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cosmosis · 1 year ago

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MOVED TO @seratopia

miles morales x reader - purple

miles takes you out to get slushies

You’re in the zone, notebooks and textbooks laid out, pens scattered everywhere, music from your headphones blasting in your headphones. You’re studying in your dorm, nodding your head to the music while you scratch down a few notes on paper.

Midterms are coming up, and you’re studying hard. Students have been clawing their way through classes like zombies, grunting and sighing to themselves like half-dead corpses.

It’s already dark outside, the only source of light in your room being the technicolor laptop screen in front of you. You hear a beeping and occasional crash outside, but that’s just New York.

At first, you don’t hear the knocking on your window, too endorsed in your music to notice. It’s only when the knocking gets louder and faster that you pause your study session.

Hesitantly pulling down your headphones, you look towards your glass window. You recognize that black suit anywhere, the one that looks like he’s bleeding from his armpits.

It’s Miles.

You get up from your desk chair, flipping the lock on the window and pushing the glass pane all the way up. Like the thousands of times he’s done before, Miles crawls through your window, stepping onto the soft carpet of your dorm.

He’s been getting bigger, stronger, lately. Only shame of that is the fact that it’s harder for him to fit through your window.

Miles dusts himself off, and you spread your arms wide for a hug with a smile on your face. He practically lands into you, squeezing you tight and forcing the air out of your lungs. He’s so happy to see you.

He sighs into your hair.

“M’ glad you’ve been keeping your window locked.“

“You said you hated it yesterday.“

“Shhh....“

The two of you unclasp, and Miles tugs his mask off his face. He presses a kiss to your temple, shifting his gaze towards the array of study materials on your desk.

“Midterms?“

“Yep.“ You say, popping the “p.“

Miles ponders for a moment, peering from the bags under your eyes to the impossibly large stack of papers on your study space. Subconsciously, he kneads a hand into your side.

“Hey, you wanna go somewhere?“

“Miles, it’s 10 at night.“

“How bout’ the 7-Eleven down the street?“

“Mmmm....“

“I’ll keep you safe. You’re lookin’ at the one and only Spiderman.“ Miles says, gesturing to himself with a smirk.

You playfully roll your eyes. “Alright. I think I need a break anyway.”

“For real.“ Miles mutters.

Miles scouts your dorm room for a jacket, maybe some sweatpants. He usually leaves clothes at your dorm anyway. You throw a pair of grey sweatpants at his head, but he catches them in his fist. Over his suit, Miles throws on a jacket, slotting his legs through the sweatpants.

It’s cold out, so you throw on a jacket, putting on slippers over your fuzzy socks. Miles shoves his mask back on just so his identity is concealed. If anyone asks, Spiderman was just saving a person who got lost

“C’mere.“ Miles says, his arms already out near your window.

You gingerly rise up on your tip-toes, wrapping your arms around Miles’s neck. He slots one hand onto the lower curve of your back, and the other where your thighs and calves meet, carrying you in a somewhat twisted princess carry.

Miles carefully inches through your tiny apartment window, and you duck your head down to make sure you don’t hit it on the way out.

Your heart already pumping in your veins, Miles jumps out into the open air, one hand slinging the both of you through Brooklyn, the other slotted underneath your upper thighs to keep you from plummeting to the ground.

You never really admit it, but you love when Miles slings you both places. The wind in your face, Miles holding you close, the sounds of New York. You adore it.

It’s not very long before the ride ends, and Miles pulls lands in a very suspicious alleyway.

“I knew you were plotting against me all along.“ You joke, and he sets you down onto the concrete. He yanks his mask off, shoving it into his jacket pocket.

The florescent lights of the 7-Eleven glow a bright white, as if it were it’s own sun. Miles pulls the door open for you, such a gentleman. You step inside, and Miles gives a nod to the cashier.

“Ooh! Slushies.“ You say, staring at the almost hypnotizing swirl of neon colors in the tank. It’s so inviting, the perfect thing to have at 10pm.

Miles already helps himself, grabbing a cup and handing one to you. As you suspect, Miles gets the blue flavor, while you get the red cherry cola. You can hear the light pop and sizzle of the slush as it pours, making you all the more thirsty.

You take a sip, and you sigh in enjoyment.

“You want anything else?“ Miles asks, and you shake your head no. He guides you with a hand on your back to the cashier counter, and the man already starts typing in the order.

Miles reaches into both jacket pockets, but no avail.

“Shit, forgot my wallet.“

A.K.A, Miles doesn’t keep his wallet on him during patrol.

“All good man, on the house.“

“Thanks, man.“

You nod, and Miles reaches his arm past your head, pushing the door open in front you. The cold air of Brooklyn engulfs you, and you can nearly see your breath cloud up.

Slowly, the both of you talk, inching back towards the dark alleyway from before. On your tip-toes again, you press a chilled kiss to Miles’s chin.

“Thanks, Miles.“

“I didn’t even buy it.“ He chuckles, shamelessly pulling you into him after taking another sip of his slush.

One thing leads to another, and Miles starts kissing you, starting from your cheeks but eventually leading down to your lips. Simultaneously, he draws you in and holds his slush with the same hand, using the other to bury it in your hair.

Miles chuckles into your mouth; it’s fun to kiss when you taste like cherry cola. Miles is taken by surprise when you boldly prod your tongue into his mouth, a blush rising high onto his face. With the slight privacy of the alleyway, Miles feels brave enough prod and poke your lips with his teeth.

When you finally let go, Miles’s face is warm in contrast to the cold air, almost hot to the touch. It’s rare when you two ever truly swap spit, but Miles thinks its special when you do.

Its a bit silent for a moment after, but neither of you can stop smiling. Miles in particular can’t stop touching you all over.

A thought pops into your head.

You rummage through your pockets for your phone, switching it on and pressing the button to activate your flashlight.

“Miles, open your mouth.“

“Woah, babe, didn’t know you were into th-“ He jokes.

“Oh my gosh Miles, it’s not that.“

Miles chuckles. He loves poking at you. As he was told, he opens his mouth, and you point the flashlight at it. You start laughing to yourself, the light of the flash flickering everywhere.

“What? Is it my face?“

“No, look!“ You pull up the selfie mode on your phone, using the brightness of your phone to the best of it’s ability. You press your cheek to Miles, sticking your tongue out for the camera.

“It’s purple!“ You cackle, and Miles starts chuckling along with you.

There’s spots on Miles’s tongue that are deeper in blue, but still nonetheless a lavender color. You giggle, snapping a few photos.

“We should try again but with different colors.” Miles smirks, slyly resting his head against your temple.

You smirk. “Just tell me you wanna make out more, Miles.”

He shrugs, dropping an arm around your shoulders. “Hmm. Maybe.“

#miles morales #spiderman #spiderman across the spiderverse #atsv #miles morales x you #miles morales x reader #miles morales x y/n #fluff #making out #romance #reader insert #spiderman 1610B #atsv miles morales #across the spiderverse #atsv x reader #cosmosis-writes ₍⑅ᐢ..ᐢ₎

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five-and-dimes · 7 months ago

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Your Eyes Slay Me Suddenly

Finally get to share my fic for the Spring Exchange! I got assigned @im-not-corrupted, and it's my first time writing a knight au, but I'm really happy with how t turned out, so I hope you like it too! <3

AO3

If you had asked Sir Robert Gadling just a few years ago, he would have told you that he had no plans of settling in any kingdom. Ever since the loss of his dear Eleanor, he had found himself most content in traveling. A sword for hire making his way through the lands, throwing himself into new adventures before inevitably moving on. He escorted nobles and adventurers, he protected priceless treasures, he fought in tournaments for gold and glory, and then he carried on. Each new place brought their own unique experiences and joys, but none so great as to convince him to stay.

Then he entered the kingdom of the Endless.

He had heard rumors of the turmoil the kingdom had gone through in recent times. One of their main allies and trade partners had been brought low by their king’s death and near fatal wounding of the only prince, leaving the prince’s consort to struggle to hold the land together. The loss of protection and major imports left the Endless kingdom vulnerable, and they fell into a period of famine and darkness. However, a few years later saw one of the princes staging a coup, exiling the king and queen as well as a few other members of the royal family, taking the throne for himself.

And King Morpheus brought the realm back to prosperity.

Hob found the land intriguing in a way he hadn’t experienced before. The landscape was lush and vibrant, the kingdom built within the forest as opposed to clearing it away, and even the homes of the lower class were adorned with intricate artwork carved into the door and window frames. When he made his way into a boisterous tavern, he was greeted as though he was coming home, not a newcomer. As the ale flowed, he had tried to learn more about the history of the realm, especially the years when the crown had been taken. What he learned was that, for all the drama that a grab for power like that must have been, to those outside the palace, it had all been very quiet.

“Went to bed one night the same as ever. Next day we woke up, and there was an assembly being called,” An older man explained, leaning heavily on the table, “Standing on the balcony like some angel of death, there was King Morpheus, wearing the crown.” He shook his head, lost in the memory of his astonishment, “The King and Queen have so many kids I never could keep track of ‘em. But I coulda sworn that one was dead,” he shrugged, taking another long swig of his ale, “Guess I was wrong.”

Curiosity thoroughly piqued, Hob was more eager than ever to join an upcoming tournament. As always he enjoyed buddying up with the kingdom’s knights, sharing tales of his travels, learning more about the land he was visiting, placing bets and engaging in friendly banter. He was excited to join the festivities, and to get a closer look at the mysterious king.

As he entered the arena, looking up to the stands, he understood why his drinking companion had called the king an angel. King Morpheus was a spot of darkness amongst the colors of the crowd. The royals and advisors sitting beside him wore rich, deep colored fabrics that shone in the sunlight, but the king himself was garbed all in black. His robes flowed around him, draping over his form and concealing his figure. His collar was buttoned up his neck all the way to his chin, and gloves covered his hands where they lay primly in his lap. Long black hair was braided elegantly and made his face look even paler, as though he had never seen the sun before. The gold circlet with ruby accents on his head was the only color Hob could make out on his figure.

He was beautiful.

Hob was never one to deny his ego, and he always aimed to impress when he competed, but on this day he forgot about the crowd. There was only one person he hoped to impress with each swing of his weapon or shot of his bow. The days of the tournament passed, and he couldn’t help but glance up up up to the King after each success, hoping desperately to be noticed. And his pride clearly paid off, because when the tournament ended, as Hob collected his winnings and made his way towards the feast, he was approached by an elegant figure. Her waistcoat was perfectly tailored and a deep purple which made her dark skin seem to glow. But her poise and demeanor gave away her station far more than the richness of her clothing. Delicate spectacles sat on the bridge of her nose, and her posture was proud and sure, looking down on Hob without seeming to look down on him.

“You performed very admirably, Sir…” she stated, raising an eyebrow in question.

“Robert Gadling,” he bowed in greeting, grinning.

“You are new to these parts, yes?”

“Aye, I am a traveler.”

“Just passing through, then?”

“Unless I am given a reason to stay.”

She gave him a reason.

The King had in fact noticed him, had been pleased by his performance, and was looking to grow the order of knights protecting the castle grounds. Though a few years had passed, he was still new enough to the throne to be vulnerable to attempts to usurp him. And he wanted Hob to join. Hob had no intention of turning down an opportunity to be closer to the dark shadow of a king.

It did not occur to him until much later that he hadn’t even needed to think about it before deciding to settle here, in the Endless Kingdom. He moved onto the castle grounds, and he kneeled before King Morpheus and swore an oath, and the king looked down at him with glittering eyes. Hob felt like a madman for all the things he wanted, but he felt a little less mad when, before the season even had a chance to change, he was selected as the King’s personal guard.

“If I may ask,” Hob could not help but inquire, standing watch as the King worked in his study, “Why me? There must be knights whom you are more familiar with.” He was one of the newest in the order, and yet it was he who stood at the king’s side.

The King barely glanced at him, continuing his elegant penmanship, “I am interested.”

“In me?” Hob felt his traitorous heart flutter.

Here, King Morpheus did look at him, something sly and mischievous in his eyes, “In your experience.” Slowly and deliberately, he put his quill down, leaning back in his seat and folding his hands in his lap, “Tell me, sir Gadling,” Hob shivered every time he heard his name on those lips, “of your travels. Tell me of your life.”

And, well. Hob would never deny a command from his king.

Although he would not deny… editing, occasionally. Never lying, of course, he wouldn’t dare. But he saw no harm in skipping the less flattering parts- the years lost to drinking his grief away, the times he tripped over his own feet learning to charge in heavy armor- and only slightly embellishing his victories. Morpheus always listened with rapt attention, as though Hob’s tales were the most interesting things he had ever heard. Perhaps, Hob considered, they were.

“It seems you have always been a capable warrior, Sir Gadling,” Morpheus smiled as he delicately ate his breakfast, Hob leaning against the wall beside him as he finished the most recent recounting of his exploits.

“Had to learn fast,” he grinned, “Some of us have to get roughed up if we want to keep you royals so soft and pretty.”

At first, he thinks he has said something wrong, because Morpheus’ head snaps up to look at him, eyes sharp and calculating. But a moment later, his body softens, like an exhale, and there is a pleased smile on his face, and Hob knows that he has said something right.

“I do not remember that part of your oath,” he says teasingly, “a vow to keep me soft and pretty.”

“It was unspoken,” Hob replies immediately, “Took one look at you and knew a delicate thing like you needed a skilled sword and shield at your side.”

“And it seems I chose well,” he sits up a little straighter, almost preening, “I trust a knight of your strength and… stature,” Hob felt his cheeks warm as Morpheus blatantly looked him up and down, “will have no trouble protecting my integrity.”

“With my life, my lord,” he gives a half bow, and when their eyes meet he is certain that something is there.

It became a regular part of their time together, after that. Time passes with Hob telling his stories, and Morpheus fluttering his eyelashes at what a rough and adventurous life he’s led, and Hob gently teasing about the soft and cushioned life he’s led. The contrast between them was exhilarating, and each time the king leaned into it was a bolt of excitement to Hob’s bloodstream. If Hob had his way, King Morpheus would never have to lift a finger. As he accompanied him through the castle, from his chambers to the throne room to the dining hall and back again, he opened every door for him with a deep bow. He would lift the king’s fork to his lips if allowed.

Morpheus does not seem to mind. For all that he is known as a stoic and cold king to those outside of the palace, each day Hob sees his little smiles, and the laughter in his eyes as Hob bends over backwards for him.

On this day, Hob thinks he might be the first knight tasked to pick blackberries for his king. Morpheus sits on a stone bench in the shade of the garden as Hob diligently fills a bowl with the ripe fruit, occasionally glancing back to see Morpheus’ warm, amused smile.

“It would be a shame to stain such finary,” he had claimed, eyes crinkling slightly in restrained mirth, turning to show off the glimmer within the fabric of his clothes.

“Oh of course,” Hob teased in return, “We wouldn’t want our precious king to get his hands dirty.” He bowed, taking the king’s gloved hand to kiss his knuckles. His skin was covered by such fine leather, he could only imagine how butter soft the skin beneath it must be.

King Morpheus smirked down at him, “You earn your keep well, my knight.”

“Anything to be kept by you,” he winked.

The only response is a silent huff of laughter, but Hob cherishes it all the same. As he stands, he holds a berry out between his fingers, “Perhaps you should test them. Make sure they are up to your standards.”

His eyelashes flutter, a coy smile on his lips as he leans forward, and Hob may have started it but he was unprepared for the feeling of his king’s mouth wrapping around his fingers, plucking the fruit from his hand before pulling back with a soft swipe of his tongue. Hob feels himself shudder as Morpheus hums in pleasure.

“Yes,” he purrs, “delightful.”

“Is that so?” Hob feels his heart beating wildly in his chest, but he feels confident and daring as he leans in closer, “Perhaps I should get a taste myself.” He thinks that no fruit on earth would compare to being able to lick the taste from Morpheus’ lips.

But he will never know if he is right. Before he has a chance, he lays his hand on Morpheus’ waist, only to have his wrist gripped tightly and torn away.

“Do not-” The hissed words are cut off so abruptly that Hob can hear the click of Morpheus’ teeth as his mouth snaps shut. His eyes are steely, stepping back to put himself out of Hob’s reach. It is so far and away from any interaction they have had before that Hob feels as though he has whiplash.

There is a moment's pause where Morpheus seems to be waiting for him to speak, and it is only then that Hob remembers their respective ranks, “I apologize, my liege,” he bows deeply, the formality feeling wrong. This is not who they are to each other. Or so he thought.

He glances up just in time to catch the way Morpheus’ throat bobs as he swallows thickly, “I have been away from my work long enough. Deliver what you have harvested to the kitchens and then rejoin me in my study.” He leaves no room for a response, turning on his heels and stalking away, heedless of the fact that they are not meant to be separated this way. Hob’s job is to watch over him. But, after watching his king’s back disappear back into the castle, he does as he is told.

His thoughts are a storm as he passes the fruit off to the kitchen staff, dragging his feet to delay his return to Morpheus’ side. King Morpheus has always been vocal about fighting tradition- about making a better realm, even if it meant going against the “old ways”- and Hob had, foolishly perhaps, assumed that meant that Morpheus would not be against marrying outside his station.

Apparently he was wrong.

Arriving outside the study door, Hob feels his heart burn. With rejection, yes, and grief, certainly, but also with anger. Anger at the king’s hypocrisy, his arrogance and conceit, to think so lowly of Hob as to toy with his feelings and then snub his touch. As though Hob’s hands would somehow taint his royal figure.

