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monstersflashlight · 20 hours ago

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Patreon Commission for @i-got-a-bad-feeling-about-this

Request: Could I get fem reader x demon where the demon and reader meet at a book shop, but suprise it's the demons book shop. It's neat closing, so after seeing read buying monster romance book, he gives her the real thing!

A/N: Accidentally very romantic (and a bit sad), probably will expand in the future because I really like the plot. Enjoy!

The curse

Demon x fem!reader || size difference, tail play

You’ve come to this library since it opened. It’s just around the corner from your house and you are completely in love with the vibe and the general aura of the place. It smells like old books and something sweet you can’t quite point out.

Most of the time it seems like there’s nobody around, not even somebody to ring your purchases, but you feel at home there. It’s like there’s a vibe in the air that makes you be so quiet and calm, your brain shuts up for a bit while you are browsing different titles, and it’s just… peaceful in a world that’s too noisy.

So you started to spend more and more time in the library, you didn’t even know why, but every time you left your house, something urged you in that direction. So you comply with your baser urges and end up walking into the library with a soft “hello” that nobody answers. As soon as you enter, calm washes over you.

Your feet walk on their own to the monsterfucker section, always well stocked. “Always around the monsterfucker books, human, I’m starting to think you have a kink...” A deep voice resonates behind you, half amused, half teasing.

You let out a loud yelp and turn around so fast your feet slip under you, and you feel the world tilting his axis as you fall to the ground. Your ass sounds like a thud when you hit the hardwood, an imposing figure appearing out of thin air with a smirk so big you can see his fangs. He’s magnificent, big and completely red, his eyes so dark they feel endless and his wings so wide you are a bit scared he’s going to knock the shelves over.

“Who- who are you?” You stutter, your heart is going so fast you almost think it’s trying to escape your chest.

He chuckles, looking at you with something close to… fondness? “I’m the owner of the place,” he finally says, bored, as if he’s said that exact same thing a thousand of times. His big body is leaning against the books you were just looking at, and there’s fire burning inside his deep black eyes. Literal fire that ignites something deep and primal inside your chest making you gasp. He looks relaxed and cool, very much like one of the book boyfriends of your preferred romances.

“I’ve never seen you around?” You intend it as an affirmative, but sounds more like a question.

“Haven’t you?” He asks you, his head tilted to the side as he bites back a smile. “The library has a spell, nobody can remember me outside these walls. But who do you think has been checking your books before you buy them? Giving you personalized recommendations based on the ones you already bought?” He tries to play it as if it’s funny, but you see past his cold demeanor and into his very sad eyes.

“That… that makes no sense,” you let out.

Your brain is spinning and you want nothing more than to believe him, something in your chest is pried open and exposed, like a nerve you didn’t know was there but it’s screaming at you to understand whatever he’s saying.

“Of course it does. Come here,” he extends his hand to help you up.

The second your fingers touch an avalanche of memories flood your brain.

Him telling you about the books he likes. You telling him about your obsession with monster romance. Him offering you some tea and sitting in silence with you as you both read. You talking about your past and your most embarrassing memories as you both laugh...

You remember him giving back your memories every time you touch, and how it grew on you. How he changed the way of introduction everyday… and how he said goodbye every evening when you had to go, eyes sad and a tiny smile playing on his lips.

“Why did you do that?” You ask, breathlessly.

Your brain continues spinning, and feelings you don’t know if you can name start blooming inside of you. It feels like one of those night flowers that close during certain hours just to open up again when the sun sets. He’s the moon rising in the horizon as your heart pulls you to him as if blooming...

He smiles, even more relaxed than before, releasing your hand and playing with the cover of a book that has a monster very similar to him on the cover. “What did I do?” He teases, a tiny smile showing his fangs.

“Why did you erase my memory every time I leave?” You ask, and deep inside your head there’s a memory of you asking something similar already.

And just like last time, he reminds you: “It’s a norm. The library forbids people from remembering me, that’s how’s supposed to be.” He sounds like a broken record when he tells you that, emotionless and bored as if it doesn’t mean anything, but you can see past that.

“Then… Then…” You try to threaten but nothing comes to mind. He’s staring at you with amusement, one eyebrow raised. And then you surprise you both: “Then I won’t leave.”

He stares at you with confusion, his eyebrows raised and his eyes big in surprise. “What?”

“I won’t leave. If leaving the place means forgetting you… I won’t leave.” It seems like the most reasonable solution and you curse yourself internally for not realizing it sooner.

He laughs without humor. “You don’t mean that. You have a life outside. You have things to do, a work to attend to…”

You cut him. “I will figure it out. I’m not leaving you again. I- I… I have feelings for you,” you confess. You don’t know where all this bravado and confidence is coming from, but every memory spinning inside your head screams at you to tell him how important he is in your life.

He moves so fast you barely see him before his hands are cupping your jaw and his lips are over yours. He’s so tall you are on your tiptoes, and in a second his hands are on the back of your thighs and he’s pulling you up against his chest. This angle is so much better and you are teasing his lips with your tongue, asking for permission.

His mouth parts and you are soon exploring every inch of his mouth, running your tongue over his fangs until he’s moaning against your mouth and his hands are massaging your ass. It’s the most passionate kiss you’ve shared with anybody, and the fact that is him, the fact that he’s a cursed demon and you are in his lair… It only makes it hotter. You feel like one of your book heroines, and you know what’s next. Your pussy knows what’s next.

“Make love to me?” You whisper against his lips, pulling back just enough to stare into his deep black eyes. He blinks slowly, and a wicked smile spreads on his face.

He moves his hand to the side and, just like that, you both are naked and pressing against each other. Your back finds the shelves and some books fall around you, but you don’t care, you can’t care when his hands are cupping your boobs and pinching your nipples. His tail curling around your middle and the tip of it finding your clit. To your utter mortification you are more than drenched, and the second his tail touches your clit, you cry out in an orgasm that leaves both of you surprised.

“Wasn’t expecting that,” he says with a low chuckle. He looks so smug you want to kick him. Or kiss him senseless, you aren’t sure which one yet.

“Ugh, shut up and stop looking so smug,” you tell him, your hand pushing at his face like an annoying bug. He laughs against your palm, pressing a kiss against it and then against your forehead.

“Do you want me to shut up? Or do you want me to fuck you?” He teases, leaning down to peck at your lips.

You are breathing hard when you answer: “Both.”

His finger travels down your body until they rest against your opening, silently asking for permission before you nod. He kisses you at the same time he pushes two fingers inside your tight channel, making you moan against his lips. He starts a maddening pace, stretching you with his fingers until you are at the edge of a second orgasm and your brain is swimming in a mix of desire and pent up sexual frustration.

“I’m ready, I’m ready, please just fuck me already!” It comes out like a shout, and he chuckles as he pulls his fingers back.

“What my human desires, my human gets.”

He aligns his cock with your pussy, and slowly starts breaching you. He’s big, way bigger than any human you’ve been with, but the spark of pain only makes everything better. Your head is thrown back, and he’s holding you with just one arm as his free hand rubs slow circles over your pointy nipple. You are almost there… You can feel his dick hitting your G-spot… And when his tail touches your clit, you explode into a thousand pieces again.

“I- I’m starting to think your tail is magic,” you joke when your brain comes back from an amazing high.

“It’s not my tail, it’s you,” and with that affirmation he starts fucking you like a powered machine.

You chant his name as he fucks into you like there’s no tomorrow. He holds you to the shelves as the books fall around you, batting some with his hand when they fall dangerously close to your head. He grunts and groans, telling you how good your pussy is and how wonderful you feel around his dick. You are desperate to come again, your body in such need, you can’t even form proper thoughts as he keeps fucking you into oblivion.

“I’m gonna come, darling, I’m so close,” his voice sounds like a plea, and you grab his horns with force, kissing him senseless as you help him bounce you on his cock.

Your third orgasm is nothing like the ones before. The combination of the kiss, his dick and his tail playing with your clit is so good your brain short-circuits and you pant open-mouthed against his lips. His own noises joining yours as he comes deep inside, his release hot and sticky inside your welcoming heat.

You stay like that for a while, your body shivering in aftershocks and his breathing erratic. But reality arrives way sooner than you want it to.

Your brain is spinning in the thousand and one ways it could end wrong. The thousand and one things you should do if you really want to be there with him. But most of all, you need to figure out how to break the curse in the library so you can remember him when you leave. And for that you need to get out and go back home, start researching…

“You have to go, don’t you?” He asks against your neck, his face buried there as he kisses along your jaw.

Your heart is hammering inside your chest before you answer. “I have work tomorrow, but I’ll be back and we’ll figure it out. It’s too late for me to call and arrange for me to start working from home. But I’ll do it. I swear I will.” He doesn’t say anything when he helps you get dressed and walks you to the door. He looks very sad when you leave that day, he doesn’t even try to hide it. “I’ll be here tomorrow and we’ll figure it out, okay?”

“Sure…” He agrees, but you know he doesn’t believe you.

The sound of the door closing behind you leaves a bittersweet taste in your mouth, but you can’t exactly figure out why...

A/N: I’m sorry for that ending (but lowkey not).

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meguwumibear · 2 days ago

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dominant!zayne x submissive!reader

tw for light BDSM, bondage/shibari, sex toys (vibrator), fingering, and some minor angst. mc calls zayne sir like twice. if i've missed something else that needs a tag, just ask! nondescript female reader with a bit of a backstory, just to make her feel more connected to the world.

Additional Disclaimer: Takes place after the events of the main story (which I am not fully caught up on). Reader is NOT the game MC in this fic. In my mind's eye MC decided to romance one of the other characters and Zayne does what he can to move on.

and yes, zayne's harness in the fic is 100% inspired by his harnes in the new trailer

In 2034 the world you as you know it ends. It happens suddenly one mundane spring afternoon. A great, gaping maw opens in the cloudless blue sky above Linkon City, releasing a tidal wave of ferocious monsters unto the earth. Locals come to call the event the Chronorift Catastrophe. The world later discovers that the great, gaping hole in the sky was the appearance of the first ever Deepspace Tunnel which attracted alien beings now colloquially referred to as Wanderers.

Everyone in Linkon City remembers where they were that day. They remember what they were wearing and who they were with. A flashbulb memory, the psychologists call it. A memory that endures. A memory that persists.

