mjsthrillernp

[mjsthrillernp]

LYHOM: Ch 8: Self Control

Summary: Loki tells a story in class. Charlotte has reached her wit's end. WC 4.5K

A/N: Welcome to Professor Laufeyson's class! I hope you all want to read Loki storytelling, because that's what most of this chapter is 😅. This lecture is so unprofessional and I love it 😂😂

Warnings: 18+, explicit description of murder, horny thoughts and sexual tension, playing fast and loose with Marvel comics/Norse mythology (I just used names)

Masterlist / Ao3

The memories of Thor’s visit weeks ago– fuzzy remnants from a drunken haze– were faded, replaced by a hopeful anticipation that things might change soon and release Loki from his current hell. 

Something about that visit had felt different. Thor’s friendly, kind demeanor had been something he had not been the recipient of in a long time. His brother had seemed genuinely happy to see him, and pleased with the life that he was living. 

Renewed in faith that Odin may be reconsidering punishment, Loki had decided that he needed to choose self control over his havoc-wreaking impulses. The possibility, however remote, that his sentence might not be permanent– that he might once again feel the pulse of magic flowing through his veins, might shed this mortal shell and reclaim his rightful power– was too real now.

The prospect of leaving this life behind both thrilled and terrified him. He had acclimated to this existence better than he expected, and had found unexpected satisfaction in not only his work, but his friendship with Nathaniel. There were aspects of this punishment that had become, if not comfortable, then at least familiar. 

But change was coming. He could feel it in the air, a shifting of possibilities as tangible as the changing seasons. All he needed to do was maintain control until then– then, maybe after this was resolved, he would fuck Charlotte. 

Even if the two of them were somehow discreet enough to avoid public exposure– an increasingly unlikely prospect in this age– the violation would remain. The University would fire him. It would be in the papers. Odin would find out, and would see this as further evidence of Loki’s fundamental untrustworthiness, his inability to honor the most basic expectations of his exile.

It was strange to find himself in the position of resisting temptation rather than giving in to it. The god of mischief was not accustomed to saying no to himself.

But the path to his redemption could not include Charlotte Baker. Loki Laufeyson, the man who always took risks, needed to avoid it now. Play it safe. 

So he had done what any rational person would do in this situation– he found a different partner. What he needed was a sexual release– one that wouldn’t complicate his already complicated existence.

After reviewing his previous trysts, he had remembered Mary, a beautiful woman he had dated years ago for a few months. She was smart, independent, and knew what to expect from him. While she was more reserved than fiery, more contemplative than challenging– and she had never gotten under his skin the way Charlotte did– she was easy. And she may not have enjoyed his darker proclivities in the bedroom, but he knew compromises needed to be made. 

Mary was the sensible choice. The safe choice.

Of course, she had been amenable to reconciliation. Loki and Mary had quickly picked up where they had left off, and he had spent hours in bed with her in the last two weeks. He was relieved that their chemistry was still there– comfortable, yet fun. It was different than whatever this was with Charlotte, but Loki had to ignore that. 

Now, classes with Charlotte Baker had become a peculiar form of foreplay for Loki.  

He had encouraged Charlotte to “keep at it” weeks ago, and she had clearly taken it to heart. She had increased her engagement in his class, and her desperation was palpable. Tactfully, he had avoided her attempts to “talk” to him after lectures. He would not give in. He would call on her, debate, and maybe even flirt with her in class. But he would go to Mary for his sexual relief. While it didn’t seem entirely fair to either woman, he knew that this plan was much better for him. 

Loki stacked papers on the polished wood of his desk, watching his students file into the classroom. He saw Charlotte’s eyes follow him as he rose and moved to the front of the room, her gaze drinking him in with a hunger that, weeks ago, might have sent him striding directly to her desk to propose that she see him in his office. Now, he merely smiled, the gesture deliberate and sharp.

She wore a dark green sweater today, the exact shade of emerald that had been his signature color on Asgard. Deliberate, he thought to himself. The soft material clung to her figure in a way that was modest yet undeniably flattering. His color, on her body. For a dangerous moment, Loki imagined how that sweater would look on his bedroom floor. 

No, he would not give in. Not to her, not to himself…but he could enjoy the game, at least. 

"Good morning," he said, addressing the class as a whole while his eyes swept over them with calculated indifference. He rose from his desk, moving to the front of the room where a chalkboard displayed the complex runic symbols he had carefully drawn before class began. “Today we delve into the Second Age Battle in Vanaheim– a conflict that shaped Asgardian diplomatic relations for centuries thereafter. And, as some of you may already know, I played a rather...significant role,” he added with a smirk.

“Who among you can summarize this Aesir victory over the Vanir?” Several hands rose tentatively, but his eyes drifted back to Charlotte, whose hand remained down.

“Miss Baker?” his eyes narrowed critically as he put her on the spot in front of the class.

Loki watched her face, noting the brief flicker of surprise quickly masked by determination as she straightened in her seat. Her chin lifted slightly, a subtle gesture of defiance that sent a small thrill through him. Even when caught off-guard, she refused to show weakness.

“Historical accounts differ,” she replied, her voice steady despite the subtle pink on her cheek. “Some Vanir records suggest you shapeshifted to infiltrate enemy ranks, while Asgardian texts credit you with a “diplomatic solution” that prevented greater bloodshed.”

“Good job, Miss Baker. Insightful as ever,” he smiled at her, admiring her embarrassed grin as she looked away. She was turned on by his compliment, he could tell. A tense flush heat his skin beneath the buttoned collar of his shirt as his mind quickly flashed to complimenting her for taking his cock well.

He cleared his throat, dismissing the thought quickly.

“Both accounts contain elements of truth,” he admitted, “though neither captures the... artistry of the deception.” 

“The tactic I employed at the Emberstone Citadel exemplifies the value of sowing discord rather than confronting superior force directly. When facing an enemy of greater strength, one must employ cunning as a counterbalance.”

“Speaking of survival tactics,” he continued smoothly, walking up the small stairs towards  Charlotte’s desk, “Miss Baker’s paper on Vanir defensive strategies suggests she understands how the battle proceeded.”  

He leaned slightly against the now empty desk adjacent to hers. The posture was deliberately casual, yet it placed him close enough that Charlotte would need to tilt her head back slightly to meet his eyes. She and Ryan exchanged a quick glance.

“Would you please explain to the class how I was personally involved, Miss Baker?” 

The class’s attention moved to Charlotte, whose cheeks flushed deeper. Ryan, beside her, had stiffened slightly, his expression hovering between concern and something that might have been jealousy. She looked nervously around the classroom– all eyes were on them. The weight of collective concentration seemed to momentarily overwhelm her.

“Go on,” he urged when she hesitated, the words were soft yet carried an undeniable command.

“There are some that say that you fed the Vanir misinformation,” Charlotte maintained a steady voice as she met his stare again,  “That General Njord sent half his army to ambush what he thought was the main Asgardian force, but it was actually just a small contingent. Meanwhile, the real Asgardian army outflanked him from the east, where his defenses were weakest.”

Loki allowed himself the smallest nod, just enough acknowledgement to signal his approval to Charlotte, but within he experienced a flash of genuine satisfaction. She had done extra research in the library, of course. Always trying to prove herself to him.

"But there are others who believe that the assasination of the General that day was committed not in battle, but by you," Charlotte continued, her voice dropping slightly. "...that you had used your magic to disguise yourself and kill him." 

There was a faint scent of tension and unease in the classroom as Charlotte's bold statement hung in the air, making some students shift uncomfortably in their seats.

"And what was the outcome of this...deception?" Loki asked, deliberately avoiding direct confirmation or denial of her account. 

Charlotte's eyes remained steady on his, showing no fear despite having just accused him of murder in front of the entire class. Around them, the classroom had grown quieter still, the air heavy with anticipation.

“Well, Asgard won the battle. With minimal casualties on your side. Their texts call it brilliant strategic thinking, but– “ She hesitated, something flickered in her expression– a momentary internal debate, perhaps.

“But?" His eyes remained fixed on her face as she glanced around the room.

“But some scholars suggest it was dishonorable,” she finished, meeting his eyes with a boldness that sent heat spreading through his chest and crotch. “That true Asgardian warriors should have won through strength and courage rather than trickery.”

A curious smile pulled the corner of Loki’s mouth. "And what do you think, Miss Baker?" he asked, his voice pitched low enough that students at the front of the room had to lean forward slightly to hear. "Is honor more important than victory? More important than sparing the lives of your own soldiers?,” he tested her.

“I think,” she replied carefully, “that war requires both wisdom and strength. Deception can be its own kind of courage.”

Of course. She had found a third path through the ethical dilemma he had presented, one that neither condemned nor absolved him. 

Clever one. 

