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kosije · 1 year ago

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sins in silk

c/w ★ ׂ duke!miguel ohara x princess!reader, they are from different kingdoms, mentioned age-gap, forbidden love aspect, pregnancy kink, mentions of masturbation, unprotected sex, creampie, mutual head, fingering, size kink, art cred: kammie_arts1903

"Princess, the Grand Duke is here. May I bring him in?"

"Show him to the study for now. Tell him I will be right out. Be sure to thank the Grand Duke for his patience."

"Yes, Princess."

"Oh, Will?"

"Yes, Princess?"

"After you inform the Duke, please excuse everyone to their chambers, yes?"

"But princess, you know if the king found out we had left your side, even with the Grand Duke we could lose our-"

"I will not let that happen. So please, Will, do this for me."

All though apprehensive, your servant bows and disappears from your room, in long strides to the Duke.

It's the 5th time this month he has come to the estate. Always with the intention to see the King and ruminate. And despite him being so much older than you, your father's closest friend and strongest connection to the 2099 kingdom, and is only to wed a woman from his territory, each time he has come has left you tangling a hand in your silk sheets, hushed cries of the Duke's name left to fall from your wet lips in a silent plea.

Every time he drops by unannounced, talks to your father, and leaves. Every time he has his salt and pepper sprinkled brown hair combed back away from his face, showing the wrinkles on his forehead. Every time his eyes have focused on you, running over you like the pretty oil portrait that hangs above the study's mantle as his jaw flexes brows furrow, something in you ignites and the yearning becomes almost palpable.

Never does he say more to you than a few words, only acknowledging you after with how his body tenses when you're around. He runs as cold as the marble under your feet as you move to your vanity to reapply your perfume and shift your dress to expose enough of your collarbone without looking intentional. You're buzzing at the thought of seeing him, taking the rollers out of your hair with bubbling anticipation. This is the first time he's come amidst nightfall and the first time you two will be alone. With your hands resting to your front, you walk to the study well aware of how low your neckline is dipping while high pillared walls with paintings of cherubs and past battles trail you illuminated by ivory candles.

When you push past tall burgundy doors, you're greeted by the sight of Grand Duke of 2099, Miguel O'hara, who's stretching his back with two large hands on his hips. The deep groan he lets out makes your skin flush, and when his cold gaze meets yours you almost shiver. His eyes drift from your face to just right where your dress exposes a bit of the fat on your breast, and you smile when you hear him suck in a breath.

"What do I owe the pleasure, Your Grace?" His eyes tear from your chest as he focuses on the crackling fireplace.

"Just here to see your father, is he near?" He asks, brown eyes fixing back onto yours. Your smile only widens.

"I'm afraid the King is away, but he should be returning soon, you are more than welcome to stay 'till his return."

"I shouldn't-"

"Humor me, Your Grace. After all, I am a bit lonely without my father to talk to." you say, batting your eyelashes at him bashfully.

Apprehension is so clear on his face, but still he nods, straightening his white button up and waiting for you to go on.

"Follow me," you say, walking back down the hall until you reach your room.

"Princessa, I will not go further, this is inappropriate. A young lady shouldn-"

"'M not as young as I was before. Surely you can agree, no?"

"Even so," He coughs. "That is not the point-"

"You should have no trouble entering. I have already given my permission."

He doesn't look convinced.

"Do you not trust me? Have I done wrong by you?"

"That is not it, Princessa-"

"Then please, my duke, time is slipping right past us." you whisper, slipping through the doors, intentionally brushing your hand across his thigh. You grin when you hear his shaky breath, and hear your door not only close, but lock.

"What is it that you have here that we couldn't be anywhere else for?"

"Are you putting on an act," you ask him, turning around to face him still at a distance. "Or are you truly this aloof, Your Grace?'

"I’m sorry?-"

"I have a confession," you say. walking closer and closer until his breath is caught in his throat, and your lips are just a nudge away from his.

"My father won't be returning anytime soon." And suddenly, it seems it has clicked in his head, as his eyes darken.

"This can not happen."

"You're right," your hand is pressed up against his chest.

"Someone could hear us," He whispers, making no effort to push you away.

"I've already dismissed everyone to their chambers."

"If your father ever found out there could be a war," he tries to argue, but his head is still dipping down, ghosting over your lips.

"We have all night to just the two of us."

And just a second after saying that, he kisses you. His lips are hot, hungry, and experienced in the way they move against yours, swallowing your every breath. His hands find your waist, but he hesitates and you can tell he hasn't given in completely. And something about that excites you.

You pull away from his lips, leaving him noticeably confused until your hand reaches down and palms his cock, happy at the way he's already hard.

"Do you know just how long I've been wanting this?" You ask shifting him around you.

He doesn't say anything, only shakes his head "No."

"Ever since the day you came back to visit, I haven't been able to think of anything else." When you push him down on the edge of your bed, he shivers when you drop to your knees and play with the button on his slacks.

"Every night, I touch myself on these sheets to the thought of you." You confess, finally free him from his pants, leaving him in the thin fabric of his underwear, painfully soaking up the front of them with his pre.

"Princessa," He finally says in almost a whine. "If you say things like that I'm afraid I won't be able to hold back."

And dipping your hand under his waistband to grip his cock, you savor how thick and heavy he feels and the groan he lets out with a kiss to his base. You can't deny the bit of worry that flushes through you when you see just how big he is. Thick beads of cum pulse out of him that you lick up hungrily, humming at how you can feel hus veins on your tongue.

"Then please, Your Grace. Give me everything."

That seems to shatter his self control, because suddenly he has a hand in your hair and a hand on his cock as he forces your lips over his angry brown head.

"You're such a damn tease, you know that?" He gritts out, bullying his cock all the way to the back of your throat and then some. You gag and choke around him, already feeling your throat burn and eyes well up.

"Always coming around me with your father with your body on display in those cute little gowns, batting those pretty little eyes at me when you talk. What would your father think if he knew all of that was because you were trying to get my attention?" He coos between groans while using your face like just a vessel to get off, and your cunt starts dripping. "Just so I could fuck your pretty mouth like this?"

You can't do anything but moan around him, croaking out gasp when he finally lets you catch your breath before immediately pulling you back down onto his dick rapidly as snot mixes in with tears, spit, and cum starts to drip down your jaw and onto your floor. He begins to unbutton his shirt, before tearing it off completely, leaving buttons to fly across your room. Looking up through teary eyes you take in the way his usually combed back hair sticks to his sweaty forehead messily, as his abs tense and relax with every rapid breath as his mouth lulls open with lidded eyes, moaning when he sees just how well you swallow him.

Swiftly, you run your tongue over the slit of his cock, hearing him whine, and feeling the grip on your hair tighten enough to burn your scalp. Your throat aches with every heavy thrust that only spurs on the throbbing between your thighs as your hands play with his balls and he stutters in your mouth, shooting his seed down your throat, midst mumbling praises.

Without word or warning, he flips you over, effectively pinning you down to your bed once he's come down from his high. His large calloused hand runs up and down your thigh before tossing your nightgown up, and he groans at the sigh.

"You needed me so bad you didn't wear anything under this frilly thing? What a filthy girl." He grins, slapping your dripping cunt and drinking up your moan in a kiss.

"Your Grace,"

"That's not what you should be calling me." He grits, crouching down to his knees to lick a stripe up your throbbing pussy.

"M-miguel,"

"Yes, Princessa?"

"Please."

"Please what, Princessa?" He says, licking another stripe, but slower.

"Please...don't tease me." You whimper, muffling your moans with the back of your hand.

"And what shall I do instead?"

"Kiss me harder, please. I need it, Mig-" and your sentence is cut off by the feeling of his nose kissing your clit as he buries his face into your sopping heat, groaning at the way you suck his tongue in. You're writhing at the feeling, but when you feel one of his calloused fingers push through you, you lose your vision for a second.

"Fuck- you're even tighter than I thought you were," he groans, and you feel your body ignite at his admission.

"You'd think of me?" You ask with such a worn out voice, Miguel's hips buck up in search of any friction at all.

"All the damn time. Would fuck my hand everyday over those pretty eyes and lips, imagine how pretty you'd look all happy and spent, with the image of my love spilling out of you." He confesses, speeding his assault on your hole, hitting spots with his fingers you could only dream of, before latching his mouth back on and fucking you with his tongue and fingers. The arousal in you was rushing through you like a wave and just after a strangled moan it blows out of you in pleasurable burst that leave you flushed. He hungrily drinks you up like a starved man until you're whining from the sensation.

When he rises from the floor he doesn't bother wiping your slick from his mouth, only laughs at your fucked out expression, and runs his lips over yours, amused by how you trail after him. Annoyed, you wrap your hands around his collar and pull his lips onto yours, gasping and licking into his mouth. Between the taste of you on his tongue, his rock-hard cock rubbing against your puffy folds as your hands run through his sweaty hair.

"Gonna give me one more?" He asks, voice low like gravel.

"I'll do anything for you, Miguel. Anything you want."

He kisses you again, a passionate thing as you both whine at the feeling of him bullying into you.

"'Ts too big, Mig- oh! S-slow down!" You cry, but his hand slaps the fat of your thigh and grips it, hitting you even deeper at a fast pace. The pain is still there, but feeling of pleasure is much more intense. And it only skyrockets when you hear his voice.

"Sshhh sweetheart. You're-fuck-already taking me so well. so damn tight around me. Be good and take what I give you. So I c-can tell your father what a nice cunt his perfect little girl has." He rasps, pounding you even deeper than before, and your nails dig up the fabric of your sheets, leaving fabric frayed in long scratches. One hand grips your thigh as the other moves up your dress to tweak and grope your breast, making you clench down around him. He drawls out a curse as his head falls into the crook of your neck, inhaling the smell of your sweat and perfume that makes him impossibly more needy to where he's plowing through you in quick hard strokes that move your bed to knock against your walls, shaking the shelf above you.

His teeth sink into your neck, almost as a mark of ownership, before sucking a bruise into your skin, continuing his markings lower and lower to focus them on your breast. Your back arches at the sting and you cry out at the imposing feeling building up inside you.

"Such a pretty girl," he says, leaning over to look you in your eyes, studying the gaping of your mouth and tugging on your brows as your orgasm builds up. His eyes are trained on you, as he throbs inside you, stimulating you further.

"I'm close-" you whimper, voice cracking as he licks a stripe up your neck.

"Yeah?" He asks, smirk practically audible as he hums in your ear. "Do it. Squeeze me, sweetheart."

It only takes a few heavy strokes to hit your sweet spot before you are gushing around him, making his thrust sporadic and moans louder.

"Yes-shit- let me fill you up. I'll give you an heir, and then I'll-hah- fuck you again, and again, and again."

"Yesyesyes, please." You think you exclaim, but can't tell if you said it out loud or just in your head because of how overestimated you are. His hand rubs circles on your clit, and your toes curl as your heels dig into the muscle of his back.

"Fuck- I'm gonna-" He spits out, just before spilling his seed into your cunt, carefully riding out his orgasm inside you while pushing his cum deeper into your womb. His palm stretches over the expanse of your chest as he leans down to kiss just above your belly button. The room is quiet now that he is still inside you, and you watch Miguel lean down to kiss you once more, in the form of a soft peck to your swollen lips. Once he pulls back, he leaves you briefly before returning with a warm damp cloth that he wipes you down with. Once he is done, he discards it into a bucket and lies himself down next to you.

"If we continue to do this," he says, carefully pulling out of you. "We will eventually have to tell your father."

"You're right," you whisper scared, but when you feel his strong arm pull you flush against his chest, hope surges through you and you bury your face into his warm body.

"We'll need to get up early, the maids would appreciate finding us like this."

"We'll be fine. After all, a pregnancy will shock them far more than this."

"I'm sure it will," he laughs, kissing your forehead.

Since envelops the two of you, as you notice his breathing deepen.

