#dark grey velvet chair

[kirstenrenz]

Guest Bedroom New York

Mid-sized minimalist guest bedroom with a dark wood floor and a brown floor, gray walls, and no fireplace

[demenciathemes]

Eclectic Living Room - Formal Example of a large eclectic formal and enclosed carpeted and gray floor living room design with white walls, no fireplace and no tv

[korunia]

Enclosed Living Room in Philadelphia Image of a medium-sized, contemporary living room with a medium-tone wood floor, white walls, a standard fireplace, a stone fireplace, and no television.

[sink-me-in-your-ocean]

Careful What You Wish For

Sodo/Dewdrop Ghoul x fem!Reader Smut

W/C: 3560

A/N: Never been more mesmerized in my life then when I went to my first ritual... Unashamedly staring at this fucking ghoul all night. Thank you @endhisbloodlineinmyesophagus for reading this first 💕

Content warnings: sodomy (obviously, which ghoul do you think this is?) m!receiving (oral), fingering, P in V sex, shame/embarrassment, voyeurism. Minors DNI.

“Straight through there, sister, you can’t miss it.” You received an unceremonious shove from Sister Adelaide. After catching yourself on the railing you continued down the curving stone stairwell alone. Your footsteps scuffed along the ice cold, ancient grey stone. 

It was freezing in the basement of the ministry, and you wished silently that the good Sister had allowed you to dress properly before she dragged you out of your shared bedroom. All you wore was a black night slip, and though it easily reached to your knees, its lace and satin offered no solace from the nipping, stale air. With no relief from the cold, all you prayed for was that you wouldn’t run into anyone down here. 

Finally, you reached the base of the stairs. A single black candle glowed from its head-level position on the wall. You squinted at it, considering it an omen, telling you not to go further. You peered out into the distance, feeling lost already. You can’t miss it my ass. You made a mental note to “thank” the Sister later for her astute direction. 

Suddenly, the first long corridor was lit instantaneously by a long trail of wall-mounted candelabras. It provided the only light source as you tiptoed along. The soft, yellow light carried you forth to meet a wooden door. You pushed it open with ease and were met with black darker than night. 

You stumble blindly forward through a series of black velvet curtains. Once you step through the first one, your heart kicks up in rhythm, the light seemingly sucked out of the hallway behind you and the door falling closed on its hinges with a creak. 

You take three more less-than-graceful steps and shove through one final curtain to find yourself in a dark room, lit by dim blue ambient light. It takes a minute for your eyes to adjust, and you take a quick stock of your surroundings: a dark chaise lounge, in what color you couldn’t identify, a dark multi-patterned rug on the floor, and in the corner at an angle facing you, a large armchair. You sucked in a breath quickly. The armchair had an occupant. 

Is that…

Your thought was interrupted swiftly as the ghoul in the chair adjusted his posture, spreading his legs in a wide, almost lazy, “v” shape. The only sounds in the room were the distant hymnal voices in practice above ground, and the thrumming beat of your own heart. Your pulse pounded in your ears. You felt your hands become clammy. 

You studied the ghoul as your eyes continued to adjust to the dark room. But you were torn: adrenaline begging through your veins for you to flee, and curiosity ever edging your instincts out of the picture. 

As if sensing your thoughts, he moved again to stir your attention. His left elbow came to rest on the tuft of the chair, and he tilted his head as he rested it on his pale hand. 

His hands. 

You didn’t notice how his right hand had been sitting on his covered thigh, but now you couldn’t look away. His thumb was rubbing back and forth slowly, and even in the low light you recognized his tendons and veins as he flexed. You’d know those hands that belong to your favorite ghoul anywhere. His hands were imprinted on your mind like an unholy relic.

“Sodo.” Your voice was hardly audible, a mere breath coasting over your realization.

The fire ghoul said nothing, instead shifting from the disinterested position he was in to a commanding one, sitting straight backed against the chair. Your eyes found themselves watching his right hand again, as he slowly moved it from his thigh to be outstretched. He made a come here motion using two long fingers. Slowly, sensually beckoning you forth.

Your mouth went dry as the dirty thoughts regarding his fingers snaked their way up from your loins to leech into your brain. You obeyed. It wasn’t like you to disobey any member of the clergy. Especially not a member of the clergy who you’ve got it so bad for.

You timidly close the gap between you two. No words are needed in the exchange, but you size him up anyway. Sodo wears his mask, and he is covered from head to toe in his black uniform, the only exception of exposure being his perfect hands.

He pointed to the cushion at his feet and you kneel in submission. A perfectly obedient daughter of the ministry following the clergy.

“Wha -”

Where your question was going, you forgot immediately, as an old television screen turned on to the right of you. You jumped at the sudden addition of light and crackling sound, shrinking back in temporary trepidation. 

How strange.

It was a video monitoring of what looked to be the inside of the dark wooden confession box. 

Wait. Something’s -

The metal and heavy cloth sounds of the curtain moving made your stomach drop. You watched in horror as you, well, past you, entered the confession booth and sat down. 

You heard the unmistakable words of Papa Emeritus IV. “My child, what makes you appear at such an hour? Have you come to confess what plagues your mind and body?”

“I have. It has been one week since my last confession.”

You knew what was coming next.

“Come, my child, speak what unsettles you, let it weigh on your heart no longer.”

Utterly embarrassed, you tilted your head down to hide your shame at the impending admission coming from your past self. But then, you felt a strong, cold hand grip your jaw, forcing your face up to watch in horror, reliving the moment in confession you had after having one too many glasses of wine at dinner. 

“Last night I pleasured myself with the sinful thoughts of a brother…”

“Dio miserabile young sister!”

You bit your lip, both in the camera footage and presently. You had forgotten how Papa Emeritus IV had reacted so outwardly to your admission of guilt. After a pause, he spoke again. “Sister?”

“Yes, Papa?”

“Tell me which one of our pious brothers has turned your thoughts in such a devious way.”

“Uh…” You trailed off, your voice in the recording was meek, you sounded so utterly pathetic.

“Sister? I could just guess if that would make it easier for you.”

You winced at how pitiful it was that he had to coax it out of you. You watched, willing your past self to keep her stupid mouth closed, but of course she didn’t.

“It was… brother Dewdrop.”

“I see.”

In the room you thought you heard Dewdrop make a noise deep in the back of his throat, like a groan. Your attention quickly went back to the video, eyes never leaving the screen as made possible by the ghouls grasp on your face. There was a long-lasting pause, one that made your stomach tighten with the knowledge of what you were about to admit in that wooden box.

“Describe it, my child, you’ll feel better once you get it out.”

In the video you sighed deeply before continuing, “In my thoughts he was fingering me, using two, then three fingers inside me to make me come. Then I got down on my knees for him and serviced his cock, taking it in my hands and mouth.”

You stopped breathing. The sound of your blood rushing in the pulse near your ears drowning out the words coming through the screen.

“Continue.” Came the deep, accented voice of the Papa.

“Then I imagined I was in his lap, and he let me use his cock for my own pleasure. I fucked myself on top of him. Forgive me, please forgive me, I beg of you.” The video cut then, leaving you reeling. 

Speaking such depraved filth in confession was mortifying enough, but knowing the ghoul you were speaking about heard it too was devastating. You were frozen in place in embarrassment. At least, you would have stayed that way had you not noticed Sodo’s breathing changed. 

He had gotten so close to your face while gripping your chin that you could hear his labored breathing. His breaths came in heavy pants from inside his mask, like a predatory animal behind a muzzle.

Part of you wanted to take off his mask, see his devilish eyes, sharp teeth, and his horns for yourself. To let him bite you, mark you, ravage your body with his tongue and teeth. But you knew he’d want to keep it on, and oh how you aimed to please him. 

“Sodo?” Your voice was uncharacteristically quiet as you faced him. His grip did not loosen from your chin while allowing you to move, instead his index finger tapped your cheek in what seemed to be contemplation. What did he want to do with you now? Especially after seeing such a horrific display of lust on your part. You had sounded so desperate, so pitiful in confession. But if he gave you the chance, you’d show him how truly desperate you could be. 

He released your jaw from his hard grasp, placing his hands on each of his tightly clothed thighs. You exhaled soundlessly through your parted lips as he cocked his head to the left side. He sat there silently waiting.

Your voice came out timid at first, “It’s true, all of it. Every second of that tape is the truth.” You then cocked your head to the right, mirroring him while still from your position sitting on the floor. You gained more confidence as you continued, “Though I’m guessing you know that. And you knew I’d come here.” Does that mean that he too - that he could possibly -

Your eyes widened as he tilted his head down towards his lap, then back up to you. Asking you to, what, sit on his lap? 

Fuck waiting to decipher what he meant, you read deeply enough into his vague expression, and you would do anything to get what you wanted. You stood up quickly, his masked head snapping up to follow you intently. However, before you could crawl into his lap, he reached forward and grabbed your hips, spinning you in a half circle so your ass was facing him. He pulled you back to sit down.

You didn’t have time to react, let alone think before he hooked his ankles around the inside of yours, catching your legs with his respectively. Then, he spread your legs wide, earning a sharp inhale of surprise from you as the slip you wore parted salaciously. 

He put his fingers over your mouth and you licked them without thinking. You could swear he made a low, dark sound from behind you. Then he took those fingers and dragged them down the front of your body, tracing down your black garb in identical fashion to his movements during a ritual. He paused right at the hem of your night dress, as it had ridden up. His middle finger hooked under it and pulled it upward, exposing your most upper thighs and your lace black panties.

As his hand moved to cup you through your panties, you shifted your hips back to be more comfortable. You felt his hardness against your rear and felt yourself involuntarily clench around nothing. Fuck. 

You couldn’t help but grind your ass back against him, feeling his hardening cock against you was something you thought you would only ever get to dream of. You just hoped he was enjoying your body as much as you were enjoying his.

He hooked a finger in your panties, pulling and then snapping them back to get your full attention back on what he was doing to you. You gasped at the momentary sharp sting. Satisfied by startling you, he traced the seam of your underwear once more, before dipping a callused finger inside and brushing along your slit. 

You watched him pull his finger away, coated in your arousal, before going back to your heat and ripping your panties off of you, tossing them to the floor. He put his index and middle finger together and repeated the action of touching you. Sodo dragged his rough fingers through your folds and up to your clit. A whine escaped your lips, and his left hand grabbed your chest and pulled you back so you were resting completely against him. It led you to feel his arousal even better under your ass, and you swirl your hips twice to help spur him on.

Without warning, his two fingers plunged into your heat all the way to the third knuckle. You opened your mouth and nothing came out, only silence as you felt his fingers deep within your aching center. His thumb pressed down on your clit, providing the perfect addition of pressure.

His fingers felt as good as you dreamed they would be, so long, and hitting all the places inside you that were drawing you close to the edge already. He worked you in a steady rhythmic pattern, drawing his fingers in and out of you while circling your clit with his thumb. Just from this you knew your own fingers wouldn’t be enough to satisfy you again. 

His left hand moved to your breast, cupping and then pressing his thumb to your already hardened nipple. You knew it was a combination of both the chill from the room and the heat of the moment that caused your nipples to ache against the fabric of your night dress. Sodo used his thumb to circle your nipple through your slip, a mirrored action to his right thumb on your most sensitive bundle of nerves between your legs. Fuck. 

Suddenly, you had a feeling of being watched. If there is a camera in the confession box then… maybe… You couldn’t finish the thought, if anything, it spurred you on further. Your head lolled back, resting on the ghouls' hard shoulder as you felt yourself reaching the peak. You had never come so fast before, and you tried to fight it off, but his fingers were like magic on you. He had changed his movements so that his long fingers curled perfectly within you. Each curl of his fingers had your breath hitching and your legs starting to shake. Sodo was a drug you didn’t know you needed and yet could never get enough of.

All the tension that had been building snapped and you came with a broken moan. His fingers never ceased their ministrations, only slowing to help you come down from your high. Soon you were squirming in his lap, the pressure of his calloused thumb on your clit almost painful now. 

Your breath came in heavy shudders, your head still resting on his shoulder, “May I?” You circled your hips against his hardness again to punctuate the question. He made a low sound, moving his legs so they no longer held yours apart. You scooted down to the floor quickly, kneeling on the cushion before the ghoul. He wasted no time pulling his cock out for his black pants, stroking it roughly with his right hand twice before looking at you in expectation. 

Your hands dragged up each of his thighs as you shifted forward. You made a silent vow as you rose up on your knees and lowered your mouth to taste him. If this is the penance that I will pay after confessing my lust, then I’ll be on my knees confessing every night.

You started at the hot tip, swirling your tongue around twice before placing your lips around him and sucking. It wasn’t enough, not for you, and certainly not for him. You grabbed him in your right hand and licked, your tongue wide and flat against the base of his shaft, all the way back up to the tip again before devouring him. Your mouth salivated profusely as you dipped your head down over and over and over again, massaging with your tongue and sucking expertly.

If your cunt wasn’t already wet from fucking his fingers, it would have been soaked just from this. Him allowing you to touch him, to pleasure him, was your salvation. You couldn’t get enough, high off his reactions to you as you changed pace. The way his breath shuddered, the sounds of his nails scratching on the armrests of the chair, it was all incentive for you to keep going and please him better than you had anyone before.

You dipped your head down again, going as deep as you could to take him all the way back in your throat. You breathed through your nose, ignoring your gag reflex, wanting only to pleasure Sodo.

You felt his bony fingers slide through your hair and you kept up your movements until he made a fist and yanked hard. Your lips fell from his cock with a soft pop. As your face moved back a strand of saliva connected your mouth to his erection. You looked up at his expressionless mask again. 

His silence filled the room. And as he patted his thigh in indication for you to get on top of him, it felt like all of the air had been sucked from your chest. You trembled in your kneeling position on the floor, heart fluttering, and rose, not wanting to vex him by wasting precious time. 

You climbed up into his lap like an obedient little pet. The aching within you came to a crescendo as you straddled him, holding onto his shoulders as you centered yourself. You looked into the eyes of the mask, seeing the empty void where his eyes would be. He nodded at you, giving you permission to do exactly as you fantasized about. 

You gripped his cock, still wet with your saliva, and lined him up with your center. You dragged the tip of him through your sensitive folds, wanting to draw the moment out just a little more, before sinking down. Only the tip of his thick cock was inside you and already you felt yourself shivering. You steadied yourself again, grabbing his shoulders as you lowered yourself down agonizingly slow. Taking him for this first time had your cunt burning from the stretch to fit him inside you. 

His cock was long and thick, but you were determined. Inch after inch you sunk down, and once you finally bottomed out, you didn’t miss how his nails scratched the arms of the chair. His head rolled back slightly, and just that provided the evidence that you needed to know he was relishing this moment too. You wondered how it felt for him, imagining that the ghoul was trying not to come just from the feeling of being inside your tight, wet, pussy.

You rose up on your knees, leaving just the head of his cock inside you before pushing back down in a full thrust. Repeating the motion had you lightheaded already, and you could feel the ridges and veins of his throbbing dick rubbing up against your g-spot with every move. One thing was absolutely certain, you were not going to last like this. 

Up and down, up and down, you bucked your hips rhythmically to do exactly what you wanted and fucked yourself on him. You were certain that you held your breath each time you impaled yourself on him, believing that his cock would punch the air from your very lungs if not. The pressure was building again, this time deeper within your core. All the tension was pulling, pulling so tight. Fuck. You wanted to last longer but it was impossible. The feeling of him inside you made that impossible. You gasped, “I’m - I’m going to - Ah!”

A primal sound tore its way out of your throat as you reached your climax. Dewdrops hands grasped possessively at your hips, forcing you to continue to fuck yourself on him through your orgasm. His hands kept you moving steadily on his cock and had you feeling completely overstimulated in seconds. You cried out a series of unintelligible words, the feeling so foreign to you but familiar at the same time. After several more deep, hard thrusts, his cock twitched inside you and you knew he would come soon too. The thought of him coming inside you became your undoing. You came again, screaming his name in praise and adoration and he pulled you down hard one final time before he jerked inside you and you felt his hot load coat your walls. Your pussy still spasmed from your own orgasm, milking him dry.

