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amywritesthings · 5 months ago

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press four for more options. | part one.

( Read on AO3 )

Pairing: levi ackerman x f!reader (attack on titan / shingeki no kyojin) Word Count: 4.6k Summary: After seeing your ex with his new girl at a work party, you take the not-so-smart advice from a friend to call a sex hotline to get over him. Your match? A baritone bossy dom named Levi.

Warnings: 18+ MINORS DNI - alternate universe (modern), slow burn, eventual smut, sex work, phone sex, dirty talk, dom!levi, light dom/sub Credits: dividers by @saradika-graphics

part two. | masterlist

“Thank you for calling the Scout Services Hotline. You’re only a dial away from your wildest fantasies with the sexiest singles near your area.”

God, even the automated voice sounds porn-y.

A breathy feminine voice straight out of a 1975 VHS tape croons into the dead air of your small apartment bedroom, setting your nerves on edge.

God forbid the noise travels through the walls into your next-door neighbor's bedroom. Harriet and Miro do not need to hear what you’re up to this Friday evening.

Maybe, up to this Friday evening.

You haven’t decided yet, though one could argue that calling was half the battle.

Dressed head-to-toe in an emerald cocktail dress with a face full of tear-stricken makeup, you feel utterly ridiculous sitting at the foot of your bed — not even the edge of the mattress, but the goddamn floor.

Even your black heels, now scuffed from someone stepping on them on your way out to fetch a cab, remain dangling at your toes.

(As non-committal as your last relationship, ironically enough.)

The experts say don’t shit where you eat. Dating someone you work with typically goes up in flames as fast as a rogue wildfire — and you should have listened to all of the warning signs, but Porco Galliard had been so damn charming that you’d forgotten just about everything.

Including your dignity, apparently, since you seemed to conveniently forget the part where he has had an on-again, off-again relationship with Pieck Finger well before you got hired at this place.

Not exactly side chick behavior, since he technically didn’t cheat, but the sting of being second place before the race even started lingered deep.

(Didn’t you know? He always chooses Pieck. It’s just one of those things.)

Well, no missing that now.

Especially since the two of them were so cozy at the annual shareholder event — right in front of your fucking salad.

The event’s slated to end at eleven so you’ve been nursing a wild array of drinks since seven, with little breaks.

In retrospect, the napkin with scribbled chicken scratch that Annie Leonhart, your closest colleague, shoved into your hand in the midst of your brooding at the bar may have been a joke:

You need to loosen up. Call this stupid sex line and get that stick out of your ass.

She wasn’t kidding.

Every muscle in your body is too taut, including your brain.

So you took a cab, stumbled into your apartment, and landed — here.

Your phone sits right in front of you next to one of your half-worn heels, on speaker at the lowest setting.

Maybe it’s best to let the pre-recording list the entire numerical menu.

Maybe it’ll deter you from pressing anything at all.

“If you already know your match’s extension, press one.”

Yeah, that wasn’t happening.

You tap the napkin carelessly against the stem of your glass of wine, contemplating exactly how Annie Leonhart managed to find the information for this service to begin with.

Did she already have a match?

Did she regularly call them to blow off some steam?

She's always so chill. It would make sense.

There’s a chance this is a nasty prank at your lowest moment, but you don’t think Annie cares enough about other people to plan such a masterful takedown.

At the work event, she seemed pretty serious about the legitimacy of Scout Services Hotline, and honestly?

Even if you had been drinking all night at the event, you were going to need way more liquid courage to even consider trying your hand at calling a sex line to quell weekend loneliness.

So naturally, you opened a new bottle of wine.

At the first glass of wine, you still weren’t ready.

The second? The napkin sat adjacent to your laptop as you played compilations of sad break-up songs further aggravating your spiraling depression.

The third was the charm to get you to pick up the fucking phone to see what the fuss was all about.

“If you’re looking for someone specific — whether it’s the man, woman, or person of your dreams — press two.”

Tempting.

Your finger reaches out for the ‘2’ on your screen, but you wait it out.

“If you don’t have a preference for your delicious match, press three.”

“You could’ve done without the delicious part,” you mumble to yourself, picking up the glass of wine to take a generous sip. An involuntary grimace tugs at your cheeks.

“If you’re looking to speak with one of our representatives or need more assistance, press four for more options.”

For a solid five minutes you wait.

Contemplating.

Deciding.

You could press the red circle to hang up and go to bed.

It wouldn’t be the first time you rubbed one out and called it a night.

After all, what’s one more lonely weekend?

The spiel starts up again on a loop with the same seductive, breathy feminine voice.

“Thank you for calling the Scout Services Hotline. You’re only a dial away from your wildest fantasies with the sexiest—”

You smash a button, but you’re not sure which one you’ve clicked.

Before you can lean over to see on your screen, a different feminine voice comes over the speaker.

It’s a little higher pitched than the menu screen voice, but it’s still inviting. Warm.

“Thank you for choosing the Scout Services Hotline. You’re speaking to Petra. May I have the pleasure of knowing the name of the person I’m speaking to this evening?”

A name.

You should give a name that isn’t your real name.

But technically wouldn’t your name be on the credit card if you go through with this anyway?

“You can give a nickname, too, if that makes you feel better,” the woman named Petra adds as if she's a mind reader, breaking the running silence on your end of the line. “A lot of our clients like giving a fake name for security and anonymity.”

“Doesn’t that break once you put in your credit card information?” you blurt, not realizing the thought has spilled on your lips.

Petra laughs musically.

“Technically yes, but if you prefer to be called something, then we’ll be sure to add that to your profile. I take it it's your first time calling.”

Why are you doing this again?

“Painfully obvious, right?” you lament, staring down at the scribble on the napkin.

Did Annie have a fake name with this service?

“Not painfully at all,” Petra promises. “It’s a learning curve. So what may I call you?”

Real or fake?

Committed or just testing the waters?

“Scarlet?” you suggest, wincing immediately at the on-the-nose literary reference.

Letters, passion, blah blah love — it’s about the only creative thing your wine-addled brain can muster.

“I like Scarlet,” she hums, and immediately your brain is set on fire.

Are you going to be seriously this easy?

“Are you female, male, non-binary, genderfluid, prefer not to say…?”

“Female.”

"Pronouns?"

"Um, she and her."

“And you’re over eighteen?”

“Definitely over eighteen.”

“Perfect. So, Scarlet — did you have a preference on who you wish to speak to today? If you have a fantasy you wish to fulfill, then I can select someone for you.”

You want to scream.

Neurons fire as you try to come up with a cool and collected answer, only to allow the elixir of truth on your tongue to spill the beans.

“Just someone who’s got their shit together, honestly.” You exhale an awkward laugh. “I don’t know. I’m just calling because — I mean, I know you don’t care, but I like… um, deep voices? Stronger voices. Honestly I have no idea what to—”

“I have just the person.”

You pause.

Blink.

But you didn’t even describe anyone, not really.

A voice, maybe, if they cater to kinks of that nature.

You can only imagine they do — it’s a sex hotline, for crying out loud.

“Wait, you do?”

“Mhm!” she perkily states. “Is a man alright for this evening?”

A man with a deep voice who allegedly has his pretend shit together.

Granted it isn’t the opposite of Porco, he’s fairly capable at his job and out living his life just fine, but maybe you were just looking for a copy.

(Or a clue.)

“A man is… fine,” you hesitate. “Wait, so when do I give you my credit card information? My friend hooked me up with this, um — I don’t know if you have her name or if I should even say it, I know there’s probably some confidentiality—”

“Hold that thought,” Petra interrupts cheerfully. “You get the first fifteen-minute session for free, actually — you called just in time before our first-timer coupon expires.”

You can’t hide your surprise.

“Really?”

“Really!”

Ha, your fucking luck.

“If you're enjoying the call, just tell your match and we can set up your card and keep it going. All we ask is that you take a survey after your session. Then you’ll be in our system with this phone number! We’ll never solicit you for calls, but it’ll make the process faster the next time should you call our hotline again.”

You drop your head back on your mattress, sighing heavily.

“...okay, yeah. That sounds great.”

“Yeah?”

“Sure.”

“Give me one moment, Scarlet,” Petra giggles.

You hear something shift on her side.

Maybe she’s swiveling her chair. Are they located in an actual office building?

God, an office where people just do this for a living sounds larger than life.

“I’ll connect you with your match in a moment.”

Then the line cuts out to the opening notes to Marvin Gaye’s Let’s Get It On, and you’re pretty sure you’re this close to chugging the rest of this bottle in one gulp.

“Is this seriously what you do on weekends, Annie?” you mumble to yourself, enduring the brutality of the waiting music while Petra connects you to your alleged match.

A man with a deep voice who has his shit together.

Is that even a real kink?

Has the bar really gotten that low?

Should you have described someone’s appearance? It wasn’t like it mattered over the phone.

As soon as it gets to the high note of the song, the line cuts again — silence.

Immediately you scramble to sit up taller, your hands fumbling to grab the phone from the floor.

You bring it up to your face, cupping the device in both palms to muffle the noise if it becomes downright pornographic in seconds.

Moment of truth.

With bated breath you wait — the person on the other line sighs, heavy and deep, before answering with the most nonchalant tone.

“Thank you for calling the Scout Services Hotline. You’re speaking with Levi. May I ask whom I have the pleasure of speaking to?”

Holy fuck.

Immediately you forget your own voice listening to the hum of the receiver.

While you’ve only joked in passing that you have a voice kink, it’s screaming in neon lights here and now: this man’s voice may be monotone, but there is a growl to it.

A rumbling.

At this very moment, you completely forget that this man is on speaker phone and you’ve just returned home from the worst work event in the world.

You don’t have an ex-boyfriend.

You don’t even know your home address.

You’re simply… existing, lips parted, taking in the sheer tingle rolling through your torso.

“You there?”

Right, you’re meant to talk back.

“Huh? Oh — yes! Yeah,” you recover poorly. “Hi. It’s, um, it’s Scarlet.”

“Mm, Scarlet… Scarlet, Scarlet, Scarlet…”

The way the name drags along his tongue nearly makes your mouth water.

His voice — Levi — is smooth, like the velvet on your dress you’ve yet to take off.

“A pretty name for a pretty thing like you.” Something ruffles and Levi makes a small noise on the other end, likened to a cut-off hum. “Tell me what you look like, Scarlet.”

All you can do is stare at a chip in your wooden dresser directly across from you, listening to him speak.

“I’m…”

What do you even say?

How come you have to say anything at all?

Can’t he just read a takeout menu to you and call it a night?

Before you can answer, there’s an amused huff. “Someone’s nervous.”

Your face turns — well, a certain shade of scarlet.

“Ha. Sorry, I’ve—”

“Never done this before?” he finishes for you.

How mortifying.

“Is it that obvious?”

“It’s cute,” he relents, and you feel your face turn a degree hotter. “Don’t worry — I’ve been told I’m a great teacher, so you’re in good hands.”

“You’ll have your work cut out of you, trust me,” you breathe, feeling like you’ve been injected with an overdose of a truth serum. “Because I just got home from this stupid work event. My ex-boyfriend brought his new girlfriend — who also works with us — as his date — yay, me — except I feel like I was the side-piece-in-waiting for them. So he’s off getting laid and I’m calling a complete stranger on a random Friday because my work colleague recommended this phone sex hotline for a quick solution.”

Silence.

You blink twice as dread settles in your cut. You tap the phone off of speaker and push the device close to your ear, balancing it with your shoulder.

Did you scare him away?

Was that too much of a depressive dump?

You suddenly want to crawl under your bed frame and hide there forever.

But then — a gentle chuckle sounds from the other end of the line, and arousal shoots straight to your lower belly.

“Good thing all of the dirty talk is my job, then,” he muses. “You’re supposed to lay back and listen.”

“Listen?”

“Yeah, unless you weren’t looking to get bossed around.”

It isn’t the worst idea you’ve ever heard, that’s for sure.

“If I’m honest with you, Levi, I don’t know what I’m looking for,” you confess, running a hand down your face.

“Then let me figure it out for you. We have time.”

The man calling himself Levi pauses on the other end.

“Did you want to get fucked, Scarlet?”

Well, shit, he didn’t have to say it like that.

“Yes,” you blurt without thinking, then fumbling to recover. “I mean— Sorry, clearly I called thinking about sex, and your voice is extremely lovely and actually very hot—”

“Oh, you think so?” Levi interrupts, honey-smooth voice humming with amusement with that same hum that’s going to make you scream.

“Absolutely. Completely. Are you serious?” you sputter. “You’re like an ASMR wet dream.”

“A what?”

“A wet dream?”

“No, the other thing — ASMR?”

“Um, like when people make really niche quiet noises to a microphone with their mouths, and it gives you the tingly sensation in the back of your head.”

“Interesting,” Levi says. “So are you saying that’s what I do to you?”

For the umpteenth time, your brain blanks.

God, you could scream into your pillow.

If you weren’t so afraid you’d forget to mute your microphone first, then you already would be.

“Yes! — I mean, yes, but — wait, can we just pause this for a second?”

For a moment he doesn’t answer, but the tone of his voice shifts: still just as sultry, but with a hint of confusion and a dash of concern.

“Of course. Is everything alright?”

No, this entire night is weird.

If you don’t say something, then this is going to just keep looping and wasting his time.

“Okay,” you start, mustering the courage to get through your speech, “I know I’m spoiling the first-caller coupon for a free call and I’m sorry, I’ll totally pay for the session since you’re great and sound insanely hot and I’m sure you’re amazing at your job, but I just…”

You trail off, collecting your swimming thoughts.

“...I’m something like six or seven drinks in, I am craving potato chips, and I’d really like to just talk to someone for a few minutes.”

There.

It’s out in the open, your confession to the liminal altar.

You half-expect him to hang up rather than wasting his time with someone like you, but to your surprise, there is no click. No call ended. No new automated message.

“Six or seven is a lot,” he comments, and you can picture a brow furrow even if he doesn’t have a face. “Does this mean you handle your liquor, or is this a one-off rager?”

“I think I’m only still functioning because I ate my weight in dinner rolls at the party.”

“Do you have a glass or bottle of water near you?”

The switch up lessens the tension in your shoulder blades in an instant.

His voice is just as crooning, deep and inviting, but it’s nice to simply be asked.

“Nope.”

His voice sharply changes, authoritative and firm. “Then go get one.”

The demand does something to you.

Without thinking twice you begin to rock up on your heels, standing at full height.

“Okay, Mr. Bossy.”

“Isn’t that what you wanted?” he asks with a sprinkle of sarcasm. “Someone who has their shit together, if I read the notes right.”

“They write that stuff down?” you ask genuinely, minding your step as you pad barefoot across your apartment to your fridge.

“It’s your session,” he reminds softly. “We do whatever it is you want to do.”

“Even if it’s just to talk?”

“You’d be amazed at how many people call just to talk. Though I can’t say it’s my specialty.”

“No?”

“No. I’m not much of a small talker.”

The refrigerator door swings wide. “What’s your specialty, then?”

“Kink play, mostly. Dom and Sub. Guided masturbation. Edging. Making decisions for people who want to forget about making them for a while.”

One second the bottle of water is in your hand.

Next it’s on the floor.

“That’s, uh… a wide array of specialties,” you say. “And your rate, it’s…?”

“Not cheap.”

“Got it. So I’m really flubbing this free call.”

It’s small, but you hear a chuckle on the other end. “You said you wanted to talk, Scarlet, so we’re talking.”

Bending to grab your water bottle, you untwist the cap.

“Does this bother you, wasting your time talking?”

“You’re not wasting my time, Scarlet,” he says with such a promise that you almost believe it’s genuine. “You have a pretty voice, and you’re funny.”

“Shut up.”

“You do, and you are.”

“Uh-huh. And do you talk to a lot of people during your shifts?”

“That’s confidential.”

“So a lot.”

“Confidential.”

“And the length of calls,” you test, “are they hypothetically confidential, too?”

“It’s per minute, so.”

“Per minute?” you gawk. “Jesus, I’d go bankrupt talking to you.”

“Well, premium members receive bills per half hour,” he explains. “More bang for your buck.”

“Quite literally," you mumble. "And what’s a premium subscription get you?”

“Didn’t you check out the website before calling?”

“I told you I stumbled out of my cab and called the number on my napkin, Levi,” you chide. “I didn’t exactly do my research in my sexually frustrated state.”

“Fair, can’t blame you there.”

There’s something of a grunt on the other end, like he’s stretching his arms over his head.

Maybe he’s sitting in an office chair, too, going through the motions of his profession the same way the Petra lady had been.

You keep wanting to imagine what he’s doing on the other line, but you realize you haven’t asked the titular question yet.

“Hey, Levi?”

“Yeah, baby?”

It’s breathy, a roll of thunder in his tongue.

Instead of an office chair, you imagine a man lying on his bed.

Maybe his tie is half-done, hanging loosely around his neck.

Button-down open, exposing the planes of his chest; dress trousers unbuttoned and loose around his hips, so he can easily slide a hand—

Whoa.

You stop walking back to your bedroom and blink twice. “Oh, so you like pet names.”

Your face, in miraculous humiliation, grows another degree hotter at how amused he sounds with himself. “I never said that.”

“Sure,” Levi replies with a smirk to the concession. “What is it, Scarlet?”

(Maybe you’ll permanently change your name to Scarlet after tonight if it sounds this good on a man’s lips.)

You finally unzip the side of your dress and wiggle out, before finding a cozy spot in the middle of your mattress.

“How much time do I have left on this freebie?”

“Approximately three minutes.”

Time flies when you’re too busy gawking over someone’s voice, apparently.

“Can I ask what you look like?” you finally decide, playing along.

“I’m surprised it took you this long to ask,” Levi responds, returning to that same seductive tone he’d used when he first picked up the line. “Black hair, guess it’s a little shaggier than usual. Undercut.”

You squint to your ceiling. “I’m thinking of Dimitri from Anastasia right now but with black hair.”

“I have no idea what that is.”

“You’ve seriously never seen Anastasia?”

“It’s a movie?”

“Oh my god, Levi, I’m so sorry for your childhood.”

“It’s an animated movie?” he scoffs. “Even worse.”

“You wound me,” you joke, pressing a hand over the cup of your beige bra. “What color are your eyes?”

“A gray-ish blue,” he tells you. “Sharp nose. High cheekbones. I’m a daily gym go-er, so I’m mostly lean muscle. I can probably pick you up, easily.”

So a fit man with an undercut hairstyle with gray-blue eyes and a relatively sharp face.

Now you have a face to the image of a man lying on his bed, still in that button-down shirt and dress trousers.

His happy trail is probably dark, too, disappearing just under the waistband of his boxer briefs.

Or boxers?

Maybe nothing.

Your hand moves on its own accord to the waistband of your panties, toying with the fabric.

Contemplating.

Wondering if it’s wrong — when it really shouldn’t be wrong at all.

“You sound handsome,” you murmur. “I wouldn’t mind being picked up.”

“Wouldn’t be the only thing I’d do to you,” he flippantly states, and your brain blanks to pure putty. “You sound a little more winded than before. Doing alright over there, party animal?”

“It’s late,” you lie even when you damn well know you don’t have to lie. “Lots of drinking, first water of the night, lying down…”

“Better make it two waters before you fall asleep,” Levi states. “That’s an order, Scarlet.”

“Uh-huh.”

Your hand dips under your underwear, testing the waters.

But—

“Final sixty seconds,” he adds. “Any last words you want to get in before the line disconnects?”

“Only one minute left?” you protest, ripping your hand out of your underwear to pull the phone away from your ear.

14:02

So it really had been a fifteen-minute call.

God damnit.

Tapping the speaker icon once more, you stare at your phone and press your tongue against the inside of your cheek.

“What’s your extension?”

Because you have to know.

Even if you don’t call again, it’s a comfort to have it on hand.

Levi waits a moment before responding.

“Two-five-one-two.”

2512.

You swipe away from the call to quickly pull up your notes app, tapping the number down with a noted reminder: the guy with the hot voice!

“Are you going to call me again, Scarlet?”

You open your mouth, but you struggle with an answer.

(You only have a few seconds! Think, idiot, think!)

“I’m not sure if—”

Click.

“Hello? Levi?”

“Thank you for calling the Scout Services Hotline. Please stay on the line for a quick two-minute survey so we can better serve your fantasies in the future.”

Out of time.

You drop your phone to your stomach and groan.

Instead of calling back, you close your eyes — and, not before long, fall asleep to a dream of only one voice.

— —

Saturday is a wash.

You wake late, missing an invitation to brunch.

For the better half of the day, you wonder about him.

Levi.

Your arbitrary match that doesn't feel so arbitrary anymore.

(It's placebo effect, you tell yourself. They're supposed to make you feel wanted.)

Punishing yourself for your excessive liquor and stupid plans, you trudge to your local gym and do your best to stay focused on your workout.

Every nameless person with dark hair that walks past you on the sidewalk from your apartment; anyone could be him.

The man waiting in line at the coffee shop.

The man who accidentally walked into you while you were switching the song on your playlist at the crosswalk.

The man weight training in the corner of the room, fringe cascading down his face as he drips sweat.

You keep the napkin in your gym bag, then transfer it to your purse as you run errands.

You could call.

It isn’t like you’re strapped for cash at the moment.

Granted it’s very wish fulfillment and it isn’t like he’s actually into you, but the attention is nice.

Besides — you haven’t thought of your ex once since you woke up.

Annie texts you twice within ten minutes of each message, which is unheard for her.

[A. LEONHART]: So? Did you call?

[A. LEONHART]: Hello, earth to moron. At least like my message to tell me you’re alive. I’m not being interviewed by Dateline for you.

(Ah, there she is. Classic Annie.)

[YOU]: Yeah, I called. Not sure if it’s my thing.

[A. LEONHART]: Sometimes they match you with a dud. 2nd time’s the charm ;)

[YOU]: Do you ever use someone’s extension?

[A. LEONHART]: Duh. I’m a regular of one guy.

Okay, so she talks to a guy. Something grips your stomach as you type your reply.

[YOU]: Can I ask his name?

[A. LEONHART]: Why, so we don’t eiffel tower this?

[YOU]: jfc annie

[A. LEONHART]: lmao his name is Bert

So not Levi.

For some odd reason, you breathe a sigh of relief as you close out of your messages.

Maybe you're one of a million, but at least you're not sharing with Annie.

Once you return home from your errands, it's close to dinnertime.

You cook something simple for yourself, occasionally glancing over at your purse like you can x-ray vision through the fabric to see the napkin.

Then again, it isn’t like you actually need the napkin.

The number is already in your phone.

Pulling out your device, you set it on the kitchen counter and draw a slow, calculative inhale.

One more call can’t hurt.

Levi may not even be working.

Hell, he could be talking to someone else.

A regular.

Several regulars.

For over five minutes you stare down at your most recent calls list, willing yourself to just get brave for one second to press the button.

(It isn’t like Porco’s going to call you.)

The soured thought propels your hand without thinking, fingertip pressing the green phone icon faster than you can think.

You brace for the ringtone, fists balled tight on the cool kitchen surface.

“Thank you for calling the Scout Services Hotline. You’re only a dial away from your wildest fantasies with the sexiest singles near your area. If you already know your match’s extension, press one.”

You continue staring.

Are you really doing this?

It isn’t like it means anything, which is exactly what you need with the upcoming work week.

A distraction.

A very expensive distraction, but hey — you’ll avoid takeout for a few weeks.

How bad can it get?

“If you’re looking for someone specific —”

You press one.

Author's Note:

Thank you for reading part one of my zany little 'Sleepless in Seattle' modern au! This has been a bluesky idea for a while now, and I needed a little reprieve from my other angsty Levi longfic silver underground, so I hope you enjoyed the ride.

There will be actual smut in part two, but as a Reader!Writer I had the thought of 'would I be suave enough to do the first phone call flawlessly or totally waste my free coupon'? and this chapter was born, lol. I promise this is not Porco slander.

Thank you for likes, and even more love to those who choose to reblog this to help spread the word of this new series or reply in the comments. ilu xo

#levi ackerman x reader #levi ackerman x you #levi ackerman x female reader #attack on titan fanfiction #snk fanfiction #snk fanfic #aot fanfic #aot fic #snk fic #levi ackerman fanfiction #levi ackerman smut #levi ackerman fanfic #shingeki no kyojin fanfiction #fic: press four for more

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nvuy · 5 months ago

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hands on — sunday

summary. sunday feels eyes on him from everywhere, yet he still seeks your gaze despite how much he loses himself in your eyes.

notes. wrowwww confit part 2 is here i DID post it on ao3 like 5 mins ago but i think ao3 died in my country for the 74th time this year soooorrrrr hello tumblr!!!!!!

i'd strongly suggest you read confiteor here (or on ao3) before reading this one, otherwise this entire fic just sounds like an acid trip.

warnings. mdni, 18+, gn reader but you have fem anatomy, long ass 12k post, mild degradation, little bit of horror themes if you squint?, alternative summary: sunday receives head and has an existential crisis, sunday literally loses his mind (in a sexy way), religious guilt, religious themes & symbolism, sunday needs therapy, you're a weirdo (in a sexy way), y'all get it on in a church.

The church had always been beautiful. A place of worship, fairness, mutual happiness. It’s partly the reason Sunday was always so enamoured with its pieces on the walls; Robin used to trace her hands over the paintings, and he was sure he could spot her fingerprints from when the paint was still drying.

Sunday had never felt so disgusted with himself.

The murals watched him, one thousand unblinking eyes following him as he walked down the aisle, with muted clicks from his shoes against the red carpet with gold trimming.

He was so angry.

He’d trudged home the night prior seething, and Robin had rested a hand on his shoulder and whispered to him until he gathered himself. He hated to present himself in such a way to her, and although she begged for him to shed a light on his problems, she was met with silence.

He was so angry at his traitorous hands when they wandered below the waistband of his pants. He’d been trying to sleep, tossing and turning for hours, desperate for some sort of distraction. He’d retrieved a glass of water, he’d stayed up to read, and nothing was helping. Nothing soothed the ache between his thighs; the thought in the back of his mind that you were in that same rut.

He felt awful feeling himself up again, this time alone, and he was so ashamed when he muffled his cries and came into his hand.

Vile.

There’s a statue in the church. One erected from only the most exquisite sculptors of the era, crafted meticulously over gruelling hours to perfect the shape of THEM. Xipe stands behind the pulpit, larger than anything in the church, and silent. THEIR arms remain still, outstretched and gestured towards the empty pews. THEIR eyes are not open, but there is a gentle smile carved onto a perfectly whimsical face.

It is a beautiful statue, sure, but Sunday would have preferred another God to watch over instead.

Perhaps it was for the best.

In the preparation of the morning service, Sunday was unusually quiet. Staff piled in silently, bidding their greetings, and even Robin—and, bless her gentle heart—was reticent, her lips pulled together into a thin line. The choir practised, and it was the only sounds he heard that morning.

The wine the church offered was of pure grapes. The chalice the sacramental wine rested in was golden with a thin stem and a wide base. A single golden spoon laid within the red.

It’s supposed to be blood. It feels dastardly eerie to offer a piece of THEM to those undeserving of such.

Instinctively, when his gaze met the statue’s, his gloved hand raised and clasped the golden charm at his chest tightly.

Sunday felt a tap on his shoulder.

“The congregation is prepared,” Robin said to him. She tucked a piece of her hair behind her ear. “As per usual.”

He hadn’t taken his eyes off of the statue. “Good.”

“And there are people coming in now,” she continued, nodding towards the door that led out to the lectern. “It’s almost eight.”

“Thank you.”

She stopped, eyeing him warily.

“There’s something bothering you,” she commented quietly. “You’ve been on edge since last night. Did something happen?”

Sunday finally turned to look her in the eye. His face remained expressionless, though his tone held a hint of warning. “I’m fine, Robin. Please. Don’t worry about me.”

“Brother–”

“Robin.” He placed a gentle hand on her shoulder, though that smile he always pulled onto his lips when he was trying to deter her mind from him. His heart was pounding in his chest. “Please. Enough.”

Defeatedly, her shoulders sagged. She wanted to tell him, as she had so many times before—so many times—that she was there for him. She’s always been there for him.

Robin’s lips twitched into a soft, but crushed smile. “Okay.” She stared down at her shoes. They were slightly scuffed at the sides. “Okay, I… I’ll get the choir started.”

Sunday had turned back towards the statue with an approving, idle hum. His shoulders had stiffened as he watched THEM closely, fingers interlocked in front of his stomach. It was a nervous habit Robin recognised all too well.

His hand was bleeding around the golden charm now.

She said nothing.

ೃ༄

When Sunday sang prayers into the microphone with a bandaged hand beneath his gloves, he wondered if he was ever truly a good person. Was he… ever fit to see the Heavens once he passed? It was all down to the judgement of one final being; unbiased, unjudged, honest.

He always valued honesty.

“Grace be to thee, and to your kinship.” The sunlight was burning into the back of his halo. “And, weary sinners, hold your heads, as THEY will shine light down upon you, and forgive all of your transgressions.”

The chalice filled with wine sat idly on the table. There was an embroidered white table runner draped over the top to cover the chipped and old wood.

The pattern was eerily similar to the stockings you wore that night.

He dreamed of you.

How could he? To betray himself, The Family, his own flesh and blood. He felt repulsive, like swallowing strong liquor. His saliva was thick in his throat as he spoke, hands pulled tight around the edge of the pulpit, mere inches away from shedding the program that rested in the centre. The wood creaked beneath the pressure.

He remembered your voice as if you were truly whispering in your ear at that moment.

