#even though i never expected them to interact

[kaissatou]

at your service | chp1

navigation .*･｡ﾟ jjk masterlist .*･｡ﾟ

plug!choso x nervous!reader ♡ (i got the idea of plug choso from @blkkizzat thank you!!)

summary: you were never a heavy smoker. But if it means seeing that pretty emo boy, you might take it up.

warnings: mentions of drugs, no direct smut but is hinted, based this reader from how i interact with my dealer LOL except my dealer isn’t a cute emo loml

wc: 1.7k the other chapters will be longer i promise!!

part 1 part 2

You don’t know why you assumed he would be scary. actually, you did- Though you’d never actually supplied your own weed from the plug yourself before, always choosing to watch by the side lines as Gojo very meticulously visited every dealer in the area under a one week span (and rating each one from a scale of 1 to 10- usually being a 4.5.) He never let you do the ‘dirty work’ yourself, as he liked to call it.

The only real image you had of dealers had been created and cultured up by stereotypes. Big, mean men facing big, mean prison sentences (if they were ever to get caught.) Or in movies, as even meaner men, tattooed drug lords with affiliations to the Italian mafia. You didn’t want to fuck with that.

But here you were now, on the doorstep of Gojo’s newest plugs apartment; an apparent ‘family friend’ ,which you thought looked all too nice to be the reside for a drug lord, the healthy potted plants which looked freshly watered and the welcome mat helping to steer your views and give you peace of mind, if only it was just a crumble. You can’t even remember how you let Satoru persuade you to do this. Maybe it was the promise of him making it up to you, which you would use to your advantage.

He never clarified that this so called ‘family friend’ had no actual connection to him, rather being a boy, who you now knew as Yuji (or pink hair boy’s) older brother.

Fixing your tote on your shoulder and bundling up your sleeves into stretched out material into your palms, you brought a nervous hand up to the door, shaking the door knocker once (and then once more for good luck) before stepping back, beyond the welcome mat, which was giving you the opposing idea of feeling anything but welcome, and further into the cramped space of his apartment building hallway, looking down at your feet.

You felt shy. Why, you didn’t know. You weren’t usually a shy person, per se. Quiet maybe, but never shy. Until now.

The door flies open.

Oh. Oh.

Reading glasses perched on his face, slightly wonky and drooped down to the bridge of his nose, hair messy with tousled strands loose, joggers sitting low on his hips, a contrast to the (all too tight) black compression shirt riding up slightly, giving you a glimpse of his sculpted body. A couple tattoos adorned his arms, fading into the sleeves of his shirt. You wondered if he had any more that you couldn’t see. Oh.

And then he’s leaning on the doorframe to look you up and down, and if your brain wasn’t short circuiting his gaze would’ve probably been uncomfortable. He clears his throat, knocking you back into reality.

Suddenly it feels all too hot in the corridor. Is it too late to leave? Glancing back to the elevator, if you ran it would take approximately 10 seconds to leave before he remembers your face-

“Hi.”

Ten seconds too late.

“Hi,” you look down at your shoes, knowing you will never hear the end of this from gojo. “I would like to buy some weed, please.”

He looks you up and down once more for good measure, then hums lowly to himself- which must be in acceptance and he’s opening the door further, and walking back inside his apartment. You take this as a sign to follow, stepping inside awkwardly and clasping your hands together, standing closely to the wall so if you need to run, you can. Then you remember he probably wants you to shut the door. Stop being an idiot.

It’s much more homely than you expected. There are framed photos scattered all around the place, most of them noticeably of him and Yuji, both smiling with wide grins. Where there aren’t photo frames there are posters, some of which you recognise. Metallica, Pierce The Veil, is that a My Chemical Romance vinyl?

“What do you want?” He’s fumbling through a box on a cabinet side, which suprises you when you notice it is pink, a harsh contrast to all the blacks and blues in his space.

“Um, weed,” he stops in his tracks at your words, looking right up at you. God, it is hot in here. His unwavering expression makes you question your previous words. “Please.”

And then you swear you see the ghost of a smile on his pretty lips, and he’s signalling with his large hand at you in a ‘come hither’ motion. You’re quick to react, scrambling closer to him so he is in just arms reach.

“I know that,” his voice is softer, gentler this time. “What type do you want?” You’re beginning to think he’s caught on to the fact that you’re new at this, and he’s trying not to scare you off. Is it that obvious? He leans over closer to you, his body heat practically radiating onto you. He proudly displays the contents of the case to you, running his fingers over clear baggies. “Like the strain,” he explains.

“Oh!” You smile sheepishly and scratch your neck. His attention switches from the case and back to you, tilting his head up to you to watch you in detail as you speak, making you crumble under his gaze. “Gojo usually gets it for me,” his expression changes into something unreadable. “He, uh, was busy.”

“Gotcha,” He signals a thumbs up to you then moves his attention back to the drugs. “I know what he likes,” he puts the contents of what you know now as, ‘Satoru’s favourite’, into a baggie, and shakes it a couple times before making sure it’s secure. Then he suddenly stops and turns back to you. “You know how to roll?”

No. You don’t. You contemplate lying to get out of his hair, but by the way he’s already opening the bag right back up, you’re sure your expression has already given you away. You’re about to tell him not to bother, but he’s already opening another box, and pulling out (more? You think you see a pattern going on here) pink rolling paper.

And then he’s licking the wrapping paper, and you know you’re a goner.

“He your boyfriend or somethin’?” He suddenly speaks up while grinding the weed, rendering you speechless. It takes you a good 10 seconds to finally figure out what, and who, he is talking about. His tone is unrecognisable, his expression unreadable as he bends slightly over the table.

“What, Gojo?” You scrunch your face up. “Ew, no way,” which makes him gaze back up at you, his hands still working on autopilot. “He’s just a friend. No more.”

He hums approvingly, making your heart flutter. You don’t even realise he’s rolled 4 perfect blunts until he’s standing up straightened infront of you. He drops them into a baggie as you rifle through your bag for your purse. He stops you. “What’s your name?” He questions out of the blue.

“Y/n,” you murmur. “What’s yours? And how much do I owe you?”

He places the baggie in your grasp and shrugs his hands. “Choso,” you put the bag in your tote, hands itching to find your purse. And then he’s walking across the room, leaving you alone and confused. “Give it to me next time.”

“What?” You quickly follow him, stppping in your tracks behind him as he takes his reading glasses off and places them on a desk, ruffling his hair before turning back to you. He gives you a sly grin.

“Come to me next time, Kay? Not Gojo. Pay me back then,” your face blushes a sickening red, thought there’s really no need to. He’s not flirting. He’s just behind friendly. So why does it make your chest tighten and your heart fuzzy?

“Okay.”

.・。.・���✭・.・✫・゜・。.

“Can’t believe you’ve got the hots for Choso Kamo.” Satoru’s words are muffled as he shoves yet another candy in his mouth. But you can understand him perfectly.

Did you? Well, you couldn’t deny that he was indeed very pretty. But you didn’t know anything about him. You didn’t know if he had a girlfriend. Oh, you hoped not.

He seemed oddly put together for a dealer. At first it was the potted plants, and then it was the framed photos, and then it was the glasses. A part of you yearned to know the books he’s read, his likes and dislikes, his- stop. You’re getting ahead of yourself. Gojo passes you the blunt.

“I have not!” You sit up, slapping the candy out of his hand, the gasp he lets out making you grin. The look Satoru gave you made it clearly known that he didn’t believe a word you said. And honestly, you didn’t either. You snatch the blunt from him, trying to (unsuccessfully) block him out.

Your eyes are red and hazy, and in a trance after smoking a blunt, (which heavily reminded you of the pretty little dealer) you made the horrific mistake of bringing up Choso, now subjected to his teasing.

“He wants to see you again. That’s very clear!” He accentuated his words as he sat up on his bed, slamming his hands on the mattress hard enough to make you jump.

“He probably just wants sales.” You defend, dropping you head back onto a plush pillow. You scoff and brush him off, though his words leave an empty pit in the bottom of your heart. Did he?

“He didn’t even take your money!” His words bring a wide grin to your face, making you immediately bring your hands to your face to cover yourself from Gojo’s antics. “See!”

You roll your eyes. Gojo plucks the blunt back from your fingers, falling back onto the mattress beside you. A comfortable silence falls upon the two of you, the only sounds being the harsh breathing of Satoru as he takes another puff, and the consistent buzzing of the ceiling fan. Your eyes focused on it as it continued to spin in dizzy circles. 1, 2, 3-

Breaking the silence, you turn on your side to face Gojo again, red eyes blinking lazily. You speak, but no words come out. And then you try again. “Is he coming to your party?”

“Oh, you’re cooked.”

[claramelooo]

CRIMSON REVERIE

Now it starts!

Love it <3

Pairing: Dark!Witch Wanda x Reader

MINORS DO NOT MUST INTERACT

Warnings: +18

Summary: You don't understand why Professor Maximoff watches you so much, apparently, neither does she

Read here: Prologue | ENVY | MULTIVERSAL ANCHOR

FUEL

The awakening was abrupt but not uncomfortable. Wanda blinked slowly, adjusting to the dimness of the room. The hand resting on her waist was large, familiar, but rough—different from the softness she had expected. For a moment, she wished for something else, but as she turned, she found Vision, his calm, usual expression still present as he slept.

Wanda's chest tightened. It was like a reverse dream—something desired yet distant. She slid out of bed carefully, trying not to wake him, but memories began flooding her mind, blending with the conflicting emotions pulsating in her chest.

In the hallway, she encountered Tommy and Billy, still sleepy, one chasing the other with muffled giggles that warmed her heart. For a moment, she almost forgot she didn’t belong there. Almost.

Even with them there, even with Vision by her side, something was missing. Something she couldn’t ignore.

Wanda took a deep breath, heading to the kitchen and pouring herself a cup of coffee. The memories of this universe began to align, filling gaps. She was a teacher, a respected and feared figure on campus. Vision was her husband. Her children, healthy and happy. Everything seemed perfect, but the emptiness persisted, like a hole she couldn’t fill.

The emptiness had an oblique face and a delicate shape. Sharp eyes, yet kind. Her heart burned—for something, for someone. But Wanda didn’t understand. Something was wrong.

Vision entered the room, his presence methodical and precise as always. “You’re up early again,” he remarked, his yellow eyes analyzing her with customary objectivity.

“I didn’t sleep well,” Wanda replied, closing the book without looking at him.

Vision tilted his head, the gesture almost human, but something was missing—emotion, spontaneity.

“Is something on your mind? Can I help?”

The question was logical, a rational attempt at a solution. But that was always what was missing: human warmth, the living flame

Wanda felt should be there.

“No, Vision. It’s not something you can fix.”

He frowned, as if trying to understand.

“I detect a change in your behavioral patterns since this morning. There seems to be an increase in emotional tension. Are you feeling dissatisfied?”

Wanda looked at him and, for a moment, tried to find the same spark that had drawn her to him in another time, another place. But it wasn’t there. Vision was precise, methodical, and though kind, he lacked passion. He never had it.

“I’m just... confused,” she admitted, resting her chin in her hands.

Vision moved closer, sitting beside her with carefully calculated motions. He took her hand, like a rehearsed gesture.

“Wanda, you have everything you ever wanted. Me, the boys, a respectable career. What more do you need?”

The words hit like a punch.

“Everything I ever wanted,” she repeated bitterly. “Yes, of course. That should be enough.”

Vision tilted his head again, observing her with almost clinical curiosity.

“If there is something else you desire, we can recalibrate our environment to meet your needs.”

“Recalibrate?” She laughed without humor, pulling her hand away from his.

“You think this is about the environment, Vision? It’s not that simple.”

“Then what’s missing?” he pressed, the logic in his voice starting to irritate her.

Wanda remained silent for a moment, taking a deep breath.

“What’s missing… is life, Vision. You don’t understand because you don’t feel it. You’re… functional. Logical. Precise.”

Vision processed her words, but his response was direct, almost mechanical.

“My purpose is to ensure your well-being and that of the boys. If I’ve failed, I can correct it.”

“You haven’t failed,” she replied, tiredly. “I just... I don’t know. I don’t know.”

He stayed silent, perhaps trying to calculate an appropriate response. But Wanda knew it was futile. Vision couldn’t be what she needed. He wasn’t passionate about life. He didn’t understand it and never could.

She looked at him, trying not to feel guilty. He couldn’t grasp what it meant to be human, nor the emptiness she felt.

“You’re good, Vision. A good father to the boys. A good partner for... whoever you believe I am here,” Wanda murmured, standing.

“Wanda, you’re speaking as if you’re somewhere else,” he remarked, with his usual precision.

She paused at the door, not turning around.

“Maybe I’ve always been.”

And with that, Wanda walked away, leaving Vision alone in the room, silent and unchanged, as always.

[...]

Wanda’s heels echoed through the university hallways like a warning, and you felt your heart race even before lifting your eyes from the notebook. Professor Maximoff was coming.

She was the kind of woman who could stop time, who made others bow with just a glance. The rumors about how even the administration feared confronting her were not exaggerated. Wanda Maximoff wasn’t just a professor; she was a force of nature.

You’d never admit it out loud, but there was something about her that always left you on the edge. It wasn’t just her stunning beauty or the low, firm tone of her voice, but the way she seemed to see you differently. As if she knew more than she should. As if she could strip you bare with a simple raise of her brow.

She stopped directly in front of you. You looked up, meeting those emerald-green eyes fixed on you, and felt your throat go dry.

“Miss...” she began, her voice low and drawn out, as if considering whether it was even worth speaking to you.

“Y/L/N,” you quickly completed, trying to sound confident, but the hesitation in your voice betrayed you.

“I’m well aware of your name,” she replied, a hint of disdain in her voice. “Don’t think I forget my students.”

Wanda Maximoff hated you. Not with a simple, petty hatred, but with something more complex, more visceral. Every word you spoke in her classes, every glance you held, was an affront—not just to who she was but to what she had fought to build.

You didn’t seem to fear her like the others. You didn’t buckle under the weight of her presence, nor stumble over your words like so many other students when Wanda directed her penetrating gaze at them. Instead, you challenged her in ways she couldn’t ignore, even when she tried. It was in the details: the way you held her gaze a second too long, the faint curve of your lips suggesting that you knew something—something Wanda didn’t want anyone to know.

She hated you because you were a distorted mirror, reflecting the cracks in her flawless facade. Your audacity—subtle or otherwise—was an uncomfortable reminder that, no matter how much control she had over her world, there was something about you that eluded her grasp. It infuriated her, and at the same time, it ignited a fire she didn’t know how to extinguish.

Your face warmed, but you masked it by shifting your gaze to your notebook. “Of course, Professor.”

Silence hung in the air for a moment, and you felt her eyes boring into you, assessing, intimidating.

“You’re aware that your analysis of Blindness is overdue, aren’t you?” Wanda asked, leaning forward slightly, arms crossed over her chest.

You swallowed hard, trying not to get lost in her scent, which seemed to wrap around the air around you. “Yes, Professor. I... I’m finishing it; I just need one more day.”

“One more day,” she repeated, as if savoring the words, her lips curling into a half-smile that promised nothing good. “You always have an excuse, don’t you?”

“I don’t—” you started, but she raised an eyebrow, and the words died in your throat as she noticed the slight stiffening of your shoulders.

“Perfect,” she thought, feeling a cruel satisfaction. There was something almost addictive about watching you struggle to maintain your composure in front of her. It was a game Wanda hated playing, but one she couldn’t walk away from. Not when it came to you.

“Spare me, Miss Y/L/N. I’m tired of hearing excuses from students who think they can survive my course with mediocre effort.”

When your eyes finally gathered the courage to meet hers again, there was a palpable tension in the air, as if it had grown heavier. Wanda could feel the heat rising in her skin, but she attributed it to anger—it had to be anger.

You challenged her again, with that look that seemed to dare her: Go on, Maximoff. Break me, if you can.

It was unbearable. It was intoxicating.

