#I trimmed down my muse list

[protectxthem]

.

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Winter's King 11

No tag lists. Do not send asks or DMs about updates. Review my pinned post for guidelines, masterlist, etc.

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as noncon/dubcon, cheating, violence, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: You are a maid to the Duke of Debray, a lord of the Summer Kingdom. That is, until the king of Winter appears with his particular air of coldness. (Medieval AU)

Characters: Geralt of Rivia

Note: friday, my day, am i right?

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me.

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!) Please do not just put ‘more’. I will block you.

I love you all immensely. Take care. 💖

You turn your legs over the bench, feet dangling over the floor as you look at the king, dumbfounded and dozy. He sits in the chair by the table, toying with a grab between his fingers as he watches you. Your heart hammers behind your ears as your breath licks like flames in your lungs. You daren’t ask it aloud but what is he doing there? 

“I only meant to look in upon you,” King Geralt says as if he can hear your thoughts. “I fathomed the night was long tending to my wife and I would make sure you are well-rested.” 

“Your highness,” you stand and smooth the front of your shift, realising you wear nothing more. No dress, no apron. You feel vulnerable to his golden eyes as they follow your hands. The fabric pulls taut on your chest before you can right yourself. “I... Apologies, I am unkempt.” 

You search around and go to take your cap from where you hung it. You cover your shorn locks and tie it tight above your nape. The king’s eyes narrow at you. 

“What is the purpose of keeping your hair short?” He wonders as he drops the grape back to the plate. 

You look at him, shuddering, “I do not... it is only as I’ve been bid, your highness. In Debray, all the maids do so.” 

“You are not in Debray now,” he muses. 

You’re quiet. You’re not sure how to answer that. You gulp and grab the clean dress from the pile and throw it over your head. It hangs loose, not like Jazlene’s carefully cut and laced gowns. You reach for your apron and the king clears his throat. You stop and look at him. 

“Your highness?” You blink, still dazed by his unexpected appearance. 

“I did go to see the lady of Debray,” he intones, “she was in a poor state. She would not permit me in her chambers for her condition.” 

“Oh my, your highness, I am sorry to hear. Shall I go look in--” 

“She has maids a plenty,” he insists, “I hoped...” he leans forward and reaches to his belt. You notice the top of his slate grey tunic is untied and shows the trim of his chest hair, “to share a pastime with her. I hoped perhaps we might see past our differences at last and start our progress towards the kingdom. Alas, despite my warnings, she overindulged and has left herself incapacitated.” 

You stare at him, clutching the apron. He flicks his fingers dismissively as his other hand brings forth a pouch, “leave that. Come, sit.” 

You can only obey. You put the apron down and cross the chamber. As you near the table, he pushes the tray of dishes out of the way. You lower yourself onto a stool as he opens the mouth of the pouch. He pours out the rattling contents. Carved diced in varying shapes, symbols painted on each side, and man longer pieces that look like bone. 

“It is a game,” he explains as the contents roll out, “I’d like to teach you.” 

You look down as he sorts out the many pieces into sets. He is lithe in his arrangement. When he is down, he presses his hands flat to frame the assortment. 

“You don’t mind?” He wonders, “if you are tired still...” 

“Your highness, I am awake,” you rub your eyes and drop your hands to your lap. “A game? How do you play it?” 

You lean forward and he seems pleased by your intent. He curls his fingers and takes a breath. 

“It is like bartering at a market, or the like,” he begins, “you see how the pieces differ,” he points to the longer ones, “there are tick marks here,” he shows you how one has an ex, another a line this way and the next that way, and a circle in another. “We each have our dice,” he divides those up and pushes a set towards you, “it is a matter of trade and cost.” 

“Hmm,” you push your lip out, concentrating. 

He continues to explain the balancing and leveraging of each roll. How once you have collected all the pieces with a particular mark, you may wield a greater demand. You tilt your head thoughtfully, your own fingers drawing lines in the air as you make sense of his instruction. You think you understand but remain uncertain. 

“We may begin simple,” he intones. 

So suddenly are you swept up in the intricacy of the game, that your shock at his appearance dissipates. You can only think of the pieces as he rolls a die. Then the next. You follow his lead and when at last the first trade comes, you hear his offer but have no response. 

“You have a question?” He prompts. 

“I am thinking, your highness,” you squint as your forehead lines. 

“I can tell,” he says brightly. 

You peer up at him and smooth your expression. His cheek twitches as he leans back. You counter his offer and he clucks. 

“Mm, I see,” he rests his chin on his knuckles. 

He hands over his pieces and you bite the inside of your lip. You gather them to your side of the table and frown. You toy with the dice and wait. 

“Your turn,” he urges, “unless you are not having fun.” 

“It is an interesting game but I don’t want to be let to win,” you mutter. 

“I am not letting you win. It is the first turn and it is a long game,” he chides. 

“Mm, yes,” you pick through the dice, “your highness.” 

He exhales and leans on the armrest, “take your time. I am no hurry to be away.” 

You peer up at him and find his gaze set on you. You return your attention to the dice and toss them. He’s a king, should he have better things to do? 

⚔️

“It appears you have bested me,” King Geralt sighs and puts his dice down, pressing his hand flat over them, “you have the mind of a councilour.” 

“Your highness,” you bring your hands back to wring in your lap.  

“Truly, you’ve taken well to it,” he remarks, “it has been some time since I had harrying competition.” 

You offer a slight curve of your lips and look away. The window is dulled as the sunlight descends. You blanch and slip forward on the chair. 

“Your highness,” you stand, “it is late. I should--” 

“You may remain,” he assures you as he shows his palm kindly, “no hurry, little maid.” 

“But... shouldn’t you--” you keep yourself from asking after his duty. That is not for you to mind, “the queen will need dinner.” 

“As I said before, this place is ripe with servants,” he says coolly, “you should sit and bask in the time you have off your feet.” 

You face him and slowly sit. He drags his fingers along the wooden armrest as his expression tightens. He watches you as his square jaw clenches, “unless you would rather be away from me?” 

You twist around to look at the door, then to him. 

“I will go wherever you command, your highness.” 

“Yes, yes,” his hand balls to a fist, “that is not what I...” he sighs with exasperation, “I want to know what you desire. What do you want? What do you need?” 

There’s a stirring in your chest as he leans slightly forward, his eyes alight. You peer into the golden pools and your lips part. He is a king and yet speaks as if he would serve you. 

“I...” you wisp and clamp your lips tight, measuring your words, “I want to serve you and the queen, your highness. I want to serve the realm.” 

He huffs again and grimaces, “for yourself. Not the queen, not me, not the people.” 

“Hmmm,” you look down and shrug. You shake your head. You can’t think of anything. “I have a new dress and a hot bath and good food. I can think of nothing. What of you, your highness? What do you want?” You lift your chin slowly, “just for you?” 

Your question seems to startle him. He winces and for a moment, seems breathless. He stands suddenly and takes a step forward. He’s close and you think he might lunge at you. You shy away, expecting the same wrath you inspire in the queen. He falters and backs away. 

“I want...” he grits and turns his back to you. 

He walks to the window and looks out onto the lawns. He hangs his head and grips the window’s edge. He lets out a gravelly sigh. 

“I want you...” he utters, “...to come walk with me in the gardens. I would like to do so before we must depart.” 

You rise again, “yes, your highness, I will put my shoes on then.” 

He puffs out into the deepening dusk. You can feel his frustration roiling from his figure. You grab the stockings and the shoes and return to the chair. You roll the stocking onto your foot and pull it up your leg, rumpling up one side of the skirt as you do. As you hike up the next, the king faces you, surprising you before you can drop the fabric back down to your toes. You sheepishly bend to put your shoes on, embarrassed. 

“Thank you, little maid,” he approaches and offers his hand, “for keeping a miserable king company.” 

You look at his hand. It’s big and calloused and lined like a map. The invitation seems overly friendly. You accept it, not so bold as to turn him away. 

“Your highness,” You murmur as he squeezes your hand then lets his arm fall straight, tugging you away from the table. 

Silently, he lets his grip brush from your hand and instead hooks his arm through yours. It is an overly familiar gesture but you allow it. What more can a maid do? As you near the door, he stops and untangles from you completely, stepping away as if struck by the oddity of his actions. He reaches for the door handle and inhales. 

He opens the door and steps into the corridor, you follow him, just a pace back. He looks over his shoulder at you then turns ahead. You scurry to keep up with his long strides. He stops at the end of the hallway and you nearly collide with his elbow. 

“I am not miserable because of you,” he angles his head towards you as he keeps his voice low, “if you worried...” he shakes his head at himself, “come, little maid.” 

You do as he says and trail him through the corridors. It is late and while soldiers remain on watch, most of the lords and ladies have tucked away for their evening meals. The king continues his unstoppable advance with you at his heels. Down a flight of stairs and across the great hall. 

Outside, several soldiers bow their heads at his passing and another nears. He dismisses them without a word. You carry on, sensing how his mood darkens with the sky. You’re uncertain of his demeanour, so suddenly shifting from affable to affronted. You didn’t say what he wanted and now he is unhappy. He can be rather like his wife. 

He stalks onward to the archway that marks the green gardens of the capital castle. He passes between the leafy pillars and stops to look this way then that, then opts to walk along the middle row. You flit between the hedges behind him as the sky ripples with the looming night and a cool breeze stirs around your skirts. 

He is silent as he walks, almost as if he’s forgotten you. You wonder if you fall out of step, if you are lost behind him, would he even notice? Finally, he slows before a pond dug into the center of the gardens, amid lilies and daisies and blue bells. The moon shines down and reflects off the tepid pool. 

He treads around the edge of the pond as you stand by the bushes. He circles around to a wooden bench and sits. His shoulders slouch and he leans his head back. The silver light limns his strong features. When he opens his eyes, they glow as they did in your dream. 

“I have come this far, I have conquered as I vowed to, I have vanquished the old king,” he speaks to the sky, “I have done all I sought to and yet I am wanting.” 

You dip your head, sad for him. You might assume a king would be happy for all his gold and power. That a crown would bring delight as much as glory. All you see is a man in mourning. For all he’s won, he’s lost just as much. Loyal men and many months. 

“I have a wife who is petulant, I have an ally who is cowardice, and I have nothing left here to claim,” he continues, “should I remain any longer, I might give it all up.” 

He hangs his head and leans forward, gripping the edge of the bench. He sits in silence as he watches the water. A frog hops onto a large stone protruding from the shallows and steals your attention. You watch it leap again and again until it meets the other side. 

“Little maid...” the sultry purr crawls over you and you glance over to find the king observing you, “sit with me.” 

