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butterymangowrites · 3 months

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distribution system

paring: cat hybrid kageyama tobio x fem reader

warnings: dub-con, smut, hybrid au, stray hybrid kageyama, social discrimination, power imbalance, domestic life, kageyama with his platinum face card, kageyama has a tail

word count: 4.2k

english is not my first language. please excuse any mistakes. thank you for reading!

Being a stray hybrid was exhausting. Tobio thought as he wandered around a new neighborhood trying to find food after every house in the last one shooed him away.

Being a stray hybrid was exhausting. Being a bone-thin, dirty black cat hybrid was worse.

He looked ghastly—hair long to his chest, cheeks all sunken, and without a smile on his face, Tobio looked unapproachable. Some people said he might have rabies, warning their own hybrids to stay away; he was scared of that, too, but only because he didn’t know what it actually was, just that it was fatal and humans hated it.

Did he have rabies? He felt fine though. Tobio thought as he put his hand through the narrow opening of a trash can that was likely to have some food waste in there. After some time rummaging through, he grabbed onto a bottle; it was milk. When he shook it softly and felt some milk left inside, Tobio got his dinner.

“You shouldn’t drink that. You will get sick.”

A voice interrupted when he was almost done with the meal. It was a human woman in very nice clothing, the kind he saw humans in the office area wear. His previous owner also wore something like this, the male one, the one who hit him when he was drunk and angry at his wife. The wife was his favorite of the two, always patted him gently on the head and gave him nice things—snacks, toys, letting him watch TV and play with a round leather ball in their small backyard. But when he knocked over some of the flower pots, the husband forbade him from touching the ball again.

The wife disappeared one day, so Tobio ran away.

“Here.” The human took something out of her shoulder bag and handed it to him. “Take this.”

It was an unopened, brand new milk bottle, looking exactly the same as the one he was holding. Too late, Tobio drank all of it, spoiled as it was, it filled his belly for the night. Together with the milk, Tobio saw a banana. He wanted that.

“Sorry, this is all I have.”

It was funny thinking back to the first time he saw you, that it was the guilt in your voice that made Tobio carefully look past his long hair at you again. Being closer in order to take the food from your hand and seeing things clearer than before, he had never seen anyone so concerned about how they didn’t have more food to give away, concerned about him. And because being a stray hybrid was exhausting, Tobio really wanted a home.

He finally succeeded that night. He found one, after roaming around for many years…

—

High up on a building, that was your place. It wasn’t big, but Tobio didn’t mind. He was just happy to be warm and have a roof over his head.

Your bathroom had a tub, small but deep, he could only fit in there if he sat with his knees up. He did that while he let you wash him, at a loss on how to adjust the water temperature and not knowing which was the shampoo and which was for the body cleaning. So he just sat there in silence, not even turning the water on so he didn’t cause any problems, till you knocked and asked if he needed help.

Your hands were smooth, slathering the body wash over his back and chest while he watched you, his now-clean hair tied up with a big claw clip. Having his field of vision expanded made Tobio feel exposed, but it was not totally a bad feeling, just a bit foreign after many years of having it down to hide his face.

“You wash,” you pointed down to his crotch, “down there by yourself, okay?”

Tobio nodded, didn’t mind. He understood you didn’t want to touch him there, you probably didn’t want to touch him anywhere, only doing it out of necessity because he was such an incompetent cat who didn’t know how to use a human's shower. He used to know, he just forgot. Tobio hoped you were not mad.

—

It was the next day when you took him to the hybrid clinic for a check-up. He was healthy, needed to put on some weight, yes, but fine nonetheless. The doctor said the hybrid was in his early 20s and prescribed some vitamins, and just like that, the visit ended. Before you left, one of the staff suggested you buy a collar.

“Is it necessary?” you asked before looking around the waiting area and saw that every hybrid wore one. “Okay.”

You bought one in a random color after trying to let the feline hybrid choose and he just stared at you. He was tall, hovering over most people in the clinic. You had to tell him to crouch down so you could put the newly purchased collar on his neck. It was blue, cartoon printed. This was why making rational decisions was important.

Next stop was the haircut. This time you handed him a magazine and tried again by letting him pick a style for himself; however, he just pointed at the first model he saw. Nothing was wrong with a mohawk, and you would have believed it was a thought-through decision if he had turned the pages of the magazine a little and at least pretended to contemplate. He did neither.

Same with the breakfast that morning, you asked if he wanted blueberry or strawberry jam on his toast, he answered with a nod. When asked again, he pointed at the jar closest to his hand and didn’t finish the toast.

The stray you brought home—Tobio—definitely understood human language and was not mute since he was the one whispering his name to you when you asked what he was called. For some reason, he just did not make decisions. And… he hated strawberry jam.

So you rectified that, selecting two most popular styles and let him choose again. But before he could point, you said, “This is your hair, Tobio. Yours. You can choose how you want your own hair to look.”

He listened and blinked. And for the first time in twenty hours, Tobio took his time deciding between things. He picked the style that would get his bangs cut very short, and if his swishing tail was anything to go by, he seemed to like the end result very much. Despite his head looking like a coconut with a wig on, he still looked good, all because of his face.

The man was strikingly handsome. Without all the matted hair masking his face, his features were bare to the beholder’s eye. Dark blue eyes, sharp jawline, small perky nose, and lips—though chapped and dry—were baby pink. He was a sight for sore eyes.

Clothes, toiletries, and extra groceries that included cat food and snacks he admitted to liking were all carried by him. It was a long walk from place to place and from the train station to yours, but Tobio didn’t allow you to take any bag out of his hands.

It was already dark when you entered your apartment. You unpacked the groceries and officially taught him how to use the shower, learning that he was illiterate when he asked if he remembered correctly which bottle was the shampoo and which was the conditioner. He got them mixed up but was right on the body wash because it was a different brand with a different label.

What you did was point out the difference in the words written on the bottles, but the easiest way you could think of was to place them in fixed positions, so you did just that, temporarily resolving the problem.

“Shampoo on your left, conditioner on your right,” you told him, pointing at each respectively. “But don’t wash your hair today, that would be a waste of the products the salon put on it. Unless it—stinks?”

Tobio, who was sitting on the rim of the tub, touched his hair, trying to pull it to his nose for a sniff, but it was too short. Suddenly, he turned to look at you, expectation clear in his eyes.

“You smell for me.” he bowed his head and waited.

“Oh, no need.” You waved your hands no. “Should be okay.”

You were not going to do it, but his head stayed down and showed no sign of coming back up. Not wanting to disappoint him, you stooped down for a quick sniff. The tip of your nose brushed against his freshly cut hair, it was soft and silky now, no trace of yesterday's dirt and grime. And it smelled so good you could have died.

Tobio breathed out a low purr before he looked up at you again, his pupils dilated. “How was it?”

“Nice,” you replied. “No need to wash it.”

“Okay.” His voice was small, faint.

Out of the bathroom, you prepared dinner for two and arranged a sleeping spot at the couch in the living room as you did the night before. Your apartment was a one-bedroom, so even if you wanted him to sleep somewhere nicer, you didn’t have a better option.

You didn’t expect to see him lying on the cold, hard floor the next morning, sleeping in the fetal position and hugging himself, pillow and blanket left on the couch.

“Why were you on the floor?” you asked that same morning while teaching him how to make basic breakfast—a bowl of cereal for you and two slices of toast for himself, this time topped with blueberry jam. He ended up asking for more with a growling belly and round blue eyes, piercing through your heart like a sharp stalactite falling down on tender meat. The damage was so severe that you had to tell him not to seek permission for food again; it was all his to have.

“My legs are too long.” answered Tobio. “They went over the couch arm—hurt.”

And the cushions were probably too small for him to sleep with legs folded. Decision instantly made, you let him sleep with you on the bed from then on.

—

It was nice not having to go about people’s houses searching for food and sleep at the train station when it rained. Tobio looked out the bedroom window, sitting on the floor with his head under the curtains, his tail flicking slowly as he watched the wet street below and couldn’t help but feel grateful for the human sleeping on the bed.

It had been one hundred and twenty two days since he had been here.

The bed was springy; it rocked a little when he climbed back on no matter how careful he tried to be, making you stir but overall still pretty much in your deep slumber. He settled on his side, laying his head on the same pillow as you. If he were to pull you to his chest, no one would see you again. Tobio was so big now with a tremendous amount of food consumed daily.

So much money was spent on him just to put skin, fat, and muscles on his bones, and you never once complained about the increasing expenses. He knew numbers now, and he saw them on the bills each time and noticed that you spent less on yourself. You had never gotten the blouse you said you wanted, and you ate half sometimes just to keep the leftover for the next day. He wished he could do more than just helping around with the household chores.

“Thank you,” whispered Tobio.

He wanted so much to cuddle up to you, sink his little fangs into your skin, and touch you in the way that would get him cute noises as a reward. He liked being close to you, finding himself awake nose to nose with you more often than not and using the time before you woke to count your eyelashes. You didn’t like any of that, always pushing yourself away and hurrying up to get off the bed.

Pouting, pouting, all he did when that happened was pout. But in his sleep, instinct took over nevertheless, he would find himself clinging to you anyway come morning, and he would pout, pout and pout…

—

This was why you never considered adopting a hybrid before you found Tobio that night. You didn’t want to feel like a scum excuse of a human being, getting so wet that you heard the squelching sound when Tobio pumped his fingers in and out of you, deep, nudging your front wall now and again, making you squirm.

You know what many hybrids were adopted and bought for, and you didn’t want to be one of those using them for sexual pleasure, letting him help around the house was bad enough. He didn’t ask to be here, you offered. What he was doing now might just mean he got the wrong idea about what he was here for.

“Tobio, no.”

“I’m so hard. It hurts.”

He propped himself up on one of his elbows, pouting while he watched his hand’s movement under your pajama shorts. “Please help.”

“Tobio, we need to talk.”

There was no talk, Tobio flipped you to lie flat on his body, his hands tugging your shorts and underwear down before doing the same with his. When your bare core touched his, the cat hybrid moaned loudly and rubbed you frantically against his cock.

It had never come this far, small touches here and there but never this.

“I—don’t want—,” you gasped, “to use you.”

“Please use me. Please use me. Use me.” He pouted more, tears welling in his eyes.

Damn those eyes to hell though you were certain Tobio himself belonged in heaven. It was these same orbs that had you ask if he wanted to come home with you, earning yourself the sweetest companion one could ever ask for.

Coming home to see the apartment cleaned, plants watered, laundry done, nothing was left to be done but dinner because he was scared he would burn the kitchen down because there was fire involved. He was getting better at it now, you feared cooking for you might be next in his plan. Power imbalance hung in the air, but Tobio had no clue.

“You’re not here for this.” You tried to say, turning away from his lips that grazed all over your face, trying to get to your mouth. “You are my friend.”

“I’m yours.”

“My—friend.”

“Umm, yours.” he purred, so cat-like. “You own me.”

Why did he only listen to what he wanted to hear? Not just yours, but your friend, that was what you were trying to convey.

“You are not a thing to be owned.”

For some reason, his eyes darkened. “Don’t be too good to me.”

Next thing you knew, you were on all fours, ass up, face down, hands in his grip behind your back. His hot shaft spread your wetness to your clit before fooling around with your entrance.

“Don’t—”

“Must be warm in there. Wetter, too.” the hybrid whined, claws sharpened, penetrating the skin of your hands. “Please let me get in, please please.”

“Tobio, don’t be bad.” That was the first time you reprimanded him, and you felt him freeze. “You’re not a thing to be used, you hear me?”

“But I’m a pet, your pet.”

“You’re not just an animal to me.”

“But that’s what I am.”

“You’re half human.”

“You don’t understand.” His mouth was next to your ear when he said it. “I am more animal than human, all hybrids are.”

Following his statement was the tip of his cock threatening to push in, you had to cry out his name again to stop the deed.

“Please. Just one dip,” he begged. “One dip and out.”

He was so stubborn, you had never seen this side of him before, literally nonplussed as to how to handle the persistence, the negotiation, and his pitiful cries. He had never been like this, even when you told him his favorite milk was out of stock, all he did was nod and say he was happy with whatever you had.

“Just once.” You choked out the words. “Only one dip and you’re out. You let me go, okay?”

You made a deal.

“Okay.”

The head was not the problem, the thick body and base were, stretching you to the point of pain. You heard a low growl rumble in his chest as he went deep to the hilt and lingered there.

“Thank you for taking care of me,” he said, tremblingly. “Please don’t be mad.”

You couldn’t imagine being mad at Tobio, not even when he didn’t keep his word, pulling himself out and slamming back into you. Again and again he went, pulling at your wrists with each thrust for leverage. Your upper body was lifted from the bed from how hard he pulled, head lolling from side to side.

“Please don’t put me back on the streets.” He bottomed out with a cry. “Keep me, keep me.”

The wanton scream you let out was embarrassing, your pussy throbbed and clenched around his cock as he pounded on the right spot. And Tobio was a quick learner, he hammered down on it repeatedly, fucking you into the mattress until you came with a shudder, eyes rolled to the back of your head; you were glad he didn’t have to see that from where he was.

He shot out a lot of cum when he came, filling you up to the brim. One dip and out? Sure. The thing was, you weren't even mad at him. His clear blueberry eyes trained on you after he rolled you onto your back, tilting his head to one side before he bent down to give a kitten lick at your mouth.

No, you weren’t mad at Tobio, you were mad at yourself for giving in.

—

The leather ball he used to play with was for a sport called volleyball. Tobio saw it on TV one day and immediately pointed at it with excitement. So being a good owner as you were—allowing him to fuck and hold you close after each night, albeit not without some begging and whining first—you took him out to an open gym to play with other hybrids.

Him having to wear a collar when going out bothered you, and when it strained his neck while he was out on the court looking up at the ball, you told him to take it off.

“Why?” Tobio asked. Every hybrid in the gym had it on, he didn’t want to be different.

“It’s too tight on your neck.”

“It’s fine.”

A round of laughter erupted from the nearby court when a rabbit hybrid fell on her face trying to get the ball. It was from the humans who sat and watched the play, one in particular seemed concerned—perhaps her owner—seeing as he stood up and told her to get back on her feet.

“You just don’t get it.” you shook your head feebly and walked out the court back to your seat which was just a chair situated not far off the sideline. But as an afterthought, you turned around and said, “Just loosen it a bit, yeah?”

“Okay.”

You seemed to dislike the idea of him being an animal, but at the end of the day, he was. He loved watching birds from the window and making noises at them. He loved sleeping, and when he woke, after exerting himself with the chores until the energy ran out, it was nice to curl up on the couch for a nap.

It was not him who didn’t get it, it was you. Tobio liked being an animal.

So when your boss, who was one of the owners of the hybrid who played volleyball with him, approached and broached the idea of getting him on a cat food commercial you and he were working on, Tobio wanted in, even more interested when the older man said this would earn you extra money to take home after the shoot ended.

“See? Tobio wants to.” The boss gestured his hands at him.

“But—”

“Yes,” Tobio said, earnestly.

“Let’s talk about the shooting date together with the team on Monday.”

The deal was sealed.

—

The shoot was stressful for you, seeing people coo at how cute Tobio looked in faux cat ears, some even dared coming close to scratch under his chin. Tobio liked the attention, but he didn’t like strangers touching him. He would look for you, asking for help with his impossible-to-deny eyes whenever that happened, and you would come to the rescue.

“Aren’t cat hybrids supposed to keep to themselves?” you asked, walking ahead of him, just about five minutes more until you reached home. “How come you like people so much?”

“Not all the time.” Tobio replied. “I just happened to like them today.”

“Doesn’t it bother you,” You stopped walking and turned to face him. “being treated like that?”

“Like what?”

“They played with you with a laser pointer, Tobio. Trying to grab your tail, calling you names.” You held on to your shoulder bag as you spoke. “They didn’t respect you at all.”

“I’m an animal.”

“This again?”

“You have to accept that I am one and there is nothing wrong with it.”

There was no anger in this voice, never with Tobio, only dull sadness that dimmed his usual bright eyes down a notch.

“But you don’t agree, do you? That’s why you’re trying to change me.”

“You missed the point.”

“And what was it?”

When you didn’t respond instantly, he continued, “I like wearing a collar because it shows people I’m taken, taken by you, not a stray no one wants. I like that you own me.”

“Oh Tobio—”

“Is it wrong that I love doing the housework, that I don’t care that people want to give me treats and play laser pointer with me? I know what I am and how they see me. I’m an ani—”

“I don’t care that you’re an animal, a hybrid or whatever!” you interrupted with a soft shout. “I’m saying that no matter what you are, you deserve respect,” you said. “I don’t know what you experienced that made you think you can’t pick between strawberry and blueberry jam. And they can play laser pointer with you for all I care, but they should be aware that you have a life and mind of your own and not just assume they can do it without even asking. Just because you’re fine with it doesn’t make it okay.”

You paused to breathe.

“And trust me those people—those people in the studio, they don’t—they don’t understand this, yet.” You closed your eyes. “After the shoot, one of them asked me if they could buy you.”

Opening your eyes again, he was so close you had to tilt your head back to look at him.

“I don’t want to hear anyone say that about you ever again.”

His kiss didn’t take you by surprise. His tongue was welcome, and his moan was your guest. Tobio held your hand all the way home and didn’t let go even when the apartment door closed behind you and him, instead, he kissed you against it. Then from your mouth, he headed downwards.

“I thought I disgusted you.” he said, nipping at the soft flesh of the thigh he put on his shoulder.

“That is crazy. Ouch! Tobio, your claws.”

It had been almost a year already since Tobio moved in, and with his typical cat behavior, your body was full of scratches, some faded, some didn’t. He had a second haircut just two months ago, the same style with his bangs cut short, resembling a coconut for a while until it grew out past the stage, and now it was just in the right length—perfect for a grab.

He liked when you played with his hair, loved it when you pulled hard during sex. For someone who was soft spoken and had a hobby of watching birds and playing volleyball, Tobio was surprisingly perverted when it came to fucking.

The man purred loudly when he got the taste of your soaking folds, lapping greedily at the core and dragging his wet tongue up your inner thighs, collecting every drop like it was essential for his being.

When your hands remained by your sides, taking action too slow for his liking, Tobio searched blindly without pulling his face away from your nectar and grabbed one of them to put on his head. Automatically, you gripped a handful, hearing him groan with relief and satisfaction.

“So good to me.” he mumbled, his thumb leisurely circling your clit. “I like you more than anything.”

More than the milk you gave him that first night, or the banana, even the blueberry jam could not compare to you. And despite him not being brave enough to make a choice of his own haircut, he did make a choice in that moment he followed you home—he chose you.

#kageyama tobio x reader #kageyama tobio x you #kageyama tobio #kageyama x reader #tobio x reader #haikyu fanfiction #haikyu x reader #haikyuu smut #haikyu #haikyu!!#haikyuu x reader #kageyama tobio smut #tobio kageyama smut #tobio kageyama x reader #cat hybrid kageyama tobio #tw.dubcon #hybrid!au #haikyuu hybrid #hybrid!kageyama

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ni-kisno1fan14007 · 1 month

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stressed out

pairings: bf!riki x fembodied!reader

warnings: smut, suggestive, nudity, size kink, blowjob

Riki was a busy man. Always so hardworking and passionate he pushed himself as far as he could, cause he had only one goal. As the maknae of Enhypen, he was overworked.. from the back to back schedules that had his mind going crazy and body pushing to brink of exhaustion. But Riki didn’t care, he wanted to achieve and be the best. But at the end of the day, all he wanted was to be with you.. you helped him unwind, and relax after a long day and he wanted you so so bad. You waited for your boyfriend to come back to the dorm, curled up on his bed in his room. Your mind growing hazy and calm at the scent of his cologne that was lingering on the sheets, traces of blackberry and orange blossom stuck to the cotton fabric. You lay on the sheets, hugging his pillow, wearing a thin camisole and panties as pyjamas ready to cuddle with love of your life and the help him relax after a long day. God you missed him so much. After about half an hour, you could hear the door rattling, followed by the sound of heavy footsteps on the wooden floor. Your boyfriend was here. And all Riki could do was groan at the sight... the most beautiful girl he had ever met was now on his curled up on his bed, wearing nothing but some skimpy clothing. He swore he almost choked on air seeing the way the black cotton panties stretch over your ass, to the way your breasts strained against the thin fabric of your lace trimmed camisole. Sparks immediately shooting to his crotch at the lewd sight.. all the exhaustion from his day leaving his body. You pat the bed signalling him to sit next to you. The moment he sat on the bed you straddled his lap.. his strong arms immediately wrapping around your waist.. as small gasps leave his lips. He was down.. so so bad for you, just the sight of you in your underwear was enough to get him painfully hard.

You giggle softly at the sight of his flushed face.. hips rocking teasingly against his crotch trying to get him to admit to what he wanted from you. “Please.. please! Don’t tease me love”.. his deep voice groans out, face buried into your neck. Soft hisses of pleasure leaving his lips at the flickers of pleasure that your movement gave him. "What do you want baby?", you ask softly grinding your hips against his hard bulge, all he could do was let out soft moans of pleasure. "y- you.. I want you!", he manages to croak out, it was all you needed to press your lips against his in a heated kiss, bodies pressing together in all consuming need, as Riki's mind grow hazier. You pull away, a string of saliva connecting your lips as Riki whines at the loss of contact.

The moment your lips connect to his neck he swore he saw heaven, eyes closing and head thrown back in bliss, if only he knew what you had in store for him, as your kisses make their way down to his collarbones.

He eagerly takes off his shirt, wanting to expose more of his skin to your delicate, pleasurable touch. You can't help but bite your lip as you look down his toned chest, to his abs, lean and built to perfection after a lifetime of dancing. Your kisses travel down to his chest, to his abs as you kneel between his legs, batting your eyelashes in feigned innocence as you undo his belt. He swore he could almost come from the sight. HIs hands tangle in your hair as you pull down his trousers, exposing his hard large bulge to the cold air covered in thin boxers. His pupils dilate in anticipation as you gently pull on his boxers letting his large thick member dripping with precum spring free, making you almost salivate at the sight. You wrap your small hands around the thick base, making a deep moan escape Riki's lips, he was putty in your hands, and he almost lost his mind, his hold in your hair tightening as your lick at the tip, tasting him. "Y.. You are s.. so so good for me", he hisses softly the feeling of your tongue teasing him setting his skin on fire. You could feel heat pooling in your panties at the sounds he made. You slowly take him in your mouth, gagging and drooling as his member stretched out your mouth fully, the tip hitting the back of your throat, eyes tearing up as you look up at him. He was huge, and you were struggling to say the least, but the dirtiest parts in his brain loved it. A deep whisper leaves his lips as he looks down at the erotic, dirty sight in front of him, his normally innocent, sweet lover on her knees pleasing him with her mouth as she looked up at him, a sight that had him cursing in his mind, "F.. fucking hell".

With each swallow and bob of your head, Riki could feel him getting closer to release, the coil in his lower abdomen begging to snap and show him heaven that his stressed out mind oh so craved. And as you hollowed out your cheeks around him, he came, his mind exploding with overwhelming pleasure as he shoots his semen down your tight little throat. His head thrown back in utter bliss.

