#a worthy display of patience | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

mrskokushibo · 2 months

Text

Warnings: NSFW, MDNI, Smut, Rough Sex, BDSM, strictly 18+.

Plot: This is essentially smut only. Rough BDSM sex with a jealousy-triggered hard dom Kokushibo.

A/N: Despite the violent nature of the intercourse portrayed in this piece, the sex is entirely consensual and, if anything, expected by Kokushibo’s lover.

Masterlist

He was a jealous man, you had never any doubt about it. But his intelligence and sense of humour prevented him from primitive displays in public. Sure, he could give you the occasional glare and even shake his finger playfully, but that was as far as that went.

In the bedroom, he asserted his dominance now and then, venting when frustrated or stressed. His physical prowess was enough to make you feel small and submissive, and more often than not, you were melting just from his huge frame rutting into you at a relentless pace.

But recently, something changed inside you, wanting more of the power play to happen and you began craving firmer and firmer treatment. You obtained ropes, riding crops, whips, gags, and even a collar and a leash. All in the hope for him to release the demon you so well sensed rested dormant in the depths of his innermost being.

On a few occasions, he agreed to play along, tying you up and then half-heartedly smacking you lightly with a paddle or whip, before quickly proceeding to the usual dicking you down and fucking as usual. You were losing your patience. He was so delicious and sexy, his body was a work of art, the way his huge biceps swelled when he supported himself on each side of you as he fucked into you. You were always ready to worship him, and being a hopeless sub, the ultimate fantasy was a night of him stretching his wings and dominating you.

There was one last thing to do. Making him so jealous that his façade would eventually crack and he would show you the full extent of his abilities. And that is exactly what you did. The opportunity for that couldn’t come soon enough with a party you were both invited to. You made sure to wear a revealing outfit, and let your flirty side loose as soon as you hit the crowd.

Kokushibo was occupied in a serious conversation at the opposite end of the room, sending an occasional look your way. It did not take long for an attractive male demon to chat you up and you commenced heavy flirting with the drool-worthy blonde. Initially, Kokushibo did not pay much attention to your behaviour, but when you let the other man touch your back and ass, and you leaned into him a little too close for decency, his look grew fierce. Something darker than the usual jealousy was there, and without so much as approaching you, he gave you a long stare and left the party alone. You managed to piss him off. For a moment, you got worried. Could you have gone too far? You excused yourself from the young male you so eagerly interacted with just a moment ago, and walked out of the noisy hall. But Kokushibo was nowhere to be seen.

You ordered his servants to teleport you to his chambers, but as you entered you were met but nothing else but silence. He was gone. You sat down on the futon and sighed. Was this it? Did your display get to him so badly that he decided to leave you? But as your thoughts were going around in circles, a servant came in with a small note.

‘From the Master to you, Madam.’

He left just as quickly as he appeared and you held the neatly folded note for a while before finally daring to read it. Your stomach clenched up and you felt a lump in your throat grow as you began anxiously to unfold the paper.

“You have gone too far. I need time away from you. See you in a week. We will reconvene then.”

No pleasantries, not even a signature. You put the note aside, laid down as you were, and fell asleep from emotional exhaustion.

The week dragged on unbearably, making your anxiety increase exponentially as time passed. Then, one evening, after you came out of your evening bath, wearing only a thin yukata and your hair out, there he was. Sitting in his armchair in complete silence watching you with narrowed eyes as you emerged from the bathroom.

You stopped in your tracks when you spotted him, standing there as if petrified. Quietly, he got up from the armchair and walked up to you in his dignified, stoic manner.

Without a warning, he grabbed you between your legs, long fingers curled into the depths of your core, and pushed you ahead of him until your back slammed into the nearest wall. Upon which, he lifted you up with that same hand still buried in your cunt, having you impaled like this, he leaned close to you and hissed in your ear:

'I think you need to learn your place, my love, and tonight, I am in the mood to teach you exactly what this means.’

And oh, you relished in the idea of finally having him pass on that knowledge, which, by the way, you already possessed, but needed to revise by practical means. You struggled to not show him how overjoyed you were by him being this decisive. But a small smile could not be masked and his reaction was immediate.

‘Am I amusing you, hm?’ He let you down, your back resting against the wall and your sopping pussy imprinted with the memory of his rough treatment. When he leaned down to speak, he was towering over you, a menacing aura caging you in and trapping your pathetically small body.

‘Because I am anything else but amused with you and your behavior earlier.’ His deep voice, so quiet yet so commanding kept you hypnotised and in place.

A calloused finger run along your lower lip, parting it slowly but forcefully.

‘Open up.’

Obedience was the only way to go, so you opened your mouth and that same finger found its way deep into your mouth, followed by one more and then another. He pushed them as deep as anatomy permitted, and began pumping into your mouth, making you gag.

He then grabbed your chin and held you still, moving his fingers in and out of your drooling mouth. You looked into his eyes no longer able to suffocate a smile. His eyes narrowed and a dark glow appeared in his dilated golden pupils. Suddenly, the fingers disappeared from your mouth and a slap landed on your cheek, and then on the other one, and so repeated a few times. Just hard enough to make a point but definitely not hard enough to do any damage other than a slight passing redness.

‘Are you going to be a brat for me now?’ He was staring at you with those terrifyingly glowing narrowed eyes.

‘You are such a slut.’

He pressed himself onto you and you could feel his poking erection through your thin yukata. As if driven by magnetic force, your hand wandered to his groin, only to be grabbed at the wrist and pinned above your head.

‘You do not touch me unless I say so. Understood, bitch?’

‘Yes. Understood.’

‘Yes, what?’

‘Yes, Master.’

‘That’s better. You are learning fast, wench.’

He pinned you harder against the wall, causing you to lose your breath for a moment. Sharp fangs grazed your neck and then he growled in a terrifyingly low timbre.

‘Wait here and do not move an inch or you are going straight to sleep without your punishment.’

For a moment there was something playful in his expression, but he quickly turned away to hide his face from you. He walked over to the elegant ebony dresser and took out a few items. He kept the long riding crop and one other thing and then put some aside on the futon and then proceeded to walk back to where you stood. Something sparkled in his hand in the illumination from the faint warm light of the chandeliers. As he approached you, the sparkly item was a choker collar encrusted with diamonds with a golden chain attached to it. It was the same collar that you recall obtaining, but now it has obviously been customized. So…. Did he plan this? How and when?

But you were not granted the time to ponder, because, as soon as he was close again, with one lightning-fast movement, he ripped off your yukata and left you standing in front of his fully clothed self, exposed and naked.

‘Kneel. Now!’

Your gaze locked in with his, slowly you went down on your knees, his erection bulging through the folds of his hakama right in front of your starved mouth. His large hands put the expensive collar around your neck and once in place, he yanked the leash a little and smirked, and run the riding crop across your back and to your ass, spanking you lightly.

‘Love it. This is such a great look for my little pet. This is exactly where you belong. On your knees for your Master.’ Another spank, this time harder landed on the softness of your ass.

You smiled again, but it was a mistake. He yanked harder on the leash forcing you to land on all four and grabbed you harshly by the hair, lifting your head up to him.

‘Behave or next time it will hurt.’

You moaned as he moved his hand to your neck and took a chokehold, depriving you of just enough air to make you a little dizzy, while spanking you repeatedly with the crop. He then let go just as quickly and began walking toward his favorite armchair. You followed on all four, just like an obedient dog.

Once he reached the armchair, he turned around to face you, and lifted the leash a little, forcing you to stretch your head up to him and look him straight in the eyes. A faint smile graced his elegant face and with a calm and soft tone he murmured:

‘Undress me, but do not dare touch my skin. Or else…’ He continued the sentence with action instead, by slapping your cheek again and taking the riding crop to one of your breasts, spanking it from the side.

Despite being aroused beyond the bounds of sanity, your hands were shaking slightly as you reached to cautiously untie his obi and the belts of his hakama. He was after all a powerful demon and you were well aware of his limitless talent for cruelty. Because there was no way for you to know how much of his inner beast you woke up when you made him this jealous and worked up.

So, you continued the undressing until he was standing there in all of his nude magnificence, making you weak at the knees and wanting nothing else but to wrap your lips on the pink tip presented right in front of your nearly drooling mouth.

He put the riding crop aside on the armchair and his hand on your head, once again, with a gesture that made you feel more like a dog than a person and slowly twined your hair around his thick wrist, the action slow and deliberate, his beautiful face menacing with a smug look.

Slowly, he lifted your head up again, and put the other hand around your throat with a steadily tightening grip. He sat down in the armchair, guiding you toward him with a firm grip on your throat and hair.

‘Suck my dick, whore. But no touching yet. Use your filthy mouth. And your mouth only. I want to see if you can take me like that.’

With that, he let go of your throat and just after you managed to gasp for air, he shoved your head to his leaking tip.

‘Open your mouth, bitch.’

The combination of his brutal words and actions was making your core cry and throb with arousal. You did as he commanded and he began sliding himself into you while pushing your head down with the iron grip he had on your hair. A deep groan escaped his throat as he bottomed out, his tip touching the back of your throat and you gagging, drool running down your chin.

‘Just like that, my precious doll.’

He began to mouth fuck you. Slowly at first but as his arousal grew, he was beginning to lose control and the thrusts were getting deeper and more powerful. He was using you as if you were a toy, with complete and utter disregard for you being barely able to take his huge size.

Not being able to hold all the precum and spit in your mouth, nor hold back the tears welling from strain, you let it run out freely. Just like a ragdoll mistreated by a naughty boy, you were completely at his mercy. He increased his pace and as he did, you essentially blacked out, collapsing forward and hovering on the last involuntary survival reflexes of your needy body and held in place by him moving your head up and down while fucking into you. Somewhere from the depths of the half-conscious state you were immersed in, you felt an increasing fullness in your gaping, impossibly stretched-out mouth, and a moment later, thick ropes of his precious semen were spraying freely onto the inside of your cheeks, your tongue and deep into your throat.

When his abdomen stopped its violent contractions and he pumped in the last of his seed into you, he lifted you off him, your mouth connected to his cock with a mix of spit and cum.

‘Look at you and the mess you made.’

He was watching you with interest as you were slowly coming down to reality.

‘Clean it up.’ His voice was barely a whisper.

You licked his half-erect cock, lapped up the cum from your face with your tongue, but the mess was too big to clean up just with your mouth. He stretched out his arm and grabbed a towel to dry you up with, tossing it aside when he deemed the job was done.

The throbbing ache in your core was almost unbearable and your juices were running down your legs, making you feel like a bitch on heat. Degraded and horny as a fucking dog. That is what you were right now and you loved every nasty bit of it.

You looked up at him with those teared-up, puppy eyes, up to your dark god, who, in this very moment held all the power over your life and pleasure. His faultless instincts picked up on your silent plea as he spoke in a honey-glazed voice, making the lewd words sound like a hellish prayer telepathically passed on to him from your obsessed mind.

‘So, you want to cum? Yes?’

‘Yes, Kokushibo-sama.’

He held your face in his brutal hand, big enough to crush you and your heart.

‘And why do you think you deserve such an honour? You already got to savour my precious semen. That should be enough for a cheap whore like yourself.’

He kept your face in his hand, smiling the sweetest of smiles while his eyes retained the darkness from before.

‘Because I crave you, Master. I live for the pleasure you so generously grant me.’

His smile widened, baring the huge fangs in a menacing fashion. ‘You dare crave me? Hm?’

He moved his face closer to yours and, all of a sudden locked his lips with yours, prying his tongue into the depths of your throat, making you gag a little. As he released the rough kiss he smiled again.

‘Careful what you wish for because the pleasure might be too much for a little human like yourself.’

‘I do not care what happens to me, Master. As long, as you grant me it. I beg you.’

With shaking hands, you reached out to touch his chest. He looked down at your hand in silence, not moving a muscle. When he looked back at you, his voice bore the tone of suppressed malevolence

‘I told you not to touch me.’

With that he unhooked the chain lead from the diamond collar, tightening the collar a little around your throat, and yanked you up to standing.

‘Stay still.’

He went to the futon and the items put aside earlier. He picked up a bundle of silk rope and a gag. Once again, sinewy fingers were forcing their way into your mouth, spreading you open to place the gag. Your flesh wanted him to repeat the action in your dripping cunt, but there was no sight of that happening. He was determined to tease you to the edge of your sanity. It felt like being cast in the middle of a roaring sea with waves pushing you further away from shore the more you swam.

Once the gag was in place, he picked up the rope and began tying you up in classic Shibari mode. You closed your eyes and compliantly let his hands restrain you with seemingly endless lengths of tightly wrought silk. After what felt like an eternity, the action stopped altogether and you opened your eyes to the sight of him standing in front of you with a look of unbridled lust and admiration. He tossed the remaining length of the rope over a roof beam and with no effort at all, hoisted you up so that you were suspended horizontally and your hips were level with his.

He picked up a small whip consisting of many thin leather strips and quickly ran it along your slit, smiling viciously as you tried to moan through the gag.

‘Enjoying this, my love?’

You nodded and moaned into the bar in your mouth as he repeated the action, following it up with a light hit of the whip directly onto your clit. You flinched from the sudden sting, but the pain mixed with pleasure made you only cream more. Something he noticed and rubbed two fingers between your swollen folds, escalating your impossibly stifled moans. He kept on whipping you and rubbing your puffy softness as you were squirming from the mixture of pleasure and pain.

He took to rubbing circles around your clit while simultaneously landing whip lashes on your ass and back. As his actions intensified, so did the pleasure you experienced. He kept on edging you mercilessly, causing tears to flow freely down your flustered cheeks. With his transparent vision he assessed how close you were to coming, removed your gag, and asked, his voice dropping an octave:

‘Are you ready to cum on my cock?’

‘Yes Master.’ Your voice merely a silent whimper.

Without another word, he grabbed your hips, aligned you with his, and shoved himself into you with one quick thrust. His speed and precision were relentless from the very start, creating an almost chant-like soundscape of flesh slamming flesh on the base note of obscene wet squelching of his dick so efficiently invading your core.

You began to shake as your orgasm was on approach, and when all the knots burst and your release finally arrived, all you could do was to scream and scream and scream. Your eyes went blurry and you tried to focus on the chandelier at the back of the bedroom. After a while, your vision sharpened acutely as the release brought back some sanity to your fucked out brain and you were able to see objects in the dimply room clearly again. But what you could not see was how his expression softened the moment you came and how he stopped himself mid-air from stroking your back gently and kissing you on your neck.