Like most survivors, it isn’t just the red rain falling from the sky or the horrible sound of the earth splitting around you that you remember: it’s the actions you took to survive. The people you ran past. The neighbors you didn’t save. The hand you didn’t extend to the woman who tripped over her own two feet running from the creature. The debris you didn’t help remove from the body of the elderly man too weak to push the plank away without aid.

For three weeks you see a therapist. You’re an adult now, still plagued by nightmares of the event. You tell the woman you’re meeting with that you are suffering from memories. She tells you that your body needs to learn that the danger has passed. The problem with that logic? The danger hasn’t. Your body can’t stop secreting stress hormones when you daily lunch breaks are constantly interrupted by Metaflux monsters.

Your past becomes a prison. An inescapable cage. Your therapists asks how you would feel if someone flung open the doors for you. You tell her it would depend on who opened the door and what’s happening outside.

The session before you ghost your shrink, she asks you to practice breathing exercises. She prattles on and on about the importance of nervous system regulation in trauma recovery. Apparently exhaling is supposed to activate the “rest and digest” response—the antidote to the “fight and flight” response that your body is stuck in.

And that’s all well and good but even twenty years later the Wanders keep manifesting in Linkon City in numbers that the Hunters can’t keep up with. You’d move, maybe, if you had the means, though you did read somewhere once that a scared animal will continue to seek out their home, even if their home is no longer safe.

So you find an alternative way to cope with the stress of the new world.

There’s budding red light district about an hour outside the city. You go sometimes on weekends to decompress. Your favorite haunt is a small BDSM club run by a couple of old widows who lost their husbands to the war. They verify ages at the door and ensure all the drinks at the place stay virgin.

You’re not heavy into the scene or anything—you actually have quite a few hard limits—it’s just…nothing else you’ve tried has helped you to shut off your brain. To shift your focus from the past to the present. To shut out all thoughts of Hunters and Protocores and Wanders.

The doms you’ve had up until this point were perfectly adequate; they listened diligently to what you were open to and respected all of your boundaries. You aren’t sure why you’ve never asked for a more consistent routine with any of them. Something, somehow, was always missing from the encounters.

There are a lot of new faces at the club tonight. Or, rather, there are a lot of faces new to you. The club has many regulars, but you don’t make the hike often enough to have them all committed to memory. Still, you’re certain you’ve never seen the tall, stoic man in a leather harness swarmed by a gaggle of women before. Despite the fact that he clearly has his pick of the litter, your gaze keeps wandering to his solid form. The way his abs flex when he breathes. The way his lips quirk when he talks.

He's halfway across the room but must somehow still feel the heat of your wandering gaze because after a few stolen looks he locks eyes with you. Your whole body flushes as he acknowledges you with a raise of his drink. The tips of your ears burn as he takes a healthy swig of the beverage without breaking the eye contact. It’s you who looks away first.

When you chance a glance back over, he’s excusing himself from the women who flocked to him like a tourist attraction to pick his way towards you. Your heart flutters anxiously as he closes in, and you have to remind yourself not to take a step back once he’s close enough to touch.

“First time?” he asks, voice smooth like ice.

“Ouch,” you reply, gripping your own water glass to ground yourself. “It’s not. Do I really look that unaware.”

His expression doesn’t change but his eyes move to assess you, “What are you drinking?”

Though his tone is relaxed you can’t help but feel as if the question has a correct answer.

“Just water.”

“Hmm,” he hums. “Something with electrolytes would be more efficient. If you’re looking for a session tonight, that is.”

“I don’t like the taste,” you tell him, trying to keep the glass in your hand from shaking as desire swells within you.

He frowns, “Without electrolytes, your body will dehydrate, no matter how much water you consume.”

“You a doctor?” you ask.

He hums in what sounds like confirmation before wrapping his hand around yours. “I take the health of the people I play with seriously. This is about much more than sex to me. I like when my partners eat three square meals a day and have an effective exercise regimen implemented.”

You don’t resist when he slips your water from your grasp. You also don’t hesitate to open your mouth when he raises his own perspiring glass to your lips. His fingers don’t even graze you as you swallow down the fruity liquid, yet you can feel your insides come alight as you obey. As your pussy begins to leak it becomes increasing clear to you that you would do just about anything to have this man dominate you tonight.

“Good,” he says once you’ve downed the drink. “Now, do you happen to have a list of what you enjoy and your hard limits on you?”

With shaky hands, you reach wordlessly into your bag to retrieve what the man has asked for. He spends a few moments skimming the contents before simply stating, “I believe we are compatible.”

You follow him to a private room near the back of the club and watch as he begins to gather some equipment for the session. Without turning to look at you he says, “I noticed that you have some experience with light bondage. I prefer to use traditional single ply shibari rope or silk as restraints. These two methods prevent chafing and other potential complications like skin lesions or rashes. Do you have a preference for today’s session?”

“No preference, uh…” you trail off, wondering what the man would like you to refer to him as.

Sensing what’s on your mind, he offers, “I have no preferred titles, but you may assign me one if you like.”

“No preference, Sir,” you say, watching the man for his reaction. He seems unfazed by the moniker and continues to ready himself.

“Do you have any allergies or medical conditions I should be aware of?” he asks.

A lie forms on the tip of your tongue but the truth slips out anyway, “My heart’s a bit weak. Nothing serious. It didn’t develop properly when I was younger. I haven’t had any issues with it before.”

The revelation seems to give the man pause. He turns to you and motions for you to hold out your wrist for him, so you do. His warm fingers slip under your sleeve and find purchase on your pulse point. After a few excoriatingly silent minutes, you attempt to put his mind at ease.

“I’m, uh, a bit more excited than usual at the moment. My resting heart rate is probably higher than normal.”

The pads of his fingers don’t leave your wrist when he asks, “What’s your typical resting heart rate?”

You want to ask what that fucking matters, but sensing that won’t get you any closure to what you want you decide to humor the man. It’s been a while since you’ve been to a doctor. Back when they used to have you track it, the rate could vary depending on what task you were completing. It was higher, usually, when doing something strenuous. When you rested it would drop again.

“Usually around 90 beats per minute.”

His eyes flick to your face as he drops your wrist. “You should see a specialist.”

You roll your eyes impatiently, “Are we fucking or not?”

In response to your outburst, his hands find the hem of your shirt. “Who said I had any intentions of fucking you?” he asks, voice frustratingly emotionless. Your arms raise instinctually as he toys with the fabric, and the takes the opportunity to relieve you of the garment. “As I said before, this is about much more than sex to me.”

He circles behind you and draws you in close to him. It occurs to you suddenly just how much larger than you the man is. He rests his chin on your head as his fingers slowly trace down your sides, leaving a field of goosebumps in their wake. His hands make their way to the button on your pants.

“You aren’t just here for sex. Are you?” he asks, voice low. You feel the words vibrate his chest as he speaks them.

“No,” you whisper, eyes suddenly blurring.

“Good,” he says, undoing your buttons. “Let’s use the traffic light system today. It’s a simply way for me to check in on you and see how you’re doing.”

He lets the words sit in the air for a bit, fingers fiddling with your zipper. The only sound in the room is your own uneven breathing that you fight for control over.

The man pinches the tab of your zipper and shifts so his cheek is pressed against your forehead. “Color,” he asks, breath hot on the shell of your ear.

“Green,” you practically moan.

He slides off your pants with ease once he’s taken care of the zipper. He even helps you to keep your balance as you step out of them, one foot at a time.

“Color?” he asks again, as his fingers settle on the clasp of your bra.

“Green,” you reply, voice steadier now.

He undoes the hook with one hand.

You expect him to remove your panties next, but his fingers instead find the meat of your breasts. One of his arms wraps around you, securing you tightly against him, as you nearly keel over in a mixture of surprise and pleasure.

“Sensitive here,” he observes, cupping one of your breasts in his free hand. He uses a foot to nudge your legs further apart and slip a leg between them. The man isn't lying about getting off on this; his cock is hard as a rock against your ass.

“Fuck,” you whine as his bends you over ever so slightly. Just enough to rub your clothed pussy against his pant leg.

“Wet already,” he informs you, as if you don’t already know. As if you can’t feel the way the cotton material sticks to your lip. “All I did was undress you. That eager to begin?”

“Please,” you groan, desperate for him to take you apart with his slender fingers. “Please, Sir, I want you so fucking bad.”

“On the bed,” he instructs, releasing you, careful not to harm you as his leather harness peels away from your skin.

The rope he ends up choosing for the session is the jute rope. He takes his time winding the instrument around your wrists and pulling them above your head. His movements are practiced and skilled. His hands steady like a surgeon’s. You don’t even realize the effect watching him restrain you is having on you until a firm hand finds its way to your pelvis to stop your squirming.

Once you’ve settled, he retrieves two strands of additional rope.

“Are you familiar with the Spiral Futomomo tie?” he asks. “I understand that you’re still a beginner and tie will force you into a fixed position for an undetermined length of time. I trust you will use your safe word if needed?”

“You can trust me,” you assure him. “I know my limits.”

He must believe your words are sincere because he sets to work binding your ankle to your thigh, checking in periodically to ensure the wrappings aren’t too tight. The man is clearly in no rush and seems to delight in taking breaks between knots to steady your shaking form. You also notice the way his eyes shift to the growing wet spot beneath you as he progresses.

“What do you like about bondage?” he asks as he begins to work on your other leg.

“I don’t know,” you say, attempting to shrug before remembering your pose prevents you from such movement. “I’m never in control of my life anyway. May as well surrender myself to someone I know will take care of me.”

He doesn’t look at you, but you can see the way his eyes lighten. Your response must please him somehow. You decide to push the issue, “You like being in control?”

“I like caretaking,” is his response. “I like giving people what they need.”

“What if I need your fingers inside me?” you dare, feeling bold.

A small smile, but a smile all the same. “Then, you’ll have to patiently wait until I’m finished with the task at hand.”

He double checks all of his bindings once he’s finished securing you, mumbling under his breath about optimal blood flow. It’s cute, the way he seems so set on ensuring this is the best possible experience for you. You can’t remember the last dom you had who was this doting.

When he finally situates himself between your legs, it’s with gloved hands and a vibrator. You jump as the cool leather of the hand covering finds your inner thigh.

“Keep these spread for me,” he says, referring to your legs. Then he’s rubbing the vibrator, still off, up and down your panties with just enough strength for you to truly register the tool.

