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punk-in-docs · 4 months ago

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A song of brides and hounds: part III

— Emperor Geta x Reader (Salacia)

— 4.3k words.

— Read all parts here: Part I — Part II — Part III — Part IV

Summary: You were raised outside of this Rome. Born into peace. To know of fathomless deep seas, and skies so big, they wrapped around your whole sight. The way that at night all you can smell are lemon trees kissed by salt. The jasmine plants wound around the white walls of the villa. Salacia. And now you are sent to Rome for your father in the Senate. There you will catch the attention of Geta; in all the wrong and darkest of ways— any reblogs and comments are greatly appreciated 💙💙💙

TW: for this chapter - mainly violence and some gore, also Caracalla being a nasty little bitch -- enjoy!

The servant girls’ hands are kind.

They undress you softly, and handle you with such reverence. Strip from you the ruined stola and tend your wounds.

They wash your feet, ply your cuts with a herbal paste of yarrow and uva ursi, wrap you in bandages. They rub new sweet smelling oil onto your unwounded skin.

Pick off your old jewellery and finery to be discarded. Slip you out your shoes. Lay you bare. Stood before them in naught but your skin as they tend you.

One is wetting, oiling and combing your netted hair to silky serenity again. Another is cleaning the wound on your elbow. All traces of dirt - and your previous life along with it - slowly removed.

Stood you in a shallow golden tub of warm water that laps at your ankles. Milky with oils and soaps. They put rose petals in the water. You watch them swim and dip.

You beg for one of the girls to keep the fibulae broaches that held your now damned dress to your shoulders. Your very last essence of home. Venus was enshrined in those very broaches. They gave you hope. Carrying a small kind piece of goddess with you. Laying your devotion to the majesty of the ocean on your simple shoulders.

They guided you to rooms draped in blue and gold. Stars moulded on the ceiling with the ornate marble that drips from every wall and corner. Giving the false illusion of a night sky. The flat ceiling between them clouded with bursts and puffs of dark blue that indicated churning night clouds. Boundless skies. Endless seas.

It felt like showing all the maps of the world to a caged bird.

Soft feminine blues befit these chambers. Statues and devotion to goddesses crown the walls and doorways. Urns of large stemmed white flowers. One wall holds a table lined with a huge offering of fruits, dried and fresh. Some bread and cured meats and oiled small fish. And an amphora of wine and goblet for after your bathing.

The air in here is scented all floral herb and clean. Too clean. No hint of sea salt or dried weed that tumbles on the shore to bake in the sun. It’s unfamiliar.

The huge slab of the cushioned bed is draped with silks and gauzy canopy curtains the colour of dove feathers. You don’t want to look at it. You dread thinking what will happen in it tonight.

A large maw of balcony gapes at another side of the room. This shows you the wall of rain outside. The violent tumble of thunder that must be shaking the very hills and peoples of Rome.

You feel as if the sea is raging because you’ve been stolen from it. Now it seeks vengeance on the land. Lashing and storming mercilessly until you’re found. Back where you belong.

Unlikely. It will have to rage on.

You stand, undressed, unseeing. Uncaring for the wealth of the room you’ve been pulled into.

The maid behind you, Oriana, a sweet and silent blonde, is scooping your hair back from your neck to comb and ply it with vanilla and orchid oil. Dark sweet musk.

Geta had specifically requested it.

Your head servant is a maid called Aeliana.

She has an accent you can’t place. It’s pretty, her tone husky. She had wonderful raven hair spilling silky and free over her shoulders, eyes dark as cassia bark, almond shaped. Long lashes. The epitome of tranquil beauty.

The colour of her dress is different to the rest of them. Indicating her higher status. Rusty red and it readily compliments the natural darkness of her skin. She wore golden bangles threaded on each wrist, and her touch is cloud soft.

She has a scar that intersects down from the middle of her forehead, across her left eye and cheek and ends there. Skin twisted and healed shiny. An old wound. It makes her striking to look at.

Worse still; She catches you staring.

Lowers her eyes as she tended you. Layering the sticky wet herbal treatment to your wounded elbow.

“Does my appearance displease you, my lady?” She lapses into silence for a moment or two.

“If you’d prefer I could send for another handmaiden to come tend you-“ She asks. Not harshly. There’s a hint of shame to her tone.

You look to her. Fearful of offence.

“I am not displeased. Forgive me. To stare so openly is rude.” You mutter. Eyes falling to your feet again. You watch rose petals sway on the water. You swallow thickly.

If she’s amused at your asking her, a servant, for forgiveness, she doesn’t show it. She calmly counters;

“You are Empress Salacia of Rome. You are allowed to stare at whomever you wish.” She tells you plainly.

Your eyes water. You bite inside your lower lip before you respond.

Not yet I’m not. And I don’t want to be.

“How came you by the scar?” You ask. Knowing full well you won’t like the answer. She gently washed your shoulder with a cloth.

“The Emperor.” She tells frankly.

At your doe eyed expression of horror she elucidates.

“Not Emperor Geta. His brother, Caracalla. Emperor Geta’s temper may be foul and quick to boil. But, Caracalla he is… far crueler.” She explains.

Your mouth purses into a thin line.

Oriana has finished oiling your hair. Now she was styling it into waves. Decorated with ornaments of netted gold. Geta requested it down as opposed to the normal bridal style. Emperors have what they want.

“What was the reason…” You sought. Fearing the answer.

“I was too slow in bringing his wine one night.” She offers. Plucking a vial of oil from the side table and coming back to rub it into your bare arms.

You squeeze your eyes closed. Ignore the tickle of tears that threaten your scrunched eyelids.

This is the savage world you must inhabit now. Try to navigate with sharper hungrier teeth and deadlier instinct. You don’t feel ready. You must become lionhearted and fierce. Carry knives. Be ruthless.

You hear your mothers reverent voice in your head. Sweet sea child. You were not made that way.

“I am sorry for your pain. Aeliana. But I am grateful for your warning.” You decide.

She nods. “I thank the goddess’ for you. Empress.” She smiles at you.

Before going to the side to fetch your tunica recta, and the belt you’d wear on your waist in a knot of hercules. Which tradition dictated only Geta was allowed to undo.

Your husband.

You wince. Aueliana notices.

“Your majesty?” She seeks. Sensing your unease.

“I am nervous.” You tell her. You confide your worry in this woman with kind eyes and soft hands.

“It is expected of a bride to be nervous.” She awards you.

“I’m not a normal bride.” You confirm fearfully. She can see them shaking in your gaze. Threatening to breach your lash line.

She nods in understanding. You’re sure they all knew. The reason that placed you here. Spread like wildfire on dry plains through the servant halls.

“I know little of managing a husband. Of… starting a family.”

“If I may, your majesty. Your family is a noble one, yes?” She asks.

You nod. You lived in one of the richest houses in Corsica. You were never lacking in money or ribbons and new jewels. But at best you were a senators daughter. Not the ideal stock for an Emperors wife. Not the type to be governing one great nation.

“My grandmother is a well known seer in these parts. A healer. Purveyor of white magic. Many a time she has seen things that have yet to come to pass…” She explains as she wraps the belt around your waist. Speaking as she does.

“She foretold your arrival. Said the future of Rome would be written by rain and storm, when blood spills on the ancient serpent stone.”

Serpent. Synonymous with the Traitor. Two faced and shedding skin. Blood spilling, the death of your Brother. Rain on the rocks- this storm hammering down. You can’t believe it.

“What if Rome is your destiny?” She explains. Her voice kind and brave as the candles flicker and the storm rages on.

“Then I pray the goddess’ convey me the strength to survive it.”

“I will pray too.” She takes your hand. It feels like kinship.

They stepped you out of the tub and began to pat you dry with cloths and then dress you.

With each pass of their hands wiping the water from your skin, it removed you further and further from yourself.

Aeliana rubs a sweet balm like texture onto your pebbled nipples before she robes you. Said it was to increase your fertility. She also lines your eyes with burnt kohl.

They pulled your dress on around you. Let it fall into beautiful waves. You stood sedately and let them manoeuvre you.