Instead, he grabbed your hair, but not as brutally as before, and pulled your head back a little to face him.

‘I am not satisfied. We will need to move this to bed.’

You nodded instead of speaking as language has not yet come back to your mouth from the extreme pleasure of your orgasm. He let go of your hair, hoisted you down, and carried you to bed, where he loosened your restraints, but only to spread your arms and tie them to the bedposts. Once he was done, he moved in between your thighs, stroking his rock-hard erection, and spreading the precum pearling at his slit all over the delicious girth.

Supported by one powerful arm on your side, huge muscles flexing, capturing all your attention for a moment, he aligned himself with you and started entering. You gasped at the pleasure of your core welcoming his manhood in a tight embrace, your eyes moved to his face and were caught by his fiery gaze, the dark flame so intense it felt for a moment that he could pierce through you by just one look. His expression was dead serious and emanating uninhibited lust.

He moved his now free arm to your side and lowered himself over you, not taking his six eyes off you, staring at you with a predatory look, his hips pushing his dick deeper and deeper into your burning core. The thrusts started as soon as he bottomed out, languid and steady, following the rhythm of his lips crushing yours in a hungry kiss.

The movements of his body were becoming increasingly intense, hands caressing and squeezing every inch of your flesh that was within reach, soft lips pressing kisses all over your mouth and neck, all the while his hips were picking up in pace.

Your louder and louder moans were spurring him on as an invisible whip on a racehorse, and he was growing ferocious in the way he was now having sex with you. It was as if he was trying to fuck his way into your soul. Sweat was dripping down his hair that cascaded all over your breasts and belly, his breathing heavy and strained, his mouth releasing deep, raspy groans that with every second that passed, grew louder, turning into growling.

Finally, a violent spasm of his abs and a loud growl indicated his release. His torso was contracting countless times as his balls were being emptied into you, filling you up with his fertile seed. There was so much of it that a small bulge began to form on your belly. The warmth of his cum lulled you into a still, relishing in the fullness of it all. You were too exhausted to crave another orgasm of your own. All you wanted was to lie in the stillness and flame of what had just now become a hot memory.

He collapsed on top of you, still breathing heavily, you could feel how his heart pounded in his huge chest. With a last effort, he lifted himself up and untied your hands, placing you in his embrace and rolling onto his back with you splayed on top of him.

‘Was this what you expected of me?’

He kissed you softly on your forehead and closed his eyes nudging your cheek with his nose.

‘You were perfect, Koku…’ You paused briefly and then asked in slight apprehension.

‘Did you enjoy … being like that?’

‘Well… I cannot say I didn’t. It was very … new to me, but yes. I think we could do this again if that was your wish?’

‘I want that very much…’ and with that you buried your face in his warm, strong chest, enjoying the safety that was Kokushibo.

Tagging: @horror4themasses @sunsblaze @muzansfangs

Banners by @cafekitsune and @adornedwithlight

272 notes · View notes

rizsu · 1 year

Text

gojo's somewhat nonchalant attitude will soon be the death of him. he does care, really, but if something isn't deemed worthy of his attention, he's going to treat it like nothing.

and that's the reason why you're so upset. he never listens. he thinks of your arguments as nagging. your worries to him are useless. why do you bother him when you know he loves you and you only? how many times must he show this? it's getting tiring.

like a lamp for moths, gojo's eye-catching appearance attracts men and women alike. he's an art that they want but can't. like a museum to the general public: you can look but you are not permitted to touch.

tonight you've both agreed on a date. it was nothing too extravagant—just two adults walking through their city, enjoying the night markets and bars. tonight was beautiful, the comforting feeling gojo brings you can't be placed into a sentence. his aura, for you, feels like a gift from above. a gift to you. but alas, not everything can escape the prison of jealousy. at the end of the day, human's crave what they can't have. they crave others' belongings. they feed off the feeling of obtaining something that'll never be theirs. simply filthy.

as if gojo was the newest toy on display, many wanted him. slowly, they consumed him and completely directed his attention away from you. to say you were offended is an understatement. you found yourself seething coming to the end. perhaps it was the alcohol's effect but gojo sure did enjoy the touches of the ladies. the suggestive way this one lady would slide her fingers up and down his bicep as if it's some kind of fidget toy. maybe the alcohol's working on you too but witnessing someone touch what's yours left a sour taste lingering.

you tried to tell him how you felt. you both always agreed that communication is the better option if any felt that an argument is creeping up. but to your dismay, not everyone's going to abide by the set rules. gojo just wanted to get home and he had no patience left to deal with your insecure nagging. with a headache swirling in him, he wanted nothing more than the soft mattress to engulf him.

“satoru, please just listen to me!” “quit it now.”

you're taken aback. his tone lowered. he did not dare to raise his voice yet it felt as though he yelled that he's sick of you. you know it's just your mind twisting his words but it stings. you wish he'd hear you—or rather, you wish you can turn back time and keep your words to yourself. is your concern really nothing but buzzing in his ears? sure, you admit, you're being stupid but still. you know and you don't need to be told that. as of right now, all you need is reassurance from him. all that's needed is for him to radiate his body's warmth on you. nothing more, nothing less. almost like a fixed law, humans are unable to get all their wants. you weren't able to get him tonight.

exhaling a shaky breath, you walk past him without a glance. swallowing hard to prevent the tears from ever dripping down. gojo watches you until your silhouette became one with the shadows from his view. the altercation from last night until now upgraded his headache. he needs some water.

gojo knows what's wrong with you. he knows you didn't like the way others mingled around him but he didn't do anything. again, he knows you know he loves nothing but you. loyalty is what gojo admires the most; he'd be damned if he ever became a cheater.

swirling the glass of water, he slouches on the chair, sighing at the unwanted replay of your reactions. just by the way you tottered past him he can tell you were close to crying. maybe you really were crying. but he can't—he just can't feel guilty. his headache is too far in for him to care about anything but getting rid of this godforsaken thing. he swears he'll apologize later. bouquets, sweets, money—anything you want as an apology he'd get. just wait for him, he'll be there.

#. ae-generated: jujutsu kaisen #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jjk x reader #gojo x reader #gojo satoru x reader #gojo angst #gojo satoru angst #jjk angst

2K notes · View notes

confused-wanderer · 5 months

Text

Damian realizes he fucked up his second week at the manor.

He’s walking around, warily eyeing the shadowed areas that serve as perfect spots for reconnaissance. Father was keeping tabs on him. Father should be keeping tabs on him, or else Damian would be disappointed in the man he is supposed to look upto. Hah..

Supposed.

Damian’s not a stranger to that word. He’s supposed to be strong, he’s supposed to be an al-ghul, supposed to always fight first and ask questions later, supposed to be a weapon, supposed to be a good one, supposed to be a successor, supposed to be worthy of robin, supposed to learn the world was his enemy, supposed to be good enough, supposed to-

A bounding figure snaps him out his his thoughts, and a rare smile stretches across his face as he hears the familiar sound of paws hitting the grass. Father had told him to make himself at “home”. Robin can’t help but wrinkle his nose at that memory. Home? Home wasn’t supposed to exist for him. So he’s taking to test the Batman’s limits by sending Titus to retrieve anything and everything he found for reconnaissance. He could always claim he was exploring if someone caught him. He keeps his hand out, eyes scanning the horizon for any witnesses until he feels the soft touch of cotton brush against his palm.

He glances at it, the stuffed elephants eyes boring into his skull. Who in the manor was so childish they’d keep such an irrelevant thing around? Was it Drake? Todd? It was a pathetic display, and Damian tutted at his disappointment. This was the people he was supposed to succeed?

The toy was tattered, and Damian made no move to tell Titus to be gentle with it. Why would he? This just gave him the perfect opportunity to humiliate his predecessor. To yell at him about how foolish he was, how childish he was acting for keeping this stupid waste of cloth by his side. So he grips the torn elephant, and storms into the manor, heading straight for the bat cave.

He had never seen Tim’s eyes go from wary to alarm so quickly when his eyes land on the toy.

“What the hell did you do?”, Drake hisses, chair screeching as the man shoots up from his chair, marching over to Damian and grabbing his victim from the others hand.

“What you should’ve done a long time ago Drake. Why would you ever keep such a vile abomination with you? It’s childish.”

Tim’s eyes snap back to him, eyes widening as his hands cradle the toy closer.

“Di- Damian did you ruin this because you thought it was mine?”

“I am correct in my presumption Drake”, Damian fires back, arms crossed, ready to fight. Had he finally found Drake’s breaking point? “The animal serves as a childish companion. Todd would never have one, nor would father and quite frankly you’re the most immature out of them all so it-“

“Oh my god you idiot this isn’t mine this is Dick’s!”

Damian’s heart drops at that. Was he lying? Why would Grayson ever keep it around?

Images of the first robin flashed through his mind. His warm smile, his patience while Damian toed the line, his forgiveness and passion radiating off him in waves. He’d looked at Damian and hadn’t flinched or tried to rip his head off. That… that had earned him a bit of Damian’s respect. And now.. gods what the hell has he done? He’s taken that.. and thrown it away. Ripped it apart. Perhaps.. perhaps this was for the best..no? He was no friend of Grayson’s, this would take care of any fondness the man had for him. That would be good.. right? This is how things were supposed to be…right?

Damian suspects his heart has dropped to his stomach, creating knots as he tries to digest it. He didn’t need his heart. It’s fine. It was fine. Something must’ve seemed off though, Damian isn’t sure what gave it away, if his body betrayed him or if the silence stretched on too long, but something in Drake’s gaze softens a bit as he looks at him. His predecessor lets out a sigh, blowing his hair out of his face before brushing past Damian and heading for the manor. He pauses at the exit, glancing back at Damian.

“You coming?”

Robin stiffens, his legs moving without permission towards the other man. The silence stretches on as he follows Drake through the manor, and his thoughts grow darker and more confused. The most logical choice would be to throw out the animal. The second to ask the butler, yet Tim steered away from where the servant was cleaning the kitchen. So, what did Drake have planned for him? Was he about to stab him? Should Damian make the first move?

“What are you doing Drake”

“Fixing your mistake brat, that’s what.”

“How? Are you going to tell Grayson? Or perhaps father?”

“No. I’m gonna fix it.”

“You know how to sew?”

“Only wounds and barely suits. You?”

“…”

“So the same. Figured. I’m going to the only person who knows how to. He’s not gonna like this though.”

Who? Damian wonders, before his reflexes force him to stop walking. Tim had paused at a door, finger hesitantly curling into a fist before knocking twice. He mutters something under his breath, before the door swings open.

“Alfred I-oh what the fuck”

Jason stares at them, gaze flickering intently between the two. He’s about to slam the door in their faces, Damian’s sure, before Tim holds up the limp toy and Todd freezes.

“Oh..shiiiit..”

Tim breaks eye contact, head bowed down before entering the second robin’s room, Damian hot on his heels. He can feel Todd’s gaze on him, he knows that Jason must’ve figured out who did the damage. He needed to figure out an exit plan. He needed to be safe before they jumped him. They were supposed to be enemies after all?

That’s how he ends up watching Jason take out a sewing kit and gently assess the damage before proceeding to start stitching up the creature. Time ticks by as Damian sits tense and stiff a good few feet away from the two. Drake’s nodded off, head resting against the bed’s end while Jason works away at his desk, his back facing them. This was a good opportunity to take them out, Damian realises. He could take Drake out first, the fool-

“Don’t you dare wake him brat.”

The youngest’s eyes flicker upto Todd, who hasn’t moved an inch, eyes squinting at the needle under the light.

“.. does he know about us?”

Todd pauses at that question. Damian’s seen the other man before, seen his mother train him, seen the rage of the Lazarus pit that screamed for victims. Jason knows him. And he knows Jason. They had to work together as assassins. They were supposed to be ruthless killers. Yet here sits the fearsome man, with the same hands Damian has seen ripping people apart gently cradling a ripped elephant toy.

“No.. atleast I don’t think so. Replacement’s slippery though,. dunno how much he knows. My turn for a question, brat. What the hell did you do to Zitka?”

Who? There is no way that Todd is referring to that creature, Damian thinks. “Titus found it. He thought it was a toy. I didn’t feel the need to correct him.”

Jason clicks his tongue.

“Not very nice to be so rude to the only person who tolerates you well”

“It’s not like you’ve done the same to him”, Damian shoots back. “You’ve been a jerk to Grayson in the past. You’ve said his name with contempt, given spiteful remarks and insults and treat his existence as a personal insult to you. You haven’t treated him with respect, yet his behaviour hasn’t changed towards you. Grayson’s a simpleton, Todd. And if he saw fit to keep that thing with him, he’s a childish one.”

“Firstly, my history with him is none of your business, brat. I’ve known Dickie longer than you’ve been alive, so there’s no fucking point trying to be nosy. Secondly, you’re wrong. Dick.. Dick’s no simpleton. If he was, he wouldn’t have beaten you every time you fought now would he? Wouldn’t have survived Bruce, hell not even Gotham. He’s the first goddamn robin, and we have a rapport I don’t think you can even hope to understand.Thirdly.. why do you think he keeps zitka?”

“You insisted on calling that.. a name. You support his childish delusion?”

“Not answering my question brat.”

Damian huffs, inching closer.

“You don’t know do you?”, Jason teases, and Damian can hear the grin in his voice.

“It’s not that I don’t, it’s that I can’t fathom any coherent response-“

“You don’t know.”

“I never said that Todd, has no one taught you not to interrupt others? I know that.. that Grayson has-“

“You don’t know”

“I will personally finish what the joker started and use the crowbar myself Todd”

There’s a bark of laughter, before Jason looks back at him. But there’s no heat behind those eyes like there’s supposed to be. Why isn’t anyone in this damn manor acting like they’re supposed to?? They’re supposed to hate him! They’re supposed to be professional! To be trained soldiers!! Not.. not family.

“No.. I don’t know.”, Damian admits quietly, eyes trained on the ground. He doesn’t want to look at Todd. Doesn’t want to feel the tirade of insults hurled at him for not knowing like he’s supposed to. So he focuses on Drake’s breathing, the long slow heartbeats coaching his to join them.