“You’re soaked,” he observes in that neutral tone of his, though his eyes glistening with awe. You wonder if he even realizes the vibrator isn’t on. His eyes find yours and for the first time all evening he smiles warmly at you. “Don’t worry. I’m going to take excellent care of you.”

Then he turns the vibrator on its lowest setting and your pussy truly begins to drool. He circles the vibrating toy around your clit strategically, watching your response to his ministrations intently. Fire pools in your belly as he slides the vibrator down your cunt and presses the tip of it gently against your opening. The panties you’re still wearing dull some of the vibration, but you can still feel the ungodly amount of slick that slips out of you at the slight penetration.

You do your best to stay still for him as he ups the setting, but your body starts to twitch in pleasure, back beginning to arch, toes threatening to curl. Your breath quickens as well as all the blood in your body seems to pump directly to your swelling clit. The same clit the man is now more firmly rubbing the vibrator against.

“Fuck,” you cry, starting to lose your composure. Your hips buck away from the relentless thrumming of the vibrator. Or maybe towards it. You’re not actually sure. It’s both too much and not enough at the same time. You need more. You need less. You need…

His unoccupied hand presses your hips back against the bed. “Easy,” he coaxes. “Don’t pull against the ropes.”

When you’re unable to obey, too overwhelmed with desire, he switches the vibrator off. The lack of sensation is so abrupt the tears you’ve been holding back finally spill, slipping down your heated cheeks. An animalistic whine you didn’t even know you were capable of escapes you.

“We’re not done,” he assures you, swiping at your tears with his thumbs. You wish suddenly he wasn’t wearing the leather gloves. You yearn to feel him skin to skin. The fabric is warm at least from the heat of his fingers. “You’re just getting a little fussy. I want to make sure everything is alright before we continue.”

He settles back between your spread legs and hooks his pointer finger in the bottom of your panties, pulling it aside to expose your dripping core and swollen lips. “Impressive,” he says, “how simple it was to elicit this response from you.”

He collects some of your spend on his index finger before starting to slide it inside you. It’s met with no resistance. He sinks easily in, straight to the knuckle. When he slips out it’s only to coat a second finger in your slick so he can sink that one in alongside the other. The two digits begin working you in tandem with each other, pumping deliciously against your walls. It doesn’t take him long to find what he’s looking for.

“Here,” he states, pressing and holding the tips of his fingers against the sensitive area. You involuntarily clench around them, body begging him to move them once more, but the man—to the devastation of your body—is nothing but the living embodiment of self-control.

You audibly cry out when he pulls his fingers from you. He locks eyes with you as he coyly promises, “Soon. I’d never leave a woman unsatisfied, and any man who would isn’t fit to be a dom.”

He picks the vibrator again and this time, when he touches it to your clit, it’s under your ruined panties. The thrumming sends a bolt of electricity skittering up your arched spine. Fuck, you’re so unbelievably wet. You feel your pussy fluttering around nothing and hiccup out a sob. You’re so empty. You’re so, so empty.

“Need,” you hiccup.

“What?” he asks patiently. “Tell me what you need.”

“Your fingers. I need your fingers. Please.”

He slips the same two from before back inside you.

“So well mannered," he praises. Then he asks, "Here?” as he presses the appendages against that spot once again.

“Yeah,” you agree, though you’re so far gone you would agree to anything he asked of you in this moment. “Yeah. Yeah. There. Right there. Fuck!”

He uses his fingers and the vibrator to bring you right to the brink of an orgasm. It’s so good. He’s so good. He’s touching you everywhere you need to be touched. Pushing all the buttons that need to be pushed. Your time in these rooms has never felt anything like this before, and you doubt it will ever feel anything like this ever again.

“Can I-”

“I don’t remember telling you that you needed my permission.”

Your orgasm ripples through you, strong and steady like a cresting wave. Once he’s certain he’s wrung the last of it out of you, the man withdraws his fingers and switches off the vibrator.

“I’m going to remove my gloves and start undoing your bindings,” he says.

“Yeah, okay,” you reply.

It takes a few minutes for him to completely untie you. Once he has, he asks permission to massage your legs and arms to reencouraged blood flow which you readily agree to. He produces a bottle of lotion that smells like eucalyptus from his bag and starts working the muscles of your arm.

“I wish they had showers here,” he offhandedly comments. “I don’t like sending people home without a proper washing.”

“A bath does sound nice,” you agree, sagging into his embrace.

“Promise me you’ll take one when you get home. I don’t want you getting into your bed dirty.”

“I would never make a promise I couldn’t keep, Sir.”

A comfortable silence falls over the room as he continues to provide you with aftercare.

“Zayne,” he eventually says, eyes fixed on the foot he’s been massaging for the past few minutes.

“What?”

“My name. You could use it if you’d like. Sir is fine too, if you’d truly prefer it, but I find names are much more intimate.”

“Oh,” is all you muster. Then you tell him yours.

“Could we move to the sofa while we continue to wind down?” he asks after testing the sound of your name in his mouth. “I like the casual skin to skin contact after a session. I’ll remove my harness but leave my slacks.”

“Fine with me.”

It takes Zayne a moment to remove his harness. Perhaps it’s his first time wearing this particular set of gear. You watch him wrestle with the final clasp through drooping eyelids. His expression softens when he catches you lazily staring at him.

“Admiring the view?” he teases.

“Never had a better one,” you reply easily.

He positions himself behind you when he joins you on the sofa. The two of you lay there comfortable for some time, breath seeming to synchronize in the quiet of the room. The world outside this secluded space slowly begins to creep back into your mind. Back to Metafluxes and Protocores. Back to Wanders and Hunters.

And then you start to cry.

If you weren’t so close to Zayne, you could probably hide it from him, but he notices the change in your mood instantly. He tugs gently at your arm, a wordless plea for you to turn to face him. You allow him to reposition you, curling yourself into his large body, tucking your face into his neck.

He pets at your hair soothingly while you let the worst of it out. When an appropriate amount of time has passed, he asks, “What brought that on?”

“It’s, uh, well it’ll probably ruin the moment if I told you.”

“I’d still like to know if it’s all the same to you. Debriefing is part of the scene after all.”

At first, you’re not sure you want to tell him what triggered the outburst, but considering the dynamic, you figure you owe it to him.

“I was thinking about my ex,” you admit.

Zayne stiffens, his caressing hand on your head stills. “They hurt you?”

“They loved me.”

Zayne tangibly relaxes at your response, and he resumes petting your hair.

“What happened to them?” he asks, tone carefully neutral.

“They left me.”

The silence that follows your confession is welcome. You think you even dose off. When your eyes open again, Zayne is full dressed, sleeves of his shirt rolled up to his elbows as he sanitizes the sex toy you soiled.

Sensing you stir he says, “You’re awake.”

“I am.”

Zayne dries the toy and sets it aside, turning to face you.

“I like to follow up with the people I dom for. You don’t have to give me your number if you’re not comfortable. An email will suffice.”

“You can have my number,” you say, gesturing for him to hand you his phone. “I’d actually appreciate a check in tomorrow.”

“Of course.”

He walks you to the train station once he’s certain the number you’ve given him isn’t a fake.

“Remember to get a full eight hours of sleep tonight,” he tells you. “And please eat a protein-based meal for breakfast. Something with eggs and meat, maybe. A shake if absolutely necessary.”

“Yes, Doctor Zayne,” you joke, offering him a crisp salute as you step onto the train platform. Maybe you're imagining things, but you swear he flinches at your response.

A firm hand on your wrist stops you from fully entering the car. You turn to face him one final time.

“About that,” he says, expression unreadable. “I was serious about you seeing a specialist for your heart.”

#love and deepspace x reader #love and deepspace x you #lads x reader #lads x you #zayne x reader #zayne x you #zayne lads x reader #zayne lads x you

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wellofdean · 2 days ago

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I still remember what Jensen said years ago, I think he would disagree with Rob and Rich https://pbs.twimg.com/media/GjTN6m5WUAAxsWG?format=jpg&name=small

Here's the content of that link. Many apologies for reposting, but:

So, my first answer to this is, as I've said before, I am infinitely more interested in the text itself than I am in what any of them say about it, and the text is what it is (GAY). What's nice about these episodes of Rich & Rob's podcast is that they are actually responding to the thing we all saw in our TV box, and saying "Dial it down to 11 guys, geez," which: Yes. Good to know y'all can see a church by daylight.

But also, in the Q&A format at a con, there are loads of different reasons Jensen might say this or that. What's the context here? Who is he onstage with? What's the crowd like? What exactly was the question? Also, this answer rightly acknowledges that the "whole Dean and Cas thing" was poppin' off in season 8. Well spotted. Perhaps he is thinking that the show needed to separate them for awhile so they wouldn't have to just fucking make out already? In fact, perhaps that was exactly the thinking, because honestly, season 9 goes off on the star-crossed Destiel, complete with parallel cross-species romances to interrogate proof of concept and some serious Romeo and Juliet-ass shit:

Dean praying to Cas and saying "I need you here" while he agonises about what to do about Sam; the whole painful kicking Cas out of the bunker storyline with the yearning date prep and the fanfic gap (plus LOADS of other shit in that episode); Cas gets killed by April and Dean tenderly cradles his face and then is jealous about the sex; they have a big vulnerable heart-to-heart about the Sam situation and why Dean kept Cas away and Cas forgives him immediately and helps Dean; Dean takes the mark of Cain and the Crowley/Dean/Cas love triangle start revving up; Collette is invented for the sole purpose of paralleling Cas; the Garth is a werewolf episode is here about finding love in unexpected places! love Is love, yo!; the fitness centre episode with its many implications that Dean is into dudes; Metatron's speech about what gives a story meaning; Gabriel calls Cas Dean's boytoy; Metatron tells Cas "I left you human because I hoped you would live happily ever after" because HE KNOWS; the whole Romeo and Juliet thing in episode 20 with the werewolf/shapeshifter romance that pointedly mirrors Dean and Cas; Dean drops everything to go help Cas, leading to Cas giving up his army for one man; Hannah is invented to throw another triangle into the works; Metatron says Cas is in love..............with humanity; Dean dies (Juliet much?) and comes back a demon.

Like, I am leaving LOADS out.