You shiver and cautiously make your way around the pond. You near him and sit at the end of the bench opposite him. You fixate on the moonlit water. He leans to grab your wrist and hauls you closer. You sidle down until you are almost against him. He slips his hand around yours, covering it in his grasp. He pulls it onto his thigh and rests it there. 

He clings to you just like that. You feel a pluck in your chest for him. He has a wife who should share in his troubles but she is too buried in the anguish she made for herself. Yet, she is not there, and you are; a paltry substitute for what he truly needs. 

Silence pervades the night but for the chirping of insects and the sweet singing of birds. The king’s grasp on you tightens, then lessens, and tightens again. He eases his hold entirely and pets your hand. 

“Will you play another game with me?” His timbre is silty as he looks over at you. 

“A game, your highness?” You babble. 

He hums and nods, “a child’s game,” he explains, “it is simple.” He sits straight and pushes back his hair, “you will run and I will catch you.” 

Your heart lurches. Your lashes flutter. You played the game before, when you were young, with the queen even. But that was years ago and you were smaller and faster. You look at the king. 

“Your highness,” you utter. 

“It’s my command,” he says, “run.” 

[musings-of-miss-j]

no rest for the wicked (nor the foolish)

part seven: in which the obscenely wealthy resident makes himself a permanent fixture to your list of problems, even after you find comfort in the normality of Snezhnaya's city (and its firewater)

a harbingers x gn reader series!! (includes dottore, childe, arlecchino and pantalone x reader. the rest of the harbingers will most likely not be romantic interests)

notes: cuz i set fire to the rain but rain won't fucking catch fire fuck's sake (slowburn), gn neutral sarcastic legend sick of ppl's bs reader, slightly suggestive

series masterlist

author's notes: *throws this chapter at u like its crumbs and ur pigeons on the pavement*

reblog the crumbs my pigeons <3

word count: 5134 words

*  ੈ✩‧₊˚*  ੈ✩‧₊˚*  ੈ✩‧₊˚*  ੈ✩‧₊˚*  ੈ✩‧₊˚**  ੈ✩‧₊˚*  ੈ✩‧₊˚*  ੈ✩‧₊˚*  ੈ✩‧₊˚*  ੈ✩‧₊˚**  ੈ✩‧₊˚*  

Snezhnaya was so cold. Bitingly, piercingly, mercilessly cold. But the city was warmer, more welcoming. Despite the icy wasteland surrounding it, the rows of shops and frosted-over streetlights boasted an almost friendly atmosphere, tinny music trickling through the cracks of some of the doors and stalls advertising ‘the greatest hot chocolate ever sold!’. Childe took hold of your hand under the guise of not wanting to lose you when you passed through a particularly busy street, but neglected to let go even after the crowd dispersed. You let him, and dragged him into a cosy bookstore piled high with well-loved stories. He insisted on carrying every book you chose while you browsed, following you through the shelves with hardcovers piled high in his arms, leading the owner of the shop to shoot the two of you a knowing glance you didn’t particularly like. A clothes shop nestled into a corner also caught your eye, and after a pleasant half hour of perusing the finest selection of furs and suits and dresses you’d ever seen you left with a brand new cloak to replace your lost one, black with silver clasps and a fur trim that would have been expensive enough to haunt you for a week or so, if Childe hadn’t sneakily paid for it the moment you picked it up. He led you to the city’s landmarks; the frozen fountains and an ice rink you refused to step onto, and you even let him drag you into a tavern.

“Eleven, please. I’m far from a good drinking partner.” Your protest sounded weak even to your own ears; you were quite curious to try the infamous Snezhnayan firewater, and the tavern was wonderfully warm.

“Don’t shoot it ‘til you’ve tried it,” he cheerfully replied, pulling you through the door by your joined hands and steering you towards a table near the window. The place was rowdier than you’d expected; a bard sang and danced on a tabletop, strumming a ukulele while the clattering of coins hitting the surface melded with the people’s laughter and clapping hands. You were reminded of the irresponsible, green-clad bard from Mondstadt who’d avoided you at every turn yet shone onstage. Before you knew it, you were laughing and knocking back a drink yourself, leaning back in your seat and letting your voice join the cheers and chatter. Childe marvelled at how much more relaxed you were outside of the palace, the tenseness in your shoulders gone and the sceptical furrow between your brows softened, one arm hooked around the back of your chair while you swirled your drink with the other hand.

“Say, Eleven,” you half-yelled to be heard over the ruckus. “What possessed you to join this Archons-forsaken association?”

“Quickest way to become a better fighter.”

You laughed under your breath, downing the rest of your drink. No more for you tonight, that was certain; pleasantly tipsy was one thing but you were far from keen on being flat-out drunk.

“Is that so?” You quipped back, appraising him thoughtfully. “You know, Eleven, I’ve heard some gut-churning things about you,” you mused, leaning forward to rest your elbows on the table. “That you’re a bloodthirsty maniac. A murderous villain. That your only home is the battlefield.”

His breath caught in his throat. Here you were, tearing out any last semblances of goodness he still thought he had and laying them before him, tattered and bleeding. And you did it all with that small, thoughtful smile. The ambience of the tavern flickered like a faulty speaker, his ears filling with anxious static.

“I think you’re more than half-decent, though.” Alcohol certainly loosened tongues. The cacophony of the bar came rushing back.

You stacked a few coins on the table to pay for your drink, heedless of the relief coursing through his veins like the most potent drug. You knew. He didn’t know how, but you knew about the savagery lurking so near to the surface of the charm that had once come so naturally to him but now took an effort to maintain, and you didn’t hate him for it. More than half-decent. You might as well have called him a prince. He felt giddy, drunk on your praise.

 Breaking out of his trance, he firmly pushed your mora back in your direction and paid for the drinks himself despite your objections. You bickered over the matter the entire trek back to the palace, settling into the easy familiarity of squabbling back and forth with him. He accompanied you to the dining hall, too, claiming he had nothing to do at all even though Pierro was getting impatient at the lack of progress he’d made on tracking the Geo Gnosis; after all, what significance did godhood hold compared to you and the divine splendour of your laughter?

You found Arlie idling just outside. Preposterous, that she’d be reduced to dawdling around in hopes to see you, but there she was nonetheless, with the last plate of your favourite dessert that she’d snagged before a poor recruit could get his hands on it to boot. All damning evidence of her budding affection. Pleasantly surprised to see her, you made to introduce her to Childe.

“Oh, Arlie! I didn’t expect to see you today.”

She and Childe’s gazes met over the top of your head, the latter stupefied at seeing one of the most high-ranking Harbingers being referred to so casually, and by you, upholder of titles, no less, while the former shot him a formidable glare that warned him to hold his tongue lest she rip it out for him. She nodded shortly at your introduction.

“Childe and I are familiar.”

You hummed and pursed your lips. Surely this was ample confirmation that she was a Harbinger.

“Lovely, we’re all friends here then,” you said with just a touch of sardonic humour. “Why don’t we take lunch together?” You suggested, mostly as a way to further observe their dynamic and gather more evidence to support your theory. Arlie handed you the plate without ceremony.

“I’ve already had lunch, but I’d be happy to accompany you.” Even if she found Childe exuberantly foolish.

“I could eat,” Childe seconded, slinging an arm around your shoulders, not missing the way you beamed at her little gift.

Thus you found yourself seated under a gazebo in the palace gardens, pointedly ignoring the strained tension between your two companions while you admired the snow you’d once lamented and contentedly ate the berries from your pavlova. What a funny situation. You weren’t quite sure how you’d ended up befriending two higher-ups from a supposedly dangerous organisation and willingly spending time in their company over a plate of such exquisite dessert, but you supposed life had a way of being funny like that.                                                                                                                     

“Do enlighten me as to how the two of you know each other,” you said, waving your spoon vaguely. They let an ear-splitting silence fall, tense and rigid. You pointedly ignored the on-edge atmosphere, taking another bite of your pavlova.

“Well?” You prompted.

Childe clenched his teeth momentarily. “We were assigned on the same mission this reconnaissance cycle.” Arlie offered a non-committal hum of agreement.

“Interesting. And why is it that you seem on the verge of lunging at each other with the intent of causing as much bodily harm as possible?” You asked in a deceptively innocent tone. Childe wished you weren’t so clever sometimes, while Arlie turned her head away to hide her smile.

“Enough about us,” she interjected, leaning forward slightly to adjust the insignia you had pinned to the shoulder of your new cloak. “Tell me how you liked the city.”

“Snezhnayan firewater certainly lives up to its reputation for being extremely potent,” you replied with a shrug, setting aside your empty plate. “And Lord Eleven has similarly scandalous reputation outside the palace,” you added slyly, just to push his buttons. A bit of payback for not telling the truth about how he knew Arlie.

He choked on air. “What?”

Arlie raised an eyebrow. “What, indeed. Care to explain, Childe?”

“Not really,” he responded airily, tugging at his collar and clearing his throat. One advantage of Arlecchino being disguised like this was that he could somewhat safely dodge her authority under the guise of protecting her alibi.

Childe was saved from describing the reason for his less-than-ideal reputation when a young recruit, barely eighteen from the looks of it, came marching hurriedly towards you. Apparently the Director of the Harbingers himself was requesting Childe’s presence, and he left with more than a little reluctance and a wave goodbye. Arlie watched him rush off and allowed herself a moment’s satisfaction at the timely intervention. You touched her shoulder to catch her attention again, a small leather box in hand.

“I bought you something from the city,” you said, offering it to her. She stared at it in silence for so long you feared you might have offended her, when really her mind was spinning with the implications of you buying her a gift.

You swallowed nervously. She still hadn’t accepted the gift from your outstretched hand, staring blankly at the little box.

“Do you not want it?”

“I do,” she all but snapped, finally taking it. “I was… surprised, is all.”

 A four-leafed brooch lay inside, gleaming black metal inlaid with red gemstones that glittered as they caught the light.

Her silence left you a little nervous, and you found yourself rambling uncharacteristically to fill it. “The merchant was adamant that it’s crafted entirely from the finest silver, but I didn’t test it in the lab yet. But I can confirm that the jewels have a purity of at least seventy five percent, and it’ll fetch a handsome bit of mora if you choose to sell it”-

“Thank you. It’s…” Stunning? Lovely? Beautiful? Arlecchino was truly at a loss for words, and fought not to stare at you. What a warming thought, that you’d spotted a little trinket and your mind had conjured her as a recipient for a gift. How lovely, to think that she occupied your thoughts enough to become a regular visitor. “It’s exceptionally well-made.”