With a smooth motion, Loki gracefully leaned off of the desk and moved closer, until he stood directly before her desk. "An interesting perspective. Though I wonder if you're simply being diplomatic to avoid offending your professor.”

“I’m not known for diplomacy, Professor Laufeyson,” Charlotte replied, a hint of defiance in her tone that delighted him. “If I thought what you did was dishonorable, I would say so.”

“Would you indeed?” Loki chuckled, the sound low and intimate. He placed his palms on her desk and leaned forward slightly. “Then allow me to elaborate on those tactics, since you find them so...defensible.”

Charlotte's breath caught audibly, a small intake of air that only he was close enough to hear. Her eyes widened slightly, pupils dilating in an involuntary physical response to his proximity. He suddenly became acutely aware of the scent of her perfume– hints of vanilla and floral accents that filled his senses. 

Enough. Mind yourself. 

Straightening back up, Loki stepped away from Charlotte's desk, clasping his hands behind his back. The gesture helped him regain his composure as he walked back towards the front of the classroom with casual deliberation.

“And who would like to hazard a guess as to how I was able to deceive General Njord? Anyone?" Loki's voice carried through the room. 

The weight of the previous exchange with Charlotte had rendered the others in the class mute. They would not be adding any more to this lecture today. He smiled to himself– it meant he could tell the story as he wished, without interruption. And this particular story—one of his finest tactical achievements– deserved to be told properly.

“The General was a brutal tactician, undefeated in seventeen campaigns. His armies had laid waste to three territories when Odin finally dispatched Asgardian forces. Thor wanted a frontal assault, of course," Loki continued, not bothering to hide the dismissive edge in his voice. “Battering ram tactics with predictably bloody consequences. I proposed an alternative approach.”

“The art of deception is not merely about appearing as someone else,” he explained, his voice rich with authority. “It requires becoming them– understanding their mannerisms, their patterns of speech, their relationships. The slightest inconsistency can unravel the most elaborate illusion.”

Loki paced the front of the classroom, his voice dropping lower as he delved deeper into his tale. How he had killed Njord’s most trusted advisor and replaced him as second in command. How he had spent weeks in illusion to find that the General had a magical amulet which aided him in the war. 

The class was silent, captivated despite themselves by the personal nature of his storytelling. Loki found himself moving closer to Charlotte’s side of the room, drawn unconsciously toward her.

“The next morning, I replaced the amulet with one that I had crafted while delivering his armor.” Loki’s voice grew softer, his eyes fixing on Charlotte. “A moment’s distraction, a sleight of hand disguised as adjusting his breastplate– and the true amulet was mine, the false one taking its place around his neck.”

For several heartbeats, the classroom around them seemed to fade away. In that suspended moment, Loki felt as if he were telling this story to Charlotte alone, a private confession rather than a public lecture. Her hazel eyes held his blue ones, unblinking and unafraid.

A student coughed, breaking his concentration on her momentarily, and he broke their connection as reality reasserted itself again. 

“The General never suspected the substitution,” he continued, taking on a more professional tone as he looked at the other students. “He believed himself protected, invincible. This belief was, ultimately, his undoing.”

The climax of Loki's tale hung suspended in the air, a held breath before the plunge. He stood perfectly still at the center of the classroom, letting the anticipation build. 

“When the time was right, I struck.” His fingers flexed at his sides, muscle memory from centuries ago responding to the vivid recollection. “Three weeks of performance, of bowing and scraping, of ‘yes, General’ and ‘brilliant strategy, General’ – all culminating in a single perfect moment of betrayal.”

He moved with sudden grace, demonstrating rather than merely describing. His tall frame glided across the front of the classroom in a silent prowl. As he spoke about the final act, Loki became aware of a familiar sensation coursing through his veins– the intoxicating cocktail of power, danger, and successful deception that had once been his sustenance.

“The General was reviewing battle plans, his back to the tent entrance. His guards were dismissed by my own suggestion. I came up behind him,” Loki mimicked the stalking approach with measured steps. 

“Silent as shadow, close enough to smell the oils in his hair, the leather of his armor. He was reading a message from his spies, completely absorbed. Never heard me draw the blade from my sleeve.”

Loki felt a thrum of excitement course through him as the memory sharpened– the smells of leather, sweat, and blood in the air. 

“The knife went in precisely between the third and fourth vertebrae,” he said with a gleam in his eye, his hand making a swift upward motion. “A clean strike that severed the spine and punctured the lung in one movement.”

Several students flinched at the detail. Some exchanged horrified glances as Loki’s storytelling became increasingly graphic. One young man near the window looked faintly ill.

Charlotte, however, remained completely still, her attention unwavering. Unlike her classmates' discomfort, her expression showed intense focus, her lips slightly parted, eyes locked on Loki's demonstrative hands.

“His body registered the betrayal before his mind could process it.” Loki’s expression became animated as he relived his triumph– the careful control he typically maintained in the classroom temporarily forgotten in the pleasure of recounting this perfect execution of strategy. 

“He tried to turn, to see who had struck him, but could only manage a half-twist before his legs gave way.”

Loki’s hand went to his own throat, mimicking Njord’s desperate gasping. “He sputtered, blood filling his mouth, eyes wide with recognition when he saw me standing over him. He clawed at the amulet, realizing too late that it was a forgery.” A cold smile played across Loki’s lips. “I let the illusion dissolve then, showed him my true face as he died.”

The classroom had grown unnaturally silent. Even the usual background noises– shuffling papers, clicking keyboards, the hum of the ventilation system– seemed suspended. There was only Loki’s voice and the collective shock of his audience. 

“The might of Vanaheim’s greatest general, reduced to a twitching heap on a dirt floor,” Loki gave a soft, dark chuckle with remembered pleasure. “The look on his face as understanding dawned on him, just before the light faded from his eyes– that moment alone was worth the weeks of planning.”

His eyes swept the classroom again, noting the mixed reactions of his students- discomfort, fascination, horror. It wasn’t every day that a professor described multiple murders committed by his own hands. Perhaps he had gone too far today. 

He watched as Charlotte fidgeted in her seat while meeting his eyes, her thighs pressing together beneath her desk in an unconscious gesture he recognized immediately. The flush on her cheeks had deepened, spreading down her neck to disappear beneath the green of her sweater. 

He knew this macabre story of his intelligence and power had turned her on. Recounting his victory had churned his own arousal, reigniting the dormant fires of the god he once was. 

“So, as you can see by this example alone,” he returned to his desk, trying to subdue the now growing heat in his abdomen, “The distinction between trickery and strategy is often merely perspective. History is written by victors, who naturally cast their methods as brilliant and their enemies’ as underhanded. Remember, history is merely the agreed-upon lie. Your task as scholars is to uncover the truths buried beneath.”

“Now, on to our next reading…”  Loki continued, his voice adopting the measured cadence of pure academia as he sat in his seat. 

The excitement– that intoxicating feeling of being truly himself again, of being seen and desired for who he was– ebbed slowly, replaced by the more familiar restraint.

That was enough for today.

Unbearable. That was the word that Charlotte would use to describe her Asgardian History and Culture class for the last couple of weeks. Whatever game her Professor was playing, she was definitely losing. She felt perpetually aroused, her head cloudy with sinful thoughts of him. It was as if her body had developed its own consciousness, its own singular focus, independent of her rational mind’s attempts at restraint.

Physical activity seemed to help, marginally. But even as she increased her jogging schedule, her body betrayed her, and she felt hypersensitive to every sensation.

Charlotte closed her eyes briefly, trying to center herself as she left her final class of the day. This was ridiculous. Embarrassing. She was a grown woman, a serious academic, not some hormone-addled teenager unable to control her physical responses. Yet here she was, fighting against a tide of arousal.

She couldn’t think of anything but him. And the truly maddening part was knowing he felt it too. She wasn’t delusional; she recognized desire when she saw it. The tightening of his jaw when she’d smile at him. The carefully maintained distance that occasionally, briefly collapsed when he forgot himself.

He wasn’t going to act on it. That much had become clear over the past few classes. Whatever ethical or professional boundaries kept him restrained, Professor Laufeyson had evidently decided to respect them– while simultaneously pushing right up against their edges at every opportunity to drive her crazy.

Desperate for her teacher, she had forgotten all sense and had tried to seduce him, too. She had tried to relieve this ache. But lately he seemed to be actively avoiding her the minute that class was over. Or he was there early. It’s as if he didn’t want to be alone with her. But then there was the flirting. He had winked at her last week. And today he was practically eye fucking her.

It was torture, exquisite and precise.

She had dug out an old sweater that she hadn’t worn in years just because it seemed to be “his” color, hoping that maybe today would be the day that he asked her to stay after class.

Of course he didn’t, and today’s class was the worst so far.

Her cheeks still burned from when he’d singled her out– his blue eyes fixed on her with an intensity that made her forget there were other students in the room. The way he’d leaned forward on her desk in a way that felt distinctly unprofessional.