"Your, Grace-"

"Miguel," he corrects, eyes dancing across your face with a small smile.

"Miguel, my father will be gone on the next full moon."

"The next full moon, huh?" He asks no one at all, pushing your hair behind your ear.

It’s bittersweet asking him to sneak around with you again. And yet, all he says is a simple "Okay," placing a kiss to the palm of your hand, and you understand what the gesture is:

A promise.

#( ☆ ) spiderman: atsv #( ☆ ) smuts #( ☆ ) fluff #miguel x reader #miguel smut #miguel ohara #miguel x y/n #miguel o'hara smut #miguel o’hara headcanon #miguel o’hara fluff #sins in silk #duke!ohara

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theostrophywife · 1 year ago

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written in the stars.

pairing: theodore nott x reader. song inspiration: until i found you by stephen sanchez feat. em beihold. author's note: boyfriend theo is the best theo. if you're wondering, then yes writing this hurt me as much as it hurts reading it but like in the best way possible.

Theodore Nott has always had an affinity for the stars.

When he was younger, Theo's mother used to take him to the rooftop of Nott Manor and point out the constellations to him. The stars told stories, his mum had said. Theo listened with rapt attention as she recounted the tales of Aquila, Heracles, and Orion as they glittered against the backdrop of the English countryside.

The two of them would make an entire evening out of it. Laying on his back atop a nest of blankets and pillows, little Theo watched as the stars climbed higher and higher, filling the horizon with hope and light. Stargazing had been their special secret. The one thing that wasn’t tainted by his abusive father. Theo guarded the memory of those nights in his heart like a priceless treasure.

After his mother’s passing, Theo continued their tradition of stargazing. Even if she was no longer alive, all he had to do was look up at the sky to feel her with him. For that reason, the stars were special to him and he’d never shared its meaning with anyone.

Until tonight.

“Watch your step, cara mia.” Theo said as he guided you by the small of your back.

The dark cloth covering your eyes prohibited you from seeing, but you trusted your boyfriend to keep you from falling. Though you weren’t a fan of surprises, Theo was impossible to resist. All he had to do was flash those pretty watercolor eyes at you and you were an absolute goner.

For you, Theo had always been the exception.

He guided you up a staircase, keeping a firm grip on your waist as the two of you ascended. Wherever you were going, it was pretty high up. You smiled as Theo took hold of your waist, knowing that you weren't the biggest fan of heights. Sometimes it felt like he knew you better than you knew yourself. When you reached the top, Theo unfastened his tie from behind your head.

“You can open your eyes now, sweetheart.”

You blinked, letting your eyes adjust to the dark. The wind whistled through the stone arches of the Astronomy Tower, framing the starkissed night with its marble pillars. The soft glow of the moon illuminated the nest of blankets and pillows arranged in the middle of the wooden floor.

“Did you do all of this for me, babe?”

Theo smiled. “I thought you might like to go stargazing with me,” he said, his voice soft. “Do you like it, my love?”

“I love it, Teddy.” You beamed, standing on your tiptoes to kiss his nose. “But not nearly as much as I love you.”

Theo grinned before pulling you in for a proper kiss. His lips were soft against yours and he tasted like peppermint. Butterflies erupted in your stomach as your knees buckled slightly. Theo never failed to make you feel like a lovestruck school girl. It never stopped feeling like this despite how many times you kissed this boy.

As if reading your thoughts, Theo smiled against your lips. “Come on, Y/N. I want to show you my favorite constellations.”

The two of you laid down beneath the stars, making yourself comfortable amidst the blankets and pillows. Wordlessly, Theo pulled you into his arms and you nestled into the crook of his neck, breathing in the familiar scent of sea salt spray and sun kissed skin.

“Tell me the story of the stars, Teddy.”

He smiled, brushing your hair back. “That one right there is Ursa Major. Otherwise known as the Big Dipper, but if you look at the entire constellation, it actually forms a bear.”

“I remember learning about that when I was little,” you said, gazing up at the sky. “Didn’t it have something to do with Zeus?”

Theo nodded. “In Greek mythology, the Olympian God Zeus fell in love with Callisto and got her pregnant. After she gave birth to the child, Hera was so mad she turned Callisto into a bear.”

“That hardly seems fair,” you responded with a frown.

“Zeus was a bit of a wanker,” Theo said in agreement. “Hera was even worse. She cursed Callisto to wander the forest for years in bear form until she was hunted by her own son Arcas. Just as he raised his spear to strike her down, Zeus stepped in and sent them up to the heavens. Callisto as Ursa Major and Arcas as Bootes.”

“The Greek gods were truly a piece of work,” you replied. “But at least we got those constellations out of them."

You squinted, pointing at the cluster of stars hovering in the east. “What’s that one?”

“That’s the constellation of Leo,” explained Theo. “Named after the Nemean lion that Heracles defeated during the first of his twelve labours.”

“Didn’t he make a cloak out of the lion’s pelt?”

“Smart girl,” Theo said proudly. “The cloak made Heracles invincible and more fearsome than he already was. The Nemean lion’s heart is made up of the star Regulus, which is associated with the arrival of spring.”

“The Little King. I read that it burns hotter than the sun.”

Theo couldn’t help but smile. Before he met you, he never thought he’d find someone to share such a special and intimate thing with. He was worried that no one else would understand his love for the stars, but as he watched you peer curiously up at the sky, your nose scrunched in careful concentration, Theo felt all of his doubts fade away.

“Regulus is unique because it can be seen in both the Northern and Southern hemispheres.”

The blue star glittered brightly above your heads, as if it was showing off for the occasion. “It’s beautiful,” you breathed.

Theo stared at you, at the childlike wonder shimmering in your eyes, and he felt like the breath had been knocked out of his lungs. The gravity of what he felt for you hit him all at once.

“Yeah,” Theo said softly, still looking at you. “Beautiful.”

You grinned, intertwining your fingers and kissing his knuckles. “How do you know so much about the stars, Teddy?”

“My mum taught me.” Theo answered, drawing circles on your hip. “When I was little, she used to take me to the rooftop of the manor and tell me the story behind each star. She was fascinated by them. Before she met my father, she wanted to teach astronomy at the Stati Magia.”

“The Italian School of Witchcraft?”

Theo nodded. “My mother attended the Stati Magia, just like her mother and her mother before her. A tradition that I unintentionally broke, as nonna Lucia loves to remind me. Sometimes I think the old bat wishes that I was born a strega instead.”

You giggled. “You would’ve been a very pretty witch.” Theo chuckled as you propped your head up in one hand. “Did your mum end up becoming a professor?”

“No,” Theo said sadly. “After I was born, my father said that her place was at the manor. He refused to move to Florence, even though he knew it was my mother’s dream.”

You stroked his hair, nodding emphatically. Theo rarely talked about his mother. You knew that her passing was a painful subject for him, so you never pushed him to talk about it unless he wanted to.

“That’s awful. I’m so sorry, my love,” you said. “But at least she was able to pass down her love of the stars to you. In a way, she lived her dream by teaching you.”

A soft smile tugged at your boyfriend’s lips. “I suppose she did.”

You laid back down, but this time you cradled Theo against you. He rested his head against your chest, listening to the calming sound of your heartbeat. Talking about his mother will always be hard, but you helped ease the pain.

“What about those stars?” You asked, pointing to the north. “What did your mother tell you about them?”

“Perseus and Andromeda,” Theo answered. “Those are actually her favorites.”

“The chained maiden.”

Theo stirred, inclining his gaze to the horizon. “Andromeda was the Princess of Aethiopia, the daughter of King Cepheus and Queen Cassiopeia. She was said to be very beautiful. Her mother bragged that Andromeda was fairer than the Nereids, which angered Poseidon. As punishment, the Sea God sent the creature Cetus to ravage that coast of their kingdom.”

You nodded, recalling the story. “King Cepheus chained her to a rock and offered her as a sacrifice to appease the sea monster.”

“Luckily for Andromeda, the hero Perseus found her before Cetus could attack again. Perseus fell in love with Andromeda and defeated the monster so he could free the princess. They ended up marrying and became king and queen of Mycenae. When they died, the goddess Athena placed them side by side in the heavens so that they would never be parted, not even by death.”

“A love written in the stars,” you said with awe and wonder. “I can see why it’s your mother’s favorite.”

“When I was a boy, she told me that she hoped I’d experience a love like theirs, minus the sea monster of course.” You chuckled. Theo knit his brows together like he did when he was deep in thought. When he spoke again, his voice was barely audible. “It’s sad to think that she never found her Perseus.”

You brushed his hair back, running your fingers through his curls gently. “She might not have found her Perseus, but she did have her Theo.”

Theo turned over and looked at you. The intensity in his gaze made you shiver. He was so ingrained in your heart that it felt inaccurate to continue calling it yours.

“After she died, I never thought I’d share her stories with anyone again, but I’m glad I shared them with you.”

“Thank you for trusting me, Theo.” You said as you placed a kiss on his temple. “It means the world to me that you not only shared your mother’s stories, but her memory as well. I would’ve loved to meet her.”

The tender smile on Theo’s face was heartbreaking. Then softly, he whispered. “She would’ve loved you, Y/N.”

Your heart cracked open, his words spilling like sunlight over every crevice, warming you from the inside out.

Tears formed at the corners of your eyes, but you forced yourself to give Theo a watery smile. “Because I’m a nerd who memorized obscure mythological facts?”

Your boyfriend smiled. “No,” he said gently, caressing your cheek. “Because you made her wish come true. You are my love written in the stars, cara mia.”

The moonlight kissed Theo’s tan skin, the silver beams caressing his face like a lover as if the moon and the stars craved to commit his beauty to memory as badly as you did. Gods, he was breathtaking.

This was the Teddy you knew and loved. Your Teddy.

Those watercolor eyes shimmered with emotion. “Sometimes I think the gods made you just for me, like our souls are linked in a way that neither logic nor magic can explain. Whatever it is, I think I’ve loved you since before the heavens and the earth existed and I’m fairly certain that I’d still love you even after the last star falls out of the sky.”

“You’re the love of my life, Theodore Nott.” Tears streamed down your cheeks as this boy—this beautiful boy ensnared your mind, body, and soul. “I’d find you in any universe and in any galaxy. Maybe someday we’ll be immortalized in the stars too.”

Theo held your face in his hands. His expression was open and vulnerable, like he wasn’t afraid to lay himself bare before you. As if it was the most natural thing in the world.

“We’re two halves of a whole,” Theo said. “I loved you yesterday. I love you today and I’ll love you tomorrow. You’re it for me, Y/N. You and no one else.”

“You and no one else, Teddy.”

Under the constellations of the star crossed lovers, Theo kissed you so gently that it made your heart ache. As Andromeda and Perseus kept watch over the horizon, Theodore Nott knew one thing for certain.

Someday the stars would tell your story too.

#theodore nott #theo nott #theo nott fic #theodore nott fic #theo nott smut #theo nott fluff #theo nott x reader #theodore nott x reader #theo nott x y/n #theo nott x you #theo nott imagine #draco malfoy #enzo berkshire #mattheo riddle #blaize zabini

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floralscented · 1 month ago

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dean winchester x angel!reader — take a shot or six.

or, dean's feeling it five in, but he's not going to let you win. or, dove beats dean at his own game.

cw, drinking, alcohol, tipsy dean sjkefdh, sexual tension SORRY

word count:

notes, by @depressionbarbie2023's suggestion... except i make it more tension riddled because i like my cute stuff with a dash of spice hehehe HOPE U LIKE IT STILL

★ ˚⋆

how were you supposed to know that the glass decanter on the accent table next to dean's chair was whiskey? he's staring at you now, like you just killed his entire family with your bare hands, as you hold a crystal glass full of it in between your nimble fingers.

you blink. his eye twitches.

