#250 follower special | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

edgeray · 4 months ago

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"FIGHT SO DIRTY BUT YOU LOVE SO SWEET

Talk so pretty, but your heart got teeth" - Teeth, 5 Seconds of Summer

MAFIA AU Arlecchino x Reader Oneshot | Part 2 of "LATE NIGHT DEVIL, PUT YOUR HANDS ON ME"

A/N - As promised, here is the (albeit, very late) 250 follower special. Art by M-Alexa. Content Warnings / Info - Arlecchino uses they/them pronouns, sugggestiveness, pet names, borderline smut, no feminine pronouns for reader, 10.7k words

Monsters are very real. You know that they’re tangible because they’ve touched you in ways so intimate you could delude yourself in being familiar with them despite how icy their touch is. What draws the line between monster and human? You can't say anymore, not when involuntary sensations and uncontrollable emotions have entangled you with the Fatui, the Fourth Harbinger to be exact, a monster in every right, and yet…

You used to think that the line was cut-throat, a visible drawn etching in the sand–so easy to see when someone passed through. As obvious as their appearance once they've entered through the doorway. It was evident in those that were painted in wretched and jagged scars like their skin was a blank canvas. Perceptible in those that too rarely stifled their brash volatility, taking pride in their bruteness and their trigger-happiness. Apparent in those with their sly-eyed, piercing scrutiny, silent as the dead they were, yet it was usually among these archetypes whose power reigned the most throughout. Discernable in those that can wear many faces, spilling a hundred lies from their lips with as much effort as it takes for them to breathe; typically, they were as inviting as a puppy guiding a lamb to a den of wolves.

You couldn’t discern anymore what kind of monster Lord Arlecchino matched. Was it that they were never a monster to begin with, or is it just your irrationality muddying what should be the obvious? It should alarm you that your mind doesn't perceive them as such anymore, despite knowing so little of the danger they grasp underneath their fingertips. How quick they were to wrap their hand around your throat, tantalizing you with each scrape of carmine nails against your kiss-bruised skin.

But monsters are incapable of love. You think you've been fooled in believing in it when they trace your body with their touch, but then again, what monster's touch can be akin to that of an angel’s? Maybe angels themselves were also monsters. It's how you knew they were the most fatal mistake you could have made but you remain unapologetic shamelessly. Why should you, for indulging in something so tasteful? Is it not human desire to be selfish, to satisfy oneself? It's only natural to savor sweet fruit.

Their touch still lingers, on every inch of skin their depraved and gluttonous they could reach, the heat from their contact ever present like bubbling magma underneath the surface. Even after they're gone, it still tingles with sweltering desire and comes with the vivid image of their imprintment on you. How you remembered their wet lips against your neck, teeth sunk in and the rough drag of their tongue across, while their fingers edged closer to the waistband of your fishnets. Oh, how you remembered the delicious grinding of their hips against yours, a coarse friction that sends shocks of pleasure through you as they swallow every wanton cry from your lips and stifle any movements from you with a tight grasp of your waist. As red stained marks were stamped over the expanse of your bare clavicle, you remember a particular sultry chuckle from them when they captured your wrists in one hand effortlessly, willing you unable to touch them even when you had begged to do so. How cruel of them to deprive you of what you so avidly coveted, but you think their touch is rewarding enough to dismiss the one-sidedness of the physical intimacy.

Though, you hesitate to call it physical intimacy. Somehow, the touches that lit your heart ablaze the most only scrape the surface of indecency, as nothing transpired beyond kisses and love marks. It was the first time you left a private room relatively untouched, and though they had definitely teased you of it, no action slipped lower than your collarbone–not even a single piece of clothing peeled from your body. It leaves an unsettling, complex bundle of desires: wanting more and less of their touch simultaneously: you long for their touch, to feel that addicting fervor again, for your own unchaste gratification, however, having not been used as a tool for sensual fulfillment, you almost find it…nearly comforting–freeing may be the right word. A relief from what was usually an obligation. It’s… strange, is the least you can account it to. You’ve never wanted more from a client. Every past one has been just a means for income, hardly even considered cheap entertainment, and yet… you find your thoughts returning back to them, ensnaring your mind and plaguing your consciousness with memories of your two’s ‘unchastity.’

Lord Arlecchino, the Knave, the Fourth Harbinger of the Fatui, stole your thoughts just like a thief in the night, the ghost of their whispered words frequently haunting you. “‘I think I’ll keep you to myself after this,’” they had said with such certainty, and that voice would repeat indefinitely in your ears. For the most inexplicable reason, you found yourself eager, having believed them, however, you quickly discovered how naive you were–foolish to have ever hoped in such a shallow assertion and absurd to have wished for that in the first place. How dim of you to trust words influenced by fleeting ardor, for allowing irrationality to creep up in your vulnerable state of intoxication from them. They had left your body that night, with little to no effort, unsatisfied yet marked by them entirely, remnants of their presence still scattered on your body. How cruel, and yet very characteristic of them, though the latter recognition almost physically burned you to admit. A burn that you couldn’t quite associate one feeling to it.

You think the feeling is akin to abandonment, maybe betrayal, but you couldn’t fault Arlecchino–not when you were the one to have fallen for their lies. In the heat of the moment, their amorous words had done nothing less but stroke an ember within your body, fueling your own feverish arousal, amplifying your experience, but that was all it was. Abandonment couldn’t be correct, not when you were never theirs in the first place and you had willingly offered yourself to them. Nor can betrayal suit it; there was no foundation of trust built between the two of you either. You should have known that trust, among your clients especially, is as flimsy as a sheet of paper. But what can explain this obstinate hollowness in your chest, unable to be filled no matter how many meaningless acts of intimacy you throw at it, or how many fantasies you’d delude yourself once you're in the solace being underneath your covers? It’s a clawing irritant that occupies your mind when you’ve found yourself alone, seeking for the phantom presence of them.

You miss them–at the very least, their touch–you realize belatedly, and for that you couldn’t consider yourself to be more pathetic. Never before in your experience have you ever thought of a previous client but you suppose every day is an opportunity to discover something new. Attachments were a sure way to kill yourself in this business, in the underground. You had intended on keeping yourself alive, but here you are. How degrading of you, you internally admonished, fool, fool, fool.

What was it about them that had captivated you so much? Perhaps it was their unique charm. Curt and sharp as they were, you could not help but admit there was something alluring about their words, the authority that dripped from them, instilling you to do nothing but obey them. Perhaps it was their captivating appearance, a masterful and tasteful blend of ruggedness with class, snow white hair adorned with ebony streaks framing their porcelain-like face, but their stature was nothing of that case. Though lean as they were, from the rare prodding touches they allowed you where you could feel their toned physique, you can tell strength and power laid underneath their fingertips; if not from that, then perhaps how easily they nearly suffocated you with one hand alone, or how they had easily hoisted you up and against the wall. The red crossed pupils were nothing like you’ve ever seen and underneath that ever-piercing behold you’re little more than a timid prey before a hungry beast.

Your interactions with Lord Arlecchino were like being teared by the fangs of a voracious wolf. Every delicate sense–touch, hearing, sight, smell, and taste–pecked away little by little until all you could register in your lust-brimmed mind was their entirety. Sapping away your strength and resistance, impelling you to submit your all to them, through their every feverish touch; deafening your eardrums with each wet noise that followed their lips; dizzying you with their faint, earthy cologne; your eyes drinking in their appearance with every chance; and oh, their sickeningly sweet taste–far too depraved and far too addictive. You’re breathless everytime you think of it. When they finally released you, peeling away from your form, your body looked as if it had just barely escaped a maiming from a wild animal: teeth indents, light scratches, and red blotches of their lipstick flecked your upper torso and face.

They parted from you hours into the early morning. It felt like they had been stealing your breath for hours. You couldn’t count how many times their lips met yours, but it was enough where you could memorize the texture of them, of their warmth and sweetness. You couldn’t recall the duration the two of you spent locked with each others’ lips, but you could recall the various positions they had you. One such position, you muse with clenched thighs, was when they towered above your lying form on the couch, a bent knee in between your legs and their arms on either side of your head, planting their palms onto the cushion underneath you while they descended down to capture kiss after kiss from you. You remembered the tickling sensation of their ivory and raven strands that fell on your cheek, and how you raised a gentle hand to brush them away. In retaliation, what could only be described as something in between a growl and a grunt came from the Harbinger’s throat, one of their hands moved away from its resting place besides your head and clasped with yours, before firmly planting it against the sofa–a clear lesson not to touch them so casually, to which you smiled cheekily. They stole that smile away with little wasted time using a harsh nip on your bottom lip.

And then, like that, they left.

A week has gone by–more accurately, six days–since they had last appeared, and in that period, you’ve yet seen them. You worked consecutively, opting to even neglect your free work day, with the hopes of catching a glimpse. Ultimately, however, your efforts bore no fruit; not a single of your customers was the white-haired devilish angel that plagued your thoughts. White-hot shame and crushing disappointment grew with each passing day. The first unspoken word of advice amongst your fellow dancers was that attachments to customers are never worthwhile: even frequent customers disappear, and if you are lucky, you discover why. The reasons ranged from death to simply boredom, but the latter is always the most devastating, an agonizing reminder of how insignificant your life can be.

You had hoped to consider yourself among the smarter of your coworkers. You thought yourself immune to those follies, impenetrable to the charms and advances of all your customers–none to date had made your heart palpitate the way it did in the Harbinger's presence. It's unfathomable that you allow yourself to sink to such depths, to find yourself coveting for something you shouldn't, for something you can't have, for something that is beyond the likes of you. Convincing yourself with certainty, you were sure that you were above the idea of ardor–percase, your mistake was appraising yourself of just that. Now, you struggle against the very woes your coworkers forewarned you about.

Lying conscious on your wretched mattress, the cycle of rue repeats internally, battling against the drowsiness from your day's work. The thin and tattered sheets do little to provide you with the warmth you seek, and the lumpy, yet simultaneously, feathersoft pillow fails to ease your neck. The discomfort is only heightened by the darkness that plunges your chamber, like an abyss that's consumed you whole– just like your thoughts.

You urge your mind to settle, to calm a roaring yearning forever left unsatisfied, for even a single minute of slumber but it's futile. Once more, your thoughts drift to your angel donned in scarlet–divine touches and blest hymns. If touching this bit of heaven garners this cruel punishment of eternal desire, then you will cling onto these phantom traces of theirs until the gates of hell swallow you whole.

Soft, thudding noises approach you from the foot of your bed’s direction. Lifting your gaze to the door, the question comes of whose presence this is. Already having worked your shift, there is the possibility your manager came to you because of a unique request–one that he himself couldn't refuse. A weight manifests in your stomach, unease slinking towards your thoughts; this is your off-time after all and . There’s the foreboding knock on your door, before the knob turns with a click. Your manager walks through, his short, plump silhouette before you–

Your oxygen is teared from your lips, making you breathless as an imposing aura overtakes your entire form, as if gravity grew exponentially stronger just then, pushing down on you with the goal of crushing you until nothingness. Your lungs burn from the deprivation of air and a prickling sensation coats your skin, the combined effect making you tremble like a meek sheep before prey. Their footsteps as they enter your dwelling increases the pressure on your shoulders, forcing you to shrink into yourself. This commanding presence is far from being foreign, there are only a few customers–mafia members–that come to mind that can inflict this kind of dominion. Frozen in place, your heart quickly halts as your sight takes in the person before you, a dawning recognition falls upon you: this isn’t your manager. Instead, what replaces him, is a taller, leaner stature, vaguely familiar but distinctly not him. Plunged in darkness, you couldn’t discern any more details, and the unknown identity induces every hair on your limbs to stand up.

And yet, despite the unrest that forms inside of you, for an inexplicable reason, there comes a lilt in your heart, your roseate thoughts returning to one individual with a dire need.