“These.. are symbols. Do you remember when we were talking of symbolism in literature? Our discussions of metaphors and how they allude to other things? Bigger pictures?“

Damian nods.

“What does your katana symbolise?”

“Myself.”, his answer is instant. “It serves as a lesson to how I must view myself. Sharp, and ready for attack. Poised and deadly.”

Damian’s ears pick up the repressed laughter the other man tries to hide.

“My god they’ve fucking drilled that into you huh? Tell me brat, honestly. What does the katana mean to you?”

Damian’s hands unconsciously drift to his side, gripping his weapon. To him? Not what it was supposed to.. but what it meant to him…

“..my duty. It reminds me of the people who have trained me. Of my purpose. Of my mother, and grandfather. It reminds me of their lessons, their instructions.”

“Now we’re getting somewhere. So your katanna represents your memory of them right? It’s a symbol of their training, it your childhood- even a sorry excuse for one. So it holds memories for you doesnt it?”

“I.. I suppose..”

“So tell me. What do you think Zitka represents for Dick?”

He pauses. Memories sift through his mind as he remembers all he learnt about the first robin. Of his past. Of the circus, of the death of his parents. Of who he was-oh..

It hits him, and it hits him hard.

“It symbolises his past, represents his memory of.. the circus? Of himself and his parents?”

“Bingo brat. Everyone has stuff that stores memories, and they choose what represents it. It depends on the person, their characteristics and attachments to that memory. So while yours serves as a reminder of how you’ve been taught to view yourself, Zitka is a reminder to Dick of who he is. Who he was, and who he became. It’s a tether, a reminder of everything that he was before and after. So yeah, this thing as you call it, it’s a symbolism of something special for Dickiebird.”

And with that, Jason swivels around, presenting his creation to the younger child. Damian inspects the stitches, careful to conceal the awe he felt at the impressive work. It was as if nothing had ever happened to it.

“Now, you take this back to where you found it. And I will kick replacement out of my room.”

Damian nods, surprising himself with the gentle way he accepts the elephant. He never knew his grip could be this soft. This wasn’t how he was supposed to be.. was it? He nods his thanks, subconsciously cradling Zitka to his chest before heading out.

“.. Damian.”

He turns around, meeting Todd’s eyes.

“You.. you’re not at a training ground. You’re not supposed to act how people think you’re supposed to. You’re not how you’re supposed to be.”

Damian visibly flinches at that, taking a step back while gripping the toy closer to his chest. Jason seems to notice that as his eyes soften, hands held up in surrender.

“All I’m saying is.. that’s not always a bad thing. And it’s not supposed to be. You’re not supposed to be a weapon. You’re supposed to be you. Damian Al-ghul Wayne.”

“And who is that?”, Damian rasps. Jason just shrugs, flashing a grin as he stands up and stretches.

“That’s something you’re supposed to figure out.”

Damian leaves with his heart thudding in his chest. He carefully leaves Zitka in Grayson’s room, paints a self-portrait with shaking fingers and breaks it apart when he realizes he doesn’t recognise the reflection. Who the hell was Damian Al-Ghul supposed to be??

He receives a gift the next week. There’s no note, and it contains the soft toy inside. He has a sneaking suspicion Grayson or father saw him carrying Zitka and thought he’d like one of his own. The handiwork is one he’s seen before, and he wordlessly places the robin Todd made on his table, far from anyone else’s view but his own Perhaps.. perhaps a bird was a symbolism. A puzzle Damian was supposed to solve.

A bird was supposed to have a nest.

Perhaps Damian was supposed to realize that these people were his family. Perhaps.. perhaps this place.. these people.. were supposed be his home. And perhaps, just maybe, he wasn’t supposed to fight that.

288 notes · View notes

railingsofsorrow · 1 year

Note

Oh my god!! I need a second part of purple scarf asap. Honestly the best fic I’ve ever read YOU DID SO GOOD.

Maybe with a little smut? I loved it wow

Green-eyed monster

[spencer reid x reader]

A/N: heey, anon! I don't write smut sorry :( but there are some hints towards it? perhaps. I hope you like it and thank you for the kind words!

summary: a consultant on a case drives you mad. the team seems to know the reason why, all except for the man with an IQ of 187. or. . . in which this is the sequel for this. it can be read as a standalone though.

pairing: s.reid x f!reader

w.c: 3.1K

warnings/content: jealousy jealousy jealousy (if the title wasn't clear enough); some light female rivalry; discussions about possessiveness; teasing; making out; allusions to sexual content (nothing explicit) and a tiny hint towards bdsm? but you blink you miss it; also, rossi's got some jokes.

navi

masterpost

[requested]

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

You don't lose patience quickly. You consider yourself to be a very patient person who is always questioning whether or not the situation was worthy over being stressed. It usually wasn't, so you'd take a deep breath and either fix the problem so it went away on its own or you faced it right away.

This time, you decided on the former. Because when someone keeps flirting with your boyfriend right in front of you — in a work environment nonetheless — while disrupting his personal space — really, what it is with people and not being aware of that minimum 0,5 inches gap? You do not need to be up on someone's face to have a simple conversation!

“Here.” A glass of water appears in your line of sight and you avert your attention from across the room to stare at it in confusion. Rossi is waiting expectantly beside you. “For you. You seem to need it since you keep on scoffing. Sore throat?”

That sassy Italian irony, huh?

You give him an eye roll as a response and he chuckled when you actually take the glass from his hold.

When Hotch called all of you over a case in your day-off, you didn't expect to grit your teeth as much as you were right now. You left your bed along with Spencer's warm body to go to the Bureau and have shameless flirting displayed in a public space. For godness sake.

“Agent Y/L/N.”

You really don't lose your cool over nothing.

But this isn't nothing.

Also, you do not consider yourself a jealous person, you see? But Agent Mayfield was pushing her luck.

“Yes, Agent Mayfield?” You replied in the same overly sweet tone she gave you. You're a profiler and you're damn good at your job, but it didn't need much to notice her aversion towards some people on the team, if not everyone. And you weren't the only who felt the same, given the not-so-subtly eyeroll from JJ.

The dirty blonde woman smiled at you. You didn't smile back. “You seem to have forgotten the files from—”

“It's on your desk.” You said shortly, turning back to the medical files you had to get through to find a pattern in the UnSub's M.O.

“I didn't see it.”

You hummed.

Well, of course not. If you hadn't been all over Doctor Reid than maybe you would have seen it.

“I just put it there, you can see it now.”

There was a pause, and then, “Thank you.”

“You're very welcome.”

There was a clear of throat and a soft chuckle around the briefing room but you didn't gave much thought to it. Until Derek made a comment.

“Slow down, Tiger.” He said, patting your shoulder before leaving the room with a laugh upon feeling your glare in his direction.

“Why do you need slowing down?”

You let out a long sigh. It wasn't Spencer's fault. That was completely out of the question, you knew he wasn't responding back to Agent Mayfield's flirting — he probably wasn't even aware of it, if you were honest — but the woman unnerved you 100%.

He placed your mug in front of you, the smell of coffee immediately reaching your nostrils and calming your senses. Maybe that's what your body were lacking and that's what it required to tune down your annoyance. Spencer was smiling at you and your forehead smoothed out. He's such an angel.

“Don't know,” You shrug, lifting the mug to your lips. Yes, not too sweet or watered-down. You give him a half smile in appreciation. “Derek is mad.”

“Doctor Reid, I need your input on something, do you mind?”

You refuse the scoff, looking at your side when you see Emily studying you. But someone else was inspecting your every move as well, you notice it when Spencer turns back to you after nodding in affirmation to Agent Mayfield.

“Is everything alright?” He questioned, warm fingers grazing your forearm warily. Of course Spencer knew something was off, he didn't have a major in psychology just because. He recognized your actions in a way you couldn't do it if you paid enough attention to yourself. Once, he made a comment about the supposedly meaning of when you licked your lips in different situations and you just stood there and listened, in complete bewilderment. He noticed a lot, to say the least. Not what's right under his nose, though.

“I'm good.” You shrug, grabbing one of the pictures in your messy circle of clues. You'd have to ask for Penelope's magic on this one. “You better go, duty awaits.” Your tone was extra chirpy and he just knew that was sarcasm. You know, Spencer Reid might be terrible with social cues, but he was familiar with everything that was related to you. And that edge in your voice made him slightly concerned.

Had he done something? He travels back to every single interaction from the two of you since you left his apartment — your apartment, too. You hadn't moved in (yet) but you did spend most of your time there. That place was just as yours as it was his, now. He loves saying that — but nothing out of ordinary comes to mind. You had breakfast, crawled back in the covers because it was supposed to be your day-off and intertwined your limbs for about one hour straight before Hotch made the call. You didn't look mad at him. You didn't sound mad at him when you left together, or on your way to work. Why did you sounded and looked mad now?

Fiddling distractedly with his scarf, he followed Agent Mayfield into her temporary office. She was a consultant in the newest case you were working on, Hotch brought her in because she had history with this kind of UnSub. Apparently, she went through a similar case back then.

Spencer got confused every time she asked him a question. Not that he minded, he loved to talk and loved when people seemed interested in what he had to say. But Mayfield was an expert in the area, she knew all of the questions she was asking him and he was aware that she knew because of her reaction. She was a nice person. Smiled a lot, too.

“What do you think, Doctor Reid? Am I in the right mindset?” He blinked away from the board where she had shown him a possible location the UnSub was hiding. The red dot stared at him as a sweet perfume unnerved his senses. Oh, she had gotten closer. Too close.

“Uh, yes. I believe so.” He frowned, taking a step back. She also didn't seem to get the meaning of boundaries because she stepped forward again. The smile quirking up a smirk. “Maybe—uh, maybe we should inform Hotch. Have you—”

“Doc,” She laughed, staring him up and down. “Are you afraid of me? Why do you keep waking back? I won't bite.”

“Okay,” Spencer deadpanned, swallowing hard. What was happening? He felt the table against his fingers and stopped moving back but Agent Mayfield kept on marching forward. “You—”

Tilting her head to the side, she raised a hand to touch the fabric around his neck, eyes traveling over it with curiosity and something else he couldn't translate when her blue orbs locked with his amber ones.

“Nice scarf you got there.” She purred, he could see her eyeshadow clearly form how close she was. It was starting to make him feel uncomfortable, the feeling of fight or flight arriving little by little as his hands gripped the table behind his back.

Spencer nodded nervously, “Thank you, my girlfriend gave it to me.” The air shifted as soon as he let the words out. Her movements freezing before they reached his neck. Thank god.

“Oh,” she muttered, sounding surprised and slightly disappointed “Your girlfriend?”

Spencer pulled the fabric away from her hold, taking advantage of her thoughtful stance to hop to the side and release himself from the cage she had locked him in. “Yes,” he said, adjusting his scarf around his neck. “She likes knitting.” Spencer didn't know why he said that, he didn't know a lot of things right now just that urge to flight the scene as if he was in imminent danger. “You got it all right. We should inform Hotch, this will help.” A tight-lipped smile was the last thing he sent her way before he fled the room.

When Hotch explains they're going to follow a new lead provided by Agent Mayfield, you are one of the first to reach for your bulletproof vest, until a hand curls around your shoulder.

“You're staying.” Hotch says, earning a look of disbelief from you. “You haven't been cleared for the field.” He gives you an unimpressed look which you know it means a warning if anything else.

“Hotch, it's been a month!”

“And you haven't been cleared, I need you and Garcia to work together.”

That's how everybody — but you — leaves for the newest location. The lead ends up being right and they find the man, you're in Penelope's office when they arrive back at the Bureau. It's around 10 p.m and you can't hold yourself back from yawning as you follow Penelope to meet your friends in the bullpen.

Emily's eyes glisten with something as she sees you come around the corner. She walks over to you and wraps an arm around your shoulder as you gaze at her from the corner of your eye suspiciously. “You won't believe who made the arrest.” She whispers in your ear.

You let out a scoff, “I think I have a hunch.” You mumble, eyes scanning around the room unconsciously until you find what your heart always searched for on a daily basis. Your gazes find each other and you offer him a smile.

“I was waiting for you to punch her guts, to be honest. You disappointed me.”

“I'm being professional, Emily. Not that you can relate.”

Emily flicks your forehead, and you whine playfully. “Menace. Now go talk to your lover so he can stop with that puppy dog look. It's depressing.” Your mouth stretches into a grin and you offer her your tongue in a very mature say before leaving her side to cross the room.

“Hey,” you greet Spencer with a warm smile. “Are you ready to go home?”

“Are you mad at me?” He blurts out at the same time you spoke. Confusion drew your brows together.

“Why would I be mad at you, Spencer?”

“You were gritting your teeth and your shoulders were tense which means you seemed to be holding back to snap and upset about something.” He rambled out, clutching the strap of his go-back that he hasn't even put it down yet. “Your eyebrows, they do this thing where you lift one and scoff right after.” Oh, so he noticed that to? You weren't even aware of the eyebrow twitch yourself. You weren't even going to complain about his profiling, you were more concerned about the fact that you made him feel as if he had done something wrong. Which wasn't the case. “Did I do something?” His voice lowers when someone passes by you. You decide you were to public for you to discuss the topic so you pull his wrist towards the conference room.

You shut the door quietly and turn around to face your boyfriend that carries a slightly heartbreaking expression.

“Spencer.” you called out softly, leaning your hand towards his and intertwining your fingers as you pull him closer. He lets out a sighs in relief with the way you were reacting. She's not mad anymore, good. “I'm not mad.” The promise goes out in a whisper as your hands left his to wrap around his neck. The scarf is there, it's always there. Your fingers curl around it slowly and he's too busy burying his nose on the croak of your neck to pay attention to anything else.

He makes a sound of protest when you lean away but you proceed to shut him up by crashing your lips together. The immediate reaction is to enfold your waist with his hands, you can feel his warmth when your shirt raises exposing a bit of your skin.

A smirk tugs at the corners of your mouth as you wrap a hand around his neck to create a little space between you two. It's not harsh, you're barely applying pressure on the area, but it's the reason his pupils are dilated when he glances down at you.

“I'm not mad because I know that you know who you come home to every day.” The contrast between your honeyed tone and your stern gaze is palpable, Spencer walked that path before and he knows what it means. “Don't you, love?” He's not sure which of his responses is appropriate for a work environment so he simply swallowed hard and nodded.

