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liveontelevision · 1 year ago

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Suffer Pt. 4 | Lucifer x Reader

The time has come, babes, this could be the final part

I wanna say this part is 18+ , so MINORS go away

(This series is complete! All parts are listed on my master list and are linked below!)

Part 1 / Part 2 / Part 3 / Part 4 / Part 5 / Part 6

♡♡♡

"I'll see you, Lucifer."

"I hope so."

Even with high hopes, Lucifer anxiously paces his own workshop, twisting his grip on his cane and watching the minutes pass by. Literally. He would either pull out his phone and check the time, or peak up at the novelty clock hanging nearby, and scoff at how little time has passed since the last time he decided to look. To occupy his time, he would rummage through his piles of squeaky creations, scanning over them as if he had anything on his mind other than you. He'd walk in front of a mirror, fixing his lapels, straightening his tie, then questioning whether or not he should just change entirely. With one more pacing lap around the small room, he stopped in front of the mirror again, while brushing his hair back with his claws. The sudden glimmer of his wedding band reflecting some light caught his attention. He froze in front of his reflection, then shifted his gaze down to his left hand. He twisted it around as if he never noticed it until now, even after wearing it for 10,000 years. Why is it bugging him now?

Oh, yeah. He was about to see you in just a few minutes.

But that shouldn't upset him, you two were becoming friends again.

Lucifer broke his gaze from his hand and looked towards the large family painting still hung on the wall. He couldn't take it down. He had no idea why Lillith left, for all he knows, it could've been a perfectly valid reason. But she looks so happy in that picture. In fact, they all looked so happy. How did that happen? A combination of the clock chiming, and an alarm he set the day before, going off at the same time made him jump. He fumbled his phone into his suddenly sweaty claws, letting out a nervous yelp.

3:01PM

"Aw, Hell! I'm late!" Before snapping his fingers to open a portal to the hotel, he mindlessly slipped the ring off his finger and placed it carefully on his desk, leaving it alongside a family portrait.

—

You hummed your usual tune, the same one that calmed you and young Charlie, as you twisted and turned to examine your outfit. You were almost as nervous as Lucifer was. Well.. not really. He was a wreck. But why should you be nervous? Why would he be nervous? You two only agreed to meet up at the hotel and.. catch up some more. No activities were really planned, it was as if you simply wanted to hear each other's voices again. As if the late-night calls you were having weren't enough. It was a nice change though. No matter how late you were talking to each other, you slept like a rock the rest of the night. No need for some silly radio anymore.

Speaking of,

"Alastor, what did I say about knocking? Or even going through the door in general?" You questioned out loud, not even looking away from your figure in the reflection. The radio on your nightstand suddenly started playing a barely recognizable old-timey tune, and you could feel the radio static sensation growing in your chest, so you felt no need to break your concentration to look his way. You heard your bed creek next, only peeking in your reflection for a moment to catch Alastor sitting cross-legged on the edge of your bed.

"Isn't today your weekly Rosie visit? What do you want?" It's not like he was bugging you, but recently Alastor had been keeping close quarters. You found him sitting next to you a lot, a little too close, during exercises. Which was strange, considering he never really attended exercises until recently.

Obviously, he's been inviting himself into your room without permission, which caused him to interrupt some phone calls with the king. He's also been inviting you out to Cannibal Town more often, and even bringing some unannounced fresh-cooked meals for you. You wouldn't admit to the cannibal thing, but it's hard to avoid it after working in that bakery for so long. You didn't mind it, as long as it wasn't.. rare. So, you suppose it was nice of him to cook for you.

"Indeed! I’m assuming you'll be joining me, that is why you’re dressing so formally, correct? Rosie's been talking about you quite a lot, considering you've missed our last few outings." You could hear his teeth clench while he spoke his final words.

"All good things, I hope?" You had moved on to looking through a little jewelry box, occasionally pulling out necklaces and holding them up in the mirror to see how it'd look on you.

"Of course!" Alastor reassures, rising from the bed to stand behind you, his hands gently placed on your shoulders. He has to bend at the hips a bit to see his own face in the shorter mirror.

"Then, I'm sure she can handle one more lunch date without me. I'll join next time." You said, still rummaging through the little trinket box. With a victorious hum, you pulled out a little golden chain, with a snake charm that swirled into an S shape.

As you held it up to your neck, like you did with the rest, you felt Alastor's hands shift from your shoulders to take each end of the necklace, carefully pulling the chain around your neck to fasten it in the back. With a quick thank you, you pulled your hair to the side to assist him. His breath was hot against the back of your neck, sending an instinctive shiver down your spine. Alastor started to feel a bit flushed at the sensation, which surprised even him. The thought of sinking his teeth into the softest part of your neck, doing anything to keep your mind off of that damned angel, immediately flooded his mind. He fastened the necklace quickly, pulling away as fast as he could after that grotesque thought crossed his mind. He was sure that he was just hungry. He cleared his throat, stepping a good few feet away from you.

"So? How's this? Does it look okay with the dress?" Oh, it did. You tried your best to not concern yourself over what you wore, but Lucifer was always one to dress in his finest suits, so you'd hope to meet him at least halfway. Excuse the phrasing, but God bless Angel and his eye for fashion. You arrived in Hell before Charlie was even born, then essentially worked in uniforms up until you arrived in the hotel. Emphasizing that this was not a date, Angel found you a pretty little purple dress. It was perfectly fine as is, with thin straps, a skirt hugging your hips just slightly and stopping right below where your thighs meet. But he insisted you "spice it up", accessorizing you with a patterned corset, decorated in leafy designs and tied together with a silky ribbon at your back. It took you hours of convincing to even put it on for today. All this for just a hangout. What would you even do? Have dinner? Would Lucifer go into Pentagram City with you? What would happen if you stayed in the hotel?

"Not exactly my style, I prefer something with more.. coverage. But you look lovely either way." Alastor's words broke your train of thought and you immediately turned red, embarrassed by how lost in your own thoughts you got. You recovered and rolled your eyes at him, finding your phone and looking through it.

"I don't know why I asked, it's not like I'm dressing up for you." You said, Alastor watching you as you swipe through something and then smile at your phone.

"Then who might you be dressing up for, might I ask?" He asked with a sly grin, leaning foward on his cane, craning his neck to look at your whatever could be making you smile so brightly. You pulled your phone to your chest and glared at him.

"No one! ..Me! I'm dressing for myself! Is there a problem with that, Al?" You let out a little humph, before checking the time on your phone.

"He should be here soon.." you said softly, almost hoping he didn't hear you. "Tell Rosie I said hi, will you? I'm seeing Lucifer today." You said quickly as you left your room, hoping you could avoid his response by leaving in a hurry. Luckily you did. You felt the static running through you soften as you went down the stairs, looking at your phone as you did. With one more mental pep talk, you took a deep breath and opened the hotel's double doors.

"Heyyyy! You!" Lucifer stood eagerly, without a ring to fiddle with, he toyed with his clawed hands behind his back. You should respond. You should greet him, say hi, welcome him in, anything. But he stood there wearing a plum and black purple blazer, that stopped just at his waist. It was fitted nicely over a ruffled black top and dark trousers. Before you could stop yourself, you realized you had let your eyes trace his body up and down. Quickly meeting his eyes with a reddened face, you nervously chuckle, stepping aside to let him in.

"S-Sorry.. I- uhh.. Hi. Lucifer." You finally greet him, shutting the door as he enters the hotel.

"You look nice. Purple always looked good on you." He stated out loud. Purple? When was the last time you wore anything purple? Looking around the hotel, he examined any detail he might have missed from his last visit. Of course, that wasn't what he was really doing. He was trying his hardest to keep his eyes off of you, needing to let his heart rate slow.

After finally calming himself down, he turns to you with a grin, opening his mouth to say something- but what he saw was you gripping onto the hem of your skirt with a nervous look on your face, your eyes wide.

Purple always looked good on you.

"Are you okay? Sorry, did I - uh.. should I - " you quickly step away from him, waving your hands.

"N-No! You're fine! I'm okay, I just uh.. dinner! You want something to eat? Or.. we can check out the city-" Desperately trying to take the topic off your feelings, you threw out some ideas for the night.

"Oh! Okay, Dinner sounds great! We should probably stay in the hotel, but will.. will anyone else be joining us..?" He looked around the clearly empty room.

"Charlie and Vaggie just left to try and recruit some sinners, Angel's working and Husk avoids people if no one's the bar, so.. I think that it might just be us." You smiled. Why were you smiling? Maybe because they're contagious.

Alastor. The familiar grinning face comes trailing down the stairs, greeting you and you alone.

"Oh! Your Highness, I had no idea we'd have company!" He walked behind you, placing his hands on your shoulders again as he looked down at Lucifer.

"Al, I told you he was coming by." You rolled your eyes, crossing your arms over your chest. Lucifer glared, immediately breaking the contact from him to look at you.

"Will he be joining?" Lucifer asked, in an agitated low tone.

"No, he's busy. Right? You were just leaving for Cannibal Town." You stressed, turning your head to look up at the towering demon. Lucifer wondered how you weren't intimidated by him? Your head barely reached the center of his chest.

"Of course, I wouldn't want to intrude! Just be careful with our little doll here, your majesty." He says, then leans closer to the crook of your neck. "And I thought I'd bring your cardigan, dear, it's a tad cold today." The sweater suddenly appears in his hands and he drapes it over your shoulders. It felt heavier than usual.

"Oh, um.. thanks.. Al." You clear your throat, shooting him the best smile you could muster in this embarrassing moment.

"Have fun with Rosie!" You finally said, essentially pushing Alastor out of the hotel's doors. None of that had to happen, he could've easily phased his way out of the hotel and you knew that. With a final sigh, you went back to Lucifer, taking off the sweater and folding it, before draping it over the couch in the lobby.

"What, not cold anymore? He was just trying to be nice." As much as you'd like to hear that as a joke, it had a sense of discomfort to it. You knew Lucifer didn't like Alastor; he made that clear multiple times. Considering he's been so kind to you though, you thought you had to at least try to defend him. But with Alastor's recent actions, and just how.. touchy... he's been, it's getter harder to try and explain his actions.

"It's Hell, Lucifer, it's never cold. It doesn't go with the dress anyway. Now, c’mon. I can make something quick in the kitchen." Trying to move past the subject, you take hold of his hand and guide him to the kitchen area.

You definitely cooked a lot more since you stayed in the hotel. Despite your mild cannibalistic tendencies, you loved making regular, flesh-free, food for everyone else. It was just who you are, you loved to dote. At this point, you were making meals for everyone, cooking specific courses for certain demons. Specializing in their favorites. It was no different than how you were when you were taking care of Charlie. A messy toddler had a constantly changing appetite, and Lucifer always seemed to admire how well you could keep up with that. I mean.. despite kissing a married king, who was also your boss, you were actually good at your job.

The cooking process went by fast, you put on an apron before starting to cook, which Lucifer could argue looked adorable on you. But he would never admit it. He simply sat on a nearby counter, his legs crossed over each other as he leaned back on the palm of his hands. You recreated something that used to be a favorite back at the manor, and of course, it was delicious. The two of you didn't even make it to the table. You plated everything and went towards the door, but before you could leave, you turned to see Lucifer already working on his plate as he sat on the counter. You laughed at him, before attempting to join his side. This was probably for the best, sitting at a table while eating seemed so.. Date-y.

You struggled to hop up to the counter without flashing anyone. Dammit, Angel. With a quick motion, Lucifer had his hands on your waist and he lifted you with ease onto the cold tabletop. With a nervous exchange of thanks, he hikes back up the counter and sits next to you. It felt ridiculous to examine the entire moment. Here you are, sitting on the edge of the damn kitchen counters with Lucifer, kicking your legs every now and then, laughing at jokes and just.. enjoying everything. He made you glad you lived in Hell.

The plates now set aside, Lucifer had turned to face you, his crossed leg lightly brushing against yours as he recalled some embarrassing things that Charlie did when she was growing up. Things that happened after you left.

"Oh it was bad, we don't even know what she used to dye her hair but it was not easy to get out. You know.. Teenager stuff, I guess." He showed off some images from his phone, making you lean into his shoulder to catch a better glance. You found yourself leaning past Lucifer, your sides fully together at this point. Lucifer braces himself up with his hand behind your back. When you finally had enough of the pictures of Charlie in her emo-phase, you sat straight, making Lucifer's arm shift to the small of your back. You hummed quietly at his touch.

Don't do this. Don't ruin this, not again.

"Dishes! I'll um.. let me clean up and we can find somewhere with actual chairs.." You hopped off the counter, stumbling a bit before leaning into the sink and starting the water. Before you could even start scrubbing, the dishes simply poofed from your hands and into the drying rack at the side of the sink, sparkling clean.

"Oh, right.. Angelic powers." You laughed nervously, looking around the room for a moment.

Finally deciding that the air was too thick with some kind of tension, you gestured him out of the room and showed him off to the small book room. You didn't go in here often, but it was either this or your bedroom.. Obviously, that wouldn’t end well.

Taking a seat on the little sofa in the room, you managed to get the conversation back on a regular topic, complaining about some customers you used to deal with while working in Cannibal Town. He finally went on a rant about his rubber duck fixation, which baffled you but didn't really surprise you.

The conversations didn't last long. It was bound to happen. Alone in the hotel? Catching up after all these years of built-up tension? It started with Lucifer placing his hand on the small of your back, something that has always given you butterflies. It didn't feel the same when Alastor would do it. Lucifer's hands were obviously smaller, but they were so gentle. And he had no intent on pulling you closer or keeping you sitting upright, he was doing it just so he could touch you. Your hands had traveled in between the two of you, supporting you as you leaned into him. The room was silent, but your thoughts were screaming in your head. He's hurt you before. He's just been alone for too long, this isn't anything special. Don't make the same mistake.

Staring into each other's glazed-over eyes, unsure of how to proceed but unwilling to move away, he finally bites the bullet. Raising his free hand to caress the side of your face, brushing a few strands of hair away, you place your hand overtop of his, relishing in his gentle touch. You felt his hand flinch a bit at your actions, but when you fluttered your eyes shut and leaned into his palm, he immediately felt at ease. He moves his hand towards him just slightly to better bring you closer. Your foreheads now pressed together, all your concerns went away. This wasn't like before. You felt so safe with him, there was no fear of things going wrong or being ruined. Not anymore. Not at this moment. Your comfort was disrupted by his quiet voice.

"A-Are you sure about this.? Can I.. Maybe we should just-" Shut him up. You muffled any other worried thoughts he might have by placing a gentle and quick kiss on his lips. His eyes widened just for a moment, looking surprised despite all that's happened beforehand. Suddenly desperate, he pulls you in, making your lips meet again in a long, long, overdue embrace.

You were just as desperate for this. All you could think of was how gentle he was being, even with the eagerness of his quickening breath. You leaned in more, forcing Lucifer to prop himself up with his hand beside him. You kept leaning. At this point he's taken both his hands off of you, needing to brace himself up. Your lips never pull apart. You placed your hands on his chest, moving underneath his jacket, and onto his shirt, just to be even the slightest bit closer to him. Suddenly processing the position, Lucifer shifted his leg to allow you to crawl closer to him. You were careful, you knew this was long overdue, but it'd be a bad idea to do anything too intense right now. It would overwhelm both of you. Still, finally breaking your kiss, you pushed back to assess his beautiful expression. He looked disappointed. Almost runny eyes, he was propped up by his elbows while you kelt your hands placed on his chest. His porcelain skin contrasted with the red glow across his cheeks.

"You okay, Lucifer?" You asked softly, reaching a hand to brush some strands of hair back into place. He only nodded, before returning a hand onto your back and pulling you on top of him, deepening the kiss you had so rudely interrupted. You felt his hand pull away for a moment, and heard him snap his fingers. You heard the door shut. Then you heard it lock. That made you as nervous as it did relieved. Pulling away for a moment you decide to tease him.

"What, you couldn't have done that before?" You said slyly with a smirk on your face. With a sarcastic laugh, he pressed a kiss onto your smile. Neither of you could believe what was going on right now.

Both your breaths were becoming heavy, Lucifer had scooted to rest his back on the arm of the couch, he pulled you closer and rested his hands around your waist. Neither of you had made the decision to go any farther than enjoying each other's lips yet, but at the same time, you wouldn't complain about staying connected to him like this forever. He reached back and tugged on the silky ribbon of your corset, maybe not as an invitation, but to find something to fiddle with to keep his nerves at bay. You weren't sure. But there was no harm in assuming, right? You took hold of his hand, which still held one of the laces, and guided it to pull it completely loose. It wasn't covering anything, it just loosened the fit of your dress. It wasn't like you were stripping for him. But his face was absolutely flushed by the action.

Letting the corset belt drop to the ground, you leaned forward and ran your hands up his chest. Moving to the inside of his coat, you slipped your fingers over his shoulders to guide the jacket off of him. With some more shifting and adjusting, you both sat straight. Lucifer found himself dragging his lips to your chin, then your jawline, guiding your head to tilt back for easier access. Pulling your body against his with one hand, he cradled your head with the other, running his claws gently across your scalp before doing so. The action sent shivers down your spine, almost a relieving sensation to your hot skin.

He speckled kisses down your neck, taking his time to cover every inch of you. You could feel his labored breath against your skin every time you let out a little moan or hum. He ran his hand down your shoulder, hooking the strap of your dress with his thumb and moving it aside, careful not to undress too much. Not yet. With the newfound space, he nipped at your skin, making you yelp quietly. You quickly place a hand over your mouth, embarrassed by the sounds coming from you. Lucifer was not going to let that happen. He traced your arm, running his fingers along your skin, and gently pulled your hand away from your mouth.

"W-What - " You could barely question him, before he forced another yelp from you, sinking his teeth into your shoulder just a bit deeper this time. He hummed at your finally unmuffled voice, taking your hand that he had been holding and guiding it to his head. You immediately took hold of his hair, gripping just lightly, something to keep you from floating away, while he continued to work across your collarbone. Feeling a light suction, you gasped and yanked on his hair, pulling his face away from your chest.

"N-No, no marks! Don't be.. mm... s-stupid.." you scolded, as he leaned down, and ran his tongue up the length of your neck.

"What if I put them somewhere only I can see?" He had moved to your ear at this point, kissing the crook of your jaw as he spoke so sweetly against your skin. Ooh, fuck, you wanted that. Bad.

You took a hold of his jaw and pulled him back up to your lips. Placing your thumb along the bottom of his lip, you opened his mouth a bit, inviting yourself into his mouth. Tracing his lower lip with your tongue, you slid inside, his tongue feverishly following suit. The sensation forced a quiet whimper out of Lucifer, you felt his body weight droop for a moment, falling forward and pushing you onto your back. Caging you in with his arms, he refused to pull away, even if he needed to breathe.

You pushed his chest slightly, and he immediately pulled away, his lustful gaze turning to concern. You watched him catch his breath. While he was panting, you could see his forked tongue just slightly hanging from his lips, which were glossy from the messy and desperate kisses you'd been exchanging. You looked up and down his body for a second. Keeping your hands on his chest, you smoothed over his shoulders, before pulling him back in for another kiss. With your hands still near his chest, you reached towards the clasps of his shirt, beginning to work the expensive feeling fabric off of him. You could feel the heat radiating from his skin. You ran your closer hands across his bare chest, once completely undone. He was overheated and panting, you were just helping him, obviously. You'd say anything to convince yourself that what your doing was okay. Why wasn't it okay, again?

"It's okay, babe, we'll try again later." A saddened groan was muffled through the closed door. Oh. Right. You heard Vaggie comforting a frustrated Charlie just outside the room. You both looked at each other with widened eyes, probably for longer than you should’ve. It was a mixture of disappointment and anxiety. And a little bit of consideration, that maybe they won't check the room if you're quiet. The set of footsteps was coming closer, possibly passing the room to go up the stairs, but it finally forced you out of your head.

You pushed him off of you, desperately making as much distance as possible. The motion of pushing him from his chest, which your hands were so sweetly caressing moments before, took the air out of his lungs, forcing out a loud groan. Hushing him as if you weren't the reason he was wheezing, you struggle to get your corset back on. Finally giving in, you threw it over the back of the couch and took hold of your trusty sweater that was still draped over the back of the couch. You scrambled to put it on. Lucifer simply snapped his fingers to fix up his hair and return his suddenly clean and crisp top back on him. You also heard him unlocking the door.

"Fucking angelic magic.." you muttered, out of breath from your little frantic display. He lets out a cocky chuckle. Taking the risk, he pulls you in for one more quick kiss. His hand lingered on your cheek for a moment, his eyes absolutely sparkling just at the sight of you.

His hand slipped away quickly once the door opened.

"Holy shit- dad?? You didn't tell me you were visiting!" Charlie held onto the handle as the door was opened, Vaggie stood beside her looking just as confused. Before you could acknowledge it, Lucifer gestured to the little coffee table in front of the couch, with some random board game sprawled out on it. When did that get there?

"Heyy Sweetie- well, I-I uh.. we were just catching up, ya know, playing some games. The.. usual.." He grinned nervously, picking up some random game piece and observing it like he knew what it was for.

"Yeah, don't worry Charlie, I'm kicking his ass." You said smoothly, smiling at him when he turned towards you with a glare. You were definitely better at acting casual than he was.

"Oh! Well.. okay, then! Maybe we can all get a game in before you go!" Charlie planned out, already walking off. Lucifer sent a sweet smile and a little wave to Vaggie. She returned the greeting, a comforted smile on her face as she followed after Charlie.

"Well! That was-" Lucifer turned to you with a nervous expression, scratching at the top of his hand.

"- A close call?" you said through some chuckles, "but.. good. It was good." You tucked a strand of hair behind your ear with a smile you couldn't shake off. You looked at him nervously fidgeting with his hands, your eyes widening at the sight of his ring-less finger. Blinking a few times, thinking that maybe your mind was playing tricks on you, you couldn't stop yourself from turning red.