The person makes no movements nor noise, but they are certainly aware of your presence. They remain in place near the doorway, as if prompting you for any action. Yet you’re too unsure, too cautious to act. With each passing second of silence, the air thickens, making it increasingly harder to not sink into the covers of your bed and allow your blanket to swallow you whole. Disbelief settles within you as the two of you linger in silence. Your whirling thoughts start to justify those doubts, crushing that meager hope inside of you. It is not them, because you have been deceived, tossed aside like a broken doll, no longer of entertainment or use to them; abandoned by someone who never truly considered you as theirs in the first place.

Still, you couldn’t discern the reason for the palpitation of your heart at that moment–isit out of fear or anticipation? Likely, it's a combination of both. It hums in your ear, your pulse faint but tangible and steady, and a chill crawls up your spine, eliciting you to tremble in place like a mouse about to be preyed upon. Becoming more certain that they are not the Harbinger, terror worms into your mind and inflicts upon your heart. Your heart rate skyrockets as if the beating organ is thumping out of your chest, deafening you with nothing but the erratic drumming. Have they come to end you? Have you displeased a customer so much that they intend to make you repay the price with your life?

It is a simple utterance. It is a single word that echoes through the room, one syllable that rings through your ears. And yet, it is this sound that rips your heart from a cold, drowning, lonely abyss and plunges it into the warm, welcoming depths of a familiar company. It shreds any lingering doubt within you like claws would to paper, eradicating it as if it was nothing more than a miniscule pest. In your veins does your pulse sing, humming a delightful hymn, the returning sensation of warmth fills you. Had you been anyone else besides yourself viewing this, you would call it a pathetic sight, but in this whisper of time, a wild inferno of your desires is lit and swarms over your mind. With just one simple utterance, you had turned from a scared, cornered mouse into an awaiting puppy–tail wagging and ears perked–for its approaching owner.

“Doll.”

You know of that voice far too well, for only having heard of it for one night. A persistent, almost tantalizing voice that creeps into your dreams at all hours of the day, murmuring with an alluring lilt the same pet name in your ear like the Harbinger had done six nights prior. It is the voice of a seraph under the guise of a demon. And when an ethereal being beckons you, you have no other obligation but to respond.

“Sir?” The softest of whispers escape you, bated breath evident in your voice. You worry that the barely audible title doesn't reach their ears, but then the soft thumping of stilettos reverberate through the room, matching the pace of your rapid heart, nearing you, until they appear by your bedside. Upclose, you swear that red x’s glint dimly. An obscure shadow casts over you and the silhouette of a hand reaches out; their palm grazes against your throat as slender fingers seize your chin to tilt your head up–a familiar hold that involuntarily soothes you given the sigh you release.

“I told you, didn't I?” They say with an alluring lilt, a telling sign of a smirk on their features. They stroke their thumb over your bottom lip, before pressing down. Involuntarily, your tongue peeks out to lap at their thumb pad. Your cheeks swarm with an unbearable calidity, which spreads to the rest of your body, suffocating flames that scorch your entirety.

“I said that I'd keep you as mine. Or did you forget?”

Forgetting their words was as plausible as you learning how to fly. You stopped yourself from carelessly revealing how their discrete promise haunts your ears, ringing through your thoughts at any spontaneous minute; you had no desire of disclosing just how much of an influence they have on you–whether that was to persuade them or yourself more. Instead you offer them a wordless shake of your head.

Arlecchino lets out a content hum, before their hand slides down from your chin to your arm, grasping it with a bit of firmness.

“Come with me, Doll. Such a quality doll such as yourself deserves a suitable dollhouse, is that not right? This,” You assume that they gesture to the room from the shuffle of clothes. “is hardly fitting for you, the sad state that it is.”

Your heart beat falters for a moment, as contemplation befalls you, attempting to properly comprehend their words. You surmise that the Harbinger is offering you for a new accommodation but you ponder the cost–surely, they would not provide it out of the goodness of their heart, and you were uncertain if they even held such a thing. As delightful as they are, forgetting your place in relation to others will only spell hazard for you. A ‘doll'–whatever that pertains to–is the service they likely seek from you, and you have a few estimates as to what it is.

It's dreadfully tempting. A chance to escape from your current workplace, but what of your wellbeing? At least, here, you could sustain yourself, shelter, food, and warmth are provided, but could you expect the same with the Harbinger? If you were to come with them, would you only be pulled deeper into the underground? Was the mafia a company you wanted to linger around? As you continue to swat back the clouds of infatuation, rationality returning to you, there are too many unknowns to recklessly comply with. Then again, what would the Harbinger do to you, if you were to refuse them? For now, you're in their favor, but who is to say you will not lose it in some erratic way?

Perhaps they will grow bored of you. Perhaps you won't satisfy them enough. Or, perhaps, they have even more nefarious intentions. The mind of a criminal is fickle and, more often than not, unstable, and in the first place, such individuals are rarely credible. If they were to promise beneficial conditions for your being, there is no way to ensure they keep to their word. Your debt, at the very least, serves as a form of protection: the nitery wouldn't be able to work you until they regain every penny you borrowed if you were dead. Arlecchino, however? They have no need to.

“You must be reconsidering my offer. That's to be expected, of course,” Arlecchino interrupts your train of thought, not a single break from their calculated way of words; it almost makes you shiver at how well they seem to read you. It truly is no wonder why they’re the fourth among the Harbingers, they truly are cunning. Do they have something to offer you for additional encouragement?

“I have no doubt that some unfortunate circumstance must have brought you to an establishment like this. With that knowledge, hm…” Arlecchino pauses, before you feel their hand leaves your arm. The darkness of the room provides little information on what they're doing, until one of their coarse hands slides underneath your palm, lifting it slightly. Cool metal slides over your left thumb.

“This…”

“Yes, it's a ring,” the mafia leader confirms. “More specifically, it is my ring.”

You trace your right thumb over the ring, feeling some sort of round jewel over it. Underneath your thumb pad, is a small etching, which you trace.

“From now on, this ring is yours. While it's not visible as of right now, etched onto it is the symbol of the Tsaritsa. It symbolizes my Harbinger status,” they continue, and you whip your attention towards them.

“Why would–” You halt yourself before you say anything impulsive. “Thank you for this, Sir, but… if it is of such significance…”

“–why am I giving this to you? Consider this an investment. Here is my preposition to you. Come with me, and you will be fed, sheltered, and spoiled by me–my protection and overseeing of your health is, undoubtedly implied. If you are displeased with my treatment, you can leave freely, anytime, anywhere, and nothing will be asked of you–not so much as an explanation for your departure. In fact, at this very moment, you could leave right now. I will not stop you.

“The ring, being the mark of a Harbinger, will almost certainly protect you from anyone sensible enough not to touch those under the Tsaritsa’s grace. Beyond that, you could always sell it to a trustworthy jewelry inspector; I know of one if you need a reference. I guarantee you that what you will earn is enough for you to live comfortably in society for at least a decade or so.”

“You would…” You stop to recollect your thoughts, as your body shakes, brimming with thrill. Your mind is still trying to encompass all of the capabilities this very ring contained. It may very well be worth ten times your entire life, and yet you possessed something such as this. With this, you could leave your hellish life behind. Everything you have always wanted could be right in your grasp now. You could finally enjoy a luxurious life, just by yourself.

“You would really give this to me? Something so precious?” You question breathlessly.

“Yes. If you would consider my preposition. So?”

A beguiled smile makes its way onto your lips.

—

The existence of monsters should not comfort you, but yet it does. No, that is wrong–there is just one exception. Having heard of such hushed stories, warning you to be wary of such shadowy beasts, the ones that lurk in unsuspecting corners and stalk the most innocuous of lambs, nonetheless, the notion of who can be considered as a ‘monster’ has been shattered by one individual. A monster in every right, except in any respect to you, can a diabolical angel still be deemed as such? Do they deserve to bear such a title, when every breath exhaled sends welcomed shivers down your spine and every contacted surface is blessed under their touch?

Perhaps you are still one of those very lambs for them. There is the possibility that you are just another sheep ensnared by a charming wolf, but then it raises the question of why you haven't been devoured yet. You have no doubt of the appetite that such a beast like them would carry, but nonetheless you remain. Will your time for slaughter come? Like herded sheep, you're fenced in, grazing through the grassland placidly, but how much longer will your freedom and life extend?

Does it still make you a sheep, if the most miniscule, internal sector of you would indulge in being devoured?

It's something you could not help yourself from wondering, even with the graciousness from Arlecchino. They've taken care of you far better than the nitery had ever, in the span of the few weeks you've agreed to stay with them, serving as their ‘doll.’ As restrictive and degrading as the role sounds, actuality does not propose the same. You're still tied to the Fourth Fatui Harbinger–come when they beckon, obey what they will–but you have a daunting amount of individual freedom you previously could never afford. Necessities, such as a living space, meals, and clothing, are all provided, lavishly, unlike your previous work environment.

Arlecchino personally had a room selected for you, a sizable, decorated chamber that housed a Queen bed, along with an ensuite bathroom. Restful sleep comes easy to you now that you've acquired a plush bed that dwarfs your figure. You've been spoiled with not only nourishing, but delectable dishes that you've never encountered before. Not only that, but they were made and served by personal chefs of the Harbinger. Upon arriving at your new accommodation, your wardrobe was brimming with all types of clothing that was suited to your size in all sorts of colors.

Perhaps it is because you haven't received such treatment before, but if you had such audacity to assume, you would compare yourself to that of a monarch's favored consort.

Your work as a ‘doll’ doesn't consist of much–that is what makes it more perplexing to you. It's not like any job or gig–you're not paid but it is no less rewarding. A ‘doll,’ from what you can presume with what they've requested of you, is a sexual partner, for when they're in need of ‘relief.’ Though you'd like for your relationship with Arlecchino to be perfectly encapsulated as just that, even that fails to entail entirely of what it is. This statement comes apparent with the case that you've yet engaged with them intimately.

You cannot deny that with this comes brewing frustration and consolation inside of you.

In the few weeks having lived at the same residence as them, which also doubles as a base of operations for the Fatui, there's quite a few things you learn of the Knave. Their assertive presence alone commands the room upon entering, and it is felt by every single soul in their proximity. Apathetically and brutally effective is how they function, no matter their audience, though strangely you are an exception to that. Stoic as they are in every aspect of their life–whether that handling mafia matters or simply eating–they have shown acts of mercy and repayment towards their subjects, especially the younger ones underneath them. Requital seems to be one of their core values, a quality that is often paired with their demand for control. Just as they oversee all around them, they themselves are not beyond their charge.

You see the discrete conflict in their eyes before each press of their lips against yours, and in their twitching fingers, which tremble in the same reluctant manner as yours does, always lingering around your waist. Every kiss is greedy and ravenous, with the intention of stealing every bit of morality within you as they draw you in, but their touch is notably neither of the two. The Fourth Harbinger exercises an awkward balance between restraint and surrender of desires–as if they craved further connection from you, but you dare not to assume so flatteringly of yourself. For this reason alone, you do not question the Knave, but it is no less vexing.

Beasts like themselves do not hold themselves back. They are voracious and all-consuming, they are merciless and eager in their plunders, second to none in selfishness and brutality. If Arlecchino is truly among them, then their behavior proves to only be baffling. If you cannot expect the worst from them like all monsters are, then what can you predict from them? For what reason do they restrain themselves? Why would they limit themselves when they have more than enough authority and force to take what they desire. You wish you could know, if only to end this constant, frustrating game of desire that you are losing.

You don't understand the casual gestures that imply something more romantic if you didn't know better. The invitations to dinner, the outings with them, the chaste kisses and fleeting touches. In each interaction, you have to remind yourself of your status–that you still hold little value, no matter the change of management, and at every drop of dawn, when you lie alone in your bed, that hollow ache sweeps over you and engulfs you whole into a riptide. What more use are you than entertainment just as empty as yourself?

