#and at the same time‚ you have the right‚ perhaps even the duty‚ to express your appreciation for the things that make your day better

[azullumi]

you’re a mermaid in distress and he’s here to… save you? | featuring: phainon, anaxa, and mydei x mermaid!reader | fluff, alternative universe, bullet-form narration, pirate!mydei, knight!phainon, scholar!anaxa, i mean he somewhat already is, mentions of blood and wounds, fem!pronouns are used for the reader, not proofread | wc: 4.7k

note — today i had a beautiful dream of pirate mydei thus this was born, and gosh it got long my head hurts… (500 words each character, i said, it will be short, i said)

PHAINON; FREEDOM TASTES LIKE BLOOD ON YOUR LIPS

The first time he sees you, you are listless—a ghost of salt and scales drifting in a gilded cage. Your fingers press against the glass, searching for a current that isn’t there. The expression on your face is etched into his mind, haunting him like a madman on his trail. You were clearly uncomfortable, restless, unable to adapt in the new environment you were forced to be in—who would? Your glass tank was nowhere similar to your home. The water reeks of chemicals, not brine; the fake corals are a mockery of the reefs you once knew.

In this place, you were completely vulnerable and exposed to everyone. There was no place for you to hide. The decorations were not big enough to cover you up and the transparent walls allowed anyone to watch your every move—perhaps that was the intention. After all, you were captured and sold to a wealthy nobleman who was fascinated by your species and their ‘exotic beauty’.

The second time was when he was with the master, standing in front of your ‘home’, gawking at you with a grin on his face—all teeth and greed. You were still the same except much worse, lingering on the same spot he had seen you. “Pretty, isn’t she?” The master says, a sparkle in his gaze as he admires your every inch before he turns to look at the swordsman by his side. “You find her amazing, don’t you?” It seems he had mistaken Phainon’s tension for awe, and he hates it; there’s a bitter taste on his tongue and a tight feeling in his chest, especially more so when the brutish man mentions how he can’t have you.

As if you were some prized possession or doll for ownership. The thought alone angers him, his grip on the hilt of his sword never loosening.

A gem is tossed inside your tank, landing on top of your head, as the master speaks of how your species is particularly fond of such things: “Doesn’t that one make you happy?” The man croons, “So rid that ugly expression on your face. The guests wouldn’t wish to see such a depressing display.” How considerate, truly. 

Phainon doesn’t even ease from where he stands, from where he watches, and it frustrates him further that he’s bound to a position where there’s nothing he can do. He hates that he feels useless, that the chains of his responsibility and status tugs tightly on his neck, rendering him unable to reach you.

But surely there should be something, right?

Later that night, unburdened by his duty, he returned to where you were. This is the third time he sees you, and yet, you remain the same. The faint moonlight dimly alights your room, the silver casting its glow right at your display case. To think that they even thought of your display and where the light will hit. You’ll see him, lingering by the doorway, seemingly hesitant but when he catches your gaze, he steels his resolve and steps forward.

Phainon’s greeting to you is returned with a curious tilt of your head—this time, something different from your usual pensiveness flickers in your expression at the sight of a cautious man who bears the wave in his eyes. At least you don’t look too wary or scared in front of him (he’d hate himself if you feared him too). He takes this as a good sign to continue… with whatever his plan is. It’s practically non-existent, he just wanted to come here and see you. At this point, he’s no less different to his master; he can’t help the sigh that escapes him.

You swim toward him—only a bit—and there’s something tentative in the way your fingers press against the glass, like you're waiting to see if he’ll hurt you too. For a few moments, the two of you have this staring contest held in pure silence, until the words come out of his mouth before it gets lost in the crevices of his mind: “Are you lonely?” And you blink; the only answer you could ever give him was a tilt of your head downwards and the faintest nod as if telling the truth was a sin itself, as if admitting to yourself and to someone that you’re lonely was a blasphemy.

And maybe that’s what does it. The softness in your response, the way you fold yourself smaller like you’re trying to disappear, like you’re tired of being seen and never known (and it’s cruel how the nobles, how these terrible humans, had never tried to know your name or see past your scales). It twists something deep in him like a scar being carved open, left bleeding on the edges.

From then on, Phainon returns—always at odd hours, always in secret. He comes with stories: half-truth about the stars, lies dressed up as tales about heroic escapades and adventures, and anecdotes about his beautiful, exceptional horse, who he claims is more honorable than most men. Other times, he just sits. Talks. Mostly about things that don’t matter like how he’s a bad swimmer, how he grew up close to the wheatfields of his hometown, and how he came to be in this state, wielding a sword to protect the very master you detest, who he also detests. There are also poorly-made jokes and horrible-executed magic tricks, but it makes you laugh anyway, bubbles spiraling up around your face, and oh, how lovely it is that he wants to make you do it again.

He brings things: little, inconsequential things he pockets from the outside world—dried seaweed snuck into your tank that he had bribed one of the servants to drop inside after seeing how poor your diet is, a smooth stone that feels like it remembers the tide, a ribbon the same color of his eyes to tie and style your hair with when you are bored. But sometimes, he comes with silence, with a solemn look on his expression, and with blood on his mouth. And in those moments, he will always ask the strangest questions but never seek for answers, only giving you the smallest of smiles.

You never ask him to stay longer, but he always does.

However, it all falls apart on the night of a gathering. Nobles had arrived in finery too expensive for their personalities—loud laughter and strong perfume that reeks in the halls. Their eyes drag over your form like it’s something they own; they found amusement in the scared expression on your face and how you got startled when one of them knocked too hard against the glass. Stationed by the door, lips pressed tight, Phainon’s hand shakes against the hilt of his sword.

The master gestures at you like you’re part of the decor: “She’s a lovely thing, making the whole room feel alive when she’s simply just swimming. Such a shame that’s all she can do.” Like a bowstring taut too far and tight, something inside of him snaps.

When the night has fallen deep and the halls are empty with the absence of people and their mockery, you hear footsteps, heavy, against the eerie quiet. Phainon appears but you can sense that there is something wrong—his boots and clothes are stained with crimson, rust-brown in streaks, and his sword, unsheathed, drips with something of the same color. His eyes, usually calm like an undisturbed lake, are stormed over. The room was still dim, moonlight draped over his surroundings like silk, casting shadows on his already dreary face.

“I couldn’t find the key,” he says, voice trembling. “So, I’m making one.” He tells you to stay back as he raises his sword and with a swing, the glass cracks once. Twice. And finally, on the third strike, it shatters completely. Water comes rushing out in a torrent, spilling like a scream, the sea reborn inside a noble manor. You’re unsure whether this is salvation or something worse, but the man kneels in front of you, wraps you in his cloak, and touches your cheek like you’re made of something holy. “Please hold on to me,” his voice is nothing but gentle and tender, 

Your prison fades behind him as he runs through the darkness of the night like something possessed, arms heavy with you, but he never stops. Even if the torchlights appear and blink like the stars above you, even if the shouting grows louder in each second. And when the cliff looms ahead, he doesn’t hesitate to jump, murmuring an apology close to your ear that tangles in the wind’s roar.

(It was as if he had planned this from the very start, the route carved and drawn deep in the corners of his mind, waiting for the right moment.)

The sea swallows you whole and Phainon nearly drowns. You had to drag him to the shore, the knight—once bore glory and status, reduced to a man in drenched clothing and tarnished honor—gasped and coughs, half-conscious, bleeding from his knuckles and some parts of his skin. But he grins at you as if he had finally lost everything—except the one thing that he truly cares for. “Told you,” he rasps in broken breaths, “Protector. Occasional entertainer and magician. Bad swimmer.”

You laugh, the same one you’ve shown him, except it’s clearer and livelier compared to when you were inside your glass cage, and he feels like a little boy seeing the sun after a long time. And perhaps, it was the rising dawn on the horizon and the tide’s sweet hum, but you kiss him—like freedom on your tongue, a wind that gently caresses you, and the sea on your lips. It’s soft like a prayer; an affection that the skies would never understand.

And when you part: “Thank you,” you whisper in the language only the deep remembers and though he may not understand, he knows, and he smiles, patting your head. However, you must go now, even if it pains you to leave and forget the warmth of his skin because it is not safe here and it will never be.

This was fine, it was fine.

You’ve made a promise that you’ll come back to him, after all.

ANAXAGORAS, ALL ABOUT MERFOLK 101

Anaxa—or Anaxagoras—is a man of passion and knowledge, that is definite. 

He stumbles upon you by chance, or perhaps by fate despite never believing in it, injured and unconscious by a cove he frequents during his night walks. Moonlight had fractured its surface, silvered shards dancing over your scales—each one a fleeting star in the dark. He wades in, dragging you a little deeper (you were heavy that’s for sure), so that no one else will spot you. 

His fingers, ink-stained and calloused, hover above the gash in your tail, hesitant as if touching a relic. Armed with some information on basic medicine and of your species (sourced from rather not-so credible books and papers), he manages to tend to your wounds enough that it looks… somewhat acceptable-looking in a way that it will really help you heal. Though his bandaging is precise, it is inelegant—too tight here, too loose there—and he simply settles with that despite his frown suggesting otherwise. He was not a healer nor a medical student.

Not long after, you rouse from your sleep. Your vision swims as the searing pain overwhelms you. You first see a ceiling of jagged rock, the scent of salt and crushed herbs thick in the air. Then, a shadow moves from right beside you—a man, human, and you immediately panic though useless when the stranger spoke: "Do not thrash." The command is sharp, but the voice is wrong: guttural, clumsy in all its parts. "You are... safe. Ish."

Mer-tongue, but a butchered version of it as if he was chewing rocks. You’re not sure whether to be insulted with how poorly they are spoken or amazed because it’s a human speaking it.

You blink up at him—tall, seemingly gaunt like he could be blown away with a wind’s kiss (an exaggeration, but he really does look like it), and one eye hidden behind an intricately-designed patch. The other glints like a blade in the moonlight. He kneels before you, a hand held out not to touch but to display as he introduced himself: "Anaxagoras," he says, tapping his chest. Then, slower: "Ahn-ax-ah-gor-as." Like you’re the one struggling with language. You say it, syllables much clearer, flowing smoothly than his. He does not take this as an offense, but rather, he’s amused that he’s able to converse with you.

He tells you of how he simply stumbled upon you and treated your wounds, and it seems to have worked seeing that you’re not dead. “You will not die. Probably.” You wheeze—a weak laugh or a protest, even you’re not sure. Although he mistakes it for something else, a mermaid’s dying breath or whatever that made him command you: “Breathe.” It’s sharp but concern clings to it. "I do not want your corpse." Then, switching to his native tongue when Mer-words fail: "You are valuable. Alive."

You flinch and he does not notice the fear that strikes your face. His eyes narrow and he sighs, softening his words this time: “You have something that I want.” Of course. Humans always want something. Typical; you had to hold yourself back from rolling your eyes, but you did raise your eyebrow at him. “What could I possibly—” 

“Information.” He cuts you off, taking out the journal he had kept hidden underneath his clothes. "Your people’s creation myths, the moment your kind first understood mortality, your understanding of time. Anything—” His voice falters and grits his teeth, as if forcing out the next words: “—to disprove the idiotic texts claiming mermaids simply weave moonlight into their songs.” 

He was no linguist nor doctor, but he sure was a scholar in a mad pursuit of answers to his questions, and to disprove the narrative and lies falsely weaved into your species. You tilt your head at him, "Do humans think we’re just fish with pretty voices?" He does not entertain your question, waiting for your answer to his somewhat one-sided proposal, and you sigh. “Fine. But you bring me land-food tomorrow. The red fruit with seeds.”

And that’s where it begins—fate playing its cruel game of tangling the souls of yours and his.

You’ve established the cove as your meeting spot. It’s become some sort of your ritual—every day before the sun sets you resurface from the waters only to see him already waiting for you, idly sitting or writing down something in the same journal he uses to record everything with. You’ve joked of stealing it and dumping it into the waters once, but the look you got from him immediately shot the idea down and sealed your mouth shut.

Day one. He brought you the promised pomegranate but you ended up making a mess out of it. In your own defense, the skin of it was hard and tough, nothing like you expected. On that same day, you taught him the word for ‘sweet’. Day seven. He brings you some oranges in exchange for your beliefs, if any exists. You tell him of the moon, and scorn him for bringing you such a sour fruit. He had to bring you mangoes the next day to appease you. Day twenty-one. He brought you books, one that brings stories and illustrations. Fascinated, you sing him a song that praises the sun. And the days go on and on, until it turns into weeks, until it turns into months, and eventually a year.

Although there are some days where he ‘forgets’ his journal and spends it watching you draw on sand, listening to your voice. At those times, his inquiries are more often directed to you rather than about you.

Over the thread of time, you cannot really deny that the two of you had gotten close; from what were awkward, somewhat one-sided conversations of just him giving you something and immediately asking for knowledge in return, to this—softness laced into your banter, lingering too close to one another, the tide whispering against the rocks as if keeping your secrets, his fingers no longer hesitating before brushing against your wrist, your laughter no longer guarded but bright and unburdened, the space between your world and his shrinking with every shared moment.

“Say it, scholar.” You grin, sharp. “Or do you not know the word for ‘please’?” He clicks his tongue at you, the sound as dry as parchment. "I know many words for 'please' in dead languages. Your dialect's inflection is confusing and inconsistent."

You laugh, the sound bubbling up like seawater over stones. "Truly arrogant. For someone who still says 'hello' like he's choking on a shell, you ask such big questions, don’t you?” and you don’t fail to notice how Anaxa's jaw clenches. "This is a fair exchange. I've brought you"—he gestures to the collection on the rocks—"texts of all kinds, fruits that don't grow beneath the waves, and the coordinates of three freshwater springs that you have insisted on knowing.”

"But you’re lonely.” You say and the realization comes suddenly, but feels obvious now. "All these questions... you just want someone to talk to." I mean, what kind of man would spend nearly half of their day trying to trade knowledge, bargain about trivial things, and yaps about whatever he could think about as if you were some kind of diary, and think it’s nothing but a desire for company?

While he is studying you, learning new things about you, you, too, are doing the same.

For a moment, the only sound is the tide pulling at the shore before he scoffs at the idea you have brought to him. “Ridiculous. You must know that a claim such as yours should—” But before he even gets through halfway of his sentence, you interrupt him (and you know he hates it when he gets interrupted, but you still do anyway). “Then, do you like me?”

“That is irrelevant.” He quickly answers and you laugh: “So, you don’t deny it?”

“You’re delusional,” he says in your language, but the red that faintly dusts his ears tells otherwise. “You’ve butchered it again, geez.” And though he frowns, there's something almost pleasing in the way he scrawls your correction in the margins. Anaxa finds it that you’re the type to command rather than ask, just like right now: “Stay until the sun sets.”

He had told himself many times that it’s just curiosity—the way his pulse stutters when you mimic his laughter and teases the way he pronounces his words that it bleeds into another meaning. Not fondness. Never fondness. But he stayed even when the sun had bled red and sunk into the horizon, even when you had tugged him into the waves, even when you had dragged him deep into the depths, his lips sealed with yours.

And so the bargain continues—not as scholar and subject, but as something far simpler than the gods could ever comprehend. It endures like the silence during dawn and in how your laughter now lingers in the hollows of his ribs like a second heart. 

Two souls trading whispers where the sea meets the shore, while the tides keep count of all they cannot name—the weight of his gaze when he thinks you're not looking, the way your fingers brush against one another, the unspoken promise that tomorrow, and every tomorrow after, he'll still be waiting when you surface.

MYDEIMOS; LINGER IN THE SILENCE OF FOREVER AND NOTHINGS

In the pursuit of gold, or dinner, he found a mermaid.

You were caught by mistake, getting trapped in the nets was thrown into the waters after spotting a shadowy mass beneath the waves. You thrashed in it, tangled in the ropes like a stray minnow amid the day’s pitiful haul of flounder. Above you, the crew of pirates gawked, their faces slack with disbelief. 

What was thought to be something valuable—maybe a kraken (delusional), a shipwreck’s spoils (optimistic), or at least a tuna large enough to feed more than a dozen hungry pirates (desperate)—turned out to be something completely and utterly different.

One man pokes your tail with a rusty hook, yelping when you snap your teeth at him. A scrawny deckhand with a missing front tooth whistles: “We got a big catch today, boss!” He says, poking your tailfin with the toe of his boot. “Fetch a pretty price in port, eh?”

You’re trapped. You’ve got nowhere to run (literally). In their eyes, you’re practically a diamond waiting to be mined, a jewel in grubby hands.

You shouldn’t have gotten close to the water’s surface, you shouldn’t have been too curious, you should have stayed away, you begin berating yourself at the realization that you will most likely end up as a trophy or worse, soup.

“You’re scaring her.” A voice,gravel wrapped in velvet, came from behind them. The crew parted like tidewater before the moon, revealing who possibly is their captain: Mydei—you learned his name from one of the humans’ whispers—, a storm given a human shape. His presence is a brooding shadow, appearing before you clad in a mix of red, dark maroon, and gold, and his chest covered in crimson tattoos. He crouches, eye level with your trembling form.

For a moment, you expected a knife at your throat. You’ve braced for it even. But instead, he sliced the net open with a flick of his dagger. “Idiots,” he muttered under his breath as he worked on peeling the rope from your scaled hips, as he untangled you out of this mess. You’re confused, but still scared, and the group surrounding you appears to be dumbfounded. “Since when does the captain play nursemaid?” The comment does not fly past your ears and neither does for Mydei, but he ignores the gossiping lot.

This is when you see how the net’s ropes had bitten into your skin, leaving angry red lines. His touch was clinical, careful, but his thumb brushed your wrist where the fibers had bitten deepest, and you hiss. 

He’ll utter an apology and the word sounds foreign in his mouth. “You’re wounded.” And that was true. Blood had streaked your scales and your tail seemed to be limp, muscles protesting at even the thought of movement. When he has asked you if you can understand what he’s saying,  you nod your head and he exhales through his nose, relieved, then jerks his chin toward the horizon.

“Good. This stretch of sea is crawling with hunters. Pirates. Idiots who’d sell your teeth for a mere drink and with your state right now, you’re an easy catch for them.” His voice is low, matter-of-fact, but the truth of it coils cold in your stomach. Your kin had warned you of humans, of their dangers and how they had brought ruin to your fellowmen. “You’ll stay aboard. Until you’re not useless anymore.”

But no one had ever mentioned the ones who wear cruelty as if it were armor, only to reveal gentle hands beneath—they never spoke of storms with quiet eyes, of tempests that shelter and protect rather than bring destruction.

He lifted you—careful, slowly—into his arms, water dripping down his boots, blood staining the fabric of his clothes. The crew’s protests die mid-breath when Mydei levels them with a simple look. You were then hauled to a hastily emptied storage room, lining up a tub that was dumped with buckets of water inside. It’s cramped. Claustrophobic. A far cry from the endless blue you call home, but you bite your tongue. When the alternative is bleeding out on a pirate’s deck, you’ll take the tub.

Against your very expectations, however, the days that you have spent on this ship were not the least uncomfortable, if you put aside your cramped space. The crew members who had scared you at first were actually a bunch of nice people who often perform tricks to entertain you and make you laugh. Although you had bitten one of them when they called you ‘the captain’s pet’.

They bother you nearly every day, either barging into the room to chatter and ramble while they sit on the floor, whether drunk or not, or carrying your tub with you still in it to somewhere else in case you’re sick of seeing the empty wooden walls—so you won’t forget the sun.

They carve chess pieces of terrible forms that it’s hard to discern the rook from a pawn so you can play (you cheat; Mydei catches you and flicks your forehead). One brings a stolen mirror, fragile-looking and probably would shatter in pieces with a small drop if you’re not careful enough, to “fix your boredom, milady”—until Mydei confiscates it: “She’ll hurt herself with the damn thing”. Albeit he’ll return it to you soon after when he sees the pleading look on your face. And that’s not all as the youngest cabin boy sneaks in at dawn to whisper gossip, but flees when Mydei’s shadow darkens the doorway. “Out, it’s too early in the morning to bother her.”

It’s not hard to fall into their routine, especially that they seem to have adopted you like a stray cat. 

Your moments with Mydei and him alone were never meaningless, too. And over the course of time you have spent with him as he always has, and I mean always, visit you every night, you’ve learned three things: 1.) He enjoys pomegranate juice, 2.) He knows how to braid and style hair, 3.) He’s a gentle person.

Words between you and him were scarce. Though you can understand his language, you couldn’t speak it; he couldn’t decipher your words either. But the silence between you wasn’t empty—it was full, like measuring one’s words and gestures before they’re lost to the harsh waves. When he braided your hair, his hands would often linger. When you hummed old lullabies, his shoulders relaxed. The both of you were at peace just being near each other.

But the day will fall and the night will come, and this too, must come to an end—you must return to the waters. “Go home,” Mydei had said while he watched you move your already-healed tail up and down, though struggling a little in the tight space. As an act of rebellion, you decided to sink deep into the tub, but: “You know you can’t drown, right?”

Well, he earned a glare from you when you resurfaced. “This is not your home, fishy.” You know that. You’re not stupid, especially when the evidence is in front of you, covered in scales and glistening in iridescent hues. He can sense your hesitance, sighing: “You surely are more trouble than you’re worth.”

Eventually, after much water-splashing and stubbornness, you’re now being lowered overboard with a jolly boat. The crew lingers on deck, their usual raucous chatter muted—even the deckhand you bit sniffles into his sleeve. Salt spray stings your eyes, or maybe it’s something else. The ocean stretches before you, vast and familiar, but your tail feels leaden.

Mydei sits across you and helps you return into the gentle waves that yearn for your caress. The ocean embraces you like a long-lost limb, but for some reason, regret and something heavier weighs in your chest. But Mydei, ever so attentive, sees the grimness of your expression: “This is not goodbye.” He flicks water at you—something that you often do to him. “Those idiots will miss you.” He jerks his chin toward the ship, where the crew waves exaggeratedly. “So don’t be a stranger.”

He will, too, but you don’t need to know that. And with one last look, you leave and disappear into the darkness. Mydei lingers a little longer on his spot, watching, waiting, and seemingly wanting to see you once more, but he doesn’t, and so, he finally turns away, resigned to the very fate he is forced to take from the stars.

Weeks later, with a whimsical quest for treasure and drunken bet of finding one on a rumored place, the ship will find a chest of gold, gems, and everything that screams of value precisely where there should be nothing. Along with cheers  was a chorus of “See, I told you so!” and “I was right!”, but Mydei knows only one person capable of this—you, now seen perched on a rock, grinning. A ruby, the size of his fist, is thrown at him to which he catches, a smile flickering on his lips. “Show-off.”

© AZULLUMI. plagiarism of any form and type, stealing, copying, translating, reposting my works on other platforms is NOT permitted.

[affableramen]

yandere genshin men trying to make things right between you

angst, mildly dark themes ayato, neuvillette, pantalone, capitano, dottore, alhaitham

note: trying a new genre.

Neuvillette

Yandere Neuvillette kept forcing you into marriage after your relationship just got established. You asked him to give you some time to think over such radical and responsible change in life, but he was adamant to your pleads. He wanted everything here and now proven officially on the papers. You spent some nights crying because to think that such gentleman-like and solitary person like Neuvillette would force you into marital relationship was eerie. The desire to possess you officially seemed to blind him completely and he went from a loving gentleman to an almost insanely addicted man who did not accept a refusal.

It was your break-time at work when Neuvillette suddenly came up to you. It was odd at first - the judge putting away his duties to meet you seemed almost unbelievable, but remembering how assertive he was in the relationship with you it might have been close to the reality.

“Can I have a moment of your time, love?” He asked you, his hand not reaching to touch you but his gaze was heavy on your face.

“Of course.”

Not longer after the two of you were sitting in the cafeteria - a curious choice for a private conversation. Although you did not deny you seemed much more comfortable in a public place rather than face-to-face with him.

“About our marriage…” Neuvillette started, his fingers grazing over his glass of water.

“You already know my opinion”, you answered with no emotion. The time to play nice unfortunately came to an end.

But the next response from Neuvillette kind of gave you goosebumps:

“If I was too harsh on you, I beg of you to forgive me. I have a habit of grasping something dear to me too tightly, and I’m afraid that I hurt you more than I could possibly imagine”, he took a pause for a breath and gulped a sip of his crystal clear water. “I genuinely need to know whether or not you still harbour any pleasant feeling towards me?”

“What are you saying? Of course I do, Neuvillette—I admit you were unacceptably rough on me the past few weeks, but it would make me a poor lover if it were to stop me from harbouring affection to you.”

