#because like anyone raised so close to the political world

[smolandweirdwriter]

oh of COURSE adaine has no respect for authority figures, she was raised by a piece of shit who didn't have any actual power

[tonycries]

Madam Gojo - G.S.

Synopsis. Gojo Satoru, the strongest clan leader in all of Japan - and the most dangerous, too. You, rejected by the elders, and totally not his future bride, right? Right?

Pairing. Gojo Satoru x Reader

Content. MDNI, fem! reader, clan leader! Gojo, arranged marriage, Satoru is a little (very) INSANE and down bad, the elders are awful, oral (fem receiving), use of “madam”, unprotected, créampie, kníves, overstím, féral Satoru, heinous things, pet names, swearing.

Word count. 4.9k

A/N. I need clan leader Gojo SO bad you guys don’t understand.

They say that the head of the Gojo clan is the one person who could burn down this entire world and get away with it, too. 

The youngest of all the clan leaders - and the most infamous - a man who keeps his friends close, and his enemies even closer. Enough so that you’ve heard whispers of his cruelty at every nook and cranny of those stuffy social functions your family has dragged you to. And it was more than enough to paint a picture of such terrifying power.

Of a sharp blade and an even sharper mouth. Of an angelic figure that left no evidence, nor anyone to tell the tale - only the final, hauntingly beautiful image of cloudy white hair, and electric blue eyes.

Eyes that were currently locked with yours, and didn’t seem like they’d stop any time soon. Dangerous. Magnetic. Twinkling with such odd amusement from across the long tatami room. 

Gojo Satoru, the head of the Gojo clan - your future husband.

“Tch, the Kamo girl’s family had a much better reputation than this one.”

Ah, right. How could you forget?

You shift awkwardly on the mat, managing to rip your eyes over to the line of elders behind Gojo, whispering just loud enough that you’d hear - and, of course, remember once more that no, the marriage proposal hasn’t been approved just yet.

And considering those disapproving glares you’d been so warmly welcomed with, it seemed that they were well and fully intent on keeping it that way.

“I can assure you,” you fight to keep the polite smile plastered on your face, painful and slowly cracking with each passing second being interrogated. “My family is well-respected in the community.” Eyes snapping over to a silent Gojo, skin burning at his intensity. “Very well respected.”

“Come now. We’re just saying.” Another voice speaks up, strained and tinged with a venomous tone you knew didn’t bode well. “Your lineage isn’t exactly illustrious, is it?”

The emphasis on “illustrious” isn’t lost on you, and it’s so fucking dramatic than you think you could almost laugh. Apparently, a few of the elders think so, too - because they’re positively seething at the sight.

Muttering an icy, “Something funny, dear?”

“Nothing at all.” you bite back any insults, sifting around the contents of your untouched dinner - the last thing on your mind right now when it seemed like you were the main scrutiny tonight. “Absolutely nothing.”

“Such attitude!” That offended croak is met with murmured agreements and nods from the end of the room, “The madam of the Gojo household must be demure- I told the young master we should go with the Kamo girl.”

God, why did you agree to this again? Something about strengthening your family ties? You felt sorry for the poor soul who’d end up marrying Gojo, because no matter how much beauty or power he held, it certainly wouldn’t make up for this. 

Scoffing, the words falling from your lips faster than you could register them. “Then why didn’t he?”

And this little question somehow seemed to have struck a nerve - multiple, in fact, as you watch in morbid fascination as the elders visibly bristle. 

“B-because-” one sends a hasty glance at their stone-faced clan leader, flushing at his still-unwavering gaze on you. “You- It doesn’t matter. Someone like you isn’t suited to marry-”

“Right, because this clan is that great.”

You freeze. The elders freeze. It seems like everyone in the world freezes except for Gojo - who only raises his brow. Letting your words hang in the air like a foul stench, studying just how awfully you’re digging your grave deeper in this hellish marriage meeting.

Eventually, the elder closest to Gojo’s right mutters a painfully saccharine sweet, “I knew we shouldn’t have let the riff-raff participate.”

And oh it was like a dam burst open.

“-out of the thousands of girls, for someone like master-”

“The scandal, too- imagine letting the Gojo name fall this far-”

“Isn’t worthy. Can’t let the bloodline be carried by some whor-”

You’re on your feet before you realize it. Whirling at the elders head-on, and if looks could kill then all those old fossils would be six feet under and their graves a dance floor for you already. 

Fists clenched, you spit, “If he’s so wonderful then you all can marry this oh-so-great bastard yourself-”

Oh. You’ve done it now.

You were fucked. You were so very, very fucked. 

You don’t even bother to meet Gojo’s stare, instead wondering whether you’d be able to outrun the strongest clan leader alive. Sure, you could take those old toads but-

“Sit.”

Your heart leaps at the voice, the first time you’re hearing it since entering this room - deep, almost-melodic, and for a second you don’t even recognize who it came from. Not until Gojo’s flashing you a mirthful grin, blue yukata shifting as he moves to sit cross-legged, “Sit.”

Oh, God, you didn’t know of any torture methods one could do while sitting - but you didn’t doubt that Gojo was an expert in all of them. 

And as your knees buckle, sinking ever-so-slowly to sit back down on the floor, Gojo tilts his head in confusion. Brows scrunching together as he gestures downwards.

“On your…lap?” You question, as if the answer wasn’t glaringly obvious. 

The only response you get is a careless nod, Gojo spreading his knees further as if to prove his point. No care or concern as he plows on, “If you’d like, of course.”

It’s a silent staredown - you, and him - and the elders watching jaw-dropped, of course. None of you have ever known the young master to let anyone get this close - let alone give them a decision on, well, anything.

. 

A weighty beat passes. One. Two. 

He wins.

And you find yourself walking unsteadily towards Gojo’s imposing figure, all eyes on you as you plop down unceremoniously in his waiting lap. Warm - and it catches you off guard. Gaze flickering over his broad shoulder to look at the aghast faces behind you. Tension crackling in the air as they wonder the same thing as you at this very moment - just what type of torture method is this? 

“Interesting…I need this one.” You blink up in confusion, heart racing and oh- shit, when did he get so close? But Gojo’s chest only rumbles with laughter. Circling his long fingers around your waist, pulling you flush against his sculpted chest, “As the new madam of the Gojo household.”

What? 

The elders behind let out stifled gasps, as bewildered as you were. And you swear you saw one faint, though, you don’t get to take a close look, because Gojo’s gently grabbing your chin, tilting your head up at his pretty face. 

“Wan’ me to kill them?”

“Kill- why?” you sputter - both from his idea and the heat of his proximity. 

“Why not?” He looks at you through his long lashes, so deceivingly innocent that it makes your head spin. Tone so light, as if he was talking about something trivial like the weather. “An early wedding gift, maybe?” And he sounded like he was joking - you wished he was joking. But you knew better. 

So you swallow thickly, “N-no…thank you.”

At this, Gojo’s eyes twinkle. “Yeah, real interesting.” he coos, voice so uncharacteristically playful. And his lips are so close - too close. Running a thumb along your bottom lip, “Gorgeous, too. Tell me, pretty, what do you think of ruling over this trash?”

And you could feel every eye on you as you mull over the question. Weighty. Scrutinizing - except for Gojo who seemed like he was hanging onto your every word. 

Hell, might as well give ‘em a few heart attacks right?

Words that never come - because your body moves before your mind. And you’ve got one hand gripping his expensive Yukata, the other scrambling for his broad shoulders. Softening the blow as you crash your lips onto his.

Soft - it’s the first thing you register. Followed very shortly by the taste of those cheap lollipops from those local convenience stores you loved - strawberry, you think.

But you don’t get to confirm, because the kiss is over as soon as it happens.

Gojo’s pulling away with a strange light in his eyes, lips flushed a pretty pink, yukata dangling off his shoulder already. You have to train your eyes away from the milky skin, and over to the elders. Yeah, one really had fainted - three, now, actually. 

And only one of them is brave enough to pipe up a rapid, “You- how dare you dirty-”

Thud!

It all happens so fast you’re not sure if your eyes are playing tricks on you. In a split second, there’s a long dagger pulled out from his yukata, embedded deep into the tatami mat - not even an inch away from the elder who’d opened his mouth. 

“Out.” 

It’s so abrupt that for a second, you think Gojo’s talking to you, voice soft, and so so eerie. It sends shivers down your spine as you raise your eyes to look at his glare at the frozen crowd behind him.

Eyes wide, aura menacing - a grin gracing his features, absolutely nothing like the one he’d sent you - it was something so dangerous and cold. The temperature in the room dropping about ten degrees as he mutters, “I won’t say it twice.”

And immediately, it’s chaos. Each one stumbling over the other to run out the sliding doors first, none of them daring to look you in the eyes now. 

“O-of course, master.” the leader, seemingly, chokes out. One foot out the room already, “I’ll um- check that the servants are doing their work-”

“No. You all will stand outside.” Gojo murmurs, not even bothering to look at them. Instead, cupping your face closer towards his, “And close the door.”

That door could not have been shut faster, ringing in the tense silence. And suddenly you’re too-aware of the audience outside. Too-aware of being left alone with…your future husband? And the way he was looking down at you with something so dark in his eyes.

“So…” he runs his nose down your neck, breathing in your scent. “If you don’t want me to kill those bastards…what else must I gift you, my wife?” 

“Like what?” You gulp, back arching involuntarily into him. 

Gojo laughs at the reaction, teeth ghosting over your racing pulse. “An estate?” Dancing ever-so-slowly, up your jaw, “All the cars you could want?” He blows gently in your ear, chuckling as you yelp in surprise. “Maybe jewelry?” Kissing the tips of your ears, “You’d look gorgeous in blue. And the Zenin clan has the perfect necklaces I can…convince them to send over.” He pulls away, taking you in entirely, “Or maybe-” Lips now ghosting yours. “-something else?”

And then he’s kissing you - and you’re kissing him. 

You don’t know who leans in first, just that Gojo’s lips were so sweet on yours. So addictive. Palms cradling your face so softly, while his lips were anything but. 

“Open your mouth, pretty.” he pants into your lips. “Kiss your husband properly, now.”

Shit, you barely even realize the way you’re listening to every single word he says. Jaw falling slack to let him lick at the seam of your lips. Such a messy clash of teeth and spit and him - so hot and starved. Like he couldn’t get enough with the way he hastily moves to press wet, open-mouthed kisses down your jaw. 

“Satoru-” you gasp, and he nips lightly at your bottom lip once you immediately shut yourself up because shit, you’re getting ahead of yourself. Calling the clan leader Gojo by his first name? Hell, you’ll see the gates of heaven before you see an altar. 

But Gojo himself seems to think the complete opposite. “Don’t get all shy now.” he pries away the hand covering your mouth. “Call me ‘Toru’.”

You stare at him, wide-eyed, trying to will yourself to say this little nickname.

Too slow, apparently. Because his hands are suddenly everywhere - on your breasts, your hips, giving your ass a slow squeeze. “T-Toru-” you squeal. 

Gojo’s mouth drops into a soft oh! Immediately surging forward as if to claim your lips again - stopping mere millimeters from your lips with a pained grunt. Like it killed him to stay away. 

“See? Jus’ like that.” he angles your head just right, before spitting, once. Twice. Right into your pretty mouth. “N’ now you’re mine.”

And fuck if Gojo wasn’t going to prove it.

He’s laying you down on the mat, fumbling with the ties of your yukata, “Mine to wed. Mine to carry my legacy.” Thumb running over your hardened nipples as he urgently unbuckles your bra, throwing it behind god-knows-where. “Mine to-” Biting down, ever-so-lightly on your nipple, “-worship.” Hands dipping lower, and lower - just barely teasing the hem of your drenched panties. “Mine to ruin.”

You don’t know what you’re reeling more from - maybe from those words, which you’re sure he said loud enough for the elders outside to hear.

Maybe from the way he’s sliding a finger underneath your panties, sliding it up and down your puffy folds. Making you arch into him like such a slut as he pools your sweet sweet juices on his fingertips, popping them into his mouth with a low groan. 

“Oh. Fuck. Oh, fuck-” Gojo’s eyes roll to the back of his head. Not wasting a second before ripping off your flimsy panties, tucking them away into the waistband of his yukata. “Sweeter than I imagined.”

“S-so filthy-” you mewl, as he spreads your shaky thighs. Lips wobbling pathetically at how he’s admiring your glistening cunt. “Toru, no one’s ever…”

At this, his eyes are back on yours now. Half-lidded, pupil’s blown - and you don’t think you’ve ever even heard of the leader of the Gojo clan being so out of it, let alone see it first-hand. His voice strained as he breathes out a barely audible, “Shit- really? So then…” He’s moving to lick lewd little circles on your inner thigh, “...your husband’s gotta make this memorable, right?”

Gojo doesn’t give the time to even think about answering - he doesn’t trust that he has the fucking sanity to wait that long. Because you’re so pretty splayed out like this for him. Your moans too sweet. Your cunt too tempting. Too his. 

So, really, you can’t blame him when he’s plunging nose-deep into your quivering pussy, licking one, long stripe right up your swollen folds. And fuck the cute lil’ whines escaping your lips are so addictive that Gojo just can’t help but do it again. And again. And again and-

“O-oh my god, ngh- feels too good-” you card your fingers through his soft locks - something that would usually result in a lost hand or two. But for you - anything, for you. “More, Toru.”

Shit, if Gojo thought he’d lost his sanity before then he definitely wasn’t ready for this. 

“So needy.” he’s chuckling into your glistening folds. One hand throwing your legs over his shoulders, the other thumbing over your needy clit. “So perfect. Can’t believe no one’s ever hah- eaten out this pretty cunt before.”

Immediately, he’s squeezing his hot tongue past your folds. And it’s all you can do to buck your hips up so sluttily when he licks at your sloppy entrance. Your throbbing clit. Anywhere and everywhere Gojo could reach.

“Hngh- yes yes yes, too good.”

“Yeah? Ya like this?” He moves his fingers down from your already-ravaged clit, circling your sopping wet hole. “Ya like making such a mess on m’tongue?”

“W-wha-” The words get caught in your throat as you whirl down at the sight below you - Gojo. Gojo, with strands of white hair sticking to his forehead, eyes so glassy. Gojo, tongue lapping at your sweet juices, looking like he wanted to devour you with his eyes, as much as his mouth. 

At your reaction, he grins, furrowing his brow in mock-concern, “What’s wrong, pretty? Can’t talk?” Bullying his long fingers past that first feeble ring of resistance, massaging your plushy walls. “N’ you were so hah- feisty earlier. Thought my new mmpf- wife would be mouthy?”

You give his hair a warning tug, whispering, “Sh-shut up-” But it comes out more breathless than you intended. 

Gojo notices, of course he does. Because he’s letting out a whiny, “Sh-shut up.” Wrapping his pretty pink lips around your pulsing clit, “As you wish, madam Gojo.”

You hear a dull thud from outside, but you can’t even think about turning your head to look because Gojo’s drinking you in like a man possessed. Pumping his fingers in and out, expertly hitting that one spot with each and every thrust. Looking nothing like an infamous clan-leader and every bit on cloud nine as he rolls his tongue over your clit. Over and over and-

“P-please ah- oh-” you squirm.

“Move your hips like that. Yeah- jus’ like that, pretty- fuck-” The most powerful man in the country letting himself be angled and pulled as you pleased, grunting each time you drag your pussy all over his mouth. Fingers frenzied on your clit - sloppy. Fast. 

But it still wasn’t enough for Gojo - he thinks it’ll probably never be. But that’s fine - the two of you have until the wedding night to perfect it, right?

So he’s looping a big arm around one leg, pulling your snug cunt impossibly closer, reaching over to toy with your pretty clit. And then he’s nose-deep in your sloppy entrance, preparing you for what was to come - fucking you both on his tongue and his fingers. 

Jaw grinding deeper, stretching you out, thrusting in and out in and out in and-

“Fuck fuck fuck- Toru m’so…”

“Close?” he slurs into your cunt, grunting and smacking his lips against your own. Fingers just digging into your hips, sure to leave pretty little marks for him to admire later - and to give a message to those old toads outside. “Cum f’me. Shit- cum f’me, pretty.”

Gojo realizes it before you when you’re finally cumming - because your gummy walls are squeezing around him so tight that it’s almost difficult fuck you through your high the way he wants. 

You’re shaking. Blood roaring in your ears, vision spotty. Crying out a hoarse, “Fuck fuck fuck- oh my god, Toru-” Barely even realizing the way you’re rocking your hips so hard into his hot mouth. 

And Gojo keeps going. 

Even when you’re blinking your vision back, big fat tears pricking your eyes at the sheer overstimulation. Even when white-hot electricity sparks behind your eyes each flick of his tongue. Still toying with your poor clit, tonguefucking you so messily. 

“Toru, s’too- ngh- much- fuck.” You can barely get the words out, jolting. Wondering how the fuck his mouth wasn’t tired, yet - how his fingers weren’t cramping up, tongue still as greedy as ever. “C-can’t-”

“You can. You will.” he’s murmuring into your cunt. Running his mouth now, like he was drunk off your pussy. Words as fast and ragged as his tongue. “C’mon, faster. Harder. Fuck-” you flinch as he spits out little profanities into your messy cunt. “Fuckin use me. Use me like the good lil’ wife you are.”

“Oh- shit.” you whine. Clawing at the mats, Gojo’s hair, his shoulders - just anything to cope with the sheer stimulation as he made out with your pussy like a mad man. “Wait- cum- m’gonna…”

You’re cumming and cumming all over again. So hard, even as you grind your hips deeper into Gojo’s mouth. Riding out your orgasm on his pretty face, so painfully good. 

And only then is he finally pulling away. Absolutely wrecked, eyes miles away already, mouth glistening with your slick. Going all the way down his jawline, and onto the tatami mat in a deafening drip! drip! drip!

“Oh.” he runs his tongue along his wet lips. “Who made you cum like this?” 

A smile slowly splits across his face as you manage out a little, “Y-you, Toru…”

“That’s fuckin’ right. Me.” Hypnotized by the heavenly sight of you all fucked-out and twitching with the aftershock. Marveling down at his hand - glossy, and covered with your slick, “N’ m’gonna love you.”