Your heart was beating so fast you thought she could hear it. But instead of feeling ashamed, something else was coursing through you. Admiration? Desire? Maybe both.

“I promise I’ll deliver something worthy, Professor,” you said, trying to keep your voice steady, though you knew she could detect your hesitation.

As you spoke, your voice filled with a sweet blend of hesitation and boldness, Wanda realized she wanted more than just to crush your defiance. She wanted to understand why you did this—why you dared to draw her attention at every turn in this place. Why she couldn’t keep you under her control. Every word you said was a conscious effort to maintain power, but the truth was, she also felt something close to fear—fear that, somehow, you were seeing more than you should.

More than anyone ever had.

Wanda tilted her head slightly, her eyes fixed on yours as if searching for something. “I hope so. It would be a shame to waste the talent you have on laziness.”

You almost smiled but held back. She had just complimented you, even if indirectly. That was rare coming from her.

“I won’t disappoint you,” you replied, your voice low, almost a whisper.

“We’ll see,” she murmured, straightening up and casting you one last look before turning to leave. “Don’t waste my time, Miss Y/L/N.”

You watched her walk away, her firm steps echoing until they faded. Only then did you release the breath you hadn’t realized you were holding.

As intimidating as Wanda Maximoff was, you knew you couldn’t avoid her. You didn’t want to. The truth was, there was something about her that made you want to be noticed, even if it was with a stern gaze.

And you were willing to do whatever it took to earn that gaze.

At the end of another exhausting class, you sat on the grass near the university entrance, laughing at the silly jokes Kate made about a professor who, apparently, fell asleep during his own lectures.

"I swear, he blinked so slowly he had his eyes closed for, like, three minutes!" Kate gestured dramatically, pulling hearty laughter from Yelena, who was munching on something crunchy and undoubtedly unhealthy.

"Maybe he was just meditating," Bucky suggested, biting into an apple with the nonchalance of someone who had seen it all.

"Or he died, and no one noticed," Yelena retorted, her mouth full, making Kate almost choke from laughing too hard.

"You guys are terrible!" you chuckled, trying to focus on finishing your report on your laptop.

"No, you're terrible," Kate said, pointing at your screen. "Still working on that? You know Professor Maximoff is just going to look at it, laugh in your face, and toss it in the trash, right?"

You made a face, and Bucky gave you a reassuring pat on the shoulder. "Relax, you'll survive. Just don't look her in the eyes; rumor has it she can read souls."

"She already read mine and found it disappointing," you muttered, eliciting more laughter from Yelena and Kate.

Before the banter could continue, your phone buzzed. A notification flashed, summoning you to meet Wanda Maximoff in her office.

"Uh-oh," Kate teased, peering at the message. "Someone's in trouble!"

Yelena sighed dramatically. "Goodbye, my friend. It was nice knowing you."

"You're all horrible," you retorted, standing up with a knot in your stomach, trying not to let your growing nerves show.

“Come in,” her firm voice called out as soon as you knocked on the door.

With hesitant steps, you entered to find her seated behind the desk, her reading glasses perched on her nose and an open notebook in her hands. She didn’t even glance up as she began speaking.

"Do you know why you're here?"

"No, Professor," you replied nervously.

She closed the notebook with a sharp snap, finally lifting her piercing gaze to meet yours. "Let me clarify, then. This," she gestured toward a paper on the desk, "is unacceptable. Not only are you failing miserably in my subject, but you're also wasting my time and that of your peers."

"I can improve," you said quickly, the tension rising in your voice.

She tilted her head slightly, a cold smile tugging at her lips. "Improve? It's far too late for that. I’m failing you—preemptively. And understand this, darling, it’s not about me; it’s about you and your persistent inability to meet my expectations."

Heat flushed your face, and your hands trembled with adrenaline as you faced the weight of her authority. But you refused to back down so easily. "Maybe your expectations are too high," you shot back, crossing your arms defensively.

Wanda let out a low laugh, a sound that pierced your confidence like a dagger. She rose slowly, walking around the desk with calculated precision, as though she owned the room—and you.

"Do you really think you can challenge me here, in my office, after weeks of subpar performance?"

"I know I'm not perfect," you managed, your voice faltering slightly. "But that doesn’t give you the right to humiliate me like this."

She stopped just steps away from you, leaning in slightly so your faces were mere inches apart. Her emerald eyes seemed to strip away every fragment of pride you clung to.

"Oh, humiliate you? No, darling. You couldn’t even begin to comprehend what I’d do if I truly wanted to see you in a truly degrading position," she whispered, leaving your knees feeling like jelly.

Yet, there was something in her gaze—a blend of authority and something darker, more elusive—that stirred something within you. It wasn’t just anger or frustration; it was as though she was testing you, pushing you toward a boundary you didn’t know existed.

"Whatever you want," you said, your voice trembling with a mix of courage and vulnerability, "fail me. I won’t beg." You finished, pride laced in your tone.

Wanda’s lips curved into a smile that almost looked satisfied. "Such a brave little girl, aren’t you? And yet, here you are in my office, trying to justify this deplorable behavior."

She circled you like a predator stalking its prey, each step echoing as a reminder of who held the power. "But you know as well as I do that the fall of the proud from their pedestal is always glorious to watch."

"Then maybe you’ll fall along with me," you snapped in a moment of reckless defiance, instantly regretting the words.

But instead of anger, you heard a low, vibrating sound—Wanda’s deep, rich laugh. You swallowed hard, feeling your heart hammering against your ribs.

When Wanda stopped behind you, her presence was almost suffocating, the heat of her proximity wrapping around you like a smothering cloak. Her voice was a low whisper, heavy with a nearly physical weight.

"Tell me, Miss Y/L/N, just how far are you willing to go to save your scholarship? To avoid tarnishing your already fragile reputation?"

Her words struck you like a blow. Your heart raced, and tears welled in your eyes.

"Please," you began, your voice breaking. "I can’t fail. I’ll lose my scholarship. I… I can’t afford to stay in school if that happens."

Wanda arched a brow, as if dissecting you with pure disdain. Slowly, she leaned against the edge of the desk, her posture radiating dominance.

"Oh… so now you’re willing to beg? Where’s all that courage now?"

You nodded quickly, the lump in your throat making it hard to form words.

"Beg," she commanded, the word sharp and cutting.

"I… what?" you asked, lifting your head in shock.

"Beg," she repeated, slicing through the silence. "Show me that you understand your place. That you grasp what it takes to redeem yourself."

The knot in your throat tightened as your pride warred with the growing urge to yield. But deep down, you knew Wanda would always win. She always did, with a precision that was both terrifying and mesmerizing.

"Please," you whispered, barely audible.

She tilted her head, feigning that she hadn’t heard you. "Louder. Make it worth my attention."

Tears spilled freely now, and your hands clenched in your lap, struggling to hold back sobs. "Please, Professor. I’ll do anything. Just don’t fail me. I—I'm trying, really trying to do better…" you stammered, the words crumbling in your throat.

"Trying," she repeated with a smirk, standing and approaching slowly. Her measured steps were like a drumbeat of inevitability. "Trying isn’t good enough. Do you think I’m here to entertain mediocre excuses? To tolerate justifications from a student who can’t even meet my gaze as she speaks?"

Your heart pounded as her intense stare bore into you. You tried to speak, but your words refused to come.

Wanda took another step, so close now you could feel the heat radiating from her. "Look at me when I’m talking to you," she ordered, her voice low and cutting.

You obeyed, your tear-filled eyes meeting hers.

"I… I’m sorry," you managed to whisper, your voice shaking.

"Sorry doesn’t fix anything," she countered, leaning in close, her whisper brushing against your ear. "Do you think you have the right to waste my time?"

Wanda watched you from above, her eyes fixed on you as her mind oscillated between anger and a cruel pleasure she couldn’t fully comprehend. The humiliation you exuded, the vulnerability manifesting in every tear streaming down your face and the tremble in your voice, seemed to fuel something dark within her.

For a moment, Wanda felt as if something in her soul was awakening. An ancient warmth, a spark of long-dormant power, began stirring in her chest. It was as if parts of herself she barely understood in this universe were reacting directly to your submission and the palpable fear emanating from you.

When she noticed the warm liquid trickling down your legs, the realization of what you had done struck her like a wave. And in that moment, satisfaction coursed through her so intensely that her eyes glimmered with faint, red sparks.

The weight of Wanda’s psychological dominance was crushing, like an invisible hand tightening around your throat. It wasn’t just the fear she inspired; it was the way she dismantled every layer of your defenses, exposing parts of yourself you didn’t even know existed. She had a cruel talent for finding the cracks in your emotional armor, carving a direct path to the core of your vulnerability.

“Are you really this fragile?” Wanda asked, her voice laced with a soft disdain that was anything but accidental. She tilted her head, studying you like a predator sizing up its prey. “I haven’t even done anything to you yet, Dekta. It’s just... words. Just me.”

Her gaze was so piercing it felt like she was invading your mind, pulling out your innermost thoughts and laying them bare in the open. It was terrifying, but there was also something inexplicably captivating about the way she wielded power—not just over the room, but directly over you.

As she stepped closer again, her movements were slow, deliberate, as if savoring the moment. Wanda stopped just in front of you, leaning slightly so her eyes were level with yours. Her smile was almost gentle, but her eyes—those hauntingly captivating crimson eyes—betrayed the intensity that burned within.

“Do you know what I find fascinating?” she murmured, her voice now soft, almost seductive. “How you try to resist, try to hold on to some semblance of dignity and pride... but I see. I see exactly what’s happening here.”

There was something hypnotic in the way she spoke, as if every word was a sweet spell, wrapping around you and tightening with each syllable. Your body reacted before your mind could process it—cold sweat on your skin, a slight tremor in your muscles that you couldn’t control.

“I think you know I could destroy you with a snap of my fingers,” Wanda continued, the tip of her fingers brushing your face in a gesture that was almost tender. “But that would be too easy. Too quick. No, I prefer this... I prefer watching you break, piece by piece, knowing you’ll never be a match for me. Because you know I’m already in your head.”

Wanda stepped back slowly, an almost imperceptible smile curving her lips. “Pathetic,” she murmured, though there was something else in her voice—a dark satisfaction.

With your face flushed red with shame and your hands trembling, you stammered, “Please, professor. Forgive me. I won’t fail again.”

She tilted her head, as though assessing your sincerity, and finally allowed a small smile, a glint of satisfaction in her eyes.

“Perhaps you can be useful after all,” Wanda said, making a great effort to move away from you and your pleading eyes “But don’t think of this as a favor. You will work for me. As my assistant. That means you’ll be in my office every day after class, doing exactly what I tell you. Understood?”

“Yes, professor,” you replied, quickly wiping away the tears.

“Good girl,” she murmured, returning to her desk and resuming her paperwork. “Now leave. And don’t make me regret being generous.”

You left hastily, your face burning with embarrassment and your mind still reeling from everything that had just transpired. Deep down, a small part of you knew this second chance came at a high cost—but you also knew you had no choice.

Later, sitting on the central lawn with Kate, Yelena, and Bucky, the group’s usual chaos surrounded you. Yelena was stealing fries from Bucky’s lunch while Kate lamented a presentation she had to give.

“So, what’s the big news?” Yelena asked, her mouth full, noticing your troubled expression.

You hesitated before blurting it out. “I’m going to be Professor Maximoff’s assistant.”

The trio froze.

“What?!” Kate choked on her soda. “Professor Maximoff? The one who looks like she walked out of a gothic horror movie and makes the board of directors quake in their boots?”

“The very same,” you admitted, bracing for their reactions.

“No, this isn’t just weird; it’s a death sentence,” Bucky said, crossing his arms and giving you a serious look. “What did you do to deserve that?”

“She was going to fail me. I begged her not to, and this was the deal.”

Yelena burst into incredulous laughter. “So she made you grovel and now she’s turning you into her butler? I already like this woman.”

“It’s not funny!” you snapped, crossing your arms.

“It’s hilarious,” Yelena replied with a mischievous grin. “But seriously, do you need help? Should we start a student revolution for your freedom?”

“Or sabotage her office,” Kate suggested.

Bucky sighed. “You two are terrible advisors. Look, it might not be so bad. You’re smart. You’ll survive. Maybe even learn something… other than how to be terrified.”

You gave him a weak smile. “Thanks for the vote of confidence, Buck.”

That evening in the dorm, you sat on your bed hugging a pillow, while Darcy worked on her laptop at the desk nearby. She wore an old t-shirt and shorts, her hair tied up haphazardly in a way that somehow made her even more stunning to you.

“So, what happened today?” Darcy asked without looking up from her screen.

“I got ‘promoted’ to Professor Maximoff’s assistant,” you said, your voice heavy with defeat.

Darcy chuckled and finally turned to you. “Seriously? That woman’s terrifying. How did you manage that?”

“It’s not like I wanted to,” you muttered.

She walked over and sat beside you, leaning in casually but close enough for you to catch her scent. “I think you must be special to her. She doesn’t seem like the type to do favors.”

“I don’t know if that’s a compliment,” you said, trying to hide the blush creeping up your cheeks.

Darcy met your eyes, hers sparkling with a mixture of amusement and something more subtle, almost predatory. “You look so good today.”

Your heart skipped a beat. “What?”

“Just sayin’,” she teased, laughing lightly, though her tone carried an edge of something deeper.

You knew Darcy enjoyed toying with you, pushing your limits. It felt like she understood how you felt and used it to keep you on edge, perpetually yearning.

“It’ll be fine with Maximoff,” Darcy said, squeezing your shoulder lightly. “And if she’s too mean, just call me. I’ll protect you.”

“I think you’d be the one needing protection,” you joked, trying to mask how much her touch affected you.

“Maybe,” Darcy replied with a playful smirk, giving you a wink before returning to her laptop as if nothing had happened.

And there you sat, watching her, caught between hope and frustration—an impossible tug-of-war Darcy seemed to enjoy orchestrating.

[...]

You sat in an uncomfortably stiff chair in Professor Maximoff's office. The space was pristine—shelves lined with worn-spined books, meticulously organized as if by military precision. Sunlight streamed through the large window, casting a warm glow on the polished wood of her desk.

Your gaze, however, was fixated on a silver frame atop the desk. Inside was a photo of Wanda beside a tall, elegant man—Vision, the name you'd heard whispered through the hallways—and two smiling children, Tommy and Billy. The image radiated serene, stable happiness, the kind that felt utterly unattainable to you.

Your chest tightened. That was her life: perfect and orderly, with a loving husband, happy kids, and a flawless career. In contrast, you felt like an intruder, someone scrambling to hold it together while navigating college and life.

“You’re not allowed to snoop.” Wanda’s sharp voice cut through the air behind you, making your shoulders stiffen.

You turned in the chair, wide eyes meeting hers. She stood in the doorway, arms crossed, her expression unreadable.

“Sorry,” you muttered, quickly averting your gaze.

“You always have something to apologize for, don’t you?” Wanda’s voice was calm but laced with disdain as she walked toward you, her heels clicking against the hardwood, each sound amplifying the tension. “Do you know what happens to little girls who break the rules?”

“I didn’t mean to; I just…”

She raised a hand, silencing you immediately.

“I don’t want excuses. If you’re going to work here, you’ll learn to follow the rules. Rule number one: my personal life is none of your business. Rule number two: what happens in this office stays in this office. Understood?”

You swallowed hard, shame warming your face. “Yes, Professor Maximoff.”

“Good.” She leaned in slightly, her face only inches from yours. “Do you know what else I expect from you?”

“I… I don’t know,” you stammered, your voice faltering under her piercing gaze.

“Excellence,” she murmured, the word a threat and a promise all at once. “Nothing less. And if I sense you’re not giving your best…”

She didn’t finish the sentence, but the look in her eyes said enough.

You nodded quickly, the weight of shame and insecurity pressing heavily on your shoulders. “I’ll do my best.”

“I hope so,” Wanda replied, straightening her posture and smoothing her blazer with a decisive gesture. “Now, organize these papers and make sure my desk is spotless. You have thirty minutes.”

