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lokisgoodgirl · 1 year ago

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Secretive Santa: The Lakes [Loki x Reader]

The Lakes Masterlist / Regular Masterlist Summary: (8) Seasons may have changed, but some hearts still need soothed. And what better time than Christmas for some well-intentioned mischief? Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI. Usual Lakes fare. Established relationship. Theve (?) Soft smut , mild angst, humour, fluff and cunning plans throughout. (w/c 7.3k)

You would never forget the look on Thor’s face as the Fiat had drawn up the loose stone drive to the cottage. The glow of his smile was visible through the windshield at 100 paces.

As he and Rogers had exited the car with a spring in their step, you were starting to think the last two days had been just what everyone had needed.

The air was crisp this morning, winter’s first biting chill stinging your cheeks.

Steve’s face was glossy and fresh with the flushed sheen of recent spa treatments. His forehead shone. He strode towards you with a nod, extending his hand to shake Loki’s with a quiet ‘howdy’ as Thor brought up the rear.

‘Do you really think they slept together?’ you’d gaped to Loki as you’d lain in bed after dinner last night, thoroughly sated with food and sex. Loki had laughed gently, making your chin bounce on his bare chest. ‘There were twelve condoms in the pack I bought to get a rise from Rogers,’ he’d replied. An eyebrow had risen as you stared vacantly. ‘How many times have we had sex, darling?’ Loki had continued.

A smirk had played at the corner of his perfect mouth, still glistening with your arousal. It was burned into your memory. The soft mischief in every line.

You had bit your lip, the look of intense concentration on your face making Loki chuckle again. ‘Full, or just oral?’ you’d replied wilfully. ‘Ten,’ Loki had mouthed, raking a hand through his hair as he arched his back. One of his legs draped over the side of the single bed. ‘There were ten in the box when they left. So either-’ ‘It’s happened, or it’s going to!’ you’d gasped. Loki had shrugged. Maybe, his silence had said - but he was still smiling. Now, you tilted your chin as Thor stood beside Steve.

The captain hooked an arm around the blonde god’s shoulder, the pep of the men’s familiar pleasantries filling the air like birdsong. Thor’s followed suit, giving each other an affectionate pat before breaking apart. “You guys ready to blow off?” Steve asked, gesturing to the Fiat.

Loki’s nose wrinkled. “I humbly petition to sit in the front passenger seat this time.” he muttered, making his suitcase disappear in a flash of green. “We can take turns,” Thor offered. A relevation.

Startled, Loki’s eyebrows rose. You looked between them, smiling as the men nodded agreement in sage trifecta.

Although you’d been lumbered driving for the next seven hours back to the Essex compound, it would be another world than the trip up had been. And besides, none of these particular Earth's Mightiest Heroes could drive stick.

“Let’s go home,” you murmured, meeting Loki’s eyes as his hand slid into yours with a squeeze. “Home,” he smiled.

Days turned to weeks, and weeks to months. The seasons changed again. But thankfully, Loki had not.

Frost adorned trees lining Central Park were visible from the god’s bedroom window. Like cake toppers, you mused as you pulled the curtains behind a sash, dusted with icing sugar. A pair of strong hands slid around your waist, slippers nipping at your heels as he moulded his stomach against your back.

Long fingers tugged against the loose sash of your robe.

“Come back to bed,” he murmured against the muss of your morning hair. His breath was warm in the shell of your ear, the heat of his skin sinking from his bare chest through your gown.

You could feel the bulge in his loose pyjama pants pulse against your ass. “They need me,” you whined, tilting your chin to meet his pleading eyes. He knew you couldn’t resist those eyes. Christmas lights on the tree in the corner lit up the golden veins of his irises. “I need you,” he retorted. The wounded tone of his voice tugged your heartstrings.

You rolled your eyes.

Loki tutted. “Agent?” he warned playfully. Playful, but no less devastating. It made your core flush with ill-timed desire. “We don’t do that anymore.” It had become a mantra. An amber light which snuffed out behaviours that no longer had a place in your relationship. And expectation of equality, you conceded, worked both ways. “Come back to bed,” he husked again, deeper this time.

Loki’s forefinger looped around the sash of your robe, stepping back slowly. Two steps, then three. You followed, falling to his lap as he sat back on the mattress. “It’s cold outside. Rogers will understand.” You scoffed, curling the mess of his hair behind one perfectly formed ear. Whatever happened, it needed to sound believable. Just a normal mission. A normal mission. “It’s not Steve I’m worried about,” you said.

Loki frowned, urging you to continue as his fingers danced dangerously up your leg. They began to massage the curve of your ass beneath the silk. “It’s your brother – he’s been antsy all week. All month, actually. Chewed Scott out the other day for being late – even Steve was embarrassed.” Loki’s hand paused. “Will he be there? On this ‘very important mission’?” he muttered, staring at your breasts with a faraway look in his eyes. “My brother, I mean…” You swallowed, the oath of utter secrecy bubbling behind your teeth, willing itself to be broken.

You managed a half-hearted shrug. Loki’s pinched fingers slid down the opening of your robe, before raising his gaze with a wolfish glint.

“Perhaps Rogers is rubbing off on him,” he quipped, lips stretching in a smirk. You slapped his shoulder lightly, trying to stand before Loki pulled you back in. His lips traced your own, inhaling against your breath. “Or on him,” he finished smugly.

You slapped his shoulder again.

“It’s been ages since the lakes, and neither of them have said a word,” you huffed, standing and shrugging your robe to the floor.

Taking a moment to enjoy the awed slant of Loki’s brows, you turned and made your way to the small selection of clothes you kept in his rooms. “If they were a thing, we’d know by now. They barely speak to each other these days.” You unhooked a combat suit, feeling the weight of Loki’s stare on your naked ass. “Has Thor said anything to you?” you asked innocently, glancing back over your shoulder. The god’s eyes snapped from your rear to your face.

“What?” he coughed. He was hard. “Has Thor said anything to you?” you repeated, trying to hold in a satisfied smile. “About him and Steve?” Loki crossed his legs, trying to dampen the arousal pumping through his veins. “No,” he sniffed. “But he is acting particularly meat-headishness of late. I should speak to him.” “You should-” you said, pulling the suit over your shoulders and sliding the zip upwards. Loki’s crestfallen eyes lingered as your cleavage disappeared from view. “I should-” he muttered absent-mindedly as you drew closer and leant down to give him a kiss. His train of thought dissipated in the air.

You paused, feeling his breath cloud around your mouth. As much as you wanted to stay, this was important. The secrecy that surrounded Steve’s message had made that clear.

Loki kissed you. First soft, then firm. A promise.

And the warmth of it lingered as you made your reluctant way down the Tower elevators and into the crisp New York December day.

You checked the top right corner of the screen nestled in your thick gloves. Nine seventeen. Shit. The dot on the GPS moved up East 50th street. Skies had darkened, clouds threatening snow. Wreaths and lightbulb-adorned foliage hung against shop windows, festive displays catching your eye.

That jacket would look incredible on Loki, you thought fleetingly; before the shade of a skyscraper loomed above. Making a mental note to come back and get it, you paused; taking a moment at the railing. It overlooked the golden statue in Rockefeller Plaza. Even at this time in the morning, skaters made their way around the rink with various displays of aptitude. A man who reminded you very much of Colin Robertson hung stiffly onto the side as his other half skated backwards, encouraging him enthusiastically. You smiled. “Thanks for coming,” a voice murmured over your shoulder.

You clutched your chest. “Steve!” you gasped.

Ever since the lakes, the relationship with your superior had become a lot more familiar. An unexpected bonus. The captain wore a thick hat low on his brow. And sunglasses, of course. A navy blue jacket was zipped up under his chin. He looked stiff, hands jammed in his pockets. He glanced anxiously over his shoulder while you leant against the railing. “You going to tell me what this is about, now?” you said quietly.

Steve nodded curtly, clearing his throat. It fogged the air. “Seems I drew Odinson in the secretive santa and I need your advice.” You arched a brow, ‘secretive santa’ making your lip twitch with laughter which would be entirely inappropriate.

“Go on,” you mustered warily. Steve cleared his throat again, removing his sunglasses. He produced a small microfibre flannel from his pocket, beginning to polish them. “You know him better than I do, see” he mumbled, meeting your sceptical gaze. You titled your head. Steve’s cheeks were pink. And not from cold. Not just from cold, anyway.

“I don’t know about that,” you replied softly. The captain’s eyes narrowed, searching for any hint of ulterior meaning.

“You spent a lot of time together before the cabin,” you explained, seeing his face soften. “- which I appreciate, by the way. We both do.” You squeezed his hand. “I think together we can find the perfect gift – don’t you?” Steve exhaled loudly. It was relief. “Well, I did have one idea I wanted to run by you…” he smiled shyly.

Your eyebrows rose.

In response, Steve nudged his head towards a store on the other side of the plaza. A smile stretched across your face.

“Perfect!” you cried, making Steve cringe. “Keep your voice down,” he hushed, wincing as a passer by jostled his shoulder. “I don’t want that Heimdall character ruining the surprise.” You laughed playfully. “If you’re on his radar then-” you started, before thinking better of it. Thankfully, Steve was too busy putting his sunglasses on and tugging the woolly hat down to notice.

FAO Schwarz was heaving with shoppers. Crowds bustled around elaborate displays of every toy imaginable. Normal-looking businessmen and women clutched large paper bags with boxes slotted in expert precision making their way quickly past you to the entrance. Trying to fit in what they could before work, you reckoned. The superheroes of the everyday. New York’s iconic toy-store was a Christmas wonderland, wreaths adorning pillars and large glittering snowflakes hanging from tall ceilings. Paul McCartney’s chirpy vocals rang from concealed speakers, heralding the season. Steve paused beside one of the perfectly coiffured trees lining the walkway through the store, glancing shiftily over his shoulder. “Maybe you should lose the sunglasses?” you suggested. He nodded reluctantly, slipping them into his pocket. “It’s over here,” he murmured.

He was frowning lightly, concern in those famously blue eyes. His Captain face. If you weren’t acutely aware of the context, you might be forgiven for thinking that this was a super-serious mission.

But, you reminded yourself, for him...maybe it is. You decided not to make light of it.

The two of you slipped around several hordes of shoppers towards a wall at the back of the store. Rows of plush animal faces stared vacantly in immaculate lines. Steve stopped. He folded his arms, spreading his feet in a stoic stance.

“There,” he said firmly, nodding towards a modest circular display. “Oh my god,” you whispered, eyes widening.

Out the corner of your vision, you saw Steve’s chin snap towards you; the feeling of his anxious stare beating into your profile. A grin spread on your lips. “It’s perfect,” you squealed, turning to him. You gripped his shoulders, shaking him lightly. “You’re a genius. He’ll love it.” Steve blushed, looking down. He scuffed his foot on the polished floor. It squeaked. “Golly,” he muttered, smiling bashfully. “You really think?”

You nodded, meaning it with your whole heart. “Perfect.”

Loki pursed his lips. He could hear the neolithic grunting of his brother doing some manner of inane task in the kitchen up ahead. It echoed.

Apparently, Thor had not been called to whatever mission had stolen you from his bed after all.

He rounded the corner, immediately tensing. The God of Thunder stood hunched over a toaster, miniscule in one meaty hand. In the other, he had a knife jammed deep in the contraption, wiggling it around. “You should turn that off at the wall, you know-” Loki drawled. Thor looked up, smiling.

“My breakfast is entrapped, brother. There is no other way.”

Loki rolled his eyes. “I thought you weren’t doing that anymore,” Thor muttered, demeanour hardening. "The rolly-eye-thing."

Loki bristled. “For some things there is no alternate or adequate lexicology to express oneself, brother.” Thor humphed, rattling the knife deeper.

A blackened pop-tart fell to the counter amid a cascade of crumbs. With silent vindication, he raised it in his grasp and shook it in Loki’s direction. A triumphant grin spread across his face as Loki slid onto a stool at the breakfast bar. “So?” Loki said smoothly, tilting his head. It was a loaded syllable. Thor’s brow scrunched. Loki wasn’t sure if it was the bitterness of his ill-gotten prize or the vagueness of his opening gambit which caused it. “What?” Thor crunched. Flecks of burnt fell with abandon to his scruffy beard and a white muscle vest stretched tight on his chest. It was stained with what looked like mustard, and chocolate - one hoped.

This is not that garment's first dawn, Loki thought. He sighed pointedly. “Look, we’ve been dancing around this for weeks. Your increase in short-temperedness and decrease in both affinity and hygiene has been noted.” The blonde pressed his fingers sarcastically to his chest, eyes wide. “You talk of me?” he exclaimed incredulously before chuckling, shaking his head.

Without warning, Thor released a thundering fart. It tapered to a whining toot before he spoke again. “You must be mistaken brother.” Loki didn't flinch. Not even a millimetre.

“I am not,” was Loki’s curt response. He clasped his hands on the counter-top, now marred with specks of charred pop-tart. They looked like ants. His disapproving eyes rose to meet his brother, now looking shifty. He was chewing, avoiding Loki’s analytical stare.

Thor flicked his hair back. It had a crispness to it. Some kind of resolve settled over his features, and there was a sharp glint in his eye Loki didn’t like.

“Have you told her you love her yet?” his elder brother quipped bitterly. Sarcasm seeped from him like steam. Or maybe that was the lingering stench of flatulence. “Again?” Loki tensed, resisting the bait. “That is none of your concern.”

He straightened, making space as Thor leant on the counter opposite, fist propped beneath his chin. The blonde batted his eyelashes innocently. Loki wanted to punch him. “Oh but it is, brother-” Thor smarmed, lip curling in a smirk that Loki would recognise in a mirror. “I am most concerned about it indeed.”

The two of them sat in silence, unspoken asgardian curses curling the air. “A truth for a truth?” Loki postured coldly, circling his fingertip on the counter. The question hung in the air. An old compromise last involked in their youth, in the days of the cabin-with-no-place.

It had become such a staple of breaking their stubborn stalemates that Frigga had commissioned the Asgardian Crones to weave a token.

‘To solidify the sentiment, for harmony’ she had said.

Millions of silken threads created the finest handkerchief in Asgard, an ombre of green and red which softened in silken waves to the centre; melding to one. Harmony.

On it, hand-stitched in the truest gold were the words. The only words which could provoke amnesty between the heirs. The symbol exchanged between them at times of familial discord. Whoever held it, must forfeit one admission for another or face the consequences.

En sannhet byttet mot en sannhet, A truth exchanged for a truth, Loki mulled as he traced a dark vein of the marbled counter-top.

It was not an accord invoked lightly. The ceremonial handkerchief itself may be lost to places known only to few, but once uttered, the oath must be fulfilled. He followed the winding tendril to the edge before meeting his brother’s eyes. Thor snorted, slapping the hand beneath his chin to the surface. “Fine” he gruffed.

“You and Rogers-” Loki cut in, seizing the moment. He watched his brother’s brow crease, short-lived victory turning to regret. “Is he the cause of the foul mood which has plagued you these past weeks?” Thor shuffled his feet, pushing himself upright against the counter. “I see not business that is of-” he began to parrot, but Loki waved a dismissive hand. “Brother, please-” he snapped sharply. “Even adorned with our lifespans, this banal rhetoric could last us to the gates of Valhalla.” He watched as his brother’s features relented, a quiet sigh rising in his chest. Thor swallowed. “He will not speak of it,” he muttered.

Loki raised an eyebrow. “Of what?” Thor’s jaw set, looking at his brother with exasperation. “Our amorous union, short-lived as it was.” A small smile played at Loki’s lips.

Vindication, he thought. Finally, they were getting somewhere.

He summoned the willpower that had become so familiar from his newly-trained approach to your relationship, reminding himself that vulnerability was to be encouraged, not exploited. Carefully, he re-adjusted himself on the stool. He made sure he looked sympathetic. “I wasn’t sure if-” “Yes, yes…” Thor mumbled dismissively, glancing around the walls. Pink had risen in his cheeks.

“Rogers asked me not to say anything. But methinks it’s all for nought now regardless.”

“So the two of you...at the cottage?” Loki probed.

Thor nodded. “It started as a ruse, a part of the plan should it be required to stay you in the correct location but-” he swallowed.

“When the moment arose, the moment took me...us, and- our kinship, such as it was, had changed somehow. The nights we spent setting things in motion for the two of you, we grew closer. I cannot place it, brother. I just…”

“That sounds familiar,” Loki said softly. Without realising it, he had reached for his brother’s hand.

Thor squeezed it, staring down as he continued. “The love of a male is not unfamiliar to either of us-” Thor said, glancing up briefly. “But to Rogers…” he trailed off. “-It is all unfamiliar.” Loki finished. His brother nodded. “At the spa...we talked about what the future could look like. Many plans were made, but-” Thor swallowed thickly. “-when we returned, things were different?” Loki murmured tentatively.

Thor nodded again.

Loki knew that fear all too well. He would be lying if he said that his heart hadn’t pounded the whole flight home, wondering if a return to reality outside of the bubble created in the cottage would return you to your senses too. The thought of losing you again had been almost too much to bear. “I know not if it is his values. His image. Whether his feelings have changed or whether the intrigue was more of an allure than reality- he has barely spoken two words of warmth since our return. And when he does speak – I find myself behaving most unbefitting my feelings. Pushing him further, like you did.” Tears welled in the blonde’s eyes.

“Or perhaps it is I, brother,” Thor continued, smiling in a way that didn’t reach his eyes. It twisted Loki’s heart. His elder brother released a mirthless chuckle of resignation before continuing, fingertip circling on the marble anxiously. “Perhaps it is I.”

In seconds, Loki stood and rounded the counter.

He drew his brother close, feeling the strength of Thor’s grip tentatively curl around his shoulders. The god’s chest heaved, shallow breaths ricocheting against Loki’s neck. He found himself pressing his brother’s head into his hold, trying to steady the silent sobs swallowed with every gulp of air.

Had they ever embraced like this? Loki didn’t think so. Not that he could recall. But, strangely, he found he didn’t care.

“It’s alright, brother” he heard himself murmur, not knowing what else to say.

Thor choked back a shuddering sigh as Loki continued to stroke his hair. He rested his chin on his brother’s head, closing his eyes. “It’s alright.”

A paper bag adorned with toy soldiers rustled by your feet below the table.

Steve had given strict instructions to keep it in your sight while he bought coffee. You peeked inside again, smiling.

Somehow, you’d managed to convince him to while away a little more time before heading back to the Tower, citing Loki’s suspicions. But really, you just wanted to spend time with him.

Ever since the lakes, Steve had softened – which wasn’t a bad thing. In some ways you felt much closer, but in others; from others – he seemed to be pulling away. “Careful, it’s hot” he quipped, nudging the wooden chair out with his foot.

He squeezed to sit at the world’s smallest table that you had commandeered in the corner of the café. You mouthed thanks, pulling the mug over. “Reminds me of the cottage,” you smiled; looking up innocently. Steve’s eyebrows peaked, before he frowned lightly. “I guess,” he muttered. Festive jazz played over the bustle of mid-morning conversation and clinking plates. The milk steamer spluttered endlessly behind the bar. You scooped a blob of cappuccino foam onto your finger, sucking it off. It was now or never. After all, it was Christmas.

“Are you alright, Cap?” you started deferentially, hoping that the softness you felt in your heart shone through. Steve looked up, blue eyes deep in thought.

“Can I trust you, Agent?” he asked warily as his gaze glanced over your shoulder. Your features softened further, tension easing. You reached across the space between you, fingers curling over his forearm. “Steve,” you whispered. “I owe you so much. So much. I care about you, and Loki does too.” Steve’s brow arched sceptically. “He does,” you smiled, squeezing his arm. The smile fell gradually as you studied his face. “You can trust me,” you said quietly. Seriously. The captain nodded, taking a deep breath. “I…” he started.

Your brow twitched, an uneasy feeling spreading under your skin as Steve readjusted his feet beneath the table. His fingernails scratched at the wood, tapping as he glanced out the window and back again. “I…” he pursed his lips, avoiding your eyes. “-fucked up,” he hissed. Your stare widened. “Steve!” you gasped. He looked at you sheepishly. “Apologies,” he muttered. Clearly, your look of abject confusion was enough to spur him on. He leant forwards, urging you to do the same. A woman stood at the next table. Both of you watched her leave. Steve turned back to you, his eyes trained on the coffee cup nestled between his palms. “Our...mutual friend. The blonde,” he said quietly. You squeezed his arm again to signal understanding. “Well...as it turns out, I enjoy his company a bunch.” Steve’s eyelashes fluttered upwards, bashful gaze swimming above pink cheeks. He bit his lip. “A bunch. You see?” “I see,” you replied gently. Steve released a wistful sigh.

He licked his lips, fingers playing with the mug handle. “Things happened at the lakes that I didn’t expect. That I never woulda...that I-” he sighed, hanging his head.

“I told him it was a mistake.” He blew out a puff of air. “What a ninny,” he chided himself under his breath. You tilted your head. It was breaking your heart. “Do you think it was a mistake?” Steve shook his head, sighing again. “No,” said quietly. “But now he won’t talk to me. Not like before– as though he’s realised it was a mistake. He’s done with ol’ chum over here. I can’t blame him. I guess it’s not a big deal for a god and whatnot but for me-” Steve swallowed, words drying up. “Trust me, I know how it feels” you whispered.

Steve’s eyes met yours. They were glassy with tears, darting from your own to the pictures hanging on the wall and back again.

“I fucked up,” he breathed again. His voice trembled on the swear.

“It’s alright,” you cooed sadly as your thumb stroked Steve’s palm. You squeezed again. "It's gonna be alright."

Loki paced back and forth across the rug in his living room.

He’d tried buzzing your apartment four times at thirty minute intervals. Each time, he had been left more enthused than the previous.

