#beaten with a cane

[marvel-lous-guy]

Peter: We've known each other for a long time, right? I think you've learned to respect me

Tony: Eh, maybe a little

Peter: Well, get ready to stop

[ironwhumper359]

The Tenets of Growth: Part 4

Atonement

First: The Path of Cultivation Prev: Flowering || Next: Replanting

CW: torture, restraints, hung by wrists, stress position, beating/caning, religious themes, religion used to justify torture, multiple whumpers.

Word count: 1900~

Author's Note: Putting the author's note at the top this time because this is it lads, this chapter actually contains actual, physical whump. Not referenced whump, not whump that's alluded to happening, this is an actual scene with two whumpers physically hurting a whumpee. Hooray! As much as I love the character and world building I'm doing, I do also love writing whump for whump's sake, and from here on out the amount of whump in this story is going way up, so if you saw the previous parts of this story and thought "hm, not whumpy enough for my tastes" then I'd ask you to check this chapter and the next chapter out and reconsider, because we're getting into it in earnest now! Anway, I'll stop rambling and let you enjoy the show <3

---

The guards came for the thief early in the morning. They yanked him to his feet, clapped iron cuffs around his wrists and ankles, and threw a bag over his head before hauling him out of the prison. 

The transport was a confused blur full of manhandling, jostling, and painful jabs, and by the time they reached their destination, the thief had nearly gone slack in the guard's grip. He let himself be dragged through he didn't know how many hallways and corridors, until finally coming to a halt.

He heard someone knock, followed by the sound of a squeaky hinge, then he was shoved so suddenly that he fell forward, catching himself awkwardly on his hands and knees. 

“Ah, excellent. His papers, please?” said a woman’s voice, followed by a rustling as the guards complied with her request. “Thank you. You may go.” 

The guards’ footsteps receded, but before the thief could even catch his breath, a new pair of hands grabbed him by the arms and tugged him to his feet. His arms were pushed above his head, and he heard the rattle of chains before the hands retreated. He tugged experimentally, and found that the cuffs on his wrists had been attached to something above him, forcing him to keep his arms raised. 

“Very good,” said the woman’s voice. “I must see to other preparations now. Inform me when he is ready for Replanting.” 

More footsteps, then the squeak of the hinge again, followed by the clang of the door shutting. The thief swallowed, doing his best not to think about what the other prisoners had said. 

“Some folks say they get killed…used as sacrifices in rituals and the like.”

That had to be nothing but a rumor, he simply couldn’t believe that the Order was performing secret human sacrifices. Perivyta was a harvest goddess, for goodness sake. But why else would they chain him in a dungeon like a slaughtered pig? Was there some other ritual they performed that required a live victim?  

“I don't know what happens in those Nurseries of theirs, but mark my words, boy. It's nothing good.”

“Lift him,” said a low voice, interrupting his thoughts. 

The thief barely had time to wonder what “lift him” meant before the sound of a crank turning filled the room and his wrists were raised higher above his head. With each rotation of the crank, his arms were pulled higher and higher, until his bare feet were scrambling against the stone floor for any purchase he could get to relieve the pressure on his wrists and shoulders. 

“Enough,” the low voice finally said, and the cranking stopped, leaving him precariously balanced on the tips of his toes. “Remove his clothing.”

“What?!” the thief cried out. “Hey! Stop!” 

He jerked wildly as a pair of hands began pulling on his trousers, but he froze when he felt something cold and sharp press into his neck. Once he stilled, his trousers and shirt were briskly stripped away, leaving him in only his underthings. The blade withdrew from his neck, and he shivered, from cold or fear, he wasn’t sure. 

"Remove the hood."

He blinked at the sudden flood of light as the bag was pulled roughly from his head, then quickly looked around, trying to get a read on his surroundings.

The room was fairly small, with wooden walls and a stone floor, and he was suspended from the ceiling in the very center. Two people stood in front of him; one was shorter and wore a simple robe of undyed linen tied with a red sash, while the taller man wore a robe dyed fully red, tied with a sash that matched. Both had the hoods of their robe pulled up, and their sleeves were tucked into the ends of thick leather gloves. This alone made for an unsettling silhouette, but what were particularly nerve wracking were the cloth masks covering the bottom halves of their faces, leaving only their eyes visible. 

 “What’s going on?” he asked, hoping that his voice didn’t betray his fear. “What are you going to do to me?” 

Neither responded, but the shorter one in the uncolored robe glanced briefly to the taller one in red. 

So, there was a hierarchy between the two.

As if to confirm his suspicions, the man in red nodded to the other, who stepped behind the thief and out of sight. The man in red tilted his head back, lifted his hands up, and spoke.

“To walk the path of Perivyta is to embrace Her will and grow in Her light. When we forsake Her ways, we forfeit our place at Her Table of Plenty.” 

The man lowered his hands and looked the thief in the face. 

“What rot has manifested in your life that has brought you here to me?” 

“I- what? What are you talking about?” 

The man did not reply, and looked over the thief’s shoulder. Before he could turn to see what the man was looking at, he heard the sound of the crank again and found himself being hoisted higher, until he was dangling nearly a foot off the ground.

“What rot has manifested in your life that has brought you here to me?” the man repeated. 

“Nothing!” the thief exclaimed. “I don’t know what you mean!” 

The man just shook his head. 

There was a *thunk* from behind, and the thief craned his head, trying to look at where the sound came from. The assistant had dragged over a crate, and the thief watched in morbid curiosity as they reached inside and pulled out a set of iron spheres connected by a chain.

“Listen,” he began. “I don’t-” 

His words were cut short by the assistant, who draped the chain connecting the spheres over the cuffs between his ankles. The weight couldn’t have been much more than five pounds, but it was enough to put noticeable strain on his already aching shoulders. 

“Every time you lie,” the man in red said calmly. “The weight will increase.” 

“But I’m telling the truth!” the thief insisted. The assistant added another pair of weights, and he grunted as the pressure on his shoulders intensified.

“I will ask until you answer,” the man said. “What. Rot. Has manifested in your life.” 

“I don’t know!” The thief groaned as the assistant placed more weights. “I don’t know what you mean, what do you mean?” 

“When rot enters our lives, we forget Perivyta’s way,” the man said. “We turn from her path of light and lead lives that bring only suffering, to ourselves as well as others. What rot has manifested-” 

“Theft!” he cried, understanding at last what the man wanted from him. “Theft, I- I stole from people. Broke into their houses.” 

“How many lives did you allow your rot to poison?” 

“I…don’t know,” the thief said. The assistant added even more weights, and he choked back a cry of pain.

“How many lives did you allow your rot to poison?” 

“I, I broke into three houses,” he said.  “I don’t know how many people- agh!” 

“Still you continue to lie,” the man said, shaking his head. “Or perhaps you are merely a fool.” 

“I don’t know!” the thief insisted. “It was three houses, I don’t know how many people lived there- no!” 

His shoulders were screaming with agony; every additional weight threatened to pop his arms out of their sockets completely. Tears welled unbidden in his eyes, and the man in red stepped closer to him. 

“The Goddess knows the truth of your heart,” he said. “You cannot hide your wandering from her, and you cannot atone until you admit fully to what you have done. How many lives did you allow your rot to poison?”

“I- ten,” the thief gasped. “I robbed ten houses, please, I don’t know how many people were there but I robbed ten houses, please, please…” 

“Repeat these words: I submit to Perivyta’s will, that she may welcome me once more to Her Table.” 

“I- I submit to Perivyta’s will,” he repeated helplessly. “That she may welcome me once more to Her Table, Please, no more, I’m sorry, please…”

The man in red nodded to the assistant, and after a moment the chain holding the thief up suddenly went slack, dropping him back to the floor. His feet had gone numb and he landed hard on his knees, but the sob he let out was one more of relief than of pain.

The assistant quickly gathered up the weights, returning them to their crate. The man in red lifted his hands above his head again and turned his face up towards the ceiling.

“The Goddess has heard your confession,” he said. “We prune away our rot in life, so that in death we might rightfully join with Her and be fruitful in Her eyes.”

He lowered his hands, then nodded to his assistant. 

“Position him.” 

The assistant began to turn the crank again, and the thief’s eyes widened as his arms were pulled back over his head.

“Wait, wait!” he exclaimed. 

He tried to scramble to his feet, but a gloved hand pressed between his shoulder blades, forcing him to stay on his knees. 

“I confessed!” he pleaded, looking up at the man in red with wide eyes. “It was ten, I robbed all ten houses! I confessed!” 

“You did,” the man in red agreed. “And now you atone.” 

The man held out his hand, and the assistant appeared, placing a long, thin cane in the man’s grip. 

“Turn him,” the man commanded.

“No, stop, just wait, please-”

His begging fell on deaf ears, and the assistant grabbed him by the shoulders and spun him around so that he was facing the opposite wall. His breath caught in his throat, and he stared in horrified disbelief at what was now visible to him. 

The wall was neatly lined with dozens of tools: blades, pliers, shears, chains, whips, coils of rope, and other things he couldn’t even name. This wasn’t a cell, as he’d first assumed. 

This was a torture chamber.

“In Perivyta’s name, I restore you to Her favor,” the man in red said, and the thief braced himself.

The first strike across his back was harder than he’d thought it’d be, and he let out a strangled cry. 

“One,” said a small voice, the first time the thief had heard the assistant speak. 

The cane connected again and the thief’s body jerked. 

“Two.”

Again and again, the cane cracked across his back, and again and again he spasmed with pain. The assistant counted quietly for each strike, and the thief tried to focus on their voice, on counting the tools on the wall, on anything other than the white hot pain exploding across his back. 

After the sixth blow, there was a pause, and for a moment he thought it was over, but then the man spoke again. 

“Repeat these words: I give thanks to Perivyta for this Pruning, that I may walk Her Path of Light anew.”

“Please,” the thief whispered, tears streaming down his face. 

“If you do not, then we will begin again.” 

“I…I give thanks to Perivyta for this P-pruning….that I may walk Her Path of Light anew.” 

The cane struck, and he screamed. 

---

Prev: Flowering || Next: Replanting

Tenets of Growth Masterlist

[coxcombo]

Elle Woods COULD run PPH diagnostics, and Greg House COULD solve the murder and ruin Warner’s life. Granted, they’d have very different methods than each other, but it’s still worth at least one (1) House x Legally Blonde crossover on ao3.

[adelacreations]

Enjoy this WIP of my bloodborne fic

[theonlyadawong]

now how do i make helenas (severance) line, "i am a person. you are not" about ada 🤔

[widowshill]

my favorite explanation by a treasured mutual about how werewolves could possibly be the enemy of the eldritch horrors older than man is that - and i’m not remembering this very well - werewolves are like, the present day version of some ancient demons that only exist now as a form taken by humans, or like, that werewolves are possessed by this race when they transform, but their primordial form is an enemy of the leviathans from the time before humanity. like to be clear this idea is absolutely invented whole cloth to explain this very silly and unbelievable plot point, but i’ve incorporated into my belief system for the good ds in my head

that's as good an explanation as any ! but i still think it's a bunch of malarkey.

[marzipanandminutiae]

“I want to live in precedented times!”

As a professional History Nerd I regret to inform you that there is precedent for. So Much Insane Shit

A guy got beaten almost to death with a cane on the US senate floor in 1856 I shit you not

EDIT: he was an abolitionist it was not a good thing

[sparklestheunicorn]

I am going to finish the book I'm reading then I'm gonna reread six of crows

[vienssunshine]

Pay Up

pairing: Sevika x fem!reader nsfw: dom!Sevika, bondage/rope, noncon elements wc: 4k author's note: happy i finally got this posted yay! description: oh no, you don't have the money, however will you pay sevika back~?

“Rotten luck, boys,” Sevika gloats, tossing her cards down on the table. An ace and a king. Royal fucking flush.

The cards twist in your grip. You were watching her so carefully, entirely certain she was bluffing. Damn it, the booze must’ve gotten to your head. Or maybe it was her. You last remember admiring the shimmer-infused scars that crackle up her dark skin rather than searching for tells. 

With pressed lips, you reveal your hand to the table. Only a jack and a nine.

The other men who had folded look pleased with their decision, frustratingly so. The only other player dumb enough to bet against Sevika splays out his cards and brings his cup up to his rat-like snout to soothe the pain of losing. 

Sevika’s mechanical hand sweeps your mountain of chips to her side of the table. What were you thinking, going all in for a jack and a nine? 

One of the men who folded uses his metal cane to stand up and hobble over to the liquor cabinet. It was tradition that after every night of gambling, the final game would be rounded off with a shot of abergin, a mix of Zaun’s best hard liquor and a drop of shimmer. It tastes like battery acid.

The other loser pulls a brown pouch from his coat pocket and counts out ten golden coins. He slides them over the table. 

Sevika recounts the payment as the rest of the group cheer at the arrival of a bottle and complimentary shot glasses. 

Sevika takes the abergin and messily pours all the drinks full. Together, you clink glasses and take the shot down. The hot liquid pours down your throat, burning it, but does little to distract from the anxiety tightening up in your chest. 

“Let’s hit The Last Drop,” one of the players calls out. 