And then there was the story he told. It was as if he was bragging about it. To her. It had not gone unnoticed how much he talked to her. How he had zeroed in on her when telling his sordid tale of treachery. His beautiful face, intense and pulled tight as he explained the violence he had happily performed. 

What the hell was that? And why did it turn her on?

Charlotte, you're fucked up. 

She navigated the wide staircase down to the first floor, her hand skimming the polished wooden banister. The marble floor of the building’s main hall echoed with footsteps and fragmented conversations about deadlines, theories, weekend plans drowned out in the background while she obsessed over Professor Laufeyson.

How the hell was this a truce? First, he tortured her by giving her undeserved bad grades. Now, it was by flirting incessantly. Something had obviously stirred between them when he had returned her paper, but this result was not what she wanted. In the nearly three months since they had met, this was undoubtedly the worst he’d been. If he was going to ruin their lives and have an affair with her, he needed to just do it already.

“Bastard,” she whispered to herself. This couldn't continue. She couldn't function like this, couldn't maintain the façade of normalcy while her body waged this constant campaign of distraction. Something had to give.

Charlotte pushed through the heavy oak doors into the autumn afternoon, and she inhaled deeply, tasting the crisp air. The sky stretched blue and limitless overhead, contrasting the bright colors of the leaves– when did it become fall? It was gorgeous outside. 

Around her, the campus hummed with ordinary activity. A frisbee arced across the quad. A group of freshmen clustered on the library steps, laughing loudly. Normal life continuing while Charlotte felt split in two– the serious student who’d worked so hard for this opportunity somehow coexisting with this feverish, slutty creature she barely recognized. 

She definitely needed to get out more, away from her books and intrusive thoughts about the sexy god professor. Last night she was up until 2 am watching videos of him online– this couldn’t be healthy. 

Her eyes spotted Ryan and Jess near the campus bookstore, their heads bent together as they read a piece of paper. Ryan’s arm draped over Jess’s shoulder, his fingers absently playing with her blonde hair. Charlotte hesitated, considering walking in another direction, but the thought of returning to her empty apartment with only her thoughts of her professor for company seemed suddenly unbearable. She needed a reminder of why she was here.

She adjusted her path toward her friends, forcing a brightness into her expression that she didn't remotely feel. “Hey, guys,” she called, raising a hand in greeting.

Ryan looked up, his brown eyes narrowing slightly before his face relaxed into a smile that didn’t quite reach them. “Charlotte! How’s it going?”

Jess, by contrast, offered a genuine grin. “Hey! We were just looking at the campus events calendar. Student union’s doing a slam poetry night tonight.”

“Sounds excruciating,” Ryan said with a laugh, giving Jess a squeeze. “I was trying to talk her into literally anything else.”

“Oh c’mon, poetry night doesn’t sound so bad, Ryan. I bet it’d be fun!,” Charlotte encouraged, relieved to be around her friends. 

“Yea, but I’d prefer to unwind with a beer and some pool, not poetry. And definitely not after today!”

Charlotte nodded, “Yea, Professor Laufeyson’s class was intense,” she said, immediately regretting bringing him up. “I mean, all classes are. Thursdays are just... a lot.”

Ryan raised his eyebrows, “Yea I can’t believe he went into detail about killing that guy. I wonder if anyone complained about it.”

“I mean, I wouldn’t blame them if they did…” Charlotte agreed, though she wasn’t sure if she really did. 

“Laufeyson seemed particularly focused on you,” Ryan observed, something coolly assessing in his tone. “Must be nice being the teacher's pet.”

“Ryan,” Jess admonished, elbowing him lightly.

Charlotte’s cheeks heated. Oh god. “That’s not– I’m not–,” her brows furrowed. 

“I’m just giving you a hard time,” Ryan said, though his smile remained sharp. “You’re the only one taking that class who actually does all the reading anyway. The rest of us are just trying not to fail.”

An awkward silence fell. Charlotte considered making an excuse and leaving, but she cleared her throat, hoping to change the subject to something positive.

“I was wondering if you guys wanted to go out this weekend?” The words tumbled out in a rush. “I need a break from–” she waved her hand vaguely, encompassing schoolwork, inappropriate crushes on professors, and general existential dread, “-everything.”

Jess brightened immediately. “Actually, we were just talking about hitting up this new place on Saturday night. It’s down by the waterfront– The Blue Spot? It’s where that old record store used to be.”

"They gutted the whole building, the pictures look cool," Ryan added, his demeanor warming now that the conversation had shifted away from class. 

"This Saturday they're doing an 80s night– we should go together, maybe bring some more people and go as a group!," Jess continued, her enthusiasm infectious while she did a little shoulder shimmy that sent her blonde curls bouncing. 

"That sounds perfect, actually." And it did– loud music, dim lighting, and possibly enough alcohol to temporarily forget the way Professor Laufeyson had looked at her across his classroom today. 

"Awesome!" Jess clapped her hands together. 

“Well, you guys have fun tonight, I’m going to go home and work on a paper. See you on Saturday!,” Charlotte cheerfully waved, genuinely looking forward to a night out with friends. 

This was what she needed to do– keep living a normal college student life, distract herself with thoughts of her homework and what outfits she should wear on weekends. Like before– when she was mad at Professor Laufeyson about her papers– she wasn’t going to let him force her into a pathetic, needy, desperate woman. Charlotte rolled her eyes at that thought. 

Yea, right.

-> Chapter 9- Aug 8

LYHOM Masterlist

LYHOM Spotify Playlists

Buy me a coffee 💚

[mjsthrillernp]

Made with AI

[mjsthrillernp]

Longer hair~

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I never wanted the throne I only ever wanted to be your equal.

[mjsthrillernp]

🩵

[mjsthrillernp]

Might fuck around and create a fantasy world in my mind to distract myself from the pressures of reality.

[mjsthrillernp]

Old sketch that got second chance.

When I decide to finish one of these abandoned ones I either experiment with brushes/layers or just slap some colour 😅

I guess it's alright?

[mjsthrillernp]

Made with AI

[mjsthrillernp]

[mjsthrillernp]

Made with AI

[mjsthrillernp]

★　　★ ° ☾ ☆ ¸. ¸ 　★　 :.　 . • ○ ° ★　 .　 *　.　.　　¸ .　　 ° 　¸. * ● ¸ .　...somewhere　　　° ☾ ° 　¸. ● ¸ .　　★　° :.　 . • ° 　 .　 *　:.　.　¸ . ● ¸ 　　　★　　★☾ °★ . 　　　　.　 °☆ 　. ● ¸ .　　　★　° .　 • ○ ° ★　 .　　　　　　　*　.　 ☾ ° 　¸. ...in this universe* ● ¸ 　　　　° ☾ °☆ 　. * ¸.　　　★　★ ° . .　　　　.　☾ °☆ 　. * ● ¸ .　　　★　° :.　 . • ○ °★　 .　 *　.　　　　　　. 　 ° 　. ● .　　　　° ☾ °☆ 　¸.● .　　★　　★ ° ☾ ☆ ¸. ¸ 　★　 :.　 . • ○ ° ★　 .　 *　.　.　　¸ .　　 ° 　¸. * ● ¸ .　...some one　　　° ☾　★ ° . .　　　　.　☾ °☆ 　. * ● ¸ .　　　★　° :.　 . • ○ ° ★　 .　 *　.　　　　　　. 　 ° 　. ● .　　　　° ☾ °☆ 　¸.● .　　★　　★ ° ☾ ☆ ¸. ¸ 　★　 :.　 . • ○ ° ★　 .　 *　.　.　　¸ .　　 ° 　¸. * ● ¸ .　　　　° ☾ ° 　¸. ● ¸ .　　★　° :.　 . • ° 　 .　 *　:.　.　¸ . ● ¸ 　　　★　　★☾ °★ . 　　★ ° . .　　　　.　☾ °☆ 　. * ● ¸ .　　　★　° :.　 . • ○ ° ★　 .　 *　.　　　　...is watching you ° 　. ● .　　　　° ☾ °☆ 　¸.● .　　★　　★ ° ☾ ☆ ¸. ¸

Ohh god ohh fuckque, a new thot has emerged

Tom in an angel role 😳😮‍💨

@holdmytesseract @smolvenger @liminalpebble @lulubelle814 @jaidenhawke @alexakeyloveloki @five-miles-over besties say it with me…pspspspspspspspsps

[mjsthrillernp]

Hair You Doin'?

Avengers Bucky

Summary: Bucky loves playing with your hair; running his fingers through it, brushing it. He offers to learn how to do it for a dinner, but it's not for reasons you think.

Content warning: Language, established relationship between you and Bucky, mentions of adult time, fluff.

"Hey, you're back early." You smiled as Bucky walked into your apartment and locked up. 

"Yeah, mission ended early, thank god."