You beamed. “I’m glad to hear that. You seem to prefer black and white clothing, I think the red will serve as a striking contrast.”

“Indeed,” she agreed mechanically, offering you the barest hint of a smile. You could tell her the sun rose in the west and paper was inflammable and she’d probably agree at that moment. A part of her despised how much power that gave you. You took out your pocket watch.

“Ah, perhaps we should go back inside,” you suggested, rising from the bench and brushing away the layer of snow on your shoulders. “According to my observations, the temperature drops quite rapidly at around this time, and I have a few letters to write.”

Arlie quickly excused herself once inside the palace (to ruminate alone over her gift), leaving you to take a pile of your best parchment and a pot of your smoothest, most pigmented ink to the Regrator’s library. It took a moment of fumbling with your stationery to kneel and get the door open, but the sight within was as rewarding as it had been the last time you stumbled upon the place; bathed in the late afternoon’s pale golden light, the fire crackling merrily and glinting off the silver etched into the bookshelves, chairs comfortable and inviting. You gladly dropped into one of them, sighing contentedly as the plush leather enveloped you, and began penning addresses onto envelopes with magnificent blue and purple quill you’d received from your friends as a graduation gift. You still didn’t know where such a large, vibrantly coloured feather could have come from.

Sumeru – Sumeru City – The Akademiya – Scribe Alhaitham

Mondstadt – Mondstadt City – Mona Megistus

Inazuma – Watatsumi Island – Sangonomiya Kokomi

Liyue – Wangsheng Funeral Parlour – Director Hu Tao

Fontaine – Opera Epiclese – Duellist Clorinde

With some reluctance, you also marked an envelope Inazuma, Narukami Shrine for Yae Miko. The contract you’d signed all those years ago to provide her publishing house with what she called ‘light novels’ would never end.

How far-flung your friends seemed, scattered throughout Teyvat with seemingly no rhyme or reason. Maybe you’d take to travelling again once your diploma was finished, a vacation of sorts to see everyone … You filed that thought away for later contemplation.

For a while, the only sounds in the library were the scratching of your quill on parchment, the slight rattling of the stained glass windows as the late afternoon breeze whooshed by and… faint talking? You frowned slightly, glancing up from your writing. Two voices, vaguely familiar and gradually rising in volume; an argument, then. How irritating. You ignored it for as long as you could, until the shouting was clearly decipherable and loud enough to make your quill pause every few sentences to rearrange your thoughts (you and Lisa’s correspondence was mainly in the form of original poetry, and the distraction was making it even more difficult to find a rhyme for ‘Harbinger’.) The noise grew unbearable, and with an aggravated huff you left your things laying on the armchair to ascertain the source and perhaps ask them to quiet down.

Honestly. People’s utter disregard for a library’s rules is intolerable.

After spending  some time weaving through the towering bookshelves and past iced-over windows, angry voices growing louder and louder, you finally located the culprits.

It seemed you wouldn’t be asking anyone to quiet down, considering the argument was between Signora and the Regrator. Just your luck, really. Resigned to sealing the envelopes and finalising the calculations of your lab report back at the dorm, you turned to leave only for them to fall silent.

“(Name?)”

You cursed under your breath and pivoted on your heel to face the mortifying situation you’d found yourself in.

“My lord, my lady,” you managed after a strained moment of trying to collect yourself. “I heard shouting”- Signora and the Regrator shot each other a heated glare- “and thought it might be wise to investigate.” You conveniently left out the part where you’d gotten so riled up that you were quite prepared to admonish whoever it was. They didn’t need to know that.

“Nothing to worry about,” the Regrator assured smoothly, brushing invisible dust off his shoulders. He wore velvet today, supple and sophisticated, while Signora sported a lavish fur collar that she angrily swept back around her neck. You had to admit her elegance indisputably came naturally to her; even with her face twisted into a frown and no one to impress, she still radiated an effortless air of refinement and superiority.

The Regrator was different. Those endless eyes, that deliberate half-smile, his tasteful-bordering on-excessive attire, the guarded disposition… all of it hinted at a man who’d started low and clawed his way to the top. You were willing to bet he still had the blood under his fingernails to prove it, and wondered if it haunted him at all. There wasn’t any hint of remorse in his polished smile or fathomless eyes. An apprehensive shiver ran up your spine, and you averted your gaze.

“If you’ll excuse me”-

“No, no. Sit down, little one, we could use a mediator,” Signora cut in, gesturing towards an empty chair with a tilt of her head, never once breaking the intense glare she pointed at the Regrator. You sighed, thinking of your yet-to-be-delivered letters and the lab report that still needed writing.

“As much as I’d love to act as the referee for your dispute”- the Regrator had to suppress a genuine laugh at your carefully derisive wording, while Signora let an imperceptible, fond smile take over her face- “I’m afraid I have some rather urgent matters to attend to.”

“Surely not so urgent that you’d risk upsetting us?”

How he managed to sound so innocent yet sly was beyond you. The mischievous slant of his lips betrayed the true intention behind his deceptively benign tone; to embarrass its recipient for his own entertainment. Not to mention how breaching etiquette felt akin to throwing yourself to the sharks when it came to him. Something about the Regrator exuded propriety and demanded a similar demeanour to be maintained, unlike the rest of the Harbingers around whom a certain degree of sarcasm could safely be upheld; Childe could even be described as friendly, and despite the Doctor’s terrible reputation and a justifiable ego thanks to his unparalleled intellect your mutual inclination towards scientific progress made him more approachable, while Signora had yet to berate you for any lapse in politeness, instead regarding you with a sharp smile and an air of superiority that made it quite clear to you that she found you funny. Demeaning, really.

Still, your current problem was how to escape the cage of social obligation Regrator had managed to weave.

“I’m afraid so, Lord Regrator,” you confirmed drily, offering him and Signora a shallow bow. “Here’s to hoping your dispute comes to a swift and satisfying end.”

You moved to leave, gladdened by your evidently inoffensive departure. He couldn’t have that, of course; you’d caught his interest and he’d decided to indulge in his curiosity.

“Allow me to join you,” he proposed, falling into step next to you. Signora let out a very audible tsk. You couldn’t help but agree with her.

“I really don’t think that’ll be necessary”-

“Many of the best things in life aren’t,” he responded, guiding you towards the door with a hand on your back. Annoyed by him trying to steer you, you sped up and went to collect the letters; the Regrator, undeterred by how you’d shrugged away his touch, took the stack of envelopes from you. Wary of accepting any help from a Harbinger, you attempted to retrieve them with an array of pleasantries such as ‘there’s really no need, I can carry them myself’ and ‘you’re really too kind’.

To no avail; in the end, he even managed to nick your satchel right off your shoulder and carry it the entire way back to your dorm, much to your embarrassment. You supposed it was only polite to invite him inside, not that you’d expected him to graciously accept your invitation and make himself comfortable in the armchair across the fireplace. You didn’t miss the way his fingers traced the patches of embroidery you’d painstakingly made along the seams, rows of tiny colourful flowers stitched for the purpose of improving your dexterity before a particularly finicky experiment and maybe even to leave a mark of your stay here; the fact he’d noticed them at all indicated an impressive attention to detail that made you wonder what else might stand out to him about your living space. Perhaps he found your accommodations excessively modest. The thought amused you no end; a rich boy out of his depth would never not be funny, after all. He seemed utterly at ease, though, content to watch you shed your new cloak and pick out leaves and cups for tea without any conversation, those dark eyes following your every move.

“You’re staring quite intently, my lord,” you remarked, handing him a cup of tea and wrapping your gloved fingers around your own.

“Beauty should be appreciated, no?”

You laughed under your breath, hoping you weren’t blushing at such a clichéd line. “I suppose I walked into that one,” you conceded, resting your weight against the edge of your desk and wondering how best to broach the topic of why he accepted your invitation to come inside. He smiled and lifted the teacup to his lips, as if aware of your internal dilemma. You cursed every aspect of his polished personality for making you feel like you had to be especially polite.

“Is the tea to your liking?”

“Delectable,” he assured. That vexing half-smile on his face was starting to get on your nerves; it was as though he was contemplating something awfully hilarious about your countenance that you weren’t aware of.

You offered him a nod of acknowledgement, turning to sort through the pages upon pages of calculations you’d made for your next experiment. It pertained to the various elemental crystals that apparently gave Vision holders extra power; a relatively recent discovery you’d made in your last year at the Akademiya and one you were quite proud of. It still needed further testing before you could guarantee the benefits of using them and how to do so, but the theoretical efficiency you’d calculated was very high at a whopping ninety-four point seven per cent. You really were quite proud of this potential breakthrough, and were excited to share it with the Doctor, someone who’d appreciate the complexities of an experiment even before it came to fruition. Maybe you’d gift Childe a gemstone of the Varunada Lazurite variety after the testing stage was concluded, since he was so incessantly obsessed with improving his combat prowess. You doubted Arlie’s illusionary magic would benefit from such a crystal, though. It didn’t quite shock you as much as it should’ve that you were so casually thinking of gifting a Harbinger something, as though you were friends. Perhaps you did consider them friends. Your brows furrowed infinitesimally. How bizarre.

The Regrator interrupted your musings with a slight laugh.

“I must know what’s on your mind to have such a puzzled expression cross your face.”

Embarrassed by his scrutiny, you cleared your throat and neatly stacked your paperwork into the wooden case to avoid looking at those eyes.

“Nothing at all,” you insisted. “Just my research.”

It was becoming a familiar lie.

“Well then, do enlighten me,” he said, peering up at you over his glasses. You paused in the act of rewriting a horribly complex chemical equation with the correct stoichiometric ratios. You couldn’t believeyou’d made such a foolish mistake, and you grimaced at the thought of the ridicule you would’ve no doubt received from the Doctor if you ended up submitting it.

“I doubt it’ll be of much interest to you, my lord.”

“I suspect I may surprise you yet,” he replied, gazing up at you expectantly.

You drummed your fingers against the wooden surface of your desk, deep in thought. From your perspective, common sense dictated that you should not under any circumstances share the details of your research lest someone apply for a patent of the invention before you, and thus take all the credit for the discovery. You suppressed a shudder of revulsion at the thought. No, the Regrator was not to be trusted with the minutiae of your research.

Celestia’s sake, he’s a banker. He’s not to be trusted, period!

You turned to face him, the beginnings of an idea just barely discernible in the quirk of your brows, the smile on your lips that was a little too devious to be written off as merely polite.

“Why not enlighten me with details about your work instead?”

You sly little trickster.

He surveyed you with a half-smile not unlike the one on your own face, impressed by your deflection.