Well, Hob refused to be ashamed. He was proud of his rank and status, he was proud of his life, and no man or king would make him feel lesser. So when he walked into the room, he held his head high, and kept his eyes cold.

Morpheus glanced at him out of the corner of his eye, but did not say anything.

The weeks following are tense. At first, Morpheus seemed to try to restart their flirtatious banter, but Hob refused to engage. He was not a toy for the king to play with as he pleased and then shove away when he got too bold. In another kingdom, Hob thinks he might have been executed for the glare he sent the lord’s way. But Morpheus only sighed and looked away, and eventually stopped trying. Their days were now filled with tense silences as they walked together.

Hob is seriously considering leaving Morpheus’ order to continue his travels on the day the assassination attempt happens. He is overseeing a trial between two nobles, something about one of them infringing on the other's land, Hob hadn’t really been paying attention. In hindsight, the two seem more amicable with each other than one would expect for a dispute to reach the point of coming before the king, but at the time Hob had just been grateful that it was a quiet day.

“My King, I have some evidence that I believe may sway you in my favor,” one of them announced.

Morpheus, with varying success, did try to keep from being too far above his people. As such, it was not unusual for him to stand and approach the noble when he gestured him forward, presumably to show or explain something to win his case. Hob, as usual, is only a step behind him. It is because of that that he catches the glint of metal in the noble’s hand within his robe.

With a wordless cry, Hob lunges forward, shoving Morpheus roughly to the ground to step in front of him. There is a loud clang as the noble’s dagger connects with Hob’s gauntlet. His eyes are wide at Hob’s speed, and he has no time to react before Hob’s fist makes contact with his nose, blood spraying as he collapses. Around them, the rest of the knights in the room rush into action, restraining both nobles and sweeping the room for any hidden danger.

With the threat so swiftly taken care of, Hob is free to look down at where the king was sprawled, dark fabric pooling around him as he pushes himself up, dark hair concealing half his face. They look at each other, the adrenalin of the moment still rushing through both of them.

“Are you alright, my liege?” Hob asks softly, holding a hand out.

Morpheus nods slowly, taking his hand and allowing Hob to pull him to his feet, “I am. Thanks to you.”

As they stand, hands still clasped for a moment longer than necessary, Hob realizes that he has missed Morpheus. Perhaps he cannot have everything that he wants so desperately. But if this is all he can have, well. At least he can have this.

“Of course,” he smirks, “I did swear to keep you soft and pretty, remember?”

He means it as an olive branch, a remembered joke between them to show that they can still be more than simply knight and king, even if they cannot be more. He does not mean to make Morpheus’ eyes fill with tears.

“Yes,” his voice cracks, “Of course.”

Hob is not given a chance to respond- not that he knows how to respond at all- before the king is turning away, calling for his advisor, Lady Lucienne, the one who had first approached Hob about his position within the court. The two convene quietly for a moment before Morpheus orders the knights present, including Hob, to take the two traitors away to be questioned and search the grounds for any other suspects.

It feels wrong to leave the king’s side. Hob feels a desperate need to watch over him, to keep him safe and protected, to wipe away the tears that look so perilously close to falling. But he has been given his orders, and the king and lady are already moving to sequester themselves somewhere private to discuss what to do with the situation. So, with one last look back, he goes to fulfill his duty.

Hours later, when the palace is confidently secure and the traitors are under lock and key, Hob feels no less anxious to be at his king’s side. He was told to return to his own quarters, to rest for the night, and he did try at first, setting his armor aside and laying in bed to try to calm the burning in his heart. But there is no rest to be found here, and soon he finds himself walking purposefully through the halls in his casual clothing, a decision he only regrets when he finds himself faced unexpectedly with the king’s advisor.

Lady Lucienne is exiting the room just as he approaches the king’s chambers. Still half in the doorway, she raises an eyebrow at the clearly off-duty knight before her, and Hob freezes, feeling like a child caught stealing sweets.

“Sir Gadling,” she greets cooly, “I did not expect to see you so late. I thought you were resting,” she raised an eyebrow at him pointedly.

“Yes, m’lady,” he bows his head, but tries to continue awkwardly, “I simply could not rest, and wished to check to ensure the king was well after the attack today.”

“He is well,” she answers shortly, “so you may-“

“Lucienne,” a deep voice calls out from within the room, “he may enter.”

Frowning, Lucienne gives Hob a quick narrow-eyed look before re-entering the room, closing the door behind her and leaving the knight alone in the hallway. He waits awkwardly as a hushed conversation happens behind the door. Finally, Lucienne emerges once more, still eying him warily, but opening the door wider to allow him entry into the king’s chamber. As he enters, he is surprised when she exits, closing the door again to leave him alone in the room with Morpheus.

The room is grand, as expected for a king, and Morpheus sits primly on the edge of the large, ornate bed in the center. He is no longer wearing the extravagant, heavy garb that he dons in public. His current night robe, while as dark and elegant as all of his attire, is also thinner and more lightweight. It is also… revealing. The silky fabric contrasts sharply with his pale, nearly white skin, and for the first time, Hob is granted the sight of his king’s forearms, his neck, the jut of his collar bones, his calves. And with it, he is granted the sight of countless scars.

Dark, rough scar tissue circles both his wrists like bracelets, a matching ring around his neck. There are some marks that Hob recognizes as blade wounds, and others that he thinks might be burns. They criss-cross over each other and dip below his robe, suggesting that what he is seeing is only a fraction of what exists. All of the marks look old. It does not make them look any less painful.

Hob feels his mouth open, the breath rushing out of him as though he has been struck. He can tell, he knows, that the scars are old enough to have been made long before Hob ever met Morpheus. Still, he feels a strange sense of failure. As though it is his fault for not meeting Morpheus in time to protect him.

When he finally raises his gaze, he finds Morpheus looking at him, patiently waiting for Hob to finish his inspection. Hob opens his mouth, but cannot find any words that might soften whatever is happening right now.

Finally, Morpheus speaks, “Once, I was a prince. And now, I am a king.” His voice holds the gravity of an execution, and the sorrow of bowing his own neck beneath the blade, “But there was a time, in between, when I was neither.”

Hob takes another shaking step into the room. There is something dreamlike in the situation, an anticipation, a feeling of falling. “What do you mean?” he asks.

Morpheus turns his eyes forward to stare at one of the large landscape paintings he’d commissioned from a local artist, “I was sixteen when I was taken,” he states plainly, as though his words don’t gut Hob to the core, “It was… easy. For them to steal me away. Far too easy, even for an unloved spare like myself. As if it had been allowed.” He pauses, but keeps his face carefully smooth and neutral, “I still do not know for certain. Whether I was stolen or given away.” His next words are spoken more to himself than to Hob, “Perhaps it does not matter.”

Everything in Hob wants to move closer, to hold his king and shield him with his body, as though the past was an arrow aimed for his heart that Hob could stand in the way of. And yet, he feels frozen. Feet rooted to the ground by a pain so great even his strong and stoic king cannot keep it from his voice.

“When my blindfold was removed, I found myself brought before King Burgess.”

And now, Hob gasps, a too-loud inhale in the heavy tension of the room. Morpheus looks at him, his body stiff and his face still carefully empty.

Hob feels like he can’t breathe, “How…” his voice cracks desperately, “How long were you there?” He might be making a mistake by asking, by speaking at all during this tale, but he has to know. He has to.

“I was kept as a secret treasure for ten years,” Morpheus reveals bluntly. “I escaped my imprisonment roughly six years ago.”

The timeline stretches before Hob’s eyes, and he wants to weep.

“I was there,” Hob exhales in horror. Morpheus’ blinks, eyes blank and not understanding. “I… Ten years ago, I…” his throat feels like it is closing, but he forces the words out, “Burgess’ kingdom was one of the first I traveled to after I lost Eleanor. I was raised in the land neighboring it. I was there for nearly a year, drinking and fighting and participating in tournaments to distract myself from grief. I was offered a place in his court but I. Declined.” He takes half a step back, and then a full step forward when he sees the way the motion makes his king’s face fall. “I was right there,” he whispers.

“I doubt you could have done much,” Morpheus replied, turning his face to look at the wall again, “I was not flaunted before his people, or even the rest of his court. Only a select few knew of my presence beneath his castle. He…” his voice trailed off, and his eyes glimmered as tears began to well. But he stubbornly blinked them back, “It does not matter,” he says again, even softer.

Hob wants to scream that it does matter, of course it matters. But his king looks so wounded right now, and it has nothing to do with the scars. So for now he waits, and lets Morpheus tell him no more than what he is ready to share.

“Eventually,” he continues, his voice steady once more, “the prince’s consort grew pitying. I am sure when he released me he expected me to simply run. But I had more than earned my right to vengeance.” His hands clenched into fists in his lap, “Burgess was almost too easy. He had grown old and careless. He was not so powerful as he thought himself when I was in chains. I spared his son the killing blow only out of gratitude to his consort.”

The stories of the fall of the Burgess Kingdom make much more sense now, with this information, and even the decline of the Endless kingdom who had for so long been allies with them.

“It took me some time to return to my home kingdom. I was weak, and needed to heal and regain my strength. I also gathered allies. Lady Lucienne, Sir Matthew, among others. My family was not expecting my return, and so it was easy to claim the throne for myself. My parents I exiled, along with their supporters. My siblings I allowed the freedom to do as they wished. And what they wished was to leave.”

A few of the king’s siblings had visited in Hob’s time at his side, but never for long. Hob ached at the pain he saw now. The pain of being abandoned so quickly after his return.

“And a few years later…” Morpheus’ gaze was heavy as he looked at Hob once more, “a traveling knight competed in a tournament, and caught my eye.”

Hob still remembers that day so vividly, the dark shadow of the king, the way he was too far for Hob to see his eyes and yet he fantasized about them looking at him. His heart swells in his chest to know that they were. And now he is here, stepping towards his king, his friend, the man he has stood beside for nearly two years now, and he cannot help but ask, “Why did you not tell me this before?”

When Morpheus sighs, it is heavy, and Hob thinks that a lesser man would have crumpled under the weight of the despair in that single breath.

��The parts of me that appeal to you…” he explains slowly, “being… soft. And pretty, and delicate, and pure…” he keeps his head high and shoulders back and it does not make him look any less ashamed, “they are all a fantasy. The reality is that I have long been. Damaged. And sullied.” Almost unconsciously, he brought one hand up to clutch at his robe, holding it closed just a little tighter, “Perhaps it was cruel of me to deceive you in such a way, but our games… brought me comfort. I could pretend, even if just for the briefest times, that it was true. That I was someone you could want.”

Eyes fluttering closed, he sighed, “I thought. If I could have nothing else. I could at least have that.”

His voice is so even, despite how soft it has grown, barely audible in the expansive room. He speaks as though reciting history- something that has already passed and cannot be altered. A tragedy that cannot be changed.

When Hob moves towards him, it is barely conscious. It is like floating down a river, like gravity, a force of nature that perhaps he could fight against if he wanted to. But he does not want to. And so he moves to his king and he kneels, and he did not know it was possible, but it feels even more right now than it has every time he has kneeled before. Morpheus looks at him, the slightest furrow in his brow, confused, surprised, strangely lost. Hob takes his hand, as he has countless times before, and for the first time feels the rough calluses on his fingers. He kisses his knuckles, and his lips brush his bare skin for the very first time. Morpheus gasps, silent, and Hob would have missed it had his eyes not been fixed on his king’s face.

And then he continues. He brings his lips to the ring of scar tissue around his bony wrist, kissing first the outside, then the inside, leaning forward to continue kissing up his arm. There is a part of him that is appalled at his daring- this is his king, he has no right to take such liberties. But there is a much larger part that is desperate to prove him wrong. He has sworn an oath to protect this man. In this moment, he wants to protect him from his own expectations.

And so he pushes himself up, still holding Morpheus’ hand as his lips trail over the landscape of texture across his skin. He kisses over the fabric of his robe, not pushing it aside, not asking Morpheus to reveal any more than he already has. He stands until he is, like blasphemy, looming over his king, leaning down to kiss along the rope of scarring along his neck. He feels, more than hears, the way Morpheus gasps as his lips caress his skin.

“No game could compare to the reality of you,” Hob breathes against his skin, letting his tongue lightly trace the texture of him, “You do not need to pretend that you are wanted.” Leaning back, he finds his king staring at him with wide, watery eyes, and Hob allows himself a moment to sweep his gaze down his figure in appreciation, “Look at you,” he whispers, “Look at how much you’ve survived.”

He brings his free hand up to cup Morpheus’ cheek, and his king still looks disbelieving, and so what can he do but lean in and kiss him. When their lips meet, it feels like the inevitability of dawn after a long dark night, like everything was meant to lead them here. They move their lips together slowly, softly, until the taste of salt blooms between them. Hob pulls back, and Morpheus drifts after him, tears streaming down his face. And for all that he has been through, he looks at Hob as though this, this love and wanting, is what will finally undo him.

“You’re so beautiful,” Hob kisses the tears from his cheeks, even as Morpheus shakes his head.

“I am not.”

Hob tuts softly, “You are.”

Feeling emboldened by his love, by a love he now understands is returned, he pushes gently at Morpheus’ shoulder, guiding him down to lay on the soft, rich fabric of his bed. Morpheus’ eyes are wide when he moves to straddle him, but he does not push him away. His hands hover over his hips hesitantly, and that is the moment Hob stops worrying about this being his king. Right now, this is just Morpheus, who has been torn apart, and pieced himself back together, and pushed Hob away because he was so certain he would not be wanted as he is. And Hob wants him, and so there is nothing more important than leaning down to kiss every inch of exposed skin.

“You are so strong,” Hob whispers, pressing his lips to the rough skin of his neck again, “but you have protected yourself for long enough. Let me, now.”

“Hob,” Morpheus’ voice is breathless, his hands finally come to clutch at his tunic, “I…”

“I have sworn an oath to you, my king,” he kisses the burns along his collar bones, “And I would swear another to you, my friend,” he kisses the raised scars on his chest, “and yet another for you, my love.”

Slowly he kisses down to his stomach, where he feels Morpheus tense and shudder even through his robe. Morpheus is breathing heavily beneath him, gasps and sobs and moans as Hob touches him all over. He tugs at Hob’s tunic and Hob obliges, tugging it over his head and reveling in the way Morpheus stares up at him, his tears slowing and his throat bobbing as he swallows at the sight of Hob’s muscled chest, his body hair broken up by ropes of scars from his years of knighthood.

Hob takes Morpheus’ hand, calluses caressing calluses, and leans down to settle his weight on top of him. He pressed their chests together, pale and scarred against tan and scarred. “See?” Hob whispered against his ear, “We match.”

Morpheus’ breath hitches, and his hand clings tighter to Hob’s. He does not let go for the rest of the night, even after they have finished their gentle rutting and have both stained the insides of their clothes. He allows Hob to use his own shirt to clean them both, and to wipe his tears away, and to curl around him beneath the covers, but he does not let go.

In the dark, Hob kisses each of his fingers, “Would that I could protect you from the things that have already happened,” he whispers, “But I swear to you, my beautiful Morpheus, that no new scars shall adorn your skin while I am here to prevent it.”

He feels fresh tears fall against his skin, and he knows it will take time for Morpheus to truly believe his words. Hob will slowly reveal the parts of his past that he had edited out, and Morpheus will do the same, and eventually they will lay together with no fabric between them, and Morpheus will still cry at the kindness and the love and the want in Hob’s eyes, and that will be okay. For now, they sleep in the safety of each other's arms.

And in the morning, Hob will help Morpheus dress, kissing up his body as he buttons his robe until he is once more fully covered, kissing his lips as he fastens the last button.

#the sandman #dreamling #my writing #spring exchange #knight au

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epochofbelief · 10 months ago

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Strictly Confidential: A Feysand AU

Chapter One

She's a law student turned confidential informant. He's a prosecutor with only one goal: bringing down her boyfriend for illegal activity . . . What could go wrong?

Hi everyone! Here's chapter one. I hope you enjoy. Let me know if you're interested in being tagged. Any thoughts on the story are much appreciated, too!

Chapter One

Feyre collapsed against the wall as soon as class was over. Sweat dripped from her temples, sliding over the layer of concealer she had plastered on that morning. She wiped her forehead, swearing to herself once again that this would be the last time she allowed Tamlin to drag her to a Crossfit class.

Even though she had made and broken that same mental promise to herself three times a week for the past six months.

As she guzzled from her near empty water bottle, Tamlin slung a sweaty arm over her shoulders, his skin against hers slick. Oily. “Got any of that left?” Tamlin asked, already reaching for the water bottle.

Feyre sighed, handing it off to him. “A few drops.”

He knocked it back without another word. Not an appreciative smile. No thank you, Feyre. Not even a nod of gratitude for the water he had taken from her.

As she followed Tamlin out of the warehouse where the Crossfit classes were held, Feyre made another vow. The first of its kind, but perhaps with more resolve behind it than the one she had made only moments ago.

She was going to break up with him this week.

Feyre trailed Tamlin through the parking lot, eyes on the back of his neck, his blonde hair stuck to it with sweat. Her boyfriend of over a year had fallen into conversation with his best friend, Lucien. Lucien was also a regular at these Crossfit classes, but had met Tamlin through work. Tamlin had hired Lucien as his Director of Operations at his company, Spring Solutions. Five years later, the duo were best friends.

Lucien climbed into the passenger seat of Tamlin’s expensive truck, leaving Feyre to haul herself into the back as usual. Tamlin swung into the driver’s seat and made short of work of getting the vehicle out of the parking lot and onto the highway that would carry them back into the city, back to the building where Tamlin and Feyre shared an apartment and Lucien lived a few floors down.