You’re haunting him. He hears your heels in the hallway at home; he can smell your perfume when he passes down the aisle every morning. The script in his hands has tears from how firm he’s been gripping the paper.

He had to remind himself he is good. He is good, and loved, and obedient, and his God is so benevolent and thoughtful to watch over someone as pathetically weak as he is. THEY will forgive him.

He knows, he told himself. He knows what he did all those nights ago.

Sunday felt unworthy to hold the golden chalice in his hands. The other staff had positioned themselves ready for the wine service. One had stopped to look strangely at the man. Sunday’s hands were trembling around the handles.

“Reverend Sunday?” one of the priests asked gently. “Are you alright?”

Briskly, he nodded his head once and pulled as much of a reassuring smile on his lips as he could. Then, he turned, careful not to spill the wine in the chalice and moved forward.

There was already a line forming down the aisle.

He is loved.

“Go…” He hoped his voice was steady. It should be, for he’s said these exact words everyday for almost a year now. “Eat your food with gladness.”

He is good.

The spoon shook in his hands as he offered it to one of the churchgoers.

The next person stepped up. The priest on the right grasped their chin gently with the red cloth. Sunday offered another spoonful of wine.

They were replaced with the next person.

He is loyal.

“…And drink your wine with a joyful heart.”

The next. And the next. And the next.

Routine. Stagnant, maddening, routine.

He glanced down to dip the spoon back into the wine again. The chalice was half full now, and the line was beginning to dwindle. He could see the end of it now.

He is faithful.

“…For THEY have already–”

His heart faltered when he looked up again.

The wine spilled from the spoon. He almost dropped the gold onto the floor.

The breath that escaped his lips was shaky.

It seemed that everyone in the church was transfixed with the smile you directed at the Head Reverend. Even the priests to his left and right had stopped.

The choir had paused. A quick glance to the right would reveal Robin with her lips slightly parted. The organ player had pressed the wrong key and had halted the singing.

When you shifted, he was reminded that you were not a perfect statue carved from the Gods hands. Not like the statue of Xipe that stood behind him. Your eyes flitted downwards, and he noticed your fists clenched at your sides. Discomfort pulled across your face like ink bleeding onto a canvas.

Perhaps it was the distasteful attire you’d chosen for the ceremony that had garnered the staring.

Maybe it was the unearthly beauty that sculpted your face, as if you were a being that had been picked from an inch of the Gods skin and blood, and brought to life on land, so full of love and saccharine bittersweetness.

He could taste it on his tongue.

Sunday quickly dipped the spoon back in the wine when one of the priests moved to hold the red cloth beneath your chin.

He swallowed. “–Have already approved of what you do.”

The spoon slipped between your parted lips.

The other priest wiped your mouth with the cloth. It was like velvet on your lips.

Hesitantly, out of time with the conductor, the church organ continued where the player had paused.

You pulled away from the cloth before the priest could remove his hand himself, and you offered one more warm smile—and sharp canines poked over your bottom lip—before you moved to let the next person replace you.

As you left, Sunday promptly ignored your hand that traced the leather of his belt beneath his coat.

His heart was racing beneath his chest, like a bird hitting its wings against the confines of its cage.

Heat clammered and sweltered up his neck. He ignored that, too.

ೃ༄

He can’t.

When Sunday stepped out of the confessional booth and locked the door with the key, he leaned against the door and shut his eyes tight.

He felt too big for his clothes. His skin doesn’t feel like it’s his. It’s hot. It’s just so hot and his skin felt as though it had been rubbed raw with sandpaper. His breathing was shaky and uneven.

He cannot bear to look at the images and murals plastered over the walls. If they had a choice, the unstaring eyes would, too, look away in shame. The statue is still.

Sometimes, he was convinced it moved when no one was looking.

Maybe that’s just paranoia. It all is, isn’t it? He’s always been scared of little things. Things with eyes, like dolls, and portraits, and people, and Gods. Not THEM. Never THEM—deep down, he did fear THEM. But he knows he is loved. Otherwise, he would have been abandoned.

The murals are watching him.

The walls are warping the longer he stares. The halos behind the figures’ heads are fading. He feels his own doing the same. He is unworthy of it. It is more like a weight of lead, than a ring of light.

He’s still thinking of you.

It’s horrible. It’s wrong. His eyes sting, though he’s not sure if it is exhaustion, or if he will cry again. But he can’t cry. He had wept silently in his bed the night prior because he couldn’t sleep. And it’s hard to sleep when the house is silent, but there’s a distant clicking of your heels down the hallway outside of his room.

It does not stop, nor does it draw closer or further away. It is a rhythmic click click click, and it is suffocating. It’s even worse when he feels you breathe into his ear and urge his hand between his legs. He feels your hands trace over his shoulders to his chest from behind—and of course you’re behind, because if he were to turn around, he’d see something ugly.

He’d see nothing.

It’s all in his head.

But it feels real. How hot your breath is against his neck, how your lips follow the throbbing veins in his throat, how your fingers wrap around his wrist and guide his hand between his legs.

The feeling weighs on his chest like gold.

He draws close to pulling off his clothes when he is in bed. He fights his will, because it is you in his ear whispering that he is most beautiful in his rawest form. And he believes you, but the idea of ruining himself any further makes him feel sick.

And one night, with what he feels are your teeth buried in his throat, he sings that he loves you, and he grows cold.

He cannot sleep, and when he can sleep he dreams of you. And even as he lays wide awake in his bed, his hands wander, and he can feel your skin on his.

He can’t love you.

It’s not love. Love is warm, unfamiliar, and new, and he hears tales of how comfortable it is.

It’s wrong to feel this way.

He removed himself from the confessional. His legs felt weak when a hesitant breath left his lips.

“It’s like a weight… isn’t it?”

Sunday froze. He’d never felt so cold before. His spine snapped straight like it’s was crafted of metal, and something horrible hooked within his stomach, hard and aching, like he’d swallowed lead.

He heard you swallow.

He didn’t dare turn around, fingers trapped on the pages of printed hymns he was about to put away.

“It’s persistent.” He heard the telltale sign of your clothes moving. “You feel it, too.”

He was afraid of what he would see when he turned around.

He does. “I don’t know what you speak of.” He then turned, eyes glaring and face alight with anger. “If you know well, you will turn and leave. Don’t come back here.”

His shaky inhale gives himself away.

He isn’t sure if you’re real. For his sake, he hoped you weren’t.

Sunday held the key tight in his bandaged hand.

“You should feel guilty.”

His heart stopped. The teeth of the key were digging into the hole in his palm. The bandages strain against his flesh, and he bites his tongue before he can let out a bark of disdain at you.

Ungrateful.

He won’t voice it. He will say nothing. This is not his fault; it can’t be his fault.

And he still feels it is his fault. But this all happened because of you. And he’s been trapped inside his head for all these nights because of you. It’s all you.

“Should I?” he asked quietly. He watched your face twist. “Or should you?”

“Is it not your job to help people like me?” you tried. You felt blood rise up your neck and settle in your face. You weren’t sure whether it was because he was still the most beautiful man you’d ever seen, or if your frustration was climbing further and further towards your heart. “I thought you could help me.”

You had promised to fix him as well.

If anything, he felt even more broken than he had ever been.

Sunday breathed out shakily.

The bandages around his hand were beginning to dye a dark red like the wine he had fed you.

He swallowed hard. You saw his throat move.

“Fix this, Reverend. Fix me.”

His voice faltered when he whispered, “I cannot fix what is beyond repair. I cannot give you anything more than I already have.”

“Then take me.”

There was silence.

He felt his heart drop into his stomach.

Sunday glanced towards the door of the church and tried to control his breathing. “I can’t.” He shook his head slowly. He can’t bring himself to look into your eyes. “We can’t do this again. It will fix nothing. It will make everything worse.”

Your legs trembled. You felt your heart stop in your chest, and it hurt.

And you were so angry.

So, so angry. You wanted to spit in his face, or maybe you wanted to fall to your knees and kiss his shoes and beg for forgiveness.

Whatever you felt for this man, love, attachment, some sort of long winded delusion that he could be yours if you tried hard enough, surged inside of your head.

You wanted to touch him. You wanted to feel his skin on your hands, and you wanted to hear him again.

You swallowed your pride, and then you uttered, “please, sir.”

Sunday exhaled sharply through gritted teeth.

“Not only are your hands sullied with filth, but you are also disobedient.” He still cannot bring himself to look at you. He didn’t want to. He was afraid he’d succumb to your whims if he did. His hands were trembling, fingers weak and almost as if they would snap off from the knuckles. “I told you to never come back here.”

You almost looked offended.

“I don’t come here willingly–”

“I know what you are.”

Sunday’s fists clenched by his sides. The wings beneath his ears had stiffened, feathers bristling like cacti.

“I know what you do.”

You said nothing. If anything, your eyes were transfixed on the statue behind him.

“You find reverent men, and you ruin them.” He turned, then, but his eyes didn't meet yours. “Tell me: are you proud of yourself?”

“Never proud, sire,” you admitted. Then, you bowed your head. “Though I will say, I do hope you enjoyed yourself last night.”

He inhaled sharply, and the corners of his lips twitched upwards.

There, you dared to reach forward and trace your thumb along the bandages of his wounded hand.

And he let you.

He did not flinch away, nor did he tell you to leave again.

He simply stared down at your fingers as they smoothed along the expanse of the scratchy material along his palm. Your fingers slotted between his.

Sunday sighed, defeated.

Your hand was so warm. And despite the disgust and the swamp he felt bubbling in his guts, he felt as if he’d known you his entire life.

There was something so foreign in your skin, and yet he wanted nothing more than to melt into you like a burning flame upon a candlestick.

Sunday, at that moment, felt no shame in what he had done to himself that same night.

If anything, it pleased you, and that lit his skin on fire. A nice warmth buried itself in his stomach.

“How dare you come back here.” The whisper was without malice, though he wished it did hold some sort of bite. Instead, he sounded pathetic, and lost, and he felt only you could help him.

You don’t seem the slightest bit apologetic.

Instead, your lips stretch into a small smile.

“I blame you,” you said to him. Your lashes fluttered against his cheek. You didn't dare let your hand wander. Cautiously, you squeezed his fingers around yours, and silently prayed that he could let you indulge one last time.

He blamed himself, too.

His heart raced in his chest when your lips pressed to his. The poor muscle bashed helplessly against his ribs, like a small defenceless bird trying to free itself of its enclosure. Perhaps his heart knew better and attempted to leap from his throat.

You were gentle. So gentle he was convinced you were a different person; a different being to what he initially presumed you were. And it hurt. His chest hurt, like one thousand feathers weighed down upon his bones. Your lips were soft, and his own trembled against yours.

Sunday’s other hand was still curled by his side, shaking with the urge to touch the expanse of your skin, and to also remain glued to his thighs at the same time.

One of the wings beneath his ear tickled your jaw. The feathers trembled against your skin. You pressed deeper into hus mouth, so much so he almost startled back when your chest pressed against his.

Sunday could feel your heart clammer against his own, and he felt as though you couldn’t have been any closer to him.

A tick in time, a short moment of weakness, and one he’ll regret when he goes home and struggles to sleep again, but his hand abandons your grip. He tries his hardest to resist. He shouldn’t have ever let this happen again.

Your arms daringly swung around his neck, one hand holding his cheek gently to keep his lips on yours. You could feel his hesitation, but something wrong urged you forward; urged you to ruin him even further.

His hands rested on your hips. They did not move. They did not wander. They were frozen on your skin like ice.

You tasted of the wine he’d given you.

It was strange, sweet, and it made his face flush the same colour as the blood on his hand.

“Blessed Reverend,” you whispered against his lips. “How will you sleep tonight?”

Your nose brushed against his. His feathers rustled when your breath and the scent of wine curled around his cheek.

“I won’t,” he admitted. It’s quiet. You barely heard it. “I will toss and turn.”

You fluttered your lashes at his answer. He felt your lips stretch into a smile.

His heart frantically raced in his chest when your lips touched his again, and he stiffened when he stepped backwards with you and his back pressed against the pulpit.

The hand on his cheek traced down the throbbing veins of his neck, and he had half a mind to pull away from you. His own hands held firmer against your hips.

He was growing dizzy.

When he fluttered his eyes open, sick from the taste of wine on his lips, he saw one thousand eyes staring down at him.

On the walls, on the ceiling, from the stained glass windows. His heart hurt in his chest, the thudding so loud he could barely hear anything else as it echoed in his ears. The swarm of guilt, still, was not enough to tear him off of you.

The statue behind him, however, burned holes in the back of his head. He knew the sculpture was carved with its eyes shut, but he felt it he turned around, he’d notice the crack of a pupil beneath the stone eyelids.

Your hand was on his stomach now, thumb following the central curve of his belly down beneath his navel.

When your thumb hooked beneath his belt, his fingers wrapped around your wrist before you could dip any lower towards his thighs.

“Not here,” he pleaded softly against your lips.

He swallowed hard.

“Where do you suggest we go?” you asked. He almost didn’t hear you. There was implication in your voice.

He hated how warm he grew in his chest, but he knew it was wrong. So wrong, and it’s horrible.

“You will not clamber into my bed tonight,” he whispered to you. That he knew for sure.

You shook your head slowly. “I want you to take me here.”

His stomach churned. It was as if he’d swallowed unjust liquor in one giant gulp. It hurt to breathe. It hurt to think as he did. His mouth tried to form words, some type of rejection, or some form of a nicely worded insult, but nothing came out.

Instead, he stupidly gaped at you.

His eyes flitted up to the statue of Xipe. THEIR eyes remained closed, all six of them, and the expressions held still.

Sometimes, he was convinced the statue was alive.

Perhaps that was just paranoia.

He found it fitting to pull you towards the hall and down a flight of steps. He held onto you tight by your arms, afraid you’d disappear, as he once again, grew uncomfortable in his own skin and clothes.

Fitting to be furthest away from the sunlight.

As his fingers fumbled with the keys to the cellar, your hands wandered around his waist. and your warm lips pressed to the back of his wings. The feathers twitched and flinched.

Sunday’s breathing grew heavy as the door unlocked and creaked open.

The cellar was… just that. A cellar. There were an abundance of barrels laid down beneath the benches on either side of the room. They were most likely full of wine for the services. There wasn’t much out on display.

Fittingly so, it was dark, and there were no windows.

Your shoes clicked against the tiled floor.

It’s dark. So dark you can barely see him, but he keeps a firm grasp on your wrist as you step into the room. It’s not too cold, surprisingly. It does not smell of mould or abandonment; perhaps they take good care of this place.

You almost knocked into a table in the centre of the room. The glass sitting on top clattered and shook as you startled back into him.

“It is safer here,” Sunday whispered in your ear. You knew he locked the door. His hands squeezed your shoulders.

“I believe you,” you told him.

Sunday hummed at your words, and his lips brushed against the side of your neck. His breathing remained unsteady.

You turned around to feel blindly for his waist. It was probably best that it was dark down here. It was appropriate for the both of you, and so far away from the sky, and the leering eyes of the murals painted onto the walls.

His body is warm against yours.

He finds it in himself, wherever he hides himself away, to kiss you then. Maybe because it’s dark. You can just make out the outline of him, and whatever light creeps through the bottom of the door is enough.

“I came for you, sire,” you said. “Use me as you wish.”

Sunday’s lips bumped against your neck. “You cannot whisper depravity into my ears.”

“You brought me down here for a reason,” you answered him. Your fingers slid down his throat and you thumbed over the top button of his shirt. “I say what I want.”

“You are filthy.” And he kissed you again. Fury flared in his stomach like fire.

You freed the first two buttons of his shirt, and while you were busied following the smooth skin of his neck, he pushed off your coat.

You managed to pull the white blazer off of his shoulders, and though he couldn’t see it, he heard the heavy fabric crumple to the floor by his feet. He internally cringed; the wrinkles he would have to iron out would be too telling.

You hummed pleasantly as you drew him back against your lips.

The wings around his waist were a nice surprise. You hadn’t expected them to be any larger than your arm with the way he tucked them beneath his coat, but although the feathers were flattened from the material, they stretched out wide in relief.

He knew the blackened feathers were ugly and uneven and clipped to the very edge, but you didn’t seem to mind. In fact, your fingers flitted over the base gently, a soft caress of your hand that made the feathers bristle.

Your lips were so soft. Despite wandering hands, you were so gentle. It made his stomach churn, but his heart stammered in his chest.

The feathers rustled. You heard them. They reminded you of a pigeon shaking out its wings.

The table was just next to your hip.

You moved away from his lips for just a moment.

And then, you reached forward blindly and swiped the glass off of the table. Jars and glasses and bottles of wine smashed onto the tiles, and Sunday’s grip tightens on your hips.

“What are you doing?!” He asked with horror strewn about his face, though you couldn’t directly see it. It was very well and obvious in his voice. “Why would you–”

You silenced him with your fingers pressed to the cupid’s bow of his lips. “Lay on the table, Reverend.”

“Are you–”

“Lay down.” You guided his hips softly, cautious of the poor and frantically beating heart in his chest, until the bones bumped into the edge of the wood.

Sunday’s breathing shook with disdain. The table pressed against his back, and he could feel your hands sliding up his chest to push him backwards. The exposed skin of his chest met the slight chill of the air. Your thumb moved along the line of buttons before it raised again to push at his jugular until he was forced back onto the table.

Sunday trembled for a moment.

It almost hurt how quickly the guilt in his stomach vanished when you crawled up on the table next to him. His vision, although useless in the lowlights of the cellar, fogged over with heat and the thick air that filled his lungs.

His skin prickled when your lips grazed his neck.

This is wrong. So wrong, and–

His fists clenched by his sides when your lips drag down his chest, following the buttons on his shirt. The plastic was cool, and it collided with your teeth as you travelled lower and lower.

All the while, anxiety stirred in his stomach like some roaring beast. This was wrong, to be beneath you like this, where he’s not taking what he wants, where he’s not in control. This is wrong, wrong, wrong–

Where his shirt pulled untucked from his pants exposed a lining of skin and his stomach, and he felt teeth set into his flesh. The skin below his navel stirred a bright red, and his veins were set ablaze.

He stiffened, and his hand instinctively came forward to pull his skin free from your teeth.

He felt his eyes were slowly adjusting to the darkness. So, so slowly.

Sunday inhaled, and his voice trembled, so he kept his lips shut.

You spoke, “don’t resist. Enjoy it.”

He felt the telltale tug of his belt, and the jingle of the buckle as it finally loosened. He sighed in relief from the feeling. Still, his hands curled even tighter by his sides. “How can I–”

Your fingers ventured beneath his unbuckled belt. You then firmly rubbed your thumb up and down and up down his side of his cock twitching in his pants and Sunday had half a mind to squirm on the table.

“Do I make you anxious?” He heard you giggle close to his ear, and your lips smoothed over the base of one of his wings.

He wanted to say you did, and you made him shake, and you made him dream about you, and you made him touch himself when he couldn’t sleep, and–

Nothing but a moan pulled from his lips when your hand finally freed his cock from his pants.

His chest heaved in disgust and pleasure and everything for that was your sullied and dirtied skin touching him. That was you, and those terrible shameful words that spilled from your tongue that made him shudder and caused his heart to quicken.

His face grew impossibly hotter than before.

You hooked your legs around his thigh, pressing your knee between his legs firm enough to still him. The dryness of your hand tugging the warmish pulled skin of his cock sent his mind into a haze.

The horrible rhythm of your hand against his was so good, and he wished he could just disappear right then and there.

Somewhere, in the back of his mind, he was so relieved there were no eyes watching him here. He was so relieved the cellar only had one door locked now. He made sure of it.

If you commanded him to take, then he would ensure you wouldn’t leave this very room until you’d given him everything you had to offer.

Heat sweltered between his legs, surging like flames licking up his skin.

He wanted to speak. He wanted to order; he wanted to bend you over the table and take what was his.

His ankles weakened when your fingers slipped over the head of his cock. Just at the thought of ruining you, a drop of cum squeezed from his slit, and your thumb smeared it all over him as best it could.

His stomach heaved, basically convulsed, as you stroked him firmer and firmer until his limbs grew weak and burned from squirming and wriggling beneath you. He gave up barely minutes after you’d started, and now he only found it in himself to moan and moan over and over again beneath your hand like some dog.

Wrong.

He felt your lips trail down his neck.

Oh. His hand rested behind your head and he tilted his head so your lips could drag against his flesh. It was awful. So, so awful his jaw clenched and his fingers twisted into your hair.

Your teeth pulled at the taught skin below his jaw.

“Don’t leave marks,” he breathed. He swallowed, and you followed the shape of his jugular with a graze of your teeth.

This is awful,

His stomach churned. He feared he’d throw up with shame.

Sunday was panting now, nails digging into your scalp. His teeth gritted and grinded behind his lips. He can’t do this. He can’t, he can’t, he can’t–

Sunday managed to sit up shakily.

“Put–” Another moan escaped his lips, followed by a trail of laughter at how ridiculous this was. “Put your mouth on me.”

“Is that what the High Priest wishes?” Your lips followed along the soft skin above his collarbone. “He wants his dick sucked by a ‘whore’ on the streets? Will that satisfy you, Reverend?”

Anger flared in his chest. His hand moved from behind your scalp to grasp your chin firmly. “You will do well to remember you are here to please me.”

And you would.

A dreamy sigh escaped your lips as he gripped your face hard enough to almost hurt. His nails dug into your cheek. “Of course, Reverend. Thank you.”

He let go of you.

As obscene as it was, his hand twisted into your hair again and pushed your face towards his lap.

This was only slightly better. How he could pull and tug you where he wanted. He was here to take; isn’t that what you said?

Still, it was obscene. Grotesque. Disgusting and muddied and it’s so, so hot down here. For a moment, he feared Hell, for maybe the world below the soil had risen to take him and you into the earth.

It would be what you both deserved.

He felt your tongue first. Awful thing, your tongue. If he’d had it his way, it would have been torn from your mouth the second you stepped into his church this morning.

It didn’t feel as awful as he knew it was when the wet muscle dragged along the head of his cock. The tip of your tongue nestled upon his slit, and it was so hot, and he almost lost his mind trying to remove what was left of his clothes on his person.

He did not.

Though it was dark, and he could see the outline of you clearly, he refused to let him feel more of your skin on his.

Your lips pressed a dainty kiss to the tip of his cock before they then wrapped around the head.

Hot. That’s what it was. Sweltering, sweaty, sickening humidity crawling up his neck, like one thousand bugs twitching and writhing upon his skin.

His stomach stuttered, and he felt your palms rest on his hips as you positioned yourself more comfortably to the side of him. You draped your stomach over his soft thigh to splay your hands over his torso.

Sunday raised his fingers to bite down on the side of his hand to silence himself. There was no coming back from this. Exiting the confessional yesterday with filthy hands already destroyed him, and now something sour was pooling at the back of his throat at the idea of unlocking the cellar door and leaving.

He couldn’t imagine how dishevelled and improper he looked.

His wings fluttered when your mouth lowered further on him, and one of your hands abandoned his stuttering hips to thumb along the sensitive skin beneath his cock.

You were consistent, licking up and down with your tongue in wet passes. It drove him mad. He preferred it that way, floating out of his mind, as your warm tongue covered the skin of his cock in your saliva.

You tasted salt as his slit dripped pathetically, but you kept your lips zipped at teasing him any further. You could hear him above you, a panting mess, breathing all slow and heavy, of whatever he was an hour ago with a tight and twitch grip in your hair, so much so his nails had embedded themselves into your scalp.

His hips stuttered forward when you pushed your mouth further down his cock.

You drooled around the skin, slicking his thighs with spit and his own cum, as you willed your breathing through your nose. Surprisingly, instead of what any vile man would do and move his hips forward and fuck the back of your throat without a care in the world of your ability to breathe, Sunday waited.

He waited patiently. Perhaps he was searching for signs of discomfort, or maybe he was adjusting to the heat of your mouth and your tongue stretching past your lips to run along the swollen veins of his cock, but either way he waited.

He was more or less hesitating.

He felt so disgusting and hot, but your mouth was so warm and his breathing shook more and more and the air felt trapped inside of his lungs.

It’s so hot.

Your tongue dragged up a swollen vein alongside his cock again and Sunday hissed, holding your hair tight as a warning. Watch yourself. He was afraid of how difficult it was to allow your mouth to do its own thing; how desperately he wanted to feel the back of your throat.

You would let him. You had promised him you’d let him take and take and take until there was nothing left of you.

The hand in your hair served more as a gentle encouragement than a forcing manoeuvre. He was swollen. He could feel himself bursting at the seams.

Instead, he searched for a distraction. “Come–” His breathing stuttered. “Come here.”

You pulled off of his cock.

You hummed curiously.

One of his hands was following the gentle curve of your spine, dipping lower and lower towards the back of your thighs. Instinctively, you moved closer towards him.

But still, you managed, “you don’t have to touch me, sire.”

“I want to hear you,” he whispered.

His hand snaked around your front and steadily undid the button at your waistband. The zipper followed next before his gloved fingers disappeared beneath your underwear and delved between your thighs.

He wouldn’t take the gloves off. He couldn’t.

The feeling of the scratchy cotton against your clit sends you into overdrive.

You part your thighs to allow his fingers to tease up and down your slit as you trace the underside of his cock with your tongue.

His hips remained still.

You felt he wanted to. How he desperately wanted to grab your face through how his hips tremored and twitched around your mouth. How he wanted so badly to bury his cock in your throat and feel you choke and splutter around him.

You moaned around him, and Sunday hissed again, this time lower, and it almost served as a warning. Your pleasure, for this moment, would come after his.

Still, you grinded down on his fingers as he rubbed your clit in quick and light circles. Your breathing stuttered, and he dared to guide your head just an inch lower around his cock.

His thighs began twitching.

“Oh…” It’s breathy and light and warm, what spilled from his mouth. His fingers pushed back what strands of hair had fallen in your face. “You–” Words didn’t escape his lips properly, and all that tore from his throat was a dreary and miserable whine.

You keened over his fingers. The cotton was good, though now his palm was soaked.

You whined stupidly when his hand abandoned your clit, before your muffled disappointment was replaced by a pleased hum when he pushed a finger inside of you. The glove slid in with embarrassing ease, and Sunday flushed at the feeling.

You squeezed around his finger, drawing him in further.

Your lips were growing desperate around his cock, tongue flitting out again and again to taste the cum that streamed from his slit.

“I–” Oh, God. The room was spinning. “I can’t–” His stomach heaved when your tongue grazed along the swollen vein before you drew backwards and licked harshly along his dripping slit. “I can’t–”

He dragged his cock forward into your mouth again and again. Not enough to touch the back of your throat with the tip, but enough to knock the air from your lungs with every push.

You learned quickly that Sunday preferred your mouth and tongue remain relatively still and open for him.

He preferred to control how he fucked into your throat, holding onto the back of your head as gently as he could—you dutifully ignored how his nails stabbed into your scalp.

It was easier for him now to take what he wanted.

You’re so wet. He could hear it, even if he hadn’t even bothered to strip you of your pants. It’s obscene, and his cock hardened even more at the sound.

His rhythm remained the same. He’s quick, much unused to the wet heat soaking around his cock, and more so worried about how the head rubs along your tongue.

But you’re so obedient like this. So pliant and warm with his hand between your legs teasing that gaping and soaking hole. And it’s so warm and hot and yes, yes, yes, come on–

“This is–”

Your eyes fluttered open to acknowledge him.

His thighs twitched around your head.

He let out a shaky gasp.

His hand loosened around your skull. You drew back only just and mused a simple, “take what you need.”

He needed you.

He smelt wine from how you’d smashed the bottles onto the floor. Sacred, important wine that you’d tossed aside like you’d thrown his blazer to the floor and the golden medallion on his breast.

It filled his senses, blurred what little he could see, and he slid his cock on the curved line of your tongue again and again and again and again and again.

Two fingers, soaked in your slick, abandoned in teasing your hole to ghost over your clit again.

You’re so good. So good to him. So hot and heavy. So pretty. And you sound beautiful. Your muffled groans were like music. Like the music he’d listen to in the privacy of his home.

He felt bliss. Heavenly bliss.

His stomach lurched at the debauchery. How awful you were, how you made him feel alive in his own skin.

And nobody had ever made him feel this way. And he loved it. Every second, even if his flesh warped and his organs twisted in loathing. For himself, for you, and those pretty lips wrapped around his cock.

His hand carded over your hair with care.

His fingers teased at your clit in horrible horrible circles that made your hips twitch towards his hand. You were grinding over his palm now in steady back and forth lines.

So good.

He couldn’t even think. Nothing but stupid moans pushed past his lips, and he was almost deep enough to reach the back of your throat. So, so close now.

Your tongue was so hot it almost hurt. The noises, and the dripping of your saliva down to his thighs, made his hips squirm beneath your hands. Filthy. It’s all dirty here.

He felt after this he’d have to scrub himself until his skin withered and only bone was left.

You hummed. You pulled off of him again. When he mumbled a string of disappointed gibberish with his eyes squeezed shut in frustration, you whispered, “are you close, Reverend?”

Heat crept up his thighs and down from his stomach.

You thumbed the swollen veins and cooed at his slicking cock. “Are you?”

“Finish this,” he whispered harshly. “Finish me.” He tugged on your hair gently, guiding you down toward his cock once more.

Excitement bubbled in your stomach.

Your tongue flattened against the head of his cock. Your spit slid down his skin as you buried him deep in your mouth. Maybe you pushed too far, because you gagged around the skin close to the base.

Your nose just barely grazed the supple flesh of his lower belly. Your hand wrapped firmly around what skin you couldn’t reach.

He’s delicious. He was so heavy in your mouth and warm and his cum smeared thickly over your throat.