And, well, a good husband always shares, right?

Because Gojo’s shoving his fingers past your kiss-bitten lips, pressing right at the back of your tongue in a way he knew would have your eyes watering, gagging around him so prettily. Eyes widening at the feeling of something so hard and hot between your legs. 

“C’mon, lil’ madam. Lick them clean f’me, will you?”

You’re gasping, “Mmpf- Toru-” Eyes flitting between a smug Gojo and the hand currently untying his robe. So teasing with the way he’s giving you just a flash of those boxers before oh-

Shit. 

You thought that he’d be big - it was expected, in fact. But this was fucking ridiculous. 

All sculpted curves and dips of his body, faint scars painting his milky skin - stories he’d tell you about later, you think. A fucking masterpiece. All the way down, down, down to where his throbbing cock was leaking all over those tufts of white at his toned pelvis.

Rock-hard, and so so angry. Prominent veins running along the side, flushed a shade of pretty pink that glistened with precum in the dim lighting. So intimidatingly long that it already had you worrying for your poor cervix, and thick enough that it had your thighs pressing mindlessly together. 

Something that Gojo obviously didn’t appreciate.

“Now now.” he tuts, pulling back his fingers to spread apart your thighs with ease. So far apart that it burned. “I need these legs open, pretty. I like the view, y’see.”

And he made it quite obvious, too. Spreading your swollen folds so shamefully apart with his thumb - wet with your split. All the blood rushing to his cock at the way you flinch in embarrassment, at the feeling of being so used. Cute. 

“Shhh, relax.” Gojo hums. Spreading the spit and slick lazily along your cunt with his fat head, purposely letting it smear all over your thighs. “M’gonna make this feel so good for you.”

And let it be known that Gojo Satoru was a merciless man - for everyone. 

Except maybe his cute lil’ wife. 

Because, yes, he’s suddenly splitting you apart on his massive cock. Yes, he’s holding your poor hips still, head dropping into the crook of your neck as he sinks in inch by fucking inch. 

But oh God does he have to hold back from fucking your tight cunt exactly the way he wants. The stretch too sinful, your pussy too heavenly. 

Instead he’s kissing away the single tear rolling down your cheek, muttering, “Too big? Aww, f-fuck, pretty. You needa breathe-.” Rich, coming from him considering that Gojo doesn’t know if he was breathing right now. Too caught up in the way he’s rolling your swollen clit between his fingers, gasping into your open mouth, “Trust me. M’gonna make it f-feel hah- good. So fucking good.”

“F-fuck-” Your head is spinning. And you can only give him such delirious little nods as Gojo starts to push in quick, lazy little grinds of his hips just to squeeze inside your gummy walls. Past that first, tight ring of resistance. 

“S’too big-” you squeal, nails raking down his back. “A-are you all the way in- yet?”

“Nope.” he’s popping the p, so unfairly smug. “Not even halfway in.” Drinking in all your cute lil’ sobs as he snakes a hand up to draw an invisible line across your stomach. “But you b-better be prepared, wifey. Because this-” Pressing down, hard. “-is where I’ll be.”

You didn’t know who wanted that to become a reality more - Gojo or you. 

Especially with the way your tight cunt is sucking him up so good, and shit for all Gojo’s reputation, he feels like he could’ve cum right then and there. 

“Shit- so fucking tight. God- you’re gonna make me lose my mind.” words so strained. So dangerous. He kisses down your neck, biting right above your racing pulse. “How do you want it? Like you’re my hah- wife- or my lil’ slut?”

A trick question, you think - as much as you could when you’re this cockdrunk, at least. 

Locking eyes down at the way your cunt was bulging so obscenely around his cock, clamping and quivering as he keeps pushing in in in- Unstopping. Relentless. Mewling a little, “L-like I’m your…wife.” 

“Louder.”

“Like I’m your wife.”

Several things happen at once - that faint muttering suddenly increases tenfold, and maybe if you were in any better state of mind you’d have noticed the few gasps. Gojo, however, does hear. 

It only takes an irritated growl and a split-second flash of metal for a second dagger to be struck deep into the thin wooden panel of the door - unfortunately for whoever just so happened to be on the other side. 

“That’s right. My wife.” And then he’s bottoming out - heavy balls smacking your ass, leaky tip nudging your poor cervix, letting you mark him up all you want as he rocks his hips faster into yours. “And you- ah- you realize they’re beneath you, right?” he’s stroking where he can feel himself bulging inside you. “That my lil’ wife just has to say the word n’ I’ll ngh- take ‘em all out?” 

You can only sob at the pressure, because his words are so soft but he’s fucking you so mean. Sounding like he was losing his sanity with each time your heavenly walls milked him. 

“I’ll kill ‘em- kill ‘em all-” he’s gritting out. “Hell, I’ll take down the r-rest of those clans ah- too if it pleases you.” Fingers getting so erratic on your clit, angling his hips just right to try and find- 

“Hngh- f-fuck, Toru- there-”

That.

So sloppy with the way he’s alternating between hitting that one spot and just abusing your cervix. Bruising - like he wanted to mark you everywhere n’ show it off, too. Biting down your neck, whispering into the skin, “Anything for you, madam.”

Rocking his hips harder, and he couldn’t give less of a fuck about the lewd little pool of slick and split forming on the mat below. Can’t even think to bring himself to be disgusted. 

“Feels good?” he’s drinking in your adorable sobs, “S’what you imagined?”

You’re torn between running away and fucking your hips up so bruisingly into his, hells digging into the mat as you push and pull away. “Yes. Feels- ah- ngh-” And for all your mouthiness earlier, you can’t even form coherent sentences right now - something that makes Gojo balls squeeze so painfully.

Something that has him wrapping his arms around your legging, dragging you like some ragdoll back to him. Rocking his hips so bruisingly deeper and deeper as he babbles. 

“Gonna make you c-cum. So hard.” He’s fucking you harder into the mat. Faster. Sloppier. “Gonna ngh- make you my beautiful bride.” Bouncing you on his painfully hard cock like he was claiming you from the inside - to leave marks for everyone in the clan to know. His balls on your ass, your nails down his shoulders, lips on your neck leaving little bites. “Gonna make you mine, pretty. And everyone else s’gonna know.”

And Gojo can tell when you’re close because he’s learned that you have a habit of squeezing him to insanity when you are. 

“Close?” At your delirious nod he’s giving you a blinding grin, “How cute. Why don’t you hah- cum f’me like the good lil’ wife you are, hm?”

Cum for him you do - thighs shaking, body jolting. So hard and violent that you’re covering him in all your sweet sweet juices. 

And he can only watch - awe-struck - as your pretty pussy squirts all over his angry cock glistening, and just drenched with your slick now. Beads of it getting all over his burning abs, trickling down every dip and curve as he uses your quivering pussy harder and harder-

“God, you’re so good f’me. Look how much you came.” Giving a final, harsh thrust. “So perfect f’me.”

So fucking smug as he finally cums as well. Letting out a low, muffled moan into your neck as he fills your poor pussy with rope after rope of seed, painting your walls such a sinful white. All the way until he was sure you were bloated with his cum, until he could feel it dribbling down the side. Looking down to confirm and- ah, sure enough, it was such a heavenly sight - thick globs drenching your clothes below. Spreading in a pool as his hips push deeper and deeper. 

Like it hurt to stop. Like it hurt to even think of tearing his eyes away from you. 

But, alas, this old meeting room could only take so much, and Gojo thinks you’ll enjoy his - your - bedroom much better for round two.

Which is how the elders outside found the door kicked open not too long after. Blinking up in shock at the tall figure of the Gojo clan leader at the frame holding you. Tired and limp in a princess carry, all bundled up your yukata and one of his outer robes. 

And they can only avert their eyes, faces burning at the hazy expression on your face, hair so unsubtly messy, bare legs twitching ever-so-slightly from where they were just peeking out from where the fabric had bunched up. Sinful. Desecrated. And evidently his. 

“Clean that room up.” 

Gojo’s stern command snaps them all out of their reverie. 

But before they could all run to do so, he’s plowing on, unapologetic and low. “Oh, and bow down-” chuckling lightly as they scramble to their knees before him - and your barely-lucid figure. “-to the new madam of the Gojo household.

A/N. On my period I’m gonna cry. 

Plagiarism not authorized.

[sasahuaa]

Riddle Rosehearts as an omega

Leona - Azul - Kalim - Vil - Idia - Malleus

GN reader; sfw; word count: 2680; tw: bad parenting, insecurity

Riddle’s mother had many expectations of him even before he was born, she wanted an alpha son, someone who would be seen as strong, smart, reliable and able to provide, so to say that she was disappointed when her dream son was an omega wouldn’t be an understatement.

Still, she wanted a perfect son, while she raised him, she made him repress many of his omega instincts, and yet would growl at him if he acted “too alpha”. He was an omega, he needed to be submissive, obey her and his future mate’s orders, even then, she had a dream, Riddle simply didn’t fit in her fantasy.

Riddle is starved for perfection within himself, to fulfill his mother’s wishes. Because of that, he is a really suppressed omega that doesn’t know much about his own body, living in a little box, he would appreciate a partner that encourages him to be himself, someone able to provide stability and hold themselves, independency is attractive for him, but also someone that stays close to him, since he thrives for constancy.

Courting

He first noticed you during the first year’s entrance, how could he not? Always paying attention to everyone around him, taking a thorough glance to every potential new Heartslabyul student or anyone that has the ability to become a rival to the members of his dorm.

You had his attention since then, a magicless student in a magic school is bound to receive surveillance.

Though since your companions are known troublemakers, maybe his first opinion wasn't the best, he was fast to assume that behind the nice face and delicious scent was a malicious alpha, at this time, he couldn't separate bad behavior (regardless of how much quieter, well mannered and polite you were compared with Ace or other students) from a good character.

People who don't follow the rules are simply bad, period, that's what his mom always said.

He bit his tongue after he got to know you better.

Riddle starts to develop feelings after his overblot, he spends more time with you since then, you presented yourself as compassionate and kind, you are reliable, willing to help others, even offered your own space to house ace after he had stormed out before Riddle's overblot, even when you had barely enough for yourself.

You may not follow or know the rules of the queen, but clearly had your sense of morality, and that was fine by him. You were new to this world, you are smart for what he can tell, to learn a new universe from the start is not easy, and yet you are able to carry yourself. He can help, if anything! He is being more understandable and loosening his hold onto the rules, but he would happily teach you the basics, or even more, if you are willing to listen.

You saw his vulnerability without judgment, and then knowing more about you, he was shaken.

It took him a while to realize his feelings, how he was starved for your companionship, how his heart beat faster when he felt your presence and his cheeks reddened at the sound of your melodic voice. And then even more time for him to come to terms with it, falling in love doesn't make sense to him, to be open and more likely to commit mistakes in his flustered state, to lose his words and stutter when he tries to convey a thought to you.

But Riddle couldn't deny that despite being terrified of such powerful feeling, scared to lose himself to insanity when he would let you unknowingly slip in the queen's rules, he loved it all the same. Being next to you was worth it.

So he decided to start the courting process, or rather, try to subtly convince you to start.

After all, he was an omega, and according to his mother, the duty of courting falls onto the alphas, the only way for him to participate is by seducing you, though it was already a stretch, in his ideal situation he wouldn't have to do anything at all, like the omegas from his mothers stories when they sit still while receiving proposals from strong potential mates. But he had to get through your head what he wanted, he would learn everything about you, Riddle simply couldn't let someone unworthy get you! You are the perfect alpha, others would realize it soon enough, or maybe they already had, so he has to act quickly!

But honestly, he is really bad at giving a hint, he has no experience whatsoever, mostly what he knows is from classic literature books that his mother would force him to read, which since then he was disinterested in such topics. Riddle would invite you for tea and help you study, ask for Trey to prepare sweets for both of you and walk around the garden, all while fumbling with his sleeves and spreading his scent.

Maybe you noticed his behavior and decided to court back, or Ace caught onto it and told you so. He flusters and stutters when he receives his first courting gift, an inaudible purr deep in his chest, whatever gift he receives is treated with great care, placed on his desk in his dorm room and cleaned quite often.

When he gets more comfortable in the courtship he begins to give you gifts of his own, it's a slow process to deconstruct his once thoughts of the roles a omega and alpha should have, if it was according to the books he had read about the subject, it's no doubt his mother would request for you to pay a bridal price. Reassurance is a must to him, since his overblot he is trying to rediscover himself, to act by his wants instead of his mother's. He is glad to have someone by his side to give him support.

Riddle was lonely, before, being a puppet to his family, Trey's pity of the omega's upbringing rendering him incapable to properly help his friend, Chenya going to another school, the fear his dorm mates have of him. He appreciates finally having someone to lean on, though he would never admit it out loud, at least not when he is in control of his own mind and body.

His gifts include stationery, with deep red colors, a tea set decorated with roses, and copies of his old notebooks about the classes you are attending.

Growling

In his house, he wouldn't dare growling, his mother did it a lot, but she would reprimand him instantly if he did the same.

Like his beloved strawberry tarts, her punishments didn't stop him, not really, when he was home alone, he would hide under his bed and growl quietly. It was comforting, to be able to de-stress, to let go of his nerves in his growling and let the vibrations relax his tense body slowly, until he could breathe normally again and leave his spot.

He began to growl openly when he entered NRC, how could everyone be so disrespectful towards the queen of roses’ orders? He used his growling to subjugate anyone who presumed they were above the law of Heartslabyul. His sound loud and proud.

After his overblot, he started to conceal more, he still growls in warning, but much more menial compared to before.

With you he is softer, in the beginning of the courtship he would avoid growling altogether, after all, omega's are not allowed to growl to their alphas. But after your reassurance that him growling wouldn't change how you saw him, he relaxed his vocal cords once again.

He growls when you choose the wrong beverage of the day, he growls when he sees you writing the wrong answer in your homework, he growls when your scent fades from his belongings or when you are drowned in different smells, so much that you own is barely present. But most of his growls towards you have no biting, he is merely letting go of his frustrations and means no harm.

He doesn't expect you to be perfect, of course, but he wants a perfect relationship. Growling to you is simply a warning about something that can be easily fixed.

Purring

Riddle didn't purr before meeting you, while growing up he didn't have other omega's companions close to him, even more doubtful that his mother would do this for him under any circumstance. If he did, at any moment, purr next to his mother, he would suffer the consequences for that, this gentle sound reminded her of his inherited failure, of not being born alpha.

When he received his first courting gift from you he was caught off guard by the tremor in his chest, he first thought it was another form of growling, but the warm feeling blossoming in his heart was much unfamiliar from the heat of irritation.

Eventually noticing his purr box finally functioning, he tries to shut it down, in an irrational frustration that this might be a sign of weakness, growling at himself to make the sounds stop when he did start to purr while thinking about you.

But the outcome made him feel guilty, after all, his alpha thought that the courting gifts they were giving him were not approved by the omega.

Then he starts to research more, and finds out that purring is beneficial for alphas, both for mental health, since the sound of purring results in release of dopamine, and also for being a symbol of acceptance.

At first his purr was almost inaudible, just a slight tremor inside his body, and finished too quickly, eventually becoming louder and clearer, though the tone would still break in between or stop out of nowhere.

Nesting

Riddle never nested, never had somewhere to feel safe, the closest to it was the tight space under his bed that he used to hide while he was a child. Now in NRC it's not like he felt the need to start, he was comfortable with just the common items for a bedding.

But since knowing you he felt the necessity to include some of your belongings to his sleep place. Even before courting, while his feelings were unknown to him, he was obsessed with your scent, stepping just a bit too close to your personal space while still being appropriate to a public setting.

The first clothing that was added to his blankets and pillows was your jacket. You lended it to him on a rainy day, the material covering his head and body, his entire being melted and his vision whitened for a second, everything around him was consumed by you.

Riddle went to his dorm with the new article, he had promised to give it back to you the next time you two met, but seeing your jacket sprawled on his bed with the thought of returning it made something gnaw at his stomach. It felt wrong to part from your clothing, he possessively kept it close to him during the night, falling asleep with your scent in his lungs.

Even though the jacket lost your smell he still kept it, now enveloped with his own scent, it wasn't perfect, Riddle much preferred yours, but his heart warmed that something of you was now claimed by him.

If you decided to give him more items of yours, they all ended up on his bed, he didn't make a nest separate from his sleeping space, he liked to have your scent close by while he drifted off. And if you gifted him something made by hand, like a knitted blanket, he would treasure it more than anything else, it was a sign of your dedication to him, in his eyes, he was certainly being spoiled!

It would take a while until he invited you to see his nest, and when you do, please praise it. He is new to giving in to his omega instincts, show that you care and accept every part of him.

Marking

Riddle would start to mark you later in the courtship, his hands finding your tie before classes, using the scent gland on his wrist to spread his smell on the cloth. On bad days he would also scent the collar of your shirt, an obvious warning to other omegas to stay away.

He trusts you, he really does believe you only have eyes for him, but he can't help but feel frustrated if someone thinks they have a chance with you, or if someone concludes he isn't taking good care of you by not marking his alpha.

Riddle also permits you to give him the same treatment, he is fond of your smell close to his face, he can scent clearly on his own tie, he also likes it on his sleeves next to his wrist.

Subspace

Riddle gives you permission to enter his nest when you are in an official relationship, it surprises him how cotton filled his mind became when you laid in his safe space, with your warmth next to him with everything that belongs to both of you.

It's easy to coax him to a subspace in moments like this, when there's no responsibilities ahead and just your voices fill the room. Praise him, say that he did a great job, that he is a person to be admired, how strong he is, caress soothing circles with your fingers over the scent gland on his neck, kiss his face, the omega will be putty in your hands and let his most vulnerable part comes out.

Normally he is not one to ask for affection, preferring to give hints over outwardly requesting, and Riddle never shied away from any of your touches in private. But while in his subspace he feels comfortable enough to be demanding.

He will guide your hands to his hair, kiss your knuckles, make you touch his chest so you can feel his purring vibrate through his body and touch your foreheads together. Whimpering in betrayal if you refuse him.