Your skin positively draped with as much fragrant oil as it could take. Anointed with your new life as it drips off you in unbearable sweetness. Decorations not of your choosing put into your hair, on your ears, around your neck, on your arms. Strangled by someone else’s finery.

Slid fine golden sandals onto your feet. Aeliana brought a flame red veil and pinned it in place over your head. It floated down to your shoulders. Securing a crown of myrtle flowers over it.

It may have been gauzy fabric; rich and fine. But it felt like iron to you. Iron veil and a crown of thorns.

When they finish readying you, they bow and leave you alone to eat the fresh bread and fruits. Drink the sweet wine. Night closes in around you.

You didn’t ever picture the night before your wedding being like this. Alone and noiseless save for rain. You pictured the noise and gaiety of your sisters, dancing in their fine dresses. How they’d carry golden stalks of wheat to signify your prosperous marriage - how it would bear fruit. Be blessed by gods and fortune.

Your mother would bind your hands to the man you’d marry. To the man you’d love.

And you are here. Miserable in cold indifference. Clothed in perfumed oil and silence. With only your dour thoughts for company.

You pick at your offering of food. Feeling the milky eyes of those female deity marble statues watching you carefully. Judging. Maybe even disappointed.

When the doors next shudder open as the guards outside push them open, a divine older woman comes striding slowly, surely, into the room. Confidence woven into her steps like the very fine lavender purple cloth folded around her shoulders. A beautiful sage green palla. Her hair is dark and braided masterfully on her head. Shot through with bolts of silver.

You recognise her from coins. From statues. The Dowager Empress of Rome. Julia Domna.

She looks wise as Minerva. Goddess of education indeed. All of Rome had heard tale of not only her beauty, but her mind. Sharp as an arrowhead. A gentle mediator between her rabid sons.

Out of sheer politesse and nerves, you bolt out your seat and bow your head to her. Words shrivel on your tongue. Royalty is stood before you. Here you are plucked from the dungeons. You feel unworthy.

“Rise, my child.” She bids you. Holding out a hand laid with jewels on nearly every finger. Standing before you. Close enough to discern some of your beauty through the veil.

She examines you. Not unkindly. The way you’d expect a mother to examine the vessel that will carry her sons legacy. She’s discerning.

“Let me see my sons choice then…” she bids. Hands crossed in front of her, diplomatically, as she lets her deep set, serious eyes become acquainted with all of you.

Choice? Or chattel?

She walks around you. Eyes your hair. Your build. Your hips. The way you’ve been presented like a prized sacrificial swine before the crowds on Saturnalia.

And she doesn’t appear to find you lacking

“Goodness. You really are beautiful.” She says. It sounds mournful. Introspective. As if she didn’t intend on you hearing it.

“He’s made a fine choice.” She lauded

“Corsica, I hear you hail from?”

“Yes, Dowager.”

“I want to know one thing.” She says. Voice hard as newly forged steel. A shiver runs your spine. So she could be terrifying if she wishes.

“Are you a traitor against Rome?” She demands. “There are spies who would conspire to align themselves with this great house, under false guises, to murder my sons.” She speaks, crossly. Eyes aflame.

She has bite after all. Lions teeth and knows full well how to use them.

“I am no spy. I am not a murderer I have no guise. Like you. I only want to protect those whom I love.” You answer calmly. Placid easy waves. Gently now.

She smiles. Though something curious still lurks in her eyes.

“Then we are on the same page.” She awards slyly. You feel as if you’ve passed a test.

Her smile crooks on one side. Relieved.

She turns to the doors. The great sway of her earrings are big as chandeliers as she moves. Stunning gold. Bands of gold also cross her well formed upper arms. Every inch a woman of gentility and riches. She is perfumed with lavender. Oil made from dried plants fetched all the way from purple fields in Aquitania.

“My son grows impatient to see his bride. Come. Salacia. It is time.” She offers her arm to you.

Apparently your destiny lays in wait.

The wedding was a short and simple affair. The Dowager Empress led you to the grand rooms where they were to be held.

Grand, just like the rest of this humongous sprawling palace.

When you see Geta, he is clad in so much gold and armour. A blinding white cloak draped off his form. Armour golden. Carved with gods and victorious hero’s of battle. Golden laurel crown adorns his head. His smile at the sight of you makes you blush with attention.

You are suddenly grateful for the veil. It manages to hide you from every stranger in this room. You can make out Caracalla. Some other senators. Other guests you’ve no idea who.

The celebrant, a rather portly priest, ordered the evil spirits away. Asked for the fire spirits to bless you. He invoked Janus to watch over you from single people to a joined couple. New beginnings.

When it is time, he takes your hand and carefully threads an engagement ring on your finger. It is weighty, pure gold. An imitation of two dog heads joined together. A round sapphire cradled between their mouths. As if they’re fighting for it.

Remus and Romulus. It reminds you of him already.

You dare to meet his eyes as he does it. He looks ravenous. Umbra catching you where you stand. Swallows you whole. You don’t think you can get used to it yet.

“Wherever you go, there also go I, as your wife.” You speak.

The dowager Empress binds your hands together with blood red linen as the rest of the vows are read. The way his fingers turn and grip the inside of your forearm - firm pressing, hot like a brand - it makes you shiver.

Then comes the time for the marriage to be sealed with a kiss. Hands freed.

Your stomach is squirming unpleasantly as your stranger of a groom steps forwards to lift your veil. When he lifts the red gauze from your vision, you keep your eyes lowered until the last moment.

You feel the urging of his eyes. You could hear the fierce nature of his words as if he’d spoken.

Look at me. Salacia.

He looks entirely too boastful. His perfect little nymph. Caught and landed at last.

Hepulled you in by your waist. Locked his hand around your back. Gave you a kiss that was certainly gentler than before. Softness of his lips was maddening when the rest of him was all armour and metal. But you still felt the edge of his teeth on your lower lip. Bursting new pain from where it had split.

It was official. You had been dragged out a golden net cast in the sea. And now property of the Emperor of Rome.

You had no time to let your thoughts wander. There’s been quite the celebration planned for after. He walks beside you as congratulations ripple around you from nobles, senators, generals and high officials of the courts.

You ignore the way Caracalla sneers a particularly vile look your way when you pass him. Plotting.

You are lead to an opulent triclinium. Open to one huge side, guarded by pillars, which overlooked a garden where fountains trickled and plants bloom even in the storm that’s still brewing. Spitting rain on the landscape.

There are torches at the sides of the rooms, huge bowls boasting orange flames that lick at the walls, and freshly plucked flowers, still green branches and fronds sit in urns to the side. Filling the room with petals and heady nectar scent.

There’s a huge swarm of lectus’ in the centre of the room. Bronze laid with cushions. All pointing towards a huge table were bread and wine goblets awaited. You’re not used to how the room echoes. Unused to the sheer amount of people and formality that fills it.

The wine is poured freely by silent servants who sweep in and out. Some of them carrying plates as huge as carriage wheels. A whole roasted boar with grapes spilling out its mouth is brought in. Trays upon trays of cooked moray eels, cod and oiled anchovies. A whole platter of stewed nightingale birds, arranged around stalks of herbs and plums.

There’s fruit and bread the like of which you’ve not seen before. White bowls filled with cut purple figs and waxy oranges. Apples and yellow golden pears on tiered stands. Grapes and dried apricots heaped in dishes. It’s dazzling. So much wealth thrust before you.

You have a cup of sweet honey wine and take some of the unleavened bread. Watching as others around you gorge and toast with their goblets. Drinking strong wine and telling jokes and bawdy stories.

You feel disjointed from it all. You feel the Emperors eyes pass over you. The dowagers too. You are a source of mystery and intrigue.

Plucked from misfortune and placed here at the feet of gods.

You do feel when your new husband slides some pieces of fruit, or fresh breads onto your plate. A small bunch of sweet red grapes. His head may be cocked to conversation in this room. But his attention remains somewhat on you.

“Eat. Wife. I do not wish to force you.” He commands you. Prodding food and more wine in your direction.

Nursing his own cup and barking at the servants when he wanted more. You know his tongue must be stained with the taste by now. Sour purple. You wonder if you’ll taste it later in another of his animalistic kisses.

