#attestation guide

[attestationguide]

How to Get Your Documents Attested - Apostile Service Mumbai, Pune, Thane!

Are you looking to get your documents attested? This comprehensive guide on how to get your documents attested covers Apostile Service in Mumbai, Pune, and Thane. Whether you're in Hyderabad, Chennai, or Kolkata, our step-by-step attestation guide will ensure you understand the process thoroughly. We'll walk you through the necessary steps,documents required, and tips to streamline your attestation experience. Don't let the paperwork overwhelm you – our expertinsights will make the Apostile service process in Bangalore and beyond hassle-free. Get ready to navigate the attestation requirements with confidence and ease. Watch now to learn everything you need to know about document attestation in India.

[c-o-t-o]

Veiled Whispers - Xavier (Part 2)

(Part 1 here)

Author: c-o-t-o

Character: Xavier x fem reader

CW: 18+ only, sexual content/smut, explicit language, drunkenness, dubcon, teasing, light bdsm (some CWs apply to other parts)

Misc: ~1.8k words, Part 2

About: After your date, once Xavier draws the curtains closed, he wants to show you how good he can make you feel

*Do not remove info or credit from posts when reblogging or sharing!*

"Xavier…” you respond back with slight embarrassment in your voice. You can feel your face getting warm, not sure if it's from being flustered, drunk, or a mix of both. But your train of thought is cut short when you feel Xavier’s lips against the nape of your neck. His lips are so soft and melt into your skin as he kisses you. You can feel his hot breath tumbling down onto your skin, raising goosebumps in its path. Between every kiss you hear him exhale lazily, drunkenly, lustfully. Each moan becomes less breathy and more gutteral.

Xavier’s kisses move down your neck to your shoulder while he slowly begins to circle around you. You're still kneeling on his bed, the top of your dress hanging at your waist. Your eyelids so heavy from sleepiness and the alcohol, but trying so hard to stay awake so that you can burn this into your brain forever. Xavier had always flirted with you, he wasn't really shy about how he felt. But you didn't think the night would lead to this, and you aren't going to let yourself be too drunk to remember it.

Once Xavier makes it around to your front, he cups your cheek, eyes lingering on you for what feels like forever. Even in this darkness you can see how red his face has become. He really is drunk… you didn't think it was possible, but then again you don't recall him ever drinking much. You see him blinking slowly, eyes trying to focus each time, another sign attesting to his drunkenness.

Xavier sighs as his fingers drag down from your cheek, down your neck, to your chest.

“How did I get so lucky to be spending a night like this with you?" Xavier puts his hand in the small of your back, and gently guides you so that you lay back down onto the bed. He crawls up over you, staring at your exposed chest. He leans down and kisses your collarbone, then your sternum, and eventually the top of your breast.

“Tonight is all about you, my love," Xavier says as he kisses your breast again, his lips sinking into the suppleness of them. “Let me show you how good I can make you feel." Xavier whispers before leaning down to gently lick your nipple. You feel your nipple harden immediately with just one swipe of his tongue. Xavier moans quietly as he sucks it gently in his mouth, swirling his tongue around it, like he's tasting something sweet and enjoyable. As he massages it with his tongue, you also feel his hands running all over your body, wanting to feel every inch of you.

Suddenly you feel Xavier’s kisses trail down to your stomach, pulling your dress down as he moves. He pauses for a moment to lay his face down on your tummy.

“Your skin is so soft, I could take a nap here," Xavier says while gently rubbing his cheek against your stomach. “I love this part of you, too." But Xavier fights the tiredness and continues kissing your body. He makes it down to your underwear, and you instinctively reach out to stop him.

“Xavier, wait, I… are you sure? You don't have to…” you say, realizing what he was about to do.

"I know I don't have to,” Xavier whispers, even though the two of you are alone. "But I want to. I want to kiss and taste every inch of you.” Xavier says, but giving you no time to respond before his face ends up between your thighs. Your back arches in response, hands shooting forward and fingers spread. Xavier reaches up with one hand and laces his fingers with yours, wanting so much to hold your hand, even now.

He begins by laying gentle kisses on the inside of your thighs, sometimes nuzzling his face on them. His kisses start closing in between them, when you finally feel his hot tongue on your most sensitive area, causing that spring inside your tummy to tighten. You immediately moan out loud and you hear Xavier chuckle gently to himself against you.

“All those times you'd poke and prod at me, I told you I'd get you back… catch you after sundown…” Xavier says between licks. While he speaks to you teasingly, you feel his fingers run through your wetness and gently start circling you clit. "You're so wet,” he says almost in astonishment, since he really only just got started.

"Because it feels so good.” You manage to say between your breathy moans.

"That's all I want,” Xavier says, kissing your thigh again. He suddenly slides his fingers inside you. Suddenly, but so delicately. How does he know how to do all of this so well? You start to wonder, but think maybe it's for the best if you don't know. You don't want to start getting jealous now.

“Is this okay? Does it hurt at all?" Xavier asks while looking up at you like a puppy, his eyes wide open and eyebrows narrowed, waiting for a response. After you shake your head no, Xavier moves back down between your thighs and starts licking you while his fingers are buried inside of you. The double stimulation is almost enough to send you over the edge, just like that.

You instinctively reach down to run your fingers through Xavier's hair, not quite sure what to do with yourself because of how good it feels. You momentarily giggle to yourself though, because you can feel how hot Xavier’s ears are, and wonder how red they've become from the alcohol. His tongue feels so hot against you, his saliva pooling below you on his bed. Normally you’d worry about that, but right now you’re too drunk and too turned on to care.

Eyes closed and head sunken into Xavier’s bed, you can hear every sound in his room amidst the complete silence. The gentle ticking of his clock, the softness of his pillows as your head sinks into them, and the absolute wet lapping of Xavier’s tongue against your clit. You can feel yourself clenching down there when you suddenly hear Xavier trying to suck up some of the wetness that’s dripping down you. Xavier… sucking it all up, yes his saliva but also your own wetness. You feel your face turning even more red now at the thought of it. Xavier suddenly starts moaning almost pleadingly as he licks and sucks you.

“You taste so sweet,” he says trying to catch his breath, “I couldn’t help myself.” You feel Xavier pull his fingers out of you and look down expecting him to stop, when you lock eyes with him. He slides his fingers into his mouth and closes his eyes, moaning. “So sweet.”

You cover your face in embarrassment for having watched him do that, even though it was really fucking hot. Does he really like the taste? Or is he just really drunk and lustful?

Xavier crawls back up over you, chest moving in and out quickly as he starts panting. He looks down at you, and momentarily averts his eyes, covering his mouth from embarrassment himself. He eventually looks back at you though, and his cheeks and ears are entirely beet red. You reach up to touch his face, but Xavier takes your hand and kisses it. He takes your hand and puts it on his chest over his heart, eyes never leaving your face.

“My heart has never beat so fast before.” Xavier admits. “This shows how much I…” his eyes look away again as he blushes more. When he looks back at you, he cups your face with his hand, placing his forehead down on yours. “How much I love you.” He whispers, then chuckles at himself faintly, as if relieved to have finally said it.

“Xavier…” you say while putting your hand over his. “You’re… just drunk…” Xavier’s head snaps up to look back at you, eyes looking at you pleadingly.

“No, I… I mean, I am… but I mean it. I really do.” Xavier slowly leans in and kisses your lips so softly, making a gentle smacking sound when his lips pull away from yours. “I love you, and I love every part of you. I want to be close to you… to make you feel good.” Xavier kisses you again, even deeper this time. He breathes heavily and you can feel his body almost squirming above you.

It’s now that you notice the bulge that has been pressing up against your thigh. Xavier has been trying so hard to not keep rubbing against you, but he’s losing that fight. If this was any other person, you’d think that they look pathetic above you the way Xavier looks right now. Eyes looking at you desperately, hard on rubbing against you almost involuntarily now, panting out loud. But because it’s Xavier, all that’s doing is turning you on and making you want him even more,

“Can I,” he pants, speaking between each breath, rubbing against you each time, “please… show you… how much… I love you?”

Mere seconds after nodding your head yes, Xavier grabs your face and pulls you into the deepest kiss you’ve ever had. Not needing to hold back anymore, he immediately starts moaning and panting while he kisses you, every second turning him on even more. You feel Xavier start licking your lips between kisses and you feel your clit start burning from arousal.

He breaks free from your lips for just a second to take off his pants and underwear, the last of his clothes, as you slip the rest of your dress and underwear off as well.

Your eyes have adjusted to the darkness, but his room was still extremely dark. You couldn’t really see very well between that and your hazy drunk vision. But you do see Xavier’s slim and extremely toned body moving towards you. Not able to wait any longer, Xavier runs himself through your wetness. He’s already incredibly hard from going down on you and kissing you.

As Xavier gets ready to enter you, he leans down again and starts kissing you deeply. He wants to hear you react to him entering you, to know how good it feels. When he finally slides inside of you, your head falls further, a loud moan escaping through your lips into his. You feel him throb inside of you after you moan. Xavier starts off gently pumping in and out of you, assessing how much of his length he can fill you with. Once he starts getting into a good pace, he grabs your hand, locking eyes with you.

Xavier holds your hand to his chest, light starting to shine out from both of you. You suddenly feel the heat from your arousal spread further into you, Xavier feeling even hotter and more engorged inside of you. You moan out loud, covering your mouth with your other hand in surprise. Xavier grins slyly and chuckles, pumping into you a little deeper and faster now.

“Are you ready to see those stars?” He moans into your ear.

[dadcred]

hi! it's been a bit since i've shared any french ffxiv playthrough notes, but i've been making my way through endwalker recently, and while there have been quite a few differences i've noted, this is the one i want to share most so far. please excuse any spelling errors or missing words!

the scene: upon meeting hydaelyn after completing the aitiascope dungeon, she speaks directly to each scion.

to alphinaud:

en: thou dost pursue an impossible dream, yet knowing this, you pursue it nevertheless. and thou has learnt to depend on others as they do thee.

fr: your world fell apart when you realized that there was no absolute justice, and yet, your friends extended you a hand

to alisae:

en: thy yearning for the power to save the powerless hath ever driven thee to greater heights, thou hast grown strong.

fr: your strength on its own has sometimes revealed itself not to be enough to achieve your wishes, but whenever your powerlessness tourmented you, your idol was there totake you along in their wake.

to thancred:

en: though those closest to thee no longer walket by thy side, their love remaineth thy guiding light

fr: despite your grief of not having been able to protect the person whom you cherished the most, you never relinquished the love that lived in you and it has led you to find a new hope.

to urianger:

en: for duty's sake, thou has been bound by truths unutterable time and time again. yet thy heart never wavered, as they companions will attest.

fr: as for you, you suffered from not knowing how to express the essence of your emotions. fortunately, those whom you surround yourself with didn't need words to read into your heart.

to yshtola:

en: in thy pursuit of mysteries great, all thou believed was called into question. undaunted, thy thirst for knowledge remaineth unquenched.

fr: the truth is often deformed, sometimes forgotten. but even after having accepted this as fact, you never abandoned your quest for wisdom in the hopes of finding that which you searched

to estinien:

en: the fires of hatred that once burned in thy heart burneth no more. from their ashes doth spring light and love, warm and pure.

fr: hatred scorched your earths and consumed your people in great numbers, but a glimmer of hope surged forth from the white ashes to reveal an azure future

to graha:

en: as witness to black calamity, thou despaired at man's helplessness. resolved, thou didst unite a distant world on the brink of collapse.

fr: you endeavored to do the impossible to save a world from an unprecedented catastrophe, and after that, having convinced a whole people that they could write their own destiny, you accepted to live your own adventure.

[feasibilities]

Forsaken | Thomas Shelby x Reader (NSFW) ⚮

Synopsis: Thomas eases his loneliness with a famous burlesque dancer. Warnings: False Imprisonment (technically), Assassination Attempt, Spanking, Pet Names, Exhibitionism, Desperation Author's Note: S6 Thomas Shelby? My man, my man, my man. Enjoy.

“Sorry, sir, but the show is over.” You said aimlessly, feeling the presence of a man. 

“Not for me, it isn’t.” He retorted, rubbing a cigarette across his lips & lighting it. 

Your head snapped back to the British gang leader turned MP, Thomas Michael Shelby. He looked quite different from the first time you saw him. He was starting to grey on the sides of his head and he sported wireframe glasses. 

“A Member of Parliament coming to see a burlesque show. How appropriate.” You chided, crossing your legs. 

“Just came to see what the buzz is about.” He said while looking you up and down. Your mink fur shawl sat low on your chest and Thomas hoped it incidentally fell to the floor. 

“Well, you’ve came and seen. Have a good night, Mr. Shelby.” You dismissed him. You watched him stand there for a moment and then walk towards you. He lifted your chin and caressed your cheek lovingly.

“I’ll have you, and that’s the end of it. See you tomorrow.” He said. 

——

Hearing a knock at the door, you opened it believing it was your car service. You met the somber gaze of one of Thomas’ goons. He took your suitcases from your hands and gently led you to the 1927 Bentley out front. He politely opened the door for you and guided you inside. You stared at Thomas with hatred. He smiled warmly and moved your hair from your face. 

“No way to greet your beloved, eh?” He said.

“You are no beloved of mine.” You scorned.

“I will be in time.” He retorted as the car drove away.