“Hm. Seems we’ve hit an impasse,” he remarked, crossing one leg over the other and leaning back in the armchair, the picture of immovable and infuriatingly self-assured calm. A side effect of being rich, you supposed, watching him get comfortable with mental sigh. You’d hoped he’d be on his way soon; evidently that would not be the case. “We’re both unwilling to part with the secrets of our trade.”

“Yes, quite,” you agreed with a laugh you couldn’t suppress. It was amusing to think that the Regrator, a man who obviously dealt in meticulously worded phrases with a penchant for hiding his true intentions behind walls of elegance, was being forced to get straight to the point with no purposeful stalling whatsoever. Because of you, no less. Oddly enough, he found himself not quite as incensed as he would’ve expected at being the subject of your hilarity. Perhaps that had something to do with how agreeable mirth looked on you, softening the ever-present suspicion even if only for a moment.

What an interesting little thing you were turning out to be.

He watched as your eyes began to wander in the silence that followed, first to your window and the glowing flowers sprouting from the cracks around it, then to the fire in the hearth where it lingered for a little longer, along the walls, tracing the silver lines engraved on them, before finally resting on his hand. He wondered which of his many rings you were so fixated on.

“Perhaps we should both retire for the night, my lord,” you suggested, tearing your gaze away from the diamond ring you were still quite interested in testing. He raised his eyebrows, his smile turning devious.

“What, together? I didn’t think you were so forward, (Name.)”

You almost wished his insinuation was lost on you. It wasn’t, tragically, and you had to contend with the mortifying ordeal of flushing crimson and briefly debating on whether to say the first thing that came to mind, if nothing else to rile him up as much as he did you (‘Well, I wouldn’t oppose to the idea unless you did.’)

Damned banker and his damned dirty mind…

His fingers were still running over your little garden of embroidered flowers, eyes crinkling ever so slightly at the corners from the wideness of his smile. Abandoning any semblance of courtesy, you opened the door and gestured pointedly at him to leave. Your fear of the Harbingers seemed inconsequential compared to the sheer magnitude of the frustration they caused you. You could only maintain a façade of perfect grace for so long, after all.

“With all due respect, my lord”- (how wonderful you sounded without anything to filter your opinion of him in that moment. Even if said opinion was decidedly negative) – “I’d like you to leave. You’re disturbing me. And there’s a cursed redox apparatus I need to wake up at an ungodly hour to check on.” You muttered the last part testily under your breath, dragging a hand down your face and lamenting the fact you hadn’t waited until later to set it up.

“Come, now. Surely you won’t just kick me out like this?” Regrator implored, sounding more relaxed than upset. “The night is young. Let us at least have a proper conversation.”

How you longed to understand why he insisted on pestering you. Surely he had better things to do. Although, you mused to yourself as you openly sized him up, maybe he’ll leave if I talk to him. Just for a while.

“What would you have us speak of?” You asked wryly, folding your legs to perch cross-legged on your desk chair. “It doesn’t seem likely that we’ll find a shared topic of interest.”

“Why ever not?” He returned, raising his eyebrows. “Do you have such a negative impression of me that you think I can’t keep up with you in conversation?”

“Of course not. I never implied that, my lord.”

He laughed at your swift denial. Clearly you were still apprehensive of his status as a Harbinger, not that he blamed you.

“I hear you’ve received an invitation to the annual gala.”

Your face contorted at the reminder, brows drawing inwards and a frown tugging your lips further away from a smile as your jaw tensed.

“Ah, yes. I’d almost forgotten about that. Lady Eight was so kind as to invite me.” Your real meaning was clear despite the unwavering civility of your words: Lady Eight could very well eat her left shoe. Beautiful women can really get away with anything, you mused to yourself.

“Yet you seem less than overjoyed by the situation,” he remarked, sliding one of his rings up and down his finger as he watched you.

With a sigh, you rested your elbows on your knees and your chin in your hands, proper posture be damned to the lowest ring of hell. “It’s just not my scene, I suppose.”

“Uncomfortable with large crowds of people?”

You scowled at the floor in response to his mocking tone. “Displeased by the public’s general idiocy, more like,” you muttered under your breath, hating the Regrator just a little more for coaxing you into revealing your weakness then taunting you for it.

The Regrator was beginning to think that he enjoyed your scorn even more than your artificial flattery. He’d be hard-pressed to think of a more artful way ridicule his opponent in a verbal altercation without being too direct and ruining the element of subtlety he so valued.

“But you’ll still be attending, no?”

“Unless divine intervention occurs for the first time in this century, yes, I will.”

“Good, good,” he all but purred, relaxing even further back in the armchair. You glowered at the floor. Your armchair. That he was sitting in. He effectively snapped you out of your trance of gradually building wrath with his next question.

“Would you do me the honour of a dance, when the gala does roll around?”

It took a moment of unconvinced staring for you to realise that he was, in fact, being serious.

“If you insist, my lord.” You were confident in your ability to sneak off and prevent such a thing from ever happening, in the unlikely scenario that he even remembered. He smiled entirely too cunningly for your liking, as though he knew exactly what you were planning. You shook off the feeling, rising to your feet when he did the same and throwing a mental celebration when he made his way to the door.

“Let’s not make this our last conversation,” were his parting words before he left. You consoled yourself with the fact that speaking to the Regrator was intellectually stimulating if nothing else, what with having to constantly dodge his questions and avoid offending him too much while making sure your own pride didn’t end up bruised. A raven warbled outside your window, and you cracked the window open despite the sigh of frigid air that sneaked its way into the room to feed it.

“Hello there, pretty,” you murmured, scattering an array of seeds and nuts across the windowsill and watching as the raven, one of the flock you’d so tenuously befriended, hopped across the stone and pecked at your offerings. You hadn’t expected them to be so open to human interaction, but the ravens were quite comfortable with waking you at dawn with their incessant squawking and arriving at your window in a flurry of black feathers to demand more food. You liked them, with all their melancholy glory and sharp little eyes and the symbolism of death they were so often associated with. There were worse visitors clad in ebony to have, you decided, an image of the Regrator appearing in your mind’s eye.

*  ੈ✩‧₊˚*  ੈ✩‧₊˚*  ੈ✩‧₊˚*  ੈ✩‧₊˚*  ੈ✩‧₊˚**  ੈ✩‧₊˚*  ੈ✩‧₊˚*  ੈ✩‧₊˚*  ੈ✩‧₊˚*  ੈ✩‧₊˚**  ੈ✩‧₊˚*

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[gallaghersgal]

hi! i'd like to ask prompt 😈  ─  decide who has been the naughtiest and the nicest and give each other rewards & consequences accordingly  ( can be funny/platonic or sexy/nsfɯ, depending on muses’ relationship ) with lip gallagher x maybe innocent northside!reader

thank you <33

who's naughty and nice || lip gallagher

pairing: lip gallagher x fem!northside!reader

warnings: NSFW 18+ ONLY. porn. oh my god so much porn. lingerie. oral (m receiving). first time, p in v, unprotected. lots and lots of good girl. rambling poetically about sex and love. mention of a random ass made up ex.

a/n: what's one step above overboard? whats where i went with this request. enjoy!!

wordcount: 2k

inspecting the lingerie set lip had gifted you in the mirror, you can't deny. you look sexy. it's a red set with fluffy white trim, perfect for christmas. your parents were out of town for their anniversary. the two of you have the house to yourselves.

"what do you think?" you ask, turning from your shoulders so your ass remains on display to your boyfriend where he sits on your bed. he's got a shit-eating grin on his face, reaching his arms out and beckoning you over. "hold on!" you remark with a giggle, "i've got to put on the finishing touch."

you fish a matte red lipstick out of your makeup organizer, forming your lips into a perfect o. you apply the lipstick, looking him in the eyes as you place the cap back on and toss it onto your desk.

"pretty baby," lip drawls. "fuck- c'mon stop fuckin' teasin' me. jesus!"

he's wearing a christmas sweater you'd bought for him paired with a pair of boxers, jeans long since discarded. you can see the obvious tent, and you grin.

you sit down on the edge of the bed, leaning in to kiss him on the lips. "you've been so good to me this year," you murmur against him.

"yeah? 'm i on the nice list baby?" his pretty eyes stare into yours, twinkling in the light of your desk lamp. "y'gonna give me a present?"

you giggle, nodding and kissing his cheek before crawling over to straddle him. his hands fall so easily to your hips and you revel in the warmth of his skin against yours. time like this with lip is precious. the quieter times, just the two of you. you cherish them.

"my pretty baby," he whispers. it's reverent. he never thought he had a chance with you. "my girl. my smart girl, my kind girl, my sexy baby. all wrapped up like a perfect fuckin' present. and all f'me, too."

a whimper passes through your lips as he bites at your neck, soothing the skin with his tongue. he grinds his hips up into you, holding you down against him. "whatcha wanna do tonight? anythin' you want, no pressure or anything. 's just me, yeah?"

"i know," you coo, running your fingers over the heated skin under the hem of his sweater. "i..." you trail off, biting your lip and feeling your skin flush. god, why was this so hard? it's just lip, you tell yourself.

one strong hand lands under your chin, tilting it up. his voice is soft when he speaks. "hey, kid, look at me, yeah?" he's good to you. god, he's so good to you. you look him in the eyes, face burning. "hi baby," he whispers.

"hi lip."

"there we are, lemme see that pretty smile." he kisses your forehead, each of your cheeks, your nose, and then your lips. "listen, you don' gotta be scared, or embarassed, or anythin' you're feelin' right now. i can see the gears turning in that pretty li'l noggin of yours." he taps the side of your head and you giggle.

"lip... i wanna," you suck in a soft breath, tummy flipping as his thumb rubs your cheek. "i wanna suck you off."

lip swears under his breath, pupils dilating ever so slightly as he bites his lip. you can tell he's eager. "shit- baby girl," he grins, pressing a kiss to your lips. "'m not gonna say no t' that. are you sure? i know y'never-"

"i want to."

you're firm, ready to try something new for your boyfriend. he gives so much, pleasuring you with an intensity you've never experienced at your own hand. you want to offer the same to him.

a grin spreads across his face as eager hands strip off the christmas sweater. your fingers trace over the newly exposed skin, trailing down until they brush the waistband of his boxers. you slink down, keeping eye contact until you're level with his hips.

lip watches in wonder as you trace delicate, curious fingers over the outline of his cock. he's hard, and so so warm under your hand. his own hand comes to hold your cheek, gentle and reassuring. it's so easy to love him, you think.

you press one chaste kiss to the head before your fingers pull his boxers down. "tell me if i'm... tell me if 's not good, okay?

lip chuckles, "sweetheart, if lizzy fuckin' walker can do it you can, m'kay? y'gonna do great." your lips form a stubborn pout, eyes narrowing as you look up at him. "shit- yeah, no ex talk. 'm sorry baby."

he pats your cheek sweetly, "you're gonna be fuckin' perfect. i promise." his smile is genuine, cheeks rosy, chest rising and falling with soft breaths, and you wonder why you had ever been scared.

you sink down again, salty taste meeting your lips as you take just the tip into your mouth. he's thick, barely enough to fit into your hand, but you're determined. you take the base in your hand, pumping in soft strokes the same way you've seen him touch himself. a grunt falls from his lips as you take him deeper, swirling your tongue around the head.