“Or just down the street,” the rat-man slurs, “I could use some special company after tonight.” 

“Hah!” The other one pushes the drunken loser’s shoulder. “And how will you pay with all your money gone?”

“I suppose I’ll have to ask nicely.” 

The group erupts into drunken laughter, smacking each other hard on the back as the abergin floods their system with good feelings.

It doesn’t do the same for you, however. You’re sweating, fingernails digging into your knees as you force a grin to keep up appearances. Maybe if you sit here smiling like everything's fine, Sevika will forget you’re yet to pay her.

What a naive thought. She chuckles along with everyone else, but her gaze soon settles back on you. It’s predatory, like an alligator watching its meal from an inch above the waterline. “Still waiting on you, pretty,” she says, “How else am I going to treat us to a round at The Last Drop?” 

The group whoops at the idea, glasses in the air.

“Right,” you agree, awkwardly laughing. 

You pull out your pouch from your bag and shudder at its light weight. Not bothering to open it, you slide it over to Sevika. “I’m…I’m sorry, but I’ll have the rest later.”

The laughter dies down immediately. 

“You don’t have the money?”

“No, I do, I do have the money. I get paid tomorrow, really.”

Sevika’s mouth twists into a scowl. 

You try again to placate, “I’ll have it all to you by next week. I promise, you have my word.”

“Next week?” she snarls. She turns to the rest of the table, “Have I not beaten it into you all yet?”

The other players are all looking down at their drinks.

“Debts are always repaid the night of,” she states, her mouth in a hard line.

“I know, Sevika, I know…and I’m sorry.”

Sevika pushes her chair back away from the table. “Everyone, out.” She walks around the table to your chair, placing a heavy hand on the back of it. Your fingers tightly grip the bottom of the wooden seat. 

The rat-like man grins, tilting his head. “Aww, c'mon Sevika, you’ll let us watch, won't ya?”

Sadistic freak.

Though, it was typical that Sevika beats the shit out of anyone who owes her money right then and there. It’s meant to make an example out of those who tried to fuck over Silco’s people. 

Yet, Sevika denies his request. “Go get a table at The Last Drop. I’ll be there soon.” She leans down next to you, her face close to yours, “Depending on how stubborn this one will be.” 

The men file out, and as they pass, you don’t fail to notice how each one has a scar, wound, or bruise staining their skin, all from gambling, betting, and promising money they didn’t have. Those marks are supposed to be a lesson, and it’s clear you’re about to learn it. 

Sevika drags you out of the room, down a hallway, and through a door you’ve never been past before. It’s a bedroom, evidenced by the cot with unmade sheets piled atop of it sitting in the corner of the room. There’s an armchair with a side table and a light in the other corner, and right by the entrance, next to a coat rack, is a wooden desk filled with paperwork. Sevika pulls off her red cloak, revealing a tight black tank that hugs her upper body, and drapes the fabric over the coat rack. It’s Sevika’s bedroom.

One step and she’s reaching for the chair under the desk, spinning it around, and pushing you down into it. The door slams behind you. 

“Sevika–” you start, but then she’s rummaging around in one of the desk drawers and pulling out rope. “What are you–”

She gets behind your chair and pulls your arms back, bonding your wrists together with the coil of rope.

“Hey! Not so tight,” you complain, but she finishes the second knot anyway. Then, she begins going through the drawers again. 

“Sevika, I really think we can talk this out, okay? This isn’t necessary.”

Sevika finds what’s she’s looking for and sits down in the arm chair diagonal to you. It’s a small case, and from it she pulls out a stone and a knife. 

A knife? Sure, you can take a few punches, but what the fuck was she planning for with a knife? She’s really that mad?

Sevika runs the knife along the whetstone in slow, rhythmic movements, sharpening it to a finer point. Each grind of the knife sinks your heart deeper into your stomach. 

“Come on, Sevika. You don’t need to do this.” 

She doesn’t look up.

“I thought we were friends,” you try. That’s one way to describe it, though it leaves out the crush you’ve developed since you started running in Silco’s circles. 

“Doesn’t matter,” Sevika responds, “You know the rules.”

Her uncloaked bicep flexes as she moves the knife over the stone. It’s almost fully sharpened. Crush or not, you’re not letting this woman slice you up. 

“Yes, I know, but I will pay you! I just need more time.” 

She brings the knife up off the stone and runs her finger along its edge. Satisfied with her work, she puts the whetstone back in the case and closes it. 

“I need to be repaid tonight.”

Sevika walks to the desk and opens the drawer. The knife remains in her mechanical hand.

Fuck, you’re so fucked. You got caught up in the drinks, the gambling, your idea of a night out on the town with Sevika. You should be partying with the rest of the group at The Last Drop, not strapped to a chair and cut til you bleed out all over Sevika's floor.

She places the case in the drawer. 

That’s if they even made it to The Last Drop, usually the snouted drunk and Sevika get side-tracked at the brothel. 

The drawer slams shut. 

An idea pops into your head. There’s another angle you could try.

“I can pay you tonight,” you blurt out.

“Yeah? With what money?”

“I’d be paying you…in another way.” 

With her back to you, she stills. Then, she scoffs. 

“You’re really desperate, aren’t you?” She turns around and leans back onto her desk, palms flat on its surface, fingertips brushing the handle of the knife. “You don’t even know what you’re saying.”

“I know what I’m saying,” you respond, looking up at her. You don’t let your eye contact waver, you can’t.

“No, you don’t. You’re—you’re not like that, sweetheart.”

“What, you don’t think I would be good?” You frown. “Am I not pretty enough?”

“No, no, you’re plenty pretty. I just don’t think you know what you’re doing, offering your body up like this. To me.” 

“I know what sex is, Sevika.” You roll your eyes. 

Sevika crosses her arms, leaning back on the desk. “Sure, but you don’t know what sex with me is like.”

“Well, I’ve thought about it before,” you quip.

That might’ve tipped your hand too much; this deal doesn't work if you get something out of it too. You shut your mouth and wait. Maybe she won’t realize your mistake. 

Sevika smirks. “You’re bolder than I thought, pretty. Should’ve realized that when you went all in on a jack and a nine.” 

“Fuck off,” you say, eyes dropping down to the ground. 

Sevika takes a step forward and crouches down in front of the chair. Blade in hand, she brings the point to the bottom of your chin, forcing it up so you’re back to looking at her. “Tell me what you thought about.”

Her mouth snarling curses into your neck, biting and sucking on the tender skin. Her hand on your back, pushing your face into the mattress as she fucks you. Crying out her name as she greedily laps at your dripping cunt. 

“Well?” she asks. You take a breath, face hot. It’s disorienting, how the same person in your fantasies is waiting to hear about them in real life. 

The knife presses up into your skin. 

‘Bold’ she called you. You can be bold.

You open your legs and wrap them around Sevika’s waist, pulling her into your lap so her face is level with your rising and falling chest. “One thing I’ve thought about is…”—your eyes flick down to hers—“how it would feel to…have you kiss me here,” you say. 

Sevika holds your gaze, her eyes darker than they normally are. They look dangerous, similar to when she found out you didn’t have the money. Though there’s a difference this time, but you need to be watching closely to notice it—the undercurrent coursing beneath her gaze, something fierce, something that wants.

Sevika’s eyes break from yours to wander back down to your chest. Her right hand releases the blade—it clatters to the floor—so her fingers can find your waist. She runs them up your side, past your ribs and breasts, to find the neckline of your shirt. She pulls it down slightly, exposing a few centimeters underneath your collarbone. “Right here?” she asks, running her thumb over the skin in slow circles.

“Yes,” you whisper back, body stiff and hot. Your chest is tight like the rope around your wrists. It’s hard to breathe, to speak. 

She moves closer and you can only squirm—away or towards her you don’t know. God, you do really want her to kiss you, want to know what it’s like to have her lips on your skin. 

Then she laughs, a dark, slow chuckle. “You really are desperate, aren’t you? Either to get out of your punishment, or to fuck me.” 

“Sevika,” you say.

“Which is it?” she drawls, playing with your neckline. 

Brain fogged by desire, you’re in no condition for mind games. So, rather than trying to figure out what the right answer is, you respond truthfully. 

“Both. I want both.”

“Honest girl,” she coos, “I have to reward that, don’t I?”

“Mhmm,” you get out, “Please.”

Sevika leans forward, hot breath ghosting your chest, and kisses her lips to your skin. It’s a light touch, but the effect is significant, a warm tingle spreading through your entire body. Your legs slacken, releasing her waist, and your feet return back to the floor.

She retreats and looks up to your face, her lips curling when she sees you looking back down at her, mouth slightly ajar, panting.

“Was it like you fantasized?” she asks. Her voice is lower and deeper than before, the sound coated with desire. 

“Sevika–fuck–that was–”

“I only kissed you,” Sevika says, chuckling softly as she runs her hands along your thighs. The touch makes your skin buzz. 

“I know, I know just, please, Sevika,” you say, “Untie me.”

Her eyelids lower. “You’re the one who owes me, right? So we’ll play by my rules.” 

Sadistic freak, she’s enjoying this. 

Yet, you are too. It’s hot that she’s getting off to your struggle, even if it is, at the end of the day, still a struggle. You groan, shoulders falling. “Right…okay,” you respond. “Your rules.”

“I’m curious now, how you’ll react to other things.” She leans down and presses a gentle kiss right underneath the end of your shorts. You gasp quietly, leg tensing up.

“Guess you’ll have to find out,” you goad, shifting your weight from one hip to the other, desperate to have some agency in this interaction. You want to touch her, feel her skin on yours, run your fingers through her hair. But there’s nothing you can do with your hands behind your back.

She returns to your chest, pressing wet kisses along your collarbone and down to your neckline. The lower she goes, the more your hands strain against their bindings, desperate to break free and wrap around Sevika’s broad shoulders and pull her further into you. 

Her human hand finds your waist as she kisses you, running up and down your side, while her mechanical hand grips the back of the chair, its mechanisms whirring in your ear. 

Sharp breaths leave her mouth every time she pulls back from her sloppy kisses, a small groan as well as her fingers squeeze your waist.

“Sevika, please…this is—fuck—” 

“Damn it,” she mutters, and then her hand pulls down one of your sleeves, and then the other, so your top pools around your midsection. Instantly her face is buried into your chest again, kissing the exposed space between your bra. Her hand falls from your shoulder to your right breast, squeezing and massaging it.

You groan, eyes fluttering as she sucks a mark onto your chest. Each press of her lips does more to soften to core in your stomach. Then she’s kissing along the border of your bra, which doesn't remain an obstacle for much longer, her fingers lifting the straps over your shoulders. Her right hand reaches behind your back and unclasps the garment from your torso. 

The bra falls from your breasts, and Sevika sits back to look at them, eyes roaming over your panting chest in admiration. 

“Fuck, you’re gorgeous,” she breathes. Her right hand travels over your breast, thumb circling your peaked nipple. 

You moan, pushing your chest into her hand. You just want to keep touching her, to keep ‘paying her back.’

“Can’t believe you were hiding such a pretty body all these nights,” she comments, hand running down your ribs, making you shiver. 

“It was always yours for the taking,” you respond, “Like it is tonight.”

A strangled noise comes from Sevika’s throat, and her hand tightens on your side. “Wish I'd known that.” She kisses your nipple. “Would’ve done this ages ago.” 

Sevika makes her way down your torso, touching and kissing as low on your belly as your folded-down top allows. Then her hand is on your shorts, unbuttoning and tugging them off by your waistband. You raise your hips so she can pull the shorts and underwear off, leaving you bare on the seat. 

Sevika brings your knees up so they rest on her shoulders. The metal of her left shoulder is a cold underneath your leg, though the small air vents of the mechanism ghost your leg with puffs of warm air. Her hands cradle your ass, protecting you from the discomfort of sitting on the wooden chair—the metal of her mechanical fingers somehow the preferred alternative. 

With you in her hands, Sevika’s able to lean down and press a kiss to the top of your hip, bringing out a gentle roll of your lower body. You’re enjoying how much closer her attention has gotten to where it needs to be. 

She licks down the V-line of your pelvis, lighting up your skin with her wet tongue. 

“Shit–ah,” you groan out, “Please go lower.”

“Fuck,” she swears back, “You’re so—” she doesn't finish the sentence, instead inhaling through her nose, indulging in the scent of your dripping cunt. “Fuck,” she repeats.

She kisses the bottom of your mound, just above where your lips split to encircle your pulsing cunt. Only a few more centimeters south and–

Sevika turns her head, instead kissing your quivering inner thigh. 

“Sevika,” you whine, fingers curling into fists behind you. How you wish you could do something about this.

She smiles against your flesh. 

“Who’s paying?” she reminds you and your pleas fall silent. 

She returns to your inner thigh, using her big, calloused hand to push your legs open. Then she presses a few more messy kisses to the skin, her eyebrows furrowed and her dark eyes closed. Her hot breath and wet lips are encroaching on your warm center.

A few more kisses and she’s at the part where your leg meets your body. You hold your breath.