You quickly rose to comply, trying to ignore the persistent tightness in your chest as you passed the desk again. The photo still sat there, smiling at you like a cruel reminder of everything you’d never have.

As you began sorting through the papers, Wanda stood nearby, her eyes fixed on you. At first, it seemed she was merely ensuring you were doing the task correctly.

But then something shifted.

It was subtle at first, almost imperceptible. Wanda’s jaw relaxed slightly, her breathing became deeper, less controlled. Her eyes, sharp and calculating moments before, began to wander over the movements of your body. They lingered longer than they should have—on your legs, where the hem of your uniform skirt rode up slightly more than intended when you leaned forward.

Something inside her stirred, a spark kindling deep in her chest.

Wanda blinked, once, twice, as if trying to clear her thoughts, but the sensation persisted. It wasn’t just your presence that unnerved her, but the vulnerability radiating from your every gesture. The way your fingers trembled as you handled the papers, the flush on your cheeks, the faint hitch in your breath when you felt her gaze. It was intoxicating, feeding a part of her she had long suppressed.

Her fingers twitched at her sides, the faintest glimmer of red flashing at her fingertips before she reined it in. It was enough to make her close her eyes for a moment, battling the power threatening to surface.

“Control yourself,” she muttered under her breath, the words so soft they were almost inaudible.

But it wasn’t so simple. The abyss within her was widening, and the Scarlet Witch—the part of her she had locked away in chains—was straining against its binds.

She tried to look away, but her thoughts were already spiraling. Blurred memories surfaced like waves, unrelenting: warmth, the soft sound of breathless gasps, the damp heat of skin pressed against skin. Her mouth went dry, and a familiar heat spread through her chest.

“You really don’t know how to be appropriate, do you?” her voice came out harsher than she intended, though it carried an unspoken weight she couldn’t hide.

You froze, your hands pausing mid-motion. “What did I do now?” you asked hesitantly, your voice trembling.

“That skirt,” Wanda pointed, her expression deliberately neutral as she fought to maintain control. “Do you think it’s suitable for a professional environment? Or are you just trying to distract everyone?”

Your face flushed immediately, and you tugged at the hem of your skirt instinctively. “It’s the college uniform… I don’t choose the length.”

Wanda took a step closer, her presence suddenly overwhelming. “You don’t choose, but you certainly enjoy the attention, don’t you?”

“No, I swear I don’t…” your voice cracked, and you dropped your gaze, discomfort radiating from you.

Wanda leaned in, her words brushing past your ear with a mix of reproach and something else you couldn’t quite name. “I don’t like distractions, especially the ones coming from you. So if you want to stay here, learn to be invisible.”

You nodded quickly, unable to respond as the weight of her gaze bore down on you.

Wanda stepped back, straightening and exhaling softly, as though trying to smother the heat coursing through her. She knew it was wrong—knew she should stop—but the power and control she felt in reducing you to submission were addictive.

“Finish this and leave,” she said, turning toward the window, as if the view outside might cleanse her thoughts. “And next time… be more mindful of what you wear.”

You continued organizing the papers, her words echoing in your mind. That tone—a mix of scolding and something unnameable—sent shivers down your spine.

“Distractions, especially the ones coming from you.”

You weren’t sure why, but the idea of destabilizing someone as composed as Wanda Maximoff—even slightly—sent your heart racing. She was practically untouchable, the most feared and respected figure on campus, and yet… something in her gaze, in the faint tremor of her voice, ignited a spark in you.

You glanced at Wanda, who now stood with her back to you, her posture rigid, hands clasped behind her. Deliberately this time, you leaned forward slightly, letting the skirt ride up just enough to test the waters.

“Leave,” she commanded, her tone clipped, without even looking at you. But there was something strained about her voice, something forced.

You obeyed but couldn’t resist one last glance before walking out. Her face remained calm, but the tension in her shoulders and the way her fingers gripped the edge of the desk betrayed her.

Maybe you weren’t as invisible as she wanted you to be.

[...]

The first time Wanda saw you, something inside her stirred. It wasn’t hatred, nor was it passion. It was a pulsating, inexplicable irritation, like an itch she couldn’t quite reach. You weren’t particularly remarkable—at least, you shouldn’t have been. Just an ordinary student, dressed simply, with an attitude that oscillated between nervousness and boldness. But there was something about you, something Wanda couldn’t ignore.

Your clumsy, awkward demeanor seemed tailor-made to test her. That first day, when you rushed into class late, cheeks flushed, stumbling over your own feet and nearly dropping your backpack, Wanda couldn’t help but roll her eyes. A strange, unjustifiable anger bubbled in her chest, as if your mere presence was a personal affront.

But it wasn’t just that. As she watched you shrink under her sharp gaze, something else began to stir beneath the surface—a familiar energy she had long since forgotten. Her body reacted before her mind could catch up. Her fingers tingled, and the air around her seemed to hum faintly.

“Do you think you can waltz into my class late and just take your seat as if nothing happened?” Wanda’s voice was as sharp as a blade.

You mumbled an apology, stammering, and Wanda saw the blush on your face deepen. Your vulnerability should have soothed her irritation, but instead, it only fueled it. There was something deeply satisfying about seeing you so submissive, so intimidated.

In the days that followed, Wanda began noticing small details that annoyed her even more. The way you chewed on the tip of your pen while trying to grasp her explanations. The muffled sound of your whispers to classmates, though you clearly lacked the courage to challenge her openly. Your almost naive persistence in trying to please her, even when she deliberately ignored your efforts, made her grit her teeth—and feel something else. A thrill that defied logic.

And then there was that moment when you raised your hand to answer a question, hesitant but resolute. Your eyes met hers, and Wanda felt a pulse of something deep within her. Your presence was like a crooked mirror, reflecting parts of herself she didn’t want to see, parts she preferred to keep buried.

She didn’t understand why her powers—dormant for years, stifled by a “perfect” and mundane life—seemed to stir every time you were near. Perhaps it was the way you appeared so fragile and yet so impossible to ignore. Or maybe it was something deeper, something Wanda didn’t want to name, because to do so would mean admitting that you, in some way, held power over her.

And Wanda Maximoff couldn’t bear the thought of not being in control.

Now, as the room lights were dim, and classical music played softly in the background, Vision was attentive as always, delicately tracing the contours of Wanda’s body with steady hands. Yet her mind was elsewhere.

She tried to focus on the man’s hands caressing her skin, tried to feel the heat, the passion that once united them. But every touch of his felt pale, distant, almost lifeless. As if something essential was missing.

It came suddenly, like a raw and uncontrollable wave: the image of you. Not the “you” who was both docile and irreverent, always striving to please her, but the “you” who was desperate, tear-eyed, and begging for a forgiveness she had denied.

The muffled sound of your pleading echoed in her memory, and Wanda felt the warmth Vision was trying to rekindle explode with an almost painful intensity. The memory of the tremor in your voice, the way you begged, submitted, and allowed her to hold power over you until you wet yourself, tears streaming down your face as she crushed you emotionally…

A heat surged through her body. Her heart raced, and she felt a sharp tingling in her hands and her own core. Unknowingly, red energy began to spark around her fingers.

Vision noticed, tilting his head slightly but misunderstanding. “Is everything alright, my love?” he asked, his voice as gentle as ever.

“Yes,” Wanda lied, though her breathing was heavy, almost ragged. She closed her eyes, trying to push away the guilt beginning to surface. But the pleasure was far more real now.

The image of you lingered, growing stronger. The way your short skirt revealed just enough of your backside to make her crave more, your legs trembling with nervousness, the blush that painted your face as you shrank under her gaze. It was wrong, but Wanda couldn’t stop. You were fragile, so easy to break, and the thought awakened something ancient and primal within her.

She bit her lower lip hard, stifling a moan that wasn’t meant for him. No, it was for the vulnerability she had seen in you. For the way your submission made her feel something she hadn’t felt in years: raw, palpable, and absolute power.

Wanda longed to have you begging for her, but in a different way now. She wanted to press your pretty face between her thighs, smothering you until you turned purple from her suffocation. Wanda wanted to shove her fingers into your mouth, making you drench them with your saliva—so it’d be easier to slide them inside you.

Could you be a virgin? Pure?

At that moment, Wanda only wanted to wear a strap-on and take you from behind, punishing you for wearing that tiny skirt and for having such a sharp tongue. She’d thrust into you so hard that the only thing you’d be able to scream would be her name, like a sacred and solitary mantra—as if she were a goddess needing prayers to grow stronger. You’d offer her your sweet little cunt.

Wanda wanted to pour herself into you, to leave her seed inside you... she wanted… Wanda wanted...

“Wanda, your magic…” Vision stepped back slightly, puzzled.

The heat within her grew, fueled by the energy now visibly pulsing in waves around her hands. Scarlet hues filled the room, and the woman nearly floated.

She opened her eyes, realizing the lights in the room flickered and the bed trembled faintly. “I… I’m fine. Just keep going…” she insisted, gently pushing him.

“Perhaps you should rest, my dear,” Vision suggested, ever logical.

Wanda nodded, wanting to end the moment before he noticed anything more. He left the room, respecting her space as he always did. As soon as the door closed, Wanda collapsed onto the bed, panting.

The realization hit her like a punch. She had nearly climaxed thinking about you—not Vision, the perfect husband, the father of her children, but you, a pathetic and insignificant student. Her soul twisted with hatred at the truth, but hatred was a fuel. It ignited her.

“Little bitch,” Wanda whispered to herself, her words heavy with a rage that seemed endless. She got up abruptly, her bare feet meeting the cold floor.

She walked to the large mirror in the corner of the room, staring at her reflection with eyes glowing redder than they should. “What’s wrong with me?” she murmured, though she knew the answer. It wasn’t a mistake. It was a desire so primal it eroded her reason, leaving only instinct in its place.

She closed her eyes again, trying to banish the image, but it was useless. Her fingers curled into fists at her sides, anger boiling under her skin. “I don’t want this,” she said louder, as if speaking the words aloud could undo the knot of desire and hatred tightening around her.

But the Scarlet Witch within her smiled. It wasn’t about wanting or not wanting. It was about giving in. About realizing that the control Wanda prided herself on was slipping through her fingers when it came to you—as if she couldn’t control you.

She hated what had just happened, but she hated even more how much she enjoyed it.

When Vision murmured something as he reentered the room, Wanda turned to look at him. There was a calmness on his face that brutally contrasted with the storm inside her. He loved her. He would do anything for her.

And yet, it was you that Wanda wanted to crush. It was you she wanted on your knees, sobbing, begging.

And it was you who, somehow, made her feel alive again.

For the first time in a long time, the Witch within her desired something.

~*~

As the great philosopher Selena Gomez once said: If you wanna, come and get it

Tag list <3

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@lesbiansweet @i-luv-w1men @sheriffswan-blog @htinha157 @syssmin @wandasslut3000

[eggedbellies]

Thank @cyphlyncolours for this one! Title: All Bets are Off Wordcount: 3327 Kinks: breeding, oviposition, cum inflation, knotting, egg laying, bondage (?), breeding stocks, overstimulation Synopsis: Ashe (she/they) is a human on an alien planet. Hanging out in an alien bar and playing games sounds like great fun... until the bids are raised higher than before. If she wins, the prize is a great amount of money. If she loses, well... the breeding stocks always need a new body.

-

The sultry air in the Aura Rainforest was something that few humans enjoyed, but Ashe had found herself coming to enjoy. It wasn’t impossible to encounter other soft-skinned folks like herself in here, but it was definitely something rare. She liked how comfortable it was, in only the barest modicum of clothing, and the Selesians seemed to enjoy the novelty of seeing such an unusual creature in their midst. The human settlement nearby had been tolerated when they’d first landed; the reptillian locals were not huge in numbers, and friendly enough, even if it had taken some time for communication to be established. That was hundreds of years ago now, and Ashe was part of a generation that was long since settled… although interactions between the two communities was a little more distant than it really should have been.

Ashe, though? They’d never given a damn what was expected of her. The thick leafy foliage was part of the building; the air was heavy with moisture, and her crop top – barely containing her heavy chest - and light yoga pants were not enough to stop sweat dripping down her back. For the scaled creatures that were her friends and compatriots, it was clearly pleasant – they found her strange, soft nature to be fascinating. Eyes drifted around the space before settling back on the hand of cards she had. It sometimes made her think of saunas she’d seen on footage about Earth, and always enjoyed it…

The last few games had been disastrous; an upsetting shift in pace from Ashe’s previous luck. This game had been one she’d learnt here, on the very first, nervous visit – a friend had heard her talking about wanting to try some of the local delicacies, and had almost mockingly recommended Aura Rainforest. The silence that fell when she’d first stepped in, a half-dozen sets of slitted eyes turning to look, suspicion that spoke of perhaps some crueller visits in the past. Yet, upon learning what kind of person they were? Ashe had been accepted with open arms.

The game was fun, but tense; a little like poker, a little like chess, even if it was played from the compressed-leaf ‘cards’, able to tolerate the balmy temperatures. The pile of money in front of them, though, was drawing tension. The space around had a low chatter, but many eyes were fixed upon the two players. All the others had dropped previously, and now, it was only Ashe and her opponent – Manna. She was a stunning creature, truly. Six foot two, glossy green and gold scales with touches of warm copper, brilliant orange eyes. She reminded Ashe of images she’d seen of cobras; the way her natural head shape flared out like a hood or even long hair… her own brunette locks felt unremarkable in comparison.

She was also the owner of Aura Rainforest, and one of the most skilled N’ic players that Ashe had ever faced off against.

“Damnit.” the human sighed, sitting back slightly, dropping her cards down in front of her. “I concede. I don’t have anything else to bid.” “Hmm…” Manna’s voice was as warm as the air, and she smiled in that languid way the reptillians had. “There is something else you could raise…” she murmured. “One more game. If you win, all this…” she gestured a clawed hand down at the pile. That was a good amount of money – enough to cover her rent for the month, at least. Brows drew in, trying to consider what was being suggested right now – before the black claw pointed across the room. Ashe turned, and her eyes settled on – ah. ‘The Stocks’, she’d heard them called, although they weren’t like any stock they’d ever seen before in their history docs.

It wasn’t a structure designed to hold the wrists and neck, no – it was something entirely different, something she’d rarely seen used but – there was a deep throb of heat that sunk straight to her core. Maybe, as Ashe looked back around, she saw Manna’s nostrils flare – but she could have imagined that, surely? “One night.” she said, with a grin, “Anything goes. I won’t let anyone hurt you, of course – standard rules would apply.” Yes, Ashe had seen that before – although never taking too close a look, just in case, not wanting to seem overly interested – that little translator in their brain working to shift the words to something she could understand. No hurting, no suffering, nothing overly… permanent. But, still… that was a hell of a thing to gamble on… eyes drifted back to the money. She remembered the last time they’d seen a body in the stocks… the moaning and gasping from the monitoresque Selesian as she’d been fucked hard, over and over… maybe… maybe the risk was worth it.

“You’ve got it. Deal me in.” she said, giving a grin that Manna reflected back, gesturing casually for the cards to be shuffled and redealt. As each one appeared, she inhaled slowly, well aware that every eye in the space was fixated on the game. She lifted the hand up, staring – trying everything she could to not reveal just what her eyes were fixing on. Impossible. There was only one hand in the game that could possibly beat this. Her own blue irises flicked up, focusing, don’t give it away… the tension held between them, then, finally -

“Marshall.” Manna declared. Ashe’s heart lifted, and she beamed, slapping down her own glimmering purple hand - “Full basilisk.” she declared, sure that Manna had overreached, but the snake was smiling, wider now, and that delight twisted to fear as - “Good hand, Ashe. But …” she laid her own down. “White sail.” “What? No! That’s – how?!” Ashe jolted to her feet, hands on the countertop. Manna began to laugh, throwing her head back before she stood, moving to the human’s side. “Looks like you have a night with us.” she whispered, just the faintest hint of a hiss in her tone. There was laughter all around, now, the rest of the bar delighted at her failure.