"easy baby, teeth," he murmurs. "tha's it. good girl."

you pull off of him, stroking him a few more times before licking him from base to tip. you squeeze your thighs against each other as you press wet, open-mouthed kisses along his length. "lip, y've been so fuckin' good to me," you tell him, sending vibrations through him and tingles up his spine. "wanna treat you the way you treat me."

lip groans as you lick over the tip, taking him a little deeper than before. the feeling is addictive, you can feel his heartbeat throbbing through the vein that runs along the underside of his dick. "shi- shit, pretty baby," he whines. he fucking whines. it's exhilarating.

you pump him quicker with your hand, swirling your tongue all around what you can fit in your mouth. his hands are gripping your hair, gentle tugs here and there as he starts to lose himself in the pleasure.

you're soaked, the lace of the pretty panties he had gifted you becoming tacky with the feeling of your arousal. lip coos down at you, "pretty baby, so good to me. y'feelin' good? huh?"

you draw off his cock again, keeping your lips seductively parted as you peer up at him. you nod slowly and wipe your mouth with the back of your hand. lip's hands move from your hair to your waist, yanking you to him.

"my pretty fuckin' present. lets get this off'a ya," he murmurs against your lips, slipping his tongue into your mouth as he unclasps your bra. in an instant his hands are on your tits, caressing the soft skin. "all soft 'n willin' 'n pretty f'me, yeah? my good girl."

"lip," you murmur, your speech slurring against his mouth. "i wan' you t'fuck me."

"baby-" he gasps, fingers playing with the little ties at your hip. "wanted this so bad, didn' wanna ask-"

"shhh, please. jus-" you break off into a moan when lip sucks your nipple into his mouth. "ah! jus' fuck me, please i want it."

in one smooth motion you're flipped on your back, whining at the force of it. his hands pull at the strings holding your red panties up until the fabric hangs loose. you could never get tired of this. he's so pretty, so sweet, his blue eyes keeping yours in a steady gaze as he pulls your waistband down slow, slow, slow.

warm breath fans out over now bare skin, goosebumps erupting over your whole body. "so fuckin' perfect. lemme kiss ya, sweet girl."

you whine when his lips make contact with your clit, placing one chaste kiss there before paving a trail up your body. a string of hickeys and bite marks is left in his wake until he arrives at his destination.

then, he kisses you like he needs it to breathe.

which, truthfully, he kind of does. you're his resolve. his shelter.

"'m gonna be real good t'ya," he whispers, like a promise. "you want me t'stop, or do anythin' different, y'just tell me, okay?"

you smile at him, leaning up to kiss him once, twice, until you can't breathe. then you tell him, "i trust you."

"good, tha's how we want it." his hands are gentle along your body, fingers dipping into your core. his thumb ribs your clit for a moment, just to hear you whine, before one finger slips so easily inside you. "fuck, baby, y've never been this fuckin' wet. think you can take another?"

you nod, moaning as a second finger fills you so deliciously. it's so good. he's so good. you buck up against him, craving it harder, deeper. "please, lip, need you."

"shhh, i know. my good girl." lip lines himself up with your entrance, pushing in slowly.

your head tilts back with a sweet whine as he fills you. lip's feeling it too, a soft groan falling from his mouth as his eyes screwed shut in pleasure. your skin together is so warm, the feeling so intimate. you could never feel anything but this when you were with him. warm, safe, adored.

his hips have stilled, cock deep inside you and throbbing with the feel of it. "c'mon lip, please?" you ask, voice soft and quiet. with a whisper of a kiss against your chin he starts to move, and god, it feels like heaven. you watch with curious, lidded eyes as his hips move against you. the way his abs flex, the way his chest heaves with every stroke, it's all too much.

the feeling builds, and lip smothers your cheek with kisses. "so good, fuckin' tight as shit. squeezin' the life outta me, jesus."

you whimper his name, grabbing onto his arms and relaxing your body. "wan' it harder- come on handsome," you beg.

his teeth bury into your shoulder as his hips speed up. "tha's my girl, takin' it so well. how y'feelin? good, huh?"

"g-good. so good."you can barely speak, whines and babbles spilling from your parted lips while the white hot coil in your stomach twists just that little bit tighter. "'m close, fuck! i'm sorry i-"

his lips silence your words as he fucks you harder. "don' say any of that, y'doin' so good."

you begin to lose any semblance of focus, eyes darting about the ceiling tiles as the wave of your pleasure begins to crest. the sounds of the city, the quiet hum of the fan, the music playing from your ipod in the corner, all of it fades. all that's left is the obscene sounds of skin on skin.

one rough palm meets the underside of your knee and he murmurs against your skin, "this 's gonna make it feel better." he hooks your leg around his hips, pushing in deeper and drawing a lewd moan from you. "that's it. you gonna cum f'me?"

"y-yes! fuck, yes, lip-" your thighs begin to shake as your orgasm builds, teetering just on the brink of being washed over with pleasure.

the moment the rough pad of his thumb brushes your clit, the tension snaps. you throw your head back with a chorus of curses and moans of his name. your vision goes white and your body goes limp, letting go and choosing to feel. feel the way his hips begin to stutter, the way his hand eases your clit through it, the way his mouth buries itself in the place where your shoulder meets your neck and whispers a sweet string of praises.

"w-where," lip asks, "fuck- baby, where?"

"inside," you whimper. "don' care- please," it sounds restless coming from your lips.

he cums inside of you with one final stroke, body going limp on top of yours, and then it's all sweat sticky skin and soft kisses and whispers of your affection. he praises you like never before, whispering how good you've done and how pretty you are. his pretty girl.

when you've both come down from the high, after you've showered, indulged in your full nighttime routine, and made lip do the same, you lay limp and sated in his strong arms. one hand finds it's place on your ass, the other circling gently around your shoulders to hold you close to his body.

"merry christmas, pretty girl," he murmurs.

"merry christmas lip."

end.

my masterlist. my winter sleepover.

[meli-writes]

Mechismo - No. 04 /// Hit List

(First) / (Previous)

The broken war-machine falls to its knees, embroidered with a hot-white trim in the three perfect holes of its precious, now-former, systems; spilled out, as black smoke, except for its heart.

That falls out after.

“Hey. Princess,” you say to her, brass hard-but-hollow, the used shells her imperial-blonde hair rushes into, as she breathes into the dirt pushed underneath painted nails, as boots tread on them before she can reach for her pistol.

“You,” she snarls, twisting on bent limbs. “Fucking asshole I’ll— Hey!”

You hoist her up at an elbow, till her few, furious trembles collapse into a copacetic dangle and watch a local, mouse-analogous species squeeze itself under some muddy shrapnel.

“Princess”, you mutter, “you wanna live. So you’re gonna yield to me, okay?” And that’s rhetorical, because ‘deathwish’ isn’t in her—

“Not a chance in His hells,” she shrieks, kneeing herself free, and reaches — not for her holster, which is still full — but for your face. Crack! You catch it after, bring it behind her back to lock in re-used, disposable cuffs. “I can… I can take care of myself,” she protests.

“I know. That’s the problem — I won’t let you hurt my people.” You yank her back, till she trips and is left leaning on you, “Now yield.”

“No,” she squeals, “why would I ever trust you again?”

You trusted me?

Fuck, Princess. You’re dense as tungsten-tips.

You baulk at her, unseen from behind, and reswallow the budding softness before she feels it, “Cos these guys will bleed you out for fun. And I’ll let them, if I have to.”

There’s a wet shuffle-over-fallen-log, the familiar pitter-patter of light, temperate rain on plastic poncho. Another hunter who’ll see her in a moment. So you rock her around, without mind to the furious look painted like camo on her face, and take her at the small of her back — and pull her into a kiss.

“Fuck— it really is,” the hunter starts to mutter, before the words catch in his throat.

You know him; too new not to take it by-the-book, not too dumb not to listen to you when it counts. “Sir, what’s happening?” he asks.

You have to make this count.

“What? She’s a pretty thing, ain’t she?” you muse, as if you’ve pinned her to the wall for nabbing extra rations, and not—

He’s got his rifle over his shoulder; tall-as-him, rounds as big as her cock; is too drilled to not be gentle with it. He’d seize up if you drew on him, and it’d take him too long to respond in kind. “I had a thing with her back in the royal college.”

“Uh huh — before you betrayed me,” she cuts in, and you will her to shut-up and wonder if she still loves fingers squib-loaded down her throat.

“Before they realised I was a saboteur, Princess,” you remind her, though her eyes look the same as the first time she realised it. “We were never on the same side.”

“Never on mine,” she hisses, her own heart fallen out too. “Trying to fake your own death and blaming it on me…”

You would fill into the silence, And it would’ve kept you away, and, Still you found me, if you weren’t aware of the audience, so stuff yourself with unload pride, “Offered to take you with me, didn’t I?”

She looks like she’s gonna cook-off, “You don’t know what I was—”

“Sir,” he reminds, and you look at him; realise he is gentle, because his rifle is kick-stood on the ground and you didn’t hear that. His hand rests on his holster, “She’s on the hit list.”

Pilots to be put down. Machines to scorch, so no one else can use them.

Pilots like assassins, in their bonded semi-mechs; merchant third-sons with an insecurity to smother in bodies and merc hires; and ex-noble fuck-ups with nothing left but what they can prove.

Pilots like her, who’ve seen the gun and are nuzzling into your shoulder so deep you can hear the little killer’s loose heart pressed between your chest and hers.

“Look— Fuck— I— I yield,” she whimpers.

You run a hand up her back, to rake through her hair and tip her back.

“Then scrap the mech,” you say past her, looking in her eyes and slipping to her that same fear, before swelling viciously upon her desperate sweetness, “I’m not done with this one.”

---

(Masterpost) / (Next)

[praetorqueenreyna]

Tamlin is shocked (and a little scared) when his ex-girlfriend's sister stops by his flower shop. Featuring Florist!Tamlin and Tattoo Artist! Nesta.