His mind was alight with the thrill of the plot.

Through an entirely subtle process of elimination over the past hours, he had deduced that there was only one member of the team you could be with on this auspicious morning. Rogers. And after his conversation with his brother – he needed the intel you had most certainly gathered – whether intentionally or no.

There was more to this ‘mission’ of yours than met the eye, of this he was certain. He was certain, because he had planted the seeds himself.

There was a knock at the door. Loki’s feet skidded back against the rug in his haste to the handle, throwing it wide and bustling you inside.

“-Loki-” you gasped while he glanced to either side of the hallway before spinning you against the wall with a ravishing kiss.

His senses came alive beneath your touch. The bright cool of your skin, the scent of coffee and spiced gingerbread clinging to your hair; an almost imperceptible tacky patch on your cheekbone where some soul had left a passing kiss. Lipbalm. Rogers.

“What have you been up to my secretive elf?” he purred against your parted lips. Your coat hung open, the avengers uniform you had donned this morning for his benefit, he was sure; on half-display.

“I...uh-” Loki smirked as your palms steadied against the wall. You were panting, face flushed from the onslaught of his affections. Fingers raked through your hair as you met his eyes, blinking several times.

“You tied your hair back,” you noted, dazed.

Loki scoffed at the attempt at subterfuge, grabbing your hand.

“Come,” he said as he pulled you towards the sofa. You landed with a soft bounce as the god took centre stage in the living room. He pressed his fingertips together, hands peaked in a triangle. It touched his lips briefly. “Brace thyself, darling” he drawled. Unbuttoning your coat, Loki felt his gaze fall down the black material tight to your arms. It clung to your chest, the zip far too low for any official business. His stare lingered on the curve of your waist, how it taunted and teased him as you shuffled back on the sprawling sofa.

“Consider me braced,” you said pointedly. He cleared his throat. “My brother,” he started, pausing for effect. You stared at him expectantly.

Loki admitted to himself that he was a little disappointed you did not seem more intrigued by the fatted bounty of gossip he was about to spill forth. But he decided to maintain the theatre it deserved regardless. “-is in love with…” he paused again, smirking mischievously- “Rogers.” Your head fell back, landing in the cushions as your hands covered your face. “Oh thank fuck for that!” you gasped, beginning to laugh despite yourself. Loki frowned. This was not the response he had expected.

Between sighs of relief, you peered through your fingers at the bemused god. He was standing with his hands on his hips, the irritation palpable. The foot began to tap.

“Come here,” you placated. Patting the cushion beside you, his face softened; but an eyebrow remained raised.

“I would have thought my most excellent investigations would yield a smidgeon more praise from you my dear,” he said with feigned annoyance as he sat. “Nonetheless, I imagine your response means welcome news?” You nodded. “Steve feels the same. At least – I think he does.” Loki’s face scrunched. “You think? Please. Rogers should be on his hands and knees thanking the norns for my brother’s affections.” It was your turn to frown. “But Steve doesn’t know how Thor feels – your brother’s been palming him off.” Loki smirked.

“Not like that,” you sighed as you fell back again against the cushions. “We have to do something Loki...they’re mad about each other. They both think the other isn’t interested for one reason or another. They just need-” “-a little nudge?” Loki purred.

You met his stare. Those beautiful eyes swirled with the warm glow of the treelights, sparking mischief in golden flecks buried in deepest blue. Shadows cast by candlelight danced in the carve of his cheekbones.

“A little nudge,” you repeated, tilting your head with a knowing smile.

“After all, it would be rude not to return the favour. Don’t you agree?” the god murmured as his fingers danced up your suit.

They fastened around the zip at your chest, pulling slowly down. In seconds, Loki had gracefully shifted and buried his face in your cleavage. Hot kisses worked against the skin, breath warming any hint of chill still lingering in your bones.

Your hands slid past his temples as he made it to your neck, fingers winding in the lengths of his ponytail before pulling it free.

“Minx,” he slurred against the curve.

You could feel the sharp of his teeth against your collarbone as he smiled. Hands sliding over his broad shoulders, you took a moment to appreciate the tight knit of the camel sweater he wore at the meat of his biceps. Camel, he’d insisted. Not beige. And in the heady afterglow of lovemaking amidst a sea of sparkling Christmas lights, a cunning plan began to form.

You made your way to the common room, gift-bag swinging.

The presents that you and Loki had procured for your team-mates sat nestled inside – one for Scott, one for Wanda.

The tradition was a fairly new one, but a highlight of the festive calendar. On Christmas Eve, before outsider guests for Tony’s annual party began to arrive- the Avengers gathered and exchanged all manner of tat and risque shit. You often wondered how much the picture on your phone of Bruce holding up the dinner-plate sized cock ring Tony had made for him would fetch on the open market. But you had decided long ago that it was priceless. “Brother!” you imitated in a deep, accented growl.

Thor spun on the common room sofa, his wary look melting to a wide smile. You ran to him, throwing your arms around his neck. He spun, making you squeal. A whining mash of faint tunefulness emitted from his chest as the god lowered you to the ground. Jingle Bells. “Ah, you pressed the penguin’s nose” he hummed, booping the knitted beakish blob. “He sings,” he explained, pleased with himself. “I can see that,” you said as you made your way to the tree. “But turn around – you can’t see which presents are ours...” Thor obliged, smiling as he busied himself fluffing a garland by the fireplace. "Perhaps we should invite my Penguin friend to the carol concert at Stark's festive jamboree tomorrow," he boomed across the room. You watched him, remembering the feeling of acting normally while tendrils of heartache wrapped around your insides.

"-Certainly, he can hold a tune better than I" Thor continued, chuckling to himself. A pang of sadness mellowed as you turned back to the pile beneath the tree. Scanning, you tried to look for one that could be Steve’s – but none fit the bill. “Okay I’m done,” you said casually as you stood. Thor continued fluffing the garland. You sidled over, trying to act casual. “Have you um...added yours yet?” Thor shook his head regretfully. “Having a little trouble with my assigned giftee” he muttered. His eyes flickered to yours guiltily. “There is something I wish to give them, but I am unsure it would be welcome.” A small smile played on your lips. “Something tells me any gift of yours would be welcome,” you said, watching his bottom lip roll beneath the top with a sceptical grunt. “Is it something I can help with?” you probed, “maybe a second opinion would ease your mind.” “No,” Thor mumbled. He sighed. “I fear this is something I must endeavour alone, sister.” You frowned. How the fuck did Thor manage one of these cunning plans, you wondered as Michael Buble crooned in the background. “I wished to speak to you as it happens,” he murmured. Your lips pursed. The tone of his voice, the tension in his shoulders. Flashing lights interwoven in the fireplace garland illuminated a newly crimson hue to his skin. “Did my brother...mention anything to you of late?” You snorted. “You’ll have to be more specific when it comes to Loki. He never shuts up,” you smiled, feigning ignorance. Thor chuckled. “Indeed,” he said as he picked at a ribbon. “Well then...more specifically about, me.” You shook your head. You hated lying to him, but in this case – it was for the greater good. The god nodded softly, still inspecting the ribbon between his fingers. “Good. Well. That wasn’t what I wished to speak to you about anyway.” You swallowed. Cryptic Thor was never a welcome guest at any gathering. “My brother,” he continued cautiously, eyeing you before moving his fingers to another strand of greenery hanging over the side of the mahogany mantel. “-He intends to declare his love for you this Yuletide.”

Your jaw dropped, neck craning forwards. “Oh,” was all you could manage.

The side of Thor’s mouth twitched in an apologetic smile. “I am aware that your relationship has been, what is the parlance...taken ‘back to basics’ in some respects-” “Yeah,” you mumbled. Suddenly the ribbons decorating the garland looked very interesting. You and he stood in silence, straightening Pepper’s ornamentation.

Thor cleared his throat. “Knowing you the way I do sister,” he said softly, “I thought that forearmed would be forewarned.” “It’s the other way around,” you snipped. "Forewarned is forearmed." Out the corner of your eye, you saw Thor’s face fall. “Sorry,” you added quietly. The god’s hand curled around your shoulder, pulling you to him in a brief sidehug before releasing it.

“It’s just...we agreed not to rush things,” you explained under your breath.

You knew that he knew this, but verbalisation was needed. The cogs of your mind whirled.

“We haven’t moved back in together, we just keep a few things at each others places...go on a lot of dates, we’re working on ourselves, you know? Avoiding the mistakes we made last time. Like...well, like rushing things.” Thor turned towards you, bicep leaning against the mantle-piece as he listened diligently. You could feel the track of his gaze over your face.

Unable to take it anymore, you turned to look at him. “He’s doing so well, Thor. We’re doing so well. I’m happy. Really happy,” The words sounded panicked. You hated that. Thor reached out, cupping your hand in his. “I just...I don’t want it to ruin anything,” you finished. Looking up, the god’s concerned stare was waiting like you knew it would be.

“Do you love him?” was all Thor said.

Heat rose in your cheeks.

The truth was that you did. That you always had, and probably always would. But in hindsight, those three little words had heralded the beginning of the end last time. When his rose-tinted effort to contain the smarm and arrogance had well and truly gone absent without leave.

In some ways, the old Loki had taken your love to mean your unending loyalty. Unconditionally, in the truest sense of the word. Your unquestioning support and adulation no matter his behaviour, however many times you tried to stand your ground. And while his actions these past months had gone a long way to assuage those lingering doubts – the fear that it could flare up his old habits made your blood run cold.

Seconds ticked on while Thor’s question hung in the air.

“I thought it best you have time to consider it before the moment was upon you,” he said quietly. “My apologies if I have overstepped.”

You shook your head, linking your fingers through his. Without realising, tears had begun to prick your eyes. He raised a palm to your cheek, wiping away a droplet which had spilled over the rim. “No tears, sis” he rumbled lovingly. “It’s Christmas.” You felt a weak smile grow as Thor extended his forefinger. It lingered in the air between you. He paused, raising his eyebrows.

He moved the finger slowly to the penguin’s beak.

It pressed against the jumper. Against the lumpy misshapen knob of black knit, Thor's eyes never leaving yours.

And as the squeaking whine of electronic Jingle Bells filled the air, it dissolved the scent of sadness into a waft of cinnamon candlesmoke. You and the god of Thunder began to laugh.

Loki leant against the counter of your kitchenette.

He watched as you waited for the kettle to finish boiling, staring at it intently. Something was off. Your fingertip ran around the rim of a glass teapot sitting on the side. Loki could smell the spiced chai leaves from here. “Are you alright, darling?” he ventured cautiously. You offered a weak smile as the kettle clicked off the boil. Steam billowed around your jawline as you poured.

Loki was careful not to let his face betray the nerves bubbling in his stomach. If he was honest with himself, he’d been waiting for something to crop up that would throw the fine-sailing vessel of your relationship off-course.

It’s only a matter of time until she changes her mind, he’d think with twisting sadness as he watched you sleep. With me, it’s always just a matter of time.

He absorbed the purse of your lips, the absent-minded wipe of a droplet of tea from the counter-top before you blew the steam gently. Its motion sent a wave of rich tea and spices in his direction.

Your slipper socks rustled against the tiles as you made your way over to him, still resting against the counter’s lip. You set the mug down to his side, hands sliding over his hips. They clasped behind his back at the base of his spine.

“I have to talk to you about something, and it’s not easy-” you murmured softly.

Your eyes were wide and vulnerable, a slight tremble of your lip making his heart race. The scent of your festive perfume filled his nostrils, like ginger biscuits.

“Go on,” he whispered. He wasn’t sure he could manage much more.

You swallowed thickly, fingers toying with the back of his sweater. Black, today. Loki hoped it was not an ensemble of foreshadowing. “I ran into your brother in the common room."

Loki exhaled a sigh of relief. “Oh,” he breathed, a small smile breaking. But your expression didn’t change. The god felt your fingers pull nervously against his sweater. Bad for the knit. “He um-now, don’t be mad at him-” Loki began to frown. “He uh, mentioned that you were maybe thinking about...um, saying something soon. To me.” Realisation blossomed, vines of anger and embarrassment twisting around the thought as he cursed his brother’s loose lips. He should have known. Loki swallowed, feeling his features harden but being unable to stop it.

Your gaze fell, the trace of your fingertips around his middle as you brought them together in front of you; pulling nervously at the ends.

“That devious, two-faced buffoon” Loki muttered bitterly, concerned eyes darting back to your face. “I told him that in confidence.” You looked up at him incredulously. “Well, he told you about Steve in confidence.” “That’s different,” he snipped, noting the immediate rise of your eyebrow. “It’s you.” he finished, glancing to the floor as he felt his cheeks begin to flush. “Loki…” he heard you begin softly, curling a rogue strand of hair behind his ear. He couldn’t look. “Loki,” you repeated, firmer this time. Your forefinger nudged beneath his chin, tilting his face up. He wondered if he looked as wilted as he felt. From the look in your eyes, he suspected he did.

“I understand,” he heard himself say. It was petulant. It was cold and detached in a way that scared him. The warm hit of your lips meeting his unexpectedly made his knees buckle, hands bracing against the counter-top. Your palms slid up his chest, over the tensed ropes of shoulder muscle, over the curve of his neck. Everything was in that kiss. The heat, the longing, the need. “Loki,” you breathed softly into his open mouth. “Mmm,” he mewled, eyes closed. “I love that you feel that way, I’m just…I’m scared that-” Loki opened his eyes. He saw a swirl of tears threatening the beautiful hues of your irises. There would be no tears of sadness this Christmas, he had decided. Not on his account. “Afraid, of things that may change?” he probed quietly. You nodded.

Loki sighed, cupping your jaw. He ran a thumb back and forth across your lips, moist from the kiss. “Change be not always a harbinger of doom, I hope the last few months have reassured you of that.” You nodded again. “I know that it's different now, it just...took me by surprise. I hadn’t expected...I just-not yet...” you trailed off. Loki smiled softly. The way your body was pressed against him, as close as you could be. The way your fingers gripped and grasped against each dip of muscle it encountered as though he would turn to dust if you did not.

Loki realised in that moment that if this scenario had occurred years before, he would have been insulted. He would have been childish. Enraged, perhaps, at the audacity of the woman he adored doubting him. But now, all he felt was closeness. The bravery of your admission that he felt his soul. That you trusted him again.

Words, he pondered as he placed a lingering kiss on your forehead. What wounds have I inflicted on this woman with words.

Action must once more be paramount. The words can heal, he realised as he memorised the softness of your skin beneath his lips. But words can wait. “Perhaps we can agree” he began, measuring every syllable with the rise and fall of your chest against his own, “that, should you feel comfortable in doing so...you could, say it first- when it is right for you. When it is right for us.”

His voice was deep and melodic, a rumbling lullaby of devotion he willed would still your thundering heart. He hoped you could feel the love simmering in those words. He had never hoped anything more. You tilted your head into the curve of his neck, kissing the exposed skin. “-and be safe in the knowledge the sentiment will be returned, when you are ready” he added quietly.

Your hands slipped once more around his hips, pulling him tightly against you with your head buried in his neck. Loki held you like that, letting the waft perfume from your hair fill his nostrils.

I love you, he mouthed silently.

The soundless click of his tongue over mute syllables wound its way through strands of your hair.

He felt your fingers begin toying with the waistband of his trousers. A smile twitched the corner of his mouth. “Darling,” he purred as your head left his shoulder. You tilted your face to meet his gaze, alight with the comfortable joy he knew so well.

“You’re amazing,” you whispered. A smile had spread across your face that made Loki’s heart burst. The first button on his chinos popped. “Well, quite-” he smouldered playfully. Loki felt his hips rock upwards into your waiting palm, a low groan bubbling in his throat while you stroked the arousal growing beneath cotton. “You fixed the secret Santa, didn’t you?” you coaxed. Changing the subject, Loki noticed. But he let it pass. It was hardly a question.

Loki rolled his lips, pondering. “I may have ensured that my brother and Rogers drew each others names, yes.” He let out another moan as you squeezed the thick root of his cock through the chinos. “Good boy,” you hummed. It sent a shudder of need up his spine.

“How long have you been planning this?” you said, beginning to walk backwards with Loki’s sweater firmly in your grip. He chuckled, curls tapping against his jaw. “A while,” Loki smouldered. “Seeds that I have planted have sprouted most elegantly. Although there were a few pieces of the puzzle which remained unclear until the last few days.”

You paused, making the god’s stomach collide with yours. He released an exaggerated ooft.

“Final pieces of the puzzle? Like the fact they actually have feelings for each other?” you giggled. Loki shrugged non-nonchalantly. You were playing. “A minor detail,” he drawled. “Everything needed to be in place, just in case.” Your mouth hung open, stunned into silence. “It’s Christmas,” he added with mock-incredulity – as though it explained everything. “Miraculous things happen at Christmas in this realm, do they not?”

His fingers curled around your shoulders, switching your positions and lowering himself to the sofa. He widened his legs, hips flexing upwards. Fairy lights gleamed and sparked their warmth in a halo, golden spills rolling over your skin as you pulled the jumper you wore over your head. Firelight flickered, casting dancing shadows against the walls.

He would never understand the beauty of you. And perhaps, Loki surmised, he did not have to. It was his fortune to appreciate it, not question it.

A finger twirled in the air, evaporating his clothes in a seasonal golden and scarlet shimmer. Yours followed. Loki’s thighs widened further as you manoeuvred onto his lap, covering his mouth in a hungry kiss. His fingers raked through your hair, hips bucking up as he sought the sweetest harbour his body had ever known.

“Say it again,” he pleaded darkly as you slipped a hand between your bodies, guiding his throbbing cock to your entrance. Twin gasps cut the air as you seated yourself on the thick tip, slow motions rocking down into shallow moans. “Good boy,” you murmured lovingly in his ear.

Loki let his head fall back against the cushions, fingertips sinking into the soft rounds of your ass as he bottomed out. He let you work against his body, feeling your pleasure spill and slip against the taut veins of his cock. Every little gasp, every breathy groan of his name. Your god. Each slow roll of your hips met the gentle buck from a clench of his ass. Your god. He was yours, completely.

You knew that now for certain. He was sure of it. And all the while, a few floors below, his brother was wrapping a gift for Steve Rogers.

As the final strip of crinkled sellotape was placed firmly against the paper, and as the ribbon he had smuggled from the common room garland was retied- one might have been forgiven for thinking a green light glowed within it; leaking from loose edges.

Thor had frowned, doing a double take.

The package seemed to tingle in his hold. The blonde put the strange feeling down to nerves.

But as his younger brother lost himself in pleasure, spilling his seed and his devotion within the arms of his beloved; the gift had been made whole in Thor’s oblivious hands.

A gift that would change everything.

Continued in Comfort and Joy (Final)

Tags

@lokischambermaid @meowmeow-motherfucker @gigglingtiggerv2 @imalovernotahater @avengersalways @littledark11 @lokikissesmyforehead @simplyholl @fictive-sl0th @thedistractedagglomeration @loopsisloops @glitchquake @holdmytesseract @jaidenhawke @silverfire475 @fandxmslxt69 @morriggannlostinfandoms @marygoddessofmischief @xorpsbane @peacefulpianist @yelkmelk @wheredafandomat @mistress-ofmagic @acidcasualties @ozymdias @your-taste-on-my-lips @lokidokieokie @kikster606 @peachyjinx @tbhiddlestan83 @trickster-maiden @skymoonandstardust @justjoanne242 @thenotoriouserg @ladyofthestayingpower @wolfmoonmusic @brittbax @smolvenger @joyful-enchantress @kaleenjackson @fictional-hooman @kellatron55 @mrs-illyrian-baby @icytrickster17 @muddyorbs @buttercupcookies-blog @goddessofwonderland

#the lakes #loki x reader #loki smut #loki laufeyson #loki fanfiction #loki fanfic #loki fluff #loki x female reader #loki odinson #loki (marvel)#loki imagine #loki x you #loki x female reader smut #loki x yn #loki x reader smut #loki gif

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exorciqsm-0 · 10 months ago

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Out like a light >ᵥ_ᵥ<

Boxer!Eren Yeager x Onyankopon lil sis!black fem reader

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁.𖥔 ݁ ˖ ✦ ‧₊˚ ⋅ . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁.𖥔 ݁ ˖ ✦ ‧₊˚ ⋅ . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁.𖥔

Your big brother, Onyankopon, was a well-renowned fighter in the boxing industry, winning belt after belt due to his exceptional skill. You were proud of him, especially considering the hardships you both endured for him to reach this point.

There's a twelve-year age difference between you, with him being 34 and you being 22. Since the moment you were born, Ony has been the one taking care of you because your emotionally unavailable parents felt they didn’t need to. He stole for you, bought you food, and ensured your education by enrolling you in tutoring programs under your parents' name to secure your graduation, admission to a good university, and a high-paying job. Fighting was how he made his money.

When it came to you, Ony didn’t play, so you could only imagine his face when he sees a video of his main opponent basically flirting with you at a coffee shop.

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁.𖥔 ݁ ˖ ✦ ‧₊˚ ⋅ . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁.𖥔 ݁ ˖ ✦ ‧₊˚ ⋅ . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁.𖥔

Today was a very slow day for you. Your lectures were stupidly long and boring, your friends were all busy, AND on top of all that you dropped a cookie you were eating in a puddle when you were walking to class. Now you find yourself working on a assignment for your chemistry class in a coffee shop.

As you were working, you heard a large commotion coming from the entrance of the store. Turning to see what it was, you were blinded by flashing lights emanating from the front windows of the store. Deciding not wanting to have these lights in your eyes, you turned back and continued working.

After about 30 minutes you grew hungry. Cursing yourself out for not getting any food before hand, you made your way to the register. On the way there, you got a notification on your phone causing you to look at it.

Sash 🫡 :

YALL WANNA HANGOUT LATER????