"do you know how long that whiskey aged before it got to me?" he asks you slowly, like any of those words or processes are meant to ring any sort of bell in your head.

you shake your head. "why... do you let a drink age?"

another eye twitch. "enrichens the flavor." he nods toward the glass in your hand, nearly spilling over the brim. quickly, you raise the glass to try and alleviate the problem, sipping on the overflowing top loudly. "tastes good, doesn't it?"

your shoulders lift in a mindless shrug. it burns in your throat for a split second, but other than that, it tastes like caramelized oak, like wind through a nighttime forest, as sweet and secretive.

"what do you mean by—" his shoulders lift now, in a mockery of your shrug, which does nothing but make your head tilt in confusion. dean's quirks were something you were used to, at this point, but never before had you not been able to clue together why he was behaving like he was. "that's a 15-year old whiskey you're drinking like water. gimme that."

his boots echo on the solid floor as he stomps up to you, snatching the crystal glass from your fingers, letting the liquid slosh over the top and onto the both of your hands. dean gestures with his head again, his lips pursed in that look that you think, honestly, is reserved solely for you. "c'mon. lick it up. no wasting this shit."

being bossed around, and being bossed around by dean, is something you don't often let fly. his eyes stay on you as he lifts the glass to his lips, taking his own mindful sip, slow and deliberate like he's working it around his tongue before he swallows. much to the opposite of how you'd been throwing back the entirety of the decanter.

"oh, jesus christ," he grumbles when you actually do start to lick it off of your skin, the salt and the sweet burn making a surprisingly decent flavor, to his clear chagrin.

like always, it seems you do the wrong thing. since he'd shown you how to drive baby, arms around your body as he held you steady, dean had been pulling back. he was already a bit distant, but now? it felt like you were strangers all over again, and he wouldn't tell you what you'd done wrong.

it didn't stop you from coming around, though; your duty was to help the winchesters, and unfortunately for dean, helping him through his disdain for you was a part of that.

his lips stay pushed together in that signature irritated dean look, wrinkles embedded in the corners of his mouth, eyes betraying nothing of the thoughts in his head.

"i'm sorr—"

"don't even start," dean shoots back sternly, turning to weave out of the pillars of the living space and toward the kitchen area. naturally, you're inclined to follow him, your lips already downturned into a frown that could only be described as insistent. why couldn't he see or accept that you were sorry? "don't even know what you're apologizin' for."

he's opening cabinets too tall for you to reach with his free hand, eyes narrowing as he searches for something. "yes i do," you say fiercely, hurt flashing across your face at the accusation. "i upset you, and for that i'm sorry."

"oh, no, dove," he says with a little laugh, setting the crystal decanter on the countertop, using that hand to hold his weight as he reached deep into the cluttered cabinet. "you did not upset me. well," another tip of his lips into that unreadable expression, "i was, but not genuinely."

you blink at him, confusion melting into the hurt look on your face. "that does not make any sense."

"you see everything in black and white, dove," he says, a bottle of deep caramel liquid in his grip. his free hand goes to the crystal tumbler, a frown gracing his pretty expression, "two things can be true at once. i can be upset and not upset at the same time."

your mouth opens to answer him, but closes. his eyebrows flick up in amusement. "you should know that, with how often you give me that look. confused but not confused." he lets out a deep sigh through his nostrils. "christ, this is like, minimum five fingers of whiskey. whole damn hand's worth."

"there are no fingers in that." you watch as he lifts the glass to his mouth, his eyes locked and intense on yours the entire time. he downs half of it at once. "and it is inappropriate to say that."

"oh, piss off," he murmurs into the open mouth of the glass, though his eyes glimmer now, while they stay locked on yours.

your deep frown becomes a hesitant smile. no, maybe he is not-not mad anymore, actually.

he finishes the glass off with a groan that is entirely too sinful to be able to be created by one human man, albeit one that's been to hell and back. "see, this is why m'not pissed at you," dean says, voice thick and raspy as he tips the glass in your direction. "because i've got a helluva tolerance, and that burns. you... you drank that entire decanter like it was fuckin' kool-aid."

a pause and a blink. "juice. like juice. m'not explainin' kool-aid to you today. not in the mood."

his nails tap lightly on the countertop, drawing your attention there. "m'gonna guinea pig the shit outta you real quick."

"guinea pig?" your voice is a soft mutter of confusion. "you cannot—"

the sound of something popping open makes you blink in surprise, caught off guard by the sound of the cork popping free from the bottle on the countertop. "we're gonna play a game, dove. s'all you need to worry that pretty, confused little head about."

"oh."

dean pours a sip's worth into the crystal glass, before he pauses with the bottle in the air, and pours another of the same amount in. then, he passes the glass to you. "bottoms up."

"you are not getting me to show you my bottom, dean," you say sternly, with so much more authority than anyone could expect from an angel with a glass of whiskey in your fingers.

dean actually laughs. it's such a nice sound, hearty and rare these days. you wish you could bottle it up and cork it instead of what's already in there. surely, whatever it was wasn't as good as the sound of cackling. "means drink up, dove."

if only he'd actually just said that. you fluster, but you attempt to hide it behind the glass as you raise it to your mouth and sip it down in one gulp.

he tips his head in a small nod, eyebrows to his hairline, watching you with a look you can't explain in his eyes. impress? shock? affection? they're all things he rarely shows you, especially anymore. "what?"

dean raises his hands in mock surrender. "you just tossed back at least an eight hundred dollar double shot like juice, dove. let a man be impressed."

you choke belatedly. that little amount was eight hundred dollars? no wonder he'd been so angry, when he'd stumbled into you finishing off the bottle in the living space.

"nuh uh, pretty thing," he wags his finger, before the motion becomes a snap until you hand him back the glass, "no gettin' shy now. i wanna see you off your ass."

you bristle at that. "you have an obsession with my... my ass."

dean's grin becomes downright wicked. "yeah, i do."

the words take a second to register, and by the time they do, he's turned back and pouring another two shots worth into the glass. thankfully, too, because the last thing you want is for him to see the flush of pink on your cheeks.

"c'mon. one more." dean turns, holding the glass out for you. his eyes are a little glazed, and he seems lighter on his feet. not so tense around you as he'd been for weeks. you suck your lip between your teeth as you debate it, a little nervous, admittedly, to know what it's like to be off your ass. "nope. none of that."

his free hand cups your cheek suddenly, thumb dragging your bottom lip out of your mouth. "what?" you say, blinking your confusion. "none of what?"

"that," he answers, waving his hand in a broad gesture in front of your face. "m'feelin' too warm and buzzy to watch you bite your lip like a little temptress right now."

temptress. you? just because you'd— "oh." you feel your heart skip in your chest, and the feel of it nearly makes you jump. too close. he's too close. did you always feel like this when he was near, or was this one of those new feelings you stumbled across sometimes, that left you a bit breathless in your confusion?

the glass in his hand presses to your puffed bottom lip, the coolness of it dragging it open further, until it's in a little open o-shape. dean is close enough that you can hear the shudder in his inhale. you wonder, for a second, if it's because his heart, too, is stumbling over itself in his chest.

he begins to tip it back, pouring it in a slow stream between your parted lips. "yeah, that's a good girl," he mumbles, his voice rougher than you've heard it before. the praises always make you feel headier than usual, warm all over like the whiskey felt in your throat. "little more, c'mon. i know you can take it. yeah, just like that."

your eyes are locked on his the entire time, and you watch in real time as his pupils double in size, the green of his irises disappearing into a thin ring. once the glass is empty, he holds it to your lips a blink longer than necessary, his own mouth parted with words he didn't yet say.

another blink, and the glass is away from your mouth, and he's at the sink, back turned to you. "feel it yet?"

your hands do feel warm, like static runs through your veins, like each of your movements is more fluid. "i feel... something."

dean turns on the stream of the faucet, rinsing the glass out in silence. but softer than a breath, you hear him say, "yeah. so am i, dove."

tags,

@figthoughts, @jasvtsc, @titsout4nicholas, @deanswidow, @whyyouegg,

@bombarda-babe, @whisperingwillowxox, @underground-secret,

@bitchykittenconnoisseur, @jensenacklesantidote,

@keira-kaz2y5

#──★ dahlia's jrnl #──★ dean x saga #dean winchester x angel!reader #jensen ackles #dean winchester #angel!reader #dean winchester x reader #dean winchester x you #dean winchester one shot #spn #supernatural #supernatural one shot #spn one shot

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peachdues · 6 months ago

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ALL THE THINGS WE LEFT UNSAID — PROLOGUE + TEASER

Tengen’s Bundle of Joy • Secret Pregnancy AU

A/N: surprise! Have a first look at Tengen’s installment of my Bundle of Joy series.

This fic will be multi-part canon-AU. It is a non-linear story (alternating between Then and Now) and double surprise! It will be a slow burn (just because they fuck doesn’t mean they’re in love!)

CW: MDNI • this story features explicit sexual content • secret pregnancy • angst • mentions of injury/head wound • these two are stubborn as fuck lmao

PROLOGUE

“The Sound Hashira is rumored to be in this region. Some mission.��

Your comrade’s off-handed comment freezes you in your step.

“Where.”

Your fellow Kinoe shrugs, unaware of the way your eyes dart anxiously around the clutter of wooden homes and ramshackle shops, as though you half-expect the silver-haired swordsman to leap out from the shadows at any moment.

“It’s not like we get details of the Hashira’s missions shared with us,” he brushes you off with a yawn. His arms fold behind his head, his gait lazy and far too casual for someone of his position as he struts lazily along an uneven path that leads to the small building marked with a fading, painted wisteria crest. “We might be Kinoe, but we’re still bottom feeders compared to them.”

You hum in half-hearted agreement, but your attention to your fellow Slayer — to your mission — flounders as the knowledge you’ve worked desperately ignore explodes out of the mental bottle you’d shoved it into.

Beneath the ever-tightening buttons of your uniform shirt your stomach has begun to swell. Slight; not yet noticeable to the naked eye, but sure as hell prominent when you’re fighting to close the last two buttons or fasten your hakama pants.

You thumb absently at your belt — now loosened two notches. Perhaps you’ll take a cue from the Love Pillar’s book and opt for a skirt. At least the waist would sit higher up, the pleats, offering cover you’ll need while you figure out what the fuck it is you’re going to do. It won’t be long before your secret is exposed; before word inevitably reaches the jewel-crusted ears of the very one you want most to avoid.

You’d be more useful dead.

A callous thing to say to a subordinate, let alone someone who’d risked their neck on more than one occasion to preserve his. And, for all the testiness that had built between you over the years, a resentment born of your mutual inability to confront the other honestly, you hadn’t expected him to resort to that.

You’d known he regretted his words the moment he hurled them your way, but it was too little, too late. And it hadn’t stopped you from leveling his ire with your own, your response a series of poisoned darts you were only happy to launch right back his way.

I look forward to meeting your expectations.

But it was his regret, perhaps, that led him to grab you by the bicep as you’d tried to leave, that yanked you back to face him, breath heavy and pupils dilating.

The crack fissuring across your chest had been dulled by the way his hand swallowed your arm; how his mouth crashed into yours, and the powerful movements of his body. But once he’d collapsed atop you, panting and spent, the wounds he’d inflicted turned raw once more, the salt of his sweat preventing your blood from clotting where he’d torn your chest clean open.

You manage a furtive shake of your head, dispersing the memory of his body and his violence from your mind. This is not the time for you to pick at the scab over your heart, not after you spent the better part of the last two months trying to force it to form. For now, you need to focus on getting the hell out of here; to get as far away from this desolate corner of the earth before the universe decides to throw you back at him.

Before he knows.

Your comrade prattles on, bragging over how he’s been lucky enough to see the Sound Pillar in battle, oblivious to the smirk settling on your lips in spite of yourself. The Kinoe you’ve traveled with seems unaware that in detailing the way the Corp’s great Uzui had appeared out of thin air to save him and the handful of other slayers cornered by a particularly fearsome avian demon, he’s admitting to his own ineptitude in finishing off the beast on his own.

