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r0-boat · 2 months ago

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I had a dream about this so I'm going to write some headcans about it

Reader forgetting all their memories headcannons Whb Kings

Cw: angst, hurt very little comfort,no NSFW but get suggestive because of certain people >.>, Demons trying their best, Don't worry You get some comedic relief!

Intro:

Sometimes the kings forget and are reminded how sensitive and fragile humans really are. Weather be from an angel attack or them rough housing a little too much around you. It is not unusual for you to accidentally be in the crossfire. Or whroughhousing, devils sometimes need to hold back in order to protect you from angels.

However, to these Kings who constantly love to show their power like proud peacocks with grenade launchers, They never knew this day was coming when they would look in horror at your lymph body on the ground, your head spilling blood. They're so glad that Lucifer is on their side.

But something is wrong... Lucifer healed you. But once you woke up you had this horrid and confused look on your face. The way their heart simultaneously stopped when you uttered the phrase "Who are you?"

Satan

Satan is not good with fear, to someone who wears his anger freely on his sleeve he's not good with someone who is very very frightened with his frequent angry outbursts that often turn very violent. He was lucky to have met you in a very specific situation to have you get used to as rage and be friends with him, And perhaps something more.

Poor Satan, his violent outbursts are just scaring you more So he tries so desperately to hide it. His entire body shaking because looking at you just fills in with more rage. He tries to assure you that it's not at you. But from the way he's yelling Your human brain interprets it differently Even when you don't want to.

He tries to show you around Gehenna But it seems like the only thing on your mind is The fact that hell exists and you are there.

He feels so useless watching Sitri calm you down and try to explain who are you and why are you here...Sitri can feel the quickening heartbeat of anxiety from his king and tries to make you see him in a different light. Satan is on the verge of tearing apart a building in rage because it hurts to control something that's essentially 100% a part of who he is when before you accepted him with open arms.

He feels like a monster, a feeling that he has never felt being around you and it hurts. He loves you so much and seeing your eyes filled with fear knowing that he caused it hurts him. Even now he's surprised that you come up to him when he's digging his nails into his pillow drowning in his own thoughts. Despite everything you've seen you still somehow feel and need to be close to him. You tell him that He's going too fast and You want to trust them despite... Everything because what your heart tells you doesn't lie, He just has to take it slow and give you some time.

Mammon

From what Lucifer tells him objects also help to recover one's memory. So that's what he does. Mammon has a storage 'closet' where he has little keepsakes all with stories of what he did with you and what time. His chest swells with pride as you look at his golden palace and hallways. "This isn't the first time you've seen these, master." He says with a smile as you hiss at him not to call you that.

He lets you go through the closet one by one every time you pick up or look at an item he tells a story, whether it's the two of you going out shopping or the time he finished constructing his pool that he let you name. There's something oddly calming about re-remembering his precious memories with you. That's why he has this room because every memory of you with him is precious So precious that he must materialize it and keep it. Because if he has anything to learn from a certain devil friend of his is that memories are far too fickle to not keep in physical form.

Mammon is a demon who always looks toward the future. Even now, when he is sharing with you all these memories and trying to help you regain those memories, back He's already looking toward a future solution, perhaps a photo album. It is an idea that he has not used yet, but maybe he could finally have an excuse to use those expensive cameras he has lying around collecting dust.

When he visits he always brings gifts and they are always gifts from places the two of you have either visited in the past or something that is from your memory. Perhaps chocolates from an extremely expensive chocolate store that he has brought you to.

Or maybe he shall bring you to dinner once again at an expensive restaurant he has taken you before. The Kings criticize that he is just using this as an opportunity to spoil you more than instead of actually helping. As much as he finds that insulting because he cares for you so much so that he gave his whole being and life to you but he can't deny that they're not completely wrong.

Leviathan

Leviathan is not okay.... Especially when the first 5 minute interaction you had with him ever since your memories have been wiped was him shaking you and demanding you to get your memories back all the while insulting you on how weak You are before rushing off back to Hades. So your opinion of him is sour. But his subordinate name Foras tells you that surprisingly your first meeting was far worse than this. Leviathan is under the impression that you forgotten him forever and you could never recover your memories. So it's useless to even try.

As much as you don't want to see him his subordinates urge you with begging and pleading and puppy dog eyes to please see him. You only agreed because of how nice they are. Leviathan has locked himself in his room ever since that little outburst in Paradise Lost. When he hears your hesitant voice he pauses before letting you in.

Instead of insulting you are grabbing you partially instead he walks for it to you and talks softly he sounds... Hurt. "Am I truly that forgettable to you?" You don't know why your heart softens to that perhaps it was the fact that deep inside you did feel something for him or maybe it was how kicked he looks right now, His eyes or red from crying? You smiling hold your hand over your heart and tell him the truth "I do feel a fondness for you."

If Lilith or God leave him a second chance to start your meeting all over again He'd taken it. Levi is a lot softer now for some reason that phrase very hauntingly vague yet reassuring. Maybe it's because you're speaking from the heart maybe it's because the fact that something inside you could never forget him.

He gently takes a hold of your wrists and guides your hands to cup his face or intertwine his fingers with yours as he softly asks if You felt something in your heart? Sadly no matter how much he tries In this softer more vulnerable state I don't think you could ever remember him because of most of your memories are quite negative. Just give him this... Just let him be soft and hold you as he asks how your heart feels when he does these things.

Beelzebub

It is what it is! As he introduces himself as Beelzebub to you. You forgot everything? Bro he forgets everything All the time same! It's hard not to get along with Beelzebub even if you have no memory of him He's very adamant that you know him and the two of you are besties.

He brings you to places that he's already brought you before some places he remembers vaguely others not so much. He does have a better time remembering actions or notable places better than words. So he often repeats himself. He's repeated himself so much to you that even now with your memories fuzzy or forgotten what he says to you feels so familiar. His eyes widen when he hears that under your breath because it means he must be doing something good.

The next time he swings by the castle because Bael Heard about your state and is worried sick. Beel sighs and his smile drops A smile that was performative as he speaks to his best friend from the heart.

"ya know... I'm usually always the forgetful one so I never knew how What it was like to be forgotten..." Bael felt something for his friend as he puts a hand on his shoulder. He couldn't help but rub a little salt in the wound "It hurts doesn't it?" Beel could only nod.

Even though devils can't lie, Beel feels like keeping up a smile with you is lying. But he can't stop doing it because it makes you feel calmer to know that everything is okay. You don't need to know that pain he's going through, of just realizing someone he deeply cared about just forgot everything about him, and not knowing if this was permanent or not.

Lucifer

He fixed you up. physically you were good as new... So why are your memories still broken?? He doesn't understand human psychology. Another reminder that he doesn't know everything. Another reminder that he is in hell for his pride. He can't have another incident like this again because of his incompetence.

He can't help but be happy with how many visitors you get. As much as he doesn't like how much competition he has, he can't help but be fond of how much love you get. Though he does probably have to limit visitors since he's pretty sure causing stress on a human is not good for them mentally.

He's with you 24/7 asking you little questions here and there You trust him the most because... You think he's your doctor? He was the first person you saw when you woke up and he has this aura of professionalism and mystique. It was really hard to grasp around the fact that you were in hell and everything you ever learned in the Bible was correct (somewhat) it's really hard to hate Lucifer as a concept when the man is standing right there next to you reading a book human psychology that looked about 50 years old and sipping tea like an English nobleman from the Victorian era as well as him being your doctor. If he was there to hurt you he would have done so already.

You call him Dr. Morningstar as you point out that that book might be a little too outdated. His eyes waiting for a second when you mention his 'last name' He brings the teacup up to his lips tied his smile as he corrects you to just call him Lucifer. And averts his attention to the fact that how could a book about psychology be so outdated when it's produced to not so long ago.

Turns out that not even humans know about their own psychology it's hard to say pitiful that is knowing that he knows nothing. He asks you if you would like to go to the human world to do some book shopping. You don't know why you nodded your head. As you knew that your family is dead and you have no family. But by the time you were there till the time you left you couldn't help that nagging feeling that you were forgetting somebody, somebody important. Lucifer asked about the sad and conflicted look on your face. You just shake your head and tell him "it's nothing."

Belphegor

Belphegor dreams of the past all the time, they're not pleasant dreams but they're better than nightmares. So he thinks that a good way to recover your memories is to sleep He knows that sleep at least makes you feel good and is good for the mind and the soul.

He is not very cultured on Western media, since he prefers anime and manga but he knows that those guys in the west always hold those... What are they called? *Snaps his fingers twice* before Beleth chimes in with the answer "slumber parties?"it's also a good way to get to know you more.

Even though he is just as worried about you and if you'll ever retain your memories ever again as much as the other kings but it's a waste of energy to worry about it and freak out. He'd rather just still get to know you if you recover your memories or not.

And to be frank if his genius calculation of rolling a bullshit d20 on you sleeping is correct and he probably doesn't even need to do anything except have fun nights binge watching anime or reading manga with you.

Occasionally he's still ask the question here or there. Honestly the one who is most worried is Beleth. He is relaxed but not as lax as his king. Because he knows that His king does care for you because he was there when Belphegor try to fight passing out because he knew if he woke up he wouldn't know if you were alive or dead.

Asmodeus

He washed for this event!🎉 It's because he'd rather have everyone caring for you then sucking his dick. He won't be so merciful next time (half joking)

Oh you It seemed like you forgot your memory? Well he knows a little bit more about human psychology then the doctor in front of him. And he does blatantly incompetently say that humans tend to remember unforgettable and 'traumatic experiences' More vividly then regular memories. Give him one night and you'll remember everything. (Half joking) No one found that funny.

He's so adamant that sex solves this issue!! All the other kings are basically either ignoring him or telling him the idea sucks ass. He does like it how your eyes always gaze over at him in such curiosity. You're so cute!!! With your mind wipe clean You're practically a virgin. With those wide little eyes filled with such life and innocence. Just looking at you makes him hard.

He didn't even try to stifle the laugh and smile on his face as he proudly shows you his proof that you know him with the plethora of pictures of his cock inside you or sleeping, or miscellaneous photos from either his subordinates when they hang out with you or the other kings as well as photos you have sent of yourself, that he saved in a special folder called 'fap material❤️' it's the only folder on his phone and He dodges the question every time you ask him about the folder name.

In the end he has the last laugh. literally he's on the floor wheezing, coughing and laughing. When the Kings found out that the memory start to flood back after you had sex with another devil.

#writing Levi's man... That shit hurted #My bad habit of writing things in the way the character writes is showing lol #belphie doing that thing where people snap their fingers trying to remember something speaks to me #some comedy with this angst #whb angst #whb leviathan #whb asmodeus #whb mammon #whb satan #whb beelzebub #whb belphegor #whb lucifer #whb x reader #whb #what in hell is bad #angst #what in “hell” is bad?

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kaeyachi · 8 months ago

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some kaeya facts that i want to remind everyone with because I miss him so much! (no angst this time i swear!!...but if you all want angst, I could also deliver hehehe)

1. Kaeya tells the children of Mondstadt some stories! Specifically, one that some forgot or didn't know of is that he has told the orphans under the church's care some horror story about the light in the lamp posts :D He had been shown to do a story telling to Klee while at the Veluriyam Mirage and he has also been reading to Klee her bedtime stories as well

2. Kaeya made Klee's survival rules! Kaeya has definitely done his part on preventing Klee from destroying Mondstadt before Celestia ever could (well, at least lessened the amount of times Mond gets bombed anyway). Anyone else think Kaeya purposely let Klee explode the Good Hunter's stove to avoid going to the Chasm? No? Ok-

3. He takes the attention when he dances! Depending on which language you hear it from, it is either a good or a bad thing. However, I am on team good thing simply because some mercenaries invited him to go dancing with them while he was in Sumeru ( very interesting information, Kaeya! Glad to know they found you so attractive that they did something they don't usually do!)

4. If you call him kind, he will attempt to look mean (and he fails at it lmao), and if he is not being mean, he will try to deny it. The traveler once listed down the kind things he had done for Captain Wu, a Liyue npc, and Kaeya proceeds to tell us that he records people who owe him (which is a lie. He forgot the person he helped TWICE. What he does have a record of is a well-detailed list of Treasure Hoarders and their rankings + patrol areas in Mondstadt). Another instance was during Jean's story quest where Kaeya planned the appreciation party for Jean where he gave the traveler all the credit

5. He is a great gift giver! (unless that person is Diluc because otherwise he will find the ugliest thing ever and gift that... arguably, that kinda sounds like amazing gift giving if we are talking about being an annoying sibling). He remembers passing commentary from friends and coworkers and gifts them accordingly.

6. He has his own intel network (and I'm theorizing that it is just a group of people he has helped before that insisted on paying him back in this way). Kaeya, after some heavy insistence from Captain Wu, asks him if he wants to be a friend or be part of his intel network and follow his commands no matter what. Vile, one of his known informants, also gave us a glimpse as to what it takes to be part of Kaeya's network, and that is the ability to decipher codes and read messages in between.

7. He is incredibly reliable as a knight! Not only do the people of Mondstadt agree that he is the more approachable cavalry captain between him and Diluc, but it is also a known fact that Kaeya has never failed to complete a mission to date (except the one during Diluc's 18th). Nearly every citizen of Mondstadt adores him and knows how reliable he is. Arguably, this success rate could be attributed to his "end justifies the means" mindset that not all find enjoyable, but he is definitely the person to ask if you want something done. Vile has once mentioned that she could just ask Kaeya to do the charming and convincing for her, dubbing him as a prince charming for it.

8. He is one of the people who spends so much time with Klee (potentially attributed by the fact that he also has more free time compared to others). He spends so much time with her that Klee mentions a few interesting things about Kaeya, such as the fact that Albedo draws Kaeya frequently (enough times that Albedo says Kaeya could be drawn by him easily. yes, it's that "three strokes" line lmao) and the fact that Kaeya has saved Klee from solitary confinement a lot. He is shown to be a very effective person when it comes to corralling Klee without making her feel bad as even when he was trying to berate her, he still ended up giving her a possible reward if she listens.

9. He is very meticulous. He willingly spends the time to get himself ready in the clothes that he is wearing, and he likes embellishments. He really is quite the perfectionist in his actions as well. (very Alberich of him!✌️) We can also see this in his handwriting that has been described as "beautiful" and again with his near perfect track record as a knight.

#kaeya #kaeya alberich #kaeyachi back at it again with the kaeya talk because they cant be stopped

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umemiyan · 27 days ago

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𝙄𝙉 𝘽𝙀𝘼𝙐𝙏𝙄𝙁𝙐𝙇 𝘿𝙍𝙀𝘼𝙈𝙎.

𝗬𝗨𝗨𝗧𝗔 𝗢𝗞𝗞𝗢𝗧𝗦𝗨 𝗫 𝗔𝗙𝗔𝗕!𝗥𝗘𝗔𝗗𝗘𝗥. ⌇ 18+ only, mdni / incest / noncon somnophilia (char. receiving) / so like… kinda dom!reader if you wanna look at it like that, but it’s not really a hard dynamic in this / unprotected piv / some codependent vibes / reader has a vagina but there are no other physical or gendered descriptors / 3.2k words

notes: this was supposed to be for kinktober with the prompts incest + somnophilia, and i'm a whole month late but here we are!!! once again i have managed to have no chill and have overdone it a bit so it took me forever. but enjoy! thank you to everyone who originally voted in my kinktober polls <3 (moon dividers by cafekitsune)

He never sleeps as well as when he’s with you, and that has never been less than fact.

The dark circles under his eyes had settled in after years of strife and the both of you growing “too old” to sleep side by side, at least according to your family. It wasn’t healthy, they said. You needed to learn to respectively mature on your own, they said.

Yuuta tried. He did. Although he had been steered away from his one shining beacon of light in a world full of darkness, what sort of brother would he be if he held you back from growing into the best version of yourself? To be selfish and indulge in his childish wants and needs was a frequent guilty desire of his, but he ultimately forced himself to refrain as much as he could manage.

He never slept well after that; not unless he could find an excuse to sneak into your bed, or you sneak into his. You were a sedative every time, lulling him to sleep with the warmth of your breath and body, familiar closeness stripping the worries of the world away so that he could rest. Nothing else ever worked so perfectly, even now that you both have grown.

That’s why, after the conclusion of a family gathering, sneaking into each other’s presence was a no-brainer.

Yuuta had joined you in the guest bedroom of your childhood home to decompress after his inability to do so alone. The both of you had taken on many responsibilities throughout the day, and while he certainly enjoyed spending time with the family, a restful night alone with you was what he craved the most by the end of it. Thankfully, having felt the same way, you didn’t hesitate to raise the covers and let him slide under until you both chit-chatted yourselves to sleep.

Now, Yuuta’s arms keep you close with their gentle grip around your waist, having at some point pulled you into him until the tips of your noses are mere inches apart. You’ve fluttered out of sleep for a moment to see him resting peacefully with all the grace of an angel, wearing his slumber so effortlessly as though it never dares to evade him.

But it does, because the darkened skin beneath his eyes has made its home there for longer than you can recall, telling all who will listen that he is tormented by the absence of something. Whether it be proper brain chemistry, the responsibility to maintain a schedule, or simple peace of mind, no one knows as he never divulges, but Yuuta is haunted by lack, and not even your keen sense of sibling intuition can sniff out just what it is that he needs. Or so you believe, at least.

Although he receives the brunt of it, you can feel it too—the ache. It settles deep within every crevice to remind you of its presence whenever you dare to forget, no matter how often you seem to shove it away with success. It always rattles your bones until Yuuta smiles in your direction like the sun revealing itself from a place behind the clouds, and you are reminded of fulfillment.

Oh, how he is your sunshine; your magnificent ray of light. It warms the cavity of your chest even as you lie here in the darkness.

Fingertips trace over the matching darkness beneath his eyes and down the slope of his nose to the outline of his pink, parted lips. He doesn’t even stir, too weighed upon by the thick blanket of sleep to pay any mind. You are delirious with awe, stricken by the heavenly beauty of the one who quells the ache. Does he know you love him so? Is he aware of the radiant beauty that compels you to draw closer like a moth to the flame?

Will he know if you lean forward to press an indulgent kiss upon his lips?

It’s a gentle peck that makes his brow twitch with unconscious curiosity. Were you privy to his dreams, you’d see that you’ve entered them, breathing life into his senses with every careful touch until his skin grows hot.

You fear you’ve woken him once his hips stir, but sleep pervades even as Yuuta’s breath seems to tickle your skin with more frequency, every quickened beat of his heart causing the more shallow rising of his lungs. You dare to press your lips to his once more, desperate for the satisfaction of his reaction, and you aren’t disappointed—Yuuta’s embrace tightens around you, breath hitching discreetly like a startled angel’s, and it’s when his hips roll forward again that the hardness pressing against your lower half becomes evident.

