropping open into a fucked out expression. He places a pillow under your injured thigh, letting it rest against his own leg. "Fuck, baby. You're sucking me in so sweetly." He fidgets. "I promised not to move, but I can still make you cum on my cock." Lowly, he growls; his warm fingers return to your aching clit.

Sephiroth

"Are you sure you want to warm my cock, dearest?"Sephiroth frowns, deeply. "I am certainly not opposed but I worry about your health. You took a rather nasty spill today. That vile creature breaking into our home and harming you," Sephiroth bared his teeth in a snarl.

"Are you certain? Hmm, come here then, my love." Undoing his trousers, he frees himself just enough for his tall, heavy cock to stand proud between his parted thighs.

Wrapping a protective arm around your waist, he lifts you. Rubbing his slit against your folds, collecting your juices. He smiles at your cute moan when his cockhead swipes against your clit, repeating the motion several more times. "I will go slow, my angel. Hold onto me." His grip is firm as he slowly pushes his head past your outer lips, easing his thick girth into your hole. A satisfied growl rumbles from his lips once he's fully seated inside of you. Stroking your hair, he pushes your head to rest on his shoulder. "Rest, dearest."

Reno

"Fuck! How are you still this tight...?" Reno gasps, unable to make up his mind on where to touch you first. His hands scramble from gripping your hips, to wrapping around your upper body to cradle you to him, to your breasts, to back to your hips. "You're killin' me, doll. I'm injured, take pity on me?" The redhead pouts, his lower lip jutting out. He looked more like a puppy begging for its owner's food at dinnertime rather than an supposed injured warrior. He was playing with a cool dagger and cut his finger, please take pity on him.

Seeing you glower down at him, Reno stilled, a cheeky smile reaching his face. He had disturbed you while you were working on a thick stack of paperwork, again. He can be quite the yapper when he's around you. Snapping your hips down, he gasped, bucking himself wildly into your warm cunt. Look, he's not above whining if he's in your presence.

"You're really not gonna let me move? :(" He groans at your stern stare. "I know, I know. I was a tad reckless on this last mission, I'm sorry, honey. I'll make it up to you."

"You can make it up to me by being quiet and let me work. If you're good, maybe I'll deem you worthy enough to cum inside my cunt." Holy shit. Reno has never been so fucking turned on in his life.

Ignis

While he appreciates the practice in improving his healing techniques, Ignis isn't quite fond that you have become his primary companion in building said techniques. This time it was particularly gnarly and you were left with several gashes across your body from a fierce daemon attack. He had been ridiculously worried for your safety the moment he saw the creature send you flying back into the cliff side with a swipe of its beastly claws. He will be forever thankful to Noctis for being the first and closest to rush to your aid, allowing Gladio to slay the foul beast; cleaving its head from its miserable shoulders.

Helping you remove the last of your bloodied clothing, the chef clicked his tongue at your ruined, bloodied bandages already haphazardly unsticking from your chest and abdomen. Thank the gods the wounds were shallow enough to not need many stitches. Sitting at the edge of a hidden hot spring, Ignis was determined to help wash away the grime of the day now that your wounds had healed a bit more thanks to his delicious cooking.

"You worried me today, darling." Ignis spoke softly into the cool night, naked as the day he was born, barely audible above the roar of the waterfall. Not too far away, the rest of the group sleeps soundly around a warm, roaring campfire. Your pained expression made his heart ache and with a sigh, pulls you into his warm embrace. You press your nose against his neck and let out a shaky sigh. Ignis holds you a little tighter.

Easing into the pleasant warm water, Ignis wades into the shallow depths with your legs wrapped around his waist. There's a long stone, closest to the waterfall, smoothed into the vague shape of a bench over hundreds of years thanks to the minerals and magical properties of the water. Situated in his lap, your palms rest flat upon his shoulders leaning back to give him a look. Ignis smiles knowingly, unable to fight the adoring chuckle that leaves him.

"Even whilst injured you're so eager for my cock to fill you, hmm? What a tempter you are, darling. A little minx. Come here, I shall indulge a little." Always the one to treat you like glass, he softly slides his tip between your folds, pretty eyes slipping shut into a moan. He looked so pretty like this, biting his lip, and doing his best to stay quiet despite knowing that the prince loved a good show. "We are here to relax, not to fuck like rabbits--" Your slam yourself down onto his lap impatiently, cutting his monologue short. Ignis chokes out a scratchy moan, his hands shooting out to grip your hips. "No, you can't fuck me tonight, oh gods. Be good and sit still. I promise when you are healed, I'll breed you until all you can remember is my name." Ignis nipped at your earlobe in warning.

Gladiolus

Thunder rippled across the sky, dancing in tune with flashes of white-purple lightning. Heavy rain drizzled down the windows, only allowing for blurry glimpses of the outside world beyond the glass. It was chilly. Cold enough to dive deep into your closet to bring your heavier, thicker clothing out from hiding.

Gladio stoked low flames burning in the hearth to life, still choosing to be mostly bare-chested like a sociopath in this cold weather. Still nursing a wound on his lower abdomen, he took his movements slowly. But even when injured, Gladiolus craved physical contact with you. And if you're so cold, how about you come over here and he'll help warm you up a little? ;D

"Shit, dove. Can't believe I'm already all the way in," his deep voice grumbled, partially in disbelief. His cock is impossibly thick, stretching out your cunt wide. The sight alone makes him throb and if he wasn't injured, he'd be fuckin' jackhammering you into the sofa, insatiable, like a bear that found honey.

"Usually ya need more prep to take me. Have you been thinking about little ol' me this whole time?" The playful smack you give his shoulder makes him erupt into laughter, before instant regret makes itself known, and Gladio clutches his side with a wince. "Alright, alright. Don't make me laugh, cutie. M' sorry. C'mere, I'll keep you nice and warm from this frigid weather." Pulling a blanket off the back of the sofa, Gladiolus wraps it around your shoulders and pulls you against his warm chest.

Noctis

"Easy does it, you're still hurt from the fight-- I'm still hurt, too, just be- oh fuck," Noctis whined, bordering on a whimper, "--Careful--," The gasp he let out is sinful. His head falls back against his mass of soft, plush pillows supporting his head and upper body. Your walls pulse and throb around his weeping length, a deliciously slick noise echoing through his room as you sink down completely on his length.

Fighting through every instinct to buck himself into you, Noctis's hands find purchase on your hips. He breathes in deep, shallow gasps, stuttering and with a bit of drool. The sight alone is a heavenly gift from the Six. You throb deliciously around his cock, already collecting slick at the base. Sticky strings drip down your folds, clinging to his pubic bone as he not so subtly sleepily grinds himself into you.

Prompto

What could be more poetic and a clear sign that you and your boyfriend are soulmates than both of you getting bucked off of chocobos and suffering several semi-serious injuries of varied assortment? The tumble was enough to whiplash you two and were then forced by Ignis to stay at the hotel while he, Gladio, and Noctis were to go retrieve supplies in town for dinner tonight. Ignis already planned to have a stern talk with the vendors they'd rented the chocobos from.

To say the chef was perturbed was an understatement. Giving you what he called 'faulty skittish birds'. You and Prompto hadn't done anything to warrant getting tossed off your mounts. It had been a chain reaction. His had been startled first, kicking him off and yours, who had been directly behind his, followed suit. You hadn't noticed much at first until the pain burning beneath your skin grew and spread like wildfire from your wrist up to your shoulder. A broken wrist. Asphalt burned your palms and knees, completely scraped up and throbbing. The small pinpricks of red blood that surfaced from your abrasions were the only thing cooling down the heated, throbbing flesh of your new layer of skin now exposed. Your right knee had been scraped and banged up pretty good, with your ankle most likely twisted.

Prompto had fully broken his arm, being confined to a flimsy cloth brace while his arm remained in his cast-- he was just relieved it wasn't his dominant hand. So he could still take pictures without worry. His pretty freckled skin was also littered with scrapes and bruises.

"Just give me your list of what you need. I shall purchase them if I see them. We'll buy you two some desserts if we come across something especially delicious." Ignis promised, leaving with the boys not long after, Gladio giving a teasing wave as they left. They would definitely be gone for at least a couple hours.

Turning to look at Prompto, he gives you a bright smile managing a tiny thumbs up with his broken arm. The small scratches marring his freckled face make your heart ache. Today could've gone much worse than it did. You were thankful the worst was only broken bones.

"I know something I'd like for dessert." Prompto spoke aloud. His purple-blue eyes squinted into slivers as he grinned cheekily; a tiny flush of pink crossing his face. "We've got a bit of time. Think I could tempt you to hop on a different mount?" He giggled at his own joke, wiggling his eyebrows.

"What if I want to say yes to that ride?" You smirk at him, Prompto immediately going silent with flushed cheeks. He was good at fishing out flirtatious comments when it came to you, even after all these years together, but still wasn't able to handle them being given right back to him. Instantly he's scooting himself to rest his back against the headboard. He struggles with his belt buckle, wiggling down his jeans far enough to pull his cock out. Already dripping precum down his shaft.