“Let me get you a drink.” Manna murmured, “You’re going to want it.” they waved at the bartender; a moment later a shimmering shot was laid in front of her. They stared at it for a moment, knowing just what that was; something she’d never tried, because it was expensive and – well -

“Are you sure?” Ashe murmured. There was a ripple of laughter in return; Manna nodded, leaning in her face close to the back of the human’s head, breath surprisingly warm for a mostly cold blooded creature… reaching out, her fingers caressed the cool sides of the glass before throwing it back. The ‘venom’ shot was made with – well – venom, from a particular species of Selensian – it was rare, and the price came from more than just how hard it was to obtain. Almost immediately, a new kind of heat was suffusing Ashe’s body, making her gasp.

“I always wondered just how it might work on a human.” Manna murmured, and now her slender hands were sliding over Ashe’s hips, then up – scooping under her crop top then the bra, cupping her heavy breasts. Ashe gasped roughly – her hips ground back instinctively, pressing against the growing bulge in her pants. There was more laughter, rising, but seeming so very unimportant in comparison to the throbbing heat building in her own crotch, the wetness soaking through her tight fitting pants. Those cool, unexpectedly soft scaled hands were massaging her now, rubbing over her nipples with a fascination that could only come from someone who didn’t have them. Then the fabric was being pulled from over her head, baring her in front of the entire group.

She found she didn’t mind.

Now the hands were slipping down, into the edges of her pants. Everything was becoming blurry beyond the desperation growing between her legs. As they were led through the bar towards the ‘stocks’, hands reached out to caress the soft skin, stroking her and fondling her, a whisper of what was to come…

There was a soft pad here; they’d never noticed before. But, well – they’d never been on this side of it before, after all. She let them lay her forward. There was a thick bar that settled over her hips, holding her in place, a deep soft curve in the ground, surprisingly comfortable as it was locked into place. There was a hand gripping their ass, stroking over the curve it, tantalisingly close to her desperate, aching hole…

Then something soft was pressing her clit, rubbing against it – she squirmed, bucking, letting out a loud moan.

“You know the rules!” she hissed at someone unknown. “I get first breeding. You lot get to go after. Remember – two drink minimum to use the fucktoy!” and there was a roar of laughter, the clatter of the bar picking up, and then – oh, God, yes – yes – sweet relief – there was something sinking into her. It was surprisingly slender and cool compared to the burning emptiness that was Ashe’s body right now, the venom making every nerve alive. Manna dug her claws into the bits of Ashe’s hips that she could reach.

“You’re such a wet toy. Oh… we need to find more humans to test this venom on. Or maybe it’s just you. I saw the way you looked at it when I raised that bet… I bet you wanted to be here, didn’t you? Wanted to have everyone in this bar lay their eggs in you? You’re very lucky… I can see Snaa is looking at you. We’ll have to let her go last… when you’re all fucked open and ready for that monster, hm?” she laughed again, and the noises made her tremble inside, Ashe clenching around her member. It was just like Manna. Strong, long, slim but irresistible as it drove into her. Over and over, rough, uncaring almost, yet it felt like bliss.

She was getting closer, now, so close, feeling the liquid heat building and building, thrumming into her centre. There – there – and – no – Manna was pulling away, thick strands of cum still drooling from the tip of her cock. “I could’ve given you my clutch… but no. I want to wait until you’re a little more broken, pet.” she slapped Ashe firmly across the rear, and the human clenched, moaning wantonly. Her hands dug into the padding below her, breasts scraping against the soft material… her whole body twitched hungrily, still feeling that throb that was now dancing away, only --

“Ah -” the moan escaped her throat – Manna was still hovering nearby, but there was someone new lining up. Something thick and surprisingly blunt slid slowly down the crack of their ass, rounded and textured. It was so different from the owner’s slender tool, but – surely this wasn’t Snaa’s cock? They knew her – she was the komodo who sat in the back corner, downing huge jugs of the simmered palm ‘beers’, some kind of labourer with a beautiful muscular set of arms and oh, god, she was being split in half, this couldn’t be Snaa but what if it was already? They’d never be the same again. It felt so good; they were so slick and hot compared to the blunt, unstoppable intrusion…

“Fuck!” Ashe cried out as she came, clenching, yet the cock slipped all the way in, and the high laughter above her wasn’t Snaa’s, no. It was hard to think beyond just how full she felt, each ponderous thrust slow, steady, driving all the way in then nearly all the way out. Pre was drooling into their body, doubled up on the slick from Manna’s first filling, and then – oh – oh, they were moving faster, rougher. Each blow all the way in rocked her in the ‘stock’, whining and drooling into the padding. She truly was a toy, being used, the venom making her blood sing and body shimmer all over… a bliss that she didn’t imagine she’d ever feel again.

Somehow, that cock was getting thicker. At the base now, swelling – bigger – they couldn’t move even if they hadn’t been held. Twitching, pulsing, almost squirming where it was packed into her tunnel. Each pulse of cum had nowhere to go but in, the knot preventing anything slipping out. Ashe howled, then babbled, hearing the rising and falling of laughter and excited talking. Someone carressed her face, tilting her head up as if to check she was still alive. Her belly was aching – she’d never felt so full. Then there was a soft hand on that too, rubbing it – they could feel how it hung, packed with cum, into the scaled palm. Manna was talking, laughing, and the idea that she might be proud of just how well Ashe was taking the breeding… it sent another tremble of pleasure through them, making them clench again.

“Oh, it liked that.” a deep voice rumbled, and she finally realised it was Kroak. They had been knocked out in the first round of the game, entirely unable to hold anything like a poker face, but clearly didn’t seem to be all that disappointed. “Rub it again.” then that hand was pressing against her swollen womb and she was howling as she came once more, panting, gasping. “It’s like she was made for this.” “You’ve had your turn, pet. Move on.” slowly, the cock slipped out of her. The balmy air was cold for a moment against her swollen, open cunt; then there was another slipping inside. She let out a breathless little whimper, legs trembling against the sensation. It wasn’t bigger, but it was so ridged, lumpy and pressing in just the right places against their twitching, spread tunnel. She dug her nails into the padding again, realising through the fog just what the curve below her was for now. Oh, God. This had barely begun, hadn’t it? Her mind drifted; just a mess of pleasure, legs shaking, knowing that if they even tried to stand now, they wouldn’t be able to take their own weight. Another knot – yet more cum, unstoppable, as she came and howled and thrashed and their belly filled with the thick seed…

“Now, my dear… sip this.” Manna murmured, gently holding a glass to their sweaty lips. Ashe sipped, expecting more venom, but no – it was just water. Sweet and cool and fresh. “You’re doing so very well. Not too many left now, but…” she chuckled, reaching down to cradle her breasts, stroking over the rock hard nipples. Ashe whimpered, tender, squirming. “Well. All that cum sloshing around in you… isn’t it about time we got you some proper young, hm? Can’t waste it, after all.”

“Wha..?” Ashe mumbled, so lost in the sensations that they could barely register. Then there was another cock splitting them open, sinking in. Slow. Almost gentle, as if knowing how sore she was. They began to rock, bouncing her against them, then rougher, clawed hands adding to the marks on her butt. They added scratches, too, scraping into that flesh. Making it clear that they belonged to the patrons… it sent another tingle through their body, clenching, whimpering…

“Good toy.” the gruff voice whispered, and they laughed, “Good, good. Give in to it. We all know you wanted to be our breeding.” breaking off with a moan, there was that swelling. Different now, though – not quite a knot. Hips rolled. The lumps shifted. The starfish at the tip was flaring open, pressing into her cervix, and yet Ashe could barely feel it – no pain, only pressure leaning into pleasure. The eggs were thick, oblong, bigger than a Chabbit’s – slowly spreading the tip until it deposited into the pool of slick that filled them. A keening whimper escaped Ashe’s face, and that cool hand gently stroked her sweat-soaked features. Yes… she was doing well, wasn’t she? Oh… they would all be so happy with Ashe…

“Made to be a pet.” Manna murmured. “Might be something in that, sweetness. Oh…” she pressed a thumb to Ashe’s lower lip, and without hesitation the human pulled it in, near enough suckling on it, pupils blown wide… “Good. Good.”

The eggs continued to slip inside her, rounding that belly out further. Now the curved padding below was struggling to support her burgeoning frame. They moaned weakly against the thumb… more, more eggs… bigger, fuller… a low whimper of disappointment when that cock slipped from her hole. The last, of course, as promised, was Snaa. Huge, clumping her way towards them, wasting no time. It didn’t matter that she was rough – Ashe was so fucked open they could barely register anything beyond pleasure. Pounding against her cervix, pushing deep into her. Rough, wet slaps – the exhausted patrons cheering as Snaa pulled hard enough to loosen the lock on the stocks. Manna exclaimed a warning, but the night’s abuse and the powerful pounding – there was a clunk as it pinged open. Wasting no time, her thick hands wrapped all the way forward, grasping Ashe’s tits. They massaged them roughly, then those digits gripped her by the torso and lifted her up. Belly dangling, Ashe cried out, a weak howl as she was hefted like a sleeve.

Up and down, belly bouncing even with how tight and full it was. The clutch didn’t waste time – the eggs just as hefty as the creature releasing them. Each pushed sunk another inside her, bulging visibly on her front. A half dozen later, and the clutch was done; Manna lurching forward to help take Ashe’s weight and stop the human being dumped on the floor like a wet paper towel.

“Good girl.” Manna whispered, stroking a hand over her cheek. “Let’s get you out back and laying down, hm? I think you’ve earnt some sleep…”

--

She woke with a lurch.

It was cooler out here; the soft silky fabric of the couch below her. Ashe tried to sit up, then moaned. Her whole body felt utterly fucked out, sticky and sore. But beyond that, was another sensation. A low aching thrum. A pressure. Unresistable. Oh, fuck – the eggs had gone in. Now they were fertile, and … -- “Ah, yes. Humans. You’re so quick. Up to you if you’re lucky or not.” Manna was lounging against the wall, arms folded, completely naked, her tail curling languidly on the ground. “If you were like us, pet, you’d have to waddle around that for at least a week. Relax. Lean back. Enjoy it. I promise it’s going to feel ever so good.” she chuckled, moving closer. Ashe cried out again. Her overworked clit twitched. There was a throb, a hint of pain, and then heat rushed down through her tunnel. Liquid dripped; the eggs were moving. It stretched her out, but nowhere near as much as Snaa had. More leathery than she’d expected. Thankfully her body seemed to know what to do, rippling clenches and pushes… the first egg plopped wetly out of her. Manna was kneeling next to her now, stroking her cheek.

“Good pet. Good, good pet.” she murmured, low and syllibant, right by her ear. Ashe cried out and tried to buck, but her body was too heavy. No – there was no stopping this. Another egg, then another, until each was right on the tail of the prior. They whimpered, feeling fresh sweat dripping down their neck. “You know… I think you’re a natural.” she whispered, tenderly. “Let’s get these eggs out of you, and then, well… I know you don’t like your job, Ashe. How about considering becoming the permanent stress relief for the bar?” Manna chuckled. “I don’t think I’ve made this much in months after all.” she paused. Ashe moaned, squeezing, the egg slowly slicking loose then popping out onto the others. “Maybe I’ll wait until you can think past that big belly of yours, mm?” they murmured, patting the swell. Ashe howled – and came again, as yet another egg escaped...

[mymarifae]

these two are linked in some way. 100%. i'm hesitant to add mem to the theory board because idk if they'll be related to march too or just cyrene (being an entity that sort of embodies cyrene's... essence? like ELF elysia in hi3) but the similarities they have with Both are too big to ignore completely

unsure if they're about to go the route of cyrene and march being the same person or if march is simply like... a fragment of cyrene that was sealed and sent away to maybe give her a chance to live on since this girl is doomed to die in virtually every universe and iteration. amphoreus's time and space displacement is fucked up and it seems like we're going to be spending a lot of the adventure split across concepts of "past," "present," and "future." so that mayyyyy be why we were able to see cyrene interacting with and talking to stelle in the nameless faces video, if she's no longer "whole"/dead/...whatever.

she does appear to be emerging from a place of... non... physicality. also it's worth noting that in the first picture of her i included, she's sinking - into water or a water-like substance. that can presumably freeze over...... and become the ice block himeko and welt found march 7th in....... hm? 🤨

it's hard to say how much cyrene will have in common with elysia - it's unfair to expect them to be the exact same character, and maybe these points i'm about to bring up mean little in the end because we don't know for sure where the story is going to go, but

elysia was "born from nothing" which doesn't quite have the same connotations as march 7th's "birth" but you know. they both found themselves in a sudden state of existence with next to nothing to fall back on and they defined themselves

elysia is not humble about her beauty and speaks often of it (as she should; she is very pretty). similarly, march frequently boasts about her cuteness and describes herself as the cutest girl in the world (as she should; she is very cute)

"never forget your roots" is one of the mantras elysia lives by. this stands out to me because despite not... really needing those memories, march is pretty insistent on remembering her past. the lesson that the garden of remembrance and just the universe and her adventures in general have tried to teach her ("your present defines you; so long as you're happy here, you don't need the memories of your past, and retrieving them might destroy what you've come to love now") just doesn't appear to be sinking in. perhaps because she subconsciously has a core belief stating the opposite

as for how mem would fit into this i have nothing for you because we don't have anywhere near enough info on them for me to begin thinking about that. but it seems like they'll be a pretty big deal.

like i'm spitballing more than anything here. if march IS a fragment of cyrene i think it's also obvious that she has grown into her own, entirely separate person and her origins are inconsequential - though she might not think that if/when she learns this about herself. that might also offer an explanation for why the garden of remembrance won't let her have any part of her old memories, not even a hint. because learning that she's technically a piece of someone else might be too heavy a blow to her sense of identity and she'll be entirely too focused on all the wrong things. uncovering her past will slow her down at the most inopportune moment... make her vulnerable in all the worst ways. which might be why she appears so absent from the adventure.

it's also possible that like. all three of these guys - march, cyrene, and mem - are fragments of a titan (don't ask me which). or that march was given cyrene's coreflame (don't ask me which) before being catapulted into space. or march was the previous owner of the coreflame cyrene has now - if they can be passed on to other people - before being catapulted into space. or i mean, the coreflame cyrene HAD because i'm not convinced this girl's fully alive and well. mem IS the coreflame, brought to life/imparted with cyrene's memories and will.

do you see... there's just so very much to think about... looooots of story spoilers got thrown at us if we can just... untangle the mess... can anyone HEAR me

[ninaslittlewickedplace]

I’ve been seeing some people talk (saw a comment somewhere by @feldspursfiyero ) about Fiyero’s behavior and choices, in particular how his depression and love for animals tie into one another and what his potential backstory is. I have a few things in mind that I’ll jot down here since I haven’t seen too many posts out there about Fiyero’s life before Wicked.

To start, it is obvious that Fiyero is a prince and the heir to the throne. From what we know in real life, being the Crown Prince was never an easy role. Though, I do find it interesting that Fiyero’s choice to act out is more along the lines of the behavior of a modern spare (Margaret, Harry etc) whose life feels directionless in the shadow of their older sibling’s glory. Historically and realistically, the heirs have been relatively good at containing their feelings and attitudes towards their position, but for Fiyero I think there are more layers to why he, the eldest child and the heir, has the personality traits that he has.

More under the cut because I don’t wanna clog the feed. This became longer than I thought 🙃

I do believe there was a time where Fiyero was able to be himself and allow himself to be loved and seen. Being a Prince, his life was dictated by strict protocol and rules by default, but there was once a time where he could breathe and let loose. That’s why he still has the innate ability to know and feel himself deep down, but events in his life have taught him to hide them.

From the Shiz Gazette online (and the books), we know his parents are Baxiana of Upper Fanarra and Marilott, Chieftan of the Arjikis. In my headcanon, his mother is the queen regent, the royal one and his father is the Ozian equivalent of a nobleman. He has a younger sister four years his junior named Arrietta with whom he is very close (she’s my OC).