As the two discussed something about work—a topic Feyre didn’t particularly care about—she thought more about the terrifying new task she had set for herself.

Breaking up with Tamlin wouldn’t be simple.

Because it was her life, of course, and things were never simple.

She had shared an apartment with Tam, who was nearly seven years her senior, since the beginning of her second year of law school. Now, a month into her third and final year, their lives were fully intertwined. Feyre paid a few hundred dollars of rent each month, but Tamlin footed most of the bill. The downtown apartment was expensive, something Feyre could never afford on her own thanks to her law student’s budget.

She rarely paid for meals, either. Tamlin subscribed to one of those ultra-healthy meal services. A week’s worth of dinners delivered to their door every Monday morning. Feyre cooked them on study breaks, and the two would usually share a quick meal before Tamlin logged back on to work in his home office and Feyre returned to her books.

Most of the furniture was his, as was the art on the walls. The kitchen utensils, pots, pans. The bed they shared. Everything.

If Feyre moved out, she would have to return to her father’s house or increase the amount of student loans she had already taken out that semester. Neither option sounded appealing. She had lived with her father and her two older sisters her whole life—all throughout her undergraduate studies and until the end of her first year of law school. How she had made it so long trapped in that house, caring for her family in much the same way she cared for Tamlin, Feyre had no idea. So when Tamlin had proposed the idea of moving in together, she jumped at the chance. Didn't think farther than Get me out of my childhood home.

She hadn't considered what would happen if things didn’t work out. If she decided he wasn’t the one for her anymore.

She had gone straight from her father’s house to Tamlin’s apartment, and had fallen into Tamlin’s lifestyle, even if she still wasn’t quite used to it.

At least the bed in the guest room was hers, and the nightstand and the few books she had taken from her father’s house. Her painting supplies.

“Babe?” Tamlin’s voice scattered the plans she was fruitlessly trying to cobble together in her mind.

“What?” She inquired, blinking up at her boyfriend.

“I asked if you wanted to get dinner out tonight.”

Feyre bit her lip. She had already put off studying to come to Crossfit—if she didn’t get home soon, she would have to burn the midnight oil to get all her reading for class done at a decent hour.

“I really have to study,” she said quietly, praying he wouldn’t try to convince her to come to dinner. Because he would never let up and she, inevitably, would give in.

At Tamlin’s sigh, she tentatively tried again. “I’m really sorry! I wish my professors didn’t assign such long readings, but I can’t change it.”

He didn’t say anything.

“You know I would come to dinner if I could. I would much rather do that.” The words weren’t new—she’d used some variation of them numerous times over the past year and a half. They had almost lost all meaning to her, but she’d found this was the best combination to keep Tamlin happy: apologize, provide an excuse that was outside of her control, and assure him that he would always be her first choice.

“Alright. We’ll drop you at home and come back later.”

Feyre choked back her sigh of relief. “Sounds good. Thanks, babe.”

Lucien’s eyes met hers in the rearview mirror—one ginger eyebrow cocking slightly. Feyre looked away, gaze fixing on her lap.

Twenty minutes later, she waved at the car as it sped down the street toward Tamlin and Lucien’s favorite sports bar. With any luck, Lucien would get him drinking beers and talking about work, and she would have at least three hours to herself to shower. Study. Maybe even time enough to feign sleep by the time Tamlin returned.

And indeed, she managed to accomplish everything she needed to do just before Tamlin came stumbling into the apartment hours later. Feyre shut her eyes tight from her spot on the right side of the bed, her fledgling plans swirling through her thoughts until she well and truly drifted away.

-----

The next morning, Feyre gazed at herself in the mirror, turning this way and that to make sure every inch of her suit was clean and pressed to perfection, not a wrinkle in sight. The black jacket clung to her narrow frame, the pencil skirt she wore beneath it as flattering as a skirt that cut her off just below the knee could be. Her golden-brown hair fell in loose waves just past her shoulders, watery blue eyes popping thanks to the brown mascara she had applied.

“You look amazing,” a voice from behind her said.

Feyre turned, smiling at her boyfriend despite all the promises and plans she had made the night before. “Thanks, honey.”

“What’s the occasion?” Tamlin asked, striding forward and placing his hands on her hips.

Feyre stepped back, grinning up at him. “No touching. I have an important networking event with my firm today and I can’t get all wrinkly.”

Tamlin held up his hands, backing away a step. “My apologies, Ms. Archeron.”

Feyre smiled. Tamlin wasn’t always awful.

Just most of the time.

“So when can I expect you home today?”

Feyre sighed, grabbing her backpack and purse and brushing past Tamlin, striding out of the closet and into the master bathroom. “I’ve got a full day of classes, and then this networking event at six. I’m not sure how long it will go, but I’m really hoping to be back by eight.”

“Just as well,” Tamlin said. “I’ve got a late night at work—probably won’t be home until after ten.” Feyre nodded, and Tamlin followed her out of the bathroom, through the bedroom, and down the hall to the kitchen. Feyre grabbed the smoothie she had made earlier that morning and tucked her lunchbox into her backpack.

“Have a good day, honey,” she said, pressing a kiss to Tamlin’s lips. He nipped at her lower lip, green eyes sparking. But Feyre just smiled, retreated, and didn’t breathe deep until she made it to the hallway, door automatically locking behind her.

This week. She was going to do it this week.

Feyre’s day dragged on in one long, miserable slog. She got cold-called by her professors in two of her classes, but she managed to answer most of the questions correctly, her heart thudding violently in her chest all the while.

Cold calls and the Socratic method of teaching were one of her least favorite parts of law school. Most professors gave no warning to their students before they called their names, subjecting them to several questions of the professor’s choosing. If you didn’t know the answer, they might move on. But some waited for you to at least attempt to respond, while the class stared and stared and hands jumped into the air all around, telling you that they knew the answer, that it was obvious. Answering a question correctly felt wonderful—but answering incorrectly usually caused Feyre’s cheeks to burn a bright red.

It didn’t matter how many of the randomly determined “calls” Feyre endured—every time a professor spoke her name, her hands started sweating, her heart rate climbing up and up and up until the professor moved on to another victim.

She spent a few hours at the library after class, tucked in her favorite corner. It was private, but better than sitting in the main quad where most of the law students gathered to study during daytime hours. Feyre hadn’t spent any notable length of time in the quad since the first semester of her 1L year. As her relationship with Tamlin progressed, the few friends she had made faded away as Feyre opted to attend the fancy dinner parties and events Tamlin invited her to. Maintaining a new relationship and keeping up with her studies didn’t leave much time for anything else—not even friends. That wasn’t to mention the time she had spent at home with her sisters and father her entire first year of school, taking care of most of the housekeeping and cooking duties because the rest of her family had “real jobs” and Feyre was still “just a student” who didn’t work a regular 9-5.

Now, she felt like a ghost in the halls of the school. She would wave to her old friends if they passed in the hallways, but Feyre had long ago accepted that this would be her law school experience: sitting in the back of the classroom, answering questions if forced, and generally keeping to herself.

It was a quiet, small existence she led. Class. Tamlin. Attending whatever events or obligations Tamlin dragged her to. Studying.

After she’d had enough studying for the day, Feyre took the train to downtown Prythian, checking her makeup at least four times before the train arrived at its stop a few blocks from a large hotel and event center in the heart of the city. She started to walk the five minutes to the hotel, staring up at the enormous shiny buildings rising around her.

To think, this would be where she worked full-time in just a few short months.

Thanks to competitive firm recruiting, Feyre had had her post-grad job lined up since the summer. She would be starting as a junior associate at Hybern & Night LLP, one of the largest and most powerful national firms in the country. Jobs at Hybern & Night were hard to come by, but thanks to Feyre’s top 5% ranking at Prythian University Law School, and her ability to say all the right things under pressure, she’d scored a job during early interviewing last summer.

The firm occupied the upper floors of one of the tallest buildings downtown. Tonight it was holding a networking event for its partners, associates, recruits, and other lawyers in the community.

She could have skipped the event, but her career counselor had emphasized how important it was to immerse herself in firm activities as quickly as possible—it would make her transition from student to junior associate much smoother, and allow her to make connections with more senior attorneys and partners who might be willing to provide projects for her to work on when she started.

So, she was here, clicking down the shadowed streets of downtown Prythian, gearing herself up to rub elbows with some of the city's wealthiest attorneys.

Some day soon, she would be one of them.

Feyre tugged her coat closer around herself, the chill in the air signaling autumn’s impending arrival. A block away, the windows of the event center glowed warmly in the shadows of the buildings around her. She increased her pace, and soon found herself ensconced in a world of cocktails and arguments. Feyre made a beeline for the refreshments table. She could certainly count on attorneys to ensure there was an open bar at events like this. She seized a glass of red wine and cast her gaze around the room, but didn’t recognize anyone. She had interviewed with at least five of the attorneys from Hybern & Night in order to get her job, but they were nowhere to be seen.

Feyre thanked the man who served her the wine, swallowing back memories of her own time spent as a bartender at Humane, one of the filthiest hole-in-the-wall bars in all of Prythian. She would have preferred talking to the bartender—less posturing required—but forced herself to skirt around the room, looking around for someone to engage in conversation.

She had almost completed a full lap when an enormous man leaned against the wall just in front of her.

“You look lost,” his deep voice rumbled, light brown hair sliding over his forehead, pale green eyes gazing down at her. His cheeks were flushed—probably from the alcohol—and as his eyes slid over her, Feyre was glad she hadn’t yet removed her coat.

“Not lost. Just—” Feyre broke off, shaking her head. “Feyre Archeron,” she said, offering a hand. “I’ll be starting as a first-year associate at Hybern & Night next August.”

“Jax Smith,” he said, an enormous hand encompassing hers. “I'm in my eighth year at Hybern & Night. Hoping to make partner next year. It’s nice to meet you, Feyre.”

Feyre swallowed, taking her hand back and sliding it into her pocket. “You too.” She cast around for one of her pre-prepared questions: So how do you like working at the firm? Any advice for 3L students preparing to enter the workforce? How do you survive the eighty hour workweeks year after year after year? Is the money worth it?

Luckily, Feyre didn’t have to resort to any of her questions, because Jax spoke for her.

“You look awfully young to be a 3L,” he commented, gaze sliding up and down her body.

Feyre cocked an eyebrow, a chill trailing down her spine. “I’m twenty-three.”

“That’s young.”

Feyre gritted her teeth. This was certainly unprofessional. “Not too young, I hope,” she said, forcing a smile. This man was going to be her coworker. She couldn’t just turn around and flee. “I’ll be twenty-four this December,” she said brightly. “Practically collecting Social Security.”

Jax didn’t smile. Only narrowed his eyes like he was trying to see through her coat.

Feyre swallowed another gulp of wine, and as he inched closer, she realized that the alcove where they stood was mostly obscured by two of the many enormous columns ringing the event center. There weren’t any lights in this section, and no one else seemed to be paying them any attention. The rest of the networking attorneys seemed miles away, even the sounds of their voices muffled by a dull roaring that started in Feyre’s head as Jax’s gaze fixed her in place.

“And are you married, Feyre?” Jax asked, one arm resting on the wall next to her head. His gaze dropped to her left hand, wrapped around the stem of her wineglass, her fourth finger obviously bereft of any ring.

“No,” she said, backing away another step.

But her admission only seemed to encourage Jax. He slid forward, eyes focused somewhere just south of her neck, where her coat had fallen open to reveal the v-neck of her dress shirt. “I would be happy to meet you for a coffee sometime. Maybe even a drink. Tell you more about the firm, away from all these stuffy partners. We could even find somewhere quieter here. To talk.” His eyes slid to the hall that led who-knew-where, just behind Feyre, stretching off into the shadows of the hotel.

Feyre’s eyes widened, a lump forming in her throat. This man was her future coworker, her senior. He might even be partner by the time she started at the firm. To turn him down could be fatal. If he took offense, he could spin it any number of ways: She had no interest in learning more about the firm. Couldn’t care less about team-building and getting to know her coworkers. Clearly came for the wine and nothing else.

He could ruin her reputation. And that was something she couldn’t afford. Not if she ever wanted to be free of Tamlin, of her family.

“What do you say?” Jax asked, bending down, his face so close to hers she could feel his breath hot against her cheek.

“I—” Feyre started.

But another man’s voice, smooth as velvet and gentle as the night, floated into the alcove, startling Jax and sending a wave of relief over Feyre.

“There you are. I’ve been looking for you.”

#acotar #feysand #a court of thorns and roses #acomaf #sarah j maas #fanfiction #feyre archeron #rhysand #feyre x rhysand #modern au #feysand modern au #strictlyconfidentialau

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auxcordlawd · 9 months ago

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Part Three: Wandering Thoughts of a Ravenclaw

Words: 1024

Summary: You continue your detention with Professor Snape, finding yourself thinking of him a bit too much.

Warnings: PG-13, talk of heavy petting, sexual fantasizing, drinking, 18+ student and professor

18+

Part 3

Tuesday morning instead of going to the Great Hall for breakfast, you went to the library. Your head was buzzing with your dreams from last night. Images of your professor looking down at you with his onyx eyes, with hunger. Straddling over you, kissing your neck with a light bite at the end. Feeling his large hands grab your waist tightly. You felt heat between your legs.

“Uh hello?”

You were startled out of your thoughts when Miles suddenly sat down next to you, tapping your shoulder. “How long were you sitting there?” You asked feeling embarrassed for your concealed thoughts.

“Not long, enough to say hello a few times, you seem kind of out of it. I felt like I haven’t seen you in days between Quidditch practices and detentions with Professor Sprout, thanks to that asshole Snape.” Miles stated with clear anger towards the end of his statement.

“I know, I’ve been suffering too,” you stated meaning it in a slightly different manner, “after Easter break I will no longer be in detention.”

“Yeah but I still have another week after we are back. At least I’m visiting my family over the break. Are you going home for break?”

“No, I would but my parents are on a cruise, so I didn’t see the point. I have studying I want to catch up on though, especially if I want that Potions position.”

“I can’t see how anyone in their right mind would stay here after we graduate.” He said, seeming to regret the way he said it.

“I have to get to class.” You stated before quickly leaving him in the library.

Classes dragged on, you wished you had a DADA (Defense Against the Dark Arts) today. After what felt like forever it was time for dinner. You thought about sitting down and enjoying yourself, but decided to grab a ham and cheese sandwich and a butterbeer and head to your dorm to primp yourself before detention. You decided to change out of your uniform top and put on a deep v-neck cable knit sweater, and decided on not wearing a bra, wearing a necklace to draw more attention to your breasts. You left your skirt as is, but put your hair up.

Professor Snape was waiting for you at his office door, with a hand full of empty bottles. “We’re going to the Potions classroom, grab the remaining bottles on my desk and meet me there” He stated before turning on his heel leaving you standing near his doorway. You walked into his office, and took a deep breath in. You saw his pensive sitting there on top of the potions cabinet, desperately wondering what a peak in his mind would be like. You found a cloak of his hanging on the back of his chair, and smelled in his stimulating scent. His smell led your dream to creep back in your mind, his lips on your neck, hands gripping your waist trailing down to your skirt, slowly pushing it up to reveal your panties soaked- “Miss (y/l/n).”

You quickly stood up straight to see Professor Snape looking at you impatiently yet with some question in his eyes. “Quickly now, grab those potions, we have much to do.” He stated grabbing a few of the potions leaving me with only a couple to carry. You followed him beet red in the face, grateful he did not question you, only hoping he did not use Legilimency on you.

He had two teas sitting on the teachers desk, one near him, the other in front of the desk. You sat down at the chair in front of the desk, and he pushed the other tea towards you without at word. He was writing down notes, ingredients for his potions you assumed. You sipped you tea in silence as he continued scribbling. After several minutes passed he handed you the list and instructed you to get the ingredients needed while he readied the cauldrons.

“Good,” he stated as you returned with the needed ingredients, “I want to see you create each of the potions. I will watch over you, of course, but I want to ensure you can successfully recreate even some of my most complex potions.” He stood back and allowed you to get started. He leaned on the desk behind you sipping his tea while you worked. You made several potions to his liking over the next hour. You came across one you had never seen. “Professor?”

He was standing next to you before you finished asking for him. “Mm yes, I tweaked that one myself.” He said with a proud smirk. “Care to guess what it does?” After a minute of you attempting to figure it out he announced it was a modified version of The Elixir to Induce Euphoria. He began walking you through it. You’d never seen him so relaxed and in his element. Your arms touched from time to time, as you were standing so close together, you could feel his heat. “I didn’t know how you take your tea.” Snape said in a surprisingly warm tone.

“It was very good professor, thank you.” You stated smiling up at him. He looked down at you, his eyes trailing down to your lips, and then your chest. You followed his eyes down. You felt his large hand on your chin, pulling your eyes back up to his. Your breath hitched in your chest. You thought you were back in your dream. His thumb traced your lip with your chin still in his hands. He leaned down until you felt his breath, close enough to kiss you. “Very good.” He said in a dominating tone yet being a whisper. Heat spread throughout your body focusing between your legs as you looked up at him doe eyed. After a few seconds he released his grasp, shifting his focus back on the potion. You attempted to gather yourself. As he began to bottle the potions you started to clean up. “Alright Miss (y/l/n), lets bring these back to my office, then you are free to go.”As you followed him to his office your thoughts were all over the place, all you wanted was to be locked in his office, on top of him. You didn’t want to be free.