He dreams of your gentle kisses, of your breath gracing his skin, and he returns the favor in his mind now that he knows you’ll allow it. It will be a source of shame once he awakens, but dreams of this caliber are few and far between, something to be cherished in the moment without guilt or hesitation. As if he even has a choice.

Carefully, you hike your leg up over his hip to press yourself closer to the part of him that strains against fabric. You want to feel intertwined, strange as it might be; you want to infiltrate his mind like he does yours, sense his want and need, try and be privy to things that cannot possibly be known. But it’s so easy to be close like this, as though it were always meant to be, or always had been.

He’s warm between your hips. Real. The antidote to a deepseated loneliness and need to be with another, even if only in superficial touch. But will you settle for that?

No. You are greedy.

Yuuta, still captured in a dream, is somewhat easy to maneuver onto his back with a few gentle pushes, his body desperate to mold to yours until you are perfectly perched atop him. He slots between your thighs like he was made to be there, and you can almost feel his warm cock twitch through his pajamas beneath the new weight of your hips. The adjacent scenario in his mind grows increasingly realistic while you grow hungrier for every facet of his reaction.

Does he dream of you? Does he long for the sensation of your bodies finding harmony with one another like you do? You can’t say you haven’t imagined it yourself prior, mind drifting to the taboo when presented with his matured figure, though it still holds the same heat of familiarity from when you would curl up next to each other in your youth. It’s the ultimate combination of love and desecration that satisfies this abhorrent hunger you’ve found yourself plagued by, and even if it causes everything around you to come tumbling down, you can’t find it within yourself to care.

Yuuta’s breath hitches once more, brow furrowing as you rock yourself down against him with care. You know he deserves an undisturbed rest, even if the one he dreams of isn’t you, so you daren’t wake him now of all times. You’ll aid in his unconscious need while also indulging in your own.

You grind your hips a number of times, but the results are consequently underwhelming. The softness with which you must do it to avoid waking him is to blame, your lust being inhibited to prevent you from moving against him with the entirety of your animalistic need.

Yuuta, however, grunts with pleasure at the friction while you selfishly yearn for more, so after diligently working the waistband of his pants to sit a few inches lower on his hips, you pull your panties to the side and press your wet cunt directly upon the bulge in his briefs.

You shiver at the contact, resisting the urge to moan out loud into the quiet air as Yuuta’s cock rubs against you through the thinnest of layers. He’s leaky and throbbing below your clit as it drags once, twice, three times over him in an establishing rhythm, fabric growing wetter with each pass you make and his gentle moans escaping with greater frequency. You bite down on the collar of your shirt to refrain from mimicking his vocalization, but upon another scan with your eyes, you recall that there are other things you could be doing with your mouth.

Yuuta’s throat is exposed as his head lolls off to the side on the pillow, and you lean down to busy yourself with reverent kisses upon the sensitive skin. Your hips stutter in their movement now that you have succumb to the distraction of sucking on his neck, but Yuuta doesn’t seem to mind—in fact, he mewls and whines so decadently in his sleep that you are compelled to make the regrettable decision of sucking until there is a mark that reveals itself once you remove your lips.

And oh, does he look gorgeous adorning it.

You pull back to admire his needy image, but Yuuta wriggles and presses his hips up unto yours, apparently dissatisfied with your absence and seeking something more, only to make you dizzy with arousal and irrational need. He doesn’t realize what he’s doing to you, but it’s guiding you down yet another path of no return. Your beautiful angel is sending you straight to the pits of hell, and he isn’t even fully aware.

(If you could know of his dreams, you’d see that he feels quite similarly about you.)

The wet mess of Yuuta’s briefs are pulled down until his aching cock can spring out and dribble a string of precum onto his lower belly. There, a trail of dark hair paints the milky skin with masculinity, and you admire the sight for a good moment before sliding your finger over his wet tip until the muscles in his stomach twitch with delight.

Yuuta is so responsive and so malleable, easy to take in his sleep now that he feels safe enough to fall into a slumber as delectable as this. You are almost stricken finally with guilt for taking advantage of such a level of trust, but even in his unconscious state, it feels as though Yuuta is pleading for you to take him back as your most cherished thing, the one you are closest with and know more of than anyone or anything else. You feel a certain beckoning towards making up for all the years you were forced to maintain an artificial distance, to pretend as though you didn’t ache for the only person who knew you so deeply and so truly.

Stifling the hunger only made it worse in the end, because now Yuuta’s cock weeps when you stroke it and slide it between your wet folds, signaling to you that this is somehow the right decision. Perhaps it’s a matter of delusion rather than truth, but sinking down onto him fills you with nothing but pure, unfettered gratification.

You don’t hesitate to make him bottom out inside you, eager to be overwhelmed by him in every way, even if it forces a whimper to spill from your lips in the process. Yuuta responds in kind as the snug fit allows a cascade of warmth to wash over him, blissfully unaware that he is now closer to you than he ever has been, and that he cries out in his sleep over it. It’s diabolical, really, but your dear brother wears pleasure so beautifully on his face that you can’t help but fall deeper into your pit of depravity.

A wet noise makes itself known amongst heavy breaths when you raise yourself up and drop back down on his length. It’s an act so indiscreet that you can only accomplish it twice more before Yuuta’s moans shift into noises with more presence, brows furrowed, body shuffling, and eyes cracking open to be met with the sight of your hips flush against his, cock constricted by the same blinding heat he felt seconds before waking up.

Eyes growing wide, his heart leaps out of his chest with a sudden surge of panic. “What are you—hah—d-doing—?1”

Yuuta is cut off by the palm of your hand slamming over his mouth to dampen the noise, his sounds of pleasure and surprise reaching a volume that makes you wary in a house in which you are not alone.

“Shh, Yuuta, shh…” you warn in a whisper, allowing him a second to process the danger of letting his voice raise too high, all while keeping your hips moving steadily against his.

Gradually, the panicked breathing through his nose settles to something more manageable, and Yuuta’s eyes roll into the back of his skull with a muffled grunt. “Does it feel good?” you ask, and he nods his answer, having further transitioned from alarm to living out the sinking, heavenly feeling of being coupled with you in his dream.

The morality of it all claws painfully at the back of his skull, but Yuuta is too inundated with the physical and spiritual need that has consumed you both to pay anything else much attention. He conforms to your will because it aligns so well with his own.

“Can you be quiet?”

He nods again, seeking a firm grip against your hips as you hesitantly remove your hand from his mouth. Yuuta swallows down a breath and refrains from speaking despite all the thoughts that race through his head, and you are pleased to see how receptive he is to this unthinkable act.

It could certainly be a fawn response from a peacekeeper such as himself, but you know he is capable of putting his foot down once a certain line has been crossed. He could throw you off him in an instant if he truly felt so deeply wronged by your actions, yet he chooses to stay nestled between your thighs and buried deep in your cunt after you take him over and over, because he wants this.

Doesn’t he?

The look in his teary eyes says he does, and so do the ragged breaths, the quivering lip between his teeth to bite back a moan, the way you swear he almost aids in guiding you up and down his length…

Yuuta, for the moment, looks to be as enthralled as you are by this disastrous development, and that reaffirming image alone will accompany you every day until you have at least one foot in the grave.

He is porcelain and pristine, framed by pillows and moonlight and looking a touch too fragile as though he might break with the next slam of your hips, but you know him to be hardy after all that has tried to chip away at him throughout his short life. Yuuta’s strength in love and spirit is as strong as the pale fingers that dig into your flesh, and he has decided amidst it all to be yours for this moment; a blessing bestowed upon you that could make the gratitude utterly burst forth from your chest.

You want to spill your glee upon his lips, have him know that you are thankful for his gratuity even if this is the first and only time he will give it, so you lean down to steal him for another kiss that he returns tenfold. Yuuta’s lips are more alive in his waking state and more than happy to drink in your taste between shaking breaths, the intimacy of having your tongue slide along his lower lip twisting the tightness in his gut to where it could rupture at any moment.

There’s a muffled whimper as he chases your hips, instincts unveiled but not more so than the part of him that has yearned for this for far longer than he can even recall. Now that it has been offered to him on a silver platter, he will devour and cherish it for the feast that it is, even if he doesn’t last long enough to savor every morsel to the extent he would like.

“I want you to cum,” you breathe, leading him ever closer towards that dangerous edge as if you know what sullies his mind. To hear those words in your voice, even if in a whisper, are like the gates of an abominable heaven opening up for him. “Please.”

Yuuta is incapable of denying you for even less. A plea of such magnitude rattles his bones and nearly strips him of all free-will, commanding his body to succumb to its base desires and seek fulfillment through finishing inside you. He relinquishes control and is punched by the pleasure that follows, hiding his face against your throat and fighting to keep his moan suppressed to an acceptable volume.

His warmth takes over you from the inside in spurts, twitching out of him at your deepest point as you settle against his base and further soak the dark curls around it with your arousal. You let him ride the high until he is empty and panting, and only then do you rise up and place a finger against your clit, circling it with a grind of your hips to enhance the pleasure that had been building in your core.

Yuuta watches in awe despite the sensitivity that spurs from your walls squeezing around his used cock, but he has never been more thrilled to be utilized. It doesn’t take long for you to come crashing down to join him in the orgasmic bliss that has you collapsing against his chest with a series of bone-chilling shivers, the satisfaction greater and more incomprehensible than you could’ve imagined.

The two of you are a heap of heavy breaths and quivering muscles, staring into each other’s eyes as the reality of the situation attempts to set in. As much as it should feel repulsive and regrettable, your actions nothing less than reprehensible, your greatest fear is the selfish one of hearing Yuuta say he doesn’t love you anymore. It would be most understandable after what you’ve done, but it frightens you nonetheless.

He struggles to catch his breath and confirm that this wasn’t just a figment of his dastardly imagination. “What—”

Yuuta doesn’t get the chance to stammer out a question before you cut him off with a kiss—a kiss that is so deep and desperate it screams your despair over it possibly being the final one.

You pull back and curl into his neck with murmured remorse. “I’m sorry, Yuuta. I’m sorry.”

His heart flutters with overwhelm but is ultimately on the brink of accepting that something within finally feels actualized. Will he be damned for submitting to it? Is it an insult to his being to so willingly yield after being explicitly taken without permission? Or was it necessary for him in order to reach this point all along?

Yuuta holds no animosity in his heart regardless of whether or not it is warranted. All he carries is a deep sense of love and appreciation.

Wrapping his arms around you in a tight embrace, he fully savors your closeness at last.

“Don’t be,” he says.

He’s just glad it isn’t a dream anymore.

#yuuta okkotsu x reader #yuuta okkotsu smut #yuta okkotsu x reader #jjk x reader #my writing.#re: yuuta okkotsu

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restinslices · 11 months ago

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ALRIGHT ENOUGH SWEETNESS. LIN KUEI BOYS FIRST TIME FUCKING THEIR PARTNER 🎤 (please)

Omg y’all, my brain let me write again😃

I don’t feel like looking for gifs and my storage space is in hell so I ain’t got photos. Sorry twin

Bi-Han

I know I start his parts off with “the haters will tell you” a lot

IDC. Imma do it again

The haters will tell you he won't care and he'll do his own speed and yadyadya. No.

He's an asshole but be fr y'all

I'm gonna write this as you're both experienced but it's your first time together. If that's not what you meant then lmk but until then-

You're both experienced but he's still careful

He's the type to pick up speed fast but he's not immediately gonna be aggressive

You're experienced but not with each other so he's gonna actively try to be slower and softer

Very observant towards your needs and adapts quickly

I think he’s observant in general so I think he’d easily notice how you react to certain things

More of an action guy

What I mean is he won’t verbally say a lot. Like you know how some people will ask “does this feel good?”? (That looks ugly as fuck-) He won’t

He won’t because he’s paying attention to how you react and what gets the best reaction. He doesn’t need to say much

He’s not completely silent but I don’t think he says much in general, so the first time would especially be quiet because he’s focusing

Do I think he’s rough during sex? Yes. For the first time though? Probably not. He still feeling shit out

When it comes to making him feel good, he makes sure to let you know. He’d never be the type to lie about nutting. That’s just not him. He’s gonna make sure you do it right

Very handsy

He’s vocal when it comes to grunting and I think he’d go out of his way to make noise in your ear if it was something you enjoyed

Pays attention to both your needs

I could see him wanting to go a couple rounds before stopping

Leaves tons of marks as a reminder of what happened

Now that you’ve started now, don’t be surprised when he wants to do it consistently

Kuai Liang

Mostly pays attention to what you need

I think he’s way more verbal than Bi-Han so he’d actually verbally ask what feels good and what doesn’t

He goes slow

Lots of emphasis on foreplay and trying to set the mood

His lips are everywhere

Like legit, every part of you has felt his lips or tongue

I get it, you may think he’s very fast and intense because fire but no

Fire can also symbolize passion and Kuai Liang is a very passionate lover

Considering it’s the first time, there’s no need to rush

The type to always be pleasing you. Even if you’re talking or making small comments, his fingers are still gonna be working on you

When it comes to fucking he’s not doing it fast but how hard he’s going makes up for it

Will go faster if you ask

Is also leaving marks

Does frequent check ins to make sure everything is ok

He’s a big dude (in the sense he’s swole as fuck) so he’d probably prefer for you to be on top so he won’t crush you

If I said he pulls on hair will I be booed or cheered?

If you’re bald then ignore that

Offers to give head. Doesn’t matter if you’re laying down or sitting on his face. He’s leaving here with smth-

The ratio when it comes to orgasming is off as fuck because he’s the type to pull out and start eating you out

Extra points if it’s after you came

He’s pulling out all the stops. You’re not going anywhere after this

Doesn’t particularly care how many rounds you go for

Main focus is on how many times you cum. There’s some people that try to be sweet and “I didn’t cum but if you’re tired then-“ don’t piss him off

You’re either stopping because you’re tired or you’re shaking (or you wanting to stop but that’s not a saucy ending)

Tomas Vrbada

He’s always gonna be a sub to me, idc

He would try so hard to be big man on campus and all strong and shit, but bitch one good tug at the hair and he’s folding

Lets you take the reigns for the first time

Don’t think just because he likes being tossed around a lil, he ain’t gonna say how he feels. No

You can be submissive and still assertive. That’s Tomas

Similar to Kuai Liang in the sense that he is really focused on what you want and what feels good to you

Already moans a lot and loud as fuck but he’s especially loud once he’s finally inside you

He wants to go slow but life happens. The wind just kinda blows this way and next thing you know he’s fucking you like he’s saying goodbye. It’s the winds fault fr

Is also verbal with what he wants and wants you to be too

You’d think y’all have fucked several times with how comfortable he is when it comes to saying what he’s into. What do you mean “choke me”?

What do you mean you wanna fuck the cum outta someone or vice versa? Let’s take a breather, calm down, gather our thoughts-

Once he’s horny his brain shuts off and the whore comes out. You’d expect it’d be Bi-Han that would become this bold, but no. He’s bold all the time. Tomas gives mfs whiplash.

Like bro we were just eating dinner 20 minutes ago

Like I said, he’s really focused on what you want since it’s your first time. You gotta leave an impression

Is his brain cells shutting off? Yes. Will them bitches turn back on if he notices you don’t like something or you say something feels weird? Yes

He’s attentive

Probably came before you because he’s sensitive but he’s not the type to roll over and be like “welp, guess it’s a wrap”

He wants your brain to be as fuzzy as his and he’s determined to make that shit happen

Idk why I changed my profile to this Fear Street aesthetic when I never write for them but here we are. I wanted to change it and this is where I landed.

#mk1 #mk1 2023 #mortal kombat 1 #bi han sub zero #bi han #bi han smut #subzero smut #bi han x reader #kuai liang scorpion #kuai liang #kuai liang mk1 #kuai liang smut #scorpion smut #tomas vrbada smut #tomas vrbada #tomas vrbada x reader #smoke smut #mk1 smut

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htchnr · 8 months ago

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♰ heavy breathin' ༻ P. GRAVES.*ೃ˚

➻ masterlist. ➻ buy me a coffee!

CW ➻ you were beat up ⋆ in a consensual fight ⋆ Graves has the hots for you all bloody ⋆ frequent mention of bloody nose, lips and teeth ⋆ i missed anything, lmk!

AUTHORS NOTE ➻ y'all still into Graves? 🤭 cause uhg i've FINALLY found some motivation to write for him with my current obsession with my other fave cowboy Cooper Howard 😩 just a reminder, that i do in fact still takes Graves requests!! please send some!!

SUMMARY ➻ even with bloody lips and knuckles, he's never wanted you more. WC ➻ 350~ a silly little drabble.

Graves won't lie, seeing you come back from the gun range with a bloody nose and smile so wide he could see the blood on your teeth did more to him than he'd like to admit. though, aside from the initial desperation, slight worry sets in. " shit sugar, what happened to you? "

he watches you laugh, blood watering down around your teeth. " at least we know that i'm a better fighter than you. " you grin, waving two ten-dollar bills between your equally bloody knuckles.

Graves' heart throbs at your bloody grin. " not what i meant. " he shoves the carnal need deep down as he steps closer, a gloved hand coming up to hold your chin. he assesses you, gloved hand moving your head by your chin as he looks for any more damage.

you keep your eyes on him, and no matter how hard he tries to not meet them, he swallows as his eyes finally meet yours. a foul smirk on your lips, the adrenaline of the fight making you bolder than usual. " what ever do you mean then? "

his hold on your chin tightens, and you can feel the heat radiating off of him as he steps impossibly close, your chests nearly touching. " you know damn well what i mean, doll. " his voice is low, southern drawl stronger.

his eyes meet yours with a crazy sort of look in them, and that's when you notice how he's been eyeing your bloody lips. " tell me who, and i'll have a noose 'round their neck in ten. " his hot breath fanning across your face.

you grin, tongue swiping across your teeth to wipe some of the blood off, revelling in the coppery taste. you lean in, lips brushing against his. " oh cowboy, a lady doesn't kiss and tell, " you tut teasingly, your tongue darting out to smear some of the blood on your lips onto his, before slipping from his grasp.

there he stands, alone and aching, watching you disappear into the halls of the base. he groans, pinching the bridge of his nose — you'll be the death of him.