Then, her eyelids flutter open and she looks over your glistening folds. Her mechanical hand moves to your lower back, taking on your weight, so she can draw her human hand from beneath you to right in front of your cunt.

Please. Please please please pleasepleaseplease—

The pad of her thumb runs over your folds. You gasp. “So needy,” she says, eyes connecting with yours while she gives you a crooked smile. 

“You’re making me like this,” you say. Your hips grind into the contact her hand provides until she suddenly pulls away. You bite your complaints back and watch her with desperate eyes. She’s testing you again. 

Her eyes roam over your poor, squirming body. She notices the sheen of sweat covering your half-clothed torso, the gentle pants leaving your lips, and the way your hips continue to roll into a phantom hand. You’re a pathetic mess for her. 

“This isn’t even for the money anymore, is it?” she observes. 

“No,” you get out, voice cracking. “If I had the money, I would pay you to continue.” 

“Hmm.” She moves her face to your cunt, pressing a gentle kiss to your folds. “You don’t need to worry about money with me anymore.”

Silco’s right hand, sweet on you. This changes everything.

Your tightened mouth opens and a breathy moan comes out. “T-thank you.”

Sevika pushes her face deeper into you, bringing her tongue out from her plush lips to lick a line up your warm center. You throw your head back, letting out a strangled moan of her name.

Her mouth is warm and wet, and her tongue rolls over all parts of your vulva, stimulating every nerve. Tingly pleasure seeps into your lower body, spreading up through your stomach and down into your legs. 

Sevika’s human hand wraps around your right thigh, fingers pressing into the flesh, ensuring your legs stay open for her. 

Her hold proves helpful as the stimulation becomes more intense, hindering your inclinations to push the growing pleasure away. It’s like a fierce vine rapidly growing up a ladder, tangling within every organ and bone, tying itself up into you. You writhe around, trying to shake it free, but its grip only grows stronger, tendrils thicker and more twisted. 

Sevika tilts her chin up and licks and sucks on your clit. Your whole body tightens in response to the shock wave it sends through you. 

 “God, Sevika…feels so…ah, fuck…”

How does she know how to make you feel this way? It's never been like this before. Not with yourself, or any of your past hook-ups. Her mouth is superhuman. 

“Right there, please, yeah right there,” you moan, gyrating against her grasp on your lower body. Heat clouds your head, burning away your thoughts. 

She groans into your folds. She’s too good at this, fuck.

“Taste so fucking good,” she says into you. She feels so fucking good.

You wish you could knot your fingers into her hair, be the one pulling it back out of the way instead of the hair tie. But all you can move is your lower half, so you focus on it, grinding your hips against her mouth, pushing your center into her lips and tongue. It smears your wetness all over her chin and nose, but she doesn’t care, keeping her face buried into you, fucking you with her mouth. 

The vines threading through you tighten and throb, and with each lick of her tongue and jolt of your hips, brick by brick you’re being built to your peak.

“Fuck, Sevika, oh my god,” you moan her name out sweetly, begging for what you need her to give you. “I’m gonna–”

You rut into her mouth, chasing that building feeling that’s pressing forcefully up into your insides. 

“Give it to me, baby,” Sevika commands.

It hits you in fierce, undulating waves. Your arms lock up behind the chair as your hips thrust up into the warmth of Sevika’s mouth. 

You cry out, cursing her name, eyes pressed shut. The pleasure is hot and violent, taking over your body in a way you didn’t know possible. It flows through your muscles, flexing and releasing them as your body endures the storm of pleasure.

Sevika moans into your cunt, the vibrations only adding to the intense sensation. “God-fu-how my-” you moan nonsensically. 

Your hole throbs, pushing the pleasure out through our body until the fierce wave retreats back into the ocean. It leaves you buzzing. Your jaw hangs, hot breaths rushing out. The world around you doesn’t feel real. 

Sevika lowers your legs back to the ground. They’re entirely limp and fall open. You don’t have the energy to bring them back together. 

“You okay, sweetheart?” She pulls up her black tank to wipe her mouth, flashing her hardened abdomen.

“Fuck,” you gasp, “yeah…yeah I guess so.” You throw your head back, chest heaving. 

Sevika puts her hands on her knees and stands up. Then she walks behind you, fingers running over your shoulder as she passes by. You go to lean into it before it’s gone, and the ropes around your wrists slacken, falling to the floor. 

You bring your hands into your lap, slowly rubbing the angry indentations left on your wrists. They’re uncomfortable, but the pleasure has faded the pain. 

Sevika’s eyes watch your face. “Still up for The Last Drop?” She grins. 

With effort, you sit back up in the chair. “Yeah, okay,” you say, attempting to pull your top back over your breasts, “Just gimme a sec—”

“Don’t know how you’ve made it this far,” she says, scooping you up in her big arms, “believing everything someone says.” She walks you over to the cot in the corner of her room and lays you down on it. “We’re staying here.”

You crack a smile. “But they’re probably losing a bar fight right now without you.” Sevika joins you on the mattress, and you turn onto your side to face her. 

“They’ll have to figure it out,” Sevika says, “‘Cause I wanna be right here.” Her hand hovers over your face, hesitant for a moment, but then she runs her knuckle down your cheek. “With you.” 

You place your hand on her waist, dipping underneath the fabric of her tank. “What if it costs you?” you tease. 

She smirks. “I would’ve paid triple what you owed me.” She brings your hand up to her lips, pressing a kiss to your fingers. “Just for this.” 

“Stop it,” you say with a smile, pulling your hand away and giving her a playful push. “I will pay you back.”

“You already did,” she says, drawing you into her arms.

“Okay,” you snuggle into her chest, “Then, next time I’m actually going to.”

“I look forward to it.” 

[just-an-anon-reader]

The Forgotten Sister

Chapter I - III

Pairing: Ekko x Fem!Reader

Tags: Minimal use of Y/N, no specific description of the reader, friends to lovers, CW swearing, CW blood, CW injury, CW violence, CW guns, TW death

A/N: I might have gotten carried away with how long this got…

Chapter II

"I missed you too..."

Feeling your sobs begin to calm and your eyes begin to puff from all the tears that cascaded down your cheeks, you gingerly take a small step back without entirely leaving your sister's embrace. Just enough to finally get a proper look at the face that changed with time. Vi was undoubtedly no longer the girl you remember looking up to as a child. The soft roundness of her cheeks that came with childhood was now replaced by sharp, hard lines with scars in places that weren't there before. And yet, despite the changes brought about by years apart, Vi looked... young. Like she hadn't lived with the chaos that covered Zaun like a blanket. Like she hadn't seen the death and destruction that followed as Silco flooded the Lanes with his damn shimmer.

"Where have you been all these years?" you ask, voice still trembling with emotion as your thumb traces over the tattoo on her cheekbone.

"I was... I was in Stillwater... But that doesn't matter! All that matters is that I'm here now." Vi says, head tilting lovingly into your touch.

"You were in Stillwater? All this time? Why?! H-how did you get out?"

"... someone... got me out,"

"It's the enforcer, isn't it?" Ekko says suddenly.

Having stood quietly from the side and letting you two sisters have your moment, a reunion long since overdue. Having watched with a soft chuckle as you bawled your eyes out and wet snot dripped down your chin. But now he stood with his stance firm and stiff. Arms crossed against his chest as the steel mask of a leader clicked into place on his handsome face.

"...an enforcer?" You gasp, involuntarily stepping away from your sister's embrace.

Your body physically recoiled from Vi, like her touch shimmered itself. Vi whispers your name, hurt flashing across her face at your visceral reaction.

But she didn't understand. She didn't know. The blood that painted your hands red and the disgusting sticky feeling that came with it from all the people who bled at your doorstep. People whose lives you so desperately tried to save as they lay dying. Beaten half to death by fucking enforcers. Some of them were sanctioned by Piltover, while others were greedy fuckers with pockets heavy with Silco's coin. And they said fissure folk were the shitty ones.

She doesn't know...

You tried to reason with yourself. But feelings of disgust and betrayal filled you faster than you could stop them. You take another step back, moving in line with Ekko. Gone was the love, replaced by suspicion and mistrust. The man beside you bumps his shoulder against yours, pulling your attention. You look at each other in silent conversation. He tilts his head in a gesture to somewhere, yet nowhere in particular. The movement you follow with a flick of your eyes, immediately knowing the message behind it. An understanding passed between you two confirmed with a nod.

"There's something we gotta show you," Ekko says to Vi before moving to lead the way.

You hobble after him silently, your cane thumping against the wooden floor, ignoring the confusion splayed on Vi's face. Seeing that none of you two were planning to explain anything further, she rushes to follow after. Opting to lag a bit ways behind. Taking in the view around her. A view so different than what you'd usually expect from Zaun. The sun bathed the base with a beautiful, bright glow. Its warmth touching the skin of her cheek as it peaked through the leaves. Children laughed and played, chasing after one another beneath the shade of firelight leaves. People walked and talked about, free from worry and strife. It was beautiful. Amazing what the group has accomplished in seven years. A small hidden reprieve from the chaos of the Lanes.

At the last set of stairs down the tree, steeper and more uneven than the rest, Ekko offers his elbow to you like clockwork. Carefully, you clamber down the steep stairs. Hand gripping tightly onto Ekko's forearm as your weak knee wobbled with every step. Vi rushes to hold onto you, hand about to reach for your other arm, when Ekko stops her with a chuckle.

"She'll smack you if you do that. And besides," he says, eyes looking towards you. Lovingly... longingly. A gaze much unbeknownst to you as you grunted at the feel of uncomfortable pressure straining against your knee at each step.

"She's doing great,"

"Damn right. My knee won't get stronger being babied," you hiss, taking another shaky step down onto the floor.

Finally...

You breathe a sigh of relief at the feeling of solid ground beneath your feet that doesn't quake or buckle at the slightest tremble of your knee.

Ekko really needs to fix these last few steps...

They wobbled too much for your liking. And they creaked in weird places that always made you antsy. Yep, he definitely needs to fix these. The man in question has stopped beside you, arm still outstretched, waiting as you find your bearings.

"You alright?" He whispers.

"Yeah, thank you for being such an excellent handrail." You whisper teasingly, giving his arm a playful pinch before letting go.

Ekko chuckles, shaking his head as he trudges forward a few paces before stopping. You follow, hobbling to a stop beside him. Eyes forward, looking at the slab of wall that makes up a part of the tree. A mural. A place of homage. A reminder of what you've all had to sacrifice.

"This is everyone that we've lost..." Ekko says, his voice somber as he looks at the colorful, familiar faces on the wall. Faces of loved ones, faces of lost ones... lost... but never forgotten.

"The price of our freedom..." you sigh.

"Some of it was enforcers... most was Silco."

Ekko wraps a pinky around yours. For comfort, you reckoned. But you weren't sure if he meant for you or for himself.

"Your sister works for him not because she has to but because she wants to."

Vi looks away. Expression torn, hurt. And your heart ached for her.

"I see you've found Jinx,"

"Her name is Powder... You're her sister! How can you call her that?"

"She hasn't been Powder in a long time, Vi,"

"So? Are you gonna ask me to leave her?! Is that what you did?!”

In a rush of fury, she lunges at you, hands grabbing onto the lapels of your coat, pulling you roughly towards her. Knuckles holding tight as you watched them turn white. Vi locked eyes with yours. A fire blazing hot behind those baby blues. But they did not burn you. Tone, cold as ice, you spit your next words, sharp like a knife. Meant to cut, meant to bleed.

"I... wasn't the one who left."

Vi breathes a heavy sigh like a fire doused with a bucket of cold water. Gently releasing you before stepping away, hiding her face behind the length of her hair. Ekko steps behind you as you stumble, steadying you. Eyes roaming over yours in worry, only calming once you gave him a nod.

You were alright...

"Look, Vi, I don't blame you for being gone. But you were gone for so long... things have changed. We, have changed,"

You step towards her, hand on her shoulder, gently squeezing it.

"Besides, we still have that... enforcer... friend of yours."

"Seems like I just keep making you mad today,"

"I remember it being... a unique talent of yours,"

Vi breathes an airy chuckle, turning to face you. Looking at you, like seeing you for the first time. You used to be so small, so frail. Someone she needed to protect. Like Powder... But now, look at you... You still limped, yes, but you stood tall. Eyes sharp, hands strong and steady. And you didn't take shit from anyone. You really grew up without her.

Turning towards Ekko, Vi says, "Her name is Caitlyn. She's after Silco. It's why she got me out in the first place. You can trust her. I promise."

You and Ekko give each other a look. Another silent conversation ensues. He nods, and you nod back.

"Alright, come on," he says before moving forward. You trailing behind him.

You both lead Vi through a tunnel-like vent in the wall, an exhaust pipe opening large enough for people to pass through. There, you find two boys, Mach and Tun, playing around. Pulling at their cheeks, making funny faces, and challenging the other to hold their laugh the longest. The same two boys who were supposed to be watching over the makeshift prison cell.

"Hey! How's our guest?" Ekko says, greeting the boys who squealed in excitement at the sight of him.

They scream his name happily as they run around him in excited circles before jumping towards you, pulling at the hem of your shirt, almost making you stumble.