#nishimura riki #niki nishimura #riki nishimura x reader #niki #ni-ki #ni-ki smut #ni-ki suggestive #enhypen smut

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dernier-mystere · 14 days

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! SPOILER WARNING FOR 2.5 UPDATE! READ WITH CAUTION ! summary: the yaoqing trio returns back to the yaoqing, though things are a little different, being an alchemist in the alchemy commission, you receive the instructions and diagnosis from the cauldron master of the luofu, lingsha, about jiaoqiu's condition and what needs to be prepared for him and his treatment plan. despite being someone who worked a few times with the healer, you find yourself assigning treatments to him for once, despite his stubbornness and negligence when it came to his own health. pairing: jiaoqiu x alchemist!foxian!reader (afab) warnings: slight gore, injury descriptions word count: 3.4k a/n: how are we feeling jiaoqiu fans? a mess? :,) me too <3 so we need some comfort yes <3 the idea is based on an idea oc that was an alchemist and as the xianzhou yaoqing is mostly foxians, it makes sense right? hope you enjoy it <3 sorry for the medicinal rambling too! sorry if this may seem ooc, I feel so rusty with writing these days... ^^; I plan to write some proper fluff, I apologise this isn't lovey dovey, if anyone has suggestions please send them please support me by following or sharing! it's much appreciated! <3 twitter/x: @derniermystere ao3: Dernier_Mystere

The diagnosis was almost painful to read, you knew the trio was reckless, and a part of you thought it would be the Merlin’s Claw that would come back with the injuries, not Jiaoqiu. Even Moze who lingered in the shadow of the General had his incident report of injuries, most of the events that had occurred on the Luofu remained on the hush, so unfortunately, it left you and numerous other healers in great distress when the commission received the outpatient details and care instructions for the pink-haired foxian. Toxins in the wounds have caused surrounding flesh to decay and atrophy… acute shock from severe blood loss…? Disturbed blood circulation from Tumbledust results in disturbed blood circulation, massive internal bleeding, neurological atrophy and optic neuropathy, leading to… blindness. These were just a few lines written in his injury reports, you felt your eyelids flicker in concern at the words, each description made your lips crease further into a frown, your heart wavering as you could only imagine the pain he would’ve struggled with in that short period, not only ingesting a lethal amount of Tumbleweed but also baring the injuries sustained by the Borisin Warhead, Hoolay. Not to mention there were found traces of Lupotoxin still present in his bloodstream, in short, he danced on the thin line between life and death, a second too late, and he would have died an agonising death.

As you sat in the cool room of your examination office, the rhythmic ticker a counterpoint to the steady hum of the medical equipment in the room still trying to convince yourself how Jiaoqiu remained in such good spirits, and oddly with a good appetite despite his situation… his calmness and sly exterior made you fear the worse, after all, he hid a lot of his emotions, using his fox-like smile as a mask to pretend all was fine, even if inside he could have been begging for a semblance of hope. Your e/c gaze flickered up to the Foxian who hummed softly, sitting on the examination table with a Gaiwan* in his hands, as he curiously took in a whiff of the scent of the tea, swirling it occasionally in his hand as he tried to depict what herbs were in it. “Not much to say honestly, I feel quite fine besides the fact, I have been told not to eat spicy food… it’s truly a torturous treatment,” his voice was calm, yet the mention of not being allowed to eat his favourite food made him click his tongue, one of his long ears flicking in annoyance, “But, other than that, I am quite alright,”

Your eyes squinted as you observed him talking to the pot plant in the corner of your examination room while you were seated on the other side of him, yet… you felt your insides soften that, he was still adjusting to his new condition after all. “Master Jiaoqiu, you know ingesting amounts of spicy food will only increase inflammation of your wounds.” You spoke softly, choosing not to comment further that he was talking to the plant rather than yourself. Jiaoqiu’s ears flicked in your direction rapidly, as he quickly adjusted himself to face the direction your voice came from, acting as if he knew the whole time you were seated there, it made you softly giggle in amusement as you slowly lit a stick of Dreambranch Incense in the office, in hopes of providing calmness to the mind during his routine follow up examination.

“You always say you’re quite alright to avoid unnecessary long appointments, who dropped you off today? Was it the Merlin’s Claw or Moze?” You teased, prepping the small station beside him with all the necessary tools and treatment needs. Jiaoqiu’s tail flicked in annoyance as he crossed his arms, followed by a tiny pout on his lips, “I will have you know, no one dropped me off, Thank you.” His tone was almost childish and petty, “I came as instructed by the Cauldron Master of the Luofu, nothing more than a routine check-up.” He clarified, yet the creases in his brows seemed to convince you further that someone made him actually arrive at his scheduled appointment. “For a healer, Master Jiaoqiu… you should always look after yourself before treating others.” You commented, your fluffy tail swaying behind you in amusement as you spoke, enjoying the small amount of petty banter with the Foxian healer who had left the field a while ago now. Being a long-life species, a mere few years seemed to fly by in the blink of an eye, but when one formed friendships or any kind of relationship when they left or moved on, it felt as if they had left for centuries, this was no different to Jiaoqiu. His sassy nature and his usual greeting with a cunning smile were oddly something you missed, but deep down, you knew the losses on the battlefield tore and ate away at his heart, leaving nothing but emptiness, a path of Nihility to creep in. Some days, you found yourself sitting on the stairs of the commission, looking at the fake night sky of the Yaoqing, wondering if your research and treatments meant really nothing in the end. Countless patients slipped between your fingers like sand, no matter how hard you tried to grab the delicate granules, it would still slip through. The many nights where you prayed to Lan or any aeon to hear your pleas and silent begs to help a young patient that was slowly succumbing to the effects of Mara, the way their limbs twisted un-naturally, root-like appendages growing from his body like a deformity as they slowly lost their mind day-by-day, yet none of them cast their gaze on you or your pleads… they always replied in a numbing silence. You felt his pain… you sympathised with his feelings for those who were lost in battle… You could treat a thousand patients, but what was the point if they returned to the battlefield and lost their lives in the end… was their sacrifice in vain? These were the many questions that went through your mind on a daily, and something you assumed most alchemists thought.

Your eyes fluttered closed as you shook your head to dismiss the darkening thoughts, you forced yourself to read over the letter submitted by Lingsha. As written in his treatment plan, you were to clean his wounds with Pathovore bugs, before applying liberal amounts of medication and dress them up firmly. As well as take a deeper examination of his blindness and relay any suggestions to her for possible treatments of his blindness. “Well, I know you want this to be done quickly, so I will start with the treatment of the wounds, Master Jiaoqiu, then if possible, I would like to examine your eyes…?” You asked hesitantly, your h/c ears pinning back against your head as you cautiously asked him, you honestly didn’t know why you were nervous, it was your job… but he had only recently just lost his vision, was it a touchy subject? Or maybe would flat-out refuse and say it was nothing.

Jiaoqiu simply remained silent as he continued to hold on to the delicate clay cup, he gave the tea one last sip before he gently pressed the edge of his hand along the surface of the table to confirm he could safely place his cup upon it, “Why are you concerned, Y/N? it’s your job after all. Do what you need. For once, I am simply the patient, and you’re my healer now, are you not?” He spoke up, turning to face in your direction, though you could hear the slight hesitation laced in the last few syllables of his words but you slowly nodded in reply, not that he could see it.

The initial examination was rather simple, you had to look over his wounds, the deep lacerations on his chest, the state of his collarbone, checking him for any signs of Lycanthropic symptoms which came in the forms of excessive hair growth, elongation of the canine teeth, hostility (namely to Foxians) and a heightened increase of Lupitoxin which are evident in a blood rage. Further examination of his red blood cell, Platelets and the protein count in his plasma, to gauge how well his blood would coagulate over time, while the effects of consuming Tumbledust has significantly lowered the count, he was slowly making progress as there were some improvements. While it wasn’t much, it was better than none…

“So far, you seem to be on the road of recovering… slow, but I am sure we can get there eventually, there has been a minimal increase in your plasma counts, and platelets, but not much to say you can return to handling sharp objects… I am hoping you’re not, Master Jiaoqiu, and you have no signs of Lycanthropy so that rules out any further conclusion of you becoming a borisin.” You explained, all while scribbling on his patient forms that would be sent back to Cauldron master Lingsha, and further approval by Head Alchemist on the Yaoqing, Yingyue. “With this, I would like you to be placed on a higher dose of anti-inflammatories, to help reduce the swelling in your wounds. That, or need I remind you that you are not to ingest spicy foods, Master Jiaoqiu.” You slowly raised a brow at him as he turned to you, pulling out his fan that was underneath his alchemy commission uniform that he had removed so you could treat his injuries. He delicately fanned himself a few times, before hiding his lips behind the coloured feathers.

“I would never betray the doctors’ words, no knives or spicy food here. Are you insinuating that your patient ingested spicy foods? Y/N you wound me… I would never,” He stated with a cunning smile pulling at his lips behind that fan, his tail swaying behind him as he took in the results of his examination. “But is it really my fault that Moze had hotpot, I couldn’t turn down such a request, even Feixiao was there.” He soon added, nodding his head innocently as his ears twitched in your direction.

“So you did have Spicy food, is that what you're telling me?” You pressed, raising a brow as he kept fanning himself, concealing his smile.

“I never said that, I just said that Moze might have offered it to me. But as such a good patient, I never touched a drop. I instead had to sit and watch my so-called friends enjoy a hotpot in front of me, it was quite cruel, really…” His fluffy ears drooped down, as he dramatically acted as if it had taken a toll on him that he couldn’t have some. Your expression fell into a deadpanned glare as he kept innocently fanning himself, humming all innocently, you knew that this sly foxian had made the hotpot himself and threw the blame at Moze to get off any kind of lecture. You feigned a sigh in defeat as you allowed him to win at his little game, “Alright, whatever the patient says… but know your slight increase of white blood cells, and redness on your laceration tells me otherwise,” You simply pointed out as you began working on removing the now loosened bandages around his shoulders and chest, you had seen your fair share of injuries and wounds, but the deep claw marks along his chest with lingering parts of decaying flesh seemed to leave a deep pang in your heart… reading about his injuries were bad enough, but seeing them in person was just as bad.

The audacity he had as he simply hummed in reply and with a nonchalant shrug, “I have no idea what you’re insinuating here, doctor,” He added, placing his fan down to reveal that sly fox-like grin, as he lifted his head proudly, more so that you could work on his wounds better. But upon sensing your concern with his wounds, Jiaoqiu slowly fell into silence as he turned away, “This is nothing. I can handle this, there is no need to look at me with… pity.”

You felt an all-familiar annoyance stir inside you as if small flicking flames lapped at the insides of your chest as your movements slowed down, “It isn’t pity… it was concern Jiaoqiu when the incident reports were handed to us, it was worrying… especially when there was no news or context from the Luofu. I knew something was covered up, and it involved Hoolay, something for sure went wrong… it may not be my place to ask what happened, but… You shouldn’t bare yourself to a wolf's fangs… and ingest Tumbleweed… even if you had a plan.” you whispered, gripping the bundle of bandages in your hands that you had removed, “You could have died, then what-”

“I would have died fulfilled and content, Y/N.” He cut her off, a heavy sigh ruminating from his chest as he still refused to face you entirely, his brow furrowing in annoyance as he refused to accept your concern for him.

“Would you really say that?” You pressed, your shoulders slouching as you continued to remove the last of the bandages to fully observe the wound in its entirety. Yet unlike before, you weren’t phased, instead, your heart simply felt like it was crumbling at his words. However, Jiaoqiu remained silent when you pressed him, his ears folding back a tad, it was a sign that you were right in some way. Despite the deafening silence, you continued to work on him, applying the Pathovore Bugs onto the rotting parts of his wounds, all while she delicately ran her scalpel over the unhealthy flesh to promote excess skin growth. Jiaoqiu grunted softly, leaning back onto his arms as he tried to push himself through the uncomfortable sensation, he didn’t want to be seen as weak or vulnerable, even though he was the one knocking on death's door. Yet his stubbornness to admit anything or the fact that for once he required treatment was unyielding, even when he was in pain.

The silence continued to hover between them, once playful banter turned to a darkened cloud of tension, but, Jiaoqiu managed to face Y/N once more, parting his lips as he tried to find the words to say something, “Why do you care so much. Don’t they say laying your life out on the path of the hunt is a blessing…?” He managed to whisper out, his voice almost weak and one could even say vulnerable. Y/N glanced up, but unlike the look of annoyance or a frown, she offered him a compassionate gaze, “We are both healers, different kinds sure, but in the end, we are here to help those in need. I know you have lost many patients, as have I… I may not have been through or seen what you have on the Front Lines… but we share the same burdens of what we do is the right thing…” Your voice was soft, yet anyone could hear the way your words seemed to break through the ragged breaths you took in as you tried to formulate each word with sincerity, “But… we… no, you shouldn’t allow yourself to go through such measures… General Feixiao is already strong on her own, and your patient can only go as far as they can if their healer is also healthy, I have seen too many people die over nothing to claim they did so in the name of The Hunt… but it felt like they were throwing themselves away.”

You gently removed the bugs, placing them in a glass beaker as you kept talking, “As I said… I don’t know what happened on the Luofu… but I know, you shouldn’t have risked yourself at such a high stake. There is always an alternative, another way to do things, picking the dangerous path isn’t always the right way.” You whispered, head now falling downwards as your ears drooped once more. You had seen so many soldiers come back from the battlefields injured and proclaiming proudly that if they died, they did so for The Aeon Lan, but, it more so felt like they were throwing themselves at the denizens of Abundance without another thought of a better strategy. Y/N slowly bit on her bottom lip as she continued with the treatment by applying liberal amounts of the ointment onto his wounds, before securely wrapping them up in bandages.

During the quiet moment as Y/N worked, Jiaoqiu found himself sighing once more, shaking his head as his expression softened slightly to that of contentment. “You might have been right, I could have found another way… but I made it, did I not?” He replied in a lighter tone, even if you swatted his side with the flick of your fluffy tail, “You’re just as reckless as the Merlin’s Claw, she is rubbing off on you. You know… there would be a lot of people upset if you had died… I am sure even Moze would be upset in his way… you may have been fulfilled as you say, but what about the others that care for you?” you added, making sure that each one of his wounds was fully covered, before you soon sat back in your chair, your mind also wanted to add ‘what about me?’ yet, you didn’t. The Foxian offered you a sad smile, as he turned to the direction of the pot plant, “You’re not wrong, Y/N.” He reluctantly whispered, his voice holding a sense of vulnerability yet again, each word spoken like a prayer, with an ear twitch he turned back to you, this time with a more genuine smile.

“I am sure you would have been deeply hurt. To think during your training you said you hated me and my spicy food you could smell from a mile away…” His demeanour shifted to his usual self, sly and jabbing, which seemed to stir you up, evident as your tail swished around in annoyance as you finished up with his wounds, giving him the space he needed to change back into his clothes. “Stop being snarky… you seriously need to take better care of yourself.” You huffed as you turned to clean your instruments, all while he resumed fanning his delicate face once more, his soft pink hair flowing with each motion of his fan as he continued that same mocking smile. “I know. I can’t promise anything.” He hummed, for once he spoke truthfully, “But, I will do my best, I have no guarantees.”

“That's all I wanted to hear, Jiaoqiu.” Your shoulders eased up and relaxed at his words, her heart feeling ever so lighter.

“You know, you dropped the formalities halfway, this is quite intimate, Y/N, I am almost flattered, after many years and now you call me by my name and not Master Jiaoqiu,” As usual he tried his best to get under your skin, still calmly fanning himself. He expected you to retaliate or shoot back another snarky comment, yet you did something that surprised him… You gently hugged him, wrapping your arms around his lower torso to avoid touching his wound, as much as he wanted to open his eyes in surprise, the Foxian instead felt his expression melt into a soft fondness, one that wasn’t all that often seen. “You were that worried?” He finally admitted, moving one of his hands to delicately brush against your back soothingly.

“Just promise me you will be more careful next time,” you whispered faintly, near one of his long ears that twitched at your words, his tail swaying side-to-side.

“I can’t guarantee anything… but, if I get hugged like this, I might consider it.” He purred, still fanning the two of you with his fan, blissfully unaware of the edge of the fan catching a lit with the sizzling of fire lapping at the tips. Jiaoqiu quickly moved the fan to stop the fire from continuing with a silent huff of annoyance, “Maybe we could even go for some hotpot sometime?”

You wanted to say he wasn’t allowed spicy food, but you were content from his words, you simply hoped that one day, he would take your words to heart, if not for your own sake, but maybe for those that were close to him…

#jiaoqiu x reader #jiaoqiu #honkai star rail #hsr #hsr x reader #foxian #x reader #y/n #x y/n #hsr jiaoqiu

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tlkfaerie · 1 year

Text

Celebrations

༺☆༻ Pairing: Sihtric x reader ༺☆༻

Word Count: 4.1k

summary: a celebration in Uhtred's hall leads to a mutual confession in a river.

Author's note: heyyyyy. This is set in my imaginary peacetime lol. I would say end of S2 but also Sihtric's S3 hair because I love mullets.

MDNI! 18+ -͟͟͞☆ TW! : smut, loss of virginity, mentions of alcohol, slapping, crying, p in v, confessions of love etc

˚　　　　✦　　　.　　. 　 ˚　.　　　　　 . ✦　　　　˚

You were Uhtred's ward, so naturally, you followed him wherever he went. He had reluctantly taken you in as an oath after Leofric could no longer look after you. Your ancestry was a shoddy thing - it seemed everyone you had ever met was unaware of your origins. And yet, you had fallen into the care of Leofric, who had begged Uhtred to care for you in his final, forceful moment in battle.

Though you had begun as a pain in his side, he grew to love you deeply. You revelled in the sibling-like bond that the two of you shared, though sometimes it was hard to listen to him when he told you to do certain things. You had become his arseling. You were often confined to your room when thins became heated, hiding with Gisela or forced behind Finan's side, never allowed to be at the forefront of anything important.

You didn't mind entirely, however, because Uhtred's natural urge to provide for you meant that you were safe. And on nights like tonight, you enjoyed yourself the most. Ale was being squandered throughout Coccham's infamous Pagan hall, thrown in goblets and beakers to any man whose eager hands were willing to receive.

Uhtred warned you not to have more than one glass, but as there was no danger, you knew he wouldn't bother to keep an eye on you. He smirked as he had left you, somehow knowing that you would not follow his commands. Gisela, even, did not adopt on the somewhat maternal role she often forced upon you. You loved her as a sister, but tonight you knew you could not bump into her in your state.

After what could only have been your tenth glass, you observed Osferth sitting alone, looking rather sheepish. As someone you considered your greatest confidant, you slumped next to him, entertaining him with slurred conversation that you imagined was perfectly clear. As the two of you laughed, you were unaware of the conversation that had been brewing slowly across the hall.

Finan draped himself across one of the benches as he watched Uhtred turn serious, sniggering slowly at the man's mildly drunken state. He turned to Sihtric, who had been quiet for most of the night. Though he was always somewhat subdued, today seemed to pique a particular silence within him. Uhtred did not fail to notice. He had been observing how Sihtric ogled you for some months now.

"Good men have begun asking about my ward," he begun, taking a great chug from his cup. He could not hide his smile, knowing exactly what he was doing. The Dane immediately turned his absent head towards his Lord, envy filling his chest at the news. Sihtric wasn't surprised, however. He saw how oblivious you were to the stares around you. Though your position with Uhtred was close enough to scare of some men, others had tried to court you.

Your beauty was known throughout the land, praised above even royalty. As a result of this, you caused Uhtred many problems in his dealing and bargaining with other men, though he would never tell you that. He never ceased to remind you that you behaved like a wild pup, and that no man would consider you for marriage with branches in your hair and mud in your hands. He was teasing, of course, but this had urged your sense of independence so much that you hadn't even considered suitors.

None, other than Sihtric. As he did his work for his Lord, fought for him alongside other men, you couldn't help but feel drawn to him. He was a wonder to speak to, incredibly soft yet opinionated and strong. He let you do things like weave flowers into his hair, play with his sword (albeit very, very reluctantly) and helped you with chores. He had been nothing but kind to you, but his conscious prevented him from making any sort of romantic move.

"She is wild, she will need a strong man. A good man," Uhtred continued, eyeing Finan, who quickly chimed in. He knew he spoke slightly too ill of you in this moment, but it was for a greater purpose, and so he allowed himself the indulgence.

"I could happily take on such a task, Lord," the Irishman raised his glass, staring at Sihtric from where he sat at the very edge of his seat, eyes downcast. He felt ridiculous. He was a warrior in every sense of the word, stoic and observant. Why could he not simply find the courage in him to ask for more than your platonic company. He burned for you. For you to be his wife. To claim you as his.

Finally, Sihtric cleared his throat. "Lord, I wish to be with Y/N. I wish for her to be mine." he seemed almost tortured as he said the words, making Finan burst out with laughter. The two were a close pair, but Finan's laughter did not infect Sihtric as it usually did.

"I'd be able to see that even if I was blind, Sihtric," he began, walking over to his good friend, "she is a fine runt, I like her, but she won't stay idle forever, not with that face." Sihtric grinned slightly, reminiscing on the night that Finan had bestowed you with the glorious nickname 'runt'. After you'd confessed that Leofric was only some distant uncle, and that your parents could have been anyone, he'd stuck ale in your hand and branded you the group's pretty runt.

Sihtric laughed, shoving Finan off of his shoulders, telling him to go and find his own woman for the night, "or have you had every woman not claimed here tonight already?"

Without waiting for Finan's reaction, Sihtric returned his gaze to Uhtred and the other men at the table. Uhtred smiled, tearing copious amounts of bread in his hands and shoving them down. Sihtric declared his Lord a pig for the moment, earning him a slap to the back.

"You and Y/N are suited, I would see that she marries for love, not for convenience. You will allow her to be who she needs to be. I trust you, Sihtric." And with that message, he was gone, up to find his woman, and to enjoy the rest of the night with her. In truth, Sihtric had forgotten what they were even celebrating, content to watch you with Osferth, talking in your endearing manner. He decided now that he would have to make his move.

Your cheeks were red at this point, and you had been mindlessly listening to Osferth tell one of his stories, when a tall silhouette, forming into the figure of Sihtric, came and placed his hands on Osferth's shoulders. Delighted to see him, you opened a space for him on the bench, but instead, Osferth stood and left, wishing you goodnight. You hadn't realised just how late it was, but you didn't care - not when one of your favourite people was sat in front of you.

"Y/N, I hope you haven't exceeded Uhtred's ale limit tonight," he spoke sarcastically, tilting his head to meet your somewhat dazed eyes. His gaze alone made you sober up instantly. You felt the urge to pull him closer, to be around him constantly - even if he did call you a pup, and ruffle your hair as if you were truly Uhtred's dog.

"I can see as clearly as a sorcerer with his runes," you declare triumphantly, but no sooner than you lift your arms to prove yourself do you find yourself utterly drenched in ale. Uhtred's ale, to be exact.

"Did you see that coming, lady?" Sihtric swipes your chin with his finger, licking the ale off of his finger. You want to cry as you look at him, knowing he finds this funny but unable to see much of the humour in it. You had wanted to look nice for him tonight.

"Uhtred. . .you bastard turd," you begin, spewing insults at him, not caring that he loved every minute of it. Truly, he had not intended to disturb you and Sihtric, he had just been curious to observe how one of his most trusted men claimed his woman.

"I would have Sihtric wash your mouth for those insults, but I fear he would enjoy it too much." Uhtred spills more ale, holding your neck between his arm and chest, allowing you to heave more insults at him. When he finally lets you go, you glance once more at Sihtric before storming out of the hall altogether.

Gisela tuts at Uhtred, crossing her arms, "I told you that interfering would do nothing. The poor girl is drenched in ale," she exclaims, Uhtred now no longer smiling, pining after his wife as she walked away from him. Ever the patient man, Sihtric simply smiles, undeterred. If anything, your wet hair made him want you even more.

For now, however, he was a little concerned. You had a tendency to believe that you were entirely invincible, which normally he found adorable, but you had walked out of the hall barefoot, and with no furs on. If he did not find you soon, someone less kind would.

After what proved to be a very short search, since you had left all manner of footprints and a trail of the sweetest smell, Sihtric found you. He chuckled to himself, but that quickly stopped when he saw your clothes on the floor, and you in the river, washing your naked body.

He was about to turn around to leave you, but you were quicker. You caught the back of him, calling his name boldly. Part of you didn’t realise what you had just done, seeing as you were fully exposed, your body hidden from Sihtric only thanks to the water. But you felt as though the moments before Uhtred had spoiled your night could be redeemed. You watched the man reluctantly walk over, unable to keep his eyes from your face. You were freezing cold, but welcomed the temperature. It made you feel alive, and encouraged you - although, that might have just been the ale.