It feels like there is a boulder in your stomach. You swallow. You sip. You try to breathe. It all feels too restricted.

“Refill my wife’s cup.” Geta demands of the nearest servant. You flinch at his cutting commands.

You meet the servants eyes for a second and flicker them a smile. They look to the ground as they fill your cup. Their poor hands shake. You thank them. They don’t respond.

You’ve a feeling his plying you with wine has more than one ulterior motive. To make you loosen. Make you pliant. Make you slip down easier in his crushing grip.

“I have no appetite.” You admit weakly.

You can’t stomach the way the fat on the meat before you glistens. These poor stewed birds with clipped wings. The gutted boar. Glistening fat and dead meat. Same as the way of those poor flayed men in the coliseum.

Butchered animals. One and the same. The way blood sprayed out on the biscuit brown dirt under the sun. The way viscera glistened bright when spilled free from once living flesh. How these animals looked served on a platter. There’s no difference.

You take some grapes. Pick them from the vine. Bite into some apricots. The fruit rots on your palate. Fine sugary flesh and it bursts on your tongue like ripe putrefaction. You place it gently back on your plate.

“Do they not have fruit in Corsica?” He asks. It’s vaguely mocking.

“We had lemon trees in the gardens. An olive tree in the courtyard. Over 200 years old.” You state quietly. Not taking your eyes off the plate in front of you. You picked and prodded at it.

“You have more now. You are Empress. You have anything you want.” He impressed on you.

“I miss the ocean. The sun on the shoreline. My sisters.” You mutter.

“Don’t risk sounding ungrateful.” He threatens.

Geta followed the path of your reluctant hand with his eyes. He then scans across all of his guests. People of the senate. Rich merchants. Fellow royalty.

They come to snipe and drink wine and watch this new wedded spectacle.

“They are all dull.” Geta decided.

You wonder if the only source of amusement he could delight at was seeing people being beaten to black and blue paste in the coliseum. To have to see the spray of blood to feel something.

“They are intrigued. Their Emperor has placed a traitor in his marriage bed.” You comment.

Geta turned to you. “That sounds like treason to my ears.” A warning.

“Perhaps.” You answered. Boldly.

“But is it inaccurate? It is what they are all thinking.” You add. “You’ve wedded yourself to someone disloyal. Someone who is not their kind. They are curious.”

Geta scans his eyes over everyone again. Their laughter. The flow of wine. The way they stab and cut into food and fruit like they’re half starved. None of them quite meet your eyes.

Perhaps they don’t wish too.

His hand finds the meat of your thigh. Flesh firm and warm.

“They will believe what I tell them too. Wife. You only need worry about your loyal duty to me. Nothing else.” He makes clear.

You go back to pushing bits of fruit around your plate. Taking no more sustenance.

“No doubt you are unused to such finery.” Caracalla pipes up. Seeing you toy with your food. “I wonder what they eat in Corsica. Peasants sea food?”

You meet Caracalla’s eyes across the tables and mountains of rich food.

Getas eyes were dark. Fired by lust for you. That’s what you saw in them when he looked at you.

The same could not be said for Caracalla.

You saw nothing. Just darkness and his love of cruelty. Geta unnerved you. But it was Caracalla who scared you most. It was like gazing into a tomb. A bare skull eye socket. You’re certain nothing but darkness refracted back. Splintered twisted darkness. The purest distilled form of malice.

“Perhaps you are jealous, brother. The fact that I will have heirs meant for the future of the empire. And you will… not.” He snaps. Petulant.

“If she makes it that far.” Caracalla sneers. Daggering a smile right at you. A sneer that make you feel cold. He’s twirling a dagger in his other hand. Eyeing you with sick lustful interest.

He wants your goodness too. He wants it so he can spoil you for himself and ruin Getas legitimacy. By whatever means necessary. Geta has cruelly inserted you into this feud.

“And who’s to say the heir will be yours… who knows where her eyes will stray.” He jabs. Eyes widening as he leers.

Geta stabs into his food. Glaring at his smaller twin all the while. Eyes dark as shadow cloaked black jewels.

When some servants near you move from pouring wine, the sight of the persons impeded by them, slowed your world to a halt, ringing gongs in your ears when you caught sight of someone you recognized.

Macrinus.

The food in your mouth turns to ash which you can hardly stomach swallowing. Your gaze locked on the man as he lays content at your wedding feast. Drinking wine and roaring laughter with Caracalla. Garbed in robes of rich Aquarian blue trimmed with gold pattern.

Exactly the gracious easy way he had been when he dined with you and your father in his home.

His smile remains as he locks eyes with you. And raises his glass in a toast in your direction. You hear him drink to your new name with a blazing smirk aimed your way. “Empress.”

You mumble a pithy excuse. You don’t know if anyone hears you or if they’ll even look up from their plates when you get up and rush to leave.

Caracalla snorts as you race from the room on the verge of tears.

“She’s a flighty one. Your Empress. So full of tears.” Caracalla comments loudly. Cruelly. Turning his head to meet the acid stare of his brother - and the Dowager Empress as she lowers her goblet from her lips. Eyes cool as metal.

“Maybe if you shoved your cock into your broodmare, brother, as you doubtless plan to do this night. Maybe that would settle her down? Or maybe a good beating from the guards will see her right, make her see her place… maybe let a few of the guards bend her over a lectus and see to her first? Loosen her up a little for your uses.”

“Caracalla. Enough.” The dowager snaps. Lightning power in her voice. Tone fashioned from a fury storms could envy. Her dark eyes glow with it.

She turns to Geta and lays a gentle pacifying hand to his arm. “See to your bride, dear. She looked unwell.”

Geta sighs a snarl. Glaring at his brother as he does as mother suggested.

She watches him leave. Turns to her other son with barely concealed ire.

Caracalla snorts into his wine with the other guests. Making sneering, high handed remarks.

��Such marital bliss.” He mocks to the guests. Twirling his favourite silver dagger in his other hand. Laughing as he played with the dead meats on his plate with a sneer. His tooth winked golden in the light.

Tagging in the hopes this finds its way to the right people- thank you--

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#punkwrites #joseph quinn #emperor geta #geta x reader #geta #gladiator #gladiator 2 #violence tw #death threats tw #blood tw #nudity tw #i would die for this man #geta is gross #but caracalla is worse by far

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johannestevans · 4 months ago

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One could argue that I got a bit carried away at the garden centre but no one would actually argue that because I deserve it

Would you deny me, a sad old man, a Venus fly trap? Would you? Out of CRUELTY?

I didn't even buy the pineapple plant or the indoor citrus tree! Though I wanted both fervently!

Celos, rosemary, garden thyme, Moroccan mint, some chrysanthemums, sweet peppers on the bush (!!!), a little cactus, and a Venus fly trap :) And I already had the basil plant, I've just split it in two because it was fucking massive for its pot, so bf will take the other

I got the Venus fly trap but I almost certainly want to get a pitcher plant as well

In the trough are spring onion bulbs because I'm trying to just regrow them because we go through so many spring onions, but obviously when you grow a bunch in water they're more exposed to fungus and mould

When I get the top blinds replaced with a curtain rail and custom curtains I think I might just get the flat blind completely removed because it's fucking ugly and we never use it

And now it's just! In the way!

#musings #johannes house

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sizzleissues · 1 year ago

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toxic (748 words)

Toxinelle/Marinette/Shadybug drabble thing

The apartment was a shell.

The furniture they retained from the move sat in the positions they logically belonged to but there was no heart to their placements. The objects knew they were miles from where they were supposed to be and languished in their new dusty light. The space between them, places that should have contained something else — not something physical but a concept — was chillingly bare. Marinette doubted anyone had sat on the couch in a few days or treaded across the creaky floorboards in any direction other than to the bedrooms. The kitchen that had sung in its constant use; pots and pans clanging, cupboard doors slamming and kettles hissing — was quiet.

The lack of something pressed into her skin, a constant companion to her nowadays.