"She's loud,"

"She shouts a lot,"

The two boys giggle in unison.

"Alright, you two, let's get her outta there," Ekko says, chuckling as the boys give a resounding "Yessir!".

Pulling down their masks, they race for the keys hanging on a hook beside the door. Pushing and shoving each other for it before Tun finally gets a hold of them with a triumphant "Yes!". Slotting the key into the lock, the gears turn and unlock with a click as the door swings open with a loud squeak. Inside, handcuffed to a statue in the center of the room, was a girl with a sack still tied around her head. Her identity may be hidden, but her role is betrayed by the golden edges of her uniform. Hidden by whatever she wore on top, it glinted where the light would hit. Shining despite the darkness of the room.

She grunted as she fought against her restraints, wiggling about and head snapping to the sound of something swinging open somewhere she couldn't see. To Tun's annoyance, Mach successfully grabs the keys from his hands and runs into the room, undoing the cuffs before pulling the sack off her head. Eyes blinking at the sudden glare, her hazy vision lands on the hand in front of her. A hand fully intending to help her up. The moment her eyes cleared, she slaps the offending appendage away. Mach gasps at the impact, moving away towards you and Ekko by the door. The woman's eyes follow the movement. Her sharp eyebrows pinched as her deep blue eyes narrowed, she glared at the two of you with all the anger she could muster.

"What have you done with Vi?"

... this is Caitlyn?

Also, thank you to those who thought chapter 1 was worth reading!!

@silas-222

@scarletrosesposts

[wyniepooh]

Coach

patrick zweig has an interesting approach to coaching; it becomes even more interesting when it’s with you.

coach!patrick zweig x tennisplayer!reader. You desperately need a coach to help you, coach zweig seems to want something else 🤘🤘 (and you don’t mind ofc). Mentions of being broke #relatable. I imagine this to be set either before the challengers match, or after, either way works.

If it were up to you, you’d say that the place was a little sketchy.

if it were up to you, you would’ve left the moment you saw the lone beaten up car in the lot and the acrylic chipping off of the concrete ground.

But in the end, it really wasn’t up to you. The continuously decreasing numbers in your bank account was a constant taunt, a bullying reminder that if you wanted those numbers to change— to rise— you’d need a coach to push you into the championships.

Even if that coach choose a training spot that looked damn-near abandoned.

“hey. uh… patrick. patrick zweig,” he extended his arm.

You took his hand, giving it a firm squeeze as you dropped your bag onto the bench beside you. you smiled. “Shouldn’t I call you coach zweig?”

he smiled, chuckling at the ground, then shrugged, sticking his hands in his pockets. “whatever you want."

he cleared his throat, “so uh… what’s your plan here? I mean- what are your goals? why do you play tennis?”

You pulled out your racket and a couple of balls, setting them on the ground before quickly throwing your hair up into a ponytail. “Why are you coaching tennis?"

His arms crossed over his chest, and your eyes flickered to his biceps for a quick second before returning to his gaze. The silence was long, but surprisingly, it wasn’t uncomfortable or awkward like silence usually is. he smiled, and laughed again at your innuendo as he bent down and picked up your racket.

Grabbing the handle from his extended hand, you grinned. “That’s exactly my goal, too.”

You bounced the ball as you walked towards the court, closing your eyes for a moment to feel the sun on your skin. The sun was hot; burning, even, but the wind offered a cooling solace. His crisp voice snapped you back to reality.

“So, let’s see your serve.”

The next hour completely diminished whatever doubts you had about patrick zweig. Despite his rather tattered clothing that proved he was a low-ranking player with no sports sponsorships on his back, and despite his racket that seemed to be slightly crooked— he knew the fucking game.

And he also knew just how to provoke you.

“Is that all you’ve got?”

Hunched over the ground with your hands on your thighs and sweat dripping onto the green floor, you panted, “what?”

“You’re getting sloppy. Having stamina is crucial to the game, you know.”

You chuckled. “I can keep going. No problem.”

“Then prove it," he tossed you another ball, your slippery hand barely catching it in time, "come on, keep going."

Your next hit bounced off the net. Your next serve was out. After the ball attacked the net yet again, you threw your racket to the side, curses spilling out from under your breath.

“Thought you could keep going?”

“Give me a break," you muttered as you crouched down to stretch your legs that didn’t need stretching.

“No.”

you groaned. “come on, coach, I’m in a slump. Give me five and I’ll get back on it.”

“You don’t get to slack off in a real game. And based off of how gently you just threw your racket, you probably can’t afford to, either.”

Your body snapped up. “the fuck did you just say?”

He laughed lightly, raising his hands up by his head defensively as he walked closer towards you. You mirrored his movements, stepping closer until all that separated the two of you was the net, flowing freely with the wind.

“Look, all I'm just saying is, I don’t usually get many students signing up to experience my coaching. Not because I’m not good," he swatted his arm as he spoke, his other arm using his racket as a cane, "fuck no, but because my going rate is pretty low. the lowest, even. I’m just making an observation.”

You rolled your eyes, furrowing your brows slightly as you rested your hands on your hips. patrick had a grin about him, a stupid, annoying smirk that almost made you believe he knew something about you that even you, yourself, didn’t know.

Walking a couple steps closer to him until you felt the harsh scratch of the net against your knees, you whispered, “don’t assume anything about me.”

Your eyes subconsciously fluttered to his nose, then his lips, before coming back up to his eyes. smoothing out your brows, a layer of subtle desire spread behind your stare. you muttered, “Maybe I wanted you to coach me simply because I like you.”

His expression softened with feigned surprise. “Oh, do you now?” His face came closer to you.

you finally had an opportunity to ponder over his face; his messy stubble all unkempt and long, the sweat on his forehead soaking his dark curls so perfectly on his face. or a moment, you weren't sure of where to go or what to do. In the end, he broke the stare-off with a murmur, “show me how much you like me, then.”

you didn't know if the heat spreading to your face was from the bright sun, his words, or from the blooming ache in your stomach. Either way, you stepped back with haste, grabbed another ball and prepared to serve.

A loud grunt came from you as you made your hit, and patrick reciprocated your energy, returning the ball with the same brutal force and speed.

Maybe he did poke at a sore wound. Yes, you were broke and young and desperate, but wasn’t he in the same situation? did he think you wouldn't notice the absolute state of the rented court and his shabby shoes?

But whatever it is that he did, it worked. Your feet were off the ground in an instant, and you heard the smack of the ball against the concrete before you even saw it. When you came back down, you immediately became aware of the sweat dripping down your face, your back, your legs, and the absolute relief of it all.

“There it is.”

You looked up. Patrick was smiling, widely, with that same old grin, like he was so proud that his trick had worked. as you began walking off the court, you couldn’t help but laugh, albeit dryly, at the whole situation. grabbing a towel from the bench and swinging it over your shoulder, you chimed,

“Hey, uh… coach, how much are you charging again?” you looked down at your feet, fidgeting nervously with your fingers as you mustered up all your strength to meet his eyes.

you tried to hide your shock when you finally turned your head to look at him, catching the sparkle of blue and a hint of something else in his eyes. he was standing close, really close, close enough for you to smell him and see him and practically feel him.

your eyes followed the movement of his arm as it reached towards your shoulder, his hand grasping one end of the towel and dabbing the fabric against your temple. he dropped the cloth, fingertips dancing over your cheek as he grazed a stray hair behind your ear, barely breathing a response,

“How much are you willing to give?”

-

a/n: I DO NOT PLAY TENNIS NOR DO I RLLY KNOW HOW IT WORKS. love the art appreciation but I feel like we need to step it up w the pat fics as well so I’m taking one for the team 🫡

[princess-glassred]

Imagine an IT au thats entirely from Henry's perspective so all of the losers club act like how he thinks they are instead of who they actually are.

Mike is like a coniving super villain who's just WAITING for the chance to jump in and ruin Henry and his dad's life for no reason. He revels in the idea Henry gets beaten at home and is somehow responsible for every single bad thing thats ever happened to him. He does all this on his father's behalf (which is totally not Henry projecting at all... totally).

Beverly is just the ultimate hoe who is so utterly obsessed with him she can't stand it. She's so incredibly into him and desperate. She says shit like "omg Henry... ur mullet... 😫🤞💞💓💖💗💔❣💘💝" cause she just can't contain her lust for that... specimen.

Stan is just a boring hunk of wood, you could replace him with a cardboard cutout and nothing would change. Occasionally he'll just say "I'm jewish" and that's it.

Ben is always eating, everytime he shows up he's always engaging in some truly disgusting display of gluttony, like smothering cane sauce and cheese on a bacon burger.

Richie is the most annoying guy ever, picture normal Richie cranked up to 11, that's how Henry thinks Richie works. Lots of lol so random humor, incohetent screaming, and when hes not doing either of those hes being super super gay. Like IT happens at the rockwell level gay.

Eddie is also super zesty, when he's not whining about dirt he's asking Richie if he looks pretty in heels and painting his nails. You could blow air in his direction and he'd fall over like "UGGGHHH i've fallen and i can't get UPPP!! 💅🏻💅🏻💅🏻 .

Bill is just the epitome of a wojack, you know how when people usually imagine winning an argument and their imaginary opponent is all "but- bu- bu- bu- bu-!!"? Yeah, that's how he views Bill. Just coping and seething that Henry is right about everything 24/7 and also cooler and hotter and smarter and simply better than him in every conceivable way.

[colourstreakgryffin]

Teen!Reader finding Alastor all beaten and bruised after the finale and getting worried, insisting in patching him up, etc, while Alastor during the entire time is having a moment of realization like "oh, this kid ACTUALLY cares about me"

(This is platonic obviously, reader sees him like a weird older brother/father figure and looks up to him idk)

I love it. Simple, enjoyable and to be honest, we’ll just pretend Alastor had his sick solo in the finale before we showed up and I suppose Al will be quite unhinged and aggressive in this state so goddamn. Also, my second time writing about the finale

Platonic! Alastor- Reaching Out

“You son of a bitch, I am trying to help you!” You growl out, now half-wrestling with the Radio Demon himself, after his lose battle against Adam. Whilst Adam has been finally defeated at Lucifer’s hand then killed at Niffty’s knife. It’s clear as crystal that Alastor isn’t taking his own defeat well at all. He’s aggressive, completely lost his usual charismatic, well-mannered demeanour, he’s breaking down and barking at you to back off as you’re still trying to pry his own hands off the visible red bleeding wound over his chest

You’ve found this retreating deer out of pure luck and now, you’re acting on your compassion for him to try make the process of healing less painful for him

You’re the only Hazbin Hotel staff member that actually treated Alastor more than an annoyance standing there. He isn’t the best guy at there, never. No, but he isn’t as bad as Vaggie or Husk claim he is. However, right now, he’s boiling your blood with how much he is refusing to let you even touch him, despite the fact he needs to be patched up. He’s low on power, his cane is snapped in half, he’s limited and requires help

“I don’t need your help, Leitora!” Alastor barks back in possibly the most unhinged way you’ve ever seen, basically backing into a wall. He can’t even notice how worried you actually are, how you’re getting frustrated because you’re worried and you’re the only one who has been looking for and have found Alastor whilst everybody else is celebrating the victory over Adam. You’re the one looking for and now looking out for the man you actually find quite nice. He isn’t as patronising to you, for whatever reason, Alastor’s decent and it’s almost like he wants to be some type of figure in your life with how he behaves

“Stay still before you bleed yourself to unconsciousness, you narcissistic edible piece of shit!” You only say this so cruelly, sharp and half loud as to put Alastor into his place, prove to him you’re not backing down whilst you finally win the half wrestling session you have with the weakened and distressed Overlord, already beginning to check around for the entire length of the wound and use what little excess fabric your current clothing has to make a makeshift bandage for this wound

This is surprising, you’re possibly two times his age. A teenager, if not 15-16 at the oldest upon your human death and you’re acting more mature than the biologically 34 year old. Alastor just stayed quiet, tall fluffy deer-like ears still pinned back and suffering through the intense pain. He wouldn’t admit that he is quite grateful that somebody is around but at the same time, he doesn’t want to get attached to any soul

It took him a proper glance at the cute young sinner he found it fun to playfully tease, mock and behave like a clingy overprotective big brother to piss off, that they genuinely care for him. That they aren’t lying or pretending as to get something out of him like he suspects everybody in the Hotel, including Charlie, is

This is so much different than he suspected, he was believing he’d be going back to his radio tower to vent out his rage at being smacked in the face of such a pathetic opponent

Ending up being the pathetic opponent. He hates showing his weakness and he can barely keep himself from snapping but he also can feel his racking nerves ease up a bit at this strong, confident yet sweet and compassionate kid trying to take care of him when they have no actual requirement to do so

Alastor takes a few more seconds to think and speak, not even realising he was sat down by you as he was thinking frantically about how his own mischievous and mocking behaviour as some type of surrogate brother for you was more than just something down to see your reactions for his own amusement, he does feel some type of family-based affections for you

Now, that affection has been bumped up even more. He definitely owes you a lot for caring about him like some surrogate little sibling when all he does for you is annoy you. He doesn’t even know that you actually look up to him like some type of family figure… so, the familiar feelings are mutual

“Fuck… can you just be careful with the coat? This is my treasure”

(A/N: Real quick. Leitora means ‘Reader’ in Portuguese, this’ll be our name for any none anime posts. There’s two versions; Leitora as the feminine version and Leitor as the masculine version. You can use either for us! I got this from Google Translate)

[cherryblossombankai]

Summary: Years after the final battle, a retired Endeavor moves out of the city. You are working as his new housekeeper, and you begin teasing feelings from him that he didn't expect. Word Count: 5,025 Warnings: lots of talk about feelings, enji and rei talk about the past, all around there's some mention of past abuse and such, enji has a prosthetic arm, unprotected sex, smut with feelings (lots and lots of feelings), fem!reader, she/her pronouns for the reader, age gap relationship (reader is implied to be the same age as Fuyumi) Tag Lists: @pixelcafe-network, @actuallysaiyan, @helloiamadrawer, @satorustar, @sweet-chocolate-sweet, @hinomasumi, @renjis-wife

The dream had never changed. Deep down Enji knew his family would never truly be happy with his presence. He had tried to shake off that feeling for Fuyumi’s sake at least. Of all in the Todoroki family, she was the only one who seemed at peace with fate forcing them all together again. All she’d ever wanted was a happy family, but this was not a happy family. It never was, and it never would be. 