It takes a bit of maneuvering, with the both of you dealing with broken limbs, each one on the opposite side. Prompto steadies you to the best of his ability, pushing your hips down onto his cock fully. His Adam's apple bobs in his throat, held tilting back as you cover his neck in little kisses.

"Missed how warm you are, pretty. It feels like it's been forever." Prompto pants, half-lidded and oh so smiley. "Guys are always getting in the way, not lettin' me have any alone time with you. Wrap your arms around my shoulders. Need'ta touch you." He groaned.

Doing your best to avoid any bruises, you do as he says. Pressing his thumb to your clit, you gasp loudly. Prompto is quick to pull you into a firm kiss, stroking your clit with messy circles. Very thankful to have the shoddy motel room to yourselves.

|| please don't repost, reuse, or edit my works in any way! I do not give permission. Tumblr is the only site where I post. All characters belong to their rightful owner and the story belongs to me © CHERUBFAE 2024 ||

#final fantasy x reader #final fantasy smut #final fantasy vii x reader #final fantasy xv x reader #cloud strife x reader #cloud strife smut #sephiroth x reader #zack fair x reader #ignis scientia x reader #gladiolus amicitia x reader #gladio x reader #noctis lucis caelum x reader #noctis x reader #prompto argentum x reader #prompto x reader #reno sinclair x reader #cherubfae 2024

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punk-in-docs · 2 months

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A song of rage and salty waves: part I

— Emperor Geta x reader (Salacia)

— 2.5k words

— Read all parts here: Part I — Part II — Part III — Part IV

Summary; You were raised outside of this Rome. Born into peace. To know of fathomless deep seas, and skies so big, they wrapped around your whole sight. The way that at night all you can smell are lemon trees kissed by salt. The jasmine plants wound around the white walls of the villa. Salacia. And now you are sent to Rome for your father in the Senate. There you will catch the attention of Geta; in all the wrong and darkest of ways— any reblog and comments are greatly appreciated 💙💙💙

TW!! some dub con/ threat/violence/basically forced marriage/forced smut situation/Geta is such a vile human being/Macrinus is villain sorry denzel ily

You’re imprisoned in Rome.

You certainly didn’t come here of your own free will. Your father had tugged you here from Corsica. Employed clever charm with letters and schemes from his high position in the senate.

As the role of your sex; you were born to obey.

He sent you imported silken stolas the colours of cornflowers or lazurite, with gold fibulae at the shoulders. Gem inlaid jewellery, rings to decorate every finger, and earrings the sway. A golden net for your hair. Wheedled you into coming to join him. Sending servants to travel with you and take heed of your every comfort.

He made sure you dined on plump fresh fruit. Seafood of lobsters and crabs. Drank wine so rich dark it looked black.

You despise it. The stone pillars and temples. And gods of old. Eyes watch you everywhere. See you. Follow you.The governing heat and noise and sweaty heaving mass of all forms of life.

You were raised outside of this Rome. Born into peace. To know of fathomless deep seas, and skies so big, they wrapped around your whole sight. The way that at night all you can smell are lemon trees kissed by salt. The jasmine plants wound around the white walls of the villa.

Salacia. The ocean nymph and the being of your name. Crowned with seaweed in your hair. Sea foam dripping off your fingers. Ripped from your home, an isle by the sea, at the whim of another.

Imprisoned here in this cold marble city. A fish out of water. Gasping dry on the shore.

Pulled inland and stolen away. You can’t hear gulls or waves anymore. It sickens you. Heart pangs that throb for home.

When you arrived, pulled back your folded palla down to your shoulders. He welcomed you with open arms and fondness. Wrists linked in gold cuffs. Tugged you to his chest and embraced you warmly. Hissed in your ear - abrasive like harsh sea spray - spies are everywhere.

He needed you close by. For reasons you had yet to fathom.

You dined like spoilt deity’s. Breads and wines, fish, fruits from far regions fattened by the suns heat, and succulent meat roasted in sweet cassia spices on a spit.

He had urns of flowers - picked by the servant - placed in every room. Lilies, juniper branches still bearing dark fruit, lavender, oleanders.

Companions join him and he is boastful of you. A nubile creature offered placement at a table of old muddled men. He introduces you to trusted friends and advisors in the senate.

One man in particular takes keen interest as to your recent arrival. His name was Macrinus. Man of information and resources. Dealt in cunning and cruelty though you found him sincerely charming. Your father watched you with a desperate eye.

Macrinus bore a smile so dazzling and blinding it made you dizzy; made think of the sun god. Apollo and his light cast across golden wheat fields. Notes of fine music. He sipped his wine slow, as he learned the flavour of your name. Where you came from. Understanding the rolling sea foam in your veins.

There’s a game to be held at the coliseum. He will have your father as his guest - and you by a very pretty extension. He nods at you; his eyes glimmer like pooled liquid gold in the half lit dark. It almost makes you feel safe.

They dine and drink into the small hours. Yet you slip away.

You watched this awful city out your window that night in your silk dress the colour of night time tidal waves. The air is stale. Carrion to you. Hot. Full of dust and sweat. Here, It smells like mulberry trees and a green garden waiting for blessed rain.

You couldn’t hear the sea. Or your sisters. Your mothers humming as she wove cloth and mended clothes. And you wept.

Salt found in your tears to be your only sacred comfort of home.

You are soft to this hard stone city. The coliseum is magnificent. As large as it is those who hold their powerful fists over its rule. Clutched in gold. Fine for the rich. Deadly for the slaves and warriors thrown into the pit at the whim of others. Met with carnivore teeth and sand and death.

The senators, generals, and the rich merchants watch from their perch, up among the gods they serve, presiding in shade and clothed in perfumed silks and jewels. Ladies and men both.

Your hair took hours to fasten in its current coiled style. Plaited and weaved. Your dress is the colour of the softest blue shore. Your servant lavished your arms and fingers in golden finery. A serpent cuff coiled around your arm. Skin draped in lemon oil because it’s the small piece of Corsica you carry here with you. Serenity to push against this place of gore, butchery and death.

You find yourself seated here amongst giants. Macrinus is seated one side. Your father the other. He fondly lays his hand across yours in gentle touch.

His palm is damp. Gold rings wet.

His face looks haggard with age. The lines by his eyes more prominent. Rome is poisoning him. The golden apple just a fingertip shy of his reach. St Bartholomew flayed and stripped of skin piece by piece. Schemes and plots lay thick in his mind like rot. Sweat beads down across his brow and the thinning salt pepper of his hair.

He says something to Macrinus that you’re too absorbed to hear. It’s low. Dragged through a growl. He appears unmoved, with a slow flick of his eyes to you. Watching this finery and loudness devour you. Your eyes so full wide and round. Salt and innocence entwined.

You all rise when the emperors pass by, Geta and Caracalla, who stride in, garbed in gold and cloaks. Come to take their rightful place at the mouth of the box where you are seated.

They are like twin suns to the Roman people. Lion gold hair kissed by fire. They burn and twist and shine with it. Make noises like gold coins that clack when they move. Strung in riches and golden crowns of olive leaves and branches.

Together they make you think of Romulus and Remus. Raised rabid by wolves. And they certainly make an impression. You’ve heard tale of the voracious nature of the blood sport they all but live for. Faces limned in the glory of gore.

The crowd cheers for them. They nod and wave but it appears barbed. The games begin with a wave of applause and a regal hand.

Caracalla twists and casts an eye in your direction. Seeing new meat.

The way you sit sedately and can’t cast your mind into the butchery and violence happening below. The clash of steel. The hollow squelching cries that proceed death. The spill of viscera and the scatter of brain matter from split heads.

Each new gash or split in skin made them smile. The taint of blood. Metallic sour. Spilling of offal and exposed bone.

He tilts his head like a clever wolf. Eyes darken. His sneer as terrible as a skulls. He leans across and whispers something to his brother with a knock of his arm to gain attention.

Another set of wolfish eyes join the first in hooking to your skin. Silly soft girl. Made of gentle sea breezes and lapping blue waves calm and soft enough to wade in. Pearl shining in moonlight. So watery and weak. So good. Untouchable.

Geta swept his gaze on you from head to toe. Appraising you hungrily through greedy eyes. The beauty of your figure in that soft folds of that stola. The gold that crushed your neck. Broaches at your fair shoulders. Hair glistening and finely arranged.

He liked the way you winced when another sword blow came. The pull of your brows and how you had to look away. He wanted you gathered up in his lap; fingers crushing your jaw as he turned your head; force you to watch as the men cleaved at each other and drew blood. Hacked off limbs. Laugh at your revulsion.

Looking at you sat there; He has an urge to take his dagger, slit that fine silk from your shoulders and bare your real beauty. Grab it off you and snatch your dress down. Spoil himself on your curves. Grab your breasts. He’s sure you’ve tits that even a goddess would envy. He’d reel you in by grabbing your ass that definitely needs a spank and some attention.