The Hashira don’t come unless hope is lost; the fact Uzui had appeared at all meant they’d been done for. Yet, he wears the boast of having needed his ass saved by one who’d undoubtedly disposed of the demon with a painful swiftness like a badge of honor.

You know better.

For all the ways your fellow swordsman brags over having witnessed the Pillar’s great display of strength, you’ve seen him weak. Not only that, but you’d been the direct cause of such weakness; you’d broken him down, made him give into temptations he believed he’d suppressed.

But that weakness has led you here — chewing on your thumbnail in a fit of anxiety your comrade remains woefully ignorant of as you try banishing the memories of the Sound Pillar’s weakness from your mind.

More, you’d begged him, sweaty and panting and delirious. More.

He’d obliged you — enthusiastically so. And the way you’d fallen apart in his arms showed you that you were just as weak as he.

Not once had he bothered to apologize for what he’d done; what he’d said. And his too casual pronouncement that your death — as gruesome and violent as your profession demanded — would be a better convenience than for him to work through his own bullshit was a slash through your chest even his most fervent apologies wouldn’t be able to stitch back together.

Not that you thought he ever would offer one — but the image of him dropping to his knees and begging you for forgiveness you wouldn’t allow yourself to give was a small comfort to your bitter heart.

Besides, you’d claimed the privilege of having the last word by not saying any at all. Instead, you’d crept away from the inn, leaving him asleep on the discarded heap of his uniform in the room you’d been forced to share.

You’d given him exactly what he’d given you — nothing. And that vindication had been as sweet as it was short-lived. Now, you’re stuck with the consequences of your own pride and weakness without any idea of what to do about it.

Feigning indifference where Tengen Uzui was concerned, however, is your speciality; a skill you’d perfected just as surely as you’d mastered shadow breathing. Thus, the mask of cool neutrality is easy to slip on as you listen to your comrade continue prattling on about skill levels and techniques to improve breathing styles, chiming with a mildly interested nod when necessary.

And you plot; plot your escape from this tiny fishing village, plot how best to guard the secret you know won’t remain such for much longer. Running away from your problems had always been far easier than forcing yourself to choke them down, and this time will be no different. Of that much, you’re certain.

Coward, a voice that sounds suspiciously close to Uzui’s hisses in your head. Coward.

And so, you continue to strategize your best chance at avoiding the storm brimming on your horizon as your fellow Kinoe continues, too consumed by his blustering to notice how your had drifts to your stomach, resting on the hidden curve where the Sound Hashira’s child grows.

—-

BONUS

“The baby — the baby —“

“Where?” Tengen surveys the wreckage scattered around you, ears carefully pricked for any cry, any smaller, weaker heartbeat, but for all his strain, he can discern none. “Was it a village kid?” He jostles you as much as he can, trying to force your eyes into focus. “Where, Y/N?”

But you only keep muttering the baby, your brow furrowed, your head twitching as though in dissent, though it remains limited where it is braced in the crook of Tengen’s massive arm.

He swears under his breath as your eyes roll into your head, your lips straining to form the mantra you cannot stop repeating, even as your breath turns shallow and raspy. Two fingers find the pulse point in your neck, and Tengen swears again at weakened beat of your heart.

“You don’t get to die.” He snaps at you, hand slapping lightly at your bloodied cheek. “You don’t get to run away. Not now. Not again.”

He needs to figure out where else you might be injured — that way he can help, can stabilize you before the Kakushi arrive. You’re not taking the easy way out this time. He would stand at the gates of heaven or hell itself to block your way, ready to haul your ass right back to life so he could chew your ass out the way you so obviously needed. And once he did, he can put this volatile, tempestuous thing between you to rest. He can free himself of the bonds you’d snapped around his wrists the moment you first sized him up and cut him down with a few, caustic words.

Then, he might finally be able to let you go.

Gritting his teeth, Tengen surveys your body. Your head wound is the most prominent, but no matter how much blood mats in your hair and streaks down your face, he knows better than to assume that it’s the worst you’ve sustained.

Gently, his hands smooth along your body, and he notes every odd bend, every lump along your joints that does not belong.

“The ba — baby —“ your voice grows fainter with each word, and Tengen can only see a sliver of white peeking out from between your eyelids.

Beneath the dark crimson of your blood your skin has turned ashen.

“Y/N.” The hoarseness of his voice has nothing to do with the smoldering flames and thick smoke that has burned the village to its skeleton. His hand slides to your abdomen, ready to position you in his arms so he can run with you, can tow you to the nearest Kakushi. You will not die; he forbids it, he forbids you from even trying —

His hand settles on your navel and freezes.

Beneath the flush of his palm is a curve; an outward swelling of your stomach that had been hidden under the loose fit of your uniform shirt, but under his touch, it is unmistakeable.

A bump. A sizeable bump extends from your abdomen.

The grunts and groans of the houses and structures giving way to the crackling flames fall away, his ears filling instant with a high-pitched ring that pulses in time with his thundering heart. The sweat rolling down his neck turns cold, his chest tightening until his lungs burn. Slowly, his eyes drag back up your body until he finds your graying face once more.

For one, brief moment, your eyes flutter open and search wildly before landing on his, wide and frozen in his horror.

“The baby.” You say once more, in explanation and confession. And then your eyes roll back into your skull and you turn limp in Tengen’s trembling arms.

#demon slayer #kimetsu no yaiba #tengen uzui #kny #kny x reader #kny fanfic #kny tengen #kny uzui #tengen x reader #uzui x reader #demon slayer tengen #demon slayer uzui #kny smut #demon slayer smut

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enchantedwitchling · 7 months ago

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Illuminating the Path: A Beginner's Guide to Candle Magick

🕯️✨🔮

Candle magick is a beautiful and accessible way to harness the power of fire and light in your magical practice. Whether you're new to witchcraft or looking to deepen your connection with this ancient art, candle magick offers a versatile and powerful tool for manifesting intentions, creating sacred space, and connecting with the divine. Let's explore the basics of candle magick, how to choose and prepare your candles, and discover simple spells and rituals to illuminate your path.

What is Candle Magick?

Candle magick involves using candles as a focal point for your intentions, prayers, and spells. The flame of the candle represents the element of fire, a symbol of transformation, energy, and purification. The act of lighting a candle and focusing on its flame helps concentrate your energy and send your intentions out into the universe.

Choosing Your Candles

The first step in candle magick is selecting the right candle for your purpose. Candles come in various shapes, sizes, and colors, each holding unique magical properties.

Colour Correspondences:

White: Purity, protection, healing, spiritual growth

Red: Passion, strength, courage, love

Pink: Love, friendship, compassion, emotional healing

Orange: Creativity, enthusiasm, success, joy

Yellow: Wisdom, communication, mental clarity, confidence

Green: Prosperity, abundance, health, growth

Blue: Peace, tranquility, protection, intuition

Purple: Spirituality, psychic abilities, wisdom, power

Black: Protection, banishing negativity, grounding

Brown: Stability, grounding, home protection, animal magic

Types of Candles:

🕯️Taper Candles: Tall and thin, ideal for longer rituals and spells.

🕯️Pillar Candles: Thick and sturdy, suitable for extended workings and larger spells.

🕯️Tea Light Candles: Small and convenient, perfect for simple spells and meditations.

🕯️Chime Candles: Short and fast-burning, great for quick spells and intention-setting.

Preparing Your Candles

Once you've chosen your candle, it's essential to prepare or "dress" it for your magical work. This involves cleansing, charging, and anointing the candle to align it with your intention.

Cleansing: Cleanse your candle to remove any unwanted energies. You can pass it through the smoke of incense, sprinkle it with salt water, or hold it under running water while focusing on purifying it.

Charging: Charge your candle by holding it in your hands and visualizing your intention. Imagine your goal or desire flowing from your heart into the candle, filling it with energy and purpose.

Anointing: Anoint your candle with a suitable oil to enhance its power. Use oils that correspond to your intention, such as lavender for peace, rosemary for protection, or cinnamon for prosperity. Apply the oil from the top of the candle to the middle, then from the bottom to the middle.

Simple Candle Magick Spells and Rituals

Basic Intention Setting Spell

This is a straightforward spell for beginners to focus on a specific goal or desire.

1. Choose a candle color that matches your intention.

2. Write your intention on a piece of paper.

3. Light the candle and visualize your intention coming to fruition.

4. Focus on the flame and chant your intention, such as "I am attracting abundance" or "I am protected and safe."

5. Burn the paper in the candle's flame and let the candle burn down safely.

Candle Meditation for Clarity

This ritual helps clear your mind and gain insight or guidance.

1. Choose a white or blue candle.

2. Light the candle and sit comfortably in front of it.

3. Focus on the flame and take deep breaths, allowing your mind to clear.

4. Ask a question or seek guidance, and watch the flame for any flickers or movements.

5. Meditate for as long as you feel necessary, then extinguish the candle.

Protection Candle Spell

This spell creates a shield of protection around you or your home.

1. Choose a black or white candle.

2. Anoint the candle with protection oil (e.g., rosemary or frankincense).

3. Light the candle and visualize a protective shield surrounding you or your space.

4. Chant, "By this flame, I am protected. Negative energies are deflected."

5. Let the candle burn down safely, reinforcing your protective barrier.

Love and Friendship Spell

This spell attracts love, compassion, and friendship into your life

1. Choose a pink candle.

2. Write your desire for love or friendship on a piece of paper

3. Anoint the candle with rose oil

4. Light the candle and visualize loving energy flowing towards you.

5. Chant, "Love and friendship come my way, with harm to none, this I say."

6. Burn the paper in the flame and let the candle burn down safely.

Tips for Safe and Effective Candle Magick

• Always practice fire safety. Never leave a burning candle unattended and place it on a heat-resistant surface.

• Use a snuffer or your fingers to extinguish candles. Blowing them out can disperse the energy.

• Be mindful of the candle's flame and wax. The way it burns can provide insights into your spell's effectiveness.

• Keep a journal of your candle magick experiences to track your progress and learn from each ritual.

Candle magick is a powerful and accessible way to work with the elemental energy of fire and manifest your desires. By choosing the right candles, preparing them with intention, and engaging in simple spells and rituals, you can harness the transformative power of candle magick to illuminate your path and achieve your goals. As you light your candles, may your intentions burn bright, your heart be full of magic, and your spirit be guided by the gentle glow of the flame.

Happy casting!

🕯️✨🔮

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twentyfivemiceinatrenchcoat · 3 months ago

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sunday seems so distant, these days.

”won’t you pray with me?” a young boy calls, in the visage of your mind — an ever-fluctuating memory. you can hear it, when you close your eyes; a voice far less tailored, dipped in drops of sunshine. the kind of voice that tastes like citrus on your tongue.

younger, warmer.

(not yet tainted by the family.)

you had prayed with him, then. had clasped your hands together and wished for mercy.

for him, for robin, for you. for the three of you.

it feels like centuries ago. mountains of rubble, burning stars, two pairs of hands clinging onto yours for dear life. and then the prayers — endless, relentless, yielding to no one. you don’t know if anything is as enduring as a child’s heart.

that was then, and this is now.