Firstly? They were 💯 writing it like that. They leaned the fuck in every chance they got. And secondly, y'all get that Jensen pointedly does not talk about subtext, or things that the story is doing on the DL, or about things that haven't happened yet, and he doesn't talk about any of Dean's feelings that Dean would not openly talk about himself? Jensen is actually admirably disciplined and principled about it? And, you know that he could also just be disingenuous on purpose to avoid doing so, and to allow unspoken things to remain unspoken? If he just tells us, where's our joy in figuring it out going to come from? Y'all should THANK HIM for not stealing our joy.

I personally think? Jensen is clever. He is very intentional and I think he knows what he's doing. If you consider that Jensen talks AS DEAN in cons and never goes beyond something Dean would say, well...then it makes sense he would say that in light of the fact that anyone who understands narrative can see that the text itself is WALL TO WALL star-crossed Destiel, because that's what happens when you separate them and then write them as you have been all along. I'm glad he enjoyed it! Me too!

Like, either you think Jensen is a full idiot, or you have to admit that there might be layers to the things he says.

#destiel #jensen ackles #supernatural #anon ask #and ps all those guys are friends #do you think rich and rob are just going off the reservation in ways that would piss off their buddy #who has control of the IP?

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damnfandomproblems · 1 day ago

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About 7434: Buddy… the people that argue or get behind people like you saying that certain types of fiction will make someone diddle a kid whether it be a ship or a fanfic that you personally find disgusting, are probably pedos themselves trying to hide their crimes. Or… people look the other way when actual kids are getting hurt.

I recently looked at a Twitter crash-out where he argued that fiction will make people attack children, but he has made fun of a dead person, he tried to make cryptocurrency, and he blatantly ignored and victim blamed minors (being 13-15 mostly) being groomed and hit on by ADULTS in HIS Discord server. You’re dangerously starting to sound exactly like that guy, submitter.

Not only that, someone on Twitter pointed out a pedophile ring called blue something (I forgot what the actual name was) but someone looked the other way because the person who pointed that out is a lolicon and proshipper. We’re talking about REAL LIFE children getting harmed on social media out in the open and you’re making it about fiction? Good job showing you don’t care about actual children.

People used EDP445’s argument of “Lolicon = Pedophilia.” Which is rich coming from someone who tried to groom what he thought was a 13 year old girl, and then did the same thing again, but with a 16 year old and got caught twice. Like okay, you’re gonna rally behind a pedo to make your argument? Okay, you’re an idiot who does not care about actual children.

If you really, truly believe the yucky fanfiction and ships people like are pedophilic and you insinuate that it’s illegal, then call the police, see what happens.

Before anyone goes, “Anon, don’t say that, they are going to do this and waste resources,” trust me, when people use this counterargument, antis start to fold. Or if they actually do waste resources, let them get punishments for their actions.

Might as well say, “violent video games turn people into serial killers,” “Pokemon cards encourage gambling and has satanic practices,” or women reading smutty romance (even between two consenting adult characters) is sinful then, lol.

Posting as a response to a previous problem.

#fandom problem 7434 #response to previous problem #mod sf

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on-wine-dark-seas · 12 hours ago

Text

The Invitation

Dedicated to the little Black girl who wanted to be all things when the world told her she was nothing. You are everything. 🍯

🪧 Summary: 1050 AD, Heian Era. One full moon, Sukuna meets a dancing storyteller at the Hida Harvest Festival. But after a tragically violent evening robs her of everything, she winds up in a strange alliance with the King of Curses as his guest. 📚 Series: Sonder �� Rating: Explicit ⚠️️ Warning[s]: Rape/Non-Con [not from Sukuna don't worry], blood, gore, description of wounds and dead bodies, cannibalism, recreational drug use [ganja, psilocybin, opium], slow-ish burn, hurt/comfort, PTSD, revenge, catharsis, eventual romance, eventual smut, Ryōmen Sukuna is his own warning. 💋 Pairing[s]: Sukuna x The Writer [⛩️🍯] 🎧 Playlist: [ the invitation ]

⛩️ AO3 𑁍 Parallax OCs 𑁍 Sonder OCs ⛩️

🍯 IV. 地図 Maps

Winter descends quickly, as does the reality of her situation.

She is alone.

Šetû realizes this when she is eating, and her hand trembles at the thought that her family is dead. Sukuna says nothing, watching her with those unnervingly bright crimson eyes. She finishes her food quickly, setting her chopsticks down and dulling the unraveling fray of her nerves with sake. It keeps her warm, though there are parts of her she knows cannot be touched by warmth. Not now. Perhaps not ever.

“Lord Sukuna,” she says, and he seems to come to life where he was previously as still as living statuary. It takes everything in her not to startle when he blinks.

“What is it you want from me?” She asks him. “Why bring me here?”

Sukuna says nothing for a while, almost as if he is searching for an answer to that question in the moment. His eyes rove over her face, lingering on the bruising shadows beneath her eyes. She hasn’t been sleeping, and if she has, not well.

“I hired you to entertain me,” he says in a bored tone. “And that is what you will do.”

Šetû stares at him incredulously.

“My lord, how do you expect me to do that when my entire family has been slain? I have nothing to my name, now.”

Sukuna smirks. “You and I both know that’s a lie, Asiri. You could command a stage on your own with or without your family. It was not they who held sway at the festival that evening.”

At that, her cheeks flush with heat and she looks away quickly. Sukuna catches a fleeting anguish in her gaze before she lowers it, hiding it beneath her lashes. The bruise on her cheek has faded, though he longs to run his knuckle over it to soothe the hurt she thinks she’s hiding so well.

“I don’t know if I can, my lord,” she whispers. “I…”

“You will,” Sukuna says. “In time. For now, you will regain your strength. Winters here are long, and this one is going to be particularly bitter. When you are well again, you will show me this ability of yours.”

Šetû shakes her head, letting out a bitter and despairing laugh.

“My lord, again you bring up this supposed ability I have but I still have no idea what you mean.”

“Stop lying to me!”

His voice barks so suddenly and so loudly that she visibly jumps, and Sukuna can see her pulse beating in her throat, trapped like some sort of prey animal. She grabs the edge of the low table to steady herself, and he watches her breathe deeply, trying to get a handle on her fear. Sukuna hesitates as he watches her and realizes that perhaps she is telling the truth. He has noticed a decrease in her cursed energy levels since she woke up. But there’s something else he sees in her, something she’s desperately trying to hide. He sees it when he observes her wandering his halls like some dark eidolon, when she stands before the desecrated shrine and balls her hands into fists.

When she weeps at night when she thinks he can’t hear her.

“I’m not lying to you,” she whispers, her voice strained with fear and frustration. “I don’t know what I did that night. I danced and sang as I always have. Whatever abilities you think I have clearly weren’t enough to save my family.”

Sukuna thinks about the carnage he found that night, and the one brother still unaccounted for.

“No,” he agrees. “But that is not your fault. You are ignorant of your own potential. Do they not have sorcerers in your homeland?”

Šetû shrugs. “I do not know if that is what they are called. There are people born with…abilities that we attribute to be gifts from the gods, but that word…sorcerers are people to be feared or highly respected.”

Sukuna bares his fangs, and she tenses. Of course, it would be the same in her homeland as it is seemingly everywhere else. Sorcerers feared for their power, yet when war comes calling it is the sorcerers who find themselves on the front lines. Sukuna has never accepted anyone’s yoke, and he does as he wills. He has no enemies that have not declared themselves such, and the Fujiwara and their allies have decided he is their enemy.

“If you will not be useful,” Sukuna says, “then you may go. You’ll be provided with a mount and provisions. Come winter’s end, what you do is up to you, but you will not sit under my roof like some spoiled princess.”

Šetû frowns.

“Lord Sukuna,” she says, and there’s an edge to her voice that manages a pinprick at his usually unassailable mien. “When we first met, I invited you to sit by our fire because I thought it an honor that you would come to see us. I found you to be nothing like the fearsome rumors say, and…I was looking forward to entertaining you. But now, tragedy has befallen me and my family and you’re treating me like some vagabond who has wandered into your home. You brought me here!”

It’s her turn to be angry, then.

“You could have left me to die that night…”

Why didn’t you?

“And we would not be here now, debating you throwing me out like refuse! Why did you bring me here if you were only going to turn me out because I…because I am not useful to you?”

Sukuna is silent in the wake of her tirade, and he can see that her anger is already spent. She’s exhausted, she hasn’t been sleeping well, and she leaps like a cat in a spray of water at every noise louder than a murmur.

“You’re not entirely useless,” Sukuna says, sighing as if he’s annoyed more with himself than with her. “You have your gifts of song and dance. And I can tell you’re a somewhat decent hunter.”

Šetû startles at that.

“How could you possibly know that?”

Sukuna doesn’t tell her that in the first harrowing nights of him bringing her to the shrine that he tended to her remaining wounds himself. That he’d held her smaller hands in his own and found the calluses on her fingers from the bow. He doesn’t tell her that he watched her while she slept, her nightmares suffocated in a haze of opium-induced slumber. He memorized her face in sleep, the way her brow pinched, the sound of her teeth grinding.

The murmur of her brother’s name as her voice broke in anguish and the nightmares began anew.

He doesn’t tell her that her pain has angered him either. Not because of perceived weakness, but because that pain should not have been inflicted on her to begin with.

She stares at him, angry and expectant, and Sukuna says none of these things to her.

“The night you invited me to your fire, your brother said ‘we’ with regards to hunting. I can only assume you were included in that.”

The tension drains from her body slightly, and she seems content with his answer.

“Oh,” she says softly. “Yes, I suppose I am. My brother—” She hesitates, and a sickened look drifts across her gaze like a film of oil on the water. “My brother taught me to shoot for the pot, and to live off the land if need be. He was a soldier before he was a djali. If I have nothing else, I will at least not starve in the wilder places of the world.”

She shuts her eyes, and Sukuna feels her cursed energy spike. It’s slight, but he knows anger when he feels it.

Gods does he know anger.

“Who did this to you?” He asks quietly and she freezes.

Silence is his answer, because right now Šetû is not there. Her body is frozen, and her face is ashen with sickened fear. Sukuna has prodded a wound too fresh to be an ache. She wants to lie to him, but there’s no point.

“Why do you want to know?” She asks. “Is this more of your idle curiosity, or do you intend to seek justice on my behalf?”

Sukuna barks out a short laugh.