For Tamlin Week Day 3: Flower Languages. Click here to read on AO3, or continue reading below!

@tamlinweek

“I have a question for you.”

Tamlin jumped and dropped his shears with an aggressive clank. He was trimming the ends of yesterday’s flowers, his headphones blaring Hozier as he focused on his task. He hadn’t even heard somebody enter his flower shop.

It took a second for him to place where he had seen the modestly-dressed woman before. It was Nesta, one of the three sisters that ran Archeron Tattoos next door. Immediately, Tamlin was on guard. A year prior he had had a disastrous relationship with another sister, Feyre, which had ended so badly he wouldn’t have been surprised if she had set his shop on fire. For months after, he had avoided even glancing at the door to the tattoo parlor. Things had settled down and Feyre even had a girlfriend now, but that didn’t stop her from giving him the stink eye whenever they crossed paths. He had been so busy deliberately not looking over there that he barely knew anything about the other two sisters.

“Um, yes?” he stuttered, aware that he had been staring blankly at her for way too long.

Nesta raised an eyebrow. She didn’t seem like she was here to murder him, but also didn’t seem like she was thrilled to be there. “I need reference photos for a piece I’m doing this weekend and can’t find any online. If you have the flowers here, I’d like to take some pictures.”

Tamlin could have pointed out that she didn’t actually ask him a question, but to be honest, Nesta was intimidating. She was almost as tall as he was and, though he outweighed her slim frame, she seemed like the kind of person capable of getting what she wanted. Besides, the request wasn’t unreasonable and there was nobody else in the shop right now.

“Sure. What flowers do you need?”

Nesta pulled out her phone and thumbed through it until she found the list. “Yellow hyacinth, foxglove, cowslip, marigold…” She rattled off about a dozen of the weirdest flower requests Tamlin had ever heard. He was used to people requesting orchids and roses, not wolfsbane. There was an awkward pause when she finished talking and was waiting for him to respond.

Tamlin cleared his throat. “I’m sure I have some of those. I’ll be honest, it’s a rather…unusual set of flowers.

“I’m aware. You know about florigraphy, correct?”

“Yeah. Flower languages.” As a florist, Tamlin had come to know the most common flowers used to convey meaning. Red roses for true love, white tulips for remembrance, etc.

“Exactly. My client just got out of a shitty relationship, and she wants a huge floral sleeve celebrating that. And instead of using flowers that represent love and peace and all that crap, she wants flowers that say ‘fuck you.’ Turning those negative experiences into something positive.”

Tamlin had never thought to use flowers to convey anger or spite, but he could see the appeal. He was certainly well versed in bad break ups. He led Nesta around the shop, pulling out the flowers from her list that he did have in stock. To his surprise, she asked for his opinion. They talked through each flower, Nesta taking pictures of them from every angle while Tamlin Googled its meaning. Nesta was extremely meticulous. She lined up the flowers next to each other, studying their color and shape against each other to make sure they’d make an aesthetically pleasing art piece. Many of the flowers with negative connotations were yellow, which she said didn’t tattoo as well. They finally settled on black dahlia (betrayal), narcissus (selfishness), and columbine (folly).

“I think I’ll frame them like this,” Nesta mused, placing the individual flowers on the table in an artful array. “With the praying mantis in the middle.”

“Why a praying mantis?”

“You know, that whole thing where the females rip off the males’ heads after they mate.” Nesta gave a devilish grin. “Very empowering.”

“That’s not true.”

The easy-going atmosphere that had developed between them collapsed. Nesta scowled. “What?”

Tamlin, who by now was wishing he had ever learned when to shut the fuck up, stammered, “It’s a myth, that praying mantises do that. A very common one, lots of people believe it!”

Apparently, his nervous explanation was pathetic enough to convince Nesta that he wasn’t trying to talk down to her. She tilted her head, appraising him with cool gray eyes, wordlessly waiting for him to continue.

“Well, um, the study where the females eat the males was done in a lab, and they were starving and stressed out. Afterwards, they were observed mating in the wild, and it doesn’t really happen.”

“So you’re telling me a bunch of people had to go out and watch bugs have sex?” Nesta asked in a deadpan voice.

“I guess? I don’t actually know all the details. It can’t be as weird as I’m making it sound, but—”

“Relax, I’m kidding,” Nesta grinned at his obvious discomfort. Tamlin noticed she had a dimple in her left cheek.

“Oh.” Although she didn’t seem like she was going to bite his head off anymore, Tamlin scrambled to find something to recover the conversation that he had derailed. “You could do a spider. For a lot of them, the females are way bigger and more powerful than the males. And the males have to bring them presents to avoid getting eaten.”

“Mhmm, I like that. Thanks.” Nesta paused in the doorway. “You know, you’re not as much of an asshole as I had thought.”

“Thank you?” There was barely enough time to comprehend what she had said, then she was gone.

Tamlin spent the rest of the day thinking about her. And Feyre. He had assumed that Feyre had told her sisters plenty of stories about how terrible he had been. Some of them would even have been true. He had spent the past year trying to forget one Archeron, only to fall headfirst into another. It was so stupid. They had talked for twenty minutes about flowers and she had smiled at him. Still, every time he entered or left his flower shop, he couldn’t help but glance in the doorway of the tattoo parlor, hoping for a glimpse of Nesta.

***********************************

That weekend, he was closing up the shop when he heard a knock on the door. He had already locked it and was busy sweeping, and he approached the door ready to politely tell the overeager flower buyer to fuck off. His irritation transformed into elation when he caught sight of Nesta through the glass. He hurried to unlock the door and usher the tattoo artist inside, along with the petite red-headed woman that accompanied her.

“Hey, hope you don’t mind us barging in,” Nesta said. Before Tamlin could say that she could barge wherever and whenever she wanted, she nodded towards the other woman. “This is Gwyn. I just finished up her sleeve. I told her how you helped me, and she wanted to come by and thank you in person. And show you the final piece.”

Gwyn was wearing a tank top, and one of her arms was a riot of color. Tamlin couldn’t see the details of the new tattoo under the saran wrap that currently covered it.

“Oh. Of course, you didn’t have to do that. I’m happy to help,” Tamlin replied, flustered. Gwyn was staring at him with big blue eyes. They were a little puffy, as if she had been crying, which Tamlin assumed was the result of getting a tattoo for hours upon hours. She was grinning though, clearly pleased with the completed work.

“Well, thank you still. I really appreciate it. Especially the bug info. I would have been so embarrassed to find out the mantis stuff after I had already gotten the tattoo.” She stepped forward and held out her arm. “Do you want to see it?”

“Sure, I’d love to.” Gwyn pinched the edge of the saran wrap between her fingers and peeled it off. The surface of the tattoo glistened with ointment, but it was still breathtaking. The flowers that he had Nesta had picked out absolutely glowed, bright bursts of red and purple and yellow and green against Gwyn’s pale skin. In the middle of the flowers was a black widow spider, glossy black with the distinctive red hourglass on her abdomen. It was an absolutely stunning piece of artwork.

“Wow,” Tamlin breathed. “It’s incredible.” He lightly touched Gwyn’s wrist to tilt her arm so he could see more of the tattoo, then realized what he had done. “Oh shit!” He jerked his hand away. “I’m so sorry, I shouldn’t have touched you without asking.”

Rather than being annoyed, Gwyn was blushing furiously. “It’s okay, you can touch.” Nesta snorted, and Gwyn shot her a look that Tamlin couldn’t interpret. “Just not on the ink. It still hurts.”

“I bet.” With his fingertips, he rotated Gwyn’s arm back and forth, taking in every little detail. “Amazing. Just amazing.” He let her arm go. “That guy doesn’t know what he’s missing.”

“Yeah, fuck him.” Nesta slung one arm around Gwyn’s shoulders, careful to avoid the new tattoo. “You should totally have gotten to kill and eat him.”

Gwyn giggled. “No argument here. I should get going, my roommate is probably out front waiting to pick me up. She waved bashfully at Tamlin. “Bye, it was nice to meet you. And thank you again for all the help.” With that, she slipped out the door. Nesta watched her leave with an amused smirk. It felt like there was an inside joke that Tamlin was missing out on.

“What are you laughing about?” he asked, feeling bold.

“Nothing. Just that you’re challenging Gwyn’s new resolution to swear off men forever.”

“What? Me?”

“Yes, you. Being all cute and respectful like a Victorian gentleman.”

Now Tamlin was the one blushing, his ears were practically on fire. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“And the little wrist touch. I’m surprised she didn’t swoon directly into your arms.” Nesta grabbed Tamlin’s hand in a mock imitation of his own interaction with Gwyn. She was rougher than he had been, jerking him forward into her. She had missed his wrist and instead had her hand wrapped around his palm, a mistake he was grateful for, since hopefully she couldn’t feel his blood pounding.

“I didn’t…I wasn’t…” Tamlin’s head was a buzz of static. He couldn’t even breathe with Nesta right there. She was so pretty and so terrifying, which apparently was exactly what he found attractive.

“Relax, I’m messing with you.” She released him and stepped back. “Seriously, you’re a good guy. Stop by next door any time. I promise I’ll tell Feyre not to bite your head off.” With a cheeky wink she left, the bell on the door tinkling faintly behind her.

***********************************

He could do this. He was not going to chicken out, like the last three times he had tried. The cowardly part of his brain was screaming at him to turn back even as he locked the flower shop behind him, but he ignored it. For the first time since his breakup with Feyre, he entered Archeron Tattoos.

All three sisters were there. Feyre, thankfully, was working. She was bent over someone’s ankle, carefully sketching lines with her tattoo gun. There was a brief flash of regret, but nothing more. They were never meant to be, and they were both happier now. Feyre looked up when the door opened and did a double take. She took a few seconds to properly glare at him, then returned her attention back to her client. Tamlin exhaled in relief; a part of him had fully expected her to attack or yell at him.

Elain was behind the counter. She had revved up a formulaic greeting before she realized who he was, and cut herself off mid-sentence. Tamlin gave her a distracted wave, not wanting to get sidetracked. Nesta was in the shop, organizing bottles of colored ink. He cleared his throat to get her attention.

“Hey.”

She looked up, and smiled. “Hey.”

Tamlin looked around, painfully aware that Feyre and Elain could hear everything they said. “Can we go somewhere to talk?”

“Sure.” Nesta led him to the back of the tattoo shop, where they at least had a little more privacy. She turned to him and folded her arms. “What’s up?”

Tamlin had rehearsed the next part a million times. And instead of saying any of that, he pulled a flower out of his pocket and offered it to Nesta. “I brought this for you.”