Inside his office you took the liberty of putting the newly filled potions in their appointed places. He seemed pleased by this, but also noticed that you were in no rush to leave. “I have a bottle of red elf-made wine I am going to open,” Snape hesitated unsure of how to continue “if you'd like a glass..” he trailed off. “I’d love that.” You said a bit too quickly. He conjured up two long stemmed wine glasses that looked ancient as well as the bottle uncorked. He poured two healthy glasses, handed you yours, and swirled his around in his glass before taking a large sip. You followed in his lead.

You both sat in content silence sipping wine until he put on some quiet classical music. “Most applicants for the Potions position are atrocious. If I must train someone who has promise, I will do so.” He said staring at you, waiting for a response. You had none so instead you took another drink. “You show promise Miss (y/l/n).”

“Thank you, sir. It truly means the most coming from you. You’re truly the master, I’m lucky to be under you.” You spoke without thinking, realizing you finished your glass. You blushed deep red. He refilled his glass and walked around to the front of his desk and refilled yours. Snape sat on the front of his desk, looking directly down at you. His leg just brushing yours.

“However,” he said in a more commanding tone “I notice you are still distracted.”

“Sir, I have only briefly talked to Miles, he is not on my mind anymore, I pro-“

“I am aware.” Snape said looking down at you. He took drink of his wine as did you. “After your detention is complete I’d like to start tutoring you. But I feel certain things are getting in our way.” His gaze once again drifting to your lips, then chest, then thighs which were now exposed more than planned. You shifted in your seat. “Do I make you nervous?”

The alcohol seemed to fuel your words at this point. “Yes, but not in the way you make most students nervous.” He tilted his head as to let you continue. “I think about you in ways a student shouldn’t.” You look down, silently cursing yourself. Snape grabs your chin like before to look up at him. “I am well aware of how I make you feel Miss (y/l/n), I’d like to say I have no intentions of giving in to your desires.” Snape states slowly while his hand traces down your neck to your shoulder, pushing the sweater to the side revealing your bare shoulder. You get goosebumps.

“Alright Miss (y/l/n)” Professor Snape said in his normal tone standing up, turning to walk behind his desk, “tomorrow, as you know is your final for this term of Defense Against the Dark Arts. I will need time after to grade, so you will be reporting back to be the following day to resume detention.”

“Yes, Sir.” You said breathlessly.

“Take the rest of the evening to rest, as I have kept you here late. I will send food to your common room. Goodnight Miss (y/l/n).”

“Thank you, goodnight professor Snape.”

You quickly made your way to the common room. Still unsure what happened, goosebumps still present, and a needy aching below your stomach. As you walked in you saw a delicious looking charcuterie plate, along with a folder. As you opened it you found something truly surprising.

Miss (y/l/n), I have taken study time you surely needed, although you found yourself in this predicament, I feel you shall find this useful. Tell no one - S.S

A study guide. After a few hours of studying the personalized guide and your wandering mind you found yourself quite sleepy. You dozed off thinking of the day, no need to fantasize.

#harry potter fanfiction #fanfic #professor snape #ravenclaw #slytherclaw #severus snape x reader #snape fandom #severus snape #snape smut #snape x y/n #teacher x student

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american-horror-whore · 6 days ago

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life update (tw assumed almost kidnapping, possible stalking, etc)

I should really be forcing myself to go on temporary hiatus but this is really my only safe space. i’ve been treated very roughly recently, and what happened yesterday just added. don’t worry about me leaving you all, i’m not taking a temporary hiatus

so i’m honestly just gonna start off with a message. Men, women, minors, anyone: please be vigilant of your surroundings. No matter where you are, densely populated places or scarcely populated places, day or night, be vigilant.

My car is currently in a different state, being lent to a family member (which has been going on for about a month), meaning i have to take public transport to and from college since i’m not doing dorms. Where the bus stops is just a short walk from my house, probably only 5 or 6 houses down, 5 to 10 minute walk.

Just for anyone who’ll have questions about why I wasn’t able to defend myself, Massachusetts colleges prohibits carrying firearms or concealed weapons, meaning i’m not able to take my pocket knife or any form of defense i have. The only exception is for law enforcement officers who are authorized to carry weapons. There is also no way in hell i’m leaving any sort of defense on public transport until I come back at the end of the day.

A few weeks back, I had seen an inferno orange-reddish toyota truck slowing down near me. driving it, was an older man. I didn’t think much of it at the time, chalking up to pure coincidence or misunderstanding. maybe i was someone he thought he knew? maybe he had to take a turn? i live in a scarcely populated area, only about 4,000 people live here. probably someone one of my parents knew.

Earlier yesterday, my final class ended around 2. I got off the public transport at 2:30-2:40 and started walking. I had one airpod in my ear, still semi-vigilant of my surroundings. everything was fine. Until i saw this truck again. Okay, it was slowing down, same as last time. Except the man was staring me down this time. And pulled over on the opposite side of the road. I stop, turn around to face the truck to let him know i was aware of what was happening. Shakily, i pull out my phone, pretending to take a video. The man sits in his car for a bit as i walk backward, still holding my phone out. I was too scared to even take a real video or a photo of the plates. He half-pulled out onto the road, looking like he was going to turn onto my side. Instead, he pulled away, most likely when he saw I had a phone. I had called my boyfriend when he had slowed down, just to have someone on the phone.

With all that being said, when the man drove away, I ran up the hill, back to my house. Out of fear, and not wanting to call anyone else, I call my stepfather, anything i was saying was barely audible. He told me to calm down, asked me if i was okay, and asked what happened. I told him what had happened, to which he had asked if I had the plates. I told him no. He said that was okay, talked to me a bit more, and told me to call the police. I called my local station, talked to someone, and I could tell they weren’t just brushing it off as a woman being crazy or attention seeking. They told me they understood I was afraid, but there wasn’t much they could do without the plates. I told them that was okay, and if i saw it again, i’d take photos.

I’ve been extremely shaken all night and this morning. My stepfather put in to get out of work early for the next however long to come pick me up from the stop, which I am so grateful for. But it got me thinking, what would’ve happened if the guy got ballsy enough to get out of his truck? what would’ve happened if he took me? And I have nothing to defend myself with except punches, kicks and bites, which of a 5’3, 98lbs college girl, there’s not much force behind those.

I always want to keep you guys updated in my life, because I feel transparency is important with people you care about. I apologize for how long winded this was, and if you made it this far, thank you.

tags to those know i know will care about something like this:

@fear-is-truth , @newwavesylviaplath

@taintandviolent @marchsfreakshow @cxndiedvi0lets

#sincerely faye ྀིྀིྀིྀིྀིྀིྀིྀི #that’s what being a woman’s like i guess #i don’t even know what else to tag this.

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nymphoheretic · 2 years ago

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˜”°•.˜”°• Deadly Games We Play •°”˜.•°”˜

Nymph: Repost from my old blog but, Its here! It’s finally here! I am so excited to post this! This idea has been in my head for months and I was kinda nervous about posting it, but fuck it! I hope you all like it as much as I did writing this!

Warnings: 18+ content, smut, oral(fem recieiving), teasing, dirty talk, fingering, clit slaps, orgasm control/denial, edging, spit kink, sir kink, spanking, blood, minor character death (mentioned), weapons (knife and gun), poison usage, alcohol usage, pole dancing(inspired by this)

Pairing: Mafia Boss!Rengoku Kyoujuro x Assassin Fem!reader

Word count: 5.3k

Tags: @bakugosbratx @yeahitzally @comatosebunny09 @auraee @cherryblossomsenpai @babiefwuit @linpunny @shirohyorin @kyojuro-my-wuv @bajiissofine @lovely-shimmers @sassysaxsolo @sailewhoremoon @unknownspecies (sorry for the second ping! I private the first one! I'd love for you to reblog it again!)

Network: @tokyometronetwork

You knelt down on the shiny, hard wooden floor as you awaited your order from the man who hired you. Breathing shallowly behind the thin black mask you wore to conceal your identity, you dared to look up at the man sitting in the throne-like chair in the center of the room. You were a highly trained assassin, the best in your class. You were skilled with every type of blade and made your own extremely potent poisons.

“Lord Muzan, I await your orders.” you said softly, gazing into the man’s eyes with your own.

Muzan Kibutsuji, one of Japan’s most notorious Mafia lords, was a rather attractive man with short black hair with long side bangs that framed his handsome face and piercing red eyes. Eyes that were now locked on the woman kneeling before him. You were dressed in all black down to your black heeled boots.

“I need for you to eliminate the family that has become quite the thorn in my side.” He said, his voice calm and alluding the amount of power he had. Muzan snapped his fingers and one of his servants presented the woman with a photo. “That is the Rengoku Mafia Family. Kill them.”

You took the picture from the servant, observing the family. All three males had the same flame colored hair and golden-vermillion eyes while the woman (the mother you presumed) had black hair and soft red eyes. You almost felt a bit of sympathy for them. They looked like a nice family, maybe you would use your poisons instead.

“Yes, sir.” you started to rise out of your kneeling position when a hand clamped down on your shoulder, squeezing roughly.

“I don’t give a fuck who you are.” A voice snarled. “But killing Kyoujuro and his family is my job.”

Turning to look at the man who grabbed you, you saw that it was a man with pink hair and golden eyes. Your lip curled down into a frown as you growled out, “It would be wise to let me go if you wish to keep that hand.

“What can you d-” before he could even finish his sentence you had your thighs locked around his neck as you swung your weight around, throwing him to the ground. A blade slid out of the heel of your boot as you stabbed it near the side of his head. He looked at you with wide eyes as a stinging pain spread from the slow forming cut that split his cheek. Blood pooled in the wound before falling down the side of his face.

“Akaza.” Muzan said simply, glaring down at the pink-haired man pinned by the small woman. “Effective immediately you are reassigned from the Rengoku Family.” His voice carried across the room commanding with a lingering threat. A slow smile began to tilt at his lips. “Unless you can beat her.”

Akaza grabbed the woman’s leg and tossed you off of him before dropping into a kneel. “Sir, if given the chance. I will not kill her but I can put her out of commission.”

You laughed, maybe a bit too loudly, as you glared at Akaza. You just had him pinned, cheek split open by the blades in your heels. And he thinks he can beat you? “I’m sorry. You? Put me out of commission? Take a hint from the blood spilling down your face. You cannot win.” Small daggers fell into your palms from the hidden compartment attached to your wrists and you pointed one of them at the man. “You’re more than welcome to try. I’ll try to not kill you.” you glanced over at the man who hired you. “With your permission, Lord Muzan.”

Muzan sat back deeper into his throne, his long legs crossed at the knee as he placed his intertwined fingers under his nose. There was a long pause of silence as the two assassins waited for his orders. The woman poised with her blades and Akaza dropped into his fighting stance. “Granted.” He watched with mild amusement as the two began to fight.

You dodged Akaza’s quick flurry of punches he aimed at your face, retaliating with your own with the dagger clenched in between the webs of your fingers. Your blades, while never piercing his flesh with a direct hit, left glancing wounds on his face, neck and shoulders. You somersault backwards, the blade in your heels sliding out.

Akaza took a step back to avoid the sharp knife hidden in your boots when you flipped, the tip barey grazing his chin and leaving a small knick on his skin. He had to admit the woman was a decent fighter, but it was time for him to get serious. Only he was allowed to kill Kyoujuro. Akaza would not let some stranger take his prize.

His foot slammed down into the floor, splintering the wood as he focused his strength into his fists. Akaza would shatter the bones in your arms first, to hear you beg for mercy before breaking your legs and making you crawl back to where you had come from. Just as he was about to attack again, he stumbled, a nauseous feeling overcoming him. Akaza gagged and covered his mouth and it felt like he was both going to choke and vomit at the same time. Why did he feel so sick all of a sudden?

“It took long enough.” you walked over to where he was standing, watching him sway on his feet. “The poison has finally coursed through your blood.” you pulled a vial out of the valley of your breasts, swirling the liquid around. “I coat each of my blades in this serum that I make. It’s a deadly poison.” you stood in front of Akaza, a slight smile curling at your lips beneath your mask as you pressed your fingertips against his exposed chest and smeared the blood that dripped from his wounds. “Does it hurt, Akaza? Or should I say Soyama Hakuji.”

Gold eyes widened. How did you know his birth name? He has not used it since he was a child. Akaza choked on his own bile as it rose up in his throat as he struggled to speak. Was he going to die? Poisoned like a worthless creature after not even landing a single blow on this woman, this fem fatale.

He flinched when you suddenly injected him with a needle and the nausea slowly started to go away as he dropped to his knees to empty the contents of his stomach so that he could breathe again. “Wh-why did you?”

“I don’t kill anyone who isn’t my target.” you said simply as you tossed the needle away on the ground and put the vial back in the inner breast pocket of your top. You walked back over to where Muzan was sitting still crossed legged up now he held his face in the palm of his hand, looking quiet assumed. “Was that display to your satisfaction, Lord Muzan?” you asked as you crossed your fist over your heart and bowed.

Muzan sat up on his throne, a smile curling at his lips. “It pleases me to know that the Rengoku Family will be disposed of.” He said, looking satisfied. “The funds will be transferred to your account when you’ve brought me their heads. 12 million for each one.”

You nodded as you slid your dagger back into the weapons compartment before bowing once more. Your heels clicked as you side stepped Akaza, who was still hunched over and probably still wondering how you knew his birth name. You stopped at the door, turning to the pink-haired man on the floor. “Because you were once my target before the hit was called off. Be grateful.” you exited out of the room.

Once you had left the building, you tugged your mask down and pulled out the photo you had placed in your pocket. You suppose you should start with one of the brothers. Killing the younger one first would leave a bitter taste in your mouth because he looked so adorable with that kind smile on his face. You glanced over to the other brother.

“Pity.” you said as you took in the older brother’s features. “He’s kinda cute.” Slipping the photo back into my pocket, you pulled your mask back up on your face and hid in the shadows as you made your way back home to plan out your tactics of getting rid of Rengoku Kyoujuro as quickly as possible. Even if you did not kill the whole family before your deadline, the twelve million you would get from just him would be more than enough.

-0-0-0

Bored.

Kyoujuro was bored. Very bored at this party that was supposedly thrown in his honor. He set his face into the palm of his gloved hand as he watched the scantily dressed dancers try to seduce him with their movements. None caught his eye. Kyoujuro reached for his drink, Brandy on the rocks, and swirled the glass around before taking a drink. His attention was caught when the music changed in tempo, becoming dark and seductive.

“INTRODUCING A NEW DANCER: THE FEM FATALE!”

Kyoujuro leaned back into his seat, legs crossed at the knee. The Fem Fatale. A dangerous name. He hoped this one would provide some entertainment for him. He watched the stage with hooded eyes as the lights changed to a dark shade of violet, his glass to his lips as he waited for the performer to come out.

His tongue wet his lips when a woman dressed in dark red lingerie with a black corset tied around her waist to give her more of an hourglass figure and a sheer black robe with red ostrich feathers decorating the train and sleeves. Her feet were wrapped in a pair of thigh high leather boots and she had a riding crop for her prop. She also left her hair down to frame her face beautifully. But what piqued his interest the most was the black lacy mask that covered her eyes, hiding her identity from him. Kyoujuro wanted to know who this “Fem Fatale" was.

He watched with greedy eyes as she strutted slowly down the catwalk, tapping her thighs with the riding crop until she reached the pole at the end. When her music started, she bent over and flipped back her hair, but a few loose strands covered her face, giving her a seductive look. Kyoujruo’s eyes never left her body as she danced and twirled around on the pole. He sipped at his drink as he watched her spin and spread those delectable thighs until her legs were in a straight line as she spun on the pole.

Kyoujuro felt the front of his pants become snug as she used the riding crop to spank her naughty ass and cunt as she spread her legs from the audience. Slowly, she stripped out of her robe, tossing it to the side as she grabbed hold of the pole. His cock twitched as he eyed her thighs and breasts as she danced around on the ground, her legs looking miles long as she stretched them over her head.

The front of his pants became almost unbearably tight when she ripped off the corset, her cute tummy on display for his viewing pleasure. His eyes followed her every movement as she slowly climbed up the pole, and begin spinning and twirling. Fuck, she was sexy. Her display of strength and her slow, eroctic movement turned him on. When she spun around on the pole, supporting her body with just her upper body and ankles, Kyoujuro knew that he had to have her.

When her performance was over, Kyoujuro motioned for his bodyguards to go find her and bring her to the private room he rented.

-0-0-0

You stepped out onto the stage when they called out your stage name. You walked slowly down the catwalk, tapping the tops of your thighs with the riding crop you used as a prop. Your eyes sought out for the Rengoku’s and you found him already staring at you with those beautiful golden-vermillion eyes and a glass to his lips as he took a drink. I made my way to the pole, heels clicking on the runway. Flipping my hair back I made eye contact with him, watching him adjust his pants.

Coming out of my robe, so I would have more freedom of movement, I slowly slid down the pole as my legs spread into a split. The Rengoku’s eyes never left your form as you danced around the pole, stretching your legs as you spun around on the pole wih just your hands. You slid down the pole until your knees touched the ground.

You moved your body around seductively, your hair flying around with your movement and sticking to your gloss. Knowing that your performance was coming to an end, you snatched off the corset.

As your performance was coming to an end, You decided to show off my strength by locking your legs around the pole while spinning around in place. Slowly, you let go of the pole and supported yourself by arching your back against the cool metal while pressing your ankles down to maintain my balance.