”won’t you pray to me?”

sunday tilts his head, in rhythm with the glide of his fingertips along your pulsepoint. he’s smiling, just barely, and you can tell that he’s not asking.

whatever dream you were just in, whatever memory — it’s no more. the boy, the angel, fades away, leaving only a vague imprint on your muddled mind.

and your gaze overlaps with that of a certain halovian.

he still looks the same, fancy clothes aside. the same halo, the same feathers — only clipped, only slightly severed — the same honeyed golden eyes, piercing through the veil of whatever dream you find yourself in. his hair is the same, his bony fingers, his rosy lips.

it’s his smile that’s different.

the way he speaks to you.

you’ve learned not to question his late night visits. sunday never leaves you alone for long, never has, though when he was a child it didn’t feel anywhere near as suffocating. even when he’s out of sight, you feel his eyes on you — one of them, all five of them. feel the phantom weight of his hands on your shoulders, guiding you in the right direction.

you can’t tell when the change began. can no longer remember when he started behaving more like a god than an angel, when this distance was born.

his hand slips from your slender neck, slithers down, comes to rest on the bottle of wine he brought with him; a chartreuse glow in the dim light of your room, glimmering faintly, a crystallized firefly. he fills your cup, then his own. there’s more in one than the other.

his fingers wrap around the glass, one after the other, raising it to his pursed lips. taking a sip, dipping his tongue out to catch the droplets, feel them trickle down his throat; the residue paints his lips burgundy. you picture the sweet, weighty wine flowing through his esophagus, intoxication taking root inside his veins, eager to break into his bloodstream.

you picture sin as a beverage.

it’s not just in the smile, not just in the voice. his whole demeanor has shifted — the elegance he moves with, the calculation, the presence of something that demands reverence even without words. it’s overpowering, to have him so close, yet so out of reach, overpowering to have to sip from your cup and feel the sting in your throat afterwards.

(overpowering, to know he’s picturing you below him. on your knees, at whatever altar he fancies himself.)

when he parts his lips, it’s with decision. his voice flickers in the shadows of the room; you can almost see them, the words flowing from his lips, can feel them echo through the deepest parts of your soul.

”ask me for guidance,” he implores, demands, and you can tell the words are borrowed, stolen from a lesser man. ”and i will bestow it upon you.”

bestow.

the word rings inside your skull, crawls along your spine. he’s silent, now, unmoving. not even blinking. as if he’s trying to turn into a statue, a pillar of salt. moonlight streams in, illuminates his features, too beautiful to be human. sinners can’t be angels, but gods can’t be saints, so where does that leave him?

when you look into his eyes, you do not see a savior. you do not see your childhood friend. you see an overseer, the man at the end of every dream you have — a man yet to be quenched of his thirst.

you see a bird with its wings ripped off.

(when you flick the light switch of your mind, and squint your eyes — you see a god. your universe.)

the dreamscape outside your window glimmers and gleams, seeps through the translucent fabric of the curtains, licks along the walls; his cheekbones, your fingers. clasping them together comes easy, it’s muscle memory, you’ve done it all your life. it’s the prayer that’s difficult — the lack of a focal point.

you’ve always prayed for his protection, always. but you know that’s not what he wants from you.

sunday wants you to make him holy.

he wants you to expect nothing less.

he wants you to ask him for mercy, and he wants to give it to you with his own two hands. that’s all that lies in these late-night rendezvous — a promise of rot. the overseer watches you from across the table, and you know it would hurt less to simply walk away.

but you don’t.

you do exactly as he says.

with elegance, you clasp your hands together, and pray to him for guidance. sunday smiles — a finely tailored, made of silk, barely there kind of smile.

(the smile of a broken bird.)

moonlight dances on his skin, reflects in the glass of wine he puts to his lips — every single one of his eyes gazing down at you. pools of gold, the same as you remember, but infinitely colder — infinitely sadder. they look like solemn, broken windows, but there’s nothing behind them. what you see is what you get.

absolute order.

gone are the days his slender fingers would search for your own, slipping into the valleys between them, a prayer on his tongue. gone are the days where mercy was the only thing you’d think to wish for.

this is all there is, all you’ve got.

you, on your knees, at the altar of his sins. feeding into them, picturing them in your mind’s eye; flowing out of his eyes in tender rivulets, down the curve of his lips. dripping, dripping, dripping down his wrist —

(soon, the cup will overflow.)

#hsr x reader #honkai star rail x reader #hsr x you #sunday x reader #sunday x you #sunday x y/n #sunday hsr x reader #sunday x reader angst

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punk-in-docs · 6 months ago

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A song of rage and salty waves: part I

— Emperor Geta x reader (Salacia)

— 2.5k words

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

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

TW!! some dub con/ threat/violence/basically forced marriage/forced smut situation/Geta is such a vile human being/Macrinus is villain sorry denzel ily

You’re imprisoned in Rome.

You certainly didn’t come here of your own free will. Your father had tugged you here from Corsica. Employed clever charm with letters and schemes from his high position in the senate.

As the role of your sex; you were born to obey.

He sent you imported silken stolas the colours of cornflowers or lazurite, with gold fibulae at the shoulders. Gem inlaid jewellery, rings to decorate every finger, and earrings the sway. A golden net for your hair. Wheedled you into coming to join him. Sending servants to travel with you and take heed of your every comfort.

He made sure you dined on plump fresh fruit. Seafood of lobsters and crabs. Drank wine so rich dark it looked black.

You despise it. The stone pillars and temples. And gods of old. Eyes watch you everywhere. See you. Follow you.The governing heat and noise and sweaty heaving mass of all forms of life.

You were raised outside of this Rome. Born into peace. To know of fathomless deep seas, and skies so big, they wrapped around your whole sight. The way that at night all you can smell are lemon trees kissed by salt. The jasmine plants wound around the white walls of the villa.

Salacia. The ocean nymph and the being of your name. Crowned with seaweed in your hair. Sea foam dripping off your fingers. Ripped from your home, an isle by the sea, at the whim of another.

Imprisoned here in this cold marble city. A fish out of water. Gasping dry on the shore.

Pulled inland and stolen away. You can’t hear gulls or waves anymore. It sickens you. Heart pangs that throb for home.

When you arrived, pulled back your folded palla down to your shoulders. He welcomed you with open arms and fondness. Wrists linked in gold cuffs. Tugged you to his chest and embraced you warmly. Hissed in your ear - abrasive like harsh sea spray - spies are everywhere.

He needed you close by. For reasons you had yet to fathom.

You dined like spoilt deity’s. Breads and wines, fish, fruits from far regions fattened by the suns heat, and succulent meat roasted in sweet cassia spices on a spit.

He had urns of flowers - picked by the servant - placed in every room. Lilies, juniper branches still bearing dark fruit, lavender, oleanders.

Companions join him and he is boastful of you. A nubile creature offered placement at a table of old muddled men. He introduces you to trusted friends and advisors in the senate.

One man in particular takes keen interest as to your recent arrival. His name was Macrinus. Man of information and resources. Dealt in cunning and cruelty though you found him sincerely charming. Your father watched you with a desperate eye.

Macrinus bore a smile so dazzling and blinding it made you dizzy; made think of the sun god. Apollo and his light cast across golden wheat fields. Notes of fine music. He sipped his wine slow, as he learned the flavour of your name. Where you came from. Understanding the rolling sea foam in your veins.

There’s a game to be held at the coliseum. He will have your father as his guest - and you by a very pretty extension. He nods at you; his eyes glimmer like pooled liquid gold in the half lit dark. It almost makes you feel safe.

They dine and drink into the small hours. Yet you slip away.

You watched this awful city out your window that night in your silk dress the colour of night time tidal waves. The air is stale. Carrion to you. Hot. Full of dust and sweat. Here, It smells like mulberry trees and a green garden waiting for blessed rain.

You couldn’t hear the sea. Or your sisters. Your mothers humming as she wove cloth and mended clothes. And you wept.

Salt found in your tears to be your only sacred comfort of home.

You are soft to this hard stone city. The coliseum is magnificent. As large as it is those who hold their powerful fists over its rule. Clutched in gold. Fine for the rich. Deadly for the slaves and warriors thrown into the pit at the whim of others. Met with carnivore teeth and sand and death.

The senators, generals, and the rich merchants watch from their perch, up among the gods they serve, presiding in shade and clothed in perfumed silks and jewels. Ladies and men both.

Your hair took hours to fasten in its current coiled style. Plaited and weaved. Your dress is the colour of the softest blue shore. Your servant lavished your arms and fingers in golden finery. A serpent cuff coiled around your arm. Skin draped in lemon oil because it’s the small piece of Corsica you carry here with you. Serenity to push against this place of gore, butchery and death.

You find yourself seated here amongst giants. Macrinus is seated one side. Your father the other. He fondly lays his hand across yours in gentle touch.

His palm is damp. Gold rings wet.

His face looks haggard with age. The lines by his eyes more prominent. Rome is poisoning him. The golden apple just a fingertip shy of his reach. St Bartholomew flayed and stripped of skin piece by piece. Schemes and plots lay thick in his mind like rot. Sweat beads down across his brow and the thinning salt pepper of his hair.

He says something to Macrinus that you’re too absorbed to hear. It’s low. Dragged through a growl. He appears unmoved, with a slow flick of his eyes to you. Watching this finery and loudness devour you. Your eyes so full wide and round. Salt and innocence entwined.

You all rise when the emperors pass by, Geta and Caracalla, who stride in, garbed in gold and cloaks. Come to take their rightful place at the mouth of the box where you are seated.

They are like twin suns to the Roman people. Lion gold hair kissed by fire. They burn and twist and shine with it. Make noises like gold coins that clack when they move. Strung in riches and golden crowns of olive leaves and branches.

Together they make you think of Romulus and Remus. Raised rabid by wolves. And they certainly make an impression. You’ve heard tale of the voracious nature of the blood sport they all but live for. Faces limned in the glory of gore.

The crowd cheers for them. They nod and wave but it appears barbed. The games begin with a wave of applause and a regal hand.

Caracalla twists and casts an eye in your direction. Seeing new meat.

The way you sit sedately and can’t cast your mind into the butchery and violence happening below. The clash of steel. The hollow squelching cries that proceed death. The spill of viscera and the scatter of brain matter from split heads.

Each new gash or split in skin made them smile. The taint of blood. Metallic sour. Spilling of offal and exposed bone.

He tilts his head like a clever wolf. Eyes darken. His sneer as terrible as a skulls. He leans across and whispers something to his brother with a knock of his arm to gain attention.

Another set of wolfish eyes join the first in hooking to your skin. Silly soft girl. Made of gentle sea breezes and lapping blue waves calm and soft enough to wade in. Pearl shining in moonlight. So watery and weak. So good. Untouchable.

Geta swept his gaze on you from head to toe. Appraising you hungrily through greedy eyes. The beauty of your figure in that soft folds of that stola. The gold that crushed your neck. Broaches at your fair shoulders. Hair glistening and finely arranged.

He liked the way you winced when another sword blow came. The pull of your brows and how you had to look away. He wanted you gathered up in his lap; fingers crushing your jaw as he turned your head; force you to watch as the men cleaved at each other and drew blood. Hacked off limbs. Laugh at your revulsion.

Looking at you sat there; He has an urge to take his dagger, slit that fine silk from your shoulders and bare your real beauty. Grab it off you and snatch your dress down. Spoil himself on your curves. Grab your breasts. He’s sure you’ve tits that even a goddess would envy. He’d reel you in by grabbing your ass that definitely needs a spank and some attention.

You’re even prettier than some of the finest whores he’s had grace his bed. They never kept his interest too long. Too entwined in filth and sin like him; you look pure as a vestal virgin.

He likes that. He wants to pluck it off you and spoil it.

You don’t dare meet his eyes. Of course you don’t. He’s an emperor. He could have you executed for looking at him wrongly. Instead; you wring your hands in your lap and squirm. Close your eyes tighter with every dying wail.

He turns back to the fight. As do you. A gasp flies from your mouth when you draw your eyes to one of the measly soldiers in the arena. Your father left his seat to stand, mouth gaping.

You saw the familiar arrangement of strong limbs. Garbed in warriors clothing. The way his arms shook holding a sword. Inexperienced and struggling. The fight was not fair. The same head of hair that matched your own.

Your oldest brother.

Macrinus grinned. “He’s not my finest fighter. But I wager he’ll be good sport.” He smirks.