“Y/N, you shouldn’t be out here alone. Not like this,” he seemed almost ashamed that he couldn’t look away. You had always noted his polite demeanour, always trailing behind everyone, making sure everything was well. Now, all you could notice was how handsome the man was. How big he was. His hand reached for yours, long fans being, attached to his enormous arms that were oh so unfortunately shielded by his furs. I want him to take those furs off, you thought.

Normally, a scolding from one of the men, Beocca or even Gisela would irk you. You were more than happy to do whatever you pleased on your own, you weren’t so delicate as to need protection wherever you went. But when Sihtric’s stern voice spoke to you, it made you weak at the knees. You quickly realised you’d listen to just about anything he said.

He was so lenient with you. . .so caring and, always there. You were a fool for not asking him about his feelings sooner. You needed to do it now.

“Y/N. . .”

“Sihtric. . .”

You both spoke at the same time, releasing breathy laughs as you stumbled over each other’s words. You wondered what he was going to say, swishing your hand in the water to keep yourself upright. He had kneeled down to your height by now, looking over you in a protective manner, as if shielding you from the real world.

“Y/N, this might be the wrong place to tell you, but I enjoy your company, more than I do anyone else’s,” he began, inhaling deeply before continuing, “and I would like you to be mine, if that is alright with you. I want you to be my lady, and only mine.” He looked you right in the eyes now, eyebrows tilted and mouth slightly open, off his guard entirely as he analysed your face.

You were beaming. The water no longer seemed quite as cold. Instead, you leapt from your position beneath him, leaning against the grass before kissing him. You were a mess, giving in entirely to him and his mouth. His hands instinctively went around your waist, calloused hands against soft flesh. The softest, he thought. He had become somewhat excited, his hands and lips moving faster. You could scarcely keep up as he took more and more from the deep kiss. Your torso was coming out of the water slowly, freezing cold air meeting your bare skin.

When he stopped for a moment, he realised your situation. He could not help his own smirk, realising his luck at the sight of your nakedness before him. Your hair clung to you, wet and dripping, as was the rest of your form (in more ways that one). But he soon snapped back into a sensible mode of thinking, removing his enormous black furs, letting them swamp your shivering body, holding you tightly to him.

“No other man shall see you the way I see you, if that is what you wish, of course,” he shook his head, realising how quickly he was moving. You revelled in the way his strength wrapped around you, taking the moment to watch his almost childish grin.

“I want only you, Sihtric,” you tilted your head back, sharing his happiness, unbothered by your current situation. Some men lingered, but were too drunk to notice the scene before them. “Please,” whispering into his ear now, you looked at him with adoration. Pure love. He reciprocated, scanning you with his eyes hand his hands, unable to shake the sense of pride that you were so small in his furs, and he, in his leathers, his chest burning for you. You just fitted against him so well.

“Come to my room, now,” he dragged you to his chambers, his hand swamping yours as he gripped tightly, walking faster than you had ever seen him walk. When you arrived in his home, you noted the flower crown you had weaved for him and all of the other men, sat on a nearby shelf. Uhtred had feigned disgust when he saw them, but he too kept his close to his chest when he fought. You had meant it as a silly gesture, but seeing that he had kept the fading flowers made your heart swell.

You soon realised your boldness may had landed you in trouble, as you had never been humped before, and by the looks of it - Sihtric knew exactly what he was doing. You had jokingly called Uhtred and Finan whores several times over the years, but never had you considered Sihtric would be right there beside them during their antics.

“Sihtric - I . . . I haven’t,” you started. Looking rather sheepish as the furs exposed your shoulders, falling down your frame. He came up to you, so close in fact that you felt his warmth, his breath fanning on your lips.

His eyes widened, not from shock, however, but more so from challenge. As if he found the whole thing amusing. “I know, Y/N. I will be gentle, if this is all truly what you want, lady.” The words stung with just a tinge of teasing, but you ignored it, as his eyes grazed over your lips and shoulders. His hands were under your chin, admiring you.

Just as quickly as you had decided, the furs were gone, and you stood entirely naked before him, his own form still fully clothed. The power imbalance felt strange, more apparent, but somehow incredibly arousing. He had full control of you, and you loved it.

“You are perfect, my lady.”

You blushed, feeling the best rising above your neck and into your very mind. Sihtric kissed you again, pulling you towards him. One hand travelled all across your body, landing firmly on your ass, and gripping tightly. You had never known someone so sweet to be so . . . commanding.

“Sihtric,” you moaned feeling his hand brush your inner thigh. It was so sensitive, and he hand evens done anything yet. Finally, his rough fingers padded against your clit, your legs spreading just slightly to accommodate him. He trailed his finger up and down slowly, curling ever so slightly, but stopping as your breath hitched in your throat. A quick kiss to your forehead and his fingers were inside, the distraction lasting no time at all. You felt so unbelievably full.

“Fuck,” he whispered, loving the feel of you. You were so warm, so irresistible. Another hand gripped your breast, his forehead resting against yours. Your eyes were screwed shut, unable to hide your small, constant whimpers. His thumb still remained outside, rubbing all of the right places. He was everywhere all at once.

“Fuck, on the bed,” he started, removing his fingers from you quickly, causing you to jolt. He was tender, but seemed altogether impatient. “Please, Y/N.”

You obeyed him, smiling to yourself as you laid on his sheets, touching your breasts, staring at his as the distance between you gave you the safety to tease. He removed his own clothing, admiring you, muttering things like ‘good’ and ‘beautiful’.

You shut your eyes for a moment, and when you reopened them, he was shirtless, his clothes strewn all over his wooden floor. He stalked towards you, a sweet smile mismatching his predatory gaze. You observed all of his scars, some fresh and some old, against his skin. You could truly think of nothing but him.

“Sihtric please, I need you.” You scrambled, wanting to put so many things into words but unable to, wriggling beneath him.

“There is no rush, Y/N. Relax, my pup.” There was the nickname again. You slapped his arm, knowing it would do absolutely nothing. He laughed, climbing to join you on the bed, intense gaze never wavering.

"Are you comfortable?" He asked, both hands on your hips, holding you like you were weightless. His bare chest was addictive, and you practically clawed to get a feel. All you could do in your desperation was nod.

"Tell me, love." this new term suited him well, causing you to whine louder than normal, not wanting to listen to him but doing so all the same. He was just so sweet. Biting his lip, he refused to do anything until you verbalised your thoughts, prolonging your teasing.

"Yes, Sihtric please, Gods," you moaned, begging for more, which he absolutely loved. He was willing to give you everything. Feeling a sense of enormous pride, he couldn't help the confidence that came over him - he was barely doing anything to you and you were a stuttering mess beneath him.

"No, love, the Gods are not here, it's just me," he stroked your throat, pinching your perky nipples, watching as your skin grew redder from the pressure, "you yield to me so sweetly. So well."

As he adjusted your placement underneath him, his arm muscles moved together, as though they were a flowing pattern, working with one another around him. He had been crafted with the most careful hand. You wanted him to devour you.

"I've wanted this for so long," you exclaim, which seems to catch him off guard, despite his role as a skilled warrior. He beams, his eyes shining as he takes another kiss from you, sloppy and rushed, but filled with passion that had been held back for so long. For years.

Before he speaks, he flips you over, onto your stomach, kneading the skin of your ass with one hand and bringing one of your arms behind your back with the other, restraining you somewhat.

"And I too, Y/N. Now that I have you, I will keep you forever. I truly love you," though he promised to be gentle, he slapped your ass, rubbing the soft flesh soon after, causing your frustration to rise.

"Sihtric, I love you too, but if you do not do something soon, I will have to ask another man to hump me," you groaned, knowing it would hit a nerve. You sensed that Sihtric always felt the need to be a good warrior, a great fighter. You wanted him to let loose entirely - to ravage you.

"Then you would have another man sent to an early grave," he came close to your face, pressed into the pillow. He gave you a quick peck to the chest, another slap to your ass, "perhaps filling you up will be the only way to remind you who you belong to."

And with that, he began to push himself inside of you. The pain was instant, his large cock practically tearing you apart, causing you to wince so hard you started to tear up. But this quickly turned into pleasure once he was fully inside, allowing you time to adjust as he stroked your hair a little.

Sihtric was mesmerised by how you took him. You were so unbelievably tight, clenching and squirming, ever the troublesome ward that he knew you as, though to see you give yourself to him in this moment impressed him. He was stripped from his own thoughts, however, when he heard you snivel, concern immediately telling him to check up on you.

"Y/N, my love, are you alright? Is the pain too much?" His concern made you smile, especially as he began stumbling over his own words, back to the Sihtric you knew. He clumsily leaned over to check your face, sighing as he recognised your smile. Though, he surprised himself a little at how much your wet checks turned him on. Your nose had grown red, drying hair all around your face in a tousled mess, your cheeks and eyes glossy. You looked a beautiful mess. Sihtric deemed you his wife then and there.

His aching cock throbbed inside of you, releasing a lengthy moan as he watched you nod and beg for him to start thrusting through the pain, hands barely fitting around his wrist as you grabbed for him.

"You are so needy," he mused unconsciously, beginning a slow rhythm which had you biting the sheets, "you fit so well underneath me. You were made just for me."

"yes, yes, please Sihtric, more." you yearned for his touch even while it was burning into your skin. He towered over you, feeling love and pleasure in excess as he quickened his pace, feeling you all around him, so tight and so eager. This was not how he thought his night would end, with you whimpering beneath him, begging for him and him alone.

You had not expected this either, to crave him so deeply. "More? Y/N, what has become of you?" He asked, taunting you with a chuckle and a pinch to the cheek. You joined him, but your laughter turned into moaning, as he continued with his words, "Anymore and I should have to lock you up, insatiable brat."

You smiled, the sheer size of him brushing up against you and your clit causing you to near the edge. He felt you clenching harder suddenly, basking in the tight muscle around him. You mumbled a pathetic please, and Sihtric almost retorted with something, but your further sniff reminded him to hold back for now. He would save that treatment for another time.

"Come for me, Y/N," was all he needed to say before you were coming for him, his free hand returning to your clit to guide you through the pleasure. You had truly felt nothing like it, understanding now why all those brutes out there cared so much for whoring and claiming their women. If it felt like this, you didn't know how anyone could leave their bedchambers.

Sihtric came not long after you, pumping you full of himself. You felt the liquid drip from out of you, falling down your thigh and onto his bed. He remained inside of you for some time, helping you breathe as the two of you looked at one another. You truly were grateful for Uhtred practically throwing his ale onto you now. Sihtric was too.

BONUS: ⋆ ˚｡⋆୨♡୧⋆ ˚｡⋆

The next morning, Gisela and some of the servants brought out generous amounts of food for the burning heads of the men, smiling as she recalled how she had warned her husband not to take it too far. Osferth expected you any moment now, to sit beside him and ramble about something. When you came in, however, it was beside Sihtric, a slight, almost invisible limp to your walk.

Osferth felt a tinge of disappointment when your nonsense didn't attack his ears. Instead, Sihtric seated himself next to Finan, who smiled slyly at him when you placed yourself on Sihtric's lap. You slapped Finan when he proclaimed that Uhtred now owed him silver. And lots of it.

#sihtric #finan #sihtric smut #sihtric x reader #the last kingdom #sihtric kjartansson #sihtric fanfic #sihtric x you #uhtred ragnarsson #uhtred of bebbanburg #uhtred #finan the agile #osferth

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latenightdaydreams · 1 month

Note

mermaid pt 2?

Yes!

König x Mermaid!Reader Part 2 (fem)

Part 1

MDNI🔞

Master List✍🏽

>cw: fem/afab, blind, oral, p in v, virginity loss

1.0k word count

🧜‍♀️

Early the next morning König left to go to work, leaving you to sleep in. The thought of you alone, naked, in his cabin causes his mind to wander. He can’t seem to focus on the task at hand. All he can think about is getting back to bed to get to know you in a more…intimate way.

You wake up a few hours later in a soft bed snuggled into warm blankets. The feeling of your legs is still new to you as you stretch them and wiggle your toes. Not being able to see, you reach your hands out to look for König, but he is gone.

Both of your feet touch the wooden floor. You stand from the bed, both of your hands out in front of you to guide you. The texture of cold metal meets your hand as you find the door knob. Before you can even turn it, the door opens.

“Where are you going, Liebling?” König says with a cheery voice.

“To find you.”

“Well, you found me.” A light chuckle leaves his lips.

König wraps one hand around your waist, walking you backwards towards the bed again. His eyes trail up and down your still nude body while his cock stiffens in his pants. Gently, you fall back on the bed.

“I can’t have you walking around the ship naked. These men don’t know how to handle themselves around such…a perfect woman.”

The tip of his finger tips caresses the curves of your breasts as they pool on top of your chest. He leaves a trail of electricity as he slowly touches down to your abdomen. The smell of whiskey grows stronger as he leans down to kiss your cheek. You feel the warmth of his breath waft across you face as he moves in to kiss your lips.

König’s lips are thin but soft as he presses them against your lips. One of his hands cup the side of your face, his thumb gently grazing your soft cheek back and forth as he got lost in the kiss. His tongue slips out, gliding along you bottom lip before pressing into your mouth. Your tongues swirl slowly around one another, taking a moment to savor the taste.

He begins to fumble with his clothing, undressing himself quickly. When his lip’s parted from yours, he leaves you craving more. You wish at this moment that you could see him, enjoy the sight of his body.

König gazes down at your beautiful body as he pulls away his thin layer of clothing. You sit up and reach out to caress him, feel him and try to imagine him. Both hands find his chest, feeling the way his muscles tense anywhere you touch him. There are deep lines, scars from his life of hard work. His breath hitches in his throat as he feels your delicate fingers glide down the thick blonde hair on his happy trail.

“That's a good girl…” König whispers as your hand finds his fat heavy cock. “Do you want me?”

“Please.”

König softly pulls your hand away from his penis, gently pushing you back onto the bed so you can lay flat. You hold your breath and try to listen to what he’s doing before you feel his warm breath fan over your soaking wet pussy. His large calloused hands grasp your thighs and pull them back, sending a tingle down your body.

His tongue gently flicks out, at first simply tasting you. A pleased hum leaves him as he wraps his lips around your clit and sucks slightly. A loud moan leaves you, your new legs twitch as a flow of pleasure courses throughout your body.

“König.” You mewl his name pathetically as you feel overwhelmed.

He doesn’t stop, keeping his face buried in your cunt as his tongue explores every inch of your delicious flesh. Your abdomen tenses as his hand travels up, gliding and enjoying how you feel until he reaches your breast. His pointer finger makes small circles around your erect nipple; he can’t get enough of you. The taste of your pussy is sweet and addicting.

König pulls back to see your glistening cunt, his saliva and your arousal smeared on his face as well. You reach down, searching for him before sitting up more to touch his chest. He rubs his hands up and down your arms, kissing you while laying you back down.

“I’m not going anywhere, Liebling. I’m not done with you yet.”

You can feel the heat of his heavy body as he rests himself on you, his cock pressing between your legs as he trails kisses down your neck. Your hands glide down his back, his skin soft for such a rugged man. All you can focus on is the feeling of his hard cock rubbing ever so slightly against your sensitive clit; the feeling of his lips like fire on your neck.

There is a slight burning sensation between your legs as Königs cock slowly slips in. Your virgin untouched human pussy being stretched to a painful degree. A loud cry leaves you, Königs lips quickly press against yours to silence you. He knows it hurts, but you can take it. You’re his now after all.

Königs rocks his hips slowly at first, making sure to press himself all the way into you. Soft little kisses cover your face and neck to try to distract you from the sting of his massive size. Your nails dig into his sides as he pulls out and slams into you.

“You’re doing such a good job.” König whispers to you.

He leans back, creating space between your bodies. Your legs wrapped around his waist as he thrust forward. His fingertips trace down your abdomen causing goosebumps to form all over.

“König…” his name leaves your lips in a soft sigh. The pleasure slowly gets replaced by bursts of ecstasy with each thrust.

The sound of your creamy cunt consumes you as he takes his time to enjoy how tight you feel around him. His eyes focused on how his cock disappears inside of you, leaving a creamy pink mix of your arousal and virgin blood.

In this moment, you feel confident in König falling for you. Without sight, he still ravishes your body. You’ve found heaven, and it’s in the arms of this man. Tabitha watches from the window, unimpressed by the speed of which you’re moving. This was meant to be impossible.

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snowberrycherry · 1 year

Note

PLEASE GIRL, I NEED, LIKE I NEED SO MUCH: innocent Reader Fem! X Ghost! smut+ breeding kink 😭🫶🏻❤️

ghost x innocent fem! reader

warnings: loss of virginity, smut so mdni

a/n yas SRY THIS TOOK FOREVER BABS i hope u like it🐵💋

༯ when you first met he had an internal thought that you were inexperienced. When you became closer you eventually opened told him about the pointless dates and the men who left no impact on you whatsoever his curiosity started. but o when you told him you were a virgin and had little to no experience with any sexual things his interest peaked.

༯ he definitely would talk you through it, saying exactly what he wants to do to your body. he especially likes it when you have to look away from his eye contact from embarrassment and it gets him off so much he’s already lightheaded

༯ he would tell you to open up your mouth and to do your best. as your warm lips wrap around his cock he buries his fingers into your hair and guides your mouth just the way he likes it. ghost loves watching you slowly get the hang of things as your mouth becomes more and more greedy for his dick.

༯ he watches you go from unsure to absolutely cock drunk as you take more and more of him down your throat. the slick sounds echoing throughout the empty barracks. He can sense of just how desperate you are for him to finish in your mouth as he grunts become louder and you bob up and down determined to taste his hot cum .

༯ Ghost would definitely make you ride him especially if it’s your first time knowing you would have the most control over his cock. he bites his lips hard as he watches you sink down on his cock feeling your tight cunt all around him. he waits grabbing onto your hips as you adjust yourself to the new feeling of having him inside of you but he can feel his patience thinning just a bit.

༯ so when you finally start to rock your hips against his, ghosts mind is clouded with nothing but intense pleasure. his gaze his locked where his cock is buried deep in your pussy as he reassures you that you’re making him feel so good as your pace increasingly grows.

༯ as his fucking into you it’s such a spur of the moment when ghost groans out if he could cum inside of you. his proposal was unexpected but the thrill of it made it seem so good which caused him to grip your waist harder and pound into you as hard as he could.

༯ when he can feel the heat blooming in his stomach as he comes nearer to his climax pushing as deep as he can go inside of you. his right hand moves to your tits squeezing and tugging on your nipples as his other hand rubs swiftly at your clit, urging you to cum all over him. right when when he feels you tighten around his cock and let out a small scream that was his breaking point as the knot in his stomach finally let go and he filled your cunt up making a mess of you.

༯ while your both coming down from your high, ghost would pull you against his chest as he caresses your hips, his deep voice reassuring you that you did so good just for him.

#cod smut #cod mw2 #simon ghost riley x you #simon ghost riley #ghost call of duty #simon ghost x reader #simon riley smut #simon riley x you #ghost cod #i forgot how much i love this man #editing this tmr #simon riley #ghost mw2 #ghost x reader #simon riley x reader #cod x reader #cod modern warfare

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spurbleu · 3 months

Text

mouth, reprieves ♛︎

[ken sato x afab reader]

S. Ken Sato is a bitter loser. And you are patient- if not a little giving.

warnings: mdni, blowjob

word count: 2k

࿓༚︎︎‧⁎︎✳︎⁎︎‧︎༚︎࿓︎

A pity bloated between your lungs.

The loss wasn’t significant, only by a point. But you supposed that’s what made it sting - the stain of ‘so close’ and ‘almost’ near wicked in the grooves of the bat hold, or the home plate- plastic patched in rifts of dust and dirt (hard to swallow, all of it). Its grief was visible- slumped shoulders and buckling knees stuck to the grime on their uniforms, the announcer’s voice coming in- static and lame.

“And that is a wrap for the Giants 3rd game of the season. First loss this year- what does it mean for the future?”

It rattled the stadium- the echoing disappointment. It folded in the gaps of the chairs, salting the air in a bitter, frustrated sigh. You were unsure if you wanted to join the chorus or curse it.

The memories seeped through- distinct. The pull of his lips when they met yours. The twitch of his knuckles when he held his liquor. His light heels after his last physical therapy session (when magnified- wings. Stamped on the bone of his ankle- fluttering- impatient). The thrum of his snore, thick with anticipation- and expectations (never met).

Kenji’s first game of the season- a loss.

You didn’t take the frigidity personally. You knew the clouds in his iris, the roll of thunder from the back of his throat and off his tongue, was just an indication he cared. The breakage of his indifference, esteem cracking through its steel walls. He had learned to remove blame from his teammates- but as a result the weight on the breadth of his own shoulders grew immense.

It simmered- his insecurities. Boiling beneath the thin patches of skin where he slid on his knees- tender and spiteful. Drives home were borderline silent, aside from the heavy breath against his philtrum and the shifting of his shirt as you rubbed the tense muscles connecting his shoulders. Sometimes, it felt like talking to a wall- resistant to reassurance- as if the letters in ‘you did just fine’ and ‘I’m proud of you’ were venomous (fearful of the gentleness in cyanide).

But it was how he was. Equally as accepting of praise as he was averse to it. A paradox at home base.

You stood on the balls of your feet, swallowing dry air in timid gulps, watching the entrance to the locker room doors. Other wives and girlfriends- some children- and family members stood there in tense guilt- hands itching to embrace the men in a hug that promise ‘next time’.

Eventually, the belly of the stadium spit the players out, slick in its drooly chagrin.

There was a drop to the regular sharpness of his cheeks, ending at the base of his lips- dry and cracked. His hair stuck to his forehead- wet with outlines from the notches of his helmet- which was tucked under his arm (it looked more like a burden than a prize- its frequent glimmer dimmed by dust). The valley under his eyes a depressing shade of plum- his eyes dimmer yet festering.

But it was his brows that exposed the loss of immunity. Pleats in the center of his face, furrowing so low, that if you weren’t close enough, they would have looked joint with the shadow they caused.

When he found you amongst the hushed comfort, the rigidity in his shoulders collapsed into a softer word, striding towards you like a kid who broke a window (baseball myth, but maybe you’ll let him live in it for now).

“H-“

He curled into in gap of your shoulder and your neck, arms lazily embracing the small of your back and pulling you into his chest. You felt the hairs of his brows sink deeper into your shoulder, his breath fanning on your collar bone.

Your hand came to fill its gaps with the tangle of his hair, palming his temples. This embrace was familiar- not because he lost often, but because you found it somewhere in every day. The mornings during breakfast, pillow talk under plains of insomnia, the after-sex glow. Touch tugged a heart string in you both, and although there was no proof, you swear you could feel his heart slow when it kissed yours.

(He made you a romantic, and even after years the shoe still feels too big)

You pull away, placing a gentle kiss on his lips. He didn’t kiss you back, but you didn’t mind. It was more of a reminder anyway- a way for you to say I’m here.

“Let’s go home.”

▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎

Looking from a doorway in the movies always appears more tranquil than it actually is.

There is nothing peaceful about watching your partner blister under their own defeat. The bounce of his knee, a desperate attempt to relax the tension that mends his muscles to the bone. You, left in your own uncertainty, bit the bumpy flesh behind your bottom lip, legs flinching with the impulse to do.

Comfort, rally, motivate. Your mind searched for a better plan of action in the rise and fall of his shoulders, as he scrutinized the recordings of the game in dim light under a magnifying glass (ants in summer heat).

The body talks. Yours was saying thousands of things at once- none resonating. Dry hands, calloused by hourglass sand and the gruff reality of your own exhaustion, would do nothing but stir him from his own brood then bring him deeper into it. Your mouth would say filtered words with little connotation, leaving you both in a spell that felt purposefully blundering.

Then a spark, somewhere lower than your hips. A blushing growth- spoke in deep tones of arousal and charity.

Alone, your hands and mouth proved useless.

But together…

You pushed yourself off the wide wall, shuffling over in your pajama set loud enough that he could hear you coming. He didn’t move, eyes still trained in silent remorse as he watched his tapes. Your heart dragged on the surface of your ribs- pity.