TAGLIST ; @wanderingsoul6261 @gravesphillip @bluetoycar @kapano @bbaengtan @shoot-the-oneshot @aerangi @grvs-kcle @ale-grvs @gravesvoid @sarahs-secrets2 @phillygraves @smmy-winchster

#⋆୨🩷©2024 htchnr #⋆୨⭐️phillip graves #phillip graves imagine #phillip graves x reader #phillip graves #philip graves x reader #philip graves #philip graves imagine #graves x reader #graves imagine #graves call of duty #phillip graves mw2 #cod mw2 #call of duty mw2 #mw2 x reader

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hottpinkpenguin · 6 months ago

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Easy Company HC's: Letters Home

A/n: I'm really rolling with these BofB headcanons! hope you enjoy :)

Characters included: Dick Winters, Lewis Nixon, Ronald Speirs, Carwood Lipton, Buck Compton, David Webster, Joe Liebgott

Dick Winters

Writes frequent, short letters

Meticulously dates his letters and includes a blurb about the weather. January 12th, 1945. It’s snowing outside, dark and cold.

Starts each letter with My dear y/n

Always asks how you are, even though he’s the one fighting a damn war

Follows up on every little question or story you include in your letters. How was the bake sale? Did you ever hear how Louise Graham’s brother is doing after taking that shrapnel to the shoulder? Hope you were able to get someone out to look at the washing machine.

Ends his letters with classic but sentimental sign-offs, like Affectionately yours and All my love

Makes sure not to include anything in his letters that would worry you. Doesn’t necessarily lie or fake being happy, but just gently side steps that.

Although every once in a while you get a longer letter where Dick’s handwriting is a little messier. You know it’s from writing fast, you can almost feel the pressure behind the penmarks. He opens up more in those letters, talks about losing too many good men and sometimes will say things that just absolutely break your heart, like sometimes I wonder how all of this is really going to end for the men who are over here fighting.

Even in these letters, Dick never says “I” or “Me”, always writes about the men and the boys. You know - and so does he - that he’s including himself in those boys.

His next letter he always makes sure to reassure you. And it’s genuine, you can tell. He’ll say something like I have to put some of these heavier thoughts somewhere, and there’s nowhere I trust more than with you.

When he comes home, you find a stack of letters you wrote to him tied up in a neat bundle and stashed in an inside pocket of his Ike jacket that he sewed in especially for that purpose. You could tell by the flimsy, near-ripped creases and dirty paper that he’d read each one about a hundred times over. Buried in the middle of the stack was the picture you’d given him before he’d left for training. On the back, he’d written simply your name, the date the photo was taken, and a short instruction: in event of my death, please send all personal effects to with your home address. It made you sob but you never told him you found it.

GIF by mads-weasley

Lewis Nixon

Rarely writes. Actually drives you crazy with worry most of the time.

When he finally does, you can tell that he’s initially annoyed at having to put his thoughts down on paper. Letters start off with short, sarcastic sentences like nothing new here. Still fighting the war, in case you hadn’t heard. Enjoying German hospitality.

But as the letters go on he relaxes into it and stops being so grouchy.

Because he’s always grumpy at having to write (you should probably thank Dick for cajoling Lew into actually sitting down to write to you), he usually doesn’t write any sort of introduction or sweet address, just dives right into it.

His letters usually don’t say much, he just kind of rambles about how much he hates being away from you and how he can’t wait for the whole damn thing to be over.

Sometimes he’ll write something so incredibly romantic it takes your breath away, like I’d fight a whole division of Panzers myself if I could just get one more sniff of your perfume.

Those are the letters you save and reread to yourself over and over again when you’re waiting weeks for the next one.

Always signs off with something kind of sassy but also sweet?, like You know I love you or Keep our bed warm for me.

Sometimes you feel like you can smell whiskey on the paper, which both worries you but also reminds you of Lew

When he finally gets home and you ask him about what he did with your letters, he kind of looks at you like you’ve gone crazy and says I read them of course, what else was I supposed to do with them?

This hurts your feelings at first which of course he doesn’t understand, but after a few weeks you start to realize that he actually did read them and not only that he memorized their contents. Like he refers to your mother as “the Wicked Witch of Wichita” (something you called here after you wrote him a long rambling letter about how angry she made you at your sister’s bridal shower) and buys you a bouquet of daffodils because you wrote him a letter with a daffodil doodle in the margins of the page talking about the spring gardens.

You realize that Lew shows his love in the little details, and it makes you appreciate him all the more.

GIF by beautifulguycollector

Ronald Speirs

Ron’s letters read like military bulletins.

Doing well despite the cold. 1st sgt sick with pneumonia. Think of you often.

Writes predictably once per week. Never misses a letter. Ever.

You always write him long, lengthy, romantic letters. Sometimes even a little raunchy, if you’ve had some wine. After one particularly *ahem* suggestive letter, you feel ridiculous and say so the next time you write.

In typical Ron fashion, you get a short, to-the-point reply, but it still puts a smile on your face and a blush on your cheeks: Loved your letter. Keep writing.

Towards the end of the war, Ron starts a countdown to when he expects to be coming home. Two months now, maybe less. Home for the Fourth of July.

Also signs off with R.S. Which makes you laugh, as if you could forget who was writing to you.

Whenever your girlfriends find a letter from Ron (you keep them all in a shoebox in your closet), they tease you and ask how you can possibly be in love with someone so stiff and formal. To which you can only chuckle to yourself, because you know it’s just that they don’t understand that Ron doesn’t tell you he loves you, he shows you. Writing a letter every single week. Updating you on everything going on, even short updates, because he wants you to know how he’s doing. That’s Ronald Speirs’ love language.

Maybe three weeks before Ron comes home, you start getting boxes of (stolen?) German silver at your door. At first it freaks you out and makes you feel slimy for having lavish riches from an enemy country, so you don’t unpack the boxes and you just stack them up in the back bedroom. When Ron gets home and sees the boxes unopened and shut away, he immediately asks you what’s wrong. You stammer out an explanation and without blinking an eye, Ron loads them into his truck and takes them to the dump.

(Later you convince him that a better use of those would be to donate them to the local orphanage, so off he goes in his truck to get the boxes back out of the dump and bring them to shelter.)

One night when you’re lying awake, head on Ron’s chest, talking idly about things that don’t matter, he interrupts you to ask Can you guess which letter I kept?

You instantly blush, thinking of that risque letter you wrote him when you were halfway through your second bottle of white wine. He shakes his head and pulls a letter out of his nightstand and hands it to you. You don’t recognize it immediately, although you do see that it’s too short to be one of the naughtier correspondences.

It’s too dark to read, so you ask him which letter. He says it’s the one you wrote to me for my birthday.

You don’t remember that one and you tell him as much, so you ask him why he kept that one instead of some of the others. He looks down at you with a serious look in his eyes, a little surprised that you can’t figure it out. Then he tells you: it’s the first time you wrote that you loved me.

The next day, you sneak a peek at the letter and realize he’s right. You signed it, I love you Ron.

From then on, you make sure to tell him that every night before he falls asleep.

Carwood Lipton

Formal, sweet letters. This man is a king of romancing by words.

Writes as often as he can, but you know that Lip needs peace and quiet for an entire evening to get one of those letters done (he probably definitely writes a draft or two before he gets it right). And let’s face it, Easy Company doesn’t have the luxury of many quiet evenings.

Always, always, always starts his letters off with Dear (future) Mrs. Lipton, which you honestly think is hopelessly corny but it’s way too adorable to tell him so. And besides, you secretly love it.

He always reminisces about home in his letters. Tells you how much he misses the smell of your baking, the squeak of the front porch swing that you two would sit on and watch the sunset.

He worries a lot about you and his family. He always asks you to look in on his mother if it’s not too much trouble.

Lip doesn’t talk much about the war, in fact he hardly acknowledges it at all. And he never uses the term ‘war’ or ‘battle’. Instead, he says things like The boys over here are still committed to doing the job or Easy presses on.

Lip’s letters get a little shorter and less soft after Bastogne. He starts including the names of the casualties in his company in the P.S. Even though you don’t know these men except by name - and some of them, not even that - you feel honored that he trusts you with their memories.

Lip has saved your letters and all the pictures you sent to him - he loves pictures, and asks for an updated one of you almost every month - tucked in his foot locker and safely between the pages of his Bible so they don’t get creased or dirty.

You also find that he’s kept stacks of letters from some of his men that died in the field. When you ask him what he plans to do with the letters, he gets a heartbreaking, far-off look in his eyes and says I reckon I’ll try to get them back to their families.

You take on the burden of doing that, and you write to some of the families introducing yourself and introducing Lip and offering to forward them the letters.

All the replies you get back mention that their soldier talked about how good a leader and friend Lip was. Their replies bring tears to your eyes. For some reason, you don’t show the letters to Lip, although you do tell him about them. He never asks to read the letters, he just kisses you on your forehead and tells you that he’s never loved you more.

Even after he’s home, he’ll still write you a letter from time to time, usually at Christmastime or for your birthday in the summer. His letters are always talking about his favorite memories with you, and there’s always a paragraph at the end where he talks about how in love with you he is. It’s borderline poetry and it makes you cry every single time.

GIF by balladofthe101st

Buck Compton

Basically just writes a list of questions for you to answer in every letter.

Wants to know everything about what’s going on at home. Especially sports teams.

Doesn’t write frequently, so sometimes it’s hard to feel like there’s a conversation happening.

But he always includes sweet little notes about how much he’s thinking of you and how he’s counting down the days until he can hold you again, so you’re not complaining.

Not the most poetic writer. Always says what he thinks and feels though. Completely honest and open.

Does not tell you anything about the war. Basically ignores the entire thing.

Sometimes you think about asking him about that, but you figure that he’s not talking about it for a reason, so you follow suit.

Calls you baby in his letters.

Doesn’t actually say ‘I love you’ in his letters, although says everything else. Miss you baby. Dream about you all the time. When I get home, I’m putting a ring on your finger.

One time he writes that he woke up last night out of a dream and swore I could taste you and it makes your toes curl.

You save that letter, tuck it in your underwear drawer.

Signs his letters very simply: Buck. Sometimes he’ll put something in like until next time or I’ll write soon. But usually nothing super romantic or sentimental.

Doesn’t save your letters, but that really doesn’t bother you too much because all you wrote in them was basically just rambling details that Buck requested about your boring day-to-day.

Buck’s always better in person than in writing - he’s a quality time and physical touch kind of guy - but you know that your letters were his only lifeline to normal during the war, and you’re just happy to have him back at all.

He does surprise you one night when it’s really quiet in the house and you’re sitting on the couch together, each reading a book. He suddenly turns to you and says You know baby girl, your letters saved my sanity over there. It’s the most he’s really ever said about the war, but it’s enough, and you kiss him so he knows that you get it.

GIF by balladofthe101st

David Webster

Unsurprisingly, Web is probably the best letter writer in all of Easy Company.

He helps a lot of the other guys write letters home, especially if they’re trying to say something important. Web just has a knack for words unlike any other.

He writes a lot of letters home, not just to you, but to the rest of his family, his siblings, some of his friends, and definitely his professors.

So because you’re close with Web’s family, you do get to read a lot of his writing.

His letters to you are different though. They’re darker and a little less polished. Sometimes, they frighten you a little bit. Web talks about things you’re not you really understand - like how pointless death is, how empty it makes him feel to see his friends get KIA, how he carries around guilt about surviving this long like an anchor.

Refers to you exclusively in his letters by your first name, his writing is always serious and somber and drenched with heavy emotions, so pet names just really don’t fit the vibe.

He quotes poetry and literature quite a bit when he writes. It all feels a bit Gothic, but you’ve always known that Web has found clarity in the world through books, so you don’t begrudge him a little poetic license.

Signs his letters Yours in perpetuity, David K. Webster.

Asks you to send books. Sometimes he asks for something specific, but other times he’s happy to get whatever you pick out for him. Your tastes are different from his; you prefer to choose shorter, gentle pieces about life in the British countryside or Western adventure novels. Web would prefer Wadsworth or Hemingway, but he figures it’s probably in his best interests to read things that don’t tackle dark themes. You always tuck a letter for him into the first few pages.

He doesn’t save your letters, per se, although he does save every single book you send to him. When he gets home, he puts them all up on the bookshelf in his office. Even though they’re beat up and stained and not at all fitting with the rest of his collection, they’re front and center.

Sometimes he takes a stab at sketching in his letters. He’s not bad, either. You try to encourage him to take lessons when he gets home, which he never does. He secretly loves how much you love his drawings though.

GIF by yourspeirs

Joe Liebgott

KING OF DIRTY LETTERS

You definitely like to re-read his letters… again and again…

Not every letter is a dirty one. But most are. Or at least have a dirty section in them.

You don’t know how this man makes you feel wanted from halfway around the world, but somehow he does. Lord knows you love a lot about your Joey, but you didn’t realize how good he was with words until you found yourself practically stalking the mailman, hoping for another delivery from Joe.

Uses a lot of pet names in his letters. Baby girl, Doll, Princess are some of his favorites. Literally never calls you by your name.

Always signs off with Your Joey.

Even when Joe is clearly in a dark place, his letters are saturated with how much he needs you and how he can’t stop thinking about all the ways he’s going to have you when he gets home.

When your mother finds one of Joey’s letters to you, she throws an absolute shit fit and freaks out that you’re sleeping with someone before you’re married. It takes a long time for you to convince her that you haven’t slept with Joey yet, you’re just… really into dirty talking.

She kinda chills after that but still looks at you suspiciously every time you get a letter from him.

She never tells your dad though, which makes you think maybe she’s more supportive of your relationship with him than you realized.

After working up the courage, you write Joe a letter that is so sinful you actually doubt whether you should send it in the mail, it just feels so wrong.

When I say this man goes crazy for that letter, it is an understatement. He is out of his mind and immediately writes you a reply telling you so. Basically begs you for more.

Even though your letters back and forth with Joe are pretty raunchy, there’s also a sweetness to them. He’s always sure to mention that This ain’t just all talk, Doll. When you’re Mrs. Liebgott, you’re gonna see exactly what I’ve been writing about. Which you know is still pretty dirty, but hey, he’s basically proposing to you, right?

You are not the least bit surprised to know that he kept your naughtiest letters when he finally gets home.

But, Joseph Liebgott is a man of his word, and even though he is clearly dying to and you’re practically begging him to, he doesn’t make good on all those dirty promises until after you’re wearing his ring.

Much to your delight, you find that he is just as good with actions as he is with words.

#band of brothers imagine #band of brothers headcanon #dick winters x reader #lewis nixon x reader #ronald speirs x reader #buck compton x reader #carwood lipton x reader #david webster x reader #joe liegbott x reader

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estellan0vella · 7 months ago

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Face It Together ❀ SatoSugu Masterlist HFBU

You sit in the sterile, overly bright doctor's office, your fingers anxiously twisting the fabric of your shirt. The familiar clinical scent of antiseptic fills your nostrils as you wait for Dr. Kuroda to enter. You've been struggling with your epilepsy for years now, and your current medication isn't working as well as it used to. Seizures have become more frequent, more intense, and you've been feeling increasingly desperate for a solution.

When the door finally opens, Dr. Kuroda walks in with his usual confident stride. His white coat flutters slightly, and he offers you a cursory smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes. "Good afternoon," he says, glancing briefly at your medical file. "What brings you in today?"

Taking a deep breath, you explain your situation, your voice wavering slightly as you describe the worsening seizures and the toll they're taking on your life. "I really need to try a different medication," you finish, looking at him with a mix of hope and apprehension.

Dr. Kuroda leans back in his chair, his expression shifting to one of mild annoyance. "You know," he begins, his tone condescending, "we have to be careful with changing medications, especially for young women like you. You might want to have children someday, and many of the more effective medications can cause complications with pregnancy."

You feel a flush of anger rise to your cheeks. "But I'm not planning on having children right now. I need to be able to live my life now."

He waves a hand dismissively. "Women often change their minds about these things. It's important to keep your future options open. Besides, you need to understand that your worth as a woman isn't just about your career or personal achievements. Motherhood is a beautiful and fulfilling role."

His words hit you like a punch to the gut. You stare at him, incredulous. "Are you saying that my life and well-being right now are less important than some hypothetical future children?"

Dr. Kuroda's expression hardens. "I'm saying that we need to consider all factors, including your potential role as a mother. Let's not make any hasty decisions. We'll have a follow-up appointment for when you're feeling less emotional"

The rest of the appointment passes in a blur. You feel numb, your mind replaying his words over and over. By the time you leave the office, your anger has given way to a deep, aching sadness. The sun is setting as you make your way home, the sky a beautiful wash of orange and pink that you can't bring yourself to appreciate.

When you step into your shared apartment, the familiar warmth and comfort of your home does little to alleviate the weight pressing down on your chest. Satoru and Suguru are in the living room, their faces lighting up when they see you. Satoru's white hair is slightly tousled, and Suguru's long, dark hair is tied back in a loose ponytail. The sight of them usually fills you with a sense of peace, but today it only reminds you of how helpless you feel.

"Hey, how did it go?" Satoru asks, his blue eyes scanning your face with concern.

You force a smile. "It was fine," you lie, dropping your bag on the floor and slipping off your shoes. You walk past them and head to the kitchen, needing a moment to compose yourself.

Suguru follows you, his brows knitted in worry. "Are you sure? You don't seem fine."

You busy yourself with making tea, your hands shaking slightly. "Really, I'm okay. I just... need a moment."

Satoru and Suguru exchange a worried glance but give you the space you need. You lean against the counter, taking deep breaths, trying to hold back the tears that are threatening to spill over. The kettle whistles, and you pour the hot water over the tea leaves, the familiar ritual grounding you somewhat.

Finally, you carry your cup to the living room and sink into the couch between them. The silence stretches out, heavy and uncomfortable. Satoru wraps an arm around your shoulders, pulling you close. "You know you can talk to us about anything, right?"

The tenderness in his voice is your undoing. You burst into tears, burying your face in your hands. "It's just so unfair," you sob. "He wouldn't change my medication because he thinks I might want to have kids someday. He acted like my whole worth is tied to being a mother."

Suguru's eyes darken with anger. "He actually said that?" he asks, his voice low and dangerous.

You nod, wiping at your tears. "He said we shouldn't make any hasty decisions and that motherhood is a beautiful and fulfilling role."

Satoru's grip tightens on your shoulder, his usual playful demeanor replaced with a rare seriousness. "That's bullshit," he says bluntly. "You're worth so much more than just the potential to have kids."

Suguru takes your hand, his touch gentle and reassuring. "We're going to find you a new doctor," he says firmly. "Someone who will listen to you and take your needs seriously."

The warmth of their support begins to chase away the chill left by Dr. Kuroda's words. You sniffle, looking between them. "Thank you," you whisper. "I just feel so powerless."

Satoru brushes a tear from your cheek with his thumb. "You're not powerless," he says softly. "You've got us, and we're going to fight this together."