Y/n 💞 :

oh so when I ask if y’all want to hang y’all don’t wanna respond 🙄�� (oh and sure>.<)

Con 🤓 :

thats because you be asking us at the most god forsaken hours😒

As you were typing out your response, you bumped into someone. (cliché i know but y’all bare with me 🙏) “Oh I’m sorry..” you say before you see a cake pop fall to the ground. Now you were really sorry. The man in front of you groaned in frustration. “Watch where you’re goin-“ he paused when he turned around. Staring at you as if he was lost for words.

“I’m so sorry. Please let me buy you another one.” You offer. An unexpected low “Damn” fell from the man’s lips leaving both you and him confused. “No it’s fine” he says when he snaps back to reality. “Oh come on! It’s my fault so I’ll buy you a new one! I’m going there right now anyways!” You insisted eager to fix your mistake. The man turns looks at his friends and then looks back at you. “Ok um sure.” A small smile forming on his lips.

"Here," you said, extending the cake pop to him with a sheepish grin. "Sorry again." "You really didn't have to do that," he replied, his gaze shifting to the dessert now in his hand. "No, no! I had to!" you insisted, your smile widening with sincerity. He returned your smile, gratitude in his eyes. "So... do you have a name?" he asked. "Oh, umm it’s (y/n)! What’s yours?" you responded. "Eren. Oh, um, Eren Yeager," he replied shyly.

As you processed his name, a wave of recognition washed over you. You'd definitely heard that name before. That's when it clicked. The paparazzi, the wounds on his face. everything fell into place, and you suddenly realized who he was.

"You're that boxer, right?" you said, unable to contain your excitement as you grinned at him. "Oh, umm, yeah," he replied, rubbing the back of his head nervously. "Do you like boxing?" he asked, trying to shift the focus away from himself. "I mean, my big brother's a boxer," you replied casually, feeling a of pride as you mentioned your brothers job.

"Really? Who is he?" Eren asked, his curiosity piqued. "Onyankopon!" you replied proudly, the name rolling off your tongue effortlessly.The feeling Recognition formed on Eren's face. That's where he'd seen you before—linked to the famous Onyankopon.

Eren and Ony were headlining for this highly anticipated boxing event, were they are facing each other in the ring. Throughout the years of both of their boxing Journeys, there have been very mild beef between the both of them. But nothing to Extreme.

"Hope you don’t mind me beating up your brother," Eren teased, flashing a mischievous grin at you. "Umm, I don’t think you will," you replied, a playful smirk tugging at the corners of your lips as you bantered back. With a subtle nod, you motioned for him to follow you back to the table where your belongings stood.

Eren obliged, his smile widening as he fell into step beside you. "So, what do you do?" "I'm in university right now. I want to become a dermatologist," you replied. "Oh, really? That's cool," Eren responded.

"Hey, so um," Eren interrupted you, halting your steps. You turned to face him, curious about what he had to say. His smile was infectious, and you found yourself returning it. "I was wondering if you'd want to talk more," he continued. “I would love to but my class is starting in a few minutes and..” you look at the paparazzi still flashing there cameras at him. “You also look busy.” You return your gaze back to him. He looks behind him and sulks. Their still here?

"Then can I get your number?" Eren asked, eager to continue talk to you more. Your smile widened at his request, flattered by his interest. With a playful glint in your eye, you reached out for his phone, causing a flicker of confusion to pass over his face. "For my number," you clarified with a smirk, enjoying teasing him just a little. "Oh, um, yeah," Eren stammered slightly, fumbling in his pockets until he located his phone. Once he retrieved it, he handed it over to you.

"Here ya go, honey," you said teasingly, handing Eren his phone back with a playful smile dancing on your lips. His cheeks flushed slightly at the nickname, caught off guard by the endearment. "Thank you, pretty," he replied, mustering up the courage to flirt back, his attempt at charm accompanied by a sheepish grin. As you prepared to leave, Eren's gaze lingered on you, reluctant to see you go. "Text me when you get home," he requested softly, his sincerity evident in his tone as he watched you pick your stuff up and leave.

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁.𖥔 ݁ ˖ ✦ ‧₊˚ ⋅ . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁.𖥔 ݁ ˖ ✦ ‧₊˚ ⋅ . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁.𖥔

>ᵥ_ᵥ< : ITS MARCH BREAK YALL IM FREEE !! I might make a part 2 of this😙

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hellshire-harlot · 28 days ago

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You’re Supposed to Bleed the First Time | New God!Albert Wesker x Goddess!Reader

They all lied, lied, lied

Why didn’t anyone tell me

Love is like

Being fucked with a knife

————

Reader is a young goddess in a pantheon. Never before has a mortal ascended to divinity.

Until him.

Also available on AO3 here.

Taglist: @gothghostiie @adrianrainesfangs @weskie @destinationtrekk @nomansgunssmoke

A pulsating wave of sickness, of agonizing fire shooting through your body, startles you from sleep. Barely conscious, you tumble out of bed and rush to your bathing room and heave violently into the toilet, your bile stained gold with Ichor. The fluid that is meant to remain in your veins.

As you finish throwing up and take a deep breath, you have your first concrete, conscious thought this morning. Young you may be for a goddess, you are not helpless, or stupid. Something is very, earth-shakingly wrong.

You look out the window, then, and realize it’s not even morning at all- only blackness greets you from outside, stars and moon shrouded in a blanket of clouds. Your Domain, your realm and home, is unnaturally still and twice as silent. Like the forest suddenly going mute before a tornado, the ominous atmosphere does nothing to soothe your nerves. You know you should get back to sleep- the other gods will surely chastise you if they see you with bags under your eyes -but you can’t. It’s like your body was jump-started, all cylinders firing at once, strung tight like a bow in dreadful anticipation of… something. You have no idea what the source of your sudden illness is, or why it’s now just gone. You don’t know why you’ve woken in the middle of the night. You don’t know why this dread, heavy like solid gold, pulls your body downwards. But you have no time to wonder, as your door bursts open.

You yelp in shock as a small group of other deities flood into your room, already attending to various tasks. One helps you to stand up and flushes the toilet, not even mentioning the godly blood you just expelled. One throws open your closet, while another raids your jewelry box like a burglar. Everything moves so fast around you, your head begins to spin.

“What’s going on?” You warble, unsure of anything. You’ve never seen the elder deities this frazzled, and it puts you on edge.

“It finally happened,” one goddess chokes out, face wan with terror as she helps you into a long white dress extracted from your closet, “Just now, the sickness, did you feel it?” Her hands shake as you step into the garment, tying the long sash around your waist while you try not to panic.

“No,” you breathe, your body suddenly feeling very cold. You think you know what she’s talking about, but you’re too terrified to believe it. “No. You’re wrong. Tell her, tell her she’s wrong,” you plead, beseeching another god who runs a brush quickly through your hair.

His face is grim. Pale. Afraid. Your heart sinks. “She’s not wrong, child. Albert Wesker has achieved his goal.”

Albert Wesker. A name you and all the other gods know all too well. Your eyes have been on him since the Arklay incident years ago, when he defied death and became inhuman. Immortal, like you. But not like you, because you are kind and your hands touch with softness, and Wesker is the most wicked man to walk the mortal world. He keeps his hands within gloves so that he doesn’t have to touch the lesser mortals, not even gracing them with the dignity of direct contact when he murders them. He twists everything he touches to fit his own needs. He turned a woman into a puppet.

You feel suddenly very lightheaded.

“What’re we going to do, then?” You ask, words clipped with panic while the gods in your room finish dressing you. You don’t resist them, frozen like a mannequin as they fix your hair and fasten a choker around your neck. You feel like the ground itself has vanished beneath you, leaving you adrift in the void, darker than the blackest night, the same obsidian Wesker covers himself in. The association makes you shudder with dread. “The man hates the divine, you’ve heard him say how much he wants us dead-“

Another god places his hands on your shoulders to calm you, and on instinct, your mouth closes. “He wanted the gods the world prays to dead,” he says, stern and steadfast, “Not us. There is a distinction. If we meet him on equal ground we may gain-“

“Gain what?” You interrupt, shoving him away, hysterical tears in your eyes as the procession begins guiding you out of your safe, dark home and into the terror of the unknown night. Not even the confines of your personal pocket of reality can protect you now. Is this how newborn humans feel, you wonder, taking in the Domain around you with new, frightened eyes, is this what it’s like to be ripped from the warmth of the womb? You suddenly understand why human babies cry when they’re born. You’re crying, too. “Wesker can’t be reasoned with, he goes against everything you’ve taught me! You can’t possibly expect him to honor any sort of agreement or bargain!” Your ranting goes mostly unnoticed as the other gods hustle you to the edge of your Domain. One goddess grips your hand, giving it a reassuring squeeze, and the liquid warmth of divine teleportation envelops you.

You blink, and suddenly the warmth intensifies. You’re here.

The caldera of the volcano is scorching hot, writhing with molten lava and the residual energy of the horror that transpired here just moments ago. The rising sun does nothing to assuage your racing heart, furiously pounding in your chest like the dull beats of the helicopter currently flying away. You envy its passengers- Chris and Sheva, strong and brave; Jill, finally freed from her servitude; even the Captain flying the chopper. All of them are ignorant to the truth. They rest their weary heads, thinking that Wesker has been eliminated once and for all. How would they react, you wonder halfheartedly, if they knew their rockets had turned their nemesis into a deity?

It’s not their strength you envy; you are divine. Strength is something not in short supply. It is their blissful ignorance. You would give up every drop of Ichor in your body if it would save you from the looming consequences of their victory.

The rest of the pantheon, gods and goddesses alike, surround the mouth of Kijuju in a rough circle. Some stand just inches from the magma; it wouldn’t matter if you touched it. You are immortal, after all. But the seething presence of something lying in wait just below the surface makes you flutter back, gossamer dress billowing in the heated wind.

You cling to the hand of the goddess at your side, curling into her. She places herself slightly before you, as if to offer protection you both know she cannot provide. You look at her rounded face, eyes wary. “What happens now?” You ask, voice small and almost inaudible under the burbling of superheated rock.

She looks pained, turning away from your pleading gaze. “I don’t know,” she admits weakly, “None of us do. We can only wait now, little one.”

And wait you do. The anticipation hangs over the volcano, heavier even than the clouds of pyroclastic ash that threaten to stain your dress irreparably. You can’t tear your eyes away from the shifting magma. The liquid stone turning over and in on itself, flowing like water but a hundred thousand times more deadly, moves and dances in mesmerizing patterns. You are suddenly captivated by it. Though your body quakes with anxiety, your mind becomes clear and lucid.

It is these mesmerizing patterns, swirls and whorls of magma, that you blame for the sudden voice echoing in your head.

Come closer, it orders you, stern and masculine, leaving no room for argument. Your breath hitches, unsure of the voice’s origin but knowing that it doesn’t belong in your head. He doesn’t belong in your head, whoever he is. Come closer, now. I won’t ask again.

Against your better judgment, fear makes your bare feet shift. One foot in front of the other, you pull away from the goddess you once clung to. You are afraid of what lies beneath the lava, what lies lurking in your mind. And this is why you approach. Some of the gods notice you, but you can’t care, not with the strange voice overpowering your will with cold, all-encompassing dread. Good girl. You shudder, electric sparks of ice running up and down your spine despite the overwhelming heat. Stop. Kneel, right where you are. You overcome your paralysis just enough to defy him. A rumble of disapproval echoes in your skull, though you try to pretend it’s the volcano. It doesn’t work.

I don’t want to do that, you tell yourself, even mouthing the words to make them real. Maybe if you concentrate, you can resist the pull this entity has on you.

Of course you don’t, the voice sneers, uncaring of your terror. Your lip trembles. What you want is irrelevant right now. Kneel.

The flippant dismissal of your desires is familiar. The other gods are often quick to wave you off and shut you down, too busy or too distracted with their own activities to humor you, and being the youngest of the pantheon, you have precious little leeway to stand your ground. You take a hint of comfort in the familiarity of submission as you slowly fall to your knees against the igneous rock. “You talk to me just like the others do,” you whisper sorrowfully.

At that, the voice is unusually silent. You shift, uncomfortable on your knees. The magma before you burbles and you clench your hands into fists to calm yourself. Once again, the magnetic patterns of the lava captivate you, providing some refuge from your fear. The molten rock folding over and in on itself like rising dough is tantalizing to you, and on instinct, you reach out.

To touch it? To feel the heat scorching against your delicate hands? Even you don’t know why you do this. But you don’t have a chance to retract your hand, because another suddenly bursts from the magma and grabs onto your arm with bruising force.

A scream dies in your throat. The other gods are all watching now, rooted to their spots with anticipation and fear. A choked sound escapes you as you attempt to pull yourself away from the grasp, only to have it pull back. More of the arm emerges from the lava, revealing a shoulder. The second arm shoots out of the fire and finds purchase on the solid rock, only further aiding its owner’s climb to freedom. You try again to free yourself, a scream of confused terror echoing through the caldera, prompting some of the gods to rush to your aid. Hands wrap about your waist, pulling you away, but the stranger’s grasp is far too strong.

With five other gods helping to pull you back, and your own strength and that of the stranger, the task is accomplished. As he is exhumed from the magma, he lets go of you, and for a moment, you are frozen where you lay on the rocky ground.

Standing before you, clad in the same ebon leather that defines him so deeply, is Albert Wesker.

For that agonizing moment, you are held in place by his gaze alone. Though you’ve seen his eyes before, the stark identicality they bear to the lava he was just birthed from makes your heart drop. His pupils are perfect slits of vantablack, dilating ever so slightly as he looks you up and down. While the other gods scramble away, you remain a heartbeat longer. He looks upon you critically, assessing you from head to toe. His eyes rake over your body, your soot-stained dress, the collar hugging your heaving throat; they seem to linger just a little too long in some places. It stirs an odd, uncomfortable feeling in you, but you don’t know why. It’s something you’re used to, as some of the older gods look at you this way frequently. Like they’re hungry.

Wesker looks hungry, in this moment. For some reason it makes you want to cover your body with your arms, like your dress has been burned away entirely, all of you laid bare before him. The moment passes, the suffocating spell is broken, and you let out a horrified cry as you throw yourself backwards. The other gods, the ones who helped you pull him from the lava, catch you, shielding your body with their own. Between limbs, you peek out at the new, vicious god. His eyes have never left you, and they meet yours again easily, even through the forest of gods between you. You squeak like a frightened mouse, ducking your head and squeezing your eyes shut. You dart into the burrow of your mind, hoping that he cannot follow you there.

But you know it’s pointless. You know the voice in your head was his. His fiery eyes finally leave you and assess the pantheon that surrounds him, and his brow furrows. You can practically feel the disdain, the anger, radiating off of him. You hold your breath in anticipation as he begins to speak, his cold, seductive baritone reverberating through the volcanic dawn and into your bones.

“It seems I was correct after all,” he begins, a thin smile on his lips, “look at you- Cowering, backing away, terrified. Weak. The eldest of you, shying away while your youngest is in danger.” He’s referring to me, you realize with a start. You are the youngest god in this pantheon (though in terms of earthly years you eclipse the age of any living human easily, among the divine you are barely a stripling). He knows you are the most vulnerable being here. You don’t like that he knows this.

The shield of gods around you has somewhat dissipated; where once the barrier was three bodies thick, now only one layer of gods protects you from Wesker’s scorching presence. Finally, you have the strength to stand again, swaying like a willow. You feel completely adrift, tossed overboard and into the churning sea with no hope of rescue. The world spins around you like never before, but then again, never before have you been in such acute danger.

Finally, one of the eldest deities among you finds their voice. “We want no trouble from you,” they call, voice proud and courageous despite their obvious fear, “but what do you want from us?”

Wesker’s head snaps around to face the speaker, who doesn’t back down. His face twists into a furious grin, incredulous at the audacity to speak out against him so blatantly. “What do I want?” He echoes, a dark chuckle following. A surge of electric power crackles, invisible, through the air all around you, and it’s not coming from the ash cloud overhead. The other gods seem to notice it too, looking wary. Your entire being is quaking.

Wesker throws his arm in the direction of the gods shielding you from him. In the time it takes you to flinch and recover, five members of your pantheon are ensorcelled in shining black tendrils that rip into their bodies without mercy. In the time it takes you to scream, those five deities are dead. The Ichor spills over the basalt ground, splatters your face and your dress, warm and sticky and horrifying. The other gods scream too, backing away desperately as Wesker retracts the tentacles, and they return to his arm from whence they came.

You know this power of his, another of his twisted creations. Uroboros.

Haloed by the glow of the lava behind him, Wesker looks even more imposing, divinity defined. One of the murdered gods lays, strewn in a contorted position, barely a foot from you, her lifeless eyes staring straight through your own. The very same goddess who held your hand minutes ago. A being who, like all the others, had stood among the divine for time immemorial, killed in an instant by a vicious usurper.

I’m going to die here, you realize with a cold, heavy heart. I’m going to die and Wesker is going to kill me. You desperately want to pretend this is all some sort of nightmare but you know better. The infernal glare of Wesker’s eyes is too potent to be an illusion. His voice, deep and filled with rage, is too loud and too real to be anything but the truth. “What I want is to understand why exactly beings as weak as these-” he shouts, cruelly kicking at one of the dead gods and sending the body rolling several yards from the sheer force of it, “deserve to call themselves divine. Because from where I’m standing, you bleed and die just as easily as any human.

“In fact,” he continues, turning back to you and grinning with sharp teeth and hellfire eyes, “what’s stopping me from killing the rest of you pathetic creatures?” Terrified cries erupt all around you, one of them your own. Wesker tilts his head as he stares down your trembling form, as if daring you to speak up. But it is not you that cries out next.

“No,” shrieks another of the most aged deities, eyes wild and frantic, “Gods cannot fight amongst themselves, the mortal world will be torn apart! You must leave us be!”

The blonde man barks out a laugh. “I don’t recall saying I cared about the mortal world. Were none of you paying attention when I explained this to Chris?”

Another goddess finds her voice. “Whatever it is you want from us, we’ll give it to you! We will not fight you!” Though some of the others look at her incredulously, the consensus is that she speaks true for all of you. Even you find yourself agreeing. Whatever it takes to keep Wesker from slaughtering you on the spot, you will gladly do or give.

“Whatever I want, hmm?” Wesker hums, smiling in cold satisfaction. You almost miss the shades he always wore; at least then you wouldn’t have to suffer the inferno of his gaze. “Fine.

“You, little goddess. Come here.” He addresses you directly. His gloved finger curls in a beckoning motion, and once again his tone lets you know he won’t be asking you twice. But you won’t obey him. You can’t. He can’t be asking what you think he’s asking-

You blink, and before you can so much as shake your head, suddenly he stands directly over you. Your subsequent scream is cut off by a gloved hand gripping your choker and dragging you up until your face is inches from his. Your pupils shrink to the size of pinpricks, your heart pounding like a fleeing rabbit. Everything in you is begging you to get away, but you cannot. Wesker’s grip is steadfast as he appraises you. With the ash and Ichor across your face, staining your once-pristine dress, and desperation blatant in your every cell, you must look a mess. He doesn’t look angry at your infraction, rather mildly irritated.

“I’m sure this is new to you, so I’ll be lenient this once. Disobey me again and I won’t hesitate to discipline you. Do you understand me?” Wesker murmurs to you, hot breath caressing the soft flesh of your ear. His eyes do not leave your face for a moment as he speaks. It’s terrifying, to see such obviously-inhuman features on a man, and yet…

And yet, some part of you stirs. A part you know very little about. Your belly begins to grow warm. It’s confusing and a little frightening, because you’ve never been in this much danger, but for some reason, the heat feels good. You whine, unable to make sense of yourself, trembling before Wesker’s fiery eyes. “Wh- what are you doing?” You stammer softly, referring both to his intentions and the spell he’s seemingly cast on you.

His responding smile is cold and cruel, drinking in your terror and uncertainty with avaricious zeal. “What do you think I’m doing, dearheart?” he retorts, a sound deep and dark in his chest and it resonates in your marrow (the heat in your belly only deepens, drops to your crotch, makes your cheeks flush and warm). The term of endearment makes you feel utterly unsafe, but at the same time, sends sparks racing down your spine. You shudder with unknown, unwanted sensation. You want to run, to get far away from the man pressing you against himself, but there is nowhere you could go. “You’re going to be still and silent for me until I say otherwise. Let your better do the talking.” The anger, terror, and frustration coil within you, and all you can do is weakly nod your head.

The resulting rumble of satisfaction, dark and deep, has you swooning. “Good girl.”

Between the speed with which he maneuvers you to press firmly against his side and the coiling serpent of unknown emotion making its home in your being, your head has begun to spin. His hand moves from your choker to keep you held to his hip, pressing into the divot of your waist with such force you wonder if it will leave a bruise behind, a brand of Wesker’s cruelty. Nothing makes sense. What is wrong with me, you ask yourself, what’s happening to my body?

Frustrated and confused, betrayed and conflicted, your eyes shine with unshed tears. In so little time, your world has been completely upended. Wesker raises his voice once again to address the other, cowering gods, and the increased volume combined with his vitriolic tone makes you flinch and whimper. Inadvertently, you wind up curling further into his hold, which tightens as if to keep you this close. “This goddess belongs to me. Give her to me, and I’ll spare the rest of you. That is my only offer; I’d suggest taking it.”

The outcry of the other gods at this is expected. You’re their youngest, the most precious among them- you know they’ll protect you, as they always have. Against Wesker’s command, you wiggle in his grip, anxious to get away from him, if only to stop the infuriating heat in your core. He seems to be the one causing it- is that one of his powers? You wonder silently. Whatever it is, the growing warmth and unnatural need within you is alien, and you want it to stop.