You’re even prettier than some of the finest whores he’s had grace his bed. They never kept his interest too long. Too entwined in filth and sin like him; you look pure as a vestal virgin.

He likes that. He wants to pluck it off you and spoil it.

You don’t dare meet his eyes. Of course you don’t. He’s an emperor. He could have you executed for looking at him wrongly. Instead; you wring your hands in your lap and squirm. Close your eyes tighter with every dying wail.

He turns back to the fight. As do you. A gasp flies from your mouth when you draw your eyes to one of the measly soldiers in the arena. Your father left his seat to stand, mouth gaping.

You saw the familiar arrangement of strong limbs. Garbed in warriors clothing. The way his arms shook holding a sword. Inexperienced and struggling. The fight was not fair. The same head of hair that matched your own.

Your oldest brother.

Macrinus grinned. “He’s not my finest fighter. But I wager he’ll be good sport.” He smirks.

Your father turned, cursed the gods, and exploded with venomous rage. Flew for the man with his fists. Grabbed his clothing. You tried to restrain the storm of his temper - but then you’d got that trait from somewhere hadn’t you? - an ocean thrashing wild and free. Terrifying in its rage.

“You promised me.” Your father roared. Spittle flying.

“I never promised to protect your traitor of a son. Let us see if the gods spare him. Yes?” Macrinus commented.

You couldn’t take your eyes from the pit. Nor could your father. He clutched to you like he could barely stand. Weakened and shrinking. Hand a vice on your shoulder. It burned like the sting of sun but you couldn’t shrug him off.

Your brother was meeting with an opponent far larger than he was. A Retiarius. Helmet, trident, dagger and a net.

Of which had currently knocked your brother to the blood dusted dirt. Spearing the trident deep into his thigh. Pinning him to earth like a bug. His cry of pain ringing out. Blood sheeted down one side of his head. His scream is the most horrible thing you’d ever heard.

You can’t help it. Where you’re stood, you cry out. It pours forth from you.

The Retiarius loomed over your bother like a terrible storm cloud. Looking up at the stands for direction. The whole audience cheered and screamed for more.

Geta stood up and the crowd bayed. He sneered at the sight before him. All the power of a god; crammed into a mortal man.

He raised his arm. And hesitated for a moment. Before he smirked. And pointed his thumb right up.

Death.

Your father wailed. The huge lumbering gladiator descended onto your brother. Flinging the net off and cutting his throat in one fast slice. Blood poured and pooled around lifeless eyes. Stained the sand.

Macrinus stood to his feet and clapped along with everyone else. The emperors’ laughed like hyenas at the sight. Blood and pain only made their smiles grow.

Before you knew what was happening, the palace guards had you and your father surrounded. Hands viced around your arms. Your shoulders. Your father too.

Traitor. He decried. A traitor in the senate. The tarpeian rock.

Just like his now dead son. People’s poised against the glory of Rome. Against Caracalla and Geta. Death to all.

Macrinus spoke harshly to the guards to release you. He backhanded you across your cheek. Your eye felt like it was going to burst. Cheek flamed with fire. Lip cut and bleeding down your chin from his ring.

He then wasted little time in digging his fingers into your finely done hair. Hauled you along screaming. Tears streaming.

Your father could only watch, limbs wrenching forwards in terror to help, as Macrinus marched you across the stands to where they sat.

He threw you to the ground like a feral animal. Tumbled you onto your knees. Skimmed your hands. As you squirmed and cried at your body twisted to his cruelty.

“Your majesties. I have personally uncovered a traitor in your court. Senator Aurelius. Not only was his first born placed in rebellion against Rome. But he himself has been sowing seeds of treason in your senate. I bring you his filthy kin as recompense…” He spat at the Emperors. Releasing your mussed hair to throw you to their feet.

They examined you as one would a creature. Nothing of humanity left. Devoid of any feeling. You crawled slowly to your elbows. Tried to claw away sobs. Raising up but not daring to look at them. You weren’t worthy. You feared them.

Geta was the one who rose slowly to his feet. Coming to stand before you. “We are most grateful for your revelation, Macrinus. You will be rewarded for such loyal service.” Though he spoke to him, his eyes never left you.

You father shouted and cried pleas. They go unheard. He snaps to the guards who hold him. “Silence that treacherous snake-“ he barks. They beat him into submission.

You stay cowering on the ground. In amongst the gritty dirt, and the blood like those slaves and gladiators. That’s how they saw you. That’s how much you were worth. Held in the same regard as the dirt on their shoes.

You feel a ring clad hand tip a finger under your chin. Blood dripping down onto that digit as he made you raise your head to look at him until your neck hurt.

“What is your name, pretty little traitor-“ He sneers. Because that is all you are. They’ve tarred and feathered you with the same brush.

You give it to him through tears that run freely. You give this awful golden haired emperor with dark lecherous eyes your name.

“Salacia.” You cry. Voice watery and cloaked in heavy salty sobs. Lips parted. So soft and pliable. Lovely and ripe and waiting for him. A gift from the gods-

He tilts his head down at you. Looking like some sun gold lion. Showing his canines in a cruel white smile.

“Imprison them. Both.” He smirks.

He thinks he may have them bring him your fathers head on a platter. Strangulation seemed too soft. Too forgiving. He had to make an example of you.

He had a particular way in mind for your fate. He watched you get led away crying as he sucked your sweet blood off his thumb.

You tasted like salt and sea foam

Tagging in the hopes this finds its way to the right people—

@indouloureux @trashmouth-richie @atabigail @lunatictardis @waywardrose @ceriseheaven @hillarymurray4 @lurkingprincess @ramona-thorns @joequinnswhore @iliveforotps @eddiesskittle @roosterisdaddy36 @rose-tinted @lluviamg06 @ravensfromvalhalla @fujiihime @youaremyfamiliar @captain-tch @ghosttownwherenoonegoes @svenyves @sammararaven @feralgoblinbabe @groupie-love-71 @andromeda-andromeda @morganamoonstone @gvtosbith @munsonswhore @shenevertricks1831 @hazzaismyreligion @harrys-titties @anaisweird @cinnamoncunt @red-lipstick-bisexual @wheels-of-despair @tvserie-s-world @callmeloverr @ho-for-joequinn-fics @bettyfrommars @rip-quizilla @songforeddiemunson @usedtobecooler @peachesandfiends @littlelioncub43 @heyndrix @babybluebex @blueywrites @joejoequinnquinn @cool-nick-miller @sheneedsrocknroll92 @rehfan @pedgito @dracomaledicte @gamingaquarius @mypoisonedvine @ddejavvu @sharp-and-swift @chaptersleftunwritten

#emperor geta #punkwrites #joseph quinn #ancient rome #gladiator 2 #gladiator #i would die for this man #geta is a bitch ok #lots of holy goddess imagery #idfk what im doing #i wrote this in a fever dream induced daze at 2am ok #pls dont kill me smut in next chap ofc #geta is a hugeeee nasty prick #the title is so douchey I’m sorry #smut to come !

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sorrowfulrosebud · 1 year

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Imagine being werewolf Katsuki’s mate during his heat rut but still having to go to work. Of course you love your mate and want to help him in this vulnerable state, but you also need to buy him stuff, especially if his rut comes out of nowhere.

For 4-7 days every 4 months, Katsuki can’t keep his hands off you; whimpering and growling possessively every time you have to leave his den, licking your neck and of course trying to sink into every wet hole you have. It makes it difficult to bring him his favourite snacks and drinks, and god forbid if you forget his Yakult yoghurts.

So, when god is absent and he runs out of his favourite foods, you have to take… other measures to keep his horniness satiated.

“Sukiiiii, I’m homeeeee!” You call into your home. Your tote bag was spilling at the seams with your mate’s snacks, your wallet crying at his expensive taste. You take your shoes and coat off before meandering upstairs to your shared bedroom.

You toss Katsuki a look as he whimpered at your entry. Currently, your precious pup was hog tied, thick leather cuffs around each limb. His red leather collar was chained to the headboard, though it did look worse for wear due to his struggling.

His teeth bit into the gag in his mouth, drool and slobber around his chin. Desperate whines left his lips, eyes surely rolling to the back of his head under the silken blindfold.

A fuck machine was plowing into his ass like no tomorrow, the small hearts from the flogger you teased him with still pink against his porcelain cheeks. The medium dildo was abusing his prostate as his moans grew louder and louder. A large cum spot soaked the sheets beneath him as the duvet stroked against his already exhausted cock.

Katsuki’s ears twitched as he turned to the door, saddened but desperate whimpers as he tried shaking the blindfold off. You strolled into the room slowly, enhancing your sounds so he understands what’s happening. The bed groaned under the weight of your added body, the hum of the fuck machine a steady rhythm.

“Aww, is my puppy done for now, hmm? Shall we take a break?” You teased, rubbing your fingers on the sensitive patch of skin above his tail. Katsuki sobbed and nodded desperately. Your hand flattened as you stroked his back lovingly.