You came to stand in front of the television, reaching behind you and grabbing the remote before forcing his chin up with your other hand. His jaw rested on your curled fingers, vulnerable. His eyes looked burned at both ends, the wick of his iris without fire, or rebuttal.

You took a seat on his lap, wrapping your arms on his slumped shoulders. A beat, before he caved into you, pulling you into the crook of his hips. You molded into him, taking a moment to turn the television off, dowsing you both in a dark, somnolent ease.

You familiarized yourself with every version of this pose. In his lap, drowse eating at both of your guts, limbs pulling each other closer still. It wasn’t a planned routine- just comfortable. You’d heard the line ‘we were made for each other’ about a dozen times in different movies and books- and although you found it cliché- there was a truth to it.

Good love can be cliché. Done over and over because it feels right. Kenji- his arms and his heart- feel right to you and they always have.

(Again, he makes you a romantic).

“You were amazing today, baby.” You said into his ear. He huffed- but you took his grip on your thighs as encouragement.

You kissed his cheek, then his jaw, and with each purse of your lips you tried to make a point. “You are the best baseball player in the league,” you continued down to his neck, hands coming to rest on his collar bone, “one game doesn’t change that…”

You felt his throat rumble, and it took you a few kisses to realize he had spoken.

“Keep…going.”

Fuck.

It was embarrassing to be aroused when you’re supposed to be comforting someone, but God. The timbres of his voice, their effortless depth and coon, pleading you of all people to do more was enough to make you start riding his thigh.

You reminded yourself that tonight was about his pleasure, and your own would have to be on the back burner.

You slipped your hands under his shirt, cool flesh meeting his hot abdominal, twitching under your nails. You traced the shadows of his muscle, enjoying the mumble that shook his adams apple as you kissed under his jaw.

“You’re talented and everyone knows it,” down the dip between his collarbones, “you’ve carried the team and brought them together…” your hands made your way to his chest, where you could feel his heart beating under the grooves of your palm. Good. You tapped his shoulder from underneath his shirt, and he understood, immediately shedding the shirt and throwing it carelessly into the dark.

You continued down his stomach, sending occasionally glances up. His face was veiled in something rounder now- the earlier layers of woe and its harsh lines drawn by the furrow of his brow replaced by something a little more sanguine. It peaked from behind the whites of his eyes and glowed under the plush of his cheeks in a blooming pink.

You dragged your lips further down, navigating the narrow of his waist, “You’ve got a handsome face to match your wit,” you kissed the band of his sweats, before you curled the digits of your fingers over, peeling it back to reveal the near painful tent spring from the cotton of his boxers, “and…fuck your big…”

You swallowed, massaging the cusp of his cock, feeling as he curved his hips into your palm, a soft moan breaching the clench of his teeth. You looked up at him- beautiful in the light of his own rousing. His throat bobbled; words caught in his tonsils.

You didn’t need him to speak- you knew what they were.

You brought back to his boxers, cock slapping the underside of his stomach. He sucked a breath through his teeth above you- desperation in the discoloration of his bottom lip- bruised. The shroom cap was weeping your name in a pearl of pre-cum, which you massaged with your thumb. You slowly pumped his length in your hands, hand moving in slow, tight swells at the base of it.

You knew it well- you had felt it a dozen times over. The vein that crawled from its root on the right side- thick- spelling your name in morse. The deepened pink as it ran up to his tip, the glans warm in hot colors of desire. The velvet that patched its stiff underside was particularly memorized- molded in the walls of your cunt.

But there would always be that stutter in your breath- your body talking in haphazard beats- a need he fills to the brim. It wasn’t shock, it wasn’t admiration, but you settle for somewhere in between.

“You’re so strong- from your injury, to protecting the city,” if felt somewhat strange- authentic compliments paired with the pumping of his cock, the tip of his jaw and buck of his hips begged your fruition in low moans, “there is no other man like Kenji Sato…”

A gruff groan from the pit of his lungs made your own sex thrum with a familiar density, and you let a soft moan escape your own lips as you slipped them down his cock.

Hypoxia bloomed in the back of your throat- bright purple capturing oxygen. You let your maw clench and reel at the pressure- familiar but desperate for accommodation. Your breath came out in a single syllable against the base of him, nostrils flaring.

He moaned above you, the tremble of his ecstasy rolling down his shoulders and to the bridge of his cock, rattling your tonsils with an unflattering gag. His hands came to hold your hair, grip massaging the back of your scalp with a needy grip.

“Hah…shit…you’re too good to me…”

You bobbed your head in protest, tongue flattening to cup his front. Your fingers worked what your mouth couldn’t, fondling the sensitive bonds of his groin- slick in saliva. He let out a gruff growl, holding your head with a fatal grip- pushing you down to swallow more of him.

You held his thighs for balance you kneeled between them- tears pricking your eyes. You swear you feel him at the ends of your tongue as he rolled his hips into your mouth- hollowed cheeks to take the grit of him- avoiding grazing teeth.

You glanced up at him- met with the bend of his jaw- mouth open as he moaned your name like a mantra. It was so melodic- and for something so lewd it was sweet. Honied in the places that we were taught filthy- buried beneath the stickiness of arousal and sex was something warmer.

You sped up your pace- promising a song from him as you pushed your tongue to the roof of your mouth, tightening the plunge of your throat.

“Ohshit- fucking hell you feel so good baby…so good to me,” His ruts were becoming sloppy, breaking under the weight of his own overstimulation, “I’m gonna cum down that perfect mouth of yours…”

You loved him like this. Goo in your hands, the sharper edges of his jaw and his tongue softened when laid next to you. Saying your name like he’d forget it- hoping it brands into his flesh, maybe his bones. It brought your own weeping hole thrilling pleasure- the puff of your heart rapid.

Lost in rapture- the smaller moments and the forgotten words- somewhere in the craters of your bodies. You’d accepted it- becoming idyllic- eased into a life where love could mean so many things at once and all be right.

As in- the kiss goodnight is just as important as the blowjob after a loss.

You were made ugly- snot drippling down your lips in blunt weeps, tears wetting your lashes in asphyxiation. You were positive the round of your cheeks was rosed- glossed by the precum and spit that wetted your lips as you slipped up and down, tandem rhythm with his hips.

You could feel strands of your hair being ripped from the sensitivity of your scalp- his hands gripping hard enough it felt as though he’s trying to hold your skull. His moans were restless now, a wet and sickening chorus to the hymn of your nose hitting his stomach.

“Shit-shitshitshit oh fuck I’m cu-cummm uhmm…”

It painted the cave of your throat, the cap of your tongue, the roof of your mouth- ruthless. Filled your throat in hues of stress, lost to the compassion of your molars and the crest of your mouth. You could feel the excess ropes peel back the corners of your lips as it bubbled to meet his pelvis, which was still fucking your mouth in a noisy, orgasmic frenzy.

It slid from your fissure with a quiet pop, and you took his wrists, pulling them limply from your head as you stood, sitting back on his lap, softening cock resting behind your ass. You kissed his throat, feeling the shuddering breaths that fogged the air around you, catching his expression- knotted brows and tight nose- compressed in a vague expression of lust- and thanks.

You ran your fingers through his hair- kissing up to his ear, “I meant everything I said, earlier, y'know.”

You felt him nod shakily. “I know…sometimes I just like to hear you say it.”

You snorted- there he was. “Cocky bastard.”

He chucked, pulling you into his chest, smile soft against the indent of your shoulder. “Well, you had it down your throat.”

You pulled back, giving him his first real kiss of the night. Admittedly, it was to shut him up, but when he pulled you closer still, lips molding to yours in the way they always do, you both knew it was because you wanted to.

You pulled away, eyes opening to his face- lips pursed and eyes closed (adorably stupid, stupidly adorable- somewhere between the two) you laughed, pressing a kiss between his brows.

“Okay Mr. Romance let’s get you to bed.”

You began to slide off his waist before he pulled you back down, eyes open and revealing something much more earnest. The harsher edges of his face seemed to smooth over (rock eroded, calmed), and he leaned his head to your chin.

“Thank you.”

You sighed into his hair- deep down you wanted to say he didn’t need to thank you. But he had enough about him tonight.

“You’re welcome- my throat is going to be sore because of you.”

His head came up to meet yours, and you knew he was back when you saw his classic smirk pull at the corners of his lips. “Should I loosen it up again?”

You rolled your eyes, sliding off his waist before grabbing his hand and pulling him up. You wrapped your arms up to base of his shoulder blades and he returned the embrace, body molding to the shape of your front.

The sensitive part of you wanted to stay like this forever- pushing into him- held- safe. If you closed your eyes, you could, and somewhere in your forever you heard,

“I love you.”

#ultraman rising #oneshot #fanfic #kenji sato #ken sato #kenji sato x reader #kenji sato x you #ken sato x reader #ken sato x you #fanfiction #f!reader

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mm-lurking · 3 months

Text

When the rain stops

I got soaked in the rain so I wrote this. Not proofread. Written with Blade, Al-Haitham and Jiyan in my mind but you can imagine your favourites.

Warnings: x fem! reader, angst WC: 817 — Nothing registers in your mind except the icy freezing water that washes over your body in large raindrops. Your fingertips are cold and rock hard from the downpour that has caught you halfway through your journey. The slashes and stab wound you have obtained from your body bleed into your clothes and the ground you stand on.

Everything feels numb in comparison to the rain. You’re trembling as the clothes you wear stick to your body and the harsh breeze that passes by makes it worse. The water has pooled around your feet, soaking through your shoes and no matter how hard you try nothing keeps the aggressive battering of the rain away.

By the time you reach your destination the biting cold gets to you and you find yourself stumbling in your steps. The loss of blood further exacerbates your fragile state. Each movement of your feet feels heavy no matter how hard you push through. The rain blinds you completely and your vision starts to blur.

Your knees give out causing you to go crashing into the gravel path. The metallic smell of blood mixes with the earthy rain assaulting your nose with the strangest odor you have ever encountered. Somehow, alongside the odor, you get a whiff of a familiar masculine scent, one that reminds you of him.

What follows are urgent footsteps and a warm pair of arms that envelop you from the back. Suddenly the rain stops above your head followed by a deep raspy voice you so dearly love to hear.

“You’re hurt.”

He says concerned as he discards his coat and kneels down to your level to wrap it around you. The additional layer of thick fabric greatly shields you from the rain and you can’t help but smile deliriously. Without a word he presses you deeper into his chest as he checks your injuries.

“This stab wound…who did this to you?”

You can sense a tinge of anger in his voice which further makes you smile. Something about him caring for you despite his reserved attitude surprises you. Instead of replying, you weakly cling your fingers on the thin fabric of his chest and lazily nod.

“Doesn’t…doesn’t matter…”

You mumble out and dig your head deeper into his chest. All you can think about is how incredibly warm he is compared to the raging rain that shows no sign of stopping. He wraps his hands tighter around you in response.

Then he immediately scoops you up in his arms making sure to avoid the injured skin before hurriedly walking to a place of retreat to tend to your weakened state. You’re cold and limp against his warm and alive body. Now that the rain no longer storms on you, you feel the pain of your wounds emerging from your throat as you uncomfortably groan.

“Shh…almost there.”

He responds soothingly to your agony. With the little energy you have left, you peek at the man who carries you so lovingly. All you can see is his sharp jawline and the popping of his neck veins as he looks ahead. You observe the rain soaks some of his hair and face, coating him with a glistening glow that makes your heart beat a tad faster.

“It’s alright…you don’t have to…”

He tries to ignore how shallow your breathing is and how your blood seeps into his own clothes. Your body feels more lifeless in his warm hands with each passing second. He notes how your tiny fingers have loosened their grip on his shirt and he tries not to panic at the lack of movement you display.

“Nonsense. We are almost there.”

His fingers almost dig into your skin despite the layers you have on. Even though his voice is unwavering and resolute, the pounding of his heart betrays him. Through the last few threads of consciousness remaining in you, you chuckle.

“You’re wasting your time on me…”

“Stop talking.”

He chides you and you smile. Everything is starting to feel more distant and dreamy as black dots swarm your vision. Your fingers that were holding onto his shirt so desperately drop into your lap and your head falls back. The sudden change prompts him to look at you and he feels blood drain from his face. You’re still like the waters of a lake with a tiny smile. He calls you out but you do not respond.

“Stay with me. Stay with me!”

He says with more urgency as he shakes you but only silence fills the air. There is a flurry of curses that run through his head as he finally reaches his destination and rushes to ask for help. When the rain finally stops and your wounds are observed carefully, all he can do is stare at your pale face in horror as your eyes remain closed and dried blood decorates your skin.

Maybe, just maybe it was too late.

⋇⋆✦⋆⋇ ©mm-lurking 2024 do not copy, steal or reuse my work.

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reyadawn · 3 months

Text

Killing Me Slowly

*image not mine, credit goes to owner*

Summary: Reader has grown up with Noah Sebastian. Been through thick and thin, good days and bad, triumphs and losses, love and heartbreak and the full succession of Bad Omens. During that time, she fell in love with Noah. What comes later will have her experiencing her own bout of heartbreak...but will she survive?

Pairings: Noah Sebastian x reader, Joakim "Jolly" Karlsson x reader (platonic)

Warnings: 🔞+, Language, Kissing, Angst

Word Count: 🤷‍♀️

Side Note: Based off a dream I had last night and needed to get it off my chest so do not come at me for this...! Apologies for this being so long.

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It was cold. The kind of cold that sunk deep into your bones. The chill November air stung my cheeks as I tried and failed to burry myself deeper into my jacket, or should I say Noah's jacket, and scarf. I had lost track of how long I had been walking through the park and I hardly took note of the reddish-brown leaves drifting softly across the grass.

Bzzzz! Bzzzz!

I sighed heavily before stopping to rummage around through the jacket pocket for my phone. I rolled my eyes as Noah's face flashed before me - an image of his Twitch days in cat-ear headphones.

"Hey--", I started to answer but was harshly cut off by Noah's obvious irritated voice.

"Get your fucking ass back home before you get sick. Do you even know what time it is?!", he all but shouted. I rolled my eyes again, glancing at the time on my phone. 9:46 PM.

"You're not my father, Noah, so stop acting like it. I'm fucking grown, in case you haven't noticed", I replied, turning back towards the direction of the house.

"Oh, I've noticed. Just get back here", he said sharply before hanging up.

"Asshat", I mumbled, stuffing my phone back in my pocket.

Upon returning to the house about a quarter after ten, all hell broke loose. I had just finished tossing my keys into the basket on the cradenza and was in the process of hanging my jacket when a set of long, tattooed fingers grabbed my wrist, spinning me around.

"Noah, what-", I started but my words were cut off when I was pushed back against the wall, long muscular arms engulfed in tattoos caging me in.

"You ever leave the house again and not tell anyone, it'll be your ass", Noah hissed, his long hair creating a curtain around his face as his dark eyes glittered angrily. I shoved him off me as hard as I could. By now, the rest of the guys had gathered in the living room to witness the commotion.

"Get off me you overgrown Beowolf!", I yelled back. "You don't own me, Sebastian!".

"The fuck I don't! We all do! You're ours to protect! We can't do that if you don't tell anyone where you're going!", Noah shouted, causing me to flinch. I stared up at him. I could feel his anger and concern but that's not all I wanted to feel. I sighed, my body relaxing from the rigid state it was in. I didn't dare look at the others. Defeated, I simply nodded and walked past Noah, heading towards the stairs.

Once inside the dark confines of my room, I quietly shut and locked the door. I stood in the center of the room, arms wrapped around my middle to seek comfort I wouldn't get. Glancing around, my eyes fell on framed photos of me with the guys over the years. Of course, I had more of Noah and I because we had known each other since grade school. Picture after picture: the beach, hiking, making holiday decorations, gaming, concerts they played in the past to recent. My eyes suddenly fell on a framed one of Noah and I where I stood in front of him and he was crouched over with his head on my shoulder and we were smiling into the camera.

Realization had my knees buckling, sending my body to the floor on all fours. No. It can't be. How did I miss it when I'm the one who feels it? How stupid could I be?

A knock at my door had me scrambling to my feet to unlock it and throw it open. Noah stood there, hand raised in a 'knocking' motion. Before I even had time time to process my own actions, I reached up to grab his face in my hands and pulled his lips down to mine. Noah's body grew stiff before he pulled away from me, hands out in front of him.

I frowned up at him in confusion. Noah stared at me wide eyed before taking a full step back and running his hands through his hair.

"I can't do this...I can't have this with you. It'll ruin everything...I'm sorry", he said softly before turning back down the hallway to his room. Confusion, hurt, disbelief and anger swirled within me. I didn't know it then but Noah was already in love with someone else...

3 Months Later...

Snow blanketed the streets, covered benches and street lamps as it fell sofly from darkened skies. Once again, I was walking late at night but this time I had a tail as I glanced over my shoulder to see Jolly following me in his car.

I turned back around, heading for the park when suddenly Jolly called out to me.

"Wait, karaste", he said, standing on the sidewalk dressed in just jeans and a long sleeved shirt. Always amazed me how he never got cold in the winter here in the U.S. Damn Sweedens. I stopped, studying him momentarily before turning back around again.

"Stop", Jolly said more firmly. I turned to him again. "Please, don't go to the park. Walk somewhere else". I regarded him carefully before it donned on me why he was trying to stop me. Despite the snow, I turned and took off in a run. I could hear Jolly behind me, snow crunching under his boots. The gazeebo was within eyesight. There were two figures sitting on the wooden steps and I halted behind a nearby tree. Noah was one of them. Dressed in a simple black Bad Omens hoodie, black skinny jeans and tennis shoes with one hand in his pocket. His other hand reached for the person sitting next to him. A woman. I couldn't see her face but her hair was a beautiful auburn and was loosely curled. Her small body encased in a hunter green coat, hood lined in faux fur. Her slim legs were encased in black leggings and snow boots. Noah smiled at her befoe pulling a black box from his pocket and opening it.

I brought a hand up over my mouth, my world turning blurry but not before Noah pulled the woman into a heated kiss. The kind of kiss you see in Romantic movies or read about in Romance novels. I couldnt breathe, my body trembling so hard I was afraid I would shatter. My heart sunk into my stomach, finger tips tingling as I sank to the ground. I doubled over, clutching my arms around my stomach as the tears flowed hot down my cheeks.

I wanted to scream; to kick something, punch something. I pressed my nails into my palms behind closed fists, hoping the pain would wake me from this nightmare. No help came. No savior to speak of. I felt as though my chest had been ripped open, heart pulled from my body.

The feeling of arms wrapping themselves around me to haul me to my feet felt distant. Like I was floating. I stared at my feet as they sunk into the snow in step next to Jolly's. Just going through the motions. Half way to Jolly's car, I could hear Noah call my name in the distance behind me. Not daring to look back, I willed my body to run the rest of the way to Jolly's car and threw myself into the front seat. Jolly joined me only seconds later before driving off. Out of the side mirror, I could see Noah stepping into street, hands in his hair before turning to his fiancè.

I leand over the center console to lay my head on Jolly's shoulder, wrapping both arms around his right arm as his hand rested on my thigh to give it a gentle squueze. Sobbs shook my body, the cries that escaped sounding like a gutted animal. I had never experienced this kind of pain. My stomach was in knots, muscles cramping from the force of the gutteral sobbing that I could not control. Go figure, the first man I fall in love with is in love with someone else.

Jolly spoke soft words of comfort in Sweedish, for all the good it did him. Nothing could stop the pain. I finally turned to look up at him through my tears.

"Why Jolly? What did I do wrong? Why wasn't it me? Why am I not good enough for him?", I asked, voice hoarse. I couldn't understand. I had been with Noah all my life. Been through everything with him. All of the up's and down's life brings including the success of Bad Omens and I never left. Never faltered in my loyalty to him or to Jolly, Nick, and Nicholas. Even Matt and Bryan.

I made Jolly drop me off at a hotel instead of the house, much to his disagreement. Giving me his car charger for my phone, I gave him the spare room key, just in case. He pulled me into his arms tightly and my eyes welled up again but I detached myself from him before the tears could fall.

"I'm a big girl, Jolly. I'll be ok. Shower and sleep. I need to clear my head...call my parents", I said trying to reassure him. Jolly scowled.

"In Virginia? No. You can't. You can't leave, karaste", he said firmly, arms crossing in front of his chest.

"I don't belong here anymore, Jolly...I'm not sure I ever did", I replied. "I'll let you know if I leave town".

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Jolly reluctantly returned home, heart weighing heavy. He wanted to help her but didn't know how.

Entering the house he met Noah, his fiancè, Nick and Nicholas in the living room. Noah ran over to him, long hair wild about his shouldsrs.

"Jolly? Where is she?", Noah asked, looking over Jolly's shoulder. Jolly could only shake his head.

"Tell me, now! Where. Is. She?", Noah asked again through clenched teeth.

"I can't tell you, man. Right now, she doesn't want to be found", Jolly replied. Noah carded his fingers through his hair and let out a gutteral scream, fisting the long strands to the point his scalp hurt. His fiancè ran over to console him but he all but shoved her away.

"We'll find her, Noah", Nick said, placing a hand on his friends' shoulder.

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I sat on the floor of the shower, arms wrapped around my legs, head resting on my knees as the hot water pummeled my skin, tears mixing in.

My heart beat in a body that felt numb, cold, unfeeling. Noah and the rest of the guys were my family. Had been for years. They took me in, gave me a home. Made me feel like I mattered. Gave my life meaning. With them...with Noah...I always felt like I belonged. Now I didnt belong anywhere.

The realization that I had nothing left was killing me but it was killing me slowly...

@concreteemo @concreteangel92 @bluestdai @exitwoundsx @english-fucker @amourtoken @alloraiona @lilhobgobbler @bloodylullaby @lolitasangel @lovexsleepyhead @livingdeceasedgirl @darling-millicent-aubrey @doomhands-jr @flowery-mess @thatchickwiththecamera @thefallennightmare

#noah sebastian #bad omens #noah sebastian fanfiction #bad omens cult

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ewanmitchellcrumbs · 1 year

Text

Little Warrior

Pairing: Sigtryggr Ivarsson (The Last Kingdom) x F!Reader Warnings: Canon typical violence and death, kidnapping, slight Stockholm syndrome, attempted sexual assault, sexual tension, coercion, corruption kink, talk of religious beliefs, female masturbation, loss of virginity, smut. Word count: 4.6k

Summary: When Sigtryggr and his men seize Winchester he takes a special interest in one of their captives (I have essentially yeeted Stiorra from the story and adapted the storyline of how her and Sigtryggr become an item to suit my own). Based on this request.

Author's note: No tag list. Please follow @fics-by-ewanmitchellcrumbs and turn on post notifications. Community labels are for cops.

They come in the night. As Winchester sleeps, the Danes descend upon it.

She is woken by the blood curdling shouts and screams of the townspeople, accompanied by the acrid stench of smoke from nearby burning buildings.

Her heart lurches in her chest, panic causing bile to rise in her throat as she acts purely on instinct, scrambling from her bed and out of the house wearing just her nightdress. The only thought in her mind is that she doesn’t want to die trapped in her home as it’s burned to the ground.

Once she is outside, she watches wide eyed with horror at the destruction around her. Buildings are ablaze, people lay dead and dying upon the ground, the thick coppery scent of blood makes her want to vomit.

It’s only when the coolness of the night air begins to chill her skin that she realises just how perilous her situation is - a thin layer of cotton is all that separates her flesh from the horrors around her. She worries about what these Heathens will do to her if they see her in such a state of undress.

She trembles at the thought, dread gnawing at her insides. It’s too risky to go back inside, her only option is to hide. She takes her chances beneath an overturned farmer’s cart, crawling beneath the gap and cowering, waiting for the chaos around her to die down.

Clutching the cross around her neck, she sends up a silent prayer to God to keep her safe. Her destiny is in his hands now.

The aching in her joints for having been crouched for so long is beginning to become unbearable when the noise eventually quietens. She wonders if the Danes have left, if King Edward will return to rescue Winchester or if they have managed to capture it in his absence. Where are the Wessex guard?

She freezes when she hears the sound of approaching boots upon the ground, her heart hammers wildly against her ribcage when they come to a stop in front of the cart she’s hiding under.