"Just good? I'm offended, sweetheart, I thought I did a pretty amazing job there." He boasts, crossing his arms across his chest. Jokes were another coping mechanism Lucifer used often. But you weren't caught up on that.

Sweetheart. You sucked in your lips to hold back a ridiculously wide grin.

Awkwardly clearing his throat when you didn't respond, he clasps his hands together in his lap.

"Sooo.. what now..?" He asked sheepishly. He sounded nervous asking that. You took a hold of his hand and kissed his knuckles, before standing and taking him along with you.

"Now, we have to play some random board game with Charlie. That's your fault, by the way." He laughed after letting out a sigh of relief, following behind as you left the room.

Things were really looking up after that. The board game was awful, and you had to avoid eye contact with Lucifer the rest of the night, the sight of him turning you red immediately. His lips were all over you literal minutes before this, yet he’s acting much calmer than you. It almost frustrated you. Charlie even asked if you were feeling sick at some point. What a fucking nightmare.

Besides that, the unavoidable tragic events proceeding with the extermination day came and went. You did everything in your power to defend the hotel alongside Charlie and your newfound family. During the battle, you found yourself getting distracted by Lucifer's little fight with Adam. It's not like Adam wasn't getting a few hits in, but Lucifer seemed completely unphased. Sometimes you forget. You've seen him as a nervous, loving father, with a habit of making too many ridiculous jokes, but at the end of the day, he was powerful. He was more powerful than anything else in this realm. It was kinda hot..

A spear flying by your head snapped you out of your thoughts, and you groaned, simply embarrassed by your own mind.

The construction of the hotel went the same, he was creating endless materials amd assistance for the crew and you couldn't help but appreciate his strength and abilities. You assisted Charlie to keep your mind from thinking about Lucifer's teeth sinking into your shoulder or how smooth and warm his bare skin felt underneath your hands. But you found yourself chatting it up or helping Lucifer with some tasks every now and then.

Still, you had your fun during the process, sneaking off every now and then to "recharge". A single kiss on the cheek gets this man going, but you kept it at that. You weren't willing to risk any more run-ins.

Finally, the renovations were nearly finished, you were walking the halls just looking for any little things that may need to be cleaned up before you were meant to meet outside for the finale touches. Humming and scanning the area for any debris, you were stopped in your tracks feeling a fuzzy static sensation. It didn't feel like Alastor's usual presence, it was uneven and wavering. You looked around, finally finding him leaning against a wall with a hand clutched over his chest.

"Holy shit- Al! We thought you died, what happened?Oh my god, are you hurt? I mean everyone's gonna be relieved that you're okay, but we have to get you patched up soon or-" you rushed towards him as you spoke, watching a new pocket of blood seep through his coat. Attempting to reach for the wound, his hands came to your shoulders, Holding you with a bruising strength.

"A-Al, that hurts.." you gripped his wrists, attempting to pull him off of you.

"I hate to do this, love, but it appears I'm desperate. In exchange for my silence, you said you owe me one. Now, do me a favor. Stay away from that pompous king." Before you could say anything else, a whirring green smoke encased you both, finalizing the deal.

"What? Hold on, what did you do? Alastor, what's going on?" You questioned him desperately as he released his hands from your shoulders.

What just happened?

"Hm. Don't make such a fuss, I'm just helping you. Unless I'm forgetting, I'm quite sure he did something to hurt you in the past. So it's probably for the best to keep your distance. Ah! I believe they're looking for us, outside, dear! Shall we?" Alastor brushes off his suit, covering the stain with his overcoat and suddenly dropping the injured act. He hooks your arm into his and the two of you melt away into the shadows before you could protest to anything that just happened.

♡♡♡

lmao jk there's more parts coming

( Just an extra extra note, it honestly takes me awhile to write, I usually work on it piece by piece over a few days, then it takes me a day or two to finish editing it, plus it all depends on what's motivating me that day :') PLEASE keep sending more requests and I really appreciate everyone who has already sent one in being so patient )

!Taglist! (Some of the blogs aren't tagging and I have no idea why if anyone knows why please lmk :,)

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bearforcecaptions · 17 days ago

Text

"See? We really have nothing in common. You're an eccentric gay man—there’s no way I’d ever be your type."

Her voice carried a serene finality, each word deliberate as though chiseling away the foundations of their shared history. She stood behind him, her golden nails resting on his shoulders like talons, their sharp, metallic sheen catching the light. He sat frozen in the plush armchair, his mind fogged with a peculiar stillness. Any lingering protest he might have had melted under her touch, dissolving into a quiet, dreamy acceptance.

She sighed softly, her smirk laced with both amusement and determination. "It’s time to set things right," she murmured, her fingers tightening ever so slightly on his shoulders. A flick of her wrist, a snap of her fingers, and reality itself began to bend around him.

His clothes were the first to change. The faded T-shirt he wore seemed to ripple and twist, its fibers weaving together into a pristine white dress shirt, tailored to perfection. His jeans shrank and smoothed into sharply pressed trousers that clung to his legs with a refined elegance. Sneakers melted away, reshaping themselves into sleek, polished leather oxfords that practically radiated ostentation. A blue polka-dotted bowtie materialized at his neck, tying itself with effortless precision. The silk shimmered faintly as though it had always belonged there, as though he had spent hours choosing just the right one to suit his mood.

"There," she whispered with a satisfied smile, stepping to the side to better admire her work. "That’s more like it. You’ve always been so particular about your accessories, haven’t you? Always needing that perfect touch of flair."

"Yes," he murmured, his voice distant, dreamy, yet oddly certain. He raised a hand to adjust the bowtie, the motion fluid and almost practiced, as though the thought of leaving it slightly askew was unbearable. "That’s... true."

Her smile widened, and she leaned closer, brushing her lips against his ear. "And you’re not just particular about your clothes, are you?" she said softly. "You’ve always been meticulous. Refined. Sophisticated. Someone who knows exactly what they want... and who they want."

Her fingers trailed down his arms as she circled to face him. His hands twitched slightly, his once broad, unremarkable fingers narrowing into something more elegant. His nails grew smooth and polished, gleaming faintly as though perpetually manicured. A faint scent of bergamot and cedarwood began to rise from him, rich and intoxicating, the unmistakable signature of an expensive cologne. He breathed deeply, the scent comforting, familiar—of course it was familiar. It had always been his.

"That’s better," she said, running her nails lightly along the crisp edge of his lapel. "But your face… it’s all wrong. Let’s fix that, shall we?"

With a slow, deliberate gesture, she traced a line in the air, and his face began to shift. The softness of his jaw gave way to a sharp, angular structure that exuded confidence and sophistication. Dark stubble erupted across his cheeks and chin, thickening into a perfectly groomed beard. Above his lips, a luxuriant moustache curled upward into two elaborate twists, each curve precise and artful. She stepped back to admire the transformation, her eyes gleaming with approval.

"Your beard," she said, tilting her head, "has always been your pride and joy. You’re obsessive about it—never a single hair out of place. Isn’t that right?"

"Yes," he agreed, his voice warmer now, tinged with a growing confidence. "It’s… my signature."

She nodded, her satisfaction palpable. But her work wasn’t done. His posture straightened of its own accord, his shoulders rolling back into a proud, upright stance. His movements grew deliberate, almost theatrical, as though every gesture was meant to draw attention. He leaned back in the chair, crossing one leg over the other with a dramatic flourish, the kind of confidence only someone completely at ease with themselves could muster.

"And your tastes," she said, her voice soft but cutting. "Let’s not forget those. You’ve never been into women, have you? You’ve always been drawn to men��confident men, handsome men. That’s who you are."

His brow furrowed faintly, but the confusion passed quickly, replaced by a dreamy smile. "Of course," he murmured. "That’s… who I am."

"Exactly," she said, her voice smooth and coaxing. "You’re particular about them too, aren’t you? You don’t settle. You want charm, style, sophistication. Nothing less than perfection will do."

"Yes," he said again, this time with more conviction. A warmth spread through him at the thought, a deep sense of satisfaction and rightness. He could picture them now—men who matched his tastes, his energy, his sophistication. Men who would understand him, admire him, share his passions. He smiled, the thought so vivid and real that it was impossible to imagine anything else.

The room around him began to change as well. The plain walls dissolved into a rich, opulent setting. Intricate patterns of gold and navy adorned the wallpaper, and velvet drapes hung from the windows, pooling on the floor like liquid luxury. The furniture grew grander, more elaborate, each piece a testament to his impeccable taste. A large, ornate mirror appeared on the far wall, and as his gaze landed on his reflection, his smile deepened.

"See?" she said, stepping back to watch him, her arms crossed with quiet satisfaction. "This is who you are. Vibrant. Daring. Completely, unmistakably you. There’s no room for doubt anymore, is there?"

He shook his head slowly, his eyes never leaving the mirror. "No," he said firmly. "There’s no doubt. This is… me."

Her work was nearly complete. She moved to the door, pausing to glance back at him one last time. "And we’ve never met before today, have we?" she asked, her tone casual, almost dismissive.

He blinked, a faint flicker of confusion crossing his face. "No," he said slowly. "I don’t believe we have."

"Of course not," she said with a soft laugh. "Why would we?"

She left without another word, her golden nails clicking against the polished wood of the doorway as she disappeared. Behind her, the man sat in his chair, completely absorbed in his reflection. As far as he was concerned, the man he saw—the eccentric, sophisticated, confident man—had always existed. There was no memory of her, no memory of any life before this. That other man, the one she had known, was gone entirely. They were strangers now, and he couldn’t have been happier.

#male transformation

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just-my-latest-hyperfixation · 9 months ago

Text

Eddie Munson's royal scandal

Written for @astrangersummer, week 15

Words: 1,633 (also on AO3)

Prompt: Royal and/or Modern AU

Relationship: Steve/Eddie

Rated: T

Tags: Modern AU; Royal AU; Rock star Eddie; Royal Steve; Secret relationship; Fluff and angst

Notes: Previous part | Part 1

The fucking photo is everywhere.

Eddie knows he should stop checking, should probably delete all his social media accounts and drop his phone in the ocean, maybe throw himself right after. Maybe he would, if that would change anything. He groans, slamming the phone down on the table and burying his face in his hands.

They've been so careful, and for what?

One second of weakness, one stolen moment by the backstage entrance of Eddie’s last gig, and everything is falling to pieces. He should’ve known better. You're never really alone, no matter how safe you deem yourself. Steve even less than Eddie.

“I mean, not to be a smartass,” Chrissy’s voice pulls him from his thoughts. She's seated on the opposite side of his kitchen table, laptop in front of her. “But you do realize you could've just waited until you got to your hotel room?”

Eddie stops pulling at his own hair to give her a tired look.

“I missed him, okay? Between my Europe tour and his stupid state visit to Asia, it was the first time in months that we saw each other. It was literally just one kiss.”

Chrissy gives him a look.

“Eddie, I love you,” she says flatly. “But it looks like you're trying to suck out his tonsils with your tongue.”

Eddie’s forehead joins the phone on the table.

“I know,” he groans. “Fuck. What do we do now, Chris?”

She doesn’t answer right away, and that scares him more than anything. Chrissy always knows what to do.

“Maybe it won't be as bad,” she says, but she doesn’t sound convinced. “I mean the picture is quite grainy. You're pretty recognizable with your stage outfit and the tattoos, but Steve? He could be just some guy, really.”

“Yeah, no,” Eddie huffs, picking up his phone again. His private messages are blowing up, but he doesn’t find it in himself to open them. “Have you met those royal fangirls? Batshit crazy, man. They have the shape of his moles memorized and all.”

“You have the shape of his moles memorized,” Chrissy provides.

Eddie glowers at her, and her face goes soft.

“Hey,” she says, shutting her laptop and taking his hand. “We'll figure it out, I promise. I know it looks bad now, but-”

She's interrupted by the sound of the doorbell.

“That'll be the pizza,” she smiles. “I'll get it, you stay seated. Let's talk about this after dinner, I'm sure things will look a lot less dire on a full stomach.”

Eddie has half a mind to ask her how pizza is supposed to fix a single one of their problems. But he knows she's only trying to help, so he doesn’t say anything and shoots her a tight smile as she flounces out.

The door opens.

“Oh, hi,” Chrissy says, and Eddie knows from the way her voice goes strained that it's not the pizza. “Eddie didn't mention you were- hey, wait, you can't just-”

Eddie is already out of his chair and halfway around the table when Hopper comes stomping into the kitchen. He looks intimidating as ever in his shades and dark suit with the royal sigil pinned to the lapel. Today, he's also looking particularly pissed.

“You!” he barks as soon as he spots Eddie. “You're coming with me. Move.”

Behind him, Chrissy hovers in the doorway, wide-eyed and pale.

“I can't,” Eddie says lamely. “I have pizza on the way.”

Hopper looks at him like he's silently regretting all career choices that have led him to this moment.

“What you have,” he says,” is an appointment at the palace. Now c’mon, or you're paying for my parking ticket.”

Eddie hasn't been to the palace more than a few times, and as on all of his previous visits, the paintings and the chandeliers and the gold and brocade of it all make him feel uncomfortable and on edge. So what if he's been secretly dating the crown prince right under the nose of the public for months? He's still allowed to think that the exaggerated splendor surrounding everything royal is a remnant of a long dead feudal system and a waste of tax money with no place in the modern world. It's called nuance, thank you very much.

Hopper nudges him into a lavish salon or drawing room or whatever the fuck they're called - one with a crackling fire and plush armchairs and a small fortune in antiques lining the walls - and wordlessly pulls the door shut behind him. In one of the chairs, gazing at his phone, side profile lit by the golden firelight, is Steve.

“Remember all those times Munson said fuck the monarchy?” he says without looking up. It takes Eddie a very confused second to realize he's reading from the comments under the damned photo. “Never realized he meant that literally. Charming. They even got creative with the emoji, look.”

He flips the phone around. Eddie sinks into the armchair across from him and winces. “I know, I know. So, on a scale from one to ten, how bad is it?”

“Hm?” Steve says. He's in jeans and a cable-knit sweater, thin wire frame glasses perched on his nose. He looks utterly biteable. Except that's what got them into this mess in the first place. “Oh, very bad. Apparently, you've brainwashed me with some sort of satanic magic to overthrow the monarchy. Either that, or this is a slandering campaign against you, involving a carefully picked doppelganger and-”

“Steve,” Eddie groans.

Steve finally lowers the phone, putting it down on the small side table sitting between them and folding his hands in his lap.

“Eddie,” he says.

Eddie winces. He knows this tone, this aloof, barely interested drawl. Knows the way Steve holds himself - spine straight, shoulders slightly pulled back, chin up. Eyes so much dimmer than what he's used to. Distant and detached.

This isn't Steve. It's Prince Steven.

Eddie hoped he'd never have to see the fucker again.

There's a pile of documents lying on the stupid, fancy side table, right next to the phone. Eddie squints at them, catching the royal sigil at the top, the words non-disclosure agreement below, and his stomach fills with lead. When he manages to speak, his voice sounds hollow in his ears.

“So this is it, huh?”

Steve sighs. “Father would've loved to speak to you personally.”

The heavy, molten thing in Eddie’s guts twists.

“Would he now?” he grits out, trying to match Steve’s bored tone and knowing he's failing. Unlike some people, he hasn't been drilled into burying his feelings under a layer of ice all his life.

Steve nods.

“He had more important things to attend to, though” he says. “Instead, he told me to have you sign this.”

“Did he now?” Eddie says. It comes out hollow, words snagging in a too-dry throat.

Steve picks up the documents, leafing through the smooth, white pages. Even the fucking paper is fancy in this place.

“He's instructed our PR team to get me a watertight alibi for the night of the concert. Said we'd deny any acquaintance with you. Forbid you from ever so much as speaking my name in public. I told him to go fuck himself.”

“Did you no- … Wait, what?”

Eddie snaps his head up just in time to see how Steve tosses the papers into the fire. The rage on that pretty face is pure, unbridled and undisguised, and Eddie’s heart tugs painfully in his chest.

“I'm not gonna put a muzzle on you. You can damn well say whatever you want about me. I trust you, and that won't change. Not even if you don't want to continue this-”

“Woah, woah, wait,” Eddie blurts. “Hold on a sec. You think I'm breaking up with you?”

Steve blinks at him. “Um, yes? Are you not?”

Eddie can't stop the laugh that bubbles out of him. The weight that has been tearing at his insides ever since the damn photo dropped is gone. He feels like he needs to tether himself to something or he'll float off towards the ugly painted ceiling with the chubby, winged babies.

“No, you stupid dickhead,” he says, and finally, finally takes Steve's hand in his. “I thought you were breaking up with me.”

Steve gapes at him. “Why would I- … I'd never do that!”

“Well, good,” Eddie says. “Cause neither would I.”

Steve chews on his bottom lip, hope and doubt warring in those lovely eyes of his.

“I don't think you understand what's at stake here,” he mutters. “If we make this public, it'll be the greatest scandal this country has seen in decades. The press will be all over us, your fans will hate you, my family will tell you to give up your career, they'll-”

“Honey,” Eddie interrupts him, not bothering to hide the grin that's threatening to split his face in half. “If there's two things you should know about me by now, it's these. One, I'm terrible at taking instructions. And two, I don't give a rat's ass about what anyone thinks about me.”

Steve's eyes are large and round behind his glasses, but Eddie imagines the hope is winning over the doubt.

“I wanna be with you,” he says, squeezing Steve’s fingers a little tighter. “And to be frank, I think the system could do with a good shaking-up. Don't you agree?”

Steve snorts a reluctant laugh, and his entire face lights up with it. “You can say that again.”

Eddie thinks he's never seen anything as beautiful as Steve’s smile as he slowly lifts their entwined hands to his lips.

“If it's a scandal they want,” he murmurs, holding Steve's gaze and pressing a long, lingering kiss to his knuckles, “I say let's give them a scandal to remember.”

#steddie #steve x eddie #steve harrington x eddie munson #steddie fanfic #steddie brainrot #fanfiction writer #fanfiction #fanfic #my writing #a stranger summer #hype's ficlets #the rock star and the royal

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thepenandthepistol · 5 months ago

Note

hihi something cutesy and cliché with grian please 🤗🤗

love ur writing!!

Try Again Tomorrow (Grian x reader)

An early morning leaves you with some reflecting to do about who you were before Grian and who you are now.

A/N: I. LOVE. HIM. Anon, I'm so sorry I know you said cliche and fluff but I couldn't help myself and sprinkled some angst in there, nothing we can't fix by the end though. Hope you enjoy and thank you so much for your kindness! It's spurred me on more than you can know. (1020 words)

Art by @/bc-jpeg and dividers by @/cafekitsune

This morning was not unlike many others. It was soft and windy. The curtains swam in the breeze of an already scorching sun, light shifting under the fabric’s billowing. The rays dash over the features of your beloved, he glows amidst the messy room. You’ve seen this a thousand times and with each fresh memory, it only gets better.

Grian’s nose scrunches as he stirs awake, body heavy with sleep. His arm is still draped over your waist, your hand traces the base of his wings, languid motions making his eyes flutter shut for a moment too long. You swear he’s gone back to sleep until his own hands pull you closer. His head of sandy hair rests on your shoulder as he curls into your embrace. His wings unfurl, blocking out the sun and sight of the clothes from last night, pants disregarded atop a chair, shoes still at the foot of the bed.

Booze and dancing, a party where you know everyone. Your feet have never ached more and aching has never felt this good. Every song revealed a part of your soul, fragments shining under a disco ball with every move and step. You are surrounded by friends, but your eyes land back on him. Grian stands at the edge of the floor with two drinks in hand. He looks eager to join but, despite his craned neck, can’t seem to find a counter to place the cups down. Catching your glance, he smiles, handing Joel and Lizzie their drinks, and then springing towards you. He weaves through the thinning crowd until he can reach your hand. He pulls you closer, taking only a step back, and holds your jaw with his other hand. You hold on to the lapels of his dress shirt, straightening his loose tie. His thrilled smile eases into a fond grin and he presses a kiss to your lips.

Now, he’s much less energetic. To think if it weren’t for him, you might’ve already been up and working. The days before him were mundane as well, but different. You might’ve not gone to that party, stayed in and slept late, staring at a ceiling and counting the blemishes. You trace the uneven skin on Grian’s shoulder, counting the occasional raised patches.

“Love, you need to get some summer clothes.” You say, and he hums, half listening, mostly basking in the attention. “Your sweater’s making you break out again.”

“We can sort that out later.”

Later. Now, the world is your bedroom. How much work could you have gotten done before this? How many pangs of loneliness would you have fought to forget in the hours now spent with him? Your hands, nicked and leathery, tuck a strand of hair behind his ear and rest at the nape of his neck, scratching gently.

You catch a glimpse of yourself in the window, your image in a blue expanse of cloudless sky. Your arms are thicker than they were, flaccid. Every evening you both stop what you are doing, put away the tools and materials, they’ll be there tomorrow. On even days Grian cooks dinner, he’s collected quite the recipe book and what used to be labor is now rest. With a skillet in hand, he dances around your kitchen. He pretends to drop the pan only to fake you out. He’s only actually dropped it a single time.

Before, only with the moon high into the aether would you have stopped to eat, hurrying food into a starved mouth like shoveling coal into a furnace, mechanic and primal. In your cold kitchen, you stared at the ceramic floor. Tomorrow would be the same, again and again. You were much more productive back then.

“Do you have any plans?” Grian asks. The question is innocuous, but the gears are turning in his brain. He knows something’s pulling you down.