When Rei asked for a divorce, Enji didn’t fight her on it. He’d been living alone in the old house with the ghosts of the past for the better part of two years anyway, and she deserved a chance to be with someone good. Someone who would see her gentle strength for what it is, and savor her. The last time she’d come by to make sure he had food, he’d finally gotten up the nerve to put a stop to that as well. 

“Do you come here because you want to or because you feel you must?” he asked her, his voice gentle despite the raspiness it had acquired. Gentleness, something he never imagined himself practicing. 

“Somewhere in between, I suppose,” her voice was unsteady. 

“I don’t want you to tie yourself to me any more than you want to. I have more than enough money to hire help,” he sits back against his chair and stretches out his legs. They’re still sore and stiff, but he can stand on his own again, but he still uses a cane sometimes. “You should be using this time to do things you want to do. You shouldn’t worry about me.” 

Rei sits down beside him. “A man asked me out,” she confessed with a flush on her cheeks. “I suppose it’s difficult to imagine not being married anymore. I know the divorce was my idea but—”

He doesn’t have to hear the rest to know where she’s going with this. She’s worried if it was the right choice. Despite everything she’s worried about if he will be okay when she moves on. More than anything, she’s worried about stepping forward with a new relationship.

“Is he good to you?” Enji asks. 

“Y-yes, he’s very nice. We met at the library.” 

“That’s good. Do the kids know?” 

“No, I wanted to make sure you were truly okay with this before things progressed.” 

“Rei, all I want is for you to be happy.” 

“I am happy,” she admits sheepishly. 

She feels guilty to an extent. Guilt is an emotion Rei has never quite been able to get over but she has slowly learned not to misplace it anymore. So much of what went wrong was out of her hands, or she’d done her best but living with Enji was certainly living with an unstoppable force. There had been a brief moment in time when it felt like they were at peace, but it hadn’t lasted long. It almost feels like she just imagined things were better than they were. But she remembered the flush on her cheeks the first time he kissed her deeply and held his face in her hands so delicately. She remembers how he fumbled with the clasps on her lingerie on their wedding night then apologized when she winced the first time they were together. 

It seemed like almost overnight the gentle cradling of his hands turned into harsh slaps. The gaze that seemed concerned about hurting her when they were intimate became fierce with determination and rage. It had all fallen apart so quickly, and there was no way to pull it back together. It had taken him quite literally being beaten within an inch of his life for him to see the error of his ways. Still, they’d all paid the price. 

“You should find some way to be happy too,” Rei breaks the silence. “I know you think you deserve to be alone forever atoning, and maybe you do, but everyone who loves you wants to see you happy.” 

Enji furrows his brow, “No, I don’t deserve—” 

“Being miserable for the rest of your life won’t change the past,” she sighs softly. “And over the last few years, we’ve all seen the change in you. Even Natsuo asks about you sometimes.” 

“I have been thinking about leaving the city,” he admits quietly. “This house is much too big for me, and I just…I want quiet.” 

“I think that sounds nice,” she smiles softly. 

“I found a little place,” he fumbles through his pockets for his cell phone. “Well, Keigo —Hawks— found it for me,” he explains as he pulls up the house listing. 

 Rei takes the phone from him and looks it over. The house is a small two-bedroom in a tiny town known for its therapeutic hot springs, which are conveniently within walking distance of the house. She can see why Keigo would consider it for Enji.

“It looks nice,” she says as she flips through the photos. “Enough room for you and…Someone special.” 

Enji snorts softly, “Ah yes because everyone is on the market for a broken-down hero.” 

“Why not? You’re still handsome,” Rei giggles. “You could meet someone.” 

“I’ll consider it.” 

The weeks pass slowly. With Keigo’s help, Enji closes on the house. Over dinner he’d announced to Shoto and Fuyumi he was moving out of the city. He had texted Natsuo as well to let him know, but he didn’t expect an answer. He just didn’t want Natsuo to feel neglected anymore. He wants Natsuo to know that he’s always on Enji’s mind just like the rest of the children. He’d gone to the hospital to visit Touya as well and tell him the news, and also assure him he’d still be coming to visit him. Touya, who made a miraculous recovery due to some uncovered research from Garaki’s lab, had taken the news worse than Shoto or Fuyumi had. 

“You’re running from me?” Touya had croaked, his voice just starting to recover. 

“No, nothing like that Touya.” Enji’s cane taps across the floor as he comes closer to the glass looking into Touya’s chamber. 

It seemed like yesterday Touya was locked in a tank, but now he’s able to have a proper bed. His skin is growing back slowly due to the regeneration cells used in his treatment. The doctors said within a couple of years he’d be healed, albeit with some scarring.

Enji places his hand on the glass, “Perhaps when you’re ready, you could come live with me.” 

“You’d want that?” Touya looks up at him, tears brimming in his blue eyes. 

“I’d love that,” Enji smiles softly. 

Touya comes to the glass and places his hand over Enji’s. “Save a room for me, yeah?” 

“Always.” 

With all of that settled, the day came for him to move. He was a little nervous. Keigo and Shoto, to his surprise, came to help him move. Fuyumi did as well, but she spent a lot more time worrying about him being far away. No matter how many times he reminds her that he’s only a short train ride away, close enough for him to come to the city every day if he wants, she still worries about him being lonely. 

“I know how you are,” she says as she follows the guys outside as they load the moving van. “You’re liable to just lock yourself in the house and not talk to anyone for days.” 

“Well, don’t worry too much about that. I hired a housekeeper,” Keigo speaks up. 

“You did what?” Enji frowns. 

“Yeah, she’s a real nice girl.” 

“Oh! That sounds nice,” Fuyumi grins. She and Keigo share knowing looks that Enji picks up on, but decides not to say more. The last thing he wants to do is encourage this behavior. 

Once the moving van is packed up, Shoto and Fuyumi offer to drive it to the new house. Enji rides in the car with his driver. 

You’re already at the house, using the key Keigo had given you to let yourself in. He had told you that you would be working for Endeavor when you were hired. Many of the housekeepers he’d interviewed walked out the moment he revealed the identity of the client, but you had remained level-headed. 

“He is still trying to atone for his mistakes,” Keigo had told you. 

“He helped save the world,” you smile kindly. Keigo was pleased you remembered that. “I suppose the least I can do is keep the house clean and mind my own business.” 

He’d hired you on the spot, and now you find yourself getting the house ready for him to move. Keigo had even sent you some money to go buy some basics for the house. You may or may not have taken some liberties. You were putting together a bouquet on the porch when the moving van pulls up and is followed soon after by the car. 

“Oh, shit,” you mutter under your breath. You hadn’t expected him to be here today. You stand up quickly with the flowers in your hand. 

You see Shoto and Fuyumi first, they hop out of the moving van. You wave to them, noticing how Shoto seems a little shy when he waves back. Fuyumi smiles softly and walks up to introduce herself. 

“I’m the housekeeper,” you explain after introducing yourself. 

“It’s nice to meet you! It’s good to know someone will be around to help him and stuff,” Fuyumi sighs happily. 

For some reason, her attitude has you expecting a feeble old man to emerge from the black car. Instead, the man who emerges is instantly recognizable as a former number-one hero. He’s tall and still broad as though he works to keep in shape despite his forced retirement. The only hint of his injuries is his cane and the few scars he has on his face. 

“Hello, Todoroki-san!” you smile softly as you come down the steps to introduce yourself to him. He greets you with a kind smile before looking at the flowers clutched to your chest. 

“Are those for me?” he asks uncertainly. 

“Oh! Uhm…Yes!” you lie and hold out the unfinished bouquet. 

He chuckles softly as he takes the flowers and blushes. He’s never been gifted flowers before. It makes his heart flutter in a way he didn’t expect. “Thank you.” 

“I hope you don’t mind, I’ve been cleaning inside to get everything ready for you. Takami-san gave me some money to buy some things for the house.” 

“I see,” Enji sighs softly. Of course, Keigo would make sure you take on the role of a lady of the house. He feels embarrassed at the idea of Keigo putting in so much effort just to hook him up with someone. 

“I bought a few groceries, and of course, some cleaning supplies and Takami-san said you didn’t have much for decor so—” 

When Enji opens the door to his new house, it almost looks as though you’ve moved in. It’s what Keigo had told you to do, start some decorating to make it feel like a home. Enji notices the pretty rugs and floral tapestries you have on the walls. He looks down at you, raising his eyebrow. 

“I can take it down if you don’t like it,” you blush. 

“It looks nice!” Fuyumi says as she walks in behind the two of you. 

“Heh, it’s pretty,” Shoto smirks and playfully nudges his dad. 

“It’s fine,” Enji groans before taking the box Shoto is carrying from him. 

“Would any of you like some tea?” you offer, hoping to break the ice. You feel a little silly now; already being here when he arrived, having decorating…It didn’t matter if Keigo encouraged you to do it, you feel foolish. 

“Tea would be nice,” Fuyumi says as she follows you in the kitchen. Shoto goes out to get more of the boxes out of the moving van. 

“Todoroki-san, would you like some too?” you ask. You can’t help blushing when you realize he’s putting your flowers in some water. 

“That’d be nice, thank you,” he responds. 

While you’re making the tea in the kitchen, he sets the flower vase on the kitchen table. Then he and Fuyumi go to look around the house. He notices right away how much effort you’ve already put into it. Everything is spotless and there’s a few touches here and there that show you’ve tried to make it more comfortable. 

“She seems nice,” Fuyumi comments to him as they step onto the back porch to look around at the garden. 

“She does,” Enji agrees nonchalantly. 

“Very pretty,” she adds. 

“Oh, want her number?” Enji offers, wholeheartedly sincere in his words. Ever since Fuyumi came out to him, he’s been doing his best to be as supportive as possible. 

“Not exactly what I was thinking,” Fuyumi giggles. She looks in through the door to make sure you’re not close by. “I was thinking you should ask her out.” 

“You have to be kidding me! She’s the same age as my children!” 

“So? If she likes you and stuff,” Fuyumi giggles. 

“Absolutely not!” he insists.

“Sorry, sorry,” Fuyumi giggles. She leans against the door frame as Enji looks at the potted plants you placed out. “It’s a good thing she decorated. You wouldn’t have thought to do it.” 

“She could’ve waited until I asked,” he grumbles under his breath. 

“Well, your feathered friend is pretty persuasive,” Fuyumi reminds him. 

Within a few hours, it’s only the two of you in the house. You’re busy unpacking boxes when he sees everyone off. His body is a little achy, as it always is after a full day of activity. He wishes he still had his youth some days, but then again he’s grateful for the clarity he’s found in his age. 

“You should rest,” he says softly as he walks into the living room where you’re fussing with the curtains. You’re not quite tall enough to get the rod on the hook. With ease, he reaches over you and fastens the hook. You smile up at him before straightening the curtains. 

“I should at least make your bed before I leave,” you insist. 

“No, really, that’s not necessary.” 

You giggle as you look up at him, “Sure it is! Where will you sleep if I don’t?”

“I’m capable of making my own bed,” Enji blushes and steps away.  

“Yeah, but I get paid to make your bed,” you argue playfully. 

He rolls his eyes at you, “Fine, fine. But then I want you to go home and I don’t want you coming in too early.” 

“Don’t worry, I won’t overwork myself,” you brush past him and make your way to the bedroom. 

He follows you, although he’s not sure why. He leans against the door frame and watches you dig the sheets out of the box Fuyumi had helpfully labeled ‘linens’ and begin making the bed. The thought suddenly crept up on him that you might be the first woman to be in his room in years. He turns away quickly and walks away. 

You notice him stomping off, but of course you don’t know why. You hum softly as you make the bed then throw the pillows on it. 

“Todoroki-san, should I make you something to eat before I leave?” you ask as you breeze into the kitchen where he’d been taking solace from what your presence was starting to do to him. 