The judge sighed in relief, and then his expression became serious again.

“I would love nothing more than for us to marry, but I realise the circumstances of pushing you too much. Tell me, dear, if you no longer want to proceed in intimate acquiantance with me.”

You shook your head - seems like he was not hearing you. You then took his hand in yours and spelled it again, frankly:

“No, I want to be with you, wholeheartedly. And the marriage proposal, I shall accept it too.”

Pantalone

When Pantalone kidnapped you for no specific reason, days turned to weeks. You almost forgot about the existence of sunlight as he kept you there like a pretty little porcelain doll for his own amusement—or whatever his nasty reasons might have been.

The last time you tried to escape his gloomy, mysterious castle-like home, you were severely punished for your “bad behaviour”. Blood dripped down from your chin as you were sitting on the floor of a dark hollow room, chained and bruised by his henchmen. Perhaps he considered it too tacky to touch you with his own hands.

And then he entered. You didn't even want to look at his unapproachable, icy-cold eyes, and simply turned away, your eyes shut and hidden from him.

“How rough you look”, he said with his usual tone which was cold, but at the same time smooth like butter.

You were dehydrated and hungry, that’s for sure. You wanted nothing more than a warm fuzzy blanket and sweet tea, and forget this nightmare forever.

“When was the last time you had a proper meal?” He asked. He knew you never ate his food because you’d consider yourself indebted to him. And you did not want to take anything from this man.

Your face went deadly pale and bewildered when Pantalone dropped on his knees before you and started freeing you from your shackles. His hands were shaking wildly, you could witness how poorly he mastered the lockers due to his stress.

Yet without a single doubt, with no longer time to lose he wrapped his arms around your waist to carry you. His clothes were a little stained with the snow, and a bit of freezing touch made you shiver.

“I will never do this to you anymore. Forgive me. Please, forgive me.” His words that used to be spoken as an order now were slipped from his lips as a request. 

You were laid in the warmth of the sheets of your own home. The familiar surroundings brought you joy and comfort you never knew you’d forgotten so easily.

“My butler is cooking a dinner for you in your kitchen.”

He watched the whole time you were eating, guarding you and seeing how desperately you were filling your stomach up. When you finished eating, there was one loud slap—against Pantalone’s face, by your hand. In a normal situation, he would be so angry and furious that the earth would shake of his abhor. But now he was simply taking it.

"I know. I should never have treated you like this. I ignored your wishes and violated your privacy. I’ve done the worst crime to you—I took your freedom”, he touched the red mark blooming on his cheek from your unexpected punishment. “I wanted to obtain you so much that I ended up hurting you instead.”

Ayato

He was rich to his fingertips. In his world, the only thing he could not have, but wanted to, was you. You found yourself working as his secretary, aesthetically pleasing and always efficient. But Ayato was ruthless; he could never be satisfied, he was always unhappy. The requirements to you were growing day by day, and keeping up the standards seemed an impossible task. His moods were changing like a thunderstorm.

It was a regular day when you were performing your duties that you felt someone’s presence behind your back. Ayato was not exactly above lurking so he made his presence known after you turned to face him. He did not expect you to turn so rapidly and ended up with his breath tickling against your face.

“Y/N, I’m sorry. I have been too demanding and controlling. My actions driven by raw possessiveness inflicted undesirable effect upon you”, Ayato’s words died away, though the expression on his face became even more grim and grave. “You do not deserve such treatment, any of it.” 

You nearly dropped your working papers as you stared at him. Was this man really sincere? How long has he been overthinking about your relationship? It took you just a few seconds to gather your composure and strike him with an indifferent glare.

“It’s always so easy and costs no trouble for you, rich people. You just take what you want without considering either the outcome or other people’s feelings. You see people as things, belongings in your possession, and you never have enough.”

At that, Ayato became even more tense, his expression that was mainly seen by the most of people as sweet and gentle, now was an embodiment of darkness. Nevertheless he nodded to you.

“What should I do for you to forgive me? I’m not going to lie and say that I did not think about how harmful my attitude might have been to you for the past month. What think you? Do I even stand a chance?”

“Fat chance”, you chuckled under your breath. The laugh was almost too bitter rather than sarcastic.

Ayato took your hands in his, his black gloved thumbs rubbing against your skin slightly.

“You’re like a poison to me. A very addicting one. And the more I see you work for me, the more I want to have you by my side. Not just at a formal event…” he bit his pale pink lip for a moment. “I’m starting to feel as if I’d like to see you out of work circumstance, and the thoughts of such impropriety are enough to drive me utterly insane.”

You reciprocated the light squeeze that came from his hands, however yours was less obsessive and more gentle. 

“It is a very dangerous thought, Ayato.”

“Oh, I can be a very dangerous man. For you, that is.”

Capitano

You were walking in Capitano’s garden, feeling yourself like a beautiful bird in a golden cage, but in fact you were a princess in a beast’s castle. Once you saw his real face, you kept having nightmares about his skin rotting appearance. This man was scaring you to the bone, and every time you met him, although not very often, you felt how demanding and heavy the gaze of his icy blue eyes was.

You did not see him often, but once a while Capitano requested (no, ordered!) a private dinner with you. The rooms were dimly lit, his loyal butler making preparations to the highest standards as usual, and you - wearing the most luxurious of dresses you’d only be able to peek at in the past. But your face was the odd one as it beared no smile on it. You were gravely terrified by this man who had claimed you as his. And even though you slept in separate rooms, you could not brush the feeling as if he owned you; well, he kind of did, since you dwelt in his mansion. 

Per usual, you were having a dinner with him at about eight in the evening when Capitano finally spoke. His tone was filled with assertiveness and power, yet the way he was eating, the movements of his hands were elegant enough to remind you of an excellently-educated prince.

“Y/N, I need to speak to you.”

You shivered when you heard him, and you let go of the fork. The jingling sound spread across the room which put you even in an unnecessarily bigger predicament.

“Yes, sir?”

Capitano hummed - he put his utensils away and looked as if he was carefully choosing his words which was not a habit of his. This Harbinger often talked exactly what he thought and was known for his bluntness. Capitano never beat around the bush and was always straight to the point, and this was one of the personality traits of his that made you feel conflicted. It was both terrifying and worth of respect.

“I want you to stop being scared of me. I want you to see that there is more of me than a horriffic, ugly old beast.”

You gasped: did he just used those unflattering words to himself? It felt so odd and so frustrating.

“What feelings do you want me to harbour for you, given our unusual circumstances?”

There was a long pause before Capitano made a sip of his red wine and suggested the following:

“Affection is too much, but could you at least try to be friendly with me? Don’t you see—can’t you see how hard I’m trying to make your life with me less unbearable?”

Affection… friendliness�� is that what he really needs from you?—you think.

“I’m a prisoner here, I cannot imagine how I am supposed to show any warm feelings towards you. It would be fake and stupid.”

“Then make them not fake and stupid.” Capitano raised from the table and stormed out of the dining room, leaving you alone in the dim light of candles.

Dottore

You woke up on the plain lab bed, still restrained but this time your pain was drastically diminished. When you opened your eyes the lights did not cut your sight right away and you realised that the room was only dimly lit. You sighed in relief - perhaps he went on a break and you had a few moments of rest from his constant analysis and experiments upon your body.

There were a few tattoos on your hands but too small to even understand their meanings. Perhaps it was something from Zandik’s past that he decided to ruthlessly carve on you.

Your happiness and sense of relief did not last long though, as the man who called himself Doctor entered the room not exactly quietly. 

“Look who’s alive. I’m glad”, he wrote something on his notes, “very glad, even.”

“What are you going to do to me next? Turn me into… abomination?” You attempted to sound sarcastic even though all your being was screaming inside. “I’m pretty sure you have not gotten your fill yet out of me.”

Dottore abruptly stopped writing and dropped his journal on the lab desk next to you.

“I think we’re finished here.”

“What?”

“I said you’re free to go”, he cut your leather restraints with one rough motion that had a vibe of uncertainty of the soul.

You looked at your hands, your body cheered welcoming freedom, but at the bottom of your heart you were perplexed.

“But why?”

Dottore did not utter a single word more, with his face buried into his other records, he turned away from you completely ignoring your presence.

You found your clothes tidy and repaired on the chair, and put them on quickly. Upon escaping the place you saw that not a single Fatui agent was preventing you from leaving. You looked at the lab once more and a pang of strange kind of sorrow appeared in your heart. Perhaps, you should pay him a visit once you’re recovered? Or was it a bad idea?..

Alhaitham

The nerdy scholar was quite possessive and jealous. He had a very curious but rather depressive personality. You thought him a quiet man until one extraordinary and terrific experience. 

Alhaitham locked a man in the library for the whole night after he saw him giving you too much attention and you happily reciprocating him. An innocent friendly conversation seemed a blunt flirt to him. He could not bear the thought you having affection to someone else who was not him. When he saw you first he realised that he wanted you to see only him, and give all your attention to him. He craved to see you wanting his company, clinging to him or even agreeing to date him. But since his personality was too aloof and he never ever attempted to simply ask you out, but kept staring at you from the side, stalking unnoticeably and gather all information about you, you never had a chance to learn of his true feelings. Behind his obsession there had to be something, as such strong feelings never came out of nowhere.

Upon seeing you chat with that guy Alhaitham grew so furious that he almost not giving it a thought just slammed the door with the poor guy in the library and left him there for the whole damn night. Blinded by his jealousy, he did not even consider how you’d feel about that. The next morning you were perplexed by the sudden disappearance of your classmate, and once the library opening time came, the student was finally released.

“How could you do this to him? To anyone?” You asked Alhaitham; it did not take much time to learn whose fault was that.

“How could I?” He asked you back, his expression grave and unmoveable as if he were not interested in a single thing in the world. “How could you spend so much time with him? He’s a total jerk.”

“Judging by what you did the total jerk is you! How could you simply lock the person up? Are you insane?”

Alhaitham’s patience started to grow thinner. He squeezed his hands into the fists so hard that his knuckled turned snow-white.

“Are you stupid? You really don’t see how I feel about you? And you keep being so nice to everyone but me. You’re obviously ignoring me.”

Bewildered, yet you finally understood the root of the case. You stared at him for a few seconds before checking if anyone was near to eavesdrop. Luckily, there was not a soul around so you spoke honestly:

“If you wanted to woo me, endangering someone was not a good idea. You did something I deem unacceptable. And such unacceptable actions will only make me like you less, Alhaitham.”

Alhaitham leaned closer, his voice was a gentle whisper.

“Right? Then teach me to woo you properly. I’ll do thousands of attempts to win you over, no matter the cost.” You pressed your hands against his shoulders to prevent him from getting into closer proximity with you, and Alhaitham, although not completely willingly, but still backed off.

[vinnyvamppp]

pls pls make a part two for the nolan x fem viltrumite reader fic 🙏🙏🙏

The Replacement PT 2

Note: I didn't expect it to blow up, especially since Nolan x reader isn't popular (SURPRISINGLY?!), but this is the fourth request, so here you go! @xecres1cloud @loudloudsilly

Synopsis: When he calls you after weeks of silence and it isn’t just to fulfill a duty. It isn’t just to ensure the future of his legacy. Because by the time the night is over, he finds himself lingering instead of leaving... You both know he’s already lost.

Warnings: Cheating, Mentions of Smut (Isw the next part will have it), Shift in Family Dynamics, Pre-Invincible Timeline, Changes to Plot For Convenience, Drama, Childhood Friends, etc. Word Count: 2,533 Omni-Man/Nolan Grayson x Fem!Viltrumite!Reader

Nolan had been raised in the doctrine of Viltrum, bred for war like all of their kind, forged in the fire of planetary conquest. But even among their ranks, he had stood out—stronger, faster, sharper. A warrior of promise. One whose name would carry weight among their people. That was when he met you.

You had been assigned to the same planetary campaign. Two soldiers, two weapons in the grand design of Viltrum’s expansion. You had fought beside him, bled beside him, watched him slaughter entire civilizations with the same ruthless precision you had been trained to admire. And for the first time in his life, Nolan found himself looking at someone who truly matched him. You were equals in everything until you weren’t because Nolan was given Earth. And you were sent somewhere else.

It was never a true friendship. Viltrumites didn’t have such things but it was respect and understanding. So, this was doomed to fail. It had been weeks, you’d had come to terms that the man simply fell in love with pest he calls a wife. Until… the message came when you least expected it.

A simple transmission, frequency scrambled, his voice low and unreadable:

"Meet me. Midnight. The mountain."

No pleasantries. No explanation. Just coordinates and expectations.

And yet, when you arrived, hovering just above the jagged rock formations overlooking the city, he was already there standing near the edge, arms crossed, back turned to you as if deep in thought. The wind pulled at his cape, its billowing drawing further attention to him. "You took longer than I expected," you remarked, landing beside him. Nolan glanced at you, expression unreadable. "I had things to consider."

"And now?" You asked, his jaw tensing. “Now, I’ve decided." You felt something stir in your chest. Not surprise. No, you knew he would come to this conclusion eventually. What intrigued you was the way he looked at you when he said it. Not as a comrade. Not as a soldier. But as something else. Something that allured you unnaturally so.

"We’ll do this the right way," he continued. That brought pause. The right way? There was no right or wrong among Viltrumites. Only efficiency, only survival. Your lips parted to question him, but before you could speak, he added, almost awkwardly:

"Tomorrow. There’s a place in the city." A beat. His brow furrowed slightly, as if recalling something foreign. "A restaurant." You blinked. "A restaurant?" His expression hardened. "It’s where humans go before mating." You stared at him. Then, despite yourself, you laughed. "You’re taking me on a date?" His gaze flickered towards you. "Don’t say it like that."

"Oh, I’ll say it however I like," you teased, stepping closer before tilting your head. "Tell me, Nolan—how long did it take you to figure that out? Did you study human courtship? Read books, perhaps?"

His eye twitched. You knew you were getting under his skin, but you couldn’t help it. Nolan Grayson, a man bred for war, was attempting to romance you like one of these feeble Earth men. It was almost endearing.

His voice dropped lower, obviously irritated but with a firmness. "You said Earth made me comfortable—made me hesitate. I refuse to let that happen again." His fingers twitched at his sides. "This will be done efficiently. Properly. I will produce a stronger heir, but I will not have it feel… sloppy."

Your smirk widened. "So this is a mission, then?" He held your gaze for a long moment. "It’s necessary," He said.

"That’s not an answer."

His jaw tightened, but he didn’t reply.

Interesting.

You let the silence settle before finally exhaling through your nose, a sharp amusement flickering in your expression. "Fine, Nolan. I’ll humor you. We’ll do this your way. But I expect you to impress me." He scoffed. "I don’t need to impress you." You leaned in further, eyes meeting beneath the night's blanket. "And yet, here you are. Trying."

His glare was sharp, but beneath it, you could see something else. A crack in the foundation. A hesitation he hadn’t fully stomped out. And you would enjoy breaking it further.

The restaurant was small. Intimate, by human standards. Dim lighting, polished tables, the sound of distant conversations murmuring beneath soft, unfamiliar music. You sat across from Nolan Grayson, watching him attempt to play his part in this ridiculous human ritual. You had never seen him look so out of place.

His large frame nearly dwarfed the table, his hands too controlled, as if forcing himself not to cross his arms defensively. His usual confidence was there, but laced with awareness of the setting around him.

He had fought in wars, and conquered planets, and yet, you could see him struggling to sit in this chair as if unsure how to proceed at this moment. It was fascinating and almost hilarious.

"You look uncomfortable," you observed, sipping from the glass of wine the waiter had left. You had no intention of finishing it. Human alcohol was weak, but the act itself amused you. Nolan exhaled through his nose. "This is pointless."

"Then why are we here?"

His eyes flicked to yours. Something unreadable passed through them. He paused for a long moment, "Because I wanted to see if I could do it." You raised a brow. "Do what?" His fingers tapped once against the table, his expression somewhat displeased. "Live among them without forgetting what I am."

Ah. Now that was interesting.

"You’re adapting," you mused, tilting your head. "Becoming one of them." His glare returned instantly. "I am not one of them." Your head tilted at his response, its curtness sharp enough to cut through the atmosphere. "Then why did you bring me here?" His fingers twitched again.

You smirked. "Admit it, Nolan. You’ve become more like them than you’d like to believe. You thought this would be… appropriate, didn’t you? A way to control the situation. To keep it from being ‘sloppy.’" You leaned forward slightly, voice lowering. "But the fact that you even care about control proves you’ve already lost it."

He tensed, his jaw tight. But he didn’t deny it.

You let the silence stretch before leaning back again, swirling the wine in your glass. "It’s alright. I won’t tell the others." His eyes darkened. "Watch yourself." He warned, only causing you to grin, this authoritative side of him was rarely directed towards you. "Or what? You’ll take me on a second date?"

His scowl deepened.

Oh, you were going to enjoy this.

You felt your pulse quicken in response, but you didn’t let it show. You only smirked, tilting your head slightly. "What is it, Nolan?" He exhaled through his nose. His voice was lower when he finally spoke. "You think you know everything." Your voice lowered as your fingers ran the rim of your plate. "I know enough." His lips twitched—just barely and with chilling calmness, he said, "Then you know I always finish what I start."

The words sent a slow, thrilling pulse down your spine. You held his gaze for a moment longer before smirking. "Prove it." And just like that—whatever game he had been playing ended. Nolan stood abruptly, tossing a few bills onto the table without a second glance. He walked past you, heading toward the exit.

Following behind him, you watched his muscles tense through his shirt, his body language betraying his confliction almost as much as your emotions were. He could feel it—the slight shift in the air, the deliberate rhythm of your steps trailing just behind his own.

Something inside him tightened at the confirmation.

The moment he stepped outside, the cool night air hitting his face, he exhaled sharply. He was irritated—not at you, but at himself. At the entire ridiculous situation. What the hell had he been thinking? Taking you to a restaurant? Entertaining this absurd, human notion of courtship when you had already been willing from the start? He should have just handled this like a soldier, like a Viltrumite. “You’re angry,” you mused from behind him, amusement laced in your tone. Nolan scoffed, keeping his gaze fixed ahead. “I’m annoyed.” Your brow arched. “At me?” He sighed, “At this.” His voice came out lower than he intended, the frustration bleeding through. “This entire… process. This wasn’t supposed to be complicated.”

“Then stop making it complicated.”

Your words came with a quiet finality that made him halt mid-step. Slowly, he turned to face you. You had stopped just a few paces behind him, arms folded, watching him with that infuriatingly knowing look. You had baited him in that restaurant. You had pushed him, deliberately forcing him to see the cracks in his own logic. And now, here you were, waiting and calling his bluff. He stepped forward, voice dropping. “You think you’ve won.” Your smirk widened just slightly. “I know I have.”

A long pause.

Then, before he could rationalize it, before he could stop himself, Nolan closed the remaining distance between you and grabbed the back of your neck, crushing his mouth against yours. It wasn’t controlled. It wasn’t precise. It was rough. Frustrated. A mix of anger and something else—something neither of you were willing to name, but had always been deep rooted. But whatever this was, whatever game had been playing out between you for weeks… It had finally tipped over the edge.

His calloused fingers scraped against your neck. The hunger was there, simmering beneath the surface, his self-control slipping as his fingers tightened. The way his breath hitched when you pressed closer. When he finally deepened the kiss, it was warm and consuming, but never careless. He kissed you like he had all the time in the world, like he needed you to feel it, to understand the weight behind it. The weight behind what he was about to do. Nolan should have left an hour ago.

Maybe two.

He wasn’t sure anymore.

Time had always been a trivial thing for their kind—measured in centuries rather than fleeting moments—but tonight, it had slipped through his fingers entirely.

He stood at the edge of the ridge, breathing in the cool night air. The stars stretched endlessly above him, the faint hum of distant city lights flickering below, his barely clothed body shimmering dramatically. But the only thing he was focused on was you.

You were still catching your breath beside him, skin still warm from where he had gripped you too tightly, his thumb unconsciously brushing over a fading red mark on your arm. Neither of you had spoken in the past few minutes, content to let the silence settle between you like an unspoken understanding. Even if you had your doubts, perhaps your relationship with your ex- husband wasn’t as fruitful as preconceived. Nolan now had a softness in bed, one he surely adapted from being with that human, and one that made you feel more than a Viltrumite… it made you feel special. Only because it was him. You both had riddled one another in kisses, nothing to get caught, but surely more than intended, barely breaching the child bearing process to your liking.

As if reading his thoughts, you exhaled a quiet laugh. “You’re still here.” Nolan tensed. The words were simple, but the meaning behind them wasn’t. He should have been gone already. Should have returned home, slid back into his life like nothing had happened, just as he had so many times before. This was your third meeting now, each time you two explored further.

But instead, he was lingering. His jaw tightened. “I lost track of time.” You hummed, tilting your head slightly as you studied him. “That’s unlike you.” He didn’t respond, he wasn’t sure how. Because the truth was, it was unlike him. It was unlike everything he had been trained to be, to be calculating, disciplined, never indulgent. And yet, here he was. Still with you.

When he should have been somewhere else.

When he should have been with—

The buzzing of his phone shattered the quiet. Both of you froze. Nolan turned it over in his palm, staring at the screen as the name Debbie lit up the night. You didn’t move, didn’t push, but he could feel your presence beside him, watching. Waiting.

His grip tightened around the device. The vibration seemed louder than it should have been, rattling through his bones. He could answer it and he should. But for the first time in his entire life… he hesitated. The moment soon stretched just long enough for the call to go silent. You inhaled softly, then, with a slow, deliberate motion, reached forward—your fingers brushing the edge of his hand, barely a touch, but enough to send a ripple of something dangerous through him. “Are you going to call her back?”

Nolan swallowed, his throat suddenly dry. He knew what you were doing—letting him make the choice. Not pushing, not forcing, just watching. Observing as you always had. Letting him realize it for himself. Slowly, his thumb hovered over the screen. Then, deliberately he pressed decline. Turning away as he returned to be with you.

A low, satisfied hum left him as he finally leaned back, eyes dragging over you like he was memorizing the sight. Clearly, pleased with his work. His hand traced the curve of your thigh absentmindedly before tightening, fingers pressing just hard enough to make you shiver. Then, with that smirk, the one that always meant trouble—he exhaled a quiet chuckle.

“You look exhausted,” he mused, voice laced with amusement. His thumb stroked lazily over your skin. “Guess I shouldn’t expect much fight from you next time.” Slowly, you exhaled through your nose, a brow raised. "Oh?" You shifted purposefully to make him doubt himself. "You think too highly of yourself, Nolan."

Debbie stared at her phone, brows knitting together in quiet concern as the call ended without an answer. That was… unusual. Nolan always answered. Even when he was in the middle of something, even when he was too far away to get home quickly, he always let her know. She glanced at the clock. 3:27 AM. A small pit formed in her stomach. She set the phone down, exhaling slowly. He’s fine, she told herself. He’s Omni-Man. If something had happened, I’d know. Even so, she laid back down, staring at the ceiling, unable to shake the unease curling around her ribs. Nolan could feel something shifting in his home.

Debbie hadn’t changed. She was still the same, still trusting, still blind to what was happening behind her back. But Mark? He was beginning to watch him. At first, it had been subtle. A hesitation before responding, a lingering glance when Nolan would return home. But tonight, when he finally walked through the front door, hours later than he should have, Mark was already there.

“Where were you?”

The words were casual, tossed out in passing, but Nolan knew better. He could hear the edge in them, the underlying suspicion. He barely looked up from the newspaper in his hands. “Working.” Mark leaned against the kitchen counter, arms crossed. “Huh. That’s weird.” Nolan finally glanced at him. “Weird how?” Mark shrugged. “Just… didn’t see anything on the news about it.”

The statement hung between them.

For a brief moment, Nolan considered giving a real explanation. Just something to satisfy the boy’s curiosity before it turned into something worse. Control the situation. Nolan’s eyebrows furrowed just slightly, and his voice dropped into something heavier. “I don’t need to explain myself to you, Mark.” The words landed exactly as intended.

Mark stiffened, lips pursed into a thin line before finally nodding. “…Right.” He pushed off the counter and left the room without another word. Nolan exhaled slowly, this was getting dangerous. He felt guilty for misleading Mark, he was his child after all. And yet, when night fell, when the house grew quiet again… He still left. Still went back to you. Again. And again.