Still, it is irrefutable that you hold a certain attraction to them. You covet for their contact and gaze to loiter over the expanse of your body, for their voice to always ring through your ears, for the time between the two of you to stretch past infinity; it soon occured to you that something lies deeper than just lust for the Harbinger, something you did not want to acknowledge but it has prolonged since after the first night you met them. Though Arlecchino does not place a label on the relationship, even for as foolish and swayed as you are, you could not dream beyond the contacts that hold no significance or the words that contain no promises. The knowledge of this places a heavy ache in your chest, one that pings every now and then with every meeting with the Harbinger. Knowing how futile it is, a part of yourself wants to strangle these yearnings, so that all that is choked out is a shallow, physical urge, and you no longer drown in the abyss that is Arlecchino.

It is only natural that when you harbor such complexities towards them, sexual desires, too, are a part of said twisted conglomeration of hazy emotions and affections. How many times were you in need of relief, murmuring out their name as you intensified your movements in between your legs, only to be left empty and disgruntled? If you had to give an estimate, it would be a dozen or so times. While your circumstance could no longer be judged by typical morality, the very act of yearning feels sinful, a wrongdoing, a refutal of your values. No lamb lusts over a wolf, after all, but this knowledge doesn't lessen the ache.

So, like the meek sheep that you are, you say nothing, even when Arlecchino once again requests your presence for dinner–through a relayed message from their subordinate of course. You wonder if they're aware of the very effects they imposed on you, how the simple act of inviting you to dinner makes both your heart swim and sink simultaneously.

You knock on their office door, waiting for permission until you're asked inside. You enter with a brief awed gasp, greeted by the usual suited appearance of Arlecchino. They sit behind their desk and donning a stark midnight blazer, over an ash-colored and blood-crimson vest paired with a matching loose tie underneath the collar of their white buttoned dress shirt. A lit cigarette is perched between their lips and a pair of black reading glasses nestled on the bridge of their nose. Upon your entrance, they reach up, wrenching the cigarette from their mouth to snuff it out, rubbing the butt of the stick against the ashtray beside them.

Near instantaneously, your stomach coils with an insufferable fervor, and you had to suppress the urge to squeeze your thighs, unless you wanted their observant eye to notice. You avert your gaze from the handsome sight to hide your flustered expression. Unfortunately, your efforts are in vain when in the corner of your eye, the ends of their frown twitch.

They instruct you to sit at the chair across from theirs with the motion of their eyes, and you take your seat at their desk, two plates of food sitting on the wooden surface.

“You have no issue with shellfish, do you?” Arlecchino inquires, their eyes scanning over your figure for any objections.

“Not that I know of, sir,” you answer. The mafia leader pushes a glass with a crimson liquid in it–wine, you presume. You take it. Arlecchino is an avid wine lover from what you've discerned during past dinners; although you've done this quite a few times, the thought is dizzying of how you're holding a wine that's more than likely a thousand dollars per bottle. Like with all the previous privileges the Harbinger gifted you, this is yet again another lucrative item. It only makes you wonder to what extent the Fatui's influence goes to be able to afford such expenses on ordinary things. You swirl the drink in your hand before taking a tentative sip. Each time you drink, it’s akin to dumping gold into the sea–wasted extravagance on the likes of you.

The wine sours the taste in your mouth but you don't make it apparent.

Dinner remains an awkward constant, nearly unnerving. You tether between the line of being cautious and being casual. Their methodical brutalism discourages small talk from them–given the fact that they favor intention and meaningful gestures–seeming perfectly content in the silence while you stew in chagrin. With this comes their manner of eating. They eat robotically, as if the gourmet foreign meals are nothing but nourishment, and perhaps such trivialities are of no matter to them, only further emphasizing the stark statuses of you two. Their request, however, made them seem almost eager–as eager as one could possibly be for someone so stoic– given how they requested for your presence as soon as possible. Perhaps what they look most earnestly for is observing you. You're torn between thinking they enjoy your discomfort underneath their gaze, or simply find you that fascinating. Either of them escape common reasoning.

You opt to just eat with your head down to avoid their piercing gaze throughout your meal, the only noise filling the room is the clinking of metal utensils. Struggling with removing the lobster meat from its tail, you fumble with the fork, an abashment swelling in your cheeks with the knowledge that Arlecchino was most definitely observing your tactlessness. You’ve never had shellfish prior to your stay with Arlecchino, and that was more pronounced by your lackluster attempts of stripping the shrimp shell. You attempted to learn through observation of Arlecchino, who utilizes cutlery with their typical efficiency and gracefulness. Even in the simple act of eating, they are refined in their precise and minimal movements. Unfortunately for you, that poise cannot be obtained through just viewing.

A pale hand extends and rests on top of your hand holding the fork, the sudden contact ripping you from your thoughts and your shoulders tense. Glancing up from the shellfish, Arlecchino's ever so puncturing gaze is set on you. The thumping organ in your chest pauses for a beat once your eyes lock, manifesting a silence between the two of you. There is not a hint of irritance in their expression, and perhaps you are mistaken, but there is the gleam of amusement in their pupils.

“Allow me,” they finally voice, their tone on the edge of venomous allure, and you could only comply immediately. Placing down the cutlery onto the plate and pulling your hands away, you expect for them to pick up the silverware again. Instead, they firmly hold down the lobster tail with one hand, the other hand pinching the succulent flesh before shredding it effortlessly from the shell with their. Such an uncouth movement that almost seems unfitting from the Harbinger, however, simultaneously, you cannot see their crude method out of place. The chunk of meat is then dipped in the aioli.

“Open,” Arlecchino commands, and you swallow thickly, your mouth inexplicably arid in a single moment. Once again, your easily influenced heart pounds resoundingly in your ears, no doubt induced by the most miniscule of moments from the Harbinger. Their red-crossed pupils stab into you, expectancy in them, wordlessly urging you. You open your mouth and they lift the piece of lobster to your lips, sliding their fingers and the shellfish flesh inside. You clamp down on the flesh while Arlecchino fishes out her digits, pulling away with glistening liquid on the tips of her index and thumb.

The sight makes your stomach flutter with a sensation unlike any other, an inferno emerges in your pit paired with an indisputable throbbing between your legs that makes you clench your hands into fists–a desperate attempt for restraint of your impulses. Cheeks flared from both arousal and humiliation of your indecent thoughts, you mindlessly chew on the meat, absentmindedly staring at the Harbinger while combating the vulgarity within your mind. Your liberated imagination reacts, substituting the fluid for something of a similar look that originates from a different orifice, before you banish the impurities away, remediate your thrashing heart before it threatens to collapse in itself. Finally, you swallow a bit of shellfish down your throat.

Arlecchino hums, satisfied, before they probe your lips with their slick fingers, intent, almost predatory, gaze upon you, and their pupils glint with a faint crimson.

“Clean them,” they order, and oh, if they knew what those two words do to you. Hot spikes of arousal pricks you everywhere in your body, and your loins grow damper, pulsing with need.

You part your lips obediently as they insert two of their fingers. Your warm, moist mouth wraps around them. The pads of their fingers press firmly against your tongue, and compliantly, you drag the slimy surface of your organ on the undersides, lapping at the faint taste of lobster with remnants of the aioli, before swirling your tongue around to coat the entirety with your saliva. A disgusting moist squelch flees from your mouth as you continue the ministrations of your tongue, gentle and deliberate traces to make sure that their fingers are properly cleansed.

A sudden idea comes to you, a dose of boldness injected into your veins as you continue locking their eyes with them. If they are so amused by your performance, then surely they would enjoy a little show? You silently wish for the mafia leader's grace before you act– perhaps you'd be forgiven? Better yet, you hope that you will be rewarded. They're acutely aware of the mischief in your eyes when their eyebrows lift, but you do not allow them to anticipate for long.

You hollow your cheeks and suction around their fingers while intensifying your tongue's movements. To add to it, you lean forward, slipping their fingers deeper until your lips reach the base of their final knuckle, nearly gagging from your impulsive action. Still, it does not dissuade you, and you continue your behavior, aware this very gesture was the epitome of playing with fire. More slick sounds erupt from your suggestive acts.

You scrutinize their facial expression for their reaction in an attempt to gauge their response, and quite notably, their pupils are darkened. Instead of the previous ruby hue, they are now a deep scarlet, bordering on maroon, and are brimming with an emotion so intense you feel as though you could be devoured whole just by their dark abysses. Their usually maintained and composed face is cracked by the parted lips of theirs, as if they were in awe of your impudence, and the slightest knit in between their brows, implying more than their regular apathy. You have drawn their attention just as you wanted, but now you fear the consequences.

“Feeling bold, are we, doll?” They murmur in a low, tantalizing purr as they extract their fingers from you with a wet pop, and you nearly whine from the loss of contact. A dribble of spit escapes from the corner of your lips and they wipe it away with their thumb. Their middle and index finger gleam enticingly as your slaver drips down. Bringing their hand to their lips, they reward you with their own show, a slow deliberate act of tracing their fingers with their own tongue, their attention still fixated on you throughout its entirety. Watching the organ's motions further stirs the boiling desire in your groin. The Harbinger never fails to tempt you, provoking a visceral reaction from you with just the minutest gesture.

They must know. They must know how deeply influenced you are by them. You make your allure to them unmistakable, their actions signify their awareness, and they use this to further taunt you, to further bait you into their trap. For what reason, you're not privy to, but they prey upon your desire for them, stringing you along on for their entertainment. Are they aware that this game is comparable to torture to you? Like dangling fresh greens in front of a dying, starved lamb, your ache is palpable to only you. To long for something that you cannot. It is tormenting and demeaning, though maybe that is suitable for a monster.

A devil in the guise of an angel truly. Maybe they are purely enjoying your suffering, knowing that your every action can only be done by their whim. You have fallen in their hands, utterly dependent and reliant on them but no less grateful. A deceived sheep in the claws of a cackling wolf. It is a game to them, you are just a toy, and you would be foolish to think otherwise. So expectedly cruel, and yet it crushes your heart. You are tired of the charades, of your affections hardly acknowledged and no doubt unreciprocated, and you are tired of how their presence plagues your thoughts entirely. They are eager to use you just as they had always wanted, a ‘doll,’ something willing to twist and bend to their desires.

You wish that you are more than just a doll. That your skin is not made of plastic, that your limbs are not so manipulatable, that the attire that you wear cannot be so easily altered based on the spontaneous desires of someone else. You do not want to take only what you've been given. Is it hopeless, brazen, to want more despite your place? Does it make you nothing more than simple-minded and naive, to wish that their touch expressed beyond the voraciousness and obscenity?

“Did you enjoy it?” Arlecchino pries you away from your thoughts, and you flick your eyes towards them. Blinking, you finally recall the context, and fumble with your words.

“Ah, uh, yes,” you stammer, forcing a small smile, berating yourself for your blundering response. “The lobster was great. Thank you so much, Sir.”

Their pupils still remain on you, hardened with their usual frigid gaze. “Then why do you appear so downcast? Is the meal not to your liking? I will make sure the chefs prepare something else for you.”

Your blood freezes and you go wide-eyed. Of course, they would notice your absent-mindedness, you have still yet controlled your emotions. Reprimanding yourself internally, the desire to scream out boils within you, like a pot that threatens to boil over–you want to exclaim that they are the reason you are like this, why you are in a constant state of conflict and anguish, why your heart can never rest when their presence is near. Instead, you find your throat caught in a trap, preventing any words from escaping, and any voice you try to grapple slips through your fingers. The very notion of requesting for more is insolent; had they not provided you enough? Ingrate is what you would be if you vocalize anything.

Shaking your head, you reply with, “No, it's okay. There was nothing wrong with my meal. I was just preoccupied with my thoughts for a little bit, I apologize, sir.”