You hum, smile turning into a soft grin. Your whole stance shifting when you peck his lips again, adjusting his sweater vest as if absolutely nothing had happened.

Like an investigation board, every clue seems to click in his mind. The code arrives to his brain and the information was so clear that it must have looked like he ignored the signs because it was convenient.

You're jealous.

And Spencer must say, it looks quite good on you.

Before you leave the conference room you had come to hide in for a few minutes, he stops you from sliding out the room by hooking two of his fingers to the waistband of your pants and bringing you back to him. He unwraps the scarf around his neck to involve it around yours. It's not an unfamiliar action, he's done it a few times through the course of your relationship. It's something that he enjoys doing, truth be told. Except that, in a room filled with profilers, it conveys a whole other meaning. Although he just needs it to be conveyed to one person.

There's a six feet distance within you when you step back into the bullpen. Most of the people have dissipated, only your inner circle left, except from Rossi, he went home already.

Oh, and Agent Mayfield was saying goodbye to everyone as well. You had to hold back the eyeroll as she approached you. You could see JJ from above Mayfield's shoulder, cracking up beside Penelope, who was asking her to be quiet. The entire FBI building seemed to quiet down for a minute.

“Agent Y/L/N,” she gave you that fake sweet smile, showing off her teeth as she offered a hand for you to shake. You really thought about ignoring it or in throwing out the number of pathogens passed during a handshake to avoid doing it — like your precious boyfriend usually did. “A pleasure working with you. I hope the opportunity comes another time.”

You shake her hand, despite your inner protests. However, every action has its consequences, right? That's why something akin to pride bursts through your chest when her attention freezes on your neck. It's good, it's really good to see Agent Mayfield clears her throat and walk out of the room as if the best team of profilers weren't scrutinizing her every move.

“Oh, my god.” Emily mumbles, rolling her shoulders back with a groan. The atmosphere had switched from tense to a much more relaxed environment. “That was brutal.”

“I know what was brutal.” Derek kicked Spencer's chin, to which the younger replied with a frown. “The rejection you gave her. And that,” he points at you, shaking his head playfully as he throws the strap of his bad around his shoulder. “That's just possessiveness, princess.”

“Yeah, I don't know which one of you is worse, to be honest.” JJ raises her hands and turns back to grab her stuff.

Shrugging with an innocent expression, you say, “I've no idea what you're on about.” Penelope makes a joke and Hotch bids everyone goodbye because he'll try to see Jack before he falls asleep.

The parking lot is dark and the wind travels fast to bring you a cold breeze. When you reach your car, you notice the key is on your bag, that Spencer was currently carrying. Before you ask, a kiss is pressed against your temple and you're being pushed to the opposite side.

“I'm driving.” He clarifies when you look back at him with a puzzled gaze.

“You hate driving.” You say, putting your seatbelt on. “... particularly at night.”

“I don't hate it. It's just not my favourite thing to do, besides...” He gives you a pointed look after turning on the engine. “You're tired.”

“I'm not,” you replied stubbornly, but complains nothing else. You are tired. Despite not going to the field like everyone else, being on the office was just as much work.

Silence fills the car in its comfortable form. You're lulled to sleep with Spencer's harsh breaks and his soft humming to a pop song on the radio. He gently wakes you up when you've arrived in his place.

As you're fluttering your eyes open, you know the peace is about to be disturbed by the smug look in his pretty face. “Possessiveness, uh?” He murmurs, laugh echoing when you slap his arm as your face heats up. You have no idea what took over you a few moments ago. Well, you do know. But you weren't about to give in to him that easily. “You know you're the only one, right? I don't have eyes for anyone else.”

The truth slipping out of his tongue is completely unnecessary, but welcomed. Reassurance is important, even if you trusted Spencer in the tip of a cliff with eyes closed.

“I know.” You say, smiling when he leans into your palm. Drawing invisible patterns in his cheek, you pull him closer to close your gap. This time, the kiss doesn't carry anything other than tenderness.

Now it's his turn to grips the scarf, he holds both ends, tugging you impossibly closer. “And you,” he stares down at your lips, teasingly. “... you are who I'll always want to come home to. No doubt in that. Understood?”

You let out a hum in contentment while kissing him as an answer. One hundred percent understood.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

taglist: @lilyviolets

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

#reader insert #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid fanfic #criminal minds imagine #criminal minds fanfiction #requested

782 notes · View notes

4ngeldusstt · 5 months

Text

B U R N I N G D E S I R E

A/N: this was supposed to be an attempt of smut but i got stuck at one part so i decided to make it this way, so here is some suggestive post war!Levi for u

Warnings: smut, mentions of scars

Word count: 446

“Levi” you said as an attempt to catch his attention, leaving a trail of feathery light kisses along his jaw. A groan escapes his lips as you slowly straddle him placing your legs on each side of his thighs. “I love you, I’m so incredibly lucky to call you mine. So handsome.. I couldn’t stop staring at your amazing body earlier when you came out of the shower, the mere sight of you drives me insane.” praising him, you start slowly moving your hips, the friction making his breath hitch. “I want you to feel how aroused you make me Levi, only you can do that to me without even doing anything.” His arms wrapping around your waist pulling your bodies as close as they can be.

“Do I still cause you this feeling?” His voice was quiet and low, insecurity flooding his thoughts. Ever since the war ended and he made it back injured, his body was going trough changes, he gained some healthy weight and he felt awfully insecure due to the scar that covered half of his face and the ones that adorned his beautiful body. He didn’t think that you still loved every single inch of him, as if your love for him would ever change.

His amazing body and handsome face was something you worshiped daily. You were so proud of him and his scars only ment that he risked his life to save all of us. It flooded you with pride to be his. “Levi, you dedicated your heart for us, you are a hero. And I couldn’t be more proud of you.” You praised, as his sight was fixated on admiring your features, giving you his full attention, taking in every single word.

He got up, placing you gently down the soft mattress, your eyes fixated on him as he got rid of his shirt, his broad shoulders and still very muscular torso in full display. Hovering over you his lips found yours not wasting any second, kissing you with a burning desire almost desperate to demonstrate with this action that he was still worthy of you, trying to show how much he loved and cared for you with each kiss he placed on your lips and skin, his callused hands roaming your body holding you close to his. “L-Levi, p-please.” You begged, not knowing what you were begging for but you begged, for him not to stop touching you, to keep kissing you, to fuck you senseless, to love you.

“Patience, princess. Let me take my time, I promise it’ll be worth it.” ‘I promise I’ll be worthy’ he thought, as his lips lowered painfully slow down your body.

#levi x reader #snk levi ackerman #levi ackerman x y/n #levi ackerman x you #levi ackerman imagine #levi ackerman fluff #levi ackerman x reader #levi ackerman smut #levi attack on titan #aot smut #aot levi #aot x reader #snk x y/n #snk x you #snk x reader #snk imagine #levi ackerman #levi ackerman x female reader

335 notes · View notes

vilebird · 5 months

Text

BOTH TOO MUCH AND NOT ENOUGH

1) "I have been found wanting, Natalie thought; I have made myself unacceptable and am not worthy." - hangsaman, by shirley jackson

2) text: "meat must be beaten brutal into tenderness, that any body softens with violence, she grinds salt into the carcass, like a wound, a memory". image: a carcass of beef, cleaned, with the ribs on prominent display, painted in oils and rendered in thick strokes of red, orange, tan and white, on a plain dark red background. the text is cutouts on top, dark red text on light tan. - Family Portrait as Unfinished Meal, by Torrin A. Greathouse and Le Bœuf by Chaim Soutine. collage put together by @invisiblemonstrosity

3) a pale hand crushing ripe red strawberries, green leaves still attached, on a plain white background. - apparently by ouiloved on flickr, but they seem to have deleted.

4) bust photo of a tan person with a spotlight on them outside in the dark, head turned down, shoulder length messy wet black hair obscuring their face. their hand is raised to their chest and they are wearing a white tank top. fake blood is splattered and wiped around their chest and mouth. - i can't actually find this one all my attempts lead back to unsourced tumblr posts if you know where its from. help me

5: "You have no one who has any sort of consideration for you. You have had patience and endurance, and what have they done for you? Half-killed you." - carlyle’s house and other sketches, by virginia woolf

6: "try your whole life to be righteous and be good, wind up on your own floor, choking on blood" - sept 15th 1983, by the mountain goats

7: "such a waste of a girl, such rumination. i am obsessive. i contain nothing but the replay. i am blood and blood and replay. i am please don't go." - i put the coffin out to sea, by lisa marie basile

8: an image of a partially bald baby bird begging for food, drawn in the desaturated greens and black of a trailcam, on top, the text reads "i am asking you for something i need", on bottom, the text reads "why is it so hard to give it to me?" - trailcam baby, by @quezify

9: "was i raised without love? / or was i born unloveable?" - @psychwarded

10: "I, in my corner, with my monstrous needs." - As Consciousness Is Harnessed to Flesh, susan sontag

11: "oh, i know that i'm not whole, and sometimes feel the flies swarming, like much of me is rotten." - roadkill ode, chad abushanab

12: a photo of a cut tree where much of the centre is rotted from fungus, accompanied by the text: "heart rot in pine. heart rot is the softening of a pine trees resinous heartwood, caused by an in-dwelling fungus. not all pines have it, but those that do make the excavation of a tree-hole next cavity easier for the red-cockaded woodpecker."

13: "rot made a home inside my body." - i know it's from "bloat" but cant find the authors name again. i think it starts with a c?

14: photo of an abandoned house in shades of brown and beige and orange, the walls are wet and scuffed and the drywall has been torn open in places, exposing the old lath. - abandoned, by @jaggedplains

15: photo of a mouldy strawberry, fading from bright red to grey-green fluff - Strawberry Gray Mold disease stock photo, by MediaProduction on gettyimages

16: "you ever feel like you were born with something rotten inside you and if people get close enough they're gonna find out" - tumblr post by @twoheadedfawnn

17: "we are meat, we are potential carcasses,' he once said. 'if i go into a butcher's shop i always think it is surprising that i wasn't there instead of the animal." - francis bacon

18: "you dangle on the leash of your own longing; your need grows teeth." - speeches for dr frankenstein, by margaret atwood

19: photo of a python hanging off a roof coiled around a black and white bird, poised to eat it - i heard some noise on the roof this morning, by candycane7 on reddit

20: "all that matters is that you want to hurt me. all that matters is that you want me." - when rome falls, by yves olade

21: "god told me i was forgiven and then he split me open" - god is made of hunger and i am made of dreams, by katie maria

22: "but this is not about love. once a pig is hung and cut straight, cut from rectum to neck, step inside her death like it is a room: that is how to touch her now. the lord said, you must not eat their meat or touch their carcasses. then came the end of the rib." - oh let's just be hogs, by gregory emilio

23: photo of a strawberry cut in half with its leaves attached. it is bright red, steel knife wet. the background is bright white and plain. - cut strawberry by liz west on flickr

24: photo of a handmade cloth sculpture of a dead autopsied pigeon, red zipper like an incision opening to its empty red interior, small cloth and thread organs arranged around it. - pandora: city pigeon, by jessica bartram

25: '"u need a therapist" actually i need to be euthanized' - tumblr post by deactivated user @122mg

#webweaving #webweave #web weaving #poems #words #spilled ink #litstack #animal death #gore #mold

203 notes · View notes

themadlu · 6 months

Text

A Simple Thing – Pt. 2

Astarion doesn't know how to navigate love, not when it's so real and alive. His fears are still clawing at him, and he still doesn't understand fully why Zélie chose him.

Luckily, she is set on making her sassy elf understand she isn't going anywhere without him. And what better place for starcrossed lovers to tend to each other, than a warm bath?

TW: nudity, mentions of sex. This one is mostly angsty fluff.

WC: ~4.4K

Read Part 1 here!

Tagging: @spacebarbarianweird (thanks for beta reading!), @amywritesthings

In his frantic state, it takes a beat too long for Astarion to realise that the tremors have rippled from his hands to his arms and jaw. Long enough that even Zélie, imperceptive as she is to such inconsequential little things, has noticed them.

(He’ll never get used to seeing her worrying about him. To how utterly confusing it is, her accepting him so wholly, so completely, that the very sight of his distress pains her. He doesn’t have the strength to hate her for making him so reliant on her, not anymore. The spite that made him what he is cowers like a rabid dog when she’s close, and she is always close, in his mind if not in reality.)

Zélie lets out an exhale, looking briefly at the ceiling before training her eyes on his. Centuries worth of insecurities are on full display in his red irises, and it is all her fault—she ripped his practised masks off him, mercilessly, one by one, to unearth the corpse that lay underneath.

You should have known better, silly love.

Her pale eyes are assessing him, studying every inch of his face and body. She must have found what she was looking for because he recognises that unexpected, precious softness in them, wider, kinder, welcoming him in.

(They used to be so inscrutable at first.)

Astarion’s pointy ears perk up in attention when Zélie suddenly speaks. “Come with me,” she says, then she…winks before turning her back to him.

What the hells is that?!

They have lived and fought (and slept) together, first side by side, then in each other’s arms, and this is the first time in all their travels that his ever-serious woman winks. Children do that in secret mocking; harlots do that to attract customers—he knows because he often did so himself.

He didn’t even think her face could do that. It makes her look young (Or just her age, he never knows with humans), free, happy even, and he can’t do anything else but stare and vow silently that she will stay free and content. He’ll do anything in his power to make it so.

“Come where?” he questions, but he doesn’t really care, not as long as she wants him with her.

A hand lifts in front of his face, so close he smells the dirt on it before seeing it and his nose wrinkles in horror. “Astarion? Come with me? Please.” Zélie is half facing him and Astarion finally takes notice that her whole little body is covered in something that smells foul. Disgusting. He can barely perceive the crisp scent he craves underneath all…that.

“What in the bloody hells is that, darling?! Did you fall into a pile of manure, perchance?”

Zélie’s forehead creases in the way it does when her patience is being stretched thin. He is proud to say he’s almost always the cause of it. He likes to think that he impacts her almost as much as she does him.

Deep down he knows he does, because she wouldn't be here with him now otherwise. She’d be with someone actually worthy of her, like generous, brave, perfect Wyll.

(That first jealousy has been smothered, but the damning embers remain.)