“But you look so sweet like this, baby! Does this cock feel better than mine? Maybe I should leave you here for the entire week, hmm? I bet you would love that, wouldn’t you my puppyslut?” You murmur into his fluffy ear, kissing the soft down gently.

Katsuki shook his head hurriedly, unintelligible sobs drowned by his broken and muffled moans. The cuffs shuffled loudly as he fought to break free, the headboard starting to crack.

“Okay, pretty pup, I won’t. But you look so cute like this. My handsome mate, can you give me just one more? Then we can take a break,” you ask him softly, stroking his sweaty back. His tail sprung to life as his fingers flexed, desperate to hold you in some way.

You turned off the machine, causing Katsuki to whine at the lack of friction. With a single tap, he turned to his side, allowing you to snuggle up to him. He instantly took refuge in your neck, taking deep breaths to inhale your comforting scent. You unbuckled his gag, allowing him to stretch his aching jaw. Your hands rubbed over the flushed skin in silent apology, before skimming over his flushed abs and reaching his reddening cock.

“Hgnnn, just fuck my cock,” he whined noisily as you shushed him. You eventually found a steady pace and jerked him off, hissing as your mate bit into your neck in pure ecstasy. Carmine eyes were expanded into galaxies of black, too blissed out to care. His body burned with lust, and you were his only saviour.

“Fuck, fuck, shit! Oh fuck, I’m gonna-” he couldn’t finish his sentence as his cum absolutely ruined your jeans, rope after hot rope draining his balls as he chased his high. His tongue lolled out of his mouth, pants consuming his entire chest.

1 day down, a few more to go.

#bnha x reader #bakugou x reader #bakugou fluff #bakugou x reader fluff #bakugou #Bakugou smut #concockted (hehe) this in like 5 mins don’t hurt me pls #I need him on a fuck machine #doing chores whilst he’s chasing pleasure but feeling bad but also needing to get shit done bc he’s always trying to jump ur bones #sweet fluffy aftercare too #man loves his yoghurt what can I say #werewolf Katsuki smut #sub Bakugou #Bakugou smutty Drabble

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blayresmuses · 2 years

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MAKING OUT WITH THEM

summary: what making out with the hotd characters entails.

includes: aemond, aegon, daemon, jace & harwin

warnings: slightly nsfw

aemond adores making out with you. he loves feeling you get worked up, slowly but surely until you’re gasping into his mouth. his fingers would find their way under your skirts, trailing up the silken skin of your thighs. he’s messy with it, licking along your bottom lip until you open your mouth then he’s nothing but a starved man - tasting your mouth, taking your lip between his teeth. he’s more controlled than you somehow, holding back groans when you shyly start rocking your hips, whispering his name. when you finally come up for air he can’t hide his disappointment. ‘five more minutes,’ he’d urge desperately, utterly in love with your glassy eyes and the line of saliva that breaks between the two of you and hits your chin. ‘come on, messy girl. give your husband what he wants.’

aegon uses it purely to his advantage. bringing it out purely to stop the moaning, the whining at him to behave better - even though you look pretty doing it, with that pout of yours, the grumpy spark in your eye. he grips your chin, gazing intently into your eyes as you fall quiet. watches as your eyes travel to his mouth, as your tongue slips out to wet your lip. ‘stop trying to mother me,’ he says as he brings his lips to yours. it’d be rough, he’s only doing it to put you in your place, at least according to him. he’s intoxicating and he’s greedy - pulling at your hips as he explores your mouth with his tongue and not letting you up for air - before leaving you there panting and needy.

daemon loves it when your clingy. a trembling, needy thing practically begging for the smallest touch. that’s how you end up on his lap, giving his shoulders a harsh clutch as you tell him how much you’ve missed him. he noses at your neck, licks along your jaw, until he takes your mouth. it’s slow at first, small pecks that leave you huffing and pouting then you lose it, pushing back against him and capturing his lips. it’s sloppy, chaotic - your teeth clash before your lip is pulled between his. he’s in complete control, enjoying the little show you’re putting on for him. he’d pretend that he had to go just to see the alarm in your eyes, feel the tightening of your thighs around his waist but of course he’s not going anywhere, how could he?

jacerys is so fucking obsessed with it, honestly. when you’re betrothed he seeks you out, nervously fiddling with his fingers behind his back. he always asks if he can kiss you first, adoring the shy smile that coats your features as you nod. he’s gentle at first, letting you guide it as he cautiously touches your back. he’s subtle as he dances the line between a little improper and terribly improper but eventually the line goes out the window as his tongue tangles with yours. he’d grip the back of your head and cradle you into his chest, enjoying the way your fingers twist into his tunic. he could do it for hours and he’s never the one to pull away first, it’s always you that has to tell him you’re getting carried away.

harwin is nothing if not handsy - he finds you irresistible so he’s riled up twenty four seven. kissing him becomes your way of trying to sate him when out in public. it becomes your thing to sneak off into the halls, hiding away from prying eyes. he’s so eager, lifting your thigh around his waist, hands finding their way under your skirts to the flesh of your ass. he squeezes and ruts into you, kissing you until you’re breathless. your hands find home in his hair, tugging at the strands desperately. he try’s to keep you looking proper enough so no one suspects a thing but it never goes to plan, you’re always blushed with swollen lips and messy hair.

#aemond targaryen x reader #house of the dragon #aegon targaryen x reader #daemon targaryen x reader #harwin strong x reader #house of the dragon smut #jacerys velaryon x reader #aemond targaryen smut #daemon targaryen smut

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museandwords · 2 months

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worship in decay ( bucky barnes x reader)

Warnings: female!reader, dubious consent, lots of alcohol consumption, mentions of casual sex, addiction mentions, the avoidance of genuine feelings, foul language, self-destructive behaviors, self-hatred?, self-esteem issues, parent issues, childhood trauma, bucky is no saint, but he tries to be a good boy, mentions of mental health, this will be expanded on per chapter.

Author’s note: this was affectionately nicknamed the hoe fic. i have been working on this for the better part of the past two (three?) months. im still adding, re-writing and editing a lot of the chapters. so far i have 7 chapters planned, though this may change as it's expanding by the second. weekly updates are planned, and to be perfectly honest this is just self-indulged and an ode to the sluts. please validate me, feedback is welcome. also sorry i've been gone for so long (i got married)

MINORS DNI! 18+ ONLY

PROLOGUE

You don’t know why you do it.

You suppose you could put the blame on your absent father, or the degradation and restrained hatred your mother held for you. You remember being that small child – begging for their love.

Now you find it in the hands of strangers.

Maybe you could blame it on the liquor that burns your throat and melts the ice off your bones and paints the world in some rose-coloured hue.

Or maybe (and this is the part that scares you most) you’re just truly a despicable human being, in which all of the ugly parts of your parents made you whole.

You try not to think too much about that. So you find comfort in the warmth of bodies, the hunger in kisses, the worship of strange men that bring you closer to God than any religion could.

At the end of the day; human beings are mammals at their core, it’s a dog eat dog world, and you’re starving.

‿︵‿︵ - - ‿︵‿︵

Waking up in the 21st century initially shook Bucky to his core.

American culture had fallen into a frenzy of degeneracy that could’ve made James Buchanan Barnes cry.

But he wasn’t James Buchanan Barnes anymore, he was something else.

And he was already desensitized to the dread of the world thanks to the recollection of his own mental house of horrors.

He just couldn’t believe there were more people like him.

People who are more desperate, self-serving, and shameless, he notices. He feels right at home with them.

That debauched urgency to chase a temporary high to replace the self-hatred even just for a little while was something he and these kinds of people shared. Addicts, the depraved, the lost, the broken.

Let them say Bucky Barnes was their king.

He's learned quickly that being brainwashed and kept on ice for the past 70 years really took a toll on his libido, go figure. He’s like a damn teenager full of raging hormones wanting to stick his dick in anything that moves. Now all he craves is the warmth of a human, living breathing body beneath him while their essence fills the holes in his soul.

What surprises him more is that they let him. They let his blood stained hands all over their silken soft skin, they let his rotted essence into their core, infecting them, tainting them, over and over, and they enjoy it.

His teeth graze their neck, and they should be scared that the Winter Solider could rip their throat out in a millisecond.

Instead, they coo and sigh and hold onto him tighter. It's addictive.

He loves them, every single one, for one reason or another.

This one makes pretty noises in his ear and smells like candy, that one has a beauty mark beneath her left eye and can make him laugh, those other ones look pretty in sundresses and make him breakfast in the morning. They all give him something, things he never knew he needed. To be adored, taken care of, loved.

#bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes imagine #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes smut #bucky barnes x you #are we so back?#worship in decay series

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mangochii · 29 days

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"Telling The Bees"

Holm Kranom x Beekeeper!Reader

Tgs: Domestic fluff, bees, slight talk of insecurities, metaphors, reader's race is not mentioned, and more bees

In which Holm tells the reader to just bee yourself 🐝

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

My wife is a beekeeper.