You spent the long drive ignoring Thomas as he took you in. He had seen you many times on stage, but you were captivating up close. He had no qualms about taking you as Lizzie was long gone. What better way to alleviate a man’s loneliness than to spend time in a beautiful woman’s bosom? 

Arriving at Shelby Manor, you were taken aback by the size of his home. An MP’s salary in addition to gang activity must pay well. You were greeted by friendly waitstaff and Thomas’ dog, Cyril. Thomas thanked everyone and told them to leave you two alone. 

“Want a drink?” You asked while walking to the unnecessarily fancy liquor cabinet, feigning cordiality.

“I don’t drink anymore, but I appreciate the offer.” He said, admiring you from behind. Pouring yourself a glass of whiskey, you sat on the plush sofa. You sighed and stared at him intently.

“I’ll stay for the night if you pay me. We can negotiate starting with £1,000.” You explained. 

“You’re staying for as long as I want.” He attested.

“Who do you think I am? Some harlot to keep you busy since your wife left you?” You questioned.

“I would’ve taken you over the vanity in your dressing room If that’s the case.” He said, adjusting his glasses. You couldn’t deny how attractive he was but you had to hold out to rile him up. You simply rolled your eyes and finished your glass in one go. 

“Let’s head upstairs then.” You said, standing up. Thomas scooped you and carried you upstairs into the master bedroom. Your heart sped up at the feeling of his hands holding you securely. Laying you on the bed, he stared down at you as he removed his suit jacket. His gorgeous eyes were illuminated by the faint candlelight. You noticed the gun in his holster, but you wanted to distract him from it. You beckoned him to you with your index finger. He crawled on top of you and kissed you delicately. Taking a handful of his hair, you snatched the gun and held it to the side of his head. You pulled the trigger. 

The revolver made clicking noises as you grew frantic. You wondered why his brains weren’t staining your silk blouse. Thomas laughed sweetly and took the gun from you. 

“It’s not loaded, love. See that?” He said softly, flicking out the empty cylinder. He was eerily calm.

“Thomas, I-“ You started, fearing what could happen. 

“Shh. You think you’re the first woman who wanted me dead?” He hushed you. You two stared into each other’s eyes for a moment. Suddenly, you kissed and rutted against him. He responded by shoving his hands underneath your blouse. A faint whimper emitted from you from his intensity. 

“Need some discipline, yeah?” Thomas whispered against your lips.

“Not at all.” You fired back. 

He snatched you up once more and put you over his knee. He slid your skirt up to reveal black lace panties with a tiny silk bow at the waistline. You felt him massage the supple flesh of your ass. You pushed back against his hand to antagonize him.

“Little bunny…” He purred. A series of harsh smacks landed on you as silent tears fell from your eyes. Arousal began to pool in between your legs. An inflamed imprint was left on your cheek. Thomas slipped his hand between your thighs and brushed his fingertips against your clothed cunt. Rubbing small circles, another faint whimper came from you. Then, he pulled aside your underwear and plunged two fingers inside of you. The silver band on his ring finger brushed against your clit as he pumped them slowly. 

“Christ…” You moaned. He curled his fingers slightly making an indecorous noise leave your mouth. You wondered how he knew your body so well. 

“Hush now.” He said, pumping his fingers faster. He grew hard at the squelching noises from your arousal. You were on the verge of climaxing before he removed his fingers and sat you up. 

“What the fuck, Thomas?” You said annoyed. 

“Stand in front of the window.” He ordered. You rolled your eyes and followed his directions. You watched him undress in the reflection in the glass. His body was amazing for a man in his mid 40s. You hurriedly shed the rest of your undergarments before he turned around. Walking to you, he pressed you uncomfortably against the glass. Despite being a burlesque dancer, you were deathly afraid of being seen by his colleagues or waitstaff. 

“Stay just like this, yeah?” He said, voice slightly beyond a whisper. He kissed your shoulder gently before pressing his tip against your folds. Both of you sighed in delight when he bottomed out. He stilled for a moment to compose himself. You rutted against him out of impatience. Thrusting deeply, he buried his face in your neck. Your mewls progressed to screams of delectation. Restrained groans occasionally left Thomas’ throat as he held you tightly and nipped your ear. Thomas snaked his hand between your legs once more and rubbed your clit vigorously. His loneliness became an afterthought as he finished you off. 

[hussyknee]

Abu al-Faraj al-Isfahani’s Kitab al-Aghani records the lives of a number of individuals including one named Tuways who lived during the last years of Muhammad and the reigns of the early Muslim dynasties. Tuways was mukhannathun: those who were born as men, but who presented as female. They are described by al-Isfahani as wearing bangles, decorating their hands with henna, and wearing feminine clothing. One mukhannathun, Hit, was even in the household of the Prophet Muhammad. Tuways earned a reputation as a musician, performing for clients and even for Muslim rulers. When Yahya ibn al-Hakam was appointed as governor, Tuways joined in the celebration wearing ostentatious garb and cosmetics. When asked by the governor if he were Muslim Tuways affirmed his belief, proclaiming the declaration of faith and saying that he observes the fast of Ramadan and the five daily prayers. In other words, al-Isfahani, who recorded the life of a number of mukhannathun like Tuways, saw no contradiction between his gender expression and his Muslimness. From al-Isfahani we read of al-Dalal, ibn Surayj, and al-Gharid—all mukhannathun—who lived rich lives in early Muslim societies. Notably absent from al-Isfahani’s records is any state-sanctioned persecution. Instead, the mukhannathun are an accepted part of society.

...

Far from isolated cases, across Islamic history—from North Africa to South Asia—we see widespread acceptance of gender nonconforming and queer individuals. - Later in the Ottoman Empire, there were the köçek who were men who wore women’s clothing and performed at festivals. Formally trained in dance and percussion instruments, the köçek were an important part of social functions. A similar practice was found in Egypt. The khawal were male dancers who presented as female, wearing dresses, make up, and henna. Like their Ottoman counterparts, they performed at social events.

- In South Asia, the hijra were and are third-sex individuals. The term is used for intersex people as well as transgender women. Hijra are attested to among the earliest Muslim societies of South Asia where, according to Nalini Iyer, they were often guardians of the household and even held office as advisors.

- In Iraq, the mustarjil are born female, but present as men. In Wilfred Thesiger’s The Marsh Arabs the guide, Amara explains, “A mustarjil is born a woman. She cannot help that; but she has the heart of a man, so she lives like a man.” When asked if the mustarjil are accepted, Amara replies “Certainly. We eat with her and she may sit in the mudhif.” Amara goes on to describe how mustarjil have sex with women.

...

Historian Indira Gesink analyzed 41 medical and juristic sources between the 8th and 18th centuries and discovered that the discourse of a “binary sex” was an anachronistic projection backwards. Gesink points out in one of the earliest lexicography by the 8th century al-Khalil ibn Ahmad that he suggests addressing a male-presenting intersex person as ya khunathu and a female-presenting intersex person as ya khanathi while addressing an effeminate man as ya khunathatu. This suggests a clear recognition of a spectrum of sex and gender expression and a desire to address someone respectfully based on how they presented.

Tolerance of gender ambiguity and non-conformity in Islamic cultures went hand-in-hand with broader acceptance of homoeroticism. Texts like Ali ibn Nasir al-Katib’s Jawami al-Ladhdha, Abu al-Faraj al-Isfahani’s Kitab al-Aghani, and the Tunisian, Ahmad al-Tifashi’s Nuz’ha al-‘Albab attest to the widespread acceptance of same-sex desire as natural. Homoeroticism is a common element in much of Persian and Arabic poetry where youthful males are often the object of desire. From Abu Nuwas to Rumi, from ibn Ammar to Amir Khusraw, some of the Islamic world’s greatest poets were composing verses for their male lovers. Queer love was openly vaunted by poets. One, Ibn Nasr, immortalizes the love between two Arab lesbians Hind al Nu’man and al-Zarqa by writing:

“Oh Hind, you are truer to your word than men. Oh, the differences between your loyalty and theirs.”

...

Acceptance of same-sex desire and gender non-conformity was the hallmark of Islamic societies to such a degree that European travelers consistently remarked derisively on it. In the 19th century, Edward Lane wrote of the khawal: “They are Muslims and natives of Egypt. As they personate women, their dances are exactly of the same description as those of the ghawazee; and are, in like manner, accompanied by the sound of castanets.”

A similarly scandalized CS Sonnini writes of Muslim homoerotic culture:

“The inconceivable appetite which dishonored the Greeks and the Persians of antiquity, constitute the delight, or to use a juster term, the infamy of the Egyptians. It is not for women that their ditties are composed: it is not on them that tender caresses are lavished; far different objects inflame them.”

In his travels in the 19th century, James Silk Buckingham encounters an Afghan dervish shedding tears for parting with his male lover. The dervish, Ismael, is astonished to find how rare same-sex love was in Europe. Buckingham reports the deep love between Ismael and his lover quoting, “though they were still two bodies, they became one soul.”

...

Today, vocal Muslim critics of LGBTQ+ rights often accuse gay and queer people of imposing a “Western” concept or forcing Islam to adjust to “Western values” failing to grasp the irony of the claim: the shift in the 19th and 20th century was precisely an alignment with colonial values over older Islamic ones, all of which led to legal criminalization. In fact, the common feature among nations with anti-LGBTQ+ legislation isn’t Islam, but rather colonial law.

Don't talk to me I'm weeping. I'm not Muslim, but the grief of colonization runs in the blood of every Global South person. Dicovering these is like finding our lost treasures among plundered ruins.

Queer folk have always, always been here; we have always been inextricable, shining golden threads in the tapestry of human history. To erase and condemn us is to continue using the scalpel of colonizers in the mutilation and betrayal of our own heritage.

[txttletale]

is there any more reliable fact behind what people some trans people say about like cults of cybele

yes! the galli, their practice of self-castration, and their feminine dress and presentation are very well attested by many sources: among them catullus, ovid, varro, livy, and polybius, off the top of my head.

of course, we have no actual accounts from the galli themselves: we can only speculate as to what their subjectivity wrt gender might have been, let alone to the myriad different relationships any individual gallus might have had. however, we can at least know that their presentation was feminine by choice: there is archeological attestation for honorific monuments and art depicting galli in feminine dress, often commissioned by galli themselves, and for them being buried in it. so unlike elagabalus, who in his commissioned statues and coins is always depicted purely masculinely we do have some definitinve information about how the galli at least purposefully presented themselves to the world.

attitudes to them shift throughout Roman history and from source to source, from mild curiosity, to contempt, to violent hatred--we don't, unfortunately, have a lot of writing about the galli in and of themselves--many of their mentions are cautionary tales, a 'what not to do' guide for aristocratic roman men seeking to avoid effeminacy or gender deviance. different authors describe them in different ways: varro calls them 'half-men' (semiviri), while catullus' attis says 'ego mulier' (i, a woman) but also 'ego epherbus, ego puer' (i, a young man and a boy) in her lament over the loss of access to the world of manhood her devotion has resulted in.

but yeah, there is absolutely a gigantic body of evidence for the existence of the itinerant priesthood of cybele being a known and constant part of Roman life, for their having flouted gender roles, practiced self-castration, and adopted feminine presentation, clothing, and appearances of their own accord. take from this what you will! i certainly think that in the project of attempting to locate transfemininity throughout history, it is certainly a more fruitful and worthy ground than the lurid tales of elagabalus and his Big Dick Surveillance Squad.

some recommended reading if you're curious:

“Fabulous Clap-Trap”: Roman Masculinity, the Cult of Magna Mater, and Literary Constructions of the galli at Rome from the Late Republic to Late Antiquity, Jacob Latham

Transgendered Archeology: the Galli and the Catterick Transvestite, Renato Pinto & Gretel Luciano

Looking for eunuchs: the galli and Attis in Roman art, Shelley Hales (in Eunuchs in Antiquity and Beyond, ed. Shaun Tougher)

[dabisbratz]

PENANCE — leon s. kennedy x male reader

w.c: 5.1k

౨ৎ . . . warning: light bondage/restraints, fucking on a cross, argument, bottom reader, mixed praise/degradation, leons corny one-liners, impulsive reader, fingering, spit, finger sucking, oral sex, improper use of guns, “make-up” sex (kinda), standing mating press, dirty talk, sir kink, leon’s weak pull-out game, readers genitalia undisclosed, clothed sex, d/s understones, two (2) spanks, phone sex (kinda?)

The last lingering days of winter sit at the very edge of the night, the top of the inveterate day, like the ever-ticking clock resting upon the wall that inches deeper into the midnight sky with its turning. The taste of regret lingers in the air, bitter and sour and pungent, assaulting the senses of any passerby and residents.

So overpowering, in fact, it’s plagued the plagued, drew them straight to you as you ran through the dingy village. Your combat boots slipped through the mud, clingy and riddled with a thick, musty smell that clasped itself to your clothes. The air was thick with fog, an impenetrable layer of milky grays that made it almost impossible to see through, and the gun glued to your hand felt like a cold, heavy brick.

Your mission was simple enough— accompany your superior while he secured ‘Baby Eagle’, make yourself unknown.

Tread carefully.

Your knife— secured by a leather scabbard wrapped around the swell of your thigh— remained cold and sharp. You thought there’d be no use for it— no close encounters.