“Why would I seek justice? For you? Why would I give credence to the lie that you’re mine?”

She doesn’t want to know why her pulse leaps when he says mine. Instead, she holds fast to her fury, to her rage, to her grief. She clings to it like the sole solid rock in the vicious storm inside of her.

“Then you do not need to know who did this to me,” she says in a low voice. “Because it is not justice I seek.”

Sukuna’s smirk grows into a grin that seems almost manic, and his eyes flare brightly. Now she’s interesting. This is what he sought when he scratched the surface of her. He knew there was a monster under there, struggling to be born.

Vengeance, he knows very well. Vengeance, he can do.

“And do you expect to take on your assailants alone?” He asks, his voice almost mocking. “You, who do not even know your own abilities as a sorcerer, or how to control them?”

“Teach me, then.”

Sukuna pauses, his thoughts momentarily derailed at the words, and he stares at her hard. She stares back, her gaze unflinching. It is the first time since she’s woken up in the shrine that he sees the steel in her. And how can he not? She had brought herself from the brink of true death without his assistance, so she has the potential. What she’s asking for, though…he is not sure she can handle it. He’s not a teacher and his lessons are not imparted save for the purpose of dealing death to those who are not strong enough to survive him.

“You are supposedly the strongest and most feared sorcerer in these lands,” Šetû says. “And I can…I can feel something around you, like a heavy storm cloud wherever you go. It’s all over this place. Something dark and sinister. Something powerful.” She raises her arm, showing him how the fine hairs stand on end. “Is this the cursed energy you spoke of? Is that why people shiver and clutch their forelocks in fear wherever you tread?”

Sukuna leans over the table in a sudden lunge, watches with malicious pleasure as her pulse leaps in her tender throat again, but she does not pull back as he brings his face close to hers.

“Look at me,” he says, and he can practically feel the heat in her cheeks at the words. She meets his gaze. For a moment, they are on equal footing in this contest of wills. She studies him up close: the beautiful but harsh black lines limned into his face, the bone-like plate where his other eyes are set. The unusual softness of his blush-hued hair. She wants to reach out and touch him, to trace her fingertips over the ink limned into his skin, to linger on his—

“I am not a teacher,” he says, his words sharper than he intends. “And whatever lessons you seek will not be survivable unless you are strong. If you want to become a sorcerer, you must do it through skin and blood, for that is all jujutsu is.”

His lower eyes flick to her lips, beautiful and lush and full as they soundlessly shape the word, he has given to the power she senses: jujutsu.

“Then I will do whatever it takes,” she says to him. “Because I will not leave these shores until all of my enemies are dead.”

Sukuna grins at her, fierce and monstrous.

“Good,” he says he says through that fanged smile. “Very good.”

With a purpose in mind, she can turn her mind away from the memories of that terrible night. She takes all of it: the poison of those memories, the fleeting images, all of it, and packs it away. The only thing she has now are two names: Zenin and Kamo. She does not tell Sukuna these names, and she does not know why. She feels like she must keep these names a secret under her heart, which feels like a stone in her chest every day.

The nightmares still come for her, but Oboro and Okoi provide her with opium, which she uses to sleep. Only when the blue cloud of opium hazes her before sleep can she rest.

The shadows under her eyes seem permanent, like bruises she will never be able to heal.

Sukuna does not immediately take her up on the lessons she has demanded of him and instead puts her to work. She relishes the labor, however. It gives her mind focus and clarity, but most of all, it keeps her from opening that box and letting the shadows of her mind run wild again.

Over the course of the next few weeks, she makes herself useful. She cleans, she helps muck out the stable, and she helps hunt. Sukuna had the right of it, of course, but she doesn’t believe for a second that such a minute detail had been his clue. Nonetheless, she arms herself with a bow and arrow and sets off into the surrounding forests to hunt.

Sukuna watches her one day as she skins the rabbits she’s caught in the snares. She is making gloves from the fur and has lined her boots with the same. He frowns in thought when he sees this and then summons her to speak with him.

Šetû is incredulous when she finds herself standing in his bedchamber, where he is standing by his desk, a map unrolled before him. She comes to stand beside him, trying not to be painfully aware of the heat of his body, of the cloying scent of sandalwood in his haori.

“Show me,” Sukuna says curtly.

“My lord?” She asks, wondering what he’s actually asking. Sukuna points to the map and she stares. It is a map of the world.

“Show me where you are from, Asiri,” he says. “You said the night we met that you would need a map of the world to show me, and I have gone to great lengths to procure an accurate world map. So, show me.”

She frowns at him but then stares at the map. It is well-rendered, though there are places that are blank where she knows there are limits to Sukuna’s reach and thus the reach of the cartographer.

“Here,” she reaches out with her hand, fingertips brushing the delicate parchment.

Kozo, her mind whispers, associating the word with the paper beneath her hand. Her fingertips brush over the elegantly inked land mass, where nothing but ocean spreads from its eastern shores.

“Japan,” she says softly. “Where are we in Japan, right now?”

Home, Sukuna thinks absently, as if the answer should be obvious to her. He backtracks when he realizes he considers her apart of his household. Shaking his head, he reaches out with his lower left hand, placing it over hers. It engulfs hers easily, and he feels her tense briefly, but then he gently guides her fingertips over the land, slow and easy, like one would lead a skittish horse at a leisurely pace, settling in a spot lush and secluded, not far from the elaborately illustrated capital marker. Before either of them can process the awkward silence, he takes his hand away, his fingertips brushing over her skin as he withdraws his touch to fold it beneath his haori once more, and she shivers, biting her lip before continuing, ignoring the heat in her cheeks that makes them feel like they’re on fire.

For a moment, there is only their breath, the distant creak of wood, the crackle of the brazier warming the room. Sandalwood and cypress soak her senses, makes her dizzy in the best way. She becomes aware of the heat rolling from his body beside her, steady as if there is a furnace inside of him. She breathes deeply, steadying her pulse, which gallops in a fever cadence.

Sukuna can still smell the blood on her from her hunt and his nostrils flare at the sticky, coppery fragrance. Familiar. He imagines licking blood from her fingers, watching her divide and unmake the flesh of her prey with the rapt fascination of a tiger starved for the succulent meats slain by her steady hand.

“We came from here,” she continues, her fingertips tracing a path westward, across the sea, to the continent. Sukuna’s eyes watch her fingers move over the parchment and briefly imagines what that touch would feel like on his skin. Her fingertips linger in China, Mongolia, India, yet he imagines it lingering on his face, his lips, his throat. He marvels at the path her hand takes, imagines her fingers splayed on the broad expanse of his chest, his heart steady beneath it. The map is his flesh, her hand the brush.

Rûm, Greece, Egypt. His arms, his stomach, his hands.

So many places her dancing feet have carried her, and her fingers continue to travel. Onward, across another sea, until she touches another continent. Sukuna measures the distance as her hand moves over the world.

“Africa,” she says. Sukuna shifts by her side, watching as she traces a path across a patch of desert, settling in a lush cradle of the continent’s western coast.

“Mali Empire,” she says softly. “But I am Hausa by birth. As was my mother before me.” There is a steely pride in her voice, and Sukuna stirs at that. He likes it. Likes her prideful and confident. He thinks of the night he saw her dance, of the searing heat of her dark gaze, of the utter arrogance and haughtiness of her beautiful face. He wonders what it will take for her to get that back.

“So far from home,” he muses quietly to himself. “What were you fleeing from, lost little flower?”

She startles at the name, looking at up at him quickly before averting her gaze. He hadn’t realized she’d heard him. Fuck.

“War,” she says, pretending she hadn’t heard. “Regimes change, and our family fell out of favor. We were stripped of our home and forced to leave. It was Amadou’s goal to one day go back and reclaim it.”

Sukuna thinks of the carnage of that moonlit night, of her brother face down in a puddle of piss. He does not blame her for seeking vengeance, but those lives are snuffed out and she is alive.

Still, he will not dissuade her from her bloodlust. He doubts she will fulfill her vengeance. He doesn’t think she has the nerve to truly see it through. This pain she feels is temporary. Time will tell if she has what it takes. For now, he will reserve judgement and see what she does.

“And now that you are all that remains, what will you do?” Sukuna asks. Šetû narrows her eyes at the map, dragging her fingertips back east, settling on Japan.

“I will kill the ones who did this to me, and if I’m alive after…then, we shall see.” She heaves a frustrated sigh. “But I do not expect to survive, nor do I really care if I do. So long as they are dead before I am, and so long as they know it is I who killed them.”

Sukuna’s brows raise as thunder rumbles in the distance. There’s something in the air, licking at his cursed energy as her fury surfaces like a great leviathan. The thunder sounds ominous, and there’s something spreading around her eyes, like cracks in stone.

Then, all at once, it fades; snuffed out like a candle. Šetû is taking deep, measured breaths. Her hands go to her temples, massaging them as her brow pinches in pain. Sukuna can see her technique forming, the chrysalis quivering on the precipice of eruption. She’ll be fully awakened soon; she just needs the right push.

“Is this all you wanted to see me for, my lord?” She asks quietly. Sukuna looks down at her, the tone of her voice prickling at something inside of him he doesn’t want to address.

“Yes,” he says. “You may go.” He watches her expression closely, but it is suddenly shuttered, her dark eyes seemingly darker as she retreats into her thoughts. She executes a polite bow and turns to leave. Sukuna resists the urge to reach for her. He wants—

No.

He has to wait for her to come to him of her own volition, otherwise she will become a creature he must turn loose rather than one he can keep. If his enemies think her to be his, he will not dissuade them. But if she is to be his, she cannot be a defenseless thing. None in his purview or charge can display naked weakness. They either survived, or he devoured them.

Time will tell if she is more than her meat.

Šetû’s feet cannot carry her away from Sukuna fast enough. This is not fear of the monster that all the stories tell her she should flee from without looking back. This is something else. Her cheeks are burning with inner heat, and there’s something that feels like a squeal lodged in her throat as she practically scurries out of his bedchamber, seeking anywhere to be but near him. She immediately regrets not lingering just a little longer.

He’d smelled so good.

She slaps her hands over her face and crumples into a corner to catch her breath.

She needs to get a grip. Sukuna is not someone one develops an infatuation with, and she certainly has no interest in…in whatever that entails. She thinks of his four large hands, the way he gently guided her hand over the map, how warm and strong he felt. Solid. Safe.