“Come where, he says? Oh, you know, I was thinking of going to one of those wine tasting events we saw in town the other day. Enjoy an elegant evening together as we sip on a delicious burgundy, discussing the current socio-economic woes of the city with its upper class. They would be ecstatic to reveal any valuable information to this,” she gesticulates at her mud-soaked clothes before tiredness deflates her a bit.

“I have heard sewer essence is the latest perfume craze in Baldur’s Gate lately,” her lips curve upward in a barely-there smile. “Though now that I think about it, it’s best if you keep your distance until I properly wash. I don’t even want to think about what deadly diseases I am exposed to right now.”

Astarion catches her outstretched hand before she can retract it. She’ll vanish if he doesn’t tether himself to her. He intertwines his fingers with hers, so that his ivory skin turns murky brown. Like hers.

“So I was right, love. You did fall into a pile of manure.”

His little saviour’s hand immediately relaxes in his (Another major source of pride, that he can elicit this response from her.), as he slowly, gently, brings it to his lips to press featherlight kisses on her abused knuckles. Gods, he’ll force her into an armour tomorrow. Gloves, at the very least.

(Maybe he’ll tie her to the bed, safe and warm and out of harm’s way, as he’s threatened to do before.)

“More like a whole river of it,” she confesses. “And mud. It appears that mephits and bhaalists have no hygiene standards.”

The elf grinds his teeth, fangs pricking his lower lip. What a complete disregard for his feelings, to put herself at risk, the very being that gave him life anew. In his irritation, he cannot stop himself from pulling her body against his to ask the question burning on his tongue.

“I wouldn’t know, darling. I was not allowed the pleasure to witness it with my own eyes,” his accusation borders on a whine. “How considerate of you, to leave me here in a clean bed while good old Gale is considered capable enough to offer his explosive services.”

The mocking tone is not enough to hide the fear in his voice.

(“Pathetic, prattling child. What a useless thing you are.”)

“Why did you leave me here?” he whispers it, but it sounds as threatening and desperate as the prayer of a convict seconds from execution.

“Because you looked tired.”

Simple. Straight to the point as always.

“Because I—what?” Astarion blinks at her as if she grew a second head. Him, tired? He is a newly freed vampire, he does not get tired. “I thought we discussed how I am perfectly capable of making my own decisions!”

Zélie straightens her posture, sighing in affectionate irritation. “Yes, Astarion, tired. Fatigued. Wary. Whichever term you prefer. I noticed you’ve been down, since…well, since all that happened with that twat.”

Astarion’s anxiety eases at the way his precious hero refuses to name Cazador. His captor is dust and she established firmly that complete oblivion will be the punishment for his crimes, for what he did to so many souls (What he did to him. She damns his master so, because of her love for him.) The elf is dazed by her unyielding devotion and the warmth spreading from her calloused hand into every part of him.

“Darling, I don’t know what you mean. I feel splendid! I’m free, finally, truly free. Thanks to you. With you!” He laughs in incredulity at the thought. “Only a couple of world-ending obstacles between us and the forever we deserve.”

Melancholy flashes through Zélie’s eyes. There won’t be a forever for them, not since she convinced him to renounce the Ascension. Even then, he knows she would have denied his offer of immortality. Astarion tenses, balling his free hand in a fist. Stubborn woman, refusing to understand. He will not lose her; he found her after centuries of unheard prayers, and he will not let something as trivial as mortality take her away from him.

(He will prove her wrong, this once. All the sacrifices they’ve made are worth nothing less than eternity.)

Zélie pulls him from his thoughts, shuffling a little on her feet with uncharacteristic shyness. “I was also afraid.” She confesses it as if it were a dirty secret, but Astarion is unsure why. If she fears something, that’s all the more reason to take him with her (As if his devotion alone could shield her from all harm.)

“After what happened at the mansion,” that. He remembers bits and pieces of his kidnapping, Petras’s sneers and Aurelia’s apologies, the darkness, being trapped and bruised and left naked in the kennels before—

A slave. Weak.

It makes sense, in hindsight, for her not to want—need—his protection in battle after what she saw. “Ah. My sweet, I—”

“I thought I lost you,” the words are barely voiced, but they ring like thunder in the vampire’s ears. “That can’t happen, you see. Astarion, I know it goes against what I’ve been taught and I know I am not one to show my feelings, and that is a strength until it becomes a weakness, especially with you. Because it appears I haven’t been clear enough: I don’t want to put you in danger anymore than necessary. Not now, nor after we’ll be done with all this bother.” She points at her temple while holding his gaze to ensure he understands.

He does and he does not.

Because he felt the same the closer they got to the city—his nice, simple plan falling apart spectacularly, backfiring even, as the dread of seeing his Zélie at Cazador’s mercy settled around him like grave chill.

(It’s too soon to realise it, but Astarion would take being under his master again over seeing his hero hurt. And now he knows she feels the same way about him, a cadaver.)

Astarion starts trembling again from joy, fear, relief and something he learnt to recognise as unbridled devotion for the creature in front of him. Zélie has no chance to react, not when his roguish reflexes have been boosted by days of actual rest (And by her own blood.) His lips crash into hers, fangs clashing on smaller teeth, the kiss of an inexperienced schoolboy, but he’s decided that the small space between them is more punishment than being buried alive.

“Oh, Astarion! The sewers,” he doesn’t care, not when she is here with him, safe and alive, not when he can smell her under all that mud.

I missed you, he thinks, half-mad with quelled worry.

“Don’t you dare leave me behind again, you utter moron,” he rasps between kisses.

Zélie lets out an entertained breath and nips at his upper lip lovingly before rubbing her bumpy nose against his. Astarion doesn’t pretend to breathe when he is with her anymore, not since she’s grown so stupidly comfortable with his vampiric nature, but the subtle affection radiating from her is so encompassing that his dead lungs expand in an involuntary gulp of air.

“Understood. Come then, sassy elf,” she murmurs. “I am in desperate need of a bath and now you are too,” she swipes at the mud on his face. His brave woman gently pulls him towards the wooden bathtub in the corner of the large room. “The others will come here soon after finishing their supper and there will be a…well, a bloodbath to decide who takes a bath first.”

Gods, what a terrible pun, as always. What a beautifully crooked smile at her own joke, as always.

The sight makes the elf giggle with wonder before he can stop himself.

(Once, Shadowheart dared to point out that Astarion and Zélie have a similar sense of humour. What nonsense. As if the Sharran knew what humour even is.)

“Astarion?” Zélie’s voice snaps him from his musings. The bath is filled with steaming water and her skin’s flushed with the heat under all that dirt. She looks at him, waits for him to decide what he wants to (He’d have to be fully dead not to join her.) He commits the sight before him to eternal memory, in the scraps of his soul that belong to her now.

“Oh, you need to feed as well. It’s already been a couple days.”

I still can’t believe you are real. Mine. All mine.

“Come here, darling. Let me wash you first, gods know you need it,” he says in half-mocking. His solemn lover steps closer, trusting him always, and he unbuttons her blouse and trousers first, then takes off her smallclothes, all thoroughly soaked with disgusting mud. She stands naked before him as if it were the most normal thing in the world, to be bare in close quarters with a vampire.

(Home. She feels like home. She is safe with him.)

Only the light specks of pink on her cheeks betrays her, a telltale sign this unguarded version of her is only for him. It makes him want to fall to his knees in prayer and shake her for naivety at the same time.

The warmth of her body leaves him as she walks to the bath and submerges herself. By the time he gathers himself on a stool near her, the water is already murky brown. Ugh. He has never seen that much dirt on her, not even in the wilds of the Grove. “Stay still darling and let me turn you back into a human,” he coos, soap in hand, leathering her shoulders, arms, breasts, every part of the person he cherishes most of all.

Bruises appear as the mud is scrubbed away. A large, purple patch on the right side of her ribcage, a smaller one on her clavicle. Anxiety bubbles up again and he has to say something (To prattle.) or else he’ll go insane. “Are you telling me that the others went straight to dinner looking like oversized dungs, my sweet?” Zélie almost chokes on a scandalised laugh, sending him a chastising glare. “I am the only ‘breathing dung’ here, thank you very much. They were not as unlucky, so they won’t empty the tavern with their stench.”

But of course they weren’t. I’ll drain them dry, balance the scales.

Tiredness seeps off his brave leader and Astarion is still astounded at how easily she lets him take her worries away, if just for a moment. Only he can do that, with the smallest of things: a quip, a laugh, an innocent touch, just by being himself, whatever that means. She sees him like he matters (He does, to her.) and he will do anything not to lose that. He’s the strongest and weakest he’s ever been.

A newly-clean, calloused finger softly traces his cheekbone. “Where are you, Astarion? Would you rather wait for me outside?”

No!

“No! No, my love. I am exactly where I want to be.” He tries to be suave, but comes off as pathetic, like a babe who won’t leave his mother’s shadow.

Zélie’s stare hardens. “Stop that,” his face fits perfectly in her small hands, reverent touches that make him exhale a rough breath. “You are the strongest, bravest person I’ve ever met. You will drive me to an early death with stress, but!” She interrupts him as he is about to protest, overt displays of emotion rare and difficult to articulate for her. “I wouldn’t change it for anything else. You are loved. You are you. And you will see your own, infinite worth one day. How was it? Cross my heart and hope to—uhmp!.”

His body moves before his mind fully processes her words. No one has ever had a kind word for him, and here this impossible creature stands, worshipping him, a corpse, a whore, and she must know how he will not have her mention her death, not even in jest, because it won’t happen, he won’t let it and he’s kissing her, hard, and he won’t lose her now she finally found him—

He falls in the bathtub, entangled with his lover and laughing like a madman. “Astarion! Ouh, what are you doing?! Your clothes!”

“I honestly couldn’t care less, darling,” he croaks. Astarion is soaked in disgusting water, his camp clothes are ruined, Zélie’s already messy hair is a sopping mess and the oils he poured in the tub are not enough to disguise the sewer smell. He’s so, so, so utterly content. He commits all the minute details of it to memory. The more he knows her, the more he loves her, the more she chases his nightmares away; one day, his reveries will consist entirely of her. Them.

“All right, all right, you mad elf, let me at least change the water before we both die of some horrid infection,” Zélie concedes in half-mock exasperation. He grins like a child, toothy, fangs on display. Ridiculous, but he doesn’t care. “Vampire, darling. Infections are a thing of the past.”

She looks at him still sitting in the receding water as if he were the most precious thing she ever saw. “Good for you. Alas,” she pulls at her round ears. “Human. Let’s not test my luck, mhm?” He giggles like a fool while pouring oils in the freshly drawn bath.

His darling woman shifts closer, warm and intoxicating. “May I?” She points at his clothes. Astarion’s lips part in pleased surprise. She wouldn’t touch him at all if she could help the first few tendays, and even after things changed between them she’s still been hesitant. It annoys him and endears him to no end. “You can keep them on if you prefer, of course.”

“No, love. I’d much rather you freed me of these yourself,” he whispers, leaning into her before settling back in an alluring pose that worked oh-so-well with his targets. She just rolls her eyes, but the tinge of pink dust on her cheeks is back in full-force when she starts undoing his shirt’s buttons.

Impossible woman, do you not know what you do to me?

Slowly, one by one, the buttons are freed, her fingers leaving scorching little touches on his skin. He wants to burn for her. Shirt discarded on the floor, she unlaces breeches that have gone uncomfortably tight at this point, and Astarion lets out a relieved moan once his erection is freed. He pays it no mind; she’s looking at him, all of him, and she’s made him come accidentally with less before, but she is exhausted and bruised, and unlike those useless companions they have, he wants her to fucking rest. To make himself useful without expecting anything in return.

(She gave him everything already.)

“Come here, oh!” Zélie starts to speak, but Astarion takes her by the waist so her back is against his chest and she’s is his arms. He is sure she can feel how hard he is and he knows what it does to her, ears red from an adorable mixture of embarrassment and desire. It doesn’t matter, because the second he starts massaging her scalp with oils, she melts into him so perfectly they must have been the same being once, when life was new. There was no other explanation to the certainty of belonging in his chest. “You know, I may get used to this,” she murmurs as she twists her face up to stare at him.

I hope you do, is what he thinks.

He wouldn’t mind doing this for the rest of time. “Ugh, we’ll see if the cuddly mood strikes me again, darling,” is what he says. He’s never felt safer than when she’s with him, but true vulnerability will take time to build. And patience. She has enough of the latter, and he will take care of the former. He takes her chin in his hand, brushing his thumb against her wet cheekbone. “It’s nice to see it’s really you, my dear, under all that filth.” The pale elf is almost done cleaning his lover and is thinking of a way to keep her there with him (She is always so awfully practical, even baths follow a military regimen.), when she turns to face him, straddling his legs.

Unpleasant memories shadow his mind for a moment, before she lifts his chin with her index finger, forcing him to look at her. Astarion realises she is keeping away from his sensitive areas, sitting towards his knees, soap in hand. “My turn, if I may?” Oh. She wants to help him bathe, too. He is still not used to Zélie asking for permission to a spawn as thoroughly used as him, but he lets his face fall into the crook of her neck to hide the blush on his cheeks (He can’t hide how much harder her consideration makes him.) “All yours, love,” he mumbles, meaning it. It’s her fingers in his curls now, tugging gently to undo stubborn knots, and he has to remind himself that this is real, she is real, not a figment of a slave-addled mind. He gasps softly and swells when his hero takes the tip of his ears between her index and thumb, down to his earlobes before stopping at his neck.

“Love, ask if you can touch me again and I swear I’ll go insane,” Astarion pants in her neck. “I want you to touch me.”

Only you.

Zélie huffs, “Message received.” She places her palms on his neck, his back, and the world spins when she massages the wretched bite mark and cuts that mar it. Astarion tenses, he can’t help it, but if anyone can give new meaning to those scars, it is his little saviour. He inhales her scent to relax, the crispness of her skin and the sweetness of her blood peeking through the layers of soap and oils. He adores her natural smell, more so than her blood, delectable as it is. His sanguine taste is a collateral of his unwanted condition, something he had no say nor choice in. Her scent, he is sure, he would have loved as a mortal elf–it’s fresh, subtle, sensible. It’s her, and he smiles widely when he detects a note of rosemary and bergamot in it, just as he delights in smelling her on his own skin. All his. All hers. A claim, as obvious as the fang marks on her neck.