The two of you sat in silence while you caught your breath. You slid off his lap, wincing slightly as you felt his cock leave your cunt. You stooped to the floor, picking up your torn panties and then fixing your night dress. Straightening up you noticed he had zipped his pants back up and was sprawled lazily in the chair again. His chest rose and fell rhythmically. Is he sleeping?

Before you left the room, a red light amongst the blue caught your eye and confirmed your suspicion from earlier. You were being watched again, just as you had in the confession. You averted your eyes away quickly, not wanting whoever was on the other end to know you had discovered them. Hoping that by doing so, you could have another encounter with Sodo soon if he so wished.

-

... hope that ticked your taints *with love and adoration* (～￣▽￣)～

[lisbeth-kk]

Sherlock fandom.

Continuation of last Friday's prompt, as some of you asked for.

Extraterrestrial or an Illusion?

It takes a while to calm down. John’s screaming doesn’t last that long, but his heart races like he’s run for hours. He looks down at the two phones in his right hand. One is his own, the other is Sherlock’s, and John has no idea how the latter got there. The text Sherlock sent him only minutes earlier and John’s reply are still visible on the screen when John taps it.

Someone in the hall. Come at once. Be careful. SH

In the hall. Where are you?

John does not believe in anything paranormal, but he can’t explain this. The full moon still shines brightly, but John can see that clouds will soon obscure it. He shivers slightly from an unexpected chill, as if something cold just passed him.

Sherlock. Must find Sherlock.

He gazes at the stairs, takes a firmer grip on his gun, and ascends cautiously to the upper floor. No sounds from anywhere are heard. Apart from his pounding heart and his breathing. 

When he reaches the landing, he hesitates. 

Left, or right?

As he turns left, a sudden darkness sets in the corridor. The clouds have hidden the light from the moon effectively. John swallows hard, switches on his torch again, and walks to the first door, which is slightly ajar. He opens it carefully, and to his relief it makes no sound.

The room he enters is a nursery. All the toys are old, and some are even broken. A doll with half torn off hair, stares up at him with empty eye sockets. He turns around quickly with his gun raised. When he realises what’s making the sound he reacted to, he feels the hair on his head stand up. 

An antique rocking chair in a corner of the room is moving as if a person sits in it, but there’s no one there apart from John. The windows are closed, so it cannot be explained by the wind causing the chair to rock back and forth. He makes a sweep around the room and decides to move on to the next door. The chair stops rocking once he reaches the threshold.

His pulse slows down after he’s searched the other rooms. They’re all empty. He turns to explore the rooms on the right side of the stairs. A bright light makes him gasp, before he understands that the clouds have moved away from the surface of the moon.

Full moon frenzy can make the most rational person a little unhinged.

He takes a deep breath and opens the first door. It creaks. A lot. John winces, but there’s nothing for it. His determined steps carry him over the threshold and into a bathroom. In the corner is a large bathtub that stands on claw feet. On the floor is a wooden bucket. A big hole in the bottom tells him that it hasn’t been used for decades. The cabinet on the other wall is open, its doors long since removed. All the shelves are grey with dust and in the upper corner is a fragile spider’s web.

When he once again stands in the doorway, he freezes. The other three doors are all wide open. Before he entered the bathroom they were closed. His palms start to sweat again, and he almost loses the gun.

“Fuck,” he mutters under his breath. “If this is a trick, Sherlock, I’m going to kill you with my bare hands!”

The house is still eerily quiet. He steals himself for an encounter with whatever this house is concealing. Two of the rooms are empty, but the third, and last one is not.

A gigantic four-poster bed is oddly enough placed in the middle of the room instead of by the wall. It’s made of dark brown wood with twisted posts. John can’t see if anyone is lying there, because all four sides are covered with velvet curtains in dark green, adorned with gilt embroidery.

Apart from the large furniture, the room is bare. He walks around the bed, trying to get a glimpse through an opening in the curtains. When he finally finds one, his heart skips several beats, and his gun slips out of his hand. His trembling fingers clutch the velvet curtain and shoves it aside. On the bed lies Sherlock, dressed in his suit and Belstaff. His face is lit up by the moonlight. He looks peaceful, but too pale for John’s liking. The lack of pulse does that to a person, he muses, before everything goes black.

To be continued...

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[nevermorgue]

The thick, red curtains of stained velvet open. The applause slowly dies down into a murmur of the last echoing claps of gloved hands. A man and a woman stand on stage. One stage left, one stage right. They stare straight ahead, unblinking. Unfeeling? Is that true? Is that what they want you to think? The woman with the blonde ringlet curls cascading down her back is adorned in blue. Her gown touches the stage floor, various ribbons in blue shades wrapping around her form. For a moment, if you look with unfocused eyes, it looks to be a complicated dress with lace and pretty knots- but it becomes clear soon. She is tied up- tangled in these ribbons. They wrap around her thick curls, they wrap around her arms in even, perfect lines. If they were red, one in the back of the room could mistake her as the victim of a slashing. The bows are pristine, resting on various parts of her to accentuate her status as a gift. A gift to who? Society? Her father? The top shelf? She breathes heavy, but slow. Despite the sweat beading down her forehead, she has a calm smile. An ethereal, regal look in her posture and a confident aura that any actress under the lights would have, tied up or not. It seems as if she doesn't notice that she's restricted by the ribbons. In fact, she seems to relish in it. The crowd watches in silent awe, admiring the woman's beauty and drinking in the sight of dusty pink eyes under the stage lighting. Only a select few can see the slight fidget in her fingers, the tiniest quiver in her lip. Or the way her arms just barely push against her restraints, even if she wants it to appear that she is comfortable with them. She acts as if the ribbons are a part of her, an extension of her skin. Any less would be an eyesore. Any less would be detrimental to the game. The man on stage is quite the opposite in terms of charisma. He seems unsure of his presence, his feet awkwardly shifting in place as he struggles to figure out where to look in the crowd. On stage, the audience is so dark...where does he keep his eyes? Shouldn't he keep his gaze moving to make sure one specific part of the room isn't forced to make eye contact with him? He is undressed compared to the woman. A simple cardigan vest over a white collared shirt, slacks...well, it looks to be that way. His body is wrapped up in so many heavy, black ribbons that it seems impossible to tell. They weren’t delicately wrapped around him, the ribbons were not there to make him look perfect or desirable like his counterpart; but to simply keep in line. A man that poses no threat being restrained and chained back like a beast. Because without disclipine, not a single soul knows what he could become. Not even he knows what he is.

The black, jagged ribbons dig into his clothing, wrapping around his neck. His breathing is short, as if afraid to be too loud. His smile is shaky, wary. Dull grey eyes glance to the confident woman to his right, standing up a bit straighter as he watches her body language.

The audience rises from silence, the murmurs in the chairs growing into an incoherent jumble of panic. Voices beg, weep, or yell with anger. The stage seems to fade around their feet, leaving them in their dinner chairs in the dining hall, surrounded by panicking students.

Annabel Lee, still so delicately wrapped, takes a sip of her tea. Her peers continue to panic- one life they cry. What do you mean there was only one life? That isn’t fair.

Will’s collar is wrinkled, grabbed in the heat of the moment by his master before being abandoned. His wrists cling to the arms of the chair, the black ribbons pressing his pulse into the wood. His heart thumbs against his chest, but he cannot control the casual, polite smile that forms on his lips as he watches Annabel’s mouth do the same.

Would she ever dare to share the spotlight? No, not with him. She’d be out the door before the curtain call; anything to avoid confronting the fact that this is all part of the script.

But for a moment, amidst the screams and desperate pleas for more than one life to be given, he felt as if he too were on that stage. On her level, but not quite…just enough to be looked at.

Dark pink swallows cloudy grey. They share a knowing glance, and then another smile.

Will takes a sip of water, Annabel her tea.

He’s terrified, but his ribbons keep his body from panicking. Their comforting, constricting tendrils reddening his skin.

She’s concerned, but her bows keep her from spiraling- from becoming unsightly. From losing the power she cannot bear to part from- not this early.

The many voices in the room start to sound like applause once more.

[voidvannie]

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐍𝐆𝐄 𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐍𝐀𝐌𝐄

𝐛𝐞𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐢𝐟𝐮𝐥 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 𝐚𝐮

𝐢𝐬𝐚𝐛𝐞𝐥𝐥𝐞 𝐡𝐮𝐠𝐡𝐞𝐬 𝐱 𝐣𝐚𝐦𝐢𝐞 𝐝𝐫𝐲𝐬𝐝𝐚𝐥𝐞

｡ ｡ ｡ ｡ 🕊️🤍 𝐰𝐞𝐥𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐛𝐞𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐢𝐟𝐮𝐥 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬

𝐛𝐞𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐢𝐟𝐮𝐥 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 𝐦𝐚𝐢𝐧 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

𝐢𝐧 𝐰𝐡𝐢𝐜𝐡 ｡ ｡ ｡ ｡ jamie decides he wants to change isabelle’s name but first he has to ask the most important men in her life.

ੈ✩ ━ ❪ feel free to send an any request of things you want to see in this series, or if you just want to share some thoughts about what your read! i would love that! ❫

June 4, 2024

When you see somebody Who erases everybody in the room I don't know what to say, I don't know what to do

Jamie hadn't meant to be up as early as he was, the bold black letters of the time plastered on the screen of his phone reading 5:30 AM while he sat out on the back porch of the hughes lake house.

Another Summer of spending time with his girlfriend, her family and a couple of their friends was a nice getaway from their every day lives of playing hockey and doing all of her social media things.

The hockey players mind flashes to the small velvet black box that he had packed away in his duffel bag, making sure to keep Belle from finding.

He can hear the backdoor slide open but he doesn't take his eyes off of the sun rising in front of him.

"Morning, Jamie." Jim's voice flows from beside him, taking a seat an the empty chair.

"Morning." Jamie sends him a half smile as his head turns to look at him for just a second.

"You're up early." He says after a moment of silence, sitting the coffee cup on the arm of the chair.

"Yeah, I just needed a breather before we get up to whatever Jack has cooked up or us today." Jamie tells him with a slight chuckle.

Jim lets out a chuckle of his own and they sit in silence for a moment before the father of four broke it, "I can see all the signs, son....so go ahead. Ask me."

Oh, I I don't wanna change who you are I don't wanna mess with your dreams Or get in the way of who you wanna be

Jamie feels the palms of his hands grow sweaty as he wipes them on the dark grey material of the sweat pants he's wearing, his words suddenly catching in the back of his throat.

"Um, I.....I want to ask Belle to marry me." He finally chokes out, eyes never leaving the sunrise in front of him.

"How long have you been thinking about this?" Jim turns to look at his daughter's boyfriend.

"For about year. I’ve had the ring since December 27, 2023." He tells Jim, finding a sudden interest in playing with the thing bracelet on his wrist with 'IMH' engraved on it.

"A year?"

Jamie smiles, "Yeah. It first crossed my mind when I was traded to the Flyers. I called her right after I got the phone call when we were in Memphis and she told me that we would be okay, I'd be okay. That's when was like, 'damn, i really think i want to spend the rest of my life with this girl.'."

"And when were you sure you wanted to marry her?"

"A week after I was traded, when she packed up her apartment in California to move in with me in Philly." Jamie has no hesitation as he speaks.

Jim smiles at the adoration in Jamie's voice when he talks about his daughter, "Jamie, when Belle first came home telling Ellen and I about you, I was honestly worried. I love my sons, and I love hockey, but I didn't want my daughter to date a hockey player. But listening to how she talked about you, how she talked about the way you treated her, I told Ellen, 'i'm happy that he can put this big smile on her face and a bright sparkle in her eyes'. That's all a father could ever want for his little girl."

Jamie listens, hanging onto every word.

"And if you wanna marry my daughter, I give you permission to do so." He says as they both stand up, Jim bringing Jamie into a hug.

"Thank you."

────── ❪ 🌿🕊️! ❫

No, I I won't stop your runaway heart I just wanna be why you stay Only thing about you that I'd change is I'd change your name

Ellen and Belle had decided to take the time to have a little girls day, leaving the boys and Jim at the lake house.

Jamie sat on the couch next to Luke, playing with a lose thread on his jeans as he watched the others playing video games, trying to think of ways her could ask four of the dozen hockey players staying.

Taking a deep breath, he just decided to rip the band-aid off and quickly blurts it out, "I wanna ask Belle to marry me."

The yelling that had been going on quiets down as everyone turns to look over at Jamie, the sounds of Luke dropping the controller to the ground following.

“Did I hear that correctly?” Quinn leans forward to be able to look at Jamie.

“Dude! Come on!” Trevor groaned as he stands up from the couch, pulling his wallet from his back pocket and slapping a twenty into Jack’s outreached hand.

“Buddy, you made me twenty bucks richer!” Jack smiled widely, “Make me an Uncle in six months and I’ll win another twenty!”

“Don’t make him an uncle cause I’m not giving him another twenty.” Trevor huffs sitting back in his place. “Marry your girl, Jamie!”

“This is really what you want?” Quinn asked, his tone serious as he looks at the hockey player.

“A hundred percent. Guys, I love your sister with every little ounce of my being.” Jamie tells them, “Belle is the only person that I see myself marrying.”

“And our dad?” Luke raised an eyebrow.

“Asked him this morning, he said yes.” Jamie wipes his hands on his jeans, growing nervous again under the gaze of all the guys.

“Well, you have my yes.” Jack grinned.

“When do you want to do this?” Quinn crossed his arms over his chest.

“This weekend, before we leave.” Jamie answered, “She’s always talked about getting proposed to on the end of the dock.”

Quinn smiled, “Okay. You reeled me in. Yeah, you can marry my little sister.”

“Luke, you’re really quiet over there, buddy.” Jack grinned at the little pout on Luke’s face.

With the pout still on his lips, Luke crosses his arms over his chest, “Fine, you can marry my sister.” He pauses, "But I would also like to become an uncle, just not in six months."

────── ❪ 🌿🕊️! ❫

June 11, 2024

I can't see 20 years from now Hell, I can barely see today Can't promise you your sky won't drop a little rain When that smile in the mirror disappears I promise you I'll be right here

"Hey, baby." Jamie grins as he walks back into the lake house from being on the boat with the boys, leaning down to kiss her, "Got anything planned for tonight?"

"Hmm, no." Belle shakes her head, "Why?"

"I'm taking you out to dinner." Jamie tells her as she looks at him, "What is it?"

"What do I wear?"

"Something pretty."

“Okay.”

────── ❪ 🌿🕊️! ❫

Oh, I I don't wanna change who you are I don't wanna mess with your dreams Or get in the way of who you wanna be

“Have I mentioned how pretty you look?” Jamie grinned from the driver side of the rental car her shared with Trevor.

“Hmm, almost every chance that you get.” Belle smiles over at her boyfriend, bringing her hand up to play with the hair on the back of his neck. “Tonight was nice, just the two of us.”

“It was.” Jamie pulls into the driveway of the lake house, “But I have one more surprise.”

Belle raised an eyebrow at her boyfriend as he quickly jogs around the front of the car to her side, pulling the door open for her, “Thank you.”

“Always.” He smiles, kissing her for a brief moment before he takes her hand and starts leading her down towards the dock.

A quiet gasp leaves her lips as she takes in the sight of the small boat dock.

Candles lit up the walkway going out to the end. Seven bundles of roses lined up the sides as well as rose petals scattered along the middle.

“Jamie….” Belle stops in her tracks as tears begin to rise above her water line.

Jamie grins as he takes her by the hands, pulling her close to him, bringing her hand to wrap around his neck as he let his own drop to her waist, “Isabelle….,”

“No, don’t drop to one knee right now.” Her bottom lips trembles as she looks into her boyfriends eyes.

A chuckle leaves his lips as he sniffles, “You know, Trevor caught me watching your videos the night before we met? I had found them a couple weeks before and watched them all, and I never picked up that you were related to Jack, Quinn and Luke. And then I walked out of the locker room, and there you were.”