Having not been raised in the rigid royal structure, Marilott taught his children that there was more to life than rules and appearances. Even if he couldn’t shelter them from their position, he made sure that they got to experience a taste of more “normal” things. Even if Baxiana saw them as her successors, Marilott saw them as his children. Most, if not all, of Fiyero’s happiest memories involved his father.

His death hit Fiyero very hard and is the main catalyst to his evolution into the man we see in Wicked. With him died the carefree boy Fiyero once was. Being fourteen, it came right around the time where he was expected to formally begin to prepare for royal duties and his mother was very strict with him. She had no patience with his slower progression in his studies (which I headcanon to be a combo of dyslexia and adhd) and implemented a stricter study regime, which inadvertently made it worse. He began to develop feelings of inadequacy and low self esteem about his abilities to be a ruler and began to yearn for his mother’s approval. Even if there were times where she was satisfied, she didn’t outwardly show it. Why would she, when royals weren’t expected to show emotion? Every social interaction was a transaction, one where nobody cared about anything but a satisfying end result.

Feeling trapped by his mother, his destiny, and his internal turmoil, Fiyero began to act out. Having partaken in an increasing amount of public events, he became aware that his people were enamored by him. Everytime he ventured beyond the castle walls, he would find crowds of people his age following his every step, listening to his every word. If he could garner attention simply by existing, maybe he could gain their respect by giving something to admire. After all, who could resist being royalty AND being cool?

The Winkie Prince was seen at almost every night club in Winkie Country and Oz, dancing the night away in the middle of the dance floor, winning the heart of every lucky Ozian to be graced by his presence. Every time he was expelled from university, angry students would petition the board to revoke their decision. When they didn’t, his classmates would gather and bide him tearful farewells. The expulsions didn’t both him one bit because wherever he went and wherever he would end up next, he would have an admiring crowd that he could entertain with abandon. That is, until he meets a special girl at Shiz…

Now here is where the real Fiyero fits in as well as the Animals. Yes, things may have been bleak for him, but there were only two places he felt the most safe: Arrietta and the Animal staff at the castle.

Despite his facade being so convincing that even Fiyero himself forgot it wasn’t real, there were times where his old emotions would bubble to the surface. When he was younger, he would burst into tears and as he grew, he would sulk in his hiding spots throughout the castle. Of course, his sister would find him and the two would often sit together, some times in silence and other times, listening to eachother’s woes. She was the only human after their father’s death who loved him for who he was and she was the only person he could be himself with. She had similar worries, but instead of acting out, she turned inward and grew to be an intelligent but shy young woman. She never told him this to make Fiyero more worried than he already was, but she secretly wanted her “old” brother back. The carefree boy who would tease her until she cried, joked until she laughed, and tell stories until she fell asleep.

His other source of comfort, the Animals, are the reason many years later, Fiyero stands up to the injustice against them. The Winkies were known for their deeper connection with nature and Animals, which is why they are so prominent in culture, politics, and trade in their country. The royal family was no different and many of the staff at the castle were Animals, including Fiyero’s governess, tutors, and personal guard. He was most fond of his governess, a kind panda named Palina who stayed with the royal children until Fiyero left for his first university. Even in retirement, she would write letters to her former charges, who never failed to write back. While he was away, she was his safe space, her warm and fuzzy hugs replaced with warm and encouraging words of ink. His tutors, despite instructions from Baxiana to be more strict with his curriculum, had empathy for the prince’s learning struggles and would try various methods to help him learn. They also understood the importance and value of encouragement and would give him small praises and rewards for completing tasks on time or correctly. Fiyero never understood why humans couldn’t be as good teachers as animals and attributed the former’s lack of empathy for their spartan methods.

Finally, Fiyero met Feldspur completely by accident! He had been hiding in one of his hiding spots in the royal stables (which were more like suites for the Horses) when one of the mares found him in the corner of her suite. She knew him and he knew her, so it hadn’t been awkward but she thought she would cheer the teen up by introducing her colt Feldspur to him. At first, the two didn’t see eye to eye, as Feldspur didn’t know why a prince would be unhappy and Fiyero didn’t know why the young horse asked so many questions, but the two eventually warmed to eachother when Fiyero realized that Feldspur actually listened to him. Even if he wasn’t human and wasn’t Fiyero’s age (in animal years haha), he listened intently and the questions that bothered him were asked with curiosity and care, not mocking or ignorance. Fiyero had eventually forgotten why he had been in the stables in the first place, having made a new friend that was on the same level as him. The two quite literally grew up together (and ate grass together in the process) and share a deep friendship that goes beyond a prince and his noble steed.

Phew, that was a lot IM SO SORRY HAHAHA. At that I’m gonna log out and explore this more in fics and drabbles in the future. If you made it this far, THANK YOU and I promise future posts will be shorter 🤗

[t0jisd0ll]

Yandere (fem) vampire head-cannons

cw: yandere traits, mentions of blood, giant age gap (bc she's a vampire lol)

disclaimer: I want to emphasize that I do not endorse or support this type of behaviour. This content is purely for entertainment purposes.

Yan!Vampire, who’s lived through centuries of change, has walked through empires that have risen and fallen, and yet remains effortlessly modern, adapting to every era with ease.

Yan!Vampire, who’s had countless lovers over the years, each of them fleeting and forgettable, none of them ever stirring the depths of her immortal heart.

Yan!Vampire, who spots you one night at a bustling modern bar, standing out to her like a flame in the darkness, your laugh echoing in her ears like a melody she can’t escape.

Yan!Vampire, who watches you from the shadows, her crimson eyes tracing every detail of your expression, every movement, and feels something she hasn’t in centuries—a pull so strong it’s almost frightening.

Yan!Vampire, who casually approaches you, exuding a charm that’s impossible to resist, her words smooth and her confidence unmatched. “You don’t belong in a place like this, you know. You shine too brightly.”

Yan!Vampire, who keeps finding excuses to see you again, always showing up where you least expect her, each encounter leaving you feeling both unnerved and exhilarated.

Yan!Vampire, who laughs at your awkward attempts to impress her, finding your human quirks utterly enchanting in a way no one else has ever been.

Yan!Vampire, who grows possessive quickly, though she masks it with playful teasing. “I hope you’re not letting anyone else charm you. That’s my job.”

Yan!Vampire, who refuses to acknowledge that her feelings for you are different at first, chalking it up to a passing fascination—until she catches herself imagining you by her side for eternity.

Yan!Vampire, who can’t help but bristle with jealousy when you interact with others, her fangs briefly flashing as she suppresses the urge to scare them away.

Yan!Vampire, who admits her nature to you in a moment of vulnerability, her usual confidence softening as she says, “I’ve been around for centuries, and I’ve never wanted anyone the way I want you.”

Yan!Vampire, who takes her time convincing you to trust her, using her charm and wit to show you that she sees you as more than just a fleeting amusement.

Yan!Vampire, who knows she’s had many lovers in the past, but swears to you, “They were distractions. You’re different. You’re the only one I’ve ever wanted to keep forever.”

Yan!Vampire, who proposes the idea of turning you so casually it almost takes your breath away: “It’s not a big deal, darling. Just a little bite, and we’ll have forever together. Doesn’t that sound perfect?”

Yan!Vampire, who’s uncharacteristically patient when you hesitate, but her patience has limits—especially if she feels like you might slip away.

Yan!Vampire, who lingers close to you at night, her touch cool but her gaze burning as she whispers, “You already belong to me. This is just a formality.”

Yan!Vampire, who grows more possessive with time, her playful demeanor slipping when she sees someone else vying for your attention. “They’re not worthy of you. Only I am.”

Yan!Vampire, who reassures you with a smirk, “Once you’re like me, you’ll understand. You won’t want anyone else either.”

Yan!Vampire, who’s been through eons of heartache and fleeting passion, but for the first time feels a deep, consuming love—and she won’t let anyone, not even you, deny her this eternity.

Yan!Vampire, who looks at you like you’re the brightest star in her eternal night and swears, “You’ll never have to face the darkness alone. Not anymore.”

© t0jisd0ll on tumblr. Please do not steal my work as I spend time, and I take a genuine effort to do it.

[peachhcs]

someone hitting on emma at the bar/party or whatever public space and gabe getting a little jealous🤭🤭

the jealousy trope is one of my favorites 😏😏

au masterlist

gabe’s eyes were glued to emma’s back from where he stood in the kitchen with ryan, drew, and aram. they were talking about something, but gabe had stopped paying attention ten minutes ago because his gaze was fixed on his girlfriend about fifteen feet away from him talking with someone guy the hockey player didn’t recognize. it must’ve been someone from one of her classes or something.

now, gabe wasn’t a jealous person. he never really had been. he didn’t care if people wanted to talk to his girlfriend and he liked to think he was very secure his in relationship. he trusted emma. she trusted him. it was simple. they were at a house party one of the older hockey players was throwing and gabe brought emma along. he also knew they didn’t need to be attached at the hip at very second because they were their own people. she was welcome to go and talk to other people.

the problem gabe started having was when this guy was getting a little too close for comfort. they’d been talking for almost twenty minutes and it seemed fine at first, but then he started touching emma whenever he laughed or wanted to grab her attention and gabe’s jaw clenched just the slightest when he noticed it.

he wasn’t one to make a scene in public. everyone knew him to be pretty chill, so him going over there and taking a swing at the guy’s face would be pretty out of character for him. instead, he just tried listening to what ryan and drew were talking about. he knew if emma didn’t like the interaction she’d just leave and find him again.

but man, that guy was persistent. the dark-haired boy knew that look in his eyes because that was how he looked at emma.

gabe finally had enough and ditched the conversation to make his way over to his girlfriend. her back was to him, so she didn’t see him coming up he snaked his hand around her waist and kissed the top of her head. emma grinned, her eyes lighting up when she saw her boyfriend beside her and that prided gabe knowing he was the only one who could make her eyes light up like that. it also settled the slight anxiety creeping up his chest that maybe this guy did have something he didn’t.

“what’s up?” the hockey player mumbled, smiling back at her and glancing at the guy who stoped talking and eyed gabe’s hand around her waist.

“not much. mitch was just telling me about this book we both read,” emma explained.

the other thing was that because emma was a bit more shy and introverted, a lot of people didn’t expect her to be dating a big shot hockey player, so you could probably envision the surprise on mitch’s face when he realized that gabe was her boyfriend.

“oh, nice. what book?” gabe wondered and eyed the boy beside them.

“just..a book we had to read for our class,” mitch mumbled and took a long sip of his drink. gabe internally smirked to himself knowing he threw mitch off.

“what are you doing?” emma wondered and gabe shrugged.

“just wanted to come say hi to you,” he leaned in to press a quick kiss to her lips. the blonde blushed at his public affection, squeezing his torso. mitch wandered off when he saw them kiss.

“after watching me talk with him?” emma teased a bit because she could feel the tension radiating off of her boyfriend’s body. she was flattered he was jealous though.

“was it that obvious?” the boy mumbled embarrassingly.

“kind of, but i also just know you. you know you have nothing to worry about right?” emma pinched his cheek that was warm and red from the beer he was drinking. gabe flushed even more.

“i know, i just..whatever. it doesn’t matter. i love you,” he grinned.

“i love you too. i’d choose you over any of the nerdy guys in my classes because you’re nerdy in your own way,” the girl poked making gabe roll his eyes a bit.

he tugged her back over to where his friends were. he kept his hand around her waist for the rest of the night which emma secretly loved because it always sent butterflies in her stomach whenever gabe was a bit more possessive and protective of her.

[icewindandboringhorror]

I occasionally wish to reach out to old friends/acquaintances I haven't spoken to since high school/some other even earlier time in my life, but I have SOOO little social energy even for required tasks (like making dr phone calls or etc), I never have any leftover for extra ones, and it would be very odd to message someone I haven't spoken to in like 5 years out of the blue but then take 4 entire months to respond back lol.. My natural curiosity with nostalgia/collecting details of the past/etc. (literally if I were born a little earlier I would definitely do scrapbooking or something lol) is very strong, but, alas, not strong enough to beat out the Social Issues Demons apparently

[citizen-saint]

i'm not answering eight fucking asks because you all decided to be weirdos about that last one. what part of 'you are not entitled to the nuances of my identity' did you all not understand?

[astralmarionette]

im currently writing an atsugawa (I hate the name shin soukoku or whatever I'm sorry but I'm actually not. also I cannot pronounce soukoku {this is the real reason I don't use soukoku}) and I don't even ship it lmaoo

[yongseungkim]

.

[hederasgarden]

Post tenebras lux

Summary: You are gifted to Lucius as a reward for his prowess in the arena. Pairing: Lucius Verus x F!Reader Word Count: 5.9 K  Rating: Explicit, 18+ only. Heavy angst with a HEA, dubious consent (reader and Lucius are coerced into having sex), public sex (PIV and f receiving), mentions of spousal death, and brief descriptions of blood/injuries from combat in the arena. A/N: I futzed with the timeline in this fic. Instead of coming home after conquering Numidia General Acacius is sent out on another campaign for the emperors. Also, fun fact — the Romans considered oral sex taboo. A HUGE thanks to @aliensupastar, my beloved B, @clairewritesandrambles, @ryebecca, and @faebirdie for their help with the fic. Please comment or reblog if you enjoyed this and want to see more. Or scream at me in my inbox. That always makes my day.

Gladiator Masterlist ♡ Masterlist

The warm steam of the bath clings to the air, thick and heavy, as you move past the large pools where gladiators soak and laugh. Their rough voices fill the humid air and the afternoon sun filters through the open atrium, casting a muted, golden glow across the water. None of the men bother you as you make your way to the quiet alcove at the far end of the room. If Lucius's reputation in the arena hadn’t been enough to keep them away, the man whose hand he took for daring to touch you certainly was.

You’d learned quickly that in this place violence was power, and your gladiator wielded it well. It was a far cry from your life as a fisherman‘s wife, and then as a slave in Macrinus’s household. When you were gifted to Lucius, you braced yourself for the brutal ways of his world, where strength ruled above all else, and men like him took what they wanted without hesitation. But he never did. Instead, Lucius treated you with something you hadn’t expected: respect and kindness. His touch only ever lingered long enough to offer reassurance, never to claim.

In time you both learned to play your parts to survive. By day, Lucius was the victorious gladiator, and you, his spoil of war. They were roles neither of you had chosen, but ones you took on to survive. The night became your refuge, a time where the weight of your reality could be put aside, if only for a while. Curled around one another on the thin cot the ghosts of your past weren’t silenced but shared through whispered admissions. You could speak of the people you had once been – before Rome twisted you both into something unrecognizable.

Trust came with time. And now, as you approach the alcove where he waits, you can feel some of the tension leave your body. You are safe with Lucius, a thought that would have been absurd to you just months ago. 

You shift the small wooden tray — laden with fresh bread, olives, figs, and a jug of strong wine — to your other hip. The soft scrape of your sandals against the stone floor alerts Lucius to your presence. His dark gaze lifts from the water, meeting yours with the quiet intensity that you’ve come to expect. Even in the haze of sweat and steam, his presence is impossible to ignore. 

Where others would let their gaze wander lower, drifting toward the rest of his bare form submerged beneath the water, you always look at his face. It‘s there that you find what you seek: the sharp edges of your own pain and anger mirrored in his dark eyes. It’s a reflection of the hurt you carry, of all that Rome took from you both. 

“You fought well today,” you say, settling beside the pool, the water lapping at the stone. 

The words come easily, practiced—part of the familiar routine you’ve both come to rely on. Though the bath is quiet and you seem to be alone, you know better. You’ve learned the hard way that the walls have ears. Every word, every glance, carries weight here, and even in the relative solitude of this alcove, your interactions could be reported back to Macrinus. Only when you’re hidden away in the cell you share each night can you let the pretense fall away. 