Marinette could have tried to make this home, she had tried at first, back before she’d resolved herself to seek fulfilment through other means. Made dinner — burnt dinner — decorated the table and sat at its head and waited. If she hadn’t thrown out the food two months ago it would still be there, under the layer of mould it had accumulated. She tried to fill the house with song and light but no matter how many curtains she parted it never reached the shadows. Her parents were never home to see her efforts.

So she gave up and did her best not to spend too much time inside. Her new hobby helped greatly with that.

She hung her jacket up, dumping her belongings by the door and making her way through the apartment to close an open window. This may not be home but she didn’t want stray animals to make it theirs. As she passed the couch, her eyes caught on the enigmatic grin of her a certain stray cat, lazed across the disused cushions. He allowed her three seconds to process his appearance before leaping up and grabbing her wrist, pulling her against him.

“Found you.”

She fought against his grip, weaker as Marinette than she was as Toxinelle. His grin only widened, flashing razor sharp fangs she’d seen tear through metal (and bloodier things.)

“It wasn’t that hard. Stop looking impressed with yourself.”

Griffe Noire dropped her wrist, putting distance between them as easily as he’d removed it. He detransformed, leaving the haughty Adrien standing in her living room. His height and slender frame was less elegant and more awkward as his civilian self — as if being human returned gravity to his body and mind. She already knew the depths of his mind quite well.

“I only had to find it ‘cause you wouldn’t tell me,” he said. If it had been Griffe Noire there would have been a smile to it, constantly making everything a game. Adrien, even though he was but another side of the same person, said it with a sulky tone.

“I can’t have you here if my parents come home. Especially as Griffe Noire.”

“As if they would. You said they're never home with all the work they have to do to pay for your tuition.” He flopped onto the couch again, throwing her previous words back at her with an ease that didn’t articulate the slap to the face they were for her. Things she’s admitted in confidence tossed around like nothing when it had taken her everything to admit. He seemed to notice her silence and realise the impact of his words. “Sorry. I didn’t mean it like that. Just that this would be the perfect place to plan and hang out. I'm a bit sick of the sewers. It wouldn’t be weird for us as civilians to be here either and it's private.”

“No. Not here. I’m keeping any chance of them knowing about this out of it.”

This was her line.

Adrien examined her for a moment. The strength of her stance and the resolute set of her jaw. He could care less if his father became embroiled in this, as long as it didn’t stop him from doing it.

“Okay. Do you want to go now?”

Marinette looked around the apartment, she wasn’t sure for what. Maybe for an excuse not to say yes. To see her parents walk through that door and finally figure it all out. Take away her miraculous because she wouldn’t stop them and free her from the burden she’d brought upon herself.

Then again, she quite liked tearing shit apart.

“Let's go.”

Did you understand it? I'm I going in a direction you like? While I love a lot of peoples takes on the concept of the reverse world and have a few of my own, this particular is going for it all being quite toxic in its short amount of words.

Trying to get myself motivated to write but I am a fickle thing

Did you like it?? let me know and reblog blah blah blah etc.

#miraculous ladybug #miraculous #marinette dupain cheng #adrien agreste #toxinelle #shadybug #claw noir #griffe noire #ml fic #ml fanfic #ml paris special

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flaggermuser · 6 months ago

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A Little Taste of Heaven

Homelander x Luna (Supe OC)

18+

1,331 words || Explicit Sexual Content, Fleshlight, Masturbation, Obsessive Behaviour, Mirrorlander mentioned, Premature Ejaculation || AO3 Link

Special thanks to @devilander for being my beta

Divider by Firefly-Graphics

Vought’s adult selection.

Everything from dildos and strap-ons to sexy replicas of supe suits.

But Homelander is only after one thing.

Acquiring said thing was difficult. He couldn’t buy it himself and have his name registered on vought-after-dark.com, it would raise suspicions and the last thing he needed was to be questioned about said purchase.

His only other option was to wander downstairs and see if he could find a prototype somewhere that no one would notice going missing. It’s not exactly what he wants but it will have to do, for now, to satisfy a craving that is beginning to take over his life.

This is becoming more than just an obsession — all he dreams about is her, the alluring goddess with disdain in her eyes.

Anger has never looked so good.

Eventually, he has to resort to the fact that he’ll have to buy it. He could always write it off as a work expense but, instead, he puts it down in The Deep’s name. After all, it’s something The Deep would buy.

When it arrives in discreet packaging, he snatches it before anyone else sees it, taking it to his penthouse for an afternoon of much-needed personal time, making sure to lock the front doors tight, drawing the curtains so he can truly be alone.

He opens the initial box, enthusiastically pulling out the packing paper to reveal the ‘suitable’ substitute that will have to make do until he gets the real thing.

A fleshlight — to be more exact, Luna’s fleshlight.

It’s just a generic design, and the chances of it being a mould from Luna’s actual cunt is zero, after all, it says so on the box: For external use only. Product may not reflect the bodily characteristics of the intended supe. Rate of individual satisfaction may vary.

He removes his supe suit, letting it lie on the couch as he retreats to his bedroom, and more importantly, his bed, where he’ll be spending the next few hours with his toy. However, before he dissolves into pure, blissful debauchery, he needs to set the scene and make it perfect.

There’s a flatscreen on a stand, complete with a DVD player and a DVD made especially for him. It sits at the foot of his bed, the remote on one of the bedside tables and a bottle of lube.

This particular DVD is a compilation of Luna’s various interviews and some offhand shots of Luna's body, making a smirk cover Homelander's lips. He knew this particular person could be swayed, especially when Homelander learned about the more ‘unprofessional’ material they had. It only took a small amount of persuasion; a little bit of intimidation with a pinch of blackmail.

Ripping open the box, his eyes darken as he looks at the fleshlight. It will, of course, pale in comparison to the real thing when he eventually wins Luna over. He settles down in the middle of his bed, propping up pillows behind his head so he can watch the special DVD while enjoying this.

From under his pillow, he pulls out one of her slinky short black satin nightdresses, just about covering her ass from what he’s seen with his x-ray vision. Of course, he watches her at night, hence the discovery of a white crescent moon tattoo that sits just above the valley of her breasts.

He waits until she’s left Vought Tower to enter her apartment, retrieving new articles of clothing once her scent is gone from the ones he has.

He presses the nightdress to his body, the feeling against his skin sending a shiver down his spine. It’s only a matter of time until she's on top of him in it, her voice nothing but soft gasps and moans. Oh the things he’ll do to her.

Grabbing the bottle of lube from the bedside table, he licks his lips and overfills the toy. He wants it sopping wet, just like he’s sure Luna’s will be when he finally gets his hands on her. He swallows down the lump in his throat, his hand sliding under the other pillow where a pair of her panties have been lying for over a week.

They were one of the first he took — black cotton with a little black bow.

He initially hated them, deeming them unfit for a supe of her stature. But soon they became his favourite, retaining her natural scent better. He lies them on his face, his nose in the crotch, breathing deep.

With his hand on the remote, he presses play and there she is, her voice filling his ears. Now everything is perfect, well, as perfect as they can be.

He’s already getting himself worked up and hasn’t even used the toy yet. Holding it above his crotch, he watches as the lube drips out onto his cock, his mind running rampant with the idea that Luna, when he finally has her, will be the same.

Holding his breath, his eyes are glued to the toy as he lowers it, watching it swallow his cock down to the base. Throwing his head back, his eyes screw shut, his toes curling and his body tensing while he tries not to lose himself to sensation.

He whimpers, his balls taut and the pleasure sitting heavy in his gut. He’s fighting a losing battle, trying to hold back from cumming there and then but everything is just a little too perfect.

It only takes about three thrusts until he cums inside the toy, groaning as he does so. He mutters apologies under his breath.

‘Really Tiger? You came that quickly? You sure know how to disappoint women.’

His mirror image mocks him from above, while in his mind, Luna leans over him, her hands cupping his cheeks while she kisses his forehead.

‘You did good, I’m so proud of you, that was so lovely.’

Madelyn’s words in Luna’s voice sound more sincere, lessening the shame he feels. However, when the time finally comes, he knows he will last longer, and that he’ll ensure he completely satisfies Luna.