You could feel his eyes on you as you spun around in slow circles. You wished you still had the riding crop to slide it along your covered heat and thighs, but you could tell he was already mesmerized by you. By the time you had finished your routine and blew a kiss to the crowd, he was gone and you knew that he was going to look for you.

-0-0-0

Kyoujuro sat in his private room, waiting patiently for his bodyguards to acquire the woman. He fixed himself another drink and poured one for you when they brought you to him. A soft knock at his door brought a smile to his face as he beckoned them inside.

When the woman stepped inside his private room, you were even more beautiful up close than on stage. Luscious lips, perfect breasts, adorable tummy, beautiful hips and thighs, you were a goddess among goddesses.

He dismissed his bodyguards with a wave of his hand. “You can leave.” He said simply, eyes never leaving the woman in front of him. Your eyes were still covered by that lacy black mask and he was dying to see the beauty that laid underneath it. He smiled easily and laughed when you looked around the room. “I don’t bite.” His lips curled upwards into a hint of a seductive smile. “Unless you want me to, princess.”

Kyoujuro watched as your lips parted in a gasp and he held out the glass that he poured the drink into. “Brandy?” He asked, walking over to you so that you could take the alcohol.

You took the drink from him with a shy smile. Standing this close to him gave you a better look at his handsome features. You could see the way his gold-red eyes sparkled in the light, his perfect jawline, pearly-white, straight teeth, soft yet firm looking lips that were almost always pulled into a smile, and his voice was so deep and rumbling. ‘It’s a shame such a handsome man has to die.’ “Thank you.” you took a sip of the rich brown liquid, a bit surprised at how smooth it went down.

He laughed lightly, gaining your attention. “Smooth, isn’t it. This is Mendi Coconut Brandy.” Kyoujuro refilled your glass and his before clinking them together. “I enjoyed your performance. “He complimented you, walking over to the couch and sitting down. Spreading his long legs, he patted his thigh for you to sit down.

You eyed him, trying to figure out the best method of killing him. You had the knives hidden in my boots that you used to dispose of the real entertainer earlier. You also have your poisoned hairpins tying back your locks you could use. Your eyes caught the movement of him rolling his sleeves up and you saw the dark swirls of the tattoos inked into his forearms. Fuck... Your body automatically moved over to sit down on his leg as you gave him a shy smile. “Is there something you want?”

Kyoujuro leaned in, the sweet scent of your lotions filling his scenes. Coconut. You smelled sweet like the fruit and it made him wonder if you tasted just as sweet and was as tender as the flesh. His fingers found your delicate wrist, the pads resting against your pulse and feeling the blood rush through it. “Nervous or excited to know why I called you here?” His smile was gentle, yet still a bit sadistic. Kyoujuro was the hunter and you were his prey.

Pulling the hair pins out of the bun you wore, letting your hair down, you smiled at him. “Oh, I have an idea of what you want.” you said as you shifted in his lap, straddling his thighs. Placing your lips against his ear, you whispered, “But too bad I won’t be giving it to you." You raised the poisoned pins high, ready to send them into the veins of his neck. “Next time don't be so quick to dismiss your guards.”

He sensed the danger and before you were able to plunge the sharp tips of your weapons into his neck, Kyoujuro knocked your hands away. The pins scattered across the room as he quickly flipped your positions on the couch, his gun drawn and pointed at your forehead as you had drawn a hidden blade and pressed it against his neck. “Hm...you’re a better one than the last one he sent.” His finger rested lazily on the trigger.

You began to feel a bit nervous at the large Colt .38 pointed at your head, but you didn’t let it show. “Big words coming from the Boss’s underling.” you tightened your grip on the handle of your knife, pressing it tightly against his skin. “What makes you think I can’t slit your neck before you can pull the trigger?” you fought the urge to flinch when the cold metal pressed even deeper against the center of your forehead.

Kyoujuro smiled down at you, his lips pulled taunt at your words. “The boss’s underling?” He chuckled as his finger itched to pull the trigger from that statement alone. “You have me mixed up with my father, I believe. He was the former head of the family.” He reached around and pulled at the silk strings that held your mask tied closed.

Rengoku Shinjirou wasn’t the boss? You began to sweat a little, the strings of your mask dangling with the tips tickling your shoulders. The only thing keeping it held up over your eyes was the barrel of his gun. Why didn’t Lord Muzan tell me that Rengoku Kyoujuro was the Mafia Boss. You would have targeted him last. You swallowed thickly as he slowly reached for the edge of the lace mask.

“Let me see this face of yours.” He hummed, pulling his gun back slightly, ignoring the bite of your blade against the side of his neck. Grabbing the lace between his fingers, Kyoujuro pulled it away revealing your beautiful face. You were gorgeous. “Fem Fatale. I see why you picked that name. Many have tried to come assassinate me and my family, but you’re the first one that used this method.” He hummed as he grabbed your knife in his gloved hand quickly and yanked it from her grip. “Muzan finally thought of sending a woman instead of that pink-haired bastard.” The tip of his gun moved down to tilt your chin up so that he could stare into your eyes.

You shivered as you looked into his golden-crimson eyes. They were so cold yet beautiful with that glow of lust that swirled in his irises. You felt helpless without your blades and Kyoujuro was so much bigger than you that you wouldn’t dream of taking him in hand to hand. Then there was the gun he had pointed at you. You swallowed thickly. “What are you waiting for? Kill me. You know that I came here to kill you by Muzan’s orders. Unless you want to offer me more money to take out Muzan for you.”

Kyoujuro clicked his tongue as he tapped the tip of his gun against the bottom of your jawline. “Now what is the fun in that, princess?" He trailed the cold steel down your neck to the valley of your breasts, pointing the barrel at your heart. “How much?”

“12 for each head and double if I finish before the end of the week.” you answered quickly, your eyes glancing over at the corner where he had thrown your weapons. You wished you had gotten time to redress into your normal attire, but his bodyguards had barged into the dressing room almost as soon as you had closed the door. You barely had time to grab the hair pins.

The more he stared at your barely covered body, the silver of his gun contrasting beautifully with your skin, the tighter the front of Kyoujuro’s pants became. Fuck you were gorgeous. He tapped the weapon against your breast, smiling when you jumped. “I’ll tell you what, I’ll let you go. But...” he trailed off, finger toying with the trigger. “On one condition.”

You arched your brow as you tilted your head to the left. Has he lost his mind? Let you go? You were just going to take another attempt on his life, maybe even go after his family first. “And what might that be?” you would play along with whatever he wanted if that meant you would live.

“I will make you fall in love with me before the deadline of your assassination attempt.” He smiled pleasantly, laughing a bit when you recoiled your head back. “If I can’t, you can have my life, but if I do, you’re mine.”

“You’re not fucking serious!” you screamed at him. You? Fall in love with him? “You really think I won’t just try to kill you while you attempt to woo me?!” your brain stopped working when Kyoujuro reached out and placed a black leather gloved finger against your lips, silencing your rant. Damn him. Did he know you thought he was attractive?

His smile never left his lips. “I never said you couldn’t keep attempting to kill me, but I will thwart every effort and won’t stop until I break you and make you mine.” Kyoujuro leaned in, moving his finger and slid his tongue out and ran it over the seam of your lips. “Come on, princess, just admit that you’re attracted to me.” his hand trailed down your neck.

Your lips were on fire from his touch as you looked up at him wide eyed. His fingers made your skin come alive when he led them down the front of your throat. “What are you...” you trailed off when his gloved fingertips traced over the swell of your breasts, his gun now being holstered back into its holder at his hip. A soft moan escaped when his palm brushed over your nipple before he used both hands to cup your mounds.

“Sensitive thing, aren’t you sweetheart?” Kyoujuro chuckled as he pushed you back onto the couch, his knee sliding between your thighs. “Let me give you a taste of what you’ll receive once you’re mine.” He leaned his head down slowly, intending on kissing her but his lips were met with your cheek as you turned your head away.

You placed your hand over your lips. “I’ll agree to play your little game, but I have my own rules.” you held up two fingers. "First is that unless I say yes, you cannot fuck me.” your head rolled back when his thigh pressed firmly against your heat, tempting you into giving into his touch. But you had to hold firm. “The second is until I say so, no kissing either.”

Kyoujuro gazed down at you, his brow arched before he sighed. “Fine. I won’t fuck or kiss you until you say I can, however,” He snatched your hand away from your lips and grabbed your chin, hooking his thumb on her bottom lip. Gathering a pool of saliva in his mouth, Kyoujuro let it fall from his puckered lips and into your parted lips, landing on your tongue, “have a taste of what you’re missing out on.”

As his spit slid down the back of your throat, a small whine left you. He tasted like the coconut brandy you had drunk, rich and smooth. You wanted more, but Kyoujuro had already latched his lips onto your neck, nipping and sucking his marks into your flesh.

Your back arched off the couch, grinding your core down further against his hard thigh between your legs. His hand began to massage your breasts, squeezing the flesh until it spilled over in his palms.

“Come on, little one. Let me hear those beautiful moans.” He licked a line down your neck to the valley of your breasts. Kyoujuro pulled the cups of your thin, lace red bra down, pushing your breasts out. His mouth began to water at the sight of your taut nipples standing to attention for him. Latching his lips around your left one, he pinched and twisted the other in between his fingers. Soon a symphony of your saccharine moans graced his ears.

You could not hold back your cries when Kyouuro began toying with your nipples. You weaved your fingers into his silky blond hair to hold him against your chest.

The pleasure was starting to consume you as he did wickedly sinful things to you. You let out a gasp when you felt his other hand glide down your belly and rested between your thighs. He moved his thigh down so that he could cup your sex over the thin red panties you had on.

Kyoujuro used his teeth to pull his gloves off his hands. He then pushed your underwear to the side and slid a finger along your slit. Releasing your nipple with a wet sounding ‘pop’, a smirk curled at his lips. “You’re already so wet, Princess.” He ran his finger up and down your cunt, parting your folds and watched your lewd juices glisten. “Look at this pussy, just dripping and sopping wet for me. Are you sure you haven’t fallen in love with me yet?”

Your face heated at his words as you swallowed thickly, the taste of coconuts still heavy on your tongue. “N-no!” you whimpered, feeling two of the thick fingers swiping through your slick coated slit. “I’m not in love with you.” A gasp left you when he suddenly pushed those digits inside your clenching hole and your hands gripped the leather exterior of the couch. “Fuck.”

Kyoujuro thumbed your clit as he thrust his fingers in and out at a leisurely pace. He watched every expression that appeared on your face. Marvelling a each lewd sound your pussy made as he fucked you with his hand. Adding a third finger and curling them, Kyoujuro found that spot that made you squirm and shake around him. He licked his lips as he stared hungry at your cunt. You only said that he could not kiss your mouth...

You were drowning, lost in the overwhelming ecstasy that he was causing on your body. Your nails dug into the upholstery of the couch. His fingers found your spot quickly, like he knew your body like the back of his hand. Your eyes slid closed as you started to lose yourself in the mind numbing pleasure. Until you left something hot and wet dripping onto your sex. My eyes shot open when I saw Kyoujuro spitting onto your clit, smearing it over your opening before lowering his head. “What are you doing?!” you kicked your legs out as you tried to grab his cheeks.

He looked up at you with a sinister smile on his lips before he slapped your clit, the stinging pain causing you to freeze up. Kyoujuro smiled up at you as he gathered your legs over his shoulders. “You only said I couldn’t fuck or kiss you, but you didn’t specify how to fuck you or what lips I could kiss.” He spanked your clit once more before gliding his tongue over the nerve.

Your head fell back as you gasped from the stinging pleasure of having your sensitive bud slapped and abused before his warm, wet muscle circled it as if trying to soothe the pain. You moved to curl your hands even tighter into his hair, not knowing if you were trying to pull him away or push him closer to your needy cunt. “Fuck...” you whimpered softly.

Kyoujuro licked up and down your folds, relishing in your sweet taste. You were indeed sweet and tender, even more so than the fruit. He could stay between your thighs, eating and drinking from your drooling hole all day. His nose brushed against your clit as his tongue dipped into your sugary hole to gather your slick. “This pussy is going to be all mine.” He groaned. “Won’t it?”

In your lustful daze, his words rang true in your ears. “Yes!” you screamed out, flinching his hand came in contact with your ass, the rings he wore possibly leaving an imprint on your skin. You quickly changed your words, “Yes, sir! My pussy will belong to you.” you whined out, fingers tightening in his long golden hair as you bucked your hips upward.

He hummed as he sucked at your opening to taste as much of your sweetness as possible. A combination of your juices and his saliva rolled down his chin. You tasted better than the finest of desserts. Moving his lips up to your swollen nerve, he flicked it with his tongue as he pushed his fingers back inside your slick, clenching hole. Your cream began to smear onto the silver and black rings he wore.

“Oh fuck...” you moaned out as he attacked your clit with quick flicks. You shook your head from side to side as your thighs began to tremble and shake around his head as your back arched even further off the couch. Kyoujuro caught your body before it landed back onto the cushion, pressing your cunt deeper into his face. “Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.” you chanted as your high was nearing. “Right there, please, right there.

Kyoujuro felt your walls clenching and fluttering around his fingers. He gave your clit one last suck before pulling away completely, ruining your orgasm. The Mafia leader gave you a sweet, charming smile before he placed his still wet fingers into his mouth. “Gotta become mine if you want to cum on my tongue, princess.” Standing to his feet, Kyoujuro reached for his suit jacket before reaching behind the couch for his katana. “It’s been fun. Until your next attempt, little fireball.” He walked out of the room

You sat up, knowing he did not just leave you on edge like that. The throbbing in your core let you know that he indeed left you in such a needy state for him. Clenching your hands into tight fists, you declared. “I am going to kill him!”

#nymphomanic♡#rengoku x reader #kyojuro rengoku x reader #rengoku x you #rengoku x y/n #kyojuro x reader #kyojuro x you #kyoujurou rengoku smut #rengoku smut #rengoku kyoujurou x reader #kyoujurou x reader #kyoujurou rengoku x reader #demon slayer x reader #demon slayer smut #kny x reader #kny smut

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lgctaeha · 15 days ago

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「 ❀ 」 ━━ ˗ˏˋ ABSENTMINDED.

A LEGACY DANCE STUDIO ( Earlier this year...)

"...Do you know how many classes you've missed this semester?"

'Did you practice what we rehearsed on Friday?' The coach asks from behind the cover of her clipboard. She tries her best to keep her expression hidden, though her warm smile carries through in the lilt of her tone. Taeha nods, blonde hair bouncing as if it too had been patiently anticipating their session. "Yes! A bunch! At least a hundred times!"

'Is that so?' She smiles, shaking her head in disbelief. Nam Haera had only been working with Taeha a short time and was already so impressed with how quickly she took to new choreography. 'It's only been a day and you've already practiced a hundred times? Park Taeha, when do you sleep?' She doesn't - as evidenced by the layers and layers of concealer masking the dark circles under her eyes. The trainee still beams. "I sleep the most on Sundays! I can't rest when my routines aren't perfect!"

The coach nods again, admiring her tenacity as she begins to play the track. 'Well, let's see it then!'

"...Your performance in the course is unacceptable. We can't keep making exceptions for you. It isn't fair to the other students."

'Park Taeha? Is that you...?' The dance coach's voice startles her from a deep slumber. "Present!" she calls out drowsily, her eyes barely open as she pushes herself up into a seat. Still rather disoriented, it takes a moment for her eyes to adjust as the dance studio lights flicker to life. There's an imprint of a pen on her cheek, her hair a frazzled mop after an evening of rolling around on the floor ( and unconsciously tugging at it in frustration four hours into her all-nighter ). She eyes the digital clock on the wall above the floor-length mirrors.

She overslept. Again. Her phone rests a few centimeters away, a black screen reflecting her dreary expression. It had died hours ago. Her alarms never sounded. Her texts never came through -

"...Taeha, where are you?! Did you forget about the midterm?!?!"

'Taeha... This is the third time this week - ' Her gaze snaps up to Haera who had been watching her from the other side of the room, concern painting her features. She's done it again. Too overwhelmed to think of a proper excuse. Too exhausted to do so.

"...I'm sorry. I really wish I could help you. But after two missed assignments and your poor attendance... And then the complaints I received from the rest of your group... My hands are tied. I can't let you make up the presentation."

A tear rolls down Taeha's cheek, landing on the pages of her scattered study guides with a soft pat. A second follows, then another and another, creating tiny pools that spread across her notes. They were barely legible even as they were unsoiled and now they would be completely useless.

'You should go home for the day.' Haera nears, kneeling to assist the trainee with packing up her things. It is not until the two are eye level that she realizes Taeha had begun to cry. 'Oh dear... Come on, I will drive y -'

"N-no!" she stammers, frantically swiping her palms across her cheeks. "I'm fine! I just... I f-fell asleep. Dance training starts soon, doesn't it?! I'll stay for the early cla -!"

'Taeha -'

"I'm okay, really!" she finally meets eyes with Haera, forcing a smile though tears continue to stream down her face. "I'm just a little t -tired. But it's n - not. It's not -"

'You're going back to the dorms. I won't take no for an answer. You need to sleep.'

"But I - I can do it!" she pleads, a sob barely contained at the back of her throat. "I can... I promise I can do it!" She could! She could practice, she could train, she could drill, she could study, she could tour, she could - "Pl - please! Just let me... Let me stay - "

'This isn't healthy, Taeha. You can't continue like this - '

"...You can't continue like this."

"I can! I can do it..." Her words faltered as a wave of dizziness swept over her. Haera grabs hold of her arm, urging her to stand. 'When was your last meal?' Taeha shrugs weakly, letting herself lean against the woman as her feet drag towards the hall.