Soft and gentle were her hands as she combed through the thicket of my hair, her pretty smiles filled my heart like the jars of honey she stores in our kitchen cabinets.

"Holm." She called to me, her voice dripped with sweet golden ichor. "What do you want on your birthday?"

I couldn't help but chuckle, the apples of my face painted crimson as the corners of my lips turned upwards. "My birthday just passed but a few weeks ago, my dear."

I brushed stray strands of hair from her face, I see her brows furrowed ever so slightly. Her eyes squinting as she continued to stare at me, lips formed a pout.

"Everyday can be a birthday. "

"Nope, my mother didn't give birth to me everyday. That just doesn't make sense."

"You don't make sense."

I shook my head with a smile, a chuckle spilled out of my lips as I see her hands on her hip, huffing playfully. "You just want an excuse to spend money on me, don't you?"

She's an odd one.

When we first started seeing each other, she showed me her bee farm. She made me wear those tacky beekeeping suits in mid-summer, it was made from soft cotton, she claimed it was tailor made for my size— so who am I to distrust her judgement? I'm no expert after all.

"I have someone I'd like you to meet." She called to them, the bees, her voice gentle and motherly. Her whispers were as calming as white noise in a cafe, quiet as the air in the library. Her hand, bare, ungloved, held them so carefully— as if reaching out to touch a noble's fine silken robe.

"I found a lover, he's a gnome and his name is Holm Kranom." She breathed, her eyes squinting as she smiled so brightly. "He's a sweet cleric, and brews the nicest tea ever."

I didn't have the heart to question her silly antics.

It's was around late October when I proposed to her. Her little gasps and bounce was adorable, and it still was. She held my wrists and lead me once more to her farm, her smile was as pretty as the sunrise.

She gleamed as she held up her engagement ring, the band of silver wrapped her delicate fingers, with gem shimmered against the afternoon sun.

"I'm engaged!" Her smile truly rivaled the biggest stars in the sky. I'd even dare say it puts any star to shame.

Her bees merely buzzed about, seemingly ignoring their keeper's excited rambling. Though, a few landed curiously at her fingertips for a bit before flying away.

I found it cute, so I dare not question her about it.

And so my mind returned to the present, I watched her by the window as she gave her bees the leftover carrot cake we had on my birthday weeks back. I'm surprised it's still edible for the bees...

She stayed in her farm a lot longer than usual, hushedly singing to them every single milestone and every single woe she had felt and done.

"Why do you do that?" I finally had the courage to ask, she walked into our kitchen, jars of honey carefully placed carefully on each cabinet.

"Do what?" She scratched her cheek, and her head tilted slightly, before turning around to grab lemons— around 11 I think?

"Talking to the bees; you talk to your bees like they're your little diary." I watched as she began to cut each lemon in half, my lips turned upwards seeing her struggle with the knife.

"Oh, that!" She chuckled, wiping the sweat off of her forehead. "They're not my diary." Her voice low, contemplative. As if wondering if I'd understand her.

"They're wholly intertwined with my life, that they feel as if they're a part of my family. Our family." She squeezed each lemon with much vigor, I shook my head with a small smile. I stood up, taking the pathetically squeezed lemon from her hands, and did it myself.

"5 of each?"

"5 and a half." I want to flick that pout of hers with how much she does it nowadays, but I could only smile and nod as I kissed her hands. The scent of lemon zest coated her fingertips, it's bitterness staining my lips and tongue.

"Did your father do this as well?" I asked as softly as I could, "Talking to the bees, I mean." I grabbed the strainer, as she was lazy enough to grab it from our kitchen drawers. I'm still appalled at how she'd strain it with her bare hand, not that it's disgusting or anything— she's very thorough with her hand washing, it's simply not something I'm used to. Especially knowing there's a strainer here, though she does have a point that it's less dishes to clean.

Ever the practical woman.

"Yeah," Her voice broke me out of my little tangent, my eyes flickered to her as she spoke. "It's just something my family had always done, for good omen, and I just hoped our family would follow the same tradition still."

She embraced my culture's ways, from refraining from eating meat, to going as far as wearing gnomish clothing. Not even I do that. She listens with great interest, takes note of everything I say. "What is mine is yours, and what is yours is mine." She often says, while she reached out for my hand, rubbing the golden band wrapped around my ring finger. "We are married, therefore our lives are intertwined."

"We will." Was all I said, giving her the cups of the lemon that I just squeezed. A soft smile drawn on my face as she added the honey on the juice, carefully measuring both cups before adding the water.

"I'm weird, aren't I?" Her nimble fingers stirred the cup, eyes flickering to me and the drink. "The wife that you married doesn't like frilly dresses, books, and make up."

She heaved each breath like she was thrown in the white beds of winter, "The wife who'd spend her time talking to bees than with people." Each word that dripped from her precious lips felt like viscous tar, thick and heavy.

For how long had those heavy thoughts plagued your mind?

"I'm—"

"No." I spoke, carefully taking the spoon and cups from her. "Not another word, my love." I leaned my body slightly against hers, stirring the next cup of lemonade.

"I know who I married." I whispered, slowly stopping my stirring, tapping the cup with the spoon with a little tak, tak.

"As long you're happy with what you do," I took an experimental sip of the drink, its sour taste blended so perfectly with the honey, almost masking it.

I gave the other cup to her, "It will be enough. You're enough." Crystalline jewels widened ever so slightly, glossy and damp. She smiled, and my god. I could never get enough of it.

Even as the tears flowed freely down her face, leaving footprints on her skin, she's beautiful. I set my cup down, my hands reached her dampened eyes.

I'll catch every woeful dew that dare fall upon your pretty face, let me be the basin of your rain. I'll catch every drop and drink it all away.

For a typhoon to weaken, it must make landfall. "Lay your burdens on me, my love." I whispered through a lullaby, a calming tune. A simple heartbeat. Lub-dub, Lub-dub.

I felt her hands hover hesitantly on my back, the typhoon has reached its landfall.

"What is yours is mine,"

Let your woes dissipate.

"What is mine is yours."

It was near fall, the world colored itself in orange and reds, with plantlife and animals prepared themselves for another arduous winter.

"I have someone you'd definitely want to meet." She spoke with such glee, as she turned to me her eyes squinting, hands waved and beckoned me to come, while I carried this little bundle of joy in my arms.

"I had a child," She whispered, knocking on the beehive once. A buzzing resounded from within, as if indicating acknowledgement.

A good omen, perhaps?

"They're just a few days old, and a real hungry fella. Me and Holm could barely sleep because of them, they poop a lot too. It's disgusting, tiring, but they're mine. And we love them."

The little one yawned, and shifted in my arms. Their lips puckered and smacked against one another, head leaning unto my chest. "Our precious bundle here might be getting hungry again, honey."

"Eh? I just fed them!"

"Telling the bees" , as this tradition was known, is a practice that calls for the beekeeper to tell their hives of significant life events. Its origins may have been from Celtic Mythology, where the presence of a bee signified the soul leaving the body.

But the tradition itself had been prominent in the eighteenth and nineteenth century in the U.S. and Western Europe. The consequences of not telling the bees can be dire, from the bees falling ill, ceased production of honey up to the death of entire colonies. These events, led to strengthening of the belief that a keeper and a bee's life are wholly intertwined.

#dungeon meshi #dungeon meshi x reader #fanfiction #holm kranom #holm kranom x reader

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elliewlums · 2 years

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prompt: “i can’t breathe” with aemond!

“you’re trembling,” he whispers. an observation laced with worry. you press your forehead to his back and inhale a strained breath. he stands between you and them; your mother, angry. your father, livid. they want you to return home to marry the lannister boy despite your obvious attachment to the king’s second son. aemond won’t stand for it, not when it’s so obvious that you’re vehemently resisting.

“i can’t breathe.” aemond steps backwards further, until your entire body presses against his; his hand snakes around to hold you steadfastly to his back. “don’t let them take me.”

“never, dove,” he murmurs. “i have you.”

when another ragged exhale escapes you, he turns. your expression is nothing short of distraught, tear tracks marking your pretty face and a shaking bottom lip. he shushes, lips pursed, as you’re pulled into his comforting embrace. your hands tangle in his tunic; he’s surprised such a strength can come from somebody so small in comparison to his own great stature.

“i have you,” he repeats. he holds you delicately, as though you’re crafted from porcelain. “my dearest, i won’t let them take you.” he presses his lips to your forehead, taking his time to soothe you as though they’re not there. he’s warm to your cold, strong to your weak.

“please,” you whimper. his hand is firm on your jaw. “aemond, please.”

lips on your cheekbone. your temple. your neck. silken hair surrounding the pair of you like a veil. “i don’t wish to marry somebody that is not you.”