Tread carefully.

You’d managed to run through the heart of the village, conjuring up quite the mob, full of pitchforks and flames, full of ashes and debris that danced in the air. It burned your lungs more than the running, lit the charcoal fire in the pit of your stomach as you ran until you couldn’t anymore— and your partner was out of sight.

Tread carefully.

Leon told you to stick beside him. Follow closely behind and he’d cover you, as long as you covered him. But you just couldn’t help yourself— the blood rushing through your veins and your heart pumping in your ears— you panicked. You ran. Stupidly, selfishly, you ran. You’d broken the dam and left Leon to pick up the pieces.

The last thing you’d heard before slamming the mass of your body into a wooden door was the gruff scream of your name, Leon, who you knew was more than capable of making it out just fine. That wasn’t the issue, no— it was your recklessness, your brief disregard for his advisory or guiding hand— it was your impulsiveness to run straight into danger.

He’d specifically told you not to on the way there. Stick by his side and you’d be okay— not that you’re incapable—just inexperienced. No strays— none of the sort. No catching any, no following any, no becoming any.

So now you have to pay for your mistakes.

You’re sprawled on the cross like a two-page spread, skin sheen and wet with what you assume is sweat— and dirt sticks to the slickness of your forehead. The pitter patter of rain against the poorly ventilated windowsill lingers, and the dirty glass trembles with loneliness. You can certainly attest to that, with your arms bound above your head and tied up in rusty chains. There’s no one here but you and your thoughts, your increasingly darkening veins and swimming mind.

You don’t remember who chained you up— perhaps the crafty residents of the village with much more intelligence than you’d like to admit, especially considering their predicament. But you do remember the injection of something cold and foreign. Something that absolutely should not be in your body. It doesn’t hurt, though, it’s not uncomfortable. And the wetness of the air bothers your head much more than the injection, if it’s bothering you at all.

It’s more a minor inconvenience than anything, aesthetically.

Perhaps it’s immunity, or maybe just inattentiveness. You’d have to tell Leon about it later, if you ever get to see him again.

You can’t help but think of him, his opalescent skin that travels for miles, the small quirk to his pink lips when he’s reveling in pride, the bleached-blond bundles of hair that sit perfectly atop his head. Like a crown— like a halo. The piercing blue of his eyes, cold as the arctic as he stares right through you. The deep pool of his pupils that dilate and constrict when sunlight hits them just right. . . The swell of his biceps when he crosses his arms, bulging and spilling over his closed fists. His hands, rough and scarred. Gloved and airbrushed with leather gloves that stop just before his knuckles, hiding the veins and muscles of his hands that stream down his wrists like a steady river.

It’s almost like you can hear him, the assertiveness of his voice that reverberates in your ears. Like he’s next to you again, wrapping his large hand around your wrist and maneuvering it into the right position for combat— the thickness of his voice as he notes aloud, “Keep it like this or you’ll hurt yourself.”

This whole time he’s been your keeper, steering you through the village with one hand secured around the handle of his gun and the other cradling the nape of your neck.

(“I got it.” You’d muttered, shaking off the heat of his large palm. There was something calculating in his eyes, and his long, dark eyelashes batted against the prominent curve of his cheekbone.

Your pistol rested in your hand, barely a scratch across its metal surface. You were still a bit slow at reloading, but you got the job done.

“As long as I’m here, I’m sure you do.)

You want to laugh about it now, pitifully, because the chains around your wrists are nowhere near as warm. Just as domineering, maybe, but not comforting in the slightest. It’s embarrassing to admit how often you’d thought about it— his comfort, late hours in the night filled with his voice, his hands, his touch.

Heat pools in your abdomen, swimming down your navel and spreading between your thighs. Now isn’t the time— not that you could take care of anything if you wanted to— You’ve been stripped of everything— just not in the way you want.

There’s a quiet rustle of the leaves, barely audible with the echoing pews of the church, but you hear it. That walking pattern. . . stepstep… step… stepstep’ only belongs to one person, and you feel relief pushing down your shoulders.

“Jesus...”

“Leon,” Breathy like a prayer, your hands clench into fists as you strain against the rusty chains. His figure grows, stalking forward with swaying shoulders that look broader than ever, and his nude lips are pulled tight into a snarl. His eyebrows— full and straight, pinch together with what you assume is anger, and a familiar crease forms between them. “I can explain.”

His shoulders bounce, as if he’s let out a sour chuckle, and there’s a slight shake to his head as he carries himself up the steps to free you. Quite the hero, you can’t bring yourself to stare into his eyes for too long as he scours your body for injuries. Nothing major— nothing he can’t help with, and his blue eyes settle on your face for much longer than he’d like to admit. There’s a soft haze to his furious eyes, the fire behind them dampening as his mind slowly realizes you’re alright for now.

You’re alive.

“Oh, I'm sure you can,” He quips, circling around the contraption you’re chained to. It almost feels primal, his intense gaze taking you in from every angle as he walks forward to trace his fingertips along your wrists. He’s gentle, though, feathery light as he gives an experimental tug to the metal. “And you will. So you better start talking.”

A small breath of relief escapes your freshly parted lips as it’s pulled away, and Leon doesn’t miss the indents freshly engraved into your skin. His frown deepens, but the cool leather of his fingerless gloves feel much more soothing than the chains.

You don’t mind it as much as he does.

A dagger of shame shoots through your chest, beating and writhing against the confines of your rib cage. Your tongue is tied, excuses dying in your throat as you stare at Leon’s five-fingered grip on your wrist. It’s tightening, his nails digging into your wrist ever so slightly, though you already have no chance at escape. You figure it’s meant to ground you, not hurt you.

“It’d be a lot easier if I were free,” You’re stalling, not all that uncomfortable as Leon turns his head in the direction of your face, his head tilted downward and his breath lightly fanning your neck. Warm. “…Leon? Wanna help a guy out, or…”

A characteristic clench to his jaw has the words dying on your tongue, and for some reason unbeknownst to you, he’s seething.

“Pull something like this again and those things won’t be the only ones after your head.” The warmth of his large chest against yours leaves just as it arrives, and he’s tilting his neck to really get a good look at you. Trying to get his point across, you suppose, with steely, gunmetal blue eyes. You can’t help but waver, irises stinging as you turn your attention to your bound wrists. Part of you wants to roll your eyes.

That just won’t do.

Leon sucks his teeth, gripping your jaw with restrained strength so you’re actually looking at him now, and whatever excuse you’ve created dissipates immediately. The look in his eyes—territorial, maybe?—has you at a loss for words, and all you can do is watch his pink tongue dart over his bottom lip.

Whatever he’s thinking about, you don’t like it, because he’s shifting his weight from one foot to the other with his hands on his hips. His face is pensive, but you can still feel the heat of his anger radiating off his skin. Even from a distance. “Shoot the chains or something.”

“Sure, let me accidentally graze you with a shotgun shell while I’m at it.” More bite than he’d intended, Leon loosens the straps to his body armor and lets it hit the ground with a small thud. You blink, eyelashes beating against your cheeks as you blink away surprise.

“Leon—”

“Shh, I don’t give a damn. You could’ve died. Seriously, what were you thinking?” His hair sways, violent and angry and overprotective. “Don’t go running off like that again, you understand?”

“I’m not a kid. I’m a grown man—” Irritation bubbles in your throat— did he just shush you?

“Damn right you’re not. And I’m not your father. Didn’t I tell you not to do anything stupid?”

“I had it under control.” You both know you’re lying through your teeth, but Leon wants to really drive his point home. He nods, noncommittal, snaking his arm around your waist and down the small of your back to unzip the pocket attached to your utility belt. He pulls out your gun, which remains heavy and shiny with disuse.

“Yeah? Under control with no bullets?” He aims the gun at a large mosaic of a stained window, and pulls the trigger with no hesitation. There’s nothing but a click, then resounding silence as he slowly releases the trigger, one hand secured over his knuckles while the other grips the pistol's handle.

“Lee, c’mon, we have stuff to do,” You sound whiny and borderline pathetic. You almost expect him to tell you to ‘use the magic word’, but he’s too busy pressing the pad of his thumb against your lips. His finger tastes vaguely of salt and leather, and you fight the urge to open your mouth and suck on it. “…Please.”

You’re not entirely sure what you’re begging for. The ache in your wrists feels dull and distant, and you can’t help but press the tip of your tongue against the flat underside of his thumb. You watch his pupils blow wide, pink creeping up his neck and pooling around the shells of his ears.

“Okay.” He breathes, broad shoulders melting ever so slightly as he pushes his thumb further into your mouth, taking in every curve and contour of lips as you wrap them around his thumb. It fills your mouth with ease, caressing the flat surface of your tongue with slow, circular strokes. You want more. “Yeah— okay. Tell me you understand.”

“I understand, Sir.” You try to sound more snarky and annoyed than anything, but it’s hard when you’re deepthroating another man’s finger. You sputter around his thumb, can barely form a coherent sentence with it pressing into your mouth like this— but Leon seems to catch on anyway, chuckling humorlessly to himself. Stubborn boy.

There’s a warning pat to your cheek, and suddenly you’re back in that training facility. Dimly lit and nearly empty, save for some equipment and workout machines— save for you and Leon, who kept his hands relaxed as you punched him square in the palm.

It was Leon who was told to take you in, show you the ropes, and he’d done so with a sly remark and a curt nod. It flew over your head at first, whatever he was implying, but you were slowly starting to get it now.

(“Well, looks like you’re stuck with me. Time to break in the fresh meat, then.”)

Only a few months ago, you’d been recruited into special forces, and there was something special about you. Something untapped and not yet tainted— there was still a genuine curve to your lips when you smiled, a sparkle in your eyes as you spoke. Charm was written all over your face, boyish and giddy and eager. You’d reminded Leon a bit of himself back in 1998, full of potential but laced with undeniable naivety.

And, truthfully, he liked you. Likes you, even, because of it. You remind him of who he used to be— why he’s here— to serve and protect. And if he’s being honest, he wants to protect you.

Even if it means putting you back in your place.

Breaking you in.

“Say it like you mean it.”

“I understand, Sir.” You’ve lost some bass in your voice, and it comes out shaky and cracked. You don’t have time to dwell on it now, how pathetic you sound, because Leon’s expression is nothing short of prideful. Your breath hitches in your throat, stuck in your larynx as you want the blond take in a sharp breath. He likes the title.

“Atta boy.” His eyelids are blanketed, heavy as he stares down at your lips with the remnants of a lazy smile. His— your — gun is still in his hand, but with him closing the distance between the two of you, it’s pressed against your collarbone.

You can’t help it; the opportunity is right there, and you find yourself leaning forward to press your tongue flat against the slide of the pistol.

“Playing a dangerous game, pretty.” Leon rasps, but taps the barrel of the gun against your tongue anyway. It’s slick with your spit, shiny and wet and he has to resist the urge to suck on it too. To taste you. “Yeeaah, just like that. There you go.”

It’s like you’ve learned nothing.

With a low grunt, Leon pushes the gun deeper into your mouth, using his left hand to hold onto the nape of your neck and keep you still. Asshole.

Ever the brat, you furrow your brows and thrash against your restraints.

“You can take it,” He hushes you, using that voice he has reserved for hostages or targets, all gentle and sweet. It’s hushed, barely a whisper, but it makes your brain foggy anyway. You can take it. “Give me your mouth. You can do that for me, can’t you? Say ‘yes sir’.”

You try, hard as you can, whining around the barrel of the gun with tears springing in your eyes. It’s hot and heavy now, like some sort of makeshift dildo, but you know the real thing would feel better. Warmer, stickier, curved and veiny. Thick on your tongue and pulsing, salty and sweet and long.

“Jesus-fucking-Christ. Holy shit,” He’s fucking your throat, sliding the metal into your mouth as far as it can go. It’d be much better if it were his cock instead, so big and so deep, leaving a bulge as he grinds it into your mouth. You’d take it like a champ too, eager and greedy. “Breathe.”

“Sir,” You gurgle, drool running down your chin and coating your skin until Leon pulls the pistol away and inspects it.

You watch him part his lips, previously pulled into a frown, to suck along the barrel of the gun and lap up your spit. There’s remnants of mint and saliva, fresh and sour when combined with the metal of the pistol. “Shit—Leo.”

“Tastes good. Did you take my gum?” He hums, witty as ever. It’s a passing comment, one you can’t help but laugh at, and the man seems to appreciate it. Even if he doesn’t exactly say that. He doesn’t give you much time to laugh, instead opts to connect his lips with yours. Finally, you moan into his mouth, much sweeter and pliant than before. You can’t stay mad at him.

“That’s all you needed, huh. Just a few sweet words, a couple kisses… If I’d known that I would’ve done that months ago.”

Only because you’re so needy, though. Your hips buck into the air, grinding against the space between your hips as your heart slams against your chest. You want more— need more, and the ache between your thighs is enough to prove it. You whimper, high in your throat and full of frustration.

“You really like hearing yourself talk.” You can’t take yourself seriously, not like this, but you say it anyway with nothing but the intent to get fucked stupid. You don’t doubt his capabilities, not with the way Leon’s staring at you. Predatory and ready, like he expected you to say that, his large hand gripping his cock through his tightening pants. You swallow hard, sensing some kind of mistake, and manage to gulp down your pride in the process. If you were someone else you’d be scared, running away from his anger with your tail between your legs. But you’re not.