"...Have you considered that this program may not be for... someone like you?"

'You have to take better care of yourself!'

"...It is a simple form and the deadline is soon. You wouldn't be the first... And it will be much easier for you. Think about it."

#˗ˏˋsolo #╰ ˗ˏˋbackdated #lgc:memory

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wheelie-butch · 5 months ago

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The Old Things (aka me finally explaining who Cross actually is)

Okay yeah so I have been posting about Cross + The Old Things a bit recently because I'm really obsessed with them and I have a bit a time so I'm going to explain a little actually about them.

I'll probably update this post whenever I share new lore important stuff also hopefully

Under the cut because it's long

Overview

The Old Things is the name of our gang in a game of Blades in the Dark, which is a ttrpg where you do heists. We're playing it in the existing setting of Duskvol. The Old Things primarily consist of:

Cross Strangford (my PC) - The Hound - skilled at tracking + shooting, has a wide network of contacts, classic seems gruff but cares a lot sort, has a magic hunting bird who helps him do crime. 38 years old and called 'old man' every day of his life by the others. Incredibly loyal, especially to Orianna and will follow her near blindly.

AF link

Orianna Sevoy - The Slide - the leader of The Old Things. 22 years old. Rich girl who was trying to keep the family business on the straight and narrow until she realised crime was much more fun. Loves dressing up, disguises, and lying. Smooth talker. Sharp + sarcastic. Good with a sword and her fists. Cross' boss outside the gang too.

AF Link

Fantomina Vall - The Lurk - unsettling part demon goth girl. Good at sneaking. Can turn invisible, which helps. Dedicated to a strange god. Quiet but earnest. Often taught by Cross.

Kobbie Whiskers - The Whisper - street orphan mudlark turned ghost experimenter. Has a lot of trained rats. Does a lot of experiments with dead bodies that are definitely illegal. Trying to find a way to better control ghosts. Has a ghost puma in a bottle. Forgets to eat.

There's also Birch, who is a gang member who helped us out a lot and my sister played for one session. Roughly Cross' age, 'concealed gender' and 'sexy' were the descriptions we had. Everyone loves Birch <3

Cross Backstory

okay I'm going to copy and paste from the Cross mega-doc here. Probably won't be everything but this is his backstory mostly

Cross Strangford Age: ~38 Born: 809 (year the unity war began) Height: 178cm Pronouns: he/him Sexuality: gay Class: The Hound

YEAR 809 - BORN

Cross is born in the slums of Duskvol to a large family.

Growing up, he starts work at a young age, and develops a keen eye for observation, mostly using it to avoid trouble and to learn about the queer underground subculture in Duskvol. He realises he's gay young but is careful not to be obvious.

YEAR 823 - Age 14

Cross runs away and lies about his age to join the military, seeing it as a chance to move up in the world and find a place he belongs. Assumes he won't be missed by his family, except for what he earns them. Can’t write home but wouldn’t anyway.

Things are tough in the military but not worse than the slums and here he makes a lot of friends. He works hard and as he grows up also develops a reputation as handsome and charming, which The Old Things would probably find hard to believe now. He also has relations with other queer young men there, probably less discreetly than is a good idea.

He quickly picks up skills with a gun and his observational skills make him a great tracker, so he becomes valuable. This, plus his wide network of friends, gets him promoted onto the officer training track after a few years. He learns to read and write and the basics of command and it seems like he is becoming an unexpected success story. This is the period where he first starts to get glimpses of what he considers the high life of the officers, and starts his continuing obsession with good food. He perfects his tricks of stealing food from events without getting caught.

In this time, Cross finds an abandoned baby hawk and nurses her back to health, naming her Shot. He often carries her on his shoulder like he does with Mira now, and trains her to hunt for him. Shot is just a normal bird though with no mind-link.

YEAR 832 - Age 23

Making a lot of friends also made Cross a few enemies, and some superiors feel threatened by this popular and skilled younger man. The rumours about his relationships with men probably didn't help. When an operation goes badly, Cross is used as a scapegoat and blamed. He's dishonorably discharged from the military and abandoned by many of his ‘friends’.

Cross ends up back in Duskvol, angry and betrayed, and feeling aimless without the structure and “family” of the military he's grown used to. He picks up work in the docks and lives in a boarding house.

He still has friends though, and his contacts start recommending him to the local gangs needing his sort of expertise. At first Cross is wary to get involved with the criminal underworld, but it pays much better and is the sort of thing he's good at, plus he finds the life of crime thrilling. He doesn't join a gang officially, but begins acting as a consultant for several. Mr Sevoy is among his occasional jobs.

YEAR 833 - Age 24

This is the period in which Cross meets Casta. Cross likes to spend his free time at the coffeehouses + seedy bars that are meeting spots for the queer underground of Duskvol, where he makes friends and finds casual partners. Basically like if his Vice is still Pleasure but before he had the option of the dining club, this is how he blows off steam.

Casta first approaches and seduces him at one of these bars, and more unusually for Cross this turns into a casual relationship. They're not especially romantic, but regularly hooking up turns into Cross sleeping over afterwards and before long Cross is spending half his time at Casta's room/apartment. This is the happiest Cross has been since getting kicked from the army (even if he wouldn't say anything that sappy to Casta jesus christ no lol) so he ignores some of the questions he probably shouldn't, like what Casta does for a living or how they can afford a nice room not just a bed in a boarding house and why Casta never mentions any of their friends or wants to go drinking with Cross and his mates. In this time, a few of Cross's network go missing or get arrested.

After a few weeks or maybe months, Cross's friend Melvir the doctor happens to see him with Casta and confronts him, asking why he's hanging out with a known bounty-hunter. Cross confronts Casta and finds out yes, they are a bounty hunter who was using him to get info on his contacts. Cross is furious and humiliated and betrayed again, but Casta says while they did purposefully target him for info originally, they really like him now and think they would make a great team if Cross would join them as a bounty hunter. Cross tells them to get lost and leaves.

From then on they are rivals, often doing their best to interfere with each other's plans. Casta is pretty angry and humiliated by Cross's reaction also, and if he won't get back with them then they'd love to see him in jail for all the deserters he helps and crimes he commits. Casta loves when their paths cross and treats it like a fun game they have, delighted by any attention from Cross. Cross would say he just wants Casta to leave him alone and ideally end up in jail, but has a fixation on stopping him also and will go out of his way to protect Casta's targets more than for other bounty hunters in the city. This goes on until the present day.

Casta AF link

YEAR 834 - Age 25

After the betrayals of the military and Casta, Cross becomes more cautious with trusting and liking people, and his general attitude becomes more like it usually is now.

After a while of having him as just another client, Mr Sevoy suggests Cross comes to work for him exclusively. Cross sees this as a good compromise between the stability of a permanent job but slightly less chaos than a real gang, and so accepts. This position also comes with Cross moves into the groundskeeper's hut at the Sevoy mansion. He does the bare minimum of groundskeeping work to keep up pretences, but the majority of his work is tracking down people and items for Mr Sevoy, gathering info, and using his network.

This is when Cross meets Orianna, age around 9. Cross hasn't really been that familiar with children for a while, having spent so long in the army, so doesn't have a great concept of things like ‘maybe don't let her play with your gun’ and stuff, but he's fairly patient with her when she is around.

Cross works closely with Mr Sevoy, essentially being his right hand man in all shady and criminal dealings. Cross is grateful to have a steady position and a place to live, and appreciates Mr Sevoy's leadership and other skills. He also learns a lot from him about the parts of the city he wouldn't otherwise have access to. Mr Sevoy is older, in his 40s (if Elizabeth okays this?) and has a lot of life experience very different to Cross's, but respects Cross's areas of expertise. As they grow close through work, Cross becomes privately a bit infatuated, but he's a professional first and foremost about it.

After working together for a while, Cross and Mr Sevoy do begin a secret relationship. Cross feels a bit bad since Mr Sevoy is married but Mr Sevoy assures him they have marital problems and it's okay (if Elizabeth okays). Their relationship continues for the next several years and Cross remains a devoted employee in this time too. People know he works for Mr Sevoy and is essentially his dog but the sexual/romantic (?) nature of their relationship is secret.

At some point, Shot the hawk dies and Cross is really sad. Mr Sevoy buys Mira as a chick from the Dimmer Sisters and gives her to Cross, saying she'll be useful to him. Cross forms the mindlink with Mira and they quickly become best friends.

Orianna is often at boarding school in this time and is unaware of Cross's relationship with her father, though does become aware that he is not the normal groundskeeper she thought when she was young, and that he has some involvement with her father's shady business.

Cross learns about Madam Tresslyn’s dining club during these years and becomes a secret regular there, mostly abandoning his cruising at bars (though he still goes out to drink with friends.)

YEAR 845 - Age 36

Mr Sevoy is killed. Maybe in some sort of criminal related activity? Maybe was being blackmailed for his involvement with Cross? Cross fails to stop it and feels immensely guilty and angry at himself. He falls into deep depression and isn't able to sort himself out very well.

Orianna comes home from finishing school (age 20 ish?) and with her mother unhelpful, takes control of the family affairs. Cross is relieved the family is in capable hands and that she instructs him in sorting out her father's remaining business. However, Orianna then fires Cross, because she knows he is involved in criminal activity and she wants to take the family on the straight and narrow. Cross sadly leaves the family.

He finds work in a gang in Duskvol but is very depressed and mourning Mr Sevoy.

While drowning his sorrows in a bar one night, Casta finds him. Usually when they run into each other there's a lot of back and forth and Casta enjoys getting a rise out of Cross, but tonight he's too down and Casta complains it's not fun when Cross doesn't play along. They end up talking/arguing and Cross is mostly either crying a lot or getting mad at Casta. Cross gets kicked out the bar so Casta says they'll walk him home, and on the way they argue some more, which turns into Cross getting physical with Casta and pushing them around, before kissing them. They end up going home and fucking.

The next day, Casta is delighted by this turn of events while Cross is mortified and furious, blaming Casta for taking advantage of him at his lowest. Their usual rivalry has been extra intense ever since.

YEAR 846 - Age 37

While working for his new gang, Cross catches Orianna trying to rob them. He doesn't turn her in, and instead defects from his old gang and joins her in establishing a gang of their own - The Old Things. Orianna hires him back as “groundskeeper” and he is glad to act her her right hand man. As far as Cross knows, she still doesn't know about his relationship with her father. He follows her loyally, but also teaches her what he knows when she asks. I think Orianna probably helps inject a bit of fun back into Cross’ life that he hasn't had for a while.

YEAR 847 - Age 38

Present day in game.

#mez speaks #oc stuff #the old things #cross strangford #crossta hooray.....#also this game isn't running anymore sadly bc i moved away....#but maybe someday.....#i feel like theres so much im probably forgetting to say but whatever #please enjoy. please talk to me about cross #i love him very much #ttrpgs #blades in the dark #art fight

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jabbage · 7 months ago

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#Letters from Watson #lettersfromwatson

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patriottac · 2 years ago

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Are you ready to take your concealed carry skills to the next level? We offer a wide range of classes from basic to advanced techniques and more. No matter what your experience level is, we can help your improve it. For more information about conceal carry classes near me visit our website.

#conceal carry classes near me

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beelzebuddy-catan · 1 year ago

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The Not Entirely Human-Human Exchange Student pt. 15

Summary: Cass and the brothers learn how Lucifer and Styx know each other and why Diavolo was reluctant to call Cate from the beginning. Warnings: Swearing, mentions of death and violence Spoilers: Up through Lesson 17 Characters: Cass (OC), Mammon, Levi, Satan, Asmo, Beel, Belphie, and various OCs. Notes: I always thought Mammon would be more upset about Belphie attacking MC than in the game. Plus, Diavolo definitely has over-reactions as a spoiled prince. Previous Part • Next Part

Beel was giving Asmo a piggyback ride as he carried a still sleeping Belphie. Levi had his arms slung over Satan and Psi’s shoulders as they helped him walk back. Given his state, Cass wasn’t sure how much help Satan actually was. Cass was tasked with making sure Mammon didn’t run off.

“Hades and I used to go out just to challenge demons to drinking contests,” Psi laughed watching Cass. She’d hooked a finger in Mammon’s beltloop to pull him back since he kept batting her hand away from his arms. “One of the few benefits of being a Neph.” Cass didn’t miss the tinge of melancholy in his voice at the second sentence.

“Is it strange being back?”

“A little,” Psi shrugged the best he could with Levi’s weight on him. “It’s more hard than strange. It brings back some less than pleasant memories. Especially since I didn’t spend much free time down here without Hades.”

He paused while Cass struggled to stop Mammon from getting his arm stuck in the sewer gate. No matter how many times she’d been around the brothers drinking, you were always surprised how much control over their sins they lost. Only after promising to give Mammon the coins in her pocket did he abandon the one he’s supposedly seen in the drain.

“I probably should have asked before now,” Psi said once they had begun walking again. “But does it bother you that we’ve been calling you Kore?”

“I guess I haven’t really thought about it. I’m not particularly attached to either name. Diavolo just happened to call me Cass when I arrived and since I didn’t have any memories, I went with it. I don’t really mind if you all call me Kore.”

There was no way they’d be making it to class today. Why Cass thought they’d gotten to the end of the secrets hidden between the brothers, she’d never know. After Styx, formerly known as Aeshma, and Cate, or Hecate, realized Cass was the Nephilim in the exchange program, chaos broke out in the chambers. Finally, after what felt like hours, they were able to get to some level of mutual understanding.

During the Great War between the Devildom and Celestial Realm, there was an increase in Nephilim births. While most were killed, the surviving Nephilim concealed their identities. Epi and Asclepius had remained on Earth, living amongst humans. Others, like Charon, lived outside the three realms, existing in places like a reaper’s home or the docks. Some, such as Moirai, were known to be alive, but had not been seen since.

The Titan Project turned out to be something created by demons in an attempt to control Nephilim. After the first war, most members had died, and it was thought to have ended. Before the brothers fell, there had been an increase in Nephilim births once again.

It was discovered that two of the Demon King’s former council had been part of the resurgence of the Titan Project. The two had been sentenced to the underworld but kidnapped a Nephilim in the process. Aeshma had convinced the Demon King to retrieve the Nephilim.

Upon leaving the underworld, Aeshma’s spirit had been torn apart so violently she almost died. Apparently, when a demon was forfeited, it meant their spirit had been destroyed to a point near death. A forfeited spirit shouldn’t be possible to bring back, nor should it be able to pass on, leaving the fragmented pieces in a sort of hellish limbo.

The Demon King laid the pieces of her spirit to rest in the river Styx, knowing it was the only place to bring her any relief from suffering. It was at that time Barbatos and Solomon were tasked with helping hide the identity of the remaining Nephilim, both to protect them and prevent additional unrest from the scandal on the Demon King’s council.

Upon falling, Lilith and Lucifer had both fallen into the river when they entered the Devildom. When Lilith had fallen, Aeshma’s spirit had apparently been able to summon enough power to stop the angel from drowning. She’d been prepared enough to catch Lucifer as well. Because she’d been more prepared, and he hadn’t been in the river as long, Lucifer’s injuries were not as severe.

Cass recalled the memory of Lucifer pleading for Lilith to be saved and how both of them had looked as though they’d just been pulled from water. It seems the river had saved the lives of many who passed through the waters.

It wasn’t long after the two had been saved that Nadia had been summoned by Cate, who had apparently raised Cass, to revive Aeshma. According to the others, it should have been impossible. If anything, it lent support to Solomon’s claim of the necromancer’s abilities.

Though she didn’t remember the event, Cass had gone to see Charon at some point in the past. Apart from Charon, the last time anyone had seen her was when she departed for that trip. Until Barbatos pulled her to the future, that is.

The only Nephilim who knew the true reason was Hades. He hadn’t told anyone however, keeping his promise to Cass. It wasn’t long after Cass’s disappearance that Hades had vanished as well. Which left three questions nobody was able to answer: why had Cass gone to see Charon, what happened after she met him, and who had applied for her to be an exchange student.

After covering that information, Cass told the Nephs about her time in the Devildom. A long silence followed before Diavolo decided to call the meeting to an end. He requested the Nephilim stay in the Devildom, or at the very least, return that weekend to further discuss how to proceed.

“Kore,” Psi called as they were walking from the chambers. “Why don’t you join us for dinner? Styx’s favorite restaurant is still in business, so we figured we try it.”

“Sure!” Cass agreed without much thought. She still had a few questions for the Nephilim that didn’t seem relevant enough to bring up during the meeting.

“Do you think the Admiral could join us?” Psi whispered when she was close enough.

Cass laughed at the request. “Levi,” she called out, gesturing for him to come over. He seemed hesitant to approach her with the others near, not that you blamed him after what Epi had done to Mammon and the way Styx and Cate had even made Diavolo falter. “Will you come to dinner with us?”

“Me?” He stammered with wide eyes.

Psi’s immediately corrected his posture in Levi’s presence, moving to salute him. There was a brief moment where Levi’s eyebrows furrowed before he returned the gesture. Much like Psi, Levi’s posture became perfect as he fell into the proper role.

“It’s an honor to meet you Admiral,” Psi said, shaking Levi’s hand. Levi looked as though he was trying to remember where he would have met Psi before. “Back when Nephilim resided in the Devildom, I served under Admiral Yam.”

Cass watched the two with fascination. She couldn’t believe how easily Levi put aside his anxiety and self-depreciation when it came to his position, especially how quickly that resolve crumbled when it was just him and his family or Cass.