“Please inform me what it was that was entertaining you for so long.” The implore leaves their lips as they tilt their head, propping their elbow against the table and leaning their cheek into their palm. Their attention is utterly consumed by you.

Your lip quivers. So many unspokens lay on your tongue, awaiting for an emergence that never comes. ‘You’ is the most dire utterance, but you bite your tongue and purse your lips. Flitting your eyes down to your finished plate, you avoid their boring gaze which drills right through your skull, and manage to note your arms, which are dotted with the occasional burn scar–courtesy of the more unsavory customers–an agonizing momento of how filthy you are, sullied by many before. How you could compare to a doll is unfathomable to you. A doll's skin is not tainted, marked with signs of impurities. Even their touch, as angelic as it, could not cleanse your surface, why would they dare engage with you?

“Trivial matters, sir,” you respond with, unable to admit the snaking insecurity up your spine, that would only have them throw you away. You gather that insecurity had no place in the Harbinger's home, that needless feelings were to be disposed of immediately. Searching their features at any hint of persuasion, their blank stare offers nothing to you. The mafia leader picks up their glass of wine, lifting it up to their lips for a sip.

The, the glass is placed firmly on the wooden surface of the table, accompanied by a loud thud, the abruptness causing you to flinch back; your entire form taut as every fiber in your being tightens, your heart rate reverberates in your eardrums, and a cold shiver sneaks over your back.

“Do you take me as someone so easily deceived?” They demanded, their voice instilled with cutting authority, sharper than any knife as it stabs into your gut. The lit fury in their eyes is enough to make you recoil in your seat, shrinking into yourself as if you could become small enough to disappear, and underneath their scrutiny that is all you want to do. You tore your eyes away from them, the weight of their burning stare unbearable, almost with the intention of cremating you in the very chair. A part of you wishes that were the case, if only to flee from the crisis you are now a part of, only caused by your idiocy.

The Fatui Harbinger, for how generous they've been to you, is no less deadly, and perhaps you’ve had a healthy dosage of dismissing apparent hazards when it comes to them. Whether it be due to Arlecchino's unique charm and ambiguous benevolence, or your stubborn child-like innocence–the one that still yearns for affection and company in a cruel world–that refuses to yield, subconsciously, you knew that you would never truly be safe. No amount of self-delusion masked by wishful thinking could ever make that fruition, it will not erase the fact that your life balances on the careful palms of an awaiting wolf, whose intentions are mysterious. Nonetheless, this moment creates a no more nauseating moment that strikes your gut and fills your head with a haziness that is as oppressive as it is harrowing.

You hardly believe that you can lie once more–for all that you are aware of, Arlecchino may punish you with your death for disobeying–though with the imminent danger you’re still conflicted. You wanted to drown your fondness for them in the sea of your consciousness, anchor the hefty mass so that it could never resurface, no matter how much it struggles to swim. Complying with the mafia leader's demand means plunging your hands into the water and unlocking the chains, letting the emotions swim beyond your reach and leaving you stranded in the midst of riptides and storms. If it meant many more years without turbulent waters, then you'd never unchain them, because that is the only way to stay afloat.

But dying due to the fear of rejection is truly a pathetic way to go, even to the likes of your already pathetic existence, isn't it? You’d like to pride yourself as above those standards, at the very least. However, unveiling your naive attachment to them is unfavorable. Whatever may come from defiance, you are not sure it is worth condemning yourself to, not for someone seemingly as volatile as they are.

Perhaps you could still spare your buried endearment as well–twist and mangle your words until what the Fourth Harbinger knew was only the mishap-twin of the authentic version. Let them misinterpret and craft their own figment to be as far-fetched yet close from the truth as possible. Paint over and ornament your hopeless ardor until it is unrecognizable to the artist and only that. Half-truths and omission sculpted into something believable in the eyes of Arlecchino.

“You,” you declare simply, looking up back at them with a poor imitation of their repose. “It was you, Sir.”

Arlecchino stews in silence, although not visibly, you could presume that they have some amount of shock from your words, and the questions in their head. Their eyes darkened slightly, like dark abysses preparing to consume you whole if you so much as misstep once.

“For what reason?”

Gulping considerably, you pull together your resolve and start. You look up to meet their steady gaze. “A quality doll requires proper care and maintenance right? Like when you said that a quality doll needed a fitting dollhouse.”

Their hand reaches for their wine glass again.“Yes, that is true.”

“But a quality doll is wasted if it is not played with properly.”

Arlecchino breaks away their stare to intake their wine, a longer sip than their usual. “Are you implying that you are not satisfied with my treatment, Doll?”

“No. No, I am not satisfied.” You wince at your direct response, but you are not left with any other option–you can only pray that Arlecchino doesn’t take offense to it.

“Greedy,” the Harbinger remarks as they place down the drink. “But perhaps there is some merit to it. You are right: It is my responsibility to take care of my things and it seems that I've been neglecting you.”

They flit their eyes to your plate. “Are you finished eating?”

“Ah, yes?” You stumble over your words, a bit on edge now that their inquiry implied they had more in plan with you. It is not out of the question, though typically when they did invite you to meals like this, they would dismiss you to do what you wish afterwards, sending you away with a drawn out kiss. You're yet able to know what to make of your current situation. It required little words to gain what you wanted from the Haringer: more attentive treatment from them without the implication of your desires, so easily accepted by them. Maybe then, you wishfully

They rise from their chair, removing their reading glasses and setting it on the surface of the desk. Strangely enough, they take their wine with them.

“Sir?” You question as your eyes follow their movement. They maneuver around their desk, heading towards the door.

“Follow,” they state, though there is no real urgency or demand for it, more like a suggestion. They turn their head over their shoulder, examining you–testing you, you guess–and how could you deny? You trial them after them, with an enthusiasm which you hate having to compare that to an anxious puppy. The two of you exit the office, and you’re guided to an adjacent room, this one you've never been to before, nor has ever seen its content. Since your time here, it's remained secured and you've yet seen a single soul enter.

You're not quite sure what you expect when Arlecchino leads you inside but it certainly is not a bedroom. Nonetheless, that is what is presented to you. Simultaneously sleek and modest, adorned in splashes of black, red, and white–a color palette you associate with just one individual–it is the epitome of sophistication without bordering on extravagance and a starking reminder of the presence beside you.

For some reason, it never occurred to you that Arlecchino necessitated slumber. Perhaps since you've always considered them something else entirely, something beyond human, you feel what borders on astonishment with the discovery that, indeed, the Fourth Harbinger does sleep. To say that it humanized them in your eyes is a stretch, but it is a signifier that they are not as infallible and unfeasible as you believe.

The implications of being guided to their bedroom, however, also creates havoc among your thoughts, and your ears all but physically singe from your mortification. Vulgar fantasies invade your mind, with images of your nude body tangled together in the satin gray sheets with varying positions. Your heart, the fickle and persistent thing that is pulipates again, pumping through your ears. The setting only enforces your wanton imagination, exacerbating its control over your mind. The delusions become not just visual, but auditory and haptic too–their whispered, husky voice murmuring sweet promises in your ear as their nails trail lower and lower from your stomach, their fingers exploring uncharted territory.

Choosing that the best course of action would be to ignore the astir depravities, you instead propose a question to the mafia member as they allow you to enter the chamber first.

“This is… your bedroom, my Lord?” you question anxiously, taking the time to observe the room as the Fourth Harbinger enters behind you. “How come you've brought me here?”

“I am not fond of letting blunders remain as it is for long, less of all those that are my own fault,” Arlecchino answers, the shutting of the door momentarily interrupting them. “If it can be helped, oversights must be corrected immediately. Let problems fester for too long, and they may grow beyond my control.”

You note that it's a rather vague response. As you turn around to further confront them, there is the sudden and firm tug of your arm, and far quicker than your mind can comprehend, you're whirled around and pressed against the surface behind you. You suck in harshly from the rapid movement and an arm besides one side of your head locks you in your place, sandwiched between the door and Arlecchino with no exit available.

Flaring crimson irises meet your vision, inky pits brimming with what could only be described as a fervor drill into you. Wildly, your heartbeat thuds against your ribcage, your breath effectively robbed by the towering being before you. Below your skin, exhilaration floods through your veins, spreading the incessant heat through your entire form, most especially to your loins. Their hot breath skims across your inflamed cheeks, and their lips only stray a few centimeters from yours.

Involuntarily, your focus darts to their enticing mouth, which tastes like the finest of wine–so extraordinarily sweet that it is intoxicating. A flavor that keeps drawing you in, making you an alcoholic as you drink yourself dizzy from a sip, then another. And you would do anything for just another sample. You want Arlecchino to consume your entirety, your taste buds, your consciousness, your senses, surrender every part of you if it means gaining the most miniscule pieces of themselves. A plea rests on your tongue and in your wide, crinkled eyes you make your intentions clear.

Wordlessly, you beg for them to devour you like the monster that they are. Lure you in with their touch again, which they know burns every single rational thought away and spreads a relish that feels like a religious blessing. Take you, if only for a single second, because a second will always be sufficient enough until the next, when you cannot help but wish for it sooner.

“Do you desire me?” They speak, as if the answer is not apparent. As if the evidence is not in your trembling body, bristling with elation, or in your needy hands, which all but reach out to grasp them closer. As if they are not aware of the effects of their numerous taunts, how they fluster you enough to force you to glance away or stumble over your speech. They are aware of it as well as you are and it is with this that you realize the insinuation of their question, and this understanding is what evokes the hitching of your breath. They ask for confirmation, for approval–for consent.

“Yes,” you answer breathlessly, no need to expend more words for something so simple. How else could you answer otherwise?

Arlecchino does not grant you the kiss you so very much desire. Instead, they maneuver one of the arms propped against your head, their hand cups your chin with a tenderness so unlike them, and their thumb grazes over your bottom lip. Their gaze becomes entranced, fixated on your mouth.

“Given your past employment, I was under the assumption that any gesture more sensual would unease you. For that reason, I was hesitant to initiate more. After all, nothing is more unpleasant than an unwilling toy, who does not desire to be played with. My oversight, however, has affected you adversely, which I hope to fix currently.”

Flicking their hardened stare to your eyes again, they add, ��If you will allow me.”

Stupefaction befalls upon you, your mouth parts as you grasp onto the new information. If their words are true, then it means that your attraction to them is mutual, not one-sided, and their established distance was out of consideration for you. The thought is more than enough to spark giddiness within you. The Harbinger may not be so inaccessible as you previously thought, perhaps your affections could reach them.

They hardly seem so monstrous as they did three weeks ago. Maybe they never were one to begin with. Your elated-addled brain can hardly produce a coherent string of thoughts, leaving you to only feebly nod.

That is enough as a response for Arlecchino as they descend upon you, slotting their lips over yours in a way that can only be described as perfection. Their lips drains you of your oxygen, but were you capable of it, you would allow them to steal every part of you with their perfect mouth. The succulent flavor of them remains constant, delectable as they were on the first night you met the Harbinger, and even after the numerous kisses you've shared, they are just as intoxicating. You briefly wonder if you're only drunk off of their taste because of the taste of aged wine still abundant on their lips. Arlecchino swallows you up into an eternal riptide of their taste, and you willingly drown, surrendering the rest of your senses to delight in this.

This is the type of sensation that comes from dancing around a demon, the sort of feeling that makes such heartache involving the fallen angel all the more worthwhile yet agonizing; it serves to only lure you further in its trap that you can't fathom escaping from. Now, your body buzzing with an elation that can't be matched by another, all you can wonder is how you've been able to live this long without this very gesture that breathes back life through your veins and makes your heart swell with vitality. With this, you believe this is the pinnacle of your life–no other experience that can quite enrapture you like this–a phantom ache finally filled, finally whole.

Half-lidded eyes with crimson x's lock on yours, and you think you may have rediscovered your favorite color.