“Oh. Thank you.” Nesta carefully took the flower, which now had a crumpled stem and smashed leaves.

“It’s a pansy,” he explained. His mouth was inexplicably dry and his voice sounded weird in his ears. When they had been doing their florigraphy research together, they had run across the pansy on multiple sites with multiple meanings. One meaning had stuck out to him, and he hoped that Nesta had remembered it as well.

“You occupy my thoughts,” she murmured. She smiled that dimple smile that left Tamlin weak in the knees. “You’re cute.”

“Oh good, you remembered,” was all that came out of his mouth.

“I did.” She laughed and tucked the pansy behind her ear. “Tamlin, would you like to go out with me sometime?”

“Yes. Yes. Definitely.”

“Good. I’ll pick you up at six.” She lifted herself up on her tiptoes and kissed him on the lips, then darted past him. Tamlin stood there, stunned, waiting to wake up.

On his way out the door, he stopped. “Bye, Feyre,” he said loudly.

“If you hurt her, I’ll kill you. Asshole,” she said in reply.

It wasn’t great. But it was a start.

[sercphs]

FYI, I will be trimming my muse-list down tomorrow for primary and secondary muses. I'll be reducing the primary list, which will have full listings on my Carrd to: Cradle, Fischl, Daemon, and Seth. The others will be falling to Secondary/Request only - Arlecchino, Ryoshu, and Kevin will specifically be secondary, everyone else will be Request Only.

[the-devils-toybox]

Blog Update + New Carrd!

Okay, so I've spend the past few days learning how to use Carrd, and I found a template that seemed pretty fun to use. I've been using it to move over my muse list, and in the process I've moved some of my test muses over as main muses at the request of some of my roleplay partners... as well as for myself in some instances.

I'll be switching the blog over to a Dash Only blog, with my rules and muse page both on the Carrd, which you can find below. Do note that if things seem unfinished, that's because it kind of is, but I have enough there that I feel confident enough to launch it.

「 Link to the new Carrd」

Changes are below the cut!

New changes to the Main Muse list include:

+ Ash Williams - Evil Dead/Army of Darkness + Bowser - Super Mario Bros. + Dark Pit - Kid Icarus: Uprising + Edward Elric - Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood + Fierce Deity - The Legend of Zelda: Majora's Mask + Ganondorf Dragmire - The Legend of Zelda: Ocarina of Time + Mewtwo - Pokémon + Samuel Ortez/Locus - Red VS Blue + Sigmund - Final Fantasy - Black Mage OC + Yoshitaka Mine - Yakuza/Like a Dragon

And I did take a few off from the current main muse list to help trim things down, but they are still available, either as side muses or on other blogs:

- Auron - Final Fantasy X - Cyrus - Pokemon * E-102 Gamma (Future AU) - Sonic the Hedgehog * Gemerl (Future AU) - Sonic the Hedgehog * Miles "Tails" Prower (Future AU) - Sonic the Hedgehog - Scott Pilgrim - Scott Pilgrim VS the World

[championsofthegate]

//I would probably trim down my muse list a little bit (I mean I would have 29 if I put them all together which isn't terrible but I'd like to trim them down regardless lmao)

[higekki]

If everyone could take a sec to fill this out to help me figure out where to trim down my muse list i would appreciate it! It is completely anonymous, so please be as honest about your interest as possible!!

[protectxthem]

//I trimmed my muse list down greatly.

[sheldoney]

NOTE* this is not a canon portrayal. sheldon is basically my little string bean boy theoretical physicist oc with some bbt elements and a dash of young sheldon buuuuuuut I basically created him from scratch. I do not follow BBT or Young Sheldon religiously. I cherry pick. SELECTIVELY. If you are looking for a religious canon coded portrayal this is not the blog for you. He is one hundred percent my own creation and I love him dearly. However, I do hope you wish to follow and write with him. I offer many verses to pick from and if you don't like anything listed we can work something out and make up our own verse!

WHERE IS PENNY?? @dcntlook @homicidalqueeen @whyscserious THE ROOMMATE AGREEMENT | MEMES | PROMO | HEADCANONS | VERSES | RELATIONS | OPEN STARTERS ↓ ↓ ↓

affiliates: @qu-tipie, @clairelilcorner, @therelentless, @godclaws, @acceptedrisk, @hollowvictory, @clockchimes, @merveiilles

1. I don’t have many rules just one big one. Do not lie to me about your age. If you are underage. I’ll block you. Final word. Wanna know mine? Just ask. I am 21+ I only write with those over 21+. Discord is mobile and only available for close friends and mutuals only. I DO NOT ROLEPLAY OVER DISCORD. I AM DASH ONLY. If I do hand out my discord I am always invisible or away. Don’t take offense. Leave me a message and I will get to you as soon as I see it! I rely heavily on Tumblr IMs for other communication purposes.

2.I AM NOT A THEORETICAL PHYSICIST. I BS MY WAY AND JUST GO BY THE CANON OF THE BIG BANG THEORY. (kinda sorta not really though I am trying to redeem Sheldon as he was treated terribly and portrayed horribly on the show. He said some things I do not condone or agree with according to TBBT LORE.This is not Jim Parsons’ fault.) BTW GOOGLE IS MY BEST FRIEND. BTW This is a Jim Parsons appreciation blog also.

3. I DO SHIP SHENNY/ I SHIP SHAMY. (SELECTIVELY.) IF YOU HAVE A PROBLEM WITH SHENNY AS MOST DO IN THE BIG BANG FANDOM DO NOT FOLLOW THIS BLOG. I ALSO HAVE CRACKSHIPS ON THIS BLOG. IF YOU DO NOT AGREE WITH THEM DO NOT FOLLOW THIS BLOG.I also ship Sheldon and Chemistry amongst Muses. Sheldon Cooper is “canonically” asexual and not interested in coitus. But I do write him differently because I don't follow strict canon. I will not be writing smut on here or any s.exual content. I have a separate blog for “spicy” interactions. I will only be giving out the blog to Sheldon’s ships. It is NS.FW. Sheldon is not a cheater or your one night stand. Do not assume so. If you would like to pursue a relationship with Sheldon please talk to me about it beforehand.

4.DO NOT TOUCH SHELDON COOPER AT ALL UNLESS YOU KNOW HIM FIRST AND HAVE KNOWN HIM FOR A WHILE ( PENNY CAN TOUCH HIM ) /ANYONE INVOLVED IN A RELATIONSHIP OR PREESTABLISHED RELATIONSHIPS CAN TOUCH HIM.

5. DO NOT BULLY SHELDON. ROAST HIM. THERE IS A DIFFERENCE. HE HAS BEEN BULLIED ALL OF HIS LIFE AND I WILL SHUT THAT DOWN SO FAST YOU WON’T EVEN BLINK. I WON’T TOLERATE IT AND NEITHER WILL HE.

6.I USE XKIT REWRITTEN. I trim my posts, you don’t have but I will trim yours. It is just a simple click for me. I do not roleplay in the ask box. If you have intentions of continuing a thread please @ me in something. Thank you. I don’t appreciate if you only leave your own reply in our thread because when I do drafts I need to reread what my character replied to yours to keep the plot consistent and coherent.

7. I am very picky about who I write with. If I like your writing I will follow you. I don’t expect a follow back but do know I am interested in plotting something with you in the future. I am not a follow for follow. I am here for interactions, simply.

8. I have no problem writing in other fandoms. Especially horror/thriller/supernatural/etc...I adore crossovers.

9.I am not always available.Please be patient with me for replies. I do have a life outside of Tumblr. I keep weird hours. If it says I am online, chances are I am not. I am probably by the computer but doing something else.

10. I promise I am friendly. I just like to curate my space. Do not try to involve me in gossip or any of that malarkey, please and thanks.

11. I AM LGBTQ+ MOST OF MY FRIENDS ARE LGBTQ+ MY FACECLAIM IS LGBTQ Homophobia, Transphobia, ETC ETC ETC will not be tolerated and you will be blocked if I see it.

12.ICONS & GRAPHICS & HEADCANONS. My icons are made by @butscrewmefirst . Some icons I have gathered from insanejournal and fanpop and altered them slightly. Please use icons or gif icons/small gifs in your replies. My computer takes forever to load large images. All headcanons are my own. Please do not lift anything from this blog. Thank you.

13.EXCLUSIVE & MAINS.As of right now I have certain exclusive canon characters that I will only write with on this blog. I will not write with any other portrayals of Harley Quinn using Samara Weaving  as their faceclaim or other Heath Ledger’s Jokers. I will also not write with other Sheldon Coopers. I am sure you are all tremendous but I prefer not to interact with any other duplicates. If you would like to be a main or an exclusive in Sheldon’s universe please come and speak to me about it.

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Helping Hand 10

Warnings: non/dubcon, mentions of divorce, manipulation, and other dark elements. My username actually says you never asked for any of this.

Characters: Jonathan Pine, 40s reader

My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.

As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging.

You toss and turn, as much as you can with your injured shoulder. You fall asleep caught up in your exchange with Jonathan, replaying it until it distorts to dreamy nonsense. Just the sight of his face skewed in your subconscious.

When you wake, it is less than peaceful. You almost scream at agony tearing through your muscles. You must’ve rolled the wrong way. You manage to push yourself onto your back and grunt, wheezing out the pain as your eyes prick with tears.

You shake as you push yourself up, cradling your arm as you fix your sling to support it. It is unlike anything you've felt before. As if a rusty blade is sawing through your muscle.

You look down at your shirt, the borrow cotton tugging at your nerves. You still don't remember what happened to your uniform. Your assumption unsettles you too much to acknowledge. Would he really do that?

You stand slowly, moving at a snail's pace as you take in the unfamiliar place. You can't help but admire it. He keeps a fine house, the type you never could, the kind Andy nagged you for all those years.

You wander into the kitchen, as pristine and stylish as the rest of the house. It's like stepping into a lifestyle magazine. You stop short of the end of the counter and muse at propriety. It doesn't feel right to disturb the perfection, or as a guest to help yourself.

You turn back as a yawn greets you, wafting down the hall. Jonathan enters in only a towel, his blond hair speckled with beads of water as his skin glistens. He drops his arms and fixes the knot at his waist, clearing his throat as he gives a grin.

"Morning," he purrs, "I thought you'd still be asleep."

"Uh, no," you try to cross your arms out of habit and cry out.

"Oh, dear, do not tax yourself," he rushes closer as you shy away. Anyone with a body like his would be so unbothered in his half-naked state, "please, coffee? Tea? Whatever you've come in search of, I can take care of it."