“N-no,” he pinches the bridge of his nose. “Call me Enji! You don’t have to use honorifics.” 

“Oh,” you blush deeply. You’d spent all day wondering if you should’ve called him Endeavor-sama or Todoroki-san and now suddenly he’s permitting you to call him by first name. Yet he won’t turn to look at you and he seems so damn eager to get out of your presence. You clear your throat and when he turns around, you’re bowing at the waist. “I’m sorry if I’ve offended you.” 

Enji feels like he’s going to melt. He shakes his head and comes closer to you, placing one hand on your shoulder to guide you to stand straight again. 

“You haven’t,” he assures you softly. “I’m sorry…I didn’t expect…you.” 

“Oh? Did Takami-san not tell you I was going to be here?” you blush. “Did you not want a housekeeper? I’m so sorry! I must have seemed crazy all day—” 

“No! No, listen it’s fine. I’m glad you’re here to help me,” he lets out a sigh. “I just meant you’re very…Uhm…” His words fail him completely. Pretty? Yeah, sure you’re quite pretty but he can’t tell you that. Nor can he tell you that it’s been ages since he was close to a woman besides Fuyumi and Rei, one of which was his daughter and the other his now ex-wife who he never deserved to be close to in the first place. “Fuck,” he growls and turns away again. 

“How about tomorrow we can start over?” you suggest shyly. 

“Start over?” 

“Yeah,” you come closer to him and place your hand on his back. “It’ll be good.” 

“Alright, that sounds good,” he agrees. 

True to your word, the next morning you come into the house with a fresh smile. You don’t even say anything about the awkwardness from the day before. You make cheerful morning conversation, and as Enji sits at the kitchen table drinking his coffee and watching you cook, he can’t help wondering if anyone in his family was ever this content in his presence. Does he deserve this feeling now? Maybe he’s a desperate old fool, but he admires you. You’re sweet and funny, even towards him. You aren’t graceful all the time, but you are confident. Even when you mess up, you giggle through it in a way he’d never be able to imagine. 

As the days go on, he becomes even more of a fool for you. He can’t help it. 

He finds himself at the grocery store and passing the flower section, he considers buying you some. He remembers you had a bunch of daisies in the house and he realizes they must be your favorite. He picks up a bouquet of them, but then changes his mind at the register only to then change his mind right before paying. 

He comes home to the sight of you sweeping off the front porch. You were wearing a pair of corduroy overalls that hugged your curves in a way that had made him bite his lip when you first arrived this morning. He notices your bare feet. This morning your hair had been down, but now you have it pulled into a messy updo. He’s always liked long hair. Rei had grown her hair out as his insistence, but he’d been thrilled when she cut it off after their divorce. She was healing. 

“How was the grocery shopping?” you ask as he comes up the steps. 

“Good,” he grumbles and shoves the flowers at you. His cheeks are flaming red, and he doesn’t look you in the eyes. 

“For me?” you giggle. 

“Y-yeah, take them home,” he rushes past you. 

You watch him go into the house, and you smile softly to yourself before going into the kitchen behind him. He’s putting away the groceries when you find a vase to put your flowers in. 

“My roommates would probably just knock them over, so I think I’ll keep them here,” you explain as you set the flowers on the counter. 

“Roommates?” he asks. Although you’d talked a lot about yourself, you’d never mentioned roommates. You also never mentioned a boyfriend or girlfriend. 

“Oh, yeah. I had to get some roommates to help cover the bills,” you shrug. 

“Is Keigo not paying you enough?” he asks and he’s already fishing into his pocket for his checkbook. 

“He’s paying me plenty,” you insist. 

“How much do you need?” he opens the checkbook and places it on the counter. 

“Really, it’s okay!” 

“Just tell me,” he presses on. 

“Enji, stop!” you snap. His eyes come to meet yours. He can see right away that you regretted taking such a tone with him, and he has to fight down his own pride wanting to lash back out. 

“I was trying to help,” he growls softly.

“I know, but it’s fine,” you insist. “Lots of people my age have to have roommates. We’re not all heroes making bank.” 

He watches the way you force a sad smile before turning away. It had been his desire only to take care of you, but of course, he always pushes too hard and breaks the things dear to him. 

The rest of the day is quiet, and for the first time in months, you don’t stick around for dinner.

He’d been shocked the first day you called out of work. You told him you weren’t feeling well, and just needed to rest. He’d been sure to keep up with all your chores for you so that you wouldn’t be overburdened when you returned. But then you called in for a second time, then a third. 

It was almost a week before you finally showed yourself again. This time you weren’t smiley and happy like before. Your brows were furrowed as he sat down at the kitchen table in front of you. You’re staring into your coffee trying to get up the nerve to slide the envelope across the table to him. 

“What’s this?” he asks, pointing to the little cream envelope. 

“It’s…My two weeks notice.” 

“Your what?” his eyes widen and he wants to pretend he’s not hearing this. Fuck, you were the only thing that made him want to get out of bed most mornings. 

“I just think maybe I shouldn’t work for you anymore, Todoroki-san.” 

“Why?” he feels like his chest is being ripped open. “Because of the money thing? I am sorry about that! I didn’t mean to…” 

“It’s not that,” you sniffle back some tears. “It’s really not that.” 

“I see,” he looks miserable. “Is it me? Did I offend you?” 

“No! No, nothing like that.” 

His hands are shaking as he tries to find something, anything to make you stay. He doesn’t want to lose you. Just thinking that you would walk out that door today, and he would never see you again, he felt like dying. 

“Don’t go,” he pleads. His pride be damned. 

Little did Enji know, you were leaving because you’d fallen for him. It happened so suddenly that you hadn’t even realized it. Everything had just fallen into place, and every time you came to work it felt more like coming home. All of his little quiet gestures, like buying you flowers and making sure to keep your favorite tea around even though you only told him once which one you liked best, had made you feel like maybe he felt the same way. When he’d offered you a check, you’d felt like a commodity instead. It had made you wonder if he only did nice things to keep you around. But now…He’s pleading. You never thought you’d hear Endeavor plead. 

“I just think it’s for the best,” you whisper before standing up. You grab your purse to leave before you lose your nerve.

Enji rushes to his feet. The kitchen table is pushed aside as it just becomes an obstacle keeping him from you. The effort of pushing it sends a sharp pain through his back. At the same time, he takes his first quick steps towards you, he falls to his knees from the nerves in his back searing with pain. Still, his hands reach for you, grabbing at your skirt. He’s fought through worse pain than this. 

“Don’t go, please don’t go. I’ve been alone…For so fucking long,” he pleads, not caring how foolish he looks. “I know I’m a stupid man. I’ve made mistakes, and I fucked up because I couldn’t just tell you…How I feel…” 

“Enji, let me help you up,” you whimper as you try to pry his hands off your skirt. He wraps his arms around your legs instead. 

“Don’t go,” he pants softly and he nuzzles his face against your thighs. “Stay with me, just…Stay!” 

“Enji,” your hands are gentle in his hair as you lower yourself onto his lap. You kiss him softly on the cheek before hugging him tight, burying your face in his chest. “I…I love you…” 

“Oh…oh…” he wraps his arms around your waist and squeezes you against his body. His nose is in your hair, taking in your scent and his hands are kneading at your sides. “My precious girl…” he gently kisses you. The taste of your lips makes his blood run hot, and you can feel the heat rising on his skin. 

Everything else is forgotten now. He may not have told you he loves you, but every touch proves it. The way his tongue is slow and tentative against yours, his hands are gentle yet insistent as he touches you. He keeps your body pressed close to his, not wanting to part even a little from you. Even his moans, the first time you grind against him, are so incredibly desperate. 

“Can I touch you?” he asks between kisses. 

You nod eagerly and he pushes up your skirt. His thick fingers brush against the wet spot on your panties, making you moan softly for him. Months of shy smiles and lingering touches culminated into this hunger neither of you can contain any longer. 

He pushes your panties aside carefully and begins rubbing your slit carefully. His hands are a little shaky, it’s been so long since he’s done anything like this. Already his mind his in a daze.

“Is this good?” he asks. 

“Y-yes,” you pant softly and spread your legs a little wider for him. 

Every moan he manages to draw out from your body makes his cock twitch in his jeans. The outline of his cock is finished off with a thick, sticky splotch of precum on leaking through. He feels needy, feral even. Your walls are hot on his fingers, making him hunger even more to be inside of you. 

“I need you,” he growls as he pulls away from your kiss. 

He can’t be bothered to take the time to do this properly. He needs you now, and he can tell by the look in your eyes that you need him too. 

“I need you too,” you whisper. 

He pushes you against the kitchen cabinet, only making space enough between your bodies for him to open his pants and push them just past his ass. Then, he’s hovering over you once more, guiding your legs around his waist. You only get the quickest glimpse of his cock and the dark red patch of hair at the base before he’s pinning you against the cabinet and pushing into you carefully. Your arms wrap around his waist and your hands rest on his ass. 

“F-fuck,” you whine as his girth stretches you past anything you’ve felt before. He knows he’s big, huge even, and that’s why he’s going slow despite every instinct to slam into you. 

“You feel fucking amazing,” he groans softly. 

He clings to your body like he never wants to let you go. He works his way into your warm walls and pauses so you can both acclimate to the feeling once he’s bottomed out. 

By the time he starts his pace, he’s rutting into you like a man gone wild. His face his buried against your chest, his mouth drooling and biting at your tits through your thin shirt. He loved that you didn’t wear a bra, he had noticed it from day one but didn’t want to be a pervert. Now he’s leaving saliva stains right on your shirt from biting at your nipples. 

“You’re fucking perfect, so perfect,” he pants as he fucks you. “Love you, love you, love you…” he emphasizes every declaration of love with a deep thrust. 

You can’t even make a coherent thought come out of your mouth. You can only moan and cry his name in blazes of ecstasy. It’s music to his ears, knowing he’s managing to bring you to this state. You don’t even manage to warn him when you cum on his cock. The pleasure takes over your senses completely. He can only tell by the way you grind against him and your walls clench so tight around his cock that you’ve reached your peak. His nails dig into the meat of your thighs as he feels himself reaching his climax. 

“Shit shit shit,” he grunts. “Do I…fuck…pull out?” 

Your hands grip tighter on his ass, “No, please!” 

His eyes roll back in his head as he quickens his pace. His hips snap frantically, and he shakes when he reaches his peak. You’re filled and then some with his seed. It’s dripping out even as he continues to fuck it into you. 

Finally, he slows himself to a stop. You’re limp and weak in his arms. Your head rests on his shoulders. 

“Are you okay?” he asks as he rubs your back. 

“Mhm,” you hum sleepily, your eyes fluttering closed. 

He carefully holds onto you as he stands. He manages to hold you with one arm long enough to pull his pants up. They hang loosely from his waist as he carries you to the bedroom and gently lays you down. 

“Rest,” he whispers and kisses you quickly. “Let me take care of you.” 

“Will we do it again?” you ask as you watch him dig through his drawers for a shirt to dress you in. He didn’t realize until now that he’d ripped your clothes. 

“You don’t regret it?” he asks as he carefully undresses you only to slip a black sweatshirt onto your body. It’s big on you, and he loves the sight of you in his clothes. 

“Not at all,” you smile softly. 

“Then, we’ll do it again,” he promises. “Next time, I’ll go slow. I’ll make love to you like you deserve.” 

“Mm, sounds good,” you giggle as you snuggle up on the bed. “Nap first though.” 

“Yes, yes, nap first,” he agrees.

[hannahbarberra162]

Hysteria, Part 2 (Mean Victorian Marco x reader AU)

18+ MDNI | on Ao3

Previous chapter

Unimportant: the pattern on Detective Marco's tie is reminiscent of WB's Devil Fruit. I *might* look at this picture too often.

Thank you to @gouraminnow and @quinloki for beta-ing! Thank you to reddit user fleursea for your comment that I used to write the flower bit.

~

“I - the w-wedding? I don’t - I’m not s-sure -” you stammered, unsure what answer you could give to Marco that would forestall his plans. Your father’s pained moaning was still resounding down the hallway along with your mother’s whispered words trying to soothe him. You turned your head towards the familiar voices but Marco’s hand on your chin pulled your attention back to him.

“Most of my siblings are still in town due to the Gala as well as our engagement. It would be prudent to capitalize on the timing, don’t you agree? The wedding will be two days from now yoi. I have already made the preparations, all you need to do is select a gown and attend,” Marco said with a smile, as if he hadn’t just beaten your father within an inch of his life. You tried to pull your hands back from the tight grip he had your fingers in but it was futile.

“Marco, I -”

“Wonderful, glad you agree my Dove. Come along now, we’re leaving,” Marco said, dropping one of your hands but retaining the other. Mr. Newgate stirred from the chair, rising to his full terrifying height as Marco pulled you along the foyer to the door.

“W-wait! Where are we going? I - it’s the night! I can’t stay with you,” you cried, pulling on his arm to try to slow his pace. Marco looked at you and smiled, like you were still the silly young girl under his boot.