“Lady Asiri?” The voice is like cool water, but there is a tinge of confusion in the tone. She looks up to find Uraume standing before her. “Are you alright?”

Šetû puts on her best approximation of a reassuring smile despite still sifting through the shattered glass inside of her without bleeding further. She takes in their appearance, as delicate as a snowdrop amidst the drifts, ephemeral as if death’s hand is poised just over their head to take their youth. Hair like starlight, eyes like lilacs. They are so young to look so cold and jaded. She supposes being around Sukuna long enough will do that to just about anyone.

She wonders what kind of person she will become if she stays.

“I’m fine, Uraume,” she says climbing to her feet. “Just…did you need something from me?”

Uraume tilts their head. “I wanted to commend you on your hunting skills. You’ve been most helpful in keeping our meat stores full. I had no idea you were a skilled hunter.”

Šetû smiles wryly. “Thought I was just a dancing and singing bard, eh? Well, sometimes I cannot always sing for my supper so I must needs collect the food myself. And…” She looks around. “It is only right that I pull my weight around here.”

Uraume nods. A guest she may be, but both know Sukuna will tolerate no laziness in his shrine, save for himself, naturally. Aside, Šetû needs the distraction of hunting in the woods. She needs to not sit idle while her mind drips with poison from her own memories.

She inwardly winces, as if a bruise has been touched. In a way, it has.

“Lady Asiri,” Uraume says. “About your family…we have kept their bodies preserved because we were unsure how you wished to lay them to rest.”

Šetû absorbs the words like a blow. All at once, she chokes down a lump that suddenly forms in her throat.

“Preserved?” Her voice comes out garbled and hoarse from the effort as tears prick her vision. She rubs her eyes with the heels of her hands. “We bury our dead, but I know here you burn them.”

Uraume nods. “It would be wiser to burn them, my lady. In these lands, the dead can give rise to cursed spirits. If you’d like, I can find a suitable urn for the ashes after the ritual is complete.”

It all sounds so formal and business-like that Šetû almost wants to laugh. It has only been a month since the attack, but the memory of that night is as clear as day to her, as fresh as if it has just happened. The shadows under her eyes are testament to that. Her body shudders and she hugs her arms against a chill that has nothing to do with winter.

“Yes, that would be best,” she says. “Thank you, Uraume. You and Lord Sukuna have been so kind to me.”

Uraume looks somewhat surprised. It is not something they often hear attributed to their lord, but they remember how Šetû offered a seat by the fire of her camp, including them in the private revelry of her family and culture without judgement or spite toward them or their lord. Uraume will never forget such kindness and will endeavor to return it to someone who has proven themselves an ally, at least for now.

Together, Šetû and Uraume make the trek to the icehouse. They pass the stables on the way, where she can see the shadows of horses moving in their stalls. She wonders if their Mongolian steed survived the attack or was stolen by their assailants. Her fist clenches in anger at the memory. Helpless anger and fury that she may never get justice.

But she has a name, and that is good enough for a start.

Takeshi Zenin.

Bile rises to a gorge in her throat, and she focuses on the bitterly sharp cold stinging her nostrils to send it back down.

Uraume opens the latch on the icehouse doors, pushing them open. A deeper chill than the one outside spills from within, and Uraume lights a torch, and Šetû hugs herself tighter beneath her woolen cloak, getting a good look at the place where the meat she and Sukuna hunt is kept.

And it is here she sees the corpses.

Not of her brothers, no, but of other humans. Butchered like cattle, choice meats left to hang on hooks, preserved in a preternatural frost that seems to crackle and whisper along the preserved flesh. Limbs, torsos split open and cleaned out of organs. Šetû’s ears ring with a horrifying sound as a memory thrashes to the surface of her mind.

They say he eats people.

“Uraume…” Her voice comes out small, sickened and weak with fear. Uraume leads her deeper into the massive structure.

“Yes, my lady?” Uraume asks.

“Was…was Lord Sukuna planning to eat me and my family when we arrived here?”

Uraume stops walking, their back to her. She stops too, fear suddenly making her feel warm and weighed down. Uraume’s shoulders rise and fall with a sigh.

“It was not the plan at first, no,” they say calmly. “Circumstances have changed, and he bade me preserve your family’s bodies until you woke and decided how you wished to handle them.”

Šetû still feels sick, but she supposes she should consider Sukuna was considerate enough to not simply eat the corpses of her slain family when he could have. He also could have eaten her and yet he chose to save her and bring her here. To what end? Whatever bargain was struck the night of the festival could not be fulfilled with her being the sole survivor of her troupe.

“Please, Lady Asiri,” Uraume is still as calm and steady as ever. Nerves of steel, that one. “You must understand, my lord is…he has come to expect a certain kind of treatment and reaction from all who cross his path. When you welcomed us to your campfire that night—”

“So,” Šetû says angrily. “I am alive only because I extended basic human decency to him. Is that it?”

Uraume smiles thinly and grimly.

“The world fears my lord as one fears a storm. And humans are predictable in their fear in that what they fear they will eventually attempt to destroy in order to alleviate that fear, in order to maintain the illusion of safety and control. Lord Sukuna has endured that fear and turned it to his own ends. Your kindness and generosity were unexpected but not unappreciated. For that, he has chosen to keep you as his guest.”

Šetû shifts uncomfortably from foot to foot.

“Then if I am a guest, I can leave at any time, correct?” She asks. Uraume gives a singular nod of their head, snowy hair falling forward like a graceful wing.

“If that is your wish, Lord Sukuna shall be happy to provide you with a mount and provisions for your journey. However, I would not recommend traveling in the winter if you do not have to, and I doubt there will be many ships in port willing to travel while the winter storms ravage the coasts.”

Šetû barks out an empty, derisive laugh. Bitter.

“So, I am here for the remainder of the winter, or at least until the first thaw,” she knifes her fingers through her braids, tears of frustration pricking in her eyes. She blinks rapidly, and one falls onto the frozen, hard-packed earth.

“Forgive me if I overstep,” Uraume says. “But is the thought of being here really so distressing? You are safer here than you would be anywhere else in these lands. Lord Sukuna would never let you come to harm.”

“He was just considering eating me not even a month ago!”

Uraume’s lips curve into a small smile. “Yes, and now he is not. Be thankful for my lord does not show his favor easily.”

Šetû lowers her hands, seemingly calmer in the wake of Uraume’s odd but cool reassurance.

“And why do I have his favor, Uraume? Surely it cannot be because of one invitation to share my cookfire? Has the world really been so cruel to him that the most basic human decency is a rarity?”

Uraume says nothing, but there is a heavy weight in their eyes that makes Šetû feel ashamed for being so harsh. She has no idea what a man like Sukuna has had to endure. Judging by his appearance, she can hazard a guess. When she’d met his eyes during her performance that night, she had not seen the things that most would call deformed. She’d thought him a deity, and a beautiful one at that. He was crafted like someone from another world: strong, and tall and solid. Proud shoulders, and a beautiful face with eyes like drops of blood.

And he smells so good she wants to bury her face in his haori and breathe deep until the smell soaks into her lungs.

“I’m sorry,” she says quietly. “That outburst was unbecoming of me. You and Lord Sukuna have been aught but gracious hosts and I have repaid that kindness by behaving like a frightened, beaten dog.”

“Your ordeal was an unfair and horrifying one, my lady,” Uraume says, their voice stern and affirming. “No one here blames you for whatever steps you may take to find your way back.”

Šetû is startled by their words. For the last few weeks, she has turned over the events of that night in her mind, trying to find where she had been at fault because of course she was at fault. She should have done more to try and save her family. Had she been stronger, had she not been asleep, had she not—

“My lady,” Uraume’s voice is weighty with concern. “Come. My ice will hold but it’s not wise to keep the icehouse open too long.”

Šetû nods. “Yes, of course. Lead the way, Uraume.”

They come to two large wooden tables. On them are the bodies of the twins, preserved in that same preternatural rime, and her brother, Amadou. It happens so suddenly that Šetû can’t stop it. A broken sob breaks the algid silence of the icehouse, and she realizes it’s her.

Uraume is quiet, their face a solemn, implacable mask.

Šetû feels the fragile defenses she’s built up for the past month crumble as she looks upon the truth of that night in the cold, lifeless faces of her beloved family members. Her fingers curl into the soft woolen cloak she wears, she squeezes her eyes shut, but the grief will not be so easily dammed once the cracks in her heart turn to shattered glass.

Grief disintegrates her quaking will within herself and she sinks to her knees, shivering and sobbing before the lifeless bodies of they who had been her only blood and her protectors. She is not sure how long she is on her knees, sobbing, wracked with a guilt too unfathomable to comprehend, and so her mind simply grieves. And grieves.

And grieves.

A gentle hand on her shoulder pulls her from the ocean threatening to drown her and she looks up to see Uraume, a trace of sympathy on their face.

“For what was done to you and your family, my lady,” they say, compassion making their usually cool inflection warm. “I am sorry, truly. Your kindness to my lord should not have been repaid thusly. It is not much but putting them to rest is the first step to moving forward. You are not at fault for what happened that night.”

“How can you know that?” She asks, sniffling. Uraume stares ahead as if remembering.

“I have killed before, by accident and on purpose. You’ll waste time blaming yourself for things outside of your control. A grievous wrong was done to you and your family, and it is my understanding you have asked Lord Sukuna’s assistance in putting things to right.”

Remembering her fierce declaration to Sukuna earlier, she nods.

“It is. Though I half-expected him to try and talk me out of revenge.”

Uraume smiles down at her, and there’s a tender cruelty in it that doesn’t match the bloom of youth in their face.

“On the contrary, Lady Asiri: not only will we assist you in vengeance, but we will also ensure you do it properly.”

@queenmimis @thehereticmoon @razrogue @amacabrefairytale @sandwitchstories

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moonmaiden1996 · 3 days ago

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Consuming Love

This needed to be written. I want and need jealous and dark Rupert. Let me know what you think. There’s more to come, possibly from your perspective, where Rupert does sinful, irresistible things you can't escape...Comments are love....

Mature Warning!