 He plunked down his duffle bag and sighed. 

"Come here." He opened his arms wide, and you scurried into them. 

"Missed you." You said into his large chest. 

"Missed you more." 

He leaned down and kissed your head. You looked up from his chest and smiled. He leaned down and kissed you hard, squeezing you tight. 

"Bucky!" You giggled while he snuck a few tickles up your back. 

"Come on, I want to hear everything about your mission." 

You walked to your couch with him following.

You had sat down and faced him while he talked about what he could tell you. For the most part, Bucky couldn't disclose EVERY aspect of his missions to you, a simple civilian, and you understood. 

You were mainly interested in his safety, what he did in his downtime, what he ate, and saw in the places he was at. He always grumbled if his mission partner was Sam, but you could tell he secretly liked it when they were paired up.

As Bucky spoke, his deep voice sort of lulled you into a relaxing state. You always loved his voice and when he was around you, you encouraged him to speak more since you notice he doesn't say much when you're with his other team members. 

"Here, you can put your head on my lap doll, I know you missed that the most." He smiled and reached out for you. 

You gave him a funny look, and he playfully rolled his eyes. 

"Not like that..." He chuckled while you laid down. 

"Later though..." He whispered making you giggle. 

He ran a hand through your hair and sighed, telling you a story about Sam tripping and falling on a sidewalk, almost blowing their cover as he played with your silky strands.

This was one of your favourite things to do with your boyfriend. You had met him when he was at his therapy sessions. Your office is on the same floor, and he accidentally walked into your office. You had been the one standing by the door waiting for your next patient and got to talking to Bucky. 

You're a physical therapist who works with veterans and thought he was your next appointment, but it turned out, he was just lost. You helped him find the office and for his next appointment, he had brought you a small bunch of flowers to apologize, and the rest was history.

Bucky always liked to play with your hair which surprises you since he wasn't the greatest with being touched at first. He struggled with it and would flinch when you would hug him or reach out for him, but he slowly got used to your touch over time. 

Whenever you were sitting down and watching TV, or reading, he would insist he sit next to you, and he would reach over and play with a few strands of your hair. 

You LOVED it when your hair was played with. It sent relaxing tingles down your spine whenever it was touched, so you always let him. 

Plus, a small part of you thinks he feels safe and relaxed when he does this, so you don't mind helping him feel at ease, especially after a mission.

He played with a few strands, pulling and tucking them in-between one another, scratching your scalp. By the time he was done his story, you were a relaxed pile of goo and had no idea what he talked about. 

"You ok doll?" He chuckled while you only had the energy to give him a weak 'thumbs up' sign. 

"Come on then. It's late." 

Bucky nudged you up and carried you to bed. You quickly woke for him when he proceeded to slowly and gently peel off your shirt, revealing the lacy bra you put on, special for his return.

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The next day, you had gotten out of the shower and were figuring out what to do with your hair when you saw Bucky peek around the corner and lean on the frame. 

"Ugh, I don't know what to do with my hair." You grumbled. 

Bucky watched you struggle for a bit before you decided on giving yourself a basic bun. 

"Whatever, let's go." 

You were going with Bucky to the tower to see some of his team as he had a bit of post-mission work to do. Bucky watched you huff out a groan with it before he chuckled and walked you out of the apartment.

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You were back home watching TV when Bucky sat down next to you on the couch. 

"Movie?" You asked. 

"Sure." He handed you the remote. 

After any mission, there was a mandatory rest period of three days, so you were grateful for the time you got to spend with him, especially since you could make your own hours with your work. You started the movie and snuggled in close to Bucky. 

Halfway through the movie, he pulled your bun out and started running his fingers through your hair. 

"You keep doing that and I'll never find out what happens." You yawned loudly. 

Bucky snorted but kept playing with your hair. After the movie, you stretched out and snuggled in close while Bucky told you what he had wanted to do the following day, so you talked about your plans.

💇🏻‍♀️🪮

The next day, Bucky had gone to the tower for a few meetings, so you left to get groceries. You had wanted to make something decent for supper, so you went shopping. By the time you returned, Bucky had walked in a few minutes after, so you were home together. He told you there was a small get together at the tower for a few government officials and he was required to be there. 

"So, I need to wear a dress and everything?" You asked while cleaning up supper. 

"Yeah, it's kind of a big deal. I have to wear a suit." He grumbled. 

He hated dressing up and wearing a suit, but he looked damn fine whenever he did. 

"Ugh, I guess I have to figure out what to do with all of this." 

You circled your hands around yourself. You weren't the best with hair and makeup, often choosing to just put your hair up in a ponytail and throw on some basic makeup. 

"I can help you." Bucky shrugged.

 You gave him a funny look. 

"What was that?" You chuckled. 

"I can help. I'll do your hair." 

Your mouth popped open as you snorted. 

"It's ok. I'll just curl some strands when it's up." You waved him off. 

"Are you sure?" He stepped close to you. 

"Why the sudden interest in doing my hair?" You placed your hand on your hip and looked up at him. 

"No reason." He shrugged. 

You eyed him suspiciously. You put a few pans and dishes away, thinking about what he said, and looked over at Bucky. 

"You're serious about the hair?" You asked. 

He nodded. 

"I don't mind. I can help you. I'm just not sure what you want or how to start for that matter." 

You sighed and looked over at your phone. 

"Guess I can show you some tutorials online?"

 You grabbed your phone and showed him some ideas. His eyes lit up as he scrolled through. 

"People post this?" 

He watched a lady put her hair into a low bun and slowly explain the steps. 

"Yeah, you can almost find any sort of how-to video on here. I've used a lot of them to fix things over the years." 

Bucky's head snapped up. 

"I can fix things for you..." He muttered then went back to scrolling. 

"I know you can." You chuckled. "But if you're ever away and the landlord isn't around, it's good for me to figure out how to fix something or at least rig something up in the meantime until I can get things looked at." 

Bucky scoffed and handed you back your phone. 

"But I like fixing stuff for you." 

"I know you do." You patted his arm. 

"And I'm grateful for your help, always." You re-assured him. 

"So, if you want to practise on my hair, you can." 

That seemed to snap him out of his pouty-ness, so you handed him a brush, a few hair ties, bobby pins, and walked to the couch. 

"We can watch TV while you practise." 

You placed everything out so he can see it.

💇🏻‍♀️🪮

Over the next few nights, Bucky practised on your hair. He was able to braid some strands, make a wispy bun, and play with a few styles he thought you would want. 

"Hey, this isn't half bad. Nice job Bucky. I think this is my favourite." 

You looked at your hair in the mirror. 

Bucky preened at your praise. 

"Do you think you can do this for the dinner tomorrow?" 

"Of course I can doll." Bucky was confident he could replicate the look. 

He snapped a few photos and bookmarked the tutorial so he could refer to it, but he was sure he could. 

"Ok, then I want this one." You hugged him and he wrapped his arms around you. 

"Ok doll." You separated, but not before he did, he leaned down and pinched your bum cheek. 

"Bucky!" You shrieked making him giggle.

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"You look amazing." Both Nat and Wanda gushed at you. 

"Thanks." You blushed hard. 

Even though you were a simple civilian and in no way anything close to an Avenger, Bucky's team and friends adored you just as he did. You had been dating him for almost a year, and you were surprisingly comfortable around them. For being who they are, they were down to earth and welcoming, understanding that Bucky liked to live outside the tower and compound, and do things on his own terms. 

"How did you do your hair?" Nat pointed to it. 

You blushed and looked over at Bucky before you said, "I had some help." You smiled. 

You didn't want to 'out' him as your 'unofficial hairdresser' since you figured they would razz him about it. The dinner ended with little issues. Photographers got their images, hands were shaken, people ate and chatted, overall, it was successful. They have to do that every so often as it counts as 'good pr' in Tony's eyes.

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"I got lots of compliments on my hair tonight." You smiled wide at Bucky. 

He unbuttoned his black shirt and stood behind you with it open. You swallowed hard at the view. 

"Yeah?" Bucky smirked. He knows how much you like his chest and arms. 

"Yeah." You turned to face him. 

"I didn't tell anyone YOU were the stylist." 

"Thanks." He winked at you and took off his shirt, tossing it aside. 

He threw on a black t-shirt making you pout since your nice view was gone. You sat at the end of the bed. 

"Why did you want to learn to do that?" You asked. 

Bucky cleared his throat and looked down at his feet. 

"No reason." He muttered. 

"Bucky..." You knew there was something going on. 

He looked up at you and sighed, taking a seat next to you on the bed. He turned to face you, taking your hands in his.

"We've been together for what...almost a year?" He questioned. 

You nodded. 

Wait, where was this conversation going? 

"And well..."

 You could feel him tense as he squeezed your hands. 

"I jut thought...You have such beautiful hair..." 

You watched him figure out his next words. 