“You just can’t wait, that it? Over here humping my leg like a damn dog, and now you have something to say? What, because your little hole gets frustrated when it’s been empty for too long?”

You’re squirming within seconds, struggling to wrap your legs around the dip of his waist. Even after dropping his armor he’s wearing too many clothes, too many layers that separate your skin from his. You can’t exactly take your shirt off, not without ripping it straight down the middle, but your lower half is free rein.

“Spoiled brat,” It’s something the blond registers too, because his big hands are hastily unbuttoning your pants and tugging them down your thighs, trailing behind with the gentle scrape of his fingernails. “Remind me the only way to keep you quiet is stuffing your holes.”

He’ll be able to see you much better like this, kneeling in front of your position on the cross to really see you. The clenching of your hole, empty and needy, the trail of lube gushing from it just as he hopes to, the shiny slickness covering your inner thighs. He wants to bury his face in it, fuck you on his tongue till you’re downright ruined, fucked-out and plaint. Maybe it’s in your nature to drift off, have your brain cut off from an orgasm (or two..or three) until you’re malleable enough to listen.

Your words are stuck in your throat, choked up and wobbly as his fingers relentlessly press into that special bundle of nerves. You feel like a slut, with Leon’s fingers twisting and pounding away, his newfound grip on your thighs so tight you’re gasping, crying out and squealing. He’s still careful, applying just the right amount of strength to keep you still.

“We don’t have much time,” His breath is hot against your entrance, and it can’t help but flutter with his mouth so close. Leon’s face contorts, softening as he licks a fat, wet stripe alongside it. “Wish I could keep you on my tongue. But you won’t mind something bigger, yeah?”

There’s nothing for you to hold onto as his fingers poke and prod at your hole, rubbing smooth, slow circles around the entrance. You want to wrap your arms around him, grip his shirt like iron and stifle your moans with it— but you’re chained. Leon pauses to stick his thumb in his mouth— the same one previously pressed against your own—and brings it down to you, pushing into your hole with ease. The thought of an indirect kiss has you spreading your thighs, lifting a leg just barely above Leon’s shoulder. Maybe you’re easy— maybe a kiss is all you need. Maybe it’s just because it’s Leon.

“Damn. Feel so fucking good on my fingers, baby,” He purrs, his voice melting in your ears. “Keep it up and I’ll see if I can promote you to Special Forces’ personal fuckhole.”

His fingers are wet and thick, you’re not sure how he’d managed to lubricate them so well, maybe he kept some in those extra storage pockets of his, but whatever it is…feels good. Slick and warm, almost feels like he’s fucking a fresh load of cum into you. The thought has you mewling, hands furled into tight fists as you struggle to stay upright.

With an unending stream of pitiful noises, your mouth pools with saliva that starts to dribble from the part of your pouty lips, and you instinctively spread your legs wide. It’s far from gross, the messiness of your drool catching on your chin and trailing down your clothed chest. It’s hot— you’ve gone braindead from his fingers alone, and he’s barely even started. You’re wailing, more wet and hiccupy sobs than moans, and tears stream down your handsome face in response. It’s just too much: too big, too deep, too warm, too wet.

You can’t do anything but take in the digits, slick and warming up by the minute until they curl, deep and thick. Your eyes roll back in your head as Leon keeps an iron hold between your thighs, rubbing and rubbing at your front and—and oh, you’re so close. You’re so close it hurts, the pit of your stomach filling with light and your toes curling deliciously. You have nothing to grab at, nowhere to hold, nothing to keep you stable as you lul your head to and fro. You sound delirious, and you must look just as bad.

“Ohh, m’gonna—”

“Brace yourself,” He mumbles, gloved hands running up the back of your thighs until he’s lifting your lower body off the cross and placing your knees on his shoulders. It’s intimate, personal and close as he lets out a breathy moan in response to the perfect fit of your hips against his own. “I’ll be gentle, sweetheart. For the most part.”

The blond is still clothed, and it’s hard to gauge his reaction of your naked lower-half grinding against his pulsating erection, with his hair partly shielding his pretty face. But you can imagine it, his pink licorice-twist lips divorced and blush high on his cheeks as his precum mixes with yours, sloppy and soaking the front of his inky combat pants.

You whine, wiggling your hips and kicking out your feet like some sort of brat, a completely wordless attempt at telling him to strip. You know there’s tears streaming down your face, just when you think you’ve taken a step forward you discover you’d taken two steps back.

“You’ll take what I give you,” Like molten lava, Leon’s voice grows deeper by the second. He’s pushing your legs further forward, bending you in half until your legs burn and he’s sandwiched indubitably close. You’re glad you stretched before this, because he’s got you bent like a pretzel— like some sort of cheap whore, and there’s no escape. “Your new mission is to take it and look pretty, don’t complain now. You hear me?”

“Yeah,” You feel yourself nodding from a distance, frantic and erratic despite the strong grip he’s got on your chin. You can feel him twitching beneath you, his cock jumping in his pants as he traps you with his weight alone and unbuckles his utility belt. It drops to the floor, loud and heavy, but it’s nothing compared to the obscene sound of his cock slapping against your skin. He’s unzipped his fly— still clothed, almost like he’s emphasizing his power over you. “Yeah, I— yes, Sir.”

“Open,” It’s not a suggestion, as he’s already rutting his hips against the warmth of your skin and snaking one arm around your waist. The other goes to your mouth, wet and ready, pries it further open so your pink tongue is on display. Leon gathers a glob of spit, but rather than your mouth it reaches your cheek, wet and sticky. Leon’s aim is better than anyone you’ve ever known— so it’s deliberate. “Good boy. Use your manners.”

You swallow anyway, desperate pants obstructed as you stick your tongue out further for more. “Thank you, Sir. For— for your spit.”

Leon sinks in with a loud whine as you clench around the fat head of his dick, whining and gasping, fighting your orgasm off with everything you’ve got. There’s a slight burn— the stretch of his fat, lubed up cock nestling into your hole— but it feels good, indescribable and finally plugging you full. It’s hard to hear anything he’s saying behind the loud squelching of his cock slipping inside, that and your own sounds, but you try anyway. He’s filling you till you’re ready to burst at the seams, pressing his weight against your body so you can clamp down and take him completely, no questions asked.

“F-huck, I can’t… Please, please, you’re so,” You’re on fire, his cock curving up just right as your pillowy walls flutter around his intrusion. Right there, electricity sparks inside you and your eyes roll back with the pinch of your eyebrows. “So deep.”

“Yeah?” The blond laughs, breathless and high off the feeling of your velvety walls constricting around him— clenching so perfectly, so hot and slick with rhythmic pulses along his veiny shaft. His hand travels to press on your navel, and he can feel himself sliding in and out, in and out. “Feel it right here?”

You do. And his hand pressing against it isn’t much help, you can’t focus on anything other than his cock. Your wrists are achy, almost as much as your hole, straining against the chains that you still have yet to break from. But it makes it better, you’re open and free for Leon’s use. Just a hole—to be filled, used, fucked. And, yeah, maybe you are. Maybe you want that, being used by Leon and his strong arms, manhandled into any position he wants.

“Yeah, in my— in my stomach.” You sound so cute, sniffling on his dick with every bounce and thrust forward, occasionally thrashing against your restraints. Leon coos, right in your ear and echoing in the pews. Much like the sound of your skin slapping against his, deep and fast thrusts like he’s pounding the brat out of you.

"God, should’ve had you like this all the time, drunk on cock,” You’re twitching, pulsing and convulsing around Leon’s cock, the fabric of his combat pants rubbing against your front. “Just like that, there you go, honey. Don’t run, let me watch my pretty hole swallow this cock.”

His— oh. Yeah, you suppose, it’s his hole to fuck, to kiss, to use. Since day one, really, when you’d spent your first night after meeting him knuckles deep. It’s incomparable to his own, longer and thicker, faster and better. So, yes, your hole is his, and his alone. You nod. babbling in his ears and wriggling in his arms. You’re his. The implication behind it has your heart stuttering, hammering in your chest as butterflies beat against your tummy.

Oh— You’re cumming.

“Shit, sweetheart. Knew you were a slut.”

“I don’ wanna— I can’t—” You let out an array of desperate, hysterical cries around Leon’s long, airbrushed pink cock, thighs and chest heaving and trembling, and arching off the wooden cross. It takes you a moment to form a complete sentence. “Don’t wanna.. st—op.”

“Yeah, yeah..” Leon nods against your neck, burying his face into the warm skin. His hair tickles your throat, soft and silky. “I won't. We won’t. I got you.”

His big palm cracks against the swell of your ass, loud and echoing in the church. Your core tightens, knees tightening on his shoulders as you cum. Hard and fast, you can barely register the squeals being ripped from your throat. Not over the slapping, the spanking, the—

The crackle of Leon’s radio, loud and blaring in his earpiece.

“Hold on.” Tears spill over your glassy eyes.

“Wh— No! Sir, you—“

“Hey. Don’t ‘no’ me. I’m right here, just sit pretty for me and take it,” He moans, emphasizing his words with a sharp snap to his hips. Your toes curl, searing white pleasure sparking in your stomach as Leon responds to the radio comms. You’re overstimulated, sparks of sensitivity striking through you with every quick thrust. “There you go, such a good boy. . .”

“Condor one to Roost,” He replies, sparing you a gentle glance while your legs lock behind his neck. The blond doesn’t let up once, honey locks bouncing as you cry on his dick. “What?”

“…Very funny. . .” Whatever Hunnigan said must’ve been spot on, because a low growl rumbles in his chest and his balls are tightening against your skin. Blotches of pink bloom in his neck, probably following down his wide shoulders— if only he weren’t clothed.

“Goddamn, you’re gonna make me cum, yeah, wish I could fuck it into you. Next time,” It’s deliciously obscene, the sounds of Leon’s cock reaming your hole like his life depends on it. His voice is barely above a whisper, so quiet but full in your ears. “Next time, we’ll make your pretty hole all messy with my cum. Yeah?”

Leon’s hips stutter, his deep thrusts growing shallow and messy as lube and precum froths between your warm skin. You can feel it all, the way his cock jumps and as he cums, missing a beat before pulling out to spurt the rest on your tummy. Thick and hot, it’s starting to cool on your shirt before he can move to wipe it away. Before he can end the call.

“He’s fine. We’ll have Baby Eagle home in time for dinner. Right, rookie?”

[leclsrc]

low down ✴︎ cl16

genre: porn w slight plot, humor, tad bit of fluff

word count: 2.5k

A lot can happen under an hour. You and Charles, self-proclaimed pros at sneaking around, can attest to this.

nsfw warnings under the cut!

18+ because... smuuut,......,,, ... ,, dirty talk, charles is a bit dom-switchy, penetrative sex, handjob (f receiving), oral sex (m receiving), semi public sex, yeah

req'd!!! title from this. leave it to auds to dip for 6 days n come back with another fic... i love u guys, my best friends foreva (dipping again for a bit after ths bec im headed back to ldn)

“So I said to her—if you text me, call me. Clever, innit? Oh.” Lando pauses telling his story, spotting you and Charles sitting on the sofa of the lounge. “Hey, you guys.”

“Mmm,” you mumble noncommittally, both of you focused on the film playing. “Close the door, the light’s blocking the screen.”

“Right, sorry.” Lando pulls it shut and turns back to Carlos to finish his story. “So this girl, yeah? Proper fit and all. Hey, Charles, her friend’s single, if you’re into that.”

Charles mulls over it for a second, his lips warping into a pout. “Sure…? Actually, mate, no.”

“Both of you are going to die single,” Carlos chirps from the fridge, tossing Lando a can of beer, who receives it as he laughs.

You snort from your place on the couch, clearly amused. “You’re saying that like it’s wrong.”

five minutes earlier

Charles’ hands sneak up, underneath your thin tank top and higher to cup your breasts. You mouth his name hotly against his ear, your own fingers threading into his hair as you whimper. “You”—another moan escapes your lips involuntarily when one hand leaves to squeeze at your ass—“you’re sure Carlos won’t come in?”

“We’ve got an hour at the least,” he promises roughly, groping hungrily, blindly almost. You part from him to catch your breath, meeting his eyes. They’re dark, with want written all over them, so you pull him closer, to let your mouths meet in a wet, messy kiss.

You two haven’t hooked up in two weeks, record time for how good you are at sneaking around. You’re not usually so careless, but you’re both desperate. He breathes hard, urgent, the tent in his jeans rubbing against the seat of your shorts. So much pent up tension, weeks of lingering touches, of eye contact at the same table, of wanting each other so plainly, in front of everyone who thinks the two of you are just friends.

“We shouldn’t be doing this,” you whimper, grinding downward, harder. Your top’s been pushed up so he can bury himself in between your tits. “But—mmmmf, fuck, I need it.”

“Tell me,” he says, demands, breathless. He thumbs at the cup of your bra.

“I keep touching myself thinking about you,” you confess. It slips easy when it’s him. 

You spread your legs wider from where you are on top of him, lying on the sofa, movie playing idly and forgotten behind you both. It’s almost embarrassing to admit how much you want him, your body warm with desire, for him to bring his hand where you need it most. 