Staring at the screen, Homelander starts to get hard again, his mind running rampant with the fantasy of gripping those perfect hips hard enough as he pulls her to meet every one of his thrusts.

Of course, he'll be gentle in the beginning, make love to her the way she deserves but it won't be long until he's rough. But only because she begged him and oh, how she'll beg.

Glazed-over eyes, those soft bitten lips, her hands in his hair and on his body — the vision is enough to get him hard again.

He gets up onto his knees, one hand braced on the bed, the other holding the fleshlight in place while he thrusts into it, biting his lip to muffle his noises so he doesn’t miss a single second of that heavenly voice of hers while he stares at the screen.

Oh, the noises he’ll pull from her with his tongue, fingers and cock, how perfect she’ll look beneath him, riding him, her reflection in the mirror when he takes her from behind.

The DVD changes to one of the first interviews she ever gave, one he remembers well.

“Homelander….”

The way she says his name with so much contempt sends a shiver up his spine and he stares at the screen, relentlessly fucking the fleshlight, the filthy squelching only riling him up more. He needs to be inside of her so desperately, to fill her so full of cum that she has a little bulge in her abdomen; watch her go about her day knowing full well that it slowly drips out of her, staining her underwear and her suit.

With an animalistic howl, he cums and cums hard, almost going lightheaded for a second. He lets the fleshlight fall from his hand, breathing hard as he comes down from his orgasmic haze.

This is the best thing he’s ever bought.

#homelander x oc #homelander fanfiction #homelander smut #homelander x supe oc #homelander x luna #homelander x reader

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comfort-writing · 2 years ago

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Crayons and Cassettes

Chapter 7: Kindergarten Graduation

You are a kindergarten teacher. Eddie’s daughter, Sage, is in your class. Sage finally graduates from your class.

warnings: this fic will be 18+ in later chapters- minors DNI!! no use of y/n. (please let me know if I missed anything)

a/n: a short but important chapter! btw idk why the cover art has a weird filter on some of the pics- it wouldn’t let me remove it so please bear with me. I am a humble writer, not a graphic designer lol. canva is a bitch. anyways, enjoy! let me know in the comments or my asks if you want to be added to the tag list! requests are open!

word count: 2k

Chapter 1 || 2 || 3 || 4 || 5 || 6 || 7 || 8 || 9 || 10 || 11 || 12 || 13 || 14 (coming soon!)

After the party, you been trying to schedule time for yourself to relax or take a break. You originally didn’t think it would help with your anxiety because you thought that while you were ‘relaxing’, you’d be worried about work, but once you allowed yourself to shut your brain off, the breaks really helped your anxiety.

Throughout April, you helped your kids do everything they’d needed, and by May, you’d gotten news that every single one was going to pass your grade. You called Eddie that night, excitedly explaining that all your kids, including Sage, did an excellent job. You finished out the semester, relieved and proud of their accomplishments.

On the last day of school, Hawkins Elementary held a kindergarten graduation. All the parents and families were invited, and the kids had their very own tiny caps and gowns in emerald green and gold. You’d printed out certificates, writing small stories and well wishes on the back of each one so when they grew older, they could look back and read about what they were like at such a young age.

The morning of their graduation, you’d dressed in a kind of casual black dress and platform sandals. You wore rainbow clay earrings for a pop of color, and had your hair tied up in a clip. Today was supposed to be a little more dressy, as there would be lots of photos and parents, so you’d wanted to make a good, lasting impression.

You got to school early that morning, tidying up your classroom and finishing up the portfolios of all of your students work that they’d completed during the year. You’d kept all the projects, knowing that some parents would like to keep these things forever. You’d packed the portfolios into a rolling bin, and headed down to the cafeteria, ready to help set up for the day.

You, along with the other kindergarten teachers, the principal, and a janitor, cleaned up the cafeteria, set out snacks and coffee, and made sure the sound system was working. The principal had brought a Polaroid camera to take photos of the kindergarten class, so you helped him set it up and test it out. You’d made a silly face as he snapped a photo, and once it developed, the two of you laughed and were ready for everyone to come in.

You opened the doors to the cafeteria, propping them open, then opened the access doors near by so the parents could walk in. There were already a few waiting, so you welcomed them as they walked in. You then guided the kindergarteners to the ‘backstage’ area, or really, just behind a small space behind the curtains on the small stage, and helped them zip their gowns over their clothes and place the caps on their heads. Once they were ready, you instructed them to find their name on the tape on the risers and sit in their spots, to which they complied.

It felt bittersweet, helping all the kids you’d helped mould over the past year for the last time. You’d still see them, of course, in the hallways and in town, but this was your last time being their teacher.

Around 9am, all the kindergarteners were in place and the parents had settled into the cafeteria tables, so you, along with Mrs. Robinson, gathered your little diplomas and stood near the middle of the stage as the principal began his speech, kicking off graduation.

He discussed how much the kids had grown and learned during the year, and how proud he was of their hard work, as well as yours. He continued on and talked about how he looked forward to working with the kids next year, and how he hoped he’d never see them in his office, which got a laugh from the parents.

He then began to read off the names in alphabetical order, and each child walked across the stage, received a little diploma from you or Mrs. Robinson, and took a photo with their respective teacher. After the photo, you hugged every one of your students, and instructed them to go back to their seat on the riser.

When Sage’s name was called, you heard Eddie whoop loudly, and Sage ran to you, hugging you so tight it took your breath away. You laughed and hugged her back before taking your photo and sending her back to her seat.

Once all the names had been called, the kids all stood and took a class photo, then moved their tassels from one side to the other. The parents and staff clapped and cheered, then the students were dismissed to their parents. The principal made a small announcement to see the teachers for their portfolios and to distribute their individual photos.

You’d set everything up on a table, and began placing their photos on top of their portfolios. You greeted each parent, discussing how well each of their respective children did and that you’d hoped that you’d see them in the fall.

Eddie made his way over to your table, holding Sage in one of his arms and her little cap in the other. Her curly hair was a bit of a mess from the cap, and he set it on the table to mess over her hair to fix it. You smiled and greeted him, like you would any other parent, still trying to seem casual in public for now. He went along with it, knowing the drill by now.

Sage pouted, “I don’t wanna go to first grade.”

Eddie laughed, “Well, kiddo, I really want you to.” Only the two of you knew what that really meant. “You wanna grow up big and smart like your teacher?” He asked

Sage sighed and buried her head in Eddie’s neck, mumbling a small, “Yeah.” You and Eddie chuckled at that.

“Here’s her portfolio. It has all of the work she’s done this year. You can keep it or throw it away- but it might be nice to have when she’s older.”

Eddie nodded and took it from you gladly, along with the photo of you and Sage. He smiled fondly at the picture. Sage had a huge smile across her face, and you looked gorgeous. He wanted to frame it and keep it forever.

“Thanks.” He smiled. “Can I call you if I have any questions about registration for next semester?” He asked. The two of you spoke in code at this point.

“Of course.” You smiled.

He hugged Sage close and whispered at her to say goodbye to you, to which she looked up sadly and gave the tiniest, saddest wave in the world. You placed your hand over your heart, thinking the scene was so sad and cute, then said goodbye to Eddie. He turned and walked out of the cafeteria, Sage still pouting into his shoulder as he reassured her that she would see you soon.

You turned back and got the rest of the parents and kids sent off on their way, then cleaned up with the staff. You walked back to your classroom, feeling the emptiness of the hallways, and sighed once you entered. You erased the board completely, gathered the rest of your things, then turned out the lights and locked the door on the way out.

Once you arrived home, you walked in the door and heard the phone ringing. You quickly rushed over, picking it up.

“Hello?”

“Can I come over?” Eddie asked, sounding like a little kid on Christmas morning.

You laughed, “Right now? Aren’t you spending the day with Sage?”

“She’s with Wayne. He got the day off work to spend it with her. So, can I?”

“Are you sure? You don’t need some alone time to brood? Your kid just graduated kindergarten.” You teased.

He groaned, “You’re absolutely going to be the death of me. Please.”