You sigh and run your fingers along the seam of the sling. You chew your lip and your eyes list to the wall.

"Coffee, please," you relent. "Just something to get me going, then I'll be out of your hair."

"I am in no hurry to have you gone," he assures.

"But I should be," you sniff.

He sighs and goes to work. You listen as he opens and closes a cupboard, working swiftly at the counter. Soon the aroma of coffee brews and tickles your nose.

"Come, you should sit, it will be a few minutes," he gestures you into the hall, "after you."

You put your head down and go ahead of him. Even with the sling, you arm feels heavy. You step onto the runner that trims the hardwood and carefully pad across the embroidered pattern.

The world shifts suddenly and it's as if the rugs been pulled out from under you. Literally. You stumble forward, jarring your tortured muscles, twisting around desperately so you land on your hip with a startling force.

You lay on your side, whimpering as you peek down to your feet. You see the rug crumpled as Jonathan pulls his foot from atop it. He shows his teeth and tuts.

"Ah, no, darling," he nears and looks down at you, "my designer did mention I should put some trackpads under that to keep it in place."

You tremble as you try to sit up, your lower back struck with an electric pain. You writhe and clutch your shoulder, legs bent as you whine. It was an accident right, he wouldn't…

"Are you hurt?" He asks with enough concern to muffle your doubts. Why would he do that? No, you're just paranoid.

You push with hand, trying to sit up and yelp again. Your tears break through as you collapse. You shake your head.

"No, I'm… hurt."

"Darling, you really can't help yourself," he chuckles. "Here, we can't have you on the couch, you'll need proper support."

He kneels and scoops you up easily, lifting you to cradle you against his naked torso. You groan as your head lolls, the pain rippling in your vision. It's too much to think straight but you know this isn't right. You have bad luck but it can't be that bad.

"What are you doing?" You hiss.

"Taking you to bed," he says, "I've a guest room. I would've shown you earlier but I didn't want to overextend you."

"Ah, ah," you cry out, "I… I should see the doctor–"

"Hush hush, darling, we'll get you abed and figure all that out," he climbs the stairs, unhindered by your added weight.

You squeeze your eyes shut and gnash your teeth. You have no choice but to surrender to his control. You can't do much more than fold like a broken doll.

You open your eyes as he enters a room and you glance over at the crisp white bedding. He lays you over it, carefully pulling back the blanket and leaving it folded back beside you. He stands straight, looking down at you with his hands on his hips, smirking. He's smirking.

"Jonathan," you murmur, "why–"

"You've fallen. Very unfortunately," he tisks, "you're in no state to return to work or be alone."

"Why would you–"

"How could you trip so carelessly? It is only lucky I was here to assist you," he lifts a finger in reproach, "and to see you well."

"Jonathan…" you croak.

"Not to worry, I'll fetch the painkillers. Ah and your coffee, it should be ready," he declares as he wags his finger and struts to the door. He pauses and looks back over his shoulder, "and I'll be certain your ex-husband cannot impede your recovery. No calls."

He winks and sets back on his path. You gape after him, choking on agony as you cling to your shoulder. This can't be real.

[galaxietm]

popping on to give some updates!

- updated blog icon to match @peachiiihearts (ily dew) - updated pinned list for june bdays (with the exception of my own, but there's several muses whose bdays i'm excited for, so hopefully i can hop on to do stuff for them) - considering updating blog header?? not sure - trimming down muse list in the background, will probably post what muses i'm dropping soon(ish??) - working on getting muse pages finished so i can share carr.d link, may just share carr.d link without the pages being done. - a few more oc pages are done, others have been started

other general updates below the cut, somewhat unrelated to rp stuff but adjacently related to blog status i guess? feel free to keep scrolling if you'd like! no pressure ♡♡

tl;dr / me attempting to condense it all here. i haven't been around as much due to mental health (probably the second biggest reason) as well as stressing about money-related things; i don't want to bring that energy and such onto here so i've been avoiding it, more or less. i've been working a lot the last two weeks, in part so i can catch up with rent and try to get ahead of that and bills, and i think i'll start to have free time in about a week / week and a half (as my birthday this month comes up, funny enough lol) since i've been all over the place due to work, that's why some of my activity is all over the place. my shifts at work vary from overnights (think 10pm to 6am) to early mornings (around 2am - 7am, 4am - 9am, etc) and sometimes somewhat close to each other- so i really mostly have time to come home, eat, wind down and relax. so if i hop online, it's moments like now (where it's like, 2:30am-ish) for a little bit before one of my early shifts.

have also been dealing with random aches, pains and headaches as well (woke up with a really bad migraine a week ago when i was gonna try to be online / try to write, so that didn't happen) so i've been attempting to self-care while i can, and i'm trying to get up the courage to reach out to a few therapists for consultations so i can finally like. i dunno- try to get that part taken care of since my last therapist didn't work out and it's been a while. i'm also trying to fit in getting new glasses, since i've had my current pair for, uh- way longer than i should have.

but anyway. aside from the stress and still slow recovering from the legal stuff with evicting ex-roomies early this year (as well as avoiding the attempts of updates people have tried to give me about them, because there's people who have been attempting to tell me about them lol) i've been slowly doing better. trying to do what i can to fix up my place and trying to get things in shape on my end. i've been far happier without them here, i can actually relax and like. start to get to know myself and be myself again. it's been?? a little bit bittersweet, honestly. complicated feelings for different reasons, i guess. i had to hide parts of myself because of the first set of roomies, and i didn't get to bring those parts back for a while.

i've been finally watching through some anime on my backlog and i've been resisting the urge to joke about possibly writing dungeon meshi characters or others- but there's a few characters i've picked up (one i'm finally indulging myself on trying to write lol) and a few that that i'm waiting until i finish trimming the muse list until i decide to pick them up- for my own sanity, really. i'm trying to be less attached to them and more 'do i get to write for you aside from saying i'd like to? then bye' about some of them.

but anyway. i hope all of you have been doing well. think of this as a bit of a vent post? i haven't done one of those in a while, haha. it's been an interesting year, but hopefully soon i'll get to be active here again- i really miss writing, so hopefully soon i'll be able to get back on here and just. write and interact with some of ya'll again.

if you'd like to try to keep in touch better, i've got a disc.ord i can exchange with mutuals.

[forgaeven1]

i'm returning 💚 and with it, a plan to trim down on some of the threads i admittedly no longer feel much muse(s) for, and to sift through my mutuals list simply for a more comfortable experience here 🫶 thank u so much for those who've been waiting <333

[the-haunted-office]

Please note, I have updated the TLDR part of my rules! I wanted to make sure to include the most important parts, while still keeping it trimmed down and easier to skim through. At least, that is my goal. I know my rules page is pretty long... It's that way because I know there are folks out there who are like me, who like having everything clearly outlined and thoroughly spelled out to eliminate any ambiguity. But I also know there are others who would not want to go near a long rules page, so that is the purpose of the TLDR. :p

Anyway, here is the updated version, just so everybody is on the same page! If anything seems unclear, though, please do let me know, because I definitely don't want there to be any confusion. Thank you!

⭐ TLDR

Mun: I go by Author, I’m in my 30’s, preferred pronouns are she/her, but they/them is also fine. I have anxiety, and while this usually does not hinder me from reaching out to initiate interactions, it does sometimes cause me to become quiet on the dash or to worry that I may have done something to upset others when I might not have. I ask that if you choose to follow me back and roleplay with me, that you please be patient with me during these times. Thank you.

Blog is Multi-fandom, Multimuse, Multiship, and crossover, OC, and self-insert friendly.

Private and mutuals only. 25+ age minimum, although I may go a couple years lower than that depending on material presented in your blog, rules, etc.

Dark themes are present, including death, terminal illness, horror, occasional gore and the like, emotional trauma, anxiety, mentions of suicide etc.

Mun ≠ Muse, period. Some of my muses may say mean, aggressive, or antagonizing things, but none of it is ever directed towards you, the mun. I will never take anything personally, either.

I usually reply within a few days, but feel free to inquire if it’s been more than a week. I have a kid and a busy life so sometimes things may be a bit more sporadic. Always feel free to chat ooc if you have any questions or concerns, with the shared understanding that we all have lives outside of rp. We’re all here to have fun!

No smut will be roleplayed on this blog. NSFW things may be discussed and alluded to, but not roleplayed. I do not have a problem with interacting with blogs who roleplay smut, though. I am also uncomfortable roleplaying excessive harm to children, abusive relationships, and inauthentic relationships with my muses without prior discussion (that is, being misled, being used, having it sprung on me, or my muses being abused by powertripping muns).

I am open to shipping! However it is not the main focus of my blog. I am not into insta-shipping - I prefer shipping with chemistry and after we’ve rped our muses together for a while. A good deal of my muses require time and patience to develop ships with them. I am willing to listen to thoughts and ideas if you have any, though, and will be honest about whether or not I think a ship could work. Always feel free to approach me if you have any thoughts, not just about ships but also about any plot ideas you have.

I am also okay with unrequited feelings between muses, both from my muse to yours and your muse to mine. If you aren’t comfortable with it, let me know and I can certainly make changes.

Trigger warnings - Please see the section below, I have a list of triggers I try to make a habit of tagging. If there are any you would like to be added, do let me know. I do my best to tag the ones my mutuals have asked me to tag, but sometimes I forget the less common ones as it’s hard to juggle them all. If I ever mess up, let me know and I will tag it immediately.

I try to reply within 1-3 days, but sometimes they may take longer. Feel free to reach out if it’s been longer than a week, though.

I’m not a stickler when it comes to reblog karma, but please don’t make a habit of reblogging memes from me but never sending anything in. It spreads poor morale throughout the rpc to treat each other like meme resource blogs.

When I follow your blog and tell you I want to roleplay with you, this is because I want to roleplay with you. If you follow me back, please extend this same courtesy to me. I would love to learn more about your muses, but I would also appreciate interest shown in mine, and most importantly I want to roleplay with you. If we aren’t roleplaying together, we may need to reconsider if we are a good fit as mutuals. Please note, I understand that real life takes precedence over roleplaying - I am busy with my personal life too. But if one or both of us is always visibly active roleplaying on the dash but we aren’t interacting with each other, then it may be time for us to part ways.

If you do not wish to interact with me any further, the simplest way to prevent me from following you again in the future is to hard block me. Softblocking may not get the point across because Tumblr has an unfortunate lovely feature where it will unfollow people for you - i.e. a glitch.

Always, ALWAYS feel free to reach out with any questions, concerns, thoughts, ideas, or just to chat. I’m ready to listen and love plotting and love chatting.

Read on if you like reading novels. 😛