"Well...I like it. I like playing with it." 

"I know and I LOVE it when you do."

 He smiled and looked down at your joined hands. 

"Well...yeah...I do." He shifted a little.

 "What are you saying?" You asked.

 "It's just...you know I'm crazy about you. But...what if..." He was struggling. 

"You're concerning me Bucky..."

Your heart was pounding and wanted to remove your hands from his but he held them firm. His eyes snapped to you, and they softened. 

"No doll. It's nothing like that, I swear. I just...gosh, this is weird to say this out loud...it's just...well...what if we ever have a baby together...like a daughter. And what if you were at work, or away somewhere and I had to look after her. I-I guess...I just want to know how to do her hair...so it looks nice." 

His face was bright red as he looked all over your room, avoiding eye contact with you. 

Your mouth popped open in shock. 

He was thinking of having kids? With ME? Our future? 

"Buck...I..." You didn't know what to say. 

You had thought of having kids one day, and you had thought of not having them one day, you could go either way with that. You had talked briefly with Bucky about it, and he told you he felt the same way. He also told you he wasn't even sure if he COULD have them, but according to the doctors and tests they ran, it was a possibility he could. 

You talked about marriage and what that looked like. You were in a good spot with Bucky since you were on the same page as him. He had told you he was only going to do a few more missions and was looking at retiring altogether but that wasn't going to be for a while, possibly a year. You were shocked and touched he was thinking about this. 

"Wh-where did this come from all of a sudden?" You asked, curious about his response. 

He shrugged and thought about it. 

"Not sure really. When I was on that last mission...I got to thinking. I saw a woman who kind of looked like you. She stood in a park, helping her daughter in a swing and I got to thinking...what if that was you and me? What if we had that?" 

You thought about it and smiled to yourself. 

"I just...well...The first thing that popped in my mind was...if we have a daughter, or a child with longer hair, I will need to know how to do it. Which is weird I thought of that first as other things would need to happen before we get to that point...like I'd like to marry you first and all." 

You quietly chuckled at his old-fashioned views he had but kind of agreed with him. 

"I know I don't want any kids right away though..." You reminded him. 

"I know doll." He squeezed your hands and let go. 

He exhaled and flopped down behind you on the bed. You turned and faced him. 

"I was so nervous to bring that up. I wasn't sure how you were going to react." 

You flashed him a look but smiled. "It's ok, really. I'm glad you did. I'm glad we're both on the same page." 

You leaned down and snuggled in close to him. He put an arm out, so you rested your head against his chest.

 "So, you want to get married one day? To me?" You blurted out. 

"Of course." He whispered. 

Butterflies erupted while you smiled wide. 

"Good." You stated. 

"Can I still practise on your hair?" He asked. 

"I found a few tutorials I want to try out." He said making you chuckle. 

"Absolutely. I would love that." 

"Good."

 "Good." 

"If we have a kid, I'm going to be the best girl dad there is." He squeezed you tight. 

"I know you are." 

You patted his chest, proud of the man he was.

💇🏻‍♀️🪮💇🏻‍♀️🪮💇🏻‍♀️🪮💇🏻‍♀️🪮💇🏻‍♀️🪮

[mjsthrillernp]

Forbidden Love

Pairing : Karl x Reader OC

Summary : After the death of your husband, Karl welcomed you under his roof. And slowly, subtly, he started to creep under your skin, and into your heart.

Tag(s)/Warning(s) : Light Angst. Mention of war and death. Smut.

A/N : It's a request I got on Wattpad. I didn't proofread, there're probably some mistakes here and there.

Also read on AO3 Also read on Wattpad

Life is cruel. And ironic, too. It has a sense of humor all its own. My husband survived the Battle of the Somme and the Chemin des Dames, only to die three months after the war's end from pneumonia.

A common pneumonia had gotten the better of him, even though he'd survived a war he didn't even believe in. A war he'd been forcibly conscripted into.

Johann and you had been married by convenience. A marriage arranged between your two families. A marriage you hadn't wanted, but it wasn't as if you had the right to have your say. Not really. Your father had reminded you every day until your official engagement that his fortune would provide for you. You'd never want for anything; you'd have a noble name in Germany. Your mother, on the other hand, had told you he was a decent boy. He was kind, hardworking, and, importantly, he loved you.

That you weren't in love didn't matter in the equation. You were just a woman. Your existence wasn't meant to be fair. Nothing was fair for women. And because you had no money to run away, no friends to help you escape, no family support to refuse this proposal, you ended up marrying him.

He had always been respectful, kind, gentle... and boring. Johann wasn't particularly intelligent. He only liked horses, hunting, and card games. He knew nothing about art, he didn't like reading, even his geography was questionable, as for the history of his country... you were glad he at least knew the name of your emperor.

You had despised him immediately. You had no respect for his ignorance, and no matter how much he showered you with gifts, it didn't replace your disgust when he came to share the same bed. You didn't want to carry his child. You were afraid they would be stupid and shallow, like their father.

And now, Johann was dead, and you were alone. With Johann, the entire family fortune had vanished, and the name you'd become through marriage was no longer respected.

Much of your personal belongings had been seized, and because you still resented your parents for selling you nine years earlier as a breeding mare, you refused to return home where your old room awaited you. You didn't want their charity. After all, you were a woman, and nothing was fair to you, you'd thrown in your mother's face when she begged you to come back home. It wasn't your home anymore. Not after they had forced you into this wedding.

And it was ultimately Johann's godfather who took you in. Karl Hoffmeister. You didn't know him very well. He'd come to your wedding, you'd spent your honeymoon at one of his country houses in the south of France, you'd visited him two or three times, but you'd never really spoken to him. Nor with his wife, too haughty, too sure of herself to please you.

You were right to hate her. Karl's tragic story was no secret in high society circles. She had run off with one of Karl's employee, leaving him alone, humiliated, and bitter.

"You're at home here. Deirde will be your maid. You can ask her for anything you need. Anything. I don't want you to be shy about it," Karl had greeted you with a sincere smile.

Embarrassed, you stammered an apology, but Karl had waved it away.

"Johann was my godson. It's only natural that I take care of his wife. He loved you so much."

It was the kind of thing you didn't want to hear. You realised, with painful bitterness, that we don't all mourn the dead in the same way. It took you six months after Johann's death to understand it.

You wore black for dignity, for propriety. Because you were a proper woman. In social circles, people spoke of your understated grace, the sadness in your eyes. But you weren't sad because you had lost your husband. You were sad for not having loved him as you should have. You had never loved him, not for a single second, and now you blamed yourself. You regretted never having been a little nice to him, because he had never been a bad guy, but you had never been in love, and you wanted to make him pay for this arranged marriage.

You often thought back to your wedding. You remembered the tears you had shed before the ceremony under your veil, your father telling you that you could no longer back out, your mother who came after the ceremony to remind you of your duties as a good wife. She'd said that over time, it would become enjoyable, and you might even enjoy it if done correctly. You'd never enjoyed it. Not once. You knew that because you'd learned to pleasure yourself at the age of fifteen after stealing an erotic book from your uncle's library.

And today, you were in the home of a man had known and cherished your husband. A man who didn't spit on their name despite their ruin after the war. A family friend who offered you his roof over your head without question. And you, you were a stranger in your own life.

With Karl, there were no pointless discussions. A tacit routine quickly developed between you: you didn't see each other until the afternoon. You didn't exchange more than ten words at dinner, and above all, there was no need for formality here.

He didn't entertain, he didn't socialise much, and you were free to do as you pleased. It was another life, another rhythm, far from being superficial. And after a month, a kind of sweet tranquility began to grow within you. A peace you had never known, not even as a child.

And then, there was that afternoon when a maid came to tell Karl that you had invaded the kitchen. The cook wasn't happy, the servants were dismayed, Karl was amused. Outside, it was pouring with rain, and there you were, your cheeks flushed from the heat, your sleeves rolled up, busy peeling apples on the old wooden table.

"What are you doing?" he asked with an amused smile.

You shrugged continuing to peel your appel as he sat down opposite you. His gaze on your hands made you shiver.

"Are you making applesauce?" he asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Johann loved it," you replied without looking up.

He nodded, his gaze still on you. The silence between you wasn't heavy. In fact, his mere presence soothed you.

"You know, you don't have to cling to what he loved. You have the right to love something else."

You burst into tears unexpectedly. He had said it kindly, without realising that it awakened all your guilt for never having loved him.

"I never loved him," you spat out, unable to stop yourself.

You immediately slapped your hand over your mouth, your eyes wide. How could you have said that out loud, especially to his godfather?

"I know," he simply replied.

You looked deep into his piercing hazel eyes and knew he wasn't lying.

"What?"

"You cried on your wedding day, you never smiled when I received you, you spoke to him rudely, sharply... You looked just like Charlotte."