PART THREE

[aurorasgate]

falling asleep on his shoulder

sephiroth (pre nibelheim) x reader with no pronouns used

fluff + mutual pinning

i love him so much y’all🫠

“alright genesis, you’re up next.”

a yawn follows your words as the man himself stands from his chair on the other side of the room and heads for the door, saying something that doesn’t quite meet your ears. you can barely keep your eyes open and it seems your exhaustion has started to spread to your other faculties. you try to shake off the sleepiness that is practically engraved in your bones at this point and refocus on the large, too bright, screen in front of you. 

the outdoor landscape of rocky hills and tumble weeds fades back into training room one, the metal walls replacing the blue sky from the simulation as angeal puts his sword on his back and a few moments later, genesis enters the room with a cocky smile. 

you turn the page of your notebook and scribble down his name on the next sheet of paper so you can keep track of their evaluations and jot down notes, a task you’ve been given for all soldier classes and has kept you beyond busy, without much sleep or time for your normal duties. it didn’t help that you weren’t quite used to being with the second and third class soldiers either, they were a far more rowdy group than first class and well.. none of them were the soldier you wanted to be with the most.

the same soldier sitting by your side and radiating heat that was not helping your tired situation. but you didn’t move away from sephiroth either. not when you had been missing him more than you could admit outloud and certainly not after he had sat right next to you out of all the places in the observation room of his own accord. a sickly hopeful part of you wondering if perhaps he had missed you too.

at first you weren’t sure you’d be able to make it through these evaluations when sephiroth's broad frame sat by your side and captured all of your attention, your heart beating so loudly you swore it was echoing in the room and mortifyingly would not die down before the others got here. but he had always affected you in many ways and even when your heart had finally quieted, it continued to flutter and skip beats with every word he speaks, every waft of his scent through the close space between you.

you jump in surprise when his long, skilled fingers are suddenly covering up the page of your notebook, your pen stopped between the leather of sephiroths middle and index fingers, your hand aching to drop your things all together and lace your hand in his. a request you firmly and regretfully deny. 

“are you feeling alright?” he asks, his tone with a lace of worry that makes you think he had asked already and you hadn’t heard him.

“oh- yeah!” you turn to smile up at him with energy you don’t really have but it falls into something sheepish when his brows knit, mako eyes studying you and his beautiful lips turn downwards slightly in an expression you know means he doesn't believe you. letting out a tired laugh you admit defeat, “all of you soldiers are such a handful, that’s all. but maybe i should be used to it by now thanks to you three.”

he chuckles at your teasing and you can feel the heat it blooms within your chest quickly spreading to your cheeks and ears. though some part of it isn’t actually teasing, working so closely with these three you know just how much they are too but they’re a handful you don’t mind. 

tearing your gaze from his, you hope he doesn’t notice your flustered state while you shift in your seat to get ready for an impatient genesis to start, determined to remain awake and finally finish these evaluations.

“after this you should get some rest.”

“i’ll be okay,” you answer sweetly, not wanting him to worry.  “i’m really not that tired,” you don’t know who you’re trying to convince with those words, yourself or him, but it really didn’t matter how true it was, not when you had so much work to do. leaning forward you press the intercom button. “whenever you’re ready genesis.”

in the corner of your eye you watch sephiroth fold his arms and cross his legs, facing the screen now turning into another scenic desert with half destroyed buildings. you try not to let him distract you as you settle back into your seat, taking in a deep breath that has your eyes begging to close when hints of leather and geranium fill your nose and a sense of comfort washes over you.

quickly sephiroth notices your word betraying you like he knew they would. only minutes into genesis’ battling fiends and the movements of your pen grow slower, a bit messier in its strokes. he hadn’t been paying any attention to the screen, he hadn’t been even when it was angeals showing off his skills, and though it felt very obvious to him that he was staring, something he found himself doing quite often with you, you hadn’t seemed to notice.

as the minutes pass by, your pen eventually stops entirely, causing sephiroth to shake his head with a small grin, remembering your claims of not being tired that was obviously a lie. before he can make any movements or decisions on if he should wake you, he feels the weight of your head against his shoulder and for several moments he’s frozen in place, his body stiff, the air stuck in his lungs as he can only stare at you and feel thankful he had yet to adorn his armor over his long black coat.

you look so delicate and lovely in this state with your cheek squished against him, a peaceful expression on your face that he wishes he could keep on you forever. one he hoped to see on you more often, and maybe even because of him.

there’s a lump in his throat, for more reasons than he knows where to start. you’re like nothing else he’s seen in this world; warm like a ray of sunshine after a long rainy battle but as captivating and beautiful as the moon and as unattainable as the stars. deserving of more than he knows how to give and yet you look so.. content and without worry resting on him in a way that makes his chest swell.

when his body movements return to him, he swallows that lump down and takes a shallow breath, forcing himself to try to relax because despite how foreign this was to him, he didn’t want it to stop. his shoulders drop slightly and he feels you shift, freezing in his place, not even breathing when his eyes widen but never tear from you as he watches you stir, never fully waking and once again finding a comfortable spot on his shoulder.

sephiroth takes the notebook and pen from you with his opposite hand so it doesn't fall and wake you, keeping his eyes on your features both to be sure you aren’t disturbed by his movements and because he simply can’t look away. he is so enamored with you and only recently had he realized the truth of the feelings and emotions bubbling inside of him, ones he could no longer deny and feels himself crumbling to each passing day without seeing you as much as he’s used to. 

he recalls genesis saying something about distance making the heart grow fonder but it had left sephiroth aching in a way that he had never had before. it wasn’t like the slice of a blade through his flesh or a bruise that purpled against pale skin or needles poking into him but it throbbed just as consistently deep within his chest.

your presence was like a soothing balm to the uncomfortableness that had built up within him over the days without seeing you but your touch was the fuel that ignites his longing like the stars themselves are burning within his chest. he can feel their heat radiating throughout his every nerve, urging him to give in just a bit.

the clashing of genesis’ sword is nothing more than muted background noise to your steady breaths in his ears and mystic green eyes never leave your features but ever diligent in the tasks of protecting your sleeping self, he’s aware of the space around you.

like you’re something beyond precious, and to him you certainly are, his gloved fingers caress your face with all the gentleness he can muster, brushing hair from your temple to behind your ear, his thumb swiping across your cheek in a slow back and forth motion.

he equally hates and is thankful for his glove that separates your skin from his and forces himself to pull away when he feels his heart begging for more, the normally tight hold on his control slipping an inch and threatening to take a mile if it meant there would be more of you.

the comfortable pressure of you against his arm and the weight of your head on his shoulder had to be enough. at least for now. instead he focuses on the tasks of watching over you like it was one of his most important missions.

you can’t help but snuggle into the comfortable position you find yourself in, nuzzling in closer to the warmth of it but through your sleepy haze you can hear the loud clash of a sword followed by a victorious laugh that reminds you of where you are, what you’re supposed to be doing right now, who you’re beside.

with enough force that you nearly stumble from the bench all together, you sit up and your still bleary eyes are met with vibrant emerald shimmering with flecks of mako and a waterfall of silver hair. 

“s-sephiroth!” your eyes focus but it does nothing to help settle you and even though you’re absolutely mortified that you fell asleep on his shoulder, you can’t take your eyes away from the soft expression on his face.

“sleep well?” his voice matches his soft expression and it stops your heart completely.

“i- i’m so sorry,” you can barely get the words out. you honestly aren’t even sure if you’ve said them when he only chuckles quietly and stands from his place next to you, your chest tightening in protest at the distance now between you.

it’s comfortably quiet as he puts his armor on over his shoulders, the clinking of metal that usually accompanies him the only sound in the room and you watch with bated breath as his already broad frame gets larger and he towers over you, still wearing that gentle smile that awakens the butterflies in your stomach and breaks them into a wild flurry.

“ready for me?” he asks and you can’t control the way your heartbeat stutters and your hand clench into fists simultaneously, begging you for him. 

comments & reblogs would be so greatly appreciated!<3 thank you for reading ♡

[logoleptic-since-06]

Jealous Jealous Jealous Boy

Content: GN!Reader, Fluff, Profanity, Arranged Marriage Fiance!Satoru, Not Proofread Word Count: 612

Satoru has spent his life full of chaos and revelry, his bedroom eyes luring in anyone he encounters whether he wishes to do so or not. His aversion to elite Jujutsu society events would only intensify as the years went by.

But tonight is different as he stands in front of the mirror, compulsively fixing his already perfect hair. Never in his life has he ever worried about looking anything less than perfect because, even to his own awareness, that’s all he’s ever looked. Perhaps there truly is a first time for everything, he supposes.

“You look like a dumbfuck,” Suguru drawls as he enters the room.

“What?” he replies absent-mindedly.

“Getting all decked up knowing you’ll meet your fiance,” he clarifies. “Dumbfuckery.”

Is that what he’s doing? Getting excited to meet someone? That can’t be right, can it? People were excited to meet Satoru Gojo, not the other way round.

–

At the party, it’s like his eyes have a mind of their own as they frantically search for you in the crowd and, not long after, land on you as you make your way through the crowd, the ring he gave you– not of love, but rather of duty– glistening on your finger of commitment. 

“Hey,” you greet as you reach him. 

“Hey,” he gives you a smile of courtesy, his heart fluttering as you look at him. Can Suguru be right? Is he falling for his arranged fiance?

–

As the night goes by, the two of you are drifted away by others, with Satoru being surrounded by some higher ups while you are occupied with–

Wait a second.

Who the fuck is that?

A man not far from your and Satoru’s age stands a little too close to you. Smiling as if to charm you, he runs a hand through his hair. Satoru feels his blood rush to his head as the scene unfolds in front of his eyes. He quickly braces himself, reminding himself that this may be a casual conversation between two acquaintances, that this arrangement to you is merely a contract signed between two families.

Yet, he can’t help but watch as you both drown yourselves in a seemingly interesting conversation, carefully scrutinizing the man’s body language until his eyes land on yours. 

The moment your eyes meet, Satoru notices your expression relax at the slightest as you subtly widen your eyes, as if to signal something to him. It takes him less than a second to understand what you’re trying to say. 

He walks over to the both of you and slides an arm around your waist, giving the man a charm inducing grin. He feels a sense of satisfaction when the man’s demeanour changes as he realises who he had been conversing with.

“Satoru Gojo, it’s a pleasure to meet you,” the man quickly says, nervousness spilling with every word.

“I’m sure it is,” he remarks, “And I see you’ve already met my fiance?”

The man’s eyes widen. “Y-yes sir, it was a pleasure talking to you, too,” the man tells you. You simply force a nod in return while suppressing an amused smirk.

The man almost stumbles over as he leaves and you let out an exasperated sigh. “He was so annoying,” you tell your fiance.

Satoru chuckles. “Yeah?”

“Yeah, I kept trying to ignore him and he would just not take the hint.”

Satoru’s heart swells and mind fills itself with fulfillment as he hears those words from you. Perhaps you both will share the same feelings towards each other by the time the vows are taken. And perhaps Suguru is right, it is dumbfuckery. But it is a sweet one at that.

[jellykyunnie]

˗ˏˋ Yandere! Sung Jinwoo x Best Friend! Reader ◛⑅·˚ ༘ ♡

ₓ˚. ୭ ˚○◦˚𝕊𝕦𝕟𝕘 𝕁𝕚𝕟𝕨𝕠𝕠˚◦○˚ ୧ .˚ₓ

・┆✦ Entry : 024 ✦ ┆・

‼️[ TW: stalking, obsession, gaslighting(?), gore, body horror, BLOOD, yandere Jinwoo au ]

‧₊˚ ☁️⋅ Cai Bot Link ♡𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ☾.

╰┈➤ ❝ [ Wherever you go, I'm always right there even if you try to hide ] ¡! ❞

"You're just imagining things" Jinwoo says, his nonchalant grey eyes glancing up at you. "You just don't sleep enough."

That's what he always says whenever you rant about the nagging feeling of several eyes watching you.

And you, being the stupid fool that you are— Believed his words.

Jinwoo is a smart and logical person, he's always able to make things just make sense.

So you never really questioned anything whenever he drops his opinion.

But of course, your instincts were never really wrong in the first place.

The itching terror crawling beneath your skin whenever you're alone, the weird chills tickling your spine when you walk in a dark place— It wasn't just your imagination.

The culprit?

He's staring right at right your face with those casual grey orbs.

Jinwoo has placed a bunch of shadows to trail you around, ten maybe 20,... Maybe. Who knows how many he has really placed?

Oh but one thing was for sure, there's at least two of his most powerful line of shadows safeguarding you.

Their duties were two simple orders: Make sure you are safe and sound and eliminate all forms of danger.

Eliminate All Forms Of Danger.

Sure, it could be just some bugs you're terrified of, or making sure you dont come across any dangerous plants along your way.

But their most important task was to murder anyone who tried too hard to come close.

Jinwoo was normally level-headed, he can take seeing you talking to someone else for at least 2 minutes, 5 when he's in a really good mood.

Past ten?

Hah.

'That fucker better start counting his hours' was the only thing ringing inside Jinwoo's head.

He was a jealous man, he'd be quiet but his gaze would grow darker. His ebony locks hovering over his steely gaze, his tongue pushing his inner cheek out as he tries to hold his temper, his foot tapping the floor impatiently as he counts the seconds the bastard went pass ten minutes.

78 seconds.

Jinwoo counted exactly 78 seconds when the conversation finished and your attention would return to him.

Immediately, that hard expression on him would go gentle.

He became quite the actor no thanks to you. jinwoo doesn't want you to have a peek of what he truly is as a person.

Though you were best friends, Jinwoo was a bit handsy with you. Just a bit.

His fingers lightly brushing against your fingers, your cheeks, mostly your ears actually.

Why?

Everyone reacts a certain way when their ear gets tickled.

And he reveled in the shudders and yelps you give him whenever he teases you.

The more you gave him your many expressions, the more and more he drowns in the black hole that is you.

Whatever you do, even the littlest things, his instincts would suddenly go haywire.

Mostly he wants to cherish you, pamper you, baby you like the adorable thing that you are.

Other times? Jinwoo wants to break you apart. Watch you sob, wrists bound, legs incapable of moving— He wanted to imprison you in the land of eternal death. Have you rot in his domain where he wouldn't worry about anyone or anything else breathing the same air as you other than him.

He wanted to love you and break you, and he knew that well. Jinwoo knew of his adoration and destructiveness when it comes to loving you.

You were really like a black hole, sucking him into the void and drowning him in a sea of emotions he never can quite understand.

Perhaps the system had really screwed him up in the head.

The pressure of being a monarch, of protecting this world, of being a vessel of war for several years— He had become twisted and completely paranoid to the point that he just wants control on everything.

And he wanted complete control of you too.

But he stopped himself, several times, he stopped himself.

Jinwoo tried to cut himself off of your life, to delete your memories of him.

But whenever he tried to he could never do it.

Everytime he did, he would just get frustrated and never finish the job.

The more he tries, the deeper he falls into the abyss that is you.

And now here he is,...

Alone in an alleyway, with the beating rain above his head, the water droplets gently dripping off of his black locks. His hand was bloodied as he held the head he had brutally ripped off of the bastard that dared to go pass the ten minute limit. The mangled corpse on the floor had organs spilling out with exactly 78 cuts on it's skin so deep it must have sliced the bone too.

And just like always, you're a witness to this hell.

Scream, cry, throw up— Whatever you do, you would just draw an amused smirk on Jinwoo's handsome features.

His lips would scrunch up on one side, his eyes glowing an ominous color of monarch violet as he lightly tips his head to one side. The stench of blood permeates through the air as the crimson liquid pooled and spread along with the puddles beneath your feet. Everything was now much more terrifying than what it was earlier

You wanted to run, you were afraid of whatever demon that is in front of you.

But Jinwoo wouldn't give you that chance, after all, he is suddenly in front of you— Right at your face.

His eyes were so out of it even though they are focused on yours.

The blood splatters on him was bone-chilling and sickening and yet somehow it made him more handsome.

Jinwoo is always wearing an empty and bored gaze, and yet somehow this psychotic side of him was alluring and dreamy.

Like a fragrant poison you knew would kill but attracted you even still.

"Sssh" Jinwoo purrs sweetly, cradling your face with one hand and then lightly kissing your lips for a short while. "I only did what I needed to do."

" You just listen to me like you always did and forget this ever happened like we've always done"

Forget? Forget how—

Suddenly, your body would go limp and he would catch you. An arm gently wrapped around your waist as he cradles your sleeping form.

Jinwoo would chuckle, pressing another light kiss on your lips,... then your forehead, your temple, your cheek, and once again your lips.

He held the kiss a little while longer.

He loved that expression on your face to be honest, how it scrunch up in terror and disgust. How you would pale oh-so immediately that he can't help but be giddy and want to kiss your pretty little face over and over— Smothering you like the lovely little thing you are.

He has done this so many times.

First, it was some people getting too close.

Second, it was your friends.

Third, these random people who would talk to you for more than ten minutes.

Time and time again, he would bloody his hands for selfish reasons.

Jinwoo wants to be the apple of your eye just as you are to him.

After all, he lovingly placed a legion of shadows in you so that he could watch you the second you are away from his physical body.

"God, I love you so much" He'd whisper, his lips against your hair as he inhales your scent in.

. . . . . . . . .

"Hey," Jinwoo casually greets you the next morning at school, your cute expression in a complete daze from having your memories wiped once again the night prior. "It's a long weekend after today, how about I take you out to dinner?"

ʚ(੭´͈ ᐜ `͈)੭ .｡✧･ﾟ: ~♡ —! stories written by kyunnie; translations, reposts, plagiarism are strictly forbidden.

[velvet-paradox]

Secured (Part One)

Fandom: Call of Duty Pairing: König x Female reader Summary: wanting a little slower pace in his military career, König takes a calmer, desk job while he recovers. After a bit of a mix up on shifts, König is now in charge of what comes next. (I've been watching The Night Agent and got inspired!) Length: Medium Warnings: explicit content, strong language, eventual NSFW. ENJOY!

König had fully intended to listen to his mother's concerns the last time he visited her cozy little cottage on the hillside. Tended-to garden, trimmed up grass from the helpful lads that lived just down the road. He'd been injured, shot in the shoulder where conditioned muscle met bone, got treated and sent home with strict orders to take it easy.

Relax.

Live a little.

And he did just that.

Enjoying his time with is mother, resurfacing memories of when he was a boy, less scarred and jovial then the man posted up on her afghan covered couch. Physical therapy was bitch, even a pint couldn't stoke off the fire that burned into his joints.

He was also enjoying homecooked meals and not the usual mess hall offerings or freeze dried lumps they'd slap tantalizing names on the plain, brown packaging, as the stuff inside were actually up to snuff.

Ja right!

"You ought to settle down now , König. You have been fighting for most of your life, you should be living, traveling and seeing the world with the love of your life under arm. Don't you want that?"

Of course he did.

Most of his life were acts of service, finished deeds, quotas. Filling out paperwork, signing classified documents, pursuing the worst of the worst, taking down targets, letting his life on the actual line for the greater good.

Did a certain foreign dictator need to be 'rescued' from their senate floor and taken to an undisclosed location and threated, beaten and broken for an extended amount of time until intel was finally given through broken teeth and a bloody jaw? Perhaps.

Was a 'missing' senator maybe not so missing after all under the clutches of the Austrian and with good reason, added sex trafficking was highly frowned upon and under his high ranking position too? Not on his watch.

Yes blood was on his hands, in his hair, in his mouth but those same hands wanted to also be washed clean, to hold another, to touch another.

Sometimes he'd feel unworthy, all these acts, all these years in the military formed the man laying in his bed, the same four walls that molded him, crafted him like clay. That maybe all his hard work wasn't worth all the damage. His shoulder screamed when rubbed his hands over his face.

….

"How she doin'?" Sebastian Krueger asked the following morning, sipping tea from one his mothers' glass cabinets, sitting across from König at a little table and chair set behind the cottage. He'd already eaten two biscuits was not so subtly eyeing the third one of the decorative plate.

"Mother is well, she'll be back from the market soon. You should stay for dinner, I have half a mind that she is trying to fatten me up like some Christmas goose!"

"You know I wasn't going to say any-"

"Then don't!"

Krueger chuckled and broke off half the biscuit instead.

"She must be happy to have you home for a bit, not off on field duty."

"A little too happy," König took a long, hot sip, savoring the honey on his tongue. "She thinks I should settle down, find a partner, live life while I still can."

"Is she wrong?"

"Nein. I want those things as well, Seb. I just don't know where to start! I've been on deployment after deployment, cots, and safe houses since I was seventeen. How do I talk to a woman about a life like that? One isn't going to just fall into my lap, you know?"

"I could set you up with someone if you like?"

"Yeah right," König snorted and finished his tea. "I'm not taking fucking dating advice from you."

"Why not?" Krueger eyed him, expression laden all the way up to his hairline.

"Because smart pants, you don't know any women to set me up with!"

Krueger pondered his words, eyes narrow, mouth opening and closing, lost in thought he just grunted and finished off the rest of that biscuit in defeat.

"It is smarty pants by the way!"

König heard Sebastian shout as he made his way through the threshold of the open back door to refill their cups.

….

Four months.

Four months of softly changing his sheets, helping his mother about the house, going for runs through the jagged hills, splashing his face with fresh creek water, chewing on wild growing ramps. Bringing back little rocks to add to his mother under-window flower beds, he'd done so since he was a knee high boy. She had saved them all of course.

He was starting to lose his mind, the pain meds his doktor had prescribed sat half full on the nightstand, he took them as needed but for the most part he punished himself, testing his own pain tolerance as means of an endurance challenge of sorts. He needed to do something, anything, to get out of the house.

Sebastian suggested he come back to work, take a desk job, fill out reports, that sort of thing to make his life a little more interesting until he was medically cleared for field operations.

"I know of another type of job, real laid back, you don't have to do too much physically." Kruger had mentioned one sunny, yet cold afternoon.

"Like what?"

"Ever heard of Night Division?"

"Nein, I have not." König had answered, a query on his mask covered face. Sounded interesting.

"There is a reason for that, it is a top secret op, need to know basis," Krueger pulled him in close on their walk through the base, stopping by the archway that lead to the rec room. "If you want in, let me know, I'll get you clearance and I'll walk you through it. If not; not harm, no foul."

König considered it, contemplated it for the rest of the day. He was feeling a bit down, his shoulder throbbed something fucking fierce every fours or so, letting him know he was still in the healing stages, still on the mend. But a cushy little desk job, keep him occupied, maybe he could get caught up on a few books he'd started and had to put down or leave behind, relax at a desk like he had when he first started out after basic. He could do something like that.

Sebastian was right; this job would keep dinner on the table and the lights on. It was simple enough as well, answer the phone when it rang and flashed burnt orange (according to Krueger this phone hadn't actually rung in two months). Monitor the actions, pay attention to the caller in need of assistance, ask the appropriate questions in order to render aid.

König brought a thermos and a water bottle full of ice. He was afforded a notepad and pen, a binder in the top right drawer of a silver desk, the left held a rolodex of people who might be calling in need.

He'd been at it for two weeks now, no phone calls, caught up on three books already as he reclined back in the softest office chair he's ever sat his behind in. Ankles locked, boots on the table reading, belly full. Then it happened.

The phone rang, a shrill sound that damn near rocked him right out of that chair! His book fell to the floor, loosing his page instantly. The orange flashed urgently as König scrambled to get out his notebook to take notes and location, the binder that held random question whoever was on Night Division duties to ask to make sure they were truly talking to who they were supposed to. The phone number as Krueger had told him was only given out to military, not a simple phone number one might find scribbled on a folded up post-it or bar napkin.

König cleared his throat and picked up the receiver, holding it tightly to his ear.

"Hallo, what is the color of the day?" König asked, clicked pen at the ready and pressed onto the first page.

"What? I don't know! I need help." A frantic woman hushed her voice into the phone, he could some shuffling and light grunting.

"Ma'am, I need the color of the day before I can assist you."

"I don't fucking know! Please help me." The woman gasped and he could hear something close.

"Miss this is a very secure line-"

"I know that. Night Division, right? My brother said if anything suspicious happened while he was deployed, I should call this number immediately. Which is what I am doing!"

"Without the color, miss-"

"Please, sir. There's two people breaking into the house, their looking for something. I don't want them to find me. There's a crawl space in my brothers' closet, that's where I am." The woman rasped, panic in her voice made König uneasy, things could get messy fast, he knew that first hand.

"I do not know your location."

"There's a rolodex in the top left drawer of your desk, my brothers' name and address are in there. And hurry!" She growled lowly.

"Name?"

"[REDACTED]."

"I'll send over someone."

"What? You're not coming?" The woman almost sounded offended, as if he had stood her up on a date or backed out of a last minute party.