“We went back to our house after dinner that night, and I couldn’t stop talking about how amazing you were so Trevor gave me your number and I was so terrified to do anything with it. Took me two weeks to build up the courage to text you and ask you to have lunch with me.”

“After, I went home and I called my mom. I’ve never told you this, have I?” Jamie stops to ask her, which she shakes her head no, “Good. I went home and I called my mom, and I told her, ‘This girl, she’s it. She is everything that I’ve been searching for. She’s it for me,’ and she just laughed me off and said, ‘Jamie, your young, you’ll have more than one experience like this’, and I told her, ‘watch me marry her.’.”

“We’ve been there for each other through every good, bad, up, down. Through sickness, career moves, through every hockey game, every time you needed someone to participate in videos for your channel, TikTok pranks, and your pregnancy scare last year.” Jamie kept going with his speech, never once losing eye contact with Belle as he did.

“And the other morning, I was sitting out on the porch, lost in thought about how I was going to ask your dad and brothers, when your dad came and sat down next to me. He could see it on my face that I wanted to ask him, and he asked me how long ago had I been thinking about asking you to marry me. For an entire year, the thought of marrying your had been in the back of my mind, but six months ago I finally got the courage to buy the ring."

"But the exact moment that I really knew that I wanted to have you for the rest of my life was last year when you packed up everything you made for yourself in California and moved with me to Philly." Jamie's thumb wiped away the tears falling from Belle's face, tears of his own falling. "Can I get down on one knee now?"

A sob rips through her throat as she vigorously nodded her head, "Please."

Jamie chuckles before pulling the ring box out of his pocket, dropping down to one knee as he looked up at the blonde, "Isabelle Marie Hughes, will you marry me?"

"Yes, of course!" A giggle leaves her lips as Jamie slides the beautiful ring onto her finger before standing up and bringing her into a deep, breath taking, kiss.

Loud cheers fill the air as everyone comes out of their hiding spots, Luke instantly rushing to his older sister, spinning her around in a tight hug.

"Oh, let me see the ring!" Ellen grabs her hand, smiling at the diamond ring resting on her finger. "Oh, my baby is getting married!"

No, I I won't stop your runaway heart I just wanna be why you stay Only thing about you that I'd change is I'd change your name

Jamie smiles as he watches his fiancee gush over the ring with her mother, that smile growing bigger as she locked eyes with him, “I love you.” He mouths watching as she mouths the words back.

[saradika]

— JUST A TASTE

[bleed for me masterlist] | [fic preview]

vampire!boba fett x f!reader

rated e - 8k

tags: vampire!au, blood/blood drinking, vampirism, longing and pining, biting, masturbation, chosen mates (instead of fated mates), teasing, fingering, brief edging, mind-meld, implied aphrodisiacs, piv, marking

a/n: I thought it would be fun to write a halloween one-shot for Boba, in the same world as bleed for me. This is with a different Reader, so there are some references to the series, but you don't have to read to enjoy!

When Fennec Shand appears in town with her new red eyes, everyone knows it’s only a matter of time before the Daimyo will be seeking a new Companion.

Luckily, you think you know just how to make sure he picks you.

Heat still lingers in your neck, your cheeks, as you slip from your tiny cottage to rush to the town square.

Cursing yourself for almost being late to the ceremony - a long table already in place within the old tavern, moved to the middle of the room. The old wood and stone ceiling blocking out the setting sun, making it safe.

He’s there. Your eyes find him right away - all that green against the shades of brown and grey.

The Daimyo.

Positioned at the head of the table, that helmet fixed in place. Looking like a ruler with the way he sits - so strong and straight-backed in the velvet chair, brought out just for him. It sends a shiver up your spine as you slip to the back, to give your own offering.

A small goblet, brought from home. The carvings in the wood smooth, burnished from the press of your fingers over the years. Curving petals worn down at the edges - traced over with your thumb, again and again.

It’s dull, next to all the gold and glass. The candles glinting off the gifts that line the long table - an ache still throbbing in the crook of your elbow, as yours joins the flight of others.

It's warm, in the tavern. Fuller than you've ever seen - bodies packed together. Your back presses against the thick wooden wall, standing on tip-toe to see over the pair in front of you.

Wanting to watch when that helmet lifts.

The tanned skin beneath, those red eyes that flicker in the candlelight. It's a rarity to see him this bare. Something precious that you tuck away, as your eyes rove over every detail.

You think he must be starving, from the dark shadows under his eyes. You can count back two months as to when Lady Shand had stopped walking through the marketplace in the day. Appearing again in her oil-blackened armor - a new, deadly quiet about her.

Everyone had known she would turn.

It had only been a matter of time.

Secrets were hard to keep, in a town as small as this.

You still had some. Others had theirs. Most you did not care about, but when it came to the coven of vampires, in their looming castle at the top of the tall hill - it had always been a fascination.

How beautiful - how benevolent - they are.

A hush settles over the crowd, as the first cup is lifted. Restraint shown in the tip of the glass, the single bobbing swallow of his throat as he drinks.

He could gorge. He could swallow every drop, but there's a carefulness in the way he moves.

Continuing the old tradition of the town - one that the Mand'alor had not followed. But after hearing of his searching - the path that had been so set for him - none of you could begrudge his choice.

The first goblet is placed back down.

His methods are unknown - he had arrived at the castle with Lady Shand by his side, already his Companion.

Would taste from each one?

Or stop, if one is pleasing to him?

Your odds are not in your favor, with the amount of offerings. Nothing stands out about your goblet - you had no gold, no bronze. Only an heirloom and yourself.

Fifth from the end, of a line of people who all had their own reasons to want to uproot their lives. Fortune. Pleasure. Running to something, or running from.

But did any of them see him for who he was? Like you did?

You don’t really care that he was a Daimyo, not really.

He could be anyone - a lesser lord. A commoner, like yourself.

Your wishes would stay the same.

It was what he had done, that had made Boba Fett a fixture in your mind.

To him, perhaps it had been a small thing.

Not worth remembering, in the life of someone who has lived for so long, with such experiences. Barely a blip, compared to the stories you'd heard.

Bounty Hunting and Rancors and Sarlaacs.

But to you, it had meant everything.

He had saved you.

Not in such a way as the Mand'alor had done for his Queen. That sort of saving would be written in song or word, someday, with the way the story was whispered in the streets.

There had been no witches, no fated meetings. No burned towns for Lord Fett to pull you from, to whisk you away to safety. No enemies torn apart, in revenge.

But it had been no less chivalrous.

It had been early in the day, and luckily so. Mid-morning and he would not have been out, not with what he was.

A few weeks into Spring, when your little stall in the market should have been blooming with your home-grown flowers, baskets of vegetables from your leased garden.

A late frost and a family of hungry rabbits had you far behind. On goods to sell and your payment for your use of the space. The few coins you had from the week before clutched in your fist as Lord Gorian Shard had loomed over you, demanding more than what you could spare.

Cutting down your promises to pay him back, if you could just have another week - a day, even. Deaf to your pleas.

You knew what you owed, but it hadn't been fair. Everyone knew he charged far too much for his stalls. But you had been desperate then, almost as much as you had been now.

A shadow had loomed, as every last silver and copper had been shaken from your coin purse. Tucked away into deep pockets, the pitiful amount added to what he already carried.

"Is there an issue here, Shard?"

The voice had cut through the morning haze was one you thought of often, the low timber. Slicing, like a knife.

You're sure you looked pathetic. Shard's hand gripping your forearm, pinching. The half-filled stall, the dust covering your tunic - swiped across your forehead from the back of your hand, while setting up.

But, the grip had loosened. And for the first time, the Merchant had lost some of his aloof, elitist air. A flash of worry crossing his features, as a Mandalorian had approached from the shadows.

His face had been covered, since dawn had broken - but there had been no mistaking him.

Boba Fett.

"No issue, my lord." Gorian Shard had smiled, his voice changing from the sharp tone he had used with you, "Just business, I assure you. Far too small for someone as busy as yourself, I'm sure."

There was a rough buzz from the helmet, the sound of a hum.

"How much more is owed?"

It became clear he had been listening. You hadn't looked to the shadows, and your heart had sunk. Embarrassment creeping around you, tightening like vines around your ribs.

“Fifty more gold." Shard had sniffed, making a show of checking his pockets.

Another hum, "A little early to be collecting payments, isn't? The quarter isn't for another month."

Shard had frowned, "I collect monthly, thank you."

Silence lingered then, for a moment too long. That worn green helmet flicked you way - your eyes only able to hold it for a moment, before they dropped. Examining the worn toes of your boots, wondering what he must think of you.

"Give us a moment."

You had thought he meant you - getting ready to step away, to give them some space.

Not expecting the helmet to snap towards the Merchant, as another order was growled out, "Did you not hear me, Shard?"

He had been too happy to oblige, quickly finding another debtor three stalls over.

You had also not expected the soft pouch of leather to be held out, pressed into your hands from Lord Fett's own belt.

Far heavier than your own, and you had immediately found the strength to meet his gaze again - to hand the gift back.

"I can't accept this." You had protested, "It is far too much, I can't pay this back."

He had considered you, for a long moment. You had wished you could see his face - your own reflected back at you. Pinched and worried and tired.

Pivoting gracefully, as he turned to look at your stall, "If you will not accept my help, then I wish to purchase your stock. Everything you have."

It's an out, for you. Another gift, a way to accept with what little dignity you had left intact.

Even if you were both aware that he had no use for your ware. That vampires did not dine on the food of humans. That the kitchens within the castle were already stocked with the finest goods available.

The gold had been offered, again. His voice low - almost gentle.

"Please do me this honor, my lady."

This bit of kindness, his voice, his honorifics - as if your presence had meant something, as if he truly considered this a favor to him - had stunned you. Enough that you had allowed him to press the pouch into your hand.

Enough that you had allowed the woman that had stepped to his side to pack up the flowers, the vegetables. Every single piece until your stall was as empty as it was, when you had arrived that morning.

Shard had watched, with narrowed eyes.

But - your debt had been paid. This month, and then the next. And then the next.

You began to look forward to his visits. Not for the gold, of course, but for him. The snippets of conversation - the solemn way he checked on you, the low timbre of his voice.

“Have you been treated well?”

“Is this enough?”

You’re sure you had looked foolish. Ankles crossing as you leaned across the booth. Trying to hide your smile but failing, as you protested. A game, you had played.

Always the same questions, the same answers.

“I can’t stop you from buying my wares… but I don’t want a copper more, my Lord.”

His fingers tapping twice on the wooden stall, before his reply.

“As you wish.”

Boba's kindness had changed your life.

The coin used to buy better seeds. Your little, rented home slowly filling out with warm bedding and good food and sturdy clothes - things you had always scrambled to find. Luxuries, before now.

And for a while, you had entertained the thought of leaving town. Saving up every gold piece, starting a new life.

You almost had enough.

But that had been before Lady Shand had turned. Before the rumors had spread that Boba Fett would be seeking a new Companion.

Your heart had twisted, with the news.

Jealousy. Longing.

It could be you.

He had become a fixture in your mind. Your evenings filled with daydreams. Keeping you company as you worked, dirt caking under your fingernails, as you imagined another life.

You could pay him back, in a ways. Show him how grateful you were, offering your blood - yourself - in exchange. You never would have dared hope before but this… this was worth trying, wasn’t it?

So, you did something risky.

Hoping it would pay off.

Hoping that perhaps… your feelings were not so singular.

It feels like you're holding your breath, as Boba moves down the table. Those cups handed over so carefully. That same, single taste from each one.

There's a tick of his jaw, at some. A pink peek of tongue dragging over a lower lip. No tells in his expression, no indication on where his mind leads.

And then, finally - he's at yours.

The wooden goblet hefted in his hand, his thumb brushing unconsciously over the etchings, like yours always did. Your fingernails biting into your palms, your heart pounding in your ears, an ache settling low in your belly - much like the one before, as you had been preparing.

And with the tip of a hand, he drinks.

The goblet lowers, as he swallows. A waver of his hand, as makes to set it back down to rejoin the others.

But then.... he pauses.

A lift of his brow, a slow tilt back - as he indulges in a second.

Before his eyes are sweeping across the room. Halting, when they find yours. The smallest lift of his lips, with his look of knowing.

Your cheeks burn, as he chooses you.

Everything happens so quickly.

Before you know it, you’re hoisted into a horse - whisked off to the castle that looms at the top of the hill. A promise to bring your things to you, though you’re sure it would take less than a wagonful.

Barely able to glance down the long halls, the ornate, stained glass windows, before there’s a hand at your elbow, guiding you.

A woman, younger than you. Quelling some of the unease at being in a new place with her gentle tone, as she takes you deep into the castle - up a wide stone staircase, through an ornate wooden door, and into a room.

It doesn’t appear to be his room, and you don’t know if you’re relieved or disappointed.

Bathed in shades of green and red and gold. Dark velvet curtains against the closed windows, blocking out the last rays of the sun.

Your guide parts from you here, a murmur that the ceremony will begin at sundown - that she will be back then to help you get ready.

Leaving you on your own to explore the space, until then.

A tall bed takes up the middle of the back wall, the frame a dark, carved wood. Thick blankets in tones of ivory and a rich forest green, lit candles on the wooden tables on either side.

There’s long wardrobe against the wall, the mirror glinting in the light. A ceramic vase painted with swirls of copper, roses and wildflowers spilling over the brim.

If you didn’t know any better, you’d think that some of the flowers almost looked familiar.

A door is half-opened to the left, next to the fireplace, the velvet chaise sitting in front of it. Already a thought lingers about how cozy the space will be in the winter, as you pad over to glance into the next room.

It’s all ceramic tile inside, opening up to a bathroom, The claw-foot copper tub filling with steaming water, and you long to slip into it, to wash the morning’s dirt from your knees.

And so, you do.

Your stripped clothes lie in a pile on the floor. A pleased hiss as you step into the water, the temperature tipping towards too hot. Sinking deep, up to your chin, as your head tips back against the rim.

It gives you time to think, as you all but float in the water.

Giddy, at the replay of the afternoon. That it had worked.

The way he had gone back, an indulgence. He had liked it - the taste of you - and that thought was thrilling.

A warmth settling in your bones, that had nothing to do with the water.

Picking apart the look in his eyes, where you felt certain he had been searching for you. It leaves you confident that your feelings had not changed.

The water is cold and you’re scrubbed clean by the time you leave. Lotions found on the countertop smoothed into your skin, the tired joints of your knuckles.

Fingers trace over the rack of robes you find next to the door. Soft silks and thick cotton and gauzy, see-through chiffon. Your cheeks burn at the thought, as you pull one out to hold it against you.

Imaging the red fabric against your skin. How little of you it would hide, in spite of it swishing around your ankles.

Eventually, you settle on something between the two - modest enough that you won’t be embarrassed to see your guide again.

Intentionally choosing something that reminds you of him - shades of green with thin, gold trim. The tie knotted carefully around your waist, skimming your thighs. The sleeves gathered at your forearms, the silky feeling luxurious against your scrubbed skin.

By the time you make it back to the bedroom, the edges around the curtains are dark - the sun long set. The blankets soft - the mattress dipping as you sit down on the edge, still taking in the room.

A knock comes, soon after. The gentle rapping of knuckles against the door - heavy as you pull it open.

Something flipping low in your belly, when you see your visitor.

Not the pleasant girl, who had chattered as she guided you up the steps. Smiling, as she bid you farewell.

It’s him.

Boba lingers outside your door, so unlike you’ve ever seen before. Clothed in black robes, his Beskar chest plate fitted on top. Your eyes follow down, seeing gloves and gauntlets, but no helmet - before you realize you’re staring. Your gaze quickly snapping up to his, already caught.

There’s a twitch of his lips. His own eyes wandering, though you missed them in your own exploration.

His voice low, amused as he asks, “May I come in?”

Heat licks at your skin as you nod - nerves skittering down your spine, at this unexpected development. Stepping back to allow him inside.