“I can see your feet, Christian”, comes the voice of a man. He speaks softly and quietly, and it sends shivers down her spine.

Too paralyzed by fear to do anything, she remains as she is, her breaths coming quick and shallow, a rapidly dying hope in the back of her mind that he might give up and leave her alone. But there is no such luck.

“You will come out,” he commands, “or I will drag you out, the choice is yours.”

She clamps a hand over her mouth to muffle the frightened whimper that escapes her, attempting to force herself further back against the wooden confines of her misguided hiding place.

A large hand appears beneath the cart, reaching towards her before wrapping itself around her ankle.

She shrieks, thrashing against the hold it has on her as she’s dragged out. She lays wide eyed on the cold earth, her breathing erratic, as she looks with terror upon the Dane that towers above her prone form.

His long brown hair is wild and unkempt, half of it pulled back, and a ragged scar runs the length of the left side of his face. He regards her with mild amusement and she becomes aware again of her state of undress.

The thought that he might rape her sends her senses into overdrive, pure adrenaline driving her decision making. She knows she’s in no position to run, her only other option is to fight him, so as he crouches down towards her, she lunges upwards, slapping and scratching at his face and shoulders.

He is quick to overpower her, pulling her to her feet and twisting her arm behind her back.

“A fearsome little warrior, she is,” he chuckles, keeping her arm taut behind her as he gently urges her forward.

He guides her towards the front steps of the King’s estate, where several people are kneeling before a group of Danes. As they draw closer she recognises a few of them; King Edward’s sons and a few of the Wessex guard.

She is certain she’ll be killed. The man presses on her shoulder, urging her to kneel beside the other captives. She takes up her position, the stone step is hard against her knees, and she is all too aware that she is the least valuable of everyone gathered there.

“Send them to where they keep their dead King,” the man says, looking at Edward’s children and then nodding towards the chapel.

“We need to send a message to Edward,” a dark haired, heavily pregnant woman says, as two of the Danish men pick up the boys and carry them off. “We must force him to yield Winchester to us.”

It makes her shudder to think that this woman will be a mother, when she is capable of such atrocities.

“And what do you propose, Brida?” He responds.

Brida regards her with a look that makes her blood run cold. She has never seen anyone look at her as though she is worth less than nothing, her brown eyes are filled with utter contempt. “Send him her head,” she tells him, “it is more shocking to Christians when you are prepared to kill women and children alike.”

She gasps audibly, stricken by terror at the notion that they intend to behead her, until she feels his hand upon her shoulder.

“You will not touch her,” he says cooly, “slaughter the men, but she stays with me.”

“And what will you do with her?” Brida asks, raising an eyebrow.

“That is for me to decide,” he responds dismissively.

He makes a cut throat gesture at the Danes that flank Brida, then nods towards the kneeling guards, before pulling her back to her feet and directing her inside of the King’s estate.

She winces as she hears the sound of blades making thick, wet impact upon flesh, followed by dying screams of agony. Despite her shock and disgust, she cannot help the twinge of relief that lightens the feeling in her chest that that is not what destiny has in store for her, at least not yet.

The room that he brings her to is what she assumes is a study. It is filled with books, maps and writing materials, the space is occupied by a wooden writing desk, a chair and a settee.

As her eyes travel around the room, taking in her surroundings, she’s startled out of her reverie when her gaze settles back upon him. He is standing so close, silently observing her, his expression unreadable.

Once more she is reminded of how little she is wearing, and now that she is alone with him, fear of what he might do to her returns in earnest.

“S-stay back,” she stammers, backing away, eyes scanning the room for something, anything, that she can use as a weapon.

He smirks, unmoving, as he looks her over from head to toe. “Be calm, little warrior. Do you know who I am?”

Her face contorts in confusion. “No…”

He straightens, tilting his head slightly, clasping his arms behind his back. “I am Sigtryggr Ivarsson. I am a Dane. If I wish to hump a woman I do not need to do so by force.”

She softens slightly, fear does not grip her heart quite so icily as before. His name is meaningless to her, but she is relieved that he means her no harm.

Sigtryggr leans in, his breath tickling the shell of her ear. “But make no mistake, little warrior, I will have you, and you will beg me for it.”

She draws back quickly in disgust - not at his words, but at the reaction they elicit from her. The way warmth pools in her lower belly fills her with immense guilt. This man has invaded her home and killed people she knows, people she loves, she should despise him.

Swallowing thickly, unease prickling at her, she elects to change the subject. “What have you come here for?”

“To take what I am owed,” he says simply.

“And what is it you believe you’re owed?”

“Land. Your people drove me from mine,” he explains, anger lacing his tone, “your boy King will give back what he stole, or I shall keep Winchester and send him the heads of his children.”

She inhales shakily, feeling like she wants to cry. “A-and…how do I factor into all of that?”

He softens, shrugging slightly. “You don’t, but I can’t imagine your King will yield quickly, and it is always nice to have company. You are brave, for a Christian.”

“So I am your prisoner?”

“No, little warrior. You are free to leave any time you’d like, and take your chances with Brida.”

The implication is not lost on her. Her freedom is an illusion when the alternative is death. Sigtryggr is her only guarantee for safety.

“Shall we find something else for you to wear?” He asks, raising an eyebrow.

She looks down at the thin material of her shift, seeing how dirty it is from having been crouched beneath the cart, dragged out and then forced to kneel on the steps of the estate. Her cheeks heat up with embarrassment.

“Yes, please,” she whispers.

He nods. “Wait here.”

Sigtryggr leaves her alone in the study, not bothering to lock the door behind him - a sign of his confidence that he knows she won’t try to escape.

He returns a few moments later with a white cotton shift that is similar to the one she is currently wearing, She assumes it belongs to Ælflæd, something he has found within a bedchamber.

“Where is the rest of it?” She asks.

“What do you mean? It’s the same as what you have on, and it’s clean,” he says simply.

“Yes, but this is meant to go under–” she sighs, “nevermind.”

She takes the shift from him and begins to change, noting the way that he turns from her, keeping his eyes fixed on the shelves of books that line the walls of the room. The small mark of respect makes her smile. She had not anticipated such manners from a Heathen.

He pulls a book from the shelf when she is finished, flipping through its pages. “Can you read?”

She nods and he hands the tome to her.

“Read to me.”

“Can you not read?” She asks with a raise of her eyebrow.

“I can,” he says with a smirk, “but where’s the fun in that?”

She sighs, settling into the chair in front of the writing desk, while Sigtryggr sits upon the settee a few feet away, and she reads to him.

Over the next few weeks their days are spent much like this. She reads aloud to him, though none of the books are particularly interesting, mostly religious texts and historical records of Wessex. She’s not convinced that he pays any particular attention to the words, but he seems to enjoy the sound of her voice.

They find a Hnefatafl board and Sigtryggr teaches her how to play. They while away hours strategising ways to remove each other's pieces from the board. He has a sharp mind, is calmer and more analytical than any other Dane she’s ever met. He bests her with his cunning multiple times, until she finally begins to get the hang of it and he begins to lose to her.

“Another game?” She asks. “How many have I won now?”

He shoots her a sideways glance, a faint smile upon his lips. “I am not keeping count.”

She giggles. She is beating him, but he does not seem to mind.

They sleep upon furs and blankets that Sigtryggr has brought down to the study and fashioned into a makeshift bed. Her stomach flutters at laying in such close proximity to him, but true to his word he never touches her. Shame blooms hotly in her chest as each of the days pass and she finds herself yearning for it.

He brings her food, and the hopelessness of the situation looms over her as with every meager meal the bread tastes more stale.

“Read to me, little warrior,” he requests, reclining on the settee, his forearm slung over his forehead.

She grouses, hunger pangs causing her stomach to rumble painfully. “I cannot concentrate,” she whispers.

“What is the matter?” He asks, sitting up to look at her.

“I am hungry. I’m always hungry.”

He nods, stepping towards her and offering her his share of the bread.

She looks from his outstretched hand to his face uncertainly. “What will you eat?”

“I will manage, and you will read to me,” he tells her, as she takes the offering and he settles back down.

She smiles to herself at the gesture, warmth spreading throughout her. So she eats, and she reads to him.

Sigtryggr disappears each day, leaving her alone in the study. She only leaves to bathe and to relieve herself, but she is perfectly happy to stay put and await his return, especially when she is all too aware of the alternative.

Each day when he returns he brings news of the continuing siege. King Edward and the Wessex guard surround the walls of Winchester, but will not attack as his sons are being kept captive in the chapel. They have yet to yield to Sigtryggr’s demands for land.

She fiddles with the cross around her neck, eyeing the Mjölnir that sits around his carefully. “Can there not be a peaceful resolution?”

"It is more difficult to live peacefully with enemies than to fight them,” he tells her.

“But we live peacefully,” she retorts.

“We are not enemies, little warrior.”

The sentiment makes her heart flutter, though there is the lingering question in the back of her mind; what are we?

He leaves her alone again as usual one morning and she busies herself poring over maps to pass the time.

She turns when she hears footsteps, expecting to see Sigtryggr but instead it is a man she does not recognise. He appears Saxon, so she cannot understand why the Danes have allowed him to move around the estate so freely.

The stench of ale upon him as he draws closer is nauseating. His eyes hold malicious intent as he advances towards her, and her blood runs cold at the sight.

She stands, backing away from him. “Whatever you are planning to do, please reconsider,” she pleads, “Sigtryggr will punish you if anything happens to me.”

“I have allied myself with the Danes,” he slurs, “but at what cost? They treat me like a dog, while Sigtryggr coddles you. Tell me, whore, is your cunt really that good? Perhaps I ought to find out for myself.”

She yelps as he lunges for her, grabbing her and pinning her against the desk. Fury flashes through her as she struggles against him, attempting to free herself from his hold.

“Whatever treatment they give you, you have brought upon yourself, traitor,” she spits.

Her head snaps to the side, a sharp sting spreads across her cheek as he strikes her.

She barely has time to adjust her focus before she feels him forcefully being pulled off of her.

“Eardwulf!” Sigtryggr snarls angrily. “Fucking coward!”

His fist makes impact with Eardwulf’s face knocking him to the ground, before he is dragged away.

She curls up on the furs, shaking as tears stream down her cheeks, waiting for her heart rate to calm. What could have happened to her if Sigtryggr had not returned when he did doesn’t bear thinking about.

She is unsure of how much time has passed when he returns.

“Are you alright?”

She turns towards the sound of his voice, gasping when she sees he’s covered in blood. Rushing towards him, she places her hands upon his face. “You are hurt…”

Softly he grasps her wrists, keeping her hands where they are. “This blood is not mine, and Eardwulf will not hurt you ever again.”

Her lips part in shock at the thought that he has killed for her, saved her life twice now. She studies his face, taking in the stormy blue of his eyes, the fullness of his lips.

She allows her gaze to linger there for just a moment too long, embarrassment making her hot, eager to distract herself. She traces a finger over the scar that runs the length of the left side of his face.

“How did this happen?”

“A man tried to take my eye during battle,” he explains softly, “so I took his life.”

“But you were hurt.”

“Injured, yes. Left with a scar, yes. But very much alive.”

“As am I, thanks to you.”

She drops her hands from his face and he steps away from her, pulling off his blood soaked light armour and clothing.

She feels her throat run dry at the sight of his bare torso, all lean, lithe battle hardened muscle, adorned with scars. She longs to trace her fingers over each of them.

Looking away, she feels ashamed for harbouring such thoughts and desperately tries to ignore the throbbing ache in her core.

As night falls and Sigtryggr lays asleep beside her, the feeling that lingers between her legs has yet to subside. It is maddening, robbing her of rest. Every time she closes her eyes the image of him stood bare chested before her enters her mind.

She has never touched herself before, it is impure to do so, yet she needs relief or she is sure she will go mad.

Sparing a glance in the darkness towards Sigtryggr, she makes sure his eyes are closed before reaching a tentative hand between her legs. She lets out a shaky sigh as her fingers make impact against the sensitive flesh.

She is not quite sure what she is supposed to do, but finds that a combination of rubbing the area and bucking softly against her hand feels most pleasurable, so continues to do that, holding her free hand over her mouth to muffle the sounds she makes.

There is a feeling that builds within her, a zenith that she feels she must press towards, so she continues in earnest, until finally she feels something within her release and her entire body shudders, a soft moan stifled against her lips as white hot pleasure rolls through her body.

Laying there afterwards she does her best to calm her breaths, feeling guilty for having done something so depraved.

She is startled by Sigtryggr’s voice beside her. “If only you’d beg, little warrior, I could do that for you.”

Her breath hitches and she quickly turns away from him. Not knowing what to say, she feigns sleep, clutching her cross and praying silently that he’ll forget.

She is grateful when he speaks of it no further, and life goes back to normal, or at least what normal is for them.

That is until a couple of weeks later when Brida storms her way into the study, clearly having grown impatient with the lack of progress being made.

“It has been more than thirty days since we captured Winchester, and your negotiations with the Saxon King are not working, Sigtryggr,” she glowers at him, “the time for talking is over. We are killing more captives.”

She does not miss the way that Brida’s eyes linger upon her as she says this, a shiver of fear causes her skin to break out into gooseflesh.

“I will choose who we execute, not you,” Sigtryggr tells her.

“You cannot protect this Saxon forever,” Brida retorts.

“Oh, but I can,” he says, placing himself protectively between her and Brida. “She is mine, and I will decide what happens to her.”

Brida scoffs, turning and leaving. Sigtryggr follows, leaving her alone to ponder the fact that he has once more saved her life.

When he comes back several hours later, he looks so tired. The expression he wears is one of defeat and she feels her heart ache for him.

“Read to me,” he says softly, sitting heavily upon the settee.

She regards him quietly, she wants to comfort him. She wants to comfort herself. She has grown weary of denying him.

Before she has time to think about what she’s doing, she crosses the room, and places herself upon his lap, her thighs astride his.

“What are you do–”

His words are cut off as she presses her lips to his eagerly, before pulling away. “I’m begging, Sigtryggr, please. I–”

He surges forward, kissing her again, his mouth possessing hers hungrily as he grasps her hips, lifting her as he stands to deposit her onto the makeshift bed upon the floor, his body caging hers in against the furs.

“I knew you’d give in, little warrior,” he whispers against her neck, kissing his way down her throat to her collarbone.

His fingers toy with the hem of the shift she wears, a silent plea for consent in his eyes as he looks at.

She swallows thickly and nods, nervousness and excitement fluttering ceaselessly in her stomach.

He pulls the garment over her head, throwing it to the side before sitting back on his haunches to admire her.

“Gods…you were worth the wait. So beautiful,” he whispers reverently.

She squirms beneath his gaze, turning her head away at the intimacy of the gesture, feeling shy and uncomfortable.

“Look at me,” he tells her softly. His fingers grasp her jaw, turning her face back to him.

Slowly he undresses, until he is as naked as she is. She feels the familiar ache between her thighs as she drinks in the sight of him, chiseled and battle hardened.

“Now we are equal,” he reassures her.

He reaches for the cross around her neck, toying with it between his fingers, before giving a quick, hard tug, causing the cord to give way. “What we are about to do is no business of your nailed god,” he tells her, tossing it to one side.

He kisses her once more, slower this time, their mouths saving the feel of the other’s against it. Trailing featherlight kisses down her body until he reaches her breasts, he wraps his lips around one of their hardened peaks, sucking gently.

The sensation causes her to moan, a pleasurable sensation shooting through her body, pooling into wet warmth between her legs as she arches against him.

Sigtryggr repeats the motion on the opposite breast, before descending further down, leaving wet kisses in his wake.

She freezes up when he grips her thighs, placing them over his shoulders so that his face is level with her most intimate of parts.

“What…what are you doing?” She asks anxiously.

“I’m going to taste you,” he says matter of factly, making pointed eye contact.

“You cannot do that,” she protests weakly, “it is an unclean thing to do.”

He grins at her, shaking his head slightly. “Christian,” the word leaves his mouth as a half hearted insult, before he presses forward.

The first swipe of his tongue against her folds causes her to gasp, her hands burying themselves in his hair as he uses his grip on her thighs to pull her closer, his tongue moving against her firmer, deeper, faster.

A groan of satisfaction rumbles in his throat, the vibrations causing her insides to clench as she bucks against his face, chasing the edge of oblivion that his tongue is pressing her towards.

He sucks at her pearl, before laving his tongue over it and she cries out as she spasms against his mouth, ecstasy numbing all of her senses as he continues to lap at her.

Once she relaxes, he pulls away, sitting back between her legs, his chin slick with her juices. His fist runs over the length of his cock as he takes in her blissful state and her eyes widen as she sees the size of him.

He is thick, long and slightly curved. She has never looked upon anyone’s manhood before and she trembles as she wonders how it will possibly fit inside of her.

Sensing her trepidation, Sigtryggr caresses her cheek with his palm. “Relax, little warrior, I have prepared you well.”

He presses the head of himself against her entrance and she braces herself, but then he stops. Her eyes flit to his questioningly.

“Beg for it,” he whispers.

She whines, wanting to hide her face in furs that they lay upon.

“Beg,” he says again, more insistently.

“Please,” he pushes forward, aided by her arousal and release, “please,” he pushes forward again, more of her swallowing him up, accompanied by the sensation of stretching and the slightest of stings, “please,” he pushes forward once more, finally sheathed fully inside of her.

She realises as he settles on top of her, giving her a moment to get used to the feeling of him, that this was merely a means to distract her so that she wouldn’t focus on the possibility of it hurting and grow tense. She smiles, stroking the wild tresses of his dark hair. Always so cunning.

He withdraws his hips slowly, before carefully pushing forward again. He repeats the motion several times, watching her face carefully.

As her breathing quickens, her brow relaxing as her jaw begins to slacken, he increases his pace, hips snapping against hers faster and faster, their kisses frenzied as they pant into each other’s mouths.

She feels him throb inside of her, the sensation pushes her back towards the precipice she’d fallen over earlier, but before she reaches it he is pulling out, spilling pearlescent ropes of spend across her belly.

He wipes her clean with a blanket, discarding it before laying down beside her and pulling her into his arms. A satisfied ache settles within her, she feels she could fall asleep like this, but his voice lulls her back to full consciousness.

“I have released the King’s sons back to him,” he tells her quietly.

“What will happen now?”

“He is sending a warrior named Uhtred into Winchester to negotiate terms, if I accept those terms then my men and I will move on.”

Her heart sinks. She cannot bear the thought of him leaving, not now she knows what it’s like to be in his arms. “Oh,” is all she is able to muster, pressing tighter to him.

They fall into a quiet doze, until he gently squeezes her shoulder. “I must go and speak with Uhtred.”

She watches sadly, quietly, as he dresses. He leans down to kiss her before he leaves and she pushes her lips eagerly to his. If he is to abandon her then she will cling to every last moment until he does.

When Sigtryggr returns later, she is dressed in her shift again, though her cross remains discarded. She is seated by the window, staring listlessly out of it.

He carries a bundle of clothing in his arms and she looks at him curiously.

“To keep you warm,” he explains, deepening her confusion.

“What do you mean?”

“I have discussed terms with Uhtred and we have reached an agreement. I will leave Winchester, on the condition that you accompany me…not as my prisoner, but as my woman.”

She grins, running into his arms and wrapping her arms around his neck.

As they ride away from Winchester, side by side on horseback, she does not feel as though she is leaving her life behind. On the contrary, it has just begun.

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ddarker-dreams · 1 year

Text

Nexus III.

Yandere Blade x F Reader.

Warnings: Explicit not SFW, mommy issues galore, some psychological horror elements, yandere themes, and unhealthy relationships. Word count: 15.6k.

Nexus index.

When you dream of your mother, it’s in a lotus field.

Everyone’s psyche manifests itself in a distinct way, echoes the teachings she left behind. This is yours.

The bioluminescent petals cower inward as if hiding a terrible secret. Some bloom along the hazy ground, others swing in the air, suspended by strings hung from a glass dome overhead.

In this dream, you cannot speak, though you have much to say.

Gentle as you may be, each step you take to close the gap between you and her demands a sacrifice. The flower’s vibrancy drains like color from a dying man’s face. From the stem upward, it decays. To try and save it is to kill it faster. Brittle fragments crumble into ashen piles that scratch at your bare feet.

Her back remains facing you.

You have no way of earning her attention. She is blind to the frantic waving of your arms, deaf to the eroding necropolis you leave in your wake.

You’re certain you’ll never reach her. Still, you try, only to fail all the same.

With each passing dream, a crack along your glass dome spreads. It started too small to see and is now too large to fix. Is it best to let it shatter? Could it be the silent warden that cordons you off from a universe you know yet have never experienced?

Or is it the final bastion that shields you?

A devastating attack on the Thelx’s main guide causes cataphoric damage to the quadrant’s sixth residential district. The aftershocks resulted in the collapse of multiple buildings, resulting in injuries for hundreds and a rising death toll that currently stands at 34. Local residents have filed complaints for years now, listing concerns that the most recent building inspections have not resulted in appropriate measures taking place.

“We all knew something bad was bound to happen,” said one woman who happened to be visiting family in Ade during the incident. “We knew, but where else are we supposed to go? Our choices were to stay put and take our chances or try surviving in Arc. No one wanted that. But now…. seeing this… maybe Arc would’ve been better.”

An investigation into the matter is being spearheaded by Chrysus, Ade’s Exalted Regent.

We reached out to Chrysus’ team for a statement and have yet to receive a response.

Rumors are swirling online that the attack was targeted at Thelx’s Exalted Arbiter, [First] Phaeales, the single daughter of the deceased Ania Phaeales. A spokesperson for Thelx’s fledgling matriarch has confirmed her safety, though she received minor injuries. Thelx is expected to endure further economic hardship due to the IPC’s recent travel ban. The LOTUS-EATER and similar establishments constitute up to 43% of Thelx’s total gross domestic product—

“It’s rude to read when you have a guest over,” Nona chides.

“Sorry.”

You turn your phone off and place it beside the other ornaments atop your vanity. Makeup, jewelry, hair ornaments, and one of the only gifts your mother ever gave; a lotus made of iridescent crystals. It’s sat untouched for years and you assume it will continue to do so.

Nona, who has helped herself to lying on your bed, rolls over onto her stomach. Both her cheeks squish together as she holds her head up by tiny fists, her elbows digging into your comforter for support. She draws her lips into a thin line. There’s a hollowness to her gaze that rivals the mask she wore when you first met.

“Why do you care so much?”

Her inquiry leaves you temporarily at a loss for words. “... What?”

“About people you haven’t met,” she clarifies. “Whose names you don’t even know. To them, you’re nothing but a glorified mascot to blame when things go bad and praise when things go right.”

Your mouth is too dry for you to swallow. “Each life in Thelx has been entrusted to me.”

“So? Did everyone come up to you one by one and ask for your stewardship?”

“Of course not, don’t be unreasonable.”

“I’m the one being unreasonable?” Nona barks a caustic laugh. “Have you seen what these people have been saying? ‘Let’s pack up the family and move to Arc!’, as if any of them could survive there for more than the instant their foot crosses over the divide. It’s hilarious! The funniest joke I’ve heard in some time.”

Your eyes narrow. “That’s enough. The community is understandably hurt. Frightened. When tragedies happen, we each have our ways of making sense of things.”

She pushes herself up and sits crisscross. “I’m just saying I’d like to see them try. Me… I would’ve given anything to have been born here. An organ, a limb, whatever. At least I’d be hobbling around where there’s light and warmth.”

“Nona…”

“They don’t know. They have no idea,” Nona trembles. “People make Arc out to be something it isn’t. ‘Look at how free they are, they can live as they please, answering to no one but themselves!’ Funnily enough, the IPC said the same thing when they built Perianth, didn’t they? Got the whole universe feeling warm and fuzzy. The poor, the wretched, the damned; they’re hideous up close, so let’s tuck them far away from the light. Then we don’t have to see them.”

She hangs her head. “Experiencing rejection from the rejected… that’s what they can look forward to in Arc. Anything else is a pipe dream.”