You swallowed hard. Telling you you looked like his ex-wife wasn't a compliment, you knew it.

"Why did you take me in then?"

"Why not?"

You frowned, panting. You suddenly felt trapped.

"I saw Johann born. He was a good boy. And he loved you, even knowing you didn't love him."

"He knew?"

You couldn't hide your surprise. Yet, it wasn't as if you'd tried to hide your resentment towards him. At no point did you pretend to be his friend.

"He knew, and he told me so many times."

"He never said anything to me," you murmured.

You had been married for almost ten years, and he had never once said a word to you. He'd never tried to put you in your place, to remind you that you were just a woman who owed him obedience. You'd always thought he didn't care. That he probably had mistresses, and that anyway, after your three miscarriages, he'd lost all interest in you.

"When he came back from the war, he wrote to me," Karl continued, "he thought you'd softened. He thought maybe there was hope for you two, finally. That you were going to make it."

You squeezed your eyes shut. You didn't know. Nothing at all. And three months later, he got sick. It started with a perfectly normal cough. Three days later, he was coughing up blood, five days later you were feeding him like a baby, and two weeks later, he closed his eyes forever.

"I've seen tons of women like you. I always promised myself that if I were ever lucky enough to become the father of a little girl, I would never force her into a loveless marriage. That she would have a choice. To avoid being in your shoes one day."

You sliced your apple a little too vigorously, a mixture of emotions swirling like a storm that would never end.

"I'm sorry," you finally breathed, "sorry I didn't know how to love him the way he deserved."

"You weren't right for him," Karl replied, stealing a piece of apple.

You didn't know how to respond. You never imagined that this man, with whom you'd never exchanged more than three polite sentences, could have figured you out so well.

"You and Johann were too different. You're an educated young woman. Really educated. Not in housekeeping and mending socks. You speak three languages, you're a critical thinker, you know German history like the back of your hand, and you're capable of debating topics that are far from appropriate for a young woman from a good family. Your marriage was doomed from the start."

Your heart was pounding. What could you say to that?

He knew. Everything. He was perceptive, and he recognized that Johann deserved better than you... but that you, too, deserved better than his godson.

After that, something had changed between you two. Winter had set in, dull, cold, biting, and without snow. Every morning, you drank piping hot tea, sitting next to Karl, who drank black coffee while eating a hearty breakfast.

He then minded his own business while you painted watercolours, tended your houseplants, and sometimes you caught him watching you trim a bonsai tree on the veranda. You ate lunch together, facing each other, without speaking. You spent the afternoon reading and sometimes sorting through documents to help Karl. He He sometimes asked you to write letters for him; he involved you in his life without imposing it on you, and you found yourself existing differently.

And while you were looking forward to a cold but dry winter, you woke up one morning and everything was white. Too white. Noticing your gloomy mood since breakfast, Karl suggested a walk.

"In this snow?!" you were offended.

"Why not?" Do you have something against snow?"

"It's cold, it's muddy, it's too white."

He had laughed, you had accepted his offer, and now you were outside, walking slowly through the vast expanse of white that had covered the vast garden like a blanket of both anguish and comfort.

You had talked. About literature, politics, the war and its absurdity, Karl's business, and even his wife. That afternoon, there had been no taboos between you. Just the truth as it is.

You had shivered, almost imperceptibly, but he had seen it and removed his scarf with calculated slowness, tying it around your neck. You had weakly thanked him, your cheeks flushed, not just from the cold. At one point, you slipped on a patch of ice, and he caught you with a firm hand. He slid his arm You leaned against him, the warmth of his body against yours making you slightly feverish.

"Sometimes I feel like I don't deserve my life. I wasn't very brave not trying with Johann," you said, looking up at Karl.

He didn't answer right away; instead, he clasped his free hand over yours. You could feel his warmth through your gloves, and for the first time in a long time, you felt safe.

"You should forgive yourself. Forgive yourself and move on. Live again."

Your breath caught in your throat and you had to force yourself not to cry.

That evening, after a long, hot, lavender-scented bath, you settled into the small living room, a blanket on your knees. Karl came and sat next to you, a cup of tea in his hands. You looked at each other, and without warning, he took your hand in his. An electric current ran through you, and you immediately felt bad for it. You couldn't. Not now. It was too soon; the mourning period wasn't even over. But could you mourn someone you'd never cared about even a little?

Karl felt it too, because he immediately withdrew his hand.

"We're tired," you said, trying to regain some composure.

"No. I'm not. But you still feel bad about Johann. Do you think you're betraying her memory?"

You looked away.

"No. It's me. I'm not ready. They'll talk. They're already talking. I've been living in a divorced woman's house for almost a year, me, a widow, a girl from a good family."

"You'd better go to a convent then," he said harshly.

You looked up at him, hurt.

"I look at you every day, and... You don't have to answer to me. You can leave, you know."

"I don't want to leave," you replied.

But as the weeks went by, the ambiguity of your feelings only intensified. And Karl didn't even try to hide what he felt anymore.

How had it happened? When?

You couldn't say, and neither could he. It had crept in slowly, subtly, silently. One morning you woke up, and for the first time, you felt what you thought you'd never know. This feeling that, for you, only existed in books. You had fallen in love.

"We can't," your voice snapped, one evening when Karl asked you to be honest with yourself.

"We can't do this for appearances? Haven't you gotten over that yet? It's for appearances that you married my godson and that you were unhappy. Ten years without happiness for him and for you."

He left the room without saying anything else, and you stood there, arms crossed as if trying to hold on to something.

Something that wanted to collapse. And the next day, two weeks before Christmas, you packed your suitcase without a sound, wrote a letter that Karl would find when he came home from a meeting, and left. You were going back to your parents' house.

The train ride was long, gray, and as sad as your heart. Your parents didn't ask any questions. You were welcome, you always had been. Your mother treated you gently, like a fragile thing mourning its husband. Except you weren't mourning Johann, you were mourning Karl. Your father had decorated the house, your cousin, heavily pregnant, had come to visit you, and you talked about rags and jam. You listened with half an ear, swallowed up by loneliness. A loneliness you had chosen. A loneliness to escape and that follows you everywhere you go.

Two days before Christmas, Maud, Johann's sister, came to visit you. She was small, blonde, plump, and always had a kind word for everyone. She saw no harm in anyone. Not even in you. Outside, it was cold, but not as cold as the eternal winter that seemed to have invaded you.

"I'm expecting a child," she had announced excitedly.

You had refrained from saying "another one." It would be the ninth, counting two miscarriages. She wasn't idle. In fifteen years of marriage, she had given her husband five sons and four daughters.

"Congratulations," you said flatly.

"We're hoping for another little boy. Well, Franz hopes so, I don't care."

Maud was born to be a mother. She took care of her children herself, refusing any governess or nannies, and luckily, her husband let her. They too had married of convenience, and Lord Richter's mistresses were as numerous as there were months in a year. You assumed, perhaps correctly, that Maud found comfort in her children, and luckily, her husband hadn't forced her to conform to what decorum demanded in your world by keeping her away from her children so that others could raise them in her place. You know for certain that would have killed the poor woman.

"If it's a girl, we'll name her Johanna, in Johann's honour. If it's a boy, Franz would like us to call him Philipp, like his brother."

Philipp had been killed in France. At least, that's what the letter from the Ministry had said.

"Oh, don't cry!"

Startled, you brought your hand to your cheek. It was wet. You hadn't realized you'd started to cry.

"It's not too late for you. You're not even thirty yet. Maybe you'll be lucky enough to find a good man, like my brother. And with him, you can have children too."

Was that why I was crying? Yes, a little. I'd never wanted a child with Johann, but that didn't mean I'd never wanted a child. A little being to love and cherish. A part of me.

"A widow must wear black until the end of time," I replied dryly.

Maud, who never lacked a sense of humour, burst into a laugh so powerful it could have made the windows rattle.

"That's not what Johann would want. Besides, I'm thinking about it..."

She rummaged through her reticule as if it contained a thousand things, and pulled out a crumpled cream-coloured envelope.

"He entrusted me with this letter before leaving for the war. I was supposed to give it to you if he didn't come back. When he came back, I thought about burning it, then I put it in my jewellery box, in case he wanted it back," she handed it to me solemnly. "He didn't die in the war, but he did, so maybe you should read it."

It was still sealed. I put it in my dress pocket, grabbed a dry biscuit, and talked about a play Maud and I had gone to see last weekend.

That evening, after a light dinner, I excused myself, pretending I had a headache, and went upstairs to lock myself in my room to avoid my parents' feigned sympathy.

Lying on my bed, I listened to the wood crackling in the fireplace. Johann's letter lay on my nightstand. I stared at it for a long moment, as if it might jump out at me. The oil lamp on my desk was almost out when I finally decided to open it.

"My dear [Y/N],

If you're reading this letter, it means I'm no longer with us.