Lucius hums in response as he lets his head fall back against the cool stone. His muscled arm rests on the edge of the pool and you offer him a brief, gentle touch before withdrawing. The tension in his frame eases a fraction and his eyes flutter closed, but the sharpness of his presence doesn’t fade. He’s aware of every shift in the air, every sound around him. Even in the quiet comfort of this place, Lucius is never truly off guard. 

You pick up a ripe fig, its skin velvety and fragrant, and drag it slowly through the warmed honey. Gently, you bring it to his lips, offering it with a quiet gesture. Lucius sighs—softly, almost imperceptibly—and then his lips part, taking the fruit from your fingers. As he bites into it, you feel the heat of his tongue brush against your skin. You try to ignore the traitorous feeling that springs to life in your belly. That feeling has become a frequent companion, one you never asked for, and one that sits uneasily beside the grief you still carry for your late husband.

“You must eat too,” Lucius commands. “You will need your strength for later.”

His rough words carry no real threat, but you react like they do, tucking your chin to your chest in a subtle gesture of submission. At times, it feels like a performance—like you're both actors on a stage, with an unseen audience watching every move. You eat in silence until the tray is bare and the goblet empty. When he rises from the pool, water cascading from his sun-kissed skin, you reach for the fresh robe laid carefully over the stone bench. 

“Do you wish…” you begin, lifting your eyes to Lucius, only to falter at his expression. His eyes flicker briefly past you, and then, just as swiftly, return. He gives no warning before he pulls you forward and drags you into the water. Your cry of surprise is swallowed by the splash your bodies make as ripples spread outward. The wet robes cling to you like a heavy second skin and you sink deeper into the water.

“I’ll have you here,” Lucius announces loudly. He grasps your biceps and easily forces you to straddle him. Your face shields his from the outside world. His expression softens and even as his lips part to speak, you shake your head, stopping him before the words can leave his mouth.

You understand, without needing to hear it. The two of you are no longer alone.

He leans back, arms stretched along the edge of the bath. “Ride me,” he commands. 

You struggle out of the heavy outer robe and your knuckles unwittingly brush over his abdomen. Lucius tenses beneath you. You offer him a quiet apology before withdrawing and rising to your knees. Your hips shift forward in a facsimile of his request, meeting nothing but a swell of water as you keep a careful distance from his body. He groans and you answer him with a quiet moan of your own. You rise up and down almost mechanically, staring at the chipped stone above his head. His hot breath fans over your neck, the heat of it lingering on your skin. You shudder as a warmth that has nothing to do with the pool gathers under your skin, shame twisting your insides. 

Lucius grabs your waist urging you to move faster, and the sounds of his pleasure rise in intensity. The muscles of your thighs protest, burning with effort as you hold the distance between your bodies. The air around you shifts and the murmur of conversation in the other pools begins to fade as the gladiators are drawn in, listening to your performance. The silence grows almost suffocating, but you force yourself to push through the charade. This is just one of many indignities you’ve endured since Rome descended onto the sleepy fishing village you called home. It pales to what could await you if it were gifted to a different gladiator. 

“Fuck,” Lucius growls loudly, abruptly stilling your movement to feign his pleasure. 

After a beat you gather the courage to look over your shoulder, meeting Viggo’s stare. You tense. Calloused fingertips brush lightly over your jaw, drawing your attention back to Lucius. You stare down at him, taking in the light flush of his dusky cheeks and the steady rise and fall of his chest. His touch lingers for a moment more before his hand disappears beneath the water. 

“Use my robe to cover yourself,” he instructs roughly. 

It’s then that you realize how transparent your dress has become in the water. Your cheeks burn with embarrassment and you slide away, only to freeze when your thigh brushes over an unexpected hardness. Your eyes jump to his and Lucius’s throat bobs, the usual intensity of his features faltering for a brief moment.

"I will fetch more wine," you stammer after a pause, your gaze flicking nervously to Viggo still lingering at the edge of the bath, all too aware that Lucius cannot leave in this state. 

Wrapping your arms around your chest, you rise from the pool. The cool air instantly prickles your damp skin. You reach for a robe nearby and pull it around you quickly, grateful for its modesty. Viggo shoots you a brief, assessing glance, but it’s Lucius who commands his attention next.

"Come to admire what isn't yours?" Lucius taunts.

He leans back casually, as though completely unfazed by the situation. It’s effortless the way he slips into his confident, unshakable mask while you hurry away, eager to break the silence and escape the strange weight of the moment.

–

The clang and clash of metal from the arena become a distant hum, fading into the background as you clean the wounds on Lucius's body. Ravi is occupied, tending to the more seriously injured men, so it falls to you to care for your gladiator. You kneel between his thighs and the coarse sand scrapes against the soft skin of your knees. The heat of the day clings to you both, the air thick with the smell of sweat and blood. But beneath it all, there's a scent you’ve come to recognize as uniquely his — a mix of earth and salt that’s oddly comforting. 

You gently press a cloth to one of the deeper gashes, cleaning away the blood before you begin stitching the wound. Lucius hisses as you draw the needle through his parted skin, and you glance up at him in concern, but his eyes are closed, his breath steady despite the discomfort. His fingers curl into the edge of the cot, gripping it tightly. You smear the thick, fragrant paste Ravi left over the wound once you’re done. 

“You’re getting better at this,” Lucius observes.

“Flesh is not so different from cloth,” you reply.

“A far cry from mending fishing nets,” he says, and for a moment, your eyes meet and you share a small, pained smile.

“And you are a long way from a farm, gladiator,” you acknowledge, shaking your head. 

You help him stand, your hands steady as you support his weight, but you pause when you spot Viggo standing in the doorway. Lately, he seems to haunt your every step, his presence a constant shadow. On instinct you shift a little closer to Lucius, your body seeking the reassurance of his proximity just as he draws you near. The subtle movement doesn’t go unnoticed. A small, knowing smile tugs at Viggo’s lips. It’s a look that sends a trickle of unease down your spine.

“Macrinus is entertaining some important guests tomorrow evening, and you are required to attend,” he announces looking at Lucius. “They wish to see a real gladiator up close, to witness your strength and skill firsthand.”

Then, to your surprise, Viggo turns his gaze toward you. “Your presence is also required,” he adds. Although his tone is casual there's an edge to it that makes your stomach tighten.

Lucius doesn’t speak, but his fingers flex against your hip as he considers the other man’s command. You both know there’s little room for refusal when it comes to Macrinus.

“I understand-” you say at the same time Lucius’s voice cuts through the silence, low and firm.

“She is not needed. I alone will attend.” 

His gaze never leaves Viggo, and you can see the challenge in his eyes. It’s an attempt to shield you, one you appreciate but understand is futile. 

Viggo’s smile remains unchanged. “Macrinus insists.”

The matter is settled and you bow your head, waiting for the other man to leave. Once he is gone you look to Lucius, voice tinged with concern. 

“You should not challenge him.”

Lucius steps away, anger rolling off him in waves. “And you should not submit so easily.”

You touch your throat, then turn away to busy yourself with the bloody scraps of cloth and scattered supplies. There’s no point in arguing. You know the truth: that sometimes submission is the only way to survive in a world ruled by men like Macrinus. As you work the silence between you stretches on, thick and charged before Lucius steps toward you. 

He sighs, his breath warm against the back of your neck. A moment later, his hand rests on your shoulder. The calloused pads of his fingers graze the nape of your neck, sending a fleeting sense of unexpected longing through you as they briefly sweep over your skin.

“I….” His voice trails off and you close your eyes.

“I know,” you say quietly. 

So much of what transpires between you seems left unsaid. You reach back, your hand finding his briefly as the two of you share a quiet moment before he must return to the arena. 

–

The bangles on your wrist are heavy and ornate, far too extravagant for a slave. They feel less like adornments and more like shackles. Beside you, Lucius looks equally as uncomfortable in his fine clothes. They’ve trimmed his beard and his tunic—lined with gold thread—glimmers in the dim light. From across the room, Macrinus raises his goblet to the two of you. All around you his guests mingle, sharing hushed conversation and knowing smirks that deepen your discomfort. 

The servants, once familiar to you from your time as a slave working in Macrinus's kitchen, all avoid your gaze. You spent years alongside them before you were plucked from that world and thrust into Lucius's service. Their hesitation, the way they look past you, is more than simple discomfort, it’s a warning you don’t yet understand. Your fingers tremble where they rest on Lucius’s arm.

“Something is not right,” you whisper, fear rising in your throat.

Before Lucius can reply, the conversation around you falters, and the air grows still as Macrinus moves to the center of the room. Then, with a sharp clap of his hands, the noise dies completely. 

“Our entertainment is about to begin,” he announces, beckoning you forward.

As you approach, his eyes drift between you and Lucius. His smile widens, though it never quite reaches his eyes. “I hope you enjoyed your meal. You’ll both need your strength for the show,” he says. 

“I am to fight?” Lucius questions, his voice edged with suspicion.

“No, not today,” Macrinus replies. “My guests are eager for a performance of another kind.”

Your brow furrows and Lucius stares blankly at Macrinus until two servants, moving in unison, pull a table forward. It is laden with the remnants of the earlier feast — half-finished plates, empty goblets, and discarded silverware. They work to clear away the table until it is left bare. 

“It is no bed, but it’s finer than your cot,” Macrinus assures.  

Lucius jerks back as if struck, his body stiffening in shock while cold dread settles over your shoulder as you both understand Macrinus’s meaning. He watches the small exchange between the two of you with amusement.

“Or, if you prefer not to,” he offers, watching Lucius intently. His voice is smooth with mock consideration as he continues speaking. “I’m sure another gladiator would gladly take your place.”

“No,” Lucius snarls. Before he can move, you dig your nails into his forearm, trying desperately to hold him in place.

Macrinus leans in close, his next words meant only for the two of you. “I expect a good show. Not like that mummer's farce in the bath.”

Ugly surprise washes over you as the full reality of your situation sinks in. Beside you, Lucius shifts and you see the familiar spark in his eyes. It’s the look he gets before a fight when the fire that lives inside him is ready to explode and consume everything in its path. You’ve seen it a thousand times in the arena, and it always ends the same way: with blood. 

You almost wish you could let him fight, but you know better. You step closer to Lucius, your presence a quiet plea for him to stop. It takes a moment before he meets your gaze and when he does you see the pain beneath the rage, the knowledge that this moment is slipping beyond his control. 

There’s no glory in this—only survival. Yet that truth doesn’t make it any easier to watch the fire in his eyes fade as he steps back. It’s the kind of defeat that no arena or battle could ever impose on him. 

“My guests are eager for the show,” Macrinus says and gestures to the table. 

You straighten your shoulders, willing your body to follow the courage your mind struggles to summon. Lucius follows with heavy footsteps. You stop before the table, heart pounding, and take a slow, steadying breath to gather your resolve before you turn to face your gladiator. You know the role you’re meant to play, this moment is just another part of the spectacle your life has become.

Without a word, Lucius steps closer and his hands come to rest on your hips, guiding you to sit on the edge of the table. When he moves between your legs, you can’t read his expression. Unexpectedly, one of his large hands cups the side of your face, his thumb brushing lightly over your cheekbone. He leans in, his forehead pressing against yours.

“Focus on me,” he urges. “It is just us here, no one else matters. Do not think of them. Do not think of anything but me.”

His words are a command and a reassurance all at once, grounding you in the moment even as your pulse quickens. 

When he speaks again, his voice is louder, carrying across the room. “Lay back.”

The table is hard and cold beneath you as you follow his instruction, the chill seeping through the thin silks you wear. Lucius pulls you forward until you’re at the very edge, your legs hanging loosely off the sides. Gently, your dress is peeled away until you’re bare to him. His broad frame blocks the crowd from seeing much but you still feel vulnerable and exposed. You curl your fingers into the palms of your hands, trying to remember Lucius’s words as you close your eyes.

The murmurs of the observers increase, and you feel them shift, edging closer. Then, a woman’s gasp cuts through the tension, followed by a wave of hushed surprise that ripples through the gathered Romans. When you open your eyes you can only see the top of Lucius’s head from where he kneels between your thighs. Guilty anticipation zips through you, followed by a spark of heat that flickers low in your stomach at the sudden realization of what he intends to do. 

“Barbaric,” a man utters, his voice thick with disdain.

“Now now,” Macrinus says with a slight chuckle. “Remember, our gladiator hails from Numidia. Their customs are not ours."

The first touch from Lucius is barely there, a whisper of contact against your inner thigh, but it grows firmer the higher his fingers climb. Instinctively, you hold your breath, waiting for him to reach the most sacred part of you. At the first touch of his mouth to you, the rest of the world fades away.

Lucius builds your pleasure with slow, steady strokes while his calloused hands knead your thighs. His touch is an anchor and spark all at once. There is little resistance when he curls a finger inside. A second joins the first a moment later and without thought, you thread your fingers into his curls. A long, shuddering moan leaves him, and the vibration tightens the coil in your belly. Lucius’s touch grows rougher and more demanding. He drinks from you like he’s starved for it, as if every drop is the only thing keeping him alive while his fingers work you open.

You come with a throaty cry, your hips leaving the table. Every nerve in your body is alight. You cannot help but hold Lucius against you until the mere brush of his nose against your center makes you quake again, sending waves of warmth through your veins. As much as you want him to stop, you’re desperate for him to continue and keep you in this moment where nothing but the two of you exist. 

Lucius pulls away and reality crashes in with starting clarity while the eyes of the crowd cut through you like a thousand sharp edges. Before it all overwhelms you, he climbs onto the table. He lowers himself onto his forearms and the weight of him presses against you.

“Eyes on me,” he murmurs.  

You open your mouth but the words you want to say seem to get caught, trapped somewhere between your chest and your lips. To your surprise, wetness gathers at the corner of your eyes. But even that feels like something you can't fully surrender to. You’re trapped in this strange, painful moment where nothing feels real and everything feels too real all at once. It’s all too much – his tenderness and the horror of the situation.

There’s a subtle, almost imperceptible shift in Lucius’s expression in response, but it’s enough to reveal something beneath the surface and allow you to see the guilt he bears. The lines around his eyes seem to deepen and the tension in his expression makes him look older, wearier, and more vulnerable than you've ever seen him. The desire to soothe him is enough to break the strange spell on you.

"All is well," you assure him, gently brushing your nose against his. “I am no maiden.”

“Fuck her already,” a voice shouts and Lucius pulls back, his handsome face twisting into a snarl. You feel the tension in his muscles, coiling like a spring, ready to snap—and a knot of anxiety tightens in your chest. 

You breathe his name, soft and pleading, and he stills, the clench of his jaw betraying the war within. “It is only us,” you remind him, repeating his own words back to him. 

He stares down at you, nostrils flaring and then suddenly he bows his head. You feel the fight leave him as he chooses restraint over the violence you both know he’s capable of.

"Only us," he replies, strained. 

You hold his gaze as you feel his knuckles brush against your inner thigh to line himself up. He pushes inside slowly and you lift your hips. Your body welcomes him with only the briefest flare of pain, eased by his earlier attention. 

“Oh,” you gasp.

Your eyes close as he fills you completely. The sensation is both comforting and alien all at once. You can’t help but think of your late husband, so different from Lucius in every way. You wonder fleetingly if the man above you is thinking of his lost love too. Does that unspoken grief weigh on him as heavily as it does on you?

Before your mind can wander further, Lucius begins to move and your thoughts fizzle out. He curls his powerful body over yours and keeps up a steady pace that makes your skin buzz. You wrap your arms around his broad shoulders and the smell of him surrounds you, familiar and comforting. As you move together each breath and shift of your body becomes a silent conversation between only the two of you. 

“Gods,” he groans into your ear. “You take me so well.”

His unexpected praise has you rocking into him, needy for more. The table creaks each time he thrusts back into you. His lips trail along your neck and you feel that familiar climb to ecstasy begin, like a delicate crescendo inside you. Your nails dig into his skin and his rhythm stutters. 

“Sweet girl,” Lucius sighs, pulling back just far enough to meet your gaze.