“Fuck, baby.” He hums, and it makes you so, so wet. Like he can read your mind, he mutters, “Wanna feel how wet you are.” Your hand loops around his wrist and you’re guiding it to your shorts, thighs clenching.

“Char—” Your breath tapers off into a high-pitched gasp when his arms suddenly wrap around your waist and gently, but urgently, push you off of him.

Briefly, you’re confused, your mind stuck on Fuck, baby and two weeks without all this and his promise of having enough time to fuck which has gone woefully unkept. You feel his fingers, quick to pull your top back down, feel him mumble a quick apology, and you sit yourself down on the other end of the sofa just as the door opens fully.

“You said an hour you asshole!” You manage to wedge it in before the chaos fizzles out.

“So I said to her—if you text me, call me. Clever, innit? Oh, hey, you guys…”

—

“Leave it to her and Charles to swim even further off the beach,” George mutters to Lewis, both of them walking along the shore, feet sticky with water and sand. “Those two are always getting into trouble.” 

Lewis calls out to the blank bright sea. “Guuuys! Helloooo?! We’re leaving!” He scans the water for two heads, finds nothing.

Your head pokes out from the door of the yacht a few feet away, docked just by the pier. “Alright! Just a second!”

“What the hell?” He mutters quietly, just level enough for him and Lewis to hear. “Could’ve sworn they swam out…” The two exchange a puzzled look, but shrug it off. “Okay. Come quick!”

“Yep!” You shut the door again with a smile.

twenty minutes earlier

“Please,” you beg, fingers toying at the waistband of his shorts. It’s been so long, you’re implying. There was that one quickie three weeks ago and nothing else. Dry, dry, dry. It’s been ages. You blink, flirty, brows furrowed, lip red with how hard you’ve been biting on it. “Need you.”

Really, you are never this careless. The group—you, Charles, Daniel, George, Lewis—had all been drinking on a yacht, and then when everyone swam off, you both snuck back onto the boat and shut the door quick behind you so you could—

“I need you now,” you add, feverish, your head thrown against the wall.

“Slow down,” he grunts, a low, amused drawl. “So eager.” His hair’s a bit wet from the two minute dip you took to pretend you were both swimming like everybody else. It smells like the beach, his lips like beer. You’re addicted.

It’s killing you, the want. The hunger. The need. “Can you blame me?”

He brings his fingers up your skirt to push your flimsy bikini piece to the side, swearing gruffly under his breath when he pushes one inside of you slowly. A throaty moan leaves you, involuntary, drawn out by the slight stretch, the relief. You tighten around him, hands caging him closer toward you.

“You’re so tiny, baby.” He mutters something in French, amused, a bit in awe. “So good for me.”

“Just you, just you,” you whine, feeling him work another finger into your cunt. 

He laughs, vicious against your ear. “You like that? What if someone walks in, hmm?”

Your stomach lurches with excitement and you grow wetter. “I don’t care.”

“Atta girl,” he chuckles, low and hot. It’s so dirty, everything, all of it. The sneaking around, pretending you’re nothing but friends around everyone but claiming each other once you’re alone for even just a second. You’re desperate for him, more, more, more.

So he gives it, a third finger pushing into you and letting you feel more of the dull stretch. Your hand’s palming at the bulge in his shorts, ears savoring the whiny grunts coming from him when you squeeze at it, albeit distractedly. “I’m gonna—fuck—” You tense, the pleasure bubbling over, thighs shaking.

“Let me feel you,” he orders lowly. “Come on, ange. J’en veux. Cum for me.”

Like you’re on command, you do, toes curling and hands pulling him to latch against your neck so you can smell him, feel him everywhere as you cum. It’s hard, long, a direct result of the god awful dry spell, gushing all over his thick fingers. He slips them out, pressing a gentle kiss to your cheekbone, then your nose, then finally your lips meet again in a messy, slow kiss.

“How long do we have?” You ask, giggling. He smells good, like always, and having him pressed up against you is as comforting as it is arousing.

“I figure an hour.”

Guuuys! Helloooo?! We’re leaving! A disembodied English voice permeates the wooden wall and you screw your eyes shut tight, adjusting your pulled-up bikini top. You turn to open the door, head poked out, finding George and Lewis standing idly by the pier. Just behind the door, Charles’ big hand gropes at your ass and he laughs behind you, unseen.

“Alright! Just a second!” You chirp smilingly. They say something your mind’s too clouded to register, so you reply with a safe “Yep!” and shut the door, facing Charles with a stormy expression on your face.

“You are shit at timing these,” you scold, letting him lift you up and pin you up against the wall to savor a two-minute makeout session.

—

Daniel hands Charles a pickle jar, asks him to open it. You watch with mild amusement. This is an hours-long prank now, with Daniel proclaiming the jar to be fully un-open-able and garnering over fifteen failures over the morning. Lewis failed. Max failed. Esteban failed. Three engineers, two strategists, and one janitor failed. “Lewis failed?!” You’d asked when Daniel let you in on his secret challenge.

So you watch, eyes transfixed on his veiny, ring-clas hands wrap securely around the jar. And then it pops open.

Surprise etches itself onto your features—then warmth, at the realization that arousal had begun to boil in your stomach. “You should be proud of him,” Daniel says beside you, in awe. “Some friend you’ve got there.”

“Totally,” you say enthusiastically, elbowing Charles. “Nice one, mate.”

forty-five minutes later

“Your hands.” You feel them grope at your ass. “They’re wicked.”

“You’re weak,” he says. A menace.

“Just shut up.” In retaliation, he wraps a hand around your neck, but doesn’t squeeze. It just rests there, a promise of something more. Your breath hitches and you grow wet under your jeans. Your eyes flutter.

“Fuck me,” you breathe. And he does.

—

“What’d Charles say? Ring him, won’t you?” Alex asks, reviewing the reservation list for dinner. “He’s late.”

“He said he was good with 8PM. Let me call just in case,” Max hums, clicking at his phone and pressing his ear to it. “Charles?”

“Mate,” says Charles on the other end, voice muffled through the phone. He’s quiet. 

“You up for dinner, right?”

“Later, at eight,” says the other, breathy. “Bye—”

And the line’s clicked off. Max stares confusedly at his phone, turning back to Alex and shrugging. “Well, he said fine.”

“Does he knowit’s 8:15?”

thirty seconds earlier

Charles grabs your hair, knotting it in his grip as he sucks in through his teeth. “Fuck.”

He’s big, thick in your mouth, stretching your jaw out wide. You’re so pretty on your knees, like you have been for the past few minutes, head bobbing, bringing him toward and away from release. Your eyes are watery, pleading almost, and the farther you go the more you choke around his dick, unable to take it.

“Deeper,” he says gruffly. And you obey, like always, with a devious smile that translates mostly in your eyes, a raised brow.

He smiles back down at you, and then his phone is ringing in his back pocket. This has happened before—bosses, friends, family (God, family) calling during trysts, but Jesus, Charles will never ever—

“Answer it.” You pull off with a teasing smile. It’s a challenge, leaves your shiny lips that are currently wrapped around his tip again. You raise both brows. Go.

He does, presses accept without reading and then mumbling the first thing on his mind. “Mate.”

You cough around him, throat tightening as you deepthroat, humming sweetly like this is your favorite thing in the world. Above you, Charles is spilling nonsense. “At eight,” he says. “Bye—”

The phone clatters to the floor beside you and he thrusts roughly into your waiting mouth, good girl good girl leaving his mouth in thin, desperate, gritty moans until he’s pulling you off by your hair and cumming onto yout lips.

“Tastes like shit,” you tease menacingly, licking over them anyway and smiling. You stand up and button his jeans, laughing. He kisses you.

“I’m on a fucking time limit. Dinner at eight.”

“It’s 8:15.”

“Oh.” He pauses. “I’ll just fuck you, then.”

—

“Is sneaking around the best idea?” You ask. “For us, right now?”

The season’s almost over, and that means Charles has no time to sneak off. Between almost being caught with your panties in your mouth by Carlos, and Charles almost being caught eating you out by Daniel, you’ve both agreed the stress isn’t worth it. But it begs the other question: how long will you wait?

“It…” He meets your eyes, exhaling, bummed. “It isn’t.”

one hour later

“Harder,” you whimper, the plead leaving you softly and desperately. His hand’s heavy at the small of your back, pushing you into a perfect arch so he can pound into you the way he likes. 

“How could I say no to you?” He says breathlessly. You hear his smile, his teasing pleasure. You shudder when he goes harder, tightening around him, sinking further down onto his cock. Your brain’s all fog, dumbed down by Charles’ insistent, hot words, hands all over you. 

“Cumming,” you say, the words thin and whiny. Your thighs shake when you do, for the third time in the hour. This fuck is messier, more desperate, hotter than all the rest. He doesn’t usually handle you so roughly but you both know it’s what you want anyway. 

You’re so fucking cock drunk it’s crazy. So good Charles—I want to cum again, I—

“Come on, for me.” He pounds into you harder. “Before I fill you up with my cum.”

“Wanna be full of it,” you pant, crying into the pillows when you let yourself give in to the knot of pleasure again and cum, gushing all over his cock.

He feels, semi-blindly, for your lips, presses his thumb into your mouth for you to suck on. You sniffle around it, and clearly he’s close to release with how sloppy and rough his thrusts are now, the constant grunting music to your ears. “Gonna be good for me?” He asks. You nod. “Gonna be my good little slut?”

It’s too much, in the best way—it sends you both into overdrive, cumming at the same time. It’s so good, you’re saying, but it’s cloudy and faraway and dumb.

“I can’t,” he says through gritted teeth. His face is shiny and pretty when you turn over, feel his dick slip out, and press a kiss to his sweaty nose. “I can’t get enough of you.”

“Me neither,” you admit. The confession is swallowed into a kiss.

—

“Are you wearing Charles’ shirt?”

Max is eagle-eyed. Nobody noticed for twenty-seven fucking minutes and then Max walks in, takes a glance at your shirts, and suddenly everyone’s eyes are like glue. Your Ferrari shirt, which you’d purchased to be intentionally oversized—Charles’ size, just about—had a plain collar. Charles’—his was a polo.

You are wearing a polo. Charles is wearing a plain, U-shaped collar.

twenty-seven and a half minutes earlier

“I love that bra.” Charles flicks the black lacy strap and lets it snap against your skin. You yelp, brows furrowed defensively.

“Hey.” You pick your shirt up off the ground. “Don’t get turned on, we have to go and meet our friends. Isa’s here today, and so is Lily.”

He does the same, clutching the red and black Ferrari gear to his bare chest. “You turn me on.” It’s teasing, flirty, and you smile, pretending to shoo him away when he crowds you against his room’s wall. Get away! You’re shout-whispering, but he presses a sure kiss to your lips, and you smile against them.

“We’re pros at sneaking around,” you say, giggling as you tug your tee on.

He fixes his collar, tugs the shirt to fit properly, winks. “We really are.”

And maybe you don’t know it now, or in twenty-seven and a half minutes, but one day you will realize that the only people you’re hiding all your feelings from are yourselves.

[raven-at-the-writing-desk]

Mr. Crewel? If you don't mind me asking..is your hair dyed or not?

*mutters quietly on how they want to cut and dye their hair too.*

If he doesn’t scare you, no evil thing will.

“I dye it. My natural color is black.” He indicated the right side of his head. “It can be troublesome to bleach it—do so in layers! The chemical is harsh on hair, so it’s vital to use gloves and to do research on what products are the best for restoring shine and strength. Take it from me, and do not repeat the same mistakes as I did in my youth!”

Crewel cocked an eyebrow at your muttering. Your mouth was in motion, but the words were muddled, incoherent.

“You have more to say? Then speak up! Mumbling is in poor taste.”

“I-I was just thinking it would be nice to cut my hair and color it too…”

“If you have an interest, then I don’t see why you shouldn’t try it at least once. Reinventing one’s looks can be an invigorating form of self-expression.

“I’d recommend having it done professionally rather than in your bathroom with a DIY kit. There’s a hairdresser in the Foothill Town that is quite experienced. I see them myself, so I can attest to their skill.”

“I don’t know, it’s such a big commitment,” you replied anxiously. “And what if I don’t like how it looks when it’s done?”

“There’s a simple solution to that.” He put a hand on his hip. “Have you forgotten who you’re talking to?”

“Er… to Crewel-sensei?”

“An alumnus of Night Raven College,” Crewel corrected you with a tut. “It would be child’s play to cast spells that temporarily alter hair color and style. That way, you will be able to try as many new looks as you would like before settling on one.”

Your eyes widened with shock.

“You would do that for me?” you squeaked. Like a Fairy Godmother.

“One’s identity can come through in appearance. I consider it my duty as an instructor and a lover of fashion to guide those who waver with that sense of self.”

Crewel laid an encouraging hand between your shoulder blades.

“Come here! Let’s fix you up.”

[edgeray]

One Hell of a Butler Pt. 6

Husband and Wife

(Arlecchino x Fem! Reader)

A/N: Guys, sorry for not posting anything in like 2 weeks. School highkey sucks. Have this to make up for it. Sorry for rushed ending, I'm tired but if I don't finish it as soon as possible, I won't be posting anything for another 2 weeks. Series Masterlist Content Warning: None really, rushed ending (I'm tired af), references to Pt.2, but not that relevant. This is also long af, 4.7k words

This scene is becoming far too familiar than you’d like it to be.