I'm not sure you ever loved me. And that's okay. I am in peace with that. I'm not sure I ever loved you the way you deserved either.

I always hoped that what we built would one day be enough, even without passion, even without love. I thought those walls we built on shaky foundations would eventually stand.

I always promised myself I'd never ask for more from you than you could give me, and I hope I've kept that promise.

Each of your pregnancies has given me...

I hoped that we would finally succeed in building something beautiful, and each loss was heartbreaking. I don't know what you felt during those tragic moments. You were unreachable every time, closed like an oyster, and I didn't dare push you for fear that you would push me away even more.

If I never come back, I hope you'll miss me a little, but also that you won't blame yourself for not having loved me. I never blamed you. In a perfect world, you would have had the right to say no and follow your path. But we don't live in a perfect world, and the reality of our universe gave you no choice but to say yes to me.

So, my sweet [Y/N], I ask you to stay true to yourself. Don't play the game of conventions. Be yourself and live. Laugh, explore, accept that you're not perfect, reject what doesn't suit you, and... love. Fall in love for real and build a life of your own, far from the codes of German nobility.

I thank you for these ten years. They weren't perfect, but I tell you with all my honesty, they fulfilled me. For me, they were enough. For me, it was a good life.

With all my love,

Johann."

And you burst into tears. Uncontrollable tremors. You had never deserved Johann. And he had always known that from the start you had wanted more than him. More than what he offered you. And he had never resented it.

He brooded. He should never have agreed to take you in. You had parents. A family. But in a moment of pure selfishness, he had told Johann's mother that you could find refuge with him. That you would have space and time to heal.

The truth was, he wanted company. Charlotte's departure, his betrayal, the humiliation he had experienced, all of it was like multiple scars still raw. He wanted a little company. His health was improving, but his spirit remained deeply wounded.

He hadn't meant any harm. He had just wanted of the company. And little by little, day after day, your glances over your eyelashes, your shy smiles, your intelligence hidden beneath layers of modesty, all of it had warmed his heart.

You were pleasant, kind, and if he was honest, not at all ugly to look at. Quite the opposite, in fact. You were ravishing. Not a cold or conditioned beauty. A natural beauty, without artifice. Your brown curls framed high, always rosy cheekbones. Your long eyelashes seemed to hide a secret, and your mouth, a little crooked, balanced that all-too-perfect face.

As for that secret hidden in your eyes... he'd always known it. He wasn't a businessman for nothing. You didn't fool him.

When Johann, his godson, the boy he loved like a son, came to announce his marriage, he had been happy for him. He didn't know you personally, but he knew your family. Your father was an heir, your grandfather had made his fortune in the railways, your great-grandfather had made his fortune in coal mining. An old name, old money.

When he met you at the engagement party, he thought you were intelligent. Too much so. More so than Johann. His godson wasn't a bad boy, but he'd never shown much interest in studying, and after being expelled from three different universities, Karl had taken him under his wing and quickly realized he'd be a good employee. Nothing more.

On the wedding day, you were crying. You weren't the first bride to cry under her veil, you wouldn't be the last. You would learn to love him, to build your life with Johann, he was certain of it. After all, that's what had happened to him and Charlotte.

Ten years, two miscarriages, and a war later, he understood that you had never loved your husband. That you had been trapped in a life that You couldn't stand it. But you had the decency to mourn Johann. Or at least to pretend.

But every day spent with you had awakened something in Karl that had been extinguished since Charlotte. A throb, a warmth, a hope. But you were young. Twenty-eight years separated you. He had already tried, already been married to a younger girl, thinking she would give him a second youth. All she had given him was more white hair. And he, the powerful tycoon Karl Hoffmeister, had had his heart broken at his venerable age. He didn't want to risk suffering again. And you deserved better. A vigorous young man, who would give you children, who would take you around the world.

And yet, slowly, without too much noise, you had grown closer. There had been that evening when he had to resist, your small hand in his, to keep from kissing you. He desired you, lovingly and carnally. And it was for that he didn't have

You tried to hold back when you left. You deserved better, and he didn't deserve to suffer again at the hands of a young woman who already knew what it was like to be trapped in a marriage of convenience, without love, only duty.

"Karl, another drink?" asked Albert, his cousin.

"Advice, rather."

Albert put down his glass and straightened slightly. He was used to being asked for his advice. He wasn't the best lawyer in Leipzig for nothing, after all.

"It pains me to say it," began Karl. "I promised myself I'd never fall into that trap again. Not with a fragile heart like mine."

"Oh no... another woman," said Albert, picking up his glass of Scotch and taking a long sip.

"Too young."

"No wonder. You have your type of woman," his cousin teased.

Karl gave him a grim look.

"She's my godson's widow."

He said this in one breath without turning to Albert, who had almost spat his drink onto the Persian rug in front of the fireplace.

"Well... you never do anything by halves."

"Loving her is a mistake. I know that. But it happened without me realizing it. She softened something in me, a pain that had lived with me for so long that it took me a while to realize it was gone."

He got up and stood in front of the window, gazing out over the expanse of his garden.

"Does she know?"

"Yes."

"Does she love you?"

Karl thought for a long moment.

"She's hard to pin down."

"It shouldn't be too easy," Albert replied, without mocking.

"I wish it were. After what Charlotte had done and this..." he couldn't bring himself to say the name of his ex-wife's lover, "well, after that, I was certain I'd die alone. After all, the Fates were about to cut my thread."

"You're being dramatic. You should have been an actor."

"And at my age, "loved again" seemed incongruous to me," Karl continued, ignoring his cousin's comment, "but..."

"But you can't decide for the heart," Albert finished with the air of an old Buddhist sage.

Karl watched a fox speed across the grounds. It had surely tried to get into the chicken coop. He should remember to ask the butler to make sure all the hens were okay. He then sighed loudly before walking slowly, wearily, to his worn old leather armchair. Worn like himself.

"Send her a Christmas card," Albert suggested.

"A card?" Karl repeated, raising an eyebrow.

"Nothing too grand. Something simple. A plain Merry Christmas."

"I'm not sure I follow you."

"You open the door for her if ever... she wants to reconnect," Albert suggested.

"And if she doesn't?"

"Then you'll get over it. And if she just wants you to be friends, then you'll be the best friend she could ever dream of having. And if she wants more... well, I hope there's a Hochzeitstorte at your wedding."

Karl let out a laugh that was somewhere between choking and amused. Albert was already thinking about marriage, while he was hesitating between loving again a younger woman who might at best mock him, at worst use him for his fortune, and being content to end his life alone in his large mansion.

The card was plain. Outdated. But it was addressed to you, not to your family. He wished you a Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year. The handwriting was straight, a little difficult to read. A miserable snow-covered Christmas tree on the card. A tree that was cold, like you inside. No "Thinking of you" or "I miss you" or "I hope you are well." A completely impersonal card that you had reread ten times to find a hidden message between the lines. In vain.

You hesitated for a long time. Christmas passed with its propriety but unwarming celebration, then the New Year with its hypocritical smiles and wishes whispered with feigned smiles. And two weeks later, while we were still busy visiting our acquaintances to wish them a Happy New Year without thinking a word about it, I asked to take the car alone. I pretended to visit Maud. Except my destination was completely different.

That day, it was cold but dry. The sky was white as washed linen, the air smelled of burnt wood and coal, and I had a knot in my stomach when the car stopped in front of the familiar manor. The butler, surprised, welcomed me and sat me down in the drawing room after taking my coat. When the door opened a few minutes later, he was there. Straight. Proud. Expressionless. Neither surprised nor angry. A stoicism that impressed me.

"I didn't think you'd come back."

He hadn't said it harshly, but you shuddered, unable to tell if he was happy or not.

We're so glad to see you.

"Me neither."

A silence fell between us. He walked slowly, carefully, to the chair opposite mine.

"Are you okay?" you asked politely.

Karl shrugged with studied nonchalance.

"And you?"

His tone had softened, and if his lips didn't smile, his eyes did.

"I..."

You didn't know. You were too troubled by your own feelings to know. You'd thought about it for nights on end, over and over again. You'd fallen in love. You knew it. For real. And you felt guilty for loving your husband's godfather. A husband you'd never managed to love even a little.

"Maud gave me a letter. Written by Johann before the war. He knew. He always knew. That... that he deserved better. And yet, he was always so good to me," you breathed.

"I know," Karl murmured compassionately.

"I hate myself for not having been able to love him the way he loved me. I hate myself even more for falling in love."

A silence. Heavier this time. You couldn't back away. Karl was looking at you with interest.

"Are you?" he asked, simply, straightforwardly.

"Yes. I know how I feel."

"Are you scared?" he asked quietly.

"Yes. But I came back because I wanted to. Not because I have nowhere else to go."

"Did you get my card?"