The calm confidence he exuded reminded Cass of the day they made a pact. How he’d gone spiraling in self-pity to picking her up without a second thought. Cass flushed at the memory, forcing herself to look away.

“Have you seen him in uniform yet?” Cass jumped at Asmo’s question, not realizing he had approached her. She shook her head. “That’s a shame. I’m not even mad about him wanting to meet Levi now, because we got to see him like this.” Asmo sighed fondly looking at Levi.

“It makes me uncomfortable when you act this way about your brothers.”

“I like looking at attractive things, I can’t help that includes my dashing older brother in uniform.”

Both Cass and Levi shot Asmo an incredulous look, hoping he’d stop. Despite earlier tension between the Nephilim and demons, it seemed that they may get along better than expected after all. Satan was speaking with Styx. From the little Cass could pick up, they were complaining about Lucifer. While Belphie looked like he was sleeping, his shoulders moved with laughter once and a while.

Mammon was the only one who seemed too afraid to approach the Nephilim. Barbatos had joined Lucifer and Diavolo at the head table. Judging by their expression, it was a continuation of the serious conversations from earlier. While he wasn’t participating in the conversation, Mammon hung near them, glaring at Cass from across the room.

“Did you say you were going to dinner?”

Cass laughed at the pout Beel gave her. Clearly, he was asking to join and if they could head out already. “I did. Is it okay if we all go?”

Psi shrugged, unbothered by the idea of having the others joined. Epi’s eyes landed on Mammon. “Are you sure everyone wants to join?” He asked, a smile tugging at his lips.

“He just doesn’t like that she has other friends,” Belphie gestured to Cass, finally getting up.

“And he’s probably still afraid.”

“I ain’t afraid,” Mammon yelled from his spot next to Lucifer.

“Then come on, we’re going to eat,” Cass answered. “Do you care if I invite someone else? I have a feeling they’ll want to see Styx.”

Cass thought back to her conversation with Diavolo at the castle. If Styx had to go into hiding after being resurrected, she probably wouldn’t have had any contact with her family in the Devildom. If Diavolo was correct about Preta’s relationship with their aunt, they’d probably want to know about her existence sooner than later.

Mammon and Cass were the last ones who were going to eat to leave the room. Before she stepped through the doorway, he pulled her backwards into a hug. He buried his face in the crook of her neck, taking a few deep breaths.

Cass reached up to fluff his hair before speaking. “Are you still shaken up from earlier?”

Mammon didn't let her go, only moving his head enough to answer her. “Just give me a minute, please?”

There was something desperate in his voice that broke her heart. It was too similar to his voice when he thought she was dying, when he begged her to stay alive. She closed her eyes, letting him take the time he needed as she reminded herself that she was safe.

---

The restaurant Styx had suggested was Inferno Impressions. Surprisingly none of the brothers had been to the restaurant either. In fact, Satan was the only one who had even heard of it. Apparently, it was owned by the same demons as Ristorante Six.

There was a small art gallery that Cass had visited with Satan a few months ago on Abyssbred Court. In the very back, there were two statues. Cass remembered them from when she first visited. Satan had thought it was strange how she spent so much time looking at them. Even then, something felt off about the statues. Compared to the rest of the artwork they looked too plain.

Without hesitating, Styx marched up to the statues. Her hand brushed over one of the heads, pushing it over as she did. Satan jolted, going to stop it from falling, only to realize it operated like a hinge. The wall behind the statues swung open, revealing a long stone hallway.

Cass peered down the hall cautiously, the feeling of déjà vu setting in. She wasn’t sure if it was because she’d been here in the past or if it was because the stone walls looked a little too much like those in the underground labyrinth at the castle.

Styx and Cate didn’t even pause their conversation as they entered the hall. The former demon waved her hand halfheartedly as they passed a torch, the fire lighting immediately. The other Nephs didn’t seem too phased either as they followed closely behind them. Cass gestured for the brothers to go, concerned they may try and bail.

As she walked down the hall, a sense of magic filled the air. No matter how far they walked, the end of the hall was the same distance. The electric buzz she’d come to associate with magic grew stronger and stronger, when suddenly it vanished along with the hall.

Cass turned around, surprised to find they were now in front of a host stand in a garden restaurant. Behind them was an ornamental gate serving as the only door. Much like her room in the House of Lamentation, the restaurant used lights to resemble daylight.

“Wow, this is beautiful,” Cass said as they took their seats, “I can’t believe I didn’t know about this.”

Before sitting, Asmo had dragged Mammon away from the group, forcing him to take pictures around the restaurant. Mammon only grumbled slightly, already used to Asmo’s impromptu photo shoots. She already knew he’d been taking a few pictures of his own for Devilgram.

Cass looked at the others only to find herself seated across from Styx and Cate. As the two stared at her in silence, she understood on a small level what Diavolo had felt standing before them. She busied herself by reading over the menu, trying to ignore the feeling of their staring.

“So,” Cass finally said, unable to take the silence, “Solomon, who I think you’ve met, said that Lord Diavolo hadn’t wanted to get you involved at first. If you’re kind of point of contacts for Nephilim, why was he so hesitant?”

“I can only assume it’s because he knew how I would react,” Cate answered.

“Oh, what were you going to do?” Cate didn’t answer, looking bewildered at Cass’s question. “Wait, you think he was worried about you,” Cass paused, trying to figure out the best word, “scolding him?”

“His father and Barbatos were entirely too soft on him growing up, if you ask me,” Styx scoffed, “he never did like being told no and practically threw a tantrum if he so much thought he might get punished.”

Cass couldn’t help but smile at the thought of a young Diavolo hiding behind the Demon King or Barbatos when he was in trouble. It wasn’t all too surprising given what she knew of him, from others’ reactions when Cass disagreeing with him, to the brothers not feeling completely comfortable around him. Considering the events with Belphie, it’d be stranger if he wasn’t like that.

“Still to avoid contact you over it,” Cass laughed.

“How have you been, Kore?” Styx asked.

Ever since they left campus, she seemed completely different. Any anger she felt towards Diavolo was gone, or at least hidden, and without Lucifer around, she seemed content with everyone’s company. This was the being she imagined when Diavolo spoke of her at the castle.

Before Cass could answer, Belphie’s head slammed against the table. Everyone turned to see Preta standing over him. Judging by his disorientation, Belphie had been holding his head up as he slept and woken up when Preta pushed his arm away.

“I heard you tried to kill Cass. That’s bold.”

“Are you fucking – how? How is it so many demons like you?” Belphie asked, staring at Cass in disbelief.

“Preta?” Styx stood, moving towards the demon.

“Ae-Aeshma?” Preta’s eyes widened. “How? You were forfeited.”

“I’m so sorry,” Styx whispered, pulling Preta into a hug. “I couldn’t tell you.”

After the initial shock of seeing each other passed, the two stepped to the bar to catch up in private. While the others went back to their previous conversations, Cate continued watching the other two for a minute longer.

“You invited Preta,” Cate said, not looking away from the bar.

“I did,” Cass answered, “sorry for not checking first. Diavolo mentioned that Preta had a really hard time after Aeshma was forfeited.”

“No need to apologize. I’ve known Styx for a long time, and I think her only regret may be leaving Preta. Thank you.”

Cass watched Cate, trying to understand her better. Unlike Styx, her demeanor hadn’t changed. Even though Cass knew she cared about Styx, her expression was still devoid of emotion. It seemed that the only thing that changed was her tone of voice.

“How long have you known Styx? You must have known her when she was on the Demon King’s council if you went so far has to have her revived.”

“I’ve known her since she was born, though I wasn’t that involved with affairs in the Devildom at the time. It wasn’t until Oriens recommended me as a council advisor did I get to know Styx.”

“Oriens?”

“The former Demon King. He’d wanted me to serve on his council at first.”

Cass tilted her head, looking at Cate more intently. It seems odd that a demon who’d been around that long would not be involved with the Devildom. Though, she did end up disappearing again after the last council disbanded.

“From what I remember,” Satan chimed in, “it was quite controversial when you were approved.”

“Almost as controversial has having six former angels.”

Satan chuckled at the response, shaking his head. Cass looked between the two before asking, “what was controversial about it?”

“Hecate was the first, and only, council member that wasn’t a demon. The House of Lords didn’t approve her when Oriens first proposed his selection, which is why he recommend the current Demon King elect her.”

“Working with a reaper proved to be much easier than I expected,” Styx said, taking her seat once again.

Preta joined Cass on the bench, pushing her closer to Satan in the process. “Sorry, did you say reaper? As in the grim reaper?

“One reaper named Grim causes problems in the Human Realm,” Cate muttered.

“She’s a reaper that collects both souls and spirits,” Preta explained. “Some reapers only collect the souls of humans, spirits of demons, or grace of angels.”

“What happens when an angel falls and loses their grace, do you do something?”

The former angels seemed to fall quiet at her question. Cass hadn’t thought about what happened after the brothers fell or how grace and spirit really worked. Lilith had retained some of her grace after falling and even given it to Cass.

“Technically, they still have their grace,” Satan answered. “It wasn’t lost so much as it was corrupted.”

Cass looked between Satan and the other brothers. “Can a demon’s spirit be uncorrupted or purified or something?”

“What does it matter?” Mammon asked. “None of us would go back anyways. Satan, switch spots with Cass so we can sit by each other.”

“Absolutely not.”

Part of Cass suspected that Mammon was being a little pushier than normal to distract from the previous conversation. She let the moment pass knowing she could always look into it later. During her time in the Devildom, Cass had learned that while the brothers were open about their time as angels, they shut down when the topic drifted to their rebellion or fall.

She did wonder if it would become easier now that everything with Lilith had come to light. Cass sighed, knowing that even if they were more open to talking, she’d still be fighting tooth and nail to get them to open up. Deciding they’d burn that bridge when they got to it, she opted to spend her energy stopping Preta from stealing food off her plate.

---

The group dispersed after leaving Inferno Impressions. Styx had gone with Preta to catch up while Cate had only given a vague response when asked where she and Nadia were going. Hera and Epi were going back to the human world, leaving Psi to find a place for the night.

Cass ended up inviting Psi back to the House of Lamentation. Despite him waving her off, she was worried he wouldn’t find somewhere on such short notice. Fortunately, he relented because Cass wasn’t sure she’d have been able to get all the brothers back given how much they drank.

“Is it strange being back?”

“I probably should have asked before now,” Psi said once they had begun walking again. “But does it bother you that we’ve been calling you Kore?”

They arrived at the House of Lamentation before Cass had time to ask any other questions. They managed to get each of the brothers into their respective rooms. Mammon took more convincing than the others, though Asmo probably would have been worse if Beel hadn’t been the one to take him.

Cass and Psi ended up in the gardens sharing another drink, neither ready for bed. There was a slight breeze, reminding her that colder months were approaching. The moon seemed to shine especially brightly in the cloudless sky.

“If I’m overstepping, let me know, but why is it that Hera reacted the way she did with Diavolo?”

Psi sighed, a rueful smile gracing his features before he continued. “You know how we were talking about Underworlds, Terras, and Olympians? Hera used to actually be fairly in tune with her inner demon spirit. More so than a lot of Nephs. The more in tune you are with that, the more you give into different urges and the more you’re able to tap into different powers or abilities demons have.”

“Did she have a special gift or power?”

“I’m not sure I’d call it that, but she’s a gifted empath.”

“I’m assuming something caused her to resist those desires?”

“Yeah, it was after Nephs started being targeted. Because she was so connected with that spirit, her skills were kind of amazing. Don’t tell her I said that,” he laughed. “But I think it caused her to feel everything so much deeper than a lot of us. She hasn’t really been the same since Ariadne died. She fights that side of herself more than anyone now.”

Cass recognized the name but couldn’t remember specific details about the myth. Even as she asked her next question, she had a feeling she already knew the answer. “What happened with Ariadne?”

“She was tortured and left to die. By the time Dion and Hera found her, it was too late. Sometimes I wonder if it was what Dion went through more than anything that broke her. I doubt he’ll ever be the same either.”

Psi stared out at the woods around the house, but Cass knew he wasn’t really looking at the trees. They sat in silence for a while, the stillness of the night providing a moment of reprieve from everything that had happened that day. There were a million questions that filtered through Cass’s head as she reflected on the events.

She didn’t ask Psi though. As much as she wanted to know, it was probably painful for him to talk about that time. Even if they had known each other before, her missing memories created a barrier. She knew he felt it too, so they were both hesitant.

Cass kept looking back at Psi, thinking about what Hera had said. Supposedly, this was the brother of her fiancé. Or, former fiancé, she wasn’t quite sure. For a moment, she wondered if things had been different, would she and Hades be sitting here? Would they have been married? Would she ever have met the brothers?

“Something I was wondering,” Psi interrupted her thoughts, “the white haired one.”

“Mammon.”

“Right, Mammon. What did he mean by your first? He kept calling himself that.”

Cass blushed, only then realizing how that must have sounded to the Nephs. A wave of guilt followed the embarrassment knowing how concerned they’d been about her and Hades as she was living a whole second life in the Devildom.

“Sorry, he says that a lot. He’s my first pact,” Cass laughed, trying to dispel some of the tension, but it came out more awkward than she intended. “He’s always leaving off that part.”

Psi’s eyebrows knitted together as he turned to look at her. “You mean first pact with a demon?”

Cass froze. She’d forgotten about the mysterious pact Nadia had mentioned with everything else going on. Her hand went to her cheek, subconsciously touching the mark of an unknown being. She’d just assumed the pact had happened during the time she’d gone missing.

“What do you mean, with a demon? Are you saying other beings can make pacts?”

“Well, I don’t know if beings that aren’t demons can,” Psi contemplated the question. “But Nephilim can make them because we do have a demon spirit.”

“What?”

“I mean, we don’t make them the same way as demons, but there is a way to make them.”

“WHAT?” Cass screamed.

What if she had accidentally made a pact since being here? Would she know if they were different enough from the ones she made intentionally? What if there was someone out there who had taken advantage of her and could control her the way she was able to control the brothers that she was unaware of?

“Calm down,” Psi laughed, as if her entire life hadn’t been flipped upside down once again. “Only Nephilim know how to make them, so it’s not like you would have made one since losing your memory.”

Cass took a few deep breaths, trying to slow her heart rate. “But I have one that you know of then? With some random person out there?”

Psi tilted his head in consideration. “I wouldn’t say Hades is some random person to you, even if you don’t remember him yet.”

#obey me spoilers #obey me fanfic #obey me brothers

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kryzobi-wan · 1 year ago

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The Sound of Mandalore

Chapter 9/20: A Very Fine Jedi

Read on AO3

<;< Chapter 8

Obi-Wan had been pacing back and forth relentlessly when the door to his room finally slid open, allowing Anakin entrance. He walked in carrying a big bag, which he set down on Obi-Wan’s bed. As he began to unzip it, Obi-Wan broke his anxious silence.

“Anakin, what are you doing here?” he said, wringing his hands. He had not expected to see his young friend anywhere near Mandalore. It was sort of like two very different worlds colliding and his brain couldn’t make sense of it.

“Senator Amidala asked me to escort her,” Anakin answered with a poorly concealed smile. “I wanted to see what you were up to. And she thought you might need some help socializing with the elite of Mandalore.”

“I take offense to that,” Obi-Wan replied, though the words held no bite. His mind was in panic mode, and any high-level thought seemed decidedly impossible at this time. “H—how are things at the temple?” he asked, “The war—”

“It’s good,” Anakin said reassuringly. “I might be getting a padawan soon!”

“What?!” If his eyes could have popped out of his skull, they would have.

Anakin began pulling out some finer clothes from the bag, and as he did, Obi-Wan expressed his concern. “As much as I appreciate the gesture, I highly doubt anything of yours will fit me.”

“They’re not mine, they’re for you. Another of Padmé’s brilliant ideas.” Anakin grinned, “We picked them up just in case, and it looks like we were right. Did you really not bring anything nicer, Master?”

“You’ll forgive me if I wasn’t expecting to be attending a high-class party while assigned here as a teacher.” Obi-Wan thought for the second time tonight about the whole reason he’d been sent away in the first place: his attachment. In the eyes of the council, that meant his attachment most of all to Anakin. “Did the council really approve of your being sent to visit me?” he asked, glancing doubtfully at his young apprentice.

The look Anakin gave was all the answer he needed. “Well, maybe not specifically. Technically I am on a meditative retreat.”

Obi-Wan sighed and rubbed his hand over his forehead. This boy would be the death of him.

“Here,” Anakin said, placing an elegant set of navy-blue clothes with silver accents in Obi-Wan’s arms. They were Mandalorian in design, and much more form fitting than his usual robes, though still loose enough to move around comfortably.

“Are you sure?” he asked uncertainly.

“Absolutely. I’ll see you down there, Master.” Anakin clapped Obi-Wan on the shoulder, who could only stare back as if stunned, and Anakin exited the room.

“Always on the move,” Obi-Wan muttered to himself, sighing as he laid out the clothes on the bed. Well, might as well get this over with.

After putting the clothes on, Obi-Wan surveyed his appearance in the mirror, fidgeting with the hem of the shirt and his sleeves. He was used to much wider sleeves, and these ones almost itched with how close they were to his skin. They were nice enough, though. The dark navy cape with a powder blue lining resting on his shoulders was a fine touch. He would definitely fit in with the party.

A knock came at the door, and Obi-Wan called out that it was okay to enter, wondering what Anakin could possibly want with him now. Instead, Tal Merrik came in, taking in the Jedi’s appearance as he did.