An icy nailed finger trails up your bare spine, the blackened hand grazing against the vast, open back your dress allowed, leaving your shoulder blades and a little under exposed. The other hand is draped around your midsection, pushing you against her front as firmly, the lack of her body heat practically numbing against your skin. Yet, hot air cascades against the shell of your ear, a sultry whisper in your air as her lips near your earlobe.  

“You look beautiful, my dear wife,” Arlecchino sighs out, humming in approval as her red-crossed eyes practically devour your form, the hold around your body slightly tightening it. It invokes more shudders, making you let out the softest of groans. 

“So, so beautiful,” she murmurs against your skin, her wet mouth ghosting against your nape. Her hand traces the dip of your shoulderblades before guiding her fingers to your side, her hand grasping one of your hips. “Red is a fetching color on you. Wear it more often for me, won’t you, my Lady?”  

You’re fully aware she’s only partial to the color because it resembles her pupils. She likes to associate herself with this particular hue. Narcissus himself, wasn’t she? 

One of your hands is placed over the one on your hip, wrenching it away from your person before it could creep lower. You click your tongue in ire. By this point, you’re more than aware of her persistent and irritating suggestions, always pushing the boundary between master and servant. Regardless of how many times you reprimand her, she’s undeterred–a trait you almost admire if it didn’t often hinder you. Still, you can’t deny the way your skin always tingles underneath her fingertips, or the way her amative words stirs something deep within you. With every protest and physical pushback, a prickling feeling at the back of your mind shoots through you, something you can attest to allegorize to the figurative biting of your tongue. 

There’s the common rationality that crossing the line will cause inevitable consequences that neither of you will be capable of facing, and yet you let her teeter the line. Toying with it, as if it’s not there, or a better analogy: that it’s nothing more than one of those games she enjoys playing with you. Is it because of your own lack of will or because you indulge in this far more than you should? You find contempt with the acknowledgement that you favor the way she dallies you. 

You knew that this ploy would excite the demon, give more latitude to her already desirous advances and increase her antics, but it was necessary for what you were trying to achieve. Masking as a wedded piar was the only way of concealing your identity while ensuring that Arlecchino remained by your side at all times but you wished there was a simpler guise. Regrettably, a charity event didn’t allow many guises, not with the scheme you plotted. Arlecchino, would undoubtedly, use every and any courting attempts under the guise of your ‘husband,’ throughout the entirety of the night. You only hope you could curb her behavior enough to not result in the right into becoming a blunder. 

“Arlecchino, are you so oblivious as to not be able to hold tongue?” You ask, your frigid words and sharp tongue coating your internal thoughts with a mask of coldness. 

Her words ring through your ears, sounding just like they had numerous times before. How long will it be until she stops repeating those praises, you wonder; how long will it be until they seem credible? You finally gaze up into the mirror, and there’s no objection to her statement. It’s a stunning, remarkably well-tailored scarlet dress, long and flowy with a high slit running from your thigh. It pairs well with the crimson suit that adorns the demon’s form exquisitely. The two of you do appear as an attractive pair, you admit begrudgingly to yourself. You gaze at the mirror for a moment longer before prying yourself away from the demon’s hold, stepping away from her with your back towards her. There’s the small inkling inside you that she pouts much like a scolded puppy. 

“Why, are you offering to slit it?” She offers, and you forget; that’s precisely something she’d enjoy. Always the cheeky demon that she is. From the mirror, you can see that almost infatuated expression on her face: lips curled into a cutting smirk, eyes narrowed on the image of you in the mirror, and red-crossed pupils glowering. “I’m merely commenting on your appearance, can you fault me when I have such a lovely wife before me?” 

“Don’t make me keep you on a tight leash,” you snap, once again swatting Arlecchino’s hand that tries to creep up onto your waist. “Behave yourself appropriately.”

A chuckle erupts from behind you. “If I behaved myself, then our image of doting husband and wife will shatter, no? Besides, a leash may not be very… dignified, would it? It’d be quite the presentation, indeed.”

It slips from your memory at times: how demons, or Arlecchino particularly, have no shame. 

With a scoff and a shake of your head, you reply. “Is that what you want to appear as? A dog I leash around?”

Again, another noise of amusement comes from the demon, but she replies with neither a confirmation or objection. Kinky bastard. 

“The only thing we need are finishing touches, is that right? Accessories if you will.”

You nod, making your way towards the door of your bedroom. “Your gloves and your contacts. You have them, yes?” 

“Yes, but I was referring to something else.” Before you can question it, there’s a grasp on your wrist andd then you’re spun around to face her. With the slyness of a fox, she slips a ring on your ring finger prior to your awareness, and a sparkling gemstone greets your vision. You nearly sputter at the sudden action, jerking your hand away from her hold as you extend out your hand in front of you to view it. A brilliant ruby, no, red diamond glimmers before you, encased by a sleek, intricate, gold and silver design–irrefutably based off of her usual palette she prefers to don. You collect your composure, masking it with a monotone hum. 

“I don’t recall purchasing this for tonight.” You look at her, scanning her expression: the amused gleam in her black pits and the hardly discreet smile across her lips. 

“I acquired it myself. There should be no issue with it, I presume? I thought it would… assure our disguise.” She raises up her hand, wearing a similar jewerly. 

You note that she uses ‘acquired’ over ‘purchased.’ What means have she gone through to obtain this? You don’t have even an inkling of an idea. You don’t care enough to inquire further on how she obtained a ring containing the rarest type of diamond discovered by humans yet. However, it is difficult to argue that it doesn’t achieve the job of solidifying the illusion the two of you aare trying to uphold. 

“We have everything, we need, is that correct?” 

“That’s correct, my Lady.”

“Then let’s go. Come along, Arlecchino, no point in dallying is there, my dear ‘husband?’” 

Unbeknownst to you, your words lit a spark within your butler, an inferno that will remain undying until the next morning. Thrill hums underneath her blackened skin, and the warmth and levity of adoration grips her dead, devoid, demonic heart. 

—

Upon arrival at the venue of the charity event, a grand mansion, it bares much resemblance to the ball that you and Arlecchino went to for information gathering–your first failure, regrettably, on no one’s fault but yours. You had banked on your source of information to be accurate, and what a fool you made of yourself then. Though this time, you had a different objective in mind, this one more promising for success. 

Hosted by Magnate Tartuffe, a philanthropist and so-called ‘Savior of the Poor,’ you have no doubt the charity event is just a convention for his more… shift business partners. The perfect den to gather evidence of this scum’s lies, and a good place to see who else is involved with his web of deceit. You pose as one of the guests invited to such an event…how lucky for you that you just come across her invitation first instead of her. 

Rich people do love their ballrooms, don’t they? 

You observe the dancefloor and the pleasant couples. Unsurprisingly, some of who you recognize: politicians, entrepreneurs, philanthropists; this place reeks of two-faced snakes. Arlecchino’s prickling gaze bores into you, and you have no doubt that your ‘husband’ wants nothing more than to ‘blend in’ among the dancing pairs with you. Sure enough, after a few minutes of wandering through the swarms of people, there is a tug on your dress and you redirect your attention from the various sea of invitees to your butler. 

“We look quite conspicuous wandering about, don’t we? Why don’t we indulge ourselves for a little bit, my love?” Arlecchino says to you from behind, her gloved hand finding yours, intertwining your fingers. She pivots you to face her again, a mischievous glint in her obsidian abysses. Through her gloves, her coldness bleeds through the silk fabric. Her fingers run over your ring with careful deliberation. 

Love. It’s a word that you think seldom comes from a demon’s lips. And yet, you find yourself entertaining the notion of her repeating that single syllable in that distinct lilt. Foolish, you chide yourself, but perhaps there is some truth to her previous statement. Still, now is not the time for dawdling, you reason. 

“Now? You know better that this event gives little leeway to do as we please.” You refute, but you’re swept in her embrace, drew against her with a precise disregard of your words as she often does. She peers down on you, that damnable, infuriating smirk across her features as she practically undresses you with her gluttonous glare alone. You repress the reflex to shudder. 

“Is that so? Not even one dance, darling?”

“No.” You attempt to wring your hand from hers, but then her fingers fixedly but gently wrap around your wrist. She guides your hand to her chest as if she’s safeguarding it from you. 

Through gritted teeth, you enouciate her name, like scolding a disobedient pet. “Arlecchino.”

“What wife doesn’t have time to dance with her husband?” Arlecchino replies back, her voice raising in volume, a faux disbelief present in her voice, her expression imitating likewise as well–widened eyes, raised eyebrows, and a pity-garnering frown. It’s far from the first time she’s done this, act as if she had any human emotions beyond lust, but there’s yet been a time you fell for it, even when she does look like a kicked puppy.  

“This wife.” 

Your butler leans down until her lips brushes against your ear, a lazy, alluring drawl graces your ears. Her other hand seizes your chin, turning it away from her direction and steering it towards the few bystanders watching the two of you’s interaction. You could feckly hear their snobbish remarks, the way their eyes usher away from yours and they lean towards the other, a hand covering their mouths. “Careful. We have an audience. We wouldn’t want to draw attention to us, would we?” 

Her and her diabolical tricks. 

“Fine,” you submit begrugingly, seething anger barely contained in your voice. An amused and smug titter spews from the demon, and it takes a considerable amount of restraint to not deck her across her face; she’d relish in it anyways. 

“Do you mind if I take the lead, my love?” She asks you in a sickeningly, sweet tone like a doting partner would. Your stomach churns, but you can’t discern if it’s in an discomforting way or not, but you could physically feel some of your ire dissipate, humbly tamed by a simple pet name. You detest the wonder if your will was always this frail. What was it this time that broke through your stubborn front of vexation? You’ve been kidnapped, beatened, tortured before, but this was where you fell? Unfathomable. My love, she repeats again, and it rings through your ears, almost deafening every other sound that surrounds you, rendering you powerless. 

Arlecchino places your free hand on top of her shoulder while hers position itself on your side. The hand that is still clasped with yours extends outwards, assuming the waltz position. Abruptly, you’re acutely aware of how clammy your hands are underneath your gloves and you utterly despise the quickening of your heartbeat that drums throughout your entire body; still, you couldn’t muster the courage to look away from the reassuring smile–free of its previous pomposity and ridicule–she sends you. For the briefest period of time, you think that instead of a demon, in place of it is an angel from how ethereal she appears. But you quickly shake your head ridding of that thought as soon as it came. 

Stupid racing of your heart, making you see things that aren’t there. 

She moves slow at first, as if to examine where your experience lies, gradually increasing her pace with each minute. It’s awkward at first, but once she finds a suitable speed, the two of you smoothly glide over the floor. You match her every step with poise and fluidity, and when it’s clear you’ve accustomed to her rhythm, she raises her left arm while dropping your right, twirling you around. In this moment, everything else disappears, the only thing that is of relevance to you is her, your bodies in sync as your eyes lock. With each sway, you wonder if your heartrates are also synchronized–in this breath of time, does her heart races for you like yours does? The unwavering gaze of hers resides on you, and you can’t do no more but reciprocate her attention. You dubiously think that in her eyes, there’s a fondness to them, and oh, how it melts you. How it eases your soul and lightens your steps. How you carefully regard every feature, admiring the lack of blemishes over her skin and the softness of her facial traits; but maybe those observations were made from your own bias.

There’s a silence between the two of you that you find solace in–almost anyone would call it intimate. Outside of you and Arlecchino, the world would think of the two of you as husband and wife truly, and it’s like you’re the only one that knows the truth. You bite your lip harshly, dragging back your imaginative consciousness back to reality. When trying to enact revenge, foolishness and naivety have no place here; your goal is the only thing that dictates your life now. 

That’s right. You have no time or need to fool around with a demon, no matter how charming she is. 

“I wasn’t aware you knew how to dance.” You make small talk, if only to break the growing intimacy between servant and master, attempting to dismiss the way your nerves singe from the warmth she exudes and how loud that beating organ in your chest thumps. 

“Yes, serving a multitude of masters over hundreds of years has allowed me to cultivate an innumerable amount of skills and experience–dancing included. of course,” Arlecchino replies as she spins you, following a dip immediately afterward. As you’re lowered until a feet or two above the floor with only her arms supporting your weight, she leans her head further down, inches away from your face, her breath skimming against your nose. The sudden action has you breathless, heaving for the air she effortlessly stole from your lungs. Her eyes lock with yours for a short while, her expression slack as if she’s in awe, before her lips curl into a smile. 

“You should be underneath me more often,” she has the audacity to comment in that husky, amorous voice, both a stinging annoyance and blossoming fluster bubble inside you. Before you can berate her, ‘your husband’ raises you until both of your feet are flat on the ground and she resumes the standard waltz stance, the two of you sashaying across the floor. 

Nonchalantly, she resumes her answer previously, as if to overlook her brash remark; you know it’s only to further fluster and tease you, that fucking demon. “Waltz is, admittedly, one of my favorite types of dancing. The intimacy it creates between the partners is thrilling. I’ve had much experience with it.” 