Your father turned, cursed the gods, and exploded with venomous rage. Flew for the man with his fists. Grabbed his clothing. You tried to restrain the storm of his temper - but then you’d got that trait from somewhere hadn’t you? - an ocean thrashing wild and free. Terrifying in its rage.

“You promised me.” Your father roared. Spittle flying.

“I never promised to protect your traitor of a son. Let us see if the gods spare him. Yes?” Macrinus commented.

You couldn’t take your eyes from the pit. Nor could your father. He clutched to you like he could barely stand. Weakened and shrinking. Hand a vice on your shoulder. It burned like the sting of sun but you couldn’t shrug him off.

Your brother was meeting with an opponent far larger than he was. A Retiarius. Helmet, trident, dagger and a net.

Of which had currently knocked your brother to the blood dusted dirt. Spearing the trident deep into his thigh. Pinning him to earth like a bug. His cry of pain ringing out. Blood sheeted down one side of his head. His scream is the most horrible thing you’d ever heard.

You can’t help it. Where you’re stood, you cry out. It pours forth from you.

The Retiarius loomed over your bother like a terrible storm cloud. Looking up at the stands for direction. The whole audience cheered and screamed for more.

Geta stood up and the crowd bayed. He sneered at the sight before him. All the power of a god; crammed into a mortal man.

He raised his arm. And hesitated for a moment. Before he smirked. And pointed his thumb right up.

Death.

Your father wailed. The huge lumbering gladiator descended onto your brother. Flinging the net off and cutting his throat in one fast slice. Blood poured and pooled around lifeless eyes. Stained the sand.

Macrinus stood to his feet and clapped along with everyone else. The emperors’ laughed like hyenas at the sight. Blood and pain only made their smiles grow.

Before you knew what was happening, the palace guards had you and your father surrounded. Hands viced around your arms. Your shoulders. Your father too.

Traitor. He decried. A traitor in the senate. The tarpeian rock.

Just like his now dead son. People’s poised against the glory of Rome. Against Caracalla and Geta. Death to all.

Macrinus spoke harshly to the guards to release you. He backhanded you across your cheek. Your eye felt like it was going to burst. Cheek flamed with fire. Lip cut and bleeding down your chin from his ring.

He then wasted little time in digging his fingers into your finely done hair. Hauled you along screaming. Tears streaming.

Your father could only watch, limbs wrenching forwards in terror to help, as Macrinus marched you across the stands to where they sat.

He threw you to the ground like a feral animal. Tumbled you onto your knees. Skimmed your hands. As you squirmed and cried at your body twisted to his cruelty.

“Your majesties. I have personally uncovered a traitor in your court. Senator Aurelius. Not only was his first born placed in rebellion against Rome. But he himself has been sowing seeds of treason in your senate. I bring you his filthy kin as recompense…” He spat at the Emperors. Releasing your mussed hair to throw you to their feet.

They examined you as one would a creature. Nothing of humanity left. Devoid of any feeling. You crawled slowly to your elbows. Tried to claw away sobs. Raising up but not daring to look at them. You weren’t worthy. You feared them.

Geta was the one who rose slowly to his feet. Coming to stand before you. “We are most grateful for your revelation, Macrinus. You will be rewarded for such loyal service.” Though he spoke to him, his eyes never left you.

You father shouted and cried pleas. They go unheard. He snaps to the guards who hold him. “Silence that treacherous snake-“ he barks. They beat him into submission.

You stay cowering on the ground. In amongst the gritty dirt, and the blood like those slaves and gladiators. That’s how they saw you. That’s how much you were worth. Held in the same regard as the dirt on their shoes.

You feel a ring clad hand tip a finger under your chin. Blood dripping down onto that digit as he made you raise your head to look at him until your neck hurt.

“What is your name, pretty little traitor-“ He sneers. Because that is all you are. They’ve tarred and feathered you with the same brush.

You give it to him through tears that run freely. You give this awful golden haired emperor with dark lecherous eyes your name.

“Salacia.” You cry. Voice watery and cloaked in heavy salty sobs. Lips parted. So soft and pliable. Lovely and ripe and waiting for him. A gift from the gods-

He tilts his head down at you. Looking like some sun gold lion. Showing his canines in a cruel white smile.

“Imprison them. Both.” He smirks.

He thinks he may have them bring him your fathers head on a platter. Strangulation seemed too soft. Too forgiving. He had to make an example of you.

He had a particular way in mind for your fate. He watched you get led away crying as he sucked your sweet blood off his thumb.

You tasted like salt and sea foam

Tagging in the hopes this finds its way to the right people—

@indouloureux @trashmouth-richie @atabigail @lunatictardis @waywardrose @ceriseheaven @hillarymurray4 @lurkingprincess @ramona-thorns @joequinnswhore @iliveforotps @eddiesskittle @roosterisdaddy36 @rose-tinted @lluviamg06 @ravensfromvalhalla @fujiihime @youaremyfamiliar @captain-tch @ghosttownwherenoonegoes @svenyves @sammararaven @feralgoblinbabe @groupie-love-71 @andromeda-andromeda @morganamoonstone @gvtosbith @munsonswhore @shenevertricks1831 @hazzaismyreligion @harrys-titties @anaisweird @cinnamoncunt @red-lipstick-bisexual @wheels-of-despair @tvserie-s-world @callmeloverr @ho-for-joequinn-fics @bettyfrommars @rip-quizilla @songforeddiemunson @usedtobecooler @peachesandfiends @littlelioncub43 @heyndrix @babybluebex @blueywrites @joejoequinnquinn @cool-nick-miller @sheneedsrocknroll92 @rehfan @pedgito @dracomaledicte @gamingaquarius @mypoisonedvine @ddejavvu @sharp-and-swift @chaptersleftunwritten

#emperor geta #punkwrites #joseph quinn #ancient rome #gladiator 2 #gladiator #i would die for this man #geta is a bitch ok #lots of holy goddess imagery #idfk what im doing #i wrote this in a fever dream induced daze at 2am ok #pls dont kill me smut in next chap ofc #geta is a hugeeee nasty prick #the title is so douchey I’m sorry #smut to come !

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wearysparrows · 14 days ago

Text

I (Almost) Shot You Down

Summary: A chance encounter with Sylus snowballs something much larger, and you're pushed even deeper into the depths of his world -- whether you like it or not.

Chapter 1: A pillar of Salt

After being forced on leave from the Hunter's Association, you try to find respite outside of the safety of your apartment. By chance, you see Sylus engaged with someone else. You nearly take his head for it -- but he gets his way, in the end.

CW (18+): Sylus/reader, no use of ' Y/N,' Hurt/Comfort, Misunderstandings, Guns, MC is chronically depressed and exhausted, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Not Beta Read, Explicit Sexual Content, Blood and Violence, Drug Use, Gambling, Reader is MC, AFAB reader is implied but no pronouns are used

A/N: This is my long, ongoing work that is still being updated. There are many more chapters up on ao3, and I'm working on getting them to tumblr. They're also being edited and improved from their original postings, so if you've read it before, there may be some changes as I upload!

You had finally begrudgingly accepted a few days off from your work with the Hunter’s Association, at the behest of your primary care physician (citing your declining physical health), your boss (citing your declining work performance), and your work partner (citing your declining mental health). The aforementioned meddlers had teamed up in an effort to finally tear you away from hunting, and would not allow you to return, despite your valiant attempts at protest. Work was your escape – from yourself, from the reality of your life, from your relationships – and everything in between. Hunting never changed, and you only got better at it.

Your blatant disregard for yourself had failed to continue to go unnoticed by those who cared about you, though. Now, here you were, sitting in your empty apartment with only the all encompassing silence to keep you company. Left alone with your thoughts. Again. You hadn’t bothered to kick the lights on. Only the sound of the heater clicking filled the otherwise empty air around you. Your mind went where it always did, then. That day. No bodies were ever recovered. You didn’t even have something to bury. Caleb’s dog tags had found their way into your hands at some point, and you gazed at them listlessly in your palm. You could still feel the heat from the residual fires of the explosion radiating off of the metal. The warmth of his hand in yours. It was all you had left to prove he ever really existed.

You desperately needed to get out of the house. Anything was better than being here, and perhaps you would accidentally run into some wanderers while the ghost of you made its way about Linkon city. Throwing yourself at hordes of wanderers was the only coping mechanism that had shown any signs of taking your mind off of things. Sort of. With this scheme in mind, you quickly dressed yourself in your usual, strapping your gun to your thigh, concealing its comforting weight under your coat. It wasn’t like you were on forced bedrest, so a walk wouldn’t hurt, right? You stashed Caleb’s tags in your nightstand drawer, returning them to their safe place. You imagined that someday, they’d burn a hole in that wood, and you’d come back to nothing at all.

You left your apartment with no particular aim in mind, being sure to lock the door behind you. The biometric lock shifted into place with a soft whirr behind you. You may have been utterly exhausted, but you were never complacent. The weather outside wasn’t ideal for a walk, and the wind buffeted your hair about your face, and bit at your skin, as if you were offending it with your mere presence outside. Your eyes watered, protesting the assaults by the air. You opted to ignore these sensations, and continued to walk in what you thought was the direction of the nearby shopping district. Your appetite had long since left you – months ago now – but you knew you could find a small measure of pleasure in a cup of coffee on a day like today.

After many twists and turns, your weary feet led you to an area you weren’t wholly familiar with. Maybe it was new? This was more upscale than your usual, you realized – your Hunter’s salary was decent enough, but definitely not this decent. Cobblestone that looked suspiciously new made the click of your boot-heels echo loudly off of your surroundings. You scrutinized the buildings before you, searching for somewhere that your presence would not offend, where you could also acquire what you were after. Everything was just a touch too upscale, too unwelcoming. All of the storefronts blurred into one image, one place where you weren’t welcomed. You chased thoughts from that same morning out of your mind that threatened to break through as you were forced into a moment of mental silence, and the still of the air and the lack of bustle kept returning you to reality. The last place you wanted to be.

After a time of aimless searching, you spied a place that looked acceptable. It was smaller than the other establishments, tucked away conservatively into an alley, lit by warm sconces along either side. Unlike the other buildings, it was painted in a warm, sandy beige. You couldn't tell much else about it from the outside, other than that the interior was dimly lit. The imagery of the cup of coffee on the signage was enough to guide your way. You pulled open the heavy glass door, and half expected it to be partially empty on the inside, but you had no such luck. It was bustling, but warm as a result, and you realized how cold you had been before you had stepped in. The change in temperature almost immediately made you feel too hot in your coat.

The patronage was definitely outside of your tax bracket. The patronage was clad in an array of expensive looking furs and fabrics, all speaking to each other in the lowest of dulcet tones. You felt their eyes on you, but disregarded them. It wasn’t as if you weren’t allowed to be here, regardless of how out of place you may have looked. Which, you thought, wasn’t that much. You might not have been born into high snob-society, but you took good care of your looks. Your fingers were still moving slowly in protest to the inclement weather as you fished your wallet from your coat pocket, stepping towards the counter with the intention to order. You hardly glanced at the menu. You didn’t even have a drink in mind. Just something as a distraction. Liquid, hot enough to burn your tongue. A sensation to chase the thoughts away.

This course of action was quickly interrupted, however. In your periphery, you caught a glimpse of a shock of white hair on someone who seemed to tower over the rest of the people in the room, even while sitting. Clad in blacks and velvet reds, he both fit in perfectly and stood out starkly all at once. He was talking to someone else you couldn't see in a hushed tone.

Sylus?

Surely not. Why would he even be here, of all places? Sure, it was nice, but not places-Sylus-frequented nice. Or at least, the places you imagined he frequented. You still didn’t have a full idea of all of the things Sylus did with his free time. Short of that, what was he doing cavorting about in Linkon in public? Your eyes bored holes into the back of his head, trying to catch wind of what could have possibly brought him to a place like this. You side stepped into a corner table that allowed you to get a better look at who he was speaking with.

A woman?