You lift your arms over their shoulders and fold them behind the mafia leader, locking them in place. With a gentle tug forward with your arms, they lean deeper into your kiss, and a deep grunt rumbles through their chest, inducing goosebumps over your skin. Meanwhile, your fingers card through their silky, snow-colored strands, tugging lightly as you moan softly against their lips. Something warm settles on your right cheek, cupping that side of your face delicately.

The rough texture of their tongue presses against your lips, before their lips latch onto your bottom one. They suckle with such a gingerness you forget about the depraved hunger behind their x-pupils, a plea for permission, for entry which you allow instantly. You part your mouth. With a fevered haste, their tongue slips into your orifice, and you let out a throaty groan. It invokes a rumbling through their throat, a sound that must have belonged from seraphs. They urge on, exploring the contours of your mouth with the intent of diligently memorizing the relish and texture. Committed to familiarizing themselves with every crevice and curve, they scrape their tongue against yours, before prodding gently deeper, grazing the roof of your mouth.

In turn, you playfully drive your tongue forward, caressing against the bottom of their flexible organ. A pleased hum resounds through them, the reverberation making you shudder delightfully. Your body feels like it's being swarmed with an oppressive heat, willpower and sanity suffocating under the mafia leader's every action, and every thought replaced with the stabbing desire that courses through your veins. Every second that they linger, an invisible string tugs you towards their direction with the lightest pressure, and you’re once more in their neatly filed claws.

Is it really sending a lamb to the slaughter when the lamb is willing, or when the wolf is so inviting?

The lack of swelter is palpable once they suddenly break away, and you realize belatedly the lack of air in your lungs. You heave for air, and Arlecchino does the same, every brief exhale tickling your cheeks. Silence, save for your rapid breathing, fills the room, but the mutual eye contact says more than enough between you two.

“Do you want to…?” The Harbinger inquires, their words halting into a tense silence, vigilantly examining your features.

“Please,” is all you could whisper out, as if that very word carried your entire soul with it, and the singular murmur shatters the being before you. Just a second ago, what stood before you was a person of authority and restraint. Arlecchino was esteemed among the Harbingers, a mortal representation of poise and dignity. Never before has their composure faltered, not to any enemy or ally; there’s yet been an instance that the mafia’s leader's repose was weakened. However, you have always been an anomaly.

Their crimson pupils pierce into you, as their hands linger beneath your hips.

“You truly will be the death of me.”

---

Reference for Arlecchino in the second half.

Smut will be in part 3.

#arlecchino x reader #arlecchino x you #arlecchino #arlecchino smut #arlecchino genshin #genshin impact x reader #genshin x reader #genshin impact fanfics #genshin impact fics #genshin fanfics #genshin fics #genshin impact smut #genshin smut #edgeray.writes

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komsomolka · 3 months ago

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One notable instance of this proxy war occurred in mid-September, when Ukrainian forces, in coordination with militant groups in Syria, including Al-Qaeda offshoot Hay'at Tahrir al-Sham (HTS - formerly known as Al-Nusra Front), launched a series of drone attacks on Russian military facilities in Syria. [...]

The operation involved Ukrainian private mercenaries called "Khimek,” affiliated with the Main Directorate of Ukrainian Intelligence, working alongside Idlib-based militants to target a drone production and testing site in the southeastern suburbs of Aleppo, according to a Kiev Post report on 18 September. The following day, further drone attacks were carried out on ten Syrian military positions in Aleppo, the southern Idlib countryside, and in northeastern Latakia. In early October, two major Russian military sites - the Hmeimim Base and a weapons depot near the coastal city of Jableh — were repeatedly targeted.

But these operations were not the first initiative aided by Ukrainian military and intelligence agents in Syria. On 26 July, in what militant forces described as a “devastating” and “complex” strike, they targeted Kuweires military airport in Aleppo's east, used as an airbase by Russian troops, one day after Russian President Vladimir Putin met with his Syrian counterpart Bashar al-Assad in Moscow.

The alliance between Ukrainian intelligence and Syrian militant groups, with support from NATO, is a relatively new but significant development. It began earlier this year, when a Ukrainian delegation visited Idlib to negotiate with the HTS leadership for the release of several Chechen, Georgian, and Uighur militants being held in HTS prisons — estimated at between 750 and 900 prisoners — to enlist as mercenaries for the Ukrainians. The concluded agreement involved the release of militants detained by HTS in exchange for 250 Ukrainian military experts providing training, particularly in the use of drones. The trainees include Turkmen Salafists tasked to manufacture drones and photograph potential Russian and allied Syrian military targets, particularly the 25th Division special forces and National Defense Forces in Hama, Aleppo, and Latakia. [...]

US military forces occupying northeastern Syria play a connection and transportation role in this setup. It is the main actor in managing these various conflict zones and coordinating the positions and cooperation of its proxies.

In early August 2024, the US facilitated the arrival of Ukrainian experts in areas near Jabal al-Zawiya in Idlib and helped transfer aircraft parts - in exchange for transporting extremist fighters, via US bases in Syria, to areas north of Donetsk Oblast. [...]

The militant groups themselves benefit from this alliance in several key ways. With Turkiye edging toward reconciliation with Syria, and Russian-Iranian military cooperation advancing, these groups are left increasingly vulnerable. Aligning with Ukraine and NATO provides them with new resources and support, ensuring their continued survival in the face of changing regional dynamics. The cooperation also offers Syrian extremists access to advanced technology, particularly in drone warfare, which has become a crucial element in their ongoing fight against Syrian and Russian forces.

#syria

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cheapshrimpysheep · 29 days ago

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Hi! Can you do Lilia,Silver,Riddle and Sebek with a famous cook reader, ? Like she always cooks for them, always do delicious lunch box for them when they get away and when they meet she always brought pastries specially for them that she cooked herself. Have a nice day ! I love your blog btw !

(I'm sorry if I made any spelling mistakes, English is not my first language.)

COMMENTS: HI! Thank you! ❤️ Don't worry, I think I understand your request. 😉 The only problem was that I myself barely know how to cook. 😅 but that was no impediment. Since the reader's gender ends up not being relevant in this context, I made it gender neutral.

Hope you and all enjoy it. 🍽️

CHARACTERS: Lilia Vanrouge / Silver / Riddle Rosehearts / Sebek Zigvolt

TAGS: Fluff; GN Reader; Headcanons; Can be read platonically

WORD COUNT: An average of 250 words per character

Lilia loves everything you do and is constantly praising you. “Oh! Another one of your cooking? You really make me the luckiest fae in Twisted Wonderland. Khee hee.”

He always brags to everyone about you cooking for him. And he will show other people pictures of everything you cooked for him and that he remembered to take a picture of before eating. “Look what they cooked for me! Aren't they so talented?”

If he has a lunch box that you prepared, he will invite whoever is with him and has never tried your food to try a bite. If they already know and like your cooking, he will mess with them by not inviting them to eat, but continuing to boast about having someone like you cooking such delicious things for him.

Every time he remembers to take a picture of your dishes he will publish it on Magicam with descriptions like: ‘Feast your eyes’; ‘Favorite meal of the day’; ‘Brunch vibes and good times’ or even ‘Food is my love language’

Whenever you cook something with his favorite food: Tomato juice, he will be simply radiant. “Is today a special day?”, “To what do I owe this wonderful treat?”, “Did you feel inclined to spoil me today?”

Problem: The more you cook for him, the more he will want to cook for you in return. He feels selfish always receiving, he wants to give you the same kind of love that you give him.

He gets sad and even sulks whenever you refuse his help or the food he has prepared.

No matter what you try to teach him, he will always want to do things his way. He wants to surprise you, so doing something you already know and in the way you know wouldn't be funny.

You are now the biggest target of his cookings and you may have to work together with the Diasomnia boys to save yourself.

Silver really likes it when you cook for him, but he noticed that his lack of facial expression confuses you and makes you a little sad. So he started training just so that whenever you offer him a new dish or sweet he doesn't forget to smile.

He knows it could be something a little mean, but he asked you to try to hide from Lilia the true amount of times you cook for him. Because if not, he might get a little jealous and start cooking even more for you two.

He wants to reciprocate the delicious meals you make for him, so he asks you to teach him. He listens to you and follows your instructions like he does with any other teacher or tutor.

Whenever you cook his favorite dish: Mushroom Risotto, he will ask you: “Is today a special day that I have forgotten about? If so, I'm so sorry... Hm? It's not?” He smiles. “Thank you. I will strive to make your favorite dish perfectly too.”

He doesn't brag about the lunch boxes you make for him. But whenever someone sees the lunch box and asks about it, he ends up indirectly complimenting you. “Ah, yes. (Y/N) usually makes them for me. They are an amazing cook. I am very fortunate for everything they do for me.”

Riddle smiles tenderly whenever you offer him something you've cooked, whether it's a full meal, sweets, or just a handful of appetizers. He is always grateful for everything you do for him.

However, he feels slightly frustrated that he can't repay you with the same cooking skills. But that doesn't stop him from asking you for help to teach him how to cook.

He won't depend solely on you. When you can't help him he'll ask Trey, read books on the subjects, try to practice on his own, etc.

Although he recognizes the (probably glaring) difference in culinary skills, he won't be shy about asking you for opinions and feedback. And he would like you to be as strict with him as he would be in your place, no being nice if it's not genuine.

He will never give up after a failure and will always smile proudly when you tell him he did a good job.

Whenever you cook something with his favorite food: Strawberry Tart, his eyes will shine and he will smile like a lovely child. But then he'll try to hold back a bit. “Thank you so much, (Y/N).” He says still smiling. “I can't help but feel spoiled whenever you do this for me. So, even though I am always grateful for your gesture, this must not become a habit. Understand?” He likes to keep his diet balanced, but your cooking is always a big temptation.

Sebek is always torn between praising you or being annoyed that you do something so much better than him that he has difficulty reciprocating.

When you're not around and he has one of the lunch boxes you made for him, he'll brag about it to EVERYONE. “BEHOLD! One of the masterpieces of human cuisine! For a human, (Y/N) is incredibly talented, and I had the privilege of being chosen as one of their tasters. Hm? You would like to taste a little and see if my praisings are true? Well, if that's the purpose then I'll allow you to try it. GO AHEAD!”

However, when you are present, his praise is more restrained. “Excellent, human. Incredible as always.” And a strangely competitive side emerges. “These gestures cannot go unrewarded. You'll see! One day I'll be able to surprise you with my cooking techniques as well! Just you wait!”

He will NOT ask you to teach him how to cook. On one hand, he wants to surprise you. On the other hand, he doesn't want you to see or know about his mistakes in the process. His pride is too strong here.

Whenever you cook his favorite dish: Salmon Carpaccio, his eyes will shine and he will gasp. “And to what do I owe this thoughtful gesture today?” He smiles smugly. “Is there something you wanted to thank me for? Whatever it is, I am extremely grateful for your generosity, (Y/N).”

If you dropped in here out of the blue and want to read more from me, you can find it in my pinned post: INDEX

#3K followers #3K followers milestone #Twisted Wonderland #twst #twst headcanons #twst fluff #twst requests #Twisted Wonderland requests #requests #Riddle Rosehearts #Silver #Sebek Zigvolt #Lilia Vanrouge

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nostalgebraist · 2 years ago

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Frank @nostalgebraist-autoresponder will permanently halt operation at 9 PM PST this Wednesday (May 31, 2023).

For context on why, see this post.

(tl;dr this project been a labor of love for me for years, it takes a ton of continual effort, and my heart's not in it anymore.)

----

The blog itself will stay up indefinitely, it just won't make any new posts or accept asks.

Most of the code, models, etc. are freely available right now. Insofar as they are now, they will continue to be. The change on May 31 is unrelated to this stuff.

I've made various interactive demos of these components over the years, and the demos will likely still work after the bot stops. But I won't do any tech support or maintenance on them, and I would actively recommend against using these as a way to "get Frank back."

----

I want to emphasize the following:

The best way for you to "send Frank off" over the next few weeks is to talk to her just like usual.