While you continue to squirm, Wesker’s hold only tightens, making you hiss in pain. It hurts, the bruising force with which he restrains you, but you have to get away from him. He has to be the one causing this reaction in your body. But the pain is more unbearable than the heat, and you have no choice but to cease your struggles. You go still in his hold, and blessedly, his grip loosens to a far more comfortable pressure. The satisfied hum he gives you at your capitulation only makes the heat worse- so it is him!

Focused on something other than pain, you’re able to listen in on the deliberation of the gods. It’s an unpleasant surprise- you’d expected this to be no difficult decision, that they’d refuse Wesker instantly. Evidently, you’re wrong. “We can’t,” one deity insists, “she’s the most vulnerable among us, you know what he’ll do to her. How can we in good conscience sacrifice her, or any of us?” You pray the final movement is in your favor.

“What choice do we have?” Hisses another, far older god, crossing his arms, “He’ll kill all of us if we refuse, including her! We have to prioritize the greater good!”

“What use is the greater good if we lose more of our own to perpetuate it?” Yet another speaks up, “He’s already taken five of us, plus the countless mortals! It’s our duty to protect her!”

On and on the argument continues, but the heated tone dies down. They seem to be reaching an agreement, and your mouth goes dry as you see that it isn’t the one you want. “He won’t keep his word,” one goddess reminds the group, stern face pained and angry.

“Of course not,” dismisses an elder god easily, “but her sacrifice will buy us time to make a plan. This is what we must do.”

You expect to feel angry. You expect to feel rage the likes of which you didn’t think possible, sadness, bitter fury, betrayal at this condemnation of you at the hands of those you love. But instead you only feel hollow. Every interaction you’ve had with one of the other gods plays through your head, stained cold and bleak with the knowledge that when push came to shove, it took them less than five minutes to trade your life for theirs. Five minutes of debate, and not particularly intense debate at that, is all you are worth to them, when they once looked you in the eyes and told you that the wonders of the universe were yours by birthright.

Was all of it a lie? Did none of them ever love you? You think you wouldn’t be so wounded if they had been truthful about how little you meant to them. Maybe then you would have seen this coming. Maybe then you wouldn’t feel like your heart has been ripped from your chest.

You’re unsure of what exactly to express, how to react to this. The gods look at you, their scapegoat, their sacrificial lamb, and you see in their eyes your own judgment of death. “No,” you choke out, and you just now realize you’re crying. Your throat feels tight and hot and your vision grows watery. “You can’t do this to me! You swore you’d protect me, you promised! You promised!” You’re shouting, hysterics making your body quake even with Wesker’s steadfast grip on you. The man you’ve just been handed to tightens his hold just a bit, but you can’t bring yourself to care. You refuse to walk to the gallows without a fight. “I was your daughter,” you continue, great heaving sobs ripping from your throat as you see that some of the gods look upon you with sympathy, with pity, and yet make no move to save you. Their apologetic stares only make you more angry; how dare they look at you that way when they’re complicit in this madness all the same? “You were my family!”

The eldest of the gods surrounding the caldera furrows his brow. “Gods have no family,” he says, only stone-cold firmness to be found in his eyes, and then turns to address Wesker with the same grim tone, “She is yours. We expect you to hold up your end of the bargain.”

Your final cry of no peters off into a desperate sob, though it has no time to echo throughout the volcano, as your body is engulfed once more in the liquid, warm sensation of teleportation. But unlike the natural, seamless transition of the one that brought you to Kijuju, this feels like a violation, hot and uncomfortable, the magic sticking to your skin unpleasantly and itching as if you’ve been burned. Like Wesker forcibly displaced your being. In a way, you realize, he did- you subconsciously resisted his pull, but your power is nothing compared to his.

Why me, you wonder mournfully, why not anyone else? You are his opposite in every regard- in human years, you’re older than him by more than a century, yet by human standards he’s far older than you both in mind and body. The other gods often called you radiant, pure, full of light and soft warmth, though in hindsight you wonder if they meant a single syllable.

Wesker has killed more humans than possibly anyone else ever has, and has done the unthinkable; a human becoming divine, spilling divine blood. Every touch he gives you is harsh, unyielding, and cruel. He is a void into which you have no choice but to fall. Maybe, you think, that’s why he chose you over any of the others, deities far older, more beautiful, more powerful than you.

In any case, escape is not a possibility. If you have any hope of a quick death, resistance will snuff it instantly. Not that you could resist, not in this state. You feel lightheaded, lopsided, like you’d faint if not for the girding support of Wesker’s grip. Gone now are the high walls of the volcano, replaced by a vast, ominous sanctum. The transition gives you pause, and your wailing ceases for a moment as you take in this strange new place. Wesker, too, looks curiously at the location he has dragged you to, obviously unaware of where exactly he is.

It’s his Domain, and like all Domains, it is a reflection of its master. Wesker’s section of reality fits him perfectly, you admit; it is grandiose, elegant, sinister, and yet fascinatingly complex. Supporting the high, vaulted ceiling are a series of carved onyx pillars, sprouting from the ebony floor and engraved with intricate depictions of serpents coiling into themselves. It is a room far too grand for any one man. But Wesker is not just any one man, and once the shock wears off, he seems to realize how befitting a Domain he has been granted.

Suddenly, the man turns to you, expression stern. “What is this place? Tell me, little Endling.” As ever, it is not a request, but a demand, one your sense of self-preservation forces you to oblige.

Somehow, you force your throat to produce a weak, hoarse response. “Y-your Domain,” you answer, trembling under his gaze, “your- your home.” You can’t provide more than that, your remaining courage finally exhausted. Please don’t ask something else, please don’t ask something else, please don’t ask something else-

Wesker hums, satisfied with your timid response. “A Domain, hm?” He muses aloud, “I can work with this.” Your entire body sags with relief at his acceptance, this tiny sliver of mercy, though dread begins to creep in as you ask what exactly that ‘work’ is. Your lip wobbles, and you hold your tongue while fighting back tears. Speaking would do nothing for you now, except maybe anger him.

When he begins walking again, you stumble, and he doesn’t waste a moment before a mass of Uroboros coils around you, pulling you back to him. The slimy, unnatural sensation is horrific, and you bite your lip until you taste your own Ichor. This time, he pulls you fully into his arms, bracing them against your upper thighs and pressing your body into his shoulder and torso. He is warm, feverish, even, and the radiating heat has you instinctively curling into him. The position, as oddly uncomfortable as it is, gives you the little blessing of being able to hide your face from him, one you make full use of. Silent tears travel from the edges of your eyes down to the tip of your nose, falling to the polished floor below with each staccato breath you take. A disconnection between your mind and your body sinks its claws into you, dulling the sharp edge of your sorrow into something of an unpleasant ache.

You pass from the entry sanctum into a more reasonably-sized room, with a floor made of dark basalt and walls with inset shelves holding opaque, geometric bottles of who-knows-what. You finally gain the strength to look around again, letting out a soft gasp as you take in the mist-filled chamber Wesker has carried you to. It’s a bathing room, lit with floating candle-flames that hover around a large, rectangular tub connected to the far wall. The sound of gently-running water soothes your frightened mind, an aperture above the tub filling it with steaming water while decorative aqueducts carry runoff back into the walls, rills traveling through niches carved into the tub.

Wesker huffs, a simple sound that nonetheless has you shrinking back into yourself with a startled peep. Once he’s done taking in the room, he lowers you to the ground, allowing you to finally put distance between yourself and him. Immediately, you stumble backwards until your legs collide with the tub, bracing your hands against it so that you don’t fall in. Your eyes, filled with fear and uncertainty, flicker up to meet his, glowing with disappointment. They pulse with magmatic fire, absolutely inhuman but beautiful in a way that you cannot describe.

Breaking the short moment of silence, he gives you an order. “Strip.”

Purely on impulse, your hands dart across your bust, clinging to the soiled fabric of your dress. Your Ichor runs cold at the thought of taking it off. “…What?” You murmur dumbly, unsure if you’ve even heard him correctly.

A blur across your vision, and he stands inches away from you, just like before in the caldera. Another frightened noise escapes you as he boxes you in between the tub and his own immovable body. “Take. Your clothes. Off,” he repeats, voice lowered and patience obviously running thin. You tremble, arms clinging tighter to yourself, attempting to turn your head away to escape his burning gaze. A firm, gloved hand grips your chin with bruising force, dragging you back to face him. He leans in, his face close enough that his breath warms your nose. “Or do I have to tear them off you?”

Your response is immediate and frantic. You shake your head, a choked no leaving your mouth, and your leaden arms fumble with the dress keeping you hidden from his prying eyes. After barely a second that feels like a year, you manage to yank the dirtied white fabric over your head. As you pull it off, you undo the clasp on your choker, removing it from your neck and bundling it with your dress. You can’t help but hold the bunched-up fabric tightly to your body, though, keeping your breasts hidden, at the same time as your thighs press together to hide your crotch from his view. You’ve never been naked in front of another before. It feels dirty, vulnerable, and tense, and you understand now why the other gods always insisted upon you wearing clothes and keeping your chest & crotch hidden. How can anyone enjoy this?

At your shyness, Wesker tuts, taking hold of the dress and pulling it from your unresisting arms. “Ah ah, none of that,” he chides, “you can’t hide from me, little one. I’ve already seen you at your lowest. Let me see my prize.” You’re unsure what exactly he means, but you’re too shaky to ask and for some reason the way he speaks makes you want to sob. You allow him to toss away your filthy dress and you force your arms to rest at your sides, quaking in place as you feel him taking you in. Again, he hums, a long and pleased sound deep in his chest, and it makes you shudder in something that definitely isn’t fear. “There we are,” he croons, “oh, you’re filthy, pet. In the water, now.”

Without waiting to ensure your obedience, the man turns on his heel and gives you space, presumably to enter the bath. Though the rising wisps of steam entice you, you’re far too on edge to risk submerging yourself in his presence. But he’s correct; your face is splattered in ash, Ichor and dirt from the caldera. The Ichor, particularly, makes you sick. The knowledge that the proof of the weakness of the gods, of your own weakness, paints your face is enough to have you cupping the warm water in your hands. You raise your dripping hands to your face, rinsing away the day’s violent events. The sight of the luciferant golden Ichor blossoming as it drips into the tub, exploring outside the veins of its former host, makes you swallow. Though it is gone from your flesh, the echo it left will never truly fade.

Against your better judgment, you look over your shoulder, watching as Wesker shucks off his long coat and gloves, tossing them aside as he did your own raiment. He doesn’t spare you a glance, only striding to one of the shelves in the wall and picking up a couple of containers. When he turns to walk towards you and notices your staring (and your being outside the water), he says nothing of it, only placing the containers on the flat rim of the tub and bracing his hands on either side of you, pressing against you, his own crotch flush with the small of your back. You shudder.

His closeness, his aura, his persistent and greedy gaze- whatever it is about him that is making your body react this way, you need him to stop. It’s too much, too unknown, and the tension curling in your belly is too scary for you to stay silent any longer. “Please, stop.” The words leave you in a shaky whisper, and even that has you bracing for a punishment for speaking out of turn. But when nothing happens and you look behind you, you find only Wesker looking at you in what you could only describe as confusion.

“Stop what?” He echoes, almost seeming genuine, “I’m afraid you’ll have to be more specific, little Endling.”

Your frustration finally shows on your face, and you glare up at him, pouting in despair. “My body,” you plead, “whatever you’re doing to me, I- I can’t take it, please…”

One of his sculpted eyebrows raises. “Your body?” he trails off, taking hold of your chin with forefinger and thumb to force you to look him in the face. You wither beneath his studious eyes, the way he gazes right into your soul, burning through everything else until he reaches your very marrow and feasts upon it. “Hmm. Tell me, dearheart, what am I doing to your body?”

The inquisitive question throws you off. You assumed he would know, that he would have some inkling of his divine powers over others despite his recent apotheosis. Your tongue darts out to wet your trembling lips, and you don’t miss the hungry way he takes it in. But maybe if you say the words aloud, it will break the spell. It’s worth a try, so you summon your self awareness and beg it to tell you what’s happening. “…Feels hot,” you finally say, shivering as you unveil even more of yourself to the man that will undo you entirely, “and tight. I’ve never felt it before. My Ichor feels like- like I’m sprinting.”

Wesker nods thoughtfully, never once taking his eyes off your heated face. He hums, and you can feel it resonate within you from where you are pressed to him. “What else?” He prompts, “do you feel nervous? Anticipatory, perhaps?”

Somehow, he’s describing exactly what it feels like. Your stomach drops out, a heavy, hot stone weighing it down in your body until it feels like you’re burning from the inside out. You nod. “Y-yes. But it feels almost… good.”

At your final admission, Wesker’s lips curl into a warm, satisfied smirk. His pupils dilate, expanding into black holes that threaten to drown you in their vantablack depths. He tilts your chin to the side, leans in closer just to hear your breath hitch. “I think I know what you’re feeling, little one,” he murmurs, dark and deep, and it only makes the burning in you that much more intense and hungry, “It’s called arousal. And I’m not doing anything. It’s all you.”

Arousal. You finally have a word for this hot, insatiable feeling curling in your core. But contrary to your hopes, the arousal doesn’t fade. The knowledge that Wesker is not directly responsible for this curling, scorching serpent in your belly makes you even more mortified. You feel shameful, disgusting. Your hands tremble. Part of you is thankful that he continues, sparing you the need to force your tongue to break the silence. “You’re a strange little thing, aren’t you, dearheart?” His gaze is softer now, almost pitying. He is no longer disappointed in you, now merely inquisitive. “Tell me, how much did the gods teach you about this?”

The feeling of his bare hand groping the apex between your legs, fingers resting atop the soft, velveteen flesh of the little slit lying there, has you freezing. All at once, your thoughts come to a screeching halt beyond the sensation of his deft fingertips idly kneading the meat of your pelvis. The arousal intensifies, and you finally pinpoint where the heat is strongest. It’s there, in the unassuming flesh of your crotch, pulsing and pleading for something you cannot name. It’s the same place your heart and stomach drop to whenever Wesker’s voice drops to that particular dulcet octave. His touch feels at once wrong, like a violation of the highest order, and so unfathomably right. Never before has another touched your crotch in this way- you have, for grooming and cleaning, of course, but you’re fairly certain none of the other gods have ever even seen it. And yet the intoxicating warmth of his palm against the vulnerable flesh has you melting, like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Somehow, the answer slides from your tongue without meaning to. “N-nothing,” you keen, resisting the subconscious urge to grind your crotch into Wesker’s wicked hand, “They only told- told me that it’s bad, to touch here. But why-“ you pause to hitch in a breath as his pointer finger slowly passes along the folds of your slit, making you shudder “why does it feel- feel-“

“Good?” Wesker finishes for you, humming knowingly as his finger pets over the delicate flesh. Somehow, he knows what he’s doing to you, what this hot arousal in your core truly means. You need to know, you need to understand why your body is doing this, why something supposedly bad has your mind melting in pleasure.

“Yes,” you moan, the word stretching as his finger presses deeper, gliding through the slick folds of flesh. Why would the other gods keep you from exploring this part of yourself? You realize, in this heated moment, that their motivations must have been selfish- they’ve already demonstrated how little they truly cared for you. Why would this be any different?

Wesker groans, a soft, low sound deep in his core that intensifies the pulsing in your own. “I didn’t anticipate you to be so innocent,” he says, his hand’s movements never pausing, “you really don’t know anything, do you, little Endling? Do you even know what this part of you is called?”

You can only shake your head. In your mind, and in your studies, it has only been obliquely referred to. It’s your crotch, your pelvic area, the place where urine (and Ichor, roughly once every two months) comes from. That’s all it’s ever been to you, and nothing more. But the way Wesker speaks of it, like it’s some grand, delicious secret he’s about to let you in on, makes you desperate to know. Desperate for him to tell you what this soft flesh, wet and pulsing with pleasure and desire, truly is.

His deep chuckle, satisfied and anticipatory, only makes the soft skin of your slit pulse further. “Oh, you’re too delicious, pet. This,” he grips the meat of your crotch again, making you let out a sound of painful need, “is a cunt. Your cunt. Plenty of humans have one, too. And it’s probably my favorite part of human anatomy.”

Cunt. Another new word, short and simple to describe what has been hidden from you. Hearing Wesker speak, hearing him praise your cunt so highly, makes it swell with warmth. Everything he’s doing feels entirely too good, dare you say even sinful. Part of you wants him to stop, but another part, one much larger and more convincing, hungers to know more. You are bare before him, vulnerable and weak. He could kill you with no effort. But the thought of his hand wrapped around your throat, holding you in place while he devours you with his eyes, only makes your arousal worse.

So lost are you in the moment and the overwhelming sensations racing across your skin that you don’t notice the uncanny sensation of him teleporting the both of you out of the bathing room. Sleek, cool fabric meets your bare back as he lays you down horizontally, and you realize you’re on a bed. His bed. The silk underneath you is a relief to your feverish skin and you arch into it, basking in the sensory delight of both the sheets and Wesker’s hand still groping your cunt. His fingers work through the soaked folds, exploring you until they find one particularly sensitive spot.

You jolt as two fingertips massage that very spot, rubbing it back and forth, sending shockwaves of pleasure across your body. Your legs spasm uncontrollably in time with his ministrations, and thankfully you don’t have to ask him what exactly this new part of you is, because he beats you to it. “And this is your clit. Feel that, dear? Like a little button beneath my fingers?” He gathers the swollen bud between thumb and forefinger and pinches just so, but even that relatively gentle touch is enough to have your mind whiting out with undiluted pleasure. He takes your ensuing silent scream as an answer. “Another favorite of mine. With just a bit of attention to such a small bit of tissue, your body becomes putty in my hands. So pliant, just how I like my playthings.” While one finger remains to fondle your clit, two dart down and begin pressing into you, finding the same hole the Ichor spills from every two months and delving inside it.

It’s unlike anything you’ve ever felt. It’s sublime, blissful agony and agonizing bliss. You need more, but just those two fingers, barely inserted, fill you and stretch your cunt to an uncomfortable degree. You want it deeper, though you don’t know why, but what if your little body breaks under his? What if you can’t satisfy his curiosity, and he discards you like he did with the other gods?

Self-preservation becomes the new catalyst to your need, knowing that if Wesker is angered, it could spell your end. And besides- your hole pulsing around his fingers as they slowly inch deeper within you, clenching on them while he plays with your clit, is too delicious of a feeling to lose. You try to buck your hips up, try to take more of him into you, but he retracts with a chuckle. “Look at you. I bet you don’t even know what you’re so desperate for, what your body needs. But I’m not a heartless man, pet. I know what you need. All you have to do is answer one more question for me.

“Can you do that? Hm?” His enthralling voice, dripping with confidence and seduction, is the single most addictive thing you know of. You’re so caught up in the heated glamor he has you in that you nearly miss the words themselves. But you’re not entirely lost, not yet, and you manage to frantically nod your head. Whatever he wants from you, you’ll do, a mixture of fear for your survival and desperation to ride this mounting pleasure for as long as you can driving your obedience. You manage to hiss out a verbal response, to which he chuckles, satisfied. “So eager for something you can’t even name. Now, tell me- did the gods ever teach you about how humans reproduce?”

That shakes some clarity back into your muddled mind, and your eyes fly open, body going somewhat stiff atop the gossamer sheets. “What?” You breathe, taken aback. It’s not something you know much of, to be honest- you’ve heard it referred to as lovemaking, but the other gods always obscured the details to you. The end result, however, you’re familiar with; the bloody visual of a mother pushing a baby from her shattered body haunted you for countless nights after you saw it. Why on earth would Wesker summon that sobering memory to your mind now, in the throes of pleasure, with his fingers still digging slowly but surely into your cunt? “I- Is that what you…? I don’t understand,” you stammer, backing up across the plane of the soft bed.

The feeling of Wesker’s delicious touch leaving your core as you move away from him is agonizing, and the pleasure that once bloomed in your cunt now begins to wilt. You shrink under his infernal eyes, watching his brow furrow infinitesimally. He moves as well, coming closer as you move away, matching your motions. His fingers are shiny, glistening with the shimmering slickness of your cunt. He looks down at them briefly before bringing them to his mouth and allowing his deft, long tongue to clean away the remnants of you. He lets out a shuddering, pleased groan at the taste, and you find yourself unable to look away as he devours your slickness until his fingers are clean. When he looks back to you, his pale face is smattered with a relatively faint (but noticeable) blush.

“Your body craves what all other mortal bodies do, little Endling. Don’t deny it. I can sate that hunger if you just submit.” His temptations are ever more powerful against your weakened resolve, but you hold fast, bringing your legs closer to yourself. You simply can’t fathom it. Wesker wants to reproduce with you? To make love with you? It’s impossible, it has to be. The man is incapable of love (even as you form the thought you know it’s false. You’ve seen the way he’s looked at other mortals before, you’ve seen the unmistakable desire in his eyes when he gazed upon Chris). To think he wants that from you, to teach you how humans reproduce in the most personal possible way, makes you shudder in disbelief. Eventually, your back hits the wall, and you can flee from him no further. He returns to his place over your smaller body, bathing you in his shadow, forcing you to breathe him in.

But you can’t. Whatever he means to do, you can’t. “I- I’m not ready,” you plead, eyes wild, “I can’t, we can’t! Gods don’t- we don’t-“ you can hardly bring itself to say it, your face feeling aflame with humiliation. Gods do not reproduce, you and the others all simply are. You fell from the stars exactly as you are now, physically speaking. You are not born, and you do not die.

Or, at least, you didn’t.

But with his apotheosis, Wesker has shaken everything you thought you knew about godhood. He did not fall from the heavens, he clawed himself from the molten earth. He murdered gods, something you presumed impossible. He was born, and he made gods die. So what, you wonder frightfully, is really true about divinity? What does it mean? Can you truly produce an infant in your belly the same way mortal women can?