“You clean up nice, Kenobi,” he observed, just a hint of something hidden behind his compliment. Before he could even process that the Senator had invaded his room, he spoke again. “Satine won’t be able to keep her eyes off you.”

Obi-Wan froze for a moment, ice filling his veins. What had given him that idea? He averted his gaze and began to fold his old robes up, placing them on the bed. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said, hoping his voice wouldn’t betray him. “Is there something I can do for you, Senator?”

“Oh, please,” Merrik sneered, “Nobody is that clueless, especially not a Jedi. That much I know.” When Obi-Wan didn’t answer, he continued. “She could hardly look away when all you wore were those drab beige rags, imagine how she’ll behave now you’re dressed as well as Mandalorian royalty!”

“She looks at me no differently than she looks at anyone else,” Obi-Wan continued to deflect, finding it suddenly very difficult to breathe. “She is a very kind and generous ruler.”

Merrik raised his eyebrows. “There’s no need to be so defensive, Master Jedi, you two clearly have a history. You’re a powerful Jedi in the prime of his life, I’d be concerned if Satine didn’t notice you. Who doesn’t love a good forbidden romance every once in a while?”

“I do hope you’re joking,” Obi-Wan said, trying to force a laugh but failing miserably. Fear, instead, took root in his response.

“Not at all. There is nothing more irresistible to a woman than a man who is in love with her.”

Obi-Wan felt his stomach give a sickening twist. “In love with her?” he said with a rasp.

“It’s quite obvious, Master Kenobi,” Merrik said innocently, “Oh, but I forgot… you Jedi are not supposed to love. How unfortunate, especially because she thinks she’s in love with you.”

The floor dropped out from beneath Obi-Wan. He couldn’t breathe. What he was saying couldn’t be true, it just couldn’t.

“That’s impossible,” he countered, forcing himself to believe the words. “Any feelings she may have had ended a long time ago.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure,” the Senator spoke.

Could he be telling the truth? They had done practically nothing but argue since he arrived. It had been well over a decade and a half. They were different people now, had different responsibilities. His mind ran off with him.

“In any case, I am sure she’ll get over it soon enough,” Merrik finished, “She is a duchess, after all.”

Oh, yes, she was the Duchess.

And he was a Jedi.

Obi-Wan was mortified. Not only had he been personally struggling with his attachments—the entire purpose for him being here—he had evidently been so obvious about it, that even a total stranger had picked up on it. Did everyone see it? Had they been whispering about his infatuation with the Duchess behind his back all this time? And where was this idea that she was in love with him coming from? He couldn’t allow himself to think about it.

Already, he had failed the Jedi Council—failed the mission they sent him on and the personal growth they’d hoped he would achieve. If anything, he was in worse shape than he’d started out in.

He knew he shouldn’t blame the Council for sending him headfirst into an environment that would inevitably reignite his feelings for Satine, but what did they expect would happen? He hadn’t been near her in so long, he could have forgotten about her, never seen her again. Perhaps that would have been better.

Leaving her the first time was one of the hardest things he’d done, it was foolish to believe that sending him to Mandalore wouldn’t dredge up old hurt. He had been foolish to think he’d be able to manage it.

“I cannot stay here,” he said, immediately turning to grab a stack of his clothes to throw in his luggage crate. For once in his life, he was listening to his instinct to run instead of fight. This was one problem that couldn’t be solved with a lightsaber, and he didn’t trust himself to solve it diplomatically. Not right now.

Merrik watched as he threw things haphazardly in the box. “I’ll be sorry to see you go. It’s a shame that things had to turn out this way. Is there anything I can do to help?” he asked, still utilizing that nasty false friendliness that Obi-Wan was now starting to pick up on. This man was jealous. He had intentions with Satine, and he saw Obi-Wan as a threat.

There were so many things wrong with that, that he wouldn’t even know where to begin.

Words—one of his most reliable weapons—for once failed him, so he shook his head no. He had revealed too much already. He required deep meditation to move past what Merrik had revealed to be the truth:

That Jedi Master Obi-Wan Kenobi was still hopelessly, madly, every bit in love with Satine as he had been all those years ago.

He couldn’t possibly leave fast enough.

“I commend you Jedi,” Merrik spoke idly, “to swear a life of no attachment, to deny oneself of one’s deepest desires… it is truly a sacrifice to be commended.”

It took all of Obi-Wan’s restraint not to throw Merrik forcefully from the room. He did not want to hear any more about how he was supposedly the ‘perfect Jedi.’ He didn’t. He’d come all the way here to work past his attachment problem, and had only made it worse. If word of this got back to the Jedi Council, he’d be in deeper trouble than he already was.

“Say nothing of this to Satine,” he instead ordered in clipped tones.

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” Merrik replied, suppressing a smirk as he turned to exit the room. “Goodbye, Master Kenobi. I’m sure you’ll make a very fine member of the Jedi Council.”

After he had gone, Obi-Wan slung his Jedi robe over his fine clothes, concealing them mostly from view. Leaning heavily against his luggage crate, he forced himself to take a moment to breathe. That conversation had taken so much out of him, and it completely upset the balance he thought he’d finally found.

He remembered all those years ago, those last few hours spent with Satine. He’d told her he loved her. She said it too. And yet, they both agreed he would have to leave. Sure, they had entertained the idea of him staying for a while, but it was in the way that children spoke of traveling to some far-flung galaxy beyond the unknown regions. It was impossible, but it was such a nice thought that they pretended it could be true right up until the very end. When it came time to leave, he had prayed that she would say the word, that they could live in their childish fantasy, but the ramp to their shuttle closed and she disappeared from view. He had never been so unbalanced in his life.

It took a great deal of counseling, mostly from Qui-Gon, to regain some semblance of the Jedi Padawan he’d been before he ever met her. He flung himself back into his studies, into following the Jedi Code to the letter, much to the chagrin of his old Master. He convinced himself that he was unattached, all while ignoring those strings of his heart that remained connected to Satine, and even some to Qui-Gon. Those he hadn’t truly noticed were there until suddenly they weren’t, severed in a reactor core on Naboo.

Now that balance was gone again. All that work, for nothing. Tal Merrik had seen right through him, perhaps even seen him more clearly than he saw himself. He realized now that he’d been fooling himself for the last sixteen odd years. He’d never stopped looking for her. He watched every single speech she made on the HoloNet. He kept a box of keepsakes from their year together under his bed.

Now try telling him that that was the behavior of an unattached Jedi. You would be wrong.

The only thing there was to do was leave. Now. Before it could go any further than it already had. He had made a promise to the Jedi. A promise to himself, and to her. This was the way he could do good in the galaxy, and the galaxy needed him now more than ever. He would go back to the Temple and do whatever it took to get past this. He had to.

He didn’t know who he would be if he didn’t.

-.-.-

When Senator Merrik returned to the party, he came up beside Hondo, who was now being forcefully held at bay by a guard. For reasons unknown, he was still being allowed to sip serenely from a glass, enjoying the celebration from afar.

“Oh good, you’re back,” he said to the Senator, “I’m hoping that Jedi can use his mind tricks on the Duchess. I want those children in the competition.” Merrik rolled his eyes, accepting a glass from one of the servants that passed by. “For Mandalore, of course. You have to do it!” the pirate finished, grabbing two more glasses of his own.

“Wouldn’t do you any harm either, now would it, Mr. Ohnaka,” Merrik responded sarcastically.

Hondo chuckled, proud of himself. “You know, I did think of that.”

They were silent for a moment, observing the Duchess as she spoke with Merrik’s fellow Senator from Naboo.

“I do think it would be good for her,” Merrik mused, “She spends entirely too much time in this palace. I think it’s time we get her away from the stresses of Mandalorian politics for a moment, surely no harm can come from that.”

“Precisely my opinion,” Hondo agreed.

Merrik handed off his now empty glass to Hondo, who was starting to struggle juggling four glasses at once. “I shall talk to her,” he stated, “No need to involve the Jedi.”

With that, he headed off to find Satine, interrupting her conversation with a bow.

“May I have this dance, Duchess?” he asked, reaching his arm out toward her.

Satine hesitated for only a moment before bowing in return and excusing herself from her other companions. She accepted his outstretched hand and allowed herself to be pulled to the center of the ballroom and away from the others.

Obi-Wan could hear the gently flowing music as it echoed down the deserted hall. His luggage crate hovered behind him, struggling to keep up with his quickened pace.

As he turned the corner, he just about ran into Anakin, who exclaimed, “Woah, Obi-Wan!” placing his hands on his shoulders and immediately noting the brown outer layer he wore. Obi-Wan stopped. “Where are you going with that on? You know you don’t always need to be wearing your robe, right?” his young friend said teasingly, fiddling with the rough fabric of the collar.

“Anakin, I need to leave,” Obi-Wan said, offering no further explanation.

Anakin glanced over his shoulder to scan for Padmé, but he couldn’t see her at the moment. “Right now?” he asked, studying Obi-Wan’s face. He looked anguished.

“Please, Anakin, I can’t stay here.”

His pained eyes pleaded with Anakin, betraying more emotion than he’d ever seen from his old Master, which silenced any further questioning he might have let escape his mouth.

“Okay, just let me go get Padmé, I’ll meet you at my ship.”

Obi-Wan nodded gratefully, his eyes strangely out of focus. Anakin was unsettled enough by this behavior to assume whatever was happening was of the utmost urgency, and he’d do whatever he could to help his distressed friend. Anakin patted Obi-Wan on the shoulder and rushed off to find the Senator.

The throne room had been vacated in favor of the ballroom by this point in the evening, and Obi-Wan stopped in the center of it. His hands fiddled with a small device containing a holorecording before he worked up the courage to place it on her throne. He took one last look around the chamber, resting for just a moment longer on the stained-glass detailing before turning and exiting through the grand entry doors.

They closed behind him with a thud.

He was leaving. Here on Mandalore, he’d been suffocating, unable to draw a breath. And now, he truly believed that the only place where he could be saved was back at the Jedi Temple, forsaking his mission and even his direct orders from the Council.

He’d never tell them what led him to behave so uncharacteristically, not unless forced. But he had to get back, and soon.

Until then, he wouldn’t be able to breathe.

-.-.-

Chapter 10 >>

#obitine #obitine fanfic #my fanfiction #obi-wan kenobi #satine kryze #korkie kryze #sound of music au #the sound of mandalore #mandalore #star wars #star wars fanfic #star wars: tcw #tcw fanfic #hondo ohnaka #mandalorian ball #tal merrik #anakin skywalker #padme amidala #chapter 9

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sa7abnews · 4 months ago

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How Online Misinformation Stoked Anti-Migrant Riots in Britain

New Post has been published on https://sa7ab.info/2024/08/06/how-online-misinformation-stoked-anti-migrant-riots-in-britain/

How Online Misinformation Stoked Anti-Migrant Riots in Britain

Britain is grappling with escalating violence after a weekend of anti-immigration attacks raged across the country, culminating with rioters lighting fires at two hotels used to house asylum seekers while guests and staff were still inside.

Around 250 rioters have been arrested in connection to the attacks, which broke out in predominantly English towns and cities, but also in Belfast, Northern Ireland. Far-right groups were seen looting, attacking police and locals, and performing Nazi salutes in the street. As the mobs chanted “send them home” and “Islam out,” they also destroyed mosques, libraries, and graffitied racial slurs on homes.

In some of the more violent instances, rioters stormed hotels housing asylum seekers in the towns of Tamworth, Staffordshire, and Rotherham, Yorkshire. Footage shows men in Rotherham breaking into the hotel, while those outside attempted to set the building alight.

The uprisings were organized on social media following the spread of online misinformation that the fatal stabbing on July 29 of three young girls attending a dance class in Southport, northwest England, was carried out by a Muslim immigrant. After mounting media pressure, a U.K. judge revealed that Axel Rudakubana, the accused 17-year-old assailant—whose identity was initially concealed due to laws protecting minors—was born in Cardiff, Wales and is not Muslim. But that didn’t stop the rumor from spreading quickly online, mobilizing anti-immigrant groups on social media into a week of violent outbursts.

U.K. Prime Minister Keir Starmer condemned the violence as “far-right thuggery” and “racist rhetoric,” stopping short of describing the attacks as islamophobic in a TV address. “Let me also say to large social media companies and those who run them: Violent disorder, clearly whipped up online—that is also a crime. It’s happening on your premises, and the law must be upheld everywhere,” Starmer said.

Downing Street hosted an emergency COBRA meeting on Monday to coordinate a response with ministers and police officials. Starmer pledged the deployment of a “standing army” of specialist officers to tackle violent outbreaks; further attacks are planned on Wednesday evening, according to social media apps such as Whatsapp.

As U.K. leaders scramble to curb further aggressions, here’s what to know about the riots.

Where did the riots take place?

Police presence was required at 56 far-right gatherings or heated counter protests on Saturday and Sunday.

At first, unrest broke out on July 30, in Southport near the scene of the dance class stabbing, with hundreds of masked people gathering at a local mosque to throw bricks and rocks at it, as well as torching a police van.

Wider action coordinated on social media apps soon spread to other towns and cities across the U.K. On Saturday, far-right gatherings took place in Hull, Liverpool, Bristol, Manchester, Stoke-on-Trent, Blackpool, and Belfast. Sunday’s violence escalated in Rotherham, Tamworth, Middlesbrough, Bolton, Hull and Weymouth.

In Rotherham on Sunday, a crowd of around 700 predominantly men began to congregate outside a Holiday Inn Express, home to asylum seekers. The group clashed with police clad in riot gear, throwing chairs and other debris at the officers, before setting a bin on fire and throwing it through a smashed window at the hotel. One video, taken by a migrant trapped inside the hotel and shared by a journalist at The Times, shows a rioter miming the cutting of a neck. The incident saw at least 10 police officers injured but employees and guests were not physically harmed.

In a similar incident in Tamworth on Sunday, a Holiday Inn that has long housed asylum seekers became a target for enraged attackers. Individuals launched petrol bombs and fireworks at police outside the hotel. Staffordshire Police have described the attacks as “senseless violence” and said that acts of “despicable thuggery” are inexcusable.

Middlesbrough also saw around 300 people gathering at the town’s cenotaph. Scenes of chaos erupted as a group of masked men began marching and smashing windows in their path. In Bolton, rioters holding England flags clashed with a group of counter-protesters.

How did social media ignite the violence?

Facebook posts, images shared across Telegram, and lists of national targets forwarded on Whatsapp groups contributed to the organized wave of uprisings that began as an isolated incident in Southport. One claim that an asylum seeker or migrant was responsible for the Southport stabbing reached at least 15.7 million accounts across a number of social media platforms, Reuters reported. A news channel also published an unsubstantiated claim that the attacker had arrived in the U.K. on a small boat, before apologizing for inaccurate reporting.

Social media is an essential tool for extremist groups to galvanize a “spark to flash,” says Jacob Davey, Director of Policy and Research for Counter-Hate at the Institute for Strategic Dialogue. “We wouldn’t see the types of activity we saw over the weekend without it,” he says.

Davey says that social media creates the background noise and “permissive environment” that enables violent or radical individuals to engage in herd mentality. Isolated incidents, he says, are platformed by high-profile, “deeply cynical actors” who encourage their followers to commit hate crimes and acts of violence.

In this case, both Tommy Robinson, founder of the far-right group English Defense League, and Nigel Farage, a controversial anti-immigration figure elected to Parliament this year, publicly shared conspiracies that the police force was withholding information about the Southport assailant’s identity as a Muslim or a migrant, before details were released.

According to Davey, content recommendation systems and algorithms can amplify disinformation to a boiling point. The U.K. has introduced recent online protections under the Online Safety Act 2023, which places certain responsibilities on social media companies to ensure user safety on their platforms.

Elon Musk, X’s CEO, has responded to scenes emerging from the U.K. riots with two tweets that appear to shrug at the effects of online conspiracies. One post saw him simply replying “Insane” to a video of Starmer’s speech holding large social media companies responsible for attacks that brew online. In another, Musk posted “civil war is inevitable” in response to videos of a crowd lighting fires and setting off fireworks.

Did British immigration anxiety fuel unrest?

The ongoing riots have brought renewed attention to anxieties about U.K. migration. Stopping the arrival of small boats arriving in Britain was a policy priority for the Labour party and the Conservative party during last month’s election.

Donna Jones, a Conservative politician and the police and crime commissioner for Hampshire and the Isle of Wight, has suggested that current unrest is an act of “rebellion” against “mass uncontrolled immigration.”

“I’ve spoken to people from both sides of the spectrum and the only way to stem the tide of violent disorder is to acknowledge what is causing it,” Jones said, calling the Southport attacks a catalyst.

Other politicians, such as Charlotte Nichols, Labour MP for Warrington North, have called Jones’ comments “untenable” and drawn a distinction between concerns about immigration, and the legitimization of “thuggery.”

But rising fears about migration are concentrated in small communities rather than part of a broader trend in British society, says Anand Menon, the director of U.K. in a Changing Europe, a London-based think tank. “If you look at the British people as a whole, what you’re talking about is a low levels of concern about immigration, and actually a far more positive view of immigration overall than was the case” in 2016 when 52% of the nation voted to leave the European Union, says Menon.

According to a Ipsos poll on Brits’ attitudes towards immigration, conducted in February, the percentage of people with a positive view towards immigration has decreased since July 2022, but remains overall more positive than negative. In a survey of 3,000 adults, 40% still believe that migration has had a positive impact on the nation, compared with 35% who hold a negative view, 17% who are neutral, and an 8% who did not know.

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