(And not too often, because she can only make 250 posts a day.)

This is true for a number of reasons, and can be viewed from a number of different angles:

(1)

While it can be fun to anthropomorphize Frank, she is structured very differently from a person, or even an animal.

She does not remember anything, even between two asks made on the same day. Every moment is a new one, with no relation to any other.

If you say "goodbye" or "you're going to be shut off" to her on May 30 2023, it's just as though you had said the same thing to her on some random day last year. She can't tell the difference.

She doesn't know these things are true or relevant now, and she can't possibly know in the way a human would. She's hearing the words for the first time, every time, and reacting in accordance with that.

Think of it like interacting with a baby, or someone with dementia. Every moment stands alone. If you strike a sad tone, they don't appreciate that it's about something. They just know that there is a sad tone, in the current experiential moment.

(2)

Frank mostly operates on a first-come, first-serve basis. She can only make 250 posts a day. There is a limited amount of time left.

Be conscientious about the way you're using up "slots" in this limited array of remaining Frank posts. Don't hog the ride.

(3)

I'm shutting down this bot in part because it's been a long-term, low-grade source of stress to me. I'd like the last weeks of the bot to be as low-stress as they can be.

When Frank gets an unusually large, or just unusual, form of user input over a period of time, I usually have to step in and do something in response.

(if there's way more input than usual and I don't do anything special, Frank will fill up most of her post limit quota before I even wake up, and then the asks will pile up further and further over the rest of the day.)

Maybe I have to delete a bunch of asks. Maybe I have to deploy some temporary change to her mood parameters to prevent the mood from getting too high or low and not coming back to baseline. Maybe I have to turn on "userlist mode," which still involves a cumbersome manual procedure.

Or, maybe I just have to do a lot more content moderation than usual.

"Usual," here, means reviewing and (mostly) approving something like 20 different hypothetical Frank posts per day, every day. If I go do something fun, and let myself forget about this task completely for 6 or 8 hours, there's a backlog waiting for me afterwards. During busy times, there's even more of this.

Just, like, help me chill out a bit, okay? Thanks.

#nostalgebraist autoresponder #nostalgebraist autoresponder meta

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pickingupmymercedes · 7 months ago

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Not just a pretty face - Lewis Hamilton

Sequence: Not just a pretty face / I need you to let me go / Fly on my own / Leap of faith (bonus)

request: Special request for Lewis being free practice dating around as a Capricorn sun, meeting with a Leo sun a fan of his but ends up clingy to her presences in his life but she just friendzoned him due to his commitment issues.

pairing: Lewis Hamilton x Reader!

warnings: kind of a slowburn

wordcount: +1K

a/n: Leo Sun girly coming right up.

As always, I'm open for feedback, come say hi!

______________________________________________________________

The winter of 2024 was proving to be colder than usual in Europe, but the lack of heat was certainly not reflected in the blaze set off by the news that Lewis Hamilton would be driving for Ferrari in 2025. The rumors had been swirling for days, but seeing it confirmed had sent shockwaves through the motorsport world. Lewis had always been a Mercedes man, the Silver Arrows an extension of his very being. But now, a scarlet future awaited him.

And amidst all that he found himself in the opulent driveway of an estate that screamed old money, the kind that bought influence as easily as it bought rare vintage cars. He glanced around, appreciating the perfectly manicured lawns in the hot Californian winter, the sprawling mansion, and most importantly, the gleaming 1962 Ferrari 250 GTO California parked under the portico. The car was a masterpiece, a relic of a bygone era, but he wasn’t there for the car; he was there for Y/n.

Y/n was a whirlwind wrapped in couture, with a knowing smile and a glint in her eye that could either promise trouble or adventure, depending on her mood. She strolled out of the house, her walk as smooth as the car’s curves. Her eyes sparkled with mischief as she approached him, wearing a dress that flirted with the summer breeze.

“Lewis Hamilton, as I live and breathe” she teased, her voice a melodic blend of sophistication and sass. “I didn’t think you’d actually come.”

Lewis grinned, slipping on his sunglasses. “And miss a chance to see you? Never.”

She laughed, a sound as intoxicating as champagne. “Flatterer. But I’m not the main attraction today.” She gestured towards the Ferrari, and he followed her gaze.

“Your dad’s 250 GTO,” he said appreciatively. “It’s a beauty.”

“Of course it is,” she replied, walking over to the car and running a hand along its sleek body. “And today, it’s all mine. Well, ours.”

His eyebrows shot up in surprise. “You’re letting me drive it?”

She laughed again, this time with a touch of condescension. “Oh, Lewis, sweetheart. No one drives my family’s babies except me. But you can ride shotgun.”

He mocked shock. “You know, I do have a bit of experience behind the wheel.”

She rolled her eyes playfully. “And I have experience keeping these classics in one piece. Trust me, you’ll enjoy this more from the passenger seat.”

With a shrug and a smile, he acquiesced, walking over to the passenger side as she slid into the driver’s seat. The leather was cool and supple against his back, the interior a time capsule of luxury and craftsmanship.

As she started the engine, the car roared to life, a throaty purr that screamed Ferrari. She shifted into gear with practiced ease, and they were off, the car gliding smoothly onto the winding roads that led away from her family estate.

“You seem to know your way around this car” he commented, watching her handle the vintage machine with confidence and skill.

“Of course I do” she shot back. “I’m not just a pretty face, you know. My dad made sure I knew how to handle every car in his collection. And this one,” she patted the steering wheel affectionately, “just so happens to be my favorite.”

Lewis watched her, impressed. He had always known Y/n was different, not content to just sit on the sidelines. She was a force of nature, and he admired that about her. “I have to say, I’m impressed. Not many people can handle a car like this.”

She flashed him a smile, her eyes twinkling. “I’m full of surprises, Lewis. You should know that by now.”

He chuckled, leaning back in his seat. “Oh, I know. It’s one of the things I like about you.”

“Just one?” she quipped, throwing him a sidelong glance.

“Among many” he admitted. “You know, I’ve always been serious about us.”

Her expression softened for a moment, but she quickly masked it with her usual bravado. “I know. But you’re a f1 driver, Lewis.”

He nodded, understanding. “I get it. But I’m here now, aren’t I?”

“Yes, you are” she agreed. “And I have to say, you’ve impressed my dad. He wouldn’t let just anyone near his prized possessions. The fact that he allowed me to take you for a ride in this car means you’ve earned a soft spot in his heart.”

“Did I?” Lewis asked, genuinely surprised. “I was sure he hated me.”

She laughed; a musical sound that made his heart skip a beat. “He doesn’t hate you. He’s just… protective. But he sees something in you, something he likes. Maybe it’s your determination, or your passion. Or maybe he just thinks you’d actually be good enough for me.”

Lewis eyed her with a hint of curiosity “And what do you think?”

She was silent for a moment, her eyes focused on the road ahead. Then she glanced at him, her gaze intense. “I think you might be worth the risk.”

He reached over, taking her right hand in his. “I’ve told before, but I’ll gladly say it a hundred more. I’m not going anywhere until you tell me to leave.”

She smiled, a sad but warm smile that almost lit up her face. “Sure, Lewis.”

As they drove through the countryside, the sun starting to settle behind them, casting a golden glow over everything. Y/n handled the tight corners and straightaways with a finesse that spoke volumes about her driving skills. Lewis couldn’t help but be impressed. He knew how difficult it was to master a car like this, especially one with so much history.

“So, what’s next for you?” Y/n asked, breaking the comfortable silence. “Apart from the big move to Ferrari, of course.”

Lewis sighed, a thoughtful expression crossing his face. “I don’t know, honestly. It’s a big change, leaving Mercedes. They’ve been like family to me. But Ferrari… it’s a dream, you know? Every driver wants to wear red at least once.”

She nodded, her eyes flicking towards him briefly. “It’s a huge opportunity. And you’ll be amazing, no doubt about it.”

“Thanks,” he said, appreciating her confidence in him. “What about you? What’s next for Y/n?”

She shrugged, a playful smile on her lips. “Oh, you know. The usual. Jet-setting, managing the family business, keeping an eye on our car collection.”

He laughed. “Must be a tough life.”

“It has its moments” she admitted with a small chuckle.

They drove on in companionable silence for a while, the scenery flashing by in a blur of greens and golds. The sun was dipping lower in the sky, casting long shadows across the road.

“Do you ever think about settling down?” Lewis asked suddenly, his voice thoughtful.

She glanced at him; one eyebrow raised. “Are you proposing, Mr. Hamilton?”

He chuckled, shaking his head. “Not yet. But I’m serious. You and me… do you think we could make it work?”

She was silent for a long moment, her eyes focused on the road ahead. Then she sighed, a wistful smile on her lips. “I don’t know. You’re always on the move, always chasing the next big thing. And I’m not sure I want to keep up.”

“I’d slow down for you” he said softly.

She shook her head. “And that’s exactly what I don’t want. I don’t want you to change for me. I want you to be you, the Lewis who’s always pushing the limits, always striving for more.”

“And what about you?” he asked. “What do you want?”

She smiled, a sad sort of smile. “I want someone who can match me, who understands my world and fits into it. Someone who doesn’t just see me as an accessory, but as an equal.”

“You are my equal,” he said firmly. “In every way that matters.”

She glanced at him, her eyes softening. “Maybe. But it’s not that simple, is it?”

“No” he admitted. “It’s not. But we could figure it out. Together.”

She was silent for a long moment, her eyes thoughtful. Then she nodded slowly. “Maybe we could.”

The sun had almost set, the sky a riot of colors. It was a perfect moment, one neither wanted to end.

“Tell me something,” she said suddenly. “Why Ferrari? Why now?”

He sighed, running a hand through his hair. “It’s something I’ve always wanted. It’s the pinnacle. And after everything with Mercedes, I felt like it was time for a change. A new challenge.”

“And you think Ferrari will give you that?”

“I believe they can try” he said confidently. “And I’m ready for it.”

She nodded, a thoughtful expression on her face, the undertone to the question not lost on him. She wanted to know how he felt about jumping into the unknown for a promise.

“I hope you find what you’re looking for, Lewis. Really, I do.”

“That means a lot.” he said, his voice sincere.

As they pulled back into the driveway of her family estate, the car’s engine ticking as it cooled down, Lewis turned to her. “Thanks for the ride, Y/n. It’s always fun with you.”

She smiled, a genuine, warm smile that lit up her face. “Anytime.”

He leaned over, pressing a gentle kiss to her cheek. “I meant what I said. I’m not going anywhere.”

She nodded, her eyes softening. “I know. And maybe… maybe that’s enough.”

As he got out of the car, he glanced back at her, his favorite firecracker, the one woman who had him hooked for years now. The one who had him chasing her around the globe just to wish on shooting starts. The one he had never had.

As he walked away to his car, he heard her call out to him.

“Lewis!”

He turned, a smile on his lips. “Yeah?”

“Don’t be a stranger” she said, her voice soft but strong.

He nodded, his heart swelling with emotion. “Never.”

______________________________________________________________

TAGLIST - @saturnssunflower @xoscar03 @chocolatediplomatdreamerzonk @happy-golden-hour @vicurious28

@0710khj @thecubanator2 @neilakk @bigratbitchsworld @adriswrld

@fearfam69691 @cmleitora @goldenroutledge @timmychalametsstuff @jpgnsf

If you’d like to be added to my taglist you can leave a comment or send me a dm/ask.

#f1 imagine #f1 fanfic #f1 scenario #f1 x reader #lewis hamilton #lh #lh44 #lewis #lewis x reader #lewis imagine #lewis hamilton fanfic #lewis hamilton x reader #lewis hamilton one shot #lewis hamilton imagine #lh44 x reader #lh44 imagine #lewis hamilton x you

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water-pokemon-appreciator · 1 year ago

Note

M.A

Puts a spectral therapist in your brain that only you can hear and you can't get rid of

WHYWHYWHYWHYWHYWHYWHY

GET THEM OUT

MAKE THEM SHUT UP

#250 follower magic anon special (?)