And suddenly that placid campfire stoking in your chest ignites into an inferno, like being possessed by something sinister; the previous levity that coats your person is stripped away, replaced with a heavy and overbearing covering that makes you too aware of her speech and her expression, keen in deciphering her thoughts behind that front. She’s… reminiscing? There should be no logical reason it acutely agitates you, but that faraway look–it infuriates you. It’s a sensation that was similar to what brought on about that abrupt and inexplicable fit of irrationality during the ball, when you marked Arlecchino’s neck. You’ve opted to not ruminate over that occurrence after the event but as you feel the same beast’s claws grip your form, it’s with a grim realization that you discover unsightly jealousy. 

It spews out before you can stop it. “And how many people have you danced with like this?” 

Arlecchino’s smile freezes in time, her eyes flicking over your slight scowl, brows lifting bemusedly. Then, her lips curl further upwards marginally. “Quite a few has come before you, my Lady.”  

Is she purposely trying to aggravate you? 

Deciding to avoid another incident like at the ball, you bite your tongue in an attempt to repress anymore thoughtless utterances; you refuse to let her win in this little game she’s trying to play. Fanning the flames inside you won’t mean that you’ll combust. You bitterly question what you thought would come from a demon. Expectedly, nothing genuine. Becoming lost in your thoughts, your eyes wander away from her face, absentmindedly observing the gazes of other observers, watching the two of you sway. You’re broken out of your trance when your butler’s voice cuts through your thoughts. 

“Something more interesting than ‘your husband?’” 

You recover from the shock quickly, glancing back at her. “And if there was?” 

“Then I would be saddened. Perhaps I haven’t captured your attention enough?” 

You choose not to respond, unsure of what to say and what it would lead to. The song in the background comes to a close, and she ends the dance with one more dip. Once the song ends, you immediately wrench out your hands from her grasp. 

“Satisfied yet? You got your dance,” you sigh, inwardly disgusted with how uncomfortable your gloves feel now with all of the sweat built up. Settling your palm onyour chest, you can feel the faint thumping underneath, still pumping rapidly. Through deep breaths, you try to calm it, turning away from Arlecchino.

“Very. You were an excellent partner,” your ‘husband’ says from behind.

Some part of you asks how many times she’s said that before. 

You huff. “Great, now can we do what we came here for?” 

“As you wish, my lovely wife.” 

Stupid demon husband. 

—

Sneaking around the venue has yet garner much success. Currently, you’re searching for the location of Tartuffe’s meeting with his other associates, but no luck. His goons are watching over the hallways; a clear signifier that he doesn’t want others to be probing about where they shouldn’t be. 

“Arlecchino,” you whisper once you’ve found yourself in a secluded hallway, making sure that no one is around. The demon appears. 

“Have you found them yet?”

“No, I’ve yet to find them. Even with my hearing, it appears that they’re not here.” 

“How good is your hearing?” 

“They’re quite sensitive, I can hear so much as a whisper through walls.”

“How thick can those walls be?”

“It’s dependent on the material. Though these types of walls should not prove to be difficult for me.” 

“Hm… it’s less likely that they would move to another place altogether, there’d be no reason to all come here if that was the case. So there’s a high chance they’re still here… Arlecchino, on the blueprints was there any stairwells?” 

The demon closes her eyes momentarily, attempting to recall. “Yes, it would be on the opposite side of the building. Though, when I was exploring that section, there was no apparent stairwell.” 

“That may be where they are. We should–”

Before you can continue, you hear a thudding reverberate through the hallway, the sound growing louder with each second passing by. If you’re spotted here, it’s likely you’ll be expelled out of the event for trespassing and looking around. Your heart pounds rapidly as you try to conceive the notion of another failure towards your goal; no, you cannot let it end here. The footsteps approach closer. Your hands scramble for the doorknob behind you, twisting it to see if it’ll allow you inside and serve as a covert. However, it doesn’t budge, no matter how many times you try. 

“Shit, shit, shit,” you curse underneath your breath when you realize the door is expectedly locked. Is there any way you for the two of you not to get caught. Arlecchino may be a demon, she has teleportation powers, but those powers mean nothing to you when she can’t transport you. You could order her to disappear and allow yourself to be thrown out; she’ll probably be able to find out how to let you back in, but again, that carries risk and you may not have enough time for that, especially when the distance makes coordination difficult for that type of plan and you don’t know how long that meeting will last if it’s started half an hour ago, wait, the footsteps are just about there, rounding the corner, think hard, faster, think, think, thinking fucking dumbass–

A firm, chilling hand places itself on your shoulder, whipping you around before pressing you harshly against the wooden door, making you groan from the immediate impact. Arlecchino’s body towers over you, her pupils gleaming so radiantly that they’re visible through the contact lenses that she’s wearing; her expression is still and emotionless, only adding to the chilling emanation from her. One of her arms is placed beside your hand, and she leans forward against the door. Her other hand hooks underneath your chin, and tilt your face up, viewing her face. The only information that your mind could process at this instance is just how little distance there is between the two of you, and that is enough to send your pulse soaring. The panic of your impending exposure futiley against the thoughts that suddenly revolve around your butler, your husband, who draw nearer. You should push her away and demand what she’s doing, but her speed surpasses that of human capabilities, far too swift for you to even occupy that consideration, and you give up the fruitless struggle in the next moment. 

“Forgive me, my Lady,” she whispers huskily, just a hairsbreadth away from your own and she descends upon you. 

Arlecchino’s cold lips find yours, prying away your oxygen effortlessly with each claim of your mouth. Reality melts away at her touch–she overwhelms all of your senses, you’re mindless except for the flavor and texture of her–as she presses against you even more. She tastes chilling and metallic, like steel; yet soft and welcoming as a pillow; you can’t imagine anything more from your demon, and it certainly doesn’t prevent you from leaning further. She’s nothing and exactly like how you would think she’d be like, and it absolutely thrills you. Heart palpitating, every nerve hums underneath each inch of skin, and oh, how absurdly hot you feel despite her cold lips. Closing your eyes, your hands raise up to her face, cupping both sides and tugging her impossibly closer. A soft grunt escapes from her and her fingers below your chin leave in favor of lagging down below, over your dress before it finds the thigh-high slit and slides underneath. 

“Arlecchino,” you gasp out as her gloved fingers trail up your bare thigh, and she quickly swallows the whisper of her name. Continuing up, they travel innerwards, and your body involuntarily bucks in her direction. You’re filled with only the incessant need for her, more of her touch, more of her taste, more of her everything; you bite her lip, requesting–no, demanding–for entrance, and like the obedient servant she is, she allows entry. Just as she has claimed your lips, you decide replicate it back, exploring every crevice of her mouth with your tongue. You’re further fueled by the throaty moan she emanates, the pit of your stomach fluttering. 

“Say my name again,” she begs out in the sweetest, most yearning voice that’s ever graced your ears, and with that kind of plea, who are you to deny her? 

“Arlecchino,” you whisper out, and then again, and again, like a chant. You pull the slightest bit away just to catch your breath, before leaning back in, but that is when Arlecchino leans away, backing away fully from your lips to your dismay. Her touch on your leg leaves.The sudden break snaps you out of your lust-filled daze, and you look at her like a betrayed lover. Noticing that her eyes are directed somewhere else, you follow them. 

Two men stand by the side of you, evidently discomfortable if the way they’re refusing to make eye contact signifies anything. You rack your head around for a second, before remembering they’re among the security personnel. Still recovering from the intimate engagement you just had with your butler, you heave for breath, attempting to say something to them, but Arlecchino does so first. 

“Is there something you’d like to say to me and my wife about?” Your ‘husband’ gruffs, frigid fury coating her words. 

One of the men cleared his throat before replying awkwardly with, “Um, we’re sorry to have… interrupted you, but guests are not supposed to be in these parts.” 

Arlecchino lets out a faux scoff, and her hand reache for mine, clasping it tight. “Fine. Then let us be on our way back,” she states, turning away from them and wordlessly walking away, leading you along with her. Once the two of you are out of the two men’s sight, you stop her in her tracks. 

“Was that necessary?” You inquire, a bit of indignation in your tone. Because how could she just do that without your permission, without your order? The two of you have just breached a line you promised yourself you wouldn’t cross, and here you were, like a fucking liar. This shouldn’t have happened. 

“We needed a way that would make us not look conspicuous, didn’t we? I thought if we… played up to our roles, they would think that we were just… having a rendezvous.” 

You sigh. It worked as Arlecchino has intended at least. Yet, you can’t help but question if that was all to why she did it. 

Your lips still tingle, her taste still lingers. 

“Fine, I won’t reprimand you for that. But know if you do something like that again, there will be consequences,” you warn her harshly. “Now, let’s go, we still have to proceed with our plan.”

— 

That night was successful, thankfully. You had managed to get all the evidence you needed, and formulate a list of who exactly is working with that damn philanthropist. After you arrived home, you immediately sent Arlecchino out, changed, and retired to bed. But as you lay underneath the covers, you couldn’t help but wish that it was her arms wrapped around you instead of these blankets. And yet you never call for her. It is the same reason why you never mentioned about the kiss to her again. 

Ah, you want to taste her again. Drink her in once more, discover more sounds of her.

Your fingers fiddle with the ring that Arlecchino slipped onto your finger earlier that night. It fits your finger just right. 

Husband and wife? What a funny thought. 

That night, when your eyelids are finally too heavy for you to lift, you dream of eyes with crosses as pupils and blackened hands, chilly to the touch.  

A/N: First canonical kiss. Whoooooo. Only took these bitches 12.4k words for them to kiss. Anyways, I'm going to pass the fuck out now.

[serpentface]

Historically plausible depiction of semi-mythological Wardi founding heroes Erub and Janes, engaging in rites of sworn brotherhood.

Each were princes of separate pre-Wardi tribes (Erub was of the western Ephenni, Janes was of the central-southern Wardinae from which the name 'Wardi' derives). Two men of their general description historically existed, but their cited exploits were likely performed by many people over a larger time scale (conquering lands to the south and east from rival Wardi and Wogan tribes and founding the kingdoms of Wardin and Erubinnos).

They are unclothed (as is necessary for the rite) but wearing recognizable regalia, as their sworn brotherhood was a display of alliance between the ancient Ephenni and Wardinae and performed before their men. Erub wears both gold and bean-bead jewelry, Janes wears gull feathers and a pearl choker (aspects of these have been retained in contemporary east and south Wardi regional adornment). Erub's wearing of tattoos (stylized paired lions across the back with their tails looping around to the chest) is an obsolete practice, and the form of headband Janes wears is now considered women's dress.

This post is not actually about them.

SWORN BROTHERHOOD IN IMPERIAL WARDIN: A POST:

Sworn brotherhood is both a ceremonial rite and a legal institution in contemporary Imperial Wardin. Progenitor variants of this practice occur or are attested to in all historical human inhabitants of the region (Wardi, Wogan, Cholemdinae, and Hill Tribes); where and from whom these traditions originated is unclear. In most cases, its historical function was as a form of allyship between larger groups of people (powerful families, tribes, occasionally entire kingdoms) via two men as a proxy, but its contemporary Imperial Wardi function is much smaller in scale has a heavily diminished role in politics.

The core function of sworn brotherhood is to both spiritually and legally bind unrelated men as kin. Similar rites involving the physical exchange of blood are used in marriage ceremonies and formal adoptions, for much the same purpose of kin-making. A person's blood is regarded as housing their living spirit, and thus to share it binds spirits together that would not already be bound by biological kinship. The contemporary variant of this practice emerged primarily between warriors/soldiers as means of establishing security for their families should one member of the brotherhood die prematurely, and to encourage loyalty and strong partnerships for mutual defense in combat.

It is an oath of exceptional loyalty and friendship, establishing mutual devotion in allyship and accepting the same duties and responsibilities to a compatriot that are otherwise only expected of blood relatives. The physical exchange maintains this bind tightly and ensures its lasting endurance. This bond provides a sense of spiritual security and will persist after death- if one brother dies alone and unburned, the other may be able to find his soul and help guide it away to the afterlife.

This rite establishes kinship in a very practical legal sense. Each brother is sworn into the other’s family, with most of the obligations implied. Each brother is sworn to familial duties towards the other’s parents- providing for them in old age, defending their status and honor and providing retribution for damages, and serving roles in certain familial rites.

Each brother’s wife and children is considered legally under the care of the other- if one brother dies, the other is in charge of filling practical obligations of a husband/father in continuing to provide for them for life, or otherwise arranging a new marriage or (if he is unwed) marrying the widow himself. He remains in control of the wife's assets, inheritance, and children unless or until she is passed into the care of another man. This is considered legally enforceable, and overrides any objections of the wife's father (who will have already lost his legal authority over her in handing her out in marriage). The wife has no direct say in this matter (and does not in general, with women being legally under near-complete authority of their father or husband).

These familial duties are required on part of each brother, but not strictly required to be requited by their family members. A family patriarch can refuse kinship to an unwanted son-in-blood, or accept one the rest of his family does not, and can enforce this decision on his wife, daughters, and any underage sons, having ultimate authority over their formal relationships. When accepted, a son-in-blood will usually receive a formal place in his new extended family's inheritance (usually treated as a youngest son). A son-in-blood is very occasionally adopted as a formal heir, though typically only in cases where a father's biological sons die prematurely (especially given this can cause complicated situations in terms of which family name the son-in-blood is bound to).