Sunday’s hips rocked forward as deep as he could possibly bury himself. You take him in and suck. The wet slurps of your tongue make his skin burn hotter. He feared he’d faint, or melt, soon. Like a candle. Like the votive candles upstairs in the–

His mind kept trapping himself of the main hall upstairs, and the thousands of eyes peering down at him.

Drool and cum dyed your lips with a shimmer. You were growing more and more desperate and there was a concerning and lonely ache between your legs somewhere deep inside of you. Your lips sucked a tighter seal around his cock while you kept your tongue flat for him to slide his cock over it.

Sunday’s fingers tightened in your hair.

“You–!” He tried to tell you you were awful. This was wrong. This was disgusting, and vile, and you were just a wretched streetwalker tempting him for a thrill.

He said nothing. He couldn’t.

He stiffened up again, and his thighs locked around your head.

And then, his cock jerked in your throat, and he came.

A long and broken sob echoed in your ears.

You held his hips still as he squirmed and wriggled beneath you, salt coating your throat in streams as his chest and stomach heaved with his heavy quickened breaths.

His head was swamped with a haze, like a thick foggy mist clouding over his senses.

His skin almost melted off of the muscle in his body. He felt like the countless votive candles still burning on the floor above, with the statue of Xipe, and the hundreds of eyes painted on the walls– again. His mind reeled back again.

Sweat dripped from his flesh like wax.

Sunday held a vice grip on your hair. His other hand between your legs had stilled for the moment, though he could feel you still grinding onto the soaked material of his glove.

“Good,” he mumbled. He was petting your hair. He swallowed hard to ignore the ache between his legs. “So good.” His words were slurred, and amidst the darkness, what he could see swirled into a muddied watercolour piece.

He was drawing in sharp inhales that whistled through his teeth while you cleaned him up. Your tongue traced the angry red flushes and patches along the sensitive skin, following every drop of cum that had fallen past your lips.

Sunday let go of your hair in favour of feeling his racing heart beneath his chest. It ached and thumped with need.

He was sensitive. He’d been wriggling the entire time, but now his hips couldn’t keep still, and he couldn’t stop himself from following your tongue with his cock.

His breathing stuttered loudly as he dragged the skin over your tongue. He wasn’t sure if he wanted you to open your mouth again, but at the same time, he was afraid he’d grow tremendously addicted, and you’d both remain there a lot longer than he would’ve wished.

So, he pulled away, as difficult as it was.

Guilt steamed in his stomach like a hot iron sliding over his belly and scorching his flesh.

He felt you swing over between his thighs as your mouth, sticky with cum and spit, abandoned his cock and trailed kisses up his torso.

Sunday’s free hand grabbed your chin when your lips bumped up against his jugular, pulling your mouth towards his.

He tasted himself on your tongue, but he avoided it as best he could. His hand between your legs pressed firmly against your clit, and your body twisted and grinded and squirmed on his gloved palm.

He almost felt bad.

Almost.

A string of bubbled gasps and whispers of worship escaped your lips, but they fell on his deaf ears. The smell of wine was stronger here with your heart pressed to his. His thumb teased your clit as best it could with how you moved against him, and his glove was soaked in your slick.

He was furious with himself, and yet he also found himself not caring as he did. Maybe it was you; maybe you were muddying his senses. Maybe he’d go home tonight and stab a blade through his chest and ruin the awful guilt-stricken beating muscle beneath his ribs.

For now, as you had wished him to, he’d indulge.

He’d take.

Your fingers tightened their grip when they flew to his shoulders. The linen of his loosened shirt crumpled and wrinkled beneath your hands. There was a strain behind his arms as you pulled harder on him, pleading beneath your breath.

“Was that enough for you, Reverend?” you whispered to him. Your lips were pressed against his. That same squelching sound between your legs, and Sunday could feel his cock hardening as it did the night prior.

He said nothing. The air was thick with the scent of his skin, and yours.

You felt the flutter of feathers brush along your cheek.

“I’m–”

Sunday swallowed when he felt your stomach jolt against him. “I know.”

“I want your devotion, Reverend,” you admitted. How debauched to whisper things like that against his lips. He knew you wrong, and yet his heart raced at the thought. At the idea of disobedience. “I need you.”

It was very well possible down here. No prying eyes, no other members of the church.

Just you, and him, in the mellow darkness, rocking against each other.

His fingers quickened and you almost cried.

He feared then, and now, that you did receive devotion.

Instead, to hide the burning shame in his stomach, which only grew between his legs, he rested his forehead against yours and sighed shakily. For a moment, there was the faint glow of his halo, and the distant sound of a bell toll. You just saw the outline of his hair.

Your fingers brushed past his wings blindly.

They passed through the ring of light behind his head. You felt nothing but warmth on the pads of your fingers.

“Go on,” he breathed. “Let go.”

And you did.

Your stomach pressed to his in a harsh arch and your nails raked upon and wrinkled the back of his dark shirt even further as you came.

Bliss and sugar clouded your head like fog.

His wings fluttered behind him in a panic when one of your hands hooked around the base of the clipped wing of the pair. You whispered his name like a prayer, and it hurt when he kissed you. It burned on his lips like flames, and he loved it.

Too much.

And yet not enough.

Sunday felt you weakly try to crawl on top of him, but he pushed on your shoulders gently until you rocked backwards. He held you up as best he could on shaky legs as you both rose from the table.

The wood was covered in sweat and condensation and heat, and Sunday couldn’t bring himself to tear his mouth off of you. Wine. Wine on your tongue like blood, and he couldn’t stop himself.

Heat burned in his chest, and his stomach, and it steamed to his head and rushed up his neck in bubbled waves.

He grabbed you by the collar of your crumpled shirt and pushed you against the table. He felt weak, his bones rattling beneath his skin and his blood boiling, and there was anger there, but also something else and it scared him.

Perhaps you picked up on it.

He heard you laugh, even as he forced your stomach further into the edge of the table.

“Blessed Reverend, did you fall in love?”

His blood ran cold.

He couldn’t possibly call it that. He knew it wasn’t true for you, either. The way you looked at him threatened more than love.

It can’t be love. He’s not allowed to love.

His heart frantically raced in his chest. His fingers trailed from the back of your collar to the small of your back, and he pushed and pushed until he had easily bent you over the expanse of the table.

He was panting. You could hear him somewhat close to your ear.

“No,” he answered, but he sounded unsure. “But you did, didn’t you?”

Another breathless laugh. You heard the jingle of his belt, and his gloved hands slid up the back of your thighs. He’d managed to wedge one of his legs between yours, but it didn’t nothing to quell your squirming.

His touch was soft. Too soft to the point it tickled your skin with feather-light strokes against your legs.

One of his hands wrapped around your front to feel blindly along your cheek. He grabbed your face tight, and he felt your heart thrum in your throat.

You felt him roughly tug off your pants and they fell to a pathetic heap on the floor. You kicked them away, and they fell into the pile close to his discard clothes.

“Spread your legs.”

You were panting, laughing, as he squeezed your spit covered chin in his gloved hand. The soft and soaked cotton was rough, pinching against your flesh. His breath was so hot down your neck.

You let out a droning whine.

He clicked his tongue, and the firm hand pushing you into the table pinched the back of your thigh. You cried out, and your leg twitched instinctively.

“I will not ask twice,” he whispered into your ear, lips hot on your skin.

Weak in the knees, and your stomach pressed hard and flat into the edge of the table, you shakily did as he said, hesitant with the warm hand that remained on the back of your thigh less he reel back and bruise it.

He did not.

He seemed pleased, though he did not voice it.

A gloved thumb exposed the sensitive skin between your legs, and you outwardly flinched forward on the table when his finger grazed over your sensitive hole.

Cold. It’s so cold, and he’s slowly drawing circles around your entrance.

You could feel yourself clenching, trying to entice him inside again.

His thumb pushed into your cunt, and you let out a hum. You almost squealed when the tip of his finger brushed against your walls.

“Is this not what you came here for?” Sunday asked. “To ruin yourself?”

“I’ve already ruined myself,” you said meekly. His thumb pushed deeper to his knuckle, and you mewled. “Thank you, Reverend.”

Ever the gracious Bronze Melodia, and despite your willingness to be pliant for him, he still asked for your wellbeing. To seek in your pleasure, because he knew no better.

“And have you found the relief you’ve sought?”

You didn’t want him to care, but there was a burning in your heart, because he did.

You let out a throaty hum. “Almost.”

You heard his teeth grind behind his lips, and his thumb abandoned your hole, smearing slick along your cunt. The soaked cotton caught on your clit and you moaned. “Filthy.”

He’s so angry. Heat flared in his chest.

You felt him burning, his thighs slick and trembling on the back of your legs.

Impatiently, you canted your hips back into him, and he gasped out of shock and a shameful delight when your slickened cunt dragged against his cock.

Your hips rocked against his again, skin sticking with sweat to his hip bones and he throbbed. His teeth gritted hard enough to almost crack his teeth.

His hand moved from your chin to press flat on your stomach.

It’s so hot. He could feel your skin radiating off of him. And it was overwhelming, like he’d been thrown into a sauna with no water for relief.

He wanted to fill you with cum.

It hurt to think. He shouldn’t think. All he should do is fuck you until there’s no other man out there for you but him.

And you can never have him.

So he can keep you here and watch you pine and chase after him, and he’ll deny you every time. And make you ache and suffer for what you’ve done to him.

But for now, the aching and twitching in his cock made his head spin every time he slid himself upon your slit. Back and forth and back and forth and–

It’s so hot.

He felt his mind twisting and melting beneath his skull.

Desperately, Sunday gripped the base of his cock and shakily guided the tip to your aching hole. His other hand abandoned the warmth of your stomach trapped against the table.

You mewled when he stretched your hole as wide as he could with splayed fingers. A dribble of slick escaped you, and he could feel you clenching already.

Your toes curled in your heels. One of your shoes comes off, and he feels the slide of the embroidered stockings against his leg.

Those same stockings with that pattern he saw in every single embroidered table runner in the church, and at home, and it made his skin crawl.

“You’ll let me enjoy myself, Reverend?” you whispered behind you.

Sunday pressed you further into the table and rocked his hips against yours. “You’ll lay here and take me.” His tip kissed the entrance of cunt. And then, with one hard exhale, he slowly canted his hips forward towards your thighs. “That’s what you wanted.”

You hummed and slackened against the table.

Hot. He’s so hot inside of you as his twitching, creaming cock splits your hole wider. The veins run along the stretchy walls and slip further inside of you.

He throbbed when you felt his hips press against your ass.

Sunday was already panting, holding your hips in a tight grip that loosened as he bottomed out. You felt him bend over you, his stomach jolting against your back as he tried to hold you still.

He was squirming, wriggling like a fish caught on a hook. You were so warm, and you dripped and squeezed around him, and he couldn’t possibly pull himself any closer to you. He wanted your skin to fuse with his in a tangled mess of grotesquery. He wanted you to assimilate and merge beneath his skin.

This cannot be love.

Possession flared inside of his stomach.

He was trembling. His cock twitched with need inside of you, and you let out a moan.

“I’m–” He shakily exhaled against the nape of your neck. His face was burning with shame.

You could feel it on your skin. “I’m right here.”

He pressed inside of you deeper. Deeper, deeper, deeper. He wanted to press all the way to your womb and leave a permanent imprint of his cock that left you with an empty ache for as long as you lived. “This is wrong.”

You hummed in acknowledgement. “But you love it.”

And he does.

Sunday slowly pulled his hips away from your ass. So slowly, and he felt one of his traitorous awful hands reach blindly for yours to hold it. You squeezed his hand in response. He held on tight.

Then, he slammed back into you.

He grew breathless almost immediately, and the air was knocked from your lungs. Your hips smashed into the edge of the table.

The ache was good.

You murmured praise, and his cock grew impossibly harder as he reeled his hips back and filled you again.

He’ll take good care of you here. He knows as much. Your skin is so, so hot, and his cock is so warm and snug inside of you, and he felt his mind growing muddy all over again.

Sunday rocked his hips quicker, his knee almost knocking against the table by your hips.

So good.

His bottom lip quivered. One of his hands dragged up from your hip and slid up beneath your ruined shirt. He pressed you down against the table as flat as he could.

So wrong.

He’s wrong. You’re wrong. You’re both sick, and ungodly, and corrupt. And you both belong to each other. He belongs to you. As depraved as you are, he feels he is worse. He wants to drag you to his bed and satisfy himself again and again, but he knows he can’t.

So he takes you here, again and again and again.

His cock buried itself impossibly deeper with every imprint he left inside of you. His tip kissed as far against your walls as it could, and his hips tremored with every grind of his hips against your ass.

He felt like a dog. Like some pathetic mutt mounting its mate.

But that’s what he felt he was in that moment: pathetic, weak, and some mindless man with his brain in his cock.

The bones of your hips were aching, snapping back and forth into the edge of the table, but you couldn’t bring yourself to care for the fire surging in your veins.

Your body felt numb, like you’d been burned one thousand times over, and then had ice poured over you.

It’s awful, and yet you felt so alive.

Your hand was shaking in his when you murmured, “let go. Let me touch myself, sir.”

His cock squeezed against a particular spot inside of you, and you couldn’t see straight.

Your ears were ringing a tune you couldn’t place your finger on, and your clit throbbed with every brush of his cock against your walls.

In response, he held that hand he held still against your back. He silently allowed you the reprieve of his touch when your fingers curled around his thumb, and he did not pull away.

The scratch of his shirt against what parts of your spine peaked through your pulled shirt.

You shivered, even more so when his lips delicately lingered beneath your ear, and his hot breath fanned over your cheek.

This is wrong. It’s wrong how good he feels.

It’s wrong how you clenched around him, sucking him in impossibly deeper to the curl of your warmth around his cock.

He fucked into you again.

His tip was burning with need, and his stomach twisted and turned at the thought of it. Wrong, and filthy, and–

You let out another plea. “Le’ me touch myself, Reverend.” To hammer the nail in the coffin, you then murmured, “oh God.”

It’s the need that made him crack. It’s the idea of just how tight you could be if you were to cum all over him. How he could watch that gorgeous spine unfurl in front of him, how a melody would spill from your lips only for him to hear.

The sounds are disgusting, but somehow so invigorating. Wet and loud and so grotesque.

Sunday breathed out, and he sounded excited.

“You sought relief in me, you wretch.” he breathed into the nape of your neck. Sweat dyed his lips with salt. “Do it, then.”

When he removed his hand from your wrist, he felt your knees buckle. He pushed your hips further upwards into the table, for if you both fell any closer to the floor, away from the sky, he was sure he’d never wake from this horrible dream ever again.

Your hand slipped down your front towards your swollen clit.

His cock fucked into you harder, chasing the feeling of your cunt squeezing around the sensitive flesh, struggling to pull tighter. So filling. It’s so good. It’s so good it’s shameful, and he understood in that moment why sinners confess to him in the booth, go home and use their wives, and then repeat this endless cycle of debauchery.

As guilty as he felt, he sank his teeth into the exposed skin of your shoulder where your shirt fell.

You’re so beautiful like this.

Moaning and begging for more of him and covered in sweat.

His halo was glowing.

He swallowed the saliva building in his mouth when he pulled his teeth away from your skin. “You’re disgusting.” It’s weak, it’s pathetic, it doesn’t even sound like he believes it.

Because you’re not. You’re like an angel, laid flat on the table, offering your very being to him.

All you were missing was a halo—distantly, he knows you’d never receive one.

You let out a squeak of laughter, breathless. Your hand stirs between your legs. You manage to crane your neck and make eye contact with him. His halo lit up his pretty, flushed face in a shimmer of gold. “Are you close?”

His feathers fluttered at the question. His face grew brighter.

Your cunt squeezed around him again, and he let out a gasp at the tightness. “Very.” He was embarrassingly close, and all you’d done was squish him tight inside of you.

Your cunt squelched around his skin, and Sunday whimpered.

You squelched against his cock as he drove in further, desperately chasing that heat the coiled tighter and tighter in his guts.

He was afraid he would grow addicted to this. He was already growing addicted. He squeezed his eyes shut, and he gripped your hips tighter.

Sweat stained his neck, and heat trapped beneath his ruined shirt. He’d have to burn his clothes. Plead for a new uniform entirely, and perhaps for salvation.

If anyone found out about this.

His stomach turned.

His cock slipped out of you and he grunted. Sunday fumbled with himself trying to slot back into your twitching hole. “Stop wriggling.”

Your cunt trembled as he stretched past your walls again. Your fingers tremored over your sensitive clit. “Haha. Of course, sir.” Breathless, slurred, beautiful.

He could listen to you moan in his ear all day.

His skin stuck to yours like glue, sweat and slick soaking his thighs as he pushed into your guts as deep as he could.

As dangerous as the thought was, he wanted to fill your womb with his cum. His cock throbbed and throbbed and as he drew closer and closer to the edge, he fucked you harder and harder.

He felt the heel of your shoe slide up against his thigh soaked in sweat. It was exciting how you treated him like a prince, and also like the dirt you stepped in with these expensive shoes.

Sunday shivered behind you, his hands trailing over the curve of your ass up to the base of your spine. Pretty, pretty skin. So soft and dainty, and so warm and supple beneath his fingers.

He didn’t deserve to feel like this.

He buried his lips into the nape of your neck again, gently brushing kisses along your sweaty skin. His tongue pushed past his lips, and he tasted salt and the lingering scent of your perfume.

Sunday slammed his hips against your skin again. And again– and he felt he was losing his mind. His hands gripped your hips so tight you were excited to see the bruises he left on you in the morning.

You were moaning and moaning against the table.

One of your hands had balled into a fist and viciously smashed against the table. “Harder, priest. Make me yours.”

“You are mine,” he reminded you coldly in your ear. Still, his hips made a resounding smack against your ass.

Sunday moaned when he felt your walls twitch around him, so tight he felt as though his blood circulation was being cut. It made his head swim. He pawed at your back desperately.

So close.

You purred praises again as his cock head kissed that sweet spot inside of you, and your fingers drew sloppily around your clit. “Just like that, Reverend.”

Sunday’s halo almost blinded you with how bright it was glowing.

He wanted to mumble that he loved you. He wasn’t sure if it was the true, or if he was stumbling over his tongue with these disgusting falsities and delusions.

Like the delusions that played in his head of waking up next to you, crawling between your legs and tonguing at your cunt, pleading for relief while his cock stirred in his pants.

“Let me fill you,” he pleaded quietly. “Please.” His tongue was watering, and he wiped drool off of his lips with his shoulder.

He heard you sigh dreamily, cut off suddenly with another harsh thrust of his cock inside of you.

He was twitching.

So fucking close.

Come on.

Shame. Shame poured from every pore in his skin like pus.

“Of course, sire. I’m yours.”

In your final confession, Sunday’s chest heaved. His gloved fingers gripped your hips enough to still them entirely, staining the unmarred skin with dark bruises and blood.

His cock twitched deep inside you, his mind twisted, and he came.

He filled your womb, just like he wanted to, and he moaned so pathetically against your neck you cried out for him. His breath fanned over your sweaty skin as he trembled above you, hips smacking weakly against your ass as he emptied himself.

“God.” It spilled from his lips.

Blasphemous. Awful. He’ll never see the light of day the same again,

He clawed at your hips, pressing you down into the table.

His heart lurched when you squeezed around his sensitive, aching cock still buried deep into your cunt, drooling around the skin as you came again.

He felt slick dribble past the rim of your hole, sticking to the soft supple skin of his thighs as he kept himself snug inside of you.

Warm.

He exhaled shakily.

The praise you had whispered had gotten to his head. Heat swelled in his face, and Sunday swallowed thickly.

After a moment, you sighed, just as wobbly as he was, and raised a hand to pull his chin down just enough for you to crane your neck to the side and kiss his cheek.

You could feel his heart bashing against your back as his chest rested on your spine. Truthfully, you could’ve stayed this way with his slowly softening cock deep inside of you.

He pulled out slowly, almost unwillingly, and he heard you hiss lowly. His cock slipped from your cunt, and his slit was still aching as the remaining cum bubbled and dribbled down the side.

Sunday did nothing.

He removed his hands from your hips and you finally pushed yourself up from the table. He heard the creaking of your bones and a sigh of relief as you stretched your skin.

His heart was still racing. He felt nauseous.

His gloves were sticky and tacky, but he still refused to touch your properly.

He heard you shift, sitting up on the table and gliding a gentle, but firm hand up and down the stretch of his spine. His wings fluttered at the attention.

His halo was still glowing, just enough for you to see that he was masking his guilt and staring far too long at the wall of the cellar. After what seemed like hours, he fumbled to pull his pants back on at the very least and attempted to straighten his rumpled shirt.

In that time, he’d heard the clicking of your heels as you’d fussed to dress yourself as best you could without moving from the table.

Devotion.

Your hand was now soothingly rubbing his shoulder.

His knees buckled.

As he slowly lowered himself to the floor, he turned to face you and slotted himself in between your legs. This was devotion, right? His gloved hands slid up your thighs as you watched him curiously. His knees hit the floor first, and his lips trembled when he leaned forward, pried your thighs further apart, and kissed your clothed cunt until your hips twitched and you giggled.

You playfully shoved his head away with a push to his forehead.

Sunday rested his head against one of your thighs and continued to tremble. His face was still

coated in sweat.

When your hand gently reached down to pet his hair, he shakily smiled.

He’d find later after he finally pulled himself from the cellar and locked it, and trekked back up the stairs to the main hall, that the murals were not looking at him. The statue was still, just as silent as it had always been, with six eyes shut to the world with their unhearing ears and unspeaking mouths.

All that would watch silently was a bird. A small, deep purple nightingale that watched from afar.

For now he walked down the aisle after you silently, holding onto his coat and his white overthrow. The golden badge that usually rested on his breast weighed heavy in his hands like led.

He did not dare to gaze at the walls. He held onto the key for the front door as if it would disappear from his grasp.

It was cold outside, and the wind blew steadily as he shut the door behind him before securely locking it tight.

He heard your heels stop.

“Reverend?”

Sunday wanted to bark at you. What more could you possibly want from him? You’d taken everything, and now he knew he would go home like a ghost trekking a lonely path, fall into bed, and tremble all night as his fingers felt blindly for the waistband of his pants.

Instead, he only hummed. He kept his hand firm around the giant brass knobs of the church.

“Don’t fear Hell.”

The words did not assure him, but for that moment amidst the wind, Sunday listened.

He felt a hand rest on his shoulder, squeezing the sore muscles tight.

He stiffened at how warm your skin was. How he desperately, desperately wanted to feel your lips on his again.

He refrained.

Sunday barely turned his head to look at you.

“I will be there with you.” And that, you could promise.

Daringly, you pressed a chaste kiss to his hair before you let go of his shoulder, and left.

He only glanced away for a moment, but when he peered back down the street, you had disappeared, along with the faint clicking of your heels.

Sunday’s shoulder remained warm long after you had let go.

And that warmth remained present for every day that you did not return to him.

But, distantly, with every service that he swears he sees your face, or the pattern of your stockings in the embroidery, he knows the fleeting feeling of your warmth is enough.

#sunday x reader #sunday x you #hsr x reader #hsr x you #honkai star rail x reader #✦ ( after hours. )#✦ ( the macrocosmos. )

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turtletaubwrites · 6 months ago

Text

Numbers Game ~ Part 17

Let Me Help You With That

Pairings: Cross Guild x Fem!Reader x Shanks

Numbers Game Masterlist

Word Count: 3930

Ao3 Link

Ongoing Series Playlist: Youtube Music Link | Youtube Link

Summary: Crocodile isn't happy with your charming guest, and you might agree.

Author's Note: I am WAAYYY too excited for y'all to read this one 😭

Alternate POV Symbols:

!!! SPOILER WARNING !!! Fic contains spoilers for the end of the Wano arc

Rating/Warnings: Author has Chosen to Exclude some Smut Warnings for this Chapter to Avoid Spoilers, Explicit Sexual Content, 18+ ONLY, MDNI, AFAB!Reader, She/Her Pronouns for Reader, Reader-Insert, Dark Content, Blood & Violence, Swearing, Alcohol, Cigars, Smut, Fluff, Manipulation, Humiliation, Pet Names, Power Imbalance, Cross Guild boys are VILLAINS, Possessive Behavior, Teasing, Threats, Size Difference, Daddy Kink, Degradation, Hair-Pulling, Rough Oral Sex, Comeplay, Shameless Shameless Smut, Other Additional Tags to Be Added

~🐊🗡️🐊🗡️~

“I don’t like this.”

“Really,” Mihawk teased, pouring Crocodile a glass of scotch before topping off his wine. “ You hide it so well.”

“Fuck off,” Crocodile grumbled, more annoyance than anger coating his rough voice. He continued pacing after accepting the scotch, taking too large a sip, too quickly. He hissed lightly at the burn, then sent those silver eyes to tear into the man hanging his fancy coat on its fancy hanger. “Tell me what they’re doing.”

The swordsman smirked, touching his arm to guide him to one of the loveseats.

The loveseat that was against the connecting wall to the middle suite.

“They already went in there,” Crocodile huffed, taking up a large space on the small sofa.

“You didn’t hear the doors? You really are bothered, aren’t you?”

“Of course I’m fucking bothered,” he snapped, although his voice was a bit hushed so close to that wall. “You invited some freak to come fuck our girl, and our– and you didn’t think to tell me? I don’t care if he’s your ex, he’s a fucking Emperor. This is not a good time for variables. Or do you not care about our plans?”

Mihawk was still standing, his head cocked after the slew of words that had just left the typically stoic man’s lips. Crocodile’s jaw clenched tighter with each passing moment of silence, until confusion took over his features, his lips parting as Mihawk sat down beside him.

Tapping his ear, Mihawk shifted in his seat, facing Crocodile as he tilted his ear toward the wall. This left the golden eyed man with nowhere to place his long legs except for across the larger man’s lap, leaning back against the cushioned armrest as he met his gaze.

“I apologize for not telling you about Shanks,” Mihawk began, taking a large swig of wine while Crocodile processed his words, and the weight Mihawk had so casually stretched over his lap. Silver eyes narrowed, searching for lies on the swordsman's face as he continued his apology. “You’re right. We’re partners, and I shouldn’t have let my personal feelings keep me from respecting our professional arrangement. It won’t happen again.”

“Didn’t know you were capable of apologies, Hawk Eyes,” Crocodile sighed after a long pause. He downed his glass, which the other man grabbed to set down for him, as those long, leather clad legs were still restricting his movement.

“I am capable of many things that you aren’t aware of,” he replied, just a hint of that teasing edge in his words.

“Just tell me what they’re saying,” Crocodile groaned, rubbing his palm over his face. “If he hurts her, your apology is fucking null.”

Mihawk laughed as he extricated himself from the sofa, fetching the bottles of scotch and wine before resuming his position. He looked as pleased as a cat with cream as he stretched across Crocodile’s lap again, body going loose before he started to share what their girl was up to.

“Don’t worry, Crocodile. Our little rabbit is far more interested in our clown than touching the handsome stranger. In fact, she’s giving him a rather hard time.”

He chuckled at that, his eyes looking up a bit as he focused on the laughter in the other room.

“What do you mean,” grumbled the scarred man, frowning deeper than usual as he waited for more.

“Well, Y/N insulted Shanks’… manhood for one thing,” Mihawk laughed as Crocodile choked on his liquor, trying to speak through his coughs until Mihawk took pity on him. “Don’t worry, it was just a joke. They seem to be having a lighthearted time in there.”

“How does your ex handle being the butt of jokes?”

“He’s not my ex, you know,” Mihawk insisted, stretching his neck before elaborating. “He was a rival. Then a friend. Then a close friend.”

“Do you consider all your close friends to be ‘phenomenal fucks?”

Golden eyes widened, showing a hint of shock, even a surprised lift to the corner of his lips before he shook his head with a laugh. Crocodile flexed his jaw before taking another burning sip, looking away from that pleased face.

“I can’t imagine you have many close friends either, sandman, and it’s not easy to find lovers worthy of respect out on the seas,” Mihawk started, his teasing voice turning sharper as he went on. “What about you, Crocodile? Do you have any long lost loves out there somewhere? Did you keep a little harem of sweet girls when you had your hook in that kingdom? Maybe there’s even a few baby crocs crawling around some–”

“Enough.”

Blood and scotch mixed in Crocodile’s palm, most of the shards of glass still held or embedded in his hand after he’d crushed it. Mihawk’s eyes looked even less human than usual, assessing the other man like a predator deciding whether to leave this catch alone or not.

“Let me help you with that,” Mihawk rasped, slowly reaching for that clenched fist. Crocodile nodded, the veins in his reddened neck starting to shrink. He followed the swordsman to the bathroom, the only sounds being his slowing breaths, Mihawk’s little hums, and the tapping sound of each piece of glass as they were carefully removed from his palm to fall into the bin.

“It’s not bad,” Mihawk noted after cleaning and wrapping the collection of small wounds. “I’d hate to have to buy you another hook. This one looks rather expensive.”

Crocodile huffed a laugh, the tension in the room starting to ease while he sat against the marble counter. He let out a sigh, tilting his head toward the ceiling before diving back in.

“You didn’t answer my question.”

“Oh, Shanks? I think he can take a joke better than you can,” Mihawk laughed, holding his hands up at Crocodile’s scathing look. “Sorry, sorry. No more jokes. Not tonight, anyway.”

“Just tell me what’s happening.”

Mihawk agreed, but led the scowling man out to the bedroom before frowning at the loveseat, mumbling about that “peaty stench.” Instead, they sat on the edge of the bed, Crocodile’s rough voice starting until Mihawk cut him off.