"This is my station, miss. I can't leave my post, another call might come through."

The pregnant pause made him even more uneasy, as he wrote down the boyfriend's name and address with three scratches of his pen below it.

"I don't want to die like this." The woman exclaimed with a sniffle.

….

Much to König's surprise when he told his supervisors that a phone call had come in, he didn't realize that meant he was the one to answer it meant that in the very sense. Another selected Night Division advocate would take his place.

They handed him a standard service weapon, shoved a bullet proof vest to his bulky chest and sent out on his way. He even got to pick which company car from the lot. The SUV handled beautifully, the screen on the dash showing the coordinates to the Division caller. He cut the lights as he turned down the block, a quiet, wet residential street. Most of the cars were put away in their garages, all but one.

König memorized the plate, just in case things got hairy.

He could see movement in the house, shadows dancing in the low light. He narrowed his eyes, and softly exited the vehicle, approaching the house like the thieves already inside. König maneuvered around the back of the house, rolling his bad shoulder before kicking open the back door. He could hear muffled voices from inside, startled footsteps, a new magazine is put into a weapon that stands no chance against the man advancing in the darkness, especially when he flips down his night vision goggles.

"Whoever the hell you are, you owe me a new door asshole!" A raspy man calls in the dark.

"Sorry. Are you [REDEACTED]?" König asked, already knowing the answer.

"Who?"

"Didn't think so!"

König held his gun steady as rain, aimed true at one of the intruders. The man before him was crouched and steadily raising to his feet in the foyer, hands up.

"Do not do anything stupid, well more stupid than breaking into someone's house."

"Easy big guy, [REDACTED] is my brother, he asked me to check on the place while he's on vacation."

"Vacation, ja? Where to?"

"Uh Spain I believe he said." The man mumbled something.

"Then why are you in the dark? Go ahead and turn the lights." König suggested.

The man reacted by reaching behind him and swiftly pulled out a blade, the metal glinting in the darkness.

Big mistake.

Though König is on the larger scale in terms of height and weight, he is quite agile, a superb trait and bonus to his career. The blade came right at him but was easily slapped away by his gloved hand, the man reached back for another but ever the observant Austrian, he located the light switch panel next to him, flipped up his goggles and whacked the room into brightness, exposing everyone to the white hot lights. A woman tried to bum rush him and failed as she made a distressing sound when she hit the floor, her loosely held gun skidded away.

The second attempt at throwing a blade stuck to the wall beside him, König ripped it out of the dry wall and threw it back at the man in the foyer, landing perfecting in the shoulder. The man wailed out in pain, the woman scrambled for the gun only to slide it further out of reach.

König pointed his gun and undid the safety.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you," the woman looked up at his towering frame, her head jerked slightly and she slowly put her hands up. "Get your little friend and leave, you wish to wake up tomorrow do you not?"

They left without a fuss while König cleared the rest of the house. Not too much damage, the office behind the French doors was a mess though and going to be a bitch to put back in order but that wasn't his problem.

"Miss?" König called out after finishing his sweep of the first floor.

"Miss you can come out now. We talked on the phone. Night Division. You're safe now."

As he made his way up the staircase, lined with paintings of landscapes and bodies of water, the door to his immediate right swung open and the woman appeared.

"Oh!" She was startled, no doubt by his mask and head coverings, by the way he was steadily putting away his service weapon. His size in comparison to hers.

Her eyes went wide and she slightly hugged the doorframe, a baseball bat in hand. Her expression ranged from frightened, to skeptical, to calm in an ease of seconds.

"I didn't mean to startle you." König apologized.

"It's not.. sorry. You're who I spoke with. Are there more of you?" She asked peering around him, or at least what she could, clutching her cellphone and bat.

"Just me I'm afraid."

"Oh. Did you kill them?"

"Maimed."

"Good. I don't think there's enough peroxide to clean that up."

"You've cleaned up blood before?"

"You do see that I'm a woman, right? I've been cleaning up blood since I was twelve." The woman cocked her head to the side with a snort and dropped the bat down to her side.

König got the OK to clear the rest of the second floor, just in case. All was well and he followed her down the stairs, pointing out the mess the intruders had made of the office.

"You mentioned they were looking for something. Did you hear what exactly?" He asked from the doorway, watching her side steps and tip toe about the space, moving a crooked lamp, picking up a few pillows from a small futon in the corner, a woven blanket.

"Something called Eden. Does that mean anything to you?" The woman asked, putting her brothers' things back in order. The sound of shuffling papers being neatly stacked once more made for a delightful background noise.

"No but I'll look into it. You should get ready."

"You certainly cannot stay here, miss. Those two dirt bags might come back with more firepower and back up. Nein nein, you shall come with me to a safe house after a debriefing at the base." König explained, watching her face rise and fall with understanding that the man before her was right. "My superiors will want to know what you have told me."

"Oh. Yeah. Right."

König waited patiently in the office, looking at childhood photos of the woman who was pounding the floor upstairs, gathering some belongings. Her brother's Marine portrait, certificates of accomplishments and replica swords lined the wall behind the wood stained desk.

She knocked on the side of the office doorframe soon after, giving him a thumbs up.

….

"You said Eden, correct?" Kim Hong-jin or another masked man by the codename Horangi sat down with König and his charge. He was used to the cold conference room, the woman beside him, shivering and rubbing her hands before sitting upon them, did not.

Mid conversation, König shouldered off his jacket and draped it over his shoulders, dwarfing her in size. She gave him a nervous smile before continuing.

"Did they mean to hurt you, the duo?"

"I don't know. They just broken in through the side door, my brother, [REDACTED] has three entrances to his place, I got a Ring notification and hid. I'd never seen them before but they were adamant that my brother had something they wanted."

"Hmmm. We'll look into it, see what rocks we can over turn," Horangi scribbled down some information, circling a few keywords from your statement. "König; take her to the old farmhouse on 84th, hasn't been used in a beat, could use a tune up. Keep yourselves occupied until further notice." Horangi shook the woman's hand before gathering up the folder and notes. "Oh and König?"

"Ja?"

"Don't let her out of your sight."

The ride to the farmhouse was a bumpy one, the cabin of the SUV jostled the pair around, rocks and pebbles no doubt threatening with good merit to get lodged into the tread of the tires. The crooked place came into view from just the headlights, on bright of course, started to appear along the empty dirt road. There wasn't a neighbor for miles König and his partner noticed once they took their exit ramp from the highway, making sure they weren't being followed.

He held the door open for her, taking the duffel bag from her lap, flipping it over his shoulder like an afterthought.

"I never did get your name," the woman said, walking up the rocky driveway to the creaking porch as König took out the keys Horangi had given him on their way out from base. "Suppose I ought to know who I'm being shacked up with."

König snorted and put the key into the lock. "You can call me König ." "Hmm, nice ring to it if you ask me." She said, fumbling along the wall until the lights came on, showering the cozy house in a nice warm glow.

"And you are, miss?" He asked and placed her bag down on a stiff looking couch.

She spun on her heel and held out her hand in salutations. "I'm Y/N."

Even in the country light and glow of the almost yellow/orange lighting, you looked great. Not that he thought you looked bad; at all. He realized you were incredibly attractive the moment you popped out of your brothers' room, weapon and phone in hand. Hair mussed, face contorted with relief at his presence, stroking his ego.

You looked around, checking the rotary phone on a polished side table. Lifting the pewter Eiffel Tower, the fake flowers were dusty and the place reeked of mothballs.

The kitchen was decent, a little round table with a cheap plastic table cloth, four chairs with matching tied cushions.

"Not too bad," you announced after rummaging through the empty fridge. "I could live here."

"How long do you reckon we shall be out in the sticks?" König asked, more so out loud to himself than to you.

"Who knows. We'll need to go to the store in the morning, fuck all is in this place. Not even a water pitcher!"

"We will just have to take it day by day, I'm scared."

You snorted. "You're scared? You. All what? eight fuckin' miles of you. You're scared."

"I mean uh… I'm afraid. You'll forgive me, I tangle my words sometimes."

"Clearly! We should check out the rooms, I call first dibs!" You shouted, brushing past him like a child or wobbly infant, thundering your footsteps to the second floor. He could hear you exclaiming up there, bouncing on one squeaking bed in favor of the other as he locked up the house.

"Found mine, fend for yourself big guy."

He took the third room, at the top of the landing, it's bedspread reminding him of sweet grass summers. He laid there for awhile on top of the covers, telling you to keep your door open just in case. He could hear you snoring lightly, could picture the rise and fall of your breaths, timing them on his watch before he crept down the stairs, taking sudden notice that the fourth stair from the bottom creaked at just the right spot to the right.

He propped himself into an armchair by the sheer curtain covered window by the door.

Ever cautious.

Hyper aware.

He knew he wouldn't sleep and had planned on being awake as soon as Horangi sent you on your way from base.

He didn't mind.

He was being useful which filled his head with light, happy thoughts.

[flowersforchoso]

Bi-han Marriage Headcanons

he takes his role as your husband seriously. perhaps a little too seriously

since he is a traditional man and a bit sexist, expect a very traditional marriage with you relegated to the domestic sphere

he goes straight home after completing his duties as grandmaster. there's no lingering. no extra hours. no night out with anyone. his routine is simple: work, then home & vice-versa.

strictly refers to you as wife while pet names are more of your thing

going out on dates is a rare occurrence (you'd have to bring it up) and when you do, he takes you to a restaurant or festival.

he is not too keen on pda; even holding hands is an issue that makes one wonder how you got together, but he insists you stay close beside him.

in short, he's very much reserved when you're both out in public because he doesn't want to give the impression that he's softened.

but he takes good care of you. being a man of actions afterall.

and since he's your provider & protector, its only right that he excels at it by meeting your material and physical needs

massages are a thing. he does it to help you relax since you always do that whenever he's stressed. starts with your feet, a little tease here and there then it turns into body worship, and ends with you on your back

also bathing together is a must when he's not too busy. its bonding time and wants to spend it refreshed

when you become pregnant, his care intensifies

he takes care of everything around the house, from cooking to cleaning (he's not above doing chores), not allowing you lift a finger

at first, he didn't know how to cook outside of making soup, but he likes to challenge himself. so he gets recipes from madame bo and follows through on them

surprisingly, the meals turn out great

he's much more present at home since he delegated his tasks to be able to spend more time with you

and after you give birth, this doesn't change.

he was with you all through. giving words of encouragement during that agonizing time

the baby is here and he never lets go. whether its a girl or boy, the gender matters not. he cares for the little one so much that he only ever hands them over to you when its time to feed.

if you're having issues with your self-esteem or health like postpartum depression, he will be by your side tending to you. bathe and feed you; if you found it difficult to do basic care. he's worried but would not allow his face betray such emotion.

aids you back to health. you would have to convince him you are well enough to care for yourself, but he would keep monitoring you just to be sure, before leaving to attend to other things.

he is very caring towards you and ensures you're always comfortable.

your marriage is relatively peaceful but that doesn't mean its devoid of conflict

and since bi han is quite stubborn, that would be the source of any rift between the both of you—his obstinacy

it happens every time you express your dissatisfaction with his prioritisation of the lin kuei. they took precedence over his family, making him unavailable and unattending to your emotional needs, which he takes offence to. because they were accusations, and no matter how soft and placating your delivery was, he didn't appreciate it, even if it was true

he makes a big deal out of being told not to take on dangerous missions when he returns injured, which leads to full blown arguments because he considers it infantilizing. he doesn't want to be babied; he commands hundreds. what kind of leader would he be if he didn't take charge of his fleet?

bi han would leave the house for days on end and when he gets back, he's still passive aggressive towards you.

because of this, you give him space but it only worsens his attitude—he doesn't want you to impose distance on him.

he is the classic example of not wanting to be paid back in the same coin. his attitude towards you might be nasty, but don't you dare retaliate

and he doesn't apologize either. it can be frustrating putting up with him.

you'd need to be patient, understanding and respectful of his role as grandmaster because thats a position he's trained all his life for. its a touchy subject. don't try to make him choose between the lin kuei or you

you'd have to extend the olive branch first by apologizing because the tension would be too much to bear

it'll take a while for normalcy to return with bi han coming to you (he's very prideful so don't rush anything)

he'll get you things of sentimental value like a trinket, or a necklace or a bracelet—this is his way of saying sorry

make up sex would be much more passionate because he needs to connect with you again. fighting puts a strain on the relationship no matter how little and makes his insecurities rear its head, one of which is the fear that you might leave him someday and go be with someone else. he doesn't want that, he wants to retrace his steps and do right by you.

it's at this point that he verbally professes his love for you to assuage whatever negative feelings you might harbor and since he rarely ever say the words, they are much more valued

overall, being married to him would be very fulfilling. nothing too crazy or difficult to navigate

[strwberri-milk]

Hello! I hope you’re having a great day!

Could I request LADS men with a reader who isn’t exactly ‘accepting’ of their line of work? I mean, I guess besides Sylus and Caleb, all of them have decent jobs that don’t require doing something ‘unethical’, so writing only those two will do. Maybe because of ideals, morale, and worry, they happen to harbor a hidden dislike towards their work. They don’t express this outright— only small hints, such as a frown when the men tell them they’re off on duty or something, which leads them to piece it together themselves. Of course, they still love them despite their jobs, but are still not so accepting of it.

hmm see i was thinking about this as a request but id like it to be more of a discussion!! so this is. more informal but definitely is discussing this request lolol

i totally get where youre coming from - if you were realistically going to date Sylus and Caleb you'd have to be fully aware of the factt hat what he does isn't really ethical and at times, asks him to make the decision of whether or not someone lives

an idealistic part of me wants to say that they'd quite their jobs for you and move to the country side and streoeptypical otome tropes would probably have them do that - true love prevails after all the these games are usually wish fulfillment so you can do literally anything and everything you want to them.

i feel like sylus would be more likely to either quite or somehow make his job more remote? he'd be okay with not killing people and just teaching them a lesson through other means - whether that be through just roughing them up (which you still probably wouldn't like if this is a problem) or through sabotage and blackmail (because i see both sylus and rafayel being intel KINGS they know anything and everything they want to know!)

if youre considering yourself as MC, then caleb would never leave his job. he doesnt care what you think of him - just that you are safe. its heavily implied/outright said that caleb is the only thing thats keeping you safe from the people who want to hurt you. he'll brush off any comments you make but if it gets to a point where he feels annoyed he might be prone to making a passive aggressive comment but he'll apologise wordlessly by buying you something or by saying things like "you know i'm doing this for you right"

(rafayel would honestly do the same since he does a bunch of underhanded work in private. the difference between him and caleb is he keeps that part of his life VERY far removed from you because i think he looks at you as this pure, perfect being and has a habit of idealising you thanks to both the bond + the way the lemurians love. not to say that he has you on like, some madonna whore complex but more so he worries that he could dirty you and he would hate himself if he ever did)

if you dont think of yourself as MC i feel like calebs whole story kinda falls apart/would requiure me to have knowledge of your own personal mc and how the interaction with caleb works. if youre just like, an average joe living your life he wouldn't be anything more than a pilot perhaps? no need to be involved in experiments but he might not even be alive because perhaps he's only here bc of those experiements maybe its a paradox maybe im just making things up BUT if he doesnt need to protect you from EVER (which i think is what hes protecting you on pleaes give me grace i play enough to get a grasp of his characrter/backstory but its been a hot minute since ive looked at it)

[thisgirlnamedblusy]

Hello again !!

Because I love your work I'm here again...

So, I was thinking about little dark g!p Donna x fem reader, and like reader live in village her whole life, and one day she went to the church yk, and Donna can't keep her eyes off her, she literally fell in love with her, so Donna was insecure about herself so she just watch her, admire her (stalk) from afar... One day she gets hurt somehow so Donna save her, offer her a new home....

After some time, they became really close, but donna's feelings just became more stronger so she started giving her a small poets to express her love, and when y/n mention she's in love with someone, Donna lose her mind thinking her only true love, love someone else so she's just distance herself.

Y/n notice, so she tried to talk about it with Donna, and then Donna just crush out and say something like "DO YOU REALLY WANT TO KNOW WHY? BECAUSE I FUCKING LOVE YOU AND I CANT IMAGINE LIFE WITHOUT YOU"

and theeen they kisssss, and Donna ping y/n against a wall yk what I mean💋

SORRY IF THIS IS COMPLICATED, ALSO I HOPE U UNDERSTAND, I AM STILL TRYING TO IMPROVE MY ENGLISH

Also A little late but happy birthday to you !

Yess!!! Hello again, friend :D!!! Thank you for your request and words!! You're so kind!!! I hope you like it and sorry about the language mistakes!!!! :))))

A dark angel

Pairing: Donna Beneviento x Fem!! Reader

Warnings: G!P Donna, smut, Minors DNI, angst, dark themes, dark Donna, Donna's POV

Word count: 8,693

Summary: I love her, but she'll never be mine...

N/A: Sorry about the language mistakes!!! Requests are open!!! I'm waiting yours!!!I love you all!!!

Always the same prayers, the same gestures…

My siblings and I remained silent behind the shadow of the woman who gave us a second chance without asking our permission.

Lords, protectors, monsters… The ways those villagers called us repeated themselves in my head like terrifying whispers. I never liked people, I never liked company.

No matter how hard I tried to force myself to believe that something had changed after Mother Miranda's intervention, I was only fooling myself.

Despite being Lord, gaining terrifying powers, eternal life, and being embraced by the infinite kindness of the black priestess, I never felt different. Before, I was Donna Beneviento, the only surviving daughter of a noble family who had lost her mind; now I was Donna Beneviento, Lord of the village, doll, and nightmare maker.

I knew what people said about me, the fear my presence generated, the doubts in their eyes when they looked at me, when they saw the black veil covering my shame. They said I was a monster, and no matter how many times I looked in the mirror, the scar on my face spoke for itself.

Maybe my sick mind found some pleasure in the change, thinking that Mother Miranda's divine intervention was a good thing, something that would allow me to stop being that sad and lonely woman, but I was wrong.

Perhaps it would have been better if the priestess had let me die that day; at least that way, I could be with my family again, with my little sister. But the Gods had other plans for me. They played on my insecurities, changed my body at will, but, again, I couldn't complain; I had a new family.

Being Lady Beneviento really wasn't so bad. I had everything I wanted, even though I never asked for it. My doll Angie came to life, and I had the power to play with mortals if I got bored.

But something inside my head begged, pleaded for something more, something to end this eternal loneliness.

“Well, my children, before we return to our duties, there was someone who wanted to make an announcement, isn't that right?” Mother Miranda's different tone brought me out of my thoughts.

The sound of footsteps on the altar was the signal I was waiting for to leave that place and return to my quiet, solitary routine, but something stopped me, something prevented my legs from moving.

“Yes. Thank you, Mother Miranda,” a sweet voice penetrated my ears and made me turn my head sharply with curiosity.

“Mm,” the priestess murmured, stepping back a little to allow me to see where that heavenly voice was coming from.

One step, two... Little by little, something rose toward the altar, something that... was, without a doubt, the most beautiful thing I had ever seen.

A young woman, no more than twenty years old, stood in the middle of the place, allowing me to see, something that kept me standing still, frozen: her face, her hair, a nervous look... Something beautiful, truly beautiful.

Her dress moved with her steps, and hands that seemed tremendously soft played nervously. A beautiful girl, the most beautiful girl I had ever seen, stood inches away from me.

I didn't know every single villager, but... how could I not realize that such incredible beauty existed? My mind began to study her delicate body, the perfume emanating from her hair, her bright, dazzling eyes…

 “Well, you know me, I'm (Y/N),” the young girl began, causing my mind to process her name, dazzling with her gentle words. “I just wanted to announce that I finally have enough materials to start my artisanal tea business,” she explained, the trembling of her hands betraying her shyness.

After the silent approval of the rest of the villagers, the girl took a small tea bag out of her pocket, waving it playfully.

“Um… it took me a long time to get everything I needed, and I hope you all can enjoy it,” she continued, but I was no longer listening.

My eyes studied every curve of her body, her chest. My hands longed to caress that silky mane, my ears longed to hear her voice every day, every hour, every minute, every second.

Everything blurred around me, except for her, an angel in the darkness, beauty standing out among the monsters.

A cold draft made me shake my head slightly and frown. My body felt light and my hands empty. When I woke from that little reverie, I realized the problem.

“Oh, tell me, silly, do you give away free samples?” a familiar voice said, my doll Angie, who, surely taking advantage of my absentmindedness, jumped out of my arms and ran toward the girl, snatching the tea bag she was waving.

I grew nervous, walking quickly toward the puppet, who laughed amusedly while the young woman backed away in fear.

“Look, Donna, look what I have,” Angie said, running towards me again, proudly displaying her trophy.

“Angie, give it back to her,” I whispered, picking up the tea and making a show of giving it back, hiding the trembling in my own hands.

“Oh no, well...” she said, looking directly at me with a fake, nervous, scared smile. “Please keep it, my lady.” Her hands traveled to mine, gently pushing them against my chest.

Her touch frightened me, causing me to push that softness away from my hands with a gasp. Her fingers burned against my skin, teasingly tickling my body. I couldn't bear it with fortitude. I was scared. I was scared to have her so close to me, to feel her skin against mine.

“I'm sorry,” (Y/N) apologized, taking a step back, confused by my attitude, or perhaps scared to know who she had touched.

I glanced at the small bag trembling in my hands, and with no other choice, I nodded imperceptibly, finally stepping down from the altar, unable to avoid giving that beautiful girl one last look.

Despite Angie commenting on every detail of the mass, as always, the walk back to the mansion was silent for me. My doll's voice didn't reach my ears; my senses were too busy remembering, re-forming (Y/N)'s image in my mind.

“Hey, silly Donna! Are you listening to me?” the doll asked as I set her down on the floor, finally reaching the safety of my old mansion. “Donna!”

“Silenzio,” I ordered with a growl, pushing the veil away from my face. “Will you be quiet for a moment?”

“Quiet? You silly Donna...” the doll hissed, making me glance at her briefly in reprimand.

Nothing, I didn't want anything, or anyone to stop my mind from thinking about her, that tea girl.

Sighing, I sank into a dining room chair, the tea bag in my hands. I brought it to my nose, inhaling the sweet scent of wild berries, bringing an involuntary smile to my face. She smelled the same; it was like holding her in my hands.

“You're welcome for the free sample,” Angie mocked, climbing onto the table and observing my strange behavior.

“She was beautiful...” I sighed unwillingly, smiling like a little girl, closing my eye to remember the sparkle in hers, her every gesture.

“Mm? What? What are you talking about?” the doll asked, comically tilting her head and gesturing with her hands. “Uh, Donna, ciao, ciao...”

“Ugh, I mean her,” I whispered, moving the bag in my hands, feeling the touch, imagining that those soft fingers had been in the same place. “T-The tea girl...”

“Oh, that silly village girl,” the puppet laughed sinisterly. “It was fun scaring her a little, wasn't it?”

“No, Angie, you shouldn't scare people,” I stammered, blinking erratically, confused by my reaction. “Not her.”

“Uh-Oh...” Angie murmured, moving a little closer to me. “Donna, Donna... you like her, don't you?”

“No, I...” I said awkwardly in my defense. “W-Well, she's beautiful, don't you think?”

“I don't know. I'm just a doll, and you're a fool,” she scolded, pointing at me with a wooden finger. “How can you like her? You barely knew she existed.”

“I don't know, but... she's so beautiful,” I sighed, resting my head on one hand, staring at the ceiling, like a child in love, my heart beating too fast. “She has a beautiful voice and...”

“Uh, uh, uh,” Angie interrupted, gesturing with her hands. “Stop, Donna, you're rambling, she's just another village girl.”

I shook my head, suffering an attack of rationality in my mind, as if I had woken from a deep sleep.

“Certo,” I finally said, standing up slowly. “You're right, Angie, it's nonsense.”

“Listen to your favorite doll, you know she's always right,” Angie emphasized, giving me a mocking pat on the back. “Maybe you need some company... why don't you call Alcina? You know she always has a maid for you...”

Angie's suggestion was always an easy way to forget, to let off steam, to feel falsely loved for a moment, a feeling that disappeared too soon, but it worked at least to soothe my needs.

But on that occasion, I found it repugnant, undignified. No, there was no maid in the castle as beautiful as the tea girl; none had that sweet voice, that dazzling gaze.

“No, I don't feel like it,” I said, frowning and shaking my head.

“As you wish,” Angie said, stepping down from the table with a gesture of indifference.

“I think I'll make some tea,” I said with a different, animated smile.