Ending up at the end of the bed again, your palms pressing into the bedspread to keep you from fidgeting.

“Is this room to your liking?” Boba asks, conversationally.

So casually, so pleasantly, that you’re frowning. Confused at his appearance. Assuming that he had come to feed - that he’d grown tired of waiting, his patience now thin.

“It’s beautiful,” You answer, honestly. Far finer than any room you’d seen before. The bath already feels like a dream, even though the perfume still lingers in your skin, “You are again too generous.”

“It is my pleasure.” His voice is low, his hands bracing against the chaise he stands behind, “By far the least I can do.”

A nod to your new situation. This new connection, binding you together. You knew about the ritual in the tavern, from the whispers from the Companions that visited your stall.

Flowers woven into their hair as they gossiped, your eager ears picking up everything you could.

But this, now, was unknown to you.

Was he just getting to know you? Or was there another step you were missing?

“Thank you, Lord Fett,” You smile. Fingers pinching at the blanket, gathering your nerves. A breath, before you can ask, “Are we… are we to begin now? I was told there would another ceremony.”

“Just Boba, please.” He clarifies, after a beat of silence - those dark eyes still fixed on you. That eye contact still holding, as his head tilts, “And yes, there is a ritual. When conducted, it takes place in front of the coven.”

It’s not an unpleasant thought. There’s something primal about such a ritual - the thought of him claiming you in front of his friends and peers.

Images leap to your mind, unbidden. Your imagining of the throne room, filled to the brim. Gathered up in his arms, the expanse of your neck appears as he dips you. Baring legs, baring arms, baring throat.

The flash of teeth, as they sink into your skin-

It takes another second, before you can gather your thoughts. Clearing your throat, as you ask, “Is that what you wish?”

“That would depend.” His steps are slow, as he rounds the chaise. Hands clasped behind his back, the green armor accentuating his broad chest.

“On?”

There’s the flash of teeth as he smiles, “On if you’re planning on changing.”

Heat flares in your cheeks, at the thought of your appearance. Acutely aware of the single layer that covers you, just a loose knot keeping the robe in place.

Is Boba Fett flirting with me?

Before you can answer, his head turns, “This ritual is more symbolic than binding. Any true decisions are made behind doors. We can continue here, if you’d like.”

You nod slowly. The thought of having him to yourself appealing, especially for the first night. A twinge of worry about the feeding - the crook of your arm still tender from where you were pricked to fill the goblet.

Not wanting to appear weak. Not wanting your desires to be laid out, exposed in front of everyone.

“I would not mind that.” You confess, “What kind of decisions do you mean?”

“There are many we can discuss.” His look turns thoughtful, “For one, your stall. If it is gold that brought you here, I would purchase it from Shard for you. You need not do this.”

That makes you blink - the offer kind. An unexpected, altruistic turn.

“No. That’s not why.” Your head shakes, “I’m here on my own. I wanted to-”

Your words cut off, afraid to say too much. A breath, before you add, “I have little other ties here. It was not the stall that brought me to the tavern."

Something in his face changes, a softening to that ever-steady mark between his brows. Those hands still clasped, as if stilling them, as he moves closer, “Are you not bound to another, ad’ika?”

“Do you mean a soulmate?” The question makes you blink - a little frown forming.

There were no marks on your skin. No ties to another, painted where their body had first touched yours.

You could find out. You want to joke, but it stays trapped on your tongue. A moment, before you shake your head.

“No.” A small breath, as you steel yourself, “I don’t believe in them.”

His expression flickers now - you’ve caught him off guard.

“You don’t believe? The Mand’alor has often walked the town streets with his. Do you doubt their connection?”

Curiosity tinges his words, and your head shakes again, “They were lucky, I think. And I think fate works for some. Just… not me.”

It’s as honest as you’ve ever been. Maybe he’ll laugh at you… but just maybe - he’ll understand.

Perhaps it had been luck that morning, when he found you. But fate hadn’t made him kind.

That had been all him.

And perhaps luck had also turned Lady Shand before you left - but it was you who had gone to the Tavern, goblet in hand. You who had leaned into his visits, tucking away each one.

“I’d like to think that I make my own decisions. That my own choices determine my path.”

“And is that what you’ve done?” He rasps, his eyes dark, “Made your choice?”

Your breath hitches at his tone, smooth and low. Managing a short, little nod in answer - not trusting ability to keep your voice level.

“Not all bonding is mates, little one.” He’s closer now. Enough that you can see the fine weave of his robes - the chips in his armor where a sword had peeled away the paint, “You know that, right?”

Your heart pounds in your ears - ignoring his question, as you manage to ask your own, “What do you want?”

His head cocks, the candlelight catching his eyes. That burgundy shimmer darkening. You find yourself holding your breath as you wait for his answer. Watching the way his lips pull in a smile, revealing the sharp points of his teeth.

“Oh, what do I want?” He repeats, slowly, softly. “I want you to show me what you did to make your blood so sweet.”

His voice drops then, as he moves closer, “And then I want to taste you for myself.”

Your breath comes in a ragged gasp. He knew?

The whispered rumor about making your blood near irresistible had been trusted, but you never thought he’s be able to tell.

His laugh is soft, “Are you getting shy on me now, sarad?”

Heat licks at you, embarrassment and desire swirling together into a heady combo. Your thoughts slipping between your teeth on their own, “How did you…”

Boba clucks his tongue, “It’s been a while, little one. But not that long.”

That snags in your mind, your attention shifting. You frown, fingers twisting around the silk ties of your robe, “What do you mean?”

His eyebrow lifts.

There were rumors that Lord Fett and the now Lady Shand were not romantically linked. But it had never been confirmed, and part of you had worried you were going to end up in a precarious position.

Not that you minded sharing.

“You’re stalling.” He chides again, “If I misunderstood, then-”

“You didn’t.” You’re quick to correct, the band of silk pinching around your fingers, “I’m just surprised, that’s all.”

His lips quirk at your answer, your boldness. An arm braces on the foot post of the canopy bed, close enough that your thigh brushes his hip.

“It has been a decade since I’ve drank from the throat of a creature as lovely as you.” His hand lifts, the back of his knuckle brushing against your neck.

No mark blooms under his touch, but you can’t bring yourself to care. You don’t need one to want him, or to love him. All you need is your heart - beating so fiercely, as that knuckle drags down to the hollow of your throat.

His fingers unfurling until the tips drag against your sternum, as your heart drops to beat between your thighs.

In a moment of bravery, your fingers tug on the tie. The knot loosing, and then pooling around your hips as the edges of your robe part, falling open.

His eyes follow, tracing your curves as they come into view. The rich fabric like a caress against your bare skin as you shift further back on the bed. Legs uncrossing as he steps between them - forcing them to nudge wider.

Heat pools in your belly, with his proximity. The knowledge that he truly intends to watch - close enough that his fingers could brush your skin, with how he bends - pressing his palms against the mattress.

Framing your thighs, as you lower yourself to your elbows. Nearly on display, the fabric still bunching at your waist, keeping you hidden.

If you hadn’t thought about him so often, perhaps you’d be a little more shy. But there was something so intoxicating about this. So honest and earnest in his tone - making you believe that because he said it so, he truly wanted to see you.

And you wouldn’t deny your Lord of anything.

Your eyes flip up to his, watching how he waits. Those hands still pressed flush, as his eyes rake over your form - an attempt to keep his hands from wandering.

But yours are not to tied down. Yours drift - trailing along the soft green hem. Down, towards the valley between your breasts.

It has you wondering if he can hear the way your heart kicks up a notch. At your touch, your intentions.

You think he must, with the way he shifts between your thighs, waiting.

The silky fabric pebbles at the tight peaks of your breasts. Soft as your fingertips run across them - a creak of his leather gloves with your soft sigh, as his fingers curl into the bedspread.

His eyes darker still, as you let your robe part further. Knuckles pinching, dragging over bare skin before drifting towards your navel. An urge to press your thighs together, an ache at the thought of things to come. At his words, already given.

There’s a rough noise, something gritted out that you miss, when the robe parts fully. When Boba can see you fully, his eyes dropping to where you’re slick already. Swollen and soft and warm, a pink tongue peeking out between sharp teeth at the sight.

A half-formed thought to tease - fingers parting yourself open. Your strokes slow, to dip slowly into your heat.

But it feels impossible to do so, with him watching. The second you slip against your skin, you’re sighing - quick to press and circle, your hips jolting into your touch.

He knows it’s for him. You can’t even pretend you’re still wet from before - those hours and that long, warm bath passing between then and now.

No, it’s his words. His voice, those suggestions.

Him.

From this angle he can surely see how you shine already. Knees pressing into his hips as your muscles clench, toes curling.

Can he see how your pulse thuds? How your blood races down, to where you ache?

The press of your fingers makes you whine, eyes taking in the expanse of his chest. Flicking down to where his hand rotates, gloved fingers touching down on the bed - moving to press against the curve of your thigh.

He watches your fingers, the way they press. Memorizing what makes your muscles clench, the soft sounds of your sighs.

You want his hands on you - to feel the strength of them for yourself. Molding you into his image, to touch you however he wishes.

To take you, as he tastes you.

It has your leg pressing into his touch, teeth biting into your tongue to keep you from begging.

“You want something.” His voice is soft, his eyes unreadable, “I can feel it, radiating from you.”

The air hisses through your teeth, sparks of pleasure pulsing where your fingers press. Slowing and stuttering at his words.

“You,” The word is sighed out, your eyes meeting his dark ones, “I want you.”

He smiles then, and it’s almost cruel. Teasing.

His hands curving around your thighs, moving slowly against your skin. Up until his thumbs are brushing against your inner thighs, nudging them wider apart.

“You managed just fine, before.” There’s a lilt to his voice, the raise of an eyebrow, “Or did you have some help?”

Your fingers slow as your brows knit, distracted by his question. How his fingers bump against yours, so close to where you burn - but still not touching.

“No,” Your head shakes, “I didn’t.”

I just thought of you, you want to tell him. I thought about this.

“Good.” He husks, and his hands leave you. A little whine slipping past your lips as he brings a hand to his mouth - using his teeth to rip the gloves from his fingers, “I only want your blood singing for me.”

It makes you clench, lips parting just in him for him to arch over you - a bare hand flattening against the bed near your ear. The other dipping between your lips when they part for him, sliding past blunt teeth.

You groan around him, cool and solid as they slip across your tongue. His eyes growing darker as your lips close around to suck, his thumb stroking the underside of your chin.

It’s bliss. Your mouth so beautifully full and busy as your fingers work, aiding your steady ascent towards euphoria.

All too soon they slide from you, leaving your lips glossy. Trailing down your chin, before dropping to fit between your thighs.

He didn’t need to, you’re already so wet. The tip of index finger slipping beneath yours, teasing at your opening. Sliding into you easily as you arch into his touch, feeling the fullness of having him in you. Already a bit of a stretch, and you squirm at the thought of more.

“So warm and wet.” His tone is almost reverent, his eyes dropping to your mouth, “I’d almost forgotten.”

Watching how you pant as his finger plunges deep, the pull of your brow as he slips from you, only to fit two inside with his next thrust.

Angling his wrist so he can curl them inside you, stroking against slick walls - finding a place that had your breath coming in a ragged gasp.

You’re close already. It had been easy, with him so close. Looking at you so hungrily, as you brought yourself closer. The feel of his fingers, filling and stroking you, teasing against that spot, has your muscles winding tight.

Boba shifts, leaning back. The hand pressing against the bed moves to wrap around your wrist, halting the needy circle of your fingers.

Your mounting pleasure plateaus, a frustrated sound in your throat. His fingers still fucking you, but that sharp edge slips from your grasp.

“Slower.” He rasps, pinning your hand down. Only allowing the tips of your fingers to each, “Need to get you ready for me. Is that what you want?”

“Yes.” You moan - automatically, without thought.

The thought makes you tighten around his, squeezing his fingers. His smile pulls to show sharp teeth, the slick slap of his fingers loud where they press into your pussy.

“Gods, I can feel you. Do you want it that bad, ad’ika?”

Your mind swirls, the weight of your tongue making it impossible to answer. Even with the tiny flick of your fingers, you can feel the pleasure in your belly start to crackle and burn.

That pressure increasing, each breath no more than a high gasp. Your vision starting to grow blurry, eyes heavy with lust, all of your concentration focused on the sweet spot between your thighs.

His name is torn from your throat, as you come when three fingers fit inside you. Crooking and stroking against your walls as you bear down around them, as he can feel how you pulse.

It drowns out your pleasure from before - hurried movements in the privacy of your home. You’re alight now - basking in the low hum of his words. Blurring at the edges, slipping through your fingers.

Fuck, that’s it.

My sarad, bloom for me.

Can’t wait to taste you.

The hand lets go to press against your hip, pinning you down. Making you take the steady pump of his fingers, as he draws it out.

“You can. Can taste me-” You gasp, your own fingers now still. A twinge that tips towards too much, as you grasp at his wrist. His hand staying buried in you, as his other curls around the back of your neck.

You brace for the bite, as your head tilts to offer your throat. Know it was coming from the start - eager to offer yourself in every way you could.

Not expecting the way he leans over you again. The ghost of warm breath before the press of his mouth against your pulse. Inhaling your scent as your heart flutters in your throat, the haze of your orgasm settling over you.

A rough sound as you moan, as he moves higher. Teeth nipping at your jaw. Realization swirling as there’s the hungry press of his mouth against yours - your own hands scraping across armor, grasping at his robes.

Curling around his shoulder to hold him to you, as you melt further. His lips are soft - yours are already parted, welcoming the dip of his tongue. Your legs hitching around his waist as his weight presses into you.

It’s comforting. It’s enveloping - your sigh swallowed as his hand slips from you. Pulling back from your mouth, as your head rising to chase after him.

Meeting those fingers instead - slick with your release, pressing against your lower lip. His own tongue swirling against one, as you share the others.

Your teeth graze, bite down on his fingers. His groan low as mouths meet again - with your taste on his tongue, with his hips pressing down against yours. Grinding himself against your bare skin, where you can feel the hard curve of his arousal.

“See how good you taste?” He rasps, lips brushing your cheek. “Fuck, can’t get enough.”

His arm curls around your waist, slick fingers shoving between mattress and your back. Lifting you like you’re nothing, with his enhanced strength. A flip in your belly and a little yelp, before you’re set back down.

Boba’s back rests against the ornate headboard. Your thighs spread wide around his waist, straddling him. The soft robe you wear dips down across your back, the fabric nestled in the crook of your elbows.

Hands splay across his chest, cool skin and hard muscle beneath. His eyes on the expanse of your skin - the slope from your neck, to your bare breasts beneath. That hand anchoring the back of your neck again, thumb sweeping the soft spot beneath your ear.

His eyes burn. Glittering embers in their depth, the sharp points of his teeth showing between parted lips. Something inside you stirs - know deep down that he truly means to taste you now.

To drink from you, as your head tilts back to offer the soft skin of your throat.

“It will hurt, a little.” He warns, voice low. Rough, as if he’s holding himself back, “But I’ll make you feel good. I promise, mesh’la.”

Your fingers twist in his robes. Eyes fluttering shut, as you wait for it to come.

But he has one last request, an edge to his voice that that fixes your attention.

“Keep your eyes open for me.”

It’s your last warning, before he’s leaning forward. The soft brush of his lips against your jugular, before he’s biting down.

There’s twin pinches, as your skin gives beneath his teeth. A burning throb as you gasp - unable to help the way you flinch, stiffening in his arms.

He groans against your neck as you flood his tongue, and there’s the sensation of pulling, the soft suck of his mouth.

But the pain does not linger. It soon bleeds into something more, that sharp edge twisting and transforming. That thudding in your neck tipping downwards. Past your chest, past your belly.

Nestling between your thighs with a very different kind of ache. One that has you shifting against him, the roll of your hips as he keeps you pinned with his teeth.

The robes he wears are thin. Not ones that go beneath his armor during the day, or to travel. Soft and fine as your fingers curl into the fabric at his shoulders.