He must have left one too many kisses on the healed wound, because Zélie puts her lips to his ear, “If you’re hungry, you can eat.” Astarion is always hungry, another shackle that will come back full force once the tadpoles are removed, but he is starving for her. Zélie hates being bitten (Silly woman, terrified of needles and in love with a vampire.) It makes her blood even more of a gift.

“Really, darling? Here?” he asks to distract her, and bites her. “Ouch! You annoying elf!” She whisper-shouts while he traces wide circles in her back to help her relax. Astarion decides that if this is the only heaven he’ll ever know, the gods can rot for all he cares. He has all he wants.

When he is done, he licks every single drop of blood and rinses the wound with clean water. “There. All better.” Zélie is still in his lap, and she bumps her nose against his lightly, affectionately. The bath is cooling now. “Thank you, Zelie.”

She raises her eyebrows in question. “Oh? What have I done now to deserve you saying my name?” That’s it. Astarion will have her until all she knows and feels is him. He dives on his precious woman again, giggling into her lips, when a loud crash and grunt comes from the entrance of the room and Zelie breaks the kiss in alarm.

Astarion curses himself for having left his daggers in his pack, using his undead reflexes to stand in front of Zelie, fangs bared. Useless idiot. If it’s Orin, or one of her followers, there won’t be much he can do besides giving his love time to escape (As if she’d ever let him face any danger on his own, mad woman.) “Astarion, wait! It’s just Lae’zel.”

“I require washing. I’ll be merciful and give you two seconds to vacate the tub. Do not try me!”

If Lae’zel were not as useful in battle, Astarion would slit her throat, because how dare she interrupt—

He startles when a clean, blue shirt drapes over his shoulders; Zélie stands next to him, already dried and half dressed (How did she manage that?!). The perfume on the garment tells him it’s one of her camp shirts. He wouldn’t admit it, not yet, but he rests infinitely better when wearing something of hers. It fits him fine—pillaging fallen enemies doesn’t allow the luxury of picking the correct size for their clothes.

“Make yourself scarce for a while, Gith!” He shouts as he gets dressed, and narrowly avoids a flower pot aimed for his head. Astarion is wondering yet again what Gith blood tastes like when Zélie firmly cradles his face, utters a “Behave,” and kisses him as if air were optional for her too.

Fine. He’ll behave this once.

Lae’zel’s presence fades away as all he can perceive is his hero clutching him like he’ll disappear. As if it were that easy to get rid of him.

He clings to her red blouse—one of his, he thinks with pride—and when she breaks the kiss to breathe he hoists her up, her legs tangling around his slender waist instinctively. His nose tickles as her mad curls, free from their braids, are all over his face.

Gods, she’s beautiful.

“That’s it! Out!” Lae’zel bellows while pointing her sword at them, mud crusted all over the blade. “The puny vampire has thwarted you, Zélie. I expected better from you. Now, leave!”

Oh for hells' sa—

“So sorry, Lae’zel, we’re out! Have a nice bath.” Zélie is still perched on him as he pads to her bed. They have been sleeping separately since getting to Elfsong. He hates it; would she see him as overbearing if he asked—

“Sleep together?” Her little smile is so sincere and uncharacteristic that he drops her on the mattress, immediately laying on top of her.

Yes.

“Why, darling, do you miss me?” he grins. Say yes, please.

“Of course. You’re too far now. I can’t fall asleep to your soft, sweet snores anymore.”

Something in his chest unravels, even as he threatens her to make her pay for this insult to his beautiful self.

“Astarion?”

“Mhm?”

“Bring your blanket, if you want.”

If he had met her when he was still mortal, if he had been a better person back then (More deserving), he would have mocked her righteousness and then married her in an instant. He knows. The hero of his dreams, packed in an impossible, stubborn, overly-honourable woman. Astarion would have still outlived her, but he would have had the certainty he would go find her, in the afterlife. He had a habit of taking the road less travelled, after all.

Now, soulless, beaten husk of a thing that he is, he vows to hold on to her until all time ends and stars fade. Even after he will be no more, when new worlds are born, the memory of them will remain.

#astarion x oc #bg3 astarion #astarion #astarion x tav #astarion x f!tav #oc: zelie #bg3 oc #astarion ancunin #astarion angst #astarion fluff #bathtime #thank you lae'zel for being a cockblock

78 notes · View notes

bluebirbhumming · 4 months

Text

༺ Tsumugi with a doting SO༻

You’re probably his first-ever partner! Before meeting you, he didn’t think he was worthy of love (and being alive, really 🥺 poor guy).

Sadly, Tsumugi didn’t grow up in the best household. He was used to being shunned and mistreated, so having someone shower him with gentleness and affection is a completely new experience for him!

Tsumugi mentioned being told negative things a lot made him sulk, so I think the opposite might also be true! He will feel better if you tell him nice things for long enough! Now, it might be hard at first, because he tends to deflect all the praises back to you and say he’s not that special, but don’t let that stop you. As long as you tell him he is amazing and precious lovingly and seriously, he’ll cave in sooner or later!

This guy can be a bit oblivious. Let’s all remember he ordered steak when Hiyori told him it was on the house when Anzu only got a glass of water (lol). But hey, it’s part of his charm! He’s an airhead, but to you, it’s kind of precious. He probably won’t shy away from receiving gifts once in a while. It doesn’t have to be grand or expensive. Actually, I think he’d appreciate thoughtful little things a lot more, things that show him how much you care about him. Heat packs for winter, clear sticky notes for thoughts when he reads, perhaps a silly headband to keep his bangs away when he does his skincare? Things like that always make his heart flutter.

He is so eternally, genuinely grateful that he has you as his partner! Usually, he tends to have too much on his plate, offering help to others at the expense of his own well-being. But after you came into his life, he started to learn to take better care of himself. What can he say? He hates it when you get worried about him! And hiding things from you makes you sad, so he hates it too.

Your touches make him giddy. Whether they are little kisses or hugs, anything you dish out makes him over the moon. Your affection keeps him going, really. After long hours of work, he often finds himself longing to be in your embrace.

He doesn’t have the chance to meet you all the time, since his schedule barely has any off time. That’s why he wants to make the most out of every date you have! You always treat him with love and patience, so just being around you makes him the happiest man alive! However, if you egg him on for long enough to voice his preferences, he prefers when you spend time together somewhere peaceful and quiet. His favorite places are bookstores, cafes, and of course, your home. He loves it when it’s just the two of you huddled together under a cozy blanket, giggling away as you whisper to him how much you miss him and how amazingly warm he is. It’s his safe haven, so please indulge him a little longer!

He loves you so, so much too. He intends to pay you back just as much whatever you give him, whether it be praises, gifts, or anything else. He is inexperienced, but he tries his best just for you! Forgive him if the ways he displays his thankfulness are awkward or silly, he’s still learning! But for you, his sweetest darling, he is ready to do whatever it takes. Your love made his life so much brighter he thinks it’s a kind of magic itself, and he prays every day for that magic never to go away.

#ensemble stars x reader #enstars x reader #aoba tsumugi x reader #aoba tsumugi #tsumugi aoba #tsumugi aoba x reader

35 notes · View notes

delicrieux · 8 months

Text

𝑻𝑰𝑴𝑬 𝑻𝑶 𝑷𝑹𝑬𝑻𝑬𝑵𝑫, 3. summer 1972, late august

pairing for this chapter—sirius black x f!lestrange!reader warnings for this chapter—sirius hates his brother word count—4.3k

in which you show an act of bravery worthy of a gryffindor. if the come up, that is, wasn't so inherently slytherin.

masterlist | buy me coffee☕ | ttp masterlist | < back | next >

all of sirius' records are bought by andromeda. no one ever speaks of her. it’s bad luck. might split the sky in half, or disentangle the galaxy and all of its atoms; unravel it all, suddenly, like aunt druella falling to her knees at the mention of a well-loved name. she claimed a fainting spell, but you knew. the lights were particularly dim that evening at dinner.

no matter, you're well-meaning enough not to bother. everyone is allowed their own interests. you find it in the depths of father’s coffee cup and the curious hills and swirls the grounds make as they dry. how they shift in the wispy morning light, or become swallowed by your shadow. andromeda’s lay in things not known by the lestranges, or perhaps things frowned upon. she mails her curiosities to sirius via the muggle post. when a strange man appeared at the gates of the lestrange manor, everyone had fallen into a frenzy. the whole household, all twenty-some-or-more staff and four inhabitants (discontent house-elf and mother excluded).

this foreign officer referred to himself as 'the postman,' whatever that meant. grumpily (he was left standing in the rain, see), he shoved a parcel into your affronted butler's hands and demanded a signature. no quill, only a slim, plastic tube that clicked irritably when pressed by his finger. you and regulus watched this whole display out the second floor window, leaning over the ledge for a better look. a whole variety of things came to sirius, it was revealed, all of it contraband in a sort, to your knowledge. a bit of illicit music, a few letters with charmingly fancy stamps. a card titled Miss you that you just managed to save as rabastan threatened to throw it into the fire. a glossy magazine you and regulus were allowed to browse through briefly, only to see for yourselves the unmoving, ugly muggle world.

of course, sirius didn't know of any of this – it was stored away without his knowledge of its arrival. locked up in the attic, where all unpleasant things lie. you and regulus and the staff were sworn to secrecy. sirius musn't ever know his disgraced cousin is sending him strange things and corrupting his impressionable mind. you didn't mean to linger, or listen, or intrude. the pool laid waiting for you, and regulus, impatient by your side, tugged on your sleeve. a plea to leave before your brothers went on a tangent. so many new words to learn. this was, however, the most interesting thing to happen all summer, overshadowing even the long awaited wedding. a muggle postman under the lestrange roof. bella, if she was not away, would have thrown a fit to be outshined by such a thing.

that very night, you sneak out of your room. the hallways are dark in spots where moonlight doesn’t spill; the portraits are asleep, and the landscapes are quiet. the soft echoes of your bare feet against the cool tiles of the flooring make you shudder in your linen. summer heat lingers by the ceiling, though the nights are usually chilly. you creep silently, as you have many times before. you are quite adept, a child who can't seem to stay put no matter the trouble it may cause. and this may cause quite the bit.

you wander to the attic, mind the seventh step with the creaky floorboard, and ascend slowly. patience is a virtue, and when you really want, you possess wells of it. here, the dark is thick, almost tangible, and how and where you move is more thanks to memory than sight. though the dust burns at your eyes, they do eventually adjust, and the outline of a shape becomes easier to see.

austere, sparse. only the sooty remains of old armouries are left. furniture gone to rot, and masses of small boxes and unattended bookshelves. never a pleasant place, even during the day. it sits right above mother's room, and you try to avoid this part of the house entirely. a blind spot, like the corner of your eye. nothing well is ever found here, and you never come searching.

a bit of fumbling and you locate the parcel. it would be good to bring everything, but it's quite heavy, and you'd rather not risk it. you'll let sirius know of his hidden belongings once you have surprised him. you are not as selfless to inform him instantly, no. no, no, to miss an opportunity as this would be a great loss. how else would you show a bravery than going against the collective wishes of the black and lestrange families and blindly grabbing around in the dark for his cousin's gifts?

you sort through the things. lay them gently beside your feet; hear the roll of a crystal charm as it travels down the room and gets lost in a shrouded corner. you thought of waiting for a few days. spun a great tale of being watched and trying to get the presents to him as quick as possible, only to amplify the intensity of it all. your attention span waned an hour into your promise to keep this secret.

you grab for a record and flee. sirius likes music the most. this will make him happy.

carrying your load through the manor's quiet maze, your senses prickle at each shadow. perhaps someone is following you, or you can hear them whispering. the slightest tinge of an anxious feeling comes and goes with each breath. when you were little, regulus needed to hold your hand through the dark, since sirius was too old and too cool for that at eight. the manor at night made his pulse jump under his skin and then, you were the braver of the pair. now, reggie doesn't need your help, and neither do you need his. you’d prefer his quiet reluctance beside you. a want to continue but being too cowardly to make the first step. you’d march together. should you have invited him?

no, sirius wouldn’t like that. he prefers his brother out of sight.

at last, sirius' bedroom door presents itself before you. the faint whistle of the wind rattles the windows. instinctively, you grab for a hand that isn’t there.

you hope he isn’t asleep. he’s too grown to go to bed at an early hour. he must see you in motion, so brave in delivering contraband. contraband is a new word you've learned recently, and you quite enjoy saying it. contraband. this record is the first in, what you presume, a long line of suspicious items you will have to sneak. it will all be worth the effort.

you rap on the door. one. two, three. a forth one for safe measure. no response.

"sirius! i have a gift," you whisper, leaning in close. your cheek presses onto the cool, glossy surface, and thunder rumbles somewhere far overhead. it is not the prettiest song, but you like how deep it is. and sometimes, late at night, when the dark is very deep and the manor is quiet as the grave, you like to hide under the covers, "sirius?" you add, and a beat passes, and it occurs to you might be sleeping.

your plans of grandeur are deflated a little. what is the point of a secret if he isn't there to be surprised?

then, the handle clicks. slowly, cautiously, the door creaks open just enough for him to stick out his head. he's pouting. his gaze flickers, a nervous twitch, "why are you awake?" his voice is raspy from sleep, and his cheeks are splotchy, "aren't you scared of the dark?"

of course not, you had told yourself that the whole trek over. he waits patiently for an answer, despite how tired and annoyed he appears. your heart pounds at the sight. his hair looks funny, tousled. a wave falls over his forehead and the rest stands in spikes. you wonder if regulus' hair will do that in the morning. at breakfast, likely not. if you came to wake him unannounced, it likely would. how embarrassed he’d be.

you hold the record close to your chest, but not too tightly. sirius had once said they are fragile and can shatter if handled unkindly. still, you fear your arms might crush it if the rumble of the thunder shakes it from your grasp, like it would a robber caught red-handed.

"it isn't scary," you try, and tentatively hold out the present, "this came for you. but no one let you have it because, you know, well. it's from, er, you know." can’t say her name, even to someone that would prefer to hear it.

you can imagine a carousel of thoughts whirring madly behind his face. shock. surprise. delight. gratitude. so much more. it's impossible to catch everything, not even in the blip of light. thunder rolls.