Do you even have a choice in finding out?

Wesker’s murmur, face inches from yours, snaps you from your racing thoughts. “Gods don’t what?”

Your eyes dart away, unable to maintain contact with his as you finish your sentence. Your voice is barely a whisper, tongue hesitant. “We don’t… make love…” saying the words aloud, you feel almost dirty. Guilty. Silently, you yearn for the blind pleasure he offered just moments ago.

To your surprise, Wesker begins to laugh. It sounds both warm and cold, both endeared and cruel. He looks at you with a condescending glint in his burning eyes, smiling, baring his inhuman teeth. “Oh, my precious little Endling,” he sighs, chest still shaking with laughter, “Is that what you think this is? I’m not going to ‘make love’ to you.” His words should bring you relief, but his merciless eyes and the fingers prodding once more at the entrance to your cunt only make you more nervous. “I’m going to fuck you. And you will learn everything that was kept from you.”

Another new word. Your vocabulary becomes more complete, more vulgar, by the moment in his presence. Cunt. Clit. Fuck. The last one sounds like the opposite of lovemaking- it sounds brutal, cruel, and wicked. Like a gnarled bramble bush compared to a flowering lilac. Part of you wonders, frightfully, if the analogy is a little too spot on, and you’ll feel the pain of those brambles as he fucks you.

A breathless noise escapes you as Wesker once more coaxes two fingers into your clenching cunt, your body eagerly welcoming him back. That coiling pleasure begins to build once more, dulling the edges of your terrified musings. His face ducks down, buries itself in your neck, and he takes a shuddering breath, drinking in your scent as he deftly thrusts his fingers in and out, in and out. “See? It feels good, doesn’t it? You want more,” He whispers, a heated promise against the shell of your ear, amplifying your growing pleasure. Your body sings at his words, reacting just as it did back in the caldera, cunt clenching and drawing him further in. You don’t know just what it is about his voice that has such an effect on you. All you know is the pleasure pulses, heavy and warm, every time he murmurs in that dark baritone.

Your mind is not gone just yet. You’re fraying at the seams, but you haven’t completely unraveled. You grit your teeth against the building, burning pleasure inside you and force your eyes open. His mouth is latching onto your skin, nipping the delicate flesh with his canines until Ichor is drawn and then lapping it up like a starving man. You can’t help but cry out at each attack, keening against his mouth as he presses his lips to the now-bruised skin, treating the wound with smothering kisses. You feel so helpless, a slave to your body’s alien desires, unprepared for the onslaught Wesker forces upon you. Not for the first time today, you lament the other gods and their lack of transparency. What reason could they have to leave me this vulnerable?

You force yourself to put aside your anger and fear for the moment. Biting back a moan as Wesker attacks a particular spot at your neck, you attempt to speak up. “Are-“ as if he’d timed it, the man laves his tongue over the weeping flesh of your collar, forcing you to taper off into a desperate, pathetic noise halfway. He chuckles, deep rumbling laughter that reminds you of how much he enjoys pulling you apart, piece by piece. It carries the sinister promise of more to come, and so you attempt to continue. “You- are you going to- to hurt me?” You’re terrified of what the answer may be. What he’s doing right now feels good, yes, but will it always feel good? Is the night doomed to end with you curled in on yourself in agony, or spread out on Wesker’s bed while he drowns your mind in euphoria? You’re almost as scared of the answer as you are of the question itself. But the words have already left your mouth, so you brace for the response, whatever it may be.

Wesker hums neutrally, a sound that answers none of your questions and only serves to make you more nervous. His body, pressed firmly over yours, prevents you from shrinking away. After a moment of contemplation, he finally speaks. “Not intentionally,” he murmurs, pressing a soft kiss to the shell of your ear (an unexpected action that makes your breath hitch and your heart flutter), “It will hurt, of course. Not unbearably, and not for long. But it will.” Languidly, he scissors his fingers inside you, stretching you open with an expert ease that tells you he’s done this before. You don’t know whether the knowledge that he has experience in this area makes you feel humiliated, or relieved. He may not keep his word, obviously, but all that matters to you is that you aren’t doomed to a night of pain. As long as you are pliant and obedient, you will survive. You suppose that’s the best you could have hoped for. “You’re thinking awfully loud, little one,” he clicks his tongue, tapping your forehead somewhat roughly with his free hand, “stop it. There’s nothing of use to either of us in that sweet little head of yours.”

You whine, your face growing hot and eyes growing teary at his degradation. It settles unpleasantly in your belly, but against all odds, the humiliation mingles with the arousal he fills you with. The two sensations, equal and opposite, suddenly clash and become one, something unspeakable and stronger than both on their own. Involuntarily, you clench hard around him, drawing a strangled breath from Wesker and a strained cry from you. Your traitorous tongue, perhaps hoping to cut off whatever belittling he intends on next, takes the opportunity to make itself useful. “I was- I was scared,” you admit weakly, wincing in pain as a third finger joins the two already inside, and pleasure claws its way up your body, “I thought you’d- you would hurt me, or- or kill me.” After that, you purse your lips shut with a humiliated whine to keep yourself from digging your grave any further. But the damage has been done, and another condescending laugh rolls over you like thunder from his chest.

“Poor, dumb little thing,” Wesker coos, and your eyes fly open at the insult, tears overflowing, “for all you know I am hurting you. You don’t even know what it is I’m doing, just that it feels good. Isn’t that right?” He leans in closer, his reptilian eyes burning you with their mocking glare. It’s true, though- aside from the words he’s given to name these sensations, you have no idea what he’s doing. It is one thing to read the word ‘dog’ in a dictionary, and another thing to see the creature apart from its name, and yet another entirely to understand that the word and beast are one and the same. You may have the words to name his actions, but you don’t have the context to understand or comprehend them, and it frightens you to the core.

Said core is currently being violated, three deft fingers pressing deeper and deeper into your cunt, rubbing against a particularly spongy and sensitive spot just behind your clit that makes your brain short circuit. Wesker continues to strike down your ego, each wicked word chipping away at your mind. “That’s all you are, dear. A dumb little Endling, daring to call herself a god. Innocent, precious. And all. Fucking. Mine.” Each hissed word is punctuated by a deep thrust of his fingers against that spot inside you, and you’re only just now noticing but the pleasure is in your lungs and it’s suddenly hard to breathe, and you writhe against him, grinding your clit on the heel of his hand as his heated gaze melts your resolve completely-

Suddenly, an unspeakable ecstasy crashes through your body. More potent than anything he’s done so far, it ricochets across your soul until you can barely see. You’ve never experienced something like this, this profound euphoria ripping through your veins like floodwater after a typhoon. All you can do is arch your back up into Wesker’s waiting embrace with a loud, lewd moan, your head pressing back into the soft bed beneath. It’s so intense that it’s almost frightening, but as the aftershocks wash through you, you find that all the tension you’d previously harbored is completely gone. Whatever just happened, whatever Wesker just did to you, it’s left you utterly boneless. You sob in between gasps for air, barely registering Wesker’s satisfied chuckle above you. His voice drops to a delicious whisper that only enhances the dregs of ecstasy flowing across your body.

“And just like that, there you go.” His breath is warm, soothing, against your face, and the incomprehensible urge to kiss him makes itself known to you. His lips have already graced your neck, your ear, and felt so good, you know they’d feel utterly sublime on your own. Kissing is something you’re familiar with, though you’ve never done it yourself- the other gods did it sometimes, and you’ve seen humans clash lips more times than you can count. You always wanted to try it, and if you are to die at Wesker’s hand, you suppose this is your last chance. But his pleased smile, the crow’s feet it gives his eyes, has you too enthralled to act on that urge. “You’re going to cum many more times for me, pet. That is what your body craves. That’s what I’m going to do to you, what I’m going to give you. And you will beg for more.” You’re struck by the realization that either he knows what his voice (like ebony silk and thick, rich wine) is doing to you, or he simply enjoys hearing himself speak. Whichever is the truth, you don’t care. You can’t care, not with the way each word drags you further into the decadent oblivion he offers.

The hand that wasn’t buried in your cunt rubs soothing warmth into your side, up and down, relishing in the softness of your skin and the layers of plushness beneath. Your chest heaves, diaphragm rising and falling as you attempt to come down from the height of cumming. Your eyes, hazy and wet, blink slowly in response to Wesker’s voice. His lips, thin and smooth, are so utterly enticing. Against your will, you voice your innermost thoughts. “I want to kiss you,” you breathe softly, barely a whisper on the heated air. But, of course, he hears it very well.

He raises a sculpted brow and tilts his head. “Is that so? How bold of you, pet. Ask properly, and I’ll consider it.” In response, you whine in frustration, left wanting and needy for his affections. How are you supposed to know what asking him properly even means?

“Please,” you beg, fixing him with your best doe eyes, “please let me kiss you, I- I’ve never-“

A finger, still coated in the evidence of your release, drives itself into your open mouth, cutting you off. You nearly choke on it, face heating up even more at the taste of yourself, and you nearly bite him in your confusion. “Try again,” Wesker orders sternly, “address me correctly.”

A charm of resistance, buried deep within, awakens at his cruelty, and you respond in kind. Your teeth come down onto his finger, though not enough to hurt; merely a warning that you can bite harder if you choose. You glare up at him, indignant at being denied what you know you’ve earned, what you deserve. He’s taken you prisoner, unraveled your entire world, and covered you in the blood of your fellow deities. The least you’re owed is one small request. Denial is an unfamiliar, unpleasant sensation. Very rarely were you ever refused a request, especially if it was for lessons or material comforts. The other gods were always eager to shower you in beautiful gifts and teach you the secrets of divinity. The few times you were shot down in your requests stung, making you angry and indignant. Once, you even threw something in your frustration.

Here and now, though, the denial feels even worse. You feel like you’ll die if he doesn’t at least give you this one thing. It’s never been so profound, this yearning in your core. You want to grab him by the hair and pull him down, force your lips onto his and take what you’re owed, but you push that thought away. If I did that, you remind yourself, I would be no better than him.

Despite the gentleness of your bite, Wesker’s temper flares, and he bares his sharp teeth down at you. “Spoilt little slut,” he growls, a dangerous edge to his tone. You hope the anger in your expression hides your burgeoning terror, but in all likelihood, it doesn’t do much. You can’t help but whine lowly in the back of your throat, and your jaw drops open in an attempt to appease him. Immediately, he pulls his finger away and his hand lays a cruel slap to your cheek. It’s not as harsh as you expected, and the site of the blow merely tingles instead of burning. A warning, just like your bite. Still, it makes you yelp, and you try to cradle your cheek with your palm, only for Wesker to pin both your wrists beside your head. His hands dwarf yours, a terrifying reminder of the difference in power between you. His pupils are dilated, eclipsing his irises in vantablack, belying just how much he’s enjoying this. You don’t know whether to be flattered, terrified, or enraged, and so you settle for a healthy mix of the three.

“You want me so badly, hm? Fine. I’ll indulge just this once,” Wesker sneers, and you barely have time to register his words in your brain before his mouth comes crashing down onto yours and he’s ripping the breath right out of your lungs. It’s utterly unlike any kiss you’ve ever witnessed, any kiss you’ve ever fantasized about having. It’s cruel, all teeth and tongue, as he forces his way into your mouth and claims it as his own. And yet, his lips are still as soft as you pictured, though it’s hard to focus on them when he laves his tongue across every inch of your mouth and presses your own tongue down flat into submission.

The sensations are overwhelming, and more than a little frightening. But still, you’ve gotten what you asked for, what you begged for. You try, hesitantly, to return the kiss, whining into his mouth when he forces his weight down onto you, keeping you prone and still. He groans, a deep-throated sound that makes you swoon, but the pleasure of his voice is ripped from you when he sinks his sharp teeth into your tender lip. You cry out in pain, attempting to pull away, but his hold on you is steadfast. He full-on moans as he tastes your Ichor, sucking at the bite with vicious purpose. Pain, like denial, is an unfamiliar sensation, and you don’t know how to cope other than through the tears that stream down your temples.

Finally, blessedly, he pulls away, leaving a long thread of Ichor-stained saliva connecting the two of you. He nips at it, cutting it out of the air, and you flinch at the close snap of his fangs. Face flushed, his tongue darts out to the corner of his mouth to lick up a trace of your Ichor, savoring the taste. His eyes never leave your shuddering form, and you hate the deep, sharp pang of arousal that echoes through you. His hand grips your chin, forcing your attention to him. “That’s enough. Now apologize.”

His grasp loosens, just a little, but it’s enough for you to find your voice. “‘M sorry, I’m sorry,” you croak desperately, “Please, I- I only wanted-“

“What you want is irrelevant, Endling,” he reminds you coldly, hips thrusting slightly against yours as he hisses the epithet, and you feel something firm and warm rub against your cunt, something that has your mouth going dry for a reason you can’t name. You squeeze your eyes shut, allowing more tears to fall, wishing desperately that this is all simply a nightmare that you’ll wake from any minute. “You. Belong. To me,” he says, free hand punctuating each pause with a light slap to your cheek, drawing pathetic whines from the base of your throat, “You will take what I give you and nothing more, am I understood?”

Once again, Wesker’s hand loosens around your jaw, allowing you to speak. “Yes,” you rush out, pleading for his cruelty to end, “yes, I- I understand, I’m so sorry, I-“

“Master.”

“Wh- What…?” You whisper dumbly, caught off guard by his interruption.

“Call me Master,” he orders, leaving no room for argument.

A dull, heavy stone of despair roots in your chest. He’s never going to let me go, you realize with a lull of sorrow, not even after he’s fucked me. Though he only became a God a short while ago, his power far outclasses your own. It will be many years before you’ll be able to escape him, if ever. You’re no longer a goddess; you’re his prisoner. With no other option, you close your eyes against the fresh wave of tears that threaten to escape. You inhale a shaky, weak breath. “…Yes, Master.” And suddenly you hate yourself far more than you hate Wesker, because as you say the word aloud, the pulsating pleasure in your core only deepens.

Your self-hatred thickens even further at the way you keen under his response. “Good girl.”

You can’t bear to open your eyes. But you nearly do when you register Wesker’s wicked tongue lapping against your cheek, languidly licking up your tears before moving to your other cheek and doing the same. It feels strange, unnatural, and almost pleasant. It leaves a tacky, uncomfortable trail of his saliva on your face, but the warmth of the non-violent touch is too addictive. One moment, he is cruel and unyielding, the next he touches you with such deliberate tenderness that your heart flutters like a swarm of butterflies. And somehow, neither sensation makes your body recoil; your cunt only aches with need, regardless of if Wesker is caressing your face or slapping it. But at least the (relative) softness is easier to allow yourself to enjoy.

His hand has left your face, though the phantom memory of his grip haunts the tender skin. “You’re not ready yet,” Wesker murmurs to himself, appraising your hapless body underneath him. The same hand that slapped you now gently tilts your head from side to side, and you force your eyes open to see him studying the mess he’s made of you. “Normally, I would prepare you with my mouth. But you already had my mouth, didn’t you?” You ignore the rhetorical question in favor of opening your mouth to ask him what exactly he’s preparing you for, but he cuts you off before you can start. “So instead, you’ll have this.”

From his wrist, coiling around his hand, come the tendrils of Uroboros. The very same horrible creation that allowed him to slaughter five of your fellow gods right in front of you. You don’t have time to protest the idea of those things going anywhere near you, as one thick tendril darts down to your cunt and pushes inside without preamble. The stretch is difficult to bear, plenty thicker than his fingers, but Wesker gives you no time to adjust. The tentacle is slippery, coated in a thin layer of something you don’t even want to imagine, allowing it to slide into your cunt with relative ease. A choked cry escapes your throat, and on instinct, your hands press to his chest in an attempt to push him off you. Wesker clicks his tongue condescendingly, shaking his head as another set of tendrils slither across your arms and force them down to the bed. “Behave,” he orders as the Uroboros pins your hands to either side of your head, keeping you pressed down firmly. Helpless against him.

As much as you remind yourself how vile, how terrible, the thing inside you is, you can’t prevent your body from reacting to it. Each languid thrust pushes the rounded tip of the appendage a little deeper into your cunt, its smooth surface caressing your inner walls and sending waves of pleasure through you. Already, you feel the sublime ecstasy of before mounting deep inside, your peak fast approaching. The dregs of the last time you came still haven’t left your bloodstream, and the thought of even more rushing through you makes you uneasy. It’s too much, too fast, but with your hands pinned and body helpless, you can’t do anything to stop it from creeping closer.

“No,” you blurt, gasping for air against the serpent of euphoria constricting your lungs, “it’s- it’s too much, too much, I can’t- I can’t cum again, please-“ you hesitate before saying the dreaded word but if you don’t, you know things will only get worse “-M-Master, Master please, I can’t, please stop!” Your wide eyes stare up at him, while his are fixated on the tendril pounding further into your cunt with each passing second.

He doesn’t look at your face when he responds, humming in satisfaction. “Yes, you can,” he tells you casually, flexing his wrist and making the tendrils pulse, both squeezing your wrists and whiting out your vision with pleasure, “Go on. Cum for me, my little Endling.”

And with a resounding sob of pleasure, you do, a stray tendril flicking over your clit finishing you off. It burns, like the sun itself is caressing you, but even through the agony of overstimulation it feels so supremely good. A piece of your soul bursts, leaving you writhing in your living binds, hips bucking in an attempt to escape the onslaught. Self-loathing buries itself in your core just as the tendril retracts, allowing you to release a breath you didn’t know you were holding. Euphoria washes through you, drowning you in liquor and honey until all you can breathe is sin. And it is sinful, this- you know for certain if any of the other gods could see you now, they’d call you vile, a useless creature, a broken thing. You try to rationalize it, try to remind yourself that the word of the other gods means nothing to you anymore, but it’s easier said than done. You’ve had your whole life to live under their thumbs, and only a few hours to adjust to their abandonment. It may take time for you to accept that they never cared for you, but until then, you can’t help but envision their disappointment as your soul pulses with the aftershocks of pleasure.

The Uroboros is slow to retract from you, familiarizing itself with every inch of your cunt. It drags against your sensitive inner flesh, taking an agonizingly long time to finally pop out completely. You let out a shuddering sigh of relief, hole clenching down on nothing and wrists finally free. You wipe the tears from your bleary eyes, gazing up at the divine man whose body presses yours to the bed.

Wesker watches the slick tendrils of Uroboros slide back into place, concealed within his flesh, before his eyes flicker back to you. The aggression is gone, and you feel a bit of your fear fall away. He chuckles softly, taking in the ruined expression on your face. “Look at you, dearheart,” he coos, hand cupping your cheek in mock tenderness, “what a dumb little mess you are. I think you’re more than ready.”

You wrap your arms around yourself in a makeshift hug, desperate for any scrap of comfort to cling to. Your entire body feels sapped, broken, like Wesker has drained everything you have from you. You’re shaking, trembling softly with fear and the remains of your climax. “Ready for what?” You whisper, voice choked, “what more are you going to do to me?”

He closes his burning eyes as he removes his shirt, his belt, and finally his sleek pants. The more of himself he bares to you, the more your mouth goes dry.

Wesker reminds you of the many statues placed around the Domains of the other gods, of the paintings of baroque heroes in the nude. His torso is finely carved as if from marble, muscles rippling with untold strength just beneath the skin. You can’t take your eyes off his arms once they are revealed to you- the same hands that murdered millions, including gods, have brought you to mind-shattering ecstasy, and will do so again. He pauses in his disrobing, noticing your rapt attention, and a slow smile comes to his face.

“Enjoying the view?” He hums, pupils blown wide with lust as he surrounds you with himself. You are. The sight of him makes your mouth water and your cunt leak with desire.

But you’ll die before you admit it, and so you bite out a retort. “Answer the question,” you demand, shrinking into the bed away from him.

“I already told you, pet. I’m going to fuck you. Now you tell me- do you know what this is?” The question, hissed through gritted teeth, is punctuated with a harsh thrust of his hips against your own. That tantalizing hardness in his pants throbs against you, and your mouth goes dry. It feels like a dark promise, like the executioner letting you caress the edge of the axe doomed to separate your neck from your body. Somehow, twin ropes of dread and excitement spindle their way up your spine. You shake your head, tongue useless and limp. You don’t know what that thing is that he conceals, but you’re terrified of it, and of what it represents. Your unmaking at Wesker’s hands.

He laughs darkly at your innocence, lowering his body until you can feel the warmth he radiates just above you. “I didn’t think so. This is how I’m going to fuck you, dearheart. Now watch.”

Slowly, teasingly, he pulls away his pants, revealing his strong, bare legs- and a long length of flesh standing at attention just between them. The sight of it makes your throat close up, and your stomach drops out as you realize he intends to put that thing inside of you. Your eyes meet his, beseeching him to see reason. “That won’t fit,” you rush out, closing your legs to hide your cunt from him, “whatever that is, it won’t fit inside me, you- you can’t-!”

Wesker merely laughs, shaking his head, condescension radiating from him. “Keep telling yourself that, little Endling. Now, relax your body for me- it will hurt less.” He looms over you like a predator cornering his prey. And you lay before him, helpless, a doe left to bleed out and gasp her last breath around sharp teeth in her throat. You try to follow his advice, you do, but it’s far easier said than done. Despite your best efforts your body continues to tense and tremble, little whimpers escaping your parted lips.

He takes notice of your failed efforts to lay limp, it seems, because he sighs. His hand, so much larger than yours, takes your wrist and brings it to the thing he intends to force into you. You gasp at the sudden contact, but it’s such a new, foreign sensation- warm, velvety, and firm in your palm. He pulses in your grasp and lets out a hitched breath at your touch. “That’s it,” he groans, clearly pleasured, and lowers his head to rest in the crook of your neck, “familiarize yourself with my cock. Worship it. Worship me.” Wesker’s breath is hot against your throat, and everything begins to blur into a haze of intoxicating sensation.