Not at all concealing his need for you, something that stretches deeper than the urge to drink. Boba is stiff beneath you, his hardness trapped beneath the layers of cloth and your bare cunt.

Each squirm presses him against you. Something flickering in your mind, a sort of mirror to your pleasure. It feels like it strings out, wrapping around your limbs, tethering you together.

His teeth unlatch, when you reach down. A desire from deep inside to touch him, fingers sliding against fabric. Dampened from you, from the slide of your hips, the way you feel like you will burst, if he’s not inside you.

“Taste so godsdamn sweet.” He groans, tongue tracing over the marks on your neck. Where the blood still beads out, sweetened by your orgasm, “Knew it was yours, the moment it touched my tongue.”

Pulling back, to bring his mouth to yours again. He tastes like iron, like you - as your hand curls around him. Achingly hard under your touch, as your fingers trace down the curve of him, finding the edge of his robes.

“Fuck. You can have it, ad’ika. It’s yours if you want it.” His eyes are brighter, those shadows under his eyes less defined.

Hips lifting so you can draw him out, so smooth and heavy in your hand. On another day you’d want to stroke it yourself, feel the weight of it on your tongue. But you’re too desperate now. Already rising up on your knees, the robe parting like curtains at your hips.

The kiss breaks and there’s a soft protest as you line yourself up. Not for you to stop, for you to slow - merely for to take your time.

Though there is no desire to. The time you’ve already taken feels far too long, in this moment.

His hands move - sliding down to your hips. Resting there as you take him, the sharp stretch has the thick head parts you, as you slip down onto his cock. Even with the stretch of his fingers, it still feels like too much. A ragged gasp as your nails sink into his skin, though the fabric of his robes.

It twines with the pulse in your throat. Your fluttering heartbeat, the way you make room for him to fit inside you. His thick fingers flexing against bare skin as he bottoms out, as your thighs finally rest against his.

“Gods, you feel so good-” You keen - as you go still, for a long moment.

Breath caught in your throat, eyes widened as he watches. He shifts beneath you, the flexing of his legs as they stretch out beneath you. It moves him - a shallow thrust deep in your belly. That pleasure sparking, blending with the buzzing of your blood in your veins. Another roll of your hips, and then another.

Hands unfurling, slipping up to brace on his shoulders. Using them to aid your movements - the slow lift and drop that speeds up, as you get used to the feeling of him inside you. The way each stroke sends him against your walls.

His eyes are hazy - blood-drunk off you. Muscles strung tight as he lets you set the pace. Bouncing on his cock until you tire yourself out, until you beg for him to help you. Holding himself back, as your blood lingers on his tongue.

Your thighs burn with the effort. Head dipping down to see where he watches, the lounge of his shoulders against the headboard. How pretty you look, stretch around him. Something so fitting about how bare you are, against his layers - the edge of his armor, that bites into your wrists.

His fingers drift down from your hip, around the curve of your thigh. The pad of his thumb pressing against your clit again.

Following the rise and fall of your hips, circling against you the way he had watched yours move.

You swear you feel him throb in you, when his eyes raise. Lingering on your chest, the sticky smear of crimson against your skin - an errant drop from his eager drinking.

It’s then, that the scales tip. His body moving against yours - a hand wrapping around your back. The shift of his hips as he lurches forward, until it’s you that is pinned beneath him, back pressed against the mattress.

He’s deeper like this. Hips snapping into yours, as you cry out. Head dipping down, his tongue dragging against your clavicle. Down, to lap the trail blood from your skin as he groans.

You back arching into his touch as he presses open-mouthed kisses against your breast, a soft cry as his fingers find the other, trapping the tight bud between his knuckles.

“Could feel how much you wanted this.” His voice is a low rasp. Your thighs wrapping around him as he ruts into you. A circle of his hips grinding against your clit, slick and swollen from your connection.

Feeding off him, in your own way. Something sweet and heavy slipping through your veins. Your skin feels too sensitive - all your nerves alight under his touch. Head tilting back against the blankets as his weight settles over you.

As that feeling builds up again, faster this time. Racing, with the stretch of his cock. The way his hips roll back. Leaving you to clench around the tip, before plowing back in.

You’d never considered your mortality before, but it flickers in your mind now. Just how delicate you feel. A true vampire lord, able to crush you if he wanted.

Instead, he touches you gently - as his hand finds your wrist, his fingers curling around. A swipe of his thumb against your skin as he reaches to pin it against the bed. The other tucking beneath you, cupping the back of your neck again.

It sends another wave of heat between your thighs. The pound of his cock even louder than the press of his fingers, your slick arousal audible - layering with your cries.

There’s a warning on the tip of your tongue - the words coming out slurred instead. A soft, panting groan. Your heels digging into his lower back, eyes fluttering shut as he grinds himself against the spot he had found with his fingers.

“Twice wasn’t enough, ad’ika? Going to come again?” You can hear the grin in his words How it’s an inevitability, with the way he moves in you.

Unable to look away, with the way he holds you. Not that you’d want you, you think - even if you could. The fix of his gaze feels like a gift, bestowed upon you.

Captivating, with the way he soaks in every minute movement. The sweep of his eyes as he watches you start to fall apart beneath him.

You want to feel him again. That pounding surge inside your veins, that sensation of feeling even more connected than you already are.

So, you beg him for it. Eyes heavy-lidded where they find his. Your words punctuated with the hitching of your breath as you guide him down to your throat, with eager hands.

“Bite me. You can, I’m yours-”

Your pleas are impossible to resist, when his own pleasure thrumming in his belly.

He bites higher, this time. In a spot that even your tallest collar won’t hide, teeth pricking skin. Your cry turns into a groan as the rapture courses through you, seeping into your veins. Flooding his tongue, as he drinks again.

You shatter. Caught in his grip, unable to squirm with his teeth in your neck. His weight pinning you down as you pulse around his cock, your cry high and broken in the castle room.

He groans into your skin. The suck of blood over teeth, tasting how it turns sweet. Flushed with your ecstasy, an endless loop between his teeth and the tight clench of your cunt as you come.

For a moment, your eyes flutter closed. Images flicker behind your eyelids - shown as if you were outside yourself.

Red petals against green. Your perception darkened, as if behind a visor. Visions of you, leaning over your stall. Surrounded in a wreath of flowers, hand-picked from your garden.

A throb in your chest, one that blooms - skittering down your spine, settling low in your belly. Almost like butterflies, with how their wings feel like they flutter.

The sensation disappears too fast to make sense of - breaking, as he lets go.

Red smeared across his lips as the steady thrusts become short, messy. Fingers biting into your skin with the slap of his hips, the harsh grunt that turns into a ragged groan.

Hovering over you, as he notches himself deep, one last time. The column of his throat lengthening as his head tips back - it takes everything to resist the urge to make your own mark, as he spills messily inside you.

Throbbing, chasing the high with the grind of his hips.

His eyes losing that sharp edge, when his head tips down. Soft and warm, a sunrise welcoming a summers day.

Everything moves slowly, after. The lazy relaxing of muscles. The tilt of his lips when you whine, when he slips from you. His fingers slow, sweeping - as they dip down. Teasing where he drips from you, as your mouth finds his again.

Tender, as the robe is fully stripped from you. Boba’s words coaxing and patient, as he shows you the strap of his armor. How to take him apart, until you match - a perfect pair.

The aches that linger in your muscles are soon soaked away in the bath he draws. Your second today - a true luxury. The ceramic tub large enough for your back to cradle against his front.

You don’t think you ever want to leave.

Drowsy and content, his cool fingers welcome against your neck. A salve smeared carefully over the marks from his teeth. A promise that your skin will heal by morning, soft and smooth again - unmarried by his touch.

You think next time… you’ll ask if they can stay.

You’re warm against him.

Boba hasn’t been warm in years. Too used to his skin, carved from stone. Forever unchanging.

But you - you’re supple. Soft in his hands, molding yourself to fit the curve of his chest, where you cheek nestles. A thigh splaying over his waist, fingers splayed out against his stomach.

There’s much he should be doing. The sun has set some hours ago, and there’s a long list of things that need his attention.

But for now, for this moment, he will stay. Just a little longer, before he’ll slide out from beneath you, slipping away like a shadow.

You stretch against him, calf pressing into his thigh. Words heavy with sleep and exhaustion, so soft in the night air.

“‘m glad you picked me.”

There’s a stirring, in his chest. Where he thought he was long-dead, his palm pressing down where it rests against your back.

The briefest moment before he’s answering, an idle threat as a deflection.

Hushing you instead, his voice low, “Sleep, little one. You’re mistaken if you think I’ve had had my fill.”

You can’t help the smile, even as your teeth bite into your lip to stifle it. Squirming against him, the press of your center against the curve of his hip.

A low hum of amusement in his chest, as the arm that stretches beside you curls up - tucking around your ribs, nestling you a little closer.

He listens, as your breathing grows slower. Until you’re drifting off to a dreamless sleep.

Only then, does he let his mind wander. Back to the place where it had been earlier that evening. When he teeth were bared, that moment where his armor had been so thin.

“Don’t close your eyes.”

If you had, you would have seen.

Peeling back his memories, discovering just how often he had strayed down to the marketplace, after your first meeting. Not for gold or for payment. Only to catch a glimpse at the girl that had burrowed under his skin.

Somewhere along the way, changing from a casual observation - making sure Shard kept away - to something far more intimate.

Something akin to longing, if a man like Boba Fett could feel that way.

You would have felt - when the goblet raised to his lips for the second time…

Just how much he had hoped it was yours.

ad'ika - little one | sarad - flower | mesh’la - beautiful

If you made it this far, thank you so much for reading! 🥺💕 I wanted to explore some of the same themes but in a new way for Boba (rejection of fate, the intentional in the way they seek each other out, instead of the pull of soulmates) - I just thought that would be so fun. I hope you liked this! 💖

tagging some pals!: @margofiore, @marieg, @wingofshadow, @reaperofmen, @bobaprint, @phoenixhalliwell, @csboz, @imarvelatthestars

[the-fiction-witch]

Void Sickness

Media - Doctor Who Character - The Doctor (11th) Couple - The Doctor X Reader Reader - Y/n Rating - Sweet Word Count - 616

The Tardis console whirrs and flashes with its usual alien business. The doctor stood sorting things with the computer screen he wasn't really doing much as he often kept glancing across to Y/n, as he felt compelled to keep an eye on her. 

Y/n sat in the leather chair beside the console, having kicked off her boots revealing her fluffy white polar bear socks, grey leggings, white and grey plaid skirt and sleeve grey top with her large white yawn jumper over her, she'd pulled the sleeves of her jumper around her hands. Her head on the chair her hair up in pigtails, and her eyes closed as she took a small nap. 

She was feeling sick, and had been since their trip to Felazian Seven's Crystal Spa. 

And he was getting progressively more concerned about her. 

"You feeling alright?" He asked,

She stirred, "Humm? Ohh... yeah... sorry I uhh..."

He sighed and moved over kneeling on the glass floor and taking her cheek in his hand moving her face gently, "Come here,"

"I'm just a little tired," she says,

"Umm..." He mumbled as he checked her over, "Tired?"

"Mhm," she nodded, 

"Fatigued?"

"Mhm,"

"How do you feel? in yourself?"

"Cold... very cold..."

"Okay," he nodded taking her hand, "Let me see them," He said,

She tried to resist but he pushed up the sleeves of her jumper revealing that her hand was now this matt black as if covered with a velvet paint that seemed to suck all the light around it, He was taken back but he kept quiet not wanting to scare her, 

"Open your eyes for me,"

"It hurts to -" she whined 

"I know, I know it hurts but you have to open your eyes." he pleaded, 

She stirred and whined but slowly peeled open her eyes and they too were nothing but this darkness as if taken by the void. He nodded slowly and moved to press a tender kiss to her forehead,

"Don't you worry, close those little eyes and rest." He told her as he quickly got up to go to the console but she grabbed his hand,

"What's happening to me...."

"it's nothing-"

"Doctor..."

"Some crystal spas across the universe filter their water through a crystal known as Peslin, peslin is a good filler and is known to break down many different contaminants which it stores within itself. It's cheap and effective but... if left unchanged for too long peslin can become full of contaminants and when it does it begins to grow a... form of mould, in most species it's filtered out through usual biology at worse a week in bed..." he explained, "For humans, it can incubate sickness known as void sickness, the sickness flips the orders for your photoreceptive chromophores,your skin and body turn black and you reject light. You lack energy, body turns voidulous,"

"I- am I gonna die."

"no. No." He demanded, "You are not going to die." He said holding her face in his hands, "Rest, I am taking you to the best most advanced hospital in the universe and they are going to fix you up and you'll be back with those beautiful eyes that make me weak in no time." 

she nodded, and he nodded too and kissed her lips before he went to the console and began to get the tardis to head there. 

The doctor sat in the chair beside the bed holding Y/n's hand as she was slowly treated for the void sickness, he watched her with worried eyes before she slowly stirred and opened her eyes. As she did it revealed that her eyes were better back to their sweet Y/E/C eyes, which made him smile.

"Hi,"

"Hello,"

"Am I getting better?"

"You are getting much better sweetheart," He cooed moving and giving her a kiss, 

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

The Sticking Point 3

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as noncon, possible violence, illness, death, bullying, ableism, and other elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: You are sent in the place of your ailing sister to marry a stranger. (Regency AU)

Character: Loki

Note: Work is starting to get pretty busy again.

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me <3

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!)

Love you all. Take care. 💖

You are left undisturbed for near a day after the news arrives. You should be grateful for the reprieve but you cannot find respite among your unease. 

Edith is gone, your world is splintered, yet this marriage must proceed. Not for your own sake, but for your family's. You expect your father wouldn't be content to have you return to his household. The only benefit to your sister's tragedy is that he was able to rid himself of you.

Doreen informs you that you are to ready for another lunch. You choose a gown of faded peach and a bonnet with a narrow rim and white ribbon. She helps you dress before leaving to look in on your mother.

You look in the mirror and wonder if maybe you were prettier your voice wouldn't matter so much. You pin the brooch with the blue bird just below your neckline. You pretend Edith is there with you, talking you through this. I believe in you, sissy, remember when you stole my cap back from that angry hog?

You wait to be called. You hate to presume or wait around where others might be disturbed by your presence. It isn't Doreen who comes but another servant, a broad steely-haired woman. She bids you out and you follow meekly, gaze straying to the golden frames and painted canvas.

The meal is hosted in the dining hall. A long ebony table with matching chairs. Each seat is upholstered with emerald velvet and capped with curlicued posts. You are shown to yours by Parson to the one reserved for you. 

Your mother sits with her tears hidden behind her fan, not so much as looking in your direction. Doreen stands at her shoulder and offers a handkerchief. You can only hear the reprimand she would issue should you be blubbering so.

You rise as the duke enters, but not alone. Your mother leans heavily on the way, gathering herself with several flaps of her fan. She snaps it shut and tucks it away as she raises her chin, shooing away Doreen.

“Lady Thea,” Laufeyson begins before addressing you, “my parents, the Grand Duke Odin and the Grand Duchess, Frigga.”

He steps aside as an older couple stand regally in the archway. The man is burly but stout, with dark grey hair streaked with white. His jaw is set squarely and there is a familiar blue tint to his eyes. The woman is tall and blond and fair, her figure untouched by her age and her hair so golden that the grey strands only seem to make her shine.

You recognise them. The portraits in the main hall. Even with some decades since the artist’s work, they are beyond compare to their pigmented likenesses. They are as elegant and resplendent as their son. It sinks a rotten pit in your chest. Perhaps, they might not want you either.

“We’re acquainted, Thea and I,” Frigga declares, “I believe your father might recall her.”

“Yes, Lady Thea,” he bows, “I know your husband better, I’m afraid.”

The duke has a pinched look to his lip as he listens with his chin high. He moves stiffly, gesturing to the table, “mm, yes, let us be seated–”

“Loki,” Frigga says as she slowly wades forward, her skirts rippling like water, “what about your brother? He received an invitation, didn’t he?”