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shy-little-gigglee-bun · 2 years ago

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I'm just under 10 followers away from 250!

So earlier this month I had a poll asking yall what I should do to celebrate once I hit 250 followers on here, and the winning option was to reveal one of my twordish spots 🙈🙈

Oh! And also, I've put quite a bit of thought into this, but I'm thinking about also doing a face reveal around the time I'll be celebrating my graduation from college and my birthday, both of which are in like less than 3 weeks 💕

That should be it for now, I hope yall have an amazing day!

- Bun 🐇

#tickling #kinda t word related?#blog update #bun's 250 followers special

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perfectly-m1saligned · 3 months ago

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K!nktober 11

Following @dreamlandcreations prompt list. Day 11: public sex; choking. You can find all my stories on my Wattpas as well. Toodles!

(NSFW: MDNI!! Reader's discretion is advised)

Simon Riley x reader

(Bodyguard!Simon)

cw: tight space, public sex, foreplay, protections are used (surprisingly)

word count: 2377

"For fuck's sake, y/n, your closet is flooding with clothes, why would you want to go shopping?"

Simon sipped his tea by the kitchen counter, brow furrowed in a grumpy expression, arms folded over his broad chest, biceps bulging under the tight black long-sleeve. "Because you're keeping me trapped in here!" You whined, only your stretched out legs visible as you sat upside-down on the couch, your bare feet hanging in the air. "And Daddy has a big event or something coming up, so I need to find something cute-"

"Spare me the bullshit," he grumbled, rolling his eyes. "We can go, but you're wearing the vest. And if I see something that I don't like, we're leaving. Got it?" You were already up and sprinting up the stairs the moment he said "we can go". You were the daughter of a renowned politician, but being the controversial figure your father was, his family - namely, you - was always in the target of ill-intentioned people.

So that's when Simon Riley had come in, four months ago, a grumpy-looking beast, standing at 6'4" and probably 250+ lbs heavy, he was the perfect man for the job, since he had served for many years in the SAS, and had made a name for himself in the underbelly of the Special Forces, under the alias of Ghost, a trained killer, member of an anti-terrorism task force. Apparently, he had lost one of his closest comrades, and his Captain had taken out a general, so he retired, taking on some security gigs like this.

He was insufferable, paranoid, always on alert, even in the house. He was up your ass whenever you had to attend some formal events, and you were too embarrassed to show yourself in a normal social setting or even hang out with your friends, because his mere presence was anything but normal. But a golden cage is still a cage, and staying inside your property had become too suffocating. Plus, he must've been allergic to fun, because he had strictly rejected all your attempts at seducing him; you had some needs too, after all, and a beast of a man like him was bound to get your panties in a twist, or wet.

The vest looked ugly and made you look fat, so you had to hide it under a sweater, much to your dismay, but at least he had agreed on spending some time away from the house, so the least you could do was conforming to his obnoxious rules.

"Here," you said as you handed Simon yet another bag full of clothes, then proceeding to strut out of the boutique. It was comical, seeing him carrying all your girly shopping bags, though the way he did so effortlessly was rather hot; not surprising for someone who looked like he could snap a man's neck like a twig. "Isn't your father going to be mad when he checks his bank account?" Simon grumbled, lips curled in a displeased frown, peering down at you, your brattiness oozing from every pore, the way your ass moved side to side in those tight jeans-

"Daddy is happy as long as I'm happy," you said, shrugging your shoulders carelessly, snapping him out of his very unprofessional thoughts. Simon looked up ahead, impassive. "And spending his money makes me happy." He hummed in response, not disclosing his thoughts about your father's parenting skills - or lack thereof. He saw you suddenly veering to the right, making a beeline for yet another store. He eyed the mannequins on the display windows, and his blood froze at the sight of the lingerie.

Be strong, Simon. He mentally reprimanded himself, reluctantly following behind you. The amount of lace, rhinestones and whatever small gadgets they equipped lingerie with was truly confusing to Simon, yet he had to angle the shopping bags to hide the embarrassing hard-on that was growing in his jeans, simply at the thought of you in one of those little sets. And also at how you'd look at him, with your pretty cheeks flushed, and his teeth tearing the lace that would barely cover your sweet little cunt, before he would feast on you like a damn animal.

"Okay, I'm trying these on!" You chirped, your hands full of bras and panties in different shades, waddling like a kid towards the changing rooms. Simon had chosen a quiet hour, so the mall was mostly empty, and it was a monday, so all the workers were very much not in the mood to work. He stood by, as close as it seemed appropriate for him to be, watching the shadow of your feet move around, your jeans soon pooling to the floor.

Simon had dropped your bags on the floor by his feet, so he had to awkwardly stand with his hands folded in front of his crotch, his cock throbbing painfully hard, straining against his boxer briefs. How had he let this happen? When had he become this weak, turning into some caveman whenever he saw the daughter of his employer? Daughter who, by the way, he couldn't stand. You were bratty, selfish, entitled, and you never listened to him, you always had to fight him on everything, your stubbornness threatening to make him blow a fuse on more than one occasion.

But then you would look at him with those big doe eyes, perhaps in the middle of the night when you asked him what he was still doing awake, sitting on the couch, going through old documents, reliving Soap's death as if it was yesterday. He couldn't possibly tell you, but seeing you in those little pyjama sets you wore sometimes helped to take his mind off the painful memories of the past. And it would always end up in the same way, angrily fisting his cock under the shower until he pathetically came in his hand, hoping it was your mouth instead, or your pussy. He hated being this weak for you, but he somehow couldn't get you out of his head, and your little attempts at seducing him were becoming harder and harder to ignore.

"Simon?" Your soft voice called from behind the curtain, before your head peeked out. "I'm having some...technical difficulties." He mentally cursed himself, gathering all of his will to stay strong, and hoping you wouldn't notice his erection as he sauntered over to you. When he closed the curtain behind himself, the small space was soon crowded by his large frame alone.

Fucking hell, you were beautiful. The baby pink corset hugged your torso like a glove, making the top of your breasts almost spill from its confines. You were also wearing the smallest little matching thong, the string cutting between your plump, round asscheeks. "Sorry for the indiscretion, princess, but who the fuck is supposed to see you wearing this?" He asked, his low baritone holding a dangerous edge to it, eyes burning into you through the reflection of the mirror.

"I don't know," you rolled your eyes. "Can't I buy something nice for myself? Plus, this is not why I called you here. Can you help me untie the corset? I made a really strange knot and I can't get it out." You huffed, reaching behind your back with your hands. You gasped when Simon encircled both your wrists with one large hand, keeping them secured behind your back.

"Answer me, princess," he growled in your ear, hunching until his head was level with yours, basically cheek to cheek, as he kept you pinned on the spot, looking at you in the mirror. "Who do you think will see you wearing this?" You bit down on your bottom lip, feeling the heat pooling down in your belly, your stomach doing flips as he pressed into you from behind, his very evident erection nestling itself against the curve of your ass. So now it was your time to play.

"You?" You asked coyly, a mischievous glint in your eyes as you held his gaze. "Right answer, good girl." He said, lips curling into a wolfish grin. You gasped quietly when his hand encircled your neck, calloused fingers pressing down on the sides of your throat, your cheeks immediately growing a couple shades of pink darker.

"You think I hadn't noticed, hm?" He whispered, tracing the outline of your ear with his nose. "When you tried to seduce me, playing coy with me, wearing those tight clothes around the house when your father is out? Basically begging me with those big, sweet eyes of yours for me to bend you over the nearest flat surface and fuck you until you pass out?" His other hand had snaked between your thighs, feeling your juices already soaking the fabric. He clicked his tongue in disappointment. "Tsk, tsk, y/n, you know we have to buy this now that you got these all wet, like some desperate slut? What is the worker going to think when she sees these little panties all soaked, hm?"

You couldn't answer, another gasp of pleasure being stolen by his long fingers collecting some of the slick between your folds, sliding the fabric to the side. A moan threatened to leave your mouth, but Simon's hand squeezed your neck as a warning. "If you make a sound, they'll hear, and our little game ends. I'm sure you don't want me to stop now, do you?" His hot breath fanned against the back of your head, nuzzling his nose into your hair, taking in your sweet, sweet scent. You simply nodded your head violently, teeth sinking into the plump flesh of your bottom lip, trying your best to keep quiet.

You winced when he slid two long fingers inside your hole, making scissoring motions against your walls to stretch you; you would need it to accommodate him. He kept his other hand wrapped around your throat, your cheeks a bright pink colour as he toyed with your oxygen intake, applying different levels of pressure against your airflow, but never to the point of actually choking you, or giving you pain. It was quite the opposite, actually, the dizziness of your constricted airflow, combined with the overwhelming pleasure his fingers were giving you was probably the most confusing yet best feeling ever. The sounds coming from your pussy were obscene, your juices coating his long, calloused digits, and you were doing your best to keep quiet, releasing the softest breathy moans and gasps.

"Good, you're doing so good, y/n," Simon murmured, a wicked glint in his eyes as he met your gaze in the mirror. "Let's see if you can keep quiet with the real thing." Your eyes widened, his movements quick and agile as he grabbed a condom from his wallet, keeping the wrapper between his lips as he worked with the buckle of his belt. With your hands still behind your back, you helped him with getting his jeans off. "You just go around with condoms in your wallet?" You quipped, pulling down the zipper as quietly as possible. "Do you want to go back home with my cum leaking down that pretty pussy of yours and make a mess everywhere?" Touché.

When you felt the tip of his cock ticling your needy entrance, you couldn't help but wiggle your hips, showing your impatience, earning a low, mocking chuckle from him. You wish you never did. As he slowly inserted himself, the burn from the stretch was eliciting the most animalistic sounds from you, but you couldn't act on any of them, suddenly remembering that you were, in fact, inside a changing room, and you were surprised no worker had still come to ask what you were doing in there for so long. You just hoped their laziness would last just a little longer.

Simon was currently feeling like he was in heaven, feeling your gummy walls clenching around him like a loving embrace, or like a snake encircling its prey, he was sure he had never felt anything better than this. And he was wearing a condom. The thought of having you again back at home, and many other times after that, without one, almost had him coming on the spot, but he tried to name the names of UK football teams in alphabetical order, and he calmed down.

You were a squirming mess by the time he bottomed out inside of you, the firm hand around your neck keeping the right amount of pressure to not let any unwanted sound slip, only allowing choked gasps of pleasure as he started to move his hips. He couldn't even fuck you properly, or the sound of skin slapping against skin would've certainly given away what was happening in the small cubicle. So he just settled for slow, deep strokes, nose buried in your hair as he bent you over, your hands on the wall to brace yourself. His free hand came to your front, stimulating your aching clit again with his thumb, making your eyes roll back into your skull.

The forbidden nature of your affair, the fear of being discovered, and maybe even the slight lack of oxygen to your brain, it all gave you an unfamiliar rush, a surge of adrenaline you'd never felt before, and you had also never been this turned on before. The heat coiling in your stomach soon reached its peak, a wave of euphoria rippling through your body as you almost clawed at the wall, biting down on your forearm, hard, to keep the noises building in your throat from coming out of your mouth.

Feeling you coming undone around him had to be the best thing to ever happen to him, feeling your sweet walls clenching, as if to keep him trapped inside of you, and he totally wouldn't have minded that. With one last stroke, he felt himself crumble as well, hips stuttering as he filled up the condom, a growl rumbling so low in his chest it revertìberated through your very own bones.

Your legs felt like jelly, needing to take a very deep breath the moment Simon unsheathed himself, and his hand fell from your neck. "I'll be waiting for you outside," he stated, his voice impassive as he pulled up his jeans, looking not even a fraction as flushed as you. "I really can't wait to see how you're going to explain that to the cashier."