“and you won’t.” his voice husks. smooth like butter. “we shall marry on the morrow if you so desire. anything to make my lady happy.” your quivering hand travels up to thumb at his lips. it traverses his features, the sharp slant of his nose and jaw, the curvature of his chin, the jagged scar that disappears beneath his eyepatch. doe eyes gaze at him in a concoction of both apprehension and affection.

“sweet girl,” he murmurs, clasps your hand in his larger one. “now stay behind me, dove.”

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luveline · 2 years

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wait hear me out.. bodyguard!sirius au 🫣

for you my love (new au let’s goooo) | fem!reader ♥︎ 1.2k

Sirius Black is possibly the worst person in the world they could've chosen to assign as your bodyguard. He's an excellent bodyguard, has proven this swiftly and with finesse on two separate occasions, and still, you struggle to settle under his watch.

He's terrifying. Not because he's a bodyguard, though the lean muscle of his naked arms is intimidating, and he's very tall, but because he's beautiful. Silken black hair that he keeps tied up in a small half-bun behind his neck frames an angular face. He has dark, sweet eyelashes that point straight, and similarly dark brows that seem permanently arched in bemusement.

You feel on pins under his gaze at all times, desperate for him to think the same. Desperate to be beautiful in that same effortless manner.

"Relax," he chides, a hand curled firmly over your bare shoulder.

You don't deny you're tense. He should know by now that you're more often than not in a panic, like your body's made up of frayed nerves.

"Can't we go home?" you ask.

"Afraid not, sweetness."

You watch your mother move across the stage where she's hosting and sigh. "I hate politics."

He laughs. "No, you hate your mother. Politics are important."

"My mother's politics have never once been important," you say. "She should campaign against things that are actually important. Like rising austerity, or the mistreatment of homeless people."

"Now, don't say that," he drawls, his breath warm against your ear. "Think of all those poor pigeons she's saving tonight."

"It's absurd."

Sirius hums. "While I don't think your mother's on the wrong side of things, I agree that her campaign is ridiculous. Every new ordinance puts you at risk."

Your mother's political career is a drop in the ocean, but a couple of months ago she'd managed to draw the attention of one alt-right group in particular. A letter threatening your life had arrived in the mail, and Sirius has been by your side pretty much ever since. You do wish, selfishly, that she would stop this. You're an adult, and you've less privacy than a child now that you're constantly supervised.

"Sometimes, I think she loves pigeons more than me," you mumble.

Sirius laughs, delighted by your joke, and pats your shoulder. His hand burns your skin, you swear. You're gonna look down and see his handprint branded into you.

"You're much prettier than a pigeon, doll. I'd choose you."

Why is his hand on your shoulder? You can't remember. He'd been moving you out of the way, maybe, and forgotten to take it back. You hate that he's touching you, worried he can feel the capering beat of your heart, but you prefer him behind you than in front. He can't see your face, you can't see his.

Like he can read your mind and he hates you, he turns you to face him.

"Shall we go outside for a bit?" he asks.

You blink. Sirius doesn't usually ask you if you want to do things. He may work for your mother but you're still the boss (kind of). He tries to let you do whatever it is you want to do.

"Okay," you say.

He leads you out to the patio with a hand just barely touching your back. Outside, the summer night air is warm, and the sky is a wash of pinks and yellow. It's oddly quiet.

You creep curiously to the stone railing and look down over a perfectly manicured garden, hedges shaped like flamingos and a mosaic veranda surrounding the centrepiece, a marble fountain in the shape of a baby. Rich people spend their money on the damndest things.

"I was hoping you'd feel more comfortable out here."

You sigh as he comes to stand beside you. No hopes of that when he's near.

"But you're tense everywhere we go," he adds.

"'M just tired," you say.

"Are you?" He leans against the railing on his elbows and doesn't look at you. Sirius takes such big gaps between speaking that sometimes you assume he's done. "I have a theory."

You stretch your hands out over the railing, more than enough space between you both. The stone is like pumice, gritty and pocked full of holes. It scratches your palms.

"I think," —he turns his face to yours, expression disarmingly impassive— "I make you nervous."

You think?

You catch your own smile too late. Sirius sees it too, and his eyes crease as he squints at you mildly. His eyelashes, those dark thickets, meet in the corners. You stare at them, your gaze skipping over his light irises, his unusually large pupils.

He looks rather cat-like.

"I do," he says.

"I– Yeah. Yeah, you make me nervous. Your presence is a reminder, you know, that I'm not safe."

"Ah, but that's not true. You're very safe with me, pretty girl. Haven't I proved that already?" He smirks at you. "No, you're nervous, and it isn't because of my job."

Sirius moves almost lazily. His head tips to one side, a short curl fluttering against his cheek.

"So what is it?"

How do you explain it? He's gorgeous, and his good looks paired with his smooth demeanour leaves you off kilter. You don't mean to be so weird, but your lips move of their own accord.

"Do you think I'm pretty?" you ask him, insecurity much too obvious in your tone.

The smugness he'd been entertaining drains. He stands a little straighter.

"Sorry," you say, cringing. "You don't have to answer, I know it's a loaded question. Uh, I think that's why you make me so nervous, is all. You're really handsome, and I've never been anything special, mum always says it’s a shame they haven’t found a more natural alternative to plastic surgery–“

“What?”

You snap out of your tangent, flushed with heat. “Sorry.”

“Your mum thinks you need plastic surgery?”

“No, but. You know, we’re on TV sometimes, she wants us to look perfect.”

“You are perfect.”

You shrink at his sharp tone, but you realise that it isn’t you he’s directing his anger at. It takes a moment for his statement to sink in, and when it does, you can’t not smile. You cover your mouth to hide it unconsciously.

Sirius doesn’t back down from his declaration, though the anger melts from his expression, leaving behind a chest-pounding earnestness.

“Yes, I think you’re pretty. If that’s what you’re worried about, please. Don’t be.”

Speechless, you nod jerkily, as if a puppeteer controls your movements. Applause sounds loudly from the open patio doors, and Sirius straightens up fully.

“Best go back in, angel. She’ll want pictures.”

Again, you can’t find the words to answer him. His anger at the idea that someone might find you unattractive sloshes around in your head. You're surprised you don’t tip over. Luckily, you have a guiding hand on your shoulder to lead you back inside.

“Perfect pictures,” he says quietly.

#sirius x you #sirius orion black #sirius black x reader #sirius black x you #sirius x reader fluff #sirius black imagine #marauders era #marauders #sirius black drabble #sirius black fanfic #sirius black fanfiction #the marauders #bodyguard!sirius black #bodyguard!sirius #sirius black blurb #sirius black

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ladybirdswritings · 10 months

Text

Silken Webs & Pirouettes - Miguel O’Hara x Reader

Summary - Miguel is forced to dwell over the consequences of his own actions. Ballerina!Reader & CEO!Miguel. Alternate Universe with most of the characters included as seen in "Across the Spiderverse." Many cameos ahead. Miguel is a successful business owner but personality is canon. This is a steamy reader insert, Miguel x You! Enjoy and pls leave me lots of love and comments as it keeps me motivated <333

next chapter

seven ,, miguel’s POV

“You have some cojones, Miguel O’Hara.”

My eyes slowly lift from the place where they were once glued, the small tree. It still stands, the shattered and jagged bite of glass the most unavoidable ornament. Right in the enter for my eyes to see.

It’s been a week, one week of plain, suffocating normality. No clumsy girl, no doe eyes that I can only seem to fill with tears. No intimidating someone who I can’t guess the reaction of, no excitement.

My girls must feel it too. Maybe they liked having those stupid ribbons and pearly white smile bouncing around the office. Maybe they liked the distraction. Too bad. It’s better this way…

“Jessica, mi amor— though I always enjoy your visits in with me-”

She raises a suspicious brow at my words but I continue before she takes the first chance she can to interrupt me, as always…

“Today isn’t the day.” It really, truly fucking isn’t.

I sound apathetic, unbothered. Truthfully, I am bothered. I am bothered because it's been a week and yet I feel this uncomfortable burning at my mind. It’s inhuman, unnatural. I’ve yelled at dozens before, girls even sweeter than her. Girls with pretty eyes and pouty lips, melting into expressions of horror and sorrow. It was expected, needed. They needed to become better, to not be weak.

So why the fuck do I feel like I was in the wrong this time?

Jessica, coiled locks tamed back with a headband and stomach protruding with her soon to be first-born, she huffs as she sits down on my corner chair.

“This still work?” She asks. Stupid question. I regard her with dark, annoyed eyes and a single nod. She immediately presses the button, then heat and vibrations engulf her. She moans in content, enjoying the ease of tension in her back from carrying that child around.

“Oh yeah, it does. God I love this thing.” Her voice is vibrating.

Good, she should. It’s for her anyways. There’s no other moody, bossy and inhumanly hungry pregnant woman in sight. Gracias a Dios. Me mataría.

She’s distracted, I believe for a second that maybe I’ve just been saved by that expensive fucking chair but oh no, lately I’m just proving to be an unlucky bastard. She talks again.