Suguru nods. "You're strong, and you deserve to live your life on your own terms. We're here for you, no matter what."

Their words are like a balm to your wounded spirit. For the first time since the appointment, you feel a glimmer of hope. You lean into their embrace, the weight of their love and support easing the ache in your heart.

The next few days are a blur. Despite the reassurances from Satoru and Suguru, a lingering sense of dread keeps you from sleeping well. Your symptoms persist, and the frustration mounts. A few days later, you schedule another appointment with Dr. Kuroda, feeling like you need to give him one last chance before moving on. You decide to bring Shoko along. She's known you for a long time, and her medical background means she can advocate for you more effectively.

When you arrive at the office with Shoko, the atmosphere feels tense. Dr. Kuroda's condescending smile returns as he sees the two of you. "Good afternoon," he greets, though his tone is less than warm. "I see you've brought a friend."

Shoko's presence bolsters your confidence. "Yes, this is Shoko Ieiri. She's a medical professional and a friend."

Dr. Kuroda's smile tightens. "I see. So, what can I do for you today?"

You take a deep breath, summoning the strength to speak up. "I've been thinking about our last appointment, and I really need to address my current medication. It's not working, and the seizures are getting worse."

Dr. Kuroda sighs, leaning back in his chair. "We've been over this. Changing your medication could impact your ability to have children in the future. It's important to consider that."

Shoko interjects, her voice calm but firm. "Dr. Kuroda, while it's important to consider future fertility, the primary concern should be her immediate health and quality of life. There are alternative medications that can be explored."

Dr. Kuroda's eyes flicker with irritation. "With all due respect, Miss Ieiri, this is a matter for a qualified physician to handle. The patient needs to understand that her priorities might change."

Shoko's expression hardens. "And with all due respect, Dr. Kuroda, I am a qualified physician so it's Dr Ieiri, and I'm here to ensure that my friend gets the care she needs. It's clear that her current treatment is insufficient."

Dr. Kuroda's demeanour shifts to one of open hostility. "I appreciate your concern, but women often regret hasty decisions about their reproductive health. It's essential that we don't close any doors."

You feel a surge of anger at his patronizing tone, but Shoko beats you to the punch. She stands up, leaning over his desk. "What is essential is that she doesn't suffer from untreated epilepsy. Your job is to treat her medical condition, not to impose your personal beliefs about her reproductive future."

Dr. Kuroda's face reddens with anger. "I don't appreciate being spoken to in this manner."

Shoko's eyes blaze with fury. "And I don't appreciate your blatant disregard for your patient's well-being. If you refuse to adjust her treatment, we'll find someone who will."

You feel a rush of gratitude and empowerment at Shoko's fierce defence. Dr. Kuroda glares at both of you, but you no longer feel intimidated. "We'll be seeking a second opinion," you say, standing up beside Shoko. "Thank you for your time."

As you leave the office, you feel a mix of relief and lingering frustration. Shoko puts a comforting arm around your shoulders. "We'll find you a doctor who actually cares about your health," she assures you. "No one should have to put up with that kind of treatment."

Back at home, you relay the encounter to Satoru and Suguru. Their anger mirrors Shoko's, but their support is unwavering. Satoru pulls you into a tight hug. "You're not alone in this. We're going to find someone who listens."

Suguru nods in agreement. "You deserve the best care, and we'll make sure you get it."

The intensity of the moment softens as the three of you settle into the cozy living room. Satoru shifts so you can nestle more comfortably against his chest. His arms are secure around you, and you can feel the steady rhythm of his heartbeat, a grounding presence that makes you feel safe. "You know," Satoru murmurs, brushing a strand of hair from your face, "you're the strongest person I know."

You let out a small, disbelieving laugh. "I don't feel very strong right now."

"That's because you're tired," Suguru says, sitting down beside you and Satoru on the couch. He places a gentle hand on your knee, his touch warm and reassuring. "But strength isn't about never feeling weak. It's about pushing through, even when it's hard. And you're doing that every day."

Satoru nods, his eyes full of unwavering confidence. "Exactly. We're so proud of you, and we’ll be here every step of the way."

The warmth of their words begins to dissolve the lingering tension from your appointment. Satoru's fingers trace soothing patterns on your arm, while Suguru's steady presence beside you provides a comforting anchor. You lean into Satoru's embrace, feeling the weight of the day's stress slowly lift.

"Let's do something relaxing tonight," Suguru suggests. "How about we order some takeout and watch a movie? Something light and funny."

Satoru perks up at the idea, his trademark grin spreading across his face. "I've got just the movie in mind. You guys are going to love it."

You can't help but smile at their enthusiasm. "That sounds perfect."

As the evening unfolds, the apartment fills with the comforting aroma of your favorite takeout. The three of you gather on the couch, a tangle of limbs and shared blankets. Satoru insists on picking the movie, and soon enough, the room is filled with laughter as a ridiculous comedy plays on the screen.

Every so often, Satoru and Suguru exchange knowing glances, silently checking to make sure you're okay. Their concern is palpable, but it's wrapped in layers of affection and camaraderie. They make you feel like you're not just a patient or someone who needs protection, but a beloved partner whose happiness matters deeply to them.

As the credits roll, Satoru nudges you gently. "Feeling better?"

You nod, a genuine smile spreading across your face. "Yeah, a lot better. Thanks to you two."

Suguru wraps an arm around your shoulders, pulling you close. "We're a team, remember? We're here for the good days and the bad ones."

Satoru plants a playful kiss on your forehead. "Exactly. And we'll always make sure there are more good days than bad."

You close your eyes, basking in the warmth of their presence. "I don't know what I'd do without you both."

"Luckily," Satoru says with a chuckle, "you'll never have to find out."

Suguru squeezes your shoulder gently. "We're in this together, always."

The three of you stay curled up on the couch, talking about everything and nothing. The conversation flows easily, filled with laughter and shared memories. Every word, every touch, every glance reminds you that you are deeply loved and supported.

As the night wears on, you feel a sense of peace settle over you. The world outside might be uncertain and sometimes harsh, but here, in the safety of your home, you have everything you need. Satoru's playful banter, Suguru's calm strength, and the unbreakable bond you share make you feel invincible.

"Let's get some rest," Suguru suggests softly. "Tomorrow is a new day, and we'll face it together."

Satoru stands up, stretching his arms above his head. "Agreed. And who knows, maybe tomorrow we'll find the perfect doctor."

You rise from the couch, feeling lighter than you have in days. As you head to bed, sandwiched between Satoru and Suguru, you realize that no matter what challenges come your way, you have the best possible support system by your side. With them, you know you can face anything.

The next morning, you wake up feeling refreshed, ready to take on whatever the day brings. And with Satoru and Suguru by your side, you know that you'll never have to face it alone.

This is actually a genuine struggle young women face when getting placed on meds for any form of epilepsy. So you get given the ones with worse side effects that make you depressed and sick because who cares how we feel right? Inspired by this

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kendyzzlewp · 7 months ago

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Creatures in Heaven||ART DONALDSON

pairing: art donaldson x fem!reader

summary: you run into your old college sweetheart, art, in a hotel bar. old wounds resurface as you tried to make sense of it all.

tags: college sweethearts, angst, non graphic smut?, reconnecting, pain, sad!art, divorced!reader, tears

“I don’t think I realize just how much I miss you sometimes. We were young and so in love. We were just creatures in heaven.”

You’ve always loved hotel bars.

The dimly lit space, the chatter of the guests around you, the overpriced drinks. Sitting down on a stool at the hotel you frequent after a particularly hard day at work, you can’t help but let your mind drift off. The TV above you plays a recap of the latest tennis match. Your old friend shows up on the screen, brown head stuck to his forehead, a huge goofy victorious smile on his face.

You quickly pull up your phone, sending a congratulatory text to Patrick. Making plans to meet before he leaves town.

A glass of wine gets placed in front of you, the maroon liquid swirling slightly.

“Y/N?”

You could recognize that voice anywhere. Turning slightly in your stool, your eyes met surprised blue ones. The pounding of your heart could be heard from miles away. He looked older, fitter. His blonde hair was now shorter, a stark difference to his Stanford days.

“Art,” you whispered, placing your drink down with trembling hands. “Wow, it’s been so long.”

As your gaze meets Art's, memories flood back, and you're reminded of the countless conversations and shared moments in your college dorm. You could lie and say you haven’t been following his career but you weren’t kidding anyone but yourself. You watched every tournament, every match, cheered silently from your apartment as took the tennis world by storm.

As he sits down beside you, you can't help but feel a rush of emotions—nostalgia mixed with a tinge of sadness. The memories of your last encounter weigh heavily on your mind, the pain and heartache still fresh despite the passing years.

"I can't believe it's really you," Art says, breaking the silence. "I've thought about you so often, wondered how you were doing. You look great.”

You look into his eyes, seeing a mix of emotions mirrored back at you. There's regret, longing, and a hint of hope.

"I've thought about you too," you admit, a sad smile playing on your lips. "I watched your matches, saw your rise to the top. I'm so proud of you, Art.

"Thank you, Y/N. That means a lot to me." Art's expression softens, a bittersweet smile crossing his face. “Wouldn’t be where I am without your support.”

The air between you is heavy with unspoken words and unresolved feelings. You both know there's much to discuss, but the weight of the past sits between you like a barrier.

“How’s Tashi?”

You had to ask. Patrick talked about them all the time. Even drunkenly confessing he had slept with Tashi in Atlanta when they bumped into each other for a tournament. You wonder if Art knew, you wonder if he hurt the way he hurt you.

“She’s Tashi,” he whispers, motioning the bartender for a drink. “Same as always.”

Art's response is cryptic, and you can sense the tension in his voice. You remember the pain of hearing about his relationship with Tashi, and it stirs up a mix of emotions within you.

"I heard about your marriage," you say softly, searching his eyes for any reaction. "I hope she makes you happy."

Art looks down at his drink, swirling the liquid around in his glass. His silver wedding band caught the bar’s overhead yellow light.

"It's complicated. Things are... not what they seem."

You nod silently, understanding how complicated a marriage like that could be. You think about your own failed relationship, how it was necessary for you to let your husband go because he couldn’t compare. He could never compare to the man sitting next to you.

“Are you married?” He asked, taking a sip of his whisky.

You hesitate for a moment, the weight of Art's question sinking in. It's a question that holds so much significance, one that forces you to confront your own feelings and past decisions.

"Divorced," you reply softly, meeting his gaze steadily.

There's a flicker of something in Art's eyes, a mix of surprise and curiosity. You wonder if he can sense the unspoken truth behind your words, the lingering emotions that still tie you to him despite the passage of time.

"I've had my share of relationships," you continue, your eyes fixed on the drink in front of you. "But they just… didn’t compare."

Art's gaze intensifies, his eyes searching yours for any hint of what you're feeling. The air between you crackles with tension, the weight of your words hanging heavily in the dimly lit space of the hotel bar.

"I'm sorry to hear that," he says softly, his voice tinged with regret. "But I'm glad you're here now."

You feel a rush of emotions at his words, the familiar warmth of his presence washing over you like a comforting embrace. Despite the years apart and the pain of the past, there's still a connection between you that refuses to fade. You were only really yourself around Art. The rest just got this fucked up, fake version of you.

“I heard you have a daughter,” you said, changing the subject. “How is she?”

A pang of sadness hits you as you see the light in his eyes at the mention of his daughter. You wished you were the one to give him a child, just like you planned together all those years ago. Laid up together in your small dorm bed, hand intertwined, whispering promises and dreams at three in the morning.

“Lily,” Art's expression softens even more at the mention of his daughter, a warm smile spreading across his face. "She's the light of my life."

You can't help but smile at the genuine love and pride in his voice. Despite the complexities of his marriage and the challenges he may face, it's clear that his daughter brings him immense joy and fulfillment.

"I'm so glad to hear that," you say sincerely, feeling a bittersweet tug at your heartstrings. "She's lucky to have a father like you."

Art's eyes meet yours, and for a moment, it feels as though the weight of the past and the uncertainties of the future fade away, leaving only the warmth of the connection between you.

"Thank you," he murmurs, his voice filled with emotion.

As you continue to talk about Lily, you can't help but feel a sense of warmth and nostalgia enveloping you. Despite the complexities of your past and the uncertainties of the future, there's a comfort in the shared memories and the genuine connection between you and Art.

As the conversation flows, you find yourself opening up more than you ever expected, sharing stories and laughter in the dimly lit space of the hotel bar. It's as if the years apart have melted away, leaving only the familiar ease and familiarity of your college days.

You look down at your phone, eyes widening at the time. “Wow,” you exclaimed. “It’s three am.”

Art chuckles softly, his eyes twinkling with amusement. "Time really flies when you're lost in conversation, doesn't it?"

You nod, feeling a mixture of surprise and contentment at how quickly the hours have passed. Despite the late hour, you find yourself reluctant to leave the comfort of Art's company and the warm ambiance of the hotel bar.

"It's been so wonderful catching up with you," you say, a genuine smile tugging at your lips. "I've missed this."

Art's smile mirrors yours, his expression filled with warmth and sincerity. "Me too, Y/N. It's been far too long."

As you gather your things and prepare to leave, you can't help but feel a sense of gratitude for the unexpected reunion and the chance to reconnect with Art after so many years apart. Despite the complexities of your past and the uncertainties of the future, you know that this moment will always hold a special place in your heart.

As you bid Art farewell and step out into the cool night air, you feel a sense of renewal and hope stirring within you. You start walking down the street, your heart bleeding from reopening old wounds you swore to never touch again.

“Wait!”

You turn around to see Art jogging to catch up to you. He slows down as he approaches you, panting slightly.

“Is everything okay?" you ask, a hint of concern in your voice.

Art looks at you, tears pooling in his eyes. "I know it’s too late, but I just don’t think you realize just how much I miss you sometimes.”

His voice trembles, and you can see the raw emotion in his eyes. He steps closer, his hands trembling slightly as he reaches out to take your hand.

“Y/N, it’s been almost ten years, and not a day goes by that I don’t think about you. I miss the way you laugh, the way you’d stay up with me all night just to help me study, the way you believed in me when no one else did. I miss us.”

Tears well up in your eyes as you listen to his heartfelt confession. His words hit you with the force of all the years you’ve spent apart, all the moments you’ve both lived without each other.

“Art…” you begin, but he shakes his head, needing to say more.

“I thought marrying Tashi was the right thing to do, but it never felt right because she wasn’t you. Every achievement, every milestone—it felt hollow because you weren’t there to share it with me. I’ve tried to move on, to live my life, but no one ever came close to making me feel the way you did. I still love you, Y/N. I never stopped. And seeing you tonight, it’s like all those feelings just came rushing back.”

You’re overwhelmed, your heart pounding in your chest as you try to process his words. You feel a mix of hope, fear, and an undeniable longing.

“Art,” you whisper, tears streaming down your cheeks. “We can’t.”

He takes a step closer, gently cupping your face in his hands. “I don’t know what the future holds, and I know we both have a lot of shit to deal with, but I can’t let you walk away again. I refuse.”

You look into his eyes, seeing the sincerity and desperation in his gaze. Despite the years apart and the complications of your pasts, the connection between you is undeniable.

“I don’t know what the future holds either,” you admit, your voice shaking. “But I do know that I’ve never stopped loving you.”

Without another word, he leans forward and presses his lips against yours, the taste of whiskey and longing lingering in the air. In that fleeting moment, everything else fades away—the pain of the past, the uncertainties of the future—leaving only the warmth of the connection between you and Art.

You both pull back, foreheads pressed together, heavy panting as you both try to catch your breath. Your heartbeat resonating in your ears as you find his hand, interlocking your fingers.

“Take me home?” You asked, silently hoping he understood the underlying tone of your invitation.

Art nods, a soft smile playing on his lips. "I'd love to."

Together, you walk through the quiet streets, the only sound being the soft rustle of leaves in the breeze. The world feels hushed and intimate, as if it's just the two of you in your own little bubble of time.

As you reach your apartment building, you turn to face Art, your heart pounding in your chest. The moment feels charged with emotion, a mix of longing and uncertainty swirling between you.

"Do you want to come in?," you say softly, searching his eyes for any hint of what he's feeling. "I think I have some wine…”

He leans in and kisses you again, his lips soft and warm against yours. In that moment, all doubts and fears melt away, leaving only the certainty of your feelings for each other. You opened the door to your apartment, still locked in the passionate kiss.

Art kicks the door closed, walking you further into the room. His hands getting reacquainted with your body, muscle memory kicking in as he lifts you.

“That way,” you mumble against his lips, motioning to a door in the back.

With a soft chuckle, Art carries you towards the direction you indicated, his lips never leaving yours. The heat of the moment ignites a fire within you both as you stumble towards the bedroom.

You want to savor each moment. You need to remember it in case it’s the last time. There’s no rush as your hands lift his shirt over his head, his pale skin glowing with the moonlight that streams from your window. You press a kiss to the scar on his shoulder, feeling goosebumps appear on his skin.

Art does the same, tenderly lifting your dress over your head. His fingers tracing stroking every inch of your skin as he lays you down on your bed.

The room is filled with the sound of your breath mingling with the soft hum of the city outside. In this intimate space, you find solace and connection in each other's arms, lost in a whirlwind of passion and longing.

As the night stretches on, you lose yourself in each other, exploring every inch of each other's bodies as if trying to memorize every detail. Time seems to stand still as you become lost in the moment, consumed by the intensity of your shared desire.

—

Hours later, as the first light of dawn filters through the curtains, you find yourselves tangled together in the sheets, your bodies still humming with the echoes of your passion. Clothes strewn around the floor of your bedroom. With a contented sigh, you bury your face in Art's chest, feeling a sense of peace and fulfillment wash over you.

As you lie there in the quiet stillness of the morning, you realize that this is where you belong—wrapped in Art's arms. He holds you as if you were made just for him, so tightly and close. Trying to bound the pieces of you he broke, together.

And as you drift off to sleep, you know that no matter what the future may hold, you will always belong to Art Donaldson.

#Spotify #married art donaldson #art donaldson angst #challengers fanfiction #art donaldson x reader #patrick zweig #tashi duncan #mike faist x reader #creatures in heaven #glass animals #songfic kind of #art donaldson #art donaldson oneshot #fem!reader

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la-pheacienne · 3 months ago

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“Robert will never keep to one bed,” Lyanna had told him at Winterfell, on the night long ago when their father had promised her hand to the young Lord of Storm’s End. “I hear he has gotten a child on some girl in the Vale.” Ned had held the babe in his arms; he could scarcely deny her, nor would he lie to his sister, but he had assured her that what Robert did before their betrothal was of no matter, that he was a good man and true who would love her with all his heart. Lyanna had only smiled. “Love is sweet, dearest Ned, but it cannot change a man’s nature.”