“Not really,” you murmur. Longing strikes a bell in your chest. What could you have been? Successful, productive, probably painfully alone. Would that have been better than this? The first answer that comes to mind is shameful. You were a beautiful animal, a prize pony who never got the medal. How could you even hope to compete now if you were not worthy before?

Grian shifts from beside you. Thoughts run through your mind until he positions his thighs between your legs, straddling you with his weight comfortably resting on your pelvis. His eyes crinkle, but it’s bittersweet. He can’t guess what havoc is parading inside your head, but he knows that far-away gaze. He shifts forward and your fingers hold his waist. He kisses the skin under your lashes, dark hues blending back into the surroundings with each day that passes. You were chasing something, an indescribable mass that would make you good.

He kisses your jaw. His lips are so very dry, but so purposeful. He knows every inch of you, each crevice of your hollow bones, and he holds them so very dearly. You aren’t good, definitely not the best person you could be. But here he is. He sees you and he holds you.

“You have an incredible mind, a vast, vast soul.” He whispers as he finally kisses your lips. Your lungs fill with air, eyes closing and loosening the stranglehold on your heart.

There are a thousand different ways your life could have gone, but only now do you feel glad to be here. This body has suffered for so long, searching for an excuse to heal itself back from the brink. But Grian needs no reason to love you. He takes your cheeks into his hands, a mirror of the night before, and does not let go.

You could have accomplished so much in the time you took to realize this, but how much better would it be to do those things with him by your side? Savoring the days as they go, waking up late with only the lasting weight of your partner atop you. Arms and legs aching after dancing and not tirelessly working, giving up on grasping to be someone you never needed to be.

#hermitcraft x reader #grian x reader #mcyt x reader #x reader

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nglgfics · 26 days ago

Text

The tube - part 3

As requested by supersonictrains

(18+)

Masterlist

Part 1 Part 2

The moment you step into the carriage, you feel it.

That hum beneath your ribs. That pull like a thread drawn tight in your pelvis. Your body recognizes him before your eyes do.

But then—there he is.

He’s already watching.

Not openly. Not with a smirk.

Just with that quiet, waiting intensity that says: You’re here. And I haven’t stopped thinking about you.

You walk to him without pause. The crowd is heavier today—shoulders brushing, bodies shifting. You slide into the space before him and turn to face him fully.

Your chests are nearly aligned.

Your coat swings forward, the weight of it creating a soft barrier between your thighs and the world. But not between you and him.

The sway of the train shifts you into each other.

You don’t correct it.

Neither does he.

You look up.

His gaze drops to your mouth, then returns to your eyes. He doesn’t smile. But there’s something there—a flicker of restraint already straining at the edges.

You reach for him first.

One hand at his coat, gathering the lapel like it belongs in your fist. The other slides between your own body and his. Fingers disappearing beneath wool, trailing down until they meet the firm plane of his abdomen through his shirt.

He moves then. Just slightly.

One hand at your hip.

The other finding the space beneath your coat.

His palm curves around the contour of your side, over the soft slope where your ribs narrow, then lower still.

You breathe out slowly, eyes fixed on his collarbone.

Your skirt shifts with your movement. Your thighs part slightly.

An invitation.

He accepts it.

His hand slides from your waist down over the outside of your thigh. The heat of his fingers seeps through the fabric.

Then—slower—he slips under the hem.

Skin to skin.

He doesn’t dive between your legs.

He traces the line along the inside of your thigh first, knuckles brushing tender, sensitive skin, moving closer.

Higher.

Your breath hitches. You step in closer—your body fitting between his feet now, one of his thighs brushing yours. Your hips angled toward him, your chest nearly grazing his.

Your left hand moves lower.

You find the line of his belt. Unseen beneath your coat, your fingers trail down until they cup him fully, firm through the thick fabric. You feel the heat of him—hard, already. Ready.

His breath falters. His jaw tightens.

But he doesn’t make a sound.

Your touch lingers—palm to length, fingers pressing slowly, exploring the shape of him with reverence. You don’t stroke. You learn.

And in return—his fingers reach you.

He slips beneath the edge of your underwear, bare fingers brushing the crease where your thigh meets your core.

You’re wet.

He finds it instantly—his middle finger gliding through the softness there, sliding over the center of you with quiet, aching care.

You inhale sharply. Your lips part. Your body sways with the train but it’s not the motion that makes your knees tremble—it’s him.

His finger finds your entrance. Dips. Just once.

Then drags upward again to circle your clit with maddening patience.

You can’t help it. You grip him tighter in your hand, your wrist shifting slightly as you draw your fingers along his shaft through his clothes.

He exhales into your hair, low and sharp.

Your eyes flutter shut as your pelvis tips forward into his touch.

He presses deeper. Not hard. Just enough to make your inner muscles clench around the echo of his touch.

Then he withdraws slightly—his fingers slowing again, circling, teasing.

You glance up.

His eyes are heavy-lidded, mouth slightly open, like he’s holding something back with everything he has.

“You want to come here,” he whispers, barely audible, voice thick with breath. “Don’t you.”

You nod once.

“But not yet.”

“No,” you breathe.

His mouth lowers to your cheek, your jaw. He doesn’t kiss. He hovers. Breath to skin. Temptation and restraint.

You stroke him one more time—slow, firm, your thumb tracing the head of him through his trousers. He sways into it. Barely. But it’s enough.

His free hand catches your waist again. His lips brush your ear.

“My stop’s next,” he murmurs, voice wrecked. “You’re getting off with me.”

You smile, slow and sharp, your hand pressing once more against him before slipping away.

“Of course I am.”

And when the train slows and the doors hiss open, you both step off like nothing just happened.

But everything just did.

——-

The door closes behind you.

Your coats hit the floor together—fast, forgotten.

There are no instructions. No small talk. Just the echo of everything your hands already said on the train. That quiet hunger sharpened by hours of being close, but not close enough.

You’re still facing each other. He’s standing right in front of you, eyes dark, chest rising under the open line of his shirt.

Your fingers move fast. You push his shirt back over his shoulders, exposing the full stretch of him—his collarbones, his chest, the muscle down his ribs. Warm skin. Chest hair. His breath shudders when your palms meet his torso.

You feel the way he holds tension—not up in his shoulders, but low, in his stomach, in the way his hips draw subtly forward when you press your mouth to his chest.

He unbuttons your blouse with slower hands, but not tentative ones. When he reaches the last one, he parts the fabric and pauses—just for a breath—before pushing it off your shoulders. His eyes trace the curve of your breasts, the slope of your stomach, the top edge of your skirt where it clings to your hips.

He cups you through your bra, thumbs brushing the peaks of your nipples until they tighten beneath the lace. You arch into it.

You’re already undoing his belt. You free him with quiet efficiency—unbuckle, unzip, then slide your hand inside.

He’s already hard. Heavy in your palm. You wrap your fingers around him, slow and sure, and he lets out a breath that catches low in his throat.

His hands are back on your waist. He walks with you—still face to face, still touching, still kissing like he’s trying to memorize the shape of your mouth—until the backs of your legs hit the bed.

You sit. He follows you down, but then—without a word—drops to his knees.

His palms press up your thighs, parting them slowly, pushing your skirt high over your hips. The air hits your bare skin and your pulse kicks. He bends forward, mouth brushing the inside of one thigh. Then the other.

You lift your hips. He pulls your underwear down your legs, leaving you completely exposed. His eyes flick up once.

Then he leans in.

His tongue licks a single line through the center of you—slow, flat, unhurried. Your head drops back with a quiet, involuntary sound. His mouth lingers, lips sealing around your clit, tongue stroking in measured circles that send fire rippling through your core.

His hands keep you steady—thumbs digging lightly into the soft flesh of your inner thighs. He groans softly into you, the vibration making your whole body draw tighter.

You grip the back of his head, fingers buried in his hair, as your hips rock forward against his face.

He lets you move.

He lets you come, hard, mouth still locked on you, licking you through it until the tension breaks and your thighs tremble around his jaw.

You’re flushed and gasping when he stands.

He doesn’t speak.

Just watches you—shirtless, skirt hitched high, chest heaving, mouth parted.

You pull him down onto the bed. Kiss him. Taste yourself on his lips. His cock presses against your thigh, hot and insistent. You reach between you, wrap your hand around him again, and guide him to your entrance.

The stretch makes your breath stutter—one long, slow slide as he pushes inside. You feel every inch of him. Full. Deep.

He stops only when his hips are flush with yours, his face tucked into the side of your neck.

Your legs come up around him. Your ankles lock at the small of his back.

He starts to move. Slowly. Like he means it.

You feel the drag of his cock inside you—each stroke measured, filling you completely before drawing back again. His pelvis grinds gently into yours, the dark scratch of his pubic hair against your skin, the sweet, aching pressure with every roll of his hips.

His hands are everywhere.

One grips your thigh, fingers curling into the softness there. The other slides under your back, pulling you closer so he can go deeper.

Your hands trace his spine. His ribs. Your fingernails scrape lightly down to the dip of his lower back. You murmur something—not words, not even a name—just breath.

He groans in answer, hips thrusting harder now, deeper. The rhythm builds. Controlled, but urgent. He’s trying not to come yet. You can feel it in the way his jaw clenches, in the way his abs tighten under your hands.

But you’re close again too.

You bury your face in his neck. Your body clenches around him once, then again, and it’s too much—you fall into it, coming hard and quiet, your whole body tightening and trembling beneath him.

He breaks a second later. Buries himself deep. Moans low in your ear as he comes inside you, his whole body locked against yours. He rides it out with a few slow, shuddering thrusts, until he finally stills.

He stays there for a long moment. Then pulls back just enough to look at you.

Sweat slicks his chest. Your thighs are trembling against his hips.

He leans down and kisses you—soft this time. Just once. A kind of thanks.

Then he rolls to your side. One arm slung around your waist. You both stare at the ceiling.

The silence is warm. Spent. Satisfying.

You don’t break it.

Not until he exhales and says, quiet and hoarse, “That was…”

You cut in gently, teasing: “Yeah. I know.”

⸻

Later, when you’re both warm and tangled and silent, he strokes a hand along your spine.

Then, without warning:

“…Still don’t know your name.”

You huff a soft laugh into his chest.

“Still?”

He shrugs. “Didn’t exactly come up.”

You pull back just enough to look at him. A moment passes. Then you give it—your name—low and simple.

He repeats it. Slowly. Like he’s rolling it around on his tongue.

Then:

“Noel.”

You stretch, smug and spent.

“Guess it’s too late to pretend I’m shy.”

#fanfic #noel gallagher #fanfiction #oasis #noel gallagher fanfiction #noel gallagher x f!reader #noel gallagher x you #noel gallagher x reader #noel gallagher smut #noel gallagher fic #nghfb

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highonakuweeds · 1 year ago

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FLFM (Part 5)

(A/N: will be continuing this on ao3 for the other parts :33)

Feign Lust to Fool the Masses

TAGS: fluff, reader is overworked and stressed, Vox is bad at feelings (and so is reader), denial is a river in Egypt

“This should be here.” You ordered, pointing at the newest product in the store before doing the same to an empty spot. Many sinners hurried to carry the things and place it where you told them to, not even a single peep in them.

“That shouldn’t be there.” You furrowed your eyebrows in annoyance; do people not know how to organize their damn shit? You glared at the crooked placement of one of the cardboard cut-outs of Valentino and the new love potion he had concocted with Velvette, your arms crossed. That was enough to make one of the demons that worked at Voxtek straighten it, fixing their posture as they looked at you for approval.

You sighed, rolling your eyes. “That’s okay. Oh, dear,” your lips curled into a grimace, disgust clear in your eyes as you stared at one of the broken computers on display. “Is this really how things are run here? Dear God, you’re lucky you have many supporters, otherwise this would not fly.”

Vox entered the shop with his usual grin, his eyebrows shooting up at your modifications of the place. “Hello, my dear (Name).” He called out, his smile slightly straining when you didn’t respond to him immediately.

“Uh huh yes hello, Vox, mi amor.” You acknowledged mindlessly, leaning forward to face a worker as they showed you a clipboard with loads of papers clipped on it. “Yes, that’ll do nicely; thank you.”

“I can see you’re busy.” He commented with a tight voice, looking around the bustling atmosphere of multiple sinners running around, trying to accommodate all of your commands. You replied to Vox with a sigh, muttering the demon you were talking to to leave you two alone. They nodded, and started walking towards one of the shelves, barking out the commands you fed them.

“What do you need, Vox?” You raised a brow as you crossed your arms, placing your weight on one hip. He studied your expression, and he found himself amused at your irritated demeanor today. Though, the more he read into it, it hadn't just been today; it had been the whole week.

“What,” he grinned, snaking an arm around your waist, making your eyes widen. “Am I not allowed to visit my so-called lover?”

You tried your best to not let your flusteredness show. Your facial expression was filled with skepticism as you responded to him. “...What’s the occasion?”

Vox’s smile dropped ever so slightly when you didn’t give into his flirting, whether it be fake or not. But just as he was about to sigh and complain about that like a baby, you slid your arm up from his chest to his shoulder, your eyes traveling around his vest. “Seriously, what’s the occasion?”

He seemingly froze at your fingers playing with the lapels of his coat, before clearing his throat. “Where’ve you been? I haven’t seen you around.”

You blinked at him, slightly shocked and in disbelief that he noticed your absence. “...I’ve been busy doing my job.” You narrowed your eyes faintly so that only Vox could see it. Your hand was a contradiction to your look, though, as it slid to rest against the junction between Vox’s shoulder and neck. You didn’t even have to do it; you just liked seeing Vox squirm.

His shoulders stiffened at your hand before he rolled his eyes. “I know that. But why are you so busy?”

You pouted your lips at him, edges of your lips curling into a small mocking smile. “Aw, does someone miss me?”

“Very funny, (Name); answer my question.”

Your smile faded quickly into a frown of annoyance; this man has no humor. “Ever since the new edition of headsets dropped, people have been buying it in bulk, and I have no idea why. And other than that, the people working here are so incompetent—” You cut yourself off with a deep sigh, regaining your composure. “Just some problems stacking up on each other, nothing I can’t handle.”

Vox believed you could handle everything given to you with no question. Your words were as smooth as his when convincing the masses, possibly even a bit better. You were always calm and professional; he liked that about you.

But just that. Definitely. Probably.

“Get a room!” Someone who had just stepped inside the store exclaimed, making their friend nudge them, and mutter, “it’d be better if they did it right here.”

“Oh, my fucking god you’re so right; that would be so hot.”

What the hell were they talking about? You wondered before you realized just how close you and Vox were, your bodies pressed against each other tightly. With slight heat on your cheeks, you quickly let go of him, and he hesitated to do the same. “Jesus.” You huffed out, an awkward smile adorning your face.

“Yeah.” Vox nodded, glancing around. He cleared his throat once more, the signature charismatic smile on his screen. “Well, I must get going now; I have to calm Val’s ass again.”

You let out a short cackle before nodding, shooing Vox away. “Go, then, and good luck.” He turned his head to look at you, scoffing at your words. “You’re going to need it.”

“Bye, babe.”

“See you later, darling.”

Those call signs rolled off your tongue so easily with how many times you’d had to call Vox that over the course of now 8 months. His little nicknames for you used to get you so flustered, but now you really couldn’t care less. It was a part of your daily life now; might as well normalize it.

Dear God, he better not be a part of your daily life forever. You would hate that. Despise it, even. Right?

—

“Uhm, Ms. (Name)?” Peppermint called out from outside your door after knocking, making you look up from paperwork. “Yes, Pep? You may come in.”

He did as he was allowed to do, holding a cup of iced coffee. You smiled warmly at him, confused as you tilted your head. “I didn’t order coffee.”

“Sir Vox ordered it for you.” He informed you, placing it on your desk, far away from the papers. “Vox?” You echoed, shock clear on your face. “Did he tell you why?”

Peppermint shook his head. “No, ma’am. He only told me to give it to you, and according to him, ‘under no circumstances can she refuse’.”

You glanced at the iced coffee, and scoffed; that sounded like Vox alright. “Thank you, Pep. And send Vox my gratitude.”

He nodded his head, and quickly left your room quietly. As soon as Peppermint closed the door, you whined, your forehead slamming onto the desk. What was Vox trying to do to your mind?

Well, it’s not like he doesn’t give you lavish gifts all the time. But this coffee felt different, somehow. It was from your favorite cafe in Hell (it was rare to find such a beautiful and cozy place in the underworld); you weren’t sure how Vox knew you liked the place, to be honest. It had been a while since you paid it a visit.

You gingerly held the cup, the condensation wetting your palms. He even knew your usual order there, too. You took a sip of it, immediately sighing in relief when you tasted that familiar feeling of comfort. It was quite funny to you, how expensive bracelets and dresses didn’t phase you but a singular coffee made your undead heart flutter.

Maybe you were experiencing palpitations from the coffee; it had been ages since you’ve drunk your last cup.

“Did she take it?” Vox asked, turning to look at Peppermint. His assistant glanced quickly at the cameras behind Vox; he was watching Alastor again. “She did, sir.”

“Good.” He turned back towards the mass array of cameras that showed the events of Hell in every angle, specifically towards the Hazbin Hotel (did they really think that would work? Fucking stupid.) After a couple of beats, Vox spoke again, his voice softer this time. “How is she?” “Still doing paperwork, sir.”

“It’s been 6 hours since she locked herself in her room.” Vox mumbled, using his hand to tell Peppermint to go away. He obliged and quickly left.

Vox had noticed the way you worked yourself to the bone, and it was beginning to concern him. Why the hell were you doing so much work? Fuck, why did you even have so much work? There are people in Voxtek for that reason! You didn’t have to do everything.

—

voxypoo

wear a comfortable dress later

go to the third floor in an hour

You heard a notification ping from your phone, making you rip your eyes away from the countless amount of paperwork you had on your desk. Jesus, even in Hell you can’t escape it.

You tapped on the screen to check who it was: Vox. He was telling you to basically dress up and meet up with him. You rolled your eyes, typing:

You

im busy

voxypoo

i dont care

see you babe

Your mouth went agape at his boldness; who the fuck does he think he is, bossing you around like this? And why were you actually going to follow him?

You stood up from your desk, wincing when your whole lower body pricked from you sitting down for too long. The paperwork can probably wait. Sure, you’d have to spend approximately another hour or two on it if you neglected it now, but you can sacrifice a bit of your time; you had all the time in the world.

Literally. You cannot die naturally since you’re already dead.

You slipped on the most comfortable dress you could find: a simple maxi dress with sleeves draped down and hugged your wrists.

You tied the bow that acted as a belt around your waist, its color the same as the dress as a whole: a deep teal. You had it even before your whole charade with Vox, and you figured it was the best fit for this surprise occasion.

You took the elevator to the third floor, your high-heeled foot tapping on the floor of it. You had to admit, you felt like you were about to vomit at the anxiety this stupid surprise was giving you.

With a ding, you reached your destination. The doors opened to a dimly lit room, the main focus of light being a candelabra situated in the middle of a relatively large dining table. Soft jazz played all across the room, making you feel so disgustingly fuzzy inside.

You almost laughed when you saw Vox not in his usual outfit. It was something a bit more formal, the red and black vest of his daily suit replaced by a deep blue waistcoat and a red and black tie. At least he still had his signature color palette.

“What’s all this?” You asked, skepticism thick in your voice as you walked slowly towards him, taking in the whole atmosphere. Vox rolled his eyes when he heard your doubt, putting his hand out in front of you for you to hold.

“You need to relax,” was all he told you, practically forcing you to sit down on the seat across his. Vox nodded at someone you couldn’t see, and in a snap, multiple waiters swarmed your table, one filling your glass with red wine, another placing a napkin on your lap, and one more laying down a plate of steak in front of you.

You furrowed your eyebrows in alarm and shock at the sudden actions, your eyes darting to Vox. He had such a cocky grin on his face; what would happen if you grabbed the fork that was to your left and stabbed his screen? You’ve always wanted to do so.

Vox had probably noticed the way your fingers itched towards the fork, and he showed you his hands as a way of telling you to calm down. “Relax.”

You let out a short laugh at his words, sighing in relief when the waiters left you two alone. You leaned against your chair’s backrest, tilting your head. “Why do you want me to do so so suddenly?”

Vox seemed to be at a loss of words, his brows twitching as he tried to formulate a sentence where it didn’t sound like he was in love with you. He wasn’t, and there was no reason for him to act when it was just the two of you. He only arranged this “date” to help you destress, and to not possibly blow up on random people.

“You just looked like you needed it. Now,” Vox started to slide into his steak, looking down at it before glancing at you. “Tell me about your day.”

What the fuck?? “Uhm,” you’ve never really done this before. Talked to someone about your day. You always deemed it to be just a boring way of small talk. “I had to restock the shelves again, so that was a good thing. What wasn’t a good thing, though, was the fact that one of the newer interns literally fucking made a whole shelf fall down on themselves! I made them pay for it before immediately killing them; what I did was mercy, really. They would not survive outside. And…”

Vox nodded along as you passionately talked about your day like it was word vomit. He liked hearing your voice, how sometimes when your emotions were at a high, it would do the same; it was cute— entertaining. It was entertaining.

The minutes turned into hours, and your rants turned into conversations, Vox having to gasp for breath at how hard he was laughing. Without even knowing, the two of you had finished a bottle or two of wine in a snap.

As you spoke, you slurred your words, giggling without any real reason. Vox noticed how your eyelids drooped every now and then before they snapped open, your mouth saying some nonsense.

“(Name), dear.” Vox called your attention, his voice soft and low. You blinked quickly, tilting your head a bit too much. “Hmmm? Yessss?”

Fucking hell. “I think you should go to bed now.” He grinned, standing up and walking towards you to help you. You groaned loudly, your breath smelling of wine. “I’m not tired, though!”

Vox rolled his eyes playfully, a soft smile on his lips. “Sure. And you didn’t just go through a bottle and a half of wine.”