The rite of sworn brotherhood is accomplished in stages and with the assistance of a priest (generally those devoted to Ganmache, which presides over most domestic kinship affairs). Both men are blessed and purified by the priest and garbed in simple robes, and will then recite a lengthy, formal oath before God to declare allyship and swear to all expected duties as kin. The second half is done in privacy. Both men will remove their robes, with the metaphysical vulnerability of nudity under a mutual gaze allowing for the transformative effects of the rite. Each slices the palm of their hand deeply enough for blood to run and drains it into a bowl of wine. The oaths are then repeated, with remaining blood being smudged onto prayer parchment and cast into fire as an offering. The wine is then consumed by both, physically imbibing each other's blood/spirit to seal the rites. Most variants also include additional matched scarification in a prominent location (usually the forehead)- the intentional violation of the body via permanent modification, displayed prominently on the body to the public gaze, acts as a constant enforcement of the bond.

This rite is only strictly required to be performed once, though in practice is generally repeated on a yearly basis (as most rites with permanent effects are- the world's movements are cyclical and impermanent, the only permanency is in repetition).

The practice is regarded as an ideal of platonic affection between men. The family as a social unit is of vital importance in this cultural sphere, and inducting an unrelated man as one's kin is an ultimate, idealized display of loyalty and friendship. This practice may be notably attractive to men in romantic partnerships with other men, as it allows for a lifelong commitment to an unrelated man, comparable in many ways to a marriage. Though (like most male relationships) sworn brotherhoods are de-facto expected to be non-sexual, as it is a relationship between equals, a circumstance wholly out of the accepted realm of male homosexual behavior (you should not want to 'shame' your sworn brother). The vast majority of these brotherhoods are platonic.

No comparable rite exists in an official capacity for women, akoshos, or eunuchs (largely due to its place surrounding men’s roles as family patriarchs), though some may undertake similar rites to accomplish the same spiritual kinship results (without the legal benefits).

[attestationguide]

Navigating Oman Embassy Attestation: Your Comprehensive Guide to Hassle-Free Certification

If you're planning to work, study, or do business in Oman, you'll likely need to go through the Oman Embassy Attestation process. This is a crucial step to ensure your documents are recognized and accepted by the Omani authorities. In this comprehensive guide, we'll walk you through everything you need to know about Oman Embassy Attestation, making the process as smooth and hassle-free as possible.

What is Oman Embassy Attestation?

Oman Embassy Attestation is a procedure that involves verifying the authenticity of your documents through various authorities before they can be recognized in Oman. This process is essential for educational certificates, marriage certificates, birth certificates, and other significant documents. Without proper attestation, your documents might not be valid in Oman, potentially leading to delays or rejections in your applications for visas, jobs, or educational admissions.

Why is Oman Embassy Attestation Necessary?

The primary reason for Oman Embassy Attestation is to ensure that the documents being presented are genuine and legitimate. This helps in preventing fraud and ensures that only authentic documents are used in official proceedings. Whether you are moving to Oman for work, higher education, or personal reasons, having your documents attested by the Oman Embassy is a mandatory requirement. This attestation serves as proof that your documents have been verified and approved by the relevant authorities.

The Process of Oman Embassy Attestation

Step 1: Notary Attestation

The first step in the Oman Embassy Attestation process is getting your documents attested by a notary public. This step ensures that your documents are verified at a local level. The notary will check the authenticity of your documents and provide a seal and signature, confirming their legitimacy.

Step 2: Attestation by the Home Department

After the notary attestation, the next step is to get your documents attested by the Home Department of your state or country. This attestation further verifies that your documents are authentic and have been issued by legitimate authorities.

Step 3: Attestation by the Ministry of External Affairs (MEA)

Once the Home Department attestation is complete, the documents need to be attested by the Ministry of External Affairs. The MEA attestation is a crucial step as it confirms that your documents are genuine and can be used internationally.

Step 4: Oman Embassy Attestation

The final step is to get your documents attested by the Oman Embassy. This step involves submitting your documents to the embassy, where they will be reviewed and verified once again. After the embassy attestation, your documents will be legally recognized in Oman.

Common Documents Requiring Oman Embassy Attestation

Educational Documents

Degree Certificates

Diploma Certificates

Mark Sheets

School Leaving Certificates

Personal Documents

Birth Certificates

Marriage Certificates

Divorce Certificates

Death Certificates

Commercial Documents

Power of Attorney

Company Invoices

Trade Licenses

Memorandum of Association

Tips for a Hassle-Free Oman Embassy Attestation

Prepare Your Documents in Advance

Ensure that all your documents are complete and in order before starting the attestation process. This includes checking for any discrepancies or missing information that could cause delays.

Hire a Professional Attestation Service

Consider hiring a professional attestation service to handle the process on your behalf. These services have experience and expertise in dealing with the attestation process, which can save you time and effort.

Stay Updated with the Latest Requirements

The attestation requirements can change, so it’s essential to stay updated with the latest guidelines from the Oman Embassy. This ensures that you have all the necessary documents and information for a smooth attestation process.

FAQs about Oman Embassy Attestation

What is the average time required for Oman Embassy Attestation?

The time required for Oman Embassy Attestation can vary depending on the type of document and the processing time at each stage. On average, it can take anywhere from a few days to several weeks.

Can I get my documents attested if I am not in my home country?

Yes, you can get your documents attested even if you are not in your home country. You can send your documents to a trusted person or an attestation service provider who can handle the process on your behalf.

How much does Oman Embassy Attestation cost?

The cost of Oman Embassy Attestation can vary depending on the type of document and the service provider you choose. It’s advisable to check with the embassy or a professional attestation service for an accurate estimate.

Is Oman Embassy Attestation required for all types of visas?

Yes, Oman Embassy Attestation is generally required for various types of visas, including employment visas, student visas, and family visas. It ensures that your documents are recognized and accepted by the Omani authorities.

Can I expedite the Oman Embassy Attestation process?

Yes, some professional attestation services offer expedited processing for an additional fee. This can significantly reduce the time required for the attestation process.

Oman Embassy Attestation is a critical step in ensuring that your documents are valid and recognized in Oman. By understanding the process and following the necessary steps, you can make the attestation process smooth and hassle-free. Whether you are moving to Oman for work, study, or personal reasons, having your documents properly attested will save you time and avoid any potential complications. If you need assistance, consider hiring a professional attestation service to handle the process for you, ensuring that your documents are attested accurately and efficiently.

[syerra-637]

𝓒𝓱𝓮𝓻𝓻𝔂 𝓫𝓵𝓸𝓼𝓼𝓸𝓶𝓼

(𝐒𝐮𝐤𝐮𝐧𝐚 𝐱 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫)

_♡_♡_♡_

A/n : This follows from that post and the comment by @athanasialove. I couldn't stop there. If it's well-received, I could make it into a series.If you have any story ideas for this series, you can share them with me. My inbox is open :) Tw : Mention of death, injustice, nothing more? Number of words : 1338 Reader :I wrote it for a female reader, but maybe it could work for a gender-neutral reader and a male reader?

The sunlight filtering through the golden silk curtains gently caressed your face as you slowly emerged from your slumber. The morning warmth enveloped the room, gently pulling you from your dreams. You blinked, adjusting to the already well-advanced daylight.

Once on your feet, you were greeted by a cohort of servants, their soft steps resonating gently in the sumptuously decorated room. They hurried around you, surrounding you with care and attention. One servant skillfully began styling your hair while another offered you garments befitting your position.

As your fingers brushed against the delicate fabrics, a question crept into your mind. "Where is Sukuna?" you asked, your voice filled with curiosity. The servant styling your hair looked up, her expression filled with respect and reverence.

"His Majesty is in the throne room, Your Grace," she replied with a soft but firm voice.

You nodded, silently thanking the servant for her answer.

As you prepared to make your way to the throne room, the urge to wander through the royal gardens overcame you. The delicate petals of the cherry blossoms danced in the light breeze, creating an atmosphere of tranquility. "Sakura," you murmured, captivated by the ephemeral beauty of these delicate flowers.

Guided by curiosity, you veered off the usual path, venturing further into the lush pathways of the garden. It was then that you noticed a slave, their gaze fixed on the delicate tasks of tending to the gardens. The distinctive symbol on their hand attested to their belonging to Sukuna.

"Slave, do you tend to these gardens?" you asked, a hint of interest in your voice. They humbly bowed, confirming their role in preserving the beauty of this place.

"Yes, Your Grace. I am honored to contribute to the splendor of the royal gardens," they replied respectfully, indicating the presence of others sharing the task.

Your gaze swept over the surroundings, discovering a team of slaves carrying out their duties. As you stood there, surrounded by the lush nature and by these men and women bound by fate to Sukuna, a silent reflection crossed your mind. Despite the marks and chains that bound them, there was a dignity and pride in their work.

With a smile, you continued on your way to the throne room, leaving behind the soothing murmur of the cherry blossoms.

Before the grand doors, guarded by soldiers imbued with the magic of curses, you were about to enter the throne room. However, with an elegant gesture, you halted them in their tracks, interrupting their movement to open the imposing doors.

"What is he doing?" you asked, your curiosity guiding you. One of the soldiers, respectful but attentive, replied: "His Majesty is in audience, Your Grace."

An amused glint sparkled in your eyes as you reacted with a hint of humor. "In audience? He seems to be in a very generous mood. I shall wait. It would be a shame to waste this unique audience. He will likely not grant another until next winter," you declared, injecting a touch of mischief into your words.

The soldiers, accustomed to the intricacies of Sukuna's court, bowed in respect. You stepped back slightly, choosing to wait in the antechamber, letting the mystery and intrigue surround this exceptional audience. The murmurs of the court faded, leaving you alone with your thoughts, mentally preparing for the forthcoming exchange with the powerful king of curses.

The piercing cry that echoed through the palace corridors sent shivers through the peaceful atmosphere of the antechamber where you patiently waited. The desperate pleas that accompanied it resonated in your mind, plunging you into a state of tension and apprehension.

"Mercy, Lord!" begged one voice, while another sobbed, "I repent, please forgive me!"

Your heart clenched at the sound of these heart-wrenching pleas, and you felt overwhelmed by a profound sense of worry. What was the meaning behind these desperate cries? What misfortune had befallen Sukuna's court?

Taking a deep breath to calm the feverish beats of your heart, you rushed towards the throne room, resolved to face the situation with dignity and determination.

Despite your desire to distance yourself from the tumultuous affairs of the court, your innate sense of compassion always urged you to intervene on behalf of the oppressed, even when their fate seemed sealed by Sukuna's whims.

Once the doors of the throne room were opened, you entered with confidence, feigning a false tranquility on your face. As you gracefully approached the throne, an ironic thought crossed your mind: "Oh, wait... this is also my place."

The murmurs of the court subsided as you approached, gazes turning towards you with respect and anticipation. You stopped before the throne, where Sukuna sat majestically, his imposing aura filling the room with his undeniable authority.

With Olympian calmness, you ascended the steps leading to the top of the throne, ignoring the intrigued glances that followed you. You stood before Sukuna, his imposing majesty not shaking your determination in the least.

"Hello, my love," you murmured with a radiant smile, deliberately ignoring the tense atmosphere that surrounded you. "Have you seen the cherry blossoms? They are in bloom," you added, your voice tinged with a slight teasing tone.

A heavy silence enveloped the throne room, broken only by the murmur of whispers and the exchanged glances among the courtiers. Then, you gave a meaningful look to the man on the ground, whose fate seemed to hang by a thread.

"I am sure this man has done nothing grave enough to deserve death," you declared boldly, your voice resonating in the silence. "But we all know that your sense of justice is quite strange."

Your audacity, though shocking to some, elicited little more than a resigned shrug among the courtiers. After all, coming from you, such boldness had become almost mundane, a testament to your self-confidence and independence of mind in the face of court conventions.

Sukuna's cheeky smile did not escape your sharp gaze, and you were gratified by a hint of satisfaction at his amusement with your bold retort.

"Oh really? Am I not the most just of all?" he retorted, his tone tinged with slight irony.

You couldn't help but smile slightly in response. "Perhaps you are," you conceded, "but only in your own terms of justice."

The atmosphere in the throne room seemed to relax slightly as the carefully chosen words you spoke slipped like razor blades through the air. Sukuna, well aware of the subtlety of your insinuation, burst into deep laughter, filling the room with its powerful echo.

Honestly, you realized that only someone like you could dare such boldness in the presence of the great king of curses. If it had been anyone else, uttering such words would have been an instant political suicide. But for you, it was just another day navigating the murky waters of Sukuna's court, where every word and gesture was carefully weighed and calculated to maintain a precarious balance between life and death.

"Well then, to prove my great generosity, I shall let this vermin go. But never set foot here again. As for the audience, I shall end it now," declared Sukuna imperiously, thus putting an end to the turmoil that had gripped the throne room.

As Sukuna rose from his throne, he took your hand with unexpected tenderness before lifting you up like a bride. You were surprised by this gesture but allowed yourself to be carried away by his momentum, letting yourself be guided by his imposing strength.

"Where are we going?" you asked, curious about his intentions.

"To see the cherry blossoms," he replied with an obviousness that made you smile. With such an answer, you could only acquiesce, knowing that the beauty of the cherry blossoms in bloom would be the perfect setting for this moment of shared complicity between you and the king of curses.

Hand in hand, you left the throne room and the tumultuous court behind you, heading towards the royal gardens where the cherry blossoms awaited.

[bakersimmer]

No compass guides, no map attests, To where the Pirate Queen rest.