Rupert Campbell-Black had never been a man to deny himself. He took what he wanted—thoroughly, ruthlessly, without regret. Women threw themselves at his feet, dazzled by his golden beauty, his effortless arrogance, the sheer brute force of his presence. And he indulged them, as long as they knew the rules: No love. No attachments. No silly dreams of taming the devil. The women who shared his bed understood that, though some tried to linger, stretching their time with him like spun sugar before it inevitably snapped. None were truly surprised when it ended—some even sold their stories to the press.

My Night Between the Sheets with the Bonking MP!Randy Rupert Strikes Again!

The headlines amused him. Good for them , he thought. They deserved their moment in the sun.

Then you happened.

A slip of a thing. Plush and full-bodied. Too young, too sweet, too unspoiled for the likes of him. A bookish little creature with big, luminous eyes that seemed to see through his carefully constructed façade. That was the problem—you knew what he was like, knew exactly what kind of bastard he could be, yet you were so fucking sweet to him. You blushed when he looked at you too long. Stammered when he spoke too low. Trembled when he brushed a knuckle over your cheek. But you didn’t succumb. You let him flirt, entertained him like one might a spoiled child or, in this case, a prowling, entitled man.

You thought yourself safe.

"Don’t be silly, Taggie. Why would he want me? He flirts with everyone. I’m too plain and boring for him. He probably thinks he’s doing me a kindness. You know how he is"

Oh, how wrong you were.

He should have walked away. Let you be. Let you escape. After all, Declan had warned him—you were old enough to be his daughter. Barely.

Rupert had told himself, at first, that it was nothing more than a passing fancy. That he merely wanted the thrill of chasing something that didn’t want him back. He had never been one for inexperience—too emotional, too much trouble. And yet, when he stared at you, he felt the unbearable pull to coax you out of your innocence, strip away the soft hesitancy. To corrupt you. To keep you.

You had ruined everything.

Because the moment he finally had you, he knew he would never have enough. Your virgin body, tight and untouched, should have been nothing more than a conquest—but when you giggled, breathless, body brushing against his in the tight quarters of Bar Sinister, something inside him snapped.

You were just so happy to celebrate, so trusting, so oblivious to what you did to him. You didn’t even notice how you pressed against him, how it wrecked him.

You haunted his thoughts.

He watched you in the Priory library on your breaks, curled up with your books, utterly lost in another world. You were exquisite. He could sit and watch you for hours if he let himself. The way your fingers toyed with the edge of the pages, the little crease in your brow when something in the text confounded you—it unraveled him.

But he was not the only one baying for your attention.

Rage filled him when Freddie leaned too close, demonstrating some new piece of technology, hunching over some blinking monstrosity. Declan was even worse, lingering in conversation, drowning you in his rapturous lectures on Yeats, some Irish poet or another. Worst of all was how you encouraged it, unaware that Declan was positioned perfectly to look down your top.

His little maiden.

Just like those ghastly romance books you loved, full of notions of purity and chivalry. And yet, Rupert had seen the well-worn copy of Lizzie peeking out of your bag—the one with the half-naked man plastered across the front. He wondered, then—was your mind as pure as your body?

Had you read those words and imagined things? Had you dared to picture yourself in such wicked scenarios? Had your fingers ever wandered beneath the sheets, your breath hitching in the quiet of the night, thinking of some nameless, faceless hero ravishing you?

Or had you imagined him ?

The thought nearly undid him.

He should have left you alone.

You deserved someone gentle. Someone kind. A bore, perhaps, who would marry you in some dreary registry office and move you into a grim two-up, two-down. The sort of man who would leave you unfulfilled night after night, who would give you a gaggle of children and a safe, dull life.

That, he convinced himself, would be the true travesty. To let you wilt in such mundanity, to see your light dim under the weight of mediocrity. You deserved to be happy.

Not with a man who wanted to take you apart and put you back together with nothing but his hands, his mouth, and his desperate, all-consuming need to own you.

But maybe—just maybe—you could be happy with him.

With him taking you apart every night with every part of his body.

He would have to marry you, of course. He didn’t mind the sound of that. He would have to. He would demand it.

The only real question was whether to take you before or after the wedding.

If he took you before, you would have to marry him.

If he waited, he could take his time, lay you out on his bed—no, your bed, their bed—and have the pleasure of seeing you sprawled across it, wrapped in the wedding dress he had chosen, the one that already hung in his wardrobe, waiting.

He could ruin you in it, rucking the delicate fabric past your thighs, bunching it around your hips as he drove into you, with his mouth, his fingers, his cock, branding you as his. For now and forever.

Then he could make you beg for it.

And you would beg.

Because by then, you would know.

You would understand that you had never belonged to anyone but him.

And God help anyone who tried to take you away—even yourself.

#rupert campbell black x reader #rupert x reader #rupert campbell black #declan o’hara #rivals #rivals 2024 #rivals fanfiction

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rat-creates · 7 months ago

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Explaining the base road-trip au! (Finally!)

The nuke drops

XD forces himself down Dream's throat as a desperate attempt to keep anything alive

Dream survives, but he's too unstable to exist basically

Callahan also forces himself down Dream's throat to stable him

Dream is left alone everyone he has ever known gone

All that is left of them is the little apocalypses they had all started

**jump to about 1500-ish years later**

Dream has spend his entire immortality keeping all the supernatural shit the dsmp habitants had caused in check

The dsmp has become a parallel reality of sorts, keeping everything in

Everyone from he dsmp has been reincarnated into modern era, with no memories of their past life

Quackity, after a pretty rough fight with his brother, decides that he needs to get away for a bit

A road trip sounds good. He'll drive away and cry and go to the beach and when he comes back everything will feel better

Quackity drives straight into the dsmp.

Dream sees him entering and slips into the back of the car

The fact that its... Quackity. And it's the first person Dream has seen in thousands of years forces him back to his prison era body, wounds, missing fingers and all

Yeah... so when you force down the power of two gods into a mortal they don't end up being the most stable

But if Dream leaves Quackity will die. And he cant- he'd better. He's better then that

From Quackity's POV there's something on his backseat ordering him not to turn around

But it knows how to navigate this hell he's in, so he has no choise

And so starts the worst road-trip in existence

Yipppe!!!

#dsmp au #so I this is the most dry 'hey lemme stablish the world for you guys' thibg ever #'where does the romance come from?' well you see....#Quackity is a freak and decided he wanted to fuck Dream when the guy has just a voice and a bloody hand on his shoulder #... man this is so messy Im not a writer

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ohsweetflips · 1 month ago

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on the one hand i love harping and moaning over missed opportunities for previous dragon age companion cameos bc sometimes bioware really whiffs it (i long for the world where merrill is the eluvian expert instead of morrigan) but. on the other hand. sometimes it’s like. why would that character show up. answer quickly. the answer can’t be that it’s because you like them. it feels very reminiscent of having to accept that our wardens will never make another appearance.

#edit: panicked and added ‘instead of morrigan’ to clarify. this is a bellara love zone #‘zevran should have been in veilguard’ and what would he do. he canonically does not fuck with the crows.#like ik a lot of us are still mourning our inquisitors being super in the background and missed cameos #and sidelined love plots if you didn’t romance solas #and etc etc etc #but can morrigan be an example that sometimes an extended cameo makes a character worse ASLDJSJFJAJJDJS #like varric imo is the only continued main character who remains overall consistent #and even then depending on how you played da2 vs. inq that could be a false statement #but like. i banked on josephine being in veilguard when i figured that we would see antiva #and that the inquisition would still have some presence #she literally however. has no place in the plot of veilguard.#and also since i’m on this soapbox already #i also mourn what the inquisitor could have been in veilguard #i did love his (mine) presence where it was but also very like. blank slate insert.#i too had theories upon theories of how big the inq’s role could have been #and i went near apoplectic when bioware said that the inq’s story was over after trespasser #and i am still mad today that drinking from the well of sorrows had literally no actual impact on the story #bc solas is in rook’s head and morrigan has the aspect of mythal #however. sometimes. when i see people now be like ‘the inq shouldve been the hero of veilguard’#i just kinda. softly side eye like. we had nearly a decade preparing for this. we’ve known since trespasser that they won’t be.#and even then bioware confirmed in like. what. 2020/2021? that da4 would have a new hero #like trust me i get the umbrage and if i dwell on it then yeah past frustrations boil up #but also tbf trespasser did end with the inq literally saying that they need to find people that solas doesn’t know #besides i love rook as a hero i think they’re fun #i saw someone say that rook was brought in to make the game accessible to new players and even if that’s true #i think veilguard is near impossible to play if you haven’t played /at the very least/ inquisition and it’s dlcs #but yeah tldr. honestly as i come to play veilguard more and love it more and more i will naturally become more critical #as i am with inquisition (my beloved game that i sometimes want to uproot)#but honestly. i wanted to enjoy veilguard so after a while i just had to like. put my inq back in his toy box and accept that he’s gonna be #a bit of a paper doll for the rest of the games

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comixandco · 2 years ago

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i’m just

there must be so many gaps in jieum’s memory

she was the girl of many trades but can she remember how she learnt any of those skills? No they were all from her past lives so they’re gone. Can she remember leaving her neglectful family to live with ae-gyeong? No because she was from a past life, so where does ji-eum think she grew up? She remembers being good at school and her awards but not if anybody was there in the audience for her. She says in her phone call to her superior that she remembers switching departments before, but she doesn’t remember working in the hotel. She cooks meals the exact way as ae-gyeong taught her and she taught ae-gyeong, but she doesn’t remember having learnt them. if she can’t remember anything to do with her past lives, she wouldn’t be able to remember anything that had happened in the past few months the drama is set over.

that must be such an odd and confusing existence, to only remember small dots and flashes of your life, and a giant gap in recent memory, and she doesn’t even seem to be affected by it either? Did she go to the hospital after coming to consciousness standing on a bridge with no idea how she got there? Did they run tests on her brain to see if something had gone wrong? Does she think she suffered a mental breakdown?