Just let him rely on you in moments like that, he never had the opportunity before, permit him to discover his deepest desires and he will be loyal and stay by your side until the end of his life.

☽ ☼ ☾

Riddle glanced away from his bed, the culprit of the turmoil in his mind carefully put above his pillow. Your jacket, even wet from the rain, still has your scent covering the fabric.

He growled at himself, suppressing the urge to just lay his head on it, to fall asleep with something of yours to give him the sense of protection. This was so confusing to him. Why is just your jacket able to give him a feeling of safety?

Riddle blamed his omega hormones, they seem to be going haywire lately, especially when you were close by.

The housewarden was trying to convince himself, “it's just a jacket”, he whispered to himself while sitting on the bed and taking the article close to his face, he will wash it before returning it to you, it's the polite, correct way to deal with this situation.

And yet, his omega voice screamed at him, causing an annoying weight on his heart at the thought of parting from it. It demanded to be taken care of, to relinquish the gift his alpha gave him.

Gift? Alpha? He had none of that, Riddle shushed the thought before it became too much.

And yet, he couldn't follow through what his responsible mind was telling him, he gave in to his instincts, hugging your jacket in his sleep, that night and the next, and every other night after that.

Oh well, he isn't shameless enough to ask for more, he will make do with anything you give him for now, maybe the next night he is convinced to try hinting you to court him, or when your scent eventually fades away and his omega is left feeling empty, but for now, all the comforted he needed was within his arms.

[dancing-lex]

I was immediately struck by this panel in the manga in which Light is thinking about the effect of Kira's judgment on how average people across the globe interact with each other.

This is well known and well examined in the fandom but it really never ceases to amaze me how much of an influence Soichiro has on Light's values and thinking patterns. The modern police state rules with fear as the primary method of control. Light takes the enforcement of law-abiding behavior under threat of violence to the extreme by giving any criminal the death sentence. Being raised by a cop, he would be inclined to believe that this is the best or only way to attain peace.

I think this panel reveals something about Light's character; he thinks to himself that it's a GOOD thing that people are afraid, that the fear of getting killed by Kira will prevent them from doing bad things. Fear = good. Now that I think about it, I bet Light is of the opinion that if you have nothing to hide, you have nothing to fear, so he probably thinks that anyone who is afraid of Kira would be guilty (but that's another can of worms).

The thing is, sure, fear is a great motivator, but that also effects other parts of your life. Light mentions that people have begun to treat each other better (citation needed, anecdotal evidence?) but consider. If you're afraid of your neighbors snitching on you, you're less likely to want to interact with them. You don't know who you can trust; best not to have any close personal conversations. You might be overly (inauthentically) friendly just to make sure people don't plaster your face on the internet for Kira to judge. Otherwise, you might avoid interaction as much as possible. Lie if you have to, if it preserves your safety. Conform, appear normal, be a good person, try not to draw too much attention.

And this is what gets me the most, because isn't that how Light behaves? He's taking his own fear of people finding out the ugly parts of him and imposing that on everyone else. He essentially standardizes how all the people in the WORLD interact. Can you imagine the impact of Kira's rule on communities, friendships, relationships, families, not to mention diplomatic relationships and politics?? Light is singlehandedly breaking down the networks between people.

And the fact that HE is the one doing this is just so fascinating. I'm under the impression that Light believes he's actually doing something good for the world, but what he can't see is that he's actually vaporizing something so vital to society - the genuine connections we need to survive and lead fulfilling lives. And because that's not something he's really, honestly experienced, he doesn't even realize what he's doing. He wouldn't get it anyway.

[kortsitron]

Corruption

✮ PARING Hobie Brown × Trans Male! Reader

✮ WARNINGS/TAGS reader realizes he's trans, pre-transition reader, religious themes, christianity, fluff, angst, supportive! hobie, reader is referred to as a girl/daughter in some moments, hobie and reader are both young adults, gender dysphoria, toxic parents, abuse, transphobia, cursing, reader is referred by she/her by his parents, happy ending

✮ SUMMARY A stranger comes to your town and helps you realize who you are

✮ A/N  If you know me, you probably know my opinion on Christianity and religion in general, but I won't lie, I kinda like the religious themes. Especially when it's about being taken out of it and realizing that the world has so much to offer once you leave it. I guess it's my type of thing since I have been raised as a catholic little ‘girl’ and now I hate religion with pure passion after having it shown down my throat for years when I was younger. One more thing, if you're not comfortable, please do not read this. I am aware there are people who can be triggered by any of the things mentioned in the warnings/tags. If you decide to read this, I hope you're going to enjoy it! <3

In a way inspired by confessions by @eyesxxyou

ao3 masterlist requests

You were such a perfect girl in everyone's eyes. Always so nice and polite, obedient towards your parents, in church every Sunday. You were so feminine, so lovely. Always wore those pretty dresses and skirts of yours, along with the necklace with virgin Mary on your pretty neck. And your gorgeous long hair. You were a perfection to everyone around you.

But you didn't feel perfect in the slightest.

You felt so wrong for some reason you couldn't quite name. Your body felt like a cage you couldn't get out of and you didn't know why. All you knew was that you wanted to cut your hair, hide your body under some baggy clothing and yell at everyone who called you a girl. But obviously you couldn't do that, no matter how much you wanted to. You didn't want people to look at you weirdly, to call you a freak. 

So you decided to stay quiet, knowing that nothing was going to change because you were too scared to do it on your own. Scared of judgment and scared of being abandoned. 

All you did was pray that your sinful fantasies would simply go away. But instead of them going away, something else happened. Like the prayers from the depth of your heart have been heard and finally answered.

You saw him after the Sunday mass, as you were standing next to your mother while she was talking with someone else. He was nothing like you've ever seen before. Those piercing glistening in the sunlight just like the spikes on his vest. The distressed pants with patches and chains. And those heavy boots. He was the definition of perfection, definitely not to those around you, but for you without a doubt.

You have caught eye contact with that beautiful stranger. His stunning brown eyes stared into yours as he smirked at you. He probably thought you were just a pretty girl, you assumed. After all, why would he think differently?

“Do not look at him.” Your mother scolded you, grabbing you by your shoulder and turning you to face her. You could see the disgust on her face. You’ve never seen her with that kind of grimace on her face. “I do not want to see you near him. I can already tell he's no good.”

She didn't say it, but you could already tell she saw him as the embodiment of everything that was sinful. And the last thing she wanted was her precious daughter to stray from God's path.

You glanced at the punk for the last time before your mother said that you were going home. He still watched you. He wasn't sure what it was about you that made him want to get to know you. But something inside him told him that you needed him.

Since then you saw him around the town, but you didn't dare to come close to him. You felt a rush of excitement in your stomach every time you saw him, saw that smirk of his. You didn't have anyone who excited you the way he did. But he indeed did excite you, but you couldn't even talk to him, being scared your parents might yell at you.

Everything changed when you were peacefully reading the bible on the bench next to the church. It was so warm and sunny, so you picked a spot under a tree. Your hair was made into a long braid that was getting more loose without you noticing. 

You then heard someone sit next to you. You looked up from the bible to see him. That beautiful punk, smirking at you shamelessly. He looked even better up close. 

“Hello, luv. I'm Hobie.” His voice was lower than you thought it would be. But it sounded so good, so smooth you could almost melt. His eyes looked from your face to the bible you held your hand, then back to your face. You started wondering what was on his mind. “What's your name, hmm?”

You bashfully told him your name. You weren't sure how to act. Was he expecting you to pretend to be this perfect girl everyone perceived you as? Or maybe he was finally someone that could let you be yourself? Either way, you were scared to find out.

He chuckled at your bashful reaction. Your cheeks got pink so quickly. You were just so adorable. And so… innocent. But you had a feeling he could see right through you. See that all of this was just a facade and under all of it, there was a real you, trying to get to the surface. Trying to be free.

“Have you ever listened to punk rock?” Hobie asked out of nowhere. You blinked. You? Listening to loud, unapologetic music? You could never do that. At least not without worrying about being judged.

Finally you shook your head and his smirk widened. “Darlin’, we have to change that immediately.” He saw you shake your head even more. 

You heard about punk rock. The unapologetic and loud music for brutal men who have abandoned God's ways and all the rules. At least that's what you have been told by your mother. “They are good for nothing but corrupting the minds of pretty girls like you. And I cannot let that happen.” She told you and you wondered if Hobie was that type of punk. The type to ruin you and corrupt you.

“I-I can't. I am not allowed to listen to that kind of music.” You looked down at the bible in your hands, you couldn't look Hobie in the eyes. You expected him to think you were weird for not being allowed to listen to what you wanted. But all you wanted was to avoid conflict.

Hobie's face went from confusion to smirk again. “Oh please. I can see that there's a little rebel hidden behind those pretty innocent eyes.” So he indeed could right through you.

You nervously played with your hair, wanting to both agree and refuse. And in a quick moment, your beautiful braid was untied. “Oh no.” You watched your hairband fall onto the grass. Hobie noticed it too. He moved and grabbed it, quickly cleaning it off from all the dirt. “Allow me.” He spoke so softly. You weren't sure if you should allow him to touch you in any way, but he just wanted to help you tie your hair, right? 

You decided not to overthink it, sitting with your back facing him, so he could tie your hair. You didn't expect it, but he was so gentle with your hair. No harsh hair pulling. His fingers parted your hand so nicely before he began to braid it. You almost melted.

And soon, you had your pretty braid again. Not as perfect as you could have done it, but it was still really nice. “Thank you so much, Hobie.” You said quietly before excusing yourself and saying you had to go. His eyes softened, he only nodded, asking if he could talk to you again. “I hate to say it, but I can't be seen with you.” 

Hobie sighed, his fingertip tapped at his lip ring, he seemed lost in thoughts. “And if we meet in secret?” He looked down at you, you were so short compared to him. “You can come over to my place, no one will know you were with me and I could show you some of my world.” He spoke so proudly when he mentioned introducing you to his world. And even though you technically shouldn't be meeting him, you were more than curious. So you agreed at last.

Obviously, someone saw you with Hobie. Your parents weren't proud of you for talking to him. You had no other choice than to lie, just like you did when it came to who you really felt about yourself. 

Yes, I like this dress. 

Yes, I like those shoes.

Yes, my hair is so pretty when it's so long.

Yes, I am a girl.

You had to lie, even though you wish you didn't have to. But you hoped that at the end of the day, when you were praying before going to sleep, God would forgive you for lying to everyone around you. He would understand, right?

So, as always, you lied, telling your parents that Hobie asked for some help because he was a newcomer and didn't know the town very well. Your parents weren't happy you talked to him, but knew, or at least believed, you were too good and polite to refuse to help him. They didn't think twice about it, allowing you to go to your room. They didn't mention Hobie braiding your hair, so you just assumed they didn't know about it, so you decided not to mention it either. It was better to keep your mouth shut.

You were careful when the day of visiting Hobie came. You told your parents that you went to study the bible at your friend's house. They didn't suspect a thing. You made sure no one could see you as you made your way to Hobie's apartment. And soon enough, you were in front of the door of his apartment.

You knocked lightly, heard the sound of locks being unlocked and then the door finally opened. You saw Hobie and he looked at you with that same softness like the last time. But this time he rubbed one eye with a cotton pad. You had a look of confusion on your face when you saw that.

“Come in, luv.” He moved so you could come inside, but instead of looking around, you watched him.

“Are you… wiping off your makeup?” The question sounded so stupid in your mind. Men weren't wearing makeup… right?

Hobie chuckled softly before going to the bathroom to wipe the makeup off more precisely in front of the mirror. You saw a few small eyeshadow palettes with bright eyeshadow in them, along with eyeliner and even two lipsticks. Even you didn't own that much makeup, you barely had any makeup since your parents didn't want you to paint your face like a whore.

“Yeah. I have been to a small party outside the town, so I wanted to look me best.” Hobie explained, before throwing a dirty pad into the bin. He then turned to you, it was obvious that you never saw a man wearing makeup before. You've never seen someone like him before. He allowed himself to check you out, you had a long skirt and a cute top that matched the skirt so well. “I am guessing you never wore the kind of makeup I usually go for?”

His hand grabbed one of the eyeshadow palettes and gave it to you, so you could see the inside better. You didn't think much and opened it. You hand one makeup palette and it was mostly light browns, one a little more glittery eyeshadow and two light pinks. But Hobie’s? It was so colorful. Red, blue, green and yellow. All of them so bright and pigmented.

He smiled when he saw your reaction, he felt excitement in his stomach. You looked stunned. “Why don't I finally show you that punk rock?” He left the bathroom and you followed him. His apartment was a little messy. Posters on every wall, some chokers and other jewelry scattered in some places and some clothes laying around. But his room was even better. It was so… him. You could see the room scream Hobie. Even more posters, a guitar. It might have been a little messy, but it had so much character.

Hobie moved to the old cd player and in the matter of seconds, the loud music played. Black Flag on full volume. At first you weren't sure what to think, but soon, you started loving it. You stopped caring about anything when the music played, banging your head to the rhythm. At first a little shyly, but then you were more confident about it, not caring if you were going to mess up your hair. You looked so happy, you felt so happy. It has been since you felt like that.

Even since Hobie came here, he finally saw your smile, the real and sincere smile on that face of yours. But he saw it falter when Can't Decide by the Black Flag started playing.

Sun's coming up and I can't decide

To spill my emotions or keep them inside

Go for a drive, go to the store

I'm looking for something that can't be bought there

I always wear a smile

Because anything but a smile would make me have to explain

And they wouldn't understand anyway

And they wouldn't understand anyway

I conceal my feelings so I won't have to explain

What I can't explain anyway

It hit so close to home, you almost started sobbing. Hobie saw it immediately and turned the music off. He sat next to you, one arm around you while he rubbed your arm with the other to comfort you. He barely knew you, but he was so concerned about your well being already. “What happened, dove?” He asked so quietly, almost as if he was scared he might make you start crying just by asking.

But you weren't ready to admit what has been going inside your head for months. And he could see that so well. A few tears went down your cheeks so you asked for a tissue. You smudged your makeup a bit, but luckily Hobie was able to fix it with the only brown palette he owned, the one had forgotten about since he never used it.

You gathered your things and apologized. “Don't apologize, luv. Just know you can come and talk about what's going on in that pretty head of yours.” You only nodded before leaving. 

Your parents weren't home by the time you came back, they were probably in the neighbor's house, talking and eating how they did once in a while. Probably praising you how good and obedient you were, and how they were happy to have a daughter like you.

And after that situation at Hobie's place, it became harder to pretend. It became hard not to cry when you were called a perfect daughter, pretty girl and beautiful woman. You couldn't wait any longer, you had to talk with someone about it. And the only person who would not judge you was Hobie. 

It has been a while since you talked to him. But you came back, trembling, looking like you were about to start crying at any given moment. Hobie didn't think twice, he just let you in, sat down on the floor while he seated you on his bed. His calloused hands found yours and he caressed them gently in order to comfort you.

And finally, after all this time, you opened up about what has been on your mind for all those months. You explained how you felt trapped in your own body, how you hated being seen as a girl and how much it hurt when you were called and seen as one. How much you just wanted to be yourself.

Hobie's eyes softened, his hand touched your delicate cheek as his thumb stroked it. You didn't flinch away from his touch, instead you leaned into his hand, enjoying the way he touched you. “Darlin’, I think you might be trans.”

“I might be what?” Your nose was already stuffed from all that crying, making your voice sound funny. Hobie sighed before his lips curled into the soften of smiled. 

“Trans, hun.” You still looked confused, but he wasn't going to blame you. You've been living in a place where you were too scared to be yourself, you couldn't name your feelings even though you have been feeling them for months. It was obvious these people weren't talking about things like that, at least not in the way that would make you want to explore those feelings.

“It's uh, it's when your body doesn't match how you feel on the inside. Like you, you have been born as a woman, but you don't feel like one, don't you?” You shook your head, of course you didn't feel like a woman. Thinking about yourself as a woman didn't feel right. 

Hobie got an idea. “Why don't you go to the bathroom and take all of that off? I'll bring ya some clothes and then you'll tell me how you feel.” He helped you with making your way to the bathroom and closed the door after you. You took off the dress, standing in nothing more than your underwear. It felt a bit less suffocating to not be wearing that stupid dress.

Soon, you heard Hobie knock on the door. “I have some stuff I think might look good on you.” You covered yourself with the towel that was near you, not wanting for Hobie to see your body. But he didn't even peek in, instead he held the clothes for you, letting you grab them before he quickly closed the door behind him.

You looked down at the clothes. Some distressed jeans with patches and studded belt, white shirt with some graffiti, which you assumed was decorated by Hobie himself and even some hand warmers to match the outfit.

You had put on the outfit and left the bathroom, only to see Hobie waiting for you. His eyes sparkled when he saw you. And he could see it in your face that you felt better. He looked so excited for you.

But you still had that long braid. “Let me…” Hobie murmured before you felt him touch your hair again. You weren't sure what he did exactly, but when you stepped in front of the mirror, your hair looked so short. It wasn't perfect, but you loved how your hair looked, way more than it looked in a braid, ponytail or any other hairstyle you were used to. You looked like a boy, and you were so happy.

At that very moment, you knew you couldn't go back to how your life was before. You couldn't go back to wearing dresses, praying to the God that probably never listened to you and did not care about you. You could no longer pretend that you were the perfect girl you were seen as until now.

Hobie's hands grabbed you by your shoulder. “Do you want me to call by a different name?” He asked, glancing at your reflection in the mirror as he rubbed your shoulders. You thought about it for a moment, before looking up at him and speaking up. “Do you think [Name] would suit me?”

Hobie chuckled and nodded. “Definitely, luv. Definitely.” He couldn't help himself and softly kissed your cheek. You were surprised by the sudden affection, but you enjoyed it.

“I want you to cut my hair. I want it short..” You said so suddenly, your voice was a little shaky, but you couldn't wait anymore. You have wanted to cut it for a while and you didn't want anyone else other than Hobie to do it. He was surprised by you. He didn't expect you to want to do it now.