This clearly wasn’t just any woman, either. A cascade of elaborately curled blonde hair fell down her back in elegant waves, and a deep red dress clung to her like a second skin, outlining her perfectly against Sylus’s dark form. A small nose, and full lips. Long, dark lashes. She was saying something to him, but you couldn’t make out the words in the den of the conversations from the other patrons. He laughed in response to her words, and leaned closer to her. She was smiling at him, covering her mouth with a delicate hand. Her other hand touched his shoulder.

Stones stacked neatly in your stomach as you watched them. You felt like a voyeur. They looked exquisite together – it was undeniable. She was even wearing the perfect color of red. It looked as if she had exsanguinated someone and dyed the dress in their blood – a perfect match for Sylus. Everything else – everyone – in the room paled in comparison. Sylus was still smiling at her, full of charm. You thought about what Zayne had said to you before forcing you to take time off.

You look like you’re two steps away from death. Take a few days off.

Well, his observation was more astute than he realized, clearly. You certainly felt that way now, in light of the spectacle that was playing out before you. Maybe only one step away. Half a step. You told yourself this was none of your business, that you should just quietly take your leave before he noticed you had ever been here. There was no reason for him to take notice of you while he was attending to his private matters. You were just passing through his life. Brushing through his fingertips. Never actually touching him in any way that mattered. Physically, mentally, spiritually.

You decided you needed to leave. Urgently. Despite telling yourself staring down the couple wasn’t bothering you because there was nothing between you and Sylus anyway and what the hell was your problem, you had begun to feel nauseated. You clutched your arm about your midsection, and hurriedly peeled yourself out of your seat. Every one of your muscles protested at the movement, reminding you that you should be at home right now. On forced bedrest, probably.

That just wasn’t in the cards. You weren’t sure you had a hand to play at all. You silently cursed the great dealer in the sky.

You made a beeline for the door, but not before you took one final glance at Sylus and his companion. Even if you were to turn into a pillar of salt for looking back, you just needed one more glimpse. To satiate your curiosity. But luck wasn’t on your side (when was it ever?), because you met Sylus’s eye as you looked, as well as those of the beautiful woman. You saw surprise pass over his features, and thought you saw his lips part as if he were going to say something. The woman peered back at you curiously. You cast your eyes away from the bewitching image before you.

You could feel all the water being sucked from each of the cells in your body, one by one. You would shrivel up on the spot, and leave behind only the base impression of yourself in the wake of your shame. Hopefully, your rotten yearning soul would be freed to roam elsewhere, far from here, in this place you didn’t belong.

Ah, take me, O salt pillar!

There were no such mercies in this life, of course. You left the cafe as quickly as your feet would allow. The glass door slammed behind you. You were running now, for reasons you couldn’t (didn’t want to) quantify. It wasn’t as if he was chasing after you, coming to explain that no, she’s just a friend, just someone I work with, don't worry. Faster you went, the need to see the comforting outline of your apartment against the sky becoming more desperate by the moment. Fortunately, the run home was certainly shorter than the walk to the cafe, and the image you so desired to see appeared before you, blessedly.

Only then did you allow yourself a moment to rest. Your lungs screamed in protest at your outburst, and you sucked in great mouthfuls of air, trying to forcibly still your rapidly beating heart. It was always betraying you in one way or another, even now. You bent over, your hands on your knees, and took a moment to collect yourself. You were grateful no one had been around to see this display, from you leaving your apartment, to running away from a damn coffee shop empty-handed. You curled a fist in your hair, willing it out of your face as you righted yourself. A few stray strands came away in your fingers. That had been happening more and more often, as of late.

The walk up the stairs was nothing else if not excruciating, and you thanked even your unluckiest stars that Xaiver didn’t seem to be home from work yet to see the unfortunate events of your life play out as they were. You stumbled into your apartment – being sure to lock the door behind you, as always.

The safety of your home did good work to soothe your nerves, a stark contrast to the horrid occurrence in the cafe. You shrugged into something more comfortable: a camisole and a pair of soft, cotton pajama shorts. This set had yet to let you down in the comfort department. Even as you changed, the events played over and over through your mind, and you burned with the embarrassment of it all. Sylus’s smile at that woman, his laughter. The way his gaze had twisted into something else entirely when he saw you. Your nausea refused to calm. Your mouth kept filling with too much saliva, over and over.

Why did you have to run away, of all things? You had left like a petulant child who was unable to cope with the sight before them, instead retreating to your small corner of safety in the world.

Wry thoughts came to you. This is what I get for taking a day off. You knew you had been wrong to do so. Your prophecy was always fulfilling itself. Take that, Dr. Zayne.

Still, you were yet unwilling to heed the siren’s call of your bed, despite the increasing intensity of its song. You flopped onto the couch instead with a sigh, the air entering and leaving your lungs easier now. You longed to be rid of the image of Sylus entangled with someone else, and decided you needed to busy your hands with something to scrub the thoughts from your mind.

As a result of not taking nearly any days off lately, you were definitely behind on the maintenance of your weapons. It technically wasn’t work. It was only related to work. You bent over from your position on the couch, and peered underneath it. Here was where your smallest gun safe lived. Perhaps not the most ideal place for it – but it wasn’t as if you had company over often, anyway. Save for Xavier, your steady and ever-reliable partner. And more recently, Sylus, who you hadn’t yet found an accurate definition for. His presence was usually accentuated by some excuse to intrude on your space.

You unlocked the safe. It was an old-school version, not biometric like the newer models. Pure, vintage analog goodness. A gift from Grandma when you had entered the Hunter’s Association. It came open with a soft, satisfying click. Only two weapons were usually inside – your Hunter’s issue handgun, old faithful. You returned it to its rightful place, now, as it had dutifully attended the cafe fiasco with you. With it was a piece that had forced itself into your possession – or rather, Sylus had forced it into your possession. You eyed the offending object, picking it up gingerly and placing it on the coffee table in front of you. It was considerably heavier than your standard issue. It had thunked onto the glass of the table, as if it were moderately offended to be there. Did even his gifts take on aspects of his personality? His influence seemed to know no bounds, so nothing would surprise you at this point. He certainly had a penchant for creating objects with personalities, if Mephisto was any measure.

This gun wasn’t the only firearm Sylus had thrust upon you. A gift, he had said. You weren’t wholly unconvinced he wasn’t using your house as his millionth-whatever-armory. You had accrued so many weapons that you had to acquire a secondary safe, the hulking mass of which sat in your bedroom forebodingly. It held all of the other “gifts” inside, tucked safely away in the darkness, waiting to be used for their dark purpose. You hid it underneath a spare sheet. The second safe was another gift from Sylus. It reminded you of him, in a way – it imposed its presence in your house: tall, cold, stark, and white. It didn’t fit here at all. And it was full of things meant to rend flesh from flesh, flesh from bone. Life from this plane into the next. You thought about the first time you met Sylus, and how he had obliterated a man from existence before your eyes with his evol. There hadn’t been so much as an ounce of recognition in his eyes for the life he had taken. The memory made your nausea threaten to return to you.

Your eyes came back into focus on the gun in front of you. You liked guns, and as much as you hated to admit it, this one was no exception. It was a beautiful article – a faithful reproduction of a vintage Colt 1911. A classic, by anyone’s measure. It was a forty-five caliber, with an eight-plus-one round capacity. The recoil of your Hunter’s association issue paled into comparison to this, and it affected your accuracy negatively. You had recently replaced its bullets – standard full metal jackets – with hollow point rounds. Higher accuracy, higher damage. You planned to test this on the next Wanderer who was unlucky enough to be at the other end of your barrel. Or the next man. Those had only recently come into your sights, as a result of your exploits – at the request of Sylus. He had never actually asked you to gun a living person down, though. You weren’t sure you were even capable of doing so. Or if he would ask.

The wood grip was custom engraved with your name, and encrusted with jewels, courtesy of him. Naturally. The body was scrubbed of any serial number. Naturally.

Ugh.

You placed it on your knees, with the intention to take it apart to clean and maintain it. You intended to add a suppressor, which you had purchased with your own money. Not a gift from Sylus. Small victories.

Just as you began to take the weapon apart, you caught a sound. There was a sort of shuffling at your door, as if someone were standing behind it. The hair on the back of your neck stood up, prickling. Your intuition told you that whatever was behind it was something to be feared. You loaded the spare magazine of hollow points into the piece with a soft click. You flicked the safety off. Your hands had already begun to sweat.

You pointed the gun at the door. It was too heavy in your hands.

Whoever was behind the door was making quick work of the lock, despite it necessitating your biometric data to unlatch.

What if it was the same people who had taken the lives of Caleb and Gran? Had they finally had enough of this game of cat and mouse, and come for you?

You held your breath to steady yourself. The extension of Sylus’s violence wavered back and forth in your grip. The door came open at a painfully slow pace, and a large figure in black slipped through. You cocked back the hammer, which had previously given you difficulty. Now adrenaline bolstered even the strength in your fingertips, any previous weakness forgotten. The figure turned, closing the door behind him. Upon seeing you on your makeshift gunner’s perch on the back of the couch, he raised his hands in surrender, showing you the calloused tan of his palms. One of his hands was nearly the size of your head.

“Sylus?”

His eyebrows had initially shot up in surprise at your current posture, but he quickly relaxed his face into that of his usual mask of easy confidence. You hated that about him, his composure. You adored it, too. He couldn’t even bother to look afraid at the end of a gun. The gun he gave you. You exhaled the breath you had been holding through your nose.

“Expecting someone else?”

He sounded pleased, of all things. You suddenly felt very exposed, in nothing but your camisole and shorts. Despite the gun in your hands, it was as if you were at the other end of his. Your head felt hot. Your forearms began to protest at the weight of the weapon. You blinked new wetness into dry eyes.

“Why the fuck are you breaking into my house?”

You didn’t lower the gun. You didn’t want to. It wasn’t as if it was the first time you two had ended up like this. You, trying to kill him. Him, accepting your choice. Probably not the last, either. You were angry with him – not for breaking in, no. Not for his casual nonchalance in the face of death (could he even die?), not for his disregard for your poweress as an opponent. But for his date with someone else. Someone who was decidedly not you. The feeling bubbled up, stronger and stronger until it was burning you from the inside out. Shame accompanied it, hand in hand.

Of course, you had no real justification for this feeling. You and Sylus weren’t dating, as you needed to remind yourself more and more frequently. You weren’t even sure you could call your relationship friendly – it was somewhere in the bizarre stage of you wanting him, and him accepting your every move with grace. He took you for all you were in stride, met you for all your whims, and you trailed after his every word. You had something he wanted – what it was, you were never quite sure. It changed with his tides. You couldn’t pry it from him. Questions were only answered with more questions, so you had given up on asking them. Sylus’s response to your question cut through your thoughts. His voice was soft, imporing.

“You didn’t answer my texts or calls. I was knocking for a while, too, but there was no answer. With the way you left, I came to make sure.”

Make sure of what?

You hadn’t heard any knocking. You also hadn’t checked your phone.

He seemed to be choosing his words carefully, and they came in a slow, steady stream into your consciousness. You thought about the first time you had shot him. How his blood erupted from his chest in hot streams. It stained your hands as you tried desperately to stop his bleeding, pressing against the pulse of the open wound. When you thought you had taken his life. When he had pressed the trigger for you. When he didn’t die. The heat of him was still there, under your palms. It wouldn’t wash off. He was under your skin.

“I’m glad you like the gift, by the way.”

He took a step towards you as he spoke. You adjusted your grip. He was still in your sights. Your breath came quick, your mouth dry. You licked your lips, cracked from worrying your teeth on them so often lately. You thought about the woman and Sylus. Together. The red dress. Sylus’s blood. His laugh, for someone else. Not you.

“You’re welcome to take my life again,” he murmured soothingly, “But it might disturb the neighbors. Particularly the one downstairs. Of course, I’m willing to help you deal with the aftermath. Either way.”