I longed to try that infusion, to know what that young woman from the church was capable of, if her products had the same beauty, the same harmony as her.

The sweet and bitter taste of the tea ran down my throat like a love potion, like a heavenly ambrosia that transported me back to her. In the dregs, I could see her smile, her gaze, but that wasn't necessarily a good thing.

My mind was unable to calm down when something disturbed it. My illness made me hear voices, wails, words of love that didn't exist.

I thought maybe those thoughts would disappear with time, just like when a maid pretended to be affectionate with me and I believed I might have a chance.

I'd stopped thinking that way years ago, resigned myself to loving and being loved in the same way, but I knew the feeling, the trembling of my hands when I thought of her, the smile that involuntarily formed on my lips when I remembered her.

I couldn't forget her. I couldn't stop thinking about her, about the taste of her tea. My body began to miss the sweetness of wild berries, pushing me to crave, to desperately crave that warmth running down my throat again.

Of course, I knew what my body wanted, and it wasn't tea. I wasn't interested in that liquid; I was interested in (Y/N), and I couldn't help it. I couldn't stop the sight of her eyes appearing in every doll I made, the struggle of my mind to capture her beauty in my creations so I'd never forget her.

Hardly aware of it, the obsession began to play tricks on me.

Some nights I would let myself go, relaxing with the slow, gentle touch of my hands as I closed my eye or just looked through some old clothing catalog.

The rosy-cheeked models posing there seemed to be moving, their hands replacing mine as they slowly stimulated my penis in the solitude of my bedroom.

But the made-up smiles of those girls distorted as my arousal grew and my breathing quickened. The polished nails of the hands I imagined surrounding my erection dissolved like dust, changing completely.

“Cazzo...” I protested as my mind began to form new images in my head: new hands, a new smile looking down at me, whispering to me, masturbating me.

I even thought I could smell the tea as my panting increased. It was her, the girl from the church, moving her hand up and down my body, maintaining a frantic rhythm that made me squirm. Those eyes looked at me, that sweet voice whispered words of love, of desire…

I wanted to stop, I wanted to free my mind from that impossible image, to return to the fantasies of the girls in the catalog, but I couldn't. I groaned, I protested, but I couldn't shake the shivers that ran down my spine, feeling that the end was irrevocably closer.

Finally, I released myself into my hand, feeling the wet heat of my seed on my skin, dripping through my fingers. I opened my eye, trying to catch my breath, and for a moment, just for a moment, I thought I saw her, (Y/N), in front of me, biting her lip, moaning, writhing.

Shaking my head, I got out of bed, going to the bathroom to wash the remnants of my undignified release from my hands, and the remnants of my thoughts about her from my mind. The cold water cleared my mind, but my gaze in the mirror spoke for itself.

Images of that tea girl beneath my body appeared next to my deformed face, invisible moans echoed off the walls, and my mind began to wonder, to think about what it would be like to make something so beautiful mine.

“How disgusting,” a shrill voice distracted me from my fantasies. Of course, Angie always appeared at the worst possible moment. “Are you finished? I wish I could go to sleep.”

“You can't sleep,” I whispered, clearing my throat and drying my hands, ignoring the doll. “Lasciami, Angie”

“Oh, sorry, Your Majesty,” she continued mockingly, following me back into the bedroom. “What's wrong with you? You've been acting really weird lately. Weirder than usual, I mean.”

“Weird? Me? I don't know why you're saying that,” I protested, plopping down on my desecrated bed, followed closely by my irreverent doll.

“You don't have to say anything. I know everything, remember?” Angie said, sitting uncomfortably next to me, her eyes scrutinizing me, as if I should feel guilty about something. “It's that girl again. You’re obsessed...”

“What do you care?” I asked, offended, annoyed to admit that, once again, she was right.

“I don't care,” she replied, crossing her arms. “But I think you're an idiot.”

“Va bene, lasciami estare,” I hissed, turning off the dim light in the room, trying to ignore Angie's voices, and the ones in my head. “Ugh, Angie...” I protested again when the doll turned the small lamp back on.

“Hey, if you like that girl so much, why don't you do something about it?” she suggested, involuntarily capturing my attention.

“Cosa?” I asked, sitting up in bed and bringing my knees to my chest. “I-I can't do anything.”

“Of course you can. She's still a silly village girl, and you're a lord, remember?” the doll said in a mocking tone, making me sigh thoughtfully.

“Th-That doesn't mean anything,” I murmured, feeling a wave of sadness over me.

“It doesn’t?”

“Of course! Look at me!” I shouted furiously, irrationally, pointing at my deformed face, the face of a monster. “What chance does a freak like me have?! She's beautiful, and I'm... a... a... a...”

“Okay, shut up,” the puppet ordered me.

“Angie, you're trying my patience too hard,” I threatened in a dark tone, something that, of course, didn't bother the doll in the least.

“Fine, whatever you want, keep playing with your little thing and feeling sorry for yourself, you bore me, silly Donna,” Angie sighed, getting out of bed, ready to abandon me.

“Angie...” I sobbed, starting to feel really bad, a feeling of frustration rushing over me without warning. “I'm not okay.”

“What a surprise.”

“I see her everywhere... I... dream about her, I imagine her while...” I began to confess, giving in to my irrational feelings. “I feel her, I smell the scent of her tea every second, I... I can't get her smile out of my head...”

“Then do something,” the doll said indifferently, climbing back into bed.

“N-No... I can't, I don't dare to,” I admitted cowardly, hiding my face between my knees. “I've never...”

“Who said you have to dare?”

“Cosa vuoi dire?” I asked, confused.

“I mean... well, why settle for seeing her in your thoughts when you can do it in reality?” Angie explained, leaving me even more lost.

“You mean... watching her?” I asked again, frowning and looking away. “That's not...”

“Not, what?” the doll insisted, moving closer to me, placing her wooden hands on my shoulders. “That silly girl is still a villager, it's not like she's out of your reach...”

“What are you implying?”

“I'm not implying anything. I'm just telling you what to do,” she said in a supple, haughty tone. “And you know I always give you good advice.”

“So, what do you think I should do?” I asked impatiently, crossing my arms.

“What you do best, dear Donna, lurk in the shadows...”

Angie's advice seemed childish. Lurk in the shadows? Stalk (Y/N)? Watch her? How stupid.

At least that's what I thought for a few insignificant minutes. Then, I began to see some clarity in her words. I could try with all my might, but that girl would never feel anything for me, I knew that well. No one had ever felt anything for me, at least not something they weren't forced to pretend.

The idea of ​​romance, of having someone to love, someone who would love me, sounded great, but as time passed, I began to forget it, to feel like it wasn't meant for me, that I didn't have the right to experience true love. My deformity, my different body, kept me from being a normal woman, someone a girl like (Y/N) would want to meet.

I knew it from the moment I was entranced by her gaze, by her smile. I could only imagine her, admire her from afar, never in any other way. Angie could be many things, but above all, she was a part of me, a part of my consciousness that I separated from my body, thanks to the Gods.

The idea seemed dark, but the more I thought about it, the more light illuminated my mind. Yes, the only thing I could do was not to forget her, strive to get to know her without her knowing, observe her movements in the darkness, hidden.

I wanted to know everything about her. I wanted to know what she liked, the things she hated and loved, how she walked, how she spoke, how she dressed, how she lived. The obsession didn't improve—quite the opposite—but I know it was only my fault.

Every day I walked towards the village, hiding from the gaze of others, from their shining eyes. I felt safe in the shadows.

I learned a lot from you, you know?

I knew that (Y/N) liked to sew, I knew what books she read, what face she had when she fell asleep by the warmth of a small fireplace. The smell of that delicious tea accompanied me in my observations, and my fantasies turned into increasingly vivid dreams.

I knew her routine, the small shop where she sold her tea, the exact steps from her house to her work. I began to lose my mind. Sheets of old paper began to fill with notes about (Y/N). I didn't want to forget every discovery, every new aspect I saw in her.

I thought I knew her, but it was only an illusion. My hidden body deeply longed to be discovered, longed for those beautiful eyes to look at me, but it never happened. I didn't want to be seen, I didn't want her to see the figure peering through her window, the ghost of the woman who haunted her without her knowing.

My conscience would attack me from time to time, making me feel guilty for chasing her, for harassing her. But then she would appear, dispelling any doubts with her kind smile, her polite, somewhat shy voice.

I had to feel bad, but I was unable to.

The nights were even worse. I stopped visiting the castle maids and their false, cold warmth, starting to enjoy my memories, my imagination. Thinking of her, of her hands touching me, of her body embracing mine, making her mine, was enough to calm my impulses.

But the more I did it, the worse I felt. I felt like those hands would never surround me, that the warmth of her naked body would never come close to mine, that her lips would never kiss me.

I had to acknowledge reality, but I couldn't. The crises changed. I no longer lamented my pathetic existence, but my inability to approach that girl without trembling, to do anything other than stalk her or lurk in the shadows.

It was unbearable, but it was an addiction I couldn't break.

Spying, studying, observing, thinking, imagining, touching myself, ejaculating, sleeping, and repeating, became a painful and inevitable routine that stretched on for too long.

“Che bella sei...” I murmured, watching your smile as (Y/N) attended the villagers, the gestures she made.

“Uhg,” Angie protested, turning away with a tired sigh. “Donna, I'm starting to get tired of this.”

“Your smile is beautiful...” I sighed again, dazzled by her beauty, blushing as I hid behind some trees. “Ti amo, (Y/N)...”

“Okay, okay, enough,” the doll interrupted, standing in front of my field of vision, obscuring her image. “Donna, basta.”

“Get out of the way, I can't see her,” I protested, gently slapping the doll and positioning myself on that distant bench.

“What? Are you hard already? Are you going to take it out and jerk it off out here? ” Angie said in a nasty tone, forcing me to tear my gaze away from (Y/N)'s beauty and growl at my friend.

“Ma che volgare, Angie,” I snapped, disgusted by her hurtful insinuations. “What's that about?”

“Donna, I'm sick of coming here day after day to stare at that silly girl and watch you lose your mind,” she said, climbing onto my lap with an authoritarian pose. “You're pathetic.”

“What? Take that back,” I threatened, pushing her off my body, starting to get dangerously nervous. “Take it back...” I growled darkly, standing up.

“Never,” the doll sighed, unfazed by my attitude. “Stupida”

“Non...” I hissed, my breathing becoming dangerously faster. No, I couldn't argue with the doll so close to her; she'd see us, everyone would notice. “Cavolo, Angie, this was your idea.”

“Yes, I thought you'd calm down a bit,” she replied, gesturing indifferently. “But I can see you haven't. You're losing your mind, much more than usual.”

“So what do you want me to do? I... I love her...” I said in a softer, submissive tone, sinking back onto the bench. “I can't do anything but admire her from afar, dream that one day she could be mine and...”

“Wake up, silly Donna,” the puppet interrupted, climbing into my lap and smacking me on the head, making me groan again. “Stop fooling around and act at once.”

“I've already told you, Angie, there's no way she'll notice someone like me, much less love me,” I sighed, on the verge of sobbing, feeling the fabric of my black veil dampen with my tears.

“That's nonsense,” the doll replied, shaking her head. “You're a lord, remember? You don't need her to love you.”

“I don't like what you're implying,” I whispered, confused, but knowing what her intentions were.

“Fine, but you have no choice,” she said, comically crossing her arms. “You can have whatever you want, Donna, whoever you want. She's just a simple villager; you shouldn't care about her feelings. You want it? Then take it.”

“Do you want me to kidnap her?” I asked, thoughtfully. “Th-That's not romantic at all. I don't think...”

“Do you love her?”

“Yes, of course I do,” I replied, nodding, nerves running through my body. “I love her more than anything.”

“Then take her, make her yours, she can't say no. You're her owner,” the doll finished, getting off my lap and pointing at the store. “You'd like it, wouldn't you? For her to kiss you, to caress you, to feel her close to you...”

I just nodded, imagining it all in my mind, what it would be like, how it could be so real and no longer be a fantasy. A sinister smile spread across my face.

“Yes, I would like it.”

“Then do it, silly Donna, take that stupid girl with you. She won't be able to refuse. You could make her suck you off whenever you want and...”

“Angie, please, don't... don't make it look dirty. I-I want to be romantic, to love and take care of her... She couldn't refuse me, could she? I could make her truly love me...” I rambled, slowly getting up, playing with my hands, which, for some reason, were starting to sweat.

“Oh, yes, of course, dear Donna, she'd be yours and only yours. You just have to... well, take her. Easy peasy, right?”

“Yes...” I sighed, my gaze fixed on the snow, drowning out the images of (Y/N)'s screams as I kidnapped her against her will. Those screams would turn into moans, I was sure of it. “But... but how do we do it?”

“Follow me. I have a plan,” Angie said, walking closer to the store, too close.

“Angie, what...?” I asked as I followed her, not realizing I'd already entered the artisan shop, and had found something beautiful, her gaze upon mine.

“My lady,” (Y/N) said, giving a small bow without taking her gaze from mine. “I was waiting for you to come.”

“D-davvero?” I stammered unconsciously. I think she heard me, because she frowned, confused.

“I'm sorry, but... I don't understand you,” she said kindly, without removing that smile from her face. “Was that Italian? Gods, I had no idea you...”

I knew that smile.

“Yes, yes, yes, whatever you say, silly girl,” Angie interrupted, comically climbing up onto the counter. “You were waiting for us, huh?”

“Um, well… I remember that I offered you some of my tea, and I was worried.”

“You were worried,” I sighed, my voice imperceptible to her until I cleared my throat. “Perché?”

“Um... well,” (Y/N) stammered, visibly nervous. “The truth is, I was worried that my tea wouldn't be to your liking, Lady Beneviento.”

“The tea was fine, or so Donna says,” Angie said, amused, fussing with the things on the counter.

“I'm glad to hear that, my... lady,” the girl murmured, still nervous, with that tremble in her voice that betrayed a certain fear of my presence.

You'll be more afraid, little bird.

“Oh, um... are you interested in buying something? Don't worry, I have special prices for distinguished customers.” Her merchant's tone pierced my ears, detecting a hint of falseness, of discomfort.

“Yes, yes... tell me, silly, where do you get your herbs?” the puppet interrupted again, discreetly gesturing for me to let her speak.

“Well, the wild plants here offer a lot of possibilities, but I'm afraid there isn't much variety,” (Y/N) explained, while Angie studied the tea bags.

“I see... that's because you haven't ventured into the western forest, huh?” Angie continued, while I marveled at her gaze.

“Mm, no, well... that's your territory, isn't it, Lady Beneviento?” she asked me in a doubtful tone, to which I nodded elegantly. “I wouldn't want to trespass on your property, my lady.”

“Nonsense,” Angie said, dismissing it with a wave of her hand. “Donna wouldn't mind you gathering some herbs to continue making that delicious tea, would you, Donna?”

“Mm,” I murmured, beginning to understand the doll's plan. She was certainly clever, too clever.

“Oh, well... I appreciate it because I was starting to have stock issues and... if... if that's okay with you... I'll stop by there, I'll try not to disturb you.”

“Va bene,” I said formally, hiding the trembling in my hands as I turned around. “I'll take four bags.”

“Perfect... thank you, thank you very much, my lady.”

It certainly seemed like a good plan. She'd just have to come to me, to my territory. Once she crossed the bridge, it would be the end, and my beginning. I resisted doing it, but I had to admit Angie had a great idea.

I just had to wait for that little bird to fall into my net.

“There she is,” I said, excited to see (Y/N) appear out of the snow after a long few days of waiting.

“Yeah, I see,” the doll said as we hid behind an old wall. “Okay, we just have to wait until she's distracted and... boom! You'd have that pussy just for you.”

“Angie...” I hissed at that vulgarity, and the sinister laugh that accompanied it. “I told you to not to talk about her like that. She'd be my girlfriend, not a whore, do you understand?”

“Whatever," the doll whispered. “Look, she turned around... she looks scared.”

“I'm not surprised,” I sighed, a pang of sadness in my chest.

Could she really love me? Could I force her to do it? I was desperate; I couldn't do anything else. She'd be mine, no matter what.

(Y/N) walked slowly, cautiously, probably afraid of the rumors circulating about me in the village, about how dangerous it was to enter my territory and the high probability of never returning.

After a sigh, seeing that there was no danger, the young woman began to examine the bushes there, looking for herbs for her tea, wild plants that I knew didn't exist, at least not in the way she thought, or Angie made her think.

“Now,” I growled, emerging from my hiding place and clenching my fists as Angie followed close behind, laughing sinisterly. “You're mine now...”

I walked slowly toward the girl, who seemed quite distracted, vulnerable. My mouth watered, imagining all the things we would do, how much we would love each other, everything I had planned for my girlfriend, my wife, my eternal lover.

But suddenly, (Y/N) gasped in fear.

I stopped, thinking maybe I'd given myself away, that she'd heard me.

No, don't run away, little one, don't run away from me...

I blinked in relief to see her gaze directed not at where I was standing, but in the opposite direction. Her legs moved, starting to back away, and a growl began to echo through the snowy forest.

One of Moreau's hideous creatures emerged from the trees, one ironically named Vârcolac, the local term for "werewolf." It was a deformed, rabid dog that was slowly approaching the young woman.

All my senses were on alert, but when I started to run, it was too late.

A scream of pain was the next thing I heard. That ferocious beast had pounced on (Y/N), its teeth sinking into the skin of her arm, causing her beautiful blood to spill into the snow.

I rushed forward as fast as I could, rabid, snarling with rage. No, that beast couldn't take her away from me; she was mine.

“Basta!” I shrieked furiously, standing in front of the creature, which released the arm of the young woman, who was crying in terror. “Go away!”

I knew the influence we had on those creatures; I expected obedience, and I got it. But no, it wasn't enough. That thing had hurt my beloved, and it would have to pay. The rabid dog began to whimper, to cry in suffering as I focused on making it pay.

“Gods...” (Y/N) whispered, pulling away, dragging herself through the snow with her injured arm. “Gods...”

Hearing her addictive voice, I stopped, leaving the Vârcolac alone, which fled with agonized wails, never to return.

“(Y/N)… are you okay?” I asked, crouching down next to the young woman. “Cavolo, what was that thing doing here?” As I asked, I looked at Angie, who just shrugged.

“M-My arm,” (Y/N) stammered, holding her wound. “It hurts,” she complained, writhing in pain.

“Relax, you're safe now,” I whispered, unable to believe what had just happened, soothing (Y/N)'s pain with my powers, making her gaze relax before she fainted. “You're with me now…”

Those were my last words before picking her up and taking her home, to her new home.

Healing her was simple, but watching her sleep… it was complicated. My body was asking me to do things I'm ashamed of, but luckily, I was stronger than my impulses. I treated and washed her wound while whispering words of love to her, knowing she couldn't hear me.

“Well...” Angie said, climbing into the bed. “Everything went much better than I expected.”

“Better? Cazzo... Angie, tell me you have nothing to do with the Vârcolac,” I growled nervously.

“Of course I haven’t. That slimy fish should have better control over his creatures, but hey, it came in handy,” the doll said, looking at the unconscious (Y/N).

“Handy? She... she's hurt... I was about to lose her and...” I said nervously, gently stroking the girl's silky hair, intoxicated by her tea scent.

“Don't be silly, this was the best thing that could have happened to you, Donna. You didn't have to kidnap her, you saved her life. Of course, it's much better,” the doll explained, making me realize that, once again, she was right.

“Mm... Mm...” a murmur escaped the young woman's lips, causing my head to snap towards her. “Where... Where am I?”

“You're safe, in my house,” I explained softly, continuing to stroke her hair.

(Y/N) winced slightly before rubbing her eyes with her good arm, positioning herself, noticing who was beside her.

“Lady Beneviento,” she whispered weakly, her eyes wide open, watching me.

Then it hit me. My hand went to my face, and I didn't notice the black cloth that used to cover it, but my skin. I'd forgotten about the veil, I was so afraid of losing you…

“Mannaggia…” I lamented, getting up to escape this situation. I wasn't ready to show her my hideous face, not yet.

“W-Wait…” the girl interrupted, reaching for my wrist, preventing me from moving with her burning touch. “Wait, please.”

“You shouldn't have seen me, (Y/N),” I whispered, struggling not to fall into her sweet grasp.

“No, I... it's fine, my lady... I like to put a face to my guardian angel,” she commented with a warm smile, making me look back at her slowly, to see the sincerity of her misguided words.

“I'm not an angel,” I murmured, removing her tempting hand from me, walking away from the bed.

“Well...” she said, painfully sitting down on the bed, still staring at me, scrutinizing my deformed features. “You look like an angel to me.”

“You're wrong,” I said frowning, but turning completely around.

(Y/N) shrugged with a sleepy smile, lying back down.

“Thank you,” she whispered, falling asleep again, forcing my weak body to move closer to her. “Thank you for saving my life.”

“I... don't,” I murmured, sitting next to her and looking at the bandage on her arm. “Y-You should rest.”

“Mm,” she gestured again. “I’m a little dizzy… I don’t think I can go home now…”

“No,” I said tersely, shaking my head. “You have to stay here, with me… erm… you must stay, and you can do it… as long as you want…”

“Mm… yes, you’re an angel…”

Her voice was sleepy due to my powers, but it was still divine, heavenly. She was no longer talking to herself or a client; she was talking to me; those words were directed at me. Dizzy or not, she was speaking to me; she had looked at me; there was no horror on her face, no fear.

All the horrible thoughts I had for her disappeared in an instant when my reckless hand grasped hers as her breathing relaxed and deepened. She was mine now, she was with me, but for some reason, I didn’t feel strong, I didn’t feel like holding her back by force.

I wanted to love her, take care of her, see her smile, and hear her tell me those beautiful things. I couldn't do it, I could never hurt (Y/N), and that was killing me.

When her arm healed, she would be gone forever, I would lose her, but I couldn't help thinking it was the right thing to do, that she would be much happier without me, that her smile would disappear if I forced her to love me.

At least she was mine in that moment. Maybe I could try, maybe...

Little by little, (Y/N) regained consciousness, flushing the drug emanating from my body and bringing her out of her disorientation. She didn't change much; she simply seemed much more serene, fearful, but... for some reason, she didn't seem to be truly afraid of me; rather, she seemed to want to be polite and grateful.

I cared for her, treated her with affection, with sweet words while I healed her wound, while she hissed in pain at my actions. But I was always rewarded with a beautiful smile, a sincere, grateful smile.

I couldn't fully reflect the days that passed, but they were more than one, more than two. Soon after arriving at my house, (Y/N) was able to roam freely, curious about everything there, asking questions, and being fascinated by each of my explanations.

“Mm, it's delicious,” she commented one evening while we were having dinner together, in silence, a calm, peaceful silence, a silence that allowed me to contemplate her, to see how she looked at me, how she acted without me being hidden, watching.

“Grazie,” I said gratefully, taking a sip from my glass of wine.

“This pasta has been my favorite food since I was a child,” (Y/N) said, wiping herself with a napkin.

“I know,” I said mistakenly, instantly regretting it for knowing her better than she did.

“Wow, you lords know everything, don't you?” she said amusedly, tasting the wine, complaining about her wound. “Ouch...”

“It's our job,” I said confidently, taking advantage of my status to correct my stupid mistakes.

“I see,” she said, winking at me, a gesture I didn't quite interpret, making me blink in confusion. “I thought I could do something for you.”

“Something for me?” I asked curiously, a darkness appearing in my gaze. Yes... I could think of many things she could do for me.

“Mm,” the girl nodded, carefully placing her glass on the table. “Well, you feed me, you take care of me... sometimes I don't think I want to go home,” she joked, making my face freeze.

“Then don't do it,” I said in an indifferent tone that made her raise her eyebrows before she laughed softly, shaking her head.

“Well, who knows...” she murmured distractedly after that awkward moment, which she dismissed as a joke. It wasn't. “But I would like to help you, at least... well, I know how to sew, and... I could help you with your dolls.”

“Mm, you need to perfect your technique,” I commented, slipping up again, making her look suspicious.

“Oh, really?” (Y/N) said amused, but with a slightly different tone, as if something didn't add up. “Well, I guess if you're patient enough with me, you could teach me your... perfect technique.”

“You can't sew with that arm,” I said, trying to break out of my own trap.

"It won't be forever, will it?" she joked again, raising her wine glass.

I smiled mysteriously, beginning to enter into a strange game I didn't understand, but I liked. I was crazy about her, hopelessly in love with her. That hadn't changed, it had only gotten worse.

“Here's to that, cin cin...”