“Your sweet girl was brattier than I’ve ever heard her, and Shanks is handling her well.”

“Are you fu–”

“She’s having a lovely time,” he assured, smoothing his hand over a large thigh before Crocodile could get to his feet. “I wouldn’t let him hurt her any more than she wants. Besides, our clown is taking good care of her. Shanks is giving our pets a night to remember.”

“I don’t fucking trust him,” he growled, shaking his hand loose after clenching it around the bandages. He paused, waiting for Mihawk’s snarky reply, but they shared another long, empty moment.

Another moment that neither man used to bring up the elephant in the room.

“I should have told you,” Mihawk rasped as he stood, touching Crocodile’s shoulder as he moved to stand between those long legs. “In the spirit of honoring our professional agreement, why don’t I make it up to you?”

The air shifted, hot and thick, while Crocodile’s eyes narrowed yet again as he studied the man that was too close.

That he’d let get too close.

“How do you mean,” he asked, although the answer was clear in those golden eyes, a tiny gleam of fire building within them.

“Since it’s my fault that you’re without your sweet girl, or your only hand tonight,” Mihawk purred, taking his time running his fingers down Crocodile’s arms, “I believe I owe my business partner some assistance with relieving the stress I’ve caused. Don’t you?”

Crocodile wet his lips, eyes pouring down that wicked face, that bare chest, those ridiculously low, leather pants, to the hands that traveled back up his arms to his shoulders. He didn’t stop the swordsman when those arms wrapped around his neck.

The man was so close.

“What do you say, sandman?”

“Business partners,” Crocodile urged, unable to look away from the other man’s smirking lips.

“Of course,” Mihawk hummed as he leaned even closer. “I’m just helping out my business partner. Can’t have you so stressed before the big event. Let me take care of you.”

That offer, that request, was left as a tempting breath along Crocodile’s lips, and his silver eyes went dark before he closed that fraction of space. The kiss was almost angry, as if there was too much energy in their bodies, so they forced it into each other's hungry mouths. Soft grunts, little gasps, and heavy breaths filled the air as their tongues explored each other.

Mihawk’s lips managed a smirk, a laugh almost breaking through, until Crocodile’s bandaged hand forced him deeper into the kiss. Fingers twisting into soft black hair brought pretty noises from the swordsman’s throat, which only made those fingers tighter.

“Fuck,” Crocodile broke the kiss with a groan, pushing Mihawk back after the swordsman had pressed a leg against the hard length already growing in his dress slacks. Before either could say a word, Mihawk was on his knees, trailing hands along Crocodile's inner thighs, devilish satisfaction clear on his face.

“Take these–”

“Shut up,” Crocodile growled, cutting Mihawk off with the tip of that golden hook, pressing into his neck. “You wanna suck my cock so fucking bad, you don’t get to tell me what to do. You gonna ask nicely?”

Mihawk’s eyes went heavy, fluttering as the hook dug in, his mouth slack as he tried to look up at the man who had him.

“Please, Croc, take your pants off. Please, let me suck that perfect cock of yours.”

Mihawk gasped when Crocodile grabbed his jaw, hard, scraping the hook down his neck to his shoulder. Crocodile finally had his own pleased smile as he stared down at the twitching man in his grasp, those leather pants straining as Mihawk moaned from the pain.

“If you want this, you know what my fucking name is,” he taunted, leaning down to whisper in Mihawk’s ear as he kept dragging that sharp point down his skin. “What’s it gonna be, little bird? Still want what I can give you?”

“Yes,” Mihawk gasped before scraping his bottom lip through his teeth.

“Yes, what?”

“Yes, daddy,” Mihawk moaned, his eyes rolling white as the words left his lips.

“Good boy,” Crocodile purred, releasing him before standing up. He towered over the man on his knees, smirking down at the unexpected sight of Dracule Mihawk begging for his cock. “Now get to work.”

Mihawk gazed up at the man he’d just called, ‘daddy,’ and obeyed instantly, his mouth hanging open with need as he reached for Crocodile’s belt.

“Yours too,” the scarred man ordered after Mihawk helped him out of his clothes. Crocodile had started to undo his vest and shirt slowly, but Mihawk’s skilled fingers flew up to free him. Now Crocodile sat nude on the edge of the bed, watching as those leather pants were undone, and set aside so carefully that he laughed. “You’re so precious about your fucking clothes.”

“Of course, they’re one of a kind,” Mihawk huffed, frowning a bit before going to his knees again.

“I’ll make sure you get all the fancy clothes you like, swordsman. Want me to hunt down a personal tailor for you?”

Mihawk paused, cocking his head as his hands reached for the larger man's thighs. It was his turn to narrow his eyes, before laughing at the sincere look on that frightening face.

“I would never say no to such an offer, but I made those myself.”

He started to smooth his palms along Crocodile’s thighs, looking away from the face above, missing the grin that beamed down at him. Fingers dug into that black hair again, and he moaned softly as he was forced to meet Crocodile’s gaze.

“So, my scary little bird likes to garden, treats cats like fucking children, collects the prettiest toys, and even makes his own fancy clothes,” he teased, though his voice was filled with enough heat to keep Mihawk from retorting. “Do you want daddy to help his little prince build a new castle?”

Mihawk gasped softly, eyes still guarded as he melted into the rough touch.

“I like that song you hum when you’re happy,” Crocodile whispered, almost releasing Mihawk when he realized what he’d confessed, but he charged on, pretending it hadn’t happened. He brought his hook down along Mihawk's back, trying to distract him with pain that had the man’s cock twitching.

“You know I can give you what you want, don’t you?”

“I know you can, daddy,” Mihawk agreed, a bit of himself coming back as he let that tasty word float between them. “All I have to do is tell you what I want.”

Crocodile sat back, satisfaction warming his features as he flicked his eyes down.

“Show me how much you’ve been wanting to suck my cock, you twisted, little prince.”

A needy sound left Mihawk’s throat. He stared too long, etching that moment into his memory before giving in to that desire and demand.

Long fingers danced down his thighs, and Crocodile caught himself holding his breath as those shining eyes got closer. Mihawk let himself admire that cock the way it deserved, looking it over as if trying to decide which bite of cake to enjoy first. Those heavy balls hung down over the edge of the mattress, and he couldn’t resist reaching for them first, enjoying the little gasp Crocodile let out. He traced his fingers up the shaft, taking in every new sound from his lover’s lips.

Mihawk brought both hands down, wrapping around that thick cock before leaning in. He looked up from his work with a wicked smile, feeling precum drip down his own length from how desperately he’d been wanting to do this.

“You’ve made a lot of promises, daddy,” he teased, hands still playing while a stern face stared down.

“And?”

“And I hope you keep them,” he purred, licking over that swollen tip. The taste made him moan, Crocodile taking in a sharp breath at the feel of that sweet, dangerous tongue.

Mihawk swirled that tongue, spreading the taste around until Crocodile shuddered, reaching for Mihawk’s hair to hurry him up. Mihawk moved before those fingers could push him, taking as much of that massive cock down his throat as he could in the first go.

“Gods, yes. Good boy, use that filthy fucking mouth of yours.”

Strangled, desperate moans vibrated over Crocodile’s veiny shaft as Mihawk let spit drip down for his hands to play in while he kept opening his throat.

“One hand, little prince,” Crocodile chuckled, dragging his hook along Mihawk's forearm. “You can make us both come, can’t you? You talk such a big–”

That hungry throat relaxed further, even as the man on his knees reacted to the challenge. Muffled grunts forced through as one of his hands left Crocodile’s base to wrap around his own, throbbing length. His other hand shifted down to those heavy balls, squeezing and stretching as he swallowed as much of that fat cock as he could, shoving deeper and deeper.

“Fuck yes. Fucking knew my cock would fit your throat, you dirty, little prince. Be a good boy, and spill all over your hand before you swallow my come. You want daddy's come so fucking bad, don’t you?”

Golden eyes burned with tears as Mihawk looked up, unable to respond except for the choked moans and nods that were lost while he fucked his face onto that cock. But Mihawk obeyed, eyes rolling back as he brought himself, his come shooting high enough to coat his own chest, and the bottoms of Crocodile’s thighs.

“Ju–ust like that– fuck,” Crocodile praised, fisting Mihawks hair to guide the last few strokes. The bandage on his palm had soaked through, but neither man noticed while Crocodile forced that willing throat to take everything he had to give.

Mihawk lost himself in the pain and bliss of being used, drinking in his lover's pleasure as that delicious cock pulsed along his tongue, and so fucking deep down his throat.

After a pause, Crocodile yanked the man up by his hair, Mihawk letting out a filthy moan from the force.

“Fuck…”

Silver eyes poured over the masterpiece that was Mihawk’s body. His own pleasure dripped down his chest and stomach, while the blood from Crocodile’s palm trailed down from the back of his neck, his shoulder, gathering over his collarbone before it fell down his chest in a few thin, bright lines.

“Pretty prince,” Crocodile rasped while Mihawk still twitched from his attention. He released that black hair, frowning at the blood pooling in his palm. Mihawk leaned forward as he grabbed the bleeding hand, either not noticing, or not caring as he placed it against his chest, adding to the mess on his skin.

“So, did I please you, daddy,” he asked, his normal, teasing voice rough from the abuse his throat had just taken.

“Need more praise, huh? Such a spoiled little prince,” Crocodile laughed, tracing one of his thick, jeweled rings over Mihawk's pouting lips before he could retort. “You were soo good for daddy.”

The swordsman's eyes fluttered closed, a relaxed smile touching those devious lips. He swayed a bit, a rare look of exhaustion washing over his features.

“Shower first, bright eyes. You look like a fucking crime scene.”

~~~

“Come here,” Crocodile urged, frowning at Mihawk when he laid down in his normal spot, with no one between them. Mihawk raised a brow, but kept his mouth shut, moving to let the larger man curl around his back.

“Are they okay in there?”

“Of course,” Mihawk laughed softly as sleep pulled the two ex warlords under, “Buggy’s already snoring.”

~🐊🗡️🐊🗡️~

It hadn’t made a difference when Shanks released you, his hand no longer covering your lips. You weren’t sure you’d be able to make a sound ever again, to speak any words after the weight of change that Shanks had dropped onto your life.

Buggy’s silly snores gave you bittersweet smiles, yet you still couldn’t sleep.

Every sweet thought of Buggy led to the grief of him being gone. Every sad thought of losing Buggy led to guilt, the need to never hold someone back, to never force someone to be with you.

Selfish. What have I done, anyway? I betrayed him, used him, now we’re both just playthings. He needs to leave. He deserves better than me.

Eventually, Shanks drifted off with his arm still wrapped around you to touch Buggy’s waist. The connection between them was so heavy and ringing that it made your teeth hurt. Time became torture, caught between these sleeping men, and your hurtful thoughts. The prick of tears came, and you longed to sneak out of this bed to be held in the massive one next door. Convincing yourself that you’d be able to sneak away from these powerful pirates undetected was pointless, as the thought of leaving Buggy alone with Shanks made your stomach turn.

Out of pure exhaustion, you were finally forced into sleep. Stormy seas met you again, but this time the ship was cast in red light, and it was Buggy’s voice calling your name.

~~~

“Y/N? Pretty star? You hungry, baby?”

Foggy eyes opened to a smiling face, that red nose seeming redder without fresh makeup to distract from it. Buggy was propped up on an elbow, holding an orange slice to your lips.

“I’m hungry,” Shanks purred, making you jolt as your sleepy brain remembered whose warm body you were pressed against.

“Get your own food, shithead,” Buggy grumbled, eating the slice himself before you had a chance to think.

“Didn’t know this was a buffet,” Shanks chuckled as he nuzzled his face into the side of your neck, humming at the twitches and moans you let out from the sensation. He breathed his next words against your ear, the heat and promise in them making your body tighten, already dripping for him. “I’d love to eat a little bunny for breakfast. I bet you taste so fuckin’ sweet, huh Y/N?”

Too tired and tingling to care that this charming man was here to steal your love, your head fell back against him with a desperate whine. Shanks let out a satisfied sigh as your body loosened, kissing and nibbling down your neck. Buggy placed an orange slice on your tongue, his crystal eyes feasting on the sight of Shanks’ hand and lips on your body before he kissed you, sharing that sweet, yet sharp taste.

“Mm, such a needy little bunny. Gonna tell me how she likes it, Bugs? Tell me how to–”