“I did?”

“Yes, you did. Now, let’s get you to your room.”

You smirked at him, pressing your body against his. “Oh, and what are you gonna do t’ me?”

Vox stared at you, not even stunned by your comment. The elevator dinged and he practically dragged your ass inside. “I’m going to help you to your bedroom,”

“Yes…”

“I’ll lay you down on your bed,”

Your eyes gleamed in excitement. “Uh huh?”

“And then I’ll tuck you in; you need sleep. I haven’t seen you go inside of your room in a week.” Vox watched the numbers go up as the elevator did the same thing. He grinned when he saw you pout and whine, slightly stomping your feet.

“Don’t raise my hopes up like that!” You gripped onto his arm for dear life. The last amount of control you had over your mind was screaming at you to not let go, otherwise you would fall down.

Vox scoffed, his vision following the opening doors. “I’m not gonna fuck you when you’re drunk.” Not without your previous consent.

“Why not!?” You whined, yawning afterwards.

He just laughed, shaking his head. “You are in desperate need of some rest. Did you know you haven’t stepped foot in your bedroom for around a week now? I’m concerned for you. I’ve…” Vox sighed, wrapping an arm around your waist before averting your gaze, glancing around your bedroom. “I’ve missed you.”

You stayed silent for a couple of seconds before laughing, using your pointer fingers to poke his waist. Fuck, how did you still remember the fact that he was ticklish there? “Ooooh, you missed me!” After a few bubbled laughter from you and a couple of “stop it”s from Vox, you sighed, staring into nothing that particular. “I missed you, too.”

Vox’s smile faltered. You were just drunk; you didn’t mean that. He laughed softly, sweeping you off your feet. You yelped at his action, huffing when he threw you on the bed.

“Rest, my dear (Name).” He told you, and you suddenly felt the need to do so. Or maybe it was just because he reminded you of your sleep-deprived schedule.

You sighed into the pillow, nodding. “Okay…”

You closed your eyes, only realizing now just how heavy your eyelids were. Vox’s chuckle echoed in your mind as he pulled your covers over your shoulder. His hand hesitated every so slightly as you felt its warmth hovering your cheek before he cupped it, his pinky grazing over your jaw. “Good night, (Name).”

You could’ve sworn you said it back, but at that point in time your consciousness was already slipping away from you. Oh, well; it’s the thought that counts.

#vox x reader #vox #hazbin hotel vox #fluff #literally how tf do I tag

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spicybeefnoodles · 1 year ago

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reminiscing

a/n: this is where i start re-doing ships because i genuinely cannot think how other characters could interact with each other

summary: johnny remembers his time with kung lao

warnings: none :)

Johnny tugged at the lapels of his suit, fixing his tie in the mirror and combing his hair back. He sighed and closed his eyes, remembering how Kung Lao would always fix his hair for him. For some reason, Kung Lao was exceptionally good at styling hair. He had said it was because Fujin always asked him to braid and style his hair because Raiden was often too busy studying to do it for her.

Kung Lao was good at a lot of things. He was great at fighting, styling hair, cooking and then eating that food, and everything else. He made Johnny laugh and smile and made the world seem a little bit brighter. Johnny loved Kung Lao. Ever since Kung Lao came to spar him that first time, cocky grin on his face and a teasing tone to his voice as he challenged Johnny Cage. Of course, the actor had bit at the bait and then proceeded to get absolutely wiped by the man. Kung Lao stood over him, that damn smirk on his face, and flicked the edge of his stupid hat before helping Johnny up to his feet.

Johnny was smitten after that, but he wouldn’t let it show. No, he was Johnny Cage, flirt extraordinaire, although less so after he got married to Cris, and loved by all. He was totally and definitely not in love with a simple rice farmer from Fengjian.

Except he was, and no amount of pep talks and witty comments between the two was going to change that. Johnny remembered their first kiss. They had a particularly nasty spar that day, bruises littering Kung Lao’s body and Johnny Cage sported some new scratches and a black eye. They sat next to each other at dinner because Kenshi refused to sit next to Johnny Cage, and there were no other seats available.

Johnny was a bit pissed because, damn, the black eye hurt like hell, and yet Kung Lao sat there stuffing his face with noodles as if nothing had happened. The actor shot a nasty glare at the rice farmer, but he didn’t seem to notice. If he did notice, he didn’t care, too busy piling food onto Kenshi and Raiden’s plate with more food from the center. Then, Kung Lao had piled some food onto Johnny Cage’s plate, telling him that if wants to beat the great Kung Lao next time, he’s gonna have to build up his strength and that you American people need to eat more.

Johnny stared at Kung Lao in disbelief. Johnny ate plenty! He was rich! Of course, he ate food! He definitely… Johnny thought back to the last time he had a proper meal in Las Vegas. Being an actor was hard. Being an attractive actor was even harder, and maybe he did skip a few meals sometimes. But it was fine! He looked great, and yet…

Johnny suddenly felt his eyes well up with tears but quickly blinked them away and dug into his food. Kung Lao just shrugged at the sudden silence and placed another egg roll onto Johnny’s plate and went back to his own food. Johnny stared at Kung Lao the rest of the night, completely enraptured by the man because this was, unfortunately, the first time since his mom since someone had put food onto his plate and made sure he was well-fed.

Later that night, before Kung Lao could retire to his shared room with Raiden, Johnny pulled him to the side and thanked him. Kung Lao just pat the man’s shoulder and said everyone should eat, glanced so briefly at Johnny’s lips that he almost missed it, and turned around to go to his room. Johnny pulled Kung Lao back and smashed their lips together. It was a messy kiss, teeth clashing together and hands groping everywhere to try and find the best place to hold onto each other. Eventually, their hands found their place and their lips moved together in tandem, and Johnny swore that he was in heaven.

Johnny snapped out of his stupor as Raiden called him. The actor wrung his hands out, winked at himself in the mirror, grabbed the bouquet of flowers, and headed out to the venue. He walked through the doors, and damn, even in a suit, Kung Lao still managed to look perfect.

Johnny walked up the aisle, gripping the flowers so hard that he thought they might break, but when he reached the top and turned to face Kung Lao, all worries disappeared. His other half. His heart and soul smiled back at him. Somehow they both got through their vows without crying, although Johnny had to stop himself a few times to keep himself from crying, but a few tears still slipped out as he slid the wedding band onto Kung Lao’s finger. As soon as he could, Johnny grabbed onto Kung Lao and dipped him into a kiss. Yes, Johnny Cage was deeply and irrevocably in love with Kung Lao, and nothing was going to change that.

a/n pt.2: this was originally gonna be a twist where johnny was actually getting ready for kung lao's funeral because kung lao somehow always manages to die and also that one au that i don't remember who started but damn i love it. man, i am just an absolute sucker for angst. and then i remembered this is fluffuary, and i can't just do that so you get a happy wedding instead :)

#noodle’s writings #fluffuary 2024 #fluff #mortal kombat #mk #mortal kombat 1 #mk1 #mk1 2023 #johnny cage #johnny cage mk1 #mk1 johnny cage #kung lao #mk1 kung lao #kung lao mk1 #johnny cage x kung lao #starhat

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owlespresso · 2 years ago

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decretum. arcana magia.

foreword: a piece from an original universe I and several friends have been laboring over for more than a year, at this point. i'm going to be uploading several stories from this universe. i understand if you unfollow. Xaphan belongs to @tarubunart. All other characters are mine.

character reference images: frostine, xaphan (drawn by @tarubunart ), belasko (1,2), willow

---

The northern mountains of Hiemal are immense in size. The snow-cloaked shale catches spare scraps of sun that peek through the canopy of grey clouds.

Their modest party is sandwiched by two behemoth walls of white stone, the shale having given way to ragged marble. Above their head, the jagged peaks loom like the maw of a great beast, pointed accusatory at one another. Ahead of them, the thin path opens to reveal a rounded clearing. The edges have been carved out by hand, Frostine realizes, into near perfect semicircles.

It’s a forest of tall white towers, each domed with glass or marble. Some are connected by intricate walkways one or two stories above the ground, others by walls which trace from tower to tower. The cold winds rush through the thin valleys and gaps in the stone, battering her face, tossing her mane of sable curls into her eyes and mouth. Her face feels frozen stiff, cheeks packed rosy with blood.

“This is it?” she inquires, looking up at the man to her left. He’s draped in pale fineries. The hood and sleeves of his silken robe are adorned with fur trim. The pink fabric is elaborately patterned and long, a split at each thigh dividing the coat’s tails into six separate strands. His scarf, embroidered with red roses and gingham, ties snuggly around the lower half of his face. Even in his thermal pants and hiking boots (white, heeled), he manages to look expensive.

“It is,” he confirms quietly, shoulders slumping with a sigh. “Here’s hoping Zaphrael doesn’t answer the door.”

She doesn’t ask who that is. Willow is capricious at best when he’s in a mood. She can’t imagine he would enjoy being questioned.

Their other companion somehow recognizes her curiosity. Belasko sweeps close and ducks down to speak right into her ear.

“Zaphrael is your tutor’s brother. He’s… quite eccentric.” he informs her gently. His warm breath ghosts against the shell of her ear. She nods, only sneaking a furtive glance at him when she’s sure he’s relinquished her personal space. He’s wearing his hair down today. The black strands tumble over his shoulders and down to his upper back, glistening whenever the sun deigns to peek in. His black jacket reaches down to his knees, its cuffs ornamented with a checker-board pattern. The collar is split open at the top to provide room for a tidy ascot, neatly tucked into his lapels. Bone white buttons secure it tight in place, a patterned line of similar shade rowed next to said buttons. His hiking shoes are covered in snow, but they have white laces. The palms of his black winter gloves are heart-shaped. A thin strap of fabric fastened to the jacket’s backside, right on his tailbone, is tied into a neat, bouncy bow.

She’s not sure what “eccentric” means when everything and everyone she has met thus far matches that descriptor, but she doesn’t ask. Willow approaches one of the buildings and flounces up the steps, knocking on a heavy, grey door. The thud of his fist hard against the solid steel bounces off the clearing’s rounded walls.

After a moment, the door opens with a metallic groan, grating against the hard floor. In the tall, arched doorway stands a dark-skinned, dark-haired man of steep build. His berry-colored eyes are hooded by a pair of sternly set brows. His lips, plump as they are, are fixed in a neutral frown and cupped by a firm, handsome jawline. Hard, but beautiful, she thinks quietly to herself, his sculpted face betraying nary a mote of emotion.

“Xaphan,” Willow greets with a simpering smile. “It’s been quite some time.”

“It has,” the man regards her lord and master for hardly a moment before he is looking at her, cold expression softening with curiosity. “This is the one?”

“The one and the only,” Willow chimes, unperturbed by the lack of hospitality. His fulsome smile turns something sharp as he reaches blindly behind him, grabbing her by the arm to all but heave her up the steps. She follows his persistent pulling, staggering in her haste to reach them. Up close, Xaphan is even larger. She’s not even eye-level with his chest, left to huddle in his looming shadow, sunlight’s warmth sapped away.

“Smaller than I thought she would be,” Xaphan says. Frostine swallows. The iron grip Willow has on her forearm releases and shifts, his arm wrapping around her shoulders to pull her into his chest.

“Well, you know what they say about big things and small packages!” Willow retorts with a small frown. “I’ll have you know that I only accept the cream of the crop. And that’s just what you are, right?” his voice slips into a light croon as he shifts the question to her. She blinks up at him with wide eyes. “Say ‘hello’ to your new teacher, Frostine.”

“H…hello,” she murmurs, hands sliding into her pockets. His gaze feels like it’s bearing down on her very soul, keen and ruthless and searching. She doesn’t know what he’s looking for, and doesn’t know if she wants him to find it. Regardless, she can only bear the extended eye-contact for a few moments before she looks back down at his shoes. “I’m Frostine. I look forward to working with you.”

He’s still looking at her. An uncomfortable silence settles between them, before he sighs.

“I am Xaphan. I will be your instructor for the next four months. Come inside and I will show you to your room.”

The metal grip Willow has on her strays down to the small of her back, giving her a firm nudge forward. Heels click against the ground behind them as Belasko moves to follow, but Xaphan turns to block the door, regarding her familiar with a slight frown.

“Your lodgings are in a separate building,” he nods in the direction of a near-identical tower. The corners of Belasko’s mouth twitch, but the plastic smile sticks like burrs to cotton cloth, like icicles grip gutters.

“Of course. Thank you for the hospitality, Lord Xaphan.” he says, casting her an unreadable glance before pivoting on his heel, marching away in long strides. Willow lingers in the doorframe, still smiling.

“Be good for lord Xaphan, alright?” he asks, voice a soft coo, expression indulgent. “I’m sure he has so much to teach you, Frostine.”

“Okay.” Frostine says, because trepidation has robbed her of the ability to process anything else. Is he going to visit? Will she really be staying here for four months? Is he truly leaving her alone with this stranger? The doubts pile and pile as she watches him go, dread settling like a lump of lead in her stomach. It feels almost like a void, like something bitter.

She isn’t able to understand what she’s feeling is abandonment until Xaphan breaks the silence.

“Does he speak to you like that all the time?” The aforementioned stranger asks, not even looking at her while he poses the question. It’s a struggle to keep up with his swift, lengthy strides. The cloak around his shoulders billows with each step, dark plum hair bouncing in the slight breed.

“Like what?”

“Like you’re a child.”

“Oh,” she says, quieter this time. “I guess so.”

Xaphan gives a small, dismissive scoff. He looks down at her out of the corner of his eye, as unimpressed as he’d looked when he first opened the door.

“He won’t speak to you like that when we are done,” he says. “That much, I promise you.”

--- It takes less than a week under Xaphan’s tutelage to understand that he is a man ungoverned by emotion. The sun is low on the horizon. The temperature dips below freezing. More often than not, the harsh climate drives them underground, to a clearing in the Eden that rests underneath the main camp. Artificial sunlight feeds a variety of grasses, plants and flowers. In a clearing barren of all but dirt, she and Xaphan face each other.

There are no words passed between them, only the sound of harsh breathing, of fists against muscle and bone and tissue. Her arms ache in protest as she delivers a sharp elbow to the space between his ear and his jaw, a move that makes him grunt and double backwards. She sees his arm move, ready to maneuver out of his range, but her legs lock and her body is left frozen. His fist balls in the back of her shirt, saving her from a face full of dirt.

“You managed to hit me,” Xaphan observes, flinty gaze appraising. There’s nary a drop of sweat on him, and his breathing remains unlabored. Unbothered.

“Only one,” she murmurs.

“There are men who have managed far less with far more time,” he informs her, leaning down, into her space. Whatever reply she might have made dies on her tongue as he studies her close. “You learn and grow quickly. Stay the course, and you will be far ahead of your peers. We have more than enough time to ensure that.” Rivulets of sable fall around his face like a curtain, artificial sunlight glinting off the silken strands. He’s breathtaking in a harsh, quiet way, voice rumbling between them.

“Okay,” she whispers, unable to do anything but agree with him, eyes wide and hands twitching restlessly at her sides. Though suspicious by nature, she cannot voice the boiling stream of self-doubt and fear that’s mired her since her arrival. For Willow has found her the finest teacher in all the lands, and surely the finest teacher, her trusted host, could not be wrong.

“What exactly are you agreeing with?” he inquires, tilting his head. “Tell me what you hope to glean from our time together.”

“Willow said—” Frostine begins, voice nearly shorting out on a stammer. Their conversations thus far have rarely ventured beyond orders and confirmation, brief corrections in her stance and explanations of basic techniques. She knows that he is Xaphan, that he is strong, and it is a great honor to be his apprentice. He hasn’t asked her many questions, not even her age. She has hardly a clue of how to even hold a conversation with him.

“Your lord’s orders do not and should not constitute the whole of your desires,” he begins with a chastising tone, as though disappointed. Something within her, already beaten and bruised, creaks and slides out of place, sunken down to the darkened depths of herself, of the mausoleum that is her spirit. “You need to have your own ambitions. I’ll give you time to find them, but do not insist on using your lord’s meager commands as an excuse to not think for yourself.”

Her own ambitions? The thought hasn’t once crossed her mind. What is there for her to accomplish? Her bewilderment must show, because his frown deepens. That itself is another barb wedged in between her ribs, wound rubbed raw and salted.

“I understand,” she lies quietly.

“Good. We will meet here tomorrow, at the same time.” He turns around. His locks billow over the broad musculature of his back, his shirt clinging as tight as a second skin. Her gaze follows the curves and dips that create him, counting the contours of his torso. He disappears beyond the smattering of tree trunks, vanishing among the lush greens and browns of the Eden.

She’s not sure how long she remains behind, sitting underneath the area’s only willow, knees drawn to her chest. The pale grey canopy softens the sunlight. She hides from it like a child under a blanket, a dark spot below the vibrant foliage. Her skin remains sticky with sweat, clothes clammy where they cling to her. Gross. She wrinkles her nose. Her discomfort wins out over her exhaustion and she pushes herself to her feet.

Perhaps a bath will clear her head.

It doesn’t. The water is warm and the selection of soaps is abundant. There are shampoos, conditioners, scrubs, exfoliants, washes meant for only the body or only the face. She spends two seconds trying to understand the difference between a scrub and a cleanser before giving up. It would take too long to list them all, stacked on stair-like shelves carved into the tiled wall above the tub.

She can’t afford to waste energy on something as frivolous as soap selection, not when there’s so much else to ruminate on. She grabs the ones that have already been used. Xaphan is the only person she shares this bathroom with, and she trusts his judgment. Someone as immaculately groomed as he should have the best taste.

The question he posed seems pointless. What does outside ambition have to do with her training? Is the drive to follow her savior’s orders truly not enough? She scrubs her skin until it’s raw and stinging, face crinkling in equal parts contemplation and irritation. Has he insinuated that her devotion to the cause is lacking in some way?

Her muscles remain locked taut despite the water’s cradling warmth, her tension growing worse with each line of thought. Contemplating the reason he had posed the inquiry was useless, she decides. She needs to supply an adequate answer—one that will satisfy his sudden and unfounded curiosity. Her eyes flutter shut, head lolling back as she begins to review a long list of potential reasons—each one less reasonable than the last.

I want to find my parents—a lie, one he could easily exposewith a few pointed questions at WIllow, who is to visit bi-weekly.

I want revenge—she has no known enemies, besides those which have been designated by her lord and master.

The next several ideas satisfy her even less. The water is beginning to cool around her, hair drying out tangled and stringy. All clear signs that she should take her leave and brainstorm elsewhere. She sighs, drained dry of all energy and inspiration. She has a precious few hours until dawn arrives, surely enough time to craft an ambition with a believable story to back it up.

She raises her leg out of the water to look over her new bruises. They’re all in a shaky line, blotches of ugly blue and green swarming to the space where she’d landed earlier. She rests the crook of her knee over the tub's edge, exposed to the balmy air, limp and languid—and the door opens. Her eyes go wide as Belasko takes a measured step inside, expression equally as surprised. His gaze immediately lands on her mottled leg. She grimaces, the bitter sting of exposure prompting her to pull the limb out of view.

“Heavens above,” Belasko tuts, voice fraught with scolding worry. He comes to her side faster than she can process him being in the room at all, hand wrapping around her ankle to bring her leg closer. He dips onto one knee hair already beginning to fray at the humidity. “What on earth is that brute teaching you?”

“It’s not that bad,” Frostine seethes, arms curling tight around her chest. His sharp, golden gaze follows the coiling movement, expression softening with concern. Bile stews at the bottom of her throat, body beginning to lock up under his intense scrutiny. She’s never asked for his concern—never desired his misplaced mothering. With knitted gloves he wrenches her from her privacy, denying her the chance to simply lick her wounds in peace.

“I’ll bring you to the resident healer once you’ve dried and dressed,” he insists. “Any injuries you already have will only worsen if they’re not looked at.” he says, as if he has any hope of convincing her. The pad of his thumb rubs soft circles over the ball of her ankle. He still hasn’t let go. Why hasn’t he let go?

“...Fine,” she murmurs, and the smile he gives her is achingly tender.

“I’ll bring you dinner afterwards,” he promises, attempting to blandish her with promises of her favorite treats. There’s a sharp and rotten feeling in her empty stomach where the acid brews and churns. She’s ravenous, hunger pangs striking like the rhythmic clashing of the clocktower’s bell. But even that falls to the wayside. She stubbornly looks down at the water’s surface. “Whatever you’d like. No expenses spared.”

Her leg is cold and wet. The heat of his hand feels like a brand against her chilled skin. She doesn’t even feel the hunger, the pain, the tension that’s drawn her entire body into a knotted coil. She’s tensed until he at last releases her. Her leg splashes back into the tub and her lungs gasp for fresh air, panting desperately.

“Master Xaphan has nothing but praise for your efforts and your growth thus far. You should be proud of yourself.” he says, but she’s not listening. The blood roars in her ears even as he makes his way back round the tub and out the door. He says something else, but she doesn’t make out a word. Her knees draw up to her chest, body made small as possible, wedged into the bath’s corner. The water has long lost its warmth and soon the steam will fade, but she shawls herself in the lingering humidity for now, or just a few moments more, while her breathing calms and the howling of her anguished heart drops to a feeble murmur.

She seeks Xaphan out that very night, glades across the wooden floors until she reaches his room, an unassuming door at the end of the fourth floor. The moon spreads its silvery glow through one of the large, rounded windows, striking the wall across.

Xaphan is a creature who rises with the sun and settles with the dark. Surely, a man as stern and rigid as he is will not appreciate being awoken so abruptly. She knocks, anyway. The blunt strike of her fist against the wood feels like the loudest sound mankind has ever known. Hardly a moment passes before it is wrenched open, squealing on its old hinges. Xaphan looms above her, haloed by frosted light as it streams into the hall from his bedroom window.