“Are you su–” 

“Yes, I am sure.” You cut him off, you didn't want to be mean, but you couldn't wait any longer. “Please… I don't want to go back to what was before. I don't want to pretend to be someone who I am not.” You begged, you sounded so desperate. He couldn't say no to you when you sounded like that.

“Okay.” He said, giving your shoulders a squeeze before he took you to the bathroom. He brought a small stool and seated you on it. He grabbed a scissors, untied your hair, looking at it for the last time before he started cutting it. You squeezed your eyes shut, your stomach swirling with anxiety, as you listened to the sound of the scissors cutting your hair.

Snip! Snip! Snip!

You felt your hair, your hair that you got so many compliments on, tickling your arms and neck before it fell down on the bathroom floor. “Done.” Hobie said, his voice was flat. It made you worry. Did you look bad? Did he mess up your hair? Was it a mistake?

He brushed the cut hair off of you, before you stood up and looked in the mirror. It was not perfect, but it still made you feel good. You started sobbing immediately. “Dove? Are you alright?” Hobie asked, worried and a little panicked.

“I've never felt better.” You sobbed out and he sighed, relieved that you liked it. He hugged you tightly, being so glad to see you happy with who you were.

But it couldn't go on forever. You came home pretty late, still wearing the clothes Hobie gave you earlier. And in the hoodie he gave so you wouldn't be cold while coming back home. You knew confrontation wouldn't be something you were able to avoid . And you knew it wouldn't be a light confrontation either.

Your parents were sitting in the living room. As soon as you closed the front door behind you, you heard your father call you by the name you no longer wished to be called by. You took a deep breath, pulling a hood over your head before you entered the living room. Your parents eyes were immediately on you, your mother gasped loudly.

“What the fuck is that!?” Your father yelled, he stood up and grabbed you by the hood and yanked it off your head. He intended to grab you by your hair, but there was nothing to grab. Your lovely long hair was long gone and there was nothing they could do about it. In a way, that made you proud.

“What have you done to yourself!?” Your mother shouted with tears in her eyes. You've never seen her crying and you didn't expect her to get so emotional. She always seemed so cold. “Where's your hair? Your dress?” She's never been so panicked. “What will we say to the others once they see that your hair is gone? What will they think of us? What will they think of you?”

There was this need to apologize, turn the time back and never let yourself explore who you really were. But you weren't going to let this need win. You have been obedient for way too long. You were pretending for way too long and now? You were tired of it.

“I don't fucking care what are they going to think of me!” You shouted back. Both of your parents were startled by the fact that you just cursed. They never heard you curse, nor did they hear you sound so confident. “I have been pretending to be someone who I wasn't me for way too long. I am not going to let you decide about how I am anymore!” 

Slap!

Your father slapped you so hard you fell to the floor. Your cheek was all red already. You and your mother were both shocked. Your father was about to take his belt off and start beating you, but your mother stopped him. “I am sure there's something we can do instead of beating her up. People will notice and they might think we were the one to cut her hair off. We can buy a wig until her hair grows back.”

“I am not growing it back and I am not putting the dresses back on.” You hissed. Maybe you shouldn't have done that, but you ripped off the virgin Mary necklace off your neck and threw it.

Your parents were more than shocked at your action. “She must have been corrupted by that punk!” Your mother cried out. “What are we going to–” Your father lost his temper. Instead of beating you up like he initially planned, he grabbed you and threw you out the door. “I no longer have a daughter!” It was the last thing you heard before he closed the door.

Soon, your father started throwing your things out the window. All those gorgeous dresses and skirts flying out the window. Before you were terrified to even slightly rip them and now? You didn't care that they got dirty, they stopped mattering to you. You only waited for your father to throw your phone. You wanted to catch it, but it fell onto the concrete, the phone screen broke, but luckily for you, you still were able to use it. You grabbed some more important things that your father had thrown and then made your way to Hobie's apartment.

He was concerned, but both of you knew it was better that way. If you stayed, nothing would change and everything would go worse. More praying, more femininity, more pretending. But you weren't going to stay with your parents, luckily Hobie said you could stay with him.

You were laying with Hobie in his bed. You were so lost in your thoughts and he could see it clearly. Hobie laid on his side to face you, the tips of his fingers brushed against your jaw to get your attention. You turned to look at him. “You okay?” You put your hands on your face and sighed.

“I'm fine. It’s just… I've wanted to be myself for a while and I…” You paused for a moment, not looking into Hobie's eyes. In a way, it all felt unreal. Usually, you would now be in your bed, reading the bible or praying. And now, you were laying with a man you didn't know very well, but he gave you everything you could have asked for. Acceptance, help and hope. 

Your eyes finally met his again. “I didn't expect that it would actually happen. I thought I was going to be everyone's perfect girl until I die, but you came into my life and changed everything. Thank you so much for that.” You smiled at him, you were so grateful he came into your life. He smiled back at you and leaned to kiss your cheek.

“You're very welcome, luv.” 

You both left the town as quickly as you could since that happened. Now, it has been 6 years since the day you met him. Everything has been truly perfect since then. Your transition was going well and you recently had your top surgery.

And Hobie? He was with you the whole time. During the first appointment at the doctor, he helped you take your first testosterone shot and he held your hand both before and after the surgery.

Life couldn't be more perfect and you never felt more perfect.

taglist: @sk3llly

[j0kb0x]

Since guts and blackpowder gives us free range for the characters here’s some personal headcanons for their personalities and lives given you can only psychoanalyze them so much. This is as realistic as I can make it based off surface level psychoanalysis + untrue garbage I made up.

Barry:

Despite his short temper (Typical brit) Williams is socially inept and shy. Like super timid. That dumb little softboy persona he has going on there shouldn’t be an indicator that he isn’t dangerous. Dude literally got trained as an infantry solider. He doesn’t want to hurt people, in fact, he avoids it when he can. The war is needless to him and he doesn’t understand why they’d draft someone like him — a lowly stableboy who’s quite known in his village for treating his horses and farm animals like his babies. His overly affectionate and polite personality (which came directly from his overbearing mother) has landed him a lot of bullying by his peers. Aforementioned hesitation to the enemy, but to zombies? He’s under the belief they’re from satan himself like the rest of the world. Afraid of them, but feels a spiritual duty to slay God’s enemies.

Jean:

He’s overly paranoid of Napoleon failing, and holds those french revolutionary beliefs. He wants Napoleon to win, so badly. He really doesn’t want his children living in a world with a stupid monarchy eating better than they do. Jean has no comprehension that maybe Napoleon isn’t the best fit for a country’s leader, in fact he’ll yell at you if you suggest otherwise. His wife died during childbirth and this, coupled with war has hardened him. He has never laid a single hand on his children because his father was deeply abusive, and of course this resulted in a pretty pessimistic, sad, depressed mess of a man. Constantly wanting better and yet fearing the worst. He’s a tough love kind of fatherly friend. Eat your damn rations or you will die. Speaking of which he literally wants to die :D

Jacob:

If this were modern day he’d be legally blind. His clumsiness isn’t the result of stupidity. The direct opposite in fact. He overthinks his job way too much and couple that with his dogshit eyesight, it’s no wonder he has a track record of being the napoleonic war’s personal south park Kenny. If ever a cartoon were made, I could l definitely see him in the background nailing in stakes incorrectly and getting confused as to why it wasn’t as affective as the other sapper’s. He has two sisters back at home and they hate him. They’re pro-monarchy, he isn’t. He raised and took care of these awful pieces of shit. Who were independent thinking teenagers by the time their parents died of sickness. So he couldn’t really influence them even if he tried. He has largely remained non(?) un(?) courted and unmarried his entire life. Hes a huge wine mom induced by stress and if you ever asked him why he never took a wife, he’d start spontaneously crying probably. Sad drunk. Cannot show emotions unless he’s drunk.

Karl / Unnamed Officer:

Selective mutism, ambition.. Way too much ambition. He wants to take down Napoleon himself and even fully believes he’s capable of doing so. Wants to cheat his way above the ranks somehow. He hides this and refuses to reveal his intentions to virtually anyone. Trying to get as close to the general as possible. Not because he agrees with the monarchy thing, but he just wants the fame and glory that comes along with executing him. The other men have horrible tempers but him? Holy. shit. He does not usually act upon his anger but as a wise man once said, “Silence speaks louder than words.” He silently judges those he’s angry at. Could imagine him getting teased, gripping a damn teacup so hard that it shatters in his hand and causes the entire room to go quiet. His whole regiment is batshit TERRIFIED of him. He refuses to betray his life story, let alone if he has any family. Nobody knows crap about him and that furthers the fear. Karl literally popped out of nowhere and his adorable babyface and gentle voice has won him the hearts of women wishing to be his wives… Whom he rudely pushed away in disgust. Has anyone seen that one scene in pootie tang where a woman is simping after him, and so he slips her a bowl of milk like a fucking clingy cat? Yeah I feel Karl would pull something like that.

[mullermilkshake]

Politician Suguru Geto

Suguru is a well rounded politician on paper, he wins the hearts of voters and is absolutely adored across the country.

That is, until he is alone with you, his wife, behind closed doors. Manipulative is an understatement and to be frank, it's what's gotten him this far in the politics world.

In other words, he is a bastard.

He's never raised a hand to you, but that's because he doesn't need to. His words are ammunition enough to force you into a corner and collect here he wants you.

It's not like you can even tell anyone. They won't believe you for a minute. But the way he looks at you when you try to defy him would dissolve even the most solid stone heart into a pit of acid.

He uses the fact that you blame yourself for an incident years back. You weren't to blame, you know that, but he uses it to keep you right where you are, so that you don't ask for a divorce or break away. You foolishly believed that he actually loved you, despite how he still claims he does.

He doesn't love you, he just want's to own you. And all the time he's holding that guilt over your head, your shoulders can't ever be free to shift his own weighted baggage.

So you smile and pretend everything is okay, even if you are plotting his murder one hundred times a day in your head where even Suguru can't hear you.

One day you'll leave. That's a promise.

[shizuturnspages]

could i bother you for anything u got on yandere thoma and gorou? not poly (^///^)

thank you ^^

I've got loads for these two

Here you go, darling <3

Yandere Thoma

❥ On the surface, Thoma’s just the perfect, helpful guy. Everyone loves him because he’s always got that warm smile, that dependable attitude. But the moment you catch his eye? That sweetness turns into a suffocating need to have you all to himself. Thoma’s still polite, still charming, but now every kind gesture has an edge to it. He’s making sure you’re comfortable, but also making sure no one else can get near you. You might not even notice it at first—he’s just so damn good at hiding his obsession under that sweet smile.

❥ Thoma’s loyalty is next level. Once he’s decided you’re his, he’ll do anything to keep you safe. And by “safe,” I mean locked down under his watchful eye. He’ll make sure you’re always taken care of—cooking your meals, fixing your clothes, always being there when you need him. But that helpfulness has a dark side. He’s monitoring who you talk to, where you go, and who even dares to show interest in you. He’ll take care of any “threats” to your safety, and you won’t even realize how deep his control runs.

❥ Thoma’s a master at using guilt to keep you close. He’ll never raise his voice or threaten you outright—that’s not his style. Instead, he’ll make you feel like you owe him for all the things he’s done. He’ll remind you, subtly, that no one else will take care of you like he does. “I just want to make sure you’re okay,” he’ll say, with that soft smile, but the weight of his words will trap you. He’s so good at making you feel guilty for even thinking about leaving, it’s almost fucking impossible to escape.

❥ Thoma will slowly, methodically, isolate you from everyone else. But he’ll make it seem like it’s all for your own good. “I don’t trust them around you,” he’ll say about your friends, “I just want to protect you.” And soon enough, you’ll find yourself with fewer and fewer people in your life, until it’s just you and him. He’ll make sure he’s the only one you can rely on, the only one who truly “understands” you. And before you know it, Thoma’s become your whole fucking world.

Yandere Gorou

❥ Thoma’s so good at playing the nice guy, but when you start to push back? That’s when you’ll see the cracks in his facade. He won’t snap outright, but you’ll feel the shift in his energy—like there’s something darker lurking just beneath the surface. His smile will still be there, but there’ll be an intensity in his eyes, a warning that he’s not going to let you go that easily. He’s spent too much time, too much effort, making you his. And now, he’s not about to lose you to anyone or anything.

❥ Gorou’s loyalty is legendary, but when it’s focused on you? It becomes fucking insane. He’ll do anything to protect you, anything to make sure you’re safe, even if it means going to extremes. You become the center of his world, and every action he takes is to serve you. He’ll treat you like his commander—someone to protect at all costs—and he’ll follow your every command, but the second you step out of line or try to leave? That loyalty turns into dangerous fucking obsession.

❥ Gorou’s always been protective, but now? It’s on a whole other fucking level. No one gets near you without going through him first. He’ll growl, literally, if anyone even dares to look at you the wrong way. His senses are on high alert, always tuned in to your presence, always watching to make sure no one steps out of line. And if someone tries to take you from him? They’re fucking done. Gorou’s not afraid to show his teeth when it comes to protecting what’s his.

❥ Gorou’s not one to raise his voice or force you into submission, no—that’s too obvious. Instead, he’ll use guilt, his own vulnerability, to keep you close. He’ll remind you of all he’s done for you, of how much he cares, of how he needs you. “You’re the only one who understands me,” he’ll say, with those big, sad eyes, making it impossible for you to leave. He’s so fucking good at making you feel like you’re responsible for his well-being, trapping you in a web of emotional manipulation.

❥ Gorou’s protective instincts are already through the roof, but as a yandere? Holy shit. He won’t just watch over you; he’ll smother you with his care. Every little thing you do, he’ll worry about. “You shouldn’t go out today, it’s dangerous.” “Let me handle that, I don’t want you to get hurt.” And soon enough, you’ll find yourself unable to take a step without him hovering nearby. It’s suffocating, but he’ll make you believe it’s all because he cares. And the worst part? He really does. But that care comes with a heavy fucking price.

❥ Despite his loyalty, Gorou has a mean jealous streak. You wouldn’t expect it from the good boy general, but when he sees someone else getting too close to you? Oh, shit gets dangerous. He’ll try to keep his cool, but the second you give someone else attention, that possessive side comes out in full force. He might not snap right away, but he’ll confront them later, with that low growl and those sharp fucking eyes. And if they don’t back off? Well, accidents happen, don’t they?

[spiritussancto1]

lawyer Regulus Black?

writers i gift unto you this idea. someone who knows something about the law please write this cause i don't know shit and i really don't want to do the research, i'll end up studying for the bar. the adhd is WILD.

Regulus "law is a gentleman's profession" Black. Lawyer Regulus Black with a fantastic excuse to wear very expensive perfectly tailored suits every day. who definitely came from money and took advantage with the best schools, a comfortable home etc, but now takes pride in NOT living off the Black fortune, thank you very much. he's still working through some of his privilege.

Regulus Black as a prosecutor who is absolutely out for blood against anyone hurting the vulnerable. he could be rather disapproving of his wild older sibling's best friend. he knows Siri is the more reckless of that pair but they egg each other on! they're going to get into real trouble one day...

Divorce lawyer Regulus Black who is so comforting and kind and thoughtful behind closed doors and absolutely terrifying in the courtroom.

Autistic lawyer Regulus Black who loves the order and rules of the court, and that (hopefully, maybe, generally) we're trying to do the right thing. it doesn't always work but it's all we have, really. lawyer Regulus Black who was raised to work within the system. with some pretty grey morals that he works on over time.

Defense lawyer Regulus Black who really does think everyone deserves a fair trial and representation. one of the few who still say that with real sincerity. he could meet the rest of the skittles more easily that way, be they other lawyers or defendants.

Slightly corrupt lawyer Regulus Black? perhaps finding his way back to being a good person or perhaps pushed into the corruption? AU with the black family having their fingers in the muggle world and its political powers and courts. pick any country you like for this really

Trans Regulus Black who took the education and ran away now that he could take care of himself. transitioning away from his parents and living totally separately, meeting up years later for some legal matter and they don't recognize him at all. but now he's done the therapy work and isn't scared of them any more. Regulus telling the court officer to please make sure Walburga and Orion aren't regularly interacting with any children because he is a mandatory reporter isn't he? "you see now she's scared. cause I know everything about you and I don't owe you loyalty any more"

please take this idea and run with it. i'm already a reggie kinnie but my anxiety is too high and my adhd too bad to end up studying law and that's how i research as a writier

[andy-15-07]

Our Love

masterlist ! pairing: Coriolanus Snow x reader

SUMMARY : a morning full of love and declarations

GENRE: fluff, loveeee

Coriolanus Snow never thought he would care about anyone, until Y/n appeared in his life. His life changed radically.

Y/n, now Coryo's fiancee, only she is allowed to call him that, turned his world upside down, with her beauty, intelligence and the smile he fell in love with.

They met during the Academy and it didn't take long for Coriolanus to ask Y/n if she wanted to be his girlfriend.

All their colleagues thought that they are very different, Y/n is the most likeable, funny, beautiful and intelligent person, and Coriolanus is not too open with his feelings, his eyes are a blue color that can make you lose your mind thoughts, cold with other people but with Y/n it's completely different.

When Coriolanus had to go to District 12 as a peacekeeper, Y/n knew what Coriolanus did, but his girlfriend didn't judge him, they found ways to communicate. Y/n knew the conditions her boyfriend was living in, but that didn't stop her from loving him, she helped Coryo's family.

Every morning I wake up alone, Coryo's side is empty, either he went to solve some things or he is in his office, but this morning everything is different.

I turn and see my dear fiancé, he was sleeping on his back, and the sun's rays were falling on him, his hair was stuck to his forehead, he looked so calm when he was sleeping and peaceful. The blanket was at the level of his hips, Coriolanus always slept only in boxers, he always says that he likes to be wanted so he feels even closer to him.

I've been studying him for a few minutes, but I didn't realize he was awake until he made a sudden move to bring me as close to him as possible.

"You know it's not polite to stare while some people are sleeping?". he tells me and pulls me to his chest.

"I know, but you weren't sleeping, you were awake and I wasn't staring, I was just admiring your beauty." I tell him and return to his arms, I raise my head and I'm already met with the most beautiful eyes I've ever seen in my life and it belongs to my future husband.