As her wound healed, my hopes began to fade.

(Y/N) wasn't a simple villager; she was a young woman with a talent for fabrics, a lover of poetry, a kind, cheerful girl...

I never thought we could have so many things in common, that someone like me could get so close to someone like her without forcing her to do so. Of course, I had saved her life, and she was grateful for it. (Y/N) only meant to be kind and grateful, but it burned me. Her smile devoured my insides, made my heart race, excited me, drove me crazy.

Laughter, movies, hours of silent reading... somehow, we had established a bond I hadn't expected. I had managed to approach her without trembling and she didn't tremble when I did. She was perfect, so perfect…

Love consumed me, making me feel pain, sadness, frustration. She was just a girl grateful for what I did, nothing more. Soon she would be gone, abandoning me, and I would only be able to live on memories, on that false illusion of a shared life.

Luckily, I watched her long enough to get to know her, to know what she liked, what to do to please her. It wasn't too difficult for me to do so; she loved poetry, and I loved reading it to her, dedicating a few verses to her in small notes, or while doing her best to help me with my dolls.

I was happy, or I thought was. I would never be happy until she was mine, until she told me if she had feelings for me.

It drove me crazy, I suffered crises at night when she wasn't watching, desperately calling out her name, smashing mirrors and furniture, begging the Gods for a chance for happiness, with her.

“Anche così è stato breve il nostro lungo viaggio.

Il mio dura tuttora, né più mi occorrono

le coincidenze, le prenotazioni,

le trappole, gli scorni di chi crede

che la realtà sia quella che si vede...”

I recited one night, by the light of the fireplace, with her fascinated gaze fixed on mine. My voice trembled, but at the same time it was firm and sure. It didn't matter how much I was suffering for her love. I would suffer eternally to see those eyes look at me like that, to hear the words my lips spoke...

“Wow, it's beautiful,” (Y/N) commented, whispering so as not to disturb the peace of the moment. “What does it mean?”

“It talks about the loss of a great love,” I explained, closing the book, nervous to have her dress so close to mine, so close to me... “Eugenio Montale remembered his deceased wife with these verses, the things they experienced...”

“Oh, that's very sad,” she sighed, lowering her gaze. “Still, it sounds beautiful. Lost love is love, after all.”

“I-I guess so,” I said, relaxing a little, trying not to look at her intently whenever she spoke, to avoid seeming desperate, in love...

“Love is beautiful in all its forms, don't you think so?” she said in a casual tone, placing her legs on the sofa in a distracted posture.

“I don't know,” I answered sincerely.

“Have you never been in love? Oh, um... I shouldn't have asked that, I...” the girl said, once again recalling that cautious tone from the first days, the first weeks.

I didn't respond. I just looked away.

“What about you, silly girl? Have you fallen in love?” Angie interrupted, comically scaring us, breaking the tension of that moment, of that awkward question.

“Angie...” I hissed menacingly, while (Y/N) giggled with a hand on her chest. “Lasciala.”

“It's okay,” the tea girl said, shaking her head. “Actually… I'm in love right now, really bad, indeed.”

Her words stabbed into my chest like two sharp daggers. My whole world, my fantasies, and hopes crumbled at once. I should have known, I should have imagined that someone as perfect as (Y/N) would have someone waiting for her, someone who loved her, and who wasn't me.

Suppressing my rage, my desire to hurt her for causing me pain, I abruptly stood up from the couch, causing the girl to do the same, worried.

“Donna...” she said calmly. “Are you okay?”

“I'm fine! Cazzo...” I screamed, removing her soft hands from my shoulders, which were trying to turn me towards her. “Take your hands off me, you stupid girl,” I growled, panting angrily and running towards the elevator, towards a night of inconsolable crying.

“Donna, wait.”

I didn't hear her; I could only hear her confession, her declaration of love for someone else. I'd already lost my mind, but that finished me off, brutally. Still, killing her, taking revenge out of spite, didn't seem like a good idea.

Imagining the terror in her eyes, her last breath, didn't console me, quite the opposite. Anyway, I already knew it was impossible; she would never love me, and I'd have to accept that, or I'd end up hurting her.

I decided it was best to distance myself, to cool down enough so I wouldn't feel the warmth of her presence, to count the days until her wounds healed completely and she disappeared from my life forever, before I did instead.

But I was never good at acting; my new attitude couldn't go unnoticed by her.

“Donna,” (Y/N) said, bursting into my workshop, distracting me with her unattainable charms. “I-I think I'm completely healed now.”

“Good,” I whispered, concentrating on the porcelain, not in her beauty. “Then you can get out of my house.”

“What? Um... I thought... I thought you liked being with me, I was thinking about...” she said, confused, getting dangerously close.

“No! Don't think, stupid! If you're healed, go away, you're just annoying me,” I exclaimed spitefully, breaking the doll with my hands, with the force of my pain.

“Why are you treating me like this? You're not the same, Donna, I thought that...” she said, hurt, pretending to care about my attitude.

I couldn't take it anymore.

“Why? Are you asking why?” I said, standing up from the chair with a dark look, clenching my fists tightly on either side of my hips. “Because I love you, stupida! I've been in love with you longer than you can imagine! You break my heart, you tell me there's someone you love... and you ask why I treat you like this? I don't know, (Y/N), maybe it's because I can't stand you being so close to me if I can't have you, maybe it's because I can't live without you!”

“I know,” she commented, unfazed by my madness, leaving me voiceless, colorless. “I always knew... you were there, somehow.”

“Cosa?” I asked nervously, a tear of love running down my cheek.

“I saw you far away, in the snow, watching me every day...” she explained, replacing my anger with shame. “At first I was scared, but... somehow... I knew you didn't want to hurt me.”

“You don't know anything, stupida,” I hissed, moving a little closer.

“I know what I feel,” she said firm, confident, without taking her eyes off mine. “Donna, I'm in love with you.”

“What? No, no, no, you're not going to cheat on me,” I said, pointing at her accusingly. “You told me the other night, you said that… that you were in love…”

“Yes, with you,” (Y/N) confessed, leaving me paralyzed. “I know it sounds hasty and… well, maybe you find it hard to believe, but somehow, that day, in the church… I… I don't know, I started wondering what you were really like, what was under that black, withdrawn figure.”

“Um…”

“And then… you came into my store with that silly excuse about tea… I never thought you'd dare to approach me, I'm just a simple villager,” she said amusedly, taking a step towards me.

“You're not a simple villager,” I said confused, my hands trembling when hers intentionally brushed against them.

“And you're not a monster…” she whispered, too close to my lips. “You saved my life, remember?”

“N-No... I... I...” I stammered as her arms wrapped around my waist and her gaze deepened on mine, mesmerizing me. “You don't understand... I wanted... I wanted to hurt you...”

“You'll hurt me, Donna. You'll hurt me if you don't kiss me,” (Y/N) whispered in my ear, pulling away to let my body respond, to let me thrust desperately against her, my lips crashing onto hers.

It wasn't a tender or loving kiss; there was fury, rage, shame, and passion in my movements, in the way my mouth devoured hers. I felt her smile as she reciprocated, the wetness of her tongue brushing against mine with the same force that my hands gripped her waist, pulling her against my body.

“Ti amo..." I whispered panting, catching the breath she'd stolen from me with her kisses, declaring my love for her, confessing a love that had been killing me for too long. “Ti amo...”

(Y/N) smiled seductively, not responding with words, but with another passionate kiss, quieter, but just as effusive.

My hands went wild, wanting to touch every part of her body I'd long considered forbidden. Her dress was violated by my caresses as my legs pushed her beauty against one of the workshop walls.

“I've wanted you to be mine for so long...” I growled in her ear as my fingers grazed her breasts beneath the fabric, my nails gripping her flesh, penetrating it.

“Prove it, Donna,” she challenged me... her voice was a wet challenge as my teeth sank into her neck.

Her bare skin appeared before me like a divine gift, allowing me to lie on it, caress it, kiss it, moisten it for me, so that I could devour it. But I was too anxious to enjoy the moment. I loved her, wanted to truly love her, to sink into her body, to make her mine before she came to her senses and realized what I was doing.

I took a deep breath, looking into her shining eyes and listening to her labored breathing, and without thinking, I ripped her underwear from under her dress with a victorious, dangerous, avid gasp.

“Donna,” she protested in amusement, letting her back hit the wall as I released my quivering erection from its prison. “Calm down.”

“No... you can't ask me to calm down,” I whispered in a commanding voice as I lifted her, leaning her against the wall as I entered her carelessly, feeling that warm, wet embrace around me.

“Shit... you're big, Donna,” (Y/N) protested with a moan, closing her eyes and letting herself go, letting my cock slide through her tight walls, forcing its way into her body, into her wetness...

“You’re... mine...” I responded clumsily, thrusting into her slowly but firmly, slamming her back against the wall as I held her. She clung to my body as best she could.

“Oh, yes, yes,” she moaned as she danced up and down to the rhythm of my thrusts and my indiscreet grunts. I barely had to force myself to move her; she was light as a feather, and comfortable, warm. “Oh, Donna...”

“You're not surprised,” I said with a sinister smile, moaning with pleasure as I felt her body intensely squeezing my erection, a wet, lascivious sound adorning the moment.

“I'd... heard something about it...” she moaned, too focused on the pleasure to be rational. I didn't give that unpleasant comment much thought; I had work to do.

Laughing, reveling in our first time, in truly having her physically, in feeling myself inside her perfect body, I continued my thrusts while my lips fought to capture hers.

“Donna, Donnaah!” she cried out, ecstatic as my release flooded her, causing her body to react in kind, holding me close, milking me with lust so my seed would stay inside her.

The pleasure I felt was incomparable to any other; her body was so perfect... so wet... so much better than a stupid, used maid. I already knew I loved her, but I didn't know I could feel that way: lost, madly in love, capable of forsaking the very Gods if she asked me to.

“I hope I didn't hurt you,” I said when I caught my breath, pulling out and gathering her in my arms as I brushed her hair away from her face. “I've been wanting to do this for so long... wanting to love you...”

“I know, Donna... you were always my guardian angel.”

[usopps-goggles]

Mha Guys And Their Love Languages Pt.1

———————————————————

Featuirng: Izuku Midoriya, Katsuki Bakugo, Shoto Todoroki, Eijirou Kirishima, Keigo Takami (Hawks), Shouta Aizawa! —————————————————————————————

I.Midoriya: •Words Of Affirmation•

he loves encouraging and motivating others so it’s no surprise he gets all warm and fuzzy inside when the roles are reversed and your the one peppering him with motivational words letting him know what a good job he’s doing even if it’s something small, whisper sweet nothings in his ear and you have this boy on his knees. after all he’s been through with being told he’ll never make it as a hero being quirkless and what not having someone by his side to tell him that he is worthy and can do it makes his heart swell.

K.Bakugo: •Acts Of Service• bakugo isn’t the best at expressing himself verbally so he shows you he cares instead, you need help with dishes? he might fake pout and say your more than capable of doing it yourself but helps you with relatively no complaints, left your bag at home? he’s already dashing down the block . in turn he likes when you reciprocate the same for him wether it’s helping him train, or carrying his bag for him when his muscles get tired.

S.Todoroki: •Quality Time•

coming from a family as broken as his he’d never really experienced spending time with people he’d cared about other than his classmates so when you waltzed into his life he’d like to spend every moment possible doing stuff with you wether it’s watching TV, feeding the ducks at the lake, or eating takoyaki he’s just happy to bask in your presence and enjoy each others company.

E.Kirishima: •Acts Of Service• he’s a high believer in chivalry so it makes sense that in a relationship he tries to be the most chivalrous of them all! opening doors, fetching you things, getting stuff off the top shelf for you this man does.it.all! though in turn he loves it when you do the same for him, prepared to be called ‘so manly’ regardless of your gender.

K.Takami: •Quality Time• let’s face it, being a pro hero is stressful especially if you’re number 2, so after long hours of patrolling keigo thinks there's nothing better than spending quality time with his partner. with you his facade can drop and he can just be and he adores that most, so expect a lot of lazy days in bed when he’s not on duty and lounging around his hero agency -when he has a rare break- playing a dumb mobile game together.

S.Aizawa: •Quality Time• sleepy boy just lovessss spending time with his S/O and what better way than napping with him after a long day of teaching? or perhaps indulging in book together you nestled in his lap like a cat. quality time together is uhow he shows he cares even if he may be away teaching during the day, when he comes home for the night he’s all yours! (if he doesn’t fall asleep right away that is!

[joezworld]

Express Engines

Got you guys yesterday, didn't I?

Just so that everybody knows, I am stealing OCs from SiF. Usually it's because I think they deserve better but in this specific instance it's because I like her enough I wanted to wrap her into the stories I make one way or the other. She's one of Rhys B. Davies' contributions to the ERS, which is why she's actually a good character.

1963 - Severn Tunnel Junction Yard

“Samarkand. I’m looking for an engine named Samarkand.” 

“Well she’s not ‘ere, so why don’ you take yer Swindon self and git, awright? A’fore we’ve got ta stop bein’ so polite abou’ it?” Their response was crude but to the point, and Evening Star took his leave with dignity. 

It wasn’t their fault, truly. Hating him came naturally to a great many of his kind. The eldest - those with grease in their bearings far older than he - hated him for his “coddled” nature. He was “special” to London, marked for immortality before he’d turned a wheel in revenue service. His brass always shone, his movements were oiled promptly, and he was put on special, lighter duties just to keep his condition as close to perfect as possible; Should something break, it was replaced instantly. It did not take a surplus of brains to figure out why they hated him, as they sat on sidings, barely raising enough steam to keep the diesels at bay. 

Similarly, the “middle” of their clan despised him too. They were younger, Crewe-built to a tee, except for a small class of ten Swindoners - his predecessors, as it were. There had been tension around these two groups, well before he was built; the Swindoners had been sent to the East, and the Crewe-ers had taken the blame for that from the great many engines of other classes who still held onto the non-secular trappings of the former Western. When more of their shared class had once again rolled out of Swindon's famed shop doors, the Crewe engines were primed for hatred. It was an honest hate, and he felt somewhat comforted that they would have hated him even if his status had been less… special. 

The youngest - his own “cousins” as it were - hated him as well, but unlike the callous detestation of the elders and the sectarian dislike of the middles, he had no idea why they hated him so. At first, he’d assumed it was much of the same: His own Swindon brothers had no quarrel with him - indeed they did their best to treat him as an equal - so the dislike from the Crewe engines seemed to have sectarian origins.  

But they kept bringing up her. 

Who she was, he had no idea, but as he questioned the hurled abuse it became very clear that he had wronged her in some way. It was the world’s best-kept secret, known to all Crewe built, and hidden from the Swindoners on pains of death. 

At first, he was willing to let sleeping engines lie. Perhaps it was some misunderstanding, or childish jealousy; either way, he would not stoop to such levels, not allow himself to sully the name of Steam Traction over a petty grievance. 

But, as the years went on, and it became increasingly obvious that his kind was being snuffed out, his mind turned again to the mysterious her. Would he really go quietly into the good night, leaving an unknowable number of past sins to turn in the breeze? 

No. No he would not. He would find this mysterious engine, and make peace with her if it was the last thing he ever did.  

He learned things, here and there. Most of his information came from the crews; they had no truck in his private quarrels, and spoke freely if caught at the right moment. “She” was another of his own class - sister, cousin, whatever she chose to be, really. The crews spoke of her well, but mentioned that she seemed slightly “uppity". It took him time to figure out what this meant: unlike many of his fellows, who were awarded nicknames from their crews, or he - who had been named from the moment of his creation -  this engine seemed to believe that she was owed a name of her choosing, and was quite insistent that she be referred to her chosen moniker. The crews didn’t like this, and it was probably to her benefit that she was of the female persuasion: she reminded them of their daughters and nieces, headstrong but still a “silly girl” whose concerns could be pushed aside. He had no doubt that a male engine would have already been deemed “insubordinate” and sentenced to an… undeserved fate. 

Then there was the matter of the name itself. Samarkand. 

He’d learned, through his drivers, that it was the name of a great city to the east, far beyond the British Isles and even more distant than Europe. Older than anything he could fathom, it existed for millenia. It stood as the capital of a great empire at one point in long-ago history, and the king had erected his mausoleum there, forever tying the metropolis to his legend. 

That king had been named Tamerlane, and he’d lived a thousand years ago. A great ruler, his legend lived on into the modern day, and in the early days of the 19th century, a locomotive had been named after him. 

That locomotive had been the first engine to emerge from the works at Crewe. 

And now there was a locomotive who called herself Samarkand, the city where Tamerlane was laid to rest. 

Evening Star was not a moron. He could read between the lines. This engine thought that they deserved a spot in history that fate had given to him. 

But had it? 

That was the little voice in the back of his mind, traitorous and deceiving. It often spoke the darker thoughts, the ones he’d rather not have. It played at his thoughts as his driver slowly moved him to the coaling stand. Every engine had to come through here, at some point. She was assigned to this yard, and so he would find her today. 

Did fate really choose you? Or was it just men? the little voice sneered, tone laced with sweet, cloying venom. 

He grit his teeth, trying to tune it out. Ordinarily an easy task, this time it stuck there. 

You heard them when they put the name plates on. 

He’d been far too young then to understand what they said. (he was far too young now)  They’d spoken at length of things that mattered to mortal men: pride, vanity, groupings, legends, and of course, the Great Western. His lineage was, to them, not just the endling of steam, but the last gasp of a great railway. To them, he was Brunel’s last scion, and the world would treat him appropriately, whether he deserved it or not. 

There had been mutters and scowls from the few men who did not worship at the altar of Brunel. They spoke of concepts that he found foreign: unknowable things like production stoppages, and “slow-rolling” the builds. At the time, he had no idea why “fifteen engines in a year” was “bloody shameful.”

Now, as he watched the engines working the yard, he understood. He was, by all accounts, the last steam engine; the final word in a storied lineage that went back to the promethean origins of Stephenson’s Locomotion. 

And yet… he was number 92220. 

The engines who had just evicted him from their shed were 92229 and 92237. Across the yard, an engine was shunting a goods train. Its number was 92250. 

How could he claim to be the last, when they out-numbered him so? 

Admit it, you’re just a fraud, sniffed the little voice. The least deserving immortal. 

He blew off steam in irritation, the vapor billowing into the night. His crew, who had been getting ready to oil his joints, took one look at their engine and found that they needed to be elsewhere. Evening Star was left alone with his thoughts. He did not enjoy the solitude, and disquieting little thoughts buzzed around his smokebox like bees.

After some time, a distant horn sounded, and the Cardiff-bound Blue Pullman roared into view. The train thundered through the station, a wild wind whipping in its wake. Shortly thereafter, a second horn sounded in the other direction. A slow goods train with a Hymek on point was bellowing for a banker, and a prairie tank scrambled out of the yard to serve the diesel. 

I haven’t got much time, Star thought. All of this will be gone soon. 

“Haven’t got much time for what?” A voice said next to him, and Evening Star almost jumped out of his frames in surprise. While he’d been ruminating, the engine from earlier, 92250, had pulled up next to him. 

“I’m sorry,” he said instinctually. “Just thinking about something.” 

The Hymek honked loudly, and the slow freight began rolling past them with a roar of diesel exhaust. 

“I’ve been thinking about that too,” the other engine said, eyes looking at the plume of diesel exhaust rising into the air. “They’re building more of them every day.”

The train continued past, the prairie tank shoving hard against the brake van, crew building steam for the steep grade in the tunnel. 

“What do you think will happen to him?” 92250 asked. Now that the noise had ceased, Evening Star could hear her properly. She had a quiet voice, one accented by both Wales and the West Midlands, with a hint of London thrown in. Most likely a Crewe engine. 

“The same thing that will happen to the rest of you, I suppose.” He hated this question. No matter the answer, he was instantly the exception, the other. The one who would live forever.  

“I suppose so.” She didn’t scowl at him like he expected. “At least they’ll save you.”

His eyes widened. “Forgive me, but most engines don’t view that as a positive.” 

The smile she gave him was upbeat, yet melancholy. “It’s better than none of us making it.”

“I suppose…” he allowed. “It just feels as though most engines would prefer it to be someone else.”

That elicited a curious look. “Who else could it be? You’re the last steam engine! If there’s anyone to save, it would be you.” 

“Many would agree with you,” He tried to keep the various emotions from his voice. “But a number of our fellows feel as though there is another… one who is more deserving of immortality than me.”

She laughed. “What? Does someone think you plucked the number off their side? What cheek.” 

He didn’t find it funny. “Nothing so gauche, but I’m inclined to agree with them. A great injustice was committed against someone, and I became the beneficiary.” 

“What great injustice?” She sniffed. “And who has been telling you that? I’ll straighten them out right quick.” 

“Oh please, don’t.” He begged. “It’s true.” 

“What is?” 

He tried to find the words. “Look at my number, and then your own. How can I be the last? You are living proof that there’s at least thirty more ahead of me, and there’s probably more after you.”

She scoffed, but he continued. “And do you mean to tell me that the great Swindon works took years to build the last batch? That paragon of efficiency? Or is it more likely that they slowed the production to keep one last prize for themselves?”

She looked at him curiously. “So you think that… Crewe built the last engine?”

“It’s possible that my fate is actually that of another engine,” he said. “The lineage of steam may have been meant to end with the great Samarkand, rather than with-”

“It’s me.” She cut him off, cheeks turning pink with embarrassment. “I’m sorry, I thought you knew. It’s me. I’m the last Crewe engine. I’m Samarkand.”

His jaw dropped to his bufferbeam. “You? But… but, but, but you- I you must- you should-” 

She gathered herself quickly, and cut him off with a stern look. “I nothing. You’re the last steam engine, and don’t let anyone tell you differently.”

“But- but- but-” he stammered. “I’m going to be- and you- and- and, and and and.” 

She kept looking at him. “And, fate dealt us the lives we’ve been living. I can’t be Evening Star, and you can’t be me. The only thing that you have, that I want, is nameplates. Everything else, that’s yours and yours alone.”

Even as he spluttered out something about his life and his paint, and his immortality, he couldn’t help but look at her side, where there should be a set of nameplates. Instead, the word SaMARkANd was chalked on the side of her smoke deflector. Stained and runny from a past rainstorm, it was barely discernible under the muck and grime that caked her entire form. His express-passenger-green paint, polished to a mirror finish, felt… uncomfortable in comparison.  

She kept looking at him, her sad smile turning wan. “Maybe I’ll make it through this anyways. I could always run off to Sodor.” 

He could tell from the way she said it that she knew it wasn’t possible, and he felt the tears prickling at the corners of his eyes. 

“Ah, ah, ah,” she said. “No tears. We’ll both see what the future has in store when it happens, and not a moment before.” 

There was the sound of feet on gravel, and her crew appeared through the steam. Clambering into her cab, they quickly raised steam and prepared to drive her away. “Just remember me, alright?” she said as she left. 

Evening Star had no doubt that he would never forget her for the rest of his life. 

-------------------------------

A few days later

The BR minders were entirely too easy to bend to his will. They saw him as less of an engine and more of a precious figurine; something to be kept safely in a cabinet, away from danger. They didn’t like that he had to venture outside the shed at all, and often rewarded him if he shirked a duty they didn’t like. 

On this day, it wasn’t difficult. The schedulers were in a tiff with management - part of some larger dispute between the trade unions and London - and had assigned him a train carrying literal rubbish. It was trivially easy to pretend that a bearing had seized, and pawn the duty off on a class 37 that had been snickering at his misfortune. 

On this day his minder was an odious little man named Smythe. As soon as he’d returned to the shed and been pronounced to be in “fine working order”, Smythe had oozed out of the shadows and offered him “a suitable reward” if he were to stay in the sheds for another day anyways. 

“Does the suitable reward include boons for other engines?” he asked with as neutral a voice as he could muster.

Smythe had merely smiled, and produced a notepad. 

--

A few weeks later, he was on the point of a limited-stop passenger train, slowly working its way from Cardiff to Swindon. The train was short, he was strong, and the timetabled workings did not include the two stations on either side of the Severn Tunnel. He roared through the station at the maximum allowed speed, the yard flashing by on either side. As he approached the sheds, an ecstatic whistle drew his eyes towards an engine on the nearest track. It was a 9F, just like him - clean and shiny with a new coat of green paint. On her side, a set of brass nameplates shone in the sun. 

He smiled, and roared on towards the tunnel. 

------------

1965 

The end was coming for them all. 