There are black spots swimming at the corners of her vision. She can feel the rampant thud of her heart, can hear the blood as it roars in her ears and races through her veins. Her jet black hair is spread out in uncoordinated waves, strands half-brushed and wild. She knows that this must break some sort of social convention no one has bothered to explain to her yet, but something claws at the bottom of her throat, body and mind and desire all in sync in this one, serendipitous moment.

“I want to get so strong and no one can ever touch me again,” her voice doesn’t sound like her, but it rips from her throat, guttural and raw. “I want to be so strong that they can’t bear to look at me—strong enough to make them, to make them pay—I, I want to terrify them so they’ll… they’ll…” her voice sputters, last headlights blinking off and on, engine wheezing on its last spoonfuls of fuel.

Xaphan, still and silent as a statue, stares at her with quiet contemplation. Is he weighing the worth of her heart’s desires, the truth which she’s vomited unapologetically unto him?

“Good,” he says at last, voice low and deep and dark, like her room at night, like the new moon, like secrets kept between her and the dark. “Remember that ambition whenever you suffer a moment of weakness. Let it fuel you.”

“But isn’t it selfish?” Exhaustion and emotion have robbed her of the ability to think before she speaks. Frostine looks up at him with wrung-out desperation, the line between her eyebrows wrinkled and lips pulled into a small frown.

“A selfish motive is as good as any other. You can only rely on yourself, when all is said and done. You may have allies to the cause, yes, but your body is the instrument through which you pursue your ambition,” Xaphan ducks down, a strange fervency ghosting over his expression. His eyes gleam like two lit candle wicks. His lips are still pressed into a line, but his eyebrows are tilted, shadows of his face deeper and darker.

She feels like a field mouse in the grass, like a doe at the bottom of a snowy ridge, ripe and waiting for the wolf. He looks at her with an intensity that steals her breath, makes her lungs heavy as lead in her chest. “Thus, a ‘selfish’ motivation makes perfect sense. Do you understand?”

She, in the part of her brain untouched by her current mania, does understand. She nods shakily, wisps of wild ebony brushing her plaid cheeks.

“Say it, then,” Xaphan orders, the chill returning to his demeanor. He wreathes it around himself like a well-worn jacket, spine straightening, shoulders settling back. The intensity that possessed him melts away like morning dew.

“I understand,” she beys, voice quiet between them. Briefly, she cannot help but wonder what Willow would think.

“Do you really think we would ever do anything to hurt you? After you’ve been so good for us? You have nothing to worry about. Come here, I’ll show you—” she can feel the phantom press of his palm nestled into her side, the warmth of his body soaked through her layers.

And Ambrose—she doesn’t even want to think about Ambrose, who buys her nice things and lets her stay in the small tower at the corner of his grand estate, a suite with multiple floors all to herself. He who braids her hair and reads her stories and plays.

“Very good,” Xaphan cuts through the reverie, a harsh reminder of where she is and what she is here for. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Frostine. Go to sleep.”

He closes the door in her face. It shouldn’t feel like a rejection, but it does. It stings her sharp and bitter.

It’s only rational, she reasons. The march back to her room is quiet and solitary, no one left to see the emotion that bleeds from her in bucketfuls, the discontent which slides down her back and onto the floor like a raging river.

She’s here on Willow's orders. He’s appointed Xaphan to be her teacher. Xaphan’s approval is Willow’s approval. It’s as reasonable a desire to her as it is money or food or shelter to the modern man. It’s necessary to her survival. Her future success hinges on it. Nothing more, nothing less.

She climbs atop her bed and cocoons herself in sheets and blankets. The room is still. A panel of moonlight is hung on the wall. Outside the window, snow has begun to fall. Flakes the size of pennies come down fast. She’ll have to do some shoveling, tomorrow, lest Belasko (who so despises the cold) become stranded in his lodgings across the compound.

Though, giving it a second thought, perhaps that would be for the better.

---

Xaphan has a brother.

He’s eccentric. A man of “the sciences’ who leers at her with unrepentant intrigue, gaze sticking to every dip and curve and point of her body. He asks questions. Questions about her abilities, about how far she can take them—his tongue swipes over the petal pink of his lips whenever he’s particularly satisfied with an answer. Every encounter is as unsettling as the last. Whilst she’s accustomed to others looming in her space and ogling, Frotine finds she prefers his version of it the least. Nearly every conversation they’ve had has been cut short by Belasko, who shepherds her away, never failing to deliver a litany of sensible excuses and plastic platitudes.

She has no plans of interacting with him on purpose, but she cannot help but marvel at how two people so dissimilar can be so closely related.

“Is Zaphrael your brother?” she asks. It’s a crisp afternoon. Though the steep walls of the compound block most of the sunlight, the temperature remains hospitable enough for them to remain outside. Her sweat cools rapidly and chills her weary body to the bone, but she endures if only for the sake of putting on a strong front. They’re taking a break, anyway. She wraps her cloak tight around her body, huddled up against the wall of the closest tower. Xaphan spares her a puzzled look, corners of his lips curling into a slight frown.

“Yes, I told you the day you moved in.”

“Oh. It’s just… you’re so different.”

“And? If you’ve not the courage to ask what you really want to, then save your breath.”

“I was just surprised that two people who look and act so differently could be related, is all!” Frostine exclaims, curling into a little ball. Her eyes narrow against a sudden brisk wind, nestling as far into her shawl as possible. “I don’t have any family. It just confused me. That’s all.”

“Hm,” Is all he offers in reply, cradling his chin in his hand. “Willow did inform me that you are… new to this world.You’re likely oblivious to several truths of life that most take for granted. Very well. Whenever you have a question, no matter how basic, you may ask me.”

Frostine blinked. Her guardians have addressed her lack of worldly knowledge thus far, but most of Ambrose’s explanations are soaked with condescension, and Willow’s periodic absences make her unsure if he would react with the same infantilizing, infuriating tone. She’s made precious few queries to them, and has since learned to not ask anything at all. It’s not worth the humiliation, the crushing sense of inadequacy.

“Most blood-related siblings share similar physical traits, but there are nearly as many that don’t. I take more after our father. Zaphrael takes more after our mother.” Xaphan informs her.

“That makes sense… Do you like having a brother?”

“My brother is intelligent, reliable and clever enough to escape from most dangers without my assistance. He’s useful, even if he isn’t as strong as I,” Xaphan says, tapping his fingers against the table’s wet surface, where the frost has since melted over the marble. He drags each long digit absentmindedly through the puddle, unbothered by the chill. The corners of his lips quirk into the slightest of smiles, eyes crinkling. “So, I suppose I do ‘like’ him.”

“Would you like him even if he wasn’t any of those things? Would you still protect him?”

“No,” Xaphan responds, without a hint of regret or hesitation. “We have no room for weakness. Only the strong and the wise and the useful can thrive here.” He rises from his seat and shakes the water from his hands, droplets splattering back onto the table. “Though, the same could be said for the other realms. All of them remain beholden to social orders which favor the powerful, the clever, and the wealthy.”

He takes up a stance in the clearing’s center, fists raised. This conversation is over. Uncurling herself from the warm embrace of her jacket, Frostine feels she understands things a little better, now.

---

“How do you take your coffee?” Belasko is standing before Xaphan’s usual seat, an ornate armchair made of dark wood and pink velvet. He’s smiling, but Belasko always is, even if he doesn’t really want to be. Frostine eyes him from her spot on the hardwood floor, knees curled to her chest, wedged between the couch and the coffee table. A few minutes ago, he walked into the room, the left corner of his smile twitched at the sight of Xaphan. He probably doesn’t realize that she noticed, but she did, and his reaction has been carefully noted.

“Black,” Xaphan hardly spares him a glance before refocusing on the board in front of him. Frostine can’t imagine what exactly is demanding so much of his focus. Her portion of black and white squares is in disarray. He’s already snatched her queen and absconded with a bishop, and she needn’t mention all her lost pawns, brave footmen until the very last. They’re lined at his side of the table, glistening black pieces arranged from shortest to tallest.

He moves his rook forward a few spaces, in a move that will doubtlessly take one of her few remaining pawns to threaten her lonesome king. She won’t put up too much of a fight. It would be cruel to keep husband and wife from one another. The pieces look dainty in Xaphan’s hands.

Her brow furrows as she analyzes the board, noting several different paths he could take to breach her throttled front line. His bishop is wholly brazen in its positioning, sat within range of her knight. Naturally, she takes it.

And the rook he moved a few moments ago barrels further down the board to place her king in immediate check. Anxiety thrums through the base strings of her heart, discordant keys thudding in her ears as she reluctantly shifts her king up and away from the threat—but his knight, hungry and still for a majority of the match, kicks its hooves free from the mud to trample her poor king alive, crown and all battered underfoot.

“You’re improving,” Xaphan begins, settling against the back of his chair. “But you play too defensively. If you had moved your bishop to B6, you would have had my king in check. You get anxious when your frontline is breached, and it impacts your ability to visualize future moves and strategies.”

“I get too emotional and it prevents me from focusing,” Frostine repeats, pressing her lips into a thin, flat line. “How can I fix it?” She looks up from the board, meeting his gaze.

“It takes time, practice and patience.” He stands from the couch, rolling his shoulders under the sheer fabric of his top. “The most effective means of locking off emotion begins with dissociation. We’ll start there.”

---

A sudden snowstorm brings with it a flock of frosted bandersnatches. The creatures thud into the gorge under the cover of white, fangs bared and claws unsheathed. Frostine’s knuckles go pale round the handle of the handsaw, slashing it into the side of a nearby beast. It snarls and turns on her, tipped fur stood on end—but she brings her other saw down onto its head, finishing it with a sickening crunch.

A brief thud is all that alerts her to another beast’s presence. She swings with the blade outstretched. The beast’s jaws locking around her weapon. With a grunt, she heaves the monster closer, arm groaning in protest as she pulls all hundred plus pounds of packed muscle towards herself. She sinks her other saw into its burly throat, warm gush of blood soaking the steel. It rears back, releasing her and slips on the ice, onto its side. She spares it no quarter, slicing it from belly to chin as she runs by.

Her boots thud and kick up the piling snow. The bitter wind moans and howls, lashing at her eyes and cheeks, gales sharp enough to make her tear up. Esch lungful of air burns the back of her throat, body wracked but not yet ruined.

The constant movement keeps her warm, keeps the blood pumping. She slices at the haunches of the closest bandersnatch whilst it's distracted by a guard. It buckles and whines, but she’s not granted the opportunity to finish it off before a voice shouts from the southern gate.

“Another pack’s coming!” the guardsman yells from the tower’s top.

“Shut the gate! We’ll sweep them away with an avalanche!” Xaphan orders. He’s close, grand cloak and dark hair billowing in the wind, like some grim vision of death, gore painted on his boots, dark steel of his greatsword drawn.

“We still have men fighting down there!” the guard replies, high pitched and desperate. Frostine’s breathing hard and heavy, covered in cooling sweat, cannot help but wonder if she can handle another wave.

“Do it!” Xaphan snaps, brokering no room for argument.

Snarls and bellows ring out from lower down the path, the sound of innumerable paws upon hard stone thunderous and foreboding. The sound of gears and other assorted parts clanking together echoes through the camp. The heavy gates slam shut. Drifts of snow are slapped into the air in its wake.

For a moment, all is quiet.

And then, so muffled that she nearly doesn’t hear it—there is a rapid, frantic pounding at the other side. It must be the beasts, Frostine insists internally. They must be throwing themselves against it, mindless creatures they are.

The screams start. Loud and indistinct, but unmistakably human cries for help. A shudder ripples up her spine. An instinct, primordial and stronger than anything she has ever felt before, wills her to move. To do something, anything, to help. They surely have enough men to handle another fight—the words linger on the tip of her tongue as she whirls to Xaphan.

But he is already far across the clearing, engaged in discussion with the camp’s head provisions manager, a conversation he would not want interrupted.

She could open it herself, but she can’t disobey a direct order. She can’t jeopardize her place here. It’s not her call to make.

An immense and thunderous sound belts out from somewhere above. Snow above the rock walls of the mountainside rushes downwards. The flurry slides off the invisible barrier above the camp’s interior and piles onto the area outside the gate.

The sounds stop. The world goes cold and quiet. She is left standing in a tower’s great shadow. saw blades dripping fresh blood onto the snow. The wind roars, kicking up and resettling dustings of the fresh white. Snowflakes cling to her hair and her eyelashes.

She focuses on that feeling, the sharp bite of the cold, on the tranquil white of the marble, on the gleaming metal of the gate. She doesn’t know how long she will remain there.

Eventually, somehow, sometime later, she’s brought inside. Her soaked coat has been pulled from her person and her clothes replaced with comfortable sleepwear. She might have taken a bath. She distantly remembers the smell of roses, the warm water twined around her brittle body—the long, large hands that softly rinsed the blood and sweat and grime from her skin.

Someone had held her hand, asked her to raise one leg after the other so he could slide on a new pair of pants. Now, as she sleepily rouses from that conscious daze, there’s the heavy weight of a blanket tucked around her shoulders. A healthy flame crackles in the fireplace across the room. The couch is plush and the pillows are lovingly embroidered with flowers and animals. She likes the one with the boar the most. Its big head is surrounded by red tulips.

Someone is settled next to her, pressed right up against her side. The weight of their arm is comforting. She sinks into their warmth like a bath, face pressed against pure cotton cloth. The scent of lilac and earl grey wreaths around them like perfume. Her eyes are shut, face sunk into their side in an effort to blot out the rest of the world. Even the gentle firelight exposes too much, right now. The front of her head throbs. She wants to be alone and adrift in the dark. It’s for the best.

The ominous feeling at the back of her mind, crammed into the far recesses of her thoughts, insists that something unpleasant has occurred. She’s better not recalling it. It’s safer here, warm and safe and far away from the light.

A door opens and shuts loudly. A pair of heavy footfalls thuds inside the room, coming closer. The arm round her shoulder tightens its grip.

A gust of wind follows the newcomer in. It’s a mere chilled breeze by the time it reaches her, fended off by the fireplace and her companion both, but she still shivers. She's shot back into her own body by the cold. All five senses swarmed back to her at once. She lifts her weary head, eyes wide as the memories come flooding back, one after another.

“Did… did those people make it back inside?” she finally asks, with much less strength than she would have liked. Her voice is a thin, wet rasp.

“Yes, of course,” Belasko—it's Belasko next to her, says hastily. His palm rubs light circles over her shoulder. “They all returned safely, Frostine. You needn’t worry.”

“Don’t lie to her,” Xaphan’s voice cuts through like sharpened steel, distinctly and uncharacteristically irritated. His dark eyes have narrowed, corners of his lips pulled into a tight frown. He tosses his snow-wet cloak over the spindly rack near the door and crosses the room in a few long strides. The dancing firelight gives his hair a warm sheen, sable strands glistening. He stands before her, almost close enough to touch. “The brave men who went on afternoon patrol did not survive. They were buried with the beasts,” he turned his frosty glower to Belasko. “Do not take their sacrifice away from them.”

“Because of the order you gave,” Frostine murmurs, too exhausted to color it with condemnation or questioning. She doesn’t need to, for Xaphan reads her with sudden, startling ease.

“Several of the beasts had already damaged the doors. If they made their way inside, they could have damaged our labs, and the materials stored within those labs are more important than the individual lives of anyone here. They contain the keys to the future we are striving to build.” Xaphan looks back to her, quieter now, but brokering no room for argument. “Every soldier here understands that, and they are prepared to die for it.”

Her jaw aches where it’s clenched. For a long, agonizing moment, the only sound in the room is the homely crackling of the hearth.

“No leader enjoys losing their men. No reasonable living being would take joy in such loss. Sometimes, sacrifice is a necessary evil to protect what is most important to oneself. If not to better the world, then to see your ambitions through.” Frostine stares past him, into the open mouth of the fireplace. The flames whittle into embers, and the embers fizzle into cinders. Ravenously, the fire feeds on the logs and strips of kindling, casting it’s sunset glow onto the plush pile throw rug and polished wood beneath it.

Willow appointed Xaphan as her instructor. Willow would not entrust such an important task to someone who doesn’t know his craft. And Xaphan’s craft is war. There exists no version of events in which Xaphan is incorrect. The loss of life is unfortunate, but the coveted, precious materials within the camp are safe and protected. Those materials, if she understands correctly, will lead to a better and brighter future. It’s a simple line of deductions made over the course of around a minute.

Frostine thinks it over once more, just to be sure, yet still reaches the same outcome. If Xaphan deems the sacrifice necessary, then surely the sacrifice was indeed necessary.

---

Xaphan’s knee feels like the prongs of a devil’s fork as he hits her in the side. She chokes on her own spit, feels the familiar burn of bile as it threatens to creep up her throat. The breath’s been knocked out of her. Doubling back, she swallows, allowing him to gain ground and toss another punch.

Evading his strike, her sweaty hand clasps at his forearm, using it as purchase to launch herself up the length of his body. The thick meat of her thighs slams around his throat like a vice, and she swings the breadth of herself in an effort to topple him. He sways and staggers, delivers a swift smack to her outer thigh on pure instinct. Flinging herself so quickly onto him would ideally assist in the arduous task of getting him on the ground, but he regains his footing in less than a moment.

Frostine wobbles atop of him, adjusting so she’s perched neatly on his shoulders. One of her hands snaps at the top of his head in a bid to get a better grip, fingers curling into his hair. The normally silken strands have been frizzled and fluffed, pressed sticky against her thighs and his cheeks.

“You didn’t fall over,” Frostine says, curling her spine. The heft of her chest smooshes into the back of his head, but at least she isn’t half dangling off of him. Her shorts have ridden up, and she’s left to grapple with the sudden feeling of skin against skin. All at once, she’s hauntingly aware of the position’s implied intimacy.

There’s a strange light in Xaphan’s eyes, his pupils blown wide. The graceful arc of his nose brushes against her skin as he cranes his neck to give her an unreadable look. Her pulse jumps, rabbit heartbeat rattling in the rowhouse of her ribs.

“No. I’m too large for that to have worked. The correct course of action would have been to choke me or grab one of my arms to strain or break it.” Xaphan helpfully informs her. His lips brush against her with each low murmur, dangerously close to the crux of her inner thighs. She swallows. “You’re the first to get this far, however, and that should be commended.”

“It still wasn’t enough,” Frostine says, swinging a leg off his shoulder to drop down. “And did you have to hit me there? That was cheap.”

Her feet never hit the ground. Xaphan’s hands, palms wide, catch her at the sides. The sudden pressure against the side he struck makes her short out a reedy gasp. The pain digs into her tender flesh and spurs her into panic. The air pumps in and out of her lungs at a rapid and unwise rate as her adrenaline comes flooding back. She feels like she’s been knocked underwater, senses addled and reaction time too slow to be meaningful. Her legs kick out, but it’s a futile effort. The tips of her toes just barely reach his lower torso, not even grazing him.

Despite her floundering, he adjusts his grip, holding her by the arms and hauling her closer. What is this supposed to be? Another demonstrative lesson? A warning of some kind? Half of his grip shifts, fingers sprawling beneath her thigh. Even amongst her confusion, she instinctively shifts the way he directs her, legs folding around his waist. One of his forearms braces her underside, cradling the entirety of her to his strong chest with a single arm.

The spontaneous, casual show of strength sends a frission of heat down her spine.

“There are no ‘dirty’ or ‘cheap’ moves,” Xaphan continues with a slight, easy smile. They’re mere centimeters apart. “In a real fight, the enemy will attempt to destroy you by any means necessary. You must retaliate in kind.” He pauses a moment, reaching down to push a strand of rogue hair out of her face. She finds herself struck silent still, reeling at the closeness, the ease with which he does it. “Men are creatures of instinct. When pushed to the brink of death, abstract concepts such as honor and pride lose their meaning. Do what you must. Don’t bother with chivalry.”

“And are celestials like that too?” she says, words streaming out of her mouth mindlessly. He blinks—this close, she can make out each dark eyelash—before he smiles. It’s the most tender and open he’s ever given, bottoms of his eyes crinkling with a strange sort of fondness.

“More than any mortal could ever hope to be,” he tells her, and then begins to walk. She jostles slightly with each long stride, left to cling to his shoulder as he heads for the lift. He still hasn’t put her down.

“I…I can walk,” she rasps (she’s not sure she can).

“Not right now. You’re exhausted,” Xaphan tuts. “An underlooked and important part of training is knowing when to stop, Frostine.”

She shuts her mouth and nods. After a few moments, the tension seeps out of her body, aided by the balmy warmth he radiates post-workout. He’s sweaty, but they both are, and huddling close eases the chill of the air on her wet skin.

---

Only after a month does Xaphan begin to hone her magical abilities. The Moon is one of the only arcana capable of mimicry, but not every iteration excels as she does. It’s near midday and the sun is already coasting low on the horizon. She can make out more constellations at Xaphan’s height. She looks at him with his own face and wonders if he knows how fortunate he is.

“This is good,” he informs her, hand cupping his chin thoughtfully. “Previous records of the Moon magia make it clear that precious few have the skills you do.”

Good.

The compliment, as meager as it is, gives her some mote of satisfaction.

“Perhaps your aptitude for mimicry bolstered the growth of your martial skill—it’s accelerated muscle memory, really. All you require is a living example. Interesting.” Xaphan tilts his head. “Is that on purpose?” he inquires, motioning to her chin, and only then does she realize that she’s mirrored his movement. She shakes her head, dropping her hand back to her side.

“How curious,” he hums, gently grasping her (his) chin between forefinger and thumb. He tilts her this way and that by the jaw, intense in his contemplation as he examines every inch of her facsimile’s face. His gaze carries its own weight, makes her heart thud in her chest and sing so strangely in her ears. “How wonderful.”

Wonderful, he calls her.

The world grows around her as she reverts forms, stuck at her normal height. She feels even more like a crumb, now that she’s seen through his tall eyes. but the brief pang of envy doesn’t last.

“We adjourn here, for today,” Xaphan orders, soft baritone of his voice deep enough to drown in. She wants to wrap herself up in it, swaddled and sheltered from whatever wretched responsibilities come knocking. He says something else that she doesn’t quite catch, before he turns to leave.

A bolt of panic so sudden and unbidden that it frightens her, forces her body into action. She takes a hasty step forward, hands curling into the back of her cloak. It feels like a blip in time, like a momentary blackout of her consciousness. Her eyes circle wide, face pale as a sheet when he turns to regard her with a single raised brow. What does she say? What even brought her here in the first place?

“Are—Can I come?” is what spills out. “It’s just—I haven’t seen most of the other facilities and I would like to… if you don’t mind.” She’s still mortified as Xaphan thinks for a long, long moment.

“Yes, you can. I would like it if you took an interest in our great work.” Xaphan says, speaking with a levity she has seldom heard from him before. Her shoulders slump with relief.

“Thank you, my lord.” she begins, but he cuts her off.

“Call me Xaphan,” he urges as he grabs her hand. “I am not your lord. You needn’t bother with the formalities.” The sudden touch nearly jolts her out of her own skin. Their palms press together, his fingers easily curling around her much smaller hand. There’s something just so normal about it, so simple, so easy and nice. He urges her up against his side as they exit the building, wrapping his cloak around her shoulders to shield her from the sheer sharp winds. Tucked into him, she takes in the world through new eyes.

---

Another month goes by. The days grow shorter and shorter, the sun settling to sleep after four measly hours. The lack of light doesn’t bother her. The moon’s cool embrace is a familiar coat, a silvery shroud that keeps her awake and aware through every lesson and sparring session. She’s stronger now. That much is certain, muscles grown taught beneath a veneer of pale fat. Her abdomen isn’t a flat plane, her arms aren’t chords of steel. She doesn’t resemble the toned and tanned models from Ambrose’s athleisure catalogs.

“Everybody is different,” Xaphan informs her when she brings it up, cleaning a fresh stain of crimson off the coffee table. “Your results are all that matters, and your body is better insulated for the weather here.”

And is that all? Is that the extent of his opinion? Frostine tilts her head to the side, watching his broad back and shifting shoulder as he rolls the wet cloth over the table’s low surface. In a way very foreign to her, she cannot help but wonder what other opinions he may harbor, in ways beyond her martial prowess.

“You have something else to say,” Xaphan says, pruning the tangled stems of her internal monologue. He doesn’t turn to look at her, reading her with an ease Belasko is no longer capable of.

Should she ask him? She floats the question for a mere moment before ruling it out. To assume he feels anything for her would be an act of sheer arrogance. She’s an obligation first and foremost, a fleeting fleck on the nigh endless weave of his eternal lifespan.

“What happened to the table?” she asks instead.

“A simple dispute between a subordinate and I,” Xaphan informs her. “He discovered something he disagreed with and raised his voice at me. I responded in kind.”

“Oh,” Frostine blinked, “Did you kill him?”

“I did,” he says simply, “Had his only infraction been taking up an inappropriate tone, he would have only lost a finger. But he witnessed something he was not supposed to see. If I let him live, he easily could have given our secrets over to the enemy.”

He stands and strides past her. The kitchen tap squeaks as it's turned on, water spraying into the wide basin. Frostine visualizes pale red and pink washing over white marble.

“Does it bother you?” Xaphan asks, looking at her out of the corner of his eyes.

“No. You didn’t have another choice, right?” Frostine walks to his side. Her spine arches as she lifts herself onto her toes, just barely reaching the cabinet’s polished silver handle. From the bottom shelf, she pulls down a bottle of stain remover, handing it over.

“That’s right,” Xaphan says, uncorking the bottle, working the bright blue liquid into the fabric. His wrings it out, muscles of his forearms flexing with each squeeze, skin shiny with soap and water. Frostine leans her elbows and back against the cold countertop to watch. There’s something oddly tranquil about watching him complete such a mundane task. “When you have something precious, you need to protect it.”

---

The dreams visit her unbidden, miasma shrouding over the space of her unconsciousness like mists over the hills, the wet schlick of a mudslide. Had she been a normal human, she never would have put any stock into them, never questioned their potential meaning, but she is surrounded by magicks of all kinds. The aether crackles in the air, celestial energy caked over her skin and clothes like haze on a humid day. It’s made more bearable by the way her body swallows it, yawning void of her being digesting it with little concern.

Perhaps this relentless consumption fuels the violent visions that terrorize her at night. The nightmare is nigh incoherent. A tall, thick man with a mane of blonde hair cleaves through a crowd of armored soldiers. Spare beams of sun gleam off the head of his axe. In a flash of gold, it arcs through the air and onto heads and torsos as he blazes a path up a grassy slope, towards a set of marble stairs carved into the jagged cliffside. The wind roars and lashes, currents of levin cracking and splitting through the air.

She follows him, hidden by the dense treeline. She shelters behind spindly pines and thorny shrubs, steps light as the winter’s first snow, picking over branches and ducking behind scathes of grey-brown foliage. He’s a grand vision, sparks dancing off of platemail, axe cleaving through veins and tendons. They tumble like a line of toy soldiers, crumple like a house of cards. Their strength is pale to the might of Thor—

The name erupts into her stream of thought like a springtime flood. It physically winds her, a hot iron, a mad stroke of pain that erupts across her palms and fingers. The awful sensation seizes her from the vision, just as barbs of rancid shadow flare from the ground, kicking up clouds of dirt. The brutal circle of points stab through his armor of metal and hide, stringlets of divine gold spurting from ripped skin and snapped bone. A scream of animal horror blows through the open valley, wind tearing brittle branches and scattering pine needles across the dirt and straw.

The sound ricochets through the valley and pulses through her eardrums, scoops her very soul from the feeble confines of her skin—

Her eyes shoot open to the dark of her room, lips stretched around an agonized howl. Her heart thrums in her ears and pounds in her chest like the thrumming of a horse’s hooves against a beaten track. Beats of pain shudder through every valve and chamber of her heart. Shaking, she clambers out of bed. Pale moonlight slips in through the parted curtains and touches the cold floor. Like a familiar coat, the cold embraces her, prickles her skin and soothes her overly warm skin, slicked with sweat.

She grabs her plush comforter and wraps it around her shoulders, bewfore stumbling out of her room and into the thin, rounded corridor. Silvery light illuminates the path before her, let in through the wide windows. She casts a look outside and onto the clearing below, where uniformed guards tread along their patrol routes, plowing paths through the foot thick snow, kicking up plumes of crystalline white.

Eventually, she comes to a halt in front of a heavy, mahogany door. She lingers awkwardly in front of it, blearily blinking the sleep from her eyes, dispelling the lingering daze of sleep. Belatedly, she realizes whose room she’s standing in front of.

Xaphan’s. She raises a trembling hand, but the door swings open before she can so much as brush her knuckles against the wood.

Xaphan’s eyes shimmer in the dark, a quirk to his brow as he regards her hunched, wide-eyed form.

“What’s wrong?” he asks, immediately.

“I had a nightmare,” she tells him. Phantom fear clings to her, whimpers and cries and wonders if he will find her childish or weak for allowing what does not exist to terrify her. Perhaps she should have made up another excuse, telling him she was on an aimless late night walk. But she can’t lie to Xaphan. She’s tried a grand total of twice, both attempts during the first week of her stay. She can’t even remember what she fibbed about. It’s not worth remembering. “Sorry to bother you.”

“You aren’t,” Xaphan corrects. She can’t make out his expression because she doesn’t want to, wary of the displeasure she may find there. Afraid, despite his assurances. He wouldn’t lie to her, she reasons, but an irrational, lingering prevents her from believing him. “Come in.”

It’s a large and well-furnished space. The four-poster bed is covered in a single blanket. Two pillows sit neatly by the metal headboard. A tall dresser is set next to a nightstand where a stick of incense burns, hazy smoke coiling into the cold night air. A wooden rack cradles a selection of glaives and claymores, neatly sequestered in a corner opposite the bed. A stick of incense burns atop a small, low, circular table.

“Tell me about your nightmare,” Xaphan beseeches, quietly shutting the door. The lock clicks shut. Frostine pretends she doesn’t hear it.

“It wasn’t anything scary,” Frostine sighs, watching him settle on the edge of the mattress. “I saw a man die—”

“And you’ll see many more.” he replies, resting his palms flat on the bed behind him, leaning his weight onto the strong chorded muscle of his arms.

“I know. It just felt… like I knew him. Maybe that’s why it upset me.” Her arms cross below her chest, shoulders hunched, posture coiled in a tight knot. “I’ve never felt that before.”

His eyelids dip, expression placid and gaze lazy as it roams her up and down. “How curious.” Her head tilts in silent question, and the corners of his lips curl into a smile. “The way your mind can provoke emotions within you that you’ve never felt while awake.”

She has nothing to say to that. Should she apologize for bothering him at such a late hour and leave? Yes. Absolutely. Yet, the cold talons of that vivid vision retain a vice grip on her psyche, so much that she cannot bring herself to move. The very idea of being alone again, caged with her restless thoughts and wily unconsciousness, is one she cannot bear to entertain.

“You don’t want to leave,” Xaphan, who always knows what she needs, says. A wisp of sympathy colors his tone. He regards her with idle contemplation, as he often does. He regards her like a puzzle to be solved, a formulae to be deciphered. He lays his ink and quill over her parchment pages everyday, but never seems to crack the code. He straights out the messy notes left in the margins and builds back block by block. His own work seems to puzzle him, at times.

He pats the space next to him.

“Sleep here, tonight,” he murmurs, and turns to pull the blanket corners back.

“Is that an order?” Frostine’s voice wobbles. He pauses, plush fabric grasped in his massive hand.

“It’s an invitation,” he informs her, sliding underneath the covers with surprising dexterity for a man of his size. “And a possible solution. You might sleep easier if you’re next to someone else.”

“Oh,” the tension in her spine unwinds. Her clenched jaw relaxes. This is an innocuous offer. There’s nothing to fear here. Not with Xaphan.

Still, she cannot shake the implication of how close they are about to be. Sharing a bed, even chastely implies a deep trust, belies potential intimacy.

“Okay,” she agreed anyway. She feels lost, more out of place than usual as she climbs atop his mattress—is firmer than she would like. She feels like she’s playing make believe, like she’s stepping into shoes too big for her, like she’s gotten into mother’s makeup for the first time.

The blanket is heavy and warm as Xaphan tugs it back over them, a comforting weight. What happens now? She chances a skittish glance, but his eyes have already closed. He’s going back to sleep. Nothing else because that is what he offered, what he said was going to happen.

Frostine does not sleep that night. Xaphan, who can somehow tell, orders her to take the rest of the day off. She trains anyway, too restless.

When the moon rises high, she returns to him. Under the cloak of night, the veil of silver, he wordlessly beckons her inside. The sheets are soft and cool as winter’s first snow. Not nearly as cold, because the broad line of his body is its own hearth—and with the rhythmic crackle of his heartbeat does she finally rest, rouse and be reborn.

---

The sun’s rays no longer reach the hollow’s bottom. For a few, precious hours in the midday, it barely traces the mountaintops, bathing the snow and stone in gold. The camp remains dusky and cool, a new heating system implemented that allows the denizens of their faction to walk around in a few less layers. The metal gate at the front and back ends of the camp remain, aided by a new, unseen barrier. While Frostine is content to bid the daytime a temporary farewell. Belasko seems unseated and unnerved. Even before he says anything, she can see the discontent in the stiff line of his shoulders. He’s making dinner tonight, having insisted she visit if only to give him a progress report.

His accommodations are different from her own, all dark wood and red velvet, with a sleek kitchen tucked into the corner. She can see her reflection in his mahogany coffee table, and can feel the weight of each brass doorknob twisted. Draperies of gold and black and crimson cover the long-paned windows, depicting cats and weasels twined around spider lilies.

“Your room is bigger than mine,” Frostine observes from the couch.

“Our rooms mold themselves to fit our tastes,” Belasko spares her a curious look over his shoulder. “It’s an enchantment. I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure of seeing yours, yet. Whatever could it look like?”

Frostine frowns, confounded again by magic and its seemingly endless capabilities.

“It looks pretty normal,” she says, “There’s a bed, and some drawers. And a window. Nothing special about it.”

She can’t help but wonder what that says about her. Nothing special. Pretty plain, “And a radiator,” she tacks on.

“How interesting,” Belasko says, contemplative. It’s genuine, she thinks, because the left corner of his lip ticks downwards whenever he gets stumped. There’s a carton of oatmilk next to the mugs he’s pouring coffee into. Frostine idly reads the label.

“I’ll take mine black,” Frostine says, looking back to the chessboard. Out of her periphery, she can see him swivel to look at her, maybe surprised, but she pays him no other mind. All of her focus is spent on attempting to recreate her latest game of chess. Revisisting each turn should allow her to more clearly see the flaws in her strategy, make her better next time. Alas, no matter how hard she concentrates, she can’t quite visualize it with the precision she needs.

“As you wish,” he says. She doesn’t even have to look at him to know he’s smiling. Doesn’t even have to turn her head because he’s already swept out of the kitchen and gently placed the tray before her. She acknowledges it with a grunt. “I’ll have to visit your room, sometime. You say it’s plain, but—”

“Don’t.” Frostine cuts him off, unfeeling and absentminded. Her pointer finger rubs against her lower lip, deep in thought as she shifts one of white’s bishops, the piece quavering in her trembling hold as she hovers it above the board.

“Don’t?” Belasko repeats.

“Don’t come to my room. I don’t want anyone else in there.” Frostine makes sure to remain curt and leave no room for argument. She fiddles with one of the knights, running a finger over its sculpted mane. She’s sure that this conversation will make it back to Willow, eventually, but even he cannot deny that Belasko is her familiar. He is supposed to be helping her, listening to her.

“Afraid I’ll find something embarasing?” he prods gently, teasing, testing.

Her jaw locks, teeth grinding together. “No. My room is mine. I don’t have to share it if I don’t want to.”

“Nothing to be helped about that, then,” he sighs, sinking into the plush seat beside her. “Why don’t we talk about your training? The sooner I get this report in, the sooner you can leave.” His voice is clipped, and she can tell he’s barely masking his displeasure. Perhaps at being rejected, perhaps at her adamant refusal to engage with him. His disapproval doesn’t sting the same way it used to. She keeps her answers succinct, grateful that the line of questions sticks strictly to her blossoming abilities. Queries concerned with the progress of her power are always easier to answer. The pursuit of gaining strength is all she has ever known.

Her emotions are what troubles her—the persistent worry and woe that accompanies all mortals as they plod aimlessly through life. Her ability to smother that open, human flame has improved over the time spent here. But it is not perfect. It is not enough.

It has to be perfect.

Fifteen minutes sees her out the door, a thermos filled with hot coffee in hand. Belasko had insisted, the only act of charity she would ever appreciate from him. Despite all she has done and all she will do, wasting food and drink still feels jarringly wrong. It’s a strange hill to die on. Maybe a holdover from whatever or whoever she had been before Willow found her. She doesn’t want to think about it, she decides as she opens the door to her room, stepping inside. The wall-length mirror that was tucked into the corner is gone, replaced by a small, wooden weapon’s rack.

#oz write #arcana magia

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d-andilion · 3 years ago

Note

GERASKIER FAKE DATING

sorry for yelling I'm excited

okay i took my time filling this one but i think the results are worth it - i hope you think so too 😊

Jaskier is, surprisingly, a very good boyfriend.

Though being around old school friends and distant relations must have tempted him to abandon his anti-social plus one, he’s hardly left Geralt’s side all day. He introduces Geralt to everyone who approaches them and takes the lead in every conversation to minimize how much Geralt has to talk to strangers. After every interaction, Jaskier leads them inconspicuously to the edge of the room for a welcome break from the buzz of the reception hall around them.

Of course, being a groomsman and brother to the bride means Jaskier has had to step away for round upon round of pictures, but he never goes far and he returns the second he’s able. The only point over the course of the entire wedding where Geralt has had to speak to someone by himself was just after the ceremony, and even then it was only Jaskier’s grandmother.

She was a sweet, stout old woman who smelled of the boiled sweets she pulled from her handbag every so often and popped into her mouth. She ambled up to Geralt the moment Jaskier stepped away, taking his arm as if she belonged there.

“Diedre,” she said. “But you call me Nan, everyone does.”

Geralt could only nod, but she didn’t seem to mind or even really notice. She chattered to him about how handsome he was, how polite and well mannered, nothing at all like anyone Jaskier had brought home before. Apparently, her “little Buttercup” had a habit of falling for unsuitable folk. He was just too sweet, she reckoned.

Jaskier hustled over to rescue him the moment his sister set him free from post-ceremony photos, kissing Nan’s cheek and transferring her from Geralt’s arm to one of the many cousins milling around.

Before Jaskeir could steer her away, though, she patted Geralt’s lapel with her gloved hand and smiled at him. “Perfect for my Buttercup,” she said. Jaskier’s blush could have stopped traffic.

Geralt imagines he could have done worse for solo social interactions in this crowd. He didn’t actually have to say anything to Nan before Jaskier saved him, and no one else has tried to corner him since. It’s been a long, long day, but Geralt has had worse. The food is amazing, the champagne flows freely.

And Jaskier is there. He’s in Geralt’s space, holding his hand, kissing his cheek, fixing his tie, smiling at him like there’s nowhere else in the world he’d rather be. Jaskier is the perfect, gentle, kind, attentive boyfriend.

Geralt just wishes Jaskier were his boyfriend.

Everyone thinks he is, of course. That was the plan. Jaskier came to Geralt a week before the wedding with big puppy eyes telling him about the very serious relationship he’d been lying to his parents about for the past few months. If Jaskier came to his sister’s wedding alone, even if he feigned some excuse for his non-existent significant other, his parents would surely be onto him. It had, apparently, happened before.

Geralt would be the perfect stand-in, Jaskier reasoned. His parents already knew Geralt a little, so there would be no chance that they wouldn’t like him, and the two of them were already so comfortable around each other that a little extra PDA would be no big deal. It was only one day of Geralt’s life with gourmet food and free top-shelf booze. It would be easy.

Now, standing in the dimly lit reception hall while a sickly sweet love song plays over the speakers with Jaskier tucked into his side in a perfectly fitted tux, Geralt feels like the biggest fucking idiot on the planet.

Being in love with his best friend had never been easy. Most days, it felt like drowning. But Geralt would give anything for that feeling right now, because this, watching Jaskier pretend to be his, pretend to be in love with him—

This feels like being buried alive.

Jaskier is talking, his voice low and intimate like no one exists outside their little bubble, and Geralt doesn’t hear a word because they’re so close.

So close that their noses could touch if Geralt tilted his head the slightest bit, and it’s impossible to focus on the words coming out of Jaskier’s mouth when Geralt can feel the oxygen running out around him.

So close that Geralt can’t really see Jaskier’s face, just the blue of his eyes, and Geralt can feel his lungs burning as he forgets to breathe, but if he had to pick a way to go, he’d want a view like this.

So close that it’s awkward for Geralt to keep his hands to himself, so he places his hand on the small of Jaskier’s back and it feels so fucking good to hold him like this that Geralt almost doesn’t care how much it’s going to hurt when he has to let go.

Maybe, Geralt thinks, if he doesn’t close his eyes, if he holds perfectly still, then they can stay like this forever. Maybe he can trap them in this moment, surrounded by tipsy Pankratzes while cheesy love songs play in the background.

Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.

This was a terrible idea.

Geralt, predictably, is an amazing boyfriend.

He’s shy around Jaskier’s family as expected, but he converses politely whenever required and everyone is charmed to death by his dry humor. On the few occasions that Jaskier has stepped away from Geralt’s side, all anyone can say to him is how wonderful his boyfriend is, how happy they are for him. He’s heard more than a few cheeky comments about the next Pankratz to walk down the aisle with winks in his direction.

Nan was the worst out of all of them.

Jaskier felt his gut drop when he saw her make a B-line for Geralt. He loved his grandmother more than anything, but fuck knows what that woman would say. The moment his sister was satisfied with the photos they’d taken, he moved as quickly as his trousers would allow him to Geralt’s rescue.

“Perfect for my Buttercup,” she said before Jaskier could stop her. Geralt’s pale skin turned bright pink.

“I told you to leave him be, you sneaky old bat,” Jaskier scolded once they were out of earshot. Nan just cackled.

He passed her over to an unoccupied cousin quicker than he would have if he hadn’t had Geralt to get back to, but not before she could cup his cheek and smile gently at him.

“He’s the one, Buttercup,” she told him. “Don’t let him get away.”

It’s lucky, Jaskier thinks, that he’d always been a good actor. He had to keep up the pretense of having fun for the rest of the night and every time he thought about Nan’s words, he felt like he was a thousand feet below water and sinking deeper every second.

Jaskier knew Geralt was the one. He’d known it almost since the day they met. Ten years they’d known each other and Jaskier couldn’t look at anyone else no matter how hard he tried. Geralt is it for Jaskier.

He just wishes that he could be it for Geralt.

Everyone is fooled, just like Jaskier knew they would be. Being in love with Geralt was the easy part. He did it every day of his life. A few cheek kisses and prolonged hand holding are no great tasks in comparison. The hard part is knowing that the moment they leave the wedding, these soft touches will disappear like they’d never happened at all.

Things have died down at the reception a bit, leaving them to stand peacefully at the edge of the room. Jaskier is talking about something unimportant, some family gossip he picked up from Nan at dinner. Not even particularly good gossip. He’s talking to talk because it feels like his chest will collapse in on itself if he stills for even a second.

They’re so close, he and Geralt. Close enough that Jaskier can barely see the soft grin on Geralt’s face, just the slightest upturn of lips. He’s looking at Jaskier like there’s nothing in the world he’d rather listen to than boring Pankratz family gossip. Like Jaskier hung the moon.

Jaskier never should have suggested this. He should have come to the wedding by himself and swallowed the lectures from his parents with one too many glasses of wine the way he usually does. It would have been more bearable than this, than watching Geralt pretend to be his boyfriend, pretend to love Jaskier the way he’s always loved Geralt—

This hurts more than his mother’s sharp words or his father’s disappointed sighs ever could.

Geralt rests his hand at the small of Jaskier’s back and Jaskier wants to scream but it’s all he can do to keep breathing in and out. What would happen, he wonders, if he told Geralt he loved him right now? Would Geralt leave? Would it ruin everything? Would it be worth it?

Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuckity fuck.

This was a terrible fucking idea.

more fic from me

#im very happy with this one #my fic #mine #geraskier #geraskier fic #geralt x jaskier #jaskier x geralt

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chic-a-gigot · 2 years ago

Photo

La Mode illustrée, no. 14, 6 avril 1863, Paris. Robes et Etoffes des Mins du Louvre r. de Rivoli. Ameublements et Bronzes de la Mon de Commission Générale r d'Hauteville 53.

Description de toilettes:

Robe de soie fantaisie, vert clair, ornée d'un volant de 25 centimètres de hauteur, d'un vert plus foncé; posé à plis crevés sur le bord de la robe, il est garni d'une guipure noire posée à Plat, de 4 à 5 centimètres de largeur. Au-dessus du volant, deux ruches chicorée pareilles à la robe, découpées, encadrent un entre-deux de guipure noire; le corsage, montant, est à revers garnis de ruches chicorée; il forme gilet par devant; il est partagé derrière en trois petites basques. Manches peu laiges, garnies de guipure et chicorée, arrondies et un peu fendues sur le bord inférieur. Col brodé en organdi, sous-manches bouillonnées en organdi blanc.

Robe en poult-de-soie noire, façon demi-impératrice. Jupe montée sur trois gros plis, l'un au milieu du dos, l'autre de chaque côté. La jupe est garnie avec trois bandes de velours noir lisérées de blanc, coupées à intervalles égaux d'un velours noir, disposées en dents aiguës fixées par de gros boutons de velours noir sur toutes les coutures, ou même à espaces plus rapprochés. Sur le corsage on forme, avec le velours, un revers qui se continue en pointe sur chaque épaule et sur le dos. Les manches sont à coude, avec parements, et garnies de boutons et velours. Chapeau en crêpe blanc, doublé de soie, recouvert de tulle noir de dentelle, orné de velours noir et de gros bouquets de roses.

Col et poignets de manches en batiste brodée.

—

Fancy silk dress, light green, adorned with a flounce 25 centimeters high, darker green; posed with creases on the edge of the dress, it is trimmed with a black guipure laid flat, 4 to 5 centimeters wide. Above the ruffle, two chicory ruches similar to the dress, cut out, frame an insertion of black guipure; the bodice, high, has lapels trimmed with chicory frills; it forms a waistcoat in front; it is divided behind into three small Basques. Sleeves not very heavy, trimmed with guipure and chicory, rounded and slightly split on the lower edge. Embroidered collar in organdy, bubbled under-sleeves in white organdy.

Dress in black poult-de-silk, half-empress style. Skirt mounted on three large pleats, one in the middle of the back, the other on each side. The skirt is trimmed with three strips of black velvet edged in white, cut at equal intervals from black velvet, arranged in sharp teeth fixed by large black velvet buttons on all the seams, or even at closer spaces. On the bodice we form, with the velvet, a lapel which continues in point on each shoulder and on the back. The sleeves are elbow-length, with facings, and trimmed with buttons and velvet. White crepe hat, lined with silk, covered with black lace tulle, decorated with black velvet and large bouquets of roses.

Collar and sleeve cuffs in embroidered cambric.

#La Mode illustrée #19th century #1860s #1863 #periodical #fashion #fashion plate #color #retouch #description #Forney #dress #silk #Empress #green #stripes

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canyouimagine-spn-blog · 3 years ago

Text

FBI Fun

Pairing(s): Dean X Female!reader X Sam (no wincest)

Warnings: threesome, smut, polyamory, 18+

Author's note: I've been away for a while but I've decided to come back, so give me a while to get back into the groove of things. Anyway, I wrote this a few years ago and I'm pretty proud of it. Hope you like it. I do accept requests, so feel free to drop a dime.

I was sat on the edge of the motel bed that I've been sharing with the Winchester Brothers for the past few days on this hunt. Sam, Dean and I have been in a polyamorous relationship for coming on a year now; meaning I've been in a relationship, also having sex, with both brothers, but not at the same time. Only separate occasions. We haven't engaged as a threesome, I've thought about it, but never plucked up the courage to discuss it with the brothers, yet. Our dynamic works out well, we all respect each others boundaries. It's great, amazing actually. I get the best of both worlds; soft and gentle from Dean (I know it surprises me too) and rough and hard from Sam. But sometimes depending on their mood or how the day went, it can switch up. And its never without mine or thier consent.

The bottom of my black pencil skirt rollled up my thigh as I slippped my knife into my stocking. I hummed along to the radio Babe, I'm gonna Leave You by Led Zeppelin played. I could sense the brothers gaze on me as they adjusted their ties in the mirror. I smiled to myself as I fixed my skirt in place, standing up tp slip on my stilettos, then I walked over to the brothers, standing in between them, to put on my lipstick. From the corner of my eye, I could see DEan struggling with his tie. "Need some help there, G-man?" I asked "no..." he answered stubbornly, "come here," I said and turned to face him, he faced me and I buttoned up the top button of his shirt, fixing his tie and pulling it up to fit snugly againt the neckline. "I'll be in the car" Sam said, kissing my cheek "Okay" I replied. I smoothed down this collar with my hand, then slid them dow nthe lapels of his jacket. "There, all done Handsome" "Thank you" "You're welcome" he kissed my lips tenderly, pulling away slowly beofre we left and I followed hin out to his car.

______________________________

After we played FED, we decided to go back to the motel room for some much needed shut eye. "So its definetly a werewolf" Sam stated the obvious as we walked through the door of the motel room, taking off his tie, "yup, but now we just gotta firgure out who it is" I replied, kicking off my shoes next to the bed. I slumped down onto the bed, picking up my book from the bedside cabinet, looking up for a moment to see Dean walking through the door, messily stuffing his face with a cheeseburger. "you're such a pig" I said in disgust. "I love it when you talk dirty" he spoke with his mouth full of chewed up meat and bread and cheese... and extra oninons. Great. "Did you just quote Grease to me?" I laughed "shut up"

A while later, Dean joined me on the bed after Sam entered the bathroom to shower, locking the door behind him. He placed his hand on my exposed knee and pressing soft kisses to my neck. "Dean, please, I'm trying to read" I sighed with my full attention on the pages. "Your book can wait, I, on the other hand, cannot" Dean replied, breaking away for a second before returning his lips to my freshly tanned skin, sliding his hands higher up my thigh. My breath came out shaky as I tried to resist him, but failed misrably as my desire for my lover took over. I threw my book to the ground and turned to him, engulfing his large form in my arms before kissing him passionatly, each of us caressing the other. We made out for a few minutes, he pulled me closer to him as I sunk into the mattress. "Dean wait what about Sam?" I asked pulling away from the kiss "Shit, I almost forgot about him," he replied beofre shouting to his brother, "Hey, Sammy!" "Yeah" Sam questioned as he appeared from the bathroom wearing nothing but some jeans, hair damp from the shower. "We're gonna have sex, so..." "Do you want me to leave?" "No, I was thinking more like.... joining us?" "You're joking right?" I asked, looking at the older Winchester "No, I'm being deadly serious" "It'll be fun, but you don't have to if you don't want to" Sam stated "Wait, have you two discussed this?" I quizzed, they just nodded "well, I'd be lying if I said I hadn't thought about it" "Really?" They said in unison "well, whatta ya say, sweetheart? Taking both of us at the same time?" Dean asked. "Fuck yeah. Come here Sam"

Sam quickly made his way over to the bed, taking my mouth with his. Dean sat up, making quick work with removing my skirt while Sam unbuttoned my blouse as we kissed. He trailed down my neck to my chest as Dean removed my now soaked panties, his mouth intantly attatched to my clit, "oh fuck, Dean" I moaned, reaching down to tug on his hair, incouraging him. I quickly removed my blouse, allowing Sam to the unclasp and discared my bar, kissing and licking my hardneing nipples. I felt Dean shifting to undress, still continuing his assalt on my heat. I pushed them both gently away to move positions, Sam lay down on the mattress as I kneeled in front of him in between his long legs, Dean now off the bed, leaned over the edge, stroking my pussy.

I looked up at Sam as I unzipped his jeans, pulling them down slightly before he reomved them the rest of the way. I teased him over his boxers, his growing erection visible through the fabric. I gasped as I felt Dean slip two fingers inside me, streatching out my walls, pumping them, making a come-hither motion against my g-spot, making me quiver. Finally, I freed Sam from his confinment, taking his large shaft in my hand, the pre-cum dripped down from the head, and I used it as lube to help me pump him slowly. Dean removed his fingers from me, then began teasing my entrance with the tip of his cock, making me moan as I continued stroking his brothers cock. I slipped Sam's long shaft inside my mouth as Dean sunk into me, all three of us moaning out. Dean began fucking into me in a fast, hard pace, making me yell out around his brothers cock as he hit against my g-spot, every now and then hittong against my cervix. Sam growled, gripping my hair in a ponytail so he could watch as his cock disapeared into my mouth. I swallowed around his swollen cock head as he hit the back of my throat. I used on hand to hold up my weight and the other to rub at my clit.

With how loud all three of us were moaning, I'm pretty sure the other guests at the motel probably though someone was watching porn, because it sure as hell sounded like one. I reached up and cupped Sam's balls, fondling with them and I could feel them tighten in my palm. "Oh, fuck I'm gonna cum" he panted "yeah that's it Sam, cum in her mouth" Dean commanded. The grip Sam had on my hair tightened as I took him further in my mouth, and he cried out as he finally hit his release, cum sliding down my throat. I drank down everything the hunter gave me, then slipped him out my mouth. Dean pulled me up by my arms, towering over his brother as he pounded into me harder, rubbing my clit. "Fuck, yes. Dean, I'm gonna cum" "That's it, cum for me, Y/N, cum on my dick" I couldn't hold it any longer and the tight knot in my stomach finally snapped, my walls tightened and squeezed his cock and we fucked me through my orgasm, I cried out in aboslute pleasure. My whole body felt as if it was on fire. My vision blurred and my head spun as I came hard. Dean then suddenly pulled out his cock, using my lips as stimulation before he moaned out, "ahhh, Y/N" as he shot out his load, it landed on his brothers stomach, much to his disgust.

"Dude, what the fuck!?" Sam yelled, "oops, sorry Sam" Dean apologised, "Don't worry baby, I'll clean it up for you" I said and bend down, licking over his abs, gathering the hot salty fluid onto my tongue and swollowed it down. "I'm gonna go shower" Dean spoke through heavy breaths before kissing my lips and entering the bathroom. I collapsed next to Sam and he pulled me into his side. "How was that, Sam?" I asked sleepily "Good. Really good. We should do it again some time" "oh definitely" I mumbled "if its cool with you two, its cool with me"

FIN.

#supernatural #dean winchester imagine #sam winchester #dean x reader #sam x reader #spn #dean winchester smut #sam winchester smut #sam x reader x dean #dean winchester

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mandowifey · 2 years ago

Note

The Jack one you just did was 😍😍😍 there’s not enough love for him !!

How do you think Jack would do a first kiss with reader ?

Oh!!! You are so sweet.

Yeah I noticed going through his tags there isn't much x reader stuff... I'm gonna have to fix that hahaha.

Thank you for the blurb idea!

- - - - - - - - -

Note: This is SFW, and unedited.

● ● ●

As I've mentioned before; Jack Duquesne is a romantic.

Your first kiss wouldn't be planned, however.

This would be your third date. You are genuinely surprised the guy hasn't made a pass on you yet. Though he does like to hold your hand or touch your arm, he is respectful of your boundaries.

That being said, you two would be somewhere quite beautiful. He'd have made a whole day of this date. A train ride into the countryside, lunch at a tiny vineyard which would be followed by a wine tasting. (You told him you'd never done that before and he had been adamant on treating you.)

As the day winds down you are feeling good! You had swallowed a couple sips here and there but had followed the instructions to watch how much you ingested.

Jack would have called your name.

You walk around back and see him standing at the edge of the winery's back porch, leaned against the hand rail and looking towards the setting sun.

"Come watch the sunset with me, y/n! It is quite lovely."

As you come closer he draws you in and puts an arm around your lower back, keeping you close. Warmth floods your cheeks and you lean into him. Has he always smelled so good?

"It's beautiful." You remark, comfortable at his side.

"Isn't it?"

You look up and he's not looking at the sunset, he's looking at you.

Those lovely, endless pools of copper are sparkling in the setting sun, and his smile softens into a look of affection.

Jack would put his large hand under your chin and tilt your head up, before he leans in. First, he presses a lingering kiss to your forehead that nearly drops you to your knees.

"May I-"

"Yes," you whisper, not wanting to wait any longer.

His mouth would slot to yours, gentle at first. It's like fireworks going off under your skin. Your hands grasping at the lapels of his suit, not wanting him to pull away.

Jack leans into it, returning your vigor and deepening the kiss. You'd feel an arm around your hips, drawing you securely into him. There is no place in the world you would rather be.

After he kisses you, he tips his head back and smiles, before looking towards the sun as it vanishes behind the horizon. You're hot all over, cheeks flushed and lips kiss swollen.

"Ready to head back?" He caresses your cheek with his knuckles.

"I'd like to stay here, just a little longer." You admit, reaching up to cup his cheeks in your smaller hands.

Jack would nod and turn his head to gently press a kiss to your palm. The two of you holding each other as day turns to night, and stars begin to speckle the sky.

There is no place either of you would rather be.

#jack Duquesne #jack duquesne headcanons #jack duquesne headcannons #jack duquesne x you #jack duquesne x reader #jack Duquesne headcanon #jack Duquesne headcannon #Hawkeye #tony dalton

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heavenbarnes · 4 years ago

Text

PLEASE STAND BY: Feel it in the air tonight

Wanda Maximoff x female reader

Warning/Contains: spoilers for “WandaVision”, aspects of mind-control meaning reader isn’t truly consenting, parts of this don’t make sense and are designed to make you feel strange, cheating, oral sex, dirty talk

Word Count: 3.7k

the 80′s are upon us and things are starting to change, are you willing to feel strange for a while? hmm, anyhow, hope you are all still enjoying! x

MASTERLIST

“You boys just keep getting bigger every time I see you,” You cooed, hands going to ruffle the twins hair. “Swear you were just up to my knees last time I saw you both.”

Tommy and Billy both laugh despite the way they wiggled out of your reach, running back to whatever fracas they were causing in the kitchen.

“Kids, you take your eyes off ‘em for a second and suddenly they’re a whole different person!”

Looking to Agnes knowingly, you couldn’t help but nod in agreement as you made your way further into the house. She was making herself right at home in the Vision residence, nose in the cupboards and leaving no space uncovered.

“Is Wanda about?”

“I sure am!” That soft lilt drifted down the staircase and right before you, your smile immediately growing.

Your cheeks prickled in heat as you weren’t sure how to get the next words out. Looking out from under your brows, you shot Wanda a shy little gaze that only said coquettish to her.

“Agnes, would you be so kind as to get the boys to their uh-”

“Their swim lessons?” The neighbor filled in, already rounding up the kids with their things.

“Yes! Thank you!” Wanda gave the boys a kiss each as she walked them to the door. “I owe you big time!”

Agnes turned back over her shoulder as they made their way out. “Not a worries, you gals have fun.”

There was no way she could’ve known, but that little wink she threw you both, it both frightened and excited you. Knowing that she might know what you were getting up to in your day-to-days.

The door shutting broke your swirling thoughts, your mind only going straight to Wanda as she stood before you. Her eyes scanned your face, coming down to take in your outfit, too. You’d only thrown on cycle shorts and a sweater but she was eyeing you up as if you were wearing nothing at all.

She cleared the space between you so quickly, wrapping you up in her touch to press your lips against hers. Steadily walking you backwards, her hands ran the length of your back and up to cup your face, teeth nibbling gently at your lower lip.

“You get even sweeter every time I see you.” Her comment drew a giggle from you, your hands coming to thread through her curls.

She wasted no time with you, backing you towards the dining table and pushing you up onto it. Leaning towards you, her lips continued to move sweetly with your own, her taste and tongue taking over you entirely. You almost missed the way her fingers started at the waist band of your shorts.

Not wasting time with removing your chunky sneakers either, she pulled your bottoms to your ankles and slotted into the space between your legs, kneeling before you. It was all moving so quickly, your heart rate was rising with every touch she left against you.

Fingers gripping your thighs, lips pressing against the soft skin that grew from there, Wanda smiled up at you like the cat who got the cream. Brushing a few stray curls off her forehead, you gave her a smirk laced entirely with longing.

“You are one hot mama, mama.”

She giggled at your funny little ways, she brought her teeth to leave a gentle nip close to the meeting of your thighs. It made you jolt, and the gasp that fell from you tapered off into a moan at the end there.

Moving closer to where you knew you needed her more than anything, Wanda trailed her tongue up and along your slit as your thighs widened around her head. Tipping your own head back, you let a deep sigh drift out into the world as you felt all your muscles loosening.

Your hands dropped from her head to the edge of the table, gripping it under your fingers as her tongue came to your clit. Rolling it around, she began to find a steady movement that made your eyes roll back in your head. As your hips began to rock into her mouth, the heat in your body rose.

Wanda knew you inside and out, like she was able to read your entire being and know what was going to work. Her lips closed around your most sensitive area, suckling gently as she drew the softest and sweetest cries from you.

It always felt right, never felt greedy and never felt naughty, Wanda always made it feel like this is what you worked your whole life for. If you were good and you were kind then maybe one day you’d end up with the most beautiful girl perched between your legs.

Taking one of your hands, you threaded it back into her hair so you could tug just a bit. Doing so earnt a moan from Wanda, one that rumbled through you and ricocheted off all the right spots. Your legs tensed slightly, your hips dipping down to move against her tongue.

She drew it from your wetness back up to your clit, flickering it and pressing it against her lip to create friction. Your breaths were beginning to break like waves, choppy and wild as she took complete control over your body with simple movements of her mouth.

Gripping her tighter, you pulled her in as she sighed contently into you. Still rolling your hips like you needed it, you nearly began to ride her face in absolute bliss. It was bliss, it was heaven and it was all you ever needed in that moment.

“You feel so good, you make me feel so good, Wanda you’re-”

Pulling back from you slightly, she gripped tighter on your thighs.

“Tell me, use your words.”

Going back to her work, you were already working yourself up with every movement of your hips. Chest huffing you only just got the words out.

“Wanda you’re everything.”

And that was all she needed, the deepest groan left her chest and her mouth only sped up, which launched you very quickly off the edge and caught you in the waves of pleasure.

They washed over you, your hands in her hair and her name on your lips. She let you ride her tongue through the overwhelming pleasure, keeping you under the water until you were entirely washed in the tide of her.

So gentle and so loving, she let you come down and to extend the gesture she pulled your bottoms back up for you. Helping you off the table, she fixed your clothes as you fixed her hair, both giggling to one another.

She kissed your cheek, before you tilted your face so she could find your lips. They closed against one another and as you opened, you could taste the sweetness of yourself lingering there.

“How about some tea?” She mumbled against you, drawing a laugh from you.

“Yes please, hot mama.”

Gently swatting her behind as she walked past, you both smiled knowingly to one another as Wanda went to the other room.

Leaving you alone in her living room, the nosiness in you drifted you around, picking at things and getting glimpses into the Vision’s lives.

Lifting up a picture, it was lovely, the four of them all grouped together with the brightest of smiles. It reminded you of the photo on your mantle, you couldn’t remember when it was taken but you had always thought it was the most beautiful picture of James-

Cutting your thoughts was a nearly searing pain shooting behind your eyes. It made you lose your grip on the picture, the frame clattering back to the side table. Wanda came back in at the sound, mugs in hand and a look of confusion.

“Is everything okay?”

Your sweater covered your hand slightly as you brought it to your forehead, holding your head gently as the pain began to settle.

“I think so, I just had the worst pain right in my mind, I have no idea where it came from.”

She looked worried, ushering you closer to her as she sat the cups down. “What were you doing when it happened?”

Thinking back, you shut your eyes to take a moment. “I was just admiring your photo, thinking of my one with-”

And it unleashed itself again, the pain radiating so tight across your eyes that you sealed them shut firmly this time. The yelp that escaped your throat was enough to have Wanda really concerned now.

She grasped your hands in her arms and began to walk you. “Something doesn’t seem right, have you been feeling unwell lately?”

Truly, you cant remember. It’d been a strange few days of not remembering your dreams or even what you’d been doing just the other day, so really you weren’t sure. Nevertheless, you were sure it would be fine.

“It’s okay, Wanda, I think I just need to go home.” Pressing your palm to your forehead, the pain was beginning to ease.

“No, I really think you’ll be better if you stay here, you don’t want to be alone.” She was fluffing about now, ushering you to sit on the overstuffed sofa.

“I won’t be alone, James should-”

“Here!” Like her voice ran away on her, it came out a tad sharp. “Here is best for the moment.”

The pain eased even further and suddenly you were overcome with the idea that this was certainly the best place for you to be. Wanda’s hands eased across your shoulders and squeezed gently, further allowing the tension to melt from you.

“There have been the strangest things going on as of late, if everyone would just take it easy for a moment.” Her voice wavered only slightly as she also began to calm herself.

“You’re right, things have been a little strange-”

Before you could finish your sentence, Vision came through the front door with your husband in tow. “Look who I found milling about!”

You could’ve sworn you heard Wanda sigh, and not a tired sigh, it was tinged with annoyance. She let go of your shoulders, allowing you to get up and round the sofa to James. Following you, she gave Vision a quick kiss on the lips, but you missed the way her eyes bored into the back of your head.

If looks could kill you would’ve dropped dead the minute James scooped you up into his arms and laid his lips against yours. So warm and so all consuming, you lent further into him with your hands balled in the lapels of his blazer.

“Wanda, honey, are you feeling alright?” Turning your head at Vision’s voice, it all happened so quickly.

You saw her hands move, the faint red glow, but before you could ask her what on Earth was going on, you felt the ground move beneath your feet.

James slipped from your grasp, suddenly you felt the wool of Vision’s suit in your hands, tall stature dipping slightly to press his lips against yours. One of your hands lifted to slip into the strands of blonde hair, smooth against your touch.

“What, no, no.” You heard Wanda’s voice before the shift started again.

Agnes’ dark curls slipped through your fingers as her lips moved against your own. She pulled you in tighter by your waist, holding you flush against her chest as your other hand fisted her shirt.

“Why can’t I just-”

“Your hands really are magic, Wanda.” You cooed as your body fell into the warmth of her touch.

The sound of feet bounding down the stairs snapped both your heads towards the noise, happy calls from the boys of “dad’s home dad’s home!”

Followed by the door opening, Vision stepped across the threshold with a smile, enveloping his son’s in a hug before offering both you and his wife a kind grin. As Wanda moved to great her husband, you also followed them to the doorway.

“I think this means I better get dinner on!” You laughed, giving everyone little waves. “Meatloaf to be made!”

Wanda’s face wasn’t sad, maybe just a little tired. She waved you off nonetheless like the rest of her family and said her goodbyes for the night.

Wrapping your knuckles against the door, you rocked on your heels as you waited for the joy of your morning. Just seeing Wanda’s smiling face as she opens the door is enough to see you right for the rest of your day.

Door swinging open and smile already growing on your face, it didn’t so much as drop, it just stalled for a moment.

“Well good morning to me,” Fingers brushed back silver hair and shoulder rested on the doorframe. “Please, tell me this isn’t a dream.”

You quirked a brow before you tilted back a tad, checking you had stepped up to the right house. Sure enough, 2800 looked back at you and you looked back at the young man with a bright grin and cropped sweatshirt.

“Is Wanda home?” You gave him a ginger smile, nervously twiddling your fingers in the hem of your shirt.

Eyes still fixed on you, he lent back further into the house. “Sis, there’s an absolute babe here looking for you!”

Trying your best to ignore the wink he shot you, you let the word sis tick over in your brain. You didn’t think Wanda had ever mentioned a brother to you before, but maybe you’d forgotten, a few things had slipped your mind as of late.

“Let her in, she’s our neighbor!”

You couldn’t miss the way your cheeks heated at that, how she knew who he meant by just that little comment. It made your heart tweak a little, but you had to push it down as Wanda’s brother stepped to the side to let you in.

“Sorry, I didn’t catch your name.” You gave him a kind little smile, watching the way he came to rest beside you against the back of the couch.

“I’m Pietro, Wanda’s twin brother.”

“Twin?”

“Twin, fraternal and everything.”

He turned towards you slightly whilst you nodded intently. Your eyes flickered to the stairs, waiting for Wanda to come down, but there didn’t seem to be any sight of her. “And what are you doing in little old Westview?”

You were a little delayed in turning back to him, eyes still fixed waiting on Wanda, but you turned back nonetheless. “Sorry?”

“What brought you here?”

“Oh, uh,” You thought for a moment. “I think it was just the security of the neighborhood.”

Nodding along with you, you could’ve sworn he moved in closer. “Well I might have to park up here too, if the neighbors look like you.”

You could feel the flames rising behind your cheeks, but once against you quashed it down. “You’re very kind.”

“And you’re very pretty.”

Now that was forward, you turned fully this time to look him right in the eye. “Sorry?”

“I mean, I’m sure you know that, you still look the same.”

That comment sort of got lost on you, you were still reeling just a bit from the entire situation. Getting up off the back of the couch, you turned to stand in front of him.

“What are you getting at? What’s your motive?”

His lips quirked into a smile, brow dropped and you knew there was something coming. You didn’t know where this man found all his confidence, but he sure as hell wasn’t taking it easy on you.

But that doesn’t mean you were expecting his next move.

“Come on, give me a kiss.” Pietro’s hands came to gently grasp your wrists, turning you to face him.

“Excuse me! I have a husband.”

“Ah, so it’s not cause you don’t want to it’s cause- wait, who’s your husband?”

Shooting him a look of confusion, you shook your head as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.

“James, we’re married?” Drawing out your words, you came in loud and clear.

Regardless, Pietro still quirked his brow. “No you’re not.”

“Yes we are, we’ve been married for- well I don’t remember but we are.”

“No,” He stressed. “You’re not, I knew Bucky had a crush on you but he hasn’t even asked you out, let alone popped the question.”

And there was that feeling, becoming awfully familiar as it washed over you once again. It was like waking up, except you weren’t in your bed, you were standing in a room that you had no recollection of getting to. To put it simply, you woke up to find you were crawling in your skin.

“Bucky,” Your voice nearly fell apart at the seems. “And I’m-”

“Agent 19,” Pietro filled in your blanks. “You’re a team, never one without the other, yada yada yada.”

That tight feeling in your chest, that wrapping around your heart and tugging the near life out of it, it was so consuming. You looked to him for anything, but he just shrugged his shoulders, eyes traveling to the doorway.

“And what is going here?” You heard her sing song voice before you saw her, he knew she was coming.

This could be your moment, your moment to play the game of “nothing is wrong” and play your upper hand. Every part of you wanted to turn to her with that beaming smile and bat your eyelashes, but the pounding in your chest- the carnal feeling that always existed in you, that was stronger than your reserve.

“I don’t know Wanda!” Spinning on your heel, you faced her dead on. “Why don’t you tell me, seen as you seem to know a damn sight more about my life than I do.”

You’d never seen her look like that before, you’d seen her cast with discontent when something like this had began to fall apart. But this look, she almost seemed to be afraid?

Mouth opening and closing a couple times, Wanda scoffed as she spoke. “Where is this coming from?”

“I don’t know!” You felt Pietro grasp your waist as you nearly lunged forward. “I don’t know where anything is coming from, I don’t know where this life came from!”

Wanda shook her head, hands going to her hips to tut at her brother. “Pietro, you’ve upset her.”

That anger that was steadily unraveling inside of you, so coiled up from being held down by smiles and laugh tracks, it nearly drowned you as it all came to the surface.

“Why don’t you ever call me by a name?”

Your question had caught her off guard, but with easy deflection she clipped a laugh towards it.

“Forgive me for having pet-names.”

“No, tell me what my name is.”

“You know your own name-”

“NO I DON’T!”

For all you thought about her, she’d never seen you like this. Your whole body raised up as it all spilled out of you, untapped rage tumbling from your lips as you willed your eyes not to well with tears.

Wanda somehow found composure, shut her mouth and once again, shook her head in your face. “You’ve lost sight of yourself, this is obviously all too much.”

You saw her hands, the way her fingers poised with palms turned together. If Pietro hadn’t had a hold on you, you weren’t sure what would’ve unleashed from you.

“No, don’t you dare change the scene on me, I am sick and tired of you changing the scene when you get upset,” Crying out, your voice cracked only slightly, despite yourself. “You don’t know what it does to my [CENSORED] brain!”

Hearing the sound fall from your lips, knowing you didn’t make it, you’d never felt pain like that in your life. “And now you’re censoring me?”

Maybe he could feel you move beneath his hands, maybe he could just hear it in your voice, but Pietro pulled you back into himself. “Wanda, sis, you might want to give her a break-”

“What is happening?” Your husband, or your partner, or Bucky- Bucky came in from off stage.

In a strange sort of turn-of-events, Vision trailed in behind him, confusion just as evident across his features. He looked to Wanda, but just as quickly he was looking to you with a hint of question behind his eyes.

Shooting Bucky a look, dead in the eye and as straight as you could, there was a feeling that there was one shot at this. “Bucky, please.”

And that was all it took, you could see the light change in his eyes, the way his features softened but the rest of his body straightened in an instant. You weren’t immune to the way his eyes dropped to Pietro’s grasp on you as he scanned the area.

“Oh my goodness,” Wanda threw her hands in the air, once again shaking her head. “Everyone just cool it!”

“My dear, what has been going on? They seem upset.” Vision had that signature lilt, the tone of a man who has began walking on eggshells.

“No, I cannot believe this!” She took a turn, facing you all in an instant. “I will not be told what to do in my own reality!”

The unravel in your chest stopped, and soon you realized you’d given yourself enough rope. “Stop, please just-”

“Come on, give me a kiss.” Pietro’s hands came to gently grasp your wrists, turning you to face him.

“Excuse me! I have a husband.”

"And that’s my cue!” Your man called out as he poked his head through the door and with a chuckle, he began to cross the small space to you both.

“Here he is now,” Your arm looped around his waist as you pulled him close, your eyes both catching in a tight stare. “How nice of you to join us, Bucky.”

“I think we’ve done it, I think they’ve made enough headway.”

Regardless of the progress that’d just unfolded, soon those same technicolor bars spread across the screen.

“If they just stay this strong, they stay together then they might just be able to take control of this too.”

Tapping a pen against the screen, those tell-all letters glowed before them.

“PLEASE STAND BY.”

#wandavision spoilers #wanda maximoff x reader #wanda maximoff x female reader #wanda maximoff smut #wandavision smut #wandavision imagine

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5acchan · 4 years ago

Text

touch your fire

nanami kento x f!reader

warnings: established relationship, semi-public sex, teasing, fingering, squirting, unprotected sex, creampie, very mild degradation, praise kink if you squint

summary: it's his fault for looking so irresistible while you're out together in public.

share in my suffering simping. nanami good boy. that is all, thank you

when you started dating kento, he spontaneously invited you to eat dinner with him one night in the city and the both of you had ended up wandering through the streets afterward, not wanting to part ways just yet. since then, dinner and a walk through the city at night has become a way to unwind after a long week of work. tonight it seems like all the young couples in tokyo are out and about, snuggled close to keep warm in the brisk air and murmuring sweet, innocent nothings into each other's ears as they amble along under the lightly falling snow.

on the other hand, your thoughts are decidedly less innocent. you'd spent very little quality time with kento over the last few weeks because of work, both on his end and on yours, and had half a mind to suggest staying in for a night of watching documentaries and eating takeout on the couch while feeling kento up until he had to set his food aside and fuck you silly. but when he arrived home that afternoon from work, you realized you didn't have the heart to take away one of the things he enjoyed most about the weekend.

so here you are, wildly aroused and walking hand-in-hand with your boyfriend through the streets of tokyo. this is a new low for me, you muse after tearing your eyes away from where they had been lingering below his waist for much too long to be decent. but really, what else is there to think about other than the things you'd like him to do to you back in the safety of your shared apartment when you're so wet your panties slide against you with every step?

you sigh in relief as the pedestrian crossing up ahead changes from green to red and you come to a stop at the intersection. a squeeze to your hand catches your attention, and you look up to find kento already looking at you. he looks so handsome against the city lights, a few stray hairs falling into his face, his contentment at being able to spend time with you visible in the adoring look in his eyes and the way his mouth tilts upwards on one side. you just want to frame his face in your hands and kiss him until he's breathless. he's not usually a fan of public displays of affection, which you respect, but you're desperate for any sort of physical contact to tide you over until you get home.

temptation wins out and you lean up to press a kiss to the space under his ear. he lets out an amused hum but doesn't move to stop you, which is all the encouragement you need to press another kiss to his neck, and then another, and another, until a dark red mark blooms on his skin where your mouth had been. ah, he’s not going to like that, you think, already imagining what satoru might say come monday morning. kento nudges you along with a light touch to your waist as the two of you cross the street. you've given up on pretending to enjoy the sights of the city, not even paying attention to your surroundings as you ogle him and stroke the soft skin of his inner forearm above his watch as he guides you down the sidewalk. lost in your fantasies of the man with you, you narrowly avoid bumping into someone, kento pulling you out of the way and against his side. your mouth waters at the press of his body against you, and a thrill runs through you at the look he gives you for being clumsy. in response, you press a lingering kiss to the back of his hand that makes his nostrils flare before he turns away.

at the next stoplight, he wraps an arm around you and brings you around so that you’re face to face as you wait for the pedestrian crossing to change from red to green. you can’t resist wiggling your hand under his coat to press against his side and feel how thick he is, and your mouth waters as you recall the last time he’d pounded you into the mattress, your thighs pressed into your chest by his steady hands and your hands wrapped around his waist. your fingertips just barely graze over the curve of his ass as you move your hand down to thumb at his hipbone but he pays you no mind, seemingly busy watching the street traffic. you can barely resist grinding against him for some relief and at this point you’re determined to get a reaction from him, so you snuggle closer and caress the outside of his thigh, then trail your fingers up the inside and squeeze lightly. again, there's no indication that he’s even felt anything. heart in your throat, you glance up at him and then around in preparation to do the one thing you're sure he'll react to.

the moment your hand cups him through his slacks, his fingers dig into your waist, hard. it doesn’t hurt as much as it surprises you into whipping your hand away and placing it in a more respectful location over his heart, which beats steadily under your palm. the light changes but kento stands motionless in the middle of the sidewalk as other pedestrians surge forward to cross the street. his grip on you has relaxed somewhat, fingers now splayed against your side with his thumb stroking your ribs as he stares into the distance, but firm enough to tell you that you won't be able to escape unless he lets you go. your gaze fixed on his face, you wait for him to disentangle himself from you so the two of you can continue your walk, but he doesn't move at all until the light changes again. “let’s go this way instead." his suggestion turns to steam in the air as he turns away from the crossing and guides you with a hand at the small of your back to walk down the adjacent side of the block.

halfway down the block, he smoothly turns into an alley between two shops closed early for the holiday. of course you have no choice but to follow, his touch firm and almost ushering you along with him. you're reminded of the wetness between your legs and you bite your lip. could this be...?

about ten feet from the storefronts, he suddenly turns and crowds you against the wall, his body close enough that you can feel the heat radiating from him but not close enough to feel any part of him pressed against you. your heart drums against your ribcage, its beating fervent in your excitement. kento cages you in place with his arms as he observes your very convenient skirt and stockings — thigh highs, he confirms as he edges the hem of your skirt up with one hand before letting it fall — in a new light. your own gaze drifts downwards and to your delight, you notice the outline of his cock in his slacks, angled towards his left hip and not exactly soft. he’d liked the attention after all, you think as you bite your lip. previous experiences have shown you that he's usually receptive to your advances but hesitant to indulge in anything too far outside the norm without some convincing, though his embarrassed silence when you ask if he'd enjoyed it later on is usually answer enough.

“did you plan this?” he suddenly asks, snapping you out of your thoughts.

despite the cold temperature, you flush hot. “no. you just looked really good, and—“

“you couldn’t wait until we got home?” he interrupts. the look on his face is stern and you glance away, feeling guilty and half-afraid that you’ve irritated him after a long and trying day at work, but when you bring your gaze back to his face, you catch the barest hint of a smirk on his lips before they’re pressed to yours.

people see kento as strict, proper, classy—that’s certainly the air he gives off when you’ve seen him interact with anyone he’s acquainted with in a professional capacity when you’re out and about together, and you’re sure he’s even more so during working hours. but the way he kisses you is far from classy, his tongue hot in your mouth and fingers wound tight in your hair to keep you from pulling away for a proper breath as he sucks at your lips and tongue. you fist the lapels of his coat in your hands and let him take what he wants until he pulls away to press a rough kiss under your jaw before drawing you close with one hand cupping the back of your head and pressing your face into his broad chest. passerby might think you’re simply sharing a romantic embrace with your lover, which is true, barring kento’s free hand sliding under the hem of your skirt to squeeze your thigh almost painfully hard, followed by the rough press of two fingers into you. they curl upwards with intent and draw a cry out of your chest as they press hard into the spot that makes your legs buckle, and you wrap your arms around his waist to maintain your balance.

“mm, kento...”

he strokes your hair with the hand supporting your head as he begins to press his fingers into you more insistently. over the low hum of the city drifting from the street, you can hear the slick noises of his fingers moving in and out of you but can’t bring yourself to care when he’s making you feel so good after a weeks-long dry spell brought on by overtime and business trips out of the country. just the thought of being stuffed full of him again has you shivering and clamping down around his fingers with a soft, “a-ah, ‘m gonna...”

he huffs out a derisive laugh, but his gaze is hot and hungry as he tilts your head up to watch your eyes struggle to focus on him, lips parted. “already?” he asks as your breath catches in your throat, abdomen clenching and your insides pulsing around his fingers as you come.

once the roaring in your ears dies down, you register the soft sound of your release dripping onto the pavement between your bodies. it's quiet for a long moment, just the sound of your breaths mixing with his and the hard line of his cock pressed into your stomach before he shifts away, fingers still inside you, to undo his belt one-handed. "you're quite filthy, aren't you," he murmurs as he pulls his cock out of his trousers, and you swallow down the yes! that eagerly rises to the tip of your tongue. in the low light you watch, entranced, as he removes his fingers from you and smears your wetness down his shaft, gathering his precum and using it to stroke himself as you wet your lips and squeeze your thighs together. kento nudges your thighs apart with one firm thigh and presses the tip of his cock to you, relishing in the way you buck your hips in an attempt to take him in. he sighs. "i thought i knew the extent, after all this time, but..."

he trails off in favor of pushing halfway into you and bites the inside of his cheek when you immediately clamp down around him as if to draw him in further. the slide and stretch of his cock steals your breath away and you tilt your head back against the wall with a moan. he withdraws and pushes in again, not even halfway this time, then continues to tease you with shallow thrusts until you gasp, "stop teasing!" it's not exactly as filthy as what he wants to hear, but you sound so desperate that he listens, instead of drawing things out further like he might if he wasn't just as desperate to feel you. he keeps his eyes on your face as he pulls out and slides in all the way with one smooth motion, and then pushes a bit more to see your eyes roll back. you whine and pull him closer until he's nose-to-nose with you and pressed against your body from chest to hips. he draws his coat around the both of you and allows you to wrap your arms around him, your hands securely tucked in the warmth between the rough layer of his dress shirt and the silky inner lining of his blazer, before he starts moving again. one hand tucked at the small of your back, he carefully presses in and out while his other hand finds your clit and rubs rough circles until you're squirming and spasming around his cock, eyebrows knit together with the effort of resisting the urge to scream.

"ah! i'm close again..." you mumble, burying your face in his shoulder and shuddering as he thrusts in deep. kento graces you with another slick slide of this thumb over your clit before stilling his hips and rubbing his hand over your hip to soothe you as you whine, your orgasm quickly disappearing from your reach without the additional stimulation. you lift your head to gape at him, and he stares down his nose at you without blinking. "fuck me. make me come,” you demand. it’s not very convincing given that you’re teary-eyed and your voice is trembling.

his hand rubs up and down your back in a way that feels almost patronizing. "are you sure you're in a position to be making demands?"

you pulse your insides around him, intentionally this time, and his eyes flutter shut before he can catch himself. "make me come. otherwise, what else are you good for?" you ask, gaze fiery.

in answer, he huffs out another laugh and slams back into you again, relishing in the way you shiver and moan like the breath has been punched out of you, sucking him in like his cock isn’t enough to satisfy you. “filthy,” he hisses into your ear, pulling your leg up around his waist and fucking you in earnest with hard, fast thrusts that have you shaking and moaning. he catches your mouth and kisses you to muffle your noises though it quickly devolves into an open-mouthed mess of tongues and teeth, unable to concentrate with the mindnumbingly slick heat wrapped around his cock. you scratch at his back through the cotton of his shirt as you edge closer to your climax, the burn of your nails muted but making him throb inside you and groan all the same.

“f-fuck, you’re so big,” you murmur against his lips and he shivers, hips stuttering. “kento-kun fucks me so well...”

he outright moans at that, mind blank except for your words reverberating around in his skull as he tightens his grip on you and fucks you at a frantic pace until he comes with a muffled groan, his entire body shuddering as you moan at the feeling of him filling you up inside. you hold him as he buries his face in your neck to catch his breath, but eventually the need to come wins out and you slide one hand around to tug at his tie.

“sorry,” he says, breathless as he gently tilts your chin up to press biting kisses to your throat, rubbing your clit with slick fingers until you gasp, your hand coming up to hold his mouth to you as you come around his cock.

afterwards, kento holds you steady as you unhook your leg from around his waist and smooth down your skirt. you can already feel his cum beginning to leak out of you, and you tell him so, then ask if he’d like to fuck another load into you at home. the tightening of his hands on your hips is your answer. he waits until you stop trembling with aftershocks to withdraw and tuck himself away, then does up his zipper and belt. you try and fail to fight back a smirk at the sight of the front of his trousers, soaked with a combination of fluids from your lovemaking. he sighs and buttons up his blazer, then his coat, hiding away the evidence of your alleyway rendezvous.

“you’re filthy,” he says again, and you snicker at him and take his arm as the two of you head back towards the street.

“so are you, love,” you say.

#jujutsu kaisen smut #jjk smut #nanami kento #jujutsu kaisen #nanami x reader #nanami kento x reader #jjk

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