"Good morning my love!" He tells me and kisses me on the forehead.

"Good morning Coryo! Do you have anything to do today? I hope you don't leave me alone again..." I say and look down, with the hope that I will make him stay with me at home, more precisely that we spend the whole day in bed, in each other's arms.

"I don't have anything to do today, I don't have any meeting or anything related to work. But what's with all these questions my dear?" He tells me and I can't look him in the eyes because it seems a little childish to me that I don't want to be alone, but it's been a long time since we spent the whole day together.

"Because I miss sitting with you, sitting in bed, in your arms, like we used to do before." I say and I look at him, he had a small smile and nodded, he came closer and kissed me.

Coriolanus is the first to break the kiss and look at me while tucking my hair behind my ear.

"What do you say about this, we spend all day here in the bedroom, doing whatever you want, watching TV, reading, cooking. Everything my dear future wife wants, you agree." He tells me and pulls me closer to him and kisses me all over my face, this makes me laugh.

"I agree, my dear future husband." I tell him and put my head on his chest, and my hand finds his and we intertwine our fingers together and Coriolanus puts our hands on his chest, next to his heart.

As hard as it would be to find time for the other, we will always have something that attracts us, the love for the other, regardless of the time, place or event.

We are together until death do us part.

[danibee33]

The Queen’s Guard- Chapter 5: Leap

knight!simon riley x queen!reader

cw: dark themes, suicidal ideation, suicide attempt, *read at your own discretion* take care of yourselves & know that the world is better to have you in it🫶🏻

word count: 3.6k

[<<<chapter 4]

It’s quiet, when you step out onto your balcony. Peaceful. Finally.

The days had come and gone, three, to be exact- after Johnny and Simon had become privy to the king’s violence towards you. And, much to your chagrin, they didn’t seem to believe when you told them you would be fine, that these things happen, and you are not naive enough to believe that they would have never happened to you at some point.

It is a woman’s place in the world, after all, to serve her father, her lords, her husband, her king. Even a queen does not see any favor in this regard, at least not in a way that matters, no, not to you-

”Do you pity me, Ser Simon?”

Your question stumps him for a moment, as he watches you closely, following three paces behind you- no more, no less. He’s watched you stroll through the stables like this, nodding your head so politely, greeting the hands and lords, alike, with a kind smile.

And ever so often, you’ll peek over your shoulder- though, he doesn’t imagine a world where you could possibly think he wouldn’t be there when you cast your fleeting glances.

But pity you? No.. he only pities the king isn’t here right now, so that he could show the man how it feels to have a much stronger hand wrapped around his puny neck-

The thought brings a sneer to his face, one he’s glad you cannot see.

“No, My Queen.”

You stop in front of Johnny’s horse, a tall, leggy beast; his color such a deep chestnut, it almost looks red in the sunlight, save for a perfect white blaze that runs from his forelock to his muzzle-

“I suppose I should be grateful.” You hum with amusement, though your expression is anything but, “Some of us get a taste on our wedding night, hm.. At least I got a few years of peace. If you can call it that-”

He reaches forward without thought, a large, black clad hand coming down tenderly to rest on your forearm,

“Don’t say that-”

A quiet clatter from just outside reminds him of how unduly this might look, how familiar he’s let himself get with you. Simon’s never been one for physical touch, but the small, terribly chaste moments have only grown in abundance. A graze of your hand here, or a brushing of your shoulder there.

He just can’t seem to be close enough to you, and he loathes himself for it-

You watch him step back to a respectable distance before he continues speaking lowly, close enough for you to hear, but far enough to excuse if anyone were to see; you think about how sweetly the tickle of his breath might feel against your skin, and his next words do nothing to chase those thoughts,

“No one deserves that, least of all, you, My Queen.” It’s so hard to keep your eyes forward, your hands feel too idle, your body far too wired, too aware of his proximity, “When a man touches a woman, it should never be out of anger, it should never be to cause pain, or inspire fear.”

His tone dips into a growl at the end, one that causes a deep shiver to creep up your spine and your hair to raise on end,

“No.. Do not be grateful for that- a man’s touch should be kind and gentle, it is a man’s duty to protect and reassure, to give comfort, and pleasure.”

That same shiver turns impossibly hot now, your skin prickling with such a deep-seated desire to know exactly what he means, to know the implications that were implied. But, you could not know, and you know he couldn’t give that to you, try as he might. You wouldn’t let him.

His words ring in your head now, just as loud as they did hours ago. Painfully clear and repetitive, the feelings they brought with it wrapping you in a shroud, one that you can’t quite decide if you like or not- because you can’t tell if it brings you a sense of caring, or if it just reminds you how alone you are in this situation.

But when every direction you look in feels wrong, like a dead end, how else are you suppose to feel? What else can you do?

The winds pick up for a moment as you stare out over the gardens, bringing with it a thick wave of petrichor; the storm moving close enough to scent the air and fill the sky with brilliant flashes of lightning in the distance.

How fitting..

This is good, no one will be out, and the rain will come soon enough to wash you clean of your sins-

Maybe a part of you will stay here with the gardens. You did always enjoy when your mother’s maids would tell their enthralling tales of ghastly apparitions, of the souls who either chose not, or could not, move on to the afterlife- so they stay behind to haunt amongst the living.

The gardens were your solace in life, so perhaps you could find peace in them again- if you could not move on. Or perhaps, your soul might find its way home, where you can watch over your sweet Johnny, see your family grow old.

Poor Johnny.. He’ll be so heartbroken..

Sharp nails dig into the skin of your palms as you scolding your own traitorous thoughts. That’s not what you needed right now, not when you must be resolute and sure. Yes, he will be heartbroken, but he will be alive, he will live out his days just as you made him promise.

And he had promised to go home today, promised to settle the matter of his inheritance and speak with his father- though, it was surely not a one-sided promise. Johnny had only, reluctantly, mounted his horse after you also promised to come visit in two weeks time, just long enough for you to make preparations.

You hated lying to him, you really did, every second of it made you feel ill to your stomach- but, he’s gone, on his way home, safe.

But Simon..

He is standing his post right now, right there. Exactly where he should be. You could go to him, you could demand he take off his helmet so that you may finally, finally see his face, so that he could be the last thing you see before you go-

No, you could never demand something like that of him. What ever reasons he has for hiding his face are his own.. and what would you do if he did remove it, anyway?

Would you ask for a kiss? Or, just that he hold you, truly hold you, just one time-

You can’t help but to smile at your own innocent foolishness; a kiss? To be held? What silly whims..

You did write him a letter, too. And it was difficult, trying to articulate the feelings you have for him, for this man you’ve never seen, this man who by every right, you should not feel anything for- but, you wanted to try.

Because you hope, maybe, that your words will give him some comfort. You don’t want him to feel guilty, or like it might have been his fault- and you have a feeling not many people have expressed such things to a Ghost..

A quiet laugh erupts from your chest then, followed by a choked sort of sound, wet and syrupy and thick in your throat at the terrible, awful idea that one day you might be ghosts together. Right back in the gardens, walking among the fragrant flowers and tall hedges, you might find each other again-

With that thought, and a deep, shaky breath, you lift the skirt of your nightgown and step up onto the lower stone surrounding, lifting your legs up and over the intricate railing one at a time. A hearty gust of wind whips your hair back and forth, and you gasp as you truly take in just how high off the ground you are, your hands gripping the iron beneath them with every bit of strength you have to muster.

But, you don’t feel scared.

You feel an odd rush of excitement, no, that’s not right- it’s far more nuanced than that. And perhaps, it’s just that this is undoubtedly the most reckless and thrilling thing you’ve ever done. The small taste of freedom intoxicating, having rarely, if ever, made a single decision for yourself that was selfish in every facet.

It is a shame, you think, that it took so long. And what if, you don’t do this? Will this confidence still be here tomorrow? Or days from now? Months, when your king is back-

No, no.. don’t do that.

You feel the softest splash of a raindrop on your cheek, then another, more after that. It’s still unseasonably warm out, making the cool liquid feel refreshing against your feverish skin, and the stormy breeze a reprieve.

But, if it all feels so wonderful, like a child again, simply playing in the rain, why do you feel the salty heat of tears mixing with the raindrops?

And why can’t you tell if they’re out of sadness, or relief, or some horrific mixture of the two?

“My Queen.”

At the sound of his voice, the droplets no longer feel good or refreshing, and the wind does not help the burning in your skin because the heat has been replaced with an icy dread. He was not suppose to be here, he shouldn’t have left his post, there couldn’t have been a good reason to, and you told him, you made it very clear that you were not to be disturbed tonight-

“My Queen, don’t move. Let me-”

“No.”

You still haven’t turned to look at him, you can’t, not if you wish to keep the resolve you’ve forged. Because you know, one look at those damned eyes and you would crumble at his feet.

“Go back to your post, Ser Simon.”

He steps closer as you speak, the sound his movements muffled by your voice, and the now howling winds that blow wildly around you. This is something he never imagined to see, not now, and certainly not when you had left him outside your chambers door.

He knew you were grieving seeing Johnny go- no matter the forced smiles, he knew your expressions, he could read you like a book. But, this..

Once again he finds himself internally cursing his own ineptitudes because how could he make the same mistake again? How could he not see that he let a monster into your room and locked you in with it.

“Come down, and I will.”

You bark out a laugh, your fingers growing fatigued and your legs beginning to tremble as you hold on,

“Do not forget your place, good Ser.. You do not command me, and I have no patience for your bargaining.”

The words feel like the most bitter of poisons on your tongue, but you ground them out anyway. If you could just push him away, if you could make him go- then you can finish this. You can save him, save him from yourself, and the stain you would leave on his name, his very life.

“You’re right.. I’m sorry, My Queen. But, please-”

Simon can feel the edges of his nerves fraying in every direction as he speaks that one helpless plea, his knees feel weaker than ever before, his fingers twitch and clench together, longing desperately to reach for you- to pull you away from danger, pull you into his arms, and never let you go because he cannot lose you. Not when he’s only just found you. And certainly not like this.

He would drop to his knees and vow all over again, vow on his life, that he will make you see how worthy you are to be in this world, and that it is the world that is not worthy of you. But, he’s also seen this before, seen good soldiers lose battles that are quiet, invisible to everyone around them. Hells, he’s been to the depths of his own mind, and it nearly saw the end of him-

“No, Simon.” Your voice is surprisingly confident and steeled as you squint against the rain, your nightgown clinging to your goose pimpled skin and your hair stuck in thick strands across your face, “I do not want you to be here. I relieve you of this responsibility- and please know, that this is of no fault of your own. You are good, and kind, and you have been-”

A small sob wracks through you, knowing that you are just prolonging the inevitable, knowing that all you are doing now is subjecting him to your own unguided anguish.

So, so selfish.. He will be better without you-

“Look at me,” He calls out your name, and you almost give in, almost.

“No. NO. I cannot do that, and you know I can’t. I can’t live like this, but if I stay, or if I run, people I love will be hurt- and I cannot see that happen. I cannot live my life in fear of my husband’s hand. I do not want to be his plaything, or his broodmare, but I have nothing else! This is all I was ever meant to be- it’s all I’ve never known, but you can’t possibly understand.”

Slowly, you pry one hand open, and that thrilling rush of terror and anticipation floods you again, the ground below doesn’t look so far away now, and the gardens are right there, a pretty view-

”I’m so sorry.”

“No! LOOK. AT. ME!”

Something in his voice, in the unwavering, undeniable authority and desperation makes your head turn without permission. Through the mist and shadows, you see his familiar armor glinting in the sparse, pale rays of moonlight that have fought their way through the clouds. But, that’s not what makes your eyes widen, and your jaw to go slack.

It’s his helmet hanging loosely from the tips of his fingers, his face- his face- bared to you, dark hair matting to his forehead under the weight of the water, amber eyes intense and focused,

“Simon..”

You blink in surprise when he thrusts the helm towards you suddenly, his dark eyebrows furrowing as he all but glares back at you, and gods, you wish you could just see him better- see the soft angle of his nose in proper lighting, and the dark scar that runs across the bridge of it,

“Take it. It is yours now.” He demands, stepping close enough for you to reach for it if you choose, “I swore my life to you, and I meant it, every word. To defend you from harm or threat.”

One more step.

“To obey your commands. To defend your honor and your name. To counsel if requested, and remain silent and steadfast at your side otherwise. To never wed, take no land, and father no children.”

Again, he pushes it closer, looking down at it with anger and fondness before looking back up to you; and the most errant thought crosses your mind of how many people he’s ever actually had to cast his eyes upward for,

“My life is yours, My Queen. I.. am yours.”

No. No. You can’t, and you shouldn’t- and yet, your hand reaches forward, your fingers shaking, and your cheeks so covered with tears that you don’t know where they stop and the rain begins.

The steel is cold and wet, and you hardly feel the weight of it at all as you stare down at the angular cutouts for his eyes, wide and sharp; the raised crest that runs vertically from the peak of his face shield to the very back. You’ve always thought his armor to be such a beautiful amalgamation of elegant lines and aggressive angles, which seeing his face now, you can see how it matches him so perfectly-

A very unladylike shriek parts your lips the moment your fingers find purchase, Simon using your hold on his helmet to jerk you forward, and in the blink of an eye, a strong arm loops around your waist as he pulls you up and over the railing,

“Simon! No!”

But, it’s too late, and his hold on you is too strong. It doesn’t hurt, and it doesn’t feel angry, or out of spite- quite the opposite, in fact. While his arms are unmovable, he has you clutched to his chest with an arm around your torso and one supporting your legs as he carries you into the dry warmth of your rooms, helmet long forgotten on the cold stone outside.

“You can’t-”

He sets you on your feet, but his hands don’t stray far- and now that you’ve lost your height advantage you’re left in awe at how large he looms over you, holding your arms before he’s yanking the soaked gloves off between his teeth,

“I can.” Simon growls, placing a wide palm on either side of your face, calloused thumbs gently wiping the rain and tears away, “Go on, little queen, tell me what I can’t do, and I’ll show you exactly what I will.”

Your lip quivers pathetically as you look up at him, “He will kill us for this..”

You have no doubts of this, it is one of the many reasons why you wanted to leap from that balcony, so that you did not have to live this insidious façade anymore- because you couldn’t, you couldn’t have Simon at your side and not have these thoughts, these feelings, insatiable and unquenchable. And to know he could possibly feel the same-

“The king’s head would fall before he ever laid another hand on you.”

The air around you itself seems to grow hot and heady at his words, at the minuscule distance between his lips and yours; lips that are scarred and flushed a deep pink, so beautifully offset from his pale skin,

“You’re a mad man.” You whisper.

And, oh, the way those lips pull into a smile you have longed to see- his eyes crinkling around the edges. It is not a handsome smile, no. It is willful and amused, and broad, and wonderful, as a laugh rumbles through him,

“Now that, My Queen, I am..”

But maybe it is you who are the mad one, or it could still be the adrenaline pumping through your system, hazing your mind and your inhibitions, or that now prevailing desire to simply make decisions for yourself- to be selfish.

Either way, you’re the one who leans forward, wrapping your arms around his neck in order to pull yourself up enough to crush your lips against his. To finally feel everything you’ve dreamt of, the wonders you’ve fantasized, all of them centered around your guard, your dark knight. And here he is, right at your fingertips, his mouth moving so naturally, so perfectly in sync with yours.

Kissing Simon is unlike anything you ever felt with your King, it is reverent and gradual, like he wants to learn you, to know you intrinsically, intimately, to worship you first and foremost- the way his hands hold you so tenderly, his fingers tangling in your mess of wet hair, pulling you closer, deepening the kiss slowly and thoroughly.

But, too soon, he pulls away; sucking his bottom lip between his teeth as if to savor just the taste of you, his eyes darker than you think you’ve ever seen, and your name spoken like a quiet prayer, begging you to relent, pleading for you to keep him a honorable man- as honorable as a man like him can be.

“Please, My Queen..”

You look up at him again, his hands still holding your face as you lean away, letting your own hands slide over the sleek surface of his spaulders all the way down to hold his wrists, feeling his skin hot and damp under yours,

“You’ve felt the same things?” You ask meekly, ashamed of your own lack of self-esteem.

Simon tilts his head to the side, eyes darting back and forth with not only disbelief, but concern and wonder, another smile tugging up the left corner of his mouth. It’s softer this time, one that only serves to make you melt further into him as he speaks,

“Yeah, sweet girl, I have. I hadn’t felt anything for a long, long time before I met you. Got to know you from afar, got to see the way you treat those around you even when they don’t deserve it-”

He leans down to press his forehead to yours,

“You called me good, and kind, but I couldn’t disagree more. Because it’s only for you. You showed me what humanity can be, you gave me hope in what I’ve fought for my whole life, since I was old enough to wield a sword. I’ve won wars for old wretches, and young bastards, who’ve never even seen the soil on a battlefield..”

You hang on to his every word, relishing in his thick accent, memorizing every sound to his voice because you don’t think he’s ever spoken so much in one sitting,

“But you.. little queen, have given me a hope I thought was long lost. A hope for somethin’ more, a reason for the atrocities committed at my hand.”

He kisses you this time, it’s quick and soft, but somehow even better than the first one, somehow you feel more behind it, you feel so much of him that it steals the breath from your lungs,

“I’m goin’ to get you out of here. I swear it.”

thank you for being here 🥹

[chapter 6>>>]

[obsessive-valentine]

Would a platonic yandere Ares. X F reader because in the myths he is very much giving girl dad

Platonic!Ares + Daughter!Reader

Ares is already protective and great yandere material so I don’t think this is to ‘ooc’ but having to raise a daughter definitely brings out his softer side.

Ares is definitely a good dad, in fact amazing compared to most other gods. He actually killed Poseidon’s son for abusing one of his daughters and he’d do all that and much more for you.

Maybe you were his daughter from Aphrodite but had to live under you fathers care once she had to return to her husband Hephaestus. Or maybe you were born to a human mother but either way I do see him insisting he raise you on Olympus to keep you out of trouble. Especially due to his tendency to wage conflicts amongst humans.