Steam was on its final few revolutions around the sun, and even its most famous member was not immune. Evening Star, last of the Swindoners, and the last steam engine ever built, had been withdrawn from service. A scant five years old, he felt twice that, and looked even worse; as the years had gone on, the maintenance had stopped, and problems had begun to emerge that no amount of cleaning could fix. Eventually, he learned that immortal and invulnerable were not the same, and a hard biff in a Cardiff marshalling yard had put him in the out of use line. Soon after, a cackling diesel had hauled him to the vast yard outside the Severn Tunnel, to wait for a final word on his preservation. 

Of course, what is not provided by fate, luck supplies readily. The yard manager was an honorable man, one who found the extermination of steam disquieting. When an engine as great as Evening Star was deposited in his care, he suddenly found himself short of “suitable engines” for various light shunting duties, and a fire was once again burning inside BR’s last steam engine.

He kept at this duty for some time, and one day a train arrived from Gloucester with a most unusual load. 

“Hey,” Samarkand said weakly, the fire long since gone from her. “Remember me?” 

Star said nothing, afraid of the sound he’d make if he tried. Slowly, and with great dignity, he shunted her into a section of the yard that he tried his best to avoid. In it, engine after engine was lined up, ready for final transport to the scrapper’s yard in Newport. 

“Well, I guess this is where fate puts me,” Samarkand said, still keeping a brave face. “Keep me in your thoughts, yeah?” 

It was the calm acceptance that broke him. “No,” he said firmly. 

“What?” Confusion wrote itself across her face. “No?”

Star ignored her. His crew had done this before, with other engines. They found it best to disappear for a few minutes, to give the engines some last words. They’d never done it with Evening Star, but they assumed that he was like every other engine. 

They assumed wrong. 

Star was smart enough to know things that he wasn’t strictly supposed to, and it was trivial to release his brakes, move his reverser, and put the smallest amount of steam through his pistons. Slowly, quietly, so as to avoid notice, he began reversing across the yard with Samarkand in tow. 

“What?” To her credit, she wasn’t stupid either. “Where are we going to go? We’ll never make it out of the tunnel.”

“We don’t have to go far.” He said quietly, navigating the yard until he came upon a specific switch. It was the work of a few minutes, some pointed lies, and a few direct threats, but eventually a cowering platelayer switched them onto a disused siding behind the sheds. 

“You can’t hide me,” she protested. “I’m enormous!” 

“I’m not hiding anything.” He said, slowing to a halt. “On the contrary, I want them to find us.” 

He jerked his regulator, and his driving wheels spun wildly for a moment. 

That was all it took for the disintegrating ties under them to give way, and the rails parted under them. With a shrieking sound of crunching wood, both engines crashed to the ground, sinking into the soft earth. 

---

The BR men were very upset when they came to confront him. “You stupid great engine!” One yelled. “Don’t you see what you’ve done? If they can’t get you out, we’ll cut you up on the spot!” 

“You won’t,” he said with deadly seriousness. “I’m in the National Collection. You’d have better luck knocking down the Tower of London.”

“Then we’ll find another engine and say that they’re you!” another one spat. “Nobody will notice. We’ll, we’ll just get the last one from Crewe or something! They made your kind there too! Yes! That’s what we’ll do!” 

Smythe was among their number, and he found a sudden interest in the ground near his shoes. 

“Why don’t you look behind you?” Evening Star held eye contact with the man, who eventually did turn. Samarkand’s nameplates, and the smaller plate that said “LAST ENGINE PRODUCED AT CREWE WORKS, 1958” shone under the work lights. 

What the man said next was unprintable, and Smythe was eventually forced to take charge. “Evening Star,” he said in his officious manner. “Why have you done this? Surely there is something we can do to make things right?” 

The second man raged ineffectually about “appeasement,” and Smythe ignored him. 

“You’re going to save her, or you’re going to cut us both,” Star said firmly. “I’m not negotiating.”

The second man got even angrier, and the first man joined him. They swore up and down that they would do horrible things - cut him up while she watched, cut her up while he watched, cut them both up and make a new engine out of the parts, and so on. Eventually, Smythe lost patience. “Gentlemen if you please would stop, this is juvenile and vindictive of the highest order.”

The second man had been smoking a pipe the entire time, and he took it out of his mouth in order to wave it around for effect while he protested. In the process of doing so, a huge clump of half-burnt tobacco flew out and landed on Smythe’s jacket, ruining it. 

The second man abruptly stopped, and Smythe’s glare grew withering. “P-perhaps we could find some arrangement that will suit everyone!” the man stammered, and scuttled away to find a telephone. 

Smythe turned to the other man. “Do you have any further input into the situation?” 

“There’s a heritage railroad in Yorkshire that’s been trying to buy an engine,” the other man said, terrified. “We can reach out to them in the morning.”

“Then the matter is settled.” And Smythe left to make the arrangements.

 The two engines were left in silence. Evening Star felt very pleased with himself, and Samarkand looked teary. “I… can’t believe you did it,” she said at last. 

“I’m Evening Star,” he smiled. “And you’re Samarkand. We can do anything.”

----------------

1999 - Yorkshire

It was an unfortunately all-too-common story in the realm of rail preservation: Rich man buys an engine, then another, and then another. Eventually he’s got an entire shed’s worth, but no railway to run them on. He never wants to own the railway - it’s too much something, be it liability, cash, or hassle. So he spreads his fleet to the winds; engines end up wherever someone has space for them, oftentimes spending months or years under a tarp. He plays at absent parenthood, and wonders why his engines always have some failure that his childhood books never mentioned. The engines he owns don’t mind him - most of the time they don’t ever see him enough to form an opinion… and anything is better than the scrapyard. 

Eventually, things start to change, usually for the worse. The money runs out, or his health fails; Occasionally the interest wanes, but whatever the cause, the engines go to seed. The collection is dispersed - some to museums, some to heritage lines, and some end up sitting in fields gathering rust. It’s an unhappy sight, made only slightly better by the egalitarian nature of it all: steam, diesel, even electric - none are immune. 

On this occasion, the doddering old man had died without a will. His children had jumped on his fortune like starving dogs, and when the dust settled, his “railway collection” was to be sold at public auction. It was sizable, with coaches, engines, various paraphernalia, and even an electric multiple unit going up for sale. 

The vast majority of the collection, (but not all of it - nothing was ever in the same place) had been stored at the big heritage railroad in the Moors of North Yorkshire. They claimed altruism, but all the engines had seen the men from the mechanical department prowling about, looking for those in good condition. (They hadn’t found many.)

Evening Star found it all a touch disgusting, but stilled his tongue once again. Thirty-Five years after he’d turned a wheel in revenue service, engines (and people) still got snippy over his favored position in the National Collection, his immortality, and offering up his opinion was a surefire way to solidify those of everyone else against him. And he needed their opinions of him to be favorable for his plan to work. 

It had to work. It was so important to him that he had to see it through himself, even if it meant agreeing to be an outdoor exhibit for the entire summer.

“Oh my goodness, it’s Evening Star!” The sun was coming up on the morning of the auction, and a steady trickle of people had made their way past him. Each one of them was Important to the heritage rail industry, and he stopped them all. 

“Which lots do you plan to bid on?” he asked, deathly serious in a way that made most of them stop in their tracks and answer him honestly. 

“The coaches, mostly.” 

“That class 40 in the corner.” 

“We might not be buying anything. It’s probably going to be too rich for our backers to absorb.”

“Our Austerity is coming up on his boiler ticket, so we need another tank engine.” 

“Lots 201-230, mostly. Why do you ask?” 

“Oh heavens, whatever the price is right for.”

“I promised the wife I’d only buy one thing, so…” 

“Well, among other things, we’re interested in your sister, 92250.”

“No,” he said firmly, cutting the man off. 

“No, what?” 

“No, you won’t be bidding on her.” 

“I beg your pardon? What gives you the right to-” 

“I don’t know you, which means that you haven’t come from one of the big lines, the ones that can fake an express working on open days. We’re not meant to meander around on tiny branches, so that by itself disqualifies you.”

The man turned pink. “I will have you know that-”

“I bet your works is barely bigger than she is, so you’re not going to care for her appropriately. You know her ticket expires next year?  How’re you going to handle that? Or are you going to stick her outside and let her rot while you make some fundraising campaign that lasts a decade?”

The man wilted angrily, and stormed off without a word. 

“That’s what I thought,” Evening Star said to nobody. 

The next few passers-by were mostly interested in the small pieces - parts, pieces, memorabilia, the few Hornby models that were collected on a table. One group consisted of a dozen people, and they expressed with rather fervent devotion that they planned to own the electric multiple unit by day’s end. He wished them luck.

After them was a group he recognized well - the upper management of the NRM. “Hello, Star!” they said gaily. “Find anything you like at this auction? Anything you think we should be keeping an eye out for?” 

They were joking, in the way many people did when talking to engines, but he didn’t take the bait. “Lot 347. Bid on her and don’t stop until you win.” 

Most of them chuckled, but one had actually read the auctioneer’s brochure. “Star, we already have a 9F. You should know that considering it’s you.” 

“And you’ll have two,” he said firmly. “This isn’t a request. There’s nothing and no-one here that’s more deserving of the Collection.” 

“I would say that there’s perhaps a few more things.” The museum’s director brushed him off without a second thought. “Let me do my job, and I shan’t interfere with yours.” 

The group walked away without another word, leaving a scowling Evening Star behind. “I don’t recall being asked if I wanted to have the job of 'lawn ornament.' You just won’t fix me, you cheap-”

“I say,” a voice called nearby. “I’ve never seen an engine so devoted to an auction that they aren’t a part of! In fact, I’ve seen many an engine not be too interested when they are on the block themselves.” A stout man in a 3 piece suit meandered into Star’s line of view, trailed by several others, all wearing workmen’s coats. “Tell me, what is so important about lot 3-4-7?” 

“An idiot is going to buy my sister,” Star grumbled, drawing suppressed chuckles from the stout man’s entourage. 

“How can you be so certain?” the man said, mirth twinkling in his eyes. 

“They’re all idiots,” Star said, trying to figure out why this man seemed familiar. “They have main line aspirations and tank engine capabilities.” 

One of the entourage let slip a full fledged guffaw, and Star glared at him. “They’ll treat her terribly. She’s too big, too spirited. They’ll buy her for their little Hornby train set in the woods and then blame her for not fitting on the turntable, mark my words.”  

“You certainly have a strong opinion on the matter,” the stout man said. “She must be very important to you.” 

“Someone has to look out for her,” he said, voice rock-steady. 

“I see,” the man said. “And what do you think of me, then? Am I an idiot?”

“Stephen, we came here for the coaches,” snapped a different member of the entourage. 

“And we shall have them,” the man calmed his associate. 

Star narrowed his eyes. “What would you use her for? Excursions?” 

The man snorted. “Oh heavens no. I have a real railway. She’d be pulling heavy goods trains, and perhaps filling in on passenger runs. I do seem to recall that your class was able to run at great speeds with little issue, so the possibilities are endless.” His eyes sparkled with mischief. “Maybe I shall use her for express passenger workings.” 

“We came here. For. The Coaches.” said the other man again. 

“She’s mainline certified,” Star said, unsure if the feeling in his boiler was whimsy or desperation. “Boiler ticket’s still good for a few more months. Whatever you buy, she can pull home.” 

The stout man beamed while his entourage looked at each other in disgust. “You have a problem, and somehow, I always end up dealing with it,” said the other man. 

“You know, I don’t think that’s true,” the stout man said, producing a strange object from under his arm. It was a flat, black circle. “I’ve found that most of the time, I have solutions.” 

He smacked the circle against his hand, and it popped out into the form of a silk top hat, which he placed upon his head firmly. “Thank you, Evening Star. You have been most helpful.” 

And The Fat Controller walked away with his entourage, leaving an absolutely gobsmacked Evening Star behind. 

“Oh my god,” the big engine said in quiet shock. “I think Sam is going to Sodor.” 

----

About two hours later, when the auction finally reached Lot 347, only a smattering of paddles were raised. One stayed raised longer than all the others, and Evening Star felt downright giddy as the auctioneer called out “Sold! To the man in the Top Hat for thirty thousand.” 

----

Two days later, and Samarkand was parked next to him, raising steam for the journey across the country. “Thirty thousand seems low, doesn’t it? Surely I’m worth more than that? I think the buffet coach went for more,” she whispered to her brother, trying not to disturb the line of Mark 2 coaches behind her. 

Star just smiled. “Sam, I think that you’re worth all the money in the world, but in this case, don’t think of it as being undervalued. Think of it as the world’s greatest bargain.”

“What d’ya mean?” 

“You’re an immortal now, Sammie. You’re going to Sodor, and there, you will drink from their fountain of youth and live forever. All for the low price of thirty thousand of someone else’s pounds.”

There was a long silence, long enough that he wondered if she was crying. Instead, there was a strange mix of giddy thoughtfulness working its way across her face. “No.”

“No what?” “You’re in the National Collection. And I’m going to Sodor.” She looked thrilled. “So that means that we’re going to live forever.”

[wtfwriter]

I Promise - Clarisse La Rue x F!Reader

Reader Age: 16-17

Reader Godly Parent: Poseidon

Synopsis: Reader has just returned from the Labyrinth onto a battlefield. In an adaptation of the Battle of the Labyrinth, the Reader is faced with their own internal battle and wonders if keeping their relationship with Clarisse a secret is truly worth it, as well as facing the realities of war and its implications for their little brother.

Word Count: 3197 (I had thoughts and suddenly there were words on a google document. I had nothing to do with this.)

Preface:

Some of the lines and dialogue are written directly or slightly changed lines from Rick Riordian’s novel “Percy Jackson and the Olympians: The Battle of the Labyrinth.” Not all of this story is originally from me. Majority of these events happen in the order that they occur in the book with some minor tweaks

Also don’t ask me how the prophecy works here okay. I just think Percy deserves a big sister idk

I'm not 100% sure what age Clarisse is in this book, but google says she's about 16-17, so keep that in mind

================================================

Even if pegasi are like neutral territory between Zeus and Poseidon, I never would fully relax while flying on the back of one. I held on tightly to my pegasus the entire time, muttering apologies for my grip to her the whole time. It’s alright, boss, she told me. If you could just let up on my skin, that would be great. 

Once we landed in Camp Half-Blood, I dismounted, petting my pegasus’ snout and apologizing again until she turned with the rest of her friends back towards the stables. Once I turned towards everyone else, Percy seemed to have already shared our story with Chiron and Silenus was arguing with Grover about Pan.

I didn’t pay much attention to this. Not because I didn’t care, but because the lines of half-bloods around Zeus’ fist caught my eye first. I watched as every single half-blood seemed to fall into place, with the Hephaestus cabin maintaining their traps, Apollo and Hermes’ cabins ready with bows in the trees, and Aphrodite kids running around combing people’s hair and straightening their armor.

What I was truly looking for, however, was the Ares cabin, which I found exactly where I knew they would be: the front lines. I surveyed for the girl I had been aching to see since I had left camp, a time that seemed much longer than it probably was. My eyes eventually found her, barking orders at her siblings.

I watched Clarisse move across the lines, prepared for battle and preparing those that stood with her. My eyes moved wherever she moved, never letting up, as if they were people who had finally gotten their first sip of water after years in a desert. I was so focused on her movements, I barely noticed when she finally looked at me.

I wondered if anyone else was following her line of sight, or mine. I wondered if we held the same expressions on our faces. I wondered if anyone could figure out what we were saying.

I love you. I’m sorry we can’t talk right now. Not with what’s happening. Not with this many people around. I will find you after all of this is over.

I promise.

We nodded at each other, faces determined, before we both turned back to our respective duties. I watched as each of my friends dispersed to do what they had to: Annabeth with her siblings, Tyson with the Hephaestus kids, and Grover went over to Juniper.

“Both of you, stay with me,” Chiron spoke. “I want you to wait so we know what we are dealing with. You must go where we need reinforcements.”

Percy and I nodded at him. “I saw Kronos,” Percy suddenly said. “It was Luke.. but he wasn’t…”

“He had golden eyes, yes? To merge with a mortal body would be… arduous. I’m not sure how he could have merged with Luke’s form without it burning into ash,” Chiron wondered aloud.

I chimed in, “Kronos said he had prepared the body.”

“I fear what that can mean. Perhaps it will limit his power, being in a mortal form.”

“Chiron,” Percy’s voice was laced with worry. “What if Kronos is leading this attack?”

“He is not,” Chiron replied, incredibly sure. “I would sense if he was drawing near. I believe you have… inconvenienced him when you two pulled his throne room on top of him.” He paused. “You two and your friend Nico, son of Hades.”

Percy looked down at the ground as I spoke. “We know we should’ve told you. It’s just—”

“I understand why you did not tell me. You felt responsible. You sought to protect him. However, if we are to survive this, we must be able to trust each other. We must —”

Chiron was cut off by the sudden wavering of the Earth. I heard Clarisse yell, “Lock shields!”

Then the Titan Army was upon us.

At first, all I saw was the Laistrygonians. Beckendorf yelled orders to fire the catapults, one of which fired a boulder that took one of them down. Arrows flew through the air. Campers gathered to bring down the remaining giants. I watched as Clarisse yelled even more orders.

Just when it seemed we were winning, another wave came out of the Labyrinth, this time of dracaenae. They were completely covered with battle armor, carrying nets and spears. I watched as some fell into traps while others were battling with campers. I looked for Clarisse again, finding her in a locked fight with one of the reptilian women.

I thought about how unfair this all was. How we were all just kids. How we were forced into this war. How all of this hate and pain was caused by hunger for power. 

I thought about how badly I wanted to take Percy away from all of this. How every day I wanted to get him away from his prophecy. How I wanted more than anything for him to be a little kid again.

I thought about how much I wanted to do with Clarisse. How beautiful she was. How she never failed to be the person I could always return to. How she promised me the world and I promised her the universe and it was still less than the both of us deserved.

I thought about how different my life could be if we were brave enough to change it. Maybe being a half-blood wasn’t something we wanted or something we could change. But, we didn’t need to be hiding anymore. It all seemed so stupid now, in the face of life and death,

Suddenly, a hellhound burst out of the opening and Chiron was yelling. “GO!”

Percy and I ran towards the hellhound. All I could see was horrifically clear images in the midst of a blur. Past friends and siblings fighting on opposing sides. Monsters disintegrating whilst others yelled triumphantly. I watched as Nico summoned a dozen undead warriors in various army attire before crumbling to the floor.

“Nico!” I yelled.

“Go! I’ll get the hellhound. You make sure he’s okay!” Percy yelled, running off as I slowed down. I pivoted to Nico, getting on my knees beside him.

“You okay?” I yelled over the commotion of battle.

“Yeah…” he panted. “Go, there’s more of them. You need to help.”

I looked up and got my first full look at everything that was happening. At the gruesome sights of battle. I watched as campers defended their home, the one place they were meant to be safe. I nodded to Nico before getting up.

I almost started to run back where Percy had gone when I heard Grover. He and Juniper were desperately trying to stop a fire that was getting dangerously close to Juniper’s tree. I rushed over, seeing Percy do the same.

I wasn’t sure what to do and by the look on his face, Percy didn’t either. The closest water source was nearly half a mile away, and we didn’t have petrified seashells here. All we could do was concentrate, praying to Poseidon, until I felt a pull in my gut. Suddenly, a wall of water appeared through the trees, dousing the fire. I sighed in relief, glad at least one crisis was averted.

Suddenly, a screech filled the air, followed by the sound of loud flapping wings. Kampê shot into the sky from the labyrinth entrance. Her right hand carried Ariadne’s string until her belt of animal heads rotated to the lion. She stuck the string into the lion’s maw. Safe keeping, I suppose.

Kampê drew her twin swords, which seemed to be dripping with poison. Chiron sent an arrow through the sky towards her, which she sensed as she moved at the last moment. Campers started to run away in fear.

“No! Stay and fight!” Tyson yelled, before being promptly slammed to the ground by a hellhound. They went rolling away.

Kampê landed on the Athena tent and Percy and I ran after her. Annabeth appeared on Percy’s side.

“This might be it,” she said.

“Could be,” Percy replied.

“Okay… morbid,” I muttered under my breath, but neither of them seemed to hear me, or acted like they didn’t.

“Nice fighting with you, seaweed brain.”

“Ditto.”

We all rushed towards Kampê, who lashed at us with her swords. My eyes burned from the poison lacing the blades. My lungs couldn’t seem to fully fill with air.

“We need help!” I yelled.

But there was no one to help. Either each half-blood was locked in their own fight or was too afraid to move towards us.

“Now!” Annabeth yelled, and all three of us rushed in at different angles. But it wasn’t enough. Kampê’s belt of animals snapped at me and I went back trying to not get bitten. 

Suddenly, I was on my back, ears ringing and head spinning. I couldn’t breathe due to a heavy weight. I opened my eyes to see Kampê’s leg on my chest, Percy pinned under the other, and Annabeth thrown off to the side, dazed and not getting up. Kampê raised her sword and I realized this was it. I prayed that Percy would get a fair judgement from the council in the Underworld, that they hadn’t all been bought out by Kronos.

Suddenly, a whirl of black pounced onto Kampê, throwing her off of us and I gasped for air.

“Good girl!” Daedalus called after her. I turned my head and watched as he slashed down monsters, followed closely behind by a friendly face… and many hands.

“Briares!” Tyson called excitedly.

“Hail, little brother!” Briares bellowed back. “Stand firm!”

Briares took up a boulder in nearly each hand, throwing them at Kampê, piling them around her. She was encased within her own makeshift monument taller than Zeus’ fist. By the time he was done, the only evidence that there was an ancient monster inside was from the twin swords still poking out between the stones.

The rocks shifted slightly, slotting into place.

Before I could celebrate that victory, I heard commotion over to the side. I turned just in time to watch Chiron get knocked down from his hind legs, laying on his side. I tried my best to get up, ignoring the ache in my chest from Kampê’s attack. 

As suddenly as I had gotten up to start running towards Chiron, I was back on my knees, covering my ears. The shrill sound seemed to come out of nowhere until I looked over at Grover. His mouth open wide, he seemed to have infinite lung capacity as the sound continued.

The enemies seemed to think better than to stick around after that. I watched dracaenae put down their weapons and sprint towards the labyrinth entrance. I watch laestrygonians rush towards the entrance right after them. More and more of the armies retreated until eventually they all seemed to have gone back underground.

Once the screeching had stopped, the sudden stillness in the air was agonizing. All I could hear was my own breathing as I heaved, still trying to recover from the previous heaviness crushing my lungs. I eventually pushed myself up and grabbed one of Annabeth’s arms with Percy.

I ran with the other two over to Chiron and kneeled in front of him.

“Are you alright? What can I do?”

“Nothing. This is embarrassing,” Chiron chuckled. “Thankfully, we don’t shoot centaurs with broken legs. I’ll be alright eventually.”

“Let me get someone from the medic tent,” Annabeth rushed, already standing up before Chiron stopped her.

“No need, Annabeth. There are far more severe injuries.”

“Guys!” I whipped my head to look for the source of the voice. “Come quick! It’s Nico.”

I shot up, running over to the black heap on the floor. I’d forgotten about him after the intense battle. Dammit.

I got down next to him, looking at his sweaty face. I grabbed his ice cold hands for a pulse.

“He needs nectar! Quickly!” Percy yelled. One of the Ares campers quickly came over with the bottle as I propped Nico up as best as I could onto my knee. Percy dribbled some of the liquid into his mouth. I let out a sigh of relief as he stirred.

“Gods, Nico. I’m so sorry. Are you okay?”

The boy coughed slightly before nodding. “Never tried to summon so many at once before. I’ll be okay.” He turned his head to look beside me. “Daedalus.”

I looked over at the man as Mrs. O’Leary loomed behind him, licking his wounds that were leaking oil. Freaky.

Percy and Daedalus spoke as I tried to convince Nico to rest for a moment. Of course, he refused. I shook my head at him. “One day, you'll have to stop being so stubborn,” I told him.

He rolled his eyes, but smiled slightly. “Bianca would say the same thing. I’ll stop when it doesn’t work for me anymore.”

“But Daedalus,” Percy said. “Even without the string, Kronos’ army still has a way into camp.”

“You’re right,” Daedalus sighed. “As long as the Labyrinth is here, your enemies can use it. And so, the labyrinth can no longer continue.”

Annabeth stepped forward. “But, you said the Labyrinth was connected to you. If the labyrinth’s gone –”

“Yes, Annabeth. I too will be gone. And so, I have a present for you.”