You move your hand carefully around his cock, clumsy and unsure of yourself, but certain that such a sensitive part of him could be very easily hurt. Briefly, the thought of taking advantage of that arises, but you push it away. Attacking him, especially like this, would only make things worse. And besides, knowing that you hold his most delicate component in your hand, bringing him the same pleasure he soaked you in, makes your heart flutter. The flared head calls to you, a bead of opaque liquid forming atop it, and you carefully rub a fingertip against the smooth skin. The resulting moan, baritone and delicious, makes your cunt pulse in turn. His pleasure, you realize, is as addictive and terrifying as your own.

Your hand falters in its movements as you feel Wesker’s mouth against your heated skin again. This time, his touch is deviously soft, sensual. He laves his tongue over the sensitive parts of your neck, presses hot kisses to your sternum, tastes your flesh with deliberate tenderness. He hums in satisfaction at your taste, making you squeeze your thighs together, chasing any hint of pleasure. “You taste divine, my dear, has anyone told you? Maybe if you’re good, I’ll sample your cunt directly. Mmm, I can only imagine how delicious it is.” His murmurs are seared into your tender skin, praise that makes your soul feel full and needy for more. With each kiss, each warm press of his body against yours and each buck of his hips into your hand, you fall further and further into submission. Your body begins to relax, tension sapped from your bones and distilled into pure serenity. You try to remind yourself of the pain he brings, the ways he has hurt you, but it seems so trivial in comparison to the hazy almost-bliss he lets you fall into. Lazily, you move your hand up and down across his cock, gentle strokes that make him hum long and low in the base of his throat.

Suddenly, he pulls away from your heated skin. “Stop,” he orders, and on instinct, you do. You pull your hand away, cradling it to your chest like he burned it. “I’d much rather cum inside you. Now breathe deeply, little Endling. In and out.”

Your traitorous body, relaxed and warm beneath him, is all too eager for him to enter you. Wesker moves slowly, surely, aligning the tip of his cock with your fluttering hole. You whine as he taps it against the sensitive flesh, hips twitching in want. Anticipatory nerves flare through you, but your desperation for pleasure wins out over them. To brace yourself for him, you grip the sheets beneath you in tight, trembling fists and take a deep breath.

Your exhalation is cut short, morphing into a strangled gasp as Wesker’s cock pushes its way into you in one smooth thrust.

In perfect synergy, pain and euphoria fill your body like two streams confluencing into a pond. Your core sings at being filled, stuffed to the brim and then some- but at what cost? Wesker lets out a choked moan as he sheathes himself fully in your heat, pressing his hips flush to yours. As he does, you feel something within your cunt stretch, and then snap. It’s a sensation that overpowers everything else with cold terror, as more sharp agony tears through you, radiating from your cunt.

Something must be wrong, something must be broken. You attempt to pull yourself together, to push away from the man on top of you, but his weight is too much. He snarls at your apparent refusal, a hand around your throat forcing you to lay back down. “Be still,” he orders, gritting his teeth against the pleasure your fluttering walls inflict, “don’t make me discipline you again.”

Helpless beneath him, you can only let the excruciating pain wash over you in fiery waves, clenching down around Wesker’s cock as you heave. He remains still, thankfully, allowing you to adjust to the sensation; a small shard of mercy you take gladly. After a few moments (stretched by the pain into lifetimes), the discomfort becomes familiar, and something in you changes. Lodged deep inside you, his cock prods against your innermost flesh, taunting your wanton core. You need more from him, you realize as the pain becomes bearable, you need him to move.

No sooner do you think that than Wesker decides to move, languidly pulling out and smoothly thrusting in again. The fluid movement punches the air from you again, and you let out a choked moan as something eases his reentry. Peeking down, a stream of gold catches your eye, radiant and bright against his hips. Ichor.

You are split in two, now. One half of you feels sick, just like you did when you first woke up to his apotheosis, horrified by the knowledge that he’s drawn your Ichor, and from such a delicate place. And the other half somehow curls in desire as your lifeblood lubricates his cock, allowing him to spear you even more easily. Every act of violence only draws you closer to him and the forbidden euphoria he brings. A long, drawn-out oh escapes you, choked with hiccuping cries as pleasure is punched into you. Evidently, your turmoil shows on your tear-streaked face, because between smooth, experienced thrusts, Wesker leans down so that he’s nearly kissing you again.

“Stop. Thinking,” he orders, punctuating each word with a particularly-deep thrust of his hips. His cock slams into that spongy spot just behind your clit, flooding your nervous system with pleasure, so much so that you barely register that he’s spoken. You let out a pitiful cry, a moan like an animal, and he laughs in cruel pleasure at the mess he’s made of you. “That’s it. Think about this instead, hm?” He hisses, sending a tendril of Uroboros down to assault your throbbing clit, “You know why I call you an Endling? Go on, answer your Master.”

The question comes out of left field and you can’t do much but let out a confused whine in response. You shake your head fervently, unsure if you trust yourself to do anything but moan out a stream of Please and Wesker and any number of incomprehensible sounds. But he has other ideas. “You have a tongue. Use it,” he demands, petering off into a deep moan as he humps your helpless body.

After much effort, and at the threatening way Wesker’s hips suddenly slow down, you force your mouth to work. “N-no, I don’t- please -I don’t know why,” you keen, tacking on a weak Master at the end in response to the expectant look he gives you. It’s somewhat a lie- you can hedge a bet. But you don’t want to entertain the thought until you have to. It makes you sick just considering it.

Your worst fears are confirmed when his lips curl into a wicked grin, full of malice and bloodlust. “It’s because I’m going to slaughter them- every last one,” he promises, his eyes burning, “until only you and I remain.” His vow made, the dark god once again forces his mouth down onto yours, swallowing your cry of horrified ecstasy.

He’s much gentler this time, and you sob into the kiss as he passionately entwines his tongue with yours. You throw yourself into the decadent sensations, desperate to ignore the terrible fate he’s condemned the ones you once called family to. Most of all, you’re desperate to ignore the vicious, angry part of you that can’t wait for their demise. Maybe they deserve it, that part screeches like a mournful eagle, maybe they should all burn for abandoning me. That dark part of you is unfamiliar and horrifying, and you weep harder against it and the pleasure Wesker fills you with.

The two sensations- euphoria and horror -should be completely antithetical, completely separate. But somehow, they entwine like his tongue with yours, like two snakes wrapped around a Caduceus. The intensity doubles as the emotions mix, battling for dominance in your mind and your body. Ultimately, inevitably, it’s pleasure that wins, and you abandon any fear in the face of that all-consuming heat.

As Wesker steals every breath you take, smothering your mouth and punching the air from your body with each deliberate thrust, your impending climax only grows in scope. Between kisses, you cry out to him in desperation. “Please,” you sob, “please, Master, I want- I want it, I want to- to cum, please make me cum-“ you trail off into a scream of pleasure as the tendril fondles your clit just right, sending you hurtling closer to the edge. He chuckles in response, devouring your submission with eager hunger, drowning you in himself.

With each heated press of his lips to yours, all your thoughts cease to exist. With each moment you spend being lavished and ravished, you drift further and further into the depths of submission from which there is no return. But then again, what do you have to return to? The answer, of course, is nothing. The gods cast you aside, gave you to Wesker like a war prize, and ignored your pleas for mercy. You have no place among them. For better or for worse, your new life begins here. With Wesker.

It’s with this reluctant conclusion that the stars align. Pulling just a hair’s breadth away from your kiss-swollen lips, his voice is like liquid fire. “Then scream my name, little Endling.”

And you do. By your own name and by the names of every god who abandoned you, you do. It feels like true apotheosis, like you’re only now being truly born and everything before was merely a hollow imitation. On instinct, you wrap your legs around Wesker’s waist, pushing him further into you and keeping him locked deep inside your core. He seems to have no complaints, giving a glorious moan into your mouth as his cock twitches and his thrusts begin to halt. His hips stutter, his voice even breaks, and he refuses to pull away. Between the eden of his touch and the ambrosial afterglow of your orgasm, you squirm in confusion as you feel something fill you from the inside. His cock pulsates, shooting a warm liquid deep into your cunt, and it feels strange but at the same time so profoundly right. Like this is merely how it’s meant to be.

For a while, everything is still. There are no sounds except your racing heart and your shared panting. As the tide of pleasure draws back, you start to feel a bitter self-loathing creep in. You try to cling to the warmth of before, but that crawling thought of what have I done what have I done what have I done coils around you like a snake. Your breathing picks up and you feel you’re about to cry again.

Seemingly, Wesker notices your deteriorating state, pulling away languidly from your body and looking upon you with sated eyes. His breathing is still deep, still winded from finding his release in you. “Perfect. My little plaything, broken and bred, all for me. You and I will start a new era of divinity; our bloodline will reign supreme.”

Your voice is wet when you speak up. Your vision is misty. “Our- our bloodline?” You croak, hiccuping as you try to hold back the tears.

His gaze softens, as does his voice, as he takes in your wrecked body. “Yes. You’ll bear my children. That’s what this-“ he gives one lazy thrust, forcing his spend deeper inside and making you yelp “-is for.” He watches your lip tremble for a moment and sighs softly, a sort of pity on his face. “Go on, little one. Cry if you need to.”

You don’t know what it is about him giving you permission that sets you off, but it does, and you do. You squeeze your eyes shut, letting out a weak sob, which only grows louder at the endeared chuckle Wesker makes at the sight of you. You feel utterly wretched, like the pleasure of before has taken a terrible price in return. Against your better judgment, you wrap your arms around your captor and pull him closer, desperate for any sort of comfort, even if it comes from him. Mercifully, he obliges, one broad palm cradling the back of your skull and allowing the embrace. You shudder, weeping softly but no less forcefully in your exhaustion. All the while, his softening cock remains lodged within you, keeping his seed safely inside. You want to go home. You want to travel back in time to before this day, to before Wesker was even born, when you were happy and pampered and accepted among the pantheon. You wonder if you’ll ever even see your Domain again, with its comforting familiarity and soft light, and the thought of never sleeping in your own bed again makes you wail into Wesker’s warm chest.

Blessedly, he offers no platitudes- no false notions of everything being alright. He merely allows you to find solace in his arms and cry yourself out. You don’t know how long it takes you to calm down, but by the time that hot metal ball in your throat has dissipated, your eyes are dry. Once your cries have finally abated, Wesker gathers you further into his arms and gradually slips his cock out of you, an awkward sensation that makes you cringe. Your lips part to ask what he’s doing, but a tendril of Uroboros presses softly against them. “Hush, pet. I’m going to clean you up.” That’s all the warning you get before that same syrupy feeling of teleportation overtakes you, and suddenly, you’re both in the bathing room again.

The sensation of hot water on your tender skin is unexpected, and you seize up in caution until you realize he teleported the two of you directly into the tub, your head the only part of your body not submerged. After getting your bearings, you let out a deep sigh, relaxing into Wesker’s hold. The heat of the water feels utterly heavenly, seeping into your bones and chasing away the awful drop you just experienced. He, too, relaxes, letting out a deep groan of relief as the bath soothes his body. You can’t bring yourself to move even a little. He has ripped away all your strength and left you boneless, pliant. He encounters no resistance as he sits you up in his lap and begins slowly washing your hair.

The peaceful, pregnant silence is broken only by the gentle sound of flowing water. Occasionally, Wesker will extend an arm, and Uroboros will retrieve a container from the far shelves for him. You say nothing as he massages some kind of shampoo into your hair, his fingers pressing against your scalp. As he cups his hands to wash away the soap, he sighs. “There’s something on your mind, isn’t there,” he murmurs, brushing your locks with his fingers, “You can ask whatever questions you want- but I might not answer them.”

Slowly, you blink, emerging from the warm pool of beeswax your mind was within. You don’t turn. Your voice is soft, sated, and sleepy. “You’re really going to kill them?” You whisper, almost terrified of the answer.

You can almost hear the soft smile on his face. “I am. Do you object to that, dearheart?”

Your silence, choked and shameful, is his answer. You don’t object. Or, more accurately, you can’t. You are too broken down to deny that vengeful little part of yourself any further. You grow teary-eyed again at the realization that even if you could, it wouldn’t make any difference. You are, as always, powerless in the face of divinity far superior to you.

Wesker senses your inner despair, pulling you back into his chest. His body radiates a comforting warmth, pulsating into your own. “Hush. No more tears, now,” he says, hands rising from the water to wipe away your sorrow. Even this banal touch is electrifying upon your delicate skin. He leans forward to whisper in your ear, lips caressing the shell. “If you behave,” he promises, “I’ll teach you everything they neglected to. I’ll give you the answers you need.”

It’s a promise you’ll hold him to. You want the words to explain to yourself what he’s doing to you. You want to know how to articulate the agony (and the ecstasy) of this day. If he can give you that much… well. The thought of captivity doesn’t sit well with you, but in the end, have you not just traded one cage for another? At least, with him, you can see the bars for what they are. At least, with Wesker, you know where you stand.

As you fade, exhausted, into sleep, you take comfort in knowing this much for certain: there is one good thing that separates your captor from the gods you once called family. With the way he holds you to his chest and reminds you that you are his, you know that he would rip the earth asunder to ensure you stay with him.

It’s enough to almost make you smile as you close your eyes.

#Albert Wesker #Albert Wesker x reader #smut #resident evil #resident evil smut #resident evil x reader #my writing #writers on tumblr #writers on AO3 #Nsft #Rebhfun #Mine #from the desk of Lovelace #I AM SO GLAD TO BE DONE WITH THIS WOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO #ask to tag #tw hard kinks

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slippinmickeys · 1 month ago

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The Unseelie Court (5/16)

They had awoken early, before sunup, and Scully had drifted through the dark passage of the connecting door and into her own room, closing the door behind her. She met Mulder outside an hour later, tying the sash of her light woolen coat.

When Mulder turned the engine over to get the heat going, he looked over at her.

“Sheriff’s office or morgue?” he asked.

“Sheriff’s office, I think,” she said. “We need to submit the leaf into evidence before the chain of custody gets murky. Then maybe we can all head over to the morgue together and figure out just what the hell is going on. I had the diener run another set of dental X-Rays on the new body.”

“The old body,” Mulder said.

“The body,” Scully conceded, somewhat testily.

Though it was past sunrise, the light was moody and Mulder turned on his headlights before he swung out of the motel parking lot. The radio gave a squelch of static and Scully reached forward and snapped it off, a heavy sigh briefly fogging up the passenger window, hiding the gray day on the window’s other side.

“You okay?” Mulder asked as they bumped over the curb and onto the roadway. It was something he probably wouldn’t have done before they’d started sleeping together, but a newly vulnerable part of him worried he’d done something wrong.

“Fine,” she said. Of course.

Mulder sighed himself, his mood suddenly matching that of the weather.

The sky wasn’t overcast; it was depressed, the cloud cover drooping so low it seemed to lean on top of the trees.

The drive was short, no more than five minutes, and they were out of the car and strolling through the front doors of the Sheriff’s office before they’d had time to figure out a game plan.

The deputy who’d met them at the morgue the evening before was sitting behind the duty desk, and he seemed just as startled to see them as he had twelve hours prior.

“Deputy Miller,” Mulder said. “Before we talk to the Sheriff, I have some evidence that needs to be added to what the forensic unit pulled from the lakeshore yesterday. Can you see me back to the evidence room, please?”

“Um,” the deputy said. “Can I see your badge again?”

Mulder and Scully both flipped them up.

“Alright,” Miller stood. “Okay. Um, follow me.”

For lack of anything else to do, Scully followed them, through the still fairly empty bullpen and into a back hallway, where Miller fumbled with a ring of keys before finding the right one and unlocking the evidence room door.

The deputy led them to a bankers box and handed over a clipboard to Mulder before removing the lid off the top and taking a step back. Mulder stopped writing when he looked down inside.

“This is the wrong box, son,” Mulder said.

Intrigued, Scully moved around his other side and peered in. Inside the box, encased in sealed plastic evidence bags, were the red toy bucket from near the body on the beach, as well as the beer bottle and coins. But the bottle was that of a weathered Bud Light, and the coins from Daly’s pocket were just a handful of dull pennies. The iron ingot was nowhere to be seen.

“This is the box from yesterday,” Miller said, going pale. “It says so right here.”

“The victim had a pocketful of rare coins and an iron ingot, and the beer bottle near the body was not Bud Light,” Mulder said.

“Excuse me,” said a loud voice from the doorway. “Can I help you?”

All three of them turned to see the Sheriff standing in the doorway looking thunderous.

“Miller, just what the hell do you think you’re doing?” he said, taking a step inside. “No one but law enforcement is allowed inside the evidence room. If the Prosecutor’s office finds out about this—”

“They’re FBI!” said Miller, at the same time Mulder said:

“Sheriff Cox.”

The Sheriff stopped his rant, cocking his head at Mulder.

“We were just logging in evidence we got from our initial examination of Daly Carmichael in the morgue,” Mulder explained. “We ran into a bit of a situation last night and were hoping for your input.”

“You’re here about Daly Carmichael?” the Sheriff asked. “I didn’t think the FBI had jurisdiction, but I’d be more than happy to accept your help with the case.”

“Sir?” Scully said, confused.

“I don’t know who called you, but—”

“You did,” Mulder said, setting the evidence log book down on top of the file box. “You called me. Yesterday morning.”

“I think you must have mistaken me for someone else. Did one of my deputies…”

Mulder turned and looked down at Scully, exchanging confused looks.

“Yeah,” Mulder finally said. “Yeah, I’m sure that’s what happened. It must have been one of your deputies.”

“Mulder?” Scully said quietly. He shook his head at her, just a quick motion and moved toward the Sheriff, putting his hand on the man’s shoulder and steering him out of the evidence room.

“Why don’t you tell me about the case?” Mulder said.

***

“Mulder what the fuck ?” Scully said, the very second they had walked out of the Sheriff’s office doors and into the brisk outside air. She had not called out Mulder in front of LLE for not pushing back on the collective amnesia they all seemed to be suffering, but she sure as hell wasn’t waiting any longer. He’d gone right along with it, reintroducing himself to deputies they’d spoken with yesterday, getting the full run-down on a case they were already investigating. She was appalled.

“Did you see that?” Mulder said, excitedly. “No memory of meeting us yesterday. None of them! That rookie deputy, Andy, standing there in the bullpen. No idea who we were. And Deputy Avery, the relief on his face when the Sheriff asked him to give us the file and I told him we already had it? Avery had no idea where the file was and thought he was about to get his ass handed to him. Probably thinks we saved his career.”

“How do these people have no memory of yesterday, Mulder? It makes no sense .”

“I wonder if your diener Aeon remembers,” Mulder said. “Or if they got to him, too.”

“If who got to him? Mulder .”

Scully stopped short and grabbed Mulder by the arm, pulling him back toward her.

“Mulder, explain to me what you think is going on. Because I’m about to march back in that building and demand an office-wide drug test. Or, I don’t know, look for a hypnotist in the closet! You didn’t press them on the fact that none of them seemed to remember anything about yesterday other than the fact that they found the body of an alleged missing person, nor the very important fact that evidence from the crime scene was very clearly swapped out .”

“Magic,” Mulder said. “I think we’re dealing with some kind of magic. And it started last night the moment you took this out of Daly Carmichael’s mouth.” At this he produced the evidence bag with the leaf in it.

“You didn’t log it in?”

“Under the circumstances? No,” he said.

Scully blew out a breath. She couldn’t argue with that particular decision.

“The Sheriff is going to follow us to the morgue,” Mulder said a little more gently. “Let’s…see how this all plays out.”

He was walking to the car before Scully had a chance to fully register the word “magic.”

***

“This is the body that was found on the beach yesterday morning?” Scully asked, still in her business suit and wool coat. She was standing at the head of the examination table looking down at the older body that had appeared the night before. “In exactly this condition?”

“That’s him,” the Sheriff said. “The techs from Richmond finished up at the scene and we shipped him over here. You said you took a look at him yesterday? Any idea what killed him?”

The Sheriff was standing not far from the table’s other side with Mulder flanking him to the right. Avery stood patiently just inside the door

“I haven’t had a chance to perform the autopsy yet,” Scully said. “All that’s been done is trace.” She turned toward the door. “Where’s the diener?” she asked.

Aeon hadn’t shown his face yet, though the body and everything else was prepped and ready, and the dental X-rays were up and waiting to be looked at in the light box. The Sheriff assured her that copies had been sent to the state forensic dentist.

The night before, Aeon had been just as baffled as Mulder and Scully by the aged state of the body and had agreed to run another set of dental X-Rays.

“Crazy that he was wearing the same clothes he went missing in,” Sheriff Cox said. “All these years later.”

“Assuming this is Daly Carmichael,” Scully said.

“I mean…you don’t think it is?”

“Not without confirming his dental records.”

“I know you’re not a forensic dentist,” said the Sheriff. “But maybe you could take a look?”

Scully glanced over at the dental X-rays in the light box. The ‘70s originals from Daly Carmichael were significantly smaller–the edges of the film rounded and hoary. Scully shared a look with Mulder and he nodded at her. She blew out an unhappy breath but nevertheless moved over to the lightbox and turned it on.

The similarities were apparent the moment she looked at them. The second molar on the left side on all three X-rays showed identical amalgam fillings, each with an odd, distinct shape similar to that of Rhode Island. It wouldn’t take a forensic specialist to confirm that all three X-rays were of the same mouth-Daly Carmichael.

“These,” she said, sighing unhappily, “appear to all be from the same person.”

“Daly Carmichael,” Mulder said, clarifying.

“Yes,” Scully said. “Though I would still like confirmation from the forensic specialist.”