“Time for work,” Crocodile ordered, the heavy clang of his hook beating against the door.

~~~

You were in a daze.

It didn’t make sense that you had already gotten used to a routine that was so new, and so dangerous, so likely to change at any moment.

Yet, adding Shanks to the mix threw you off. You found yourself spacing out, and you weren’t the only one affected. Crocodile’s displeasure radiated off of him like simmering heat when Shanks charged into the shared suite to get ready with the group.

His frown only let up when it was his turn for the shower, smirking at Mihawk’s daily complaint about needing to install multiple shower heads.

“I need a hand, sweetheart. Wanna help daddy out?”

Crocodile rested his arm against the shower wall away from the water, his soft eyes leading you to his bandaged palm.

“What happened?”

Your question was drowned out by two other voices, Mihawk’s lazy drawl, and Buggy’s excited yell.

“None of us can reach that—“

“I can lend two hands!”

Buggy had already dried off, dropping his towel to the floor as his hands flew back into the shower. Giggles burst out of you when the animated hands started scrubbing Crocodile’s chest and shoulders, the massively tall man’s lips parting while he gawked at Buggy’s smiling face.

Mihawk turned to grab the shampoo, tossing it up for Buggy to massage through that black hair. Your attention was dragged away from the show at the sight of the vicious, red lines trailing from Mihawk’s neck down to his lower back.

Your golden eyed lover caught your expression, making your mind buzz white with a subtle wink before stepping toward Crocodile.

“I’ll get your lower half. You’re too large for one person to handle alone.”

Deep, pleased laughter drifted through the steamy air as Mihawk started scrubbing those powerful thighs, a small, but wicked smirk pulling at his lips.

Buggy’s nose was pressed lightly against the glass, an adorable grin on his giddy face, as he focused on washing that frightening man, but over his shoulder, another face ripped you from the moment.

Shanks.

His red hair was still dark with water, rivulets pouring down the muscles of his chest and stomach. He stared at the scene, nothing in his pretty eyes that you could read, except for the lack of that playful glint.

Shanks noticed your gaze, and as much as you wanted to look away, to pretend you hadn’t seen it, you were trapped.

Trapped by the curiosity that filled those eyes as they poured over your skin, seeming to take in all that you were. The depth of his scrutiny stole your breath, but he broke the spell with a slow, crooked grin.

Your lips obeyed you, returning that friendly smile, but the feeling of being studied didn't fully fade.

What did he see?

Likes, comments, and reblogs bring me much ✨dopamine✨ thank you!!

a/n: I have made myself FERALLLLLL. Can't think about anything else 😩

Part 18

Operation Olive Branch has compiled a working spreadsheet of ways to help families fleeing from the genocide in Palestine. If you enjoyed this fic, and are able, please click the link to find a list of GoFundMe's, as well as other ways to help.

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ashprince-of-bel-air · 3 months ago

Text

One More Drink.

A/N: I've been thinking about an older Eddie Munson a lot lately, so much so that I wrote this as I got wine drunk the other night.

Notes: Eddie is in his 40s, reader in their mid 20s. You meet Eddie at a dive bar in town after your date stood you up out of nowhere, you spend the night in Eddie's company until you end up nearly passed out drunk.

"Fucking arsehole" You muttered under your breath as you walked into the bar, your date failed to show, and you were pissed off. The bar was a dive, its clientele was mostly middle-aged men who lived nearby and had drank there for years. You did not care though, as long as you could get drunk you were satisfied. Signalling the bartender, you ordered a whiskey and a very large glass of wine. You downed the glass of whiskey in one gulp and cradled the glass of wine, stroking the rim of the glass with your finger, contemplating why you had been stood up.

Eddie watched you as you stormed in, he came here every Friday night and had never seen you before. You were young and you were alluring, the alternative style you had reminded him of his own youth, 20 years ago you would have been his type. Eddie shook his head softly trying not to look at you, he was twice your age, you obviously would not be interested in him, he could not help himself from speaking to you though.

Eddie chuckled as he saw you down the whiskey. "it's his loss sweetheart" You lifted your head up to see who made that comment, your eyes settling on the middle-aged rocker. You smirked at him and chuckled under your breath, you were flattered by the comment, he was an attractive man.

"Oh, are you offering?" you retorted playfully admiring his rugged face, as you looked at him you could not help but imagine feeling his rough stubble against your thighs. Mentally you shook those thoughts from your mind for now, you did not want a rebound from your missing date.

"Thanks.." you chuckle softly and return to looking at your drink, you did not think that you were overly beautiful but it did sting that you were stood up by your date for no reason. You gave the bartender a nod and ordered another shot of whisky, you would welcome anything that would drown the night away at this point. Downing your second glass of whisky made you shudder; you heard a comment from the aging rocker a few seats away. "You might want to calm down sweetheart unless you want someone to carry you home".

Eddie chuckled at your response; he was loving your flirty nature. "I just don't want to see a beautiful woman such as yourself be caught alone" He swigged his beer and called the bartender for another one. You were curious about this man, he was exactly your type, covered in tattoos with long hair, plus you definitely had a weakness for older men. How could you resist him? You smirked and stood up, moving to sit at the chair next to him, you could feel his eyes on you as you sat down, it aroused you somewhat, spurring you on to speak to him.

"Nice to meet you chief, I'm Y/N" You gave your best smile to him, wanting to impress him, you decided that you at least wanted the attention of someone tonight after your date ghosted you.

"I'm Eddie, darling" he smiled and lifted his drink in a playful cheer, he was happy that you were speaking to him, he was 20 years your senior but wanted you nonetheless, he hoped that he would not come across as a pervert as he stared at you, even though he felt like one. You were just perfection to him, you reminded him of his days as a rocker, dressed in all black and angry at the world. "Y/N. A pretty name for a pretty lady" His voice was deep and charming; you could not help but roll your eyes and smile at him.

You could hear his chuckle vibrate from his throat. "Same as you sweetheart, drowning my sorrows." Eddie smiled as he downed the rest of his beer, signalling the bartender once again to pour another one. A chuckle emanated from your throat, you looked him up and down whilst he ordered his drink, you were definitely starting to feel better about being stood up tonight.

Eddie? You thought the name suited him, he was at least twice your age, but you loved it, you did not want to admit that you had daddy issues as you continued to flirt with him. You sipped your wine as you stared at him from the corner of your eye, his stubble was speckled with white hair and his face was creased with lines showing that he had lived an interesting life, you almost groaned as you noticed them. Keeping your composure as you refrained from downing the entire glass, you wanted the alcohol to keep you calm and flirty with him.

"So, what are you doing here tonight?" You gauge Eddie's response, hoping that it would not be an offensive question.

The night drew on and you hadn't noticed the time, you were both so enthralled in each other's company, exchanging flirty comments and soft strokes of your hands upon Eddie's body, each 'accidental' touch sent sparks flying through your fingers, further igniting the arousal within you. Eddie's eyes flitted to your plump lips, enjoying the way you tried not to bite your lips whenever he made a suggestive comment, he wanted nothing more than to feel his rough hands on your delicate skin and to mark you as his, silently thankful that whatever asshole you were supposed to see, had ghosted you, making you come to this bar and drink the night away. Drink you did, you did not keep track of how much you had actually drunk but you were definitely starting to feel the effects of it, the wine you kept ordering was causing a soft blush to form on your face as you could feel the buzz of alcohol.

Eddie felt your eyes rake over him, catching your wanting stare from the corner of his eye. His lips twitched as he tried not to smile at the thought of you wanting him as much as he wanted you. It had been a while since he properly flirted with a woman, especially one that was so much younger than him, he pushed any negative thoughts out of his mind, telling himself that he still had some good moves in him and that he could do this. He hooked his foot beneath the bar of your chair and pulled you closer to him, smirking at your surprise as you giggled softly and tried not to spill your drink. Your giggle was like music to his ears, the sight of you giggling definitely contrasted with your outward appearance but that only spurred him on further.

A bell rang loudly throughout the bar causing you to look at the clock, the barman was signalling that it was time to close. Holy shit was it that late? You wondered to yourself, shocked that it was almost 3 am, you had been here all night talking and flirting with Eddie. You did not want to go and leave his company, and at the same time you were scared to ask for his number or if he wanted to meet you again, maybe you were just a distraction for the night, unaware that Eddie felt the exact same way as you watched him finish the remainder of his beer.

"Well sweetheart, it's been a lovely evening" He smiled and stood up from the stool, placing his empty bottle on the bar. He rubbed the back of his neck nervously; he couldn't believe he was going to ask this. "I'd like to see you again…. If you're interested obviously" He watched you, anxious and wanting to gauge your reaction, mentally cursing himself for even asking in the first place, why would you be interested in seeing him again, he was twice your age.

The nervous way he rubbed his neck and looked down as he asked you made you blush and smile widely, you absolutely wanted to see him again, you began to hop off your chair and reply "I'd love to see you ag - " You stumble as you stand up, catching you off guard, you had definitely had more alcohol than you thought. You place your hand on the bar to stead your uneasy legs, gripping it for dear like to keep you upright. Eddie's arms went out instinctively to try and catch you before you steadied yourself, chuckling slightly at your wobbly demeanour.

"When I said someone might have to carry you home I didn't mean it literally" His deep playful chuckle caused you to blush, desperately trying not to imagine your body in his arms, holding you close against his chest.

"No, I'm fine…" your speech was slightly slurred as you tried to focus on staying stood up, feeling your body sway back and forth, blinking rapidly to keep yourself awake and alert. You had no idea how you would get home; you weren't even sure that you would be able to open the door to your apartment at this point.

Eddie's smile was soft as he watched you sway gently against the bar; he took your free hand in his and pulled you softly towards him. "C'mon sweetheart, I don't live far from here and I don't reckon you are in any fit state to be left alone" You nod softly at his comment, you knew he was right, there was no way you could navigate yourself anywhere in this state. You stumbled towards him and felt his calloused hand hook your arm around his neck, you almost wanted to moan when he snaked his other arm around your waist, gripping you softly making sure that you would not fall.

The walk to his trailer was quiet, you were attempting to concentrate on moving your feet in a straight line and trying not to fall over, not understanding that the only reason you were even standing up at all was because Eddie was holding you upright. Eddie shook his head softly at you trying to walk, he remembered when he was your age and had gotten himself into many a drunken state, you made him feel young again tonight which made him smile, he could not remember the last time he had felt this alive.

He lifted you up in his strong arms, carrying you bridal style to his bedroom, you were now fully asleep after finally giving in to the alcohol in your body. Your breathing was soft as Eddie gently placed you upon his unmade bed, he smiled watching you seem so at peace, it was a nice contrast to the anger he saw on your face when you entered the bar all those hours ago. He removed your shoes and placed them on the floor, he had fallen asleep in his boots many times when he was drunk and each time he would wake with sores on his feet, you would likely be embarrassed anyway come the morning, so he did not want to add to your discomfort. As he left you there sleeping he made sure to leave a glass of water on the bedside table, he knew full well that you would want it in the morning. Taking one last look at your sleeping figure to make sure you were alright he made his way to the sofa down the hall. He let his body fall onto it with a sigh, sure he wanted you to come back to his trailer with him, this was just a bit different from what he had in mind. He closed his eyes and let sleep take him, his last thoughts were him hoping that you would want to see him again after you had sobered up, he knew that he would not be able to get you off of his mind for a long time.

It wasn't long until you reached the door to his trailer, you would have both gotten there sooner but trying to keep you from tumbling over was slightly time-consuming. As you both walked through the door Eddie removed your arm from around his neck, his hand was still gripping your waist as he did not want you to fall into his trailer. You dropped your bag on a nearby table as soon as you were helped inside, wanting desperately to be unencumbered by it. The trailer wasn't pristine, but it wasn't filthy, it definitely showed signs of a man living by himself in it for years, the soft smell of whisky and cigarette smoke was strangely comforting to you in your drunken state, it made your eyelids feel even heavier as you tried to stay awake, slumping against Eddie's body. The feeling of your body against his caused his heart to flutter slightly, he could feel you leaning against him, knowing that you were fighting a losing battle to stay awake at this point.

#eddie munson #eddie munson x reader #eddie fanfic #older eddie munson #eddie stranger things #older!eddie munson #older!eddie x reader #older!eddie

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avenging-fandoms · 2 years ago

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Hello!

I have this scenario in my head. Pedro and you have a fast growing relationship. The love at first sight kind. You gets pregnant from their first time having sex (yeah they are not safe and that’s the result). Nobody knows they are in a relationship. They don’t know how to announce it , it’s so fast , they know it’s not gonna be welcomed very well. At a press tour for their common movie , you almost faint and Pedro is very worried running to her to make sure she’s ok, all the cameras on them, kinda giving away both their secrets (relationship/ pregnancy).

That’s very precise 🤣😅 sorry

**brief sexual scene **yes this is a pregnancy fic

**alternative ending

It all happened so suddenly, you didn't expect it and it made your head spin. But a good head spin, you were deeply in love. And you weren't even looking.

Pedro Pascal had been a name you heard of a few times, but never really looked him up. You were cast in a movie with him where you were his love interest, so when you first met him at the first script reading, you couldn’t catch your breath.

He was charming, creative, and got the giggles very easily which you adored. Pedro would make frequent stops in your trailer to practice lines. Practicing ended up being full out, which led to acting kisses being real heavy make-outs.

Pedro didn’t expect to fall for you either, but 15 months working together something was bound to happen. He would offer to make you an early breakfast at 3am after the shoot day was over. It ended up with you falling asleep on the couch, then asleep on him. Pedro loved being around you and that he could be himself anytime around you.

You two knew each other for over a year, but only started dating for 4 months. You two took time jumping into anything, really getting to know each other over wine.

You sat on Pedro's couch with your feet tucked under you, wine glass resting on your leg with your left hand supporting your head as your elbow rests on the cushion. Pedro plopped next to you with his own glass, turning his body towards you as he took a sip of his wine.

"I'm really glad I'm getting to know you, Y/N. You are something special" Pedro's hand touched your leg, and you looked at him with a smile as you adjust your head, breasts bouncing in your silk dress. Pedro licked his lips softly, leaning over and putting his wine on the table, taking yours as well.

"I'm glad you're allowing me to get to know you" you touch his shoulder and rub your thumb over his shoulder. He leans over and kisses your hand, and you couldn't wait one more second.

You throw your leg over his waist, straddling him as his hand wrapped around your throat. "I was waiting for that" He smirked and pushed your head back, running his fingers down your chest and over your hard nipples poking through your dress. "I've been waiting for this" Pedro dragged his fingers up your thigh and ran his fingers up and down your folds slowly.

"Pedro.." his hard-on poked painfully hard against his jeans and you smile as you pull it out. You lick your fingers and stroke him a bit, Pedro holding your dress up.

"You wanna do this?"

"Fuck it, I want all of you"

You two did well hiding your relationship. Hanging out in groups who also didn't know you were together, and hiding your meet up spots. You woke up sprawled out in your bed, eyes struggling to stay open as the sun gave you no choice but to be up.

You sat up in your bed, checking your phone which had a few messages from Pedro, your manager and social media notifications. You swung your legs over your bed and stood up, getting the sudden urge to vomit every where.

Luckily the bathroom was right next to your room and you were able to make it to the toilet. You sat against the tub with your head leaned back, washcloth on your forehead. Your phone buzzed next to your butt and you pick it up, Pedro facetiming you.

"Good morning sweetheart. Are you okay? What's going on?" Pedro voice dropped into concern and you whine.

"I just started throwing up and I feel hot" you pout and Pedro stands up, sliding his shoes on.

You pick your head up as you get a notification from your period tracker app. "Hi, YN! It's been a while since we've seen y.." and your eyes widen. "I have to go, Pey"

"What? What is-" you hung up and opened the cabinet under the sink, reaching in the far back for the pregnancy tests you always had just in case. You peed on at least 5, lining them up on the counter and sitting against the floor with your knees against your chest.

Your pushed your toes against the carpet as you rock yourself back and forth, your timer making you jump as it goes off. You hit record on your phone as you held it pointed towards you, your eyes immediately welling with tears as all 5 read 'pregnant' and had 2 blue lines.

You prop your phone against the mirror and slide down the wall, just then Pedro walks into your apartment. "Babe!" he yells as he hears you crying, running to your bathroom.

Pedro's eyes find the tests immediately, squatting down next to you as he held your head. "Oh, princesa. It's okay, it's alright" he whispers and kisses your head, rubbing your arm. "I've always wanted a baby"

"But we just started dating, Pedro. Are you okay with have a baby with someone you barely know?" you sob and look at him, Pedro smiling as he brushed a piece of hair stuck to your cheek off your face.

"Baby I knew from the moment I met you that I wanted you in my life forever. I am more than okay with having a baby with you" you smile and laugh, looking at him through tears.

"We're having a baby" you mutter and he laughs, hugging you tightly as he rubbed your back.

"We're having a baby!"

You hit 3 months pregnant and press tours started to begin. You hadn't popped yet but you had just enough of a bump for people to know. You work a loose blue shirt with a pair of jeans and some black flats, waiting with your microphone on the side of the stage.

Pedro rubbed your arms as they called your name. You walk up the stairs and wave, heading to your seat and watching Pedro walk across the stage as you softly bit your lip.

You tried not to rest your hand on your stomach so much, and it took everything in Pedro not to rest his hand on your stomach which was his favorite thing to do as you two relaxed.

After almost 2 hours of talking, the panel was finally over. You all stood up and waved, walking towards the exit and the audience disappeared as your vision turned white.

Pedro caught you as your legs gave out, holding your body up as he held your face. "Honey, can you hear me?" his hand fell to your stomach and you blink, the room silent with clicking of cameras going off frequently. "There you are, hi beautiful" Pedro smiled at you and you close your eyes as you smile, paramedics bringing a gurney and Pedro carried you down the stairs onto it.

"My baby.." you hum and Pedro nods, looking at the paramedics.

"She hit 3 months pregnant yesterday, could that be it?" he asks as they shut the ambulance doors.

"We won't know until we check her, just hang tight" the sirens wailed, and you were off.

Your head rested in your head on your side as you took a nap, Pedro in a chair as he scrolled through social media. Every single place was talking about what happened, and how you were pregnant, and how you and Pedro were together.

Every single secret out in one picture. Pedro locked his phone as you woke up, immediately standing up and heading over to you and stroking your hair.

"Is our baby okay?" Pedro smiles as he kisses your forehead.

"Our baby is okay, you were just dehydrated and needed to eat. Nothing else is wrong" you sigh with a smile and Pedro swallowed. "But.. everyone knows"

You smile at the ceiling then looking at Pedro. You grabbed his hand and placed it on your stomach, his eyes soft. "Our baby is healthy, we're happy. I don't care who knows"

"I'm glad you feel that way, cause I already posted a photo of us" You laugh and he kisses you over and over, rubbing your cheek with his thumb. "I love you, sweetheart"

"I love you, Pedro" you scoot over and he lays in bed with you, and the both of you fell asleep as he held your stomach.

#pedro pascal #pedro pascal x reader #pedro pascal x you #pedro pascal x y/n #pedro pascal imagine #pedro pascal imagines #pedro pascal blurb #pedro pascal blurbs #pedro pascal fic #pedro pascal fanfiction #pedro pascal fluff #rpf #real person fiction

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ripeteeth · 4 months ago

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Self-rec time! What are your favorite five fics that you've written and why? After replying to this ask, feel free to pass on to five other writers to spread the love. 💗"

Thanks, @danpuff-ao3! You’re always a treat to see on the dash and I hope you’ve been having a lovely break <3.

I’m always a bit awkward with these, both from an itching sort of discomfort with staring my own artwork in the face, and I think from a lifetime habit of denying compliments out of a feeling of guilt or fear. So! I’ve had a glass of wine (and an edible) and I’m going to try to kinder to myself. I might be in the mood to talk right now. (Honestly, that’s a good sign. One of the big elements of my recent writer’s block has been an inability to express myself in any written way, even tumblr posts and comments. Maybe this is why I hit twitter so hard.)

My five favorite fics. Not my five best fics. Not my five most popular fics. My favorites. Hmm.

5. blood, bones, and butter | MDZS/The Untamed] SongXueXiao | E, 12,443

“A relationship, deconstructed. Served three ways.”

Ah, Yi City, that deliciously painful Shakespearean tragedy echoing Wangxian’s romance. The specific notes of obsession, revenge, love, and grief that run through these three make me completely unhinged. I love the quiet service and stoic devotion of Song Lan, the otherworldliness and power of Xiao Xingchen, the unchecked brilliance and cruelty that fill up Xue Yang. The Yi City fandom is easily one of the most incredible fandoms I’ve ever been a part of, full of uniquely talented and deranged writers and artists who love to really explore the dark edges and nitty-gritty of these character and let them be their fucked-up selves. The appeal of SongXueXiao isn’t to make it better for them, it’s to see how much you can make it worse.

It’s two pretty classic tropes: a first time after meeting at a bar, and also a story told from alternating POVs. I really wanted to focus on trying to carve out distinctive interiorities, like their motivations, their assumptions, their fears, their memories, and allow the reader to draw their own conclusions without spelling these all out outright. I’d recently rewatched Rashomon, and I love how the understanding of an event can be so differently shaped by each person’s POV and I wanted to show their first night together in that way, moving the lens over the night a few times, before it gets clear. It was a really fun process to focus on and I think it’s one of my best pieces of recent writing.

4. in search of the wind | Good Omens | Crowley/Aziraphale | E, 27,112

After the World Doesn't End, Aziraphale is not returned to his body. Crowley tries to find a way to get to Heaven's fast-shut gates. Aziraphale tries to find his way back from the sky (and back in time).

I remember writing this almost immediately after the show aired, in that heady summer of 2019, when I feel head over sweaty heels for that charming demon and his delicious epicure of an angel. This is essentially how I saw canon going on, this is the headcanon of my soul. Maybe that’s why I haven’t seen season 2 yet? It was a pleasure to write, almost like knitting together different scenes, different pieces of history, like an extended version of the s1s3 cold open. It’s Aziraphale without a body, unmoored in time, turning up at different points along his and Crowley’s history, and realizing that his friend is in love with him. That his friend is heartrendingly in love with him. I love stories that play with structure, striking different chords each time.

I couldn’t write this kind of story again. This belongs to a very specific time.

3. White Light, White Heat | Harry Potter | Snape/Harry | E, 32,107

“In 1347, Benedictine monk and scholar Severus Snape goes to fetch a young man joining the abbey. In 1347, rumors come of a strange and unrelenting plague from the east.”

An AU set in a fourteenth-century Benedictine monastery in Britain during the period of the Black Death where the two men develop a bond through a special sort of crucible. Snape, as always, falls in love with all the grace of a cat being given a bath. As dark as the material is, this was a pleasure to write. I had so much fun describing the setting, peppering fun little facts like a Pop Up Video of Medieval History. I wrote this in a fever-fueled three weeks, absolutely obsessed with getting it down exactly as it was in my head. I loved writing the monster theme and using it as almost a leitmotif for Snape. There’s probably a literary term for that. Is there? Anyway.

2. the body as anagram | The Terror | Crozier/Fitzjames, Crozier/Ross] | E, 3090

“In the dark, it doesn't matter which James is in his bed. As long as Ross doesn't speak, the illusion holds true.”

I took the title from a passage on J.G. Ballard’s Crash by Baudrillard in Simulacra and Simulation: “Technology is never grasped except in the (automobile) accident, that is to say in the violence done to technology itself and in the violence done to the body. It is the same: any shock, any blow, any impact, all the metallurgy of the accident can be read in the semiurgy of the body — neither an anatomy nor a physiology, but a semiurgy of contusions, scars, mutilations, wounds that are so many new sexual organs opened on the body. In this way, gathering the body as labor in the order of production is opposed to the dispersion of the body as anagram in the order of mutilation.”

There’s something a bit haunting about the parallels of the two men who held the intimacy of Francis Crozier’s friendship. The name. The confidence. The bravery. The charming manner and handsome face. I love the idea of a Francis who sails out pining for one man and returns home loving another, switching between true love and placeholder. And I’m notoriously a slut for both proxyfucking and Gremlin!Francis, who just can’t stop pressing on the wound of his grief. It’s not the drink but it may as well be, for all this is good for either he or Ross, but Francis is a fool in love with a dead man and he does what he does to get by.

Something about this came together, from concept to finish, in a way I’m quite happy with. It was fun to play with concepts and free associate from them, focusing less on plot, but more on the vast empty grief in Francis’ chest. Everyone here knows this is a bad idea. No one is having a good time.

1. Revachol Calling | Disco Elysium | Karry/Kim | E, 35,321 [WIP]

“Somewhere in Jamrock, a church burns. A study in Kim Kitsuragi.”

Sometimes you just feel the next part of the story in your bones. When I first played Disco Elysium in 2021 it hit me in an incredibly familiar, emotional way. There’s something somber and hopeful about it. The writing is sardonic, dark and humorous. It’s nearly cynical but it’s cynical with a sad old smile, because cynicism is born through disappointment, and through not quite being ready to give up. I think we can all find ourselves in it, in one way or another and, like many, I’m hopelessly in love with Kim Kitsuragi, a wild creature who’s built himself within thousands of rules. I can’t play the game without craving his side of the story, his interiority, his history, so I grab at the little crystals of information, such as his secret love of Speedfreaks FM and his past with Eyes, and I try to imagine it might go. This is my sequel to the game and, more than anything, this is my love song to Revachol, a character of a city, and one that echoes vastly in all those of post-Communist country and family.

For some reason, this fic is extremely visual for me and usually in a Wong Kar-Wai sort of fashion. Think the saturated aquamarines of a neon diner sign. Think a studio apartment with cheap wallpaper and the yellow-orange flicker of sodium lights. It comes alive at night, when Kim is left alone with his thoughts, running out of rules to keep him safely in. I love that Disco Elysium has such a vast world to explore. It’s an endless playbox.

And this is also, in a way, a bit of an elegy to a belief I’d once held in a motherland, and do not anymore.

I’m almost done with Chapter 8, so hopefully it will be up soon <3

Tagging! @jaggededges123 @soft-october-night @wildcard47 @rcmclachlan @brawlite @zaxal @pearwaldorf @kiingbooooo @darcylindbergh @et-in-arkadia @itsevidentvery @iodhadh @iamwestiec @mia-ugly @laurashapiro-noreally @pinehutch and anyone else who wishes to!

#fanfic #on writing

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bellewintersroe · 1 year ago

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Carlos Sainz x Celebrity OC Mer&Der trope… Part 2.

Jenna Ashley, a well known actress and model has been hired for the 2021 Grands Prix a reporter. It’s her first day on the job tomorrow and heads to the bar to shake the nerves she feels, what she doesn’t expect is to bump into a handsome, Spanish F1 driver in the exact same bar. Also IK F1 drivers can’t drink the night before a race but this is a fanfic let’s just go with it for the flow. Just a pre warning, this contains smut, mentions of drinking and swearing, so 18+. This is a flashback to what Jenna remembers from the night before interviewing Carlos on the grid. Kinda like a prequel to part 1 you could say?

“I’m going to the bar, do you want anything?” I asked my new friends from Sky. It was my second night partying, last night I had the pleasure of meeting many drivers, tonight, I had been out for a meal which turned into food with drinks, and then afters at a bar, and now back to the hotel bar.

“I’m okay, thank you.” Anise responded, “I’m gonna go to the toilet, can you meet me back outside once you’ve got your drinks?”

“Of course.” I pressured, stumbling towards the bar, thirsty for another glass of wine. I’d been alternating between that and vodka cranberries all afternoon. It was safe to say my head would dislike me tomorrow morning, but that was a concern actually for tomorrow, not now. So I happily ordered myself another glass of rose. “Small, medium or, large?” The bartender asked, smiling. “Uhhhh…” “Large.” I heard a male speak from besides me. My head snapped to my left to see the most beautiful man in my whole life. I swear my jaw was on the floor, “uh-“ I glanced back to the woman behind the bar. “Yeah, large please.” I giggled, turning back to the dark haired man. He was giving me the eyes, I could tell, impressed by my choice. The buzz from the alcohol gave me a drunken confidence like no other, and I eyed up the man again, noticing the pint of beer in his glass.

“Good choice.” He commented, accent thick with what I assumed was Southern or Eastern European. I never was good at guessing. “What’re you drinking?” I asked, resting my chin on the back of my hand. My eyes lingered over his face, and down to his tanned hand gripping the glass.

“Mahou.” He responded, swallowing as his jaw tensed, I watched him take a swig, the muscles around his face and mouth tense. After, his tongue tan over the plump of his lips, the sensation going straight down to my lower stomach as it fluttered with excitement.

“Mahou? I’ve never heard of that, I’m not really good with beers.” I shrugged seeing him smile back to me. “I usually just go for wine.” “Rosé?” He drawled out in his sexy accent. “Mmmh.” I flirted as he smiled, running his tongue over the top of his teeth. “Thank you.” I nodded towards the woman who handed me over the large glass of wine. They definitely weren’t messing around here. When I went to take my Apple Pay out, the man besides me placed a hand on mine, holding out his card. “Oh no! Are you sure? You don’t have to!” I was quick to quirk my brows up, watching him tap his card against the machine as he shrugged it off like it was nothing. “Thank you… I appreciate it. What’s your name?”

“Carlos.” He held out a hand as I took it within my much smaller one. He eyed up the size difference the same time I did. Carlos? Carlos… sigh what a sexy name. As I glanced over him one more time it clicked who he actually was. “Ah, Carlos Sainz?” I casually asked, our hands slowly sliding apart. “Jenna Ashley.” He nodded back to me as I giggled, charmed at the fact he knew who I was. “Wha- aren’t you racing tomorrow?!” I frowned as he pulled out a stool for me to sit on besides him. I climbed up, intrigued by the driver currently sat besides me. “Yeah… I shouldn’t be here.”

“Who are you with?” I blinked a couple of times. “A few of my buddies, ah, I was only going to stay to finish this.” He gestures to his almost empty pint. He had a drunken haze in his eyes, giving them almost a glassy expression as I scanned over them. “One more wouldn’t hurt.” I teased as he laughed, dropping his head. “Maybe just one more. It is only… 11.” He shrugged as I giggled, watching him order another pint. “I’ll pay.” I beat him to the card machine, tapping my phone quickly. His jaw dropped momentarily, tutting playfully. “No, no!” “It’s fine.” I shrugged it off as he sighed. “Now I just have to buy you another one…” his knee nudged my own as I giggled, “are you trying to get me even drunker?” “I thought that was what you were doing to me.” His accent was thick, yet he spoke English so well. “Maybe.” I teased, taking another sip of the wine that was going down maybe a little too easily. “Jenna!” A voice called out and I turned over my shoulder to see Anise stood, glancing between Carlos and I with a wide smirk on her face. She looked breathless with excitement. “Oh… sorry, text me when you’re back at your room, yeah? I’ll just be over there.” She was painfully eyeing us up, hinting to something going on between Carlos and I. I had only just met the man.

“Yeah, you too.” I called out after her and she skipped over giddily, probably to spread the news of what she’d just seen. I was too drunk to care, turning back and drinking from my glass once again.

“We work together, it’s our first day tomorrow for sky. I’m kinda nervous.” I giggled shyly. “You are nervous? Suppose we are here for the same reasons then.” Carlos smirked, gulping down his beer maybe a little too quickly.

“Nervous for driving?” “I always am.” He nodded, lifting his shoulders slightly. “I’m sure you’ll do good. You’re where you are for a reason.” I nodded as he smiled to himself. Oh god, I knew I was drunk when I was slurring out motivational words to people who most likely didn’t care. “Thanks.” He spun his drink around on the table slightly. “We will see.” He sighed before taking another swig of his drink. I began to play a dangerous game of catch up, and as we continued talking we were slowly but surely going through more and more drinks. “Where are you staying?” Carlos’s legs were now pushed, once between mine, one on the outside as they became entangled in some flirtatious manner. “Here, I’m on the 7th floor. How about you?”

“4th floor.” He scrunched his nose, resting his head on his hand as he practically gazed up to me with those eyes that I just found myself melting into. “I bet I have a better view than you.” I teased. “Prove it.” There was the comment I’d been waiting for the past hour we’d been here.

“Okay.” I smiled as he pursed his lips, attempting to mask the smile that spread across his cheeks. “Ok.” He nodded, scraping his chair back as I followed suit, sneaking off out of the hotel bar to the lift. He stood besides me, shoulder brushing against mine as I poked my tongue to the inside of my cheek. He was so close to me now, all I’d have to do was turn…

I tilted my head up, eyeing him up and down as he softly smiled, closing the gap between us and reaching down to kiss my lips ever so tenderly. His hand hooked over my cheek, caressing softly as I immediately melted into the kiss, smoothing my hands over his white polo shirt. Despite being much taller than me, and evidently stronger (with the protruding muscles he had) his touch was light and careful, he wasn’t overstepping any boundaries, and despite the drunk swaying between us both, the kiss remained light.