For the first time in years, he found himself remembering Rhaegar Targaryen. He wondered if Rhaegar had frequented brothels; somehow he thought not.

Robert would swear undying love and forget them before evenfall, but Ned Stark kept his vows.

"Lyanna is a hypocrite for calling out chronic cheaters like robert and then running away with Rhaegar" this is truly funny, the fact that you associate a man who chronically visits brothels, fucks child prostitutes and leaves bastards all around, with a man who left his one (1) arranged marriage for another girl he fell in love with. Especially when Ned already makes this exact comparison in the very first book, first between Robert and Rhaegar and then between Robert and himself, just to showcase how fucked up in the head his BFF Robert was compared to both Rhaegar and himself.

And now I'm not saying Ned should be uncritically treated by the reader as this paragon of virtue and feminism. I'm saying, however, that Ned's standards of "decent behavior towards women" are pretty close to the writer's standards of decent behavior towards women, in universe, considering he has one of the healthiest marriages and probably the healthiest relationship with his daughters in the asoiaf universe and his one basic fatal flaw regarding his sister is precisely arranging her marriage with his BFF Robert, a decision that haunts him to this day considering he spends one whole book reflecting on and regretting his friendship with Robert and his decision to marry his sister to Robert. And this regret is now reinforced by every single one of Robert's actions during or prior to AGOT that Ned finds repulsive, aka his murderous obsession with Dany, his violent treatment of Cersei, his mistreatment of all these women/children and their kids, his approval of the murder and rape of Elia and her kids.

Ned now finally realizes what Lyanna already instinctively knew about Robert's nature from the get go (even if she didn't have all the data at the time). He should have known what she already instinctively knew, despite being so young, but he was too far gone into his delululand of sacred bromance with Robert to care. Now he knows precisely why his sister chose Rhaegar and now he reflects on all this and his regret and guilt run so deep but it's too late because Lyanna and Rhaegar are dead and there is nothing he can do about it. And the harrowing recounting of Lyanna's death in Ned's pov is something for sure, but let's not forget the understated yet still discernable regret and sadness in his visual memory of Rhaegar's death which is in sharp contrast with his complete apathy and emotional detachment towards his living breathing friend who is standing right in front of him:

“I vowed to kill Rhaegar for what he did to her.” “You did,” Ned reminded him. “Only once,” Robert said bitterly. They had come together at the ford of the Trident while the battle crashed around them, Robert with his warhammer and his great antlered helm, the Targaryen prince armored all in black. On his breastplate was the three-headed dragon of his House, wrought all in rubies that flashed like fire in the sunlight. The waters of the Trident ran red around the hooves of their destriers as they circled and clashed, again and again, until at last a crushing blow from Robert’s hammer stove in the dragon and the chest beneath it. When Ned had finally come on the scene, Rhaegar lay dead in the stream, while men of both armies scrabbled in the swirling waters for rubies knocked free from his armor. “In my dreams, I kill him every night,” Robert admitted. “A thousand deaths will still be less than he deserves.“ There was nothing Ned could say to that.

Ned's trajectory from being a victim of the evil targaryen dynasty and Robert's faithful friend to questioning the entire basis of his old allegiance and realizing that actually Rhaegar maybe should have been King and that his sister was right about Robert because he's indeed full of shit, his subsequent guilt, regret and disillusionment over the regime he enabled, and his inability to save his house from collapse are all core elements of his arc and why his character is so fascinating and tragic. Ned's gradual deconstruction of Robert and his friendship with him is the thought process that led to all of the above. Ned remembering Lyanna's quote about Robert is there precisely to reinforce his disillusionment with Robert and highlight his difference with Rhaegar, a recurring theme in his arc. And it is particularly funny that so many people that call themselves Stark Stans TM (!!!) just swipe away all of the subtext and actual text surrounding this quote just to prove a point that is directly antithetical to the quote, its meaning and its function in the narrative, while also framing lyanna as a hypocrite over it lmao.

#aspa rambles #asoiaf #eddard stark #rhaegar targaryen #lyanna stark

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sulumuns-dootah · 2 months ago

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28. 10. Body worship - Lucifer

༺☆༻

⟡ Masterlist ⟡

⋆˖⁺‧₊☽Helltober '24☾₊‧⁺˖⋆

A/N: If priest kink is a crime, just send me to Abaddon :D

Warnings: Religius themes (Lucifer is wearing a priest robe thingy and they're in a church-like structure), and as always when it comes to me writing for Lucifer: I do not own any Lucifer cards so he might be ooc

༺☆༻

Something you'd never expected is that even in Hell were chapel-like structures. One – and possibly the most grandiose – was attached to the Paradise Lost hospital. You've been a somewhat frequent visitor and yet, you've never even noticed its entrance. You even doubt that some of the hospital staff even know about it. Lucifer must've probably had it created in case his father appeared again.

From what he's told you, nobody's allowed to enter or let alone even look and yet, here you are. Sprawled on the altar with the tall demon exploring all the curves of your body with his hands, like you're some extremely priceless piece of art.

The whole situation feels like some sort of ritual and you're not sure if that's a good or a bad thing. There are about hundreds lit candles scattered around the sanctuary, illuminating the space around you.

Above Lucifer travels a cloud of lavender incense smoke. It's scent helping you relax in such situation. Being this exposed in such a holy-seeming place felt very wrong. But then again, you were lying underneath the first fallen angel himself.

“My, how divine you are. Truly created masterfully.” Lucifer muses as his eyes scan over every feature accentuated by the distorted shadows from the moody lighting.

“L-Luci~” you try to reach out for the demon to ground yourself back to reality. The smoke, low light and soft touches combined make you feel like you're in a dream.

Your hands manage to catch his biceps and without thinking they travel further, to his back. The muscles under your touch seem to tense, but you don't notice until your fingertips feel the much hotter skin around the base of his sensitive wing stumps.

All the wounds from his previous wings have healed almost perfectly, save for those two which he didn't already have the strength to fully rip off. Somehow, the remaining reminder of his past always found a way to keep bleeding despite the attempts of all the medical demons of his country.

“Y/N! N-no...” Lucifer's strong hands tear yours off his back and pin them on both sides of your head to the altar below you. The angry change in his voice tells you all that you need to know, and you're pretty sure that if there might be some blood left on your fingertips.

“Aw, I'm sorry. Are you still sensitive a lot?”

“Y-yes...” his voice is soft again, more sad this time. You can't even imagine the pain he's still in, after all those centuries, “But apparently my pain is mostly psychological. Or so I have been told by Buer.”

This hurts you even more. Him still mourning the disappearance of God and the loss of his brother must be still weighing him down. You wish you could make him feel better in some way. You wihs you could make him feel in some way better...

“Luci? Could you lie down instead of me?” you smooth your hands over his chest, now that he released them again.

“W-what do you mean, child of Adam?” a slight blush creeps onto his cheeks.

“Well, you always envelop me in all this love and attention and I want to finally give some back.” you impatiently sit up and start pulling him down, onto the marble surface.

“I-I..” he's unsure, but obeys and slowly lowers himself on the cold stone.

His body is still fully clothed in a fully black chasuble, adorned with his sigil down the front part, making him look like a Luciferian priest. The inside is lined with a steel blue satin, reminiscent of the likes that Papa Emeritus IV. wears during sermons.

As your hands separate the regal cloth and uncover Lucifer's bare skin, the cold fabric makes your hands tingle in parts where it touches. Just as expected, the fallen angel is fully naked and already half-hard.

Once he's as bare before you as you are, you straddle his hips and inspect his body just like he did minutes prior. His pale skin looks so soft, inviting you to lick, kiss and bite.

Up close, after leaning down to his heaving chest, resting against his elbows due to his painful wings, you're able to smell more of the lavender incense mixed with something that makes you feel immensely proud to be able to give Lucifer something no other demon, angel or human can.

The demon can sense this pride and smiles at you, feeding off of it despite him being the original source of it.

A quiet grunt leaves the man underneath you once your lips finally make contact with the skin of his chest. Your warm lips on his cold body send shock-waves throughout his whole being and make him feel tingly like rarely before. Is this what genuine affection feels like?

Kissing your way down, you arrive to one of his nipples and bite around it a few times before sucking the pink nub into your mouth. Just this bit of stimulation alone has Lucifer squirming underneath you and so you smooth your hands over his stomach to help keep him still.

“Nngh~! Y-Y/N!” he moans out, almost making it sound like a beginning of a prayer.

Making your way down the demon's torso, you try to leave as much bitemarks and hickeys as you can to serve as a reminder of your affection for the next few days to come. Once they fade you'll have to create new ones, but you don't mind that fact one bit.

The more kisses and marks you leave, the more prominent Lucifer's huge boner makes itself known underneath you and you can tell each slight move of your hips to lean further down his body only makes it harder for him to keep his composure.

“C-child o-of Adam... Do you not feel the arousal I feel at your advances?”

“I do, but there's so much more of you I want to adore!”

“Y-you've given me plenty of attention, so please, allow me to return that now as well.”

༺☆༻

Shhh... The prompt for tomorrow is Tentacles ^^

#what in hell is bad #what in “hell” is bad?#Helltober'24 #whb smut #whb lucifer

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scribbleseas · 2 months ago

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Straight Laced, Chapter X: To Be A Hidden Treasure…

Description: After the London’s Royal Ballet company’s prima ballerina goes missing within a string of mysterious disappearances among the ballet’s young ballerinas, you finally get your chance to debut in the leading role, taking on the position’s physical toil and immense social pressure. Although this role was supposed to be your grand jeté into the spotlight, it is quickly complicated when these disappearances catch the eye of Ciel Phantomhive — the Queen’s Guard Dog. He is a captious and shrewd man who also happens to be one of London’s most eligible bachelors.

For enough profit for you to secure your freedom for the first time, Lord Phantomhive double casts you as both his accomplice to solving these dancer disappearances and… his pretend lover. While debuting as London’s new prima ballerina, you must perfect a brand new routine: deceiving all of the nation’s polite society while actively searching for a serial killer — all while being an immigrant from France with a dancer’s reputation.

What could go wrong when you realize this off-stage performance of yours may not be an act at all?

Story Warnings: mentions of suicide, detailed description of gore, pain, and violence, detailed death, smut & explicit sexual scenes, allusions to non-consensual sex, objectification, prostitution, allusions to under-aged prostitution, smoking, drinking, body shaming, eating disorder tendencies (food restriction, frequent references to wanting to maintain a certain weight, over-practicing & exercising), infidelity, fake courtship, swearing

REMINDER: This is a heavier chapter that hits MOST of those warnings and your safety and comfort comes before everything! Please don’t hesitate to reach out to me if you would like clarification about this chapter’s subject matter.

Author’s Note: Hi Everyone! Thank you so much for reading Straight Laced, I'm so happy I can finally show you the last chapter of this exhilarating story. Including this chapter, you will have read 70,249 words of my writing, and I'm so, so grateful for your time. I have more to say about this fic all the way at the bottom of this post, so I'll keep this brief and leave you with one helpful hint: the part of the grand pas that Y/n is talking about can be found at 2:56 in the video I linked. With that, I hope this chapter is everything you've all been so patiently waiting for. And more.

Happy Reading!!

Dan <3

⇐ PREVIOUS CHAPTER |

MASTERLIST

Postlude

February, 1889

The Imperial Ballet School, Russia

The frosty draft of St. Petersburg’s unforgiving winter slipped underneath The Imperial Ballet School’s multitude of long windows, sending a chill through the air. A thick layer of frost shrouded the dance studio’s large windows, both shielding the expansive room from both the outside, and the outside from seeing inside.

The soft piano played the beginning notes of Giselle’s Act I scene where she realizes that the young man who had been courting her had been lying about his identity. The Duke Albrecht had been posing as a peasant to woo the beautiful village girl, but now, one of the woman’s competing suitors exposed his lie. With the truth exposed, Giselle fell into heartbroken panic.

The first ballerina of two in consideration for the role started to arrange her body into the beginning steps into Giselle’s pained rendition of her previous pas de deux with the disguised duke. The dance, once loving and serene, was now supposed to be frantic and wrecked with pain, as displayed by the ballerina’s stricken expression.

Seconds before she could begin, the ballet master knocked her cane into the floor, halting all—the ballerina, the music, any onlookers. When the cane came crashing down, nobody breathed.

“Anastasia Gusev. How many hours did you rehearse this week?” Irina Abramova demanded, scrutiny weighing heavily on her drawn eyebrows and pursed lips.

Without waiting for Natasha’s response, the ballet master continued in Russian, shaking her head, red-rouged lips pursed. “Whatever it was, it is far from enough. The combination has not even started yet, and I can already see you are doing it wrong. In fact, if I made you step outside naked and beg for change, holding a sign that says ‘I cannot dance,’ you would not feel anywhere close to the amount of shame I feel at this moment for considering you,” the retired prima ballerina noted. “I may even hate myself now. Because of you.”

No matter the chill of the gelid weather that the winter sighed into the room, nothing was more biting than Irina’s commentary. Still, in the face of her heart shattering, Natasha held her chin high and rolled her shoulders back, biting down on the fact that she’d put in over 50 hours of work in that past week. She’d skipped most meals, most full nights of sleep, with the specific intent to secure Giselle.

Now? The young ballerina felt her eyes sting with tears that threatened to fall. Fury squeezed at her chest.

Clearing her throat, Irina addressed the rest of the class. Her gnarled hands tapped her cane against the smooth floor, her onyx gaze alight with determination. Per usual, the ballet master kept her wiry gray hair pulled back in a tight bun, reminiscent of the ballerina bun she wore in her prime.

“Does Anastasia here resemble our Giselle, right now? Does she portray a woman descending into madness after her lover has betrayed her? I want to see a heartbroken tour de force. I want to be rendered speechless from the sheer depth of emotion on your face.”

Giving Natasha another bored once over, Irina looked disinterested. She addressed the class once more. “Honestly! Is anyone rendered speechless? I certainly am not.”

As Natasha expected, the rest of the company betrayed her, mumbling their doubts, shaking their heads, weakly suppressing their snide smiles. They never failed to disappoint her. Natasha bit her tongue, swallowing down her desire to challenge them to portray Act One’s infamous Mad Scene better than she. No one else wanted this role like she did.

The wrinkles marring Irina’s face creased with her satisfied expression, watching Natasha’s face redden. She was well-aware of the young ballerina’s hatred of her first name, her hatred of her company members. This humiliation was more effective than anything—more than the feeling of Irina’s cane digging itself into Natasha’s lower back to correct her posture, or dodging a swing at her lowering leg. Irina swung at lowering legs to inspire dancers to hold arabesques more firmly.

The young dancer could withstand any pain, save for this public humiliation.

“Anastasia, show yourself to the barre. I am growing tired of your mediocrity—your intent to waste our time. Faina Nikotinova, you will be my Giselle. Anastasia, do try to improve. Before I send you outside to freeze some talent into you,” her eyes flashed meaningfully, insinuating that her earlier words were not just a threat. They were a promise If Natasha couldn’t improve her dancing.

But she had. Irina was simply refusing to allow her to perform.

“You did not let me start,” Natasha snapped, raising her blue eyes to meet Irina’s. Her hands curled into fists, her manicured nails digging into her palms. Faina wasn’t half the dancer she was—her jumps were lazy, she was too chubby to last much longer. Irina had said it herself, and that was the most offensive aspect of this.

“There was no need to. Now, go away. Better yet, leave my school. I do not tolerate this attitude in my company and I have no desire to see you again,” Irina replied coolly, motioning for Faina to take the center of the floor. She tapped her cane against the floor to cue the piano back.

Hot, angry tears brimmed in Natasha’s eyes, but she refused to allow them to fall. Fine. Fine. If Irina wished for Duck Butt to lead the company as Giselle, she was more than welcome to choose her and watch the company sink under her mediocrity.

The force Natasha slammed the door with caused the walls to tremble. The muffled laughter from behind her sparked molten rage to flow through her veins. Surely she’d go mad if she was made to face such a stunning defeat again.

May, 1890

The Royal Opera House

No one could compare to Natasha Gusev‘s Aurora in The Royal Opera House’s first and breathtaking run of Sleeping Beauty, the product of sleepless nights spent slaving at the barre. Spent rehearsing her expressions in a mirror, forcing herself to learn to tear up on command, envisioning the very moment that Faina stole her opportunity.

Anastasia died in Petrograd. Natasha would never allow herself to be humiliated in such a way again. She’d sooner die.

Natasha practiced until she passed out, until her feet bled and swelled, and her legs cramped. She worked herself harder than Irina could ever dream of, drilling the same moves and sequences into her body until she could dance them in her sleep.

The ballerina had fought for this, brandished her soul for it, pushed herself through classes that were taught in a language she couldn’t understand. The only language Natasha shared with Londoners was the French terminology used in ballet. She could hardly decipher the rest: not the abuse, not the praise. It took much longer for her to master English than it did for her to secure this coveted role.

And Natasha’s reward was thundering applause, night after night. Each adoring yell louder than the last. They had come to watch her, in spite of the lies that cursed school poisoned her mind with. She made this company the best in London—if not, Europe. She had no idea what came of Faina and The Imperial Ballet’s run of Giselle, but it didn’t matter.

Nonetheless, it didn’t take long for Natasha’s star to capture more attention than she had initially bargained for, either. Alongside the unabashed adoration for her dancing came competition for her. That was how she found herself at the center of William Wood’s attention—his gray eyes lingered on her, no matter where she found herself.

They would narrow each time she met with a new subscriber, they’d scan her with consideration each time he pulled up a chair and watched the company rehearse. William liked to claim that he was merely interested in the artistic integrity of the show, but from the way he’d bite his lip and adjust his trousers, everyone knew better. Everyone understood that he was the heir to the business supporting the Opera House—everything would belong to him in a decade or so.

Natasha was the center of her own world. She had her patrons to satisfy, the stage to alight with her talent. The ballerina made a careful effort to rebuff William without ever needing to speak with him.

That was, until he outsmarted her one dawn. He’d waited in the Opera House’s main rehearsal room—Natasha’s favorite because of the tall mirrors that lined the walls.

“Hello, there,” William said, flashing his most winning smile at her. He couldn’t have been much older than Natasha. “You’re the principal dancer, aren’t you?” The young man had been poised on his usual chair from the side of the studio, but he stood to meet her.

“Yes,” Natasha’s words were clipped because she could see through his disposition. He knew who she was—he was pretending not to. “If you would excuse me—” she immediately took a step back, preferring to rehearse in private. Or anywhere William was not. The prima ballerina shouldered her bag and turned to leave, only to freeze at the sound of her full name.