“Where was I… oh yeah, that’s the problem, Miguel. It’s never the day with you. But shit, when I get curious and decide to check those security tapes and see you caging a small girl against the wall and making her hunch over in fear? Today is gonna have to be the day. What the fuck happened to morale? Why couldn’t you take it out on Moon, on someone we know, at least.” She doesn’t understand, I don’t expect her to.

I narrow my eyes, lifting from my seat. I don’t like being on her level. I feel suffocated there, with all these questions. Boss of my own empire and yet I’m getting an inquisition by a woman I hired. Regardless, my mind is clearer when I stare out at the city, looking down at all those people. I feel big, powerful. Like I know everything. I do, mostly. This time though? I don’t.

Me está volviendo loco.

And that’s because of that fucking girl. Es un misterio, un enigma. Never in my life have I sat across from someone I don’t fucking understand. I didn’t get this successful from not understanding the idiots around me, no. But her? I didn’t expect the dramatics.

“I don’t always like what I have to do, but I know I have to be the one to do it. Involving my personal life into her work is not only inappropriate but it is disrespectful.” I sound uninterested, lazed with my words. I know Jessica, they won’t be enough for her.

“You know what’s inappropriate? Your employees watching Lacy walk into your office in shorts that barely cover her nonexistent ass. You think they don’t know you’re banging her in between meetings?”

My jaw ticks, and I exhale all the air from my lungs through my nose.

“I know they know.”

I do. I do and I don’t give a shit what they think. I have urges, needs. No, not wants. Needs. Uncontrollable, demanding. My eyes glaze over my window, memories of fucking Lacy here with her pretty tits hung for the world to see. The thought brings me peace.

Jessica leans forward or tries too with that protruded stomach of hers.

“Oh you do. Okay, right. So that’s okay but a picture of Gabby isn’t?”

Gabby.

Mi princesa.

The name is like the crown on Medusa’s head. But I don’t let it freeze me, no. I don’t let it stop me from moving. Working. Breathing. Reacting. I react. I react before it can stop me and if that stupid girl would’ve done as she was told, she wouldn’t have had to be on the other side of those reactions.

I hate it.

Fucking hate it when they utter her name. Jessica… she’s lucky she’s pregnant and lucky she’s Jessica because coño, I would case her up against the wall too if she wasn’t.

“No, Jessica. It’s not okay. Lacy equates to a fucking— masseuse.” I snap.

“She’s massaging something alright.” She interjects.

“Carajo.” I exhale, reaching angrily at my silk handkerchief and tossing it with force to the leather loveseat. There’s no winning with her. Back in my throne, I collapse.

She’s infuriating, and she’s lecturing me over a girl that was only here for a week and has already caused so much trouble. Me está dando vueltas la cabeza.

“What is it Jessica, huh? What— are you dumbstruck by her stupid ribbons and worn-out clothes too?” It’s the only explanation for this. The girl must be a witch.

She sucks her teeth at that,

“Nope. I never even met the girl. Seems like it’s you that’s dumbstruck.”

Me?

That thought… it’s stupid.

My fists clench, a sting of pain burning at the place where she dug those nails into me. There’s skin dented there.

“Cállate.” I warn. But she’s Jessica. She’s not Mary Jane, not Cindy or any of my other obedient girls. Es un dolor de cabeza.

To no surprise, she does anything but shut the fuck up.

“Look, I could give less of a shit if your dick does a dance for her or not—”

“Dios mío…” She’s gone crazy.

“My point is— we don’t know her. We don’t know her, and she could talk. She could tell the story of how you emotionally and fuck— almost physically assaulted her to the Bugle and then what?”

I shake my head at that. She’s fucking wrong.

“I would never put my hands on her.” Not her. Not any woman.

Jessica displays two defeated palms up in the air, annoyance laced in their lines.

“But ya did, Miguel. You did when you grabbed her chin. And wether you and I know that it was softly or not, it doesn’t fucking matter. It’s about what they believe, what they see and you look psychotic on that tape.”

I turn my face from her, grinding my teeth as I search my mind for a way to answer back. To explain.

I can’t. I can’t and it makes me angrier.

“You’re not invincible, Miguel. People get tired of your shit and we agreed. We agreed that if you kept the reins on your issues, it would be enough. You don’t have to come to the gatherings or the holiday meetings. They know you don’t give a shit about any of them-”

“They’re employees.” I interrupt. Their job is to follow my orders and keep smiles on their pretty faces. That is morale.

“Yeah, they’re employees and they don’t get paid enough to deal with your shit.”

My eyes say it all, she knows that’s not true. Their checks are full. My girls have paid off debt, bought houses, taken vacations and bought all their materialistic heart desire. Some within their first year with me. Jessica sighs, shaking her head at my stubbornness. Silence blankets us and I fucking prefer it that way.

“My point is that people can walk, Miguel. They can walk when they aren’t happy. When they read the outsiders input on your bad behavior. Nobody wants to work for an asshole and fuck, I don’t blame her for walking out. Actually, I respect her for it. The girl’s shoes are practically falling off of her feet and she’s wearing skirts in the winter, yet it looks like she’d rather starve on those ice-cold New York City streets than work for someone who spits on her effort and time.”

Her words strike me silent. It seems like Jessica Drew is the only one who can make me have nothing to say. Què maravilla. I won’t admit that it’s because she’s right. She isn’t.

…

She might be.

My silence, it prompts her to continue. She shuts the seat off, groaning as she stands to her feet. She waddles to me, one hand on my cherrywood desk as she bows her head to speak to me.

“Look, I know this shit isn’t easy. I get that. You and I? We’re day ones. Peter and I watched you build this company up from the ground. We watched you make something of yourself. The bastard kid out of Nueva York turned into the bastard man above it. And I- … I lost her too, Miguel. Lost her. I didn’t forget her, and I sure as fuck don’t want to run from her. If someone was so fucking kind enough to put effort into making me that—”

Her eyes glow golden as they fall upon the small tree, on the shattered ornament with that beautiful, delicate smile. My girl. Against my own will, I find myself stuck, gazing at it too.

“Shit, maybe I’d promote them. That? That’s special, it’s kind. Most people don’t have the guts to do that, especially not for a boss— let alone a new one… but as always, you’ve laid down the cement on yet another grave. No chance in hell she comes back, no chance we fix this before Jameson gets his dirty hands on it.”

Jameson. Maldito cerdo.

It was his men that he sent out that day. All of them gathered up on my doorstep like fucking vultures, flashing their lights at the place where my baby girl just— fuck...

He was a lucky son of a bitch that day. I would’ve snapped that cockroach’s neck if it weren’t for Murdock.

Fuck…

I don’t like loose ends. No, I don’t like being wrong. I strive every day of my life to be anything but it. I was wrong once. And look what it cost me? My baby’s life. I won’t make the same mistake again. Not with my company.

Sure as hell not because of the balding bastard and a delicate girl with ribbons in her hair.

No.

“I’ll convince her.” I will. I’ll mail her check with a note attached. An invitation back. Maybe I’ll raise her pay. She could use it, anyway.

But Jessica fucking Drew. Always finding microscopic holes in my plans. She laughs at me.

She fucking laughs at me as she straightens her back, hands resting on the place where her baby kicks.

“Sure, good luck with that. She might’ve hunched over and cried but damn— I saw the way she dug those nails into you. She’s a tough one… besides, I think it’s best If you keep away. Don’t wanna make their new front cover story more interesting.”

Que mierda.

I raise my hand, pinching at the place where tension pools between my brows. Fucking Jessica. Analytical, frustrating, and always convinced she’s right.

She is tough… that girl. Un fuego.

I saw it when she sat in my chair and dug her nails into it, and I saw it when she dug her nails into me. I saw it when she pushed my hand away, straightened up and wiped those tears off her pretty face like they were nothing more than meaningless water on her skin. She turned her back on me. No one ever does. No one has ever not succumbed to my hand. And she’s lucky, I never offer comfort to any of the girls I yell at. No, they don’t need it. They’d accept it, regardless. Not her.

Un enigma.

Jessica sighs, turning from me and finally leaving me to be. Leaving me with no solutions, only loose ends. She must feel my eyes burning holes into her back. Frustrated fucking holes. She stops.

Carajo.

I sigh now, allowing my eyes to fall shut into the comfort of darkness. A place behind my lids where no Jessica Drew exists.

“There’s another gathering tonight, actually. Perfect way to win your people back before you even lose them.”

She’s smiling, she’s proud of her stupid little idea. I don’t need to open my eyes to see it. The ache in my neck makes my head fall into my palms— and though every part of me wants to tell her to get out?

“What time, Jessica?”

🏷️’s: @reirain @needybitez @migueloharastruelove @laysmt @maomaimao @daisy-artfield @poutysprouty @chorizobeets @luvlylaurakisses @to-the-endoftheline @bimb00

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theredofoctober · 9 months

Text

RUMPLESTILTSKIN— An Oliver Quick/Reader Saltburn DarkFic

Pairing: Oliver Quick/You, Oliver Quick/Reader (no gender specified, terms like pretty are used though just to mention)

Synopsis: Oliver finds You, the awkward guest at his birthday party, and takes what his dark heart desires.