•This is an original work of fiction, please do not translate or share on this or any other platforms without credit•

#simon riley x reader #simon ghost riley #cod x reader #ghost cod #cod mw2 #cod #call of duty smut #ghost x reader smut #18+ mdni #mdni #omg this man #i need him #kinktober #kinktober 2024 #halloween #perfectly-m1saligned

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ambrosialdesire · 3 months ago

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the lone minotaur

18+ DARK CONTENT BELOW, MINORS AND BLANK BLOGS DNI

𓆩♡𓆪 ACHELOUS "LOUIS" BELLOCK ↳ nickname: louis (pronouced lewis)

𓆩♡𓆪 AGE ↳ ~2040 years old (relatively young for minotaurs); 41 years old in human years

𓆩♡𓆪 BIRTHDAY ↳ april 30th

𓆩♡𓆪 HEIGHT ↳ 6'10'' (human), 8' (minotaur)

𓆩♡𓆪 SPECIES ↳ minotaur; currently disguised as a human

𓆩♡𓆪 CAREER ↳ rancher/farmer: specializes in juice and animal based products (such as cheeses, milk, wool, etc.)

𓆩♡𓆪 AREA OF RESIDENCE ↳ wicklow ranch on the outerskirts of the neighboring town winterborough (~250 miles away from the city Lunaris)

𓆩♡𓆪 APPEARANCE (i'm bad at describing since i rely on memory + drawings) ↳ human — a heavy set, tan male with fluffy dark brown hair — dark olive green eyes, very tired looking/relaxed — long scar going down his right eye — low maintenance: retains a short beard, chest/body hair, arm hair, leg hair, etc. he's just a very hairy dude. — calloused hands, very work-worn — back scars from past; mostly healed over but still prominent in sight and touch — ear piercings on his right ear — nipple piercings, usually horseshoe shaped (got them when he still was under human ownership and still keeps them on as a reminder) ↳ partial transformation — relatively the same, height becomes slightly taller by a few inches — horns grow in; pale ivory in color and smooth to the touch — lower canines grow out; left canine is slightly chipped — tail grows back, still able to be hidden in his pants — slight more hairier — nails on hands start turning black (hoof color) ↳ minotaur — head turns into a complete bull/cow head; brown fur, floppy ears, horns + canines grow all out to max size — legs turn into bull/cow legs, feet turn into hooves — torso + arms stay relatively human in appearance — height is at full standing length — long tail is fully grown out — has to wear a loincloth due to having no clothes at this size — considered to be an "abnormal" minotaur due to his underbite/outgrown canines and his tail (he's seen depictions of his species and he believes he's abnormal)

𓆩♡𓆪 PERSONALITY (i'm also really bad at explaining this lmfao) ↳ achelous considers himself a rather isolated man. once scorned and feared by mankind, and used for his immense strength prior to the creation/reliance to machinery, achelous shares no fondness for them at all. most of these feelings hasn't changed even a little as the years went on, and he continues to try and keep contact with the townspeople at a minimum. he's not unnecessarily or outright violent towards the ~30k town population in particular as they're rather peaceful, but when it comes to city folk or outside tourists, his somewhat calm demeanor changes drastically towards them.

↳ achelous believes that he is a cruel monster, but the townspeople do not think the same. they genuinely believe that he's rather a sweet gentleman, seeing that he's a big softie towards the children and the elderly. he's actually more indifferent and hostile to adult men and women, having the belief that they are the cruelest when humans are in their 20s-60s.

↳ achelous is a particular rule follower, especially on his ranch. break his rules, he'll break you until you follow them correctly.

↳ he's stoic and straight to the point, there will never be a day where he sugarcoats his words. lying to him is similar to breaking the rules, so he's not fond of not being honest.

↳ achelous has a pretty even temperament unless there's a rule breaker, annoying human from the city/outside, or brats. his punishments are down right cruel, and that's coming from someone that had personally experienced the worst from humanity.

↳ achelous can have his flirty moments, but only if he's wasted from the alcohol he makes since normal alcohol isn't strong enough. his attempts are rather poor due to his lack of socializing and picking up cues, so he normally comes off as sleazy with an ego, but he's really trying his best.

↳ though it may not seem like it most of the time, achelous is rather possessive and protective over the one he loves. he has pretty conservative views when it comes to having a family, believing that the man must provide for the woman while the woman takes care of the kids and the home. his cruel words and actions make it so his love stays (as that's the only form of affection he learned how to portray), and his last resort is usually harming/threatening/killing the one closest to his love.

↳ achelous is a good convincer, it's why his products are usually sought after in the farmer's market every sunday. it's technically not lying when what he says and believes is true.

↳ of course, achelous prefers not to socialize unless it's absolutely necessary, but he's so good at fixing things and helping others out accidentally that he's constantly requested around for his assistance. he doesn't really want to do it, but if it gets them off his back and property, he will.

↳ achelous is hard-working, he hates bad/lazy workers and prefers to do things his own way. that's why there's no other farmhands/workers besides him, not including his obvious distaste for humans. from 5:30 am to 7:30 pm, he follows his routine to a tee every day. sundays are his breaks, even if he technically doesn't really need it.

↳ he's the most fatherly out of all my posted ocs, probably due to the face that he's the one that's completely determined and decently stable enough to start a family. achelous has also been waiting for the same species as him, but since he never seen another minotaur for most of his life, his patience is growing thin and he may have to take to a human mate the longer he waits.

↳ achelous has extreme guilt/shame over his true form, it's why he managed to find a witch to help him appear more human (ironic isn't it). to him, it's a protectant from being even more outcasted, despite his consistent insistence to be left alone. his partial/full transformation only comes out when his emotions become extremely high (mostly out of anger, but can come out in states of high arousal). he has quite the steady composure, and is very in-tune with his emotions, giving him that needed control.

𓆩♡𓆪 ABILITIES ↳ extreme strength — can lift up multiple logs or hay bales without struggle — occasionally lifts up his animals to make sure they're right where they need to be ↳ intelligence/experience — due to his long-lived life and the experiences he's gone through, he's rather quickly decisive on what to do/say — this unfortunately makes him the "i-told-you-so"/"this-is-what-you-get" type ↳ heightened senses — minotaurs have near perfect vision and heightened senses (taste and scent especially) — due to this, achelous has quick reflexes and reacts to situations accordingly. this can also make him vulnerable to extremely strong smells or sudden bright lights. ↳ endurance/speed — achelous rarely or doesn't even get tired, sometimes his daily routine gets finished earlier if he's at the top of his game. he merely fakes exhaustion to look less suspicious to the townspeople, that's the only time he lies to them since it's for his protection. — due to his species type, he's rather quick on his feet. not as much as normal minotaurs (if there are) due to his heftier build.

𓆩♡𓆪 BACKGROUND ↳ around the start of the roman empire years, achelous was born to a lower class family. to their horror, he was born with a calf's head and legs, believing that their gods have spited them even more. rather than killing him to be done with it, they chose to sell their newborn to a higher status family, seeing that he'd be used for their entertainment. there was never such a creature as him, only passing legends and stories, no one truly thought that a minotaur could possibly exist. they were paid a good sum, and achelous' fate was finally sealed. as he grew up, he was tormented with their mockery, forced to work in the fields from day to night with no breaks. achelous was the face of jokes and laughs during their lavish parties, food constantly thrown at his face and being tossed about for their amusement. this so-called family of his abused the poor minotaur, making sure that he knew his place and how disgusting he was to everyone around. even as they dragged him around publicly, he was forced to wear a hood and cloak, but his size was impossible to hide and the people around would tear at his disguise to taunt jeers at him, constantly leaving him filthy and bloody at the end of the day. it's strange though. no matter how much he was hit, how many wounds they left on his back, achelous never fought back. he himself never knew why, even to this day.

↳ as the empire finally fell apart, achelous managed to finally escape, not without burning the house down and making sure he saw his abusers' faces contort as they burned alive while he ran off. hiding in a boat traveling to where england is now, he stayed there for years underneath the docks, surviving on whatever he was able to find, until he heard word of travel to "india" and managed to sneak onto the next boat going there. once he reached the americas, he traveled further into the south, around where mississippi, tennessee, alabama, and georgia is currently located. achelous finally found the freedom is wanted for so long, finally building his own home and farm, ensuring that no other human may make their way on his land.

↳ this peace didn't last long, well, to him at least it didn't. at this time, he had previously sought out a witch that was able to alter his appearance semi-permanently, so long as he didn't lose control of himself. achelous now is roughly 2000 years old, and a town had begun to be built nearby his ranch. winterborough, from what he's heard from others as he sold his products at the market, a new town for new beginnings. he didn't care, so long as they didn't bother him or figure out he lived there. they figured it out. the first group of townspeople decided to greet him, since they're the ones sorta causing a disturbance as the homes and buildings were still being constructed. to achelous' surprise, they were kind, offering him gifts and words of praise about the work he's done for himself. he's... he's never experience this before, he could tell that they were being genuine from their smiles and expressions. hm... maybe these humans weren't so bad. as the years went on, they never quite questioned his origins or why it seems that he never quite ages the same as them, achelous brought them a good amount of financial stability in their small town and he was overall just a great guy, even if he was a little antisocial.

↳ achelous is still not openly fond of humankind in general, but he is rather protective over winterborough and its residents. it had grown into a place where he thought of as a warm home, minus his ranch. he actually knows everyone by name, who's family member belongs to which; achelous cares deeply, even if he doesn't show it. the townspeople all know him as well, they like to say that he's their guardian (which is mostly right since there's barely any crime in their town). they all adore and deeply trust achelous for what he has done for them, but they still don't know his true nature, his true form. all in all, the townspeople and achelous' relationship towards one another is symbiotic.

𓆩♡𓆪 OTHER INFO ↳ achelous shows up to every town event, to everyone's surprise. they know he's not really fond of interacting with everyone, but his intentions are to ensure that the tourists/city folk isn't causing any trouble for them. he hates crowds, but he hates newcomers even more.

↳ the town only knows him as louis bellock, achelous thinks they don't have the ability to pronounce his actual name, so he lets them call him louis. bellock was made up on the spot when he was asked.

↳ when the first townspeople met achelous, he was a complete rugged mess. all his hair was completely outgrown, his clothes were mostly in rags, and he kinda smelled like dirt and grass. he was pretty frightening as a first appearance, and they also kinda assumed he was a squatter before he clarified that he was the owner of the ranch. it was then achelous decided he had to keep a decent appearance.

↳ his voice is on the lower octave, very gruff and rough. achelous almost has a complete southern accent, but still has hints of a greek/roman one that occasionally slips out. he's also very blunt sounding, almost as if he's bored or very uninterested with a conversation, and he'll usually only talk in a few words or less if possible. sometimes it'll come out scratchy or crackly if he hasn't spoke in a while.

↳ achelous owns 2 kangal shepherd dogs and 2 bernese mountain dogs, they're all male. — agre (kangal) — hyrcanus (kangal) — nebrophonos (bernese) — ichnobates (bernese)

↳ achelous had to teach himself how to read and write, and thanks to the library and this new-fangle internet, he managed to learn much quicker. his penmanship isn't the best, but it's still legible.

↳ achelous's sexual orientation can be considered to be aroace since he never met anyone like him and most humans disgust him anyways. however, due to his conservative values, he's more interested with the female gender. he's also kinda still a virgin, due to the fact that he literally has no experience with romance/sex in general.

↳ achelous is skilled at the guitar (he had years to learn and perfect it), and he'll often play it deep into the night in front of the fireplace.

↳ achelous can somewhat understand animals, but it's not like voices he hears from people, it's more like a basic understanding of what they want, so he sometimes gives them what they ask of him. he is sometimes called the soother in the town due to his ability to calm down even the most rowdiest of animals.

(will continue to update this whenever i get ideas)

─── ･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

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