You get up from your chair and sit down next to her on the bed. Finding a blanket, you toss it over your shoulder, extra prudent to avoid any accidental contact. Glassy amber eyes blink slowly as you pat the cushioned spot. She starts leaning in, only to pause a few inches shy of her intended target. You don’t need to be in her head to guess what reel she’s flicking through. When the feature film’s end credits roll, she rests her head on your shoulder.

“Lear’s worried about you, y’know.”

“I know.”

“Loopy would be too, if it were sentient.”

“It’s possible.”

“...”

She whispers your name, hesitant, as if she were a child preparing to ask their parents for a gift they know they can’t have.

“If I could, I’d wish that all the stars in the universe would burn so bright, so hot, that each person would melt away like ice until only us three remain. The poor, wretched, and damned. Our happiness would be unrivaled if there were no one else to compare ourselves to. You don’t know misery if no one ever tells you you’re miserable.”

Or maybe you invent new miseries for yourself, you think. Then, with no one to compare yourself to… would you not be the most miserable person in the universe?

You could voice your musings but to verbalize them now feels wrong. Instead, you choose to let her live the wish that will never come true. In this pocket dimension, beyond the four walls of your room, nothing exists. No Thelx, Perianth II, Stellaron Hunter or IPC. There are only two jagged shards who have abandoned being whole again. You might not click together like puzzle pieces, perfectly falling into place to form a seamless image, but you can look at the pane you broke free from and decide for yourself if the result was worth it.

Choosing between two evils is better than being stuck with one.

“Nona,” you break the silence. If there’s anything you’ve been doing too much of lately, it’s dwelling on factors beyond your control.

“Hm?”

“That flower bouquet,” you nod toward the magenta-colored roses on your vanity, which she brought in earlier. “There was a message attached to it, wasn’t there?”

She stiffens.

“... Possibly.”

You knew a ‘gift’ from Miss 10.899 billion wouldn’t come without some poisonous flourish. The roses don’t have thorns, so the sharpness must lay elsewhere.

“What did it say?”

“You really want to know?”

“I’m asking, aren’t I?”

She deflates like a balloon pricked by a needle, then mumbles, “The tag said ‘Get well soon.’”

Ah, you think. If I could have anyone melt away… she’d certainly be high on the list.

You haven’t spoken one word to Blade since he carried your unconscious body back to the LOTUS-EATER.

Regardless, he’s still around. He isn’t some option in your settings you can turn off with a single button press. He hasn’t initiated contact while you healed from your injuries, which consisted of a sprained ankle, two broken ribs, and minor abrasions peppered throughout. Your high position ensured you’d receive the best medical care Eris has to offer.

Fourteen total cycles have passed since the Thelx nectar guide bombing.

Fourteen dreary cycles filled with nothing but eating bland food, taking bitter medication, and dreaming the same gloomy dream.

During this festive stretch, Nona has been your primary visitor. Lear restricted himself to electronic communication, fearing the emotional reaction he’d experience from seeing you in this state might harm you. They’ve both taken to distracting you in their own fashion. Nona shows you pictures, such as the googly eyes she put on Loopy, or discusses the strangest psyches she’s seen from clients. One client’s mind manifested itself as a drumstick.

“Not even a pair, just one,” she giggled. “Hey, don’t start lecturing me about our privacy policy. I see you fighting back a smile. That absolves me from breaking my NDA.”

Then there’s Lear who laser focuses on your health. At least 80% of his texts follow the ‘Have you x’ format. Stretched, taken medicine, slept, eaten; you half expect him to start asking if you’ve breathed enough.

The timer you’ve set for your tea goes off.

You pull the teabag out, dispose of it, and then stir the ruby-colored concoction. Golden flecks swirl in a violent vortex. Content, you throw on a diaphanous, cape-like outer garment over your loungewear. The fabric is deceptively delicate to the eye yet has been synthesized to preserve heat.

The components that open your bedroom door at your behest emit a low hum. The lack of use must’ve spoiled them. This is the first time you’ve emerged from your hibernation. The light system in your office whirs to life upon your return. You wave off the visual assault. Your eyes have become so accustomed to the dark that you’ll need to build your light tolerance back up.

After inputting the proper passcode, you pass through to the balcony.

And then immediately regret it when Blade’s back is the first thing that greets you.

He’s in a meditative stance. The gales of loud emotion that normally engulf him have quieted down to a hush. From this position, you can see how his long ebony strands cascade down his back, the tips taken on a reddish hue. A pearlescent sheen shimmers along the outline of his body, the moon’s personal gift. When one thinks of a stereotypical warrior, certain biases culminate in the rough image of some brute, like a brigand from a child’s fairytale.

However, seeing him like this, exuding poise and temperance, you think he fits the role of prince.

You take a step back.

“You can stay,” his voice slashes through your entangled thoughts, “I’ll go inside.”

A beast slithers in the calm waters as soon as he stops his meditation. It isn’t voracious or on the hunt. No, you get the distinct feeling it finds pleasure in lurking just below the surface, not creating so much as a ripple to deter its prey. Waiting and waiting. By the time some poor soul enters and realizes they aren’t alone, it’s too late. Multiple rows of pointed teeth have already pierced their flesh.

You block his path with your body, an act that’s equally confounding to him as it is to you.

“I wanted to talk to you,” you say. Your boldness fizzles out beneath the weight of his stare. “If… that’s alright.”

He considers you briefly. You expect him to walk away without sparing you another glance, but it must be his turn to foster confusion. He turns around and sits on the chair to the left, as he did when you first became acquainted. After what feels like a delay in your neurons providing information to your brain, you sit beside him. It occurs to you that your little balcony is in excellent shape even though you haven’t been able to maintain it.

You look at him from the corner of your eye.

Has he been keeping this area clean?

Oddly enough, it’s Blade who prompts further conversation. “How are your injuries?”

“My ankle’s fully recovered and my ribs only hurt if I move too much. I’ve got nothing to complain about.”

You take a sip of your concoction. A sweet, herbal flavor dances on your tongue with a hint of spice. These tea leaves are one of the few that can grow on Eris in an artificial environment. You added a spoonful of the Nectary’s tonic to complement the taste. It’s a drink popularly referred to as ambrosia.

“How about you? Have you healed— oh, um.” You raise your hand to cover your traitorous mouth. It can prevent more words from coming out, but it can’t take back what’s already been said.

“I have, unfortunately.”

“‘Unfortunately?’” You repeat back, though the sound is muffled. You wince. So much for putting an end to your bluntness.

“You’re acting reserved,” he dryly notes. “Is this the same woman who takes every chance to tell me off?”

“Hey, I don’t take every chance to—” You throw your head back in exasperation upon seeing the beginning of a self-satisfied smirk. “... I shouldn’t… have behaved as… candidly as I did. It’s unprofessional.”

“‘That part,’ huh,” Blade mutters. “You don’t have to section off parts of yourself, you choose to.”

The tea’s aftertaste turns bitter.

To be whole is a privilege Blade doesn’t have, you think. If he allowed that, then… would he really be ‘Blade’ anymore?

You stare down at the distorted reflection the tea provides, ripples distorting your likeness before you can confirm his claim. Your hands must be trembling.

“I advised against it for a reason. My mind is unsightly.”

“It isn’t that!” you turn your head toward him, catching how he furrows his eyebrows at your outburst of emotion, “What I did… it wasn’t right. I took advantage of your vulnerable state and tried to manipulate you. Control you. A violation like that… it’s unforgivable.”

Anytime a situation threatens to spiral beyond your control, you resort to what you supposedly swore off.

I’ll only do it this once, the circumstances call for it, you’d tell yourself. No more after that. I mean this time, I really do. It won’t happen again.

Until it does.

Alister with his weapon. Blade after he saved your life. Lear when the loneliness felt excruciating.

Your chest feels like it’s hosting a colony of crawling maggots ready to burst through your flesh. It hurts, this slimy, despicable filth that you scrub raw only to dirty again. Not trusting yourself with the fragile teacup, you set it down.

“So that’s what you consider a sin,” Blade says. “You oppose incarceration and yet you're a prisoner to your own guilt.”

“That’s different.”

“Even so, one is far worse than the other. I should know; I’ve experienced both. If I could choose between a physical prison or my mind, I’d pick the former.”

You recall the gargantuan structure that is Blade’s repressed psyche. The oppressive atmosphere, how it stood alone, far removed from anything resembling hope.

If it’s of Xianzhou build, it must be none other than the Shackling Prison.

“The injuries you received when protecting me,” You work through each word slowly, as if testing their validity. “They should’ve killed you. But instead… you ‘defied the natural order’ — death itself.”

Blade doesn’t move his gaze from the four moons in the sky.

The Xianzhou Alliance’s intolerance for those who follow the Aeon of Abundance, Yaoshi, is infamous throughout the universe. What the followers consider blessings, they reject as curses. For the Xianzhou, it’s personal. The ink the Aeon has left behind hardly has time to dry before more transgressions are added to the ledger.

Those who live on Eris, yourself included, most commonly follow the Noct, the Aeon of The Ideal. Noct is thought to be the one who blessed this planet with the Nectary. Without it, the first generation of prisoners left to fend for themselves by the IPC would have perished. Your Aeon is in what the Genius Society calls ‘an indefinite hibernation’, not interacting with the material world yet not fully removed from it either. Some revere their Aeon enough to die for them, others despise them enough to dedicate everything to their destruction; neither side makes sense.

To you, the Aeons feel almost as distant as the stars.

“Can it really be considered a sin if it’s beyond your control?”

“It won’t always be,” he replies. “Until then, I can’t allow myself to forget. You must get why.”

You wish you didn’t.

A few moments pass. They flow into each other smoothly, lacking acidity. You resume drinking your tea. It’s lukewarm, but you don’t mind.

“You truly aren’t afraid of me,” you remark.

“What’s there to be afraid of?”

The deep bass of his voice temporarily adjusts to allow bemusement. It takes you a moment to realize he isn’t mocking you, it’s more teasing than anything. The reminder does serve you well. Physically, the gap in your strength is insurmountable. He could snuff out your life before you realized your appointment with death had been expedited.

“Most people are put off by my company in a casual setting. Being around someone who could peer into your mind, past all the pretenses we work so diligently to build… it’s frightening. Unnatural, even.”

He focuses on the abyssal horizon. It’s as if your Aeon swaddled this planet in a pitch-black blanket with the four moons acting as a nursery mobile. You can reach up to grasp them as much as you’d like, but the cosmic entities will never be yours. It is you who belongs to them.

“My mind has a will of its own,” Blade tells you. “It’s loud. Something about you quiets it down.”

You blink. “Really?”

He stares at you blankly instead of repeating himself. You take it that’s his way of communicating he has no reason to be dishonest.

“This affliction you’re suffering from… it’s called mara, correct?”

The instant the word leaves your lips, his demeanor shifts. It’s subtle, the tightening of his muscles and his frown deepening, yet the physical signs aren’t what tip you off. The pervasive air shrouding the beast inside his psyche is twitching. It longs to permanently rid Blade of control and loathes each rejection it’s endured.

“I think I saw it. From what I’ve heard, I thought it’d be more self-destructive. Yours, though… how do I put it… it’s vicious, but it’s like a muzzle has been forced on it. I assume Kafka had something to do with that?”

He doesn’t deny your conjecture.

“Hmph, figures it’d be her handiwork. She can poke around in people’s heads, but her techniques are more effective in the short term. It lacks staying power,” you cross your arms. “I wonder why my presence deters your mara.”

“It’s never functioned normally. I’ve long abandoned trying to make sense of it.”

“I can’t accept that,” you huff. “You’ve saved my life twice now. There has to be something useful to be gleaned from this, even if it isn’t a complete cure.”

The groundwork has been laid out. You were able to scrape together enough to give his psyche form, an act that’s no small feat, since he didn’t go through the typical interview process. Initiating physical contact with him was a risk, but you’ve yet to notice any consequences.

While considering the best methods, an epiphany sinks its claws into you.

You bite your lower lip. “I’m— um. Getting ahead of myself. After what happened, I understand if you don’t want me in your head.”

The terms of atonement crafted by your own hands can’t be sufficient penance.

“Multiple influences have fought for control of my mind,” he reveals. Your breath catches in your tightening throat. This isn’t a wound you’ve inflicted, it’s a wound you’ve reopened. Mara’s madness, Kafka’s adjustments; how much tampering has he been subjected to? There have been foreign elements inserted and his original self shifted around, if not removed entirely. His psyche is strung together like fraying patchwork.

You don’t know what to do. Should you apologize again? Leave him be? Form some sort of arrangement where he doesn’t have to interact with you directly?

These frantic thoughts halt when you examine his profile.

Blade isn’t stewing in animosity or grief. He’s simply sitting there, living in the present. Swarming torments don’t caw and peck at him. He isn’t smiling, but his facial features express contentment, the way a laborer would after a toiling day. Flowing with the current instead of struggling against the tide.

“Out of all of them, though,”

The brilliant luster of his eyes takes you hostage.

“Yours… wasn’t so bad.”

Unknown

You’re there, aren’t you?

Unknown

Don’t be shy and ignore my messages.

Unlike some people, I’m busy

Unknown

I assure you I’m busy with various preparations too.

Unknown

Never too busy to check in on my favorite Arbiter though. ♡

Unknown

Did you like the roses?

I would’ve liked them more if they weren’t from you

Unknown

💔

Unknown

So, it’d be different if they were from someone else? Hm… I might get jealous if that’s the case.

It wouldn’t make much of a difference, anyway They’ve already wilted

Unknown

That’s a shame

Unknown

I suppose what I find beautiful doesn’t suit Eris’ climate very well

Unknown

I know you’re not going to respond anymore, so I’ll stop pestering you for now

Unknown

Take good care of yourself, little Miss Arbiter ♡

It’s become a tradition for Lear to join your and Nona’s training sessions. She’s in her highest spirits when the three of you are under the same roof, even if you’re all doing different things. Presently, Lear is replacing Loopy’s hardware with an older operating system. The latest update downloaded automatically and fixed the bug that caused your favorite robot’s premier quality. Having a robot named Loopy who no longer loops is inconceivable.

Since the LOTUS-EATER is closed for the foreseeable future, you accepted Nona’s idea to have her training on the first floor rather than the second. According to her, The Lounge has ‘distracting’ vibes, so you hoped a change in scenery might recenter her.

However, you’re beginning to seriously question your judgment.

“Lear, can I please have a drink?”

“Lear, don’t pay her any mind. She needs to be sober during her training.”

“Sobriety is a concept invented by the prohibitionists!”

Lear’s attention darts between you, standing imposingly with your arms crossed, then to Nona, who mimes what she must think to be a sympathetic countenance.

“Um…” he trails off. Unable to withstand the immovable object and unstoppable force, he retreats to the motherboard he’s been working on. “I’m technically not on the clock, so I shouldn’t handle merchandise that doesn’t belong to me.”

Nona wads up a piece of paper and throws it at him.

It misses.

By a lot.

“Stop pestering Lear and take your assignment seriously,” you frown. Then you realize what paper she used as ammunition. “Hold on… don’t tell me you just crumpled up and threw correspondence from Chrysus.”

She shrugs. “That discount hound probably didn’t have anything worthwhile to say, anyway.”

“Is Eris’ future not ‘worthwhile?’”

“Not if we hop on a spaceship and never look back.”

Lear sets his tools aside, unfurls the letter, then returns it to you. Nona sticks her tongue out at him and he flips her off.

… Maybe you need a drink.

“Hey, Stellaron Hunter,” Nona waves her arms wildly. “You must have a ship, right? How about it? Got room for three more? It wouldn’t even disrupt the arrangement. You can keep watch over [First] to your heart’s content.”

The ‘Stellaron Hunter’ in question has stationed himself on a barstool, where he blatantly ignores Nona’s request. He had been standing against a far wall as you’ve learned he’s apt to do, but this made you feel bad. After some needling, he caved and sat down at your behest. It’s been a little over a week since your conversation on the balcony. Your free time since then has been sparse. An injury doesn’t make your work disappear, it just causes it to pile up higher.

In light of what Chrysus deems a terrorist attack, you are to have a hearing with him and Caicias. Blade staunchly refused any request for you to meet them in person. For once, you agreed with the strict measures. The nectar guide has been repaired, but the mere chance that more people could be injured at another attempt on your life is unacceptable. After some bureaucratic back and forth, it was agreed upon that the risk of a cyberattack would be the lesser of two evils.

Chrysus insisted on handwritten correspondence delivered through trustworthy sources until the hearing. The message Nona flung consisted of him tiptoeing around every serious query you’ve brought to his attention. Your most burning question concerns the residential district’s building inspections. More specifically, how the dire reports never made their way to you.

Initially, you thought it may have fallen through the cracks. Your mother’s sudden death two years prior plunged Thelx into chaos. She wasn’t expected to retire for another fifty years. As such, you were woefully underprepared for the mantle forced onto you. She hadn’t even told you the passcode to unlock the LOTUS-EATER’s front doors. Data restoration from some old hardware she never disposed of provided enough login information for you to keep things rolling. That theory crumbled when you recalled that in 2150 AE, building permits and inspections were made to be public records.

Upon checking, from 2150 AE to the present, everything has supposedly been up to code.

The employee who signed off on the inspections is under an Ade company, which falls outside your jurisdiction.

You wrote to Chrysus detailing your concerns. His response can best be summarized as him telling you that he’ll handle it.

That did little to put your doubts to rest.

“I’m telling you, this is impossible,” Nona grumbles. “Can you reset it?”

“I’ve already reset it four times.”

“Well, you know, fifth time’s the charm.”

You’ve lost track of how many times you’ve sighed throughout this training.

“Let’s not give up so soon, okay? Which part do you feel is impossible?”

You sit down beside her to get a better look. The blue, holographic screen fills you with nostalgia. This program was developed by a retired Arbiter to aid in their training. Essentially, it generates a ‘person’ with traits indistinguishable from their flesh and blood counterparts. Physiology, disposition, every experience they’ll go through from birth to death; it misses no detail.

The trainees are supposed to go through the steps as if they were interacting with a client. They must establish a link by piecing together the simulated psyche, giving it an interactable form.

Nona’s a rare case. Most Arbiters struggle with establishing and maintaining Synalinks, an area she excels at. It’s the first step that presents an issue. She has a difficult time establishing links. It’s a foundational part of the process that can’t be haphazard.

“He’s so whiny. He’s a bigshot vocalist, traveling around the galaxy to sold-out shows, and he still complains that no one will ever ‘understand’ him or his art when even he doesn’t get it! He’s just coming up with fake deep lyrics.”

“Did you look at the childhood fragments? For insecurity, that’s a good place to start.”

“Oh, don’t get me started on that,” she grimaces as if she bit into something sour. “He came from old money. Opera star for a mom and a successful businessman for a dad. He wanted for nothing. But no, apparently he still needs to change his profile picture to black and the about section to ‘gone’ whenever he wants attention.”

You pull up a critical childhood fragment. “Here you can see his father leaving a recital early to take a phone call. Then, after the performance, his mother is quick to point out the areas he needs to work on.”

“So? He was screwing around on his phone during his singing lessons, what did he expect?”

“Consider what happens when his tutor leaves. His face falls and he’s fighting back tears. He’s acting out to get the attention his parents don’t give him. The tutor is older and in a position of power, which makes him a perfect surrogate.”

“That happened when he was six, though. He’s had decades to get over it.”

“Even if that were true, it wouldn’t make a difference. A person’s experiences are real to them. Say I think there’s a hidden compartment in my bedroom due to the wall making a peculiar noise. I have lived my entire life believing this. If you saw that fragment while trying to piece my psyche together, then dispute it because you know there’s no hidden compartment, there’d be disunity. Every belief, no matter how small, connects in a complex web. Why did I make that inference? Did I read it in a book? Did my mother scare me into following curfew by saying a secret monster hiding there would get me if I stayed up too late? The mind is a fragile thing and we must treat it as such.”

Nona puts her hands up. “Alright, alright, geez. Make sense of the events through their lens, not mine. Got it.”

Unexpectedly, it’s Lear who speaks up next.

“What would happen if those fragments were altered?”

You place a hand on your chin. “It’d depend on the fragment’s importance. In the example I gave, it’d cause friction in maintaining a link, but it wouldn’t fundamentally change everything I’ve ever known. As for a fragment more significant, well… I’m not sure.”

“You aren’t?”

“Without credible data to pull from, I’d only be speculating.”

A frigid draft whirrs through. You shiver.

“You’re better at this than I am, Lear. Wanna switch places?” Nona asks.

Lear stands up, his palm covering his mouth. It’s as if the vitality has been drained from his face. He transitions through multiple expressions, each more agonized than the last. Your heart twists violently against your ribcage. You want to call out to him, comfort him, but there’s no combination of words that’d douse the raging fire.

Is it happening again? You think. No… this has to be the worst one yet!

It’s before you again.

A simple stage in a modest auditorium.

There are no performers or stagehands. The lights in the theater are dim, the chairs are folded up. Pamphlets clutter the ground in disorganized heaps. Looking up, you realize they’re falling from the rafters like rain. One lands by your feet. You pick it up, squinting to make sense of the words. It’s a playbill advertising a show titled The Idiot.

Directed by

ANIA PHAEALES

THE CAST

(In order of appearance)

The Servant…………………………………………………………………………..UNNAMED

The Fool…………………………………………………………………..…………..UNNAMED

The Coward…………………………………………………………………………...UNNAMED

On and on the list goes, ascribing every unflattering role to an unknown party.

Mother’s name is here? Why? Was she that influential over Lear?

Spotlights flick on. Hot streams of light illuminate you in a blinding assault, which you try to block with your hands. The light’s intensity overpowers your meager attempts. A spectral crowd cheers, rousing applause and whistles emanating from empty chairs. Champagne glasses clink, men guffaw deep from their diaphragms, and women shriek like banshees.

It gets hotter and louder, again, then once more; suffocating you in a cacophony of sensory stimuli.

The audience makes passing comments.

“... A shame, it couldn’t work out…”

“Though what did they expect, truly…”

“... Know how it is…”

The finale rings crystal clear.

“Some people born will die never knowing love.”

A wet, metallic-smelling substance drips from your nose. The softness of a rag replaces this feeling. It remains there, tickling your senses. There’s that floral scent again — subtle and pleasant. The flower it’s derived from may be toxic, but the strands of vermillion that curl outward like spider legs look so inviting. The petals are streams of blood frozen by time. Every time they wither, they’re forced to bloom again, perpetuating a cycle from which there’s no escape.

You’ve seen sunsets in pictures. There are two of them glaring down at you now, circular, as if viewed through a looking glass.

“How pretty,” your words blur together. “‘ve always to see… a sunset…”

You never will, though. Eris is far, far away from any brilliant stars. The aloof night sky will be your lullaby and your dirge.

Sluggishly, you sit up. You’re on one of the nice leather couches in The Club. A headache thumps in your head like a landlord who raps against the door of a tenant late with rent. You’re about to stand when an authoritative voice stops you.

“Stay still.”

You open your mouth to protest. Blade must know your demeanor when you intend to be petulant, for he cuts you off.

“That wasn’t a request.”

You murmur something incomprehensible and melt back into the cushion. Regardless of your obedience, Blade stands close, as if you’re planning to bolt, trip on an uneven floor panel, then hit your head and die instantly. Glancing around, you note no one else is here.

He follows your eyes and accurately surmises your intentions. “The quiet one ran out and the noisy one ran after him.”

Any other time, that deadpan delivery mixed with his personal interpretation of Lear and Nona would’ve made you laugh. Presently, though, you’re fighting off a headache that outclasses every other that’s come before it. Top of the class and then some. It helps to know that Lear won’t be alone. Why exactly he experienced such an intense emotional eruption is a mystery to you. Then there’s the chaotic state of his psyche to consider; if you were disoriented from the aftershocks, the epicenter must’ve been cataclysmic.

You’re so swept up in your thoughts, that it takes you a while to notice how Blade’s been staring at you. This in and of itself is nothing new. He’s been your shadow ever since forced this arrangement. It irritated you at first, but that blistering offense eased into acceptance. His vigilance felt befitting of a guard. Taking in your surroundings, assessing any threats; such is his prerogative.