Having a daughter around would bring him a lot of amusement, he encourages havoc and freedom, and comes of as a very laid back father letting you speak however and run around doing whatever you choose. He’s surprisingly empathetic and gentle with you, never did you feel unloved or out of place in your fathers care.

His favourite pass-time is watching you torment the servants. Or if you are a more polite child despite his encouragement to not be, he enjoys telling you stories of his battles as you sit in his lap curiously watching the people down on earth scurry around like ants.

He doesn’t subject you to any of his anger -it’s inevitable he get angry around you but never at you. He’s one of the least manipulative and controlling parents for sure, he doesn’t need to be worried when everyone knows you’re the daughter of the most temperamental gods representing the brutal spirit of battle.

But just because he doesn’t aim any anger or harm towards you doesn’t mean he shields you eyes from the chaos and destruction he causes. I actually see him influencing you from a early age to be desensitised to the battles and deaths he has a hand in.

Some days you sit with your father watching over the battles, laughing and commentating like it’s some sport. He’s refused to marry or have close friends because people oppose him so readily due to his crass morals, but with you, you adore your father and enjoy anytime you spend with him even if it’s listening to his war plans or grumble about his enemies.

In a world that he feels a lot of indifference or hate towards you are a fresh perspective, a young mind. Most of his days are spent with you in his company, often asking about your thoughts on a matter or using your chatter take his mind off a matter.

Other times he amuses you and teaches you to spar or use a weapon. Obviously since you were a child you learned to fight, after you could walk he was already indoctrinating the spirit of fight in you by very gently play fighting you but now your older he takes it seriously. With you he can joke and crack a few laughs but when teaching you to fight he becomes stern.

Of course that’s the only thing he makes you do. You choose to be in his presence and he lets you talk to who you want because he knows that they know he’s always watching and ready to start a war amongst the gods if anyone even speaks to you in the wrong way.

Like your father you’re not widely worshiped but definitely known amongst gods and humans, he makes no effort to hide you but rather for people to be weary of you and be on their best behaviour -because dads always not to far behind.

[margowritesthings]

Vedova Nera

pairing: Dutch van der Linde x f!reader

summary: You've been Angelo Bronte's live-in assassin for years now, going undercover to kill those who have wronged him. Your next job seems rather simple: eliminate the outlaw Dutch van der Linde. What could go wrong?

word count: 5710 words

warnings: 18+ MINORS DNI, PLEASE READ WARNINGS BEFORE READING, I AM NOT RESPONSIBLE FOR YOUR MEDIA CONSUMPTION, violence, mentions of sex as part of a job, breath play, reader is an assassin, rough sex, choking, attempted murder, angelo bronte being a creep, sexual themes, cunnilingus (r receiving and giving)

a/n: this was a request from my beloved @cowboydisaster and god was it a wonderful prompt. I LOVED writing this, so thank you for the inspiration darling. So so glad to be publishing after such a long break, and I want to thank any and all of you who have stuck around to wait for me <3 love y'all, here's some filthy Daddy Dutch smut!

beta read by @cowboydisaster

taglist: @cowboydisaster @inkandbloodbound @beea-nie @cloudynoiire @punctillous @dutchysoriginalwife

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When the sunlight streams through the gap between the red velvet curtains, peacefully stirring you awake, it feels like any other day. The silk sheets seduce you to stay, the feather pillow beneath your head luring you into five more minutes of dreaming, despite the noises of the hustle and bustle of Saint Denis penetrating the peace through a crack in your bedroom window. You really could stay here all day, cocooned in luxury while the staff serve your every whim.

But you can’t. The second your lashes flutter open and your eyes land on the dress hanging from your wardrobe, you’re reminded exactly why. While the fact that somebody must’ve delivered it to your room while you slept churns your stomach for a moment, you can’t deny that it’s an exquisite piece. The silk falls from the hook like a crimson waterfall and you know it will hug your body just perfectly by the way it hangs. You’ll look perfect tonight at the party, even if you will be draped on his arm. 

Urgh. The frown on your face is quickly pushed away at the sound of your door knocking. Nice of them to knock this time, though you’re sure it’s only because they know you’re awake and would knock whoever is brave enough to sneak into your room on their ass in seconds. 

“Miss? Mr. Bronte would like to see you.” The voice is somewhat muffled by the heavy wooden door, but your orders are clear as day, no matter how politely they’re worded. You’re to be downstairs in no more than five minutes. You huff, the only response you’re willing to give to the poor, innocent henchman at the other side of the door. Well, not exactly innocent, but who are you to talk? 

It doesn’t take long for you to brush your hair out of its braid with your fingers, the curls freely cascading down your back, get dressed, and find yourself knocking on the open, ornate door leading to the parlour. Bronte is waiting for you, arms stretched out around the back of the couch, taking up far more room than he deserves to. When he lays his eyes on you, he stands, reaching his arms out, palms upturned as he grins at you.

“Ah, il mio poccola ragna, how are you?” 

It feels like you’re being doused in lukewarm grease, but you allow him to hold your hands in his, pulling you just close enough to kiss you on the cheek, “I’m fine. Thank you for the dress, it’s beautiful.”

“And you will look stunning in it tonight, cara mia. Nothing but the best for la mia vedova nera.” 

You raise a brow, knowing that Angelo only calls you his black widow when he has a job for you. Of course he does. Nothing comes free in this world, and you have a deal. Bronte gives you a roof over your head, that plush bed you’ve grown awfully fond of, and all the luxuries a man of his stature could offer. In return, you work exclusively for him, as opposed to the freelance assassinations you used to offer to anyone with a fat enough wallet. In its simplest terms, that is your agreement with Angelo Bronte, but that doesn’t stop his wandering eyes, sickly terms of endearment and clammy hands wherever he can get them.

“It is with only the deepest regret that I shall not have you on my arm tonight, but alas, I have a job for you that requires a certain distance between the two of us, amore.”

It takes a level of restraint to not physically sigh in relief when you learn you won’t be spending the evening performing as Bronte’s woman, but your intrigue grows ever stronger when your curious gaze falls to the wanted poster laying on the table next to you. A sketch of a man steals your attention, and his intense stare threatens to never give it back despite being mere charcoal. Instinct tells you to reach out and run a finger lightly over the crumpled paper, tracing the man’s strong jawline, though you’re not quite sure why. You’ve never seen him before, nor have you heard his name: Dutch van der Linde. The poster isn’t from around here, it’s from Blackwater. You can tell, because you’ve seen your own face staring back at you on one just like it before finding yourself under Bronte’s protection. 

“This the guy?” You ask quietly, still entranced by this stranger etched into coffee coloured paper. Bronte doesn’t seem to notice, already leaning back into the loveseat.

“Sí, bella. He is new to town, he does not know of my vedova nera, and we must keep it that way. He dishonours me, dishonours my city. He will be at the mayor’s party tonight, but he will not see tomorrow, will he, cara mia?”

It isn’t a question, but you nod anyway.

Dutch van der Linde will not live to see another day. 

═══════☆═══════

Some consider this, the pomp and performance of high society, a gilded cage, forcing man into superficial roles to play and stripping him of any true freedoms, but you’ve learnt to see the beauty in taking advantage of it. You’re more than happy to put on a pretty dress and play pretend, laughing along to terrible anecdotes with a drink in your hand and a smile perfectly crafted on your reddened lips. After having truly nothing, living at the very bottom of the food chain, putting up with this farce is a small price to pay for a little security. Besides, drinking champagne while rich men call you beautiful is hardly a sacrifice. Most of them are old and rather greasy, but you’re more than capable of holding your own. They’re just microscopic cogs in a grand plan they’ll never even know about, orchestrated by someone they overlooked because of the way they look. Your greatest asset, you’re sure.

You reach for the champagne flute at the very top of the sparking pyramid, the bubbles dancing on your tongue from the first sip. When you make your way upstairs to the balcony, every tiny bubble rising to the top of your glass reflects the illuminated string lights wrapped around the iron gazebo and every pole in the perfectly tended garden, casting the who’s who of Saint Denis in a warm glow. From your spot on the balcony, you observe all, searching for your Dutch van der Linde. You can see your host, mayor Henri Lemieux, engaging in what could only be considered ‘schmoozing’ with a group of men in top hats by the fountain, and although you can’t see every face, you somehow know that none of them are the one you’re looking for. Those piercing eyes are sure to come with a presence to match, and you can’t feel it yet. 

That is, until the french doors into the house are opened and the hairs on your arm stand up straight. You blame the cool breeze that is pushed into you by the swing of the door, though that doesn’t account for the quickening pace of your heart. You rarely get nervous for a job, why would you? It’s all you’ve ever known. 

So why this one?

The thought falls down your spine with a shudder, and you try to shed your doubts quickly with a rather large sip of champagne that seems to numb the sharp edges to smooth curves just slightly. Your hand rests gently on the balcony, maintaining a facade that you’re looking out into the crowds below instead of listening in on the conversation between the group of men just feet away from you. In your peripheral vision, you spot him, dressed in a suit that simply must have been sewn around his body with the way it perfectly fits him. He wears a top hat, a large cigar burning between his gloved fingers. He takes your breath away upon first glance, your cheeks flushing when your eyes meet. You offer a small smile, before looking back over the ongoing party and finishing the rest of your champagne, leaving a red stain on the lip of the flute.

Now, you wait, hoping you left enough of an air of mystery and allure for your target to approach you. Bronte is with the group of men attending with Dutch, but neither of you acknowledges the other to maintain appearances. Definitely something you could get used to. 

Twirling the stem of your flute between your nimble fingers, you watch the crystal carvings refract and scatter beautiful dots of light over your dress as you listen in to Dutch, Bronte, and another man you’ve never seen before talk over their cigars. It’s all bullshit, Bronte bragging that the whole town fears him while he acts overly friendly to the man he has hired you to murder tonight, and it takes all the restraint you have to not visibly roll your eyes. You lift your glass to your lips again, before realising it’s empty. As you turn on your heel to head back to the drinks table, you’re met with an outstretched, gloved hand, bubbling flute presented to you in its grasp. 

It’s him.

Up close, you can see how beautifully he’s cleaned up from whenever he was sketched for his poster, his moustache gelled in an upward curve, his eyes a deep auburn that a charcoal sketch could never truly capture. He’s magnificent, his presence drowning you, and you’re sure even without the formalities he’d be just as stunning, a roughened cowboy with a drawl to send you weak in the knees. 

“For you, my dear.” He offers, watching intently as you take the flute between your fingers.

“Why, thank you, sir. I never knew they hired such well dressed gentlemen at these events.” You joke, smiling almost mischievously at him before taking a sip, “You surely can’t be a guest here, they’re never this kind.”

“Afraid so, miss. Dutch van der Linde, at your service.” He takes your free hand in his, lifting your knuckles to his mouth to kiss them tenderly. The sensation travels up your arm and sends a little flutter through your stomach. Quite the gentleman, it seems.

“A pleasure, Mr. Van der Linde.”

“Please, Dutch is fine. And the pleasure is all mine.”

You offer your name in return and a shy smile, the one that often has your victims bowing to your every need while they imagine you writhing beneath them, and by the way Dutch watches you, he’s no exception. 

“Tell me, Dutch,” you oblige, “what is a fine gentleman such as yourself doing at an event like this? Are you a friend of our host?”

“No, I am a guest of Mr Bronte’s, attending on a personal invitation.” You instantly sense it, the displeasure hidden in amongst the pleasantries. You’re not at all surprised, Angelo is hardly a likeable man. 

“Ah, I see.” “You know him?” “Not personally, no,” You lie, glancing over to the man in question, who appears to be boring the ears off Dutch’s abandoned friend as he downs his near full glass of whiskey, “But everyone who’s anyone in Saint Denis knows of him. He’s… real somethin’.” You match Dutch’s indignation with an expert precision, and you don’t need to pretend one bit. 

Dutch laughs, a hearty one at that, using the gesture to take a step closer to you, “Now that we agree on, my dear…”

A comfortable silence passes between the two of you and a waiter arrives, passing Dutch a rich amber drink that he thanks him for. You grab the waiter's attention, asking for a bourbon of your own. It doesn’t go unnoticed that Dutch looks impressed.

“I can admire a woman who appreciates a fine whiskey.” He remarks, tipping his glass to you and you smirk, raising a sharpened brow,

“I can appreciate much more than a fine whiskey, Mr Van der Linde.”

The air between the two of you is electric, charged with something inexplicable yet maybe the most powerful energy you’ve ever felt.

“Is that right?” It comes out almost a growl, which you feel deep in your core. The way he’s looking at you… it’s inevitable. Mission accomplished.

You lean in closer, glancing down to the snow white flower pinned to Dutch’s lapel. Your eyes linger on the thing, so stark a contrast to the jet black suit he’s wearing, so delicate a symbol for a hardened criminal you’ve been hired to murder. 

There’s little space between the two of you now, far less than is proper, but Dutch closes it, his hot breath tickling the lobe of your ear as he whispers to you,

“How about we get a real nice room somewhere and I show you just how much I can admire a woman who appreciates a good whiskey?”

═══════☆═══════

Sending Dutch back downstairs to the saloon for drinks gives you opportunity to reach under your skirts, pulling the dagger from your crimson garter and stashing it between the bed frame and mattress. It’s a simple routine, one that works every time to not only allow you time to prepare for the job, but to prove just how wrapped around your little finger your victims always are. Ever the gentleman, as you’re learning, it only took a simple comment of thirst and a bat of your thick lashes and Dutch was out the door. He returns to you quickly, hands full with two identical glasses of neat bourbon, the door shutting behind him with a satisfying click.

“Here we are, the finest this establishment has to offer.” He says, with just a touch of bravado as he goes to hand you the crystal glass. Your hand brushes with his own skin, tanned from what you assume to be hours out in the sun, and a jolt of electricity shoots up your arm, scattering your whole body with goosebumps. With strenuous effort, you collect yourself fast enough to thank Dutch, before letting that comfortable silence settle between the tiny space between your two bodies again. You’re so close to him you can smell the distinct cigar smoke and liquor burn on his breath, feel the energy buzzing off him. One deep breath and your supple chest would be pressed right against his hardened one. 

The golden liquid burns over your tongue and down your throat, but not nearly as much as your skin does under Dutch’s touch when he runs a thumb over your bottom lip. It feels as though your entire body heats from the contact, the only respite from the fever his contact elicits being the golden rings adorning his fingers, pressing up against your jaw when he cups the side of your face. It stops your heart, you’re sure of it.

“You, my dear, are exquisite.” He whispers tenderly.

In your line of work, there is violence. There is pain and fire and yes, sometimes passion, but never tenderness. But when Dutch van der Linde’s eyes roam over you, it feels different. Like he sees you, instead of seeking for whatever it is he’s looking for. They’re all looking for something, and they all seem to think you have it, but not Dutch… even if there is the most devilish grin tugging at the corner of his lips and a glint in his eye that tells you to be careful.

Your lips don’t meet, they collide, with a deafening crash that vibrates the earth below. Both yours and Dutch’s glasses are discarded on the table beside the four poster bed as you require both hands to grasp at his satin waistcoat while he reaches around your waist to pull you flush against him.

Every inch of him is solid, his hands moulding you around his frame as his tongue requests- no, demands entrance to your mouth. You’re happy to oblige, parting your lips so that he can run the muscle along your bottom lip, eliciting a real, sensual moan from deep within you. Most of the time, you feign interest and want and pleasure, using every tool at your disposal to have your victims as putty in your hands. Tonight, it would seem you have to fake nothing, feeling more like putty yourself, folding and sculpting around Dutch’s thick, strong fingers. 

Dutch growls, low and gravelly, and you feel it vibrate every part of you, leaving little cracks all over the shields you’ve grown so used to wielding. The tremors reach your knees and you have to put extra effort into not letting them buckle. He invades every sense, a smoky, powerful force that for a moment you worry you’ll never be rid of. It’s normally so easy to detach yourself from these men, seeing their demise as the only thing standing between you and the continuance of the life of luxury you’ve grown so accustomed to, but right now it takes everything you can to not fear a future haunted by Dutch’s ghost. It’s… strange, this attachment formed so quickly, so unexpectedly that you’re almost certain the only way to prevent it is to kill him now before anything else can happen. But you just can’t bring yourself to do it… you need him in this moment, need to take something from a man for yourself for once, instead of for your slimy Italian master. It’s a mistake, you know it is, but it’s one you can’t stop, like a train barreling towards you with broken breaks. The collision is going to hurt, but you’ll be damned if you don’t bask in the feeling of every bone in your body shattering for this moment, every speck of your being destroyed just for an evening. If your blackened soul must be broken, at least it’s your choice. And this is your choice. Dutch van der Linde is your choice.

His hand burns through the silk on your back, searing your skin that itches for a release of its confines. He never breaks your hungry, needy kiss as his expert fingers make quick work of your bodice, pushing your dress off your shoulders until it falls at your feet like a scarlet pool of blood. Your chemise is just as deep a red as your dress and the stain covering your lips, as is the garter squeezing your thigh. Dutch takes a step back, drinking you in like a fine glass of wine. Under his gaze, you burn all over again, feeling the heat pulsing in your very core, your clit throbbing and cunt weeping for him. You’re not sure you’ve ever felt a yearning so intense that you feel you might combust if you don’t have this man inside you soon. 

“As I said…” he growls, tongue licking over his own bottom lip this time, “Exquisite.” 

Your exhale is shaky from the sheer effort to stay still, to not pounce on Dutch and take him. Somehow, you take a steady step towards him, out of the pile of silk discarded on the floor, reaching back to the buttons on his waistcoat to pull them apart. Your neck cranes up slightly to meet Dutch’s intense stare, catching him flick his eyes down to watch you undress him. Your bodies are so close now you can feel his hard cock pressing against you, branding you, even hotter than the rest of him. Even through his breeches, his size is evident. Intimidating, but you can all but feel yourself drooling at the thought of taking him all. Patience growing thin, your fingers speed up to finish their job, pushing both waistcoat and crisp shirt off Dutch’s shoulders and onto the floor, revealing a strong, sturdy chest underneath. You run both hands over it with a featherlight touch, feeling him shudder at the contact. 