He still had his hands raised in submission. The image of it was practically ridiculous. This wasn’t a posture that Sylus took up under any other circumstance. You knew it was all a show for your benefit, and that you were no match for him, despite your own prowess. Something about his unrelenting acceptance of his own death at your hands (again) dragged you out of your stupor by your achilles heel. You lowered the gun. Sylus took the opportunity to stride forward, and quickly slipped it from your hands with his own. You let him. His touch lingered just a moment too long, fingers pressed to yours. He was warm. Too warm for someone who had just been out in the cold. You resisted the urge to take his hand. His evol materialized, and quickly turned the safety on, ejecting the magazine. It returned the gun to the safe, shutting it away as if it had never happened. The red cloud disappeared as quickly as it came, as if it never were at all. The process took no more than a few seconds of silence between the two of you.

“You were going to modify it?” He asked, nonchalant. As if you hadn’t just been almost making an attempt on his life. He glanced at the suppressor, now cold and lonely on the coffee table.

“Yeah. I was going to...add a suppressor.”

You could hear the flat affect in your voice. It reflected how drained you were beginning to feel by all of this, on top of everything else. Your shoulders sagged under the weight of it.

What the fuck was this conversation, actually?

Sylus nodded, still managing to look pleased with the situation. You felt your life force actively draining from you as the seconds ticked by, as if you were the one who had almost been shot. His gaze shackled you in place, still. The sterling of his hair and the garnet of his eyes were just as enticing as ever. Radically out of place in your modest apartment.

“Can I help you down?”

His soft inquiry brought to your attention that you were still perched with one foot up on the back of the couch, poised to kill him. Your hands were now very much without the gun. Nothing connected you to the world below you concretely, anymore. Except him. He was standing before you with an offered hand. At some point during your conversation, he had rolled up his sleeves, revealing the rippling capability of the muscle of his forearms. It enticed you without voice. You took his outstretched hand, wordlessly. To your surprise, he pulled you over the back of the couch and towards him, catching you like you were nothing, his free hand supporting your waist. You landed softly on your feet in front of him, still in his arms, hand in his own. For a moment, the posture reminded you of how you had danced with him at the auction. You looked up at him, he down at you. His expression was inscrutable, save for a little smile. You were close enough to see the soft sweep of his eyelashes. The circles under his eyes. Proud nose and soft lips. You pulled away, hugging your arms to yourself. It was much colder for his lack of touch. His hands hovered at the place where he had held for a moment, and then fell back to his sides.

“What has you so wound up? I tried to call out to you this morning, but you bolted before I could greet you.”

Sylus had his head cocked at you now, as if the answer you had for him was something very simple. He adjusted one of his sleeve garters. You averted your gaze, studying a now very interesting speck of dust on your floor. You wanted to put all of this behind you, to forget it had ever happened. You would have never brought it up had he never shown his face. But he had to be here, asking questions. Making you lie to him even more than you already did. You had never been a liar until you spent time with him. You tried to keep your tone level as you spoke.

“I didn’t want to interrupt your date.”

Even saying it made your insides crawl. You spat the last word out with more venom that you had intended. Your lower intestine was trying to creep up to your diaphragm, and seemed to be succeeding. Sylus raised an eyebrow in your direction.

“Date?”

He crossed his arms over his chest. The movement made his biceps all the more prominent. He sounded puzzled, and was scrutinizing you, now. You couldn’t comprehend what was so hard to understand about all of this. You sighed, despite your best attempts to keep your emotions from bleeding through your cracks.

“Yes, date. What would you have me do? Come up and introduce myself while you’re clearly in the middle of something?”

You were aware you were completely out of line here. None of this was any of your concern in the first place. You had stuck your nose where it didn’t belong. Sylus had, quite literally, no obligation to you whatsoever. Certainly not to explain himself, or who he chose to spend his time with. You wanted to shrink and disappear into the floorboards. Perhaps you could seep through the cracks like smoke, and escape this confrontation all together. But you didn’t have that kind of power – unless Sylus was with you, holding you in his arms.

He had been quiet for a time. He started again.

“The woman I was with today is one of my contacts in Linkon. She helps me smuggle things in and out when I can’t attend to them personally. I’ve been working on...procuring something. For you.” He cleared his throat a little, as if he had just told you an embarrassing secret.

You gawked at him. He was still smiling at you. His eyes met yours. Seeing everything you didn’t want him to see. He didn’t even need to use the protocore in his right eye. It was all bared to him, regardless.

“And yes,” he continued,

“I would have been very pleased to introduce you. You only let me show you off every so often – I wanted to seize the opportunity by the horns.”

There were too many things you didn’t understand. How he could move about Linkon so nonchalantly. How he could be having conversations about smuggling in an upscale Linkon cafe. How the man before you, who gained all of his income from untold numbers of criminal activities, was the same who willingly spent his free time with you playing Kitty Cards and screwing around in the arcade. It was too much. You turned from him, and instead returned to the safety of the couch. You sat on it, grounding yourself with the feeling of your own belongings. You heard him follow after you. His shoes were still on, but you didn’t have the heart to scold him for his disregard for your floor's cleanliness. He sat next to you. The couch sunk under his greater weight, and caused you to slip a little closer to him on the furniture.

“You don’t owe me an explanation, Sylus.”

It was all you could say. Better to keep the respectable distance between you just as it was. Any further and you wouldn't be able to keep up this facade around him anymore. He kept pulling at your threads, trying to reveal your insides.

“No one owes anyone anything. But I wanted to tell you. Besides,” you felt his evol touch your hand, ever so gently. It was as if he was holding it without actually holding it. The little red extension of himself curled around your fingers playfully. You remembered how it had choked and shackled you in the past. Now it sat in your lap like a beloved pet, curling about your knees and fingertips. It’s usual crackling intensity was gone, now only a light, pleasant buzz against your skin. You focused on the sensation. It was warm, like him.

"Here I was, excited to think that you were going to shoot me because you thought you saw me out with someone else. I’m a little disappointed that wasn’t the reason.”

He was chuckling, like what just occurred had amused him. Something to spice up the usual banal repetition of his everyday life. You felt yourself deflating. There was no more hot air left inside – just the residual exhaustion, both emotionally and physically. You found yourself wishing, again, that you hadn’t taken a day off. If you hadn’t, Sylus wouldn’t have broken into your apartment to explain he wasn’t out with someone else. To you. The person he was also decidedly Not With. You fiddled with his evol in your lap. You had been around him often enough to know this teasing was his way of trying to cheer you up – to take your mind somewhere else besides exhausted and angry and I want to leave this plane of existence.

“I’ll be sure to follow through with it next time.”

There was no real bite to your words – to your ears, you only sounded exactly as you felt. Like you were threatening the man you had feelings for who did not return them, yet still refused to leave you alone. A plaything for his own amusements. Sylus merely nodded. His evol had since made its way to the drawstrings of your shorts, and it was tying them in various intricate knots, there. You wondered at it. It seemed to have a mind of its own – but you were certain that this, too, was another idle whim of his.

“I’m looking forward to it, then.”

His statement was quiet, nearly a sigh of pleasure. The back of your neck and ears burned in tandem. You examined the knots that were now likely forever tied into your poor drawstring.

What the fuck kind of knots even were these?

You pointedly ignored the minor arousal that threatened to arise at this.

“There’s something wrong with your brain. Seriously.”

“It takes a thief to catch a thief, my dove.” You could hear the smile in his words as he spoke.

“You have a few days off, right?” He was rolling the previously abandoned suppressor around in his fingers, examining it. You swore he had somehow gotten closer to you on the small couch – with the way his legs were spread, his knee was just barely touching yours.

“Yeah. Wait, how did you know?”

He ignored your question. As he almost always did, as it suited him. Instead, he responded with another question of his own.

“Why don’t you come back with me to the N109 zone? You can rest there, instead of here. Or, we can go out. Whatever you’d like.”

You were about to deny him, but his voice took on a more serious tone as he continued to speak.

“This place is going to claim your life if you don’t leave it every once in a while.”

You look two steps away from death. Take a few days off.

Why was everyone in your life so thoroughly convinced of your impending collapse? Even your criminal mastermind was in on it. You scrunched Sylus’s evol up in your hands. It wiggled, protesting your treatment in your fingers, but not dissipating. You wondered if he could feel your touch through it. If he could feel it when he killed. Maybe you did need to leave – maybe this place was killing you. If it wasn’t Wanderers, it would be your own disregard for yourself. Maybe the air was forever tainted by the death of your family, and the miasma would never quite leave your lungs. Maybe running away was the best thing to do. Sylus was giving you an out – at least for a little while. Maybe there were strings attached. There had to be, without a shadow of a doubt. He was silent while you mulled it over. You expected him to comment on your lack of response, but he said nothing.

Irritatingly patient.

You sighed. You turned to Sylus.

“Fine. But I only have a few days. Give me a few minutes to pack my things.”

Sylus had the good grace to look surprised at how easily you had agreed to his suggestion, but it quickly turned into a look of barely concealed smug satisfaction. His evol vanished from your grip, and you found yourself missing its comforting touch.

“You technically don’t need to pack anything. I have everything you could possibly need at the base. Clothes, food, weapons, shampoo, conditioner…the kinds you like.” He trailed off. You couldn’t tell how serious he was being, what with the expression he was serving you. You shot him a look.

He raised his hands, showing you his palms, submitting once again.

“Like I said. Give me a minute to pack my things.”

Sylus leaned back on the couch, relenting. He dropped his hands.

True to your word, gathering your things for a trip to the N109 zone took little time at all. It wasn’t that you were particularly Spartan with your assets – but rather that Sylus really did keep all of the things you needed around, and much more. Knowing you could trust him on this front made warmth creep to your face, and the cold began to seep from your bones. After changing, you returned to the living room with your bag, where Sylus was patiently awaiting your return. He was peering out your window. The sun hit him just right, and it illuminated his eyes with its beams. The red only intensified in the light, the color of blood only just exposed to air. You could have stared at the image of him forever. He always claimed to be unlucky, but it seemed to you as if every aspect of the world bowed to him. For someone who was so weak to its rays, he was lit brilliantly by the sun. He turned to you, squinting. Your eyes fell to your gun, which was in his hands. You recalled that he had definitely returned it to the safe, previously. He waved it at you, careful not to point the barrel in your direction.

“Don’t forget this.”

He stood as he spoke, and stepped toward you. His form loomed over you, and you felt him slip the gun into your thigh holster (where you had planned to put your standard issue) underneath your coat.

Bastard.

His hand lingered on your hip before he put it in his coat pocket. He smelled good. He was wearing something today that you couldn’t quite place. His natural scent was there, too.

Rosemary? Figs? Cloves?

“Shall we?”

His voice cut through your mental musings on men’s fragrance notes. You nodded, following after him as he led you out of your apartment. You were sure to lock the door behind you. Again. His bike was waiting faithfully for you in the parking lot. Sylus slipped your helmet on for you (why did he even have a second helmet on him today in the first place?), making sure your hair was tucked neatly away behind your neck. After repeating the action on himself, he kicked the stand out from under his bike, and you got on behind him. You always had no choice but to wrap your arms around him when you rode. You wondered how it made him feel – or if he felt anything about the contact at all. His back was broad, solid, and warm underneath your touch. You swore you could feel his muscles ripple underneath you, even with the barrier of his clothing between you. You squeezed him a little tighter as he began to drive. Even through your jacket, the air nipped at you for your speed. As he pressed the bike harder, you felt something tickle around your waist. You peeked down as best you could through the visor of your helmet. Sylus’s evol was keeping you neatly attached to him, as if your arms weren’t enough. The inside of your helmet suddenly felt hotter. You tried not to think about why he did the things he did. Sylus offered no acknowledgement or explanation for any of this. As always.

The bike sped on to the N109 zone, eager to return to where it belonged.

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