“Anastasia is a powerful name. Did you know it means resurrection?” William asked, chancing several steps closer. He caught her wrist, but maintained a lax grip. She could pull away if she wished to.

“My name is Natasha,” she corrected crisply, her blank expression unchanged.

“I’m William Wood,” he ignored her, gently guiding her closer. Now, she could see a kaleidoscope of different gray shades, ranging from near-white to intense storm clouds. “Did you know my name means desire?”

Natasha’s eyebrows furrowed, unimpressed with his onomastics lesson. “How lovely,” she answered flatly, extricating her hand. Now, his sterling gaze landed on her thin lips, wanting to kiss her, presumably. “I really should be going. I have to rehearse—if you know that I am the prima ballerina, then…” leave me be, she wanted to conclude.

Instead, Natasha let her words hang in the air, allowing William to put them together on his own.

“Look—wait, all I mean is…” William paused, moistening his lips. Clearly, he was unused to the prospect of no. “You’re flawless. And I would simply like the chance to…”

“To what?” Natasha asked indignantly, allowing the offense she took to show on her face. Normally, she wasn’t quite so harsh against these advances—she had a tendency to simply allow herself to enjoy the attention she received from such men—but William? Now? The sun hardly had a chance to start the day, and this man had put all of this time and planning into seducing her?

“I like you. I would like the chance to get to know you. Beyond the dancing because there’s clearly so much more to get to know,” he clarified, softening his expression into something more intimate. “Please, Natasha.”

The ballerina was unsure if she relented because of William’s honeyed words, the way his steel gaze reminded her of a singular spotlight focused on her, or because he was the heir to the Opera House, but she felt her resolve crumble. After all, there were plenty of other ballerinas who glowed with envy of her in the first place. Natasha loved to imagine how their hatred of her would intensify with William Wood courting her. That thought would feel better than any seduction tactic he could try on her.

It took weeks of flowers, lavish gifts, and fiery touches stolen between rehearsals before Natasha agreed to marry him. They were in William’s Southampton home, entangled with one another in his bed, unclothed. Sweaty after a round of passionate sex because it made William tired and affectionate. The perfect combination for an agreeable mood in a man.

“Marry me. Be my wife,” the man practically begged, kissing Natasha’s knuckles. It wasn’t the first time he asked, his father John having pressured him into proposing ever since the rumors of their sneaking around began. It was indecent behavior of William—not unexpected, but embarrassing to the Woods, their eldest son messing around with a foreign dancer. “Please. You’re all I want, Nat,” he sighed, burying his face into the crook of her neck, kissing the clammy skin there as well.

No one in the company could claim that Natasha was the principal dancer because she was sleeping with William, either. Her talent more than spoke for itself, illuminating the stage just as much as the spotlights did. The ballerina was addicted to this pining of his, the fortune she’d come into by taking his name. He was a puppy of a man that would be at her side, hanging onto her every word, touch, and glance so long as she could maintain her perfection. It just so happened that he had direct access to generations of wealth and influence.

“All right, Will. We can get married,” she relented, only for the man to pull her into an intense kiss, his fingers running through her unruly brown curls.

For months, her life was blissful.

Natasha maintained her position as prima ballerina, and they were married, which also ended her responsibilities at the dance foyer. Being married to William gave Natasha the right to all of the Opera House’s paperwork, granting her information on each of her company members, the ballet’s revenue—noting the spike in sales with delight, considering it had come in tandem with her publicity. Having a run of the same show continue for so long was unprecedented, but Natasha’s performances sold out each night. The company was only beginning its considerations for the next ballet’s lead.

Accordingly, Natasha would dance almost day and night. She ate once a day, if she remembered to, more intent on maintaining the lean body that kept jealous suitors leering. The more they looked, the more William spent for her, the more he doted on her. All the more fulfilled the young dancer felt, the more she desired.

Another starring role, more lovers, more press coverage. More rehearsal time.

Natasha etched the hard work into her bones... until it broke her.

She remembered searing pain in her hip, crashing to the floor. And she found herself undone against the rehearsal room’s floor, the clammy wood cold against her cheek. Yelling out for William, lips pursed with pain she refused to allow to surface past. She would never allow herself to cry.

The doctors had given her a prescription for morphine powder for the pain. They suggested she stop dancing for the next year or two, but the morphine had done plenty for her discomfort. Enough for Natasha to refuse giving her position to a ballerina who couldn’t have put a quarter of sacrifice into earning her role.

No—anyone else interested would need to pry it out of her cold, dead grip.

Each day, Natasha’s extensive routine only grew harder to sustain: rehearsing for the company’s future run of Mlada and perfecting any movement she might have mishandled as Aurora from the evening before. She would mix the morphine powder into her tea between rehearsals, between acts, before she met her husband each night.

Stopping now would be a death sentence with early casting for Mlada so close…there was no doubt the director would care to cast Natasha in the lead if she seemed unreliable.

Anyone who wanted it enough would see themselves through, Natasha reminded herself. In time, my body will learn to keep up.

Smile through it. Hold back your tears. Smile through it.

Natasha held her life together through the painkiller and sheer force of will, but it was only a matter of time before the injury became unbearable. Overly stiff, Natasha’s hips began to lock, ruining her range of motion. She could no longer hold her arabesques.

The pain had spread down to her groin and her backside, those joints as good as rusting door hinges, stiffening with each movement.

Weeks after her initial fall, Natasha collapsed on the rehearsal floor. Again. Only this time, she couldn’t hold her tears at bay, an incredibly dark (and realistic) part of the young woman knowing fully well that it had been her last day in pointe shoes.

“You need a break. Be reasonable, Nat.” William ordered bluntly, shoving the cane in her hands days after. Weary of her and the same tedious argument. “Would you prefer to need a full-time wheelchair before 25?”

Natasha held the ivory cane in her hands, testing its weight. She frowned at the medical accessory, feeling her life slip away each second she held the cursed thing. Her husband, as typical of him, didn’t understand. Ballet had been her purpose—she’d been put on the Earth to capture the breath of an audience. And now?

She was a disturbing failure. How could she look at herself in the mirror?

“Will…” Natasha fixed her hard gaze on her husband, reading his mounting frustration with her like a book.

“Shut. Up.” She all but threw the cane back at her husband and the offending doctor who brought it into their home. She slammed the door behind her in an attempt to charge back to their shared bedroom. Though unsurprisingly, she only accomplished a few short paces before her hip locked, failing Natasha’s next step and sending her to the ground again.

The former ballerina couldn’t hold back her tears, this time. They fell in droves, in pained sobs. The grievous sound of an ingénue knowing her life was over.

“Come on, Nat,” William said in the same tired voice, attempting to help lift her off the floor.

“Leave. Me. Alone.” Natasha waved him off haphazardly, hiding her face. She heard William's heavy, retreating steps.

Nearly a year into Natasha’s injury, she’d become proficient with her walking cane. Technically, she could hobble clumsily without the assistance, but watching the rest of the company’s pitying gaze at the sight of her ungainliness became overwhelming. If she was to be the Opera House’s new ballet master and director, no one could pity her.

There was no room in ballet for pity. Only perfection.

So, she preferred to test the dancers around her. Break the weak ones—the ones who turned to dancing out of desperation, failing to understand that it was an elusive skill that required years of nurturing. She liked to push them until they fractured like a mirror, leaving the company on their own accord or giving Natasha a valid reason to excuse them. Particularly the ones her husband was bedding behind her back and mortifying her with.

“I’m so sorry, Natasha, I didn’t even– I don’t even want him!” Norah Vincent cried out, “please just listen to me, please!”

The young ballerina chased her director up the cement stairs leading from the Opera House’s lowest floor—where the largest rehearsal room was located—to the first floor. It was late at night, and there wasn’t a soul on the property, save for them. Natasha had reserved the pleasure of informing Norah that she knew fully well of the liberties she’d taken with William until they were alone, more interested in watching the young woman’s composure implode as a private show. To ensure such an outcome, Natasha waited until the end of their private rehearsal to inform Norah of her termination. The ballerina didn’t even have the chance to unlace her pointe shoes.

“No. You will make yourself scarce from my company. I like Analisse better for Mlada, so you were bound to be let go soon, anyhow,” Natasha answered indifferently, keeping her face impassive. She knew that the aloofness in her statement would make Norah feel just as worthless as she was as a dancer.

“I don’t understand, please. I need this work. Please. Just allow me one more chance,” Norah continued, struggling to keep pace with Natasha.

“You sleep with my husband, and even worse, you continue to curse my stage with your mediocrity, and you have the audacity to ask me for another chance? After all of the chances I’ve already given you?” The ballet master plunged her cane against the top of the final stair for leverage to reach the top. “I told you that if I gave you Mlada, you would need to work on your stamina and flexibility night and day. I see no change.”

Natasha finally turned around to face the weeping ballerina, watching her trudge up the remaining stairs. Crying was so ugly.

“I swear I practice every day, I-I-I…” Norah couldn’t even decide which claim to refute first. “I only…I just,” she wiped her face. “I love this company, and dancing, and…” she begged. “I do my very best each and every day, I practice, I stretch, I observe, I listen. Don’t you see?”

Norah still had a functioning body. Her health and mobility. All the time in the world. There was no excuse. Natasha practically gift wrapped and handed Norah her career.

The director’s head pounded, frustrated tears begging to fall from her eyes. What was there to not understand? Norah simply didn’t want the success enough or she would give every spare moment to cultivating her skills.

“Stop. Blubbering.” Natasha ordered sharply, turning on her heel to continue to her office. Norah had just stepped up to the level floor, the expansive staircase behind her.

“N-No! I need you to hear me! Haven’t you ever made a mistake? You know, I don’t understand why you always have to demand perfection! From everyone! No matter how hard we try or how hard we–”

“That’s enough!”

Without another thought, Natasha found herself turning around. Her cane fell to the floor as she put all of her strength into shoving Norah down the stairwell. Of course, it hadn’t been her plan to dispose of the ballerina in such a way. Really, it should have been horrifying, but Natasha couldn’t force herself to feel any bit of remorse. Her squealing had given her quite a headache.

In fact, when Natasha failed to find a pulse from the young woman’s lifeless body, she felt the first sense of true gratification she’d felt in months. As her shoulders had been relieved of a burden as heavy as the world.

And each time afterwards, it only grew easier. Each time, Natasha planned a bit more intricately. She could only win: if the Yard took notice, all signs would point to her power-drunk husband, leaving Natasha to his assets. Revenge.

It became a game of strategy: who, when, where, how.

Louise, Georgina, and Mabel were a blur over the course of the next few weeks. They disappeared, Natasha explained they couldn’t handle the burdens from the company and resigned, no one questioned her. Most ballerinas didn’t have family, the profession often a last resort for income. The public deemed them prostitutes: unworthy of care.

Sophia, Harriet, and Analisse had moved to new companies, but that didn’t stop her. Natasha knew who her husband had seen. Who betrayed her. They wore their guilt on their sleeves. It didn’t matter if they transferred to new companies—how could they be allowed to live after betraying their mentor? They were mediocre ballerinas, anyhow, merely ensemble members that Natasha stuck in the back of formation.

The Yard was never finding them.

Eliza had a host of lethal allergies. All it took was a well-timed cross-contamination—it was only a matter of time.

Janet was weak. Natasha probably could have asked the girl to jump off of the Tower Bridge and she would have done it, surely.

Amelié never noticed that her perfume bottle was tampered with. Dimethylmercury was a life-changing discovery on Natasha’s part. Honestly, Natasha wished she’d used it with all of the nuisances that came before her… and after.

The new success should have satisfied Natasha. Until Maisie—her first mistake. As if marrying some fraud was a feat to be proud of. Maisie thought it appropriate to inform Natasha that she was leaving the Opera House company for a new opportunity, an unseemly topic at her husband’s gallery reveal. Somehow, Terrance had offered to co-found his ballet company with Maisie as the star. And this came a week after the Yard fell for the trap Natasha had set, having followed her carefully planned trail of breadcrumbs that implicated her dear, cheating husband for murdering his company members. She simply had to make an appearance at the event to save face for the Wood family—setting the narrative straight before the press could.

Natasha would have been able to successfully send William to prison in her stead, had she not lost her temper the night of that bloody gala. She;d only gone to safe face after William’s arrest, after all. To manage the poor publicity his infidelity would poison Natasha’s hard work with.

“My husband is renovating the Pavillion Theatre. You know what that means? It means that I don’t need you pestering me anymore! You’re practically an old maid, a bloody relic now, you know that?” Maisie grinned, euphoric with the ability to finally speak freely. She’d asked Natasha to step out from the museum with her, and the ballet master had suspected it was to discuss something unseemly when there was a lack of witnesses around.

“You have no idea how much we all hate you, Natasha.”

Those were Maisie’s last words. Because Natasha had pulled out William’s Flintlock Pocket Pistol and shot her. She hardly had any time to ensure Maisie was dead before fleeing the scene, tucking her walking cane under her arm. Best of luck with your new company, Blondie.

After that blunder, Natasha had a choice. Herself, or Y/n Y/l/n, a French girl who happened upon the wrong man and his misguided investigation at the wrong time. In Natasha’s haste, she’d also lost control again, landing her at a criminal sentencing at London’s City Hall.

Y/n was willing to destroy her opponents to succeed. Y/n had been the first ballerina Natasha had finally considered to be somewhere near the eminence of her own former glory, and had ended her, handing her a crushing defeat.

Natasha should have put the dimethylmercury in Y/n’s make-up much sooner, arsenic in that wine she self-soothed with. By the time Natasha had offered Y/n that toast, there was no chance that she would have accepted a drink from her. Waiting had sealed Natasha’s fate to this wretched courtroom.

Thundering applause and scarce cheering pulled Natasha from her thoughts. She must have missed her sentencing, lost in her ruminating, judging by the immediate lift in the courtroom’s somber atmosphere.

This entire audience wanted her punished for her choices. Why? She felt the magnitude of her decisions spoke for themselves.

The former prima ballerina stared back into the prima ballerina’s vacant gaze from the defendant’s table, attempting to dissect the poison Y/n regarded her with.

For the first time since St. Petersburg, Natasha could confidently say what Giselle was supposed to look like.

November 25, 1895

London City Hall

“Anastasia Natalia Gusev-Wood, this court sentences you to lifelong service in the Reading Gaol Correctional Facility with no chance of appeal,” the judge announced.

The room— the press, sparse onlookers including the few bereaved family members of victims, cheered, but the woman only stared at you. She didn’t react to her sentencing or the relief that erupted from the room. All she fixated on was you, her face illegible.

You refused to give the killer the satisfaction of analyzing your mood, the opportunity to insert herself in your head. Violent narcissists like her craved attention like flies to fruit. Instead, you released your captive breath and sent a tired look to Ciel to signal your readiness to leave. This woman was nobody to you: the result of a vain monster picking and choosing which lessons to take from ballet.

It was an art form before it was a competition. And certainly, no competition should ever lead to bloodshed.

That was why you failed to feel any semblance of relief, even as you watched the officers escort Natasha away in handcuffs. You had still failed so many of your kin: eleven dead, their stories stolen and suppressed. The killer had painted them as weak after their deaths, dishonoring them, but she couldn’t have been more wrong. You couldn’t have been more wrong to ignore each and every one.

You hardly remembered the sound of Norah Vincent’s voice. The color of her hair. In fact, save for Amelié, you didn’t know any of these victims on a personal level—you remembered how tall Mabel was because you were envious; Louise had trouble with her stamina because she was newer to the company; Georgina always had a smile on her face, she let you borrow her scissors to break in a new pair of shoes. That was all you could recall. Other than these minute instances, you hadn’t bothered to concern yourself with anyone besides yourself, and failed to notice these disappearances happening right under your nose. The Yard couldn’t even find the bodies of Norah, Mabel, Louise, Georgina, Sophia, Harriet, and Analisse, severely limiting the investigation you and Ciel could accomplish for them.

Even worse, you failed to piece together the evidence pointing to Natasha and refused to listen to Ciel’s concerns. You had allowed your personal feelings to erode your judgment, delaying the investigation.

How could you feel a sense of victory, when so much had been lost?

The only way you could proceed was honoring them in death, especially now that their true killer was brought to justice.

“Ciel, I want to bring the flowers over before it becomes too dark” You requested, referring to the bouquets you asked Sebastian to arrange. Given that most of the victims did not have any next of kin— or were the sole earners for their destitute relatives— Ciel personally took on their burial expenses. Apparently, he had a personal contact working in the burial industry. An Undertaker.

Additionally, you wished to always honor their memorials with fresh florals.

“Certainly. Our work is complete here, for now,” Ciel answered, ending the officer he’d been talking to away with a nod.

Later

The Tower Hamlets Cemetery Park

The sun started to descend below the treeline, casting a shadow over the graves lined in front of you and Ciel. Norah Vincent, Louise Crowley, Georgina Dawson, Mabel Hughes, Sophia Ludwig, Harriet White, Analisse Sterling, Eliza O’Malley, Janet Fischer, and Amelié Langston. All of the victims, save for Maisie Stannard. Distraught, her husband opted to bury her with his family.

“Do you think this really makes a difference?” You asked Ciel, standing from your kneeling position. You dirtied the front of your plain dress from kneeling in the dirt to arrange the flowers around the headstones. It was too cold to plant them, but they did make a lovely display of white and baby blue among the warm autumnal foliage.

The wind made the bare tree branches rustle and their fallen leaves dance, but thankfully, it left the white flowers you placed unmussed. You placed a combination of daisies, blue irises, and calla lilies around them, hoping their serene beauty might bring some peace to the souls around. Though most of these graves were missing bodies, you still hoped their spirits would resonate with the resting place. Body and mind were separate entities, no?

“I believe it does.” Ciel answered, dusting off his knees. He righted himself after you, having helped you arrange the flowers. You were clear that the flowers were a project you were set on seeing through with your own two hands, and apparently, that resonated with the Earl. Enough for him to accompany you and even help. You vowed that you would visit these graves as often as you needed to keep the flowers fresh.

Remembrance was the least you could do, given that you hardly remembered most of the ballerinas in life.

Stepping back to admire the full picture of your work, you lit a cigar. You always kept a small humidor box in your deep coat pocket, along with a small knife to cut the cap and cedar spills to light it.

“My aunt adored the color red,” Ciel recalled, nostalgia softening his stoic face. “Sebastian and I filled the church with red rose petals, and I brought her favorite scarlet gown—she would have thought that white gown they had her in the most plain thing she’d ever seen. I believe she rested easier, knowing that she was being honored.”