Trigger Warnings (PLEASE READ): noncon, blood play, Oliver just being evil

Fic under the cut, keep reading

"Who are you, then?"

It was the small man that said it, the one with the slurring Nothern accent and eyes like ice picks, palely sharp.

You'd seen him swaying on the outer edge of the party, seeming both drunk and far too sober, all at once.

His face was odd, flat, and sleek, like a trickster in a German folk story: thief of children, bringer of gold.

You hated the boy in a moment, drawing back from him against a trellis, your hands wrapped fast through the slats. His eyes made you wish you'd drunk rather less than you had done, silver as scissor blades in the swelling night.

"I'm one of Venetia's friends," you said, though you knew Felix more, and Farleigh rather better than you liked to. "You don't know me. Who are you?"

The boy stepped around a plant pot, his balance the measure of sobriety. He wore deer antlers with an open-chested white suit, embroidered with leaves, the dress of a more handsome man. Only the slopes of his cheekbones, the soft mouth were beautiful.

His eyes made an autopsy of you. There was nothing in them but wanting, a starving colour. An absence of it.

You would have turned to run, only there was nothing then to fly from that made sense.

"I'm Oliver," said the young man. "It's my birthday party. Felix's family arranged it all for me."

"Happy birthday," you said, at once, a reflex.

You wished that he'd go away, that he would edge into the maze like a shadow thrown by the sun, and meld with the dark of the leaves beyond. Anything but approach as he did then, his compact form eating of the air between you with carnivorous haste.

He was slight enough that you thought you might push him down or aside with little effort, but the poise of him, as delicate as a barber's blade, gave you pause. He'd cut you if you touched him, you thought. Something would happen, and you would run crying as you had from a dozen birthday celebrations as a child, unwanted.

He brought that old vulnerability up out of you, somehow, though he hadn't yet done much but broach the most innocent of smalltalk.

"How come you're over here, on your own?" asked Oliver, his head at a sympathetic incline. "You're too pretty for that. You know that, don't you?"

His voice was a sing-song croon, then, all silken menace. He was trying to charm you, you knew that, yet you saw as though through the beads of a brothel doorway the hunger in him, the appetite of worlds.

You glanced right and left, realising, with an awful start, how very drunk you were, swaying and stupid with it.

"I needed some fresh air," you said, with a high, braying laugh— Oliver half-smirked at the sound of it, knowing its falseness, knowing your fear. "All that bloody champagne went right to my head."

"You'll need someone to look after you, then," said Oliver, and then he uttered your name, making a baleful ditty of its syllables.

How had he known it? Had he known it all along?

You'd glimpsed him watching you, before, an empty glass in hand, attaching himself to your heels like a stoat after a rabbit, all lithe cunning on the hunt. Likely he'd heard your name then, as Felix had bent down to kiss your cheek, all affable golden looks. Heard it, and slipped it into the pocketbook of his mind to tear free, when it was needed.

Your name was pretty on Oliver's tongue, sugar, and ribbon, and stained glass, as apt to break. Happily you'd have taken the pieces and cast them all out into the riverbed, have gone nameless rather than hear him speak it again.

"You don't know anyone else here, do you?" asked Oliver, and there was the word again, no longer ribbon, but rough as a noose, strangling as he came closer still. "Just the Catton family. Something in common, me and you."

You lurched vaguely to the right, and Oliver's arm came up against the trellis, gently, a tender trap.

"You're lonely," he said. "Haven't you always been, though?"

His face was close enough for you to note the punctuation of a mole on his right cheek, the lines at his brow, the riddled literature of him. What he saw in yours was a portal to the past, all features from the nervous mouth to the twitching eyelids telling of a once bullied child, an outcast brought in through charity from the cold.

"Go away, Oliver," you said, bravely. "I want to be alone. I can't breathe."

That was true enough. You were stifled in your plastic wings and ill-fitting garments, sweating and airless, almost wanting to be sick.

Oliver drew his face nearer, and your throat closed to the breadth of a lock in your dread of him, of those ink spill eyes.

"I don't want you to breathe," he said. "Not right now."

Then he darned his lips to yours, their heat, their softness like the death of summer blooms, and you pressed back into the trellis so hard that you thought the wood might break, so brittle did it seem.

You brought up your hands to battle his shoulders, only for them to be joined with his, your fingers tangling, a torsion of slick skin and bone.

There were no thoughts that survived the cruelty of Oliver's embrace, the insistence of his compact strength, the length of tongue, of arousal under clothing, at your thigh. You wanted to snap free of him like a spell, but he kissed you until your fight withdrew in sight of its fair winner.

No one came close enough to see you, or if they did they thought you drunken lovers, poised to consummate your pash against the fence.

At last Oliver moved back his head, the reflection of the night's obsidian in his mortuary eyes.

"Let me go," you whispered. "I don't want to do this. I don't want you."

"Well, I want you, though," said Oliver, with an authority that frightened you in its unshifting weight. "And since nobody else here does, what's the point in saying no?"

His hands, little and wicked, wore their way under clammy layers of clothes. In all the heat they were almost cold, dragging from you a series of ragged gasps that were lost in the revelling darkness.

You wished the wings at your back were feathered, those of swans; they'd have broken the bones in his arm and you out of this, far lovelier a transportation than the sticky taxi that would bear you home in the hours to come.

Yet had such pretty things hung from your back this beast named Oliver would have bitten them off and flossed their quills through his teeth, you knew it.

He touched you until his findings were of stolen treasure, watching your every tendon solidify to strands of stone through the art of such fell grief.

"You weren't what I came looking for tonight, you know," he said. "But you're mine, anyway."

You didn't answer, imagined any word drowned like a cat in the depths of him.

Oliver stepped into you with a dancing softness and kissed you again, sucking a plum welt into your lower lip, breaking it between his teeth to blood. Again you struck your hands against him, but Oliver, with liquid instinct, pushed your arms back through the apertures in the trellis, caring little for the splinters in your wrists, if at all.

Crucifixion could not be so painful, so martyring as your capture beneath him.

"Oliver," you said, and he smiled.

"That's me. The birthday boy. And what does the birthday boy get?"

He opened your costume with the hook of four fingers, touched the bruised rose of princely lips to your ear.

His breath was smoke, and champagne, and stolen blood.

"I get what I want," he said, and then his cock was an arrow at the heart of your waiting horror, his slight hips a harp played against you, moving in the strum of entry, into the gold he made of your pain.

You screamed, and the sound was devoured by the bacchanal night. Oliver took you slowly, with patient intelligence, feeling each trembling agony of your body and twisting it, by sorcery, into something else. His eyes were a witch's orbs through which he knew you, psychic, solipsistic—

You were ivy about the wand of him, a thing that would poison the man, were he not immune to its effects. He fucked you as though he thought it romantic, somehow, this violence in a friend's pungent garden, the scent of flowers and trodden grass and arousal a perfume to woo.

There was blood on both of your faces, on his bare chest, under the blazer. It frightened you, suddenly, a tarot spread of death in the summer night—

Your panic, the heaviness of lingering champagne, the attack like Zeus upon a swan; all of it made you limp, in Oliver's grip.

He paused in his taking of you to hold you upright, studying your face under the Midas yellow of a nearby lamp.

"Stand up straight for me, now," he said. "And look at me. Look at me."

He tapped your cheek— not a slap, far too soft for that, as though the concern in the vicious gossamer in his voice was real.

"You want me to make you feel good about yourself. Need me. Don't you?"

"No," you said, but as Oliver kissed you again, and a firework shrieked somewhere against your eardrum, you lost what temporary power you'd had to resist him.

Like a spindled sleeper you endured his lovemaking, swallowed his tongue like a precious key. Your body was a pulse in deep water, stirred by hands and cock into a dripping arc.

Oliver moaned against your tattered lips, his arms about you in embrace. The heat of him would follow you, afterwards, the haunting of his lust's smoke from dream to dream.

He moved away from you, aided you in pulling your arms back through the trellis. For a moment he tried to hold you, his murmuring at your hair, its comfort indistinct.

Then, as you ripped him from you like the segment of a rotten apple he wiped himself clean of your blood; the rag he used was something torn from your garments in the fury of his love, a token of it. A thread from the maze.

You sat down in the grass and stared up at Oliver, seeking some answer. Assistance from the breaker of will.

"Go home," he said, at last. "Felix doesn't want you. And now—"

Oliver shook his head, and the peat fire of his eyes was of the underworld, then, of sapphire death gone to ash.

"I don't want you either. Not anymore."

Then he turned from you, and walked away, towards the house, his fey shape a shadow puppet on the wall.

#saltburn fic #oliver quick x reader #oliver quick #saltburn #dead dove do not eat #darkfic #tw noncon #tw assault #tw blood #oliver quick x you

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