Looking back up to meet his eye, tracing gentle circles over his skin, you whisper, “As are you, Mister Van der Linde…”

“Oh, my dear,” Dutch catches your chin between his fingers, squeezing gently to pull you closer, until your lips are just a hair away from each other. Your breath hitches in your throat, lips parted and waiting for him. A gasp escapes when he runs a finger of his free hand up your inner thigh, pressing firmly against your slit through your lingerie, the sensation shooting up your spine, “I think we’re past the formalities, don’t you? Dutch is fine.”

You swallow down the moan building deep down, attempting to hold onto whatever little decorum you can before you crumble beneath this outlaw. When Dutch removes his finger from against your heat, it takes everything to not whimper from the loss of him. Still holding your face, he presses a kiss to your lips, inhaling you in through his nose before pulling away, glancing down to the space between the two of you.

“Kneel for me, beautiful.”

It takes you less than a second to obey, feeling the plush of the carpet against your knees. Your hands are instantly on Dutch’s belt, unbuckling it with hands that are almost vibrating with anticipation. His trousers don’t even fall past his hips before his cock springs out and you almost gasp again. It’s huge, thick and long, twitching and pulsing all for you. A beautiful sight, truly. 

Both hands look tiny in comparison, wrapping around his base with a slight squeeze that has Dutch groaning already. Your eyes lock onto his, never leaving them as you lick a line up his shaft all the way to his rosy head, the salty spend dancing on your tongue a sure sign he’s as desperate for you as you are him. When you take him in your mouth, cheeks hollowing as you get as much of his length in as you can, Dutch grips into your hair, cursing through his teeth as you start to bob up and down. 

Using your mouth and hands in tandem, you work up and down his shaft, licking across a protruding vein that causes another growl to leave Dutch’s lips and charge the air with a near blinding want. His cock pumps and swells even more so in your mouth, and when you take a deep breath and push all of his length in and down your throat, Dutch lets out a visceral groan sure to reach the ears of the devil himself.

“Fuck, just like that, angel, just like that…” He whispers to you, watching as little tears fall down your cheeks, mixing with the spit escaping the corners of your lips. Dutch holds your face between his large palms, fucking into your throat. It isn’t until your lungs are burning for air that he relents, his cock sliding out of your mouth soaked in your saliva, a bead still clinging to your chin. He wipes it away with his thumb, guiding you to your feet with an extended hand. You gasp as he lifts you into the air and all you can do is wrap your legs around his waist. His cock nudges against your lingerie, the thin, scarlet silk the only barrier between the two of you. You’re writhing, desperate for him as his tongue licks the roof of your mouth, dominating you. 

Dutch throws you onto the bed and you land with a squeak, spreading your legs wide to allow him to crawl over you, propping himself up on his elbows. His eyes roam over you, pulling the straps of your chemise down to expose your breasts. He continues to undress you, each second stretching out to an eternity until you’re bare underneath him. There’s a fire burning in his eyes and it scorches you. You feel the fire spread over every inch of you, especially when he dips down to lick a line from your nipple, across your chest, down your stomach until he is hovering above your cunt. His breath tickles your soaked skin and it takes everything you have to restrain and be patient. The devil is merciful, and after torturing you for what feels like hours, watching you writhe and whine, Dutch delves into your folds, taking your clit in his mouth and sucking on it gently. You scream, hands instantly raking into his jet black hair, nails scratching his scalp.

He hums in content, as if tasting a delicacy, and it vibrates your inner thighs. Your eyes roll back, jaw dropping as your back arches for him. 

“Oh, God…” you moan, relenting your grip just a little when Dutch stops to look at you, eyebrow raised and smirk tugging his glistening lips,

“Now, dear, I said Dutch is fine.”

He doesn’t give you much time to digest his cocky words, plunging a finger deep inside you, finding that spot that makes you go dizzy and curling against it. You whine and purr, bucking your hips up to show Dutch what you need. He takes your silent command and submits to it, bowing his head to take your clit in between his teeth. It tethers you between pain and pleasure, threatening to tear you apart from the inside out. One finger becomes two, pumping into your core and you feel yourself hurtling towards climax faster than you ever have in your life. There’s a burning on your inner thigh from his moustache while he laps up your juices, kissing and nipping and sucking until you’re sure you’re going to break and shatter all over the hotel room floor.

“Oh, God, Dutch- fuck, Dutch, yes Dutch- I- I’m gonna-” 

The whine you let out when Dutch withdraws his fingers from you is downright tortured. You look up at him, the question of why written all over your face. He simply smirks, sliding those glistening fingers in between his lips and licking your juices clean off them. 

“Tell me what you want, beautiful.” 

The sweet endearment softens your frown, his demand driving you even wilder. It isn’t a matter of want anymore, you need him. Right at this moment, you’re gasping for air, and Dutch van der Linde is your only oxygen. 

“Everything,” you breathe out, “God, Dutch, I need you, please…”

You earn a satisfied grin as Dutch begins to crawl over you again, the length of his body consuming you wholly. “Hm… I like it when you beg for me, my dear.” 

When he lines himself up to your entrance, the feeling of his tip brushing far too gentle past your clit, you’re truly dizzy with need. You reach up to Dutch, nails digging deep into the flesh of his shoulders as if he's your only tether to the earth itself. Your mewls guide him in like a siren's call, filling you more than you ever thought possible. Though slowly, Dutch slides all the way in, until you’re connected by the pelvis, the head of his cock prodding gorgeously into that swollen sweet spot of yours.

“F-Fuck…” you gasp out, concurrently to Dutch’s carnal groan. He fills you to the brim, and you squeeze his throbbing cock perfectly. It’s unlike anything you’ve ever felt, breaching past the barriers of what you once considered sex to be. When he steadily withdraws, pushing all the way back in, you see stars, scattering across the ceiling of the hotel room, falling into the faint freckles you’re sure nobody ever notices on Dutch’s cheeks. The pure lust ignited in his eyes burns hot as he begins to move, thrusting in and out at an excruciatingly deliberate pace.

When he picks up a little speed, you feel his hand brush against your cheek, finger tracing your jawline from ear to chin and back again. His expression as he fucks you is so intense, and there’s a certain darkness clouding it all that scares you. Dutch is otherworldly, and your mind briefly casts to under your back, where that little knife lays waiting. Your confidence in completing your mission is faltering, picturing golden ichor bleeding from Dutch’s chest in lieu of blood. He is so far removed from anybody Bronte has ever had you kill, so divine an energy that you’re starting to wonder what your failure would mean for you. It has never been an option before, but the possibility wanders into your mind as if it belongs there. 

Your whines and moans harmonise with Dutch’s groans and curses, the room filled with purely obscene, visceral vibrations. He fucks into you, one hand gripping onto the sheets, the other cupping the side of your face, slowly snaking downwards to cover your neck. He doesn’t put any pressure on yet, but can surely feel the thrumming of your pulse against his palm. The possessive way his hand covers your whole throat makes your heart skip a beat, your now untouched clit twitching at the thought of Dutch restricting your airways. 

“God, you are so beautiful…” Dutch purrs, teasing a hint of pressure on your jugular. He’s getting faster now, just faintly more erratic. That darkness is flaring in his eyes, spreading over his whole expression as he begins to squeeze at your windpipe. It's gentle at first, just slightly cutting off the blood flow to your head, making your cheeks flush red. Your lips part in gasps, less than an inch away from Dutch’s as you feel your orgasm building again, no external stimulation needed. You’re so close now, nirvana within reach, Dutch’s hold getting ever stronger. 

“So beautiful… such a shame.” He growls, not relenting his now iron-grip to give you the air to consider what he just said. You try to speak, try to ask what he means, but you suddenly can’t. He’s clenching too tight on your neck. It hurts, but coupled with the dizzying lack of breath, it’s only furthering your journey over the edge. Your vision is blackening at the corners, an unknown fear striking you in the chest. He isn’t letting up, and you’re not sure if you even want him to, but you have no idea where this is going now. The energy in the air is changing faster than you can keep up with, your chest feeling hollow as your futile attempts at breath go ignored.

“A-A shame?” You just about manage, Dutch still pounding relentlessly, gloriously into your tight cunt. 

“Oh, my dear…” he squeezes once more, a bruising grip, and it hurts so much that your hands fly up to claw at his wrist. It’s unavailing, Dutch far too strong to be deterred by the little scratches your nails are leaving on his skin, “That you’re trying to kill me, darling.”

Your eyes fly wide open, pupils shrinking to barely a drop in a sea of panic. Your hands barely make it an inch towards reaching for the dagger under the mattress before Dutch grabs them with the hand not already holding you, pinning both wrists above your head. He’s still fucking you hard, and it still feels incredible despite the pure terror coursing through your veins. 

“Oh, little vedova nera, did you really think it would be so easy?”

It’s hardly even a struggle, your scratching is no match for Dutch’s strength. You can’t move, can barely breathe, and you’re genuinely terrified he’s going to kill you before you even get the chance to fight back. His grasp relents, just enough to allow a small, struggled gulp of breath, but it’s seemingly only so you can hear his next words before blacking out.

“Now here’s what's gonna happen…” He growls at you, not once faltering from his pace. Despite everything, you’re still so close, on the verge of a blinding climax that may actually kill you. “That pretty little pussy of yours is going to cum all over my cock, and then you’re gonna go back to our friend Mr. Bronte and tell him just how well Dutch van der Linde fucked his woman and lived to tell the tale. Got it, my pretty little thing?”

Your heart is pounding, and you’re certain you only have seconds of consciousness left in you, but you manage a frantic nod, your nails leaving reddened crescent moons all over the skin of Dutch’s wrist. You’ll do anything, the terrifying part being that you’re not sure if you’re begging for your life or your death, your petite mort, if you will. 

“Good girl.”

He releases your throat, instead squeezing your cheeks together harshly, forcing your lips into a pout. The blood rushes everywhere, sending you hurtling over the edge, clenching on Dutch’s cock and keeping your promise and then some. Tears are streaming down your cheeks from the intensity of everything, screams falling from your lips as best they can through Dutch’s hands. He’s groaning loudly, vibrating your being as the two of you cum together, Dutch pumping rope upon rope of his spend deep inside you. Time stretches, seconds becoming minutes becoming an eternity falling through the stratosphere as waves of white hot pleasure mix stunningly with the pain you feel all over. 

Dutch finishes with one last thrust, so hard you’re sure you’ll never recover from him. You’ve never felt anything like this, never felt an orgasm wrack through every atom like this one, pumped through your body with a heart running on pure fear. 

Mere seconds ago you were convinced Dutch was going to end your life, but when he pulls out of you and removes all contact from your panting body, the loss is immense. By the time you manage to come around, your arms finally having enough integrity to prop yourself up, he’s already dressing himself, pulling up his pants and buckling his belt. You can’t think, let alone speak. What would you even say? The tear marks falling down your cheeks are inky black from your makeup, but you let them fall as the realisation of what just happened hits with enough force to shatter you, just as you predicted. 

You’re both silent as Dutch dresses, and all you can do is sit and cover yourself with the sheet on the bed. When he reaches the door, he stops, hand resting on the doorframe as he glances over his shoulder to you, “Tell Bronte I said hello, won’t you?”

And he walks out of the hotel room, leaving you alone, dripping with his spend, wondering what the hell you’re supposed to do now.

[ikkyfics]

Come back to me

Tom Ryder x fem!reader

Summary: "Why are you here, Tom?" Your voice was firmer this time, despite the pulse hammering in your ears. "Because you left me." He tilted his head, and the slightly joking tone disappeared for a moment. "And honestly, I thought it was clearer that I don't let things get away so easily."

Warnings: none, just Tom being Tom

Masterlist

The sound of knocking on the door echoed through the dark room, interrupting your peaceful night. You settled into the couch, the tub of ice cream balanced in your hands and the spoon between your teeth, frowning. It was too late for visitors. For a moment, you stood still, hoping whoever it was would give up and go away. But the knocking persisted, steady and rhythmic, as if the visitor knew you were home.

Sighing, you put the ice cream aside and stood up, hurriedly adjusting your short pajamas. The soft fabric hugged your skin, the fuzzy socks muffled the sound of your footsteps on the floor. You hesitantly unlocked the door and opened it just enough to peek in.

There, framed by the pale light of the hallway, he stood.

Tom Ryder, with his perfectly trimmed beard, his hair tousled in a calculated way, and that unbearably confident expression. The expensive leather jacket and the impeccable shirt underneath were in keeping with the image of a movie star he carried like a trophy. Even his tailored pants and leather shoes gleamed ridiculously opulent.

“You?” Your voice came out louder than you intended, betraying your surprise.

He smiled, one corner of his mouth turning up, his blue eyes boring into you as if they knew a secret you didn’t. “Now, don’t look at me like that. Are you going to leave me out here? That’s not very polite of you.”

“How… How do you know where I live?”

His smile widened, tinged with an almost irritating smugness. “I know more than I let on, honey.”

You blinked, trying to process the absurdity of the situation. He, the man who had practically turned your life into a circus with his endless post-its and absurd demands, was standing there, in your doorway, as if it were the most normal thing in the world.

“I… I don’t think…” you started to reply, but he raised an eyebrow and tilted his head to the side, as if he was gauging your resistance.

“If you’d rather have our picture taken and it become news tomorrow, fine. But personally, I think it would be better if we talked away from the cameras. Don’t you think?” His eyes trailed down to your ridiculously short pajamas, and when he spoke again, his voice had dropped a few octaves. “And I’d hate for anyone else to see you like this.”

Before you could form a response, he walked past you, his woodsy, expensive scent filling the air between you. Your house suddenly felt smaller with his presence, overwhelmingly filled with an energy that was impossible to ignore.

“Lovely, by the way,” he murmured as he walked toward the living room, glancing sideways at your fuzzy socks with a half smile.

You closed the door behind you, still processing the surreality of the scene, feeling the blood pool in your cheeks. There he was, collapsing on the couch as if he owned the house, his arms resting on the backrest and his legs crossed in a relaxed manner.

“Are you comfortable?” Your question was laced with sarcasm, but he just laughed.

“Much more than you seemed in the office.” He reached out, grabbing the tub of ice cream you’d left on the coffee table. Before you could protest, he dipped the spoon into the ice cream and took a generous bite.

“Strawberry,” he murmured, a smile curving his lips deliberately. “It suits you.”

Heat rose quickly to your face, but you weren’t sure if it was from irritation or the way he said it—his voice low, almost like a purr. He held the tub of ice cream with an irritating ease, as if it were completely normal to break into your house and steal your dessert.

"Hey, you weren't invited to get this!" You crossed your arms, trying to ignore the way he'd settled himself on the couch, taking up even more space, and the way his presence seemed to make the room feel suffocating.

He looked up from the bowl, his blue eyes staring at you with intensity. It was a gaze that stripped you bare, that seemed to register all the details you didn't want him to notice: the short pajamas that exposed your thighs, the skin that heated up under his gaze, as if he were touching you without even moving.

"Oh, I'm sorry," he said, without a hint of remorse, returning the bowl to the table with sloppy elegance. "But you can't really blame me for this. That ice cream was asking for it."

"Asking for it?" you repeated incredulously, but your voice sounded weaker than it should have.

"Yes. Just like you seem to be asking for a break, my dear. Do you want me to explain myself or are you going to keep looking at me like that?"

You opened your mouth to respond, but couldn't form anything. He leaned back on the couch, his long fingers resting on his bent knee, looking at you with a mixture of amusement and something much darker, almost predatory.

It was overwhelming. The couch seemed too small to contain him, too small for the two of you. Your home had never felt so strange as it did now, filled with his scent and the force of personality he carried.

"Why are you here, Tom?" Your voice was firmer this time, despite the pulse hammering in your ears.

"Because you left me." He tilted his head, and the slightly joking tone disappeared for a moment. "And honestly, I thought it was clearer that I don't let things get away so easily."

"Get away? I'm a person, not a contract!" You snapped, trying to ignore the way he leaned forward slightly, his beard shadowing his jaw in a way that made it hard to look away.

"I know that." His tone softened, but it didn't lose its intensity. "And that's why I'm here. Because… I needed to remind you that no one does what you do. And honestly, I refuse to accept anyone else in your place."

"So this is about work?" You glared at him, crossing your arms again.

"Is it?" He raised an eyebrow, letting the question hang in the air.

Your heart gave an uncomfortable leap in your chest, especially when you noticed his gaze slowly trailing down your face and neck, before continuing to the soft swell of your breasts, covered only by the thin fabric, leaving little to the imagination. It was a second—a moment too quick to be considered deliberate—but it was enough to set your skin on fire.

You wanted to scream, wanted to tell him to go away, but all you could do was look away, only to find him fixed on you again. That smile was back, a teasing half-smile that he made seem natural, but that was carefully calculated.

“Did you bother coming all the way here, in the middle of the night, because you can’t accept someone saying ‘no’ to you for once?” you asked, trying to ignore how your voice had gotten lower.

He laughed, a deep sound that made the hairs on the back of your neck stand up. “Maybe. Or maybe it’s because, as unbearable as you are, you’re the only person who can stand me.”

For a moment, the silence between you was thick, heavy with a tension that felt palpable. Your eyes met, and the space between you on the couch seemed nonexistent. You could feel his heat, every little movement reverberating in the air as if it were amplified.

“So?” he murmured, his tone almost hypnotic. “Are you going to make me beg or are you going to accept that you’ve always been the only person who could put up with me?”

And in that moment, it was impossible to deny the power he had over you—and how annoyingly aware he was of it.

Your heart was beating so hard it felt like it was trying to escape your chest. But you weren’t going to show it. Not to him. Not to Tom Ryder.

He was still sitting on the couch, his legs relaxed, his hands resting on his knees in a way that oozed confidence. But his eyes… Oh, his eyes. They were following you, analyzing you, challenging you.

“If you think I’m just going to go back because you came all this way, you’re more delusional than I thought,” you said, crossing your arms and lifting your chin, though your voice had lost some of the firmness you’d intended to convey.

He tilted his head slightly to the side, a smile playing on his lips, as if you’d just issued a challenge he was more than willing to accept.