"thank you," is his only response. he perks up as he takes his present. perhaps he had gotten over the surprise a bit quickly, or he had expected this to be sent to him all along, but nonetheless, it seems he is rather touched. at least that's what you assume by how happy he's acting, like an eager puppy, "let's go to my bed, 'kay? i've got a record player over there. come on."

you rush after quickly, not one to miss such an opportunity. the room douses in a dim light with a flick of his wand. there are books and clothes and posters slew on every surface and corner, and you overstep a pair of expensive linen trousers carelessly tossed on the rug. next to the bed sits a heavy trunk. he must've been packing. a red and gold scarf peaks over the edge. yours to be, surely.

the space goes mute and settles. like a pop in your ears after travelling via portkey, the sound returns after a small discomfort. a silencing spell. his wand clatters onto the bedside table. you had picked yours only a few days ago, but didn’t dare touch it since you grasped it for the first time.

when you settle into bed beside him, and he sets up the contraption and places the needle, it sings in the quiet. he lowers the volume just a bit.

"muggles like big music, don't they," you remark, though you do rather like it, if it makes him grin so, "can we dance? please?"

a crack, finally, along with thunder. his face splits into a grin, "of course! but a bit quieter. don't want the whole estate to catch you here. come on, now,"

so the pair of you jump and whirl about his room. you're sure he knows real muggle dances. it's very different from waltz, not smooth at all, more free, and not nearly as dignified. but oh, the beats!

as the song finishes and the music winds down, your head spins. not from dizziness, but from pure, unbridled glee. his face matches the feeling. sirius claps, as if he had never been satisfied before now, as if a curtain had gone down. he smiles broadly, a full mouth of teeth, “imagine what people would say if they saw us."

you mirror his expression, "it’s horrendous, isn't it? such disgrace."

a smile and a titter escapes him.

"a terrible affair," he gives a nod to no one, the empty bedroom and his possessions, "it would displease my family greatly. i will never dance another way again."

“what of waltz?”

“what’s that?”

"oh dear, the absolute scandal!" you clasp your hands together in horror, though really, you don't mind at all, "they shall call you a heretic and a bumptious imbecile. surely. won't that be dreadful? your reputation will be ruined."

"utterly! completely ruined. mother will burn my portrait out the family tree."

"what a messy business. tragic. whatever are you to do, young sir black?"

his words and gesticulations and silly faces make you a bit warm. this is quite something to be cherished. him, in his lonely, messy room, and the mellow candlelight. the rain pouring. a nice and pretty tune in the air. dancing is one of your favourite pastimes, besides flying and stargazing.

"hey, wanna play pretend?" he inquires, plopping back onto his bed.

you snort, dropping the audacious accent, "isn't that what we've been doing?"

he shakes his head, though his lips curl and his eyes roll fondly. "different sort. c'mere."

you perch beside him, your head level with his shoulder. his eyes are very shiny. if he told you a story, you wouldn't have trouble believing him, since they tell more than his voice ever would. but that'd be cheesy, and you'd never hear the end of it, if you told him the same. his knee bumps into yours. his head falls forward, just a bit, "tell me a secret."

"tell me a secret."

"no, go first. my secrets are boring, your's are, uh. mysterious. and interesting. and a whole bunch better. pretty please. can i have a hint?"

the compliment, you have to admit, flatters you. so does his prodding and pleading, all his wheedling and how adorable he looks while doing it.

you think of an answer carefully, a plan already forming, "well…someday, i'm going to have to marry, right?"

he groans, "merlin, no, don't tell me you're also thinking of this nonsense?"

your thoughts scramble to change, like little ducklings hurrying away from an unpleasant sound. you frown, a bit ashamed to be rebuffed so unkindly, or you should, but he's still staring at you intently, waiting for you to elaborate. like you had assumed, all boys think weddings silly. sirius is no different.

"is it wrong to think about that? i mean, someday you're going to be married, too," you deflect, "in the future," the distant one, because a child like him cannot comprehend that. or perhaps he can. after all, he will be growing into a man soon, "and besides, with bella's wedding, i suppose it got me thinking."

he has, strangely enough, become flustered. his freckles are darker across his nose, "who says i'll get married?"

"don't you have to?"

"no," he answers defiantly, crossing his arms. how defensive he is suddenly! but with how fidgety he is, it must be a sore subject. perhaps he is being affected more than you'd guessed.

"you're the heir, though," you muss. it's very unlikely walburga won't entangle him into some arrangement. you're sure she already has some sort of ideas for sirius. they are likely being executed as you speak, "you have to make kids to carry on the family, no?"

the odd, stressed look on his face almost breaks your resolve.

"we don't have to do that," he states.

that's news to you, and, logically, seems to be rather improbable. that means you don't have to get married, either. at least you won't have to carry out the other portion of marital duties, of which you are far more squeamish, "hmm," you manage, but you're not convinced. it seems quite rational to you that you should follow the pattern set by generations.

"why would you even want to get married?" he grumbles. the question comes off snottier than intended, "like i'd want some girl telling me how to behave all the time."

"we aren't allowed much choice in the matter."

"the more reason not to, right?"

this conversation had taken a sudden turn, and a sickly, squirmy feeling has taken a seat on the bed between the two of you. the dance music has finished, and the sound of rain overpowers the room. the record spins and crackles.

"we can run away."

the suddenness of his declaration makes the both of you pause, staring at the carpet and bedspread respectively. it’s not a fully formulated thought. can’t be, and in your endless compassion and innate ability to forget audacious ideas, secrets, and suggestions at a moment’s notice, you decide that he never spoke of this, for what he suggested is a breach of trust so careless and terrible that you begin to worry what else lays on his mind. must be many things such as this, dangerous, modern ideas ready to spring free given the proper climate. and the climate is warm, here, built on your friendship and your inability to refuse him.

you decide he had been caught up in the heat of a moment. harmless, silly. he asked you to play pretend, after all.

he amends before the silence could deafen him: "it'll be just the both of us."

you don’t want to listen to this, not in his room, not in your linen, not with the night singing against the windows and the record scratching at the needle. the spin is mesmerizing. he’s older and should understand the implications better. you don’t want to be the one to understand. to be rational, when you only ever wish to be carefree.

you laugh, and it sounds a tad awkward, but what a great big joke! sirius is always funny, "of course. we could live on a raft, or in muggle london. recon there wouldn’t be much of a difference. or perhaps a particularly cosy cave in the scottish highlands. with the sheep."

his eyes narrow, miffed. "i’m serious.”

“don’t suppose i need an introduction, do i?” you smile, but it doesn’t break his frown.

“we can run away.” he says, quite firmly. no more playing, then, “the both of us together," he adds, flicking his eyes away from you. his voice wavers.

"we can't just go and leave,” you start gently, “there's, well, a lot to explain. they’d catch us, too, quickly, i recon. our families. i can’t work, my hands are delicate, even if sheep are a riot. we’d have no galleons.”

"i'd work."

stubborn prat.

"stupid, you're twelve."

"almost thirteen."

"your birthday's not till november," you retort hotly, "therefore: you're twelve. how can you even consider proposing such a stupid scheme?"

his tone shifts, anger showing itself, "don't call it stupid. you haven't thought of a better one!"

you take a deep breath, and fight the childish impulse to sock him on the jaw, "i'm not the only suggesting we run away. that's- you just suggested it, first, no less! all of the sudden!"

"yes! yes, i did, but you were supposed to agree."

you can barely find the words to reply. he just gets so impossibly brattish when he's not having his way, "we can’t leave. that’s positively mental. and we can't leave reggie."

he bristles at the mention of the name, "he's not my problem."

that hurts. for some reason, this cut is especially sharp and stinging, "don't say that. he's your brother."

"only by blood."

such callous words make your face burn. what's this coming from? his posture shifts, back perfectly straight and shoulders taut. this can only mean that his emotions have overcome him. that is never good, "blood is important, though."

his dark eyes glimmer and there's a storm building, something inscrutable, a bad feeling. your mouth goes dry. you had said the wrong thing, a terrible thing. he shan't ever forget or forgive you for this. not to mention the topic itself. these are very dangerous and tender and frightfully unknown waters. you cross your arms and huff, feeling especially very small, "how can you hate him, anyway, when he adores you so much?"

the hard glint in his eyes doesn't leave. in fact, he appears to grow taller and paler with the turn of conversation, or perhaps his skin had always been a rather milky white. his words are colder still, "why are you always defending him?"

"regulus has never done anything bad," your protest is weak. and that isn't what he wants to hear, "he loves you."

"you should be on my side."

"but, why are there sides to begin with?" your tongue feels big in your mouth, and a weird taste bubbles, like metal and rust and salt, "you're brothers, you shouldn't fight."

"he's a rat."

"sirius!"

"and an idiot," he grumbles, "and selfish. a tosser. stop defending him."

this is awful. to see him with such a harsh expression and to be berated as though you're an awful friend and a liar, "stop it."

"what? he's not worth the trouble of you protecting him."

"leave him alone."

"he should leave you alone."

you wince and jerk away. how has everything gotten out of hand so fast? this is his bedside. you brought him a gift, and you danced, and he spoke kindly, and now this. you bite your tongue. your teeth press a bit too hard, “you’re being awful.”

he doesn’t seem to hear you, "why do you even like him anyway?" he sulks. a funny word to describe a very unhappy young man.

"quit it."

"are you fond of him?"

"please, shut up."

"more than me?"

silence. the world tilts, just so slightly, to the right, and spins just a tad bit too fast. does he really dislike his little brother so much? you understand he may feel a twinge of annoyance sometimes, a tad of passive resentment every other hour, which is simply understandable and probably half-decent for brothers, especially those that have nearly nothing in common and no sort of trust. but, there's the matter of an absolute hatred for someone that does no wrong, that would never, by anyone's means, ever hate you back. that isn't fair. it's only heart-breaking.

perhaps you've done wrong not to believe regulus when he confided sirius was terribly cruel to him at times. the thought stings, an acidic sort of shame. regulus wouldn't lie, he's not very good at it. you've only ever seen him sweet and obedient, a boy very different from his older brother. he was honest and soft-spoken, but just as sincere as sirius, though in a subtler manner.

gentle is another good word. or lovely.

one could argue they've both been acting odd lately. regulus had the muddled, far away eyes, but sirius was aggressive in their shared proximity. isn't it expected for siblings to fight and bicker? you and rabastan rib all the time, like it's embedded into your very marrow. you've never grown cold toward him, and you feel this way won't change much, if ever, but there might be a deeper part of you, one that can feel you're much more similar than you originally gave it credit for. perhaps it's the same with them, too.

this discovery makes you itch. it can't be that simple. of course it couldn't be. is this who he is, truly? you almost hope he will suddenly apologize and maybe hug you a bit tighter, or, or make things better somehow, say he's just teasing, tell you you're the dearest most wonderful friend a boy could ask for.

his face crumples like a wet sheet of paper, "answer me. please?"

"you know i'm fond of you both."

"more than him?"

"both."

"so he's your favourite," his voice shakes.

the look on his face…a mixture of embarrassment and genuine hurt. your's must match.

"please don't say that, i don't have favourites."

"you just put up with me?"

"sirius,"

"stop being so vague."

"you're being mean."

he huffs, "fine. whatever, see if i care what you think."

"sirius?"

"don't bother. just leave."

"what?"

his eyes are strangely wet. you reach out to touch his cheek, in the hopes it'll soften him, but he jerks back, like you had attempted to strike him. the two of you gaze at each other wide-eyed and mortified. his eyes keep tearing, but the rest of him is perfectly still and calm. you decide it's probably best to not call attention to his tears, "what should i say then?"

his face hardens, "don't say anything."

"but--"

"go," he mutters, not even sparing you a glance, "just. stop bothering me."

his eyes brim again, and the sight makes your own become glossy. how humiliating. something coils in your stomach, uncomfortable and inescapable. how should you act? but he doesn't know either. all you have are bits and pieces of lessons and rules, none of which apply to this situation, not in a satisfactory way.

he doesn't move. neither do you. his heart beats and you can feel it, too, on your side of the bed. the clock ticks.

time stretches on.

it's a strange feeling, because it's not a foreign one, and you wish it was. the dull sense of loss makes you feel weak and empty, like you've skipped dinner.

carefully, you inch closer, until the tips of your fingers graze his. you clasp them, awkwardly. it's a childish way of keeping the two of you together. your insides hurt. you wonder if his do, too. he feels warm to the touch, solid and real. both of your palms are clammy.

you manage, breathlessly, "i don't want to fight with you."

his jaw remains tense, "no, you want to have my stupid brother's back,"

"please?"

"fine."

your stare at your joined hands.

"i'll leave," you promise quietly.

"good."

a cold silence creeps in after those words. you let go of his hands and step off his bedside, a great, wistful longing coiling in your gut. you gaze, again, hopefully, only for him to sneer. a terrible look, it doesn't belong there, and it doesn't suit him in the slightest. your head drops, you nod once, and step outside his door and out onto the staircase. the air’s tinted with something burnt and foul.

it's dark and quiet and you feel strangely hollow. the stairs twist beneath your feet. you trudge along, mindlessly, hand gliding down the railing you'd perched on with sirius on sunday. what a distance. it feels like an ocean has swelled, swallowing the shoreline. a curious heat rises up from your neck, itching, prickling, spreading all over.

light dances in the parlour room. the hearth cracks and pops strangely. a swish of a heavy robe, a crinkle of parchment, a sniff.

bellatrix.

she's returned. her silhouette stands imposing by the flickering flames. you're not sure why you came here, only that you did.

she notices you lingering there, head propped against the frame, staring. your hair, mused from earlier, likely gives it away, or, the puffiness in your eyes. her wet footsteps line the polished floor. the lull of rain is oddly soothing.

she tilts her head to the side, examining you, "it's awfully late."

you nod. your chin feels sticky. you wipe at it with the back of your hand, the pads of your fingers swiping your cheek and brushing beneath your nose. she holds out her palm and beckons. something in your stomach unravels, just a little. the carpet is rough, and her hand is heavy on your shoulder.

"shouldn't be wandering around at this hour, my dove," her voice is gentle, the light of the fire lapping across her. her eyes shine strangely, blacker, a dark, curious depth. a flash of green pierces through her iris and disappears. she smells like the night, fresh, and something sweetly charred, like a bonfire or campfire, or, smoke, "a proper little lady sleeps early."

a lump in your throat keeps you from replying. you gaze into the fire. the remains of letters and postcards crumple to black ash. a bright, smiling face on the cover of the magazine shrivels up, blackening at the edges and curling, melting in the cinders. andromeda's gifts.

this is why you never want to know anything.