She knew it was a mere formality, but she was determined to do things by the book.

“Still,” the Sheriff said, smiling. “It’s great to get confirmation. And close a case.”

“We still don’t know what killed him,” Scully said.

“Can you find out? Your partner says you’re a forensic pathologist?”

Scully didn’t answer for so long that Mulder took a step forward. “Scully?” he said. “Can you?”

“I can try,” she said.

***

When Scully emerged from the locker room having changed into scrubs, the Sheriff and his deputy were gone and Aeon was back, cornered by Mulder, who appeared to be questioning him.

“So you remember us coming in here yesterday?” Mulder asked him.

“Of course I remember you coming in here yesterday,” Aeon said testily. “Hours after you should have been. And then all kinds of shit happened. You ruined my night.”

“Anybody else here yesterday? Where’s the local ME?”

“On vacation,” Aeon said. “This is a small county, Agent Mulder. It’s just the two of us.”

“Mulder,” Scully said, hoping to diffuse what was turning into a heated conversation.

Her partner turned to her. The diener took the opportunity to step around him.

“Do you need anything else before you begin your examination?” Aeon asked Scully.

“I’m good,” she said.

“I’m not done asking questions,” Mulder said.

“I think you are,” said Aeon, and Mulder’s phone trilled from his pocket. The little man gave him a satisfied smirk.

Mulder reached in and pulled out his phone. “Skinner,” he said, looking down at the display. When he looked back up, the diener had left the bay. Mulder let the phone go to voicemail. He’d call his superior back.

“I guess they didn’t get to your diener,” Mulder said. “Who I don’t think I like.”

“The feeling appears to be mutual,” Scully said. “I’m just glad whatever insanity is happening down there at the Sheriff’s office doesn’t extend to here.”

Mulder had to agree with that one. “Do you think the body has any answers?”

“If it does,” Scully said, reaching out and grabbing a scalpel, “it’s not going to be magic.”

Mulder wasn’t so sure about that. He had long ago accepted that their job turned them into ecstatics, subject to mystical experiences.

He thought about the dark opening into the trees by the lakeside, what he was now sure were Daly Carmichael’s footprints leading out of it.

“While you do this,” he said, moving to the door. “I’m going to go back to the crime scene.”

“Okay,” Scully said, reaching up to turn on the recording mic above her head, catching his eye before looking back down at the body before her. “Be careful, Mulder.”

“I will,” he assured her.

#the x-files #fanfic #my fic #msr #the unseelie court

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ask-dcf · 7 months ago

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*Frisk and Chara look at eachother*

*Frisk pulls out a coin from their sash. Chara pulls out a coin from their pants pocket. As if it was no big deal. Alice blinks in a confused manner, surprised to see either of them having money on hand. She tries her pockets in her dress aswell. And ends up finding coins aswell*

*The doll gives a smiled like expression down at them, gently taking the money and allowing them access to the train*

*The three kids get onto the train and the floor looked like stitched patterned pillows and the seats looked like bed cushions*

*Frisk goes to sit on one of them*

*She follows and sits next to Frisk.*

*The doll waves, holds hand up, and taps drawn watch on wrist. Then heads to the front to the toy steam engine*

*They opens item box and pulls out the pastries they still had from back at the castle.*

*She takes a chocolate pastry*

*Grabs a doughnut from the box, taking a bite from it while looking out the window. The train whistles and it slowly begins to move*

*Seems they can finally take it easy as the train begins to move*

#undertale #datatale #datatale au #deltarune #frisk #chara #charisk #alice #rags #ask blog #ask dcf #ch 3 #dark world #darkner #darkerland arc

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lollystocks · 6 months ago

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Therapy for the Dead and Buried

A Danny Phantom x The Bright Sessions Crossover

DP Crossover Angst Week Day 6 - Runaway

Summary: Alone and in hiding, Danny is sent to mandatory therapy. It's a bit... strange. And unusual.

Notes: First chapter of a multific! Should be relatively friendly to those unfamiliar with The Bright Sessions, as it's mostly Danny's POV.

AO3

“New patient. Session one. Male, seventeen, no known history of psychological counseling. Referred by school for ‘antisocial behavior’, but no examples given, and strong comments were made about his, quote… ‘unsettling vibes.’ Condition unknown.”

It was a very ordinary-looking room.

Danny wasn't sure what he'd been expecting, but "boring" hadn't really occurred to him.

The office of Dr. Bright was reasonably spacious, with pure white walls and a thick baby blue carpet. A single sash window overlooked the park, and before it sat a laminate desk - almost certainly IKEA - with precisely organized trays of papers and stationery. No photos or trinkets adorned it. Not even a Newton's cradle, disappointingly.

Towards the center of the room sat two small sofas - firm looking, upholstered in dark blue vinyl. The hospital type, designed for ease of cleaning up bodily fluids. Plump-looking cushions softened their corners. A low coffee table sat between them, sporting a small succulent and a large box of tissues.

Danny had chosen the sofa which faced the window and door, with his back to the blank wall. He got the impression that he'd made the wrong choice, somehow. He didn't give a shit.

The doctor was looking at him, one manicured eyebrow just a micrometer higher than the other. The silence stretched on, awkwardly.

"Um. Sorry. Could you repeat the question, please?"

"Of course. I asked if you knew why you were here, James?"

Danny stared out of the window, into the cloudy sky. There were many ways to answer that question. Classic shrink tactic, probably, to suss out his brain. Most of the answers that came to mind were smartassery - because this is where your office is. Because the bus brought me here. Because of human evolution. Because I'd get kicked out of my school if I didn't come.

What impression did he want to give her? Who did Danny James want to be now? What was most useful to him?

He looked at the doctor's face. "Because people are unsettled by me. I can't help it, but they are. And they want me to stop. Unsettling them, that is. And you're meant to teach me, like, body language techniques or something."

Doctor Bright settled into the sofa a little, like a question had been answered, or a data point obtained. She smoothed the creaseless paper in her lap.

"And what makes you think that?"

"The whole, 'James, there's clearly something deeply fucking wrong with you, and it's freaking out your classmates. Get help,' thing kinda clued me in, Doc."

"I assume you're paraphrasing."

"I'm not, actually. F-bomb and everything. Scout's honor."

"I'm surprised that your principal would use such language with you, James. That must have been disconcerting."

Danny stared at her. That was an unexpected response. "You saying you believe me? That he said that?"

"I do, James. My job here isn't to be a skeptic, or to 'find out the truth'. I'm here to listen, offer advice, and help you learn some skills and techniques to redirect your own behavior and mentality as you wish." The doctor adjusted her glasses. "So yes, James, I believe you. And as your therapist, I will believe whatever you tell me in this room, no matter how... outlandish, you may feel it is. That is my job here."

Danny couldn't help but smile at that, just a little. "That's a sweet sentiment Doctor, genuinely, but you can't mean that seriously. You must get all sorts of compulsive liars or straight-up crazies through here, there's no way you just decide to believe them all."

"Let me rephrase, then. While it's true that many of my patients will tell me things that they know not to be true, I find it best to start from a place of belief. If I decide, after getting to know them, that they are in fact serially lying to me, or are mistaken, I adjust accordingly. But until I can know that? I believe them."

"So if a crackhead told you they could fly. You'd just believe them?"

"I would, yes. Up and until I come to the irrefutable conclusion that they are lying or mistaken. Does that surprise you?"

Danny scoffed. "Yeah, that surprises me. It's nuts. There's no way you can do your job properly like that."

Doctor Bright smiled. "I've found it works best. For one thing, any patients I get through this door will come to learn that, no matter how strange or unusual it may be, they can tell me. I will not judge them, or turn them away, or have them committed."

There was a pause.

"So. You want me to tell you how ' strange and unusual' I am."

"No, James. I want you to tell me whatever you wish to tell me. This is an introductory session, I just want to get to know you."

"Specifically, you want me to tell you outlandish things about myself. Things no one else would believe. Things that make others scared of me."

"James, I merely-"

"Nope. Bye. Tell Principal Khan I failed at therapy, I guess."

He grabbed his backpack, and left.

“End of session one. Patient left abruptly.”

Chapter 2 here

Masterpost here

#danny phantom #the bright sessions #dpcaw24 #danny phantom crossover #prompt: runaway #fanfic #my fanfic #lolly talks #tftdab

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woodstockjoinery · 11 months ago

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#box sash windows #windows

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stereo-91 · 2 years ago

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The Queen’s Drawing Room CC Now Available For Download

Another English Baroque set taken from the Queen’s Drawing Room at Hampton Court Palace.

I understand that assembling the items can be tricky so, as usual, I have uploaded a template version in my Sims gallery. Search for Rotameters91 to download.

To find the Item’s simply type “Queen’s Drawing Room” in the search box in the game.

LINK:

https://simfileshare.net/folder/188320/

Other CC Below:

Ionic Doors, Fireplace with Lions, Fireplace Ornament and Giltwood Torchere by @thejim07

Georgian Sash Windows, Chandelier & Chandelier Rope by @felixandresims

Console Empire en demi lune by @cliffou29

As usual, any questions just ask.

#sims 4 #sims4 #the sims 4 #sims 4 interior #sims 4 decor #sims 4 cc #historical sims #sims 4 history challenge #sims 4 palace

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thecursedprince · 5 months ago

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marvelwitchergilmore · 11 days ago

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We're Not Friends

Summary: River Cartwright x Fe!Reader -> River comes to you after fighting with The Dogs, which comes as a surprise to you since you're not friends.

Disclaimer: I have only just started Slow Horses but I wanted to write something for his character. This is also going to have a part 2. Mostly made up sub-plot away from the show. Reader cleans River's wounds and helps him shave. Smaller intimate moments, fluff. Mention of a cheating ex-boyfriend. Swearing. Not Proof Read.

“What the hell happened to you?”

It was just a little after two in the morning when someone started banging on your front door. They’d been using the knocker for a while, the pitch of its bang against the wooden door getting louder and higher. Then the thumping started.

So, after laying in bed hoping it would stop – maybe someone was drunk and got the wrong house again. You got up and moved across to the sash window. They’d been thumping the door for a while which scared you, but considering they hadn’t broken the door down yet, you figured it wasn’t someone trying to break in.

Looking down into the dark street, you recognised a figure walking backwards from your door.

River Cartwright.

Except, from the dim light of a car’s headlamp turning down the road, you saw a slightly clearer image of him.

“What the hell happened to you?”

“Just let me in.”

“Cartwright, there’s a hospital-”

He looked around hurriedly and practically hissed at you to shut up. “Shhhh. I know. Just- please.”

It took you a moment and a half to consider letting him in. But considering he didn’t want a hospital to deal with the blood on his face, you agreed.

“There’s a key in the safety box.” You told him. “Let yourself in.”

He walked back towards the box, but then walked back. “What’s the code?”

“My birthday.”

“And that is?”

With both hands on the window ledge, you leaned out. “It was last week, River.”

“Oh. Right.”

Rolling your eyes as he thought back to last week, you shut your window and locked it again, hearing your front door finally open and watching as it closed behind River.

Switching a lamp on in your landing hallway, you got a clearer picture of River as he slowly ascended the stairs. The blood wasn’t just on his face, it covered most of his clothes, too.

“Relax. It’s not mine. Well,” he looked down at himself and back at you. “Not all of it.”

“Did you kill someone?”

“What? No.”

You took in all the blood. “You’re covered, Cartwright.”

Then a small smile graced his face. “‘Should see the other guy.”

For a moment you stared at him before rolling your eyes and heading towards the bathroom. “In here.”

River took his chance to examine your place as he watched you walk away. “Not gonna lie, I was half expecting you to curse me out.”

“Don’t worry. I am. It’s just too early in the morning for it.” You leaned over the sink and closed the window, stopping the cold air from surrounding the room making you colder than you wanted. “Now why the fuck are you here? Other than the bloody face. And I’m guessing Lamb followed me home, so that’s why you know where I live.”

Turning around, you got a better look at River in the light of the bathroom. He had a couple more scapes and cuts than you’d counted when you first looked at him on your landing. Most of the blood seemed to be dry and his clothes weren’t cut.

“The Dogs.”

With your hands on your hips, your head dropped down. “That’s why the fuck you’re here. Of course it is. Okay. Sit down.”

“Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me yet, Cartwright.”

He just nodded and sat down on the lid of the toilet seat as you found a fresh face cloth plus the first aid kit you kept under the sink. Then you moved back down the hallway and turned off the lamps before turning the bathroom light off.

“There’s enough light from the window for me to see what I’m doing.” You told him as you heard him go to speak. With a street lamp being closer and brighter to your bathroom window than your front door, it shone directly across River.

Finally, running the tap to fill the sink with warm water, you dunked the face cloth into it before turning the tap off.

“Do I want to know why you got into a fist fight with The Dogs? Move your legs.” Knocking your knee with his, River opened up his legs and you stepped into them, your fingers under his chin forcing his head up to look at you.

“No, probably – zzzz – not.” River hissed as you pressed the cloth back to some of the grazes on his face. “Anyway, how do you know it was a fist fight?”

“Other than your face being covered in blood?” You felt him nod under your fingers. “Your knuckles.”

He looked down at his hands. Scaped, bruised and bleeding. You forced him to look at you again as you wiped away the dry blood.

“And why did you come to me? You pass three of the others just to get here.”

River stalled. “I don’t know where they live.”

“And you just so happened to remember my address?”

“Yes.”

“But not my birthday?” River didn’t know what to say. “Relax. I know we’re not friends. I’m not hurt.”

That made him feel a little better…kind of.

“I am confused, though.”

“Why?”

You stopped dabbing at the blood, dunking the cloth back into the water and wringing it out. “Why not go to the hospital?”

“I was a little busy running.”

“Sooo, run to the hospital.”

River wasn’t amused. “Little late for that, now.”

“You’re lucky I know what I’m doing.”

He tilted his head a little. “Do you?”

You looked in his eyes for a moment before going back to his wounds. “Better than the others would.”

You caught the soft smirk on his face. “Right.”

For the next five minutes, you both remained silent. You’d washed most of the blood away, but you couldn’t help mentioning his beard.

“I thought you learnt how to shave when you were a kid.”

He seemed a little offended. “What are you trying to say?”

“I’m not trying to say anything. I’m saying you need a shave.”

“Thanks.”

You stood back and cleaned most of the blood out of the face cloth before watching the bloody water wash down the drain. “I can do it for you.”

Looking over your shoulder, River was running a hand through his beard in the dim reflection of the mirror.

River looked at you, his hand dropping from his face. “Yeah, I don't think I like the idea of you having a razor that close to my throat.”

With all the muscles in your face relaxing, River could already read the look on your face. Even if you were still in the dark. Your face was telling him to get over himself.

“Stay there.”

“Do you even have razors?” Looking around your bathroom, he couldn’t see any other than the one on the plate below the shower head.

You appeared back in the doorway of the bathroom. “I do.” You paused for a moment as you looked at his body. “Take your shirt off.”

“You’re shaving my face.”

You rolled your eyes. “You’re wearing a collar, Cartwright.” You walked away and down the hall to another room. “I don’t want to spill anything else on it. Besides, I can shove it on a quick cycle. Blood shouldn’t be too hard to get out since it’s so early.”

As he listened to you talk, he rolled his eyes, reluctantly doing as you ordered. “How do you know how to get blood out of clothes?”

You appeared back in the doorway. “Seriously?”

Then he remembered you were a woman. “Right.”

Fully removing his shirt, he threw it to you. “Be right back.”

And you were. From downstairs, he could hear the washing machine starting to fill with water as you climbed back up the stairs and came into the bathroom. “Found it.”

River watched as you waved a small shaving wrap in the air before you unravelled it and told him to keep hold of it.

“Why do you even have one of these?”

“Look at me.” Taking a fresh face cloth, you began to carefully wash his face before eventually you wiped away the face wash and placed the hot cloth against the bottom half of his face.

“You still haven’t answered my question.” River told you, his voice slightly muffled by the cloth.

You sighed. “Ex-boyfriend’s Christmas present. Broke up with him before I could give it to him.”

Dropping the cloth back into the sink, you lifted the package from River’s hands before opening it up and giving it back to him to lay across his legs.

You began lathering up the shaving cream before you carefully brushed it in and around his beard. “What did he do? I thought breaking up before Christmas was illegal.”

“Statistically speaking, most people break up a few weeks before Christmas. Mainly because they don’t want to have to buy Christmas presents.”

“But you already bought one.” He pointed out. “So what did he do?”

“If you must know, I found out he was fucking our downstairs neighbour for three months, so.” Your voice trailed off as you placed the shaving brush down and picked up the straight razor.

“Are you gonna Sweeney-Todd-me if I keep asking you questions?”

“Maybe,” you deadpanned.

“Keep my mouth shut. Got it.”

And he did. Despite that, however, he did keep his eyes on you. Despite the darkness of the bathroom, the light that lit up his face was bleeding onto yours. His legs opened a little wider once more for you to step into them. For a few moments, when his mind would wander, River could feel his hands twitch to reach out for you. But then he’d force himself back into reality.

You took extra care with the razor as you tidied his beard up. Your finger delicate against his skin, you turned his head a little each way as you moved around his face before tilting his head up fully.

“When did you learn to shave a beard?” River asked you once you’d shaken the shaving foam and hair off the razor for the final time before grabbing the previous cloth to wipe his face.

“A friend from college. His family ran a barber shop. Spent a couple afternoons there working when they were understaffed.”

River’s eyes widened for a moment. “Wow. Wasn’t expecting that answer.”

You laughed a little. “What? Did you expect me to say my boyfriend or something?”

He shrugged. You laughed again and stepped back into his legs. “Yeah, well, there’s a lot you still don’t know about me, Cartwright.”

He looked back up at you without you having to tell him. “Do you want me to know? Or would that make us too close to being friends?”

You leaned forward a little. “We’ll never be friends, Cartwright.”

You cursed at yourself in your head as you realised your eyes had momentarily shifted from his eyes to his lips. But by the looks of it, River was doing the same thing.

You were thankful for the lack of light in the bathroom, or else he might have been able to see the heat on your cheeks more clearly. A small chuckle escaped your chest as you threw the face cloth at his bare chest.

“Take a shower, Cartwright. You’re still covered in blood.”

Watching you leave, River lowered his head and let out a breath as he ran a hand through his head. That was close. Too close.

As he took a shower, washing off the extra blood, you moved his shirt into the dryer before looking through some old boxes in your spare room for men’s clothes. However, as you approached your bathroom door to knock, you’d failed to notice the lack of sound from your shower.

With your finger raised to knock on the door, the door opened in front of you and you were met with a freshly showered, waist wrapped in a towel, River Cartwright. And for a moment, your brain faltered.

“Uhh. Um.” You physically shook your head and forced your gaze onto him. “I left you some clothes in the spare room.”

He nodded. “Thanks.”

“Feel free to stay the night. I’m gonna…I’m gonna get some sleep while it’s still dark outside. And, River? Me offering you to stay the night still doesn’t make us friends.”

River nodded, watching you walk towards your bedroom. However, although he didn’t miss the look on your face when he opened the bathroom door, he did miss you looking back from your bedroom as he walked towards the spare one.

When you closed your bedroom door, you cursed at yourself again for checking him out as he walked away; hair dripping droplets of water down his toned back, a towel wrapped firmly around his hips.

It took you a little longer than you liked in order to get back to sleep since part of you was still listening out for him to open your front door, but since it never came, you eventually fell asleep.

When you woke up in the morning, you were still groggy from the broken sleep. Eventually pulling yourself out of bed, you opened your door and found the spare bedroom door open slightly.

He must already be awake.

Going downstairs and towards your kitchen, you were surprised to find him sitting at the kitchen table, his leg stretched out, still dressed in the pajamas you’d set out on the bed, a coffee in his hand.

“Oh. Hey.”

“Morning.”

You were thankful your back was to him when he first spoke. His voice was deeper and gruffer than usual. Maybe he hadn’t been awake long.

“How’d you sleep?”

He sucked his teeth. “If I told you that, that might make us friends.”

“Fair enough.”

Pouring yourself a cup of coffee, you grabbed the carton of milk from the fridge. “How’s your face?”

“Healing.” River told you.

Pulling out a chair, you eventually sat across from him and took in his face. There was some bruising, but that would heal soon enough. So would the smaller cuts and grazes.

“How are your hands?”

You looked at them as he wrapped them around his mug. They looked worse than his face. Healing, but rough.

“Swelling is going down.”

“Do they hurt?”

He nodded, curling his hand into a tight fist before relaxing it. “No, well, a little.”

River watched as you stood from your spot at the table and opened up one of the kitchen drawers and sat back down. “Give me your hand.”

He went to do so but then pulled it back. “What are you gonna do?”

You flipped the tube up in your hand. “It’s just a healing cream.”

“Oh, right.”

You watched him carefully as he gave you his hand. “Why? What did you think I was going to do?”

“I tried to open a flashbox once and got burnt.”

“That was clever.”

He hissed a little before giving a small groan. “Yes. Thank you. Anyway, when I showed Sid, she slapped me. Well, my hand. The one I’d burnt.”

“Good. I’m glad. You deserved it.”

River tried to pull his hand away, but you kept a firm grip on it as you gently dabbed the cream across his knuckles. “Ow, hey. It was for a good cause.”

“What good cause? Figuring out the rest of Pi?”

River stopped pulling away and looked at you. “How do you-”

“You’re not my friend. You don’t get that privilege.”

“Then what privilege do you get to check me out?” You caught River’s smug smile as your gaze flashed to his. “You can deny it all you want, but I saw how you were looking.”

You could feel your entire body. It felt like it was on fire. And not in a good way. “It was three in the morning. Everyone knows human defences are weakest at that time.”

“Weak in muscle or weak at the knees?”