“Then I’ll beg you,” he said, his voice dropping an octave, each word laden with a calculated softness that seemed to wrap around you like silk.

“I’m listening,” you snapped, trying to ignore the heat that was creeping up your spine, getting harder and harder to contain.

“You’re the best, you know that, don’t you?” He leaned forward slightly, elbows resting on his thighs as his eyes held yours like invisible threads. “It’s not just the work you do—although that’s unbeatable. It’s you. How you’re impossible to ignore. How you walk into a room and everything feels different. There’s no one like you, and I won’t find anyone else who does half of what you do. Who is half of what you are.”

His words were like a spell, each one packed with an almost addictive sweetness. And before you knew it, your feet were moving, small, hesitant steps toward him, as if he’d become damn gravity.

“Keep going,” you said, your voice no louder than a whisper.

He smiled, a flash of triumph shining in his eyes as you stopped right in front of the couch, between his long legs. "Do you have any idea what it's like to look at you and know that I can no longer count on your patience? Your… strength? You're the kind of woman who makes any man lose his mind, and you know it."

The air between you seemed to vibrate. He lifted his hands, his deft fingers touching the fabric of your pajamas in an almost experimental way. Just one touch, and you could already feel the heat radiating across your skin. He laughed, a low, husky sound, before letting his hands slide to your hips, steadying himself there. The pads of his fingers tracing lazy half-circles.

The touch wasn’t invasive; it was deliberate, almost reverent. But the heat he brought was overwhelming.

“Tom…” You began, but the word died on your lips when he tilted his head up, his eyes now dark with an intensity that seemed to burn.

“I need you,” he said, his tone so low you could barely hear him. “And I don’t just mean work. I mean you. I want you to come back. To me.”

The world seemed to stop. The heat of his hands on your skin was unbearable, his fingers just enough to remind you that he was the one touching you. His smile, his voice, his eyes—everything about him seemed to conspire against your sanity.

But the worst part was that you liked it. You liked the way he seemed unable to hide how much he wanted you, liked the power it gave you, even when he was the one who seemed to be in control.

His fingers tightened on your hips, firm, as if to reinforce the urgency in his words. The touch carried something more than a request; it was a demand, a reminder of how much he wanted you, how much he needed you.

“Will you come back to me?” His voice was barely a whisper now, but it carried an urgency that made you tremble.

You tried to resist, tried to remember all the reasons he was insufferable, all the times you wanted to scream at him—but none of that seemed to matter now. The warmth of his hands on your skin, his eyes burning into yours, the woody, expensive scent that surrounded you… it was overwhelming. Far beyond anything you could ever dream of bearing.

A weak "yes" escaped your lips before you even had time to realize what you were saying.

That was all he needed.

Before you could react, he pulled you firmly to him, positioning you on his lap in one fluid movement, as if you were made to be there. The initial shock was replaced by an overwhelming heat as his hands moved from your hips to your back, holding you with a strength that seemed to say he wouldn’t let go any time soon. Your hands gripped his broad shoulders in an attempt to find some balance, your breath coming in short gasps from the intensity of the moment.

“Finally,” he murmured, his tone filled with an almost dangerous satisfaction, before pulling you into a kiss.

There was no room for caution or hesitation. His kiss was desperate, almost savage, as if he had been waiting for this for years. It tasted sweetly like strawberry ice cream. His lips were warm and demanding, and you barely managed to hold back the moan that escaped you when you felt his beard lightly scratch your skin, adding a touch of roughness to the contact. You felt his fingers curl into the bare skin of your waist, as if he wanted to leave a mark.

Your fingers moved instinctively, tangling in his hair, tugging lightly, as if they needed to anchor him there. He responded to the touch with a low sound in the back of his throat, a sound that made every cell in your body vibrate.

His hands didn’t stop, exploring your back, moving up and down with a possessiveness that made your heart race even faster. It was as if he was trying to merge the two of you, holding you as if he feared you would disappear. The room seemed to have disappeared; the entire world had been reduced to the heat of his body against yours, to the taste of him, to the way he held you as if you were the most precious thing he had ever touched.

When you finally broke apart, it was only for the need of air. But he didn’t pull away, his forehead lightly touching yours, his blue eyes holding yours with an intensity that made your breath falter.

“I warned you,” he said, his voice husky and full of desire. “I don’t let go of what’s mine.”

And in that moment, it was impossible to tell who was in control. Because no matter how hard he’d pulled you in for the kiss, no matter how hard he’d initiated it, it was you who seemed to have the power to make his heart beat as fast as yours.

[ghostking4m]

Rejection Is Just Redirection

Luke Hughes x reader

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Listen, you didn’t really need college. You broke into the entertainment industry at 16, so college was just a plan b you put on the back burner. Being one of the most famous names and faces in the entire world, you easily had enough money to afford college, so why not give it a shot? After all, your boyfriend went to college, though he did kind of drop out to play hockey.

Once you made up your mind that you’d be going back to school, your next step what choosing your major and what schools to apply to. You write songs and sometimes write poems and books, so maybe English or journalism? Maybe Communications would help you answer some of the dodgy questions the paparazzi ask you. Heck, even political science or economics or business would be a good idea. They would allow you to make a difference in the world. Business sounds like a safe choice. You could do a lot with a business degree. Now to apply to schools.

So here’s the thing, you’re finally in a real relationship that you really don’t want to mess up. Staying in LA would allow you to go to school and continue working, so you could still be in the limelight when you want to be. USC and UCLA would be great choices for that and they’re extremely accredited schools. However, maybe Rutgers is the school you should choose, since it’s close to Luke. NYU might even be an interesting choice since it wouldn’t raise too many questions if you’re going to school in the city because you want to or if it’s because you want to be closer to your boyfriend. It has always been your dream school when you were a kid. Well, it’s decided then!

You honestly weren’t expecting the application and admissions process to be so complicated and grueling. It’s like the education system is trying to torture kids to see who would come out on top as the victor. College really is like the Hunger Games, isn’t it? You hadn’t the slightest idea of how to fill out your major requirement classes or send your high school transcript to the admissions office and your essays were mid at best. You’re a celebrity, it’s not like you needed to try all that hard to graduate high school since you did homeschooling since you were 16. Though, you gotta admit that the feeling of finally being done with the application process was a relief. It’s just a waiting game now for admissions decisions.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“T-minus 2 hours until decisions come out. You nervous?” Luke asked as you guys were laying on the couch before he had to go to practice.

“A little, but it’s not the end of the world if I don’t get in. I mean, i’ve already got my career, so why would I worry about getting in so that I could work more to get a degree that would allow me to work even more? Why did i do this again?” you questioned back, joking with him. “If I don’t get in, I’ll just grab my bag and go back to LA and star in the highest grossing movie of the decade… again”

Luke laughed at your comment, despite hearing the quiet hesitation in your voice. He didn’t realize how much you actually wanted to get in. He didn’t know how much you wanted to prove that you’re more than just some face in gossip magazines or the most talked about name in the headlines. You wanted to be seen and treated like a person, someone who people respected because you worked just as hard as they did to get to the same place as them. You always advocated for equality for everyone and yet people always worshipped you and put you on a pedestal.

“Would that be such a bad thing?” he countered.

“I’m not sure yet. Part of me regrets applying, because I don’t want to get in for nepotism or for being famous, but I also want to get in, because I want to make everyone proud of me.” You replied.

It broke Luke’s heart a little to hear you talk about this in the way you are, because how could anyone not be proud of you and what you accomplished at such a young age? You had 6 Oscars, 4 Emmys, the most nominations at the Grammy’s this year, and you were named the most powerful person of the year by Time Magazine, Forbes Magazine, AND Vogue. You were a sensation that was still only just beginning. You had the entire world eating in the lam of your hand.

“Well, no matter what happens, I’m proud of you for trying. You don’t need college, but I applaud your efforts anyway. You could honestly be anything you want, be anyone you want, all you have to do is try and not everyone can do that.” He said, and his heart absolutely MELTED at the tiny smile you tried to hide by hiding your face further in his chest.

He heard you mumble the most adorable, embarrassed “Thanks” from his chest and he couldn’t help but giggle.

“Let’s not think about it for a while, please?” you asked, politely.

“Ok. We can just rewatch the movie where you play a real life version of one of the most famous dolls in the world.” He says, purposefully teasing you!!

“Oh God.” You laughed out.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You held your breath as you opened the email concealing your admissions decisions. It felt as if the world was telling everyone to be quiet and listen.

“I got it.” You whispered as quietly as possible.

“You got in?!” Luke shouted, jumping nearly 7 feet high as he got up to look at you.

“No. I got the email that says if I got in or not.” You answered.

“Oh. Sorry for freaking out.” He looks away, slightly embarrassed. You give him a small look and smile full of adoration before turning back to your phone.

“Here goes nothing.” You say as you click on the email. “What? I don’t get it? Oh! I have to log into the admissions portal in order to see the decision.”

You click on the portal login link and enter your login id username and password, fingers slightly trembling with anticipation. Hesitantly, you click on the link that states “An update has been made about your decision.”

Taking a deep breath, you read a letter that says:

“Dear Y/n, Thank you for applying to New York University. We are humbled by the overwhelming interest in attending NYU and the outstanding quality of the applications we received this year. After careful consideration and thorough examination, it is with regret we must inform you were are unable to offer you admission for the Fall 2024 semester.”

“I didn’t get in.” You confessed barely loud enough for a mouse to hear.

Instantly, Luke had his arms around your shoulders and pulled you into his chest, fiercely protective. You were so disappointed that you weren’t even crying, almost as if you were expecting to be rejected.

“Whatever. Fuck them anyway. They didn’t deserve you to begin with. You belong somewhere like UMich or in an Ivy League school. You’re too good for them.” He tries to reassure you. “Look at it this way, you can continue doing what you love most and stay here with me. In the end, you learned something.”

“And what’s that?” you questioned him.

“Rejection is just redirection, that’s all. College wasn’t in the cards for you and life thinks you’re better off in the spotlight, making more money in a single year than those lousy admissions officers make in their entire lives. You were meant to be somebody great. You ARE somebody great and you’re becoming somebody even more perfect than I ever thought possible.”

His words struck a chord in your heart so deeply that you couldn’t help but hold on to him for dear life. You felt your eyes begin to prick with tears. As the first one fell out of your right eye, you knew automatically that they were tears of joy. Your heart swelled with pride and love for Luke as you laughed into his chest.

“Yeah. Fuck them. I don’t need them. I’m a star! You’re all I need.” You teased back. Deep down, you were incredibly disappointed, but Luke’s words of affirmation and love meant more to you than the rejection letter did. Nothing could beat that.

“That’s right, baby.” He laughed as he tighten his grip over you. He gently kissed the top of your head and repeated quiet “I love you’s” for at least 10 minutes.

“What time is it?” You asked.

“It’s…5:30.” He responded gently leaning over to turn on his phone to check. “Oh Shit! I’m gonna be late!”

“Go! Go! Go!” You laughed at him.

God, this boy. You thought, shaking your head. That’s MY boy.

[hhghgt]

Prince Buck & Soldier Eddie

Eddie and Buck had always clashed. Eddie, the disciplined soldier, believed in order and following the rules. Buck, the rebellious prince, thrived on chaos and breaking traditions. They had been at odds ever since their worlds collided — one bound by duty, the other by freedom.

Eddie, tasked with protecting the royal family, despised Buck's reckless behavior. Yet, behind their heated arguments and pointed glares, a strange attraction simmered. Eddie couldn't deny that something about Buck's defiance intrigued him.

Eddie sat rigidly at the meeting, his eyes unintentionally drifting toward the door as Buck strolled in, dressed in a deep crimson coat that only he could pull off. But what caught Eddie’s attention wasn’t just Buck—it was the princess at his side, her hand casually resting on his arm, her laugh too familiar, too easy.

A flash of jealousy ignited in Eddie’s chest. He tried to ignore it, tried to focus on his duty, but his fists clenched under the table. Buck, for his part, was charming as ever, leaning in close to whisper something to the princess, making her laugh even more. It was the kind of smile Buck never gave him—not that Eddie wanted it, or so he told himself.

His stomach twisted as he watched Buck with the princess. The thought of Buck’s attention being anywhere but on him, even if it was for a fleeting moment, bothered him in a way he couldn’t explain. The banter they shared, the heated exchanges, it had all become... something. But this? This felt like betrayal.

When Buck glanced his way, their eyes locked for a split second. Buck’s smile faltered, and for a moment, Eddie thought he saw something flash in his eyes—guilt, maybe? Or acknowledgment of the tension neither of them had spoken about. But then Buck was back to charming the princess, leaving Eddie seething quietly, wondering why it felt like Buck was slipping further away from him.

Later that night, Eddie stormed into the courtyard, his mind swirling with frustration. He hadn’t meant to confront Buck, but after seeing him so close to the princess all evening, it was impossible to hold back any longer. And of course, Buck was waiting there, as if he knew Eddie would come looking for him.

"You sure looked comfortable tonight," Eddie spat, his voice sharper than intended.

Buck turned slowly, raising an eyebrow. "What's your problem, Eddie? Doing my job?"

"Your job?" Eddie scoffed. "Flirting with the princess? That’s your idea of duty now?"

Buck stepped closer, his posture casual but his eyes flashing with challenge. "She’s a princess. I’m a prince. It’s called politics. Or are you forgetting that I’m not one of your soldiers to boss around?"

Eddie's fists clenched at his sides. "It's not about that and you know it."

"Oh?" Buck’s voice dripped with sarcasm. "Then what’s it about, Eddie? Why do you care?"

Eddie took a step forward, his jaw tight. "Because I’m sick of watching you act like none of this matters—like people don’t matter."

Buck’s eyes darkened, something shifting between them. "You think I don’t care? About the kingdom? About my responsibilities?"

Buck shoved Eddie back, his frustration boiling over. Eddie stumbled slightly, catching his balance, but Buck noticed the sharp wince Eddie tried to hide. His eyes narrowed, and the anger that had driven their argument faded for a second, replaced with something else.

Eddie hissed "No," Eddie growled, his voice low. "I think you don’t care about anyone who actually matters to you."

“Eddie… you’re hurt,” Buck said, his voice losing its edge.

“I’m fine,” Eddie growled, stepping forward again, trying to brush it off like nothing.

Buck wasn’t convinced. He took a step closer, this time not with aggression but with concern. His eyes dropped to Eddie’s side where he noticed blood seeping through the dark fabric of Eddie’s uniform. “You’re bleeding

Without another word, Buck gently grabbed Eddie’s arm and led him away from the courtyard, through the dimly lit halls of the palace. Eddie didn’t protest, though his usual pride would’ve demanded he resist. The weight of their earlier confrontation still hung between them, but neither was willing to let it come between them any longer.

Buck’s room was quiet, almost too quiet after the heated words exchanged earlier. The door clicked shut behind them, and Buck immediately went into action, moving toward a small cabinet near his bed where he kept supplies. He grabbed a cloth, bandages, and a bottle of antiseptic before turning back to Eddie.

“Sit,” Buck said softly, motioning to the edge of his bed.

Eddie hesitated, but the look on Buck’s face left no room for argument. With a sigh, he carefully sat down, wincing slightly as the pain in his side flared up. His hand instinctively moved to cover the wound, but Buck was already there, kneeling in front of him, gently brushing Eddie’s hand aside.

“Let me see,” Buck murmured, his voice filled with concern. His fingers moved carefully to unbutton Eddie’s uniform, pulling the fabric away to reveal the blood-stained undershirt beneath. Eddie hissed as Buck gently pulled the shirt up, exposing the gash along his side.

Buck’s eyes darkened with worry as he inspected the wound. “You should’ve come to me sooner,” he said quietly, reaching for the antiseptic.

“I can take care of myself,” Eddie replied, his voice gruff but lacking the usual bite. He was too exhausted to argue, too worn down by everything that had happened between them tonight.

Buck shook his head, not taking the bait. “You don’t always have to.”

The silence stretched between them as Buck carefully cleaned the wound, his hands steady but gentle. Eddie couldn’t help but watch him, noticing how different Buck was in moments like this—focused, calm, completely in control, but in a way that made Eddie feel safe instead of frustrated.

“You’re not just a reckless prince, you know,” Eddie said quietly, surprising even himself with the admission.

Buck glanced up at him, his eyes softening. “And you’re not just a soldier who follows orders.”

Eddie’s heart skipped a beat, the weight of Buck’s words hitting him harder than any punch ever could. He had always seen himself that way—rigid, disciplined, bound by duty—but Buck had seen something more in him, something Eddie had been too afraid to acknowledge.

Buck finished cleaning the wound and began wrapping the bandage around Eddie’s torso, his movements slow and careful, as if he didn’t want to hurt him more than he already was. When he was done, his hand lingered on Eddie’s side for a moment longer than necessary, the warmth of his touch sending a strange sense of comfort through Eddie’s body.

“You don’t have to do this alone,” Buck said softly, his voice barely above a whisper. “Not anymore.”

Eddie’s breath caught in his throat. He had spent so long trying to push everyone away, believing that his duty came first, that he didn’t deserve to let anyone in. But here was Buck, the last person he ever expected to understand him, offering him something he hadn’t realized he needed.

A sense of vulnerability settled between them, and Eddie finally let his guard down. “Maybe I don’t want to do it alone anymore.”

Buck’s eyes sparkled with mischief as he leaned in slightly, breaking the weight of the moment. “So, were you really jealous, or was that just my imagination?”

Eddie swallowed hard, feeling the heat rise to his cheeks. “I… might have been,” he admitted, his voice lower now, tinged with something more than just frustration.

Buck grinned, the playful glint in his eyes unmistakable. “Good to know I can get under your skin like that. Makes this whole thing more fun.”

Eddie rolled his eyes, but a small smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. “You really think this is fun?”

“Definitely,” Buck replied, his voice dropping to a whisper as he stepped closer, the space between them shrinking. “I think it’s about time we stopped pretending.”

Before he could think better of it, Eddie leaned in and kissed Buck, silencing him. It was a bold move, driven by the mix of frustration, jealousy, and a desperate need to feel that connection between them.