You looked at him, stunned. You'd just laid your heart in his hands, and he was telling you about his damned card!

"Yes."

"I wasn't expecting an answer."

"I know. But I'm here now."

"You shouldn't."

Your heart sank.

"I thought... You..." you stammered.

"I shouldn't have believed and let you believe."

His voice cracked, dry but not unfriendly.

"Karl," you said desperately.

It was the first time you'd said his name aloud, and he flinched.

"I was scared, but I'm not scared anymore."

"You're young. So young. You don't really know what you want. And I... I'm old."

"I want you."

He shook his head, clicking his tongue.

"You say that now. But one day, you'll wake up next to an old man and ask, once again, why you trapped yourself in a loveless marriage."

"But I'm in love," you fumed.

"Come on. You're young. Fiery. You don't know what love truly is."

Tears welled up in your eyes, but you held them back, proud.

"You're the one who's afraid. Afraid to try. Afraid to fall again," you said defiantly.

He was about to answer but was interrupted by a maid who came to deliver a tray laden with tea and biscuits.

"The cook is asking if your guest will be staying for dinner?" she asked timidly.

"Yes," you quickly answered for Karl.

He looked at you in surprise but didn't protest.

"You're afraid of falling. So am I." But I'd rather fall again than not try."

He opened his mouth, then closed it. You'd taken him by surprise. He hadn't expected that from you.

"We can try without making any promises," you suggested, your eyes shining.

You shared dinner in silence. Karl hadn't answered you; he seemed to be deeply considering what you'd said. You ate slowly, without tension. There was a sort of quiet anticipation between you. After the meal, he walked you to your car, kissed your hand like a true gentleman, and let you leave without a word.

The next day, you went back.

"We could walk in the gardens," you suggested, your coat still on your back.

He nodded, went upstairs to dress warmly, offered you his arm, and led you into the vast expanses of his estate, still frozen. by the frost.

"The chervil survives," you remarked, pointing to a spot where you had carefully planted it last summer.

"I thought it was more fragile," Karl murmured, looking at you.

"I'd like to come back here."

He stopped and forced you to turn toward him.

"If you do this, people will talk. They'll tarnish your reputation. Everything was excusable before you moved back in with your parents. You were grieving. You still are," he remarked, pointing to your dark outfit, "but... people will talk because they'll suspect you're no longer here to heal, not after you went back to your family."

You swallowed hard. You knew he was right.

"I don't care," you said.

"No. You say that now, but their gaze will hurt you. And it will affect us."

"I don't want to appear. I want to be. With you."

He sighed wearily, and you suddenly felt older than he really was, as if he were carrying the weight of the world.

"There's only one solution. And it's coming too soon."

You knew what he was referring to.

"I accept!"

"It hasn't even been a year since your husband died," he pointed out pragmatically.

"And how long does it take for me to

I can finally be happy, so I can finally live for myself?

You flew into a rage, fury piercing your voice, your eyes, your whole being screaming at the injustice. Your need for truth.

"I was forced into marriage. They didn't ask my opinion. I gave it and no one cared! Now, I know what I want. You want it too. But we're going to live unhappily until our respective deaths for each other? To save face? What face do you still want to save, Karl?! Your wife cheated on you with your secretary and ran off with her. All of German high society laughs at you, so don't make me believe you really care about what they'll say if you marry me!"

He looked at you with a fever you'd never seen in his eyes. And then, without warning, he kissed you. Not gently. Not tenderly. Forcefully. Passionately. Rage.

"Fine for being rather than appearing, but I don't want any pretence. No betrayal. We talk like adults, we solve our problems like adults, we act like adults."

Your breath caught in your chest.

"Kiss me again," you finally whispered.

And he didn't need to be asked twice.

Your parents disapproved, of course. But you had once submitted to their decision, now they would submit to yours. The wedding had been simple, no frills, with few guests. After all, Karl was divorced, you didn't really have the right to be blessed before God, but you didn't care. You didn't need any God to know that you loved him. To know that what you were about to experience, the two of you, would be beautiful, tender, eternal. You didn't need anyone's blessing for this, and neither did Karl.

You had dinner at a small restaurant with your parents, then he took you back to his place. Yours.

"Mrs. Hoffmeister," he murmured, pulling you close.

You smiled as he led you to his room. Your room. When Deirde tried to come help you, he kindly sent her away, saying he was taking care of you.

"Karl," you murmured.

"I've been dreaming about this since the moment you came back," he confessed, kissing your neck.

"Be gentle. Please."

He reached out his hand, and you took it. He gently turned you around, unbuttoning your dress slowly, his fingers grazing the nape of your neck, your back. His lips ran along your spine, his hands caressing your bare skin, the curve of your buttocks, your now exposed breasts. He slid off your dress, your stockings, kissed your ankles, then slowly lowered you onto the bed.

You shivered as if it were the first time. It certainly wasn't. You'd been married for ten days. But you'd never known carnal pleasure. He knew that. And he was determined to change that.

He kissed you, his left hand spreading your thighs while his right found its way to your little bundle of nerves. He pressed gently, then more vigorously as his middle finger found your entrance. Your breath caught in your throat when his index finger joined it. He scissored you, before making circular motions. You came slowly, silently, almost like a shy, still-pure bride.

"Karl... I want you... All of you," you said, already breathless.

He didn't need to be asked twice, and his cock had already found your entrance. He entered you gently, without any roughness, moving back and forth while kissing your forehead, cheeks, lips, neck, and chest. He wasn't rough, he wasn't impatient. He was enjoying himself, but he wanted you to enjoy it too. When he felt you were about to come, he pulled out to prevent you from having an orgasm. He didn't want it to end so quickly. He made the pleasure last a long time, and when he finally made you reach seventh heaven, you thought you'd never come down from your cloud nine.

He came just a little after you and collapsed against your body, his head against your chest. You ran your fingers through his white hair. He then rolled onto your side, pulling you against him. You let yourself fall into his arms, at peace as he gently stroked your tangled hair. You sighed contentedly. It was as if a very long winter had finally ended, as if you were exactly where you were meant to be.

In the early morning, you were asleep against him. His eyes were wide open, not daring to move. He was smiling, happy. When you woke up, you felt the warmth of his chest against your body, still numb with sleep.

"Are you awake?" he asked, already knowing the answer.

"No," you murmured, smiling.

You didn't rush. You talked for a bit, you made love again, and it wasn't until after noon that you finally emerged from your cocoon.

"I never thought I could ever be so happy," you

said

"Me neither," he replied, opening his boiled egg.

And very quickly, a sweet routine settled in between you. Just like before. You shared the same bed every night, you read together in the evenings, and you gardened together when the weather was nice. You sometimes helped him with the account book, you listened to him talk about his business, but also about literature, history, and art. There was also a lot of silence between you, but it wasn't a heavy silence. It was a gentle silence.

And then there was that night. You woke up with a start, your forehead covered in sweat.

"Are you okay?" Karl mumbled. "You kept calling Johann."

You blushed, slightly embarrassed.

"I dreamt about him. He was with some friends. They were laughing."

Karl hugged you a little tighter.

"I hope he was a little happy. Despite our unhappy marriage."

"He was. I know it. He had a thousand passions, he loved spending time with his friends."

You sighed, hoping it was true.

"You have to make peace with the past and let it go. It's us now."

You nodded, squeezing his hand in yours.

"I know. I love you, Karl."

"And I love you," he replied, placing a kiss on your forehead.

You fell back asleep against his chest, calmer, unaware that in the pit of your belly, the fruit of your love was growing. Slowly. Surely. And in spring, without a fuss, a new era would begin. The trees would have budded, the birds would have returned, the flowers you loved most would once again adorn the gardens, and a son would come to brighten the manor.

Your life would be nothing extraordinary, there would never be any great forgiveness or miraculous rebirth, but you would be together, at peace, in a home filled with simple gestures and the laughter of a child you would protect from the wounds that had afflicted you both.

And that was enough.

[mjsthrillernp]

Made with AI

[mjsthrillernp]

I don't know why, but I imagined Frank saying something like this 😅

[mjsthrillernp]

Beach God 

You weren't seriously expecting him to play beach volleyball, right? No no, Loki came to the beach to look expensive and make us all question our life choices.

Gold and green, diamonds and attitude, a tan that says "sunscreen is for mortals" and yes, that is an alligator necklace and yes, it probably costs more than my rent.

Meanwhile Thor, Cap and Natasha are having their wholesome beach day in the background but honestly? We both know where your eyes went first.

Full art on Patreon because Loki absolutely forbids me from doing charity ( his words, not mine)

[mjsthrillernp]

Illustration made with AI

People love to share the AI hits, but they rarely show the weird, broken stuff it spits out with the exact same prompt. Truth is, it’s still a gamble. Sure, it’s better than it used to be — a lot more “good enough” results lately. But the chaos is still right under the surface.