The slowing of the lift broke us apart as I slipped my hand easily into his larger one, leading him through the hotel hallway and down to my room where I fumbled with my key card from the anticipation of having the hottest man ever behind me. He was seriously the best looking man I’d ever seen, and that wasn’t even an exaggeration, I fancied the living fuck out of him. So as soon as that hotel room door closed, the taller man stepped closer to me, ducking his head and attaching our lips together once again. This kiss was deeper, hungrier, his hands settled on my hips whilst mine ran over the back of his neck and through his thick, dark hair. I raised up on my tip toes slightly, feeling his arm curl around my waist and tug me directly into his crotch. Oh my god. My hand ran over his cheek, and followed down his chest to his lower abdomen. Carlos let out a quiet hum as my fingers danced over the top of his waistline. Beginning to guide me backwards, Carlos stumbled, knocking us both down onto the bed as I broke apart from the kiss with a slight gasp. “Sorry! I am sorry, are you ok?” He worried, pushing his arms up besides me as I glanced over the position. “I’m fine.” I giggled, a little lost for breath as he smiled, chuckling at his drunken antics before dipping down and kissing me once again. He seemed almost shy, a little nervous, even though we were both steaming from all the booze we’d consumed. I trailed my hands down his back and then up his shirt, feeling the bare, smooth skin, the muscles that were tense from holding me up. Tugging on his shirt, he pulled it off, gulping as he tossed it to the side, moving his hands over the spaghetti straps of my pastel, green summer dress. His hands were light as they smoothed the dress off me, revealing my breasts as he eased down the material, bunching it up below my chest. Carlos was evidently hard now, clenching his jaw as he moved his kisses down onto my chest. Light breaths of satisfaction escapes my mouth, the alcohol buzzing through me making everything feel 10x better. “You are so beautiful.” He commented causing a smile to grow on my face. Who was this guy?! A literal god?! With a kiss to my ribcage, I let out a soft gasp, bucking my hips as he peeled the rest of the material off my body, leaving me in only my small, pink underwear. I giggled, seeing him kneel between my legs on the side of the bed as he left a trail of wet kisses and the glide of his tongue down my abdomen. One hand, hooked under my legs and before I knew it the guy was kissing my clothed pussy, moving the lace off my lips without breaking eye contact once.

Oh, did he know how to treat a girl. It felt like he was worshipping my pussy licking and sucking, kissing and humming against my wetness as my legs spread wider for the man. “Can I?” He asked before moving a finger to my entrance. “Uh huh.” I nodded, panting from the amazing amount of pleasure he gave me. 1. He was the best looking person I’d EVER seen. 2. No man I’d met on the first night had worshipped me so much. 3. oh my god he was going to make me-

“I-I’m gonna cum.” I gasped, eyes wide as I focused on the roof, hearing him grunt against my pussy that throbbed for him at every move. My fingers tightened in his hair, voice cracking as I felt him continuously hit his finger against that one spot inside of me. Within minutes, my lower stomach knotted and I came with a breathy moan, body arching as I writhed in an intense pleasure, humming out in content when I’d hit my peak.

“Oh my god.” I almost choked out, pushing myself back up as he smiled, removing his fingers slowly as he crawled between my legs. His hair was a dishevelled mess, somehow making him even more attractive. His lips were plump and covered in my wetness as he licked them clean. “That was okay?” He asked as I almost gasped out. “It was so good, I’ve never finished from that before.” I was practically yanking him on top of me again.

When Carlos kissed me, I grimaced at the slight wetness that coated his stubble. “Sorry.” He laughed a little, wiping at his face. “Not your fault.” I giggled, hands moving to the front of his jeans.

“Your fault.” He smiled, glancing down to see me unzipping his trousers. “Do you want this?” He asked. “Yeah… do you?” I nodded as he was quick to copy my gesture. “I do.” He muttered, letting out an internal sigh whilst kissing me. Now, his tongue lapped over my own, slowly, but it was deep, sensual, it made me want even more of him.

“Carlos.” I whispered, hand dipping into his underwear and wrapping around his hard cock. He felt big- I knew he would be. Carlos moaned in response, breathing out into my neck as he shimmied his jeans at least half way down before falling between my legs. “I-I dont have a- what’s it called- a condón.” He muttered and somehow I found his accent even sexier.

“Condom? I- I’m on the pill, or… we don’t have to.” I was way past the point of using a condom. Carlos moaned, kissing me again as he lubricated his hand with his spit before pumping himself, once, twice, before nestling between my lips and slowly pushing himself in. The alcohol meant I felt 0 burn, only a pressure that added to the intense pleasure I was beginning to feel.

Carlos was undeniably louder than I ever imagined. He wasn’t screaming in my ear or anything, but his heavy breathing mixed in with manly grunts had me wanting to beg for more. My hand landed on his ass, then his back, gripping at his skin as he thrusted into me, head hiding in my neck as I spread my legs wider.

“Oh my god.” He muttered in response as I whined, gripping hold of his bag. “You feel so good.” He cooed in his sexy accent, pushing himself up as his eyes roamed over my face and body. He squeezed at my tits, nipping at my nipples, sucking, licking, groaning into them. Fuck! Soon enough I was on all fours, becoming much more vocal now as he thrusted into me, desperate fingers gripping into my hips as he tugged me back into him. I yelped with each time he’d fuck into me, reaching back for something to hold onto. Carlos reacted by wrapping his arm over my body, forehead dropping on my back and leaving several kisses there.

“Carlos!” I gasped, my shaky arms collapsing as he continued to fuck deep inside me, hands pushing my back into the bed as I gripped at the sheets. His cock was working deep inside of me, it was giving me an insatiable hunger for him that I couldn’t control. When his breathing got shakier and heavier, I followed suit, allowing him to flip us over so he was between my legs again. The bed was squeaking with each movement, the headboard banging as we carelessly fucked like there was nobody else in this entire building. “Are you going to to cum?” I asked, borderline whining as one of his hands rubbed at my pussy, the other jerking himself off at a pace just as fast as he fucked me with. “I am going to cum.” He maintained eye contact, his heavy eyelids drooping as his jaw hung slack, beautiful moans and groans of pleasure leaving his mouth. “Mmm, cum on me, please, Carlos.” I writhed my hips as he choked out a groan, jerking even harder, moving his hand to grip my thigh, breath held before he seemed to finally burst. Cum spurted out of his tip, leaving trails of his cum over my belly and chest, simultaneous, he let out a loud groan, one that sent me to heaven and back as I gazed up to him in a drunken haze. “Fuck.” He cursed, loosening his grip on my flesh with a rub of his hand. His body fell forwards, leaving a lingering kiss on my lips. One I didn’t expect. “Are you okay?” He then asked as I smiled, giving him a nod as he offered me a smile back, pushing himself up again.

The man cleaned me up, wiping my clean so I could swiftly move to the bathroom. When I returned he was pulling his underwear back on, a slight disappointment filled me as I searched for a fresh pair of my own, sliding back into the bed after. I was still panting slightly, as was he, he dropped onto the bed with a quick breath and a relief washed over me when he’d reached his arm out for a cuddle.

A cuddle?! This man was cuddling me after meeting and sleeping with me one time?! My drunken mind couldn’t quite comprehend it as I snuggled up to his warm, muscly chest. His pecs were rock hard. Just like his large manhood was. The thought made me blush.

Before I knew it I was passed out in a drunken haze, content with the basic stranger who’d given me the time of my life…

#carlos sainz jr x reader #carlos sainz jr #carlos sainz smut #Carlos sainz jr smut #Carlos sainz

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goblins-trashbin · 2 months ago

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BG3 tavs (+ durge)

A post introducing my bg3 characters so far! Some descriptions will be short, some (one lol) will be long. Spoilers ahead!!

Clover:

They’re my first tav! (They/them) A drow druid with a criminal background, Clover was out on a heist when they got taken away by the nautiloid. When they were little they dreamed of a life in the woods, living in nature with the animals they so loved. Unfortunately, coming from a highly conservative matriarchal drow family, their mother stopped supporting their dreams and education when they came out as non-binary, seeing as they were no longer destined to be the next matriarch head of the family. Their teens were spent stealing and squatting, trying to stay alive. Their only comfort were the animals that took them in from time to time.

Clover romanced Astarion. A mischievous duo, both villainised by the ones who made them, the partners in crime helped each other grow through their trauma and heal. After defeating the nether brain they live out their days looking for a way for Astarion to stay out in the sun. During day Clover has resumed the druid training they had to drop when little, thanks to Astarions wide social network.

Ceedaer:

A half-elf/half-human bard, Ceedaer (he/him) was performing in a tavern when he was kidnapped by the nautiloid. He doesn’t come from wealth, but his parents worked hard to support their son when he early in his life showed an interest and talent for music and poems. His parents died in a fire during one of his school recitals, when a candlestick fell and knocked over a glass of wine. The entire school burned down. Ceedaer made it out, but his parents fell to the burning rubble. Now he dedicates his entire life to his craft, his passion and the loss of his parents fuelling the magic his music produces.

Not knowing much about magic, Gale’s knowledge and charm drew Ceedaer in, and he soon fell for his passion, enthusiasm and ambition. Ceedaer couldn’t bear the thought of losing someone he loved so much again. He and Gale fought hard to find alternatives to Mystra’s “great” plan to blow Gale up, and luckily it all turned out well. After defeating the nether brain, not having to blow Gale up after all, Ceedaer and Gale moved together into Gale’s tower in waterdeep. Gale started teaching at the academy, spreading his infinite knowledge. Meanwhile, with the help of Gale and his new mother-in-law, Ceedaer started his own bard school, teaching music and magic, and the connection between the two.

Leandra:

The dark urge. After Orin’s betrayal, Leandra (she/her) found herself on the nautiloid with nothing but a throbbing headache and a non-stop stream of voices, commanding her to commit atrocities beyond comprehension. Not even her memories were intact, something that made her feel like somehow, she wasn’t supposed to even be alive. She walked around for days, with no goal other than to find out who she was. She wasn’t even bothered by the worm in her head, at first. Eventually, however, Leandra started feeling somewhat… at peace. Not with the worm, mind you, and especially not with the gruesome voices in her head, but with herself. Suddenly she was surrounded by people. Good people. Mostly good, anyway. It felt different, but welcome.

She worked up the courage to tell the group about her urges after an incident involving a particularly good soul. Astarion, ever attracted to murder and chaos, confronted Leandra, suspecting their newest guest hadn’t just abandoned camp like she claimed she had. She didn’t understand why, but Leandra broke down in tears. She told Astarion about everything. The amnesia, the voices, the urge. She expected Astarion to brush her worries aside, or even encourage them. To her surprise however, Astarion looked at Leandra with a deep understanding. It didn’t take long for her to tell all her new friends about the urges.

When the gang, after months of walking, fighting, and enjoying each other’s company, reached Baldur’s Gate, Leandra’s memories slowly started coming back. The town, the people, even one of the dead three’s diciples, Orin the Red, it all felt so familiar. It didn’t take long for Leandra to finally find out the truth: she was a bhaalspawn, made by bhaal himself. Made to be the ultimate murder weapon. Made from blood, to drown the world in blood. She, together with her new found family, sought to kill her blood-kin and end the cult of Bhaal, and her urgea once and for all. When all was said and done, Bhaal reclaimed Leandra’s blood, and she died. She didn’t stay dead for long though, as Withers saw her as an important part of taking down the Absolute. The resurrection didn’t come without a cost, however. Leandra had been brought back alive, but in doing so, she felt a part of herself die. True, it might’ve been a part of her she hated, but her urges were gone. She was no longer a bhaal-spawn. She was no longer the murder god’s daughter. She thought this would be a triumph for her, so she was quizzed as to why she felt empty. Like her very soul had disappeared. Perhaps it was because she never had a soul at all?

Obviously, having gotten the help from her friends, including her love Astarion, to take down Orin and the cult, she had to help Astarion break his own shackles as well. They both went into the nether brain fight free of their master’s influence. Their happiness was short-lived however. Astarion, after beeing freed from the tadpole, no longer had protection from the sun. Feeling the sun’s rays burn him slowly for the first time in almost a year, sent him into a panic. He ran as fast as he could to hide in the shadows. Leandra was just about to run after him when another companion caught her attention; Karlach’s engine was about to give in. She had promised to stay with her in her final moments, and she had no plans of ignoring any of her new family’s needs. In Karlach’s last moments, Leandra made the spontaneous decision to take Karlach back to Avernus. They were to fight, side by side, until they could find someone to fix her engine and let her roam free again. Unfortunately this meant having to leave Astarion behind, without even saying goodbye.

Six months after the battle, Karlach and Leandra were invited to a family reunion. There, Leandra saw Astarion for the first time in a long while. At first she was relieved; Astarion had lived and seemed happy! Eventually however, she realised that they could never return to being a couple. The pain of being abandoned by his love had forced Astarion into denial; he was happy to see Leandra again, but wouldn’t even talk about their relationship or how she had left. She understood, after all those walls were the only protection he had ever had before meeting her; she couldn’t expect them not to go up again after she so abruptly left.

Not only that, but Gale wasn’t at the party. He had left the gang, annoyed and determined to reclaim the crown of karsus. Tragically, that was the last thing he ever did. After catching up with his tressym, Tara, Leandra found Gale’s projection holding an envelope. It was a message, Gale’s last words. In the end, the reunion for Leandra was bittersweet. She had ensures Karlach’s safety, and she had been able to catch up with her found family, but in the process she lost two of the dearest people to her heart. At dusk the following day, Karlach and Leandra returned to Avernus, in search for some blueprints. She never saw neither Gale nor Astarion ever again.

Maple Whispers:

My newest tav! She’s (she/they) a wood elf monk who’s currently romancing Shadow Heart! Not much info on her atm, I’m still in Act 1 with her :>

#lgbtq+#digital drawing #ocs #baldurs gate 3 #dnd art #dnd character #gale dekarios #astarion #bg3 shart #bg3 tav #bg3 durge #bg3 short stories #bg3 fanfiction #bg3 oc

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tropes-and-tales-archives · 7 months ago

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More Precious Than Rubies: Part 3a

This is an alternate timeline story that has a Rafael Barba track and a Sonny Carisi track. The two paths split off in part 3.

WC: 2662

TW: SVU-typical talk of rape and sexual assault cases.

AN: The prompt was "I saw you staring at each other, I just wasn’t sure if it was sexual tension or murderous rage."

When the jury read their verdict of “not guilty” on all counts, you breathed a sigh of relief and then tended to your client, who collapsed against you in broken sobs. You got him collected, then you both went out and made a brief statement to the assembled press. You shook Jeremy’s hand and wished him well, and then you stood a moment in the weak April sunlight.

You descended the steps of the courthouse slowly, one at a time, and thought about what you should do.

It was late in the day – you could go back to your airless little utility closet of an office and wrap up you paperwork on the case. Or you could start making your way towards home. Most of the cops and ADAs went to celebrate or commiserate at Forlini’s, but two blocks up was a charming little Spanish wine bar that most tourists walked right past. It was right near your subway stop – you could go finish your paperwork there.

You had been a good student in high school and undergraduate, and you’d been top of the class in law school. The sole subject you struggled in had been math and calculus, so it was fortunate that law didn’t require much higher math beyond calculating what consecutive sentences would add up to.

If you had been good at higher math, you’d know what an inflection point was – a moment when a curve changes from being concave to convex, or vice versa. Life was full of inflection points – when the path a person could take is changed or decided on. Most times, the person in question had no idea how their little choices affected the larger arc of their life.

Take the subway or walk. Eat the street meat or the leftovers you packed from home. Go to Fordham law or Columbia law.

Turn right, towards your office. Or turn left towards home.

Today, you turned left.

********

Barba was livid. The problem was, he didn’t know who to be madder at: himself, or Liv, or the rest of the SVU squad.

He should have known better. He should have known. How many times had SVU handed him flimsy cases with circumstantial evidence? How many times had he sent them away, refusing to even consider a case until it was more solid?

Too many times, and yet here he was – dodging Jack McCoy, sneaking out of the office, creeping past Forlini’s without looking through the plate glass windows, ducking into a tiny wine bar. Steadying his nerves with a glass of ruby-red Garnacha and just letting the alcohol inflame his temper even more.

Because he should have known better.

And once he worked through his uncharitable feelings about his detectives, he moved on to the irritating new public defender. If he had been intrigued by you initially, it quickly wore off once he saw you shred his admittedly feeble case. You caught the social media posts that NYPD didn’t, but that didn’t make you a brilliant lawyer – it just meant you were thorough. And lucky. The next time he faced off with you in court, he’d settle the score. And he’d do it with the same, tiny, infuriating smile you had sported during closing arguments.

He finished off his first glass of wine and then ordered another, along with a charcuterie tray for one, as if he didn’t already feel like a loser. He sipped his wine slower and tried to enjoy the notes of plum and juniper. After his last overdue annual physical (and his doctor clucking over his blood pressure), Barba had downloaded some meditation app that basically charged him $2.99 a month to tell him to close his eyes and take deep breaths. While he waited for the world’s smallest, saddest charcuterie tray, he closed his eyes and did just that.

He could feel the tension loosen a little bit. His pulse slowed. He took another sip of wine and tried to savor it. Everything would be fine. He’d take his lumps from McCoy, then he’d march over to the 16th precinct and give Liv a stern speech about sloppy police work. Then he’d do better, be more vigilant, work harder.

When he opened his eyes finally, his newfound serenity evaporated immediately. Across the bar, settling into a stool and pulling a stack of papers out of a battered satchel, was the irritating new public defender. He ducked down and watched you furtively. You shed your grey jacket. You ordered a glass of white wine but no food, and you bent over your papers. Your face was drawn and serious, as if you hadn’t just scored an impressive victory against the district attorney’s office.

The waiter bringing Barba’s food created a flurry of activity that drew your eye, and Barba saw you see him. You nodded at him in greeting and gave him a smile, and he wasn’t sure if it was meant to be friendly or to gloat. He embraced his foul mood as it returned and settled for the latter instead of the former.

He scowled back at you and pointedly ignored you to focus on his food, but not before he saw you carefully gather up your stuff and walk around the bar to join him. He was unable to be explicitly rude and ignore you, so he sighed and turned to face you.

“You here to gloat?” he asked, and he watched your face turn from casually friendly to guarded.

“I’m not gloating,” you replied. “I wanted to say it was a good case, and that you did your best.”

Barba scoffed and took a deep swig of wine, polishing it off in one gulp. “Liar. It was a weak case, and now you’re gloating.”

You narrowed your eyes at him and watched him as he ordered another glass of wine. “I’d think that you’d be happy that you weren’t responsible for getting an innocent man locked up,” you said, and your voice was clipped and almost borderline angry.

He swiveled in his seat so that he could face you directly. You weren’t wrong, but Barba was still smarting from such a humiliating defeat – especially on a case he shouldn’t have even taken to trial. He had no one to blame but himself, but the heady red wine was hitting him harder than his usual scotch did, so he snapped back at you.

“Enjoy your victory,” he said, and you narrowed your eyes further until they were mere slits in your face, glaring out at him. “You won’t get another.” And then he turned back in his seat to make sure you knew you were dismissed.

He’d feel bad about it in the morning. You were just some green public defender, some bleeding heart, probably, and likely someone who just eked out a law degree and a license from passing the bar. And you had kept an innocent man out of prison. But law was a zero-sum game: every case you won was a case he lost.

And more than anything else, Barba loved to win.

-----

It was another month before Barba faced off against you again, and it ended in a draw – guilty on a lesser count, not guilty on the more serious charge. You’d be able to make a plea for leniency during sentencing. When court was dismissed, he turned to nod at you, but you deliberately tilted your head in that sometimes-cute, mostly-irritating way you had and ignored him.

The next match up was just two weeks later, and you lost it handily. Guilty on all counts, and your client was a repeat rapist, but Barba begrudgingly admitted that you gave him a good defense. The defendant would not be able to appeal based on incompetent counsel. Again, you refused to look at Barba, but he couldn’t miss the tension that melted from your frame when your client was led out in cuffs. He realized that you had to defend monsters, and he wondered if you just now realized it yourself.

He got to talk to you a little during those cases, when you both did the mandatory tap dance around possible plea deals. Even if you were young, you were a fierce competitor, snapping back at his own witty one-liners with sarcastic rejoinders of your own. Unlike the other lawyers he squared off with, though, you never made it personal. You never snarked on his suits (like Calhoun), and you never called him a peacock (like Buchanan). You just threw out obscure case law and legal precedents that he sometimes wasn’t aware of.

Meetings with you left him both invigorated and exhausted. Like a sudden burst of adrenaline that, when it was spent, made him weary.

He conceded that you knew what you were doing. You seemed to know the law inside and out, and you seemed to have a supernatural instinct for when SVU was floating a weak case. Barba wondered what your relationship with Carisi had been like – maybe your ability to see through the squad’s posturing came from whatever had happened between you and the lanky detective.

Barba asked Liv about it once. Liv had just shrugged and said that you and Carisi had already been a couple when he came to Manhattan’s SVU, and then a few months later, Carisi had turned up to work with red eyes and rumpled clothes for a long stretch before pulling himself together.

“She was sweet,” Liv said. “She used to bring in lunch and dinner when we were working overtime. But she was still in school then, I think. Fordham.”

Barba pictured you in college student garb, maybe a pair of faded jeans and a Fordham sweatshirt, your face sans makeup and your hair pulled into a sloppy ponytail. He pictured you bringing in boxes of food for the squad, maybe sitting and chatting with them a bit while Carisi played footsie with you under the table. He pictured the tall detective walking you out, kissing you and promising to see you at home soon.

Barba felt a measure of melancholic jealousy for that imagined domestic scene. He’d love to have a girlfriend who brought him food when he was working late. More to the point, he’d love to have a reason to even go home instead of pulling late nights in his office. His mind started to wander to an imagined scene where you brought him food in his office, where he kissed you and promised to see you at home….he shoved that daydream aside violently. Not you. Anyone but the irritating public defender who stung and maddened him like a deep papercut that kept breaking back open after he thought it had healed.

He wondered again idly what had broken the two of you up. Likely being on opposite sides of the law, Barba figured. Carisi, the cocker spaniel of special victims advocate, and you, an avenging angel of the poorest criminals Manhattan had to offer.

-----

SVU had a new case: a sixteen year-old, Anthony Forni, was being tried as an adult for sexual assault of a neighbor in his apartment building.

And a familiar face caught it for the defense.

Barba and Liv were in his office, chatting about the case when Carmen knocked on the door and announced you. As per your usual routine, you nodded curtly at Liv before zeroing in on Barba like a heat-seeking missile. You marched over to stand on the other side of his desk, and Barba knew by now not to bother with polite small talk about the weather. He seemed to have lost that privilege when he rebuffed you all those months ago at the wine bar.

“Counselor,” he said in greeting, and his mentally girded himself for a fight. Increasingly, your meetings with him were getting tenser. It was his fault, probably, when he made it personal by calling you “girl wonder” sarcastically once, and you had glared at him so hard that he almost withered under the force of your stare. Almost.

“The Forni case,” you replied. “Let’s talk plea deal.”

He scoffed at this and saw Liv start to open her mouth to add her two cents, so he held a silencing hand out to her. “I’ll take my chances at court.”

The corner of your mouth twitched as you fought a smile. “You sure about that, Barba?”

“I’d consider rape in the second degree. Five years, and he goes on the registry.”

“I’d consider forcible touching,” you retorted. “Probation, mandatory therapy.”

Barba laughed outright. “A misdemeanor? Don’t waste my time.”

You held up your hand and ticked off your points. “One, you can’t prove that my client even had sex with the victim…”

“The rape kit tested positive for lubricant,” Live cut in, and you just rolled her interruption into your list of points without even looking at her.

“Two, the victim is married and is rumored to have a piece on the side, so lubricant is a non-issue.” You paused for a split second, waiting for another interruption. Your eyes never left Barba’s; he wondered if you were this intense with other ADAs. He couldn’t imagine you staring down Callier or O’Dwyer with such passion.

“Three,” you continued, “Forni’s mother has been fighting with the victim over noise complaints for months.”

“Which gives me a motive for the defendant attacking her,” Barba cut in.

“Which gives me a motive for the victim lying,” you snapped. “And four, I have reason to believe that my client is himself a victim of sexual abuse. He needs therapy and support, not hard time with grown men.”

“How noble of you,” Barba murmured, and he saw you clench your jaw. “But what about support for the victim? Moreover, what about justice?”

“What’s just about sending an underaged kid to an adult prison? That’s vengeance.”

Barba shrugged. “That’s the law.”

“An eye for the eye makes the whole world blind,” you replied, and Barba laughed outright again. He was thinking, more and more, that you were some sort of bleeding-heart do-gooder after all.

“Embroider it on a pillow,” he snarked. “Don’t use it for a basis of legal argument.”

“At least I keep it pithy,” you sassed back at him. “Your closing arguments are so wordy and long-winded, you couldn’t embroider it on a blanket.”

The two of you stared at each other for a moment, and Barba refused to look away first. Instead, he studied your face, smirking a bit at the way your nostrils flared almost imperceptibly as you raged quietly. Finally, you blinked and stepped away from his desk.

“I’ll see you in court then,” you declared, and you flounced out without another word. Barba could practically feel the energy in the room shift as you left, like you were a storm front passing by.

He leaned back in his chair and then glanced over at Liv. He’d nearly forgotten that she was even there. That was the problem with you: in court and in these little encounters, the rest of the world seemed to fall away. Liv, for her part, was giving him that infuriating soft smile she had when she felt like she had some new insight into Barba’s character or inner thoughts.

“What?” he barked, sounding meaner than he intended.

“What was that all about?” she asked.

“I don’t know what you mean.”

Her smile widened. “I saw you staring at each other. I just wasn’t sure if it was sexual tension or murderous rage.”

“Neither,” he said. “And stop smiling like that. It’s just business.”

Liv held up her hands in mock surrender and stood up to leave too. But the smile never left her face, and she even chuckled softly to herself as she made her way to the door.

“For my money, that looked a lot like sexual tension to me,” she said, and she ducked out of his office before he had a chance to come up with a snarky response.

#rafael barba #rafael barba x you #rafael barba imagine #rafael barba x reader #law and order svu #law and order svu fanfiction #tropes and tales

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unicorncornflakes · 2 years ago

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Wedding Dress - Modern AU! | Chapter 3

Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

Paring: Jacaerys Velaryon x Reader x Aemond Targaryen.

Summary: You have always seemed happy. A perfect life: a good job, a good family… and a good boyfriend. Finally, you are going to marry Jace after three years of dating. Everything seems perfect, but you know it's not.

Everything falters the same night you meet Aemond Targaryen. You are no longer sure of your decisions… let alone about the wedding…

Tags: Alternate Universe – Modern/ Setting Enemies to Friends to Lovers/ Emotional Hurt/ComfortDrama & Romance/ Eventual Smut.

Author´s note: Hi everyone! English is not my first language, sorry for any mistake! All of them are my fault! Pls, enjoy! Feedback, shares and comments are always welcome!

Warnings: 18+ smut below the cut.

Word Count: 5.5K

Tag-List (If you wanna be tagged, let me know): @tssf-imagines @nika-sophie05 @hkmultifandom @thetrueblackheart @chainsawsangel @darkenchantress @afro-hispwriter @itsabby15

“And then she started to scream: ‘This is the dress! This is the dress!” Aegon gossiped. Tyland Lannister was paying attention to him with his face in shock, and Aemond regretted two things: Telling Aegon about what happened in the dress fitting and bringing him to so important lunch. His older brother was about his four glass of wine and they hadn´t even ordered the food. They were at the terrace in the Hightower´s Hotel at King’s Landing. Their grandfather, Otto, was the owner of that luxury hotel chain. If they were going to talk about business, they felt more comfortable in their domains. It was a good sunny day of spring, almost perfect if not for the sun that was bothering Aemond´s eye. Without any single word, one of the waiters went to their table and opened a big parasol to stop the sunlight that was annoying him. He continue reading the menu, however, he knew he would ask the same as usual. Life was easy, at least in that moment, Aemond felt that it was easy. Aegon was still laughing “Tell to him, Aemond” he asked to his younger brother.

The one-eye man just closed the menu with a sigh, leaving the card on the table. A fast waitress approached to them: “Do the gentlemen know what they are going to order for lunch?” She was a young girl, almost pretty. Aegon had to be drunk because he gazed her like if she was the cuttest girl in westeros.

“A beef steak, rare. Bring one salad to accompanied it, and water” Aemond commanded without looking the poor girl. His stoic face scared her as much as the scar did. He looked to his brother who was still gazing to the waitress who was taking note of the rest of the commands on that table.

“You are not in the menu?” Aegon wincked his eye, while the waitress gave a stupid laugh, like if she was enjoying that poor flirt. Aemond raised his eyebrow so tired of him.

“I´m afraid not, sir” she replied him.

“What a pity!” He muttered with a charming smile. The girl has gone when he shouted: “And bring more wine! We are thirsty!”

“Enough wine for today” Aemond replied him.

“Aemond, you didn’t tell Tyland what happened at the dress fitting of Jace´s fiancée” he laughed, visibly drunk. “That girl must be a wild beast” he joked. Tyland looked at Aemond, waiting for the confirmation of his brother´s words.

“It wasn’t as tremendous as Aegon is relating you” Aemond shrugged “She was just upset. She is a regular girl, a pretty one, not a beautiful one” he lied. He had to be cold, stoic and indifferent.

“I'm honestly worried. If a woman like that is going to marry the person who is running the company right now, you will tell me how it can end this” the Lannister replied with a sign of concern in his face “Right now, we are steady over again. After the new contract with The Stark Company, we are not in red numbers again. But you know that this is not going to last forever”

Of course, he knew it. Aemond Targaryen was the Chief Operating Officer of Targaryen Co. He was the company's second in command, second only to Jace. His nephew was the CEO. Aemond was in charge of the company's day-to-day operations. And although he himself had to report to Jace everything that happened, his secretary was in charge of that request. They were dedicated to the transport of merchandise both nationally and internationally, among other activities. They had several fleets of planes, named like the dragons that their ancestors were supposed to have had, and a whole maritime fleet, inherited from the merger with Velarion Inc., after her sister had married the heir of the same and she would have had those "children" so similar to their father.

“We are out of Wine!” Aegon muttered while he served to himself another glass. Aemond ignored him. His older brother was only the “Community Manager Assistant” of the company. He wasn't even the community manager himself, although he was paid more than the other. He went to the meetings because he had to go, but he couldn't care less as long as he didn't lose his luxuries.

“The Stark Company now is one of the most powerful on the market. We are going to take care of the transport of the minerals that are extracted from the north, but the problem is not this” Aemond remarked, taking a little sip of his glass.

“Dragons and Wolfs have never worked well together. It gets too much drama” Tyland said.

“And what we are going to do?” Aegon was wondering, shaking the empty wine bottle, trying to find another drop.

“You are the graduate in business management, so surprise me” Aemond replied terrible upset, taking the bottle from his hands and giving it to the waitress again, without getting up from his seat. Aemond was really tired of him. Aegon had been supposed to have Aemond´s position at the company. He had studied a degree in Philosophy and History, and had dreamed of being a professor at a good university, but had left everything behind for his family and the company. The first thing was the responsibilities and the duty, although now he was not rewarding. “We must to find other opportunities, because this alliance with the Starks is not going to work”.

They continued talking about the situation and having lunch. However, when they were about to finish. Aemond received a message on his phone. Aegon and Tyland were still talking, and Aemond checked his phone. A message from Alys. He opened it. ‘I'm in town tonight. See you where always?’ she texted him. He thought for a moment if it was correct meeting Alys now you were in his life… But, What? You weren’t his girlfriend nor his lover. He was losing his head for you. Maybe, all that he needed was sleeping with other woman. Alys was after all his friend with benefits. They had great sex together. So, why not? ‘It will be a pleasure’ He replied. ‘At 20:00? :)’ She asked. ‘OK’ he replied. So, he had plans for that night too.

You were looking at the ground. That precious morning seemed anything but precious to you. The night before had not gone as you expected and the last thing you wanted was to go see flowers for the wedding. You were sick of the wedding by now, yet there you were. With Rhaenyra and Jace, and your grandmother of course, because as your boyfriend used to say, how could you leave her out of something so important in your life? Nana, the affectionate nickname you had given her as a child, was clinging to Jace's arm. They both were looking at the flowers enthusiastically. The plant nursery was huge, but you began to feel overwhelmed by the sensation of heat that was in there.

“We have a wide variety of flowers, In what did the couple think?” one of the works of that place was there to help you to find the flowers for that ‘must be’ perfect day. You yawned. You had been up all night without sleep. You couldn't stop thinking. And what were you thinking? It was shorter to ask what you weren't thinking about.Without a doubt, something that did not concern you at all was the subject of the wedding.

“I was thinking in roses. Red roses” your grandmother claimed. And you rolled your eyes. Yeah, sure. She wanted roses… Sometimes, you thought that she was the one that truly was to marry Jace, not you. Jace only smiled at her response. He was the boy which all decent girls dreamt about. You sighed, but only Rhaenyra noticed. She looked at you, her face full of worry.

“We can take a look to the roses, of course” Jace replied to her, and she squeezed his hand.

“A really truly gentleman” she said, so proud. He was a gentleman, a fucking gentleman who wasn’t able to fuck you as you deserved… Shit. What was happening with you? Before, you would have smiled at the scene. And you would have replied that the roses were a good option.

Rhaenyra seemed to see your mental breakdown and spoke quickly “We are not asking to the bride” she smiled, caressing your shoulder, taking care of you like if you were a little girl. You really appreciated it. If your boyfriend wasn´t there for you, at least you have her. “Which flowers do you like for the bouquet, (Y/N)?” she asked, still caressing your shoulder.