“Mother, certainly he did, but he is ever… unpredictable,” Loki offers. It is jarring to think of him as anything but the duke. To think he is anything but the master of Jade Park.

“Lady Jane is with child,” Frigga counters, “it might take them some time.”

“Lady Frigga, Lord Odin,” your mother begins, “I cannot remark upon your son’s hospitality enough. He’s been a wonderful host, especially…” she pauses and turns her head, touching her cheek with a gloved hand.

“Oh, we were distraught to hear of Lady Edith. Such a tragedy. So young and beautiful.”

You stare at the wall. You try not to think of the statement laced between her words. You are young too but not so beautiful.

“And your younger daughter is endearing, that is a rather charming brooch,” she turns her green irises on you.

“Thank you, Lady Fwigga,” you hold your head high as you cling to a thread of dignity.

Her cheeks bulb and there is a slight tremor in her chin before she can answer, “oh, that is a peculiar accent, dear.”

You don’t know if you should thank her. You can’t tell if she holds any derision but you’d prefer she not mention it. It’s obvious, it needn’t be emphasized.

Your eyes skitter over to Odin who watches you with quiet consideration. He does not hold the same disapproval as your father but you can’t read much in his face.

“She is all I have left,” your mother bemoans, “two daughters. That’s all I got. How I wanted to give my husband his heir but… it was not to be and now…”

“Oh, Thea,” Frigga drawls, “if you are to fraught to remain–”

“No, no,” your mother expands her fan and pushes air into her face, dabbing her tears with her knuckle, “no, I’m so happy for our families to come together.”

“As are we. It is only sensible–”

She is interrupted by some furor at the other end of the house. A smile curls her lips as a booming voice fills the corridor like thunder. As your eyes drift towards the doorway, they meet Loki’s. He looks at you with a furrow between his brows before he shifts his gaze towards the clamour.

The men rise first. You get to your feet as Parson rushes in to announce the new arrival. As he introduces Lord Thor and Lady Jane, he is almost breathless. The couple appears behind him, the towering duke clapping the groom’s shoulder so he staggers. The duchess gives a pretty smile to the grand duchess as her hand rests on her rounding stomach.

“Oh, Jane,” Frigga sweeps across the chamber to embrace her daughter-in-law without pretense, “you are immaculate,” she pulls back and cradles her cheeks, “you look well.”

“Do I? I’ve been struck sick for days.”

“But it shall pass,” Frigga avows and beckons the duchess with her to the table, “Lady Jane, my first son’s wife.”

You bow your head and your mother does the same, taking the lead as you remain silent, “Lady Jane, a delight to… meet you. Oh, my apologies,” your mother fans herself more rapidly, “your eyes, they have the same shape as my dear Edith’s.”

“Edith?” Jane utters and looks at Frigga. The grand duchess leans over to whisper gently. “Oh, my condolences, Lady Thea, oh and such timing as this?” She turns to you, “a betrothal is supposed to be a joyous affair, I cannot bear to think how you are doing.”

You don’t know what to say, as often you find yourself lacking. Your lips tremble but you do your best to keep your composure.

“I will miss my sista vewy much,” you try to speak slow and clear, but it just sounds clumsy, “I didn’t know…” you see the flicker in her eyes, the dimple in her cheek, the judgment casting a shadow over her, “I didn’t know you and yaw husband would attend.”

Jane’s lips part and her brows rise as she looks at her mother-in-law. Frigga tries not to acknowledge the almost taunting expression. You can’t. You feel it throttling you. Just be quiet.

“How fetching,” Thor intones, surprising you as he comes to stand behind his mother and wife, chewing a biscuit he snatched from the tray.

“Fetching?” Jane scoffs.

“The way she speaks, yes? I think it is… interesting.”

“That hardly matters,” Frigga insists, “it is what one says, not how they say it.”

You clamp your lips together. You want to crumple to the floor and sob. You don’t want to be stood here like some jester to entertain these people. You want to go home and see your sister’s casket. You want to be near her, even if she’s not really there.

Again, you find Loki’s distasteful glare. His throat bobs and his lips thin even further.

“Yes, yes, let us sit and eat. My staff has worked the morning to prepare us a fine lunch,” he chides, “I’d hate to see it wasted.”

🔹

You stare at your untouched plate of cold meats and cheese. You’re not very hungry. Perhaps it is grief, or more likely it is shame. You want to shrink down to a morsel of dust and disappear.

There is an odd sort of skill acquired by those who are quiet. Observation. The ability to see so much, to take in every gesture, every twitch, every look with meaning. And you do not miss those errant gazes in your direction. Some with anticipation, others with dread, each waiting for you to say another twisted syllable.

Your mother fills the silence you refuse to break. She regales the table with the story of how she met your father on the promenade, how he trod on her skirts, and she hit him with her reticule. A tale you’ve heard anon.

She hiccups suddenly and cups her hand over her mouth. You turn to look at her as her wrinkles deepen and her gulps become sobs. She shakes her hand and waves her other. Doreen appears at her shoulder.

“My lady,” the servant says.

“Oh, Lady Thea,” Frigga dismisses the maid with a subtle flick of her fingers, “let us get you some air. It is such a lovely day, and I believe we do have some matters to attend to.” She helps your mother to her feet, hanging on to her elbow, “Lord Odin, you will accompany, in case she faints.”

Odin grunts. He hasn’t said much of anything. He seems more enamoured of this plate. As he stands, he stuffs a roll of sliced ham into his mouth. Chairs scrape as you stand to see them off. Doreen follows the older trio through the archway as they set off.

You resume your seat and watch the tablecloth. Your mother was of little assistance while present but without her, you are defenseless. Loki sips from his tea as Jane spears a slice of pear with her fork and Thor cracks a hard-boiled egg in his hand.

“So, I’ve not seen you before. You haven’t debuted?” Jane asks.

Your eyes flit up to hers. You almost don’t believe she’s talking to her. You’d been praying they’d forget you were there.

“My sista was ill and she is older so I was waiting until she went fast.”

“Fast? Went fast?” Jane repeats as she pretends to think, “went fast where?”

Loki sighs and sets his cup on the saucer with a harsh clink, “first. She meant first.”

“Oh, my, apologies, I’m afraid I have a bit of trouble understanding you. I don’t think I’ve heard any sort of affectation,” he smiles falls to something more sinister, “it is rather… garish.”

“Jane,” Thor says through a mouthful of egg, stopping himself to swallow, “she speaks clearly enough.”

“I’ve heard of physicians who can tend to that. They can teach you how to pronounce your words properly. Through repetition.” She enunciates each word, making sure to move her lips deliberately.

You fight a grimace. You swallow and look at your plate. It isn't the first time someone's made those comments, she will doubtful be the last. Just like those boys who used to call you 'widiculous' or 'wavishing'.

“Please, this doesn’t need to be a whole point of conversation,” Loki reproaches.

“I am only offering advice.”

“You are the one who spoke to her. None of us wanted to hear her.”

“Loki,” Thor says appalled, “she is to be your wife.”

“I was supposed to marry her sister. The normal one. The dead one.”

You flinch and let your shoulders slump. You bring your hands up and cover the brooch on your dress, as if holding Edith tight. Your lip pokes out as you fight a tide of grief that threatens to erupt.

“Aw, look, she is going to cry,” Jane taunts.

“Jane,” Thor’s voice hardens, “no more.”

Jane snaps her lips shut and rolls her beautiful hazel eyes. She pops the slice of sugared pear into her mouth behind her cruel smirk. Loki sneers at his fork as he twirls it in his hand. Thor gives you a glum look but it lands like a slap. He cannot relate to you, he can only pity you, and that is worse than contempt.

“If you are cuwious, Lady Jane, I have been to many physicians. They cannot help me,” you shrug, “just like they could not help my sista.”

Thor clucks and lets out a breath through his nostrils. Jane doesn’t falter, smiling as she chews, and Loki pushes himself to his feet. His chair threatens to topple as he swivels on his heel.

“I would see to our parents, make certain they are well and that this… contract is still in effect,” he takes rigid steps along the table, “I should hate to squander any more time in uncertainty.”

[johaerys-writes]

Chapter 2: i'd like to mean it when i say i'm over you

Read on AO3 | Read from the beginning

Patroclus wakes up to darkness again. The sky is a thick, smokey grey beyond the tall windows, interrupted by the tiny occasionally blinking lights of the skyscrapers and the moon that reflects on the surface of the sea in the distance. 

He pushes himself up with a sigh, rubbing the crick in the back of his neck that the couch left him with. Achilles is still sleeping soundly in the bed, obviously much less affected by jetlag than Patroclus is, unused to travelling as he is. 

His gentle breathing is the only sound in the room other than the hum of the air con just at the edges of his hearing. He is illuminated by the distant glow of the buildings nearby, and Patroclus studies the way his chest rises and falls with each breath. In this moment, still suspended between sleep and wakefulness, nothing feels real. Them being here together doesn’t feel real, Achilles sleeping only a few feet away from him doesn’t feel real. In the past year, Patroclus has spent so many sleepless nights wishing Achilles were right there next to him, and berating himself that he did, that this all still feels like a figment of his imagination, a drawn out anxiety-induced dream. 

Patroclus gets up quietly, as quietly as he can, and searches in the dark for his clothes. 

The hotel gym is empty at this time of day—or, perhaps, night. It isn’t day yet by any stretch of the imagination. Patroclus warms up on the treadmill for a bit, flicking through the international channels on the TV in front of him, then sweats out some of his unease and pre-conference jitters on the weight machines. By the time he finishes his workout, the sky is tinted a muted, greyish sort of purple, and the hotel lobby is waking up with activity. Patroclus pats his face and his neck with a towel and takes a big swig from his water bottle as he takes the elevator back to his room. 

When he walks into the room, Achilles is already up, sitting at the table before the laptop.  

Patroclus’ laptop.

“What the fuck—” Patroclus reaches the table with a couple of quick strides. He snaps the laptop shut and cradles it protectively against his chest. “What the fuck are you doing?”

“I just took a peek, that’s all!” Achilles holds his hands up in a placating gesture, but Patroclus knows him well enough to know he isn’t guilty of his actions in the slightest. “You’ve been so weird and cagey about everything that I simply had to check it out. Can’t blame a guy for being curious.” 

“This is private,” Patroclus snaps at him. “Do you even know what private means? It’s password protected for a reason! You can’t just—hack your way into anything you want!” 

Achilles breathes out an amused chuckle. “I’d hardly call that ‘hacking’. It really wasn’t hard to guess what the password was.” He tilts his head to the side with a small kitten smile. “Especially since it’s my birthday.”

Patroclus glowers at him, his face growing uncomfortably hot. He knows it’s stupid and naive of him to have the same password for pretty much all his accounts and devices, especially if it’s the same password he’s had for years ever since he and Achilles set up their first email accounts together when they were like, thirteen.

“Why do you still have my birthday as your password, Pat?” Achilles asks, his voice a velvet purr. “Is it because you’ve missed me? Can't bear to be without me?”

He leans back in the chair, his lips curling in a smug smile. His eyes are still a little puffy with sleep, a faint imprint of the pillow on his cheek, and he’s still the most beautiful thing Patroclus has gazed upon today, or possibly in his life. 

Infuriating, that. 

“Stay the fuck away from my laptop,” he growls, jabbing at the air with his finger. “If I see you anywhere near it again, I’m kicking you out of this room. And I don’t care if you’ll have to sleep in the streets for the rest of the week. Do you hear me?” 

Achilles’ knowing smirk doesn’t fade, and that spikes Patroclus’ temper even more. He jerkily shoves the laptop in its case, then slams the bathroom door closed behind him before hopping in the shower. 

If he doesn’t throttle Achilles by the end of the week, he’ll consider it a miracle.

 Read the rest on AO3

[solomiracle]

when i think of them, i think of...

inspired by this post by @shoccolatine, check it out!

LUCIFER

his smile — whether seductive, sadistic or genuine

reds, blacks/greys/whites, golds

his study — the skull on the wall, fireplace, the red velvet chair | you reading by the fireplace, enjoying the quiet crackling sounds as he works

his demon form — the red gloves, the horns, the wings, the peacock feather details on his clothes, the diamond on his forehead

his fur lined coat, his gloves, his tie

his eyes, specifically the reds at the bottom

apples, poison, fangs, blood

ghosts, grief, loss | him petting a sleeping cerberus as he sits by lilith's statue. he's silent, not wishing to disturb her

how much he loves his family — how he's willing to be a villain to anyone he feels may harm them, from you to his own father

cosmic and body horror, upside-down crosses, eyes, destroyed psyches, crackling, warped reality, the sound of bones snapping

the skeleton in his room

records, wine, comfortable silence, quiet nights

MAMMON

him laughing as he and you drive in a getaway car

his laugh, his smile, his sunglasses, his jacket

that little pose he does where his hand kinda covers his lips, usually done when he's feeling confident

his silliness — the dumb excuses for doing (or not doing) something, his even dumber schemes, running/hiding from lucifer, his tsundere-ness, how he says "yikes!"

gift boxes, jewelery, gold, silver, money (coins and paper)

casinos, the word "jackpot", poker, slot machines, cards, dealers

the casino fight scene in black panther, specifically the part where claw's hand thing shoots the cabinet and the money flies everywhere

his wings

his familiars | him petting and praising them for doing a good job, like catching stray grimm or reporting important info

him punishing people who don't pay back their debts — they find themselves in an empty street, fog rising and crows soon surrounding them

how much he respects lucifer, how he followed him into hell without question

how despite all the fighting and dumb stuff that he does with his family, he still values his role as a big brother

LEVIATHAN

this card (the pre-devil's flower)

him at his pc, laser-focused in on a game. he's glaring at the screen, fangs bared, determined to win

his room — the bathtub, the jellyfish, the aquarium, the figures, henry 2.0 in his little fish bowl

headphones, game controllers and consoles, screens, neon colors (greens, blues, purples), keyboards

anime, magical girls, figures, sparkles

his loud ass OOOOHHHHHHHHHWWOOOOOOOOAHHHHH voice line

his tsundere-ness and shyness, how he gets flustered so easily, how cute he is when he blushes, your love and affection for him being "too high level"

how he seems to have a soft spot for the twins

his demon form — the tail, the diamond pattern along his neck, his weird zipper jacket thing, his horns | (a fic i read where the author described his horns as antlers, and they headcanon-ed that they shed every season)

fish, colorful coral reefs, bright blue seas, bubbles, beaches, snakes

deep dark oceans, octopus/giant squids, sea monsters, ships, the navy, admiral uniforms, lotan

SATAN

orange cats, piano music, books, libraries, coffeeshops, soft greens and browns

him sitting in a greenhouse. sunlight filters through the glass walls and plethora of green plants. he's smiling as he reads a book, an orange cat sleeping in his lap

his professionalism — he has many connections, and he prides himself on his intelligence. "people respect someone who's well-informed."

how he's a gentleman, almost like a fairy tale prince

love and lovesickness | him writing love letters and poetry for you, a giant smile on his face as he comes up with the most beautiful words to describe you

him becoming incapable of reading love stories when you're away, for all he can think about is you while reading them. his fingers delicately trace the spines of his many romance books, but he refuses to open them. just the thought of doing so is too much to bear

his room — the beauitful shade of purple, the window, the books, the candles

fire, chaos, destruction, broken buildings and bones, screaming, rage, fangs

his eyes, a beautiful green

his demon form — the feather boa, the horns, the ribbon ribcage design on his shirt

the things that make him stand out compared to his brothers, compared to everyone — his symbolic animal is a unicorn (the only fantasy animal), his black eye shine, his butler outfit is the only one with three patches on the sleeves

his pose — one hand on his hip and the other on his chest, just like lucifer...