“You won’t be staying in my chambers of course, that wouldn’t be proper for an unmarried couple yoi. We won’t be doing anything as man and wife until after the wedding, and my family will be my witnesses to that fact. You’ll be staying with my sister, Whitey. I’ll have one of the servants come and collect your things for the night,” Marco replied, tucking his cane under his arm as if the matter was completely settled.

“Your sis -no, I can’t, this isn’t right!” you hissed, still attempting to flail away from his hold. Marco stopped walking momentarily, allowing his enormous father to pass and hold the door open for the two of you, the night air blowing against your exposed neck.

“You’re not suggesting you remain overnight here, in a house without adequate guardianship, in a room without a door, correct?  As your betrothed, I object to circumstances that would fail to keep you safe, as is my right yoi,” Marco huffed, as if you were the unreasonable one. “I won’t ask again, dear, we’re leaving. We wouldn’t want to keep my siblings waiting.”

Despite your continued verbal protests Marco manhandled you into the large Newgate carriage that was parked outside your house. The six horses pulling the carriage were the largest you’d ever seen and you backed away as one tossed its beautiful mane of hair. Marco’s father sat across from the two of you on the significantly larger bench while you were so close to Marco on the second that your legs were touching. You tried to push yourself as close as you could to the side of the carriage but Marco’s arm around your shoulders didn’t allow for much maneuvering.

The carriage was finer than anything you’d ever been in, regardless of size. Your parents liked to pretend that they were well off wealthy socialites but the reality was that they had to scrimp and save for every event on the calendar. They had one maid, who worked only two days a week, and made sure to have company during those times so others would be waited on by their “servant.” The rest of the time you functioned as the maid and your parents had you going on errands during off hours to avoid meeting other people you knew. It was frustrating and you didn’t see the point but you abided by their rules. They didn’t have a carriage as they lived near the city center so the few you’d been in had been rented cabs when the occasion called for it.

Mr. Newgate said nothing while Marco told you details about the wedding he’d already planned. It seemed he had thought of everything from the venue, to the guest list, to the musicians who would be playing during the ceremony. You weren’t really listening - you stared out the window of the carriage as it took you beyond the borders of the town. It had started drizzling, the light rain making the sky look darker than the hour should have called for. Marco’s fingers were suddenly gripping your jaw, forcing you to look at him. Marco’s smile was as tight as his fingers on your face - Marco did not tolerate being ignored.

“As I was saying, I already submitted the flower arrangement for the ceremony. For our first anniversary you’ll be able to give your input, but right now time is of the essence. Would you care to know the flowers I selected yoi?” he asked, though you knew the answer he wanted to receive. You nodded mutely as Marco’s fingers drummed on your jaw, though in truth you could not have cared less.

“I selected heliotrope, red salvia, blue hyacinth, tarragon and violet. A charming combination, is it not?” Marco asked with a cold smile. Blinking, you thought through the meanings of the flowers that you’d been taught in finishing school. Your face paled as you thought of each flower - heliotrope represented eternal love, red salvia was forever, blue hyacinth meant constancy, tarragon lasting interest and violet was faithfulness. “What do you think?” he asked, removing his hand from your mouth so you could answer. You swallowed thickly, acutely aware of his proximity to you.

“A fine selection. B-but how did you get such flowers together at this time? They’re from all different seasons,” you asked quietly. Marco grinned and patted your thigh over your dress.

“After our wedding I’ll reveal some of my secrets, little Swan,” he said, his eyes blazing. You lapsed into silence as the carriage turned into a long drive flanked by trees. Through the mist of the rain, the oil lit lampposts seemed more like will o’ the wisps, ready to lead you astray rather than to the mansion in the back. As the carriage traveled down the path Marco’s grip on your arm tightened as if to warn you from bolting. 

“This is our familial home, Doveling. I hope you find it to your liking, though don’t get too comfortable. After our wedding we’ll be moving into our own residence closer to town, something better suited to newlyweds. Won’t that be exciting yoi?” he asked. You nodded, wishing you could pry Marco’s fingers from your arm. The carriage stopped in front of the large mansion, the front of which looked like a large angry whale emerging from the water. The driver opened the carriage’s cabin doors as Marco put on his hat and grabbed his cane. Looking at you, he patted your hand.

“I’m going to ensure everything is set for your arrival yoi. Stay,” he commanded, as if you were a dog. Marco and his father exited the carriage as you sat by yourself in the light of the oil lamps at the front of the house. Now that you had more room, you wanted to shift on the bench and make yourself more comfortable while you waited for Marco to return. But you found yourself unable to move from the position you had been in. It felt like the same magic that kept your ring on your finger - you were able to move your limbs but if you tried to stand up or adjust your seated position it was like you were glued to the spot. You felt like a butterfly, pinned in place beneath a glass frame for observation. Distressed, you tried to move with increasing strength but weren’t able to make headway. By the time the door to the carriage opened again, you were sweating and could feel your cheeks were hot with frustration but you were in the exact same place Marco had told you to stay.

“Come along now, everyone’s waiting inside,” Marco said, extending you a hand. You grasped it, expecting to continue to be glued to your seat but to your surprise you moved as easily as if nothing had happened. Your mouth was agape as you got out of the carriage, reaching behind you to touch the ordinary seat bench that had been your ruin just moments before.

“Any problems, pet?” Marco asked, waiting for you to complete your inspection of the average carriage.

“N-no, I just - I was stuck - it wasn’t -” you puzzled aloud, taking one last glance back at the mystery carriage as you walked arm in arm with Marco towards the well lit mansion. 

“There, there. A lot has happened tonight yoi. Perhaps you are feeling addled and need to lie down?” Marco asked with concern, his hand resting on your forehead to take your temperature. You shook your head as he brought you closer towards the front doors. 

“No, thank you. I - the chair -” you stammered, still confused. Marco gave you an indulgent look as a servant opened the doors to the mansion and kissed your forehead. 

“We can talk about it later. For now, come meet my siblings. Some you may recognize, some you may not. They all know you, dear wife-to-be,” he said, his teal eyes dancing with amusement. With that you left the mystery of the carriage for another time as you saw the hundreds of men packed within the front hall, talking with one another, drinking tankards of ale, chatting and laughing. The din was overwhelming and you could hardly breathe from the cacophony of so many burly men in one place. Mr. Newgate cleared his throat from the back of the hall and the men faced him quieted back down to a low murmur, almost in unison.

“Marco has an announcement,” Mr. Newgate boomed, sitting down in a throne like chair. A tall man with a facial scar handed him a huge wooden tankard as Marco began to speak.

“Brothers! I present to you my fiance!” Marco said with joy, raising your hand to his lips. You flushed as you were suddenly launched into the center of attention, hundreds of men roaring their congratulations to Marco on his engagement and coming to clap him on the back. You were being pressed in on all sides by gigantic mean, all larger than the society men you were used to. They looked a rough lot, which didn’t bother you of its own, but you already felt off kilter because of the events of the night. Besides, you had a feeling that though Marco looked like a city gentleman, he was cut from the same cloth as his brothers.

Through it all Marco held onto you as tight as if he had talons, never letting you stray from his side. Men came by and gave you courteous bows or tipped their hats to you, asking you various polite questions. None of them looked all that similar, both not to each other and not to Mr. Newgate. It was yet another mystery to have to unravel at a later time. Now you were being sandwiched between Marco and his brother Thatch, who had brought Marco spirits to drink from small glasses. As Thatch drank, you thought you recognized him from somewhere. 

Looking down at you from his superior height, Thatch gave you a toothy grin. “Don’t recognize me then, Love? We talk about every other week, yeah?” His unique accent had you honing in on exactly how you knew him - he was the butcher you went to when the maid was not available to run errands. He had seemed a nice enough man, though you really only exchanged small talk as you purchased your wares. In the shop his hair was covered but here it was in a fine style, extending way beyond his head in a follicular feat.

“No, it’s not that - I’m sorry, it’s just that sometimes seeing others in different contexts -” you were cut off by a raucous laugh from Thatch. 

“No worries, Lass. I know you’re not a stuck up rich lady like the lot of ‘em. Guess I never mentioned my brother to ya, eh?” You gave a half hearted smile as Marco patted your arm. If you had known Thatch was Marco’s brother you would have avoided his shop altogether, you thought grimly.

“No, I don’t think so,” you said, trying to take a step back and put some space between you and the large men. Marco’s cane gently tapped the back of your calves in a reminder to stay in place. 

“Nah, wanted to keep an eye on you through the months. Marco’s orders, even though I’m older than him. Little brother thinks he can order the older around, why he wanted me to -” 

“Alright, enough of that,” Marco said primly as Thatch threw you a wink. “I believe my fiance is tired after tonight’s ordeal. Perhaps I’d best be getting her to bed. Is Whitey still here?” Marco asked, scanning the crowd. You took a moment to think over Thatch’s words - Marco had been watching you for years via Thatch - assuming his other brothers hadn’t as well. How long had Marco been planning your future together? You thought you’d done an OK job avoiding him in society but Marco’s obsession seemed to run deeper than you’d expected.

“Nah, left yesterday. Said she had to get back to her new home. Room’s set up though if you’re going to be about,” Thatch said with a grin as he swigged from a flask you hadn’t seen before. Marco rolled his eyes but sported a small smile as he yanked the flask from his brother.

“No need to be crude. No such offenses will be had, I’ll be in my own chambers. We’ve waited so long, two nights won’t make a difference,” Marco said, now taking his own drink from the silver flask. You saw the same symbol etched into the side of the flask that you’d seen on the top of Marco’s cane, a jolly roger of sorts that sported the same mustache as Mr. Newgate. You wanted to ask about it but Marco started towing you off towards the wings of the manor.

“Good night, you rowdy lot,” Marco waved to his family with affection. You remained silent, taking in the loud crew as Marco pinched your arm gently.

“G-good night,” you called out, your voice shaky. You felt like a lamb in a den of wolves as dozens of men and Mr. Newgate called out their polite replies. Swallowing thickly, Marco brought you from the main social hall along down a long hallway, the walls decorated in a beautiful icy blue wallpaper.

“You did well, Sweetling. No one expects you to remember everyone’s names right away, it can feel overwhelming to meet my family,” Marco said with a chuckle. “I wouldn’t be surprised if you were slightly out of your mind after meeting so many new family members. This was Whitey’s hall before she went to found her own family. I hope her furnishings are to your liking,” Marco said, opening a pale blue door with white trim while keeping his hand on your lower back. 

The room was pleasant enough, you supposed. Moonlight revealed a large bed with a canopy, a bay window with curtains gently wafting in the night breeze, a bathroom, a chaise lounge, a vanity, and a chest of drawers. It was nicer than your room at home but you weren’t planning on staying the night. As soon as Marco left you alone, you were going to scrounge for any resources you could find and make your escape. The chest on the floor was one of your own so someone had gone through your things at your residence and brought them to you just like Marco had said. Seeing your belongings in Marco’s house had you feeling like your freedom was slipping through your fingers every moment you remained in his company. 

You walked towards the lounge and sat down, ready to take off your shoes. Your eyes widened as Marco shut the door behind himself, walking towards you in long strides on the soft, lush carpeting. Nervously, you stood up from the lounge and walked backwards away from him, keeping Marco in your sights at all times. You’d never been alone in private with a man before, not since your childhood meeting with Marco all those years before. 

“I thought you said we were going to wait for our wedding, that n-nothing will happen. I-it wouldn’t be proper -” you said as you continued to retreat away from Marco. 

“Relax, Doveling. I am saving our first kiss for our wedding day,” Marco said as he rested his cane against the bed and continued to advance towards you. Your back hit the wall behind you as you ran out of room to flee. You turned your head to find an escape path but were brought short as Marco put one of his hands beside your face, looking down at you like a wolf surveying prey. You flushed as he leaned in closer, putting your hands against his chest to keep him at bay.

“Then what -”

“I am saving our first kiss on the lips for our wedding. That doesn’t mean I won’t kiss you elsewhere,” Marco cooed, leaning over you to brush his lips against your neck. You tried to push him away but his body was made of pure muscle. Your breath hitched as his lips met your bare skin, a sensation you’d never felt before. His soft skin met your own as he kissed up and down the column of your neck, making you shiver. You didn’t want to feel anything from his attentions but his tongue caressing such intimate spots had you shifting on your feet and sighing quietly. Raising your shoulder, you sought to deny him access to your neck.

“It might behoove you to remember your place beneath me before we marry, Doveling,” Marco murmured. You tried to hide your whimper but it turned into a squeak as you felt him fisting his hand in your hair and moving your head to the side to grant him access to your skin. 

“As your husband, you will not be able to deny me that which I want yoi,” he advised, his teeth nipping your neck in between kisses to your fevered skin. You screwed your eyes shut as his other hand moved from the wall behind you to snake around your back to hold you still. A small whine escaped your lips as Marco continued to kiss you, moving down towards your decolletage and back up the other side of your neck. He used his fist in your hair to move your head like a doll, while his large body caged you against the wall.

Your chest felt hot as Marco bit your earlobe, his splayed hand starting to rove over your back. Everywhere he touched felt like a brand, like a stain upon your skin that would never leave. Even though you were in the same clothes as before, you felt naked before Marco as your hands twisted in his fine shirt, unable to do much more than take what he was choosing to give you. 