“I´m thinking in… stargaze lilys” you replied. Before the last weekend, those were the flowers that you wanted for your wedding. But, well, you weren’t sure at the moment.

“They are spectacular flowers” Your future mother-in-law replied. You were on the brink of tears. Why was that happening to you? Why did you have to know Aemond? Why did you sleep with him?

“No. You got away with that hideous dress. We are not going to use such ordinary flowers. By the seven!” Your grandmother woke you up from your thoughts. “I´m going to pay the flowers, so I will decide the flowers” she sentenced.

You looked at Jace, seeking his help in this matter. And he only shrugged. ‘She is an old person, we have take care of her, you know how she is’. You could imagined what he was thinking.

“Explain me, then what I´m doing here?” you exploded, all the eyes there looking at you. “I have a lot of work, I have to write… Explain me! Do you need me here?” You crossed your arms in your chest. That was the waiting explosion, like the dam of a river that burst. The last night, you didn’t resolve your inner conflict, the last afternoon you had to met Aemond… and now this…

“Of course, we need you, Honey” Your grandmother replied, without letting go of Jace's arm “You are the bride and you will choose which roses do you want”

“Really?” You snorted. This was so…

“I decided you were going to keep the dress because Alicent's son said you looked very pretty, but I still find it hideous. On the subject of flowers...” Your grandmother started to say, but in that moment, Jace cut out her speech.

“Sorry? I´m lost, Which son of Alicent told what?” Jace asked, looking at you so confused. She just looked at him as well, but you aparted your gaze quickly. You didn’t want to discuss with him.

“Aemond went to the dress fitting, Jace. He picked up Alicent, that’s all” Rhaenyra replied, and her son just looked like devastated, like if the same death would have gone to your dress fitting. Jace didn’t hate Aemond, He wasn’t able to hate nobody, but he really detested him. The only thougth that he could see you in your dress wedding really got him angry. And, what about Aemond saying that you were pretty…

“(Y/N), I asked you about the dress fitting, and you said: ‘Normal’. You didn’t tell me that he was there…” He was so upset. He wasn’t really angry, he knew how to control himself, but you had never seen him like this before “Well, I think that his presence is not just ‘Normal’”

“I didn't even know he existed and now you ask me to inform you that it was there. What did I know, Jace?” You said through your teeth, trying to stay calm. What was happening? You had never discossed with him. Never. The both of you always remained in perfect synchrony.

“That guy does nothing but piss me off. He's an…” Jace was going to insult him, but he stopped his words. You cognized him, he couldn´t insult nobody. He was too correct for that, perfect. And, in a second, you hated him for being so truly perfect, not like you.

“And is it my fault that you haven't even mentioned him to me? I didn’t even know about his existence” You shouted. Things were getting too much wrong.

“I asked you, and you didn’t even mention him” He repeated again. The situation started to seemed like a broken record. And you started to be tired of everything.

“I need fresh air” You proclaimed. It sounded like a statement.

“Honey, don’t be so silly!” Your grandmother tried to calm you. But, he was part of the problem. You were tired.

“No, I need fresh air” You announced again, and you leave the plant nursery. You needed to remain calm for, at least, one moment.

You were sitting on a bench outside the store for what seemed like an eternity, because it really was. Your grandmother was choosing the flowers for your wedding. It was going to be quite a lady's wedding, at least in her idea of what a lady was. Your disappointment and your feelings seemed to matter rather less. At that moment. For the first time since you'd met Aemond, you stopped to think. Why did you continue with this? I wasn't making you happy. You had never wanted to get married until you met Jace. A sweet boy who had made you change your mind, but now you questioned if you really loved him. Maybe it was...

"Hey," you heard Jace whisper to you. He was sitting next to you on the bench and you hadn't even noticed his presence. You were so deep in thought. You didn't even look at him, perhaps you were looking for the strength to tell him that... "Your grandmother chose red roses, quite pretty, I came to ask you if it was okay with you."

“Does it matter at all what I can or cannot say?” you shrugged, ready to argue again when the time came. You were just tired.

"I think not, you know how it is" she laughed, narrowing her eyes, and for the first time since she had returned from the trip, you laughed with him. How long has it been since you laughed with him? But, at that moment you looked into her eyes. They were lit, like a puppy's gaze. It was so cute to see him like this, so in love even when you were angry.

"This thing about flowers is bullshit" you told him with a sad smile. Your gaze fixed on his. For a moment, you felt like when you started dating him. Totally understood, full…

"I have an idea" he smiled at you and you responded with your gaze fixed on him, attentive to his words "Tonight. You and me alone. At La Chapelle. Table for 2, at 20:00. How about?"

"That's not bad" you replied with a smile, biting your lower lip. Yeah, that was going to be a great night. Things would work out. Something inside you told you.

"Not bad" he said "I know we're stressed, that things are difficult lately" You looked away, but he stroked your chin, forcing you to look at him. Your eyes locked on his. "But huh? We are a team, remember?"

“Jace...” You were going to confess everything, you couldn't take it anymore. He was too nice a guy for you. Deemon was right.

“Just let him get away with it, what does it matter? The important thing is that we're getting married, the rest doesn't matter” He smiled at you and you kissed him again, but no, damn. You wanted those flowers. You wanted that dress. And you were tired of him being such a nice guy, unable to stick up for you over something so silly. You got the impression that he was very accommodating to everyone except you. I only expected you to be as accommodating as he was. And you were tired, but you didn't answer. You just let it go, like with everything. Just letting it go.

“I'm gonna have to start charging you rent” You heard Daemon´s voice after you. You rose your eye from the white document of your computer screen. Maybe, you didn´t expect any type of annoyance in your office desk at the job. You didn’t expect his visit “What are you doing at the office one Saturday afternoon? I know that you are workaholic, but seriously, you need a dog” He joked while he was approaching to his table too.

“Well, Caraxes is a loyal dog, and you are here as well as me” You returned the joked, and he only laughed at your occurrence. Your stare came again to the screen, while a smile appeared in your lips.

“I guess that the both of us are here for the same reason” he dropped his body into his desk chair. He set his eyes on you, his lips in a mischievous smile. Yeah, he started to catch you after three years working together.

You looked at him again, without understanding anything I was saying to you. You stopped trying to write. It wouldn't work if Daemon was there.

“The both of us want to escape from our reality” he claimed, leading his body against the chair. The squeezing ball again in his hand. You stared him. Why he had to know you so well, however, you only replied a simply statement.

“I´m trying to write, if not, I wiil not send you nothing tomorrow” you declared with a stressful sigh.

“Yeah, I also told Rhaenyra that I had to work this afternoon. A very important book is what we have in our hands” he stated without looking at you. That devilish smile. You didn’t understand why Rhaenyra still believed him, but maybe that was part of his charming.

“Yes, a great book” You replied, following his game, nodding your head. You both exploded into a complicit laugh. He was really surprise about how much you had changed in the last days. In other times, you had would scolded him, and now you were laughing with him. “I´m not capable of writing, an any single sentence. Nothing” you confessed to him, your cheeks burning.

“The muses are elusive lovers. They will be back” he explained to you. After all, he was a publisher, he understood about what he was talking. “But, you are not here to catch muses”. It wasn’t a question, it was a truth. “I heard about what happened in your dress fitting and about the issue with the flowers” he smiled. Another squeeze. In that moment, you felt like that stupid ball.

“I'm going to explode if someone talks to me again about the wedding” you confessed in a whisper. You had come to the office, looking for being alone. You really need it after the last days.

“Because, you don´t want to marry Jace” he said, his eyes fixed on you again “I must be the only one who realizes this. You are like me. You are like the wind. And the wind cannot be trapped” He defined the situation and you rolled your eyes.

“Daemon, you are married. Someone can caught the wind” you declared, your gaze again in the white document.

“Rhaenyra is a Dragon. I´m a dragon too” he was about to explain you, when you talked again.

“I thought you were wind” you smiled. Not now, please, you needed a friend, not a sermon, but maybe that's what real friends do, give sermons looking for the best for the person they love.

“We are together because she needs me for flying, I need her for remaining on the ground” he analyzed. It wasn’t the first time that he thought about his relationship. “Jace is not wind, he is not going to help you to fly as you deserve and need. He likes simple things: a house, two kids, one dog… a complacent girl” he sighed, like if wanted to speak about that with you, he really needed. “You are not a complacent girl anymore, (Y/N). I don’t know what happened last weekend, I don’t want either, but you have changed”

“Everything is fine” you tried to sound convincing, but you failed. Those days you didn’t sound like your old you.

“No, it´s not” he whispered to you, approaching to you, just to cleaned a tear that was running down your cheek with his thumb.

“I just want the things come back to normal. I really need it” you sobbed “I just want to do what is expecting from me” you remained, crying in silence. Daemon didn´t say another word. He could understand what was happening. He only hopped that you realize too, before it would be too late.

“And this is my uncle Aegon, who is the 'Community Manager Assistant.'” Jace selected another photo from the company's website on his phone. He wanted to introduce you to all the family he hadn't told you about before. It was a way to make amends and prepare you for what awaited you at the next family meal. "He is the oldest of all my uncles"

"And what does a 'Community Manager Assistant' do?" you asked as you looked at the phone screen, sitting next to Jace in that very expensive restaurant. He smiled at your curiosity.

"Well, he does a lot of important things on social media, but in Aegon's case I don't think he makes any of it" he laughed defeated. You smiled at him. It was the closest he was going to get in his life to insulting someone.

"So, you have four uncles you've never told me about before," you sighed. You looked at him with a look that was trying to be complacent. That was what Jace needed, a willing girl. That was what you were going to be.

“If he went for me, you wouldn't know anyone. It's not a part of my family that I feel comfortable with. I understand that my mother and Alicent are trying to fix things with this wedding thing, but it's something we've tried before and it's never worked” I confess, jaded and exhausted by the situation, ashe put away his phone.

"You work with them, so sooner or later I would have to meet them, right?" you shrugged and smiled charmingly at him. That was what you had to be again. Conformist. You were on the right track, was what your head was whispering to you at that moment.

“It's just that I know Aemond. I'm surprised he didn't make fun of you when he saw you in the dress” she cocked her head, trying to figure out what that moment had been like. You felt your cheeks burn slightly.

In that exactly moment, one waiter of the restaurant came with the first dishes that you have already order. For your surprise, it wasn’t the food that you ordered before. Jace realized your discomfort and he whispered to you: “What´s the problem?”

“This is not the dish that I´ve ordened” you replied in a lower tone.

“Oh, don’t you worry. I´m sure that it taste good too” he smiled. And you only sighed in distress. Why would you complain? You weren't going to get anything. You grinned again and began to eat. Jace was talking about his job again when you perceived who was having a date two tables further from where you were. And then, your stomach was closed and you coughed really high.

“I have to go to the bathroom” you muttered, rising really fast from your chair. Jace only looked at you worried.

“And then we will travel to the summer islands” Alys blinked fast at Aemond, looking at him with a sensual smile and a really sparkling eyes. Her red lips drinking through a straw her cocktail. Alys was everything he'd ever wanted, until she married a man richer than him. At that moment, he had realized that perhaps it had been more a feverish desire than a reality. Alys was beautiful, sassy, a couple of years older than him, and his first high school sweetheart. But it was all over the moment she had left him for something better. Yet they were still hooked on each other. They were friends with benefits. When she was in king's landing they would meet and fuck. That was their whole relationship in those days.

“I´m really glad that the things with your husband are working again” he sneered. His disdain for the situation was only increased. He was hoping to finish the dinner as soon as possible to just… squeeze Alys against the nearest surface and then finishing what they started as usually.

“Oh, Aemond, are you jealous?” she wondering to him, caressing his hand with her long nails, teasing him. That had being her play, to make him jealous and possessive about her. “You know that if he knew how to eat pussy like you, I wouldn't be here”.

“A stunning revelation” he smirked ironicaly. He took a sip from his glass of wine, while Alys was caressing his hand.

“I guess that we will sleep together tonight, no?” she flirted with him, her huge breast in his sight. He curled one corner of his lips.

“Dinner would be very expensive for myself if we weren't going to fuck afterwards” he told her in a suggestive whisper. Like a whore, this was how Alys liked to be treated, and he hadn't known much more ways to flirt than that. She just giggled like a little child, and then Aemond saw a woman shape that he knew perfectly. And then, his mind stopped thinking on Alys.

You refreshed you face at the bathroom. It was okay. Everything was fine. The both of you were adults. It was an only-one night affair, as a lot of people do. Yes that was all. You weren’t jealous because he was with another woman. You weren’t jealous, jealous, jealous… jealousy is for other kind of relationships. You were going to have the best night of your life with Jace, and Aemond would become past. Yeah, that was the attitude. You painted your lips again, you were going to leave the bathroom with a lustful smile for your boyfriend and you would ignore Aemond so hard…

You left the bathroom, and you felt how a man pulled you against the wall of the corridor, far from any look. You recognized his scent, you recognized his grip. Her hands on your hips, caressing them, grabbing them... he really coveted you like no one else in your life would. You felt how the blood rose to your cheeks, and how the heat was concentrated in the least indicated part of your body. His face, with his lips parted, in the shadows of the hallway. His long hair... would never cease to fascinate you. You wanted to see him without that patch, you wanted to feel that lips on your...

“I really wish you have a good night. I hope tonight he would manage to erase me from your mind, hmm” he whispered in your ear. His husky voice. His warm breath against your skin. You heard how his lips were moistened, how he breathed your essence. And you felt that strange feeling in your stomach that Jace didn't give you. At that moment, you wanted him to turn you around and press you against the wall, to pull up your dress and unzip his fly, to show you how guys like him made it.

You pushed him away with what little sanity you had left. You noticed her lips curled into a sneer, smiling at your reaction, as if she knew you were soaked. He literally drove you crazy. That enough smile, that look that devoured you in silence... the place where he had grabbed you by the hips now burned with an indescribable sensation. Aemond Targaryen was simply fire, a passion unleashed that had nothing to do with Jace.

You raised your face and approached him again, in a behavior that you had never had before. You brought your lips closer to his. Your mouth was so close to his that you thought she could kiss you at any moment, but you just opened it defiantly and full of lust and whispered to him as he did to you: "I hope she manages to erase me too out of your head." he simply smiled, showing his teeth. At that moment you thought that he had the most beautiful smile in the world.

"My little slut is now a daring woman" he replied. You looked down and you could see that he had his cock tough. It pressed hard against his pants and you could only let out a daring giggle. "I have to show you your place, Hmm?” he whispered, and in that moment, you realized that if you asked him, he would undoubtedly fuck you against the bathroom wall again.

"Good night, Aemond" you replied pulling away from him, waddling for him. What was happening to you? You weren't like that and you regretted it again the moment you saw Jace. His eyes expectant for you. You felt like a terrible piece of shit.

"Finally home," Jace chuckled softly, "I promise I can't wait for the day we live together and…" You silenced him with a kiss. His innocent lips met yours that devoured him as if they hadn't been together for months. At the end of the kiss, you smiled at him, grabbing his hand, looking at him askance. You directed him towards your bed and he couldn't be more shocked, but happy, by this change.

Alys was directing him towards the room of that expensive hotel. Her fingers entwined with Aemond's, as if they were a newly enamored couple. She glanced at him. Those red lips so pretty between open. Those eyes that devoured him in silence. Aemond was more than willing. A bulge pressing against his pants.

Arriving in the bedroom, Jace kissed you again, sweet, soft, savoring every moment your lips met. You smiled mischievously after each kiss. You were ready to have the best night of your life. You sat him on the bed to his surprise and you knelt in front of him. Jace swallowed, as if this was the last thing he expected. You bit your bottom lip as you slowly unbuttoned his pants. You watched with excitement as he closed his eyes at the same moment that you gently grabbed his cock. “Fuck…” he whispered, and you smiled at yourself. In the end, he did know how to insult. But the greatest spectacle was when your tongue found itself on his glans, licking the precum slowly... gently...

Aemond slammed the bedroom door shut. He watched as Alys took off her dress, completely, but that wasn't what he wanted at the moment. He unbuckled his belt and dropped his pants. His cock bounced against his stomach in a painful motion, hissing as it met the air. He grabbed Alys by her hair and he made her kneel before him. His mouth did know what to do... and yet, it wasn't her lips they were thinking about while she sucked him off. He didn't stare at Alys, only at the wall in front of him. His scowl completely frowned at her as he set the pace by holding back her hair. He knew how he liked things.

You knocked Jace down on the bed and climbed on top of it. His cock entered easily on top of you, you were drenched just for him. His violet gaze fixed on you. His strong hands pinching your nipples as you ride him in circular motions... you were going to remember this night forever... Aemond and you... alone at last...

Aemond threw Alys against the bed. She gave a gleeful laugh just as he turned her around. He placed her on all fours and entered her. That night he didn't want to see her face. He was being selfish. He ran one of her hands along the line of her back, while the other held her hips... he thought about how beautiful the line of your back was... it truly fascinated him... her hips collided quickly... he wasn't going to last…

Jace couldn't take it anymore and just cumed, eyes closed and holding your hips tight. Your name was whispered with a sweet smile...

A low growl, a name he couldn't remember saying, and Aemond had finally cumed inside Alys. Her pussy tightening around his cock. The breaths of both mismatched. The warmth of their bodies had turned into sticky sweat. The heat of the moment had faded. He felt released, he felt relieved, he felt…empty.

Jace hugged you against his bare chest, and you settled back against him with a smile. "I'm going to have to go on a bussines trip more often" he groaned, gasping for air, trying to recover. you laughed "What has changed?" he whispered with a smile, stroking your hair. And then, you realized you weren't with Aemond. And what had changed? All. Everything had just changed, you hugged Jace's chest. You tried to convince yourself that you had only thought of him.

Alys looked at him with cold eyes, completely taken aback by what had happened: “Who is (Y/N)?” She looked at him accusingly, as if she had never expected Aemond to think of a woman other than her. Aemond didn't answer, just looked away and fell back on the bed, weary. He had made love to you through her.

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the-bar-sinister · 4 months ago

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Star Cross (3016 words) by thesavagesabretooth

Additional Tags: The Cross Guild (One Piece), Backstory, Nostalgia, Getting Back Together, Fluff and Angst, Missing Scene, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence Summary: In years gone by, Dracule Mihawk was once the right arm and swordsman of the terrifying Captain Crocodile. Their relationship lay dormant for more than a decade while the two of them were biding their time as pawns of the World Government. Now, with the warlord system dissolving before their eyes it's time to 'get the band back together', reunite, and recapture what made being together so amazing.

Mihawk so rarely got a chirp on his transponder. There were precious few people who had the means to contact it.

As the psychic snail shook and chirped for his attention, he lowered his glass of wine to stare at it for a moment of hesitation. The World Government…the former warlords of the sea…and the young swordsman and the Ghost Princess.

Those were the only people in the world who had access to his private number. He prided himself on solitude, after all.

As it chirped and chirped in his hesitation, he abruptly silenced it by grabbing the receiver and answering. “Speak.”

"Mihawk." It was Crocodile's voice. Thick and curt in its greeting, with an undertone of an emotion he couldn't quite yet place. "Have you seen the news yet?"

There was always news. There was lots of news.

“I still do get the news coo out here, Crocodile.” Mihawk folded his arm against the cross that lay draped over his chest. His sharp eyes lidded as he stared out the window. “I’m assuming you mean the mess in Dressrosa…where the Straw Hats lead to the ridiculous flamingo’s downfall?”

"Yeah, that's the news I mean alright, Hawk," he grumbled. "Glad we're already on the same page in that case."

Mihawk identified the tone in his voice. Part of it, anyway. It was anxiety. He'd long known whenever Crocodile was particularly anxious his normally loquacious speech got clipped down to sentence fragments.

Mihawk leaned near the window watching the mist as it swirled outside the castle he’d long since stolen…curling like fingers over the sea. There were many times, once upon a time under the endless stars, that she heard Crocodile’s voice take on that quality.

Times when trouble caught up to them, mostly. Or the time just before the moment that shattered both men forever.

“Of course…it was rather surprising, wasn’t it?”

"Sure was. Almost as surprising as the first time the government threw one of the warlords in prison, eh?"

Two years ago. Crocodile meant himself, of course. When they'd thrown him into Impel Down after the same category 10 disaster that had just hit Dressrosa had hit Alabasta.

Mihawk tutted his tongue.

“It was a surprise then as it is now. “ He’d thought about visiting Crocodile in Impel Down– carving his way through the laughingstock they called a guard unit and grabbing his former captain…his former partner…from the depths of the government’s darkest secret.

The news of Crocodile’s escape hit his desk almost before he could rig his ship.

“Though I fear a lot more will be joining him soon enough.”

"Funny, that was exactly what was on my mind. I was thinking maybe you didn't want to wait for the third time to be the charm."

This was peak Crocodile behavior. He was winding Mihawk up. Dancing around an idea he was already dead set on proposing, but leading Mihawk to it, rather than just spitting it out.

“You know me…though admittedly if they dissolve the system entirely, I almost look forward to the fight of it.” Mihawk drawled, unrattled as usual by Croc’s particularities. Once upon a time he played the perfect straight man to Crocodile’s theatrics.

"Well, if you wanna keep waiting around, I won't stop you. But I was cooking up an idea. Haven't had one of those in a while, eh?"

Once upon a time, Crocodile had lots of 'ideas'. Sometimes, they'd led to something profitable. Often to something fun. Always to trouble.

It had been more than a decade since Crocodile had come to Mihawk with an idea.

His heart skipped a beat, but he urged it to calm. It was far too wounded to get caught up in such excitement now…so instead he placed his hand on the window. “You know most of the time you came up with an idea it wound up costing us. A ship. Precious time. Dignity.”

Crocodile huffed softly– a self-effacing laugh. "Might cost us more than that, this time. But it's not anything we wouldn't lose anyway. I don't want to talk about it too much over the transponder."

Crocodile had always hated them on principle. No way to know if someone was listening in. He only used them when the message was inconsequential, or he felt like he had no other choice.

Mihawk closed his sharp eyes for a moment. “Where shall we meet? I’ve sent my…” he wouldn’t call Perona a guest at this point…but.. “Companion…off for the moment. There’s no harm in me leaving the island for a time.”

"Meet me just short of paradise, Hawk. We'll get this idea cooking when you get there."

'Just short of paradise'-- another nostalgic turn of phrase. It was what they'd called one of the small islands in the new world just past Fish-man island– the one they'd used more than once to regroup and gather strength.

“Hah…” Mihawk was glad Crocodile couldn’t see the sharp smile that inched across his face. “but of course. I’ll meet you there, Crocodile. Try not to get lost without me.”

"Try not to get distracted on the way over." Crocodile couldn't see his smile– but maybe he could hear it, the same way Mihawk could hear his grin. "I'll be waiting."

Crocodile didn't say 'it'll be just like old times' before he closed the signal. But the smell of the phrase hung heavy in the air like the old captain's cigar smoke.

Mihawk waited until the line was well and truly dead to laugh, dropping the transponder snail’s receiver back onto the hook as he pressed his hand to his face with a ferocious smile.

“My captain’s back at it again, is he?” He mused as his fingers dragged down the front of his face. “...I wonder what finally lit that faded spark back to life.”

Grabbing his coat from the rack by the door he threw it over his shoulders with a last glance at the gloom out the window. “I suppose I’ll see for myself soon enough. For old times sake, Captain Crocodile.”

There were no marine ships visible in the harbor of Mystoria Island when Mihawk sailed into view of it, which was a good sign. There were no ships he recognized either, but that wasn't a surprise. Crocodile hadn't sailed in more than a decade– whatever ship he was sailing now wouldn't be the one that had made their last voyage.

That great ship had long been sunk. Sunk so deep it dragged Crocodile’s love of the sail down with it. It was little surprise it drove him to the safety of land in the same way it drove Mihawk to sail upon the sea in a simple ship of his own.

The small, coffin shaped ship drifted to the docks as he snapped his book shut and folded the sails.

HIs eyes scanned the shoreline, his keen vision still as sharp as ever as he looked for any sign of hidden danger or his former captain.

“I wonder if he’s been feeling nostalgic.” he drawled under his breath.

Few could have blamed Crocodile for being nostalgic here, if he was. The shoreline was much the same as it had been the last time either of them had set foot on the island, nearly 20 years prior. The rambling, scatter-shot shipyards, and the harbor bars, leading up through the town with its mismatched architecture styles.

Mystoria was one of the first three islands after crossing into the New World, and it was the lawless providence of mercenaries and pirates. An autumn-locked island it was cast forever in a gloomy haze that softened rough edges as much as it hid lurking danger.

Just short of paradise, indeed.

Mihawk adjusted the strap on Yoru and flung it over his back with a pensive hum.The nostalgia clawed its way inside his chest as he walked down the creaking old plank towards the ramshackle town.

Mystoria was a hive of backstabbing pirates and crooked mercenaries– but they were infinitely more trustworthy than the damned navy, down to every last man on the island.

The sense memory played in his mind as he strode past the weathered old signs. Back when he was a younger man, the hawk-eyed marine hunter, he’d walked through this town with the swagger that came from a life that had yet to have the dreams beaten out of it.

He smiled thinly at the memory of the blood splashing his cheek as he struck down some no-name coward who’d tried to get a drop on the recently increased bounties on Crocodile and Mihawk’s heads.

Many of the buildings that had been there when he was there last were gone or changed– but just as many of them remained. And one that did remain as he swaggered through the streets was the Ogre's Head. The pub was a favorite meeting place for pirate crews– and had been Crocodile's preferred meeting spot many years ago.

The titular 'head' was a faded wooden sign, but it was a point of local lore and pride that the original had once been an actual head, possibly that of a giant.

Mihawk chuckled once more to himself, pausing outside the pub with a wry edge to his smile. “I wonder if the old fool still runs the place.” He murmured as he pushed the door open to step inside.

As always the smell of the place hit him before the sight of it– dim and firelit. It smelled of charred grease and spilled beer and rum, of sweat and sea salt and bootblack, and a hint of gunpowder. The hall– its proprietor would never call it a 'dining room'-- was full of scattered rough hewn wooden chairs that could be replaced as needed, and stone and iron tables that couldn't be idly destroyed.

It was less crowded than Mihawk remembered it– but maybe that was because of just who was in it. The chatter between the scattered colorfully dressed and idiosyncratic patrons sitting around the tables mostly stopped when he walked in, as all eyes were on him. There were only two men at the bar, and both of them were Mihawk's fellow former warlords of the sea.

As Mihawk entered, Crocodile and Doflamingo both turned around from where they were drinking. Doflamingo– hunched in his enormous feather coat– stood and gave Mihawk a carefree salute, gesturing to the rest of the 'patrons' who all stood and made their way toward the stairs to the pub's back area.

The meaning of it was clear– not a threat, but giving him and his old captain space.

Crocodile was the only man left at the bar as he grinned, and raised his mug.

"I see you made it, Hawk."

“And I see it’s quite the grand reunion, Croc.” Mihawk glanced towards the retreating patrons and the flamboyant Doflamingo.

He walked over, and dropped onto one of the rough stools beside him. He turned, framed by the guard of his legendary sword as he leaned on one elbow with the trace of a smile. “You know, this takes me back.”

"Didn't seem right to start anywhere else," Crocodile grinned. He waved at the man behind the bar– far older and greyer than Mihawk remembered him, but still the same old man– and Mihawk was furnished with a drink. "Besides, this is where I knew you'd be able to find me without me saying."

Mihawk chuckled. “Yes…there’s no way I’d ever forget our time just short of paradise, Captain.”

Once he’d stood as the sword to Crocodile’s ambitions. Before they were warlords, they were a captain and his ferocious blade– but time and grief had whittled them each down into the shape the World Government had expected of them, to a point.

It was easy to remember the old days of the Marine Hunter and the ferocious Captain Crocodile here in this pub of memories. He raised the drink to his lips “if I remember, the last time we were here together, your nonsense set fire to the western district.”

Crocodile chuckled along with him, and slipped his hooked arm around Mihawk's shoulders "My nonsense, he says. As if you weren't right there with me trying to burn the louse out of his hidey-hole."

“I always had a problem being drawn into your nonsense.” Mihawk snorted softly, letting himself lean lightly against Crocodile– something he hadn’t done in all the years they were Warlords. It was a sign to the World Government…a dangerous sign of one Warlord with some presumed power over the other. It was a physical intimacy he hadn’t allowed himself again until very recently. “And we did flush him out in the end.”

"Damn right we did," Crocodile laughed. He leaned closer to him. He'd always respected Mihawk's aloof refusal to show intimacy where it could be seen by the world government– but it was clear that was done and over with. "And now here you are getting drawn into my nonsense again, eh?"

Mihawk’s arm reached out to wind his fingers through the scruff of Crocodile’s thick coat, meeting his gaze with his own sharp eyes.

“It seems. Like that whole mess with Roger’s golden coins…given the flamingo’s here too.” He chuckled, low and rumbling under his breath “and I still have no idea what asinine plan you’ve got up your sleeve this time.”

"Had to break the bastard out of marine custody– I'm damned if I'm gonna let him out of my sight after I went to the trouble." Crocodile shook his head. He pressed his cheek to Mihawk's and murmured. "As for my new asinine plan– you ready to hear it?"

“I”ll suffer his foolishness then. For you.” he mused with wry humor “...but I’ve been absolutely dying with curiosity , Crocodile. Especially after you neglected to include me in that little Utopia plan of yours.”

"Neglected to include you," he clucked. "When I told you I thought we needed an impregnable home base you told me to come to that miserable rainy island of yours. But hey, I'm giving you a second chance."

Mihawk sipped his wine.

“Kuraigana Island is beautifully defensible, Croc. It would have been far less lonely if you’d been there.” He leaned on his hand with a soft snort and a smile. “...you’re giving your old swordsman a second chance, hm? Another shot at your ‘utopia’?”

"Something like that, yeah," Crocodile nodded, still holding him close. "But I'll admit, I learned a valuable lesson when I got my ass handed to me two years ago."

“Not to make an enemy of a punch-happy princess?” Mihawk asked as his fingers brushed through the coat’s ‘fur’ before looping below to press against his back.

He laughed roughly. "Not exactly. Hell– that princess? We're friends now, you believe that Hawk? … friends."

Crocodile leaned into Mihawk's touch, and there was something vulnerable on his proud face.

Mihawk felt his expression soften as his fingers trailed against Crocodile’s back.

“I wouldn’t have expected that, Croc, not at all. Hah, I’ll have to ask what changed.” He closed his eyes “though, I’ve made unexpected bonds, myself.”

"That kid you were training?" Crocodile grinned. "Funny, him and the princess are on the same ship right now, unless something's gone sideways."

“That’s right.” Mihawk chuckled. “and Moria’s ‘Ghost Princess’, who I only just managed to convince to step out of harm's way.”

He leaned over, his hat bending to accommodate as he rested his cheek against Croc’s shoulder.

“It’s funny how fate conspires to give us a connection to the straw hats, hmm?” He chuckled softly “I’m pleased you patched things up…lesson learned, hm?”

"Lesson learned," he nodded. "That's why instead of looking for a super weapon, I'm going to build an army. An alliance. And we're gonna go after the navy, instead of waiting around for them to go after us. Sound like your kind of party?"

Mihawk’s sharp, hawk-like eyes focused in on Crocodile’s face as a vicious smile crawled over his lips.

“...my , Captain…no more waiting around and biding our time? No more cheap tricks?” He looped his arm around him to draw him closer “an all out war against the hated marines, making our stand like men? It sounds like my kind of party indeed.”

Crocodile put his hand to Mihawk's cheek, rubbing his thumb over the edge of his beard. "You were the first one I thought of when I decided. No more hedging my bets, Hawk, no more playing it safe. I'm ready to gamble– win or lose."

Mihawk’s eyes lidded, as he relished the long forgone intimacy they shared in the unchanged pub of their memories. His fingers traced down his back in thoughtful loops.

“If you’re ready to gamble it all, Crocodile…I shall gamble it all right beside you.” He smiled sharply “besides, I haven’t had a good battle in ages. Not since that mess in Marineford and my protege…if we’re going all in, I’ll wade into hell beside you. Just like the old days.”

"Just like the old days." Crocodile smiled a sad, nostalgic smile as he leaned his face in close, lit by the firelight. "Sorry it took so long."

“I’ll forgive you for it, Croc,” the swordsman hummed as he looked him deep in the eyes, noses nearly touching “as we make up for wasted time.”

"Cheers to that, Hawk."

Crocodile pulled him the rest of the way to his chest, and kissed him soundly on the mouth, not waiting for any further urging.

Mihawk’s lips met Crocodile’s, the taste of wine mingling between them as he leaned bodily into him with a quietly satisfied murmur.

It’d been a long time since they’d traveled together– a long time since the two of them had allowed themselves to be close to anyone, much less one another. His arm tightened around him as he deepened the kiss with a tingle of excitement in his long-cooled heart. It seemed once more they’d be facing the world at one another’s backs.

#crochawk #crocohawk #wanitaka #sir crocodile #dracule mihawk #one piece #fanfiction #fan fiction #fanfic #archive of our own #ao3

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stylographic-blue-rhapsody · 2 months ago

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good morning it is again blorbos-from-my-game hours

729 PD, Rosohna. Luminata Eve