How he’s eyeing you now feels different. It’s as if he’s looking through you, not at you.

“Is something wrong? You’re making such a scary expression,” you joke.

No visual reaction.

“I’m waiting for your explanation.”

“About…?”

Blade doesn’t bother hiding his displeasure. He glowers down at you, the difference in your height further exacerbated because you’re sitting down.

The impromptu staring contest comes to an end when he speaks up, his voice carrying less hostility.

“That idea you proposed,” he begins, moving back to return your personal space, “Are you still willing to try it?”

He has to bring this up now of all times? You don’t want to loudly announce a deeply private matter, especially if there’s a possibility the information will make it back to Kafka. Your best shot is to downplay the severity of what you went through. He might be doing his job, but you don’t want him cordoning off Lear as a precautionary measure. You don’t blame Lear in the slightest — this punishment is appropriate for your past hubris.

“Of course.”

“I accept your offer.”

Ah, you think. So this is the game he’s going to play.

“In that case… when should we get started?”

You can guess his next sentence before it comes out.

“I’m ready whenever you are.”

Nona

hey hey

Nona

we’re all good here

Nona

lear’s quiet but he’s doing better. he keeps apologizing

Nona

i thanked him for causing a scene and getting me out of class

Nona

he kinda maybe let out a sound like a laugh

Nona

i’ll be hanging with him until things simmer down a bit more

Nona

man. i have to say though. sword guy had the most abominable vibes when it all went down

Nona

i yelled at him that if he hurt lear you would turn his mind into goop

Nona

soooo if you wouldn’t mind please tell him that was a joke and that i don’t deserve to get stabbed on sight.

Nona

anyway. take care of yourself. call me when you feel up to it

It took three hours, a couple of painkillers, and more glasses of water than you cared to count to be ‘ready.’

You change into formal garments, consisting of an ivory gown that flows down to your feet, and a chiffon, indigo cloak that encases you from your shoulders to your knees. You fasten the heavy fabric into place with a broach your mother wore when she served as the Exalted Arbiter. It shows different stages of a moon, connected by four silver spokes. The highest point is the first quarter moon; to the right, the hollow outline of a new moon; the lowest point, the last quarter moon; then lastly, the full moon is to the left.

Blade sits across from you in the chair designated for clients. He’s silent as you make your preparations, his eyes following you like a haunted painting. His ulterior motives are irrelevant. Inside this room, you’ve carried out your work as an Arbiter hundreds, if not thousands of times. You’ve heard the most clandestine fantasies that wouldn’t even be uttered on a deathbed. Devoid of judgment, you’ve filled your mind with the overflowing desires of their heart, careful not to lose a single drop.

“Are you comfortable?”

He nods.

“Good. Let me know if you need anything.”

An ornate tea kettle made from Eris’ dark stone sits atop the Nectary’s gemstone. It’s bronze in color and emits a warm, calming glow. Once the water inside is brought to a boil, you pour it into an opal goblet. Next, you add ambrosia leaves that have been ground into a fine powder. It sizzles upon contact with the water. Finally, you procure a vial from a pouch inside your clothes. Four drops of the Necatary’s tonic descend into the concoction.

“I’ve seen you drink this before,” Blade notes.

“Now you’ll get to try. Don’t worry, it isn’t poisoned.”

It could be the low lighting and exhaustion, but you swear you see his lips curl upward.

“Add however much you please. My only condition is that it works permanently.”

“It’s a tempting offer. Sadly, I have to drink after you. Maybe another time.”

After stirring the ambrosia, you hand the goblet to him. His eyes remind you of burning embers. Their radiance fascinates you. You shift in your seat, suddenly conscious of yourself. Has his gaze always held this weight? When he pulls the goblet away, you notice the bob of his Adam’s apple as he swallows, how there’s a pretty sheen coating his lips.

Where is this onslaught coming from? Why couldn’t it have waited until later?

You hurriedly take a sip from the goblet. Noct’s ichor tastes sweet and spicy.

It’s tradition to repeat an incantation so as to invoke your slumbering Aeon’s blessing. You’re about to say it, when there’s a cool, smooth sensation against the corner of your lips. Every muscle in your body goes taut as if you’ve been turned to stone by some wicked spell.

Blade’s gloved finger ghosts over your skin.

He’s leaning over, still sitting down, close enough that you can see your reflection in his eyes. You see how high your eyebrows have raised, the ‘o’ shape of your mouth.

“B-Blade?” Your voice comes out like a squeak.

He says nothing. Goosebumps litter your skin, the hairs on the back of your neck stand. Your heart is a ferocious war drum. Whether it’s sounding an alarm or an invitation, you cannot tell. A beast made in your image has life breathed into it. You thought you slayed it, watched the light drain from its beady eyes, but it’s resuscitating.

Then again, maybe you’re a fool for thinking lust can stay dead.

He sinks back into his seat, completely impassive, acting like what he did carried no significance.

“Some of the drink got on you,” he explains, entirely nonchalant. “I cleaned it off.”

Being thrown into a furnace wouldn’t compare to the heat ensnaring your body.

You cough into your hand. “Oh, yeah, that’s— thank you.”

The awkward jumble of words flounders out before you can stop them. Your lessons in etiquette and oration have hidden themselves, somewhere beyond accessibility, scurrying to the shadows like mice when a cat approaches. If you were to make a list of your dumbest statements, this would make it far in the rankings.

This time, you’re certain of it. That little smirk. Maybe he’s getting back at you for withholding information earlier.

Whatever the case, you have a goal you’re determined to see through. You resume the incantation, although your voice lacks assertiveness.

“To dream is a sacred thing. Don’t fear it. Welcome it, rejoice in it, and shed no tears when it is finished. We’ve been granted your purest blessing. As you slumber, we find rest in you. Allow us the sweetest of dreams.”

You close your eyes…

… And when you reopen them, the Shackling Prison looms above you.

This link is far more stable than its predecessor. There’s no ticking timer hurrying you along, you’re free to examine every nook and cranny. You notice how desaturated your surroundings are. The blades of grass closest to the prison blend in with the stone, the only hit belying their true nature being how they sway in the breeze. There isn’t any vegetation or ambiance that suits the surrounding environment. Birds don’t sing, rushing rivers are silent, and bugs refuse to perform their melodies.

Nothing regresses or progresses; he’s wedged in a constant state of inertia. Your heart aches.

You make your way to the impenetrable gates. After thinking about it, you hypothesized the seal you previously encountered was an emergency defense he unknowingly created. At that exact moment, Blade didn’t want you puppeteering him. He may be enigmatic, but what you know for certain is that he takes his assignments seriously. The Stellaron Hunters want you alive so he has to as well.

That’d explain why it acted hostile to your interference. You’ve never established a link in such a high-stakes, volatile setting. You were bound to encounter oddities of some fashion. This explanation reassures you as you get closer.

Only to ruthlessly get debunked.

The seal is still here. It’s styled in the outline of a circle, overlapping the doors that keep you from studying Blade’s mara. Frustration floods you. This can’t be Blade’s handiwork. The one comparison is how it emanates steady energy, similar to how he is in a meditative state. The similarities stop there.

It's grown paler, you realize. Its potency has waned since I’ve last seen it, too.

To test this, you push against it.

The gates creak back.

This gap lets you steal a glance at Blade’s mara. It consists of multiple tumor-like abscesses that writhe against each other, forming a pulsating, fleshy mass. This ebullition isn’t consistent. Different sections have a will of their own. Some try consuming their adversary, others suffocate what’s beneath through their bulk alone. The horror extends down into a pit whose depth you couldn’t possibly guess. Killing, devouring, gorging, and digesting; only to experience a rebirth that will perpetuate the cycle.

It pushes against the windows and seeps into the structure’s cracks, of which you count many. The mara’s repairing him, vigilant in its upkeep. It is a ghastly glue holding fractured pieces that long for respite together.

Your intrusion causes it to gurgle and retract. The mara doesn’t break down or weaken, it gradually oozes down like bile in an esophagus.

The seal repels you, cutting your grotesque investigation short.

The last thing you see before the gates slam shut is the mara reclaiming its territory.

…

Blade’s fully conscious while you need some time to refamiliarize yourself with your surroundings. Your head raises its thunderous complaints about how it’s being overused lately. You down a cup of water, careful not to get any on your lips, so your earlier weakness isn’t repeated.

“Alright. Let me get my thoughts together,” You take a deep breath, then continue, “I only caught a glimpse of your mara. It did retreat after noticing my presence, although I’m not sure why.

Blade doesn’t say anything. You’re beginning to get used to that.

“And another thing. I didn’t think it was worth mentioning, since everything about our previous link was messy… but this time and the last, there’s this seal preventing me from going deeper. Do you have any idea what that’s about?”

“You’re the expert here.”

That must mean he doesn’t.

“Hah. I’m starting to wonder about that.”

You don’t mean to sound so defeated. You have some years under your belt — 120, to be exact — but you’ve realized how many areas you’re lacking in. Nymphalians live anywhere from 500 to 700 years. Your mother was 200 when she’d been anointed as Eris’ new Exalted Arbiter. She tried stamping out the quiet pride your prodigious abilities instilled in you. All it did was form a gaping chasm neither of you ever tried to mend.

You have the materials now, but it’s too late. There’d be no one waiting on the other side once you crossed.

Blade leans forward, presses his elbows to his knees, and rests his chin on his fists.

“Would it help if you touched me?”

You shoot up straight from your chair like it just stabbed you. Heat infuses into your cheeks, then spreads throughout, momentarily stupefying you. His monotonous words loop in your head. How can he sit there so collected after making an insinuation like that?! Especially when you’re not at your top performance.

“That’s highly inna—”

“You avoid skin-to-skin contact,” he interrupts, his visage unreadable. “The one time you didn’t, you made it far.”

It’s a mistake to underestimate his perspicacity just because he doesn’t actively flaunt it.

“What did you think I meant?”

Why can’t his voice have a little more intonation? If he’s being playful, his delivery is too dry for you to tell.

“Nothing, nothing at all,” you sit back down and cross your legs in an attempt to look professional. “What you’re referring to is a precaution my mother suggested. In the past, strange reactions have occurred after I came into direct contact with someone. Not always, though. No one could determine the how or why.”

You pinch the bridge of your nose. “Honestly… you Stellaron Hunters should’ve just waterboarded me, you would’ve gotten this information faster, if that’s the objective here.”

“Lie if you want.”

“I don’t want to lie to you,” you admit. He knits his eyebrows together, an act that accentuates the dark lines beneath his eyes. “You deserve to understand what I did. If I hadn’t resorted to that, it’d be different.”

“Hm.”

No one can ever claim Blade doesn’t have a way with words.

Suppressing a yawn, you refocus the conversation. “I think we made some good progress here. I’m willing to keep at it if you are.”

“No. That’s enough for now,” he says. “Go rest.”

“Eh? I can keep going, though.”

“I know. Rest anyway.”

Your body is letting you know that it’s finished, your exhaustion has crossed the semi-tolerable threshold to unbearable. There’s a hearing to prepare for, Nona and Lear to reach out to, and about another million odds and ends. This flurry of activity won’t get done any faster if you’re crawling around like a host controlled by a parasite.

“... Fine, have it your way. Lear’s always getting on me about my sleeping habits too.”

You sense an irregular fluctuation from him. However, there’s no shift in his body language, so you decide it isn’t your place to pry.

“Blade?”

He turns his head toward you.

“This ability of mine, it’s only ever provided entertainment for others, which is fine, of course… but… the chance to help someone directly… is a first,” you give him a bashful smile. “Thank you for trusting me. I mean it.”

For a brief moment, his gaze doesn’t feel so intense.

Nona

hey hey

Nona

please tell me the sword guy didn’t confiscate your phone. if that’s the case it’s so over

Nona

i’m not going up against him to get it back

It’s me texting from [First]’s phone. I remember what you said about the brain goop. Lock your windows and sleep with one eye open.

Nona

!!!

Nona

oh btw. the dust has settled

Nona

it’s weird… this doesn’t happen for years, then suddenly, twice in such close succession?

Yeah, I’ve been thinking about that too I don’t get it

Nona

welcome back from being held hostage btw

Wow thank you

Let me know if you both need anything I actually have no idea how I haven’t passed out yet

Nona

it’s because you haven’t given mushroom mania a chance. their music is so chill

Nona is typing…

Please don’t spam the link to their album again

Nona

alright fine whatever

Nona

i am bored though if you want to play connect four hmu

Nona

[first]? come back my queen

Nona

wow you fell asleep fast </3

Nona

rest up. you deserve it

There are two monitors in front of you.

To the left is a man with a graceful physiognomy — Chrysus Ophídion. He has hair white as snow, pulled back into a long ponytail that stops at his lower back. His eyes are sharp, cunning, hidden behind thin glasses that reflect his monitor’s shine. He’s already asked you the questions courtesy demands, such as your health and how the LOTUS-EATER is faring during the IPC travel ban.

“It’s nothing but a power play,” he had reassured you. “I’ve had productive negotiations with their chief financial officer, he’s insinuated that a proposal to remedy the dispute isn’t far off.”

While you’d often be remiss to take Chrysus at his word, there is one sacred objective he’ll never work against — money.

He isn’t exactly subtle. His office’s backdrop is a hulking conglomerate; a screen that shows everything from graphs of Eris’ most prominent businesses to stocks throughout the universe updating in real-time. There must be around a hundred different squares dedicated to this flashing panoply. Before Chrysus’ repurposing, it was a wide window from which one could view Eris’ mountain range to the northeast. Your mother detested the change and the room itself.

Then to the right, there’s Caicias Rex. He’s a burly, bearded man, with dark hair going silver from age. Rumors have been circulating that he’ll announce his retirement on his 500th birthday. Between the two, you prefer dealing with him. Caicias isn’t verbose or prickly. If anything, he’s a little too brazen.

“How are you holding up, little Miss Arbiter?”

Caicias’ gravelly voice is at a deafening volume, made worse by the fact you’re using in-ears. His microphone peaks at its own leisure.

“Caicias, please, your microphone,” Chrysus grits out whilst wincing, “Did you not have your assistant set it up beforehand as I suggested?”

You both take out your in-ears before he responds. It’s loud enough that you can hear what he’s saying even while holding them far away.

“Oh, the dial’s screwed up. Alright. There. Any better?”

You put your in-ears back on. “I believe so.”

“Great! Let me repeat myself then. Are you feeling any better? Ready to do all that mind magic stuff?”

“I’m doing much better, thank you. If you’re referring to my capacity to establish links, I haven’t encountered any issues so far.”

Caicias takes a moment to respond. “That way of speaking, your posture… you’re the spitting image of Ania.”

The call falls silent. While you’re thinking of something to say, Chrysus takes the initiative himself.

“May Noct grant her blissful rest,” he repeats the platitude you heard spoken aplenty at your mother’s funeral. “I apologize for changing the topic so abruptly, but there’s a sensitive matter at hand to discuss. I ask that you both listen until I’m finished without any interjections.”

Sensitive? What could he possibly mean by that?

You feel a churning in your soul.

“Thank you. As you’re both well aware, the position of Ade’s Exalted Regent isn’t limited to operating as Eris’ primary treasurer. Caicias and the belated Ania Phaeales agreed to my proposal to form a coalition that’d combat Eris’ uptick in crime decades prior. The coalition has seen great success.

With Miss Phaeales injured and Mister Rex preoccupied with investigating hazardous mining conditions in the Nectary, I was appointed head of the Thelx nectar guide bombing investigation. My team and I have spared no resources in uncovering the culprits behind such a senseless act of violence.

Initially, we turned our attention toward the IPC. At this point, we’ve found nothing to implicate them. On the contrary, evidence from the preliminary investigation suggests the involvement of Arc citizens. I am well aware of the prejudice certain people have against those who come from Arc, so I wanted to be absolutely certain. You’ll both receive digital copies of the documented evidence, but for the purpose of this hearing, I’ll focus on the most relevant evidence.

Through data restoration and witness accounts, two main suspects have been identified. Felix Laurence, a nectar guide engineer who was granted Thelx citizenship by Ania Phaeales, and his nephew, Ryker Laurence, unemployed. A standard employee-issued passcode assigned to Felix accessed the NGT, or Nectar Guide Terminal, three cycles prior to the incident. Logs show he spent considerable time eyeing the schedule of the cycle when Miss Phaeales was to depart.

Felix’s co-workers have corroborated that he offered to take their shifts, as the trip was scheduled on a cycle he doesn’t work. His offer was accepted by the second person he asked. Audio logs recorded in the common area corroborate this. Surveillance places Felix’s arrival at 0100 hours, where he claimed that an emergency malfunction notice was sent to his pager. The NGT confirms no such notice was issued.

The fragments recovered from the explosive device show it to be the kind that activates on contact, which simplifies the installation process. Felix is seen returning at 0112. Co-workers report he seemed ‘unlike himself’ and was drenched in sweat. Miss Phaeales’ cabin departed at 0200, the tragedy occurred at 0223. A reconstruction of the device reveals a minor malfunction that delayed the device’s detonation, a blessing from Noct, I’m sure.

The Laurence residence was promptly raided, where materials matching those inside the explosive crime were located. Testimonies from those who know Ryker attest to his hobby of making strange contraptions that never work as intended. I have personnel ready to detain Felix and his co-conspirator Ryker at a moment’s notice, in compliance with Eris’ No Involuntary Confinement Act, where they’ll be extradited to Arc unless they make an appeal.”

The pictures of the two suspects take up Chrysus’ screen. Caicias strokes his beard while viewing them, whereas you remain motionless. You remember the name Felix Laurence. You attended the event where his special citizenship was awarded, some twenty years ago. What could have driven him to this? Where did you fall short? If it was your mother in charge, would things have gone differently? Chrysus, Caicias, Kafka… none of them take you seriously. They consider you a child playing make pretend.

Is that not what you are?

Mother would’ve held her own if Kafka tried coercing her.

She would’ve found out about the building inspection dilemma through her own channels.

Blade’s seal, his mara — she would’ve helped him better than you ever could.

But she can’t. She’s gone and you’ll never be her.

“I understand it’s a lot to take in,” Chrysus states. It doesn’t sound like he means it. “In truth, the account I gave is highly summarized. I felt I owed it to Miss Phaeales before I arrived at my next point.”

“... What do you mean by that?” You ask.

“It became clear to me that an investigation like this couldn’t be limited in scope. For instance, how did Felix know Miss Phaeales was due to use the nectary guide at that specific cycle and that specific time? As I said earlier, he accessed the NGT, but your name isn’t visible there. Only the Director of Operations knows when you’re set to travel. All Felix would’ve been able to see is that a private cabin was scheduled to leave at 0200, which isn’t a rare occurrence.”

“Please place aside certain biases to the best of your ability,” he says. “Ryker’s correspondence these past two years showed some red flags. Specifically, he had frequent correspondence with an unknown person whose IP was traced back to the LOTUS-EATER. These conversations were largely written in code, but from what we’ve decrypted, this unknown person has been leaking information about you and Ania Phaeales. Based on available information, it’s highly likely that this unknown person is who you refer to as ‘Nona.’”

Caicias closes his eyes and exhales.

“That… that’s absurd,” your voice is weaker than a breeze. “There’s no way I’ll accept a baseless accusation like this.”

“Allow me to once again request that you place aside your bias. Nona, whose birth name is unknown, was born and raised in Arc’s most hostile faction. At the self-reported age of 74, she submitted a request for Thelx citizenship. Your mother, in her benevolence, granted the request due to seeing Nona’s potential as a future Arbiter. Do you deny any of this?”

You think you might be sick.

“... No,” you grit out.

“Why would she suddenly abandon an extremist group and request citizenship in Thelx, a quadrant they’re especially hateful towards? Or, did this faction see an opportunity in Nona, who was widely known to have a talent close to yours in establishing Synalinks?”

“Little Nona is what, 113 now? That’s a long time to be acting as a double agent,” Caicias points out.

“Can indoctrination like that ever be fully deprogrammed?” Chrysus challenges.

Your horror gives way to an icy rage.

“If you’re determined to pursue this ‘lead’, so be it, I guarantee my staff and I will fully cooperate. That doesn’t mean you can implicate one of my Arbiters for such a serious offense with nothing but circumstantial evidence.”

Chrysus sighs. “I’m sorry you see it that way. You’re right that there’s no direct evidence yet — I bring this up to err on the side of caution. It’d deal a severe blow to Eris if anything happened to the Phaeales bloodline. Is it at least fair to say that out of everyone at the LOTUS-EATER, Nona would be one of the most familiar with your itinerary? Did you tell her about your trip to Perianth II?”

You draw your lips in a thin line. You had told her.

“Alright, Chrysus, this isn’t an interrogation. This is Ania’s daughter you’re talking to,” Caicias frowns.

Ania’s daughter, huh?

“... You’re right. I just wish to ensure Miss Phaeales’ safety. I got ahead of myself.”

“There are better approaches. Let’s call it for now. We won’t get anywhere bickering like this,” Caicias says. He steeples his fingers and looks directly into the camera. “Have your men keep watch on those two. We’ll meet back again in a cycle; that should give us enough time to flip through all these documents you’re sending.”

This suggestion is for your sake and you all know it. Caicias has good intentions, but you’ll never earn the respect necessary for a leader if you back down now. You imagine you’re preparing to establish a link. The steps it entails, how your mind must surrender its solid form.

“It’s alright, Mister Rex. I can keep going,” you reassure with a smile. Your cadence has lost its vibrato and transitions into a steady timbre. Every dissonant note is scratched out to recite the sheet music lying before you. If you’re to get through this, it’ll be the performance of a lifetime.

“Hm… are you sure?” Caicias asks. He squints, trying to get a better read on you through the screen.

You consider a conductor’s baton, how it glides through the air, commanding absolute obedience from its orchestra. Your heart, your lungs, the feeling of static buzzing in your head; you demand a decrescendo.

You might not be your mother, but you can play in the same key.

“I am. Mister Ophídion, would you please go over everything from the beginning without paraphrasing? There’s a great deal to examine.”

You’re occupying a space between reality and fantasy.

Cogency of any kind flees from you. Chasing after it has become tiring, a prospect that instills dread. There’s no affliction worse than uncertainty. You envy fortunate fools who can cling to a belief from their first breath to their last, what a blessing it must be to never reside in doubt’s shadow.

You don’t know what to think, what to feel, what to do.

Chrysus had an explanation for everything. The file he’s built up on Nona? That’s standard procedure, anyone in such close quarters with you must be vetted. The employee who signed off on an unsafe building? A full investigation will be conducted, you need only be patient. Why hadn't he contacted you sooner about any of this? He didn’t want to risk any leaks that’d tip off the enemy before he was prepared.

You don’t know what was worse. Being treated like an idiot by Chrysus or a sniveling child by Caicias.

Ripping your mother’s broach off, you walk over to the balcony’s edge and raise your arm.

The inky night spreads out like paint spilled across a canvas. This is the only view you’ve had throughout the years — a cold void that never wanted to host life. The nameless planet must’ve counted itself fortunate to have been passed up by settlers. No one will ever want to settle here, it had thought. I will make my surface so terrible that those who come here will certainly die.

You lower your arm. The broach is set on a table you subsequently push out of sight.

In a way, this balcony is your cell. You’ve sat here and contemplated freedom as any inmate would. What would it be like to feel the sun? Does it burn, does it sting? Is it true that you shouldn’t stand in it for long? What about the sunrise? How lovely it must be for such a sight to be there every morning, greeting you with its gentle colors and soft edges.

You hug your legs to your chest and rest your head on your knees.

The door behind you opens without warning.

You don’t need to look to know who it is. You can pick up on his taciturn presence without trying. It’s inevitable, so long as you’ve been exposed to a person enough.

Blade’s footsteps make no sound, he’s almost like a levitating wraith. You assume he’ll take his place on the leftmost chair. It's become an unspoken ritual. Those who have experienced the sun are ever so enchanted by the moon, he’s no different. Rather than sitting down, however, he lingers behind you. You can feel him staring. After a few seconds, he comes closer, so that he’s beside you.