64 notes · View notes

shalotttower · 2 months

Text

Title: Beneath The Skin Fandom: Far Cry 5 Characters: John Seed x Reader (female) Summary: John discovers a soulmate in one of his faithful after her indoctrination. Word count: 1200+ Notes: soft yandere!John Seed, religious themes, soulmate AU, captivity, obsession, past rough treatment, past torture, brainwashed Reader, John being John, Reader isn't Deputy, I'm depressed so now you'll be too.

You've been staring at him a lot lately. John can't tell if it's a good sign or not. In his experience, silence is usually followed by screaming and begging, not contemplation, but you're quiet and watchful, like a church mouse.

"Tell me what you desire," he says, cupping your face with his palms.

There's no pleading with you. No crying for help from the outside world. He's not used to this quiet acceptance of circumstances.

What John used to is peeling away the layers of flesh, until there's nothing but raw essence underneath. You're still not free of sin. He can see it, plain as day: sloth shines through the cracks of you. He could force it out. Carve the letters into your skin again, one by one, and maybe then you'd finally scream for mercy.

But he doesn't. Joseph told him to be careful with God's gifts, to be patient and endure. So he waits, and so you stare, and the silence stretches in-between.

"Why don't you tell me?" John asks.

He heard long time ago that through desires one's true self becomes visible. He wants to see yours.

"There's nothing to wish for in Eden's Gate, Herald."

There is no venom in your words. There's nothing in your words.

He thinks about patience and endurance, and wonders if the river washed away something essential off you during the baptism, or this docile and meek nature is just who you are.

You'd pass easily as one of Faith's angels, even without the Bliss.

---

John knows that you like to read. You take books from his personal library and he finds them later, stacked in a neat pile on a bedside table. Some nights when he returns to the ranch, you're still awake at the desk with a pair of glasses on the bridge of your nose.

"So that's why," he thought after leafing through your medical file, "you didn't recognize me at the river. They must've fell off during the transportation."

John wears his mark with pride. Not hidden, like Joseph's or Jacob's, but on display. A declaration that he's been chosen by God, that's he's not broken, not ruined — worthy to have a soulmate.

He remembers your expression back then. Confusion. You looked at him, squinting, like you didn't understand, couldn't fathom why would someone do this to you.

And then he dunked you under.

---

"Confession," John murmured. "It sets you free."

"Atonement," he told you later and took a knife to your flesh.

He wanted to make you feel small, insignificant — Deputy kept causing trouble, and temperance never was among his virtues.

"There's nothing more pure than a blank sheet, darling. I'll help you get rid of sin. Don't be afraid, let the pain cleanse you."

And you screamed.

Sloth. Pride. He carved them both and you cried and prayed until your voice broke, but haven't asked him to stop, not once.

After that, you blended into the crowd well, a nobody amongst the sheep not meant to stand out.

---

He didn't know.

Hadn't seen it, caught up in the excitement of the moment.

---

This time when he comes back, you're curled on the bed with a book that doesn't belong to his library. The cover is pale yellow with floral decorations and birds on it, a bit worn. How it came into your hands, John has an idea. There's only one person who likes cheesy romance novels here.

Your foot sways in the air back and forth, gently, like a pendulum.

"Didn't take you for a fan of light reading, my dear. How many maidens have fallen for dashing rascals tonight?"

"Herald John," you greet.

His stomach flips when you look up.

To think that you were one of many who cooked and cleaned around the compound all this time, who lived in the barracks and tended the apple orchards, and no one ever noticed. Who almost slipped through his fingers into the Henbane River, if he wasn't reminded of restraint.

Now you're here, in his room, and John has no idea what to do with you. He's good with words, they always come out naturally, like a weapon in a carefully crafted arsenal, but all seem inadequate when your mark is out there so openly unapologetic.

You're like a doll he's got a hold of: speaks when spoken to and moves when nudged.

He sits on the edge of the bed.

"This doesn't look like approved reading material," John comments idly, but makes no move to take the book away. Books like these aren't banned, simply considered too shallow to nourish a mind. He flipped through one himself and found it hilariously cliche.

"Sister Faith keeps bringing them," you respond. "I...keep them until she picks them up again."

You call his family members by titles rather than names. John suspects it stems from the trials and humility which they bring. Joseph is Father, Faith is Sister, Jacob is...nothing. You don't dare use any monikers with Jacob even though no one would mind now when you're family.

His thumb runs over your ankle. A small white lilly under the fabric of your leggings looks delicate and a bit like a mockery.

God's gifts are bestowed to cherish.

John thinks about the way you trembled during the baptism — sweet, sweet terror.

God's gifts are bestowed to nurture.

"Why didn't you plead with me?"

You pause.

"For what, Herald?"

John wants to shake you. Wants you to scream and glare like Deputy did when he carved the sin upon her body. Little wrathling, full of rage and spite; now Jacob is grooming her as a weapon, and it seems to suit her better than wreaking havoc across the county. Jacob's methods are meticulous and inevitable, brutal but most efficient, and he'll get her where he needs her to be: strong and able, with her fire burning for a better cause.

"Reprieve," John says. "Mercy."

He leans closer and waits, but your eyes travel down to your lap, then to your fingers, entwined together above the pages.

"There was no use."

Your smile is soft and empty, and John gets the feeling of missing a step on a flight of stairs.

"It wouldn't have been enough."

You speak it like a truth carved on stone, something so very evident that even a newborn infant can comprehend. Like the sun is warm, the water is wet, and Herald John Seed doesn't give mercy to sinners — he takes them apart piece by piece so they can start anew without the burden of guilt.

---

Aren't soulmates meant to know each other intimately? Aren't they meant to complete?

Yet there's an absence of him in you and you in him. It's a hollow space between your bodies when you both lie side by side at night, a gaping wound, and it won't go away, no matter how close you curl into his arms or how tight he holds onto you.

He touches you often: strokes your hair while you read books by lamplight, kisses your forehead when you pray before bedtime.

"Tell me what you desire," John asks again.

And again, patiently you reply: "Eden's Gate offers everything I could ever wish for."

---

He wonders what fairy tale romance you will find next week between the pages, and if there will be mercy in it which you didn't find in that bunker.

#shalott fanfiction #yandere #far cry 5 #john seed #yandere!john seed #yandere john seed #john seed x reader

44 notes · View notes

afimancer9 · 9 months

Text

Aard is a fierce and formidable predator. Despite it's great size and power, that ancient Nergigante has a cunning intellect to match. With an instinct for survival, it will fight tooth and claw to protect its home and itself when necessary. Even so, Aard is not without a soft side; when not engaged in fierce battle, Aard can sometimes be found lounging or cuddling with it's mate. Although Aard may appear fierce and aggressive, it may be the result of its protective instincts and fierce loyalty to its family rather than any intrinsic cruelty. Aard is a fierce and dominant dragon with fierce pride. It has no patience for any who challenge it, and does not like to be questioned or underestimated. Ancient Nergigante has a commanding presence, and is not shy about displaying its power and ferocity. When confronted by a worthy adversary, Aard will not hesitate to engage in combat, but will fight with honor and respect. But ber large size and muscular build make "The Gray Tempest" a force to be reckoned with, and its constant desire to feed means Aard do whatever it takes to get it's next meal. Aard unlikely to back down from a fight, and it's not the kind of creature anyone want to cross paths with.

#afimancer9 #art #oc art #dragon #nergigante #monster hunter #monster hunter world #mhw iceborne

81 notes · View notes

walkswithmyfather · 8 months

Text

‭‭1 Timothy‬ ‭1:12‭-‬17‬ (‭GNT‬‬). “I give thanks to Christ Jesus our Lord, who has given me strength for my work. I thank him for considering me worthy and appointing me to serve him, even though in the past I spoke evil of him and persecuted and insulted him. But God was merciful to me because I did not yet have faith and so did not know what I was doing. And our Lord poured out his abundant grace on me and gave me the faith and love which are ours in union with Christ Jesus. This is a true saying, to be completely accepted and believed: Christ Jesus came into the world to save sinners. I am the worst of them, but God was merciful to me in order that Christ Jesus might show his full patience in dealing with me, the worst of sinners, as an example for all those who would later believe in him and receive eternal life. To the eternal King, immortal and invisible, the only God—to him be honor and glory forever and ever! Amen.”

“Grace on Display” By In Touch Ministries:

“Even the worst of sinners is welcome to receive God's extravagant mercy and love.”

“Paul described himself as the worst of sinners and as someone to whom the Lord had expressed His favor and love (1 Tim. 1:16 NIV). How could he be both? That’s the power of God’s grace: Though sinners, we become spiritually alive and receive a new purpose for living.

After Paul met the Savior, he cared deeply about those who did not yet know God, and he also desired to help Christians grow in their faith. For the rest of his life, he shared the gospel, encouraged fellow believers, and met the needs of others. He acted as God’s ambassador to the Gentiles, and his letters became biblical wisdom for future generations.

Through the transforming work of the Holy Spirit, Paul began to display more and more Christlike qualities. In his writings, we see compassion, great humility, and appreciation for God’s blessings. Only the grace of God could enable a well-educated and influential man to count all his credentials a “loss in view of the surpassing value of knowing Christ Jesus my Lord” (Philippians 3:8).

Paul’s life is an example of God working through sinners and transforming them. The Holy Spirit seeks to do the same for you and me. Are you allowing God’s favor and love to work within you?”

[Photo by Jametlene Reskp at Unsplash]

58 notes · View notes

snailqueenforever · 1 month

Text

Bill Cipher VS a Dill Pickle

Bill Cipher drifted through the boundless void between dimensions, his singular eye scanning the vast multiverse with a weary disinterest. The thrill of warping reality and twisting minds had begun to dull after countless eons. The chaos that once fueled his existence now seemed monotonous. He craved something new, something so mundane that he could delight in turning it into something bizarre. That’s when he saw it: a small, unassuming deli nestled in the heart of a quiet little town, in a dimension that had somehow evaded his notice until now. The place was quaint, almost laughably ordinary, with a red and white striped awning. "Bob’s Deli" was painted in neat, cheerful letters on the window. The sheer normalcy of it sparked a wicked idea in Bill’s twisted mind.

“This is perfect,” Bill cackled, his voice reverberating through the void like a sinister echo. “Let’s see what happens when chaos comes to lunchtime!”. In a flash of yellow light, Bill zipped through the dimensional rift, materializing in the center of the deli. The bell above the door jingled as if announcing his arrival, though no one seemed to notice the sudden appearance of a floating triangle with an all-seeing eye.

The deli was cozy, with wooden shelves lined with jars of pickles, fresh loaves of bread, and various condiments. The counters displayed platters of meats and cheeses, meticulously arranged by Bob, the middle-aged owner with a kind smile and an apron that bore the marks of years of service. Bill floated lazily over the shelves, his eye zeroing in on the rows of pickle jars. Each one was filled to the brim with crisp, tangy pickles. Their briny liquid catched the overhead lights and gave the display an almost magical sheen. The pickles varied in size and shape. Some tall and slender, others short and stout…but all were carefully labeled, as if they were precious treasures to Bob, rather than mere snacks. As Bill inspected the jars, his eye was drawn to one pickle in particular…a plump, green gherkin that seemed to occupy nearly the entire jar. Its surface was glossy, and it looked as if it were glowing with some inner vitality.

Bill clapped his skinny black hands together. “At last!” he thought to himself. “I’ve found a pickle worthy of my time!”. He hovered closer, his voice dripping with mischief. “Hey there, green guy! You’re looking… fresh. Hows about we have a little chat, you and me?”. The pickle, shiny and briny, remained still in its jar. Its bumpy surface reflected the light of the quant deli, but it offered no response. No sudden burst of life, no sprouting of arms or legs, no squeaky voice acknowledging Bill’s presence. Bill’s eye twitched, a flicker of irritation crossing his face. “Come on, don’t be shy. I’m Bill Cipher! Dream demon, master of chaos, all that jazz. You’ve probably heard of me, right?”.

But the pickle stayed silent, its green form utterly unresponsive. It was just… a pickle.

Bill floated even closer, scrutinizing the pickle with suspicion. “Okay, maybe you’re one of those strong, silent types. That’s cool. But you’ve got to have something to say. What’s it like being a pickle? Any deep thoughts on life in brine?”. Still, the pickle offered nothing in return. It sat there, looking like every other pickle that had ever existed. It was completely indifferent to the fact that it was being addressed by a reality-bending entity. Bill’s patience, such as it was, began to fray. He circled the jar, tapping it with a spectral finger. “You know, I only come around every one hundred years,” Bill began to lie. “I only ever appear when one of the greatest minds of a generation needs a muse. And YOU, dear former cucumber, are that greatest mind! So, what do ya say? Want me to be your muse?”

But the pickle didn’t so much as twitch.

“Look, you gherkin,” Bill snapped, his frustration boiling over his lie. “I can give you anything! Freedom from the jar, endless adventures, maybe even a spot on a gourmet platter! But you gotta do something in return for me”. The deli carried on with its normal routine, customers coming and going, oblivious to the cosmic drama unfolding in their midst. Bill, however, was fixated on the silent pickle, refusing to let it win whatever strange game this was. He tried everything, such as snapping his fingers to animate it, making exaggerated gestures…he even offered bribes of fame and fortune. But the pickle remained stubbornly non-verbal.

Finally, Bill sighed, floating back in reluctant defeat. “Alright, fine. Be that way. You might just be the most stubborn pickle I’ve ever met.” He paused, then added with a grudging hint of respect, “That’s kind of impressive”. With that, Bill turned away, leaving the pickle to its jar. As he floated off to find some other form of amusement, he couldn’t resist glancing back one last time, half-expecting the pickle to spring to life. But it didn’t.

Bill looked down at the deli’s linoleum floor, defeated. “It’s moments like these where I miss Sixer most of all” he sighed to himself. And with a final, echoing snap of the fingers, Bill zipped off into the chaos, leaving behind a simple, unassuming cucumber preserved in brine…completely impervious to the madness that was Bill Cipher.

#meme #gravity falls #bill cipher #the book of bill #gravity falls bill #gravity falls fandom #fanfiction #gravity falls fanfiction

20 notes · View notes