Daedalus removed his satchel from his back and pulled out his laptop, engraved with a greek delta, and handed it to Annabeth. “That holds several designs of mine. Some unfinished, some I think you’ll find interesting, others I felt could never be in the mortal world. I'm positive you will find some things useful there.”

Annabeth was speechless. “This… This is priceless. And you’re just giving this to me?”

“It is less than you deserve. Less than I should do to atone for my mistakes.”

As Daedalus spoke of his time coming to an end and accepting whatever punishment he will be given from his judgment in the Underworld, I came to realize just how small we all are. Just how little we are meant to live. How many regrets we still have over such little time.

I looked around at all of the half-bloods scattered around. I saw some over at the medical tent, others scattered just hugging their friends and siblings, some sitting by the ones we lost who had been covered by thin fabrics.

I questioned my own mortality, and Percy’s. We weren’t meant to live forever. We were never going to. But with the little amount of time we both had, how many regrets would we hold with us?

I thought of Clarisse. I thought of how I hadn’t gone up to her before the battle. How I’d always regret that. I thought of how we both decided to keep our relationship a secret. How that was something I didn’t want to do anymore if it meant having to live with regrets. I thought about how I hadn’t seen her since I had joined the battle.

I looked back at the scene before me as Nico pulled out his sword and stepped before Daedalus. After being zoned out for a second, it freaked me out, until I realized Nico wasn’t raising it.

“Your time has long since come. Be released and rest.”

The relief in Daedalus’ eyes was freeing for us all. Knowing that he was truly ready brought us all some consolation. We watched as his body turned to dust.

I took Percy’s hand in mine and gave him a small smile. “I know there’s a lot to do, but there's something I have to do first.”

Percy nodded. “I know,” he said, and for some odd reason, I knew that he fully did, even though he didn’t say it. I looked down as he continued to speak. “You really didn’t have to hide it from me, you know? I was a bit upset about it at first but I think I was more… sad that you felt you couldn’t tell me.”

I looked back into his eyes and breathed out through my nose, smiling softly. “I just didn’t want you to hate me for this. More than just the ‘Clarisse’ part.”

“Oh, well, that part I might hold a bit of a grudge about,” he smiled at me in a way that told me he was joking. “But otherwise, all I care about is that you’re happy.”

We smiled at each other before Percy suddenly wrapped his arms around my waist. It felt like he was just a little kid again, like he was just my little brother, nothing more. It felt like we suddenly weren’t in the middle of a battlefield and there was an ancient monster buried in rubble just a few feet over. It felt like I was back home. I wrapped my arms around his shoulders.

“I will kill her if she makes you cry.”

We laughed harder than we should have.

He pulls away first, telling me to “get my girl.” I don’t even think twice before turning and starting to run through the battlefield.

I frantically looked around for Clarisse, hoping and praying to every single god that she was okay. I was so frantic that I nearly missed her over by the Ares station, seeming to be ignoring something her brother was saying in favor of looking out at all of the other half-bloods.

I didn’t even think before my feet were moving. Clarisse started to walk around, looking for something. It wasn’t until we made eye contact that I realized it was me she was looking for, when her eyes softened in the way they always seemed to whenever she looked at me, like she was letting go of the anger embedded within her skin and cooling off just a bit.

It didn’t matter to me that we were surrounded by people, and Clarisse made no complaints when my left hand cupped her cheek and my lips met hers. Her arms held my waist as my right arm circled around to hold the back of her neck. I could feel the sweat that was dripping down from the battle and the adrenaline that was just beginning to crash.

I didn’t realize she was crying until I tasted the saltiness. I withdrew slightly before pecking her lips once more. The thumb of my left hand moved to her cheek and under her eye to wipe the tears.

I didn’t realize I was crying until Clarisse’s left hand left my waist to wipe the tears on the right side of my face. We both laughed slightly, bringing our foreheads together and closing our eyes. I angled my head to kiss her one more time before hugging her properly. She buried her face into my neck and I laughed at how it tickled.

“Gods, we both smell horrible.”

“I know.”

We didn’t speak for a while, soaking up each other, but it still didn't feel like enough.

“I’m glad you’re okay,” she whispered.

“I’m glad you’re okay, too.”

It didn’t matter that everyone at camp could see us and Clarisse didn’t seem to mind it either. There were more important things than reputation right now.

[littlejuicebox]

Camping for beginners.

Written to sort of kill two birds with one stone. @coyote-mint this isn't Astarion soothing a baby, but it is Astarion giving Tav a break as she goes on a little, well-deserved vacation! @davenswitcher I also worked your storybook prompt in! Hope you two both like it; thanks for prompts! Special thanks to @chickywickers for helping me name the twins. :)

Summary: Tav/You are out of town and Astarion is full-time daddy duty without the nanny. In an effort to keep three children entertained, he decides upon camping in the backyard.

Tags/Warnings: all fluff, parenthood, children, dadstarion, the mildest reference to sexual encounters, mildest reference to bg3 events and trauma

Word Count: 2.5K

*

Astarion is pitching a tent in the ground, cursing to himself every few moments as he goes about the task. Once upon a time, he’d had Tav or Karlach… or perhaps even an unenthusiastic Lae’zel or an overenthusiastic Wyll to assist him.

But now, it’s him and three little boys in the midsummer heat. Tav won’t be back until tomorrow morning, after a week away visiting Shadowheart and Lae’zel in the Dalelands. It’s a sunny Sunday, and Winifred, the nanny, has weekends off.

So it’s all up to papa for a day longer. He’s sweaty, tired, and pulling from deeply hidden reserves of patience he didn’t know he had until now.

Astarion thinks he has never missed his wife more in all their time together. One more day. He can do it, right?

“Gale, hold this for me,” The frustrated father directs, guiding his ever-obedient and sometimes now shockingly stoic six year old to one of the tent poles.

Gale nods and follows his father’s instructions as his little brothers scream and run around the orchard with toy swords, wreaking havoc as usual. The younger Ancunins are a tornado of scraped knees and sticky fingers at any given time. Their parents consider it a win if the twins make it an entire day without breaking something.

Evander and Finnick are naturally more wild and unruly than their older brother ever was. Astarion is painfully aware that the streak of disobedience in the duo comes entirely from him. The twins test his patience far more than Gale ever had, and in the absence of their mother, the two have become almost completely unhinged.

Tav is the twin wrangler; they are softer with her – but then, she’s always had a way with the more surly, roguish types. Her unique charm somehow soothes them into compliance. Astarion lacks the same skills and is, unfortunately, paying for it this weekend.

The younger boys are straying too far away for Astarion’s liking, and as he hammers a stake into the orchard’s fertile earth, he shouts at the twins, “Evan and Finn, you two had better get your little behinds back—“

He stops and sighs; the twins are too interested in their make-believe and paying absolutely no mind to their father and his chastisement. Astarion resumes his task and without even looking back up at his eldest asks, “Gale, will you please contain them for a moment until we finish this?”

A lazy wave of Gale’s hand, reminiscent of Astarion’s own flippant movements when he speaks, and vines spring from the earth. The tendrils wrap around Evander and Finnick, holding each of them by the torso. A second tendril springs to life from the soil and wraps around the brothers, pulling them into its embrace just as the first tendril recedes. This process continues in a domino effect until the twins are but a few feet from their father, struggling against the vines and expressing their displeasure with grunts and screams.

Astarion lifts his head from the stake and watches the scene in a mixture of amusement and amazement, and when the boys are sufficiently contained he turns to smile at his eldest, “You really are exceptionally talented, you know that, don’t you?”

Gale smiles and nods before he looks down at the ground, unable to meet his father’s proud gaze as he says, “I know, Papa.”

The eldest Ancunin boy struggled in school all last year. His fragile confidence took a huge tumble, which his parents were working to restore to the best of their ability. Gale always required softer hands in comparison to his brothers; Astarion was still learning how to navigate this difference.

“Let go!” The twins shout in unison, short limbs flailing against the vines gently containing their three year old bodies.

They look like mirror images of one another, down to the dark wavy hair parted in opposite directions and vitiligo patches splattered across opposing green eyes. Evander’s is on his left eye, Finnick’s is on his right. Together, they look like a Rorschach Test.

Astarion’s patience is gone; part of him considers leaving the duo trapped in the vines until Tav returns. He narrows his eyes at the youngest Ancunins, pointing accusingly at them with the hammer, “You two asked to camp outside, and after very insistent pleas, I agreed. So if you don’t want daddy to pack up this entire thing and take you both back into the house, you are to stand there. Quietly.”

Finnick, the younger of the twins by a few minutes, wrinkles his nose in displeasure at his father, “Mean, daddy.”

A slow, long exhale escapes Astarion as he stares at the surly three year old with furrowed brows.

“My child, you have no idea how mean I can be, now hush so that your brother and I can finish this,” Astarion instructs, and then returns to work pitching the tent, ignoring the frustrated whines and protests from the twins all the while.

*

Around the small campfire, the Ancunin boys roast marshmallows on sticks as Astarion reads a tale from one of their story books. Apple is, as almost always, curled up next to Gale. The eldest Ancunin boy sneaks the dog marshmallows and his father pretends not to notice.

If that’s the most rebellious Gale ever is, so be it. The twins are a different challenge, entirely.

The story is all about slaying dragons, knights in shining armor, damsels in distress… the usual. The topic is exceptionally boring to the father of three, given all he’s experienced, but he’s gotten used to pretending this ridiculous droll is highly entertaining and throwing his voice for his kids amusement. 

And, plus, if the twins are entertained, they aren’t causing mayhem, which is all Astarion can ask for tonight. Tav will be back in less than twelve hours, he reminds himself.

All hail his wife, Lady Ancunin, the Hero of Baldur’s Gate, and the hero of this household. 

This weekend has Astarion regretting any moment he might have taken her for granted or not shown enough appreciation for her.

While the father of three continues to read, a sudden rustling at the edge of the orchard catches everyone’s attention. The three-year-old twins instantly cling to one another in fear and Apple’s head snaps up to peer towards the possible threat.

“Werewolf!” Evander shouts.

“Vampire!” Finnick continues.

Gale giggles and shakes his head, “No… it’s a raccoon. I can hear her. She smells the food.” 

Astarion’s nose wrinkles in distaste as his silver-haired son takes his plate of leftovers and meanders toward the edge of the property, but he chooses to remain silent and let his son feed the vile creature. With Gale around, it’s a wonder they aren’t overrun with vermin and rodents galore. Though, the feral cat colony the little boy single-handedly created is likely keeping the other animal population at bay.

Gale places the plate down, whispers something to the raccoon, and returns back to the campfire, nestling his head into Apple’s side as he settles back into the dirt.

“Papa… there aren’t really vampires and werewolves out in the woods… right?” Gale questions, his eyebrows shooting up into his forehead in concern as he thinks.

“Perhaps not in the woods right here…” Astarion responds, trying to figure out how to be honest with his children without frightening them entirely, “But they do exist… I’ve killed a vampire before.” 

At this the two younger Ancunins gasp and Gale shoots back up to sitting, his green eyes widened in shock as he asks, “You’ve killed a vampire before?” 

Astarion chuckles. Sometimes he forgets how little his children truly know of his past. He shuts the storybook in his lap closed and nods, a small smile crossing his face, “I have. Your mother helped me. Would you three like to hear about it?”

“Yes!” The boys all shout in unison, all coming as close to their father as they possibly can.

“Very well,” Astarion agrees with a grin, and then he launches into the tale of fighting Cazador, mindful to keep everything as child-friendly as a gorey battle can possibly be and leaving his enslavement entirely out of the picture. The children will learn about that later, he thinks, but now is not the time.

The boys are wholly captivated by their father’s tale until the twins begin to drift off, slumped against one another. Gale is the only one still awake when his father finishes the story. There is a moment of quiet at the end as his eldest reflects upon all that was revealed to him.

“Were you scared, Papa?” He finally asks, his fingers threading into the curled fur on Apple’s back.

Astarion nods in response, “Of course, Gale. But… I think you cannot be brave if you don’t feel a bit scared, first.”

The eldest Ancunin boy sighs. He has feelings about this that he has not yet been able to put into words. Gale’s general kindness and gentleness is such a stark contrast to many of the kids at school; he’d gotten himself into more than one scuffle. He was perceived as an easy target, because he knew better than to use his powers on the other children. As a result, Gale often simply let the other children attack him, not ever wanting to hurt anyone, even if it was in his defense.

Astarion had, more than once this year, gone to the school and threatened to retract their donations if the issue was not resolved. One of the child’s parents had been hit with a lawsuit after Gale returned home with a black eye. But come the start of next term, there was a strong chance this behavior would continue.

He and Tav had both lost countless hours of sleep over this very topic.

“How do you know…” Gale starts, and then stops with another sigh, staring up at the stars as he tries to find his words, “How do you know when it’s time to fight back?”

There is a moment of silence as the older elf considers this question. How do you know?

“If someone doesn’t listen when you ask them to stop, that is how you know, Gale,” Astarion responds, finally, his hand coming to ruffle the curls upon his eldest’s head, “And if someone is hurting you or someone you care about, and they refuse to stop when you ask them the first time, that is all the permission you need. Your mother and I will always agree with you if you are protecting yourself or your brothers in defense, little prince.” 

The silver-haired six year old nods with a yawn, his fingers still curled in Apple’s fur.

“Now come on, let’s get you and your brothers inside the tent for the night,” Astarion directs, picking up one of the twins and holding the flap open for Gale. He gets the two boys settled before returning to retrieve the remaining one and calling for Apple to join all four Ancunins. 

The fire is left glowing its final embers as the men all drift off to sleep.

*

You find the tent in the orchard after returning to a house filled with only your regular employees. Winifred, the nanny, and Pascal, the steward, are both clueless as to where your children and husband are this morning. When you enter the backyard, a snuffed fire and Apple keeping guard outside the tent not more than ten feet from the manor signal you’ve found your family.

You crouch and open the tent flap, only to be greeted by an adorable image. Astarion is on his back, one twin clinging to each leg and Gale nestled into the crook of his arm. All four of the Ancunins are still sleeping, seemingly exhausted from the night before. 

“Good morning, my little loves,” You greet in a soft murmur.

Astarion is the first to open his eyes and smile at you as he sits up, expertly maneuvering himself around three sets of other limbs.

“Welcome back home, Tav. We missed you. I think that perhaps I missed you the most.” Astarion greets, leaning forward to press an affectionate kiss upon your cheek and grabbing your hand to give it a squeeze.

“No, me!” Evander protests through a yawn as he scrambles to wrap his arm around your arm.

“No, me!” Finnick echos, sitting up and pushing a cluster of curls from his face to grin at you.

“I think it was me, mama.” Gale calls softly, his head still resting upon the pillow, eyes still shut.

You chuckle in response to this ridiculous argument before standing and lifting the tent flap entirely, “I missed you all, too. Alright everyone, let’s get inside for breakfast. I’m making pancakes.” 

A clamor of excitement from the Ancunin boys fills the orchard as your children exit the tent and begin the short journey back toward the house. Apple is running after them, her tail wagging excitedly because she knows she will get whatever leftovers the boys cannot finish.

As the children disappear into the house, Astarion grabs your hand with a mischievous grin, insistently pulling you into the tent with him.

“My love, the boys–” You begin to protest, but your husband cuts you off with a kiss pressed against your lips as his nimble fingers quickly shut the tent behind you.

“It’s Monday, surely Winifred is already in, hm?” Astarion questions, his mouth already trailing kisses along your neck, “She can handle the trio for… oh, twenty minutes?”

You gasp as the elf’s fingers slowly trail under your dress and up your thighs to grip at the flesh around your hips. And then you turn to meet your husband’s face as he pulls you into a kiss. Being in the tent reminds you of old times out on the road, all those years ago, and you quickly fall under the Astarion’s spell, just as you had back then.

Your husband breaks away from the kiss and begins to pull your dress over your head. He grins and roams his eyes over your body when you’re left in nothing but your underclothes, “And… not that it’s a competition, little love. But I maintain I missed you the most.” 

He doesn’t leave room for response as he pounces upon you, eager to show you just how much he missed you this past week. 

Less than twenty minutes later, the twins are back outside the tent, screaming impatiently for pancakes as an apologetic Winifred calls after them from the porch. Astarion groans and is forced to throw his trousers back on with a whispered, “We’ll finish this later tonight, hm?”

And then he’s climbing out of the tent, corralling the two younger Ancunin’s back into the house and buying you a moment to throw your dress back on before exiting yourself. 

When you enter the kitchen, Astarion has thrown his crumpled shirt back on and is already starting the pancake batter among a chatter of excited storytelling from the boys. Winifred is forcing the twins to wash their hands as they speak about the raccoon they thought was a monster and Gale asks you to confirm the two of you really killed a vampire.

At this last part you shoot Astarion a questioning look and he shrugs while flashing you an apologetic smile. He looks like the twins when they’ve been caught breaking something. You know you’ll have to follow up later, but for now, all you want to do is focus on your little loves.

They all missed you, and you missed them just as much. Perhaps more.

But it’s not a competition.

[thoughtfullyrainynightmare]

Fuegoleon ponders about... perhaps, needing to be more spontaneous. If he is good enough as he is for you, or if he should change something; try to be more. But he is lucky to have someone like you in his life who he gets to hold and kiss

Pairing: Fuegoleon x gn!reader Genre: hurt-comfort Fanfic type: Oneshot Length: ~0.9k Contains: Fuegoleon is too much in his head, kisses and reassurances, open ending I suppose?

Cursive letters neatly fit into their own space. Straight lines around them. Numbers. Plans in a calendar. 

Fuegoleon wasn’t a stranger to planning his days, his weeks, his life around some kind of a scheme. In fact, he felt that it made things easier, to have some kind of a framework for things he should do and ought to remember and in what order. Quite frankly it was the only way he could imagine governing his life, which wasn’t how some people went about, but this worked for him. 

And sure enough, dates such as Valentine’s Day were no exception. 

The date was circled. Plans were made. Flowers were bought. 

Everything was supposedly in order. 

Supposedly because no one could ever really know if something would happen, and a detour within those plans was necessary. 

But something… there was something about it, this time around, that made him wonder. About the kind of… rigidity of it, he supposed. Because while there was a manner of security in knowing what was going to happen, and where one was headed, there was a certain… unwavering-ness of it all that he wasn’t sure he liked. 

Which was for the very simple reason of: this wasn’t about a job. 

Or a duty. Something he had to do because it was required of him. 

Instead, this was something he wanted to do, out of his own volition. And while he wanted it to be perfect, he didn’t want to place it into a similar box as one of his duties as a captain. But it posed a different kind of a problem. Because he was used to being reliable, to being able to make plans and be someone you could depend on. And thus, just throwing the plans out of the window so spontaneously and leaving the two of you stranded for the day you were supposed to go on a date felt… irresponsible. 

Perhaps that was the right word for it. 

Perhaps not. He just wasn’t sure.

The door opened.

You peaked through the doorway.

“Weren’t you supposed to pick me up at 5?” You asked with curiosity. It wasn’t like him to be late, unless it was for a good reason. In which case it was worth checking if he’d be caught up in duties for the rest of the evening. 

His head turned to the clock on the wall. 

20 past 5.

“Oh,” he uttered, realizing that he had been caught up in his own thoughts. “Apologies, I was just-”

What was he just? Thinking? Worrying? Wondering if he should try to be something? He didn’t really have a good reply. 

So he chose the one he deemed most apt. 

“Thinking.”

You let out a hum while looking at him. “Thinking about what?” You deemed it as a fair question. 

If it was about work and he couldn’t tell you, that’d be fair. But it didn’t mean that you couldn’t ask. 

And judging from the pause he took, he was thinking about how to formulate his answer. Because if he couldn’t answer, saying so was simple. 

Only when the answer was more difficult, he took a longer time. 

“I thought about… if I should be more… spontaneous.”

A pause.

A longer pause.

You looked at him with raised brows, slightly puzzled, but more so wondering what… what on earth had resulted into this thought. 

“If you should be… more spontaneous?” You repeated as the expression lingered. “Why?”

His head swayed from side to side, as if he was pondering the very same question.

“Because…. I don’t wish to appear as if I’d be too… predictable. Perhaps the correct word I’m looking for is ‘boring’,” he replied, but felt as if he was more so speaking to himself. “Or that I’d be performing a duty, rather than a wish.”

You kept looking at him with raised brows, but lowered your chin ever so slightly, almost as if to ask. But he seemed serious with his wonderings. That he was concerned about being too ‘predictable’, or ‘boring’. 

A faint huff of air left you as you shook your head and the corners of your lips tugged up into a smile. 

“Honey,” you began while making your way to him. “You’re not boring,” you gave his forehead a small kiss. “You are… dependable,” another kiss. “Thoughtful,” a third kiss. “And you are… you,” one more, lingering kiss. “You don’t need to worry about being too predictable, or needing to be overly predictable,” you half shrugged, half stated. “Having a plan and a schedule is who you are, and it is you that I fell in love with. But if you have moments where you wish to do something more… spontaneously, that’s alright too.” 

You pulled away, leaned back, but only enough to gaze into his eyes.

And he gazed right back to you.

Those deep, gorgeous lavender eyes that had a tendency to appear royal purple in a certain lighting, looked at you as if some divine revelation. As if he had been offered redemption of some kind. Been absolved of some sin he hadn’t even committed. 

“Thank you, my love,” he stated while pulling you closer, against him. 

He got up from his chair, but placed his other hand onto your cheek to guide you into a kiss. 

His lips embraced yours for a moment. And another. Parted only to gasp for air. For a moment that lasted… seconds? Minutes? Tens of minutes? You weren’t sure.

And neither did you care.

This was perfect as it was.

The dinner plans, could wait.

[notablenotions]

Mask's of Nobility-Chapter 13

The morning light crept through the shutters of the guest room, soft and golden. Hans stirred before Henry, lying still for a moment, watching the sun inch across the floorboards. Henry’s weight rested against him, peaceful now, breath steady. The panic of yesterday seemed distant, yet it clung to Hans’ mind like mist.

He should be preparing for court duties—meetings, inspections, tedious affairs he barely tolerated. But instead, he found himself pressing a hand to Henry’s shoulder, gently waking him.

“Come riding with me,” Hans murmured, voice hoarse from sleep.

Henry blinked, eyes bleary. “Now?”

“No.” Hans smiled faintly. “For the week. We’ll go to the hunting lodge. Just you and me. Fresh air, no titles. No expectations.”

Henry regarded him for a long moment, then nodded slowly. “Alright.”

Hans felt something ease in his chest.

A knock at the door. Jikta, entering before either could fully compose themselves—not that Hans tried. She carried a small jar and set it on the table without fanfare.

“For your chest,” she said to Henry, matter-of-fact. “A balm. I spent the night researching. My father… when he came back from war, it started the same way.”

Henry sat up, surprised. “Thank you.”

Hans rose to stand, offering her a small nod of gratitude. “We’re going hunting. Week or so.”

Jikta raised an eyebrow, but only said, “If you see belladonna, bring some back.”

Hans hesitated. “Jikta… might I have a word? Privately.”

She followed him into the hallway without complaint, arms folded, her expression unreadable.

Hans fidgeted, a rare show of discomfort. “How long have you known? About… me and Henry?”

Jikta’s lips twitched, dry amusement in her eyes. “Since your barely veiled Arthurian legend wedding vows.”

Hans blinked. “What?”

“I suspected before,” she continued, tone even. “But that… confirmed it. Though, truthfully, I knew the day before the wedding.”

Hans stared at her, slack-jawed. “You’ve known all this time?”

“Yes.”

“And you never said anything?”

“No.” She shrugged. “While you were pacing halls, wringing your hands, fearing scandal, I was getting on with life. Making what happiness I could. Without fear of judgment. Perhaps,” she added pointedly, “you might try the same.”

Hans was stunned silent.

Jikta leaned against the wall, inspecting her nails. “Marriage to a man more interested in his guard than his wife? Pleasant, really. I could’ve been married to some drooling lord twice my age, constantly forcing his rights. You, Hans, are a vastly preferable outcome. For that, I’m grateful.”

Hans laughed, short and breathless. “I thought I was failing you.”

She looked up, eyes sharp but not unkind. “You’re doing what you can, Hans. That’s more than many.”

He nodded slowly, something heavy in his chest lifting.

As Jikta turned to leave, she added over her shoulder, “Don’t forget the belladonna. And enjoy your hunting trip.”

Hans returned to the guest room, finding Henry already packing, balm tucked into his satchel. Hans watched him a moment—steady, resilient, real—and felt a strange, rare thing.

Maybe he wasn’t failing everyone. Maybe he was just living. Doing his best.

And for now, that would be enough.