“That sounds lovely,” you said, looking up from your igniting cigar to properly look at Ciel. He’d gone through those extra lengths just to make his aunt’s soul feel better at rest, despite never being able to know if the efforts made a difference. And yet, he liked to act like the most selfish man to walk the Earth. But he wasn’t. Far from it. Instead, he pulled at your heart and tugged at your stomach. “She must have enjoyed that. I’m sorry to hear you lost her.”

“I believe she did,” Ciel said, addressing your apology with a miniscule smile. It was barely there, no more evident than the corners of his lips pulling upward. He watched you take a long drag of your cigar in slow, deliberate puffs, as always. “And I think these women know that you brought their killer to justice, above all. Surely that matters a great deal to them.”

Watching smoke from your lips dissipate into the atmosphere, you chuckled sadly. You shook your head, rejecting the notion that you brought Natasha to justice. “You would have caught onto her sooner without me—you mistrusted Natasha from the start. You warned me last week, and I’m confident she tried to poison me that night.”

“She did a masterful job of framing her husband. I would have arrested him regardless, and I wouldn’t have access to investigating either of them without you. I’ve told you once, I shall repeat it a thousand times, if I have to: you were instrumental to our investigation,” Ciel took a short pull from your cigar. The days where he would admonish you for the habit felt like decades past.

Our investigation. You could have sworn your traitorous heart skipped a beat. Your palms felt clammy. After you confronted Natasha and her subsequent arrest last week, you and Ciel had been, for the most part, cautious around one another. The two of you were unsure of the boundaries that mutual forgiveness meant without a proper conversation. There simply hadn’t been any time, given the legal chaos that erupted between convicting a wife and husband for separate, yet related, crimes.

“A thousand times, you say? I may have to consider that request,” you said, smiling to denote your joke. Your cheeks felt traitorously warm, your smile unfortunately bashful. The Earl did this to you without trying.

Because you still loved him. The first man to notice anything about you beyond your looks and your dancing. The first man to care for your wellbeing, and take the time to unlearn the bitter beliefs that his class instilled into him. He fought for you, even when you had demanded he didn’t. But that didn’t mean he didn’t reject you the morning after you gave yourself to him. It certainly didn’t erase the fact that he’d danced with another woman in front of you.

The misunderstanding between you may as well have been a chasm at the time. But now, you were each gradually bridging that gap in equal strides.

Was that fair? You supposed not— Ciel was made to dance with another woman, just as fiercely as her duchess bullied her way into afternoon tea with him. And she had lied to you. Ironically, given the way she’d considered you vulgar. Was it not vulgar to lie in British polite society? Or was it only acceptable because she was lying to a commoner?

“So long as you don’t overdo it, I shall oblige,” the Earl relented, meeting your eyes in the longest bout of eye contact you shared in two weeks. You almost forgot the sheer depths of sea Ciel’s eye held, and the intelligence those sapphire leagues captured. Mesmerizing—it was a shame that the fire damaged his other eye so severely. He, like you, was alone. Save for his staff.

You accepted your cigar back, enjoying the taste of it on your tongue, the heat in your lungs a burning constant. You closed your eyes for a moment, appreciating the crisp air. Less than a month away from winter, you relished in this weather. Chilly, but not freezing. The best weather for a cigar.

“I…” you started, your face red. “Thank you, Ciel,” you said, a touch more earnestly than you had meant to. But honesty was the only way to move forward, you felt.

“Ballet…the aesthetic differs from all other professions. We have to hide all of our pain and discomfort behind a smile— make an illusion for our audiences.” There was no retreating, now that you’ve started. Ciel had already seen behind your facade—there was no meaning in reinforcing capitulated defenses. “Growing up in it from a young age, I suppose… I started to hide too much. I stopped trying to be close with others, and I-I thought you didn’t care for me anymore…” you admitted.

You thought about the way all of your ballet instructors reminded you to maintain a pleasant face during rehearsals and performances, even though all of the contortions were unnatural to the human body. The best ballerina in the world was worthless if she couldn’t shroud her pain behind her character.

No matter how you felt, you had to maintain a pleasant face for the audience, the ballet patrons that paid your school (and later, the Opera House) for the right to your body. All to allow you to make a salary that kept you just above the poverty line. You had never dropped your pleasant face until you realized how false it was, the product of habit and sheer necessity. Everything had to appear effortless, even when it was excruciating. That was the industry.

You couldn’t help but chuckle; not even two weeks ago, you would’ve defended these sacrifices.

“I can see that now,” Ciel admitted, taking a guilty pull from your cigar. You both watched the smoke escape into the atmosphere. The light of dusk made the sky look pink. “I must have been a classist fool to assume that all aspects of this profession happened at dancer’s volition.”

“You were certainly a classist fool,” you affirmed with a playful smile. After taking a final hit from the cigar, you extinguished it beneath your boot heel.

“I am aware, thank you,” Ciel answered pointedly, making the corners of your lips form a smile.

“Though unfortunately, most everyone still thinks that way,” he took your hand in his. The Earl ran his thumb over the top of your hand. You both wore gloves now, a measure against the cold especially now that autumn was in full swing with winter just on the horizon.

You hummed in response, knowing fully well the social abuse you’d take for having Ciel at your side. For daring to love a man this privileged society deemed above your stature. Gwen, that miserable woman, was only the beginning. But you were no stranger to critique—nothing could possibly sting as much as some of the commentary you’ve suffered in ballet school and in your professional career. You were strong.

“But it is not a tradition I will allow to continue,” Ciel said resolutely, meeting your eyes again. “I brought accounts of the prostitution and power imbalances to Her Majesty, and she has decided to purchase the Opera House. She will also be instituting a series of Theatre Company Reform Acts to ensure it ends here—Swan Laws, they want to refer to them.”

The meaning wasn’t lost on you.

You didn’t know how to start thanking him. Instead, you threw your arms around him, your gloves curling into his thick coat. Hot tears slid down your cheeks, they had been slightly chilled from the soft wind, the cold chapping your lips somewhat as well.

“I do not know where to begin,” you mumbled, settling into the way the Earl’s stiff posture relaxed to accommodate you. His coat was soft against your cheek, his arms came around your back to embrace you. You let your eyes flutter closed for a moment, appreciating the safety and strength he offered you.

Ciel held you close, his hand rubbing your back languidly as you sniffled, your appreciative tears rolled down your cheeks. “I will always be endlessly fascinated and enamored by you. It would be a privilege if you could reconsider being with me, after the confusion I caused you. I… tend to push the wrong people away. But you? I never could have asked for a better partner for this investigation, and otherwise.”

A new warmth spread in your cheeks. Your heartbeat thumped with hope, light from Ciel’s confession. How could you reject that? He saved you. He listened to you. He seemed sure.

You wiped away any tears left on your face. Words were never a strength of yours, you had always thought.

“Ciel, I want to be with you,” you declared confidently, your smile glowing as you looked up at the Earl’s thoughtful expression. The worry he tried to hide from you. Your eyes fluttered closed again as you kissed him, his familiar lips immediately responding to yours. A gentle hand held the left side of your jaw, lightly brushing strands of your hair out of your face.

“That is an honor I do not and will never take lightly again,” Ciel promised, his pensive gaze inspecting your face. He was the most exacting perfectionist you’d ever met; you could never decide what he was thinking when he regarded you so closely.

“I’m not sure you could if you tried,” you affirmed, a shiver running down your back. The wind picked up, causing the trees around you to rustle and whisper.

“I’ll have Sebastian bring the carriage around. It’s getting rather dark out here, now,” Ciel mumbled against your lips, pressing on one more innocent kiss before he retreated, keeping your hand in his as he guided you out of the cemetery.

December 13, 1895

The Royal Opera House

From your dressing room, you could hear the orchestra begin to play The Nutcracker’s overture, a jovial melody on strings. The chatter of the live audience was palpable through the thin walls, you could hear the theatre fill with attendees. The run of this show was delayed an extra two weeks as your company appointed new interim leadership to run the performances—- she was one of the ballet teachers who worked under the Woods. She used to teach the classes for the newest ballerinas, the most patient of the staff.

Without the previous director and the short hiatus between the end of Swan Lake and this premiere, the entire company was revitalized. You could hear it in the music. You could see it in everyone’s faces. Rehearsal the past week was magnetic: you were all ready for this evening.

You beamed at yourself in your vanity mirror, enamored with your matching pink corset and tutu combination. Humming the intense melody of the Act II pas de deux with the Sugar Plum Fairy and her Cavalier, you started to pin your tiara to the top of your head, careful not to ruin your sleek bun. You were made of pure anticipation and energy, a sense of certainty that you had never known in your life. Once you secured the accessory, you dabbled extra lip rouge and blush to your face in hope. Stage lights always washed out performers’ complexions.

“You look brilliant,” Ciel told you, rising from the loveseat to the side of your vanity. He closed his copy of The Nutcracker and the Mouse King and left it on the small table to the side of the chair. The ballet adaptation of the story was fairly recent in comparison, having premiered three years ago in St. Petersburg. Your production was one of the first to happen in England. Despite having significant plotting differences from the novella, the Earl insisted on reading the source material prior to watching your opening performance.

“How do you feel? Will you be alright if I join the rest?” he asked you, understanding that the overture signaled the audience to find their seats.

You couldn’t have smiled more, your wide, childish grin was unbreakable. For the first time, it was starting to strain your cheeks. You had everything and more than you could’ve possibly asked for: the greatest love you’d ever felt, your stomach was full, your costume sparkled. All of this on the heels of a short performance hiatus that left you more rested than ever, each day supplemented with dance class and rehearsal to keep your body in shape during the break. You’d never had so much strength going into a performance. Ever.

“I am indestructible, Ciel,” you answered, rolling onto the platforms of your pointe shoes for added height. Kissing the Earl left his lips a bright shade of pink, but he didn’t seem to mind.

“I shall take my leave for the time being then, mon trésor,” Ciel said, employing that endearing name you loved so much. His treasure. “If you might need me, you know where to look. And I will meet you back here afterwards.”

Ciel made a sizable donation to the theater to ensure that the box on to the right of the stage was exclusive to him. Although Her Majesty took ownership of the property, she could not dedicate state funding without the Parliament; the Opera House would have needed to function without two week’s worth of performance revenue, had Ciel not intervened. He’d been watching from the box during your final dress rehearsal yesterday, and watching you rehearse your arrangements hours earlier. When Ciel could steal time away from his executive work for his company, he managed to immerse himself in your career, playing the piano when you rehearsed at home, and now, publicly supporting your debut as The Sugar Plum Fairy.

“Thank you. Watch closely—I will be dancing for you,” you sent the Earl a playful wink as he left your dressing room. He left a parting kiss on your knuckles so as not to ruin your makeup.

While you were heavily featured in most of the scenes of Swan Lake, now your appearance as Sugar Plum was concentrated into short, intense scenes back to back in the second act. That made your stamina all the more important as you needed to be regal and in control, detail-oriented with almost no breaks.

That required every ounce of strength in your lower legs particularly, but you were prepared, when it came time. You were strong and fortified, learning to accept that as your vehicle, your body was beholden to better care. This full grand pas de deux consisted of a duet between you and Antoine, who played the Sugar Plum Fairy’s Cavalier—her romantic interest, followed by the Cavalier’s solo variation, your solo variation after, and finally, you both danced together again in the coda, or the finale.

You were all but a firecracker. Knowing you had someone in the audience who mattered to you, feeling your body sufficiently rested and fed, were frankly magical sensations. For the past two weeks, Sebastian had you on an incredibly balanced food regiment— he suggested you eliminate the word diet from your vocabulary in a broader effort to reframe your thoughts around food— and you prioritized a full night of rest. The butler even had you dipping your feet in iced water after long rehearsals to reduce swelling and inflammation. You had no idea.

Hard work was not equivalent to dragging your body through abuse each day and night. Skipping meals and sleep did not make you a better prima ballerina—it only made you vulnerable to injury.

In fact, with all of this care reinforcing your natural talent, you could have fought an army. You had already proven yourself a valiant soldier, maybe even more than you were a perfect heroine. You embodied many roles rather well.

Now, your characters danced for Clara’s honor in Act II, signifying their gratefulness for her and the Nutcracker’s victory against the Mouse King in Act I’s battle scene. This grand pas came at the end of the celebration after numerous ensemble characters— Arabian princesses, Russian Cossacks, Spanish chocolate, as well as Dewdrop and her Flowers.

You were serene yet playful, encapsulating the magnanimous fairy. You were one with both your partner and the music, the perfect unit. The Sugar Plum Fairy knew who she was quite well, independent of her Cavalier. Still, they moved together, perfectly in tune as the music built to its climax. You stopped on the exact same stage marks, your arms reached into the same space, even your legs mirrored one another. The Sugar Plum’s Cavalier lifted her confidently—there was no hesitation in the escort’s hold— he never once dropped her.

Even as he lifted his significant other atop his shoulder, Cavalier was unwavering. This strength was the physical manifestation of his love for his dear fairy: supporting her, reliably catching her in one of your favorite moments of the show. Running from stage right, you leapt into Antoine’s grip in the center of the stage. Your fingertips nearly touched above your head in the standard fifth position.

At your high perch, you could only think to peer at the box where you knew the love of your life was watching you. While you couldn’t see any distinctive faces from the stage, all you cared to know was that Ciel was there. For you.

You’d never been in such a partnership before, the object of someone’s genuine care and interest. Sure, you’d been a plaything, a temporary trophy to trifle with and discard when your novelty subsided. But no one had ever deemed you a treasure. Someone always worthy of an apology, protection, someone worthy of love—the sacrifice and hard work that came with it. All that value seemed to be hidden away, like precious gems.

Catching you by the waist, Antoine tilted the upper half of your body towards the floor for a moment. Moving quickly to maintain momentum, he used the leverage to face the audience and place you back steadily on the platforms of your pointe shoes. You danced in tandem with one another, flawlessly showcasing the secure love between your characters: the adoring way the Cavalier cared for the Sugar Plum, and her own adoring trust in him as she jumped into his arms once again. He lifted her high, and she held him close.

The Earl supported you, and you trusted him implicitly.

On your pointe shoes, you let yourself tip backwards, knowing Antoine would catch you with the same certainty Ciel would kick down a door. For you. The Cavalier caught Sugar Plum by her waist and her extended leg, lifting slightly only to resettle her at his side. The characters were a couple in love.

At the end of your second premiere as prima ballerina, you didn’t linger to further absorb the applause in front of you. Instead, you hurried back to your dressing room because you knew the most important person was waiting for you behind the curtains.

Epilogue

“Ciel!” Your Earl had been awaiting you in the backstage wings, paces away from where you exited the stage. He’d opted to wear a black evening suit for this occasion, the raven suit making his deep hair and ultramarine eye all the more conspicuous. Much like the night you met him, it was a number composed entirely of neutral shades. Apparently, a tailored suit on the man came as natural as leotards and restrictive pointe shoes came to you.

With the same intensity as the Sugar Plum Fairy had, you bounded towards your lover and held him close to you, in spite of the heat your body carried and the sweat that slicked your skin. You couldn’t help but snap to his side like an opposing magnet, your face burying into the side of his neck when you lifted yourself en pointe. He caught you just as Sugar Plum's Cavalier would have.

“You put on quite a show,” Ciel told you, pride palpable in his warm tone. “That was masterful. You always are.” An arm wrapped around your waist, his other hand flat against your bare back. His leather glove felt cold against your skin, a welcome change from the blazing stage lights. You swore that one day, they would cause you sunburn.

You were exhausted. Your heart pounded, droplets of sweat fell down your neck tracing the side of your spine. Your breaths came in hard bursts, your lungs working to their limit. The muscles in your legs and feet were molton. But you smiled in spite of this pain, and not out of necessity for once. It was because of the sheer love you had for this man. Your heart beat for him—the slightest quirk of his lips as he watched you, the unsuppressed chuckle in his chest from your question.

“No flowers for me?” You smarted playfully, pulling away before you could damage your costume from the embrace. Not to mention, you weren’t anxious to allow the rest of the company free access to your private relationship with Ciel. You knew that The Queen’s Guard Dog had an infinite supply of enemies and British society had countless newspapers cautiously watching you. They were waiting for you to fail, but you would never give them the satisfaction.

“I like to think I have something a little better in store for you than flowers,” your Earl’s arm remained around your waist, helping support your worn body between the bustling backstage to your dressing room. The moment the door locked behind the both of you, asked Ciel to unclip your corset, overwhelmed with the need to get out of your suffocating costume. As much as you adored its shining accents and the pink, it grew burdensome after expending every last bit of your energy.

“What for? I mean, what could be better than flowers?” you quirked an eyebrow, your smile lopsided. Ciel never failed to bring you a bouquet, even when your courtship had been a ruse. You adored them every time, the least materialistic person.

You hurriedly unlaced your pointe shoes, stepped out of your tutu and stockings, and clipped on a simple navy blue gown.

“I suppose, they will just wither and die, eventually. I want to commemorate this night perhaps more…intentionally,” he explained as he hooked your costume onto a hanger.

This night? More intentionally?

“Of course,” you turned towards your vanity mirror, wiping at your face with cold cream. The next day was December 14, after all. His birthday. Could that be what he was mentioning? While you knew a share of the trauma he felt from that day—-losing his family in the fire— you also hoped to give Ciel some lingering sense of celebration with a waiting wine bottle you purchased for the makings of a relaxed night in. You’d been rehearsing a short self-choreographed piece for him, knowing his adoration for your dancing, and his lack of interest in making a spectacle out of his day.

There was a short silence that followed as you finished cleaning off your face. You were checking your reflection for any leftover face makeup when Ciel spoke again. You watched him approach you from the mirror, turning to face him properly as he stopped at your side. Still sitting in your vanity chair, you looked up at him, a curious smile on your face as you analyzed his serious expression.

“As you recall, I first met you here,” Ciel started, his hand toying with something square in his jacket pocket. “So, each time I’ve thought about how I wanted to approach this, I couldn’t imagine being somewhere else. This was the only right way.”

You snickered, thinking back to the best aspects of that night—an evening you never thought you’d come to look back at with fond nostalgia. That night, you would have told anyone who asked that you disliked Ciel Phantomhive. You thought he was classist and misogynistic, cold. Condescending. You never would have thought he would come to be the most intelligent, thoughtful, empathetic, and determined person you’d ever get to know. Loving not outright, but in his own way: re-considering his belief system, playing the piano, constructing a dance studio on his estate. For you.

“You wore some red gown. I thought…you were breathtaking. I had to ask you to put on more clothes in order to let myself focus,” Ciel admitted, his face flushing to the tips of his ears from the admission.