ASMODEUS

pinks, yellows, oranges, and more pinks

his cute smile and giggle

his demon form — the bat wings, the gradient horns, the bleeding hearts on his arm, the asymmetrical legs | (the redesigns i've seen from people where they include a scorpion tail)

scorpions, sand, heat, blood, bloodlust, hearts, gore, passion, obsession, love

diaries, glitter gel, sparkles, cute nicknames

spotlights, music, singing, stages, partying, drinking, clubs, sex

bunnies, strawberries, fluffy and fuzzy textures, fangs

his eyes | (the fics i've read where the author describes their color as champagne)

him lying in bed on his stomach, fresh out of the shower in a cute robe, slippers, and headband. he's writing in his diary, kicking his legs, smiling as he thinks about you

lipstick, blush, makeup, nail polish, influencers, devilgram, livestreams

(red) hearts, both the symbol and the organ

his positive energy — his ability to light up a room, how he wants everyone to join in and have fun, asmo nights, how he sees the beauty in everyone

how much he cares for his family — he painted their nails so everyone would know them as brothers, how he's determined to make sure satan feels included

his insecurities — he ties himself to his image and appearance, to the point that when you were the first to compliment his personality alone and not just his looks, he was surprised

how he acts like a helpless damsel in distress while also being the most viscous character

that scene in season one, where he said that if you were thinking about belphie while with him, he would rip your heart out | (it made my heart beat faster, but not out of fear)

BEELZEBUB

reds, oranges, yellows

the sun, bright blue cloudless skies

him being the cause of plagues and famines. a scene of him summoning swarms of locusts to gorge on crop fields, leaving nothing left, still unsatisfied

wheat and corn fields, apple orchards

his wings | (i saw someone describe them as fairy wings)

dense, mossy, and enchanted forests. twisting trees and twinkling fairies, mushrooms and flowers growing everywhere

bugs — bees, butterflies, flies, grasshoppers, beetles, locusts

bears, squirrels, lions, grass, honey, fluffiness, cuddling

his smile, how adorable his blush is

calling him beautiful or sweet, watching him blush in embarrassment. a big, ravenous demon turning into mush after being complimented by a human

how he loves his family more than anything — his extreme survivor's guilt over lilith, how he said he would die for lucifer, how he became enraged and even attacked lucifer once the truth about belphie's whereabouts were revealed

even with how he's a big brother to belphie, they're still twins, making him the youngest of the brothers as well — he has his own bratty behaviors, throwing tantrums, being a karen at restaurants, stealing food from levi every morning. he's the biggest brother, but he's still another baby of the family

his hair

his jacket and shirt | (they both look very comfy, and i would love to wear them)

hunger — hell's kitchen, banquets, expensive meat, clusters of grapes, plates, forks and knives

fangs, tongues, gore, cannibalism

BELPHEGOR

dark purples and blues, blacks, white accents

space — starry night skies, the moon, constellations

sleep, teddy bears, pillows, blankets, dreams, illusions, ghosts, nightmares, fear

the cow jumped over the moon nursery rhyme

cow print — it's on his pillow, his demon form's jacket, and his swimwear jacket too

his horns, which are similar to that of a dorset horn sheep

him looking down at sheep mc's bell in his hands, a solemn look in his eye. maybe mc's in the human world, or maybe it's been years after their death

regret and grief — not being able to save lilith, his love for humans turning to hatred, his fight with lucifer, the attic, lesson 16

how he and lucifer were said to be close before the attic...

beel, lilith, and love — he doesn't blame beel for saving him, and called beel an idiot for believing otherwise. he learned about the circus in the human world, and pretended to be a ringmaster while trapped in the attic. he let lucifer get rid of lilith's room, and said goodbye to her

his sarcastic and bratty little shit-ness — his "innocent" bitchass smile, his giggle, how he embodies the youngest sibling and baby of the family, the anti-lucifer league

a fanart i saw of him in his TSL outfit, the description being "the princess is locked in the tower for a reason..."

[letters-unsending]

No. 38

////

Villain is disguised as a Hero and Superhero takes them to a safe house.

////

Villain had only ever seen Superhero from afar. He was a sharp line, silhouetted in red by the rising sun on the eve of battle. He was a streak of gold, tearing through opposition with a sure hand. He was a squared figure with shoulders pulled back, hands curled round and claiming the podium in front of him as he addressed the crowd with a voice that bellowed chest-deep.

Walking beside him felt like trespassing, like treading the line between concept and reality, and Villain startled as Superhero squeezed his shoulder.

“We’re almost there. It’s right down this street.” Up close, quiet, Superhero’s voice lost its bold tenor. It was soft, scraping, catching along each word like the gravel under their heels. The sound slid down Villain’s spine, too textured, too real and the pressure of Superhero’s hand suddenly screamed into his nerve. Villain held back every instinct to wrench himself away. Trapped beneath his sternum, fear writhed like a dog with a frothing mouth.

“Sounds good,” Villain hummed. He let his body rise back into Superhero’s palm and recalled each bone below. He thought about the thin, winding clavicle and the curved back of his scapula; he thought about the tendons and muscles drawn between. He thought about how easily Superhero could choose to clamp down and shatter him all the way through.

Superhero drew his hand away and Villain sagged, tucking his sigh of relief into a shallow cough as he lingered a few steps behind. It was easier this way, to stare at his back, to break him down into the line of his spine and the breadth of his shoulders. He wondered how many steps it would take for Superhero to completely dissolve into the distance. The clouds of ash would smear him grey and formless. The wasteland would enfold him.

Superhero turned, debris churning beneath his boot, “are you coming?”

“Yes.” A hound cried in the distance. Villain jogged forward.

////

The safehouse had only lamps for light. Superhero set one on the table and wiped the oil from his fingers as the flame flickered in its glass shell, casting a molten, wavering glow over the small room. He sighed and sunk into an old armchair. Like the couch Villain was settled in, its cushions were clotted with dust and soured by mildew, but Superhero slumped into it all the same, tilting his head back toward the yellowed ceiling tile.

Once more, Villain’s stomach jumped at the wrongness of the sight. Superhero belonged in throne rooms, with a mantle of velvet cast over his shoulder and a crystal wine glass pinched between his fingers. He should’ve only been visible in the fullest light, rendered in sharp edges and planes, constructed in poise and power, and nothing more.

The rusty light and warm shadow sunk Supervillain further into the chair. Flaring, the glow licked across his knuckles as they rolled and tensed, and Villain discovered that the back of his hand was scraped raw. The darkness implied scratches and furrows, but Villain couldn’t see the blood; the shadows were too rich and flushed in the lamplight for the red to show.

But Superhero could see blood. Of course, he could see, with those inhuman eyes, animal pupils swollen black in the dark.

“You’re bleeding.”

Villain's brow twitched. He knew where the cut was; a bright line of pain arced from his ear to the base of his skull. At first, he’d thought it was sweat, slipping down his neck, but it was warmer, slower, and grew tacky as it seeped into his collar.

“It’s fine,” Villain replied, tongue dry, not daring to look away from Superhero. He focused on the shadow beneath Superhero’s brow. It deepened as Superhero frowned, sinking into the folds of his skin.

Superhero tilted his head and dragged his gaze across Villain, slow, methodical, and keen. Villain’s arm was thrown over the arm of the couch and his spine bent to accommodate the sagging fabric behind him, which cast his legs in a long and languorous sweep. It should’ve been an easy posture, but Superhero saw the hard, locked angles of his joints. He saw the way Villain kept his head from hitting the cushion, neck straight and jaw drawn so tight it made his cheeks ache.

“It’s safe here,” Superhero assured and Villain almost bared his teeth, “you can relax. Once headquarters receives our distress call, they’ll come and retrieve us. It’ll take no more than a few days.” Superhero’s voice was soft again, softer than it was on the walk there. The syllables slinked, lifting the hairs on his arms.

Safe. Villain pushed his tongue against the back of his teeth, staving off a grimace. How safe could it be, sitting alongside a man steeped in shadow–a man who could rend the very room in ribboned halves?

“I am not used to battle,” Villain’s breath cracked, and he wished it was fake. He wished that each pitching breath was for show, rather than real fear leaping onto his tongue. “I’m terrified,” he looked up and Superhero stared back, “scared of it all.”

Superhero rose from his chair and Villain curled further into his seat, tucking his heels beneath the underside of the couch. “I’m fine,” blood slithered down behind his ear, “just nerves. Everyone gets a little shaken up after a big battle.”

The lamp flickered, flame jumping as Superhero bumped into the table and settled on the couch beside Villian. Fabric rustled. Dust floated up around Superhero’s thighs, glimmering like floating embers in the light before drifting down to his feet.

“Your fear doesn’t make you weak. You don’t need to excuse anything.” He settled a hand on the couch, leaning forward. His face was stiff, focused; his sclera burned orange. “There’s no shame in injury either.” Villain glanced down Superhero’s knuckles, finally able to follow the red–dark, deep, and ripping all the way into his forearm, disappearing between the torn fringes of his sleeve.

“I believe we’re both guilty in that regard,” Villain whispered. He willed his sternum still, scarcely breathing.

“Yeah,” Superhero smiled, keeping his eyes on Villain’s, “it’ll heal fine though.” Superhero leaned further on his arm. Villain wondered if it hurt, wondered if Superhero even felt the blood slipping down the side of his palm and onto the cushion. “Do you mind if I take a look at your head? You’re probably going to need to bandage it. Head wounds are never pretty.”

Villain had pushed so far into the end of the couch that the side of his leg burned, but Superhero was still so near. His weight spilled over, sinking into the space strung between them, and Villain felt his presence like a phantom touch, clutching his shoulder and cupping his ribs; awareness blazed along his side. Villain blinked. He breathed through his teeth and Superhero waited in perfect stillness, predatorily calm.

“Sure.” He turned his head toward the wall and offered his up his ear. In front of him, there was a window, cracked, fogged, and warped with age. Water had broken through and rotted the mantle. He tried to follow the dripping lines where rain had eaten through the wallpaper and spliced it into wilted silver whisps, but his vision swam, trying to climb back into his head, into the weeping wound.

“Do you mind if I move your hair?” The couch creaked. Superhero shifted closer.

“Whatever helps,” Villain spoke to the spiderweb fractures in the window. He listened to Superhero’s breath, then felt it as it washed over his blood-matted curls, a warm, dragging breeze.

His first touch was tentative. Fingers whispered into his scalp, slipping across his skin like a sigh. Villain should’ve flinched, should’ve lurched, should’ve done anything to snap the tension corded and coiled in his chest, but Superhero’s terrible hand was tender. Villain could only spill forward and clutch the arm of the couch. The fabric scraped against his palm.

“That bad?” Superhero asked, touch retreating as Villain slumped away.

“Just getting comfortable,” Villain whispered. Any louder and he felt like he would choke. Again, he tilted his head and proffered his hurt for display.

Superhero was firmer this time, parting his hair, letting the wound breathe. As Superhero prodded the hot, bruised skin running astride the cut, Villain exhaled and rested his chin on the top cushion, looking at the window again. The glass had taken a silver sheen, misted with the onset of rain. The first droplets carved delicate white arcs downward before settling in the broken seams and divots.

“Someone got a pretty hard hit on you.” Superhero noted, finding that purples of the bruise spread much farther than the neat tear. Villain knew that much. Supervillain had grinned before swinging the iron end of his staff into the base of his skull.

Villain hummed in affirmation.

////

“You’re bleeding.” Villain echoed the statement, much later. The candle had burned out sometime during the night, and white morning light washed through the room in its stead. No longer warm, no longer tucked into the bed of shadow, Superhero leaned back into his chair in an arrogant sprawl. He should’ve looked untouchable again, divinely separated from the world around him.

But his fist trembled against his stomach, bunched in his shirt.

The cloth was stained. Terrible. Red.

[freya-fallen]

Yandere Sebastian Michaelis

CWs: stalking, demons, non-con kiss

word count: 1174

Part 2

It is the cats that draw him, naturally.

He first sees you as you're luring a pregnant queen into a carrier. By the way she butted against your hand, you were already familiar.

"I know, Your Majesty, but I want to get you home before that storm hits." You gaze at the impending clouds in the distance. There was a light snow just the other day, and the cold snap doesn't seem to be getting better.

The lady cat eventually acquiesces, and you saunter away with her.

A few months later, he sees you holding a little orange kitten up for an inn keeper as the man sits on his porch with his morning pipe.

"Rudy will be an excellent mouser, and he's easily the biggest of his litter. He'll keep away other toms."

The man's eyes narrow. "Is he snipped?"

You nod. "Yes, sir, and fully healed. You'll have no kittens from this boy."

After a moment, the inn keeper scratches behind one of the tom's ears. Even from a distance, Sebastian hears the purring of the content little creature.

"All right, I'll take him." There is an exchange, and then you're walking away.

Sebastian follows you home, a quaint little flat that is nevertheless neat-- well, except for the messes made by the Felines residing therein.

There are blankets hither and thither, makeshift toys, the occasional item that has been knocked from a surface.

As you enter, two little tufts of fur amble across your foot, playing until one bites too hard and the other shrieks.

"Alba, don't be so rough with him." You reach down and separate the white and cream girl from her grey brother, kissing both on their noses. "Sorry, Ash, honey." The grey kitten is the smaller of the two.

He watches for a few moments as you put out food. There are three kittens total-- the girl and boy he saw before, and another orange tabby that's lighter in color than the one you gave the inn keeper-- and their mother.

A scraggly old black cat waits for his own bowl. You favor him with pets as he eats, cooing at the ancient creature. "That's my boy."

Hung on one wall is a large map of the area, pins marking locations in different colors, little notes written across it. You hum and place another pin as he watches-- green. It's where the inn stands, unless he's mistaken.

Sebastian smiles to himself as he leaves.

--

You don't know you've attracted the attention of a demon. You're just going about your life, providing care for animals, fostering and finding homes for stray cats in particular. People treat cats like garbage so often, and they're really lovely creatures. Cats are caring, social, more intelligent than people give them credit, and can be quite useful.

You've placed mousers on so many farms and local business, even a ship or two.

Your life is fairly quiet unless there are kittens to tend (especially orphans; they take constant care when younger than six weeks).

And then you start waking in the night.

It's nothing, you tell yourself. Just the cats.

But something doesn't feel right.

So you sneak out of bed one night when you just can't put your mind at ease and down the stairs to your living area. Your current fosters are all staring at a shadowed corner, and Whisper (your senior cat, whom you found sick some years ago) sits in your rocking chair, alert. He turns to you with those lantern yellow eyes, then to the corner.

"H-hello?" You don't know what prompts you to speak.. maybe it's the way the cats are acting as if there's something-- someone there. As you watch, little Rufus trills and rubs against the darkness.

You gasp.

Everything seems to happen all at once.

The shadow blurs with movement. You trip over a stair and sprawl back on flight, elbows catching with a bang. The cats scatter. There's a delicate click across the bare parts of your floor. A creak. A soft chuckle. You squeeze your eyes closed.

"My, my, quite the perceptive little thing, aren't you?" The voice is like warm, velvet fur across your electrified nerves, and your fear heightens. "It's alright, Miss." Something brushes your cheek. Your breath rattles in and out.

"What do you want?" The words are so small you wonder that it--he-- they-- hear it.

There's another chuckle, like the being is hovering over you. "I'm merely satisfying my curiosity."

You frown, and the being reads the question there.

"I had to meet these lovely cats you keep safe and warm."

The ludicrous statement forces a nervous giggle from you. "You came to see my cats?"

"Indeed."

It's said with such seriousness that your eyes pop open and your breath comes easier.

In front of you is a man. He's quite handsome; tall, lithe, with hair that blends into the night, skin that gathers what little light slips through your windows, and eyes that bleed crimson even in the inky darkness. He smiles down at you, a beautiful expression.

"How did you get in here?" You wonder.

He gestures. "Through the door."

"But I locked it," you argue.

"Did you?"

Your tongue darts across dry lips. You're certain you did. You do every night. You're very careful about locking your door before bed.

"You know, you're very pretty like this."

Alarms bells sound in your head at the compliment, despite his affable manner.

Your eyes dart around the room, but there's no safety. You slowly ease up a stair.

The sculpted lines of his face fall into a frown. "Are you going to run away from me? That would not be a good idea."

"Why not?" You slip up another step.