You giggled. “Alright, Eddie. You can come ove-“

He hung up the phone as soon as he’d received your confirmation, and you held the receiver to your ear, listening to the dial tone for a minute before cackling. You knew what was about to happen. You couldn’t help but be excited, but geez, this guy was chomping at the bit. His excitement made you giddy too, though.

About ten minutes passed, and you were sitting on your couch, feeling a bit anxious, but not in a bad way. You tapped your foot on the floor, petting Pencil for reassurance. You heard his van screech into your driveway, and in under a minute he was knocking fervently on your front door.

You laughed and yelled, “It’s open!” Within seconds, he was walking into your house. He was beaming, and he kicked his shoes off quickly before practically jogging to where you were on the couch. Pencil scurried off, and Eddie plopped down next to you, facing your direction.

“Will you go out with me?” He asked quickly, smiling and out of breath, getting right to the point.

You laughed and pretended to contemplate it, “Hmm… I don’t know… I’m not so sure. I might have met this guy who wants to take me off into the sunset or something?” You joked.

He groaned and grabbed your shoulders, smiling like a mad man, “You are infuriating!” He laughed, shaking you lightly.

You laughed too, loudly and genuinely. After a moment, you looked into Eddie’s beautiful, brown eyes and smiled, “Yes, Eddie. I will totally go out with you.”

He melted in front of you and leaned forward, kissing you like a man starved. You couldn’t help but giggle against his lips as you attempted to kiss him back, wrapping your arms around his shoulders. The two of you shared a giddy kiss, not being able to hold yourselves together. After a while, the two of you separated and he sat back a little, calming down from all the excitement. “God, this school year was way too long.”

“I agree. Let’s make sure Sage is never in my class again.”

Eddie nodded, chuckling and wincing, holding his ribs, as they were sore from laughing too much.

You smiled and leaned onto his shoulder, “So, where are you taking me, Romeo?”

He laid his head on top of yours. “Anywhere. Everywhere.”

You smiled as he grabbed your hand and squeezed it gently. You noticed how small yours felt in comparison. “I mean for our first date.”

“You’ll see. Does tonight sound okay?” He asked.

“Wow, jumping right on into it, aren’t we?” You teased.

“We’ve wasted enough time being all secretive. I’m ready to show you off.” He smiled.

“What if the date doesn’t go well?” You asked, squeezing his hand.

“Well, we’ve got about a million more to go on, so the first one doesn’t have to be perfect.” He explained, squeezing yours back. “But it will be. Trust me.”

You nodded and hummed, enjoying his company for a while before asking, “What do I wear?”

“Something pretty nice, but comfortable.”

You nodded, not really knowing what to expect from him. The two of you stayed cuddled up on the couch for about half an hour before he sighed and made a move to get up. You released him, though you weren’t happy about it.

“Sorry, beautiful, but I’ve got to go. I have a hot date tonight.” He smiled, standing up.

“Oh yeah, with who?” You smirked.

He bent down and kissed you chastely, “Just the most amazing girl I’ve ever met. It’s tonight at 8.”

You couldn’t fight the blush that rose in your cheeks and you shoved him away gently, “You’re such a sap.”

“Yeah. You like me, though, so what does that make you?”

“Touché.” You glared.

He threw you a wink before slipping his shoes back on and leaving your house.

Finally. It was all starting to click into place.

Tag List: @mcueveryday @bebe0701 @emma77645 @edsforehead @manda-panda-monium @nina211544

#eddie munson #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x y/n #stranger things #dad!eddie munson #dad!eddie munson x reader #singledad!eddie munson #singledad!eddie munson x reader #em #slow burn

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no6secretsanta · 11 months ago

Text

The Siren

For: @dragons-of-ara From: @a-still-small-vox

Author's note: Happy holidays! Your request for a fantasy AU with Nezumi's singing immediately made me think of sirens for some reason (...the mythical creature, not, you know, loud warning noises), and I decided to go with my first instinct. The song lyrics at the end are from The Riversitter, which is Vienna Teng's newest single. A Vienna Teng AMV got me into No. 6 in the first place, way back in 2013 or 2014, so to me it was very fitting. I hope you enjoy!

General Audiences • No warnings • 2,500 words • Fluff • Alternate Universe • First meetings

(This story will be posted on my AO3 account by December 29th if you'd like to read it there.)

___

“Take the ship around to the cove. If I don’t come back in three days, assume I either drowned or I decided to stay here for a while,” Shion said, neatly folding his last shirt and tucking it on top of his pack, then closing the bag.

“Are you sure about this, Captain Shion?” asked Safu, the sailing ship’s navigator and first mate.

“I know it seems strange, but yes,” Shion said, putting the bag on his back. “Don’t worry about me, Safu. This is my choice.”

“Yes, Captain,” Safu said as they made their way through the ship to reach the deck. Once there, Shion prepared a rowboat and retrieved a ball of beeswax from his pockets. He divided it in two and carefully moulded each half over the outsides of his ears. Soon he could no longer hear the slap of the waves against the hull of the ship, or the creak of the wind in the rigging. Perfect.

“You have the con, First Mate Safu. Be well,” Shion said. She raised a hand to him in farewell and he hopped into the rowboat. She winched him down to the water below. Shion spared a backward glance for the ship as he rowed away. It had been his pride and joy, and the crew were all good people. But he had sort of mislead Safu a little — he had no intention of ever seeing it again.

Shion was less than half a mile from his destination, and he was a strong rower. He insisted on staying fit so he could lend a hand with any emergency situations on board the ship, such as a storm, a pirate encounter, or even a wreck. The coastline grew larger as he approached the rocky shore. And it was then that he saw him.

The siren.

The siren appeared to be a man around Shion’s age. He had moon-pale skin and long, glossy blue-black hair that hung down his back like an inky curtain. He wore a jagged skirt made of dark seaweed and a trailing necklace of pearls that reached almost to his waist. But from the waist down he was covered in silvery scales, with clawed feet similar to those of a bird, but with webbing between the toes. He had sheer silvery fins on the backs of his legs and arms. Shion had never gotten close enough to confirm it, but he imagined the siren had sharp teeth and maybe even claws on his fingers. Sirens were said to be incredibly dangerous creatures, who used their magical voices to lure sailors to their deaths and then eat them or rob their corpses. Or both.

But to Shion, the siren was a beautiful, fascinating creature, and he was determined to meet him.

As he got closer he saw that the siren was singing! Shion rowed harder, although he was mindful of the rocks as he manoeuvred into shallower water. Once he got close to the shore he hopped out of the boat, neatly arranged the oars inside, and dragged it up onto the sand. He turned and faced the siren, who was still singing at him. His teeth were pointy! From the looks of it, it was quite a performance. Shion was sad that he couldn’t hear a thing, but he also knew better than to remove the beeswax.

Instead he just sat down on the sand and waited until the siren’s face crumpled in confusion. He closed his mouth and tilted his head. Shion noticed that his eyes were the same beautiful silvery colour as his scaled legs. He had never seen a colour like that before in anyone else’s eyes.

Now the siren was saying something. His mouth was moving differently than it had when he was singing, less exaggerated to let pure, round sounds out.

“I can’t hear you,” Shion said, pointing at his ears.

The siren said one word. Shion guessed that it was “What?” but it could have been any number of other things. A special siren insult, or something.

“I can’t hear you,” Shion repeated. “Don’t sing at me anymore, and I’ll take this out.”

The siren looked incredibly offended. He scowled, folding his arms across his chest. Shion noted with a scientist’s glee that his fins were fluttering with agitation. But since his mouth wasn’t moving, Shion cautiously rolled the wax down from the outside of his ears.

The sounds of the waves crashing on the shore and a gull crying overhead reached his hearing. But the siren was silent.

“Thanks, that’s better. It’s nice to meet you. My name is Shion,” Shion said, putting the wax back in his pocket.

The siren scowled. “If you couldn’t hear me, why did you come here?” His voice, even when speaking, was beautiful and musical. It was a light, cool voice, with a certain androgyny to it. Shion imagined that his range was incredible.

“I wanted to meet you,” Shion explained, crossing his legs.

“Aren’t you afraid I’m going to eat you?” the siren said, leaning towards him menacingly.