“To let yourself focus? I thought it was because–” you started to assert that he told you to cover up because he was a noble clinging to traditionalism, but your Earl interrupted you with a lovingly stern expression, fixating his gaze on you. He titled his head to suggest mild exasperation with your never-ending need to chime in.

You obeyed, silencing yourself with another dazzling grin at Ciel. As he…sank down on one knee in front of you and retrieved a small velvet box from his coat pocket, opening it to reveal a ring.

“Veux-tu m'épouser?” Ciel asked. You blinked, swallowing around the sudden lump in your throat. Tears immediately formed in your eyes, causing you to blink rapidly to keep them from blurring your vision.

Because that meant…

Will you marry me?

You felt as if someone knocked the wind out of you. A scarlet blush spread across your face with the intensity of a wildfire. Goosebumps littered your arms, despite your gown’s sleeves. He wanted to marry you. He truly wanted you as his Countess. He was legitimizing your claim to his heart with this ring. To all.

“I couldn’t imagine my life without you, Y/n. You have broadened my worldview in so many ways. I never dreamed myself capable of accepting love from anyone, much less someone as breathtaking as you. You shine both on a stage and off, challenging me to better myself each day, inspiring me with your passion for ballet and that stunning intellect of yours. I would be incredibly fortunate to be enlightened by you each and every day, for as long as I may live. If you would do me the honor,” Ciel said. He always held such a noticeable degree of reverence for you, regarding you as some precious being.

“Absolutely, I will,” you beamed as Ciel held your hand, gently siding the engagement down your ring finger. The band was gold, its diamond cut into a square. Two smaller diamonds sat on either side of the largest diamond. Still on his knees, Ciel was still tall enough for you to kiss by leaning down to meet his face.

Lingering close to your Earl’s face, your smile grew sly. You blinked guilelessly. “Though are you certain you do not wish to discuss how we will allow our courtship to slowly burn out over the next month to avoid public suspicion? Would that suffice? That would allow you to resume your real search for a—”

He didn’t even let you finish your sentence, pulling you back in for another intense kiss.

“There will never be a need for that. I put an end to that search ages ago, for all intents and purposes,” he admonished you with no real weight to his words.

Before you could verbalize your next quip, your new fiancé interrupted you once more. “Yes, I am certain. Y/n… you are all I could possibly want,” his hand was gentle as it cupped the side of your face. His thumb caressed your jawline, a touch that was barely there against your electrified skin.

“I cannot wait to see what our life looks like, together, my Lord,” you kissed Ciel, taking his hands in yours. As you rose from your seat, you guided Ciel to stand properly on his feet, clinging to him the moment he righted himself.

“That’s Ciel, to you, mon trésor.”

You welcomed your incoming new role, the future Countess of Phantomhive, with your widest possible port de bras.

Acknowledgements:

First thing’s first, I want to thank you. Thank you so much for reading and interacting in any capacity with me!! I appreciate every second you put into checking out my writing, and I hope it really touched you! This story is meant to show copious amounts of growth in a person and the importance of empathy and compassion. I’ve loved Ciel since middle school and I like to think this love has matured with me, lol!

This is also my first mystery storyline!! I put so much thought into every detail, and I don’t think I could have gotten to this point without you all being here and so so so supportive and patient at every turn.

Thank you especially to my amazing friends here on Tumblr, @mylostleftfootsock and @earls-wife, and my amazing best friend IRL @readfreak03. (She literally made a Tumblr account to read my updates, I'm crying). Thank you all so much for being so inspiring and supportive of me—especially for hearing me and my chaotic ideas out. Without your endless support for both my writing (and my personal life endeavors) and your detailed feedback and ideas, there wouldn’t have been this.

I want to thank everyone who reaches out to me in comments, asks, dms, mentions, and reblogs, everyone on my tag list, and all of my amazing anons.

I want to shout out @katherine101, @endlesslovesick, @suniika, @goby10, @lavendervogh, @eunisyia, @luckyladylottie, @soleil-lei, @lottiehasadvice, and my lovely Random & Sweet anons: I always, always look forward to reading what you have to say!! It’s so much fun to chat, and your feedback is so amazing. I really do appreciate each comment you leave for me! You’re all so kind, it’s endlessly motivating for me. I read every single comment, ask, and reblog multiple times.

I genuinely had so much fun writing this fic. I’ve wanted to write a ballerina!reader x Ciel for so long—probably since I was in the middle of writing The Indignant Pawn. I was developing this story as I was writing! Ever since I stumbled on a History.com article about prostitution in vintage ballet, I was hooked. I knew I needed a fire-brand reader experiencing this in real time, and a Black Butler-level scandal to draw Ciel into the fold. Their polar-opposite personalities essentially wrote themselves. Their natural chemistry, the arguments, the sweeter moments just flowed.

To make this story as accurate as I could, I read countless interviews with real prima ballerinas regarding their interpretations of their characters—their hardships, their advice, their day-to-day lives. I watched so many TikToks (special thanks to @/lifeof.lori!) and tutorial videos, too. I really came into this knowing nothing about ballet besides having an excited curiosity, and now I can confidently say that I understand it a whole lot better and I definitely have a newfound respect for real ballerinas. What they do is incredible.

Thank you so much for coming on this journey with me. I can’t believe this is my second complete fic ever! I’m so excited to show you what I have in the works. When I finished The Indignant Pawn, I gave you a hint about this story, my next full body of work, because I was a little mean with the way I ended my first story. Literally it was the tallest of cliffs I could leave you hanging from. This time, I was nice, so I think I’ll leave you guessing :)

Stay Tuned,

Dannnn

#anime fanfiction #black butler fanfic #historical fiction #ciel phantomhive x reader #ciel x reader #historical romance #sebastian michaelis #black butler #black butler x reader #black butler ciel #black butler fanfiction #real ciel #ciel #ciel phantomhive #our ciel #kuroshitsuji #best believe I already have two outlines I’m developing into drafts #this is just the beginning lol

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pinkslaystation · 11 months ago

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Ghost of A Connection

Ghost and Staff!Reader

In which you work at the nearest store at base, Ghost being your least favourite and unfortunately, most frequent, customer. Is there a connection there, or is it in his head? yALL - all these COD stories on tumblr got me hyped! So here I am tryna catch some clout ;) Be warned, this is possibly a very inaccurate version of military life, but then again, it's just a story. Word Count: 2.5k

Man, post-graduate life is hard.

Graduating top of your cohort of nearly 300 students in your masters degree within Psychology was impressive. Saving enough money from shadowing your senior Psychology professor and moving out to your apartment was impressive. Owing your own car was impressive.

What wasn't impressive though, was nearly hitting the 6 month mark of unemployment.

So here you are, stuck calling all your classmates for any open roles. You're so desperate at this point, you'd go for anything!

"Hey, Mahir! I know we didn't quite end of good terms...um-you know...when you asked for the mid-terms answers last year, and I- um...left you on delivered, and you had to retake the exams...but um, I hear you started working at the University as a Researcher and you're looking for a assistant? Well gee, don't forget how smart I a-"

Disconnected.

"Yooo, Josephine, it's me! From the Psychopathology group project! Yeah, I'm sorry I shouted at you for not doing your part on the project, and filing a complaint against you, haha...although, like, come on, it's your fault - you're 25, not a 5 year old bab-"

Blocked.

Wow. You were not liked.

So one evening, when you were on the phone to your childhood friend, Jordan Biggs, and had managed to slip out how desperately broke you were, he kindly offered a potential role at his workplace.

"Shop keeper? What, like a convenience store?" Remind me where you work again? Aren't you in the navy? What stores are you talking about?" You rambled, I mean a possible job - finally?!

On the line, Jordan chuckles, "Slow your roll, man. I've been been with the army for around 3 years now, I'm currently on a mission but we'll be home soon. Our base has a shop, that sells, you know, tactical gear-"

"GUNS?!" You interrupted.

Jordan laughs, then in shushed by, what you assume to be his teammate, "No, not any weapons. Just, tactical gear, MREs, bits and pieces of uniform. Sometimes you might be asked to clean the base, set up rooms for meetings. And ooh my favourite - work at the canteen. We serve the country, you serve us food." Jordan explains.

So you complied.

I mean, yeah, your degree isn't being utilised, but we're in a cost of living crisis, for Christ's sake.

And here you are, clad in a plain dark grey fleece, and straight black trousers, trying to look as professional as possible.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------

Your first day was silent. You found that you lived only 30 minutes away from the base, so you didn't struggle with the early shifts, working almost full days at the base, with a surprising decent salary.

You learnt you had replaced the previous worker, Katherine, a grumpy senior who quit, being fed up with the stench of these sweaty unkempt soldiers, and their rowdy behaviour after missions.

You also met your staff at the base, being the youngest one there gave you no surprise, with most your colleagues being double your age. You liked it. It was quiet, having met a few of the soldiers.

Your role was relatively simple. Consisting of various tasks such as ordering enough food to satisfy the recruits, more training equipment, when a recruit seemed to damage one. All in all, you were satisfied, especially when the first pay day rolled in.

You also noted that your colleagues, without fail, always seem to talk about a specific group of soldiers, such as Friday evening, when you all found yourself eating an early dinner.

"Soap is so sweet! He's always so generous when we talks to me, although I can't lie, I don't know what the fuck he says half the time." Your colleague rambles, shoving a spoon full of Friday's roast dinner into his mouth.

Another agreed, "Nothing beats the dilf of a man - Captain John Price. I may be chewing steak but that ain't the meat I want in my mouth, if you get what I mean-"

You choked, "Margaret, you're married with grand-kids, lord."

After a quiet but much needed conversation, you learnt about the most well-known team within the base, Task Force One-Four-One, lead by Captain John Price, forming of Johnny 'Soap' Mactavish, Kyle 'Gaz' Garrick, and the one you were most curious about - Simon 'Ghost' Riley.

"But like, why Ghost? If he's close to this Soap dude, why not call yourself Shampoo or something?"

Your colleagues laughed at your naivety glancing at each other.

"My dear, I don't dare to call him anything other than Lieutenant. He's entered a 10 metre radius of mine, and I've already pissed myself." One stated.

"I've heard he threatened to attack Katherine, just because she overcharged him, long story short, she quit." Another replied.

It seemed you didn't understand how feared Ghost really was...

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By the time you all had finished dinner, the staff split up, some going back to the canteen to prepare dinners for the soldiers finishing training, some going to clean up the barracks, and you found yourself going back to your designated shop.

Aah, this is peaceful. You mumbled, drinking your hot chocolate, whilst sorting out all the army boots on display.

As the clock strikes 10 p.m. though, the silence is broken and you hear a stampede of soldiers, once you assume had come back from a month long mission. The majority of them, from what you'd heard, sprinted to the canteen to rid themselves of their strictly MRE diet, and finally eat some home cooked food, whilst others ran off to their freshly cleaned barracks to get some well-deserved sleep.

Your little shop also seemed to be quite busy, a long queue waiting to buy water bottles, bandages, blankets, you name it. From nearby chatter from the tired soldiers, it seems most of the teams had arrived back from Afghanistan, a successful mission with no death and a few minor injuries.

An hour goes by and the queue dies down to around 6 people, with one at the till: Jordan.

"So a water bottle, that would be £1.50, payin- my God, Jordan?" You smiled, getting in front of the counter and pulling into a hug. He smelt like dusty and you joked that 1 bottle of water wouldn't suffice to rinse him of the smell.

"I haven't seen you in forever, it's been like 6 months? How's the job been treating you?" He enquiries, placing a kiss against your forehead. By now, the nearly empty shop turns to face the both of you, many assuming the situation to be a couple reuniting.

You and Jordan continue to catch up on everything - his mission, your job...Margaret's obsession with which positions she can take Captain Price in...

"Bro, she was going so in depth into the many ways she can contort her waist for, what she calls, the Price penis?!" You pull your most fake-disgusted face, as Jordan cackles loudly.

But his laugh falls short as a deep scruffy voice interrupts him-

"The only thing being wasted right now, is my time. Hurry the fuck up and pay for your shit. You act like we have all the time in the fucking world."

You jump slightly at the harsh words, although this is a military base, you should be used to this foul language.

"My guy, she said waist, not waste-" Jordan begins, before straightening his back and realising who he was talking to.

He turns around to face the man's voice, his back now turned to you, obstructing your view of the unknown soldier.

"Lie-Lieutenant. My apologies! Lemme grab this water and get out of your way," Jordan nervously chuckles, you can't see who he's talking to, but you can tell this was a man of higher authority, given how Jordan stutters. "Ooh, I see what you wanted to buy! Gloves, nice, socks, cool, Coc-Coco pops?!"

"My fucking God Biggs, the only thing big about you is your stupidity and your pussy attitude, grab your shit and go. Stop holding the fucking line, mate." The male's British accent is so prominent with every word enunciated, and you wish to never run into this stranger again.

"Sir!" Jordan turns to you, handing you a fiver and awkwardly side hugging you, "Have fun with this jerk wad." He whispers into your hair, before running out the shop, his water bottle still on the counter.

"Jordan your bottle-"

Holy shit.

After Jordan moves, your eyes feast before you, revealing a godly 225 lb man, standing at an impressive 1.89 metres, dressed in his dark and intimidating casual attire, his face hidden behind a skeleton mask, his piercing eyes squinted and penetrating into your shorter frame, his biceps bulging out of his sweatshirt, his shoulders broad, his trousers failing to hold his impressive bulg-

"Are you going to continue gawking at me like a fuckin' donkey or should I not pay for this shit?" He huffs out in disappointment.

Rude. Plain rude. Sexy...but rude.

Now you know why Jordan couldn't move a muscle when faced with this guy. Putting 2 to 2 together, you clocked. The way other soldiers left the shop as he entered. The way one look from him gets them to shut up so quickly. The skeleton mask-

This is Ghost.

"We- I- Um-" What the hell? Why can't you form a damn sentence?

"I- I- I don't give a damn. My shit, here." He mocks you, slamming his items on the counter. By now, the other customers have scurried off in fear. It's now you and Ghost in the shop.

You nod, humming a yes, eyebrows furrowing at his unkind words.

The next few moments are followed by near silence, the only sounds being the scanning of the items and your quickening breath. His foot begins tapping rapidly, as sign that you're taking to long.

It's uncomfortabl-

"The old hag before you's gone then."

Yes, Ghost, she is. And if you keep acting like this, I will be too. You grunt a response, unable to find the right words.

"£28.50" You say curtly, after a while. He hums in response, pulling his wallet to pay.

You watch him nervously, you did not expect to see one of the most respected soldiers in front of you so soon. Someone so handsome, someone so fucking sexy, but someone so fucking bitchy...

Oh. You said that last bit out loud.

Ghost pauses his actions, his head slowly craning upwards, his gaze drinking you in.

Your eyes meet his, quickly looking back at the counter, unable to meet his furrowed but amused glare.

"'m so bitchy, but you seem to love it, sweetheart. So red, like you're fucking in love with me or something." He scowls, slapping a £20 note on the counter.

"Maybe next time stopping droolin' over other men when you have your own cunt of a boyfriend." He mutters, before taking his shit and leaving. You don't fail to catch the smirk in his voice, as he exits your shop, loud footsteps booming behind him.

Oh my god.

You were at a loss of words. You were also at a loss of £8.50.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------

"Jordy, you don't fuckin' get it! Dickhead left the place, without paying the full fucking price, mind you." Frustration was evident in your voice.

"Bitchy and broke," Jordan snickers.

"And the audacity to call you my boyfriend? Bye." You huff in annoyance, whilst Jordan chokes on his spit. If anything, he was a like a brother to you!

A week has gone by since that first encounter and your conversations with Jordan at the shop, when he passes by, always seem to end up at the topic of Ghost. The way he glares at you as you walk past him in the corridors. The way he sees you struggling when you carry boxes upon boxes- oh he won't help you, by the way. When you ask, he simply scoffs, "You're getting paid and you don't even want to do your job?"

Since that day, you've met all of the Task Force members. Price was as Margaret mentioned, sexy. Soap, comical, Gaz, kind-hearted, Ghost...yeah, he's there.

"But you don't get it man, he's so big- like over 6 foot! And those eyes- man those eyes. So condescending...but so hot..." you continue.

"Damn Margaret wannabe, we get it." Jordan jokes, drinking his can coke - which he didn't pay for. You'll tell him later.

As you both converse, loud footsteps enter the store.

Ghost. Again.

Did I mention he's been in here every day since the first time?

8 a.m. sharp, the moment you clock in for your shift, and 10 p.m. on the dot. Fucker's so annoying, he'll stay around the shopfloor, lazily looking at the various protein bars, even after you state the shop is already 10 minutes past closing.

But you don't mind. His silently stares at you, as if trying to remember the exact location of every beauty spot on your face, the consequent reddening of your cheeks, the slight touches of his rough callous fingers brushing against your own. All this unspoken tension, leads to your every thought being consumed by Simon Riley.

And when he enters the shop, wow. Buys the most random unnecessary shit ever. You notice how he walks in and purchases his singular Coco Pops cereal bar, day after day. This man isn't sick of them?

I mean, come o-

"Your obsession with me is flattering." He states.

Oh, forgot to mention, he's still an asshole. But at least after rehearsing to yourself in the mirror, you can actually speak up for yourself.

"Guh- buh- we- u-" Fuck's sake.

But he actually laughs this time. A loud imploding chuckle exits his mouth, and you actually smile a little at this unfamiliar emotion.

You can't tell what his face is doing under the mask, but his voice suggests a small smile rests on his face, but it soon disappears before he coughs awkwardly.

"Your boyfriend's in the infirmary by the way." He looks away, emphasising boyfriend a little too roughly.

You stare in confusion. Boyfriend? He picks up on this.

"Biggs. Rolled his ankle or some shit. Dunno why he can't just man it up. I've had worse injuries." He mumbles, smiling under his mark slightly, assuming Jordan isn't in fact your boyfriend.

Your eyes widen, "Jordy? Wha-who-how?"

"He-" But before he can answer your question, you're running out the shop to the infirmary, stealing a snack from the shelf for Jordan.

You fail to notice that you'd left a dejected Ghost at the counter, who'd picked up 2 coco pops instead of 1 this time, his smile faltering, as he planned to give you the 2nd, as a token of apology for his impolite behaviour.

In the end, he realised he'd been holding onto a ghost of a connection, overshadowed by the presence of another man.

He winces, being left alone at the till, hoping to actually strike up a conversation with you, as he gathers his (unpaid) belongings and walks out the door, off to shout at any rando that dares get in his way.

yALL its 2.30 a.m. and i'm craving coco pops-

#ghost angst #simon riley #call of duty #task force 141 #simon riley angst #simon riley fluff #cod #john price #ghost

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