You pressed into one of the cuts on his hand. “Fuck- Ow, ow, ow. Okay, okay. I’ll stop.”

Letting go, River shook his hand to try and relieve some of the pain before you pulled his other hand across the table and dabbed the cream across the cuts one by one.

“In all seriousness, thank you.” You looked back at him, your cheeks cooling. “You could have told me to fuck off, and you didn’t. So…thanks.”

You just nodded, finishing up with his hand. He gave you a quiet thanks once more as he examined his hand, the feeling of your fingers still ghosting over his knuckles as you twisted the cap back onto the cream and lay it down on the table.

#river cartwright #river cartwright x reader #slough house #river x reader #river cartwright x you #jack lowden slow horses #jackson lamb #catherine standish #enemies to lovers #part one #fluff #angst #falling in love #kissing

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foxglovethicket · 11 months ago

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Wild Things

Summary:

Some Nesta x Rhysand for day 7 of @sjmromanceweek !

Devour me, he used to urge her. Devour me, Nesta.

I love you so.

Devour me.

She would nip at the tips of his fingers in play, pretending to be a little feral thing. And he would pretend not to see the wildness in her eyes and dripping from her hair and glinting off her canines when she smiled one of her rare open-mouthed smiles.

(AKA, the toxic Nesta x Rhys fic that has been rattling around in my brain for months)

Chapters: 1/1

Read on AO3

November 11th. The first snow of the year numbs Velaris like novacane.

White snow, white sky, white salt on the roads. Clean and blank and pure for a new year—her twenty-fourth, as of sometime mid-morning. Upon waking, shivering under her dove-grey duvet, Nesta thinks: twenty-four is the year of not fucking things up.

The kitchen is the fire to her hearth. The spray of small yellow rosebuds in a vase on the island, Gwyn’s flame-lick of hair, Emerie’s embrace, the round smiles that fill their cheeks, the pastry waiting at her seat in a white bag, spots translucent with grease. It’s all warm. it all makes her blood move, down to her fingertips, where they prickle with feeling.

***

Want is a funny thing. The question—what do you want?—I want, I want, I want, like a black hole eating the stars. Nesta wants a lot of things: to be warm, awake, clean and untouched like the snow on her bedroom windowsill.

Emerie and Gwyn had asked her months ago what she wanted to do today—today, she has some extra measure of choice, today she’s allowed to want a little harder.

Today, Nesta wants to read and she wants to dance. And she wants—

No. No. So they tuck their feet up on the couch and pile on the blankets and Emerie makes her hot chocolate just the way Nesta likes it and the next few hours are pages whispering as they are turned, steam rising from half-empty mugs, snow curling down outside the window.

***

It had ended just how it had started: cold wind whipping off the Sidra to slice their cheeks wide open. The first time, it made their mouths split into smiles; the last, into trebuchets of hurt. Neither of them is good at pulling punches. His coat was on her shoulders. He said something, then she, and it was suddenly a vile thing on her skin; she ripped it away and threw it down onto the rain-soaked cobblestones. She didn’t throw it over the bridge, into the river, because that would have been irreversible, but now, now, she wishes she had.

That was September, the last long day before time jumped back and the evenings stopped clinging to the sun.

You’re fucking mine, Nesta.

I’m fucking gone.

She doesn’t think about it. She ruined everything, and it didn’t matter, and she doesn’t think about it.

***

Anyways, she’s good at being fine. She’s twenty-four now and she’s going to be fine forever, starting now. Gwyn has a carefully curated getting-ready playlist blasting from her speaker as she curls her hair. Emerie bites her lip as she draws eyeliner across her lid. Nesta sips from a wine bottle as she stares at her jewelry box: there are the little pearl-drop earrings he gave her when they went to Adriata for a weekend in August. I know you already have a favorite pair of earrings, but I thought these could be nice for the Patron’s Gala, maybe. If you like them.

Nesta fishes them out of the drawer and puts them in. She looks at herself in the mirror until her eyes turn red, and then she drops them back in the jewelry box, and stabs large silver hoops through her ears instead.

She turns off the light in her room and goes to the kitchen. Carefully, she pours the rest of the bottle of wine into a plastic Mountain Dew bottle, sucking the spilled drops from her fingers like it’s precious, and not a fourteen-dollar bottle. She plucks her coat off the hook and her keys from the dish by the door.

The three of them are laughing and chattering as they leave the apartment; Gwyn threatens to buy her a birthday girl sash, Emerie says, I think it’s too late for that, Gwyn says, The party store on East 12th is open until 11, I checked. Nesta says, I will strangle you with your own sash if you even think about it. They only laugh at her threat, and she can’t keep her face from smiling, and it doesn’t even bother her when the snow at the curb smears over her boots. She’s untouched. She’s new. She’s only started learning how to live.

***

It doesn’t really matter how it ended. There one minute and gone the next. He was there and gone, there and gone, like seasons, like purity, like the flash of a camera imprinted on the back of your retinas, there, and there, and there, and gone.

So he’s gone. And good riddance.

She used to like to hold his hand. Liked the strong, slim bones of his fingers, the veins that crawled up the back of his hand; liked running her fingers over the scar on the knuckle of his ring finger. He had a freckle on the inside of his left wrist, too, one she liked to press her lips to. I love you so, she would whisper. I’ll eat you whole.

Devour me, he used to urge her. Devour me, Nesta.

I love you so.

Devour me.

***

They step inside the club and check in their coats and the music is so heavy she can feel it pressing right through her muscles and into her bones. She tips her head back. Her spine is one long bass note. Yes, yes, yes.

Bodies shift around her, swaying like stalks of kelp in a western current, and she, an otter twisting among them as she dances. Sleek and warm and with only one wild and carnal drive: hunger.

She wants to devour this scene. The red lights. The upward-reaching limbs. The abandon. The singing mouths, the smell of vodka, the smell of perfume and cologne that surges when pressed too closely among the others.

“11:11,” says Gwyn, not long after they arrive. “Make a wish.”

You already know what she wishes for.

Emerie hands her a shot instead of a birthday candle. It sears her throat and then lights her aflame and she throws herself back into dancing and dancing and oh, when she tilts her head back like this, baring her throat, she feels knifelike and untouchable and violent, like she could strangle the whole world in her fists.

She imagines it. Sinking her teeth in. Getting the snow banks messy. Starting everything over so she doesn’t have to make so many mistakes this time. Sometimes, when Nesta buys a new book, she’ll bring it on the train and accidentally bend a corner when she goes to shove it in her bag in her haste to get off at her stop. Later, she’ll look at the crease, run her finger over it as if she can smooth it away, and fight the urge to buy a whole new copy—one she hasn’t irrevocably marred. She never does buy a new one; she knows, on some level, that it’s ridiculous to even consider it.

No creases this year, she reminds herself. She’s drunk now. Half of her blood is vodka. The music goes even louder, like a reminder or a threat. Emerie is grinding up against a striking blonde girl now; Gwyn is making eyes at someone across the room, sweeping her hair off her collarbones like a challenge; Nesta feels a drop of sweat run down her temples and sucks more swollen air into her lungs, her body greedy for it in the club’s heat.

All the lights go gas-flame blue, and that’s when she sees him.

***

So it ended. Fine. But it had started once, too.

Nesta had been in ballet as a child—no surprise, considering her family: upper class in a pearl-necklaces-and-endive-salads way. Everything was satin slippers and hair slicked back too tightly into unforgiving buns, until her mother died when she was fifteen and her father didn’t care enough to make her continue taking classes. It left her with a lithe body, a hatred of the Nutcracker, and a severe case of perfectionism.

Her favorite show to dance had been Sleeping Beauty, so last winter, when she heard the Velaris Ballet was showing it, she went to see it twice. Once, with Gwyn and Emerie, and again with Elain, except Elain canceled last-minute and Nesta thought about canceling both their tickets and staying home, but didn’t.

So, of course. He picked up Elain’s ticket.

During the show, she could drink up the colorful dresses, the masterful dancing, the beautiful shapes the dancers’ bodies made as they moved gently across the stage. When intermission came, she had no such distraction. There was only the stranger sitting next to her in his night-black suit, and of course he was devastatingly beautiful, how could she not notice? Admiring him was inexorable.

She caught him admiring her right back—those dark blue eyes making a steady, unapologetic map of her face.

It happened in textbook steps, alarming in its simplicity, really: He introduced himself. They talked throughout the rest of intermission. At some point during the third act, his knee made its way to press against hers, and he didn’t pull it away, and she didn’t pull away, either. When the lights flooded back on, the spell broke, or maybe it was cast?, and he asked her if she’d like to see the Balanchine performance with him the following week, and she wrote her number on the back of his hand with a sharpie she’d found in her purse. He had beautiful hands, like a piano player, and she asked if he played, and he said Tchaikovsky was his favorite to play, it was why he liked coming to the ballet.

Several weeks later, she would lie with her head in his lap, those nimble fingers combing through her hair, and ask, Play for me?, and he would, and it would become her favorite sound. And after that, she would sometimes sit on the edge of the bench, or kneel beside it, or stand behind him as he played, and close her eyes and imagine herself moving to the sound. Pas de bourré, pirouette.

But not yet. That would come later.

***

She sees him and the world keeps moving, even though she feels like it shouldn’t. She sees him and the world doesn’t end. It should. It doesn’t.

A current of blue bodies around her. He swims right through them. She doesn’t look at Gwyn or Emerie when he reaches her because she doesn’t have to see their faces to know their reproach.

She’s been locked into those stunning eyes since she first caught them; in this blue light, they are so, so dark, like midnight, and just as devastating. And they devastate her, they do.

Nesta thinks, You can’t unruin this. She thinks it so loudly that there’s no way he doesn’t hear it. But he doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t have to. He just looks at her, and she just looks at him, and, light with drink, she sways with the other kelp, sways right into him.

She can smell the alcohol on his breath. He’s holding a drink—a gin and tonic. He always liked gin. Elderflower gin, something that sounded fairy-like and ancient, something that smelled divine and didn’t hurt going down. She takes the cup from his hand and downs half. It’s cheap; burns like hell. He takes it back. Holds her stare as he drinks down the rest and drops the cup on the nearest flat surface.

He’s already drunk; she can tell because his face is a little too devastated when he looks at her.

His hands on her waist. Her waist in his hands. His hips pressed to her stomach. Her stomach burning gas-flame blue.

Nesta, he mouths. His eyes drop to her lips. His forehead drops to touch her own, as if he could press a feeling straight from his mind into hers.

Don’t, she says. Or maybe she thinks it.

He kisses her.

She kisses him back.

It’s inevitable, after that.

Gwyn and Emerie don’t even bother to stop her. They know better. He leads her downstairs, to the front of the club. She collects her coat. She follows him out onto the snow-driven street. A fresh coat has fallen since she and her friends went inside those few hours ago. It makes her think of new slates and starting over.

It makes her think of the way her boots crush the powdery snowflakes to grey slush.

You can’t unruin this.

He lives close—close enough that they can’t justify anything other than walking. She doesn’t look over at him and he doesn’t take her hand as they walk, and it’s almost as if they’re colleagues, with this space between them. Space enough for her ghosting breaths to dissipate entirely before they could ever reach his face.

And then—the bridge. The quay. Inevitable, she knew it, knew they’d have to cross the slushy Sidra, but. But.

She can feel him looking at her.

They reach the middle of the bridge, and she can’t keep going anymore. She’s shaking, knees knocking together embarrassingly, like a child. Nesta stops and she turns and she looks at the snow on the bridge and hates it for how serene it seems.

“I missed you, Nesta,” he says.

Past tense. He doesn’t anymore. He has her now, is what he means. He won't let go again, not like last time.

“Are you cold?” he asks. “Do you want my coat?”

She bites her lip and shakes her head, still looking down at the snow. His shoes scuff the snow as he steps closer. He takes her in his arms and he is just as warm and comforting and safe as he ever was, and it makes her want to cry, but she doesn’t. She does let him hold her. Even though it makes everything worse.

Rhys tilts up her chin and she keeps her eyes closed. He kisses her, so gently at first that she shudders, and then her mouth opens to him like a rose, and she presses harder into him, and he isn’t gentle anymore.

Her lips, cracked from the cold, split and bleed when he bites into them, and their kisses change to copper.

***

Nesta threw up before their first date. She stood in front of her mirror, trying to like the grey dress she was wearing, but she started thinking that maybe a dress was too much, and then she envisioned herself sitting stiffly next to the man—Rhysand—for the whole two and a half hours, not looking at him, and the thought—the thought of the awkwardness made her physically ill. He wouldn’t like her anymore, and then she would never be able to go to the ballet again, and and and—

She threw up neatly into the toilet, flushed it, brushed her teeth, and left.

By the time she was walking up the steps to the theater, she was trembling like a fawn, but she needn’t have worried. He was charming—his hand holding the door for her, his hand steering her respectfully from the small of her back, his hand alighting on her knee during intermission and lingering there, light and steady, until the lights began to dim again and he pulled it away.

The second half of the performance, she watched him. The way his breath caught at the crescendo of a number. The way his fingers tapped on his thighs in time with the notes. The way the bare light that reached them from the stage cast a glowing outline around the beautiful parts of his face, which seemed to be all of them.

The ballet ended, and he invited her to get a late-night coffee; he knew a cafe, one run by real Italians, so she should know it was good. By midnight, she’d made him laugh so hard he’d choked on a sip of his cappuccino, and he had made her feel coltish and new and brilliant, and finally, entirely at ease.

He was always very good with prey.

***

Nesta isn’t prey. She has a mouth full of teeth and she uses them. He’d do well to remember that, for fuck’s sake.

She bites down too hard and Rhys makes a noise in his throat. She pushes him away and they stand there, panting, staring at each other.

“Nesta,” he says.

They stand on the bridge. The snow numbs sound, numbs hurt, numbs everything.

“Come home with me, Nesta,” he says.

She goes home with him.

***

He loved her too hard. Maybe that was the problem.

Rhys wasn’t clingy, desperate—nothing so plebian as that. It was more authoritative. More intense, like a bruise. He always, always wanted her. Sex, of course, but more than that.

When it was sex, it was hungry. It was always too much, and it was never enough. It hurt every time, but it was never painful. There was sweat and tangled hair and open mouths and tenderness, always, and gentleness, only sometimes, only after. His hands were always tight around some part of her flesh, as if he were afraid she’d disappear the moment he let go, as if he could have more of her if he held more tightly.

She could never stop herself from sinking her teeth in, anyways. His shoulder, his neck, his arms, his side. She’d never made a habit of it before. It was something primal only he could bring out in her.

When it wasn’t sex, it was a different kind of want. Uncontainable, devastating. He wanted her like it hurt him. Sometimes she wasn’t even sure if he liked her. He just wanted her.

One hot day that summer: billowing, gauzy curtains, Nesta in those lavender sleep shorts he liked so much, the hair around Rhys’s temples curling with sweat. Still, he held her close against him as they lay on the couch, her stomach to his stomach, her chest to his chest, her chin tucked against his shoulder.

Nesta asked, “Why did you ask me out that day at the ballet?”

His arm banded around her more tightly. He said, “I liked the way you watched them. Hungrily. I wanted to make you look at me like that.”

***

They step inside Rhys’s townhouse and the familiar smell hits her like a truck. It’s just the smell of a home—a home he’s lived in. Recently, without her. She wonders if his coffee machine still refuses to work unless he thumps the side of it as it gets going. She wonders if he ever got around to replacing the batteries in his TV remote. She wonders how many other women he’s brought here since everything ended. Maybe he fucks them in their own houses. Maybe he brings them here, has them on the couch, pushes the dove-grey pillows to the floor to make room for their bodies. She can’t imagine him fucking them in his bed, or she’ll throw up right here on his doormat.

The door clicks behind her, shutting out the cold. The air inside is warm and still, waiting for something. His hand touches her waist, moves her until her back is against the wall, and she thinks this is it, this is the part where he kisses her and takes her apart—but not yet.

Rhys kneels on the floor, takes her calf in his hands and slips off her boots, one by one, setting her feet down gently as if she were a child, or a queen. Something precious and vulnerable.

His soft fingers, piano-player’s fingers, trail up her body as he rises, hitching her dress up with them. She knows how this ends and it hurts. He kisses her wet cheekbones, one and the other.

“Nesta,” he says. He kisses her lips and she tastes salt.

She sinks her hands into the hair at the nape of his neck and pulls him closer.

Their kisses get harder, serious. She hitches her leg around his hips, presses into him—his beautiful fingers are everywhere. They tangle in her hair and pull her head back so he can better lick her throat. They count her ribs, looking for a way in. They move over her hips, down, cleverly stroking the wet seam of her underwear, starting out gentle, just how he knows she likes it.

She reaches for his belt. She wonders, where will he have her? Will he bring her to the couch? Will he have her right here, against the wall? Will he take her back to his bed, or would that mean to much?

Rhys shudders into her touch, eyes rolling back. His mouth is saying things like Fuck, Nesta, I missed you, yes, harder, more, Nesta, Nesta, Nesta—

He chokes on his own breaths and pulls her hands away. With a few tugs, her dress is over her head, and he sinks to his knees again. She looks off to the side, towards the door, not wanting to face the way he looks up at her. Devotion poisoned by possession. His hands are hot on the backs of her thighs.

“Look at me, Nesta,” he orders. He pulls her underwear away—embarrassingly wet. The expression that flits across his face then—it’s a bit too relieved to be a smirk, but close.

She puts her hands into the silky onyx strands before her.

“Eat, then,” she says, unkindly.

He does. Like it’s the only thing he’s ever wanted to do. Like he’s afraid she’ll stop him, take it away from him. She wishes she would, but she doesn’t. She’s too weak to give up something this good. Something that feels so inevitable—what’s the use?

Nesta comes right there, silently, except for one gasping breath that she immediately stifles. It’s horrible, it’s so, so horrible, how badly she misses him in that moment. It hits her, a pain so sharp she nearly flinches. It’s so horrible. So obvious, how he’s ruined her.

A tug on the backs of her knees, and her body falls obediently to straddle him where he kneels on the floor, her lips coming to meet his, hungrily taking the taste of herself from his tongue. He pulls her back, back, until he’s lying flat on the floor of the hallway, and she’s sitting over him, fumbling to yank off his shirt, to shove down his pants. Her body remembers how to move with him, remembers the steps to this. It remembers, even if her mind feels heavy and watered-down.

There is a bright spark of pain as she sinks down onto him. Rhys looks up at her from the floor. His eyes glint like a country sky at night, his sin-dark hair splays across the floor like a sunburst, his mouth parts like submission.

Nesta takes his throat in her hands and squeezes. “I hate you,” she tells him, and he lets her. Her knees press into the hardwood. He jerks his hips up with a groan. She says, “I hate you, Rhys.”

She feels a tightness in her throat that means tears. She won’t cry. She lets go of his neck and bites into her palm to hold them at bay. She won’t cry, she won’t cry. Her fingerprints fade whitely from his skin.

Rhys flips them over and settles his body over hers, between her knees. He fits in her body like he’s made for her. Her head fits just so in the space between his neck and his shoulder. She breathes him in through her nose, out through her mouth, as he begins to fuck her. He had always smelled so good, like something she shouldn’t eat. Sweet and rich, with some kind of spicy undertone, like pepper or ginger. Achingly sweet with a stinger.

Rhys takes her hand away from her mouth and pulls her wrists over her head.

“You love me, Nesta, you love me so,” he says. He threads his fingers in between hers. “You love me so.”

***

Nesta closes her eyes as he washes her hair in the shower.

“Nesta,” he says, smoothing soap away from her brow. “Stay.”

She tilts her head up, but doesn’t open her eyes. “You keep saying my name,” she says.

She can feel the sigh come out of his chest. He says, “I’m afraid I’ll forget how it sounds.”

In spite of her will, her body begins to tremble. Anger and fear and rage and desperation all well up at once, and her eyes fly open, lashes dripping under the stream of the shower, and she means to say a hundred things—a hundred accusations and castigations—but only a single word comes out, choked in steam. “Please.”

His face changes into a shape she doesn’t know well. “Nesta,” he breathes, pulling her body into his.

Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you, she thinks. But she lets him towel her dry and brush out her hair and braid it down her back with his nimble fingers, the way she taught him, once. He pulls one of his t-shirts over her head—her favorite one, god, she hates that she has a favorite—and tucks her close to him under the covers. His sheets smell like his detergent and him, and it’s miserable, knowing he’s letting her go after this, even though that’s what she wanted in the first place. Catch and release. You can’t uncrease a paperback cover. You can only buy a whole new book.

God. Twenty-four hours as a twenty-four year old and she’s already fucked everything up. She’s already let him ruin her.

They lie there in his bed in his sheets in his townhouse on the river. She’s still drunk. She’s still here. His heart is still beating just a few ribs away from hers. She counts those beats, those bloodier sheep. One-one. One-one. One-one. One-one.

She’s not entirely sure if she’s dreaming when he says it. She hopes she is. She wishes so badly that she is.

I won’t go, he promises into the dark, into the sweet warmth. Just eat me whole.

***

Snow falls overnight.

In the morning, when Nesta looks out Rhys’s window, her eyes hurt to touch anything at all, it’s so bright.

He is behind her, suddenly. His arms come around her, his chest pressing to her back. He fits. It is suddenly, terrifyingly, as if she never left.

“Nesta,” he says, one last time.

She turns in his arms, fitting herself into the crooks of his body. She is real, she is new, she is blinding like the pure fallen snow.

Nesta makes a decision.

“Rhys,” she answers, speaking against his heartbeat.

When she smiles up at him, secretive and small, her ribcage opens up and curls around him like the legs of a spider.

#acotar #a court of thorns and roses #nesta x rhysand #rhysta #rhysta fic #can we all be normal about rhysta today? pls and thx #sjmromanceweek2024 #sjmromanceweek

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