What is going on in ji-eum’s brain in those final scenes i want to dissect her thoughts like a grape

#see you in my 19th life #did she move back into her old job on the suggestion of a therapist who is helping her with her sudden memory loss?#she was living with ae-gyeong where did she think she lived?#does she have monthly visits to a group of doctors that are fascinated by her oddly specific memory loss?#in those first few days after losing all her memories. did people she knew try to approach her and she freaked?#if she’d gone to the hospital ae-gyeong would be her emergency contact. maybe it just slipped through the cracks because she was also in #hospital recovering from surgery at the time.#there is a large set of contacts in ji-eum’s phone that she doesn’t recognise at all - not just numbers from her loved ones #but contacts for her job at the hotel as well and anybody she’d met during the show’s run #imagine with me if you will if there had been one final episode instead of those few scenes #ji-eum recovering from what she can only assume is some kind of mental breakdown from stress and her childhood #ae-gyeong coming to visit her in hospital and this deliciously heart-wrenching scene that mirrors ji-eum by her bedside when she was ill #and ji-eum doesn’t recognise her at all and only feels a base level of concern knowing ae-gyeong had surgery not long before #ae-gyeong promising to take care of ji-eum but turns her down because her head and heart hurt from being near her so she rents out an #apartment. she has no recollection of working at the hotel and seo-ha isn’t ready to see her yet it’s too soon so doyun has to handle her #transition back to the engineering track. and in her phone she deletes all the contacts she doesn’t know but when she looks at the photos #and icr if she took one with seo-ha but she must have but defo the one with her ae-gyeong and cho-won. she can’t bear to delete them #even though she doesn’t know them or remember why they were taking this photo. but bc it’s a romance she has to have a few photos of seo-ha #and she sort of ponders over them like. who are you. who were you to me. but it hurts her head so she puts down her phone #and there can be a bunch of times throughout the episode where she just misses him like. she’s asleep in hospital and he brings her flowers #and she wakes up just in time to see the back of his head leaving the room. she could visit ae-gyeong to try to rebuild this #parental relationship she doesn’t remember but has all the proof that this is the lady who raised her. and like in the show seo-ha could be #sat right behind her but he doesn’t interact with her directly they just do the napkin bit and then he leaves w/o looking at her #and the meet-up with cho-won could stay the same with the difference that ji-eum recognises her from their photo and says something like #’we know each other don’t we.’ and cho-won gets so excited and maybe even calls them sisters but then she realises what she’s doing and is #like. ‘that’s how it felt for me. we worked together just a few months ago. i’m cho-won’ and then ji-eum can do that #gorgeous reach for her memories from the show where she rolls the name around her mouth because it’s just so familiar #and ofc i’d change nothinf about the scene where she finally re-unites with seo-ha that was delicious af #but i feel like there were just too many gaps in her memories for it to have been smoothed over y’know?#disclaimer i read the webtoon first and loved it but think it had to change for the adaptation

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unproduciblesmackdown · 4 months ago

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lavender marriage / beard for the soulmate or timeloop au

#insofar as Destined To Be With This Person Romantically is akin to; you know; the demands of Romance irl #but where it's like. the universe has arranged the marriage. the universe has [marriage traditions from ''abducting A Bride is fine'']#like what's the equivalent of trying to juke / thwart the Destined Pairing in [vs fantastical premise where Reality demands it]#horror angle of being the person pushed towards the soulmate. horror angle of Being designated someone's soulmate #or even the person they Must have some kind of interaction with to Proceed lol. it Must happen #plus being the person in a loop who doesn't get to know about the looping; bonus points for the horror #sure you're not dealing w/the horror of loop awareness lol but that the lack of awareness / info puts you on the back foot #that you Are aware this elevated vulnerability could be happening anytime whether you are clued in about it or not #the ol What They Don't Know Can't Hurt Them like well is that true. does it make the Unknown Hurting perfectly fine actually #like imagining if there was knowledge like at any given time someone could be in their timeloop & you have no idea lol....#sure could affect things in ways. & in a reality here where people sure break out ''well we gotta See What Happens if we kiss/date &c''#anyway so bring it around to how do you ward it off. shift the [this would all be scary yeah] to the comedy side of the horror same coin #lavender marriages of soulmate aus b/c Sigh Well If We Gotta; Then #figuring out the parameters like when how does the universe decide you've Learned Your Lesson lol. [omniscient god?] issues now #but is it omnipotence as well. time looping might suggest it but you kiss the right person like well damn that's romance cue enough #can you be my beard so i can leave Today :/ yeah the timestream is requiring it (cue whatever Proving / Arguing that this is happening)#but still already fond of the Just Cranking My Thang Crazy Style out of the timeloop. loop just gets sick of it #all the Flexibility in what loops / Destined Relationships are For yeah sure but this is about the inherent You Gotta. You Have To.#the Horror Element is unsurprising b/c it's like yeah....yeah that's the narrative of Romance for you #or the broader narrative of ''the way this person feels about you means they want xyz from you / are entitled to a kind/level of access''#i think ''kicked out of the timeloop for not learning any life lessons just cranking my thang'' And ''but what if god is doing this to me #but without truly unlimited omniscience &/or omnipotence'' is also basically hiagb #which Nodding at how Romantic Love comes up in there but as a Wrench In The Gears vs destiny or even true solution(tm)#hm what if the person made aware of someone else's loop is the assigned Destiny but is like i gotta get outta here lmao #you have until the end of the day. you have until they Maybe tell you again....#either party being Helped by some third party like wow check out This surprising partnership we've discovered :o well anyway. no romo #tl;dr just like the comedy of evading the horror of romance as Destined Meaning & Meanintful Destiny irl. in the au contexts #& i said lovelessness lol no Replacing it w/true lifelong friendship. no replacing it w/''cranking your thang? whoa replaced w/Yourself''#[you just are you should just be] + nothing one Has to do to escape the demands of [the universe?] or [person demanded by the universe]#no authority & no Love (but what if the You Gotta was framed in positive language once there's a tiny bit more wiggle room actually)

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rosiereveries · 2 months ago

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Regency!John Price who inherited his brothers duke title, because his brother died without an heir. John was the second oldest son, and he never thought about being the successor to the title, so he chose a military career.

He was a captain who fought wars and won them, not some lord who fancied balls and dressed in fancy clothing. But now he doesn’t have a choice. John comes back home after he has been badly injured in the battle, he was shot in his leg, and he had to use a wheelchair for quite some time.

When he comes home, to the new house and staff who pities him, he doesn’t feel like a man he once was. At the first ball he must attend he can see everyone eyes on him as he stumbles with his cane. He absolutely hates it. So, he makes a plane, he has to quickly marry some girl, make an heir and go live to the countryside where everyone will leave him alone.

You were on the other hand the youngest daughter of noble family. You weren’t rich, but your sisters and brothers married well, so you could keep good family reputation. Now it was your turn to marry, and as you were introduced to the society you quickly came to the realization, that you will probably end as a wife of some old man, who could be your grandfather.

So, when your cousin Johnny mentions, that his loyal friend and mentor John Price is looking for a wife you are interested. He tells you that John is a duke now and that he wants to get married as soon as possible. From Johnnys stories you know that John is a good man, who will hopefully respect you and treat you well.

You don’t get to meet your husband till the day of the wedding. The whole engagement is short and feels very official. He writes you a letter with things that you should know about your new home and your mother and sisters help you prepare for the married life.

When you finally see your future husband standing in the church, you’re quite surprised. He is very handsome, older than you, probably in his late 30s, but you’re sure that if he waited a little, he could find a better wife that you will be. John on the other hand is smitten by you, he also doesn’t understand why you would choose to marry him.

After the ceremony you immediately leave the town. He is very quiet the whole ride to his mansion and even thought you have many questions you stay quiet too. You arrive late in the night, exhausted from the long travel, but the only thing that concerns you is the wedding night. You heard a lot of horrible stories told by maids about their first nights with their husbands. The only thing that John does is that he shows you your room, tells you which butler to call if you have any troubles and he is gone. You’re left in the huge mansion alone and confused.

The breakfast takes place in the dining room. You sit at the table so far from John that you would have to shout to get his attention. He ignores you most of the time. At first you don’t mind it, you finally have some sort of freedom, you explore the land, the house and you find a huge library with many books you want to read.

But after some time, you start to crave his attention. The maids don’t want to be your friends, they think that it is highly inappropriate, you as a couple don’t attend any balls and there is no noble lady in the near distance you could visit and be friends with.

So, you start to write a diary, you write about how you feel and how would you like your husband to actually acknowledge you. Sometimes you also mention that you find him very attractive and the romance novels that you found in the library don’t help your imagination.

One time you forget your diary in the library and John accidentally picks it up. He thinks its some book that he hasn’t read yet. When he realizes that it is your handwriting, he knows that he should put it down, it is not right to invade your privacy. But then he sees his name there and he must know what you write about him.

He reads the whole paragraphs about how your meetings in the dinning room leaves you all flustered and how you crave his attention. He didn’t think that a young girl like you could find him attractive, and he wanted to be a good husband and leave you as much freedom as you could want. He didn’t want to pressure you into any kind of intimate relationship even though he was pressured by the rest of his family to have an heir. John leaves your diary where he found it, without any evidence that he read it.

The next morning, he invites you to eat breakfast with him in the garden. It is far more intimate, and you finally have a conversation with him. He asks you questions about your hobbies, your family and if you like it here.

It finally feels like he is courting you and you leave every encounter with him with rosy cheeks and butterflies in your stomach. He invites you on walks where he holds your hand as you tell him about your day or about the new book you just left. You spend the whole days together learning about each other.

John tells you stories about the war, the battles he fought. His leg heals up perfectly and now, that he is healthy again, he takes you with him when he goes riding. When you ask him if he likes the hight society he tells you the truth. He tells you how much he despises the formal event and the balls and suddenly it all makes sense to you.

You finally understand why he wanted to marry so quickly and why you live alone in the middle of nowhere. You tell him that you loved the dancing and the beautiful gown you could wear at balls but now you don’t mind the quiet life. Now you have him and that is all that matters.

One evening he makes a ball just for you. He invites a musician to play, he buys you an expensive gown and you pretend that you are at some formal event. It’s just the two of you dancing, laughing and drinking expensive champaign he bought for the ball. You dance the whole night and after he walks you to your bedroom he kisses you. It is a soft kiss, just your lips barely touching, but it starts a fire in you, and you want more.

When John realizes that you’re not pulling away he deepens the kiss. He knows that you have no experiences, and he wants to show you that he will treat you well. He spends the night with you, showing you in many ways how much he loves you.

And when you finally fall asleep, he thinks how lucky he is to find a wife like you. When you wake up and you see your husband sleeping in your bad you are very grateful that you accidentally left your diary in the library open on the page that mentioned how hot he was. Such a shame you didn’t come up with the plan a little earlier.

Masterlist

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