“Please,” was all you whispered, unsure what you were asking for. You yelped as Marco suddenly bit your shoulder hard enough to break the skin underneath the strap of your dress. This bite burned; it wasn’t like the pleasant bite he’d given your earlobe. This felt like an animalistic claiming and your hand came up to touch the wound, coming away with spots of your blood. He removed your fingers from the bite, squeezing them gently as his large palm engulfed your own. 

“It seems a wild, flighty thing can be taught manners after all yoi,” he stated, licking his lips to remove your blood from them. You were afraid Marco would maul you again but instead he smoothed the strap to your dress back down and stood back at his full height. Stepping away from you, he walked around the bed and grabbed his cane, tucking it under his arm once more.

“Good night, Doveling. Tomorrow awaits,” he said with an enigmatic smile. You knew you must look a sight, your face hot and chest heaving with breathlessness, your hair disheveled from where he’d gripped it, a small trickle of blood pooling on your shoulder. Marco looked collected and calm as ever as he gracefully left your room, the door shutting with a soft click.

Surprisingly, the bedroom door wasn’t locked. You knew because you’d checked it several times, opening and shutting it softly while taking small peeks out into the hallway. The lights were still on in the main hall and you could hear Marco’s brother talking and laughing even as the hours continued to creep by. You had searched the room but hadn’t found anything more useful than a ball of twine, a silk stocking, and a small hand mirror. You’d taken all three just in case any of them proved to be useful during your escape. 

Deciding against using the door to the hall, you slipped outside to the small balcony. Leaving through the mansion was too obvious and you didn’t know the layout enough to get away if you needed to run from other people. The men were still partying, the raucous noises indicated they were well in their cups. You needed to have Lady Luck on your side but maybe, just maybe, you’d be able to make it to freedom if they were all distracted. The room Marco had given you was on a mezzanine level, so you’d be able to jump off the railing into the soft grass and not hurt yourself. Looking at the full moon’s light on the gardens, you wished it had been any other time of the lunar cycle so that you had more protection from roving eyes but you’d have to risk it. 

You scanned the area for several minutes and were reasonably certain no one was around. The night was silent save for a few errant bird calls and the sounds of the party further in the mansion. You carefully stepped up onto the marble banister, crouching down to minimize the effect of your fall. You were grateful now that you had been an avid tree climber as a child, the skills transferable to escaping mansions with possessive fiances. 

Jumping down in a crouch, you were able to stick the landing with ease. You quickly dodged behind a nearby tree, your eyes darting to ensure you were still unseen. The drive back to the main road was to your left, it would be easiest to dart between the trees until you were off the property. 

Keeping your eyes trained on the mansion, you bolted towards the next tree in the drive, only to bump into an obstacle you knew wasn’t there just a moment ago. You felt pressure on your neck as a large hand pulled you to standing. 

“Oh, little Dove, what am I to do with you yoi?” Marco cooed, blue flames flickering across his shoulders as he tapped his chin in thought. Your mouth was agape as your heart beat furiously. He hadn’t been there a second ago, he hadn’t… and what were those flames? How was he not burning..? Perhaps it was some trick of the light of the moon but the flames seemed to be emanating from his body rather than merely atop it. You took a step back as the shadow from the flames now brought a sinister look to Marco’s face. 

“I - I…M-Marco,” you whispered, unsure what he held in store for you in consequence of your actions.

“Ah, ah. You’ve caused enough trouble for now, little Dove. Stay still,” he commanded as your feet froze to the ground. You could still move your torso and arms but didn’t have much purchase since your bottom half wasn’t moving. Marco had some kind of white jacket with straps draped over his arm and now that you weren’t mobile, he began folding you into it like a child. It looked like he was putting it on backwards as he began pulling the jacket onto your arms, the high neckline covering the bruises he had left you earlier.

“M-marco, I’m s-sorry -” you said as he wound your arms around your torso in an x shape. The sleeves didn't have holes for your hands, they ended in cloth and straps, which Marco tightened behind you. Even though your arms weren’t frozen like your feet and legs, you couldn’t move them from their crossed position as Marco tightened the leather straps.

“Don’t say things you don’t mean yet, Doveling. You’re sorry you were caught; that’s a good start yoi. We shall see what else you atone for. Come along,” Marco said, picking you up like a piece of luggage and throwing you over his shoulder. His arm held you as tight as a band of iron but there wasn’t much for you to do either way since he’d immobilized your arms. He started walking back towards the carriage rather than towards the mansion. 

“Where are you taking me?” you asked, your eyebrows hiking up as Marco’s long strides took you further from the house.

“Somewhere long overdue.”

Taglist: @mfreedomstuff @epochal-oracle @jk--47

[llyfrenfys]

I'd like to preface this with that this is a screenshot of a post I saw a few days ago in the #welsh tag and that the OP has since deleted this post, but the sentiment is something I'd like to address since I see a lot of parallels with this kind of thinking in other contexts, such as in LGBTQIA+ rights conversations.

So, the most obvious elephant in the room is the idea that Welsh is super widely spoken in Wales now and that it isn't in as much danger as other Celtic languages. This idea is wishful thinking at best and erases the very real danger that Welsh is in and that it could be lost just as easily as Irish or Scottish Gaelic. Cornish (which is related to Welsh) actually did die out and has had to be revived. To make a metaphor out of this, we classify languages on a scale of non-threatened to endangered in a similar way to how we classify species.

Here are the statuses of Welsh and Irish as of 2010 (above) and the statuses of Lions and Tigers (below).

On paper tigers are more 'in danger' than lions. But that does not mean that lions are suddenly not in danger at all. The little bracket above CR, EN and VU labels all of these classifications as threatened. It isn't (and definitely shouldn't) be a competition of 'who is most in danger' because you do not want the thing you care about (whether it be a species or a language) to be in danger.

To come back to the original screenshot "they* [Welsh speakers] have always had the means and the ways because the English didn't beat or slaughter them for speaking it"- on the most basic of levels, this is just incorrect. The Welsh Not was a wooden token hung around schoolchildren's necks if they spoke Welsh in school. If someone else spoke Welsh the Not would be hung around their neck. At the end of the school day, whoever was wearing the Not would be beaten and caned by their teachers. I needn't go into much detail but there have been concerted efforts to beat Welsh out of schoolchildren. With the lions vs tigers metaphor, making the claim Welsh speakers have never been beaten for speaking Welsh because they always had the means and ways, while Irish speakers were beaten and never had the means or ways is like claiming poachers have never shot lions, only tigers. Bottom line is, lions and tigers are both victim to poaching and both species have suffered as a result. Similarly, Welsh and Irish have both suffered language loss and both need conservation efforts in order to survive.

(*sidenote- the consistent use of 'them' and 'they' in the original post is definitely indicative of a 'us vs them' sentiment which is a deeply unhelpful attitude to have when it comes to endangered languages and the Celtic languages in particular)

I see parallels with LGBTQIA+ rights in this situation. When equal marriage came in for gay and lesbian couples in the UK in 2014, many allies began to act like gay rights had now been achieved and that gay issues had been done, they're solved. Except, they really weren't (and aren't). Progress has been made in Wales and undeniably Welsh is doing the best out of the living Celtic languages. But that doesn't mean Welsh has been saved or that full equality for Welsh speakers has been achieved. It very much hasn't. The sentiment of the post in the screenshot is not conducive to helping Irish or Scottish Gaelic. Putting down Welsh speakers and erasing Welsh-language history will not save Irish or Scottish Gaelic. Pretending Welsh has had it easy in some kind of lap of luxury is a deeply harmful and bogus claim.

I'll address the tags under the cut as this post is getting long.

To address the tags, personal feelings ≠ an accurate reading of a situation. Nor is it praxis, for that matter. Why is pride in Welsh different/less good than pride in Irish? Is it the assumed proximity to England? If so, that's a terrible claim to make. Not only that, but Scotland is also next to England- does that make pride in Scottish Gaelic the same as pride in Welsh according to this metric? It's a ludicrous thing to say and deeply insensitive to the needs of Scottish Gaelic and Welsh speakers, who cannot help any current or former proximity to England.

Additionally, proximity to England ≠ worse. I know it's a popular internet joke to hate on England because of English attempts to eradicate the Celtic languages, but when the joke becomes praxis, it does not help. England ≠ a place devoid of Celtic languages either. Many English counties near the Welsh border actually have communities of Welsh speakers, such as Oswestry (Croesoswallt) in Shropshire. Cornwall is also home to many speakers of revived Cornish. It does a disservice to Celtic speakers in England to insinuate that proximity to England taints or corrupts them somehow. This is how ethnonationalism starts and we ain't about that.

And "#it feels a little.... blehhhhh you were seen as sophisticated and english enough and you assimilated however the Irish and the Scots? #brutish animals that need to be culled". So, this is arguably one of the worst things to say about a Celtic language- or any threatened language in general. First of all, the 'you were seen as' - 'you' is very telling. The switch from 'them', 'they' to 'you' indicates that this sentiment is aimed at Welsh speakers directly. This was likely a subconscious thing that OP wasn't thinking about when they wrote this. But it does indicate unhealthy feelings of jealousy and bitterness unfairly directed at Welsh speakers, who are also struggling. This righteous anger at the decline of Irish and Scottish Gaelic would be better directed at efforts to help promote those languages- some useful things to get involved with are LearnGaelic, similar to DysguCymraeg but for Scottish Gaelic or supporting channels such as Irish channel TG4 by watching their programmes.

The idea that Welsh speakers were or are 'sophisticated and english enough' is insulting and carries with it a lot of baggage of how any of these assumptions came about. Welsh speakers were definitely not seen as sophisticated. Where Welsh was 'tolerated', it was treated as a curiosity, a relic of a bygone age. Classic museification which all Celtic languages and cultures suffer from as well. Welsh was not tolerated in any legal sense since 1535- with English becoming the only valid administrative language and the language of Welsh courts after England annexed Wales into its Kingdom. Monolingual Welsh speakers suddenly had no access to any legal representation, unless they learned English. This is no voluntary assimilation- it is an act of survival for many speakers of minoritised languages to 'assimilate' into the dominant culture, or else risk losing access to legal security and other kinds of infrastructure. You need only ask any non-native English speaker living in an Anglophone country what that process is like. Welsh people did not see English incursion as an opportunity to become 'sophisticated and english enough', they had to assimilate in order to survive.

The "Irish and the Scots? #brutish animals that need to be culled" is also painfully misrepresenting a very complex social and political process that unfolded over the span of hundreds of years. The phrasing itself of 'brutish animals that need to be culled' speaks to righteous anger at the damage done to these languages and cultures, but it reinforces negative stereotypes about the Irish and Scots themselves. It also is more complicated than a simple English hatred of anything non-Anglo, since the English conception of particularly the Irish changed a lot over the centuries. It was (and still is) rarely consistent with itself. See: the enemy is both strong and weak. The very earliest Celticists were by and large, Anglos or French.

Ernest Renan (1823-1892) for example, was an early French Celticist who published La Poésie des races celtiques (Poetry of the Celtic Races- English translation) in which he says:

"... we must search for the explanation of the chief features of the Celtic character. It has all the failings, and all the good qualities, of the solitary man; at once proud and timid, strong in feeling and feeble in action, at home free and unreserved, to the outside world awkward and embarrassed. It distrusts the foreigner, because it sees in him a being more refined than itself, who abuses its simplicity. Indifferent to the admiration of others, it asks only one thing, that it should be left to itself. It is before all else a domestic race, fitted for family life and fireside joys. In no other race has the bond of blood been stronger, or has it created more duties, or attached man to his fellow with so much breadth and depth"

Yeah. This guy (unsurprisingly) was a white supremacist. Note that this sentiment is being applied to all people considered Celtic by Renan- Irish, Welsh, Breton, Scottish, Cornish, Manx etc. None unscathed by the celtophobia of the day. In this period, Celticity was romanticised (yet disparaged at the same time). It is less 'brutish animals' and more 'archaic, time-frozen peoples' in this period. Of course, 'brutish animals' attitudes towards Celticity did still exist, but it is disingenuous to act as if it was this attitude alone which drove English celtophobia. Like many things, it is always more complicated and never clear cut as it might seem.

I'll bring this to a close shortly, but returning to OP's suggestion that the Welsh assimilated and the Scots and Irish did not, is also incorrect in that some Scots did have to assimilate to survive as well. The Statutes of Iona (1609) required Scottish Gaelic speaking Highland chiefs to send their sons away to be educated in Scots and/or English in Protestant schools. Many did as the statutes required, which led to further language loss in the Highlands of Scottish Gaelic. These are acts of survival- and not ones always taken willingly.

This has been a long post but it's one which I felt I wanted to address. There's no need for infighting between speakers of Celtic languages over who has it worse. There isn't any answer to that question, nor is it a good use of time or energy. All in all, the Celtic languages have suffered greatly over the years and its only just now that some of them are turning a corner. If you care about these languages, put your energy into something good. Only through active work will these languages be saved for generations to come.