Wordlessly, he holds out a teacup you’ve never seen. It’s porcelain with a glossy finish, boasting intricate blue designs painted along the sides. The inside contains a bloody ocean that glistens beneath the moonlight. The aroma clues you in — it’s ambrosia, just without the Nectary’s tonic.

“Is this for me?” You whisper, incredulous.

His flat expression seems to communicate, ‘Who do you think it’s for?’

You cradle it in both your hands. Warmth seeps through and becomes acquainted with your skin. Likewise, the steam wafts up, tickling your nose. It’s as if the drink is a pocket watch and you’ve been hypnotized.

Once it’s secure in your grasp, he pulls back.

Then he starts to walk away.

He’s leaving? Why is he leaving?

Your body springs up of its own accord. You balance the teacup in one hand and reach out to him with the other, your fingers fanning out, ready to sink into whatever they can. Everything happens in the blink of an eye. Your free hand succeeds in finding a destination — settling on the abrasive finish of his bandages.

You feel another texture alongside it.

It’s smooth, cold, and visible through the interstices of his winding bandages.

His skin.

Realizing this, you withdraw your hand in panic. Then you wait, bracing yourself for a brutal rebound. What horrors could a mind like his prepare for you? Would it cross the threshold of mental anguish to physical harm? You squeeze your eyes shut.

When you find the courage to reopen them, there’s nothing abominable waiting with bated breath to drag you through a mental purgatory.

Instead of a consequence, there’s only Blade, fixed in place. He hasn’t moved an inch.

You’re okay. Nothing’s wrong.

You let out a relieved sigh.

“Let me at least get the words thank you out,” you insist, desperate to refocus his attention. “I… thank you. You don’t have to be… in such a rush…?”

There’s a beat of silence.

Much to your chagrin, Blade takes your teacup by the rim and lifts it. You tilt your head. Did he… did he just repossess your drink? That’s a low blow.

“You were about to drop it,” Blade deadpans. “Quit pouting.”

“Wh—?! I’m not pouting!”

He raises an eyebrow.

To think you went through all that anxiety for this.

“You Stellaron Hunters are the worst,” you grumble.

“Hm.”

Fed up beyond measure, you spin on your heel and start walking back to your chair. You deserve an uninterrupted night of listening to depressing music while thinking depressing thoughts. It’s your right, having endured so much lately.

“[First].”

A chain reaction goes off in your chest. You’ve made it one measly step away and a blackhole threatens to reel you back. His voice, that deep, resonant tone, stirs something inside you, beckons it out to play. He spoke your name. Has he ever done so before? You don’t know. If someone were to ask you the most basic question right now, you’d be physically incapable of responding.

He doesn’t have to ask you to come back. You do so willingly.

Blade brings the teacup back down to your height. Confusingly, he doesn’t return it to your hands, nor does he give any indication that he plans on doing so. He’s holding it level to your face. You want to ask what it is he wants from you. It’s best to have everything out in the open, so that no misconceptions arise, and yet, that rational thinking presents itself as a nuisance. You don’t want anything to ruin this moment. The ambiguity entices you and holds your soul captive while the key is within reach.

Tentatively, you press your lips to the teacup’s edge.

The emotions teeming inside of him are palpable. They curl around you, these tendrils of unadulterated carnality squirm against your flesh. It isn’t a fair comparison to say you’re playing with fire. No, you’re laying down at an altar as a voluntary sacrifice.

He inclines the teacup toward you.

It’s a harmonic union between saccharine and spice, a robust flavor that leaves your tongue tingling. He rebalances the cup while you swallow your first sip. Pulling back, you look up at him through your eyelashes.

“It’s delicious,” you compliment. In a coquettish act, you wet your lips as if you’d made a mess.

His eyes glow like molten magma.

Slowly, you stand on your tiptoes, both your arms coiling around his neck. You pull him closer and he lets you. Your lips almost connect, only for you to move back at the last second. He tries remedying this by leaning down further. You prove stubborn by dodging him once more. His nostrils flare and he lets out a sound akin to a growl.

“Aw,” you coo, a condescending lilt present. You twist your head to the side and jut out your lower lip. “Who’s pouting now?”

He descends on you like a rabid dog.

His lips are relentless, demanding more and more, driven by a fervor that belies his seemingly apathetic disposition. It isn’t sensual so much as it is voracious. You’re taken aback yet find it titillating all the same. His bandaged hand flies to your nape, then drops lower, following the ridges of your spine. Subconsciously, you arch your back. He shudders at the softness of your chest pressing against him. His hand eventually settles on the back of your thigh, squeezing and grabbing the flesh with blatant greed. Without warning, he hikes your leg up, an act that causes you to temporarily lose your balance.

Blade’s chest rumbles in a low chuckle. The husky sound sends heat straight to your core, you may have left out a debauched noise if your lips hadn’t been preoccupied.

Regardless, you won’t let him off that easily. Who knows what he’ll start to pull if you’re lenient. You pull away and glare at him for the infraction. Considering your messy hair, heaving chest, and swollen lips, you doubt you’re very frightening to one of the universe’s most notorious criminals. The mirth dancing in his eyes confirms this.

“Still you,” he muses.

You release an audible yelp as he effortlessly picks you up. Manhandling you must be a newfound delight of his, his satisfaction is readily apparent. You doubt he’d drop you, but your instincts aren’t allowing the risk — you cling yourself to him for extra security. It occurs to you that both his hands are in use. Recalling the teacup, you glance around, curious about its whereabouts. You find it sitting beside your broach, perfectly intact. Wasn’t he holding it seconds ago?

“How did you do that?”

He grabs your chin and turns your head back to face him.

“Strange, clumsy, and distractible,” he mutters, though not without a certain fondness. “Keep your eyes on me, girl.”

“It’s a legitimate question! Also, hold on,” you jab your fingers at his chest in accusation, “I’m most certainly older than you. Are you familiar with the adage, ‘respect your elders?’”

“Are you?”

“Well, obviously, otherwise I wouldn’t have said it— ohhh.”

He’s gracious enough to wait as you piece everything together. Xianzhou attire, an ability that could reasonably be classified as immortality…

“On second thought, ideas like that are outdated. They perpetuate a cycle of complacency. Respect is earned, not given.”

“At the end of the day, past that haughty exterior…” Blade trails off, his lips nearing your outer earlobe. You swallow while he keeps you in suspense. The pointed tips of his canine teeth drag against the sensitive flesh, sometimes sinking down, only to let up before he leaves behind so much as an indent.

He plays this game for as long as it pleases him and not a moment longer.

Finally, he bites down, almost eliciting a whimper. It takes considerable self-control to hold it in.

“You’re something of a brat, aren’t you?”

He accentuates this remark by grabbing the tips of your hair and tugging them to the side. Not enough to hurt, but enough to give him a canvas to work with. His teeth trail down from your ear to your neck, settling on your racing pulse point. He nibbles at the area just enough to leave behind marks. Meanwhile, your breathing picks up to an erratic pace. You lull your head to the side so that he has unrestricted access. He rewards your obedience with a kiss, soothing the tender area he’s been working on.

Amazing as that feels, you swear you’ll go crazy if you don’t receive more stimulation. Whether or not he’s aware of this, you can’t say for sure, but you do know that he’s taking his sweet time sucking and nibbling the second place you want him most. In this position, there’s little you can do to encourage more friction. It’s too awkward an angle to grind against him, not to mention how damaging that’d be to your ego.

You tighten your grip around his broad shoulders in what you hope to be an obvious tell. When that doesn’t get you anywhere, an agitated noise slips by before you can stop it.

Finally, he pulls back from his assault on your neck. “What?”

How has his voice deepened in pitch?!

“Just— don’t you want to, you know, inside?”

“I don’t know. You’ll have to be clearer.”

This bastard is deliberately toying with you. Huffing, you move back, unsurprised by the sight of supposed neutrality. He might be able to keep his facial expressions in check, but his eyes give him away. There’s no mistaking it. Those are the eyes of a starving beast. The intensity makes you shiver. Whether it’s from primordial fear or lust, there’s no telling. It’s most likely a warped combination of the two.

This is a feeling you could get addicted to.

Your dominant hand rises to cup his cheek. Exhaling a shaky breath, you allow the taut muscles in your face to relax. Your leering gives way to something softer. You familiarize yourself with him, running the pad of your thumb over his cheekbones, then lightly kissing the same cheek. His palms dig into you tighter. Acting as if you have all the time in the world, you pepper his face with featherlight kisses, loosely following a line that ends near his mouth. Finally, having arrived at your spell’s conclusion, you place a chaste kiss on his lips.

You bat your eyelashes in a show of faux coyness.

“Please?”

He audibly swallows.

Testing your limits, you throw in a sly comment. “Don’t you have a soft spot for me?”

Blade scoffs. He doesn’t say anything for or against your claim, but you do notice how the tips of his ears turn red.

“If I’d known this was the best way to deal with you Stellaron Hunters, I would’ve considered doing this with Kafka.”

Blade’s eyes narrow into slits that, realistically, should unsettle you. It does to an extent. Especially considering the maelstrom of heightened emotions swirling around him, and, by extension, you. He’s glowering, sizing you and your intentions up. He lets out a harsh laugh, shaking his head while doing so.

“What a mouth,” he remarks.

Unbothered by the vitriol, you shrug. “You’re the one who told me to speak ‘normally.’”

“My mistake.”

You don’t get to respond — his lips are on yours again. He steps back, somehow mindful enough to input the door’s passcode while never breaking away from you. His tongue doesn’t ask for entry, it demands it. You’re happy to comply. He takes pleasure in ravishing your mouth, tasting the lingering flavors from the gift that brought you to this.

You’re back on a solid surface after he pushes some writing implements to the side. You decide that this will be the one time you allow someone to make a mess of your desk. He urges your legs open with his knee, a request you’re quick to fulfill.

His lung capacity must be otherworldly, you have to give his shoulders a push for him to get the hint. A throaty noise leaves him, expressing his disgruntlement at the prospect of parting. Still, he grants you respite. A thin trail of saliva sees to it that your contact isn’t completely severed.

Blade doesn’t let you recuperate for long. He presses his hard length against your core, creating heavenly friction. You no longer have the means to muffle your noises, which must’ve been his intent. His hands find your hips in a frenzy. He grabs the flesh, pulls you closer, and grinds against your clothed cunt.

It doesn’t take long for you to teeter close to the edge. The guttural noises near your ear, the steady stimulation, his scent, and shameless thirst for you; everything envelops your head in an intoxicating haze. Your problems that stack high into the sky seem so far away. The stress evaporates away, the tension you’ve held in your body dissipating alongside it. He’s doing most of the work for you.

Your peak gets closer, you’re right on the precipice—

—And he stops.

You can’t say you didn’t see it coming. Blade has a penchant for riling you up, delighting in the vivid reactions he gets.

This cruelty earns him a whine.

“You’re awful.”

“And you’re impatient,” is his rebuttal.

“I am,” you agree. You learn that your equilibrium is askew when you get up. After steadying your wobbly legs, you grab his wrist and tug. Your sulking must be more tantalizing than any destination you could take him to. It isn’t until the fifth pull that he relents and follows along. You pull up the lock specifications for your bedroom, inputting that an unregistered person has permission to enter. Your fingers lack the dexterity to complete this adjustment on the first try.

And the second.

And the third.

“Say anything and I’ll… I’ll…”

“You’ll…?” he encourages.

“I’ll practice celibacy,” is your final threat.

“Mhm.”

Your bedroom door opens on the fourth try.

After fiddling with your do not disturb settling, you point to the edge of your bed.

“Sit there.”

He takes off his shoes first then listens to your request. You unfasten your outer cloak. The long fabric falls into your grasp and is put aside. You’re left in nothing but your loungewear, a simple button-up shirt and leggings. Turning around, you anticipate an annoying expression to be sprawled over his face. You even have an insult on standby.

These thoughts crumble into dust.

Blade’s gripping your comforter hard enough for his knuckles to turn bone white. He’s leaning forward, as if ready to pounce, yet lucid enough to exercise some semblance of self-control. He reminds you of a starved animal trapped in a cage, salivating over a piece of meat hanging outside the bars. Goosebumps cover your body. This isn’t simple lust… it’s visceral, some primitive desire too overwhelming to be understood.

You’re the one he’s staring at with this unbridled yearning.

Yes, he’s teased you. Pushed your buttons and riled you up. Not so subtly flaunted the strength that lets him maneuver you like you weigh nothing. You might have status and mastery in your given field, but he’s participated in the annihilation of worlds; the end of civilizations that span back since time immemorial.

He should be the one in charge.

Yet as you stand here, witnessing how he tortures himself by not pouncing on you like he easily could, a thought is planted.

He’d really do anything you asked if it kept this from ending.

The adrenaline rush this realization brings is enough to turn any cognition you still possess off.

Your trembling hands hover above your topmost button. Your mattress dips as he slants forward, his fraying patience almost snapping. You hear the leather of his gloved hand creak from how hard he’s clenching it. You shake your head to deter him. The room’s atmosphere has a headiness to it that renders you breathless. Had you seen this expression without context, you’d think he was in physical agony.

A button is undone for every step you take toward him.

The thin shirt flutters off your shoulders when your knees hit the bed’s edge.

Blade gazes at your body as if he’d find salvation in it.

Since you were planning to relax, you’d discarded your bra earlier. The exposure to the cool air causes your nipples to harden. He can’t settle for ogling any one part of your bare torso, his eyes flitter from your collarbones to your chest, your navel, then back up again. You start bending over. His eyes widen slightly. It takes you a second to find where his mind has wandered off since you were just going to remove your leggings.

“What? Was there something you wanted from me?” You hum.

If looks could kill, you’d be a goner.

You decide he’s suffered enough. Your leggings are thrown aside, you’re past the point of caring to be tidy. You both exhale shakily as you sit your clothed cunt directly over his prominent bulge. Your arousal seeps through your panties and onto his pants; there’ll be no pretending that you aren’t as excited as he is.

“Are you finished?”

His low, grumpy voice has no business sounding as good as it does.

You play with his high collar and pretend to ponder. “Hm… I guess.”

No sooner than the words leave your mouth do you get flipped over.

Blade’s large hands fondle your chest, memorizing how soft and pliable the flesh is for him. He’s quick to remove one so that he can attach his lips to your pert nipple. He sucks the tender area, releasing sounds that’d have you thinking he was the one being pleasured. Meanwhile, his free palm flattens against your stomach.

You’re lost in a myriad of sensations. His hot, wet mouth sucking your nipple, the cold smoothness of his gloved hand fondling what isn’t in his mouth, the coarse texture of his bandages sliding along your skin. He’s obsessed with your body and it shows. Whether he’s worshiping or desecrating it remains to be seen.

“Blade, please,” you roll your hips against his so he can get the message.

He delivers his punishment swiftly — he tweaks one nipple and nibbles the other.

Unexpectedly, this extracts a mewl from you.

Blade pulls back. A self-satisfied grin spreads over his face.

“Poor needy thing,” he chuckles. Your glare doesn’t last long, for he brushes his fingertips over your clothed clit. He draws featherlight circles. “Soaked too. What? Was there something you wanted from me?”

His reciting of your previous taunt antagonizes your pride. Rather than responding verbally, you try grinding against his stupidly stationary fingers. He holds your hips down to prevent you from misbehaving further. Having not learned your lesson, you try again. He barely needs to exert any more strength for your body to be pinned to the bed as if you were a butterfly on a collector’s wall.

He clicks his tongue. “Have you forgotten how to speak?”

“M-Maybe.”

“Hm. A shame,” he says. He shifts back and parts your legs. You close your eyes as he nudges his nose against your inner thigh, his warm breath fanning over your skin. He leaves a trail of sloppy, open-mouthed kisses as he leisurely makes his way to your cunt.

“I’ll have to pry other sounds from you instead.”

He kisses your covered core, once, then twice, a growl leaving him when your hips desperately raise for more friction. Much to your disappointment, he revisits your inner thigh, this time nipping at it. He subjects the soft flesh to the conquest of his teeth. You prop yourself up on your elbows, intending to remove the last piece of clothing that separates you from him. He pushes you back down and mutters something incomprehensible.

The sound of fabric tearing reverberates throughout your room.

You’re not left wondering what he’s done for long. Blade pulls you against him by your hips, attaches his lips to your clit, and sucks.

He’s relentless, almost as if he’s chasing his release instead of yours. His tongue licks from the bottom to the top. He feasts on you, his face pressing as close as he can get. The rapidly mounting pleasure leaves you incapable of forming coherent words or thoughts. All you can think about is Blade, how he’s grinding himself against your bed, fucking you with his tongue.

Should you be doing this? Are you using him? Is he using you? These pesky little concerns fade into the foreground.

He slurps your clit like it’s the best thing he’s ever tasted. Your previous sensitivity has your release imminent. You thread your hands into his hair and throw your head back. Tugging on the long locks in encouragement has him groaning against you, sending vibrations straight to your core.

Your release builds and builds. The muscles in your thighs tense, your voice elevates in pitch, pleasure diluting your senses.

“Gonna— mm—”

You come on his ruthless tongue and ride out your high, ecstasy rushing throughout your body.

Once you come back down to reality, you realize he hasn’t stopped. Your nerves are sensitive enough to almost hurt. You keen as he messily kisses your cunt. You can’t move your legs and your arms feel like jello. With some difficulty, you urge his head away. Your slick glistens along his parted lips. He greedily licks up the remnants since you’ve deprived him of the source.

Blade takes off his overcoat. He then removes his golden shirt, pulling it over his head and tossing both garments aside. Next, he undoes the buckle that hangs across his hips. His silver pants join the heap of his clothes not long after. You drink in the sight of his toned figure. You’ve always thought him to be handsome. His sharp jawline, long, silky hair, and those blazing eyes. You never thought you’d get to see what’s beneath his clothes. Scars litter the expanse of his otherwise pale skin, their shape perplexing you. He catches you staring and gives you a look you can’t place.

“Is it more unsightly than my mind?”

You push yourself up, wrap your arms around his neck, and pull him close.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you murmur against his lips. “All I see is a handsome man who I want to fuck me senseless.”

“Hm. There’s that mouth again.”

He kisses your forehead while bringing you back down to the bed. Once your head is on the pillow, he lines himself up at your entrance. Abundant pre-cum leaks from his tip, which he smears against you, stimulating your clit in the process. You gnaw on your lower lip to stop a moan from sneaking out. He just barely pushes the head in. As it’s been a while, you hold your breath in anticipation for the stretch to come. However, he doesn’t go any further. He's just staring at you, his eyes like that of a madman. The intensity has you averting your gaze.

Your cheek barely grazes the pillow before he speaks up, his tone chastising. “[First].”

You feel your walls clench around nothing.

Sheepishly, you turn your head back to face him.

“That’s all it takes, huh?”

You guess it did work for him twice. It isn’t your fault. Hearing someone call you by your birth name is rare. To everyone else, you’re a title or notable last name. You aren’t an individual. The characteristics that define you remain purposefully hidden from sight. You’ll just be another line on a long list, perhaps a topic for disinterested schoolchildren to write a report on.

“Yeah,” you admit as he gradually sinks into you, “That’s all it takes.”

He’s thick enough to make you wince, regardless of how slow he goes. Your walls struggle to accommodate his size. He stills until you recollect yourself, taking deep breaths to relax your tense body. The dull ache fades. You nod at him to continue. He pushes his cock deeper, exhaling shakily by your ear as inch after inch slips in. It’s hot and heavy inside you, occasionally twitching.

Your legs wrap around his waist, eliciting a choked sound from him. Though you’re panting, you still have enough audacity to let your self-satisfaction show. He doesn’t chastise you or revert to teasing. No, he laughs, low and from the diaphragm. The room is almost unbearably hot and still you shudder.

Blade slides out of you and thrusts back in. The pace isn’t too fast, but he insists on pulling all the way out and filling you to completion again. His pelvis smacks against yours as he fully stretches you. This time, he lets you throw your head back, his teeth sinking into the bruises he left earlier. You hear your headboard hit the wall from how forcefully he fucks you. It’s raw and brutal, but you love it. For once, you don’t have to think or do a thing. All he wants to do is ravish you and you’ll gladly let him.

Your eyes shoot open when his gloved hand finds its way to your sensitive clit. He rubs sloppy circles against it, causing your walls to clench around his cock. He groans into your neck. This unrestrained expression of the pleasure you’re providing him is almost too much. You never would’ve imagined he’d be so vocal, panting hot by your ear, holding absolutely nothing back. You could spend an eternity listening to him.

A second orgasm creeps up on you. Your moans and delighted gasps grow loud enough to let him know. He squishes your cheeks in the coolness of his gloved hand, demanding that your attention wander nowhere else.

“Open your eyes.”

What he’s asking of you feels personal, almost too intimate. You hesitate for a moment but ultimately give him what he wants. He rewards you by revisiting your throbbing clit, rubbing and rubbing until there are spots in your vision. You chant his name, sometimes getting through the entire word, or barely stumbling through the first few letters. He hastens his pace.

You clench down on him hard and cry out.

He grits his teeth from how you tighten around him throughout your orgasm. He fucks you during its duration, not letting up for a second, chasing his own end. His hands clench on your hips, digging into the flesh hard enough to leave bruises. You collapse onto your pillow, your energy spent. He has no problem adjusting you exactly how he wants. Your leg is thrown over his shoulder and you keen at the change in angle. The head of his cock finds a sensitive, spongy area that you hadn’t realized existed. You arch into him and whine.

“B-Blade,” you whine, barely audible over the sound of skin slapping against skin, “Too much… It’s too much…!”

Tears form in the corner of your eyes. One trickles down your cheek, which he promptly licks off.

“I know. Be good,” he pants.

The insults you set aside earlier form on your tongue. They die a swift death again, for his breath hitches and he groans by your ear.

Heat floods your tender insides. He forces your hips flush against him, his thrusts stuttering and then stopping entirely. Wave after wave of his thick cum coats your walls. It never seems to end — his throbbing cock continues releasing the viscous substance until it has no choice but to form globs that leak out of you.

Meanwhile, he slants his lips sloppily against yours, almost growling when you whimper. He pulls back and thrusts in one last time, pushing his release as deep inside as it can go.

You both heave desperately for air. He still doesn’t pull out, even when his cock goes soft. Something tells you he’d be content to leave it there for as long as you permit.

“My blanket… I’ll have to wash it.”

“Mm.”

Blade fixes the strands of hair sticking to your temples. You tilt your head toward his hand. It’s been so long. A small, malicious fragment of yourself taunted how you’ll never enjoy another’s touch again. That your fate would be one defined by solitude. How could you take a lover with such a risk looming over your head? The last time had been disastrous. It haunts you more effectively than any ghost.

He pulls out.

The newfound emptiness feels strange.

Blade rolls off of you and slides his briefs on. You watch his every movement through heavy eyelids. The scars along his chest seem like nothing compared to the amount on his back. They lay heavy along his neck, shoulders, and spine. The off-color stripes are all similar in length and width. Your stomach churns violently as you realize it must’ve been intentional.

He must know you’re staring, but he doesn’t utter a word as he finishes getting dressed.

A petal falls from the bouquet of purple roses Kafka gifted.

The slight movement earns his immediate attention, a reminder of how sharp his senses are.

You grab a nearby blanket to cover your chest and crawl over, curious about what’s caught his interest.

Blade picks up your crystal lotus. Its multiple surfaces change color depending on the angle he holds it at, refracting the low light in your room. He inspects it with furrowed eyebrows and a frown.

“That’s from my mother,” you explain. “She was never big on gift giving, but… for whatever reason, a few years before her death, she started leaving me little trinkets like that. I have a whole drawer full of them.”

You smile as best as you can, not wanting to be a downer.

“Pretty, isn’t it?”

His eyes find yours in the mirror.

He nods.

#oh boy i sure do hope nothing bad happens!#blade x reader #yandere blade x reader #honkai star rail x reader #yandere honkai star rail x reader #hsr x reader #yandere hsr x reader #yandere #yandere x reader #nexus #my stuff

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