“I did consider that could be a possibility. But regardless, you’re an intelligent being. You probably have fascinating life experiences,” Shion said. “Also, don’t freak out, but I did bring a gun in case you attack me.”

He swung his pack around to the front of his body and patted the side pocket, where there was a loaded pistol.

The siren’s eyes narrowed. “Are you planning to hold me hostage until I entertain you?”

“No. If you don’t want to talk, I’ll just leave,” Shion said with a shrug. The siren hesitated for a moment and then said, “Talk about what, exactly?”

Shion felt a little thrill go through him. He might actually be able to convince the siren to have a conversation! “Well, for starters, what’s your name?”

“Nezumi.”

Shion smiled. “You know, in my language, that name means Rat.”

“In mine it means Silver One,” Nezumi retorted sharply. He gestured at his tail. “I think you can see why.”

“Yes, your eyes are the same colour,” Shion said.

Something about his tone was clearly displeasing, as those self-same silver eyes narrowed again. “Wait a minute. Do you think I’m attractive?”

“Yes. You’re beautiful,” Shion said, not seeing a reason to lie. Maybe it was because he was an aquatic creature, but Nezumi had a natural grace to the way that he moved. Then there was the long hair and the silvery eyes. No one else Shion had ever met had enchanted him in such a way.

“Oh, great. I got the one human who doesn’t see me as a weird, alien creature,” Nezumi said, rolling his eyes. “Well, I don’t think your nubby little teeth and your stubby fingers are all that appealing, so back off.”

At that, Shion laughed. “I wouldn’t expect you to. I’m sure you find the traits of your own subspecies much more attractive than those of humans.”

Nezumi tilted his head and just studied him for a long moment. “You’re really going to try and convince me that all you want is to talk to me?”

“Yup,” Shion said, nodding.

“And I’m supposed to believe this because?”

“Oh, well, I will pay you, if it helps?” Shion said, opening a different pocket on his bag and withdrawing a small cloth bag with a drawstring.

“What exactly do you think you have that might be of value to m— are those emeralds?” Nezumi said, as Shion poured the contents of the bag out on his palm. “Or are they just glass?” Nezumi tacked on, attempting to recover.

Shion took one, set it down on the rock of a nearby tidepool, took another rock, and bashed it down on the emerald. It didn’t break. “They’re real.”

“Who are you?” Nezumi said, looking somehow even more aghast than he had when Shion told him about the gun.

Shion looked him dead in the eyes and said, “I am a very bored captain formerly in the employ of the Moondrop Trading Company.”

“Formerly?”

“Yeah, I just resigned this morning,” Shion said, glancing up at the sky. The sun was only just getting high enough for it to be called noon. Maybe 11:30. “I used to think my job was part of a harmless mercantile endeavour, but I’ve come to realise that it’s a tool of global oppression. As you can see, I’ve been very successful at it, so I decided to just retire young. Maybe leave human society completely and dedicate myself to research.”

At that, Nezumi started laughing. “Oh, I get it now. You’re insane. I suppose I can work with that. Give me some of those stones. You can have one hour of my life for each.”

He held out his hand, and Shion passed him three emeralds, putting the rest back in the pouch and replacing it in his pack. Nezumi started putting the emeralds into a pouch of his own that Shion could now see he wore around his waist, camouflaged among the strands of the seaweed skirt.

“Thank you,” Shion said earnestly. “But you should know, I’m not insane. Just principled… and honestly pretty angry I was a part of something so detrimental. I only wish I could do more to stop them from hurting more people, even though I’m not a part of it anymore.” “If it makes you feel better,” Nezumi said, “sirens don’t eat people. I sing to get idiots to give me their valuables. And every last one of the men I’ve had swim out to me over the past few months has been from your precious Moondrop Trading Company.”

“You’re in a shipping lane,” Shion informed him with a shrug. “I would say sorry for the disturbance, but it sounds like it’s been pretty lucrative for you. Are you the only siren around here? Are sirens solitary?”

Nezumi snorted. “No, I have a family and a tribe. Most of them prefer not to interact with humans.”

“Do they live nearby?” Shion said, looking around. He didn’t see any signs that another siren could be lurking on the shore or in the water. He couldn’t imagine what kind of home a siren might live in. Did they live underwater, in deference to their aquatic abilities? Or did they live on land, since they could breathe air equally well?

“Yes, we live all over and under the peninsula.”

“And how many of you are there? Are there many old ones? Young ones?”

“Are you going to just ask me inane questions for the next three hours?” Nezumi said.

“I paid you, didn’t I?”

Nezumi sighed. He leaned forward until he was lying down on his stomach in the sand, with one elbow bent to prop his head up in his palm. “Fine. What’s the next one?”

That was the beginning of a long conversation, over the course of which Shion learnt that the sirens of Nezumi’s tribe lived in a labyrinth of underwater caves, some of which ran clear underneath the peninsula. There were other siren tribes living nearby, some of which came to the peninsula to trade or find a partner. Sirens had their own stories, religion, and art, even a limited degree of science. To Shion’s surprise, Nezumi loved human books ever since he’d taken a book of fairytales from a sailor he’d charmed with his singing. It was all so fascinating that the time flew by. Shion felt like he could sit there forever, just listening to Nezumi talk and tell stories of his culture and his home.

Eventually, Shion realised with alarm that it was well into the afternoon and the time he had paid for was almost up. Before he lost the chance forever Shion said, “I have one more question. Do sirens sing for each other?”

“Yes,” Nezumi said brusquely. Shion could tell he was ready for this conversation to be over.

“I wish I could hear you sing the way another siren would hear it,” Shion sighed.

“It’ll cost you,” Nezumi said, glancing at Shion’s pack.

“I’m not paying you to rob me,” Shion chuckled. “It would take more hours’ worth of emeralds than I have on me to bring us to a level of trust where I’d feel comfortable listening to you sing.”

Nezumi shrugged. “That’s a shame,” he said, not sounding like he meant it at all.

⁂

Most siren songs didn’t have words. They conveyed their meaning by the feelings and images they evoked in the mind of the listener. It was almost a form of thought transference. Ever since he first heard Nezumi sing like that, Shion had been unable to stop himself from thinking of it now and then as magic.

But every so often, Nezumi decided to sing a song with words for Shion.

“You don’t have to tell a tidy story, You don’t need a home for every hole, You can just sit in the river, let the river rush to you.

You don’t need to find and lose true love, You don’t need a twisting in your soul, You can just sit in the river, let the river run you through. You can just do the thing that you get the idea to do.”

Nezumi’s voice rang pure and clear as a silver bell, shaping and forming both the words and the sounds with perfect clarity and intonation. The song rose and swelled and filled the rooms of the small home they shared, built partly of pieces of wrecked ships and hidden in the woods just off the shore of a nearby secret cove. The magic of siren-song filled Shion’s mind with images of silver water, currents and streams light as air and cold and sweet as mountain melt-water.

Shion had done many things that he once had the idea to do. He had the idea to meet a siren, and he met one. He had the idea to get to know the siren that he found, and he became Nezumi’s friend. He had the idea to make a home for himself on the peninsula where Nezumi’s family lived, and he moved into a cave that connected through underwater tunnels to the sirens’ own home.

He had the idea he might be falling in love with Nezumi, and that idea turned out to be correct. Then they had the shared idea to build a life together, and so they made this little home. Now Nezumi wore a necklace made of pearls and emeralds, and their waterproof library was full of books from all over the world.

“So come on, let’s search among the strangers and the souvenirs; How gorgeous and grand you have grown! Sit with me among the branches of this chandelier While flesh and blood remain between our bones, And I will show you the most precious thing I own.”

And Nezumi looked right at Shion as he sang, and he held out to him a small silver and emerald ring.

#no. 6 #no6 #no 6 #no.6 #nezushi #nezumi #shion #no. 6 secret santa #dragons-of-ara #a-still-small-vox #voxiferous

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twentydaysofdrabbles · 1 year ago

Text

The Concierge Gives A Tasting - Look (Part 22)

The walk back to your room is not long, but it is enough to have Sans dogging your steps like a slavering hound. His red pilot lights for eyes glow bright in the shadows between lights, bobbing and weaving with every step.