The tenderness in his eyes is unexpected. Since Macrinus gifted you to Lucius nearly six months ago, you’ve shared many looks; full of pain and grief, anger and understanding, but this is something new, fragile. You stroke his cheek and he surges forward, kissing you roughly.

His lips on yours are a revelation. A storm of emotion rolls through your chest, crystallizing into the realization that you want him. You long for him in a way that goes beyond the need for protection, or a desire for connection. You grasp his face in both hands, your fingers trembling against the hard line of his jaw, and return the kiss with urgency. It’s desperate, almost frantic, as though you’re trying to pull him closer, to merge with him in a way that makes the world outside of the two of you disappear. 

He responds with a sharp thrust, angled so perfectly that it sends a flash of heat up your spine. You taste yourself on him when his tongue delves into your mouth. He hardly lets you catch a breath as he pours himself into you over and over until another orgasm washes through you. It’s more intense than the last, bleeding into his own as he comes with a quiet moan. 

He gives a few more thrusts and stills, his lips hovering over yours as you share the same air. Your thumbs stroke the soft skin under his eyes and you hold his gaze. In the depths of it, you feel a thousand words rising in your chest, aching to spill out, but you are all too aware you’re not alone. 

Before you let the world back in you tilt your chin up, lips brushing over his in a slow, tender kiss that he returns with heartbreaking gentleness. When you finally pull apart, the applause from Macrinus makes you flinch, and Lucius’s expression clouds over.

“What a performance,” Macrinus exclaims.

A titter of applause follows from the audience as though they’ve witnessed something to be praised. Lucius pulls away and you wince as he slips from inside you. A trickle of his seed follows and cold air blankets your body. You curl in on yourself, feeling vulnerable and anxious. When Lucius moves to stand, he carefully pulls your dress to cover you. Then, he helps you upright, and draws you into his side, shielding you with his body. He lifts his chin and offers the crowd a sharp, almost vicious smirk that’s more a baring of teeth than a smile. 

“I thought you might fuck like you fight,” Macrinus says. He lays a hand on Lucius’s shoulder like they are old friends and leans close. “I’m pleased to see that I was wrong.”

There’s some other meaning in his words that you don’t catch but Lucius seems to understand. Anger flickers across his face, but beneath it, you see something more unsettling, something you’ve never seen before. Fear. 

“We will do a great many things together, I think,” Macrinus continues in a pleased tone, his gaze lingering on the hand Lucius settles possessively on your hip. “A great many things.”

This time when he smiles it reaches his eyes; cold, calculating, and full of something far more sinister.

You spend the rest of the party seated on Lucius’s lap, his arm banded around your waist while the other rests on your thigh. He’s tense and angry as you expect but his focus seems distant, lost somewhere far beyond the room. He rubs the fabric of your dress between his thumb and forefinger, the motion almost absentminded. The wine you sip is overly sweet and sits like a sour stone in your belly. Neither of you speak. Occasionally, some guests, perhaps emboldened by drink or bravery, approach, but Lucius quickly sends them on their way with nothing more than a look. 

Only once the party dies down are you dismissed by Viggo. On the journey back to your cell Lucius’s grip on you remains firm, as if he's afraid you might slip away. He doesn't speak, and you notice every so often, his free hand curls into a tight fist at his side, his knuckles turning white from the pressure. It’s not until the door closes behind you, locking you both inside the small, dimly lit space, that Lucius finally speaks. 

"You know my true name,” he begins pacing the length of the cell. “But there are things I have not told you."  

He speaks slowly, each word carefully measured, as though he’s weighing the cost of revealing what’s hidden. He tells you the truth of his origin, and with each sentence, you sink deeper into the thin cot you both share, the weight of his words pressing down on you. When he finally falls silent, you remain there, frozen. A thousand thoughts flood your mind, but none of them seem to form into anything coherent. 

"Does this mean-" you begin, words faltering as you try to process the magnitude of what he’s revealed to you. “Does this mean… you are the rightful emperor?”

“I am.” There’s no pride in his admission, only worry. He releases a harsh breath through his nose like he’s trying to clear something from his chest before he speaks again. “There is a plan in place, with my mother and Acacius, but he will not return from Persia for several weeks yet. We cannot wait for them.”

“What has changed?”

“Surely you must know,” he whispers, regarding you softly.  

You shake your head, a quick, instinctive denial, but a deeper part of you already understands. Or perhaps, hopes you do.  

“You," he says simply. 

It’s the way he says it, so certain and knowing, that makes your breath catch. You stare at him and your heart throbs in your chest, low and sweet like a song.

“I never thought I could want someone again,” he admits. His unexpected words summon the ghost of all you've both lost, and they rise between you like a shadow, lingering for a long painful moment. "I thought it would feel like..." His words trail off.

“A betrayal,” you finish for him, keenly aware of what he must feel. 

The vulnerable look on his face awakens something deep and real inside you that you never expected to feel again. You rise from the cot without thinking and move to stand before him.  

"It feels right," he continues, his voice softer now, but no less certain. "As easy as breathing." 

And then he kisses you, tentative at first, before he grasps your jaw, seeking more of you. The way he holds you, possessively, protectively, makes you feel like you’re the only thing that matters, like you're his lifeline in a world that’s about to crumble. It fills you with such longing that you chase his lips when they part from yours.

"Macrinus knows now. And he is planning something," Lucius says, his voice tight with urgency, "and whatever it is, it will be at odds with the good of Rome. He will use you to get to me. And I cannot lose you."

“What will you do?” You ask.

"I'll send word to my mother in the morning," he replies. "You and she must leave Rome. It’s the only way."

You shake your head, unwilling to part from him.

“I will come for you when it is safe,” he promises, capturing your lips in another kiss before he pulls away and rests his forehead against yours. "But tonight… tonight, I need you again. Will you have me?” He questions.  

You answer him with your lips and he gathers you in his arms. The coarseness of his beard against your chin and the firm press of his lips to yours ignites a bone-deep need within. Suddenly all the danger, the uncertainty, and the inevitability of what’s to come fades into the background. It's just the two of you, the heat of his touch, the depth of his kiss, and the unspoken promise in his embrace. 

When he pulls you down on the cot, urging you on top of him, you let his momentum carry you. 

“Ride me,” he pleads desperately, framing your hips with his hands. 

He gazes up at you with such a mix of desperation and love that you couldn’t deny him, even if you wanted to. The shudder he gives when you take him in hand emboldens you to stroke his length. He groans and pushes his head back, exposing his thickly corded neck. You rise up and sink down on him slowly, savoring each inch. It’s near perfect how he fills you, and even though you’re still sore from earlier, the blend of pain and pleasure thrills you too much to stop. 

“Your dress,” he pants, “remove it. Please. I want to see you. All of you.”

You pull the fabric from your body and shed the bangles on your wrist while Lucius removes his tunic. You’re familiar with every inch of his body from tending to his wounds and time in the bathhouse, but you gaze down at him now with renewed appreciation, resting your hands on his firm shoulders. His eyes are filled with affection and desire as they roam your body. 

“You’re beautiful,” he praises. 

He cups your breasts and draws his thumbs across your nipples until they grow hard. The touch sends sparks of pleasure along your nerves and you twitch around him. He moans and rolls his hips. His arms encircle you, holding you close while he fucks you with strong, powerful thrusts. You bury your face in his neck and drag his skin between your teeth. He answers your action with a groan. 

“Gods, the way you feel. You’re perfect,” he praises. 

You sit up and plant your hands on his chest, moving your hips to take him deeper. You gasp his name and arch your back, rocking forward with an urgent need that eclipses everything else. For the first time in what feels like forever, you close your eyes and let yourself simply feel. There’s no need to shield yourself, no barriers to maintain.

“Look at me,” Lucius begs, grasping your waist to take control of your movements.

Your eyes flutter open and meet his, the beginning of your orgasm rising to the surface like a tide pushing its way to shore. It grows steadily until it finally crashes over you, flooding your senses and leaving you breathless in its wake. Lucius finds his own end moments after with a low, shuddering gasp. It takes several moments for your breathing to return to normal and when it does Lucius sweeps his hands up your sides comfortingly.

"Stay with me like this,” he asks. 

You acquiesce and he gently guides you to rest your cheek against his chest. His hand slides to the middle of your back, his palm warm and steady as he holds you close. Even though he remains inside you still your body relaxes, pooling in his. You close your eyes and listen to the steady drum of his heart, feeling a profound sense of stillness. 

You’ve always felt safe in Lucius’s arms, but now, you feel loved in a way you never dreamed you’d experience again. It’s a kind of peace that settles into you, filling all the broken, hollow spaces in your heart where your grief and pain have lingered for so long.

Whatever comes next, his love and strength are something you can hold onto. And for now, that is all you need. 

♡

Also part of this series:

Ab Initio

Finis

Protego te

My inbox is open for your thoughts on this story, requests for drabbles with Lucius and further scenes with Lucius and the Fisherman's Wife.

[fmhobeus]

jjk men and their red flags

a/n: i'm feeling problematic :> tell me what u think (agree/disagree/add more?) this is all for shits n giggles !! non sorcerer au kinda

kento nanami — (over)protective

but like... to the point where it feels like he's treating you like a child! he doesnt like to see you sweat or even work at all for that matter. he loves it when you cook but has bought covers for all the knifes. if he sees a burn on your hand get ready for a 10 minute long lecture. if you accidentally fall he wont let you get up for atleast 3 days to help you ""heal."" it's almost like he doesnt trust you to take care of yourself :') he probably has like 3 separate first-aid kits everywhere.

suguru geto — emotionally unavailable

i feel like this is explainable to his character (sort of.) i dont think that he'd make you feel isolated at all, he's be an amazing listener and probably memorizes every word you say. he listens to you rant and even trauma dump with insane patience. but at some point it feels as though you hardly know him. he's talk to you a lot but very little of it is personal and you hardly know what he's thinking because his ass is not tell you. he also unintentionally distances himself from people from time to time. this applies to you too and you can feel him getting emotionally distant sometimes. it isnt something he does knowingly but it sure ass hell bothers you.

satoru gojo — very clingy and needy

this nigga. he is so utterly clingy. and at first it's perfectly fine, even appreciated by you. you still love him like crazy of course but it is just overwhelming. he is like a child most of the time, he need you around him and is always accompanying you wherever you go, and he expects you to do the same. he also doesn't believe in "me time" because why would you feel better when you're away from him: (? want to hang out with your friends? what do you need them for: (? he's right there. he is also physically incapable of listening but boy is he good at making up.

toji fushiguro — controlling

he is so controlling omfg. it's usually subtle but sometimes he will outright just say no to things he doesnt like, not caring if you like them. it gets to the point where he actually starts to change your personality. he is very caring and that's his justification for this typa stuff. it is usually harmless stuff but he gets paranoid often. he doesnt let you wear miniskirts out if you're not with him. he doesn't let you befriend people he thinks are into you. he barely lets you buy stuff on your own, he usually gifts you whatever it is youre into at that moment. borderline turned on by fear and you being dependent on him.

choso kamo — has no social life outside you

pretty self explanatory. he doesnt have many friends outside you and isn't interesting in making them either. total loser. so taking him out to events, he probably doesnt interact much and chooses to look at you the entire time, which annoys your friends. he answers their questions pretty bluntly. he's never down to have people over and lowkey hates when you are.

hiromi higuruma — workaholic

also self explanatory. he leaves early, comes home late. you barely see him on the weekdays. sometimes he goes as far as ignoring your calls when in between cases. he calls you periodically but has to have an alarm set to remind him. he loves you very very deeply but is just used to working non stop T_T

[tender-rosiey]

desire — ryomen sukuna x f!reader

a/n: me? not sticking to the poll? no wayyy 😙 I AM SORRY I COULDNT RESIST HEIAN!SUKUNA X CONCUBINE!READER next up will be the dad one (I hope) <3

the servants jump in fear as they hear yet another loud crash thunder through the hallway. some of them even latch onto the pillars near them, fearing that the shaking ground would crumble right under their feet.

“uraume, another one!” they hear their lord’s voice shout venomously.

they realize that if the collapsing ground doesn’t kill them then there is a possibility that sukuna might do it himself.

for some reason, this morning, sukuna has been in a terrible mood. with the first ray of sunlight, he had slammed the door of the chambers open.

with an ever-permanent scowl, he scanned the hall filled with concubines and servants.

his chest was heaving slowly; his breath almost scalding hot as he breathed out. he looked at uraume and says, “I need five people sent to the vacant room this instant.”

with no other word, he turned and exited the hall, closing the door with a bang.

the servants were wide-eyed, and they frantically looked at each other.

some of them started weeping, scared out of their minds that they might be chosen. others were considering the option of fleeing because what can they do so uraume doesn’t choose them for whatever massacre sukuna was planning?

uraume exhaled lightly, “you have heard lord sukuna,” they stared at the myriad of quivering servants, emotionless, “stand in line.”

and so it was.

now, on the other side of the door is sukuna crushing the skull of yet another servant. he breathes heavily, fury flowed through his veins.

he stares at the pool of blood on the ground, the splatters of it on the walls, and the splashes of it on the ceiling. his jaw tightens as he thinks of the reason of why all of this happened.

yesterday was the first night he had ever spent with you.

of course, that entailed bedding you—the norm for your position—but what had sukuna in a turmoil was the conversations, the words exchanged, and soft touches you had given him before anything.

he had seen you in the estate on occasion, acknowledging you as one of the better looking concubines, but it was only yesterday that he actually interacted with you.

from the moment you entered his room to the moment you left, it was all like none other.

he had never entertained the idea of making conversations with his concubines as they only had one purpose—to serve him. on days when he was in a good mood, he would tease, speak lowly, anything to get a reaction.

all of that was to fuel his own pleasure, since he hated stagnancy.

to your luck, though, yesterday, he felt very pleased—whispers of it being caused by defeating yet another considerably strong opponent. so, he talked to you.

“so, what’s your name?” he asked, small smirk playing on his face, when you were first brought into the room. pretty little thing you were seated in front of him, eyes not knowing where to look and trying to keep in mind all the instructions uraume told you.

he expected you to be meek, bordering on shy.

however, despite maintaining humility as you were told, you spoke your name with pride, and for the first time since you entered, you looked him in the eyes.

he should’ve had you killed for that little act; however, he noted that you immediately averted your eyes after it. perhaps, it’s your way of screaming ‘remember me’, a way to engrave yourself into his memory even for a millisecond.

it had sukuna smiling smugly before commenting, “you’re quite bold…and peculiar,” he rested his chin on his palm, “did they not inform you to not look me in the eyes unless you’re told to?”

you straightened your shoulders and spoke carefully, “I was, but I was taught by my parents to be prideful of who I am.”

“and pride is a good thing for servant to display in front of their king?”

your eyebrows furrowed, and you pursed your lips, mumbling, “no—but I was born like this, my lord, so I apologize.”

he chuckled, hand holding your face and moving it with ease, “I should have you decapitated for that attitude.”

your eyes drifted to the window, but the nail that sunk lightly into your cheek snapped you back to reality. sukuna scowled, “look at me when I speak to you.”

“didn’t you say that I am not to do that, my lord?” you asked, looking him straight in the eyes.

“I changed my mind,” he grined devilishly, “you complaining?”