His scarlet eyes gleam. "I don't know that I can resist the chase."

Your heart thuds against your ribs, your pulse becomes a rushing river in your ears, and you can feel the beat through the arteries in your throat. As though he can hear your terror, his lips spread in a wide smile.

In the darkness you can just make out the flash of fangs

You turn and flee toward your bedroom.

Before you make it to the top, a vice wraps around one ankle and tugs you down, down, down, bumping painfully along the way.

When you reach the rug in the center of your living area, he flips you into your back, kneeling over your prone form. "I told you running was a bad idea."

He looks like a cat with a cornered mouse. You cower, but his long fingers curls around your wrists before you can curl in on yourself.

"Now you've made me hungry."

Do those canines look longer? Sharper? And his nails are pointed and black. There's a strange mark on the back of one hand.

"You are too delectable." His tongue flicks wetly across his lips. As he begins to close in, you accept you're about to die.

Your body tenses, eyes shut, lips part with a gasp--

And something soft and hot presses to your mouth. Slick muscle strokes against your tongue, and you belatedly realize your midnight visitor is kissing you.

[pierofilm]

IN THE GYM, INSIDE YOU | KEI &TEAM (TEASER)

WARNING ↪ gym sex (at hybe gym lmfao), dom!kei, sub!reader, established relationship, pet names, u calling kei as daddy, dry humping, choking, oral sex (f and m receiving), breeding kink, size training/kink, saliva play, profanity. and more u see.. 🙈

WORD COUNT ↪1.6K (the full fic are estimated to be over 10-12k lmfao PLS)

AUTHOR'S NOTE ↪ not proofread, so some minor errors and grammatical errors.. i'm just trying to get back to my momentum of posting on Tumblr again. BUT IM CRINGING ALOT HELP I CANT STOP GAGGING LMFAO-

The cool breeze of the night sky as you passed through the convenience store shot a severe chill down your spine, despite having a thick hoodie over your pyjamas. Now that you think of it, it is a bad move. Brushing the tip of your thumb across the shelf as you picked one of Kei's favourite ready-made coffee drinks, you recalled the way he called you an hour ago.

His voice dripped in a heavy tone of honey, almost like a melodic hymn of desperation as he enunciate every syllable of your name. As if he was begging for you to come as fast as you can, and when you expressed your initial concern over his odd request, he brushes it off as being exhausted by his current workout routine.

A night workout routine, he repeated.

After exiting out of the automatic door screen, your peripheral vision caught on the remnants of illusionary dusts in the form of a human, and the stray cats scattering beside the over filled trash can, and the serene moonlit sky brought about a good amount of anxiety in you. It is after all, the after dark. Where the world switches off to an underworld vibe, pulling of its black velvet cloaks with indifference that it had hidden beneath the entire sunlit day.

Screw you, Kei.

After dark was when people ripped apart their moral ethics, goodie traits, and humane characteristics—revealing their innate desires they had been keeping to their core.

"Kei?"

Not an answer did you receive as you pushed open the black velvet door, only the cool breeze of the AC and it's audible sound surrounding the gym greeted your ears. You assumed that Kei must have left.

"Hey."

Your head turned to the owner of the voice you knew so well, a lazy smile pulled up on your cheeks as you met those dark grey orbs laced with affectionate words all over it.

"Hey, Kei." Giving the ice cold can coffee to him as you approached him, "Quite cruel of you to call me at 2am, seriously."

With no hesitation, he pulled you into his embrace, leaning in closer as he buried his face in your neck, sniffing in your scent which immediately engulfed his exhausted soul in a safe amount of euphoria and craze. "I miss you, though. Don't I have the right to call my girlfriend anymore?"

"At least look at the time." You pouted as you pulled away, squinting your eyes in a playful manner. "Everyone's sleeping right now, and you're the only one pulling up a goddamn Greek god workout routine."

An audible giggle squeezed its way out of Kei's mouth, his doe eyes crinkling into crescents. "Greek god, eh? I'm a Greek god to you then?" His finger dusted off the rosy hues on the tip of your nose, cooing at your childlikeness.

"Well, maybe." You shrugged, sitting yourself leisurely on one of the gym's chairs, swaying your feet up and down. It didn't go past your eyes how Kei leaned against the pull-up machine, a loud pop emitting from his thumbs in the process of opening the can, his plump lips lapping against the edge as he slurped it down his throat—where his Adam's apples protrude in a sensual motion, one that sent havoc into your mind.

Breaking your fixated gaze onto somewhere else, you cleared your throat in attempts to take off your not so holy thoughts in a brief moment. Mentally slapping yourself on the inside, but oh well, scoring a boyfriend like Kei ain't a damn joke.

"How was work?" His melodic voice flows into your ears again.

"Tiring, but it's okay. It's my job anyway, got to have enough fat money to buy what I want. Heh." Dusting off the tips of your two fingers, mimicking the action of counting money before the boy causes his gorgeous lip to let out another audible giggle.

"I love how you're independent, it's damn cool to even think of it.. but you see, why don't you depend on me?"

"Hm?"

"Depend on me." Kei repeated with doe eyes wholly fixated on your form, "It's just a suggestion, but I would really adore having to take care of you all by my own, every little thing."

Well chosen string of words got your already tangled heart in an even tighter knot, "I could take care of myself, though. I don't need a sugar daddy yet." You stuck your tongue out in a mischievous manner, that alone had him shaking his head with a round of giggles. "But that's sweet of you, Kei."

"No, but." Pair of sneakers approach you with every low rise and down of steps, his palms having the remnants of water beads as he puts down the ice can on the machine's flat edge.

Halting his step before you with his towering height, the light above the ceiling illuminated the top of his ash strands all while casting a matte shadow on his features—giving him a somewhat eerie look, yet his orbs held so much more in it that it had you unconsciously gripping your finger on the edge.

His long finger and thumb brushes your cheek in a circular pattern, and then down to your neck. "I want to take care of you. I've been thinking since much, much long time ago. I want to look after you, care for you in every way possible. It just hurts to see you punching yourself in the chest whenever your shitty boss ruined your day."

Touched by his words, "Work days are pretty much like that, Kei. Having a shitty boss is an unfortunate bonus, that is."

Your sentences comes to a halt as you notice the way his orbs lingered on your lips, the sensation of his index finger ghostly rubbed your lower lip had your heart skipping a thump, yet you hold on to your firm character—arching the corner of your lip in a mischievous smirk. "Does my lips look that pretty for you, Mr. Kei?"

"Mr. Kei?" His plump lips pursed in a giggle, "I'd like your lips on mine, if that's okay for you, Mrs. Koga."

Enthusiasm filled your chest, and you were sure he did as well the way he confirmed your given permission through your lit up blaze eyes. His index finger on your lips found its way on the back of your neck, splayed tight. His other hand spreaded against your hips, pulling you closer to his body as he sealed your lips in his wet cavern.

Kissing Kei always felt like the first time for you. It didn't go past your notice how his warm cheeks pulled up even higher as you let him in through your tongue, tasting each other to the point of maniacal craze. Your eyelashes fluttered up to reveal your curious orbs, taking a brief glance at the wall clock behind Kei's obscured ruffled ash hair.

1:07 A.M. — The after dark where suppressed desires begin to reveal themselves, manifesting into low seductive whispers and sneaky touches.

"Scrap the sugar part," Kei's breath ghost against your ear, sending a round of butterflies in your stomach. Your eyes lingered on his swollen red lips enunciating each word in a clear hushed tone, yet sensual rhythm. "Your daddy can take care of you right here, right now."

"Now where do you want daddy to touch you?" Kei lapped his wet cavern across your neck, a slight moan left your lips at the bold gesture.

"Please."

"Please what, babygirl? You have to tell daddy where exactly he should touch you."

"I-inside me, daddy." Lust fogged your mind, yet the sight of the gym machines pushed the logical part in the surface, physically manifesting to your hands stopping Kei's ones. "We aren't going to do it here, r-right?"

You enunciate the question in confirmation, you need him inside you right now but you dead ass wouldn't want to get caught in the act and possibly ruin his career. But the way Kei's lust filled orbs lazily darted to look at behind him, it seems like he had no intention of bringing your intimacy behind an appropriate place.

"Where's the thrill then, baby?" Kei whispered, "Look it's 1am right now, I doubt someone's going to come in. But well, it would be good either way cuz' someone can see how I'll take you all to myself."

That was enough to rule your mind into overdrive, giving in to Kei and embarking in this bold dangerous act. The thrill, the suspense of getting caught, his large hands spreading all over your skin, his lips nipping onto your bare skin; everything fuels into your brazen mode.

This wild desires of exhibitionism; his greatest will to flaunt you and show to everyone that you belong to him. Kei had always been a dominant man, oozing uncontrollably from his aura ever since you first laid your eyes on him, there was no doubt. Your suspicions were further confirmed by his utmost dedication in perfecting his craft or whatever it is he deemed to be of great importance.

And one of them was romance, which immediately rooted back to you. The apple in his eyes, which he oh so desire to devour more than it takes and how he greatly detests anyone who dared to lay their hands on you.

He turns you around, your back hitting his chest and before your mind could process anything—wet slick tongue lapped across your neck down to your exposed shoulder, his fingers pulling the material each centimetre. Yet you couldn't focus on anything but on his tongue doing it's magical wonders on your skin, sending electrifying sensation into your veins and cells.

"K-kei—" his other hand flattened deep inside your shirt, stroking circular patterns on your tummy and into your navel.

"Shh, lemme take care of you." He whispered, and you didn't fail to sense his growing smirk. "Now where do we begin?"

「 © talesofyuan on tumblr 2023 」 all rights reserved. do not copy or post without permission.

[jackoshadows]

Thinking of the parallels between Jaime/Brienne and Jon/Arya and the contrasts between Jaime/Cersei and Jon/Arya.

We start with the swords. I spy similarities in the writing where Jon gifts Arya a sword and Jaime does the same for Brienne.

First, it’s a gift.

“I have something for you to take with you, and it has to be packed very carefully.”  Her face lit up. “A present?” 

“You could call it that. Close the door.” - Jon, AGoT

“I have a gift for you.” He reached down under the Lord Commander’s chair and brought it out, wrapped in folds of crimson velvet. - Jaime, ASoS

Then there’s the unveiling.

By then Jon had pulled off the rags he’d wrapped it in. He held it out to her. Arya’s eyes went wide. Dark eyes, like his. “A sword,” she said in a small, hushed breath. The scabbard was soft grey leather, supple as sin. Jon drew out the blade slowly, so she could see the deep blue sheen of the steel. - Jon, AGoT

Brienne approached as if the bundle was like to bite her, reached out a huge freckled hand, and flipped back a fold of cloth. Rubies glimmered in the light. She picked the treasure up gingerly, curled her fingers around the leather grip, and slowly slid the sword free of its scabbard. Blood and black the ripples shone. A finger of reflected light ran red along the edge. “Is this Valyrian steel? I have never seen such colors.” - Jaime, ASoS

And then there’s the naming, where both Jon and Jaime name the sword, for Arya’s ‘love’ of sewing and Brienne finding Catelyn’s girls for the oaths promised.

“I almost forgot,” he told her. “All the best swords have names.” “Like Ice,” she said. She looked at the blade in her hand. “Does this have a name? Oh, tell me.” “Can’t you guess?” Jon teased. “Your very favorite thing.” Arya seemed puzzled at first. Then it came to her. She was that quick. They said it together: “Needle!” - Jon, AGoT

Before she could think to refuse, he went on. “A sword so fine must bear a name. It would please me if you would call this one Oathkeeper. ” - Jaime, ASoS

This then leads to the first instance of Jon/Arya (and Jaime/Brienne) being written as foils to Jaime/Cersei with Cersei’s anger at the difference between how she and Jaime were treated growing up as children.

"Yet even  so, when Jaime was given his first sword, there was none for me. 'What  do I get?' I remember asking. We were so much alike, I could never  understand why they treated us so differently. Jaime learned to fight  with sword and lance and mace, while I was taught to smile and sing and  please. He was heir to Casterly Rock, while I was to be sold to some  stranger like a horse, to be ridden whenever my new owner liked, beaten  whenever he liked, and cast aside in time for a younger filly. Jaime's  lot was to be glory and power, while mine was birth and moonblood."  - Cersei, AFfC 

And while Arya’s parents did treat her differently to her brothers, she did end up getting a sword because Jon Snow gifted her with one. Jon Snow who recognizes what it is that Arya is actually interested in, what it is that Arya wants, who understands the unfairness of the patriarchy where Arya is concerned and proceeds to try and fix in some small manner. 

And yet for as much as Jaime claims to love Cersei, giving up Casterly Rock and becoming a Kingsguard to be with her, he does not seem to either understand this side of her or acknowledge it any way. Given the constant reminders that Jaime and Cersei are very close to each other from birth, does Jaime even know of Cersei’s resentment and try to address it? Have conversations with her about it? Given what we know of pre - one hand Jaime and his initial interactions with Brienne, I doubt it. In fact Jaime is surprised at Brienne’s prowess and strength given that she’s a woman.

She is stronger than I am.The realization chilled him. Robert had been stronger than him, to be sure. The White Bull Gerold Hightower as well, in his heyday, and Ser Arthur Dayne. Amongst the living, Greatjon Umber was stronger, Strongboar of Crakehall most likely, both Cleganes for a certainty. The Mountain’s strength was like nothing human. It did not matter. With speed and skill, Jaime could beat them all. But this was a woman. A huge cow of a woman, to be sure, but even so … by rights, she should be the one wearing down. - Jaime, ASoS

And while Cersei resented that Jaime got Casterly Rock and the swords, there is understanding and empathy on both sides where Jon Snow and Arya Stark are concerned.

“Why aren’t you down in the yard?” Arya asked him. He gave her a half smile. “Bastards are not allowed to damage young princes,” he said. “Any bruises they take in the practice yard must come from trueborn swords.” “Oh.” Arya felt abashed. She should have realized. For the second time today, Arya reflected that life was not fair. - Arya, AGoT

Jaime only gets to this place of seeing Brienne as an equal in ASoS, after interacting with her, starting to respect her skill and accepting her as a fellow warrior and trusting in her to keep his oaths to Catelyn.

He swayed with the motion of his horse, wishing for a sword. Two swords would be even better. One for the wench and one for me. We’d die, but we’d take half of them down to hell with us. - Jaime, ASoS

With Jaime’s gradual change in feelings towards Cersei and Brienne, we get that final contrast between Jaime/Cersei and Jon/Arya - possibly also where Jaime/Cersei ends once and for all and where romantic Jon/Arya may start with a resurrected Jon reuniting with an older Arya. Yes, this is about the letters.

“Does my lord wish to answer?”

I love you. I love you. I love you. Come at once.

“No,” he said. “Put this in the fire.” - Jaime, AFfC

“What do you mean to do, crow?”

 I want my bride back … I want my bride back … I want my bride back …

“I think we had best change the plan,” Jon Snow said. - Jon, ADwD

Keep in mind that by laws and oaths sworn, as a sworn brother of the Kingsguard, Jaime can and most probably should defend the queen in a trial by combat and still Jaime refuses to help. Meanwhile, Jon Snow is prohibited by laws and sworn oaths to step in and help Arya and yet he decides to endanger the neutrality of the NW by going to war with Ramsay Bolton.

Jaime is as done with Cersei as Cersei was done with Jaime when he returned without a hand. Meanwhile Jon Snow is just getting started, breaking his sacrosanct NW oaths and rallying an army of Wildlings to go attack the Warden of the North for Arya.

And following through on here, I think there will be a very different reaction from Arya to a scarred Jon Snow - and yes, depending on how Jon is resurrected he may have a lot of scars or never healing injuries like Ladystoneheart and Beric Dondarrion - compared to Cersei’s revulsion at Jaime’s stump. Their bond and love for each other goes deeper than the lust and infatuation based on beauty and looks between Jaime and Cersei.

So yes, I think Braime makes for some nice parallels with Jonrya, while Jaime/Cersei work as foils to Jon/Arya.