You’re not concerned about showing him where you lay your head. After all, you’re so rarely there. So you aren’t afraid of slipping out your room key from your hidden vambrace, of swiping it past the card reader. Of pushing the door open and admitting yourself into the dim, cool room.

It’s a fairly standard room, by hotel standards. Though you’re considered the Manager’s right hand, your room is far from ostentatious. Tastefully decorated in classical luxury, but not overly so. A small round table stands near the kitchenette set off to the side, two ornately carved and padded wooden chairs tucked neatly under it.

Next to the kitchenette, a wall with a weapon rack, most of its slots empty, and a dresser with a repair kit on it. A door set at the far wall. A closet just beside it. And behind a wall of curtains, a wall of windows. But of course you never open them.

Your bed is big, the main focus of the bedroom, covered with dark satin sheets and a multitude of pillows. A single padded armchair stands to the side of it. Impeccably made. Neat.

Sans is staring at it, looking as if he wants to muss that neatness right away.

“Patience, Mister Sans,” you say softly, a hint of a tease in your even tone. “We’ve not yet finished our negotiations.”

“then hurry the fuck up,” he growls, prowling up to you.

At least, until he is stopped by your hand on his chest. Just a little pressure and it would cause the hidden blade nestled under your wrist to pop out...but you’re careful not to let that happen. Looking at him from under your lashes, you let a small smile spread over your lips. “Mister Sans.”

The skeleton sneers at you, impatience writ plain on his face. A sneer that turns into a pout when he sees that you’re unmoving. “sweetheart, ya wouldn’t be leavin’ me in the cold, would ya?”

“The cold isn’t exactly what I’d call it, Mister Sans.” Dropping your hand from his chest, you bring it to the lapels of your coat. Shedding it with one smooth movement, shrugging it down your arms.

All at once, Sans freezes. Then he grins a greedy grin, his tongue flicking out to lick over his teeth. “oh, sweetheart. now we’re talkin’.”

Chuckling lowly, you turn away to drape your coat over a coatrack just beside your weapon rack. “Make yourself comfortable, Mister Sans. I won’t be long.”

“don’t mind if i do, sweets.” His voice is a low purr, just barely audible over his footsteps as he goes to sit in the armchair near the bed. Predictably, he sits with his legs spread, his arms draped along the back of it. As large as he is, he doesn’t fully fill the armchair. A surprising fact, to you. You didn’t realise the armchair was that large.

Now that he’s lounging in it, his eye lights glued to you, you’re suddenly reminded of a man watching a striptease. A smile quirks the corner of your lip up. If he thinks you’ll perform for him, he’s sorely mistaken. But you’ll not leave him wanting.

Under your coat is a plain shirt, well tailored, well fitted, moulded to your body in stark contrast to the coat which gives you a sharp silhouette. You can feel Sans’ eyes on you as you reach down to undo the ammunition belt around your waist.

“how many, sweetheart?” he asks huskily, roving his red eyes all over you.

You spare him the barest look, taking out the spare magazine without looking. “Four.” The gun is slid out of its holster next, magazine ejected, chambered round removed. Made safe. Placed back in its spot on the rack. “Miss Toriel took two out.”

When you next glance at Sans, he looks as if you had just slipped him the dirtiest pickup line. “shit, four and not a single scratch on ya,” he groans, zeroing in on the red stains around the wrist cuff of your shirt. Slowly dulling crimson amid the pure white fabric. A deep inhale, expanding the skeleton’s broad ribcage, and he growls on the exhale. “ya still smell like blood, damn.”

Ah, the perfume must have dissipated. “Is that an issue, Mister Sans?” you ask politely, unbuttoning the cuff of your shirt so you can roll it up to your elbows. Your vambraces are revealed by this action, close fitting as to be a metal skin around your forearms, stopping at the base of your wrists. It is raised on the tops and undersides of your wrists, the holsters for your spring-loaded knives.

A hidden latch frees your arms of the metal armour. One by one you set them upon the dresser, to be taken apart and cleaned. Flakes of dried blood litter the wood and the floor where you stand, something that Sans doesn’t miss.

“not a lotta folk use knives up here,” he idly notes, tongue flicking over his teeth. “whaddya say ya invite me to a demonstration one of these days?”

Goodness, Sans is a bit of a sadist isn’t he? Maybe a bit of a masochist too, by the sounds of it.

“Oh?” you ask, toeing your shoes off at last. They are nudged back under the dresser, away from where anyone could trip over them. Now clad in just your socks, you lift your pant legs just enough to show the tops of them. They’re not the sexiest articles of clothing you own, not by a longshot, but you don’t miss the way Sans looks at them with blazing want in his eyes as though you had just shown him your underwear.

Ah yes, that monster thing about socks. Well, you’ll milk that for whatever it’s worth. Lifting a foot so you can reach the last switchblade hidden in your right sock. Gloved hands close around the handle of it, slipping it from the sewn in holster and onto the dresser. As much as you want to dexterously flick the knife this way and that, your hands still ache from the exertion of earlier today.

Though he is briefly distracted, Sans seems to compose himself. He loosens the tie around his neck, unbuttoning the top button to reveal the ivory bones hidden behind. "yeah,” he just purrs, flicking his jacket to the sides and showing off the black suspenders clinging to his shoulders. Ah, he didn’t miss that you liked them.

A perceptive man is a dangerous one. But you’ve always known that about Sans.

At last fully disarmed, you pad over to where he sits. He watches you keenly, crimson eye lights roving up and down your body hungrily, admiring the swing of your hips, the delicate steps you take, until you’re bracing your hands on the arms of the chair and looming over him, casting him in shadow.

This close, you can see every flicker of his eye lights, feel every breath he takes. You can see how his eyes lock on the collar of your shirt. Dark ink creeps up your skin from under the white fabric, dark tentacles curling and weaving under the fog. Through your shirt, too, the barest hints of a tattoo can be seen. A collar tapped into the skin around your neck, a visible, artistic weight across your collarbones, your shoulders, closing behind the nape of your neck.

“nice ink, sweetheart,” he purrs, lifting a finger to press over the top of your chest. “mind letting me see the rest of it?”

Perhaps if he looks closer, he can see the skull wreathed in vines and laurels sitting at the base of your throat.

But you don’t give him the opportunity.

“If you secure a second meeting, Mister Sans, then I would be glad to accommodate your request,” you say evenly, though with a smile in your voice.

Sans growls briefly, “pfft, second meeting.” Then it hits him. He narrows his eyes. “whaddya mean?”

Your lips tip up in a sly smile, your eyes glowing bright with dark desire. “One thing at a time, Mister Sans,” you murmur, your knee coming up to rest on the chair between his thighs. One day, you’ll figure out how he has such thick thighs for being made of bone. Perhaps it works like his belly.

His eyes flick to your gloves then, still tucked up tight around the base of your palms. “them too?”

“Third meeting, if you’re lucky.” You’re confident he will make it that far.

The eternal grin on Sans’ face widens and he leaves the matter of your gloves alone, tipping his chin up so he can leer at you. “ya like teasin’, don’t cha sweetheart?” But it doesn’t look like he’s protesting. Of course, he’s much the same, dragging a distal phalanx down the centre of your chest until he hits the waistband of your trousers.

You don’t say anything in response, figuring the satisfied expression on your face evidence enough. Bracing yourself on one hand, you press the other flat against his sternum. Levering more and more of your weight on him until he is pinned against the chair.

Like in the elevator, Sans just wheezes slightly with a grin, panting up at you, “fuck...”

And just like in the elevator, you lean close. Close enough that your lips brush against his sharp teeth with every word you speak, “Allow me to take the lead in these negotiations.”

The skeleton monster looks as if Gyftmas had come early. “oh yeah sweetheart, take the wheel.”

Oh, you’re going to have so much fun.

#undertale fics #mafiafell au #mafiafell sans #mafiafell sans x reader #sans x reader #the concierge #drabble #ficlet #it's getting spicy #another massive chapter that i'll work on in parts #so there's still a post every day

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