“I could never.”

he leaned closer to you and whispers, “smart girl.”

and so, the night went as he took you for himself. what surprised him in the whole ordeal is that he found himself being just a tad bit gentler when tears prickle at the corner of your eye.

he actually spoke to you through it, but what resonated with him the most is what happened after.

you slowly gathered your robes with all the strength you can muster. however, sukuna called out from his position on the bed, “did I order you to leave?”

you blinked in confusion and spluttered, “b-but uraume said that you don’t like—”

“and my orders are above uraume’s: you are to stay until I tell you to leave.”

you clutched your belongings to your chest. you felt your heart squeeze in a bit of fear and excitement. you have been caught off guard by him more than once already.

you had come in expecting a ruthless and painful night, but it was surprisingly pleasant.

the little talk before it was also easier on your heart than you had assumed. you thought that he wouldn’t even bother talking to you and would just take you like an animal as you have heard the concubines bellow and wail.

so when a thumb was wiping away your tears and a hand was holding your waist with a light touch, you wondered whether the man you were with was truly the king of curses, the man that everybody was screaming and thrashing about.

though, you felt that it might be a test of some sort—something to make you lower your guard before he can do what he truly wanted.

so, with that in mind, you spoke up, “but my lord, I can’t possibly stay in your own chambers; that would be disrespecting you.”

he grunted, a frown making its way to his face, “I decide what’s disrespectful and what isn’t, so you better make your way here, before you regret it,” his eyes flashed with a threat, “I don’t have the time to deal or put up with your every objection.”

instantly, you scurried to the bed where he is comfortably laying down while propping body up on his elbow.

you stood just by the bed and asked, “where would you like me to—”

his hand held your forearm and pulled you right beside him, so you’re laying by his side and still looking up at him. he smirked down at you, “you ask too many questions.”

you didn’t know what to do with your hands. they gripped your kimono while you murmured, “sorry.”

he sighed and with a roll of his eyes, he hummed, “you will stay with me until midnight; you are to entertain me until then.”

you looked at him in shock then you looked at the window. your mouth hung open before you snapped your head back to him, “but the sun has only just set.”

with a raise of his eyebrows and a small smirk, he inquired, “you planning on disobeying me?”

“never!”

“then get to it.”

and you did, gathering all the stories, anecdotes, poems, and songs you can think of to fill the time. during your hours with him, you find out that sukuna is a man of interest in literature.

and there were multiple times where you would talk about a story, assuming that he doesn’t know it only for him to continue the telling of the story himself.

during your hours with him, you saw that he is not completely disregarding of people around him. you saw that he acknowledges those who are truly strong. you saw that he wants to make a world that is whipped to satisfy his own desires.

his rampages are not completely based off of bloodlust.

during your hours with him, you felt content in a way you never thought you could experience with him of all people.

but, during his hours with you, sukuna has never felt so conflicted yet so satisfied. satisfaction should be something good for him, as he only does what he pleases.

if your company is what pleases him then your company shall be what he gets, right?

but why your company? why are you different? why is his pleasuring dependent on you and your talking and not the death that he could bring you?

he was confused and annoyed, yet he was content at the same time. he was so caught up in you that midnight had fallen to him suddenly. he only noticed when the moon’s light hits your face, and your face has never been clearer—even under the sun.

he noted each and every delicate feature, and he frowned because why is he doing it? what does he get from it? he needed time for himself to think this through.

he needed to know why does he feel this way and only from a night spent with you?

surely, you had done something.

so, he silently raised his hand, and you paused right away. your hands settled on your lap, and your smile slowly turned into a thin line, one that’s nervous as you await his next order. he looked up at you, eyes burning.

he then commanded you sternly, “leave.”

you nodded, wasting no time in gathering your things and scurrying out of the chambers but without a small and hesitant, “good night, my lord.”

sukuna’s eyes widened a fraction as he looked up at the door closing behind you. he groaned, throwing his back. he figured that he could just think about it in the morning when he wakes up, but the thing is

he doesn’t wake up

because he doesn’t sleep.

thoughts flooded with images of you, your voice, and your touch to the point that no slumber was he granted. it drove him insane. he is the king of curses; he shouldn’t be tied to a thought of one person, a mere concubine at that.

he racked his brain for the cause of it, but he couldn’t think of any. since the moment you came in till the moment you went out, he had kept his eyes on you.

he thought it was to make sure that you don’t do anything foolish, but he doesn’t know when did his eyes follow you just for you.

so, with anger swirling in his gut, he got up and did what he can to quench his anger, and that’s how everything got this point:

him standing in the middle of the—formerly vacant—room that is now filled with flesh and painted with blood and you who is treading through the gardens with a blissful smile.

your thoughts wander to the night before as you reminisce every soft touch and every little praise you were granted, and it lifts your mood even more.

unaware of the chaos that happened in your absence, you entered the hall where half of the people have disappeared.

your eyebrows furrow, and you look at the weeping ladies, “where are the rest?”

hiccups are all you hear, and eyeshot eyes are what you see. their sobs are unseizing even as they look you in the eye. you hear light footsteps behind you, so you turn and see uraume standing at the door.

they look you in the eye, “are you y/n?”

you nod slowly, and they hum, “lord sukuna has requested for your presence.”

you light up considerably while the other concubines shake in fear as their eyes dart to you. one of them jumps out of her place and latches at you, “no! no! don’t go! he will—”

“silence!” uraume snaps.

the lady holding onto you quickly lets go and crawls back to hide behind the others.

she grips tightly onto the shoulder of the woman in front of her, tears streaming down her face as she is faced with uraume’s sneer.

uraume looks up at you and affirmed, “go.”

after a while, you finally find yourself face to face with the entrance of sukuna’s chamber.

you take a deep breath, and you carefully push the door and speak up softly, “my lord, you called for me?”

you feel a hand roughly clutch your arm and snatches you inside. you are then slammed against the wall. you let out a yelp as pain shoots up your spine.

you squeeze your eyes shut, afraid of the sight that you will see.

and even though you can’t see his eyes, you can feel the heat from his glare. the venom dripping from his voice doesn’t help as he sneers, “what have you done?”

you force your eyes open slowly, and you stutter, “w-what?”

a hand flies to your throat and is wrapped securely around it. you choke out a small, “my lord!”

his grip tightens, and you feel tears form in your eyes and flow down your face.

more than ever, you feel the fear that his looming figure sends through everybody else, you feel the fire of his red eyes scorch your skin, and you feel the aura that everybody talked about.

an overwhelming evil.

“I don’t understand what game you’re playing, but you better stop it this instance,” he threatens, and you let out a sob.

“what game, my lord? I don’t understand!” you manage to choke out.

your hear him let out a breath before he says lowly, “I have told you that desires and pleasures are fluctuating, right?”

fearing for your life, you nod desperately. you feel his grip loosen, and he leans down to rest his forehead on your own.

with furrowed brows and a deep scowl, his eyes bore into your own as he holds your face up with his other hand, “then why do I still desire you?”

you blink owlishly at him then speak cautiously, “didn’t you say that you take what you desire?”

he raises an eyebrow, urging you to continue. slowly and hesitantly, you raise your hand to cup his face.

you look him up in the eyes, and you find them following your every moment. “then what’s wrong with,” you hesitate, “with taking this one?”

you look innocent as you look up at him, but to him, your words are nothing but.

with a low chuckle, he pulls your face closer to his own, “temptress,” and he seals your lips with his.

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do not copy or plagiarize or I will send yuuta after you

[celestiamour]

‧₊˚✧ ❛[ it's a gift (you keep those) ]❜

ft. logan howlett x f! reader — xmen, marvel

╰₊✧ giving him a plushie that reminded you of him┊1k words

setting: deadpool & wolverine (2024) worst! logan contains: fluff, crushes, probably ooc but he’s so cute & wade is hard to write for, written for dp&w logan so idk if he got gifts in xmen, i forgot about laura, they are in touch and have a wonderful father-daughter relationship, i’m so sorry, edited

➤ author's note: i have so many thoughts but too incompetent to write

logan’s never sure who will appear when he opens the door as wade’s quite the extrovert, either vanessa or one of his many other friends whom he’s now become somewhat acquainted with, but he certainly wasn’t expecting to meet the familiar eyes of the cute neighbor who lived a few doors down. he nervously scratched the back of his head, suddenly becoming aware of his shabby appearance, “uh, are you looking for wade?”

“no, i was actually looking for you!” god, your smile is so bright, it’s blinding. he normally hates perfume of any sort as it’s so overpowering to his heightened senses, but the one that you wore smelled so lovely like always. is that a new shade of lip gloss you’re wearing? it really suits you. (why on earth is he noticing all of these details out of the blue? he needs to snap out of whatever spell you put on him after being introduced when he first showed up and only interacting in passing since then).

“looking for me?” he repeated, in disbelief, trying his best not to allow his surprise to slip into his voice. considering he isn’t from this dimension and not the most agreeable person to be around, he had no friends of his own yet and hasn’t been visited by anyone since he got here. a beat of panic struck him, thinking that he was in trouble for something and you came to complain. he really couldn’t think of any other reason you were here for him even though you were so cheerful.

you were carrying some shopping bags with you, dropping them on the ground before reaching into one and pulling out a large fuzzy plushie of a gray cat hidden under layers of glittery tissue paper, “i saw this cutie when i went shopping with my friends and thought it looked like you!” you held it out for him to take, looking so proud of the stuffed animal.

he hesitated for a second before accepting it, trying to take in the fact that you were reminded of him in your day-to-day life. it made his heart flutter, and he found himself dumbfounded by the feeling. he was frequently teased by his roomate about his little “crush” on you, claiming that it was oh so obvious and that the sooner he accepted it, the better, but he never realized until now how pathetic he was when it came to you. was the wolverine really getting butterflies like a fucking schoolgirl in his old-ass age? thank god no one was home right now to bully him about it, he would never hear the end of it.

“it does not look like me,” he scoffed playfully after a quick examination.

“no, it definitely does! it’s a big, grumpy kitty—” you took a step closer to hold it with him, pointing at all the similarities you observed, although it was clear you were exaggerating for laughs. “see the little frowny face and ears? it could be your identical twin separated from birth! willy mentioned that you act like a cat most of the time, and i think it fits perfectly!”

the smile he didn’t realize was plastered on his face faltered at the last piece of information, grateful that you didn’t notice. that idiot has been talking about him to you? he might as well forget about any chance of getting with you, because knowing how he yaps without a filter and loves to play matchmaker, you probably think he’s a freak of some sort. “only good things, i hope…”

you giggled, the sweetest sound he ever heard. “of course, he’s really fond of you… well, maybe a bit too fond, but you already know about that!” you opened your mouth to continue the conversation or say something else, but your phone started ringing and you excused yourself, looking a little shy as you grabbed up your bags. “i’ll talk to you later!” you sounded so excited about the prospect of it before leaving, your voice and footsteps becoming fainter as you walked back to your place.

“wait, you didn’t take back the cat—”

“it’s a gift! you keep those!”

“oh… right…”

he lingered for a moment, unable to say much in response since you left in such a rush. when was the last time someone gave him a present? staring at this brand new item, he still couldn’t see the resemblance in any way, but knowing that it was a gift from you gave him a rare feeling of happiness which returned every time he looked at it from then on among his few possessions. 

“oh my goodness, what is this adorable thing?!” wade exclaimed when he saw it sitting on the couch where logan slept, picking it up to gawk at before tossing it up in the air and catching it before it hit the floor. “ooh, let me guess, it’s a gift from her, isn’t it?” 

the mutant groaned at his mocking tone. “put it down before you ruin it with your grubby hands,” he commanded, snatching it from his grasp (rough enough to make his point clear, but carefully enough not to tear it apart). his roommate didn’t even bother pretending to be offended like he usually would as he was simply overjoyed that his “ship” was coming true. “it doesn’t mean anything, don’t make it weird.”

“it doesn’t mean anything?! how can you say that when it’s going to be the first gift you give to your first child together—”

“first what??”

“nevermind, what are you gonna name it?”

“i have to name it?”

“have you never owned a stuffed animal before? you have to name it! how heartbroken is she going to be when she asks what you named it and you say that you haven’t done that?! she’s gonna think that you don’t value her gifts!” you would think the world was going to end if he didn’t do so if you heard the way he was speaking.

“fine, i’ll name it…” he looked deeply into the toy’s soulless eyes, noting how soft the outer material was against his calloused hand, “... fluffy…”

“that’s such a shitty name—”

“shut the fuck up, it’s been decided.”

[beloveds-embrace]

duke au angst, but könig isn’t a knight. He’s either not in it and reader just sinks into a pit of depression and withdrawals so much that rumours start speculation around the ton that reader is either dead or murder and it starts to take a toll on john reputation (they start going after why him, simon, johnny and kyle are so close) or a könig is an Austrian duke/way closer to royalty and when he’s over for business with John and/or simon, he and the reader hit it off (much to the boys dismay) and reader plans on leaving without a word, leaving nothing more than a vague letter that details why and a set of divorce papers (helped achieved by könig) and by the time they realise their mistake readers already living the high life in austria

….okay but the first one’s got me downright obsessed, anon 😩 second one too and i feel like i will absolutely end up caving and writing it later but for now, have this!

Angst dukedom post

Non-angst dukedome post(no konig in this one)

No but seriously, there is only so much you can take. Between everyone’s dismissal of you, the lack of any meaningful company, the loneliness- it was only a matter of time before you just… can’t do it anymore.

The change, though it starts slow, is impossible to hide. You stop having dinner with John, finding no solace in the taste of lukewarm, half-heartedly prepared food. You tell yourself it’s not worth it- the stilted conversations, the empty looks, the way his eyes always drift to anything but you. He’s too busy sharing hidden glances with Kyle, exchanging quiet touches with Johnny when he hand delivers the food, speaking to Simon with an intensity that has never been for you.

You stop attending the endless galas and balls you are meant expected to attend as the Duchess. You withdraw from the tea parties, from every suffocating event where you were paraded as nothing more than an ornament on Duke Price’s arm. You withdraw from the public eye itself.

Instead, you drift through the duchy, through the rooms that are suddenly empty when you arrive. You drift to and fro, in a haze of lonelinthat and slow-setting exhaustion.

The maids whispered of you before, but it used to be out of your earshot; now, you can hear them clearly, none of them afraid of being punished when not even your own husband can stand your sight. They mutter about how sickly you look, how your eyes are dull and lifeless.

She’s wasting away.

Maybe it’s for the best.

No one can love someone who fades into the walls.

But of course, the whispers aren’t just within the duchy. Rumors ripple out beyond the duchy’s walls-

The Duchess has gone mad, they say. Locked away by her husband, for her own good.

She ran away in the dead of night, they say. Couldn’t bear her husband’s coldness. Maybe he drove her to it.

He’s always with Duke Riley, isn’t he? Or the butler. Or the chef.

Poor thing. No wonder she vanished.

All of it gnaws and bites at John’s reputation, at yours, but he never comes to you and it doesn’t surprise you at all. He would rather find a way to bury it all then simply check on you. The facade has always been more important, and he keeps it with half-hearted excuses half-believed by some and dismissed by others.

But they are relentless, and soon they taint every interaction he has. No one meets him without a hint of suspicion in their eyes. How much of it is true, they seem to ask. What did you do to her? Is she really gone? She was a good woman, how could you do that to her? There is more scrutiny now on the time he spends with Simon, with Kyle, with Johnny. He starts to avoid public events himself, unwilling to face the relentless gossip that hangs over him now like a dark cloud.

Eventually, you stop dressing for the day, leaving your hair unkempt, your gowns crumpled and out of style. No one comes to check on you, the maids happy at having less work, and you tell yourself that you prefer it that way. No eyes to judge. No lips to lie. The solitude is nothing new, even if it’s never been this severe before.

Time blurs, too. You stop looking at the newspapers when they stop being delivered. The days mean nothing when every morning brings only a new kind of numbness, and some days you spend entirely in bed, too tired to even think about taking a step outside.

Yet, even with your noticeable absence, nothing changes. No one knocks on your door, not even once. No one checks to see if you’re eating, breathing, surviving. You feel so achingly lonely.

John doesn’t approach you once. You have become a specter, more distant than ever. And though he and the others feel a creeping sense of guilt- Kyle finds himself lingering outside your door, only to turn away with clenched fists; Johnny’s jokes die in his throat when he hears your name; Simon stares at the spot you used to take during the dinners and lunches he’d join; John stares at the very few portraits of you that line the walls and wonders how he’d even go about approaching you- none of them move to truly mend the gaping distance between you. They regret their neglect, but they do not know how to fix it. Or maybe they are simply too late.

dukedom au masterlist Part Two: Fix-it