Espen’s hands twitched behind her back, held in a stiff soldier’s attention to keep from picking anxiously at her hakama. She had attended Luminata Eve celebrations with nobility in years past, hosted by Den Beltune, but this was the first time she had been brought as a guest-companion to a ruling Den’s party. She had objected at first when Fyrna invited her along, but eventually gave in to the teasing requests and agreed. She regretted this lapse in resolve.

“And anyway,” Fyrna said with a grin, “That’s why I told him he should pick up a glaive instead. I know your Den’s traditional choice is the longsword, but you should see how he wields a polearm. It was a really clever use of an echo in combination with the weapon reach. Naturally talented, aren’t you, Lieutenant Thelyss?”

Verin Thelyss, eldest son of Den Mother Deirta Thelyss, blushed faintly over his stoic expression and demurred politely as his mother looked at him appraisingly. Espen’s nerves over being included in conversation with an Umavi had been soothed as soon as Fyrna had started talking: the Moonsage seemed perfectly content to be swept up in complimentary stories of her son by his martial mentor and ignore her entirely. Fyrna’s casual charm and self assured gregariousness made it easy to linger silently in the periphery.

A sudden crash and snarled insult in the center of the room interrupted the first words of Den Mother Thelyss’ reply. From Espen’s side, a thrumming burst of dunamis raised the hair along her arms and at the back of her neck like standing in an electrical storm. Espen stuttered, first towards the noise and then jerking back to look at her wife, only to find Fyrna absent: beside her was instead a shimmering, tangible shadow bearing an impression of Fyrna’s likeness.

A dunamantic echo. Espen’s hand flew instinctively to her unbelted hip in search of a sword that wasn’t there. Fyrna would not generate an echo without the presence of a real threat. Espen whirled back towards the commotion at the center of the room, seeking the source of the trouble.

The spectacle she found was not one of the sort of danger that had her heart racing in anticipation, but perilous nonetheless. At the center of the tableau stood Fyrna, grip tight on the wrist of a noblewoman whose palm was raised in a striking gesture. Usola Omrifar, Espen’s thinking brain recalled helpfully—politically powerful and friendly with the Moonsage. Behind Fyrna, an adolescent half-Kryn server was cradled in the arms of a second dunamantic echo, apparently having prevented him from falling into the mess of wine and shattered glass on the floor from a dropped tray. Belatedly, Espen noticed the dark, wet splash across Lady Omrifar’s kimono: a collision between the noblewoman and the server.

The room was still for a few heartbeats, the crowd collectively frozen with tension. In the hush, Espen couldn’t help the awe that surged in her chest and buzzed along her skin.

Taskhand Fyrna Beltune, heir to Den Beltune and Espen’s beloved wife, was so fucking beautiful. The demonstration of power via fine-tuned control of not one but two echoes was radiant and all-consuming. The shadow beside Espen was so dense with dunamis that her vision warped at the edges, creating a duplicating effect that made her feel as though she could see into the alternate timeline it came from if she could just focus hard enough. A pressure began to build in her sinuses, uncomfortable magical resonance flaring outwards along her Luxonmark.

Taskhand Fyrna Beltune was a legion of one, and resplendent.

Time seemed to jerk back into motion when Fyrna tipped her chin at Usola and said lowly, “Cool off. You dishonor your station, Lady.”

However quietly she spoke, the calm command carried easily to the outskirts of the room. The guests in immediate proximity to the scene stepped back, and if the mood weren’t so tense Espen might have laughed at the pair of Den guards at the entrance of the hall as they straightened unconsciously.

Lady Omrifar snarled and tried to wrench her hand away. Fyrna’s grip held fast, letting the older woman struggle futilely for a beat longer than necessary before letting go. Usola spat, “That clumsy, half breed brat spilled the whole tray on me! It’s ruined the silk!”

“The drink is easily removed by simple prestidigitation.” Drily, she added, “If you’d like proof of this, we can find another tray of drinks and dump it down my uniform as well. I am confident someone here will help us out.”

Lady Omrifar’s cheeks, which Espen noted were already flushed with drink and rage, grew darker. Her voice pitched upwards, and she said, “All that glass is dangerous! He could have hurt me!”

Fyrna’s even expression broke, mouth twisting in contempt. “But you were not hurt, and in fact, it was you who ran into him. If there is any redress to be made, it is to the kid.”

Did she run into the server? Espen hadn’t known anything was happening until the crash, but wasn’t surprised that Fyrna had had eyes on what happened. Her reaction speed made that clear enough. As Lady Omrifar sputtered, Fyrna glanced over her shoulder at the boy, now steady on his feet but looking as if he might throw up. “What’s your name?”

The boy jumped, hands fisting at the edge of his uniform, gaze darting between Fyrna and her echo beside him. “Um, it’s R-Rhiah, Taskhand. Rhiah Thalphen.”

Fyrna said coolly, “Lady Omrifar, you should apologize or take your leave. If you do neither, I pledge myself to Rhiah Thalphen to act as his sword, voice, or hand, should he demand an honor challenge.”

Behind her, Rhiah stammered a protest, but neither woman paid him any mind.

“This is not your home, Beltune. You are not an authority here,” Lady Omrifar hissed.

“I agree with Taskhand Beltune.”

Espen turned, surprised to see Verin Thelyss step forward. He glanced at his mother, and Espen could not parse the expression on her face, but Verin clearly could. He continued, “Den Thelyss does not endure abuse of our hands.”

“But she—”

“Come with me, Lady Usola.”

The murmurings around the room hushed completely in the wake of the Moonsage’s gentle, gravel-voiced command. Omrifar’s face paled to a sickly grey. She bowed stiffly, and the crowd parted to allow her to trail after Deirta Thelyss’ graceful, unhurried stride from the hall. She gave Fyrna a poisonous look over her shoulder before vanishing through the doorway.

Chatter resumed like a thunderclap once the two noblewomen were out of sight, but the crowd maintained a wide berth from Fyrna and the server. Verin strode to them, nodded at Fyrna and then offered a bow to Rhiah. The boy scrambled to bow back, stammering ungracefully through whatever formal apologies Verin was making to him, and fled as soon as he was given a dismissal.

As Fyrna and her protégé leaned in to speak together in hushed tones, Espen let out the breath she was holding. That could have gone much worse, if Verin and his mother had not backed Fyrna in the escalation of the conflict.

[Oh, the Moonsage is not happy about any of this.] Espen jumped at the voice ringing with laughter in her head. It took her a few scans, but eventually she found him—Jinoire Olios, beloved friend and traitor, wiggled bejeweled fingers at her in greeting from sixty paces across from her in an alcove at the edge of the hall.

[You read the Moonsage’s thoughts? Are you daft?] Espen thought back furiously as she pushed her way through the crowd to his hiding spot.

[Of course not, she has some sort of nondetection up. I got that from baby Thelyss.]

[Do not call him that, he’s your coworker.]

“I will call him whatever I please until he outranks me,” Jin said cheerfully when Espen reached speaking distance. ��Which will be never, because the day he surpasses me is the day I retire.”

“You are not going to reach retirement, Olios, because I am going to kill you for telling me you were not coming and that I would have to attend this awful party alone, then showing up anyway.”

Jin scoffed, tugging her into a brief embrace and kissing her cheek. Up close, she could see the soft shimmer of cosmetic glitter on his skin and smell his peony perfume. “You weren’t alone, Beltune is here! And the party is quite nice. Have you tried the octopus? Apparently they had it magicked to keep it fresh all the way from the Emerald.”

“Like Hells, I ‘wasn’t alone.’ I have not spoken to a single person since I got here because Fyrna was occupied doing the Den Heir thing.” Espen pulled away more quickly than usual and straightened her haori. She knew the focus wasn’t on the two of them, uninteresting in comparison to the Heirs still at the center of the room, but it was instinctual: too many unkind things could be said—had been said—about her overt displays of physical affection. “Where’s Trestilya?”

“Khith has a stronger backbone than you or me,” Jin informed her. “They didn’t cave to Beltune. They’re spending tonight in the Coronas with Bas.”

“Bastard.”

“We should join them after this! I can’t imagine staying much longer, not after that display.”

The warmth Espen felt at discovering Jin at the party faded slightly as she glanced back towards Fyrna and Verin. “What did you overhear?”

“A bit of this and that. Enough to paint a picture.” He hummed and performatively inspected his fingernails, lacquered in sapphire blue. Disconcertingly, his voice once again echoed in her head, but there was no movement of his lips, or somatic gesture made with his hands, or even a telltale pulse of arcane energy. Espen would never get used to his ability to manipulate the Weave with nothing but force of will. [Thelyss thinks his mother would have preferred that to have been handled more subtly, but I imagine that would have been difficult, considering how intent Omrifar was on making a scene.]

“Elaborate, please.”

“Well,” Jin murmured, still picking at his manicure, “She was drunk, obviously. But just this month her sister was named successor to their mother as Den matriarch instead of her like she’d expected. Needed to take all that frustration out on someone inconsequential, I suppose.”

Espen’s mouth twisted with disgust. She said, “What else?”

[The Moonsage doesn’t like drama in her own home. She cares about subtlety. Probably would have preferred to have coaxed Omrifar outside first and made apologies to the kid later.] Jin raised a hand to cover his satisfied smirk with his fingers. “But Beltune decided to make sure Omrifar was properly, publicly shamed for it. Light, that was so sexy of her.” He peered out from the alcove to scan the room. “Where did she run off to? I need to propose marriage.”

Even as she worried for the social consequences, Espen couldn’t agree more. That Fyrna would fight this battle in someone else’s home—an Umavi’s, no less—without knowing whether or not she would be supported by the hosting Den made her so damn proud. And Verin! Espen was sure that his support had tipped the scales in her favor, forcing his mother to either show a united front with her beloved son or openly suggest friction within her Den. She might still reprimand Fyrna for it later, but for now, at least, they were on the same side.

“Taskhand, my precious demagogue!” Jin laughed as Fyrna found them at the edge of the crowd, bowing dramatically low over clasped hands when she approached. “Please reconsider the offer for my hand in marriage. I have so many relatives I would love for you to correct the way you corrected that hag.”

Fyrna grinned in reply. “You know, Olios, I don’t have to be married to you to be introduced to them.”

“But the sting would be so much sharper if it came from my wife,” Jin sighed wistfully.

She chuckled, and then her amusement turned softer as she looked at Espen. “Hello, starshine.”

Espen smiled. Light, she loved her. “Hello.”

“Khith is with Bas in the Coronas. Want to finish the night out at a party that’s actually fun?” Jin asked Fyrna.

“Will there be orc-stuff?”

He snorted. “Don’t ask stupid questions. Bas’s sister is hosting, obviously there will be orc-stuff.”

“Fuck yes.” Fyrna glanced over her shoulder. “I should probably wait to leave until Den Mother Thelyss returns, at least. Make my proper goodbyes and all that. Meet you both at Neref’s in an hour or two?”

“You got it, boss.”

Espen reached out to squeeze Fyrna’s hand before following Jin towards the foyer. “Good work.”

“Hush. Love you, too.”

#it is so important to me that everyone knows that jin and fyrna’s relationship is best described as dyke4fag attraction #also love getting to expand the context of fyrna and verin’s mentor/mentee dynamic #blue speaks #weird eyes and pronouns #espen danlys #the bazzoxan cohort #wait just checked this is over 2k??? 😭

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stcrmyeyes · 5 months ago

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star sign: virgo mythological creature: yeti folktale: bahloo the moon and the daens fairytale character (classical or modern): tiana (princess and the frog)

"Tiana is an intelligent, resourceful, and highly talented young woman. However, at the start of the film, and mostly throughout, she can be overly uptight and far too absorbed in work ethics to focus on relaxing, family, and friends. Though she notices this and appears to have some regret over her busy schedule, her obsession with bringing her dream of opening her own restaurant into fruition overshadows it all." (x)

3 fictional tropes: go-getter girl, intrepid reporter, workaholic

Go-Getter Girl - "The Go-Getter Girl is a young woman who devotes herself to achievements other than homemaking above everything else. In any case, she's well aware of the effort that her path requires, but she's more than up to the challenge. She finds it easy, or at least manageable, to discipline herself to avoid distractions, and while others might complain about the expectations of superiors, she will do whatever she can to meet and exceed them." (x) Intrepid Reporter - "An Intrepid Reporter is an investigative journalist who goes out and finds stories, rather than letting them come to them." (x) Workaholic - "The workaholic is almost always found performing tasks related to their job, even in their time off. A hardcore workaholic will often pass up recreational activities in order to continue with their business and check work emails. They will often go on to say that they like their job and simply find it more enjoyable than alternatives." (x)

romantic or platonic trope: uptight loves wild

Uptight Loves Wild - "Ms. Stuffy is in a rut: Life is boring because she plays by the rules. Along comes this wild and crazy person to show her how to live life to its fullest, and they just might learn a few things along the way, too." (x) (wanted)

creepypasta story: I'm a Criminal Profiler, but not even I can Explain the Gruesome Events taking place at Fever Cabin (x) greek god or goddess: themis, goddess of justice, divine order, law & custom time of day where they draw the most energy: 2 pm their achilles heel: being her father's daughter medieval weapon of choice: cannon survival, starvation, or death by the undead in the apocalypse: death by the undead which of the seven sins represent them? horseman of the apocalypse?: pride, conquest what their superpower would be: elasticity could they pull excalibur from the stone?: no one aesthetic for each of the five senses (taste, hearing, sight, smell, touch):

stale coffee that was forgotten about, the clicking of quick typing on a keyboard, the sun blinding your eyes when walking outside for the first time in awhile, the aromatics of a pricy glass of red wine, the crispness of freshly printed newspapers

a bad habit that won’t go away: avoiding any emotional topic a recurring nightmare: turning out to be the same person as her father an object they consider their lucky charm: whatever planner she is using for that year

#anchortask07 #【 ––– ❛ task. 】#i'm shocked i actually got this done for my whole roster

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agnerd-bot · 2 years ago

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Fate Fanservant: Sū Dá Jǐ, Toppler of Empires(Berserker)

Picrew Source: https://picrew.me/image_maker/29841

Ascension Stages:

First Stage: A pure white cheongsam adorned with golden flowers, and a pair of glasses on the bridge of her nose. She holds a smoking pipe carved from human bone, and bloodstains can be seen on her face. Her nine tails are posed menacingly behind her.

Second Stage: A lab coat is thrown over her dress, the pipe replaced by a scalpel. Her tails gain a mechanical edge, with metal stingers on their tips. A pair of blades extend out from her left wrist, made of human bone.

Final Stage: A pair of skeletal, spider-like limbs jut out from her back, and sacred bindings wrap around her arms like a straightjacket. Like Xiang Yu, a sickly green energy emanates from her eyes and mouth. Her ribcage is left open, exposing the same green energy.

Traits:

Class: Berserker Alternate Class: Assassin, Caster True Name: Sū Dá Jǐ Source: Chinese History/Fēngshén Yǎnyì Region: China Alignment: Chaotic Evil Attribute: Sky Known as: Dájǐ, Lady Kayō, Bāo Sì, Tamamo-no-Mae, The Nine Tailed Fox, The Wicked Fox Spirit, The Toppler of Empires

Voice Actress: Saito Chiwa

Deck: QAABB

Parameters: Strength: B Endurance: A Agility: B Mana: EX Luck: E NP: C+

Passive Skills:

Madness Enhancement EX: While fully capable of holding a conversation with her Master, it is next to impossible to come to a mutual understanding with Dájǐ, as she simply has a fundamental inability to comprehend human morals. Her ideas of love and beauty are simply incompatible with human convention, and no matter how hard one tries to teach her right from wrong, she simply will not comprehend it.

(FGO Effect:) -Increases own Buster performance by 12%.

Independent Action A+: As she is accustomed to being run out of town due to her wickedness, Dájǐ is easily capable of roaming around alone, doing whatever she pleases as she sustains herself on her own mana or the blood of innocents. No Master can hold her down easily, rather, she is the one who directs the Master.

Wait, isn't this a terrible skill to give to a Berserker?!

(FGO Effect:) -Increases own Critical Damage by 11%

Item Construction(Torture) B+: The most infamous aspect of Sū Dá Jǐ's history, the Nine-Tailed Fox's obsession with torture is the stuff of legend. A pit of snakes where seventy two maidens were thrown in to be feasted upon. The Bronze Toaster where victims were forced to dance atop its surface before being burned alive. The Forest of Meat and the Lake of Wine, where couples were fed until they could eat no more, and after they became food for Dájǐ herself. All the while, the Nine-Tailed Fox laughed and laughed at the suffering of mankind.

(FGO Effect:) -Increases own debuff success rate by 9% -Increases own damage by 185

Active Skills:

Femme Fatale (True) A: The manifestation of a beauty that can only be described as inhuman. With but an innocent request, she toppled empires. With but a coy smile, she felled kingdoms. Rulers of all stripes were brought down to nothing by her charms, and she left them all in ruin without even an afterthought. Be they man or woman, all people will eventually fall to the vixen's charms in the end, and all of them will be left broken by the all-encompassing love she holds.

(FGO Effect:) -Chance to Charm all enemies for 1 turn. -Reduces defense for all enemies for 3 turns. -Gains critical stars.

The Everlasting Nine Tails EX: According to a story told by Katsushika Hokusai, The Nine-Tailed Fox took the name of not one, but four separate beauties capable of tearing apart nations. Sū Dá Jǐ, the downfall of the Shang Dynasty. Lady Kayō, who drove King Banzoku to kill a thousand men. Bāo Sì, the melancholy beauty who left King You alone in the face of an army, and finally Tamamo-no-Mae, the elegant fox who was finally put to death in Japan. Even that wasn't enough to stop the fox demon from killing. Her soul possessed a stone that became known as Sessho-seki, where her spirit proceeded to kill even more until Genno finally placated her.

The Nine-Tailed Fox's sheer will is nothing if not incomparable, as next to nothing can stop her from acting on her desires to kill. It doesn't matter who or what stands in her way. Blood will be spilled.

(FGO Effect:) -Apply Guts status(2 times, 3 turns). --After first Guts is triggered, reduces own damage taken for 3 attacks, 5 turns. --After second Guts is triggered, apply Invincible status for 1 turn -Apply Curse for 5 turns to all enemies. -Apply Disastrous Curse status for 5 turns to all enemies.

Artisan of Torture A: Among all the beings to walk the earth, the woman known as Sū Dá Jǐ is inarguably one of the most cruel. Many a horrific act was committed by her hands, from cutting open a pregnant woman's stomach to understand how it worked, to cutting off a farmer's feet to see how he could walk barefoot on ice. Her curiosity and her sadism went hand in hand, and it continues in her manifestation as a Servant. One shudders to imagine what inhuman thoughts lie behind those wicked eyes… What dreams of chronic and sustained cruelty…

(FGO Effect:) -Increases party's Buster performance for 3 turns. -Charges party's NP gauge. -Increases party's damage against enemies with Man Attributes for 3 turns.

Noble Phantasms

Investiture of the Gods - The Eternal Spirit of the Fox Rank: A Maximum Targets: 1 Range: 1m Classification: Anti-Unit

In legend, it is said that the consort Sū Dá Jǐ was not born a fox spirit, but rather, was possessed by the nine tailed fox sent by Nüwa. Likewise, Dájǐ's Spirit Origin is not confined to the human body she inhabits. Rather, her Spirit Origin is puppeteering the dead body of the original consort to interact with humanity. If her body is at risk of falling apart or being destroyed, Dájǐ can extract her spirit from her body, implanting it within another person's body, allowing her to take over.

This technique is all but useless against Servants, but if she takes over a human, she is able to elevate their abilities to match those of a Servant. The only way to tell if Dájǐ has taken over a body is to use powerful enough magecraft to reveal her fox ears and tail.

Jiǔchí Ròulín - Carnival of Carnage Rank: C+ Maximum Targets: 100 Range: 130m Classification: Anti-Army

The famed 'Forest of Meats and Lake of Wine' attributed to Dájǐ manifests in her Servant incarnation as a powerful Reality Marble. Those drawn within the confines of the forest slowly are chipped away in mind and spirit, giving away to the carnal desires that most restrain themselves with day to day. Gluttony, lust, sloth, all are laid bare in a humiliating display of sin.

However, the true horror of the seemingly heavenly forest is revealed once the victims have eaten and drank their fill. Once a pair of victims has become satisfactory fed, Da Ji proceeds to eat them alive, granting her a boost in magical energy. The Forest of Meats is nothing more than a hunting ground, and all trapped within are nothing but prey for the Nine-Tailed Fox.

(FGO Effect:) -Increases damage against enemies with debuffs(Activates first, Effect increases with Overcharge) -Deal heavy damage to all enemies -Chance to Charm all enemies -Greatly recover health for self(Effect increases with Overcharge) -Charges own NP gauge(Effect increases with Overcharge)

Voice Lines:

Summoned: Hello~! My name is Sū Dá Jǐ, of the Berserker Class. And you… Ahahahahaha! Well, well, well, a human is to be my master? What fun! I just know this will be quite the wonderful experience! I will serve you faithfully and earnestly, and I hope you will treat me the same. Our lives are in each other's hands, after all.

Level Up: Every modification I make to my body has a purpose. I'm glad you recognize that, Master.

First Ascension: Ever evolving, ever advancing. That's how you humans live, isn't it? I desire to be the same… When I made a contract with Nüwa, my initial goal was for immortality. Now? Now I understand the true ascension… I want to be human.

Second Ascension: These offerings… You remind me of my first lover, King Zhou of Shang. Ah, what fun we had. A pity he was put to death by his own citizens… Oh well, it was fun while it lasted! I wonder, will you treat me with the same love and kindness that he showed me? …ahahahaha! Who am I kidding, you've already more than proven that!

Third Ascension: Master~ What do you think of my new form? I made it myself, bit by bit. Ahhhhh~ I feel so beautiful! I don't know why I ever wanted to be an immortal, this alone feels heavenly~!

Final Ascension: Hey, Master… What's wrong? Why are you looking at me like that? This is what we wanted, wasn't it? To advance further? To have a Servant that can destroy all your enemies? The appearance I take is merely a reflection of your humanity's desire. That's all I am. That's all I ever will be.

Fight Start 1: Hey, hey~! I wanna see what you look like inside, so just hold still, pretty please~?

Fight Start 2: Ahahahahaha! Come on, come on, let's dance our cares away!

Skill 1: Don't be afraid to scream, I don't mind~!

Skill 2: The fun's just getting started! I want to keep the game alive!

Skill 3: Come on, come on, let's keep going!

Skill 4: I wonder what this will do to you…

Command Card Select 1: I wanna cut them open!

Command Card Select 2: Just how do you work, I wonder

Command Card Select 3: Which do you prefer - to be crushed, or to be torn apart?

Noble Phantasm Select 1: Twirl and laugh around! The fun has just begun!

Noble Phantasm Select 2: Come on, don't be shy! Everyone's welcome to enter the forest!

Attack 1: Let me see what’s inside!

Attack 2: What fun, WHAT FUN!

Attack 3: Let me cut you to pieces, pretty please?

Attack 4: I just love the feeling of someone's life running through my hands!

Attack 5: More, more! I want more! AHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!

Extra Attack 1: Dance, dance as you burn to ashes! Ahahahaha!

Extra Attack 2: Ahahahahaha! You look so strange, dancing like that! Ah, you fell-

Noble Phantasm 1: Eat, drink, and be merry!

Sing and play to your heart's content!

Dance until your flesh falls apart, leave nothing behind but your bones!

Let the Carnival of Carnage consume you in totality!

AHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!

Noble Phantasm 2: I love you, with all my heart, with all my body, with all my soul…

Your screaming, your wailing, your shrieking, all of it fills my heart with song!

Come, let the feast begin! Let us tear each other apart in an elegant frenzy!

Jiǔchí Ròulín!

Ahhhh~! Humanity is beautiful~!

Noble Phantasm 3: Come into the garden, we can play a game!

We'll tear off our clothes, there's no need for shame!

We'll sing and we'll play in the Forest of Meats!

And when we're all tired, I'll partake of the feast!

Thank you for the meal…

Damage from Noble Phantasm: AHAHAHAHAHA! Yes, that's the spirit!

Regular Damage: Hey, hey~ That stings!

Defeated 1: I-I-I can keep going! I wanna-

Defeated 2: Not… yet… I don't… I don't want this to end yet…

Victory 1: Awww… What a shame. I was hoping we could have some more fun… Still, it was nice while it lasted!

Victory 2: I see, I see~ So that's what you're like on the inside! Ahahahahaha! Just as I expected, humanity is beautiful!

Bond Level 1: How interesting… I must say, you're so very different from the kings I sat alongside. Your spirit is incredibly strong, almost like… Ah, don't mind me. Just reminiscing on someone I met long ago. Now… The control phase has long since passed! Let’s start the real experiment now!

Bond Level 2: I want to learn more… I want to understand this thing you call humanity… Even monsters and animals can supposedly become human if they pursue it. And likewise, humans can lose their humanity over time if they neglect it. I wonder… What is the defining factor? If I can narrow that down, then perhaps I can find how to become a human myself. Bond Level 3: Master… Hmm, what a funny thing that is. Like Zhòu Wáng, you have hundreds at your beck and call waiting to kiss your feet, and yet… You favor me so. I wonder why. What about me makes you want to bond with me? Hm? Because I exist? Well now, you're just going to make me blush!

Bond Level 4: Hm? Why do I kill if I want to become human? Well, now that's a silly question. I kill because I love. I wish to know everything, inside and out about you. I want to understand each and every facet that is the beast known as humanity. So I do what anyone does when they try to understand. I dissect. I cut people apart and I put them back together. With each death, I understand more about mankind, and with each death, I grow closer to attaining that dream of mine. What else can you call something like that than love?

Bond Level 5: Master… I love you. You are an embodiment of the human condition in its sum. Its sins and its glory. Its love and its hate. Its good and its evil. Every single aspect of the incomprehensible wrapped up into a single body for me to observe and understand. Ahhhhh, what a beautiful creature you are, Master. You are everything that I fell in love with during my time among man. Come, show your consort your everlasting beauty and show the world why humanity deserves to live long into the future.

Dialogue 1: I enjoy tinkering of all sorts. Machinery, plant and animal upkeep, and human anatomy are all some hobbies of mine. I've always enjoyed trying to figure out how certain parts worked, especially how you never seem to expect what pops up.

Dialogue 2 (If you are in Part 2): I've noticed that well-fed blonde man has been giving me odd glances from time to time. What a strange little creature he is, no? The way he shrieks whenever I so much as spare him a glance is nothing if not hilarious!

Dialogue 3 (If you are in Part 2): The Lostbelts… Worlds damned to oblivion thanks to the foolishness of mankind grinding everything to a halt. So much suffering… It's beautiful. Master, let's kill them all!

Dialogue 4 (If you have Tamamo-no-Mae): Tamamo-no-Mae… Hmm~ To think that a fox bearing my name would wander these halls with me. …ahahaha! I wonder if she'd like to sit down and have a chat! After all, I just need to know what stories she has to tell!

I wonder if she knows what it's like… trying to comprehend the incomprehensible.

Dialogue 5 (If you have Jiang Ziya): So, the great sage Jiang Ziya is here… I must say, I was afraid that you would be avoiding me, young scholar. I'm glad to see that isn't the case. Our meeting was oh so very brief, but… Oho? What's this? The mighty Tai Gong Wang, tearing up? Ahahaha! Will wonders never cease!

(…)

Perhaps things could have been different. Another time, another life. But that doesn't matter anymore, does it? You banished the demon fox, I went on to explore more of the world, our stories began and ended in the Shang Dynasty.

Hmmm… strange, something feels different now. Like a weight in my chest. I wonder if my body is breaking down again…

Dialogue 6 (If you have Tamamo Cat): Hmmm? Another fox bearing my visage? How strange. Here little doggy-kitty-fox, I won't bi-EYOWCH! Masterrrrrr! She bit me!

Dialogue 7 (If you have Koyanskaya of Light/Koyanskaya of Dark): In another life, in another time… A creature such as this took my face and my name… To think, there could be a creature that despises mankind to this degree. What a strange little animal indeed. Still, little bunny rabbit, I hope we can get along! Perhaps you can show me some of those little tools you have stowed away…

Dialogue 8 (If you have Summer Tamamo-no-Mae): Uuuu… Look at her strutting around without a care in the world, under that umbrella's shade. I wish I had a fancy little swimsuit like her… Eh? No? Why not? Master, why have you gone so pale?

Dialogue 9 (If you have any 'Chef' Servants): Tch. I still don't understand why I was immediately banned from the kitchen before I got to step inside. What's all this about my Noble Phantasm being 'a health code nightmare' and my cooking being 'flat-out horrific'. It tastes just fine to me!

I must admit though, there's nothing that tastes the same as a good home-cooked meal… Maybe I can find a way to sneak into the kitchen later.

Dialogue 10 (If you have Qin Shi Huang): The Emperor of the Lost Qin Dynasty… I heard they had some experiments done on the one who took my face. I wonder if they'd be willing to collaborate. I have some ideas I'd love to see in action, and if they're just as interested as I am in how the human body works, I'd love to be their consort for some time!

Dialogue 11 (If you have Carmilla): Hmmm… How strange. I feel some sort of connection with this vampire. And yet, despite all my travels, I never once stepped foot into Hungary. Perhaps she'd enjoy a meat bun.

Dialogue 12 (If you have Katsushika Hokusai): Hokusai, Hokusai… Ahhhhhh! That's the one who told my story, wasn't it? While I never read their accounts for myself, I must admit, I would love to see how one of the supposed greatest artists of human history works.

Dialogue 13 (If you have Xiang Yu, Katō Danzō, or Nezha): Ahhhh… So it seems that my hopes to make myself into a human does have some basis within humanity itself. I'm glad! I wonder what would happen if I tried to take them apart and see their inner workings… Ahahahaha! Maybe someday!

Dialogue 14 (If you have Dobrynya Nikitich): So… This is the person the 'other me' turned to as a parent? How cute… I feel strange around her though. Like a great weight has been lifted from my shoulders. This requires further analysis… Is what I would say if the 'other me' didn't expressly forbid me from talking to her for some odd reason.

Dialogue 15 (If you have Yù Tù): The Lunar Rabbit… Legend says she was once a mortal, before ascending to godhood and joining the Jade Court. …how strange, the look on her face.

Likes: What do I like? Ehehehe! Isn't it obvious? I love seeing humans and how they behave. I love trying to understand what humanity is, how humanity works, all of the utter mystery that is the human condition is something that I'm somewhat of a fanatic for!

Dislikes: What do I hate… Hmmmm… Well, I must admit, I don't like bowmen that much. While I do admit to knowing my way around a bow and arrow, I confess that the way that my body was eventually killed does make me wary…

About the Holy Grail: The Holy Grail… I heard it has the power to make the heart's desire manifest… I wonder, can it give me the humanity I dream of?

During an Event: Oooooooh, it appears there's a celebration of some sorts going on! Come on, Master, let's go! I have just the thing needed to make this interesting!

Birthday: Happy Birthday, Master! I heard that giving gifts is customary for this time, so here, I made you some of my famous dumplings! They're delicious, so please, take one! What's wrong? You look ill.

Profile:

Default: One of the most infamous monsters in all of China, Sū Dá Jǐ was famous for bringing down the Shang Dynasty with her wickedness and intellect. A monster among monsters, the one known as Dájǐ was the beloved consort of Zhòu Wáng and the feared monster that terrorized China. An inhuman creature incapable of feeling mercy, she ran rampant all across Asia under many names.

Bond Level 1: Height/Weight: 160cm • 49kg Source: Chinese History/Fēngshén Yǎnyì Region: China Alignment: Chaotic • Insane Gender: Female

"A fox borrows the tiger's might."

The Nine-Tailed Fox is an entity who does not exist in her own form. Rather, she steals the bodies of those around her, assimilating their minds into hers and using their skin to walk among them. Sū Dá Jǐ, Lady Kayō, Bāo Sì, Tamamo-no-Mae, at one point each of these women had the chance to live normal, ordinary lives. Of course, that all changed when the spirit of the fox happened upon them one day and stole their lives.

Bond Level 2: The Nine-Tailed Fox, despite her gruesome hobbies and mature appearance, is oddly childish in nature. She is as curious and as inquisitive as a child, always asking questions about how this or that works. If one doesn't answer her though, or if their answer doesn't satisfy her, she will always try and find the answer through the only way she knows how: dissection. Cut something open, and you'll figure out what's inside. That's just logic.

She does not care if what she cuts open is a stranger or her own Master. To her, everything is the same. Everything is something to learn from, and everything is something to be cut open. All one can do to avoid death at her hands is to placate her for as long as possible, even if it means sending another to their death in their stead.

Bond Level 3: A world of horrors she has amassed. The road of skulls, she makes her path. To a chorus of carnage, the dread fox laughs, And she drinks to the sound of your weeping.

That monster was once entombed in rock, But now thanks to you, she has been unlocked. Do you think that she'll ever be stopped? That company that you're keeping.

She fills your soul with endless dread, She feasts on your flesh as if it was bread, There's no point in struggling, you're already dead When the Fox has begun its reaping.

Bond Level 4: Across three nations, a single entity is shared as one of the most terrible monsters ever known. People speak in whispers of her cruelty and love for torture, a monster wearing human skin who relishes in the pain of others. Others speak of how she brought three different kings to disaster, driving nations to ruin as she stalked away without consequence. Others still speak of the dark magics she knew, a demon unparalleled that will destroy everything in her wake.

Looking at the spirit in person, then, is almost absurd at times. The earnest smile she gives to those around her, the genuine adoration as she observes people simply walking about and talking about their day. The endless curiosity as she asks people question after question. Seeing the contrast between Dájǐ the torturer who laughs at others’ suffering and Dájǐ the spirit who wishes to understand mankind, one almost can find themselves laughing. at the sheer impossibility of the existence before them. But the two exist, and they are at consensus thanks to one all-encompassing factor.

Love. Overwhelming, all-consuming, unconditional love.

Bond Level 5: What must it be like, being a creature who desires humanity without understanding it? What must it be like to look at a loving family, desiring what lay before their eyes while being completely incapable of comprehending what makes that sight before them so beautiful? What must it be like to be a creature who does not understand human concepts such as spite, or empathy, or even pain, and yet still seeks to make those concepts a part of her? What must it like to see humans through the eyes of a creature so completely alien?

Even killers understand the concept of laughter, even gods understand the meaning of pride, even phantoms can comprehend the idea of hatred. But not her. Never her.

So she tinkers. She tears herself apart, looking in at her own heart, only to find a deep, endless chasm. And she does not understand. So she does it again. And again. And again. All to be what she can never be, all to understand what she can never understand.

What a cruel trick of the gods, to force a mirror onto a creature with no face.

Extra (Clear Interlude “Ever Evolving”): The essence of humanity is its ability to evolve. As the times changes, so do people, whether it be their appearance, their beliefs, their education, their standing in life. Such is humanity. Likewise, such is nature. Animals and plants also evolve as time goes on, learning and adapting in order to survive the harsh environments they live in. It's simply the survival of the fittest in action.

But something must be different between the way humans evolve and the way animals evolve. There must be a difference in how humans act, how humans think, how humans are that led them to become the way they are. But what? Is it their biology? No, there's very little difference between a man and a mere pig if that would be the case. Is it their ability to use tools? No, a bird or a monkey could do the same thing.

I have to know… I have to know what humanity is! If I do… then maybe I can…

#damn my brain for not backing everything up in the first place #fate #fate grand order #fgo #fate fanservant #fgo oc